Christopher Leppek and Emanuel Isler

ABATTOIR

For Lori and Lisa

1

It was the kind of snow skiers call champagne powder—light, crystalline. In other circumstances, in someone else’s life, it might have been beautiful.

To Rollie, it was stinging, blinding agony, lashing his face, forming little clumps of ice in his untended beard. With each step, the cold hammered him, the wind taking his breath away.

He’d fallen asleep on the number 6 bus. On an ordinary night, it would’ve barely been an inconvenience. Tonight, in this God-forsaken wasteland, an old district called Derbytown, it might mean his life.

At first, he thought he’d be able to find shelter after only a modest walk, perhaps in the residential area he’d noticed before falling asleep. Now he was lost.

The area was industrial—warehouses, factories, unidentifiable buildings—unfamiliar. They all looked forlorn, forbidding.

Rollie didn’t pay much heed to weather reports, instead taking each day in stride, trusting his instincts and numerous contacts on the street. He didn’t know that tonight’s weather had been labeled a winter storm alert. Temperatures were expected to drop well below zero. With the wind chill factor, it was a night that could kill.

The snow grew deeper, the wind more cutting. The streets were empty; no pedestrians like himself; no cars, trucks, buses or trains—nothing but the blinding snow.

Rollie dragged the bandana he wore over his head down across his mouth, shifting from pirate to bandit. He gathered the collar of his thin, second hand parka close around his neck, burying his hands in the pockets of his flimsy khaki trousers. He wore only battered tennis shoes, the tips of his toes already well past numb.

Even after the night’s extended binge, Rollie knew that he’d better find shelter, and soon. He wasn’t quite as old as he felt, nor as old as he appeared, but his legs were slowing down, and he was growing more sleepy by the moment. He knew what that meant.

He stopped and looked around. There were a handful of shabby buildings on the street; all with wire mesh on the windows and metal doors. A couple hundred yards away, he glimpsed the outline of another building against the lurid back lighting of the city’s glow. It stood isolated in the midst of an open field, grasping skyward like some soaring weed.

It was tall, four stories at least, topped by a tower crowned with an old-fashioned mansard roof. And vast; seeming to span entire acres. In the wind, he heard a faint squeaking; perhaps an open door or window. The sound drew him towards the dark structure.

Drawing closer, he saw that the building was red brick, obviously old and covered with decades of soot. Closer still, he was able to see the faded ghost sign that advertised the building’s former function: Exeter Packing Company.

A slaughterhouse.

There was something vaguely familiar about it.

The squeaking was louder now, seeming to come from somewhere to the building’s rear. Feeling his way along the wall like a blind man, Rollie eventually found the source: a window swinging on its rusty hinges. Rollie was no criminal, for all his faults. He didn’t believe in damaging private property, or in stealing. He felt uncomfortable breaking in, but what other choice did he have? Only wandering the streets until he slowly froze to death. Joints protesting, he stooped down to the window’s level, lifting the heavy pane. The frozen metal stung his hand. He slapped his fingers against his thigh to restore feeling.

He peered into the pitch blackness beyond the window. The building was silent, a faint, animal scent seeping from within. Though it probably wasn’t much warmer inside, perhaps he’d be able to scavenge together a fire or something to cover himself. He might not have to die tonight after all.

He squeezed himself through the open window, falling in a heap, the ten foot drop stinging his feet but causing no injury. He stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. After a moment or two, he was able to make out a vast concrete floor, high, naked walls; some sort of basement, largely empty.

Rollie fumbled in his pocket, blessing his own habitual pragmatism. Yes! Four matches left.

He struck one, the darkness partially retreating before its flickering orange glow. There were piles of refuse here and there, the ceiling above a maze of pipes, drains and beams. He tried not to think of their original purpose.

The match burned his fingertip. He lit another, carefully approaching the nearest pile of refuse. The pile was composed of cardboard boxes, old newspapers and two or three wooden pallets. The match burned his finger again.

Working blind—only one match left; no use in wasting it—he dragged the tinder into what felt like a large open space. Feeling his way, he crumpled the newspapers and arranged them into a round pile. Atop this, he placed pieces of torn boxes, making sure that air could get beneath them. When the pile was sufficient, he placed the pallets on top, leaving them intact since he didn’t have the strength to tear them apart.

When he struck the final match, a sudden draft of air from somewhere within the sepulchral packing plant nearly blew it out. But somehow the flame took hold. He held it against the newspapers here and there, starting little fires until the matchstick was spent.

It worked; the small flames converging, blazing. In a matter of moments, Rollie felt the first warmth he’d felt since he left the bus.

He basked in the glow, the numbness slowly leeching from his tired bones. The fire represented nothing less than life, and he was grateful for it. Damn, he was hungry! But that could wait ‘til morning. For now, the fire was luxury enough.

As the fire grew, he was able to discern more of the room. He peered through the gloom at the odd piles and stacks that were placed haphazardly around. He was accustomed to life on the streets and the rails; had long since learned to improvise with whatever materials made themselves available.

From the look of things, Rollie was the first visitor here in years: The floor had an even layer of fine dust, the air stagnant, faintly laced with that indeterminate animal musk.

He rose from the comfort of the fire, filching a stick from its base. It burned at its tip; as good a torch as he was likely to find in this place. He walked into the coldness of the open room, following the faint glow of his stick. To one side, he saw a long ramp leading upward into darkness. He wouldn’t worry about that for now. Later, perhaps.

He approached the nearest pile; a structure of old cans and bottles; boxes of files and correspondence, all entombed in layers of thick cobweb. He picked up a stained calendar, illustrated with a leggy blonde. The date read 1945. He tossed it back into the pile. Nothing useful here.

He turned his attention to another pile heaped against the far wall. There had to be something… he stopped in his tracks. Jesus. Rats; at least a hundred, all dead; bodies dried to furry husks, blank holes where eyes once glinted.

What the hell had happened here? It was as though they’d died scrabbling over one another in suicidal panic; legs outstretched, intertwined, their tiny mouths gaping open.

Rollie turned away, not wanting to think about it, or indulge the ghastly sight any longer. He returned to the fire, in need of its warmth and security, resuming his seat on the hard floor.

He removed his jacket, draping it over himself as a makeshift cover, then positioned himself as comfortably as he could. He was dog tired, but not yet ready for sleep. He grew languid and dreamy, and began to think about things he normally didn’t think about.

Maybe it was some sort of omen—running across this place—maybe it was time to start thinking about the life he was leading. He’d nearly died tonight, and for what? His own damn stubbornness? His rebellion against living the life that his father had lived? What was so wrong, after all, about working 9 to 5 in a foundry for four decades?

At least his father had a place to sleep every night; a meal to eat; a paycheck to collect every Friday. What did Rollie have to show for his own years, beyond the shabby clothes and pathetic possessions he carried?

Perhaps tomorrow, tomorrow when the sun comes out and the snow starts to melt… maybe there’d be somewhere in town he could clean himself up, maybe even get work…

He still wasn’t sleepy. Now he began to fixate on something that had been bothering him since he approached the slaughterhouse—the name: Exeter. Why was it so… ? Ah, now he remembered: A story he’d heard as a child, half-forgotten now, save for the dread it had set curdling in his belly.

It was years ago. Apparently the place was abandoned, even back then, save for three Dobermans that served as guard dogs. They were left alone at night to keep intruders out… intruders like me. One morning, the caretaker found all three dogs dead in a bloody heap on the sidewalk in front of the building. Windows in the third story had been shattered, the glass scattered around their corpses. Sometime during the night the dogs had leapt to their deaths.

Were they chasing something when they plunged from the tower, or was something chasing them?

Rollie listened to the crackling fire, slowly drifting into sleep at last. He dreamed of rail cars; a consistent subject. He’d spent much of his youth as a hobo, crisscrossing the country in boxcars and hoppers on the main lines. He had pleasant memories of those days, and usually pleasant dreams too, but not tonight.

Tonight, he dreamed of something he’d seen in Omaha many years ago when he jumped off the train in the yards—a man’s body strapped to the top of one of the cars. Not exactly unusual; many hobos tied themselves down to keep from falling off when they fell asleep. But somewhere between here and there, something terrible had happened:

He’d been beheaded, perhaps by a bridge or tunnel.

It was the last train Rollie had ever hopped. The sight of that headless body never left him, nor did his dread of trains, which began that day. He’d never ridden a train since.

He screamed as he jolted awake, the sound echoing throughout the basement. He was disoriented at first, forgetting where he was. For a moment, he thought he could hear the sound of a train; that dreadful whining, clacking noise they made in the night. But the sight of the smoldering fire brought him back to reality. He remembered where he was.

Then he heard it again.

He was awake this time, and listening intently. There was no mistaking that sound. It was far off in the distance, a lonely, restless wail; that damned clicking noise as the wheels caressed the track.

Getting closer.

The concrete floor began to vibrate. A burning ember rolled off the fire.

It must be outside… hadn’t he crossed a couple of nearby tracks to make it here? Nothing to worry about; it would be over in a few minutes…

But the din continued to escalate, the vibrations beneath his feet almost throwing him off balance. He thought he could hear tiny bits of mortar crumbling from the walls, shaken loose by the disturbance.

And then he saw the beam.

Like the sound, it was faint at first; perhaps a reflection from outside? No… the light focused to an intense glare, growing brighter and brighter with every heartbeat. Motes of dust danced in the light; fragments of the mortar he could still hear shaking free of its moorings. Like a cinema projection… No… no; not like a cinema projection. Real, and closer than he’d presumed…

Not outside; the light was coming from within the slaughterhouse, its glare so bright now, it was painful to look at.

The heat and stink of diesel, a churning engine, shrieking wheels… the thunder of its approach shook him to the marrow, stealing his breath.

No!

He didn’t believe it, yet couldn’t deny it. Rising from his seat beside the fire, he ran. In the close confines of the basement, the acridity of diesel fumes choked his lungs and stung his eyes.

He ran as fast as he could, the basement seemingly endless, stretching into black eternity. After a while, as the train’s lamp thrust him into ever sharper relief, he felt like he was running in painful slow motion.

Everything seemed to freeze momentarily, and Rollie felt a presence nearby. He began to turn, hoping to catch some glimpse of the intruder, but never did.

He hit the wall at full speed. He felt his nose smash into the bricks, his teeth shatter. As if calling out to him, the train behind screamed one final time.

That scream was so deafening that Rollie thought his ears would burst. He turned to face his pursuer; caught only a glimpse of the winged emblem emblazoned across the monster’s nose, and the fierce, blinding light of its one Cyclops eye.

It was not a painless death.

Outside, the snow fell relentlessly on Derbytown, and on the old slaughterhouse. All was quiet. By midnight, the footprints Rollie had made in the champagne powder were lost forever.

2

It was a day that glinted.

The April sun shone brilliantly; a golden light, a promise of spring’s victory over death.

A red ribbon stretched across the building’s entrance shimmered as it caught the light; the kind of gaudy decoration reserved for grand openings of museums and shopping malls.

The sun also gleamed off the golden scissors with which the ribbon would soon be cut. The blades were open, gilded jaws awaiting their moment. The man who held them did not match their flamboyance, nor that of the towering building that loomed above the impressive crowd.

Alex Cantrell was a man of casual elegance. He stood before his building like an artist ready to unveil his latest work. He seemed almost shy before the crowd; the flashbulbs and television cameras, but his eyes burned with quiet pride.

And that pride was justified. The Exeter Lofts, as the building had recently been christened, was majestic.

It represented Cantrell’s greatest achievement, both as an architect and an artist; a monument to his sheer persistence and belief. He’d single-handedly wrenched this building from the sooty oblivion in which it had long languished, and recast it as a beacon of the city’s future. In his hands, it had been reborn; transformed from an industrial blight on the city’s horizon into a thing of beauty and opulence. Its past was nowhere visible on this sunny morning.

No detail had been overlooked in Cantrell’s obsession: Hundreds of thousands of bricks had been painstakingly sandblasted and reset; the rough, utilitarian trim replaced with beautifully executed stonework; its industrial rectangular windows redone in graceful arches and panes.

Its most striking feature, the square clock tower, was topped with the original mansard roof, but its rusty iron surface had been coated with gleaming copper, its massive clock cleaned and restored, minute hand now gliding silently and imperceptibly.

The structure’s main entrance had once been an industrial steel door. Now it was a resplendent gateway; crystal glass windows flanking carved cherry doors, topped by a granite lintel upon which the word “Exeter” had been chiseled in delicate Art Noveau script.

Before the entrance, a cobblestone circular drive led up from the street. Even the grounds showed Cantrell’s keen eye for design: a meticulously contoured lawn, exotic trees; a central marble fountain gushing water.

The mayor stood at the dais, proudly regarding the crowd. He tapped once or twice on the microphone to get their attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the road you see before you leads to a brighter future for our great city. And the imposing edifice behind me shall forever stand as a proud beacon of vision, civic pride and enterprise.”

As the crowd milled closer, the mayor gave a brief background on Cantrell and his achievement; how Cantrell had evolved from relative obscurity as an architect of high regard, but few high profile projects, to an architectural wunderkind.

Cantrell had a bold vision, the mayor said, and not only the artistic skill to manifest it, but the personal fortitude and self sacrifice to make it happen.

The fact that Cantrell had been able to convince ten of the city’s most powerful millionaires to back the Exeter was obviously what most impressed the mayor. That, and the fact that the project, located deep within Derbytown, one of the city’s most neglected areas, might potentially trigger a major urban renewal movement, eventually generate significant tax revenue, and hence, provide him with serious political capital.

“In light of this project’s significance, I am proud to announce today the launch of an initiative to create an urban redevelopment district for Derbytown, with the Exeter as its cornerstone.”

The audience applauded enthusiastically. The mayor’s political acumen told him that it was time to hand things over. He turned to Cantrell, who stood on the dais beside him, shook his hand, smiling for the cameras as he abandoned the mike.

Cantrell’s black hair, streaked with silver, blew in the wind. He’d never been verbose or boastful; had very little experience speaking to the public, but this was his moment.

“Mr. Mayor, ladies and gentleman, thank you for making this dream a reality. It’s been a long, hard road getting here but I hope that most of you will agree it was all worth it.”

Applause.

“This is a historical restoration, a renaissance, if you will… ” He paused for effect.

“There are many individuals and agencies to thank, but I won’t bore you with all of that. You know who you are and how grateful I am. While this project was a labor of love, the true success of the Exeter will only be judged in time. I want the Exeter to be a home for people; a beautiful living space, and when it has become that, then we will know that we have succeeded.”

More applause. The mayor thrust the oversized gold-plated scissors into Cantrell’s hand.

Cantrell hesitated, turning to regard the crowd. Standing in front was an Asian woman, her young daughter beside her. He was struck by the mother’s beauty; the way the sun glinted blue off her jet black hair, the way she seemed to smile, even though she wasn’t.

He gestured to the woman. She hesitated, then smiled for real. Reluctantly, she ascended the steps, her daughter in hand. She allowed her daughter to accept the scissors, and gently guided the blades over the ribbon. Together, their hands severed the satin, and the crowd erupted.

§

What the audience would never know from Cantrell’s smooth and confident presentation was the utter dread with which he’d faced this opening. He didn’t sleep a minute the night before, so worried that he might say something wrong, that no matter how hard he had prepared, he would forget something.

Failure had never been a big part of Alex Cantrell’s life, but he’d always feared it. Ten years ago, when he turned 35, he’d been accepted for partnership in one of the city’s most prestigious architectural firms. He’d worked long and hard for that day; deserved the recognition, but couldn’t describe himself as satisfied. He was distracted with the mundane assignments reserved for junior partners: branch banks, small apartment complexes, strip malls, restaurants. He did his best on each assignment, invariably pleasing his clients and employers, but something was missing.

Cantrell had always seen architecture as but the medium for his art. He was a man with a multitude of ideas and inspirations, and he spent years searching for his nexus.

This project would be the epitome of his talent and experience. He wanted it to be his and his alone, from start to finish; nobody else holding the reins, the captain of his own ship. He’d always admired and respected Frank Lloyd Wright, not necessarily for his style, with which Cantrell didn’t always agree, but for his creative bravery, his willingness to stand alone, outside of the box. He aspired to the same bravery, to transform a lump of clay into a concept, an expression in stone and steel and, most importantly, space.

When he found the Exeter—then only the “old slaughterhouse”—it was purely by accident. He’d spent a Sunday exploring the city’s nether regions, and at the end of a cloudy day, had passed the forlorn packing house in Derbytown.

To the untrained eye, it wasn’t much to look at it. In fact, the abandoned structure had an almost eldritch feel to it. But he saw its potential immediately: its wonderful Second Empire lines, its intriguing spaces and angles… its sheer presence.

In less than a year, he’d quit the firm and devoted his every waking moment to the building’s resurrection. It was the biggest risk he’d ever taken in his life, both financially and emotionally. He knew that if the Exeter failed, then he would have failed; as an entrepreneur, but most importantly, as an artist.

§

Cantrell was relieved when the ribbon cutting ceremony finally drew to a close. But the crowd was hungry for more.

He flung open the doors and offered an impromptu tour of the building’s interior. All but a handful eagerly followed the creator into his creation.

The central foyer coaxed a chorus of sighs and gasps. Dominating the center of the lofty space was a towering linden tree, at least 40 feet in height, roots firmly entrenched in a circular garden covered with flowers and vines. High above was a multi-paned skylight which bathed the entire space in natural light.

Cantrell informed his guests that the linden had been imported directly from Germany, painstakingly replanted in the specially designed garden. He called it a “natural aesthetic;” designed to bring nature and greenery into the everyday lives of the tenants.

The tree’s graceful girth was encircled by a wide and flowing staircase that wound its way up all four floors of the main building. Bordered with wrought iron balustrades in delicate art noveau designs, the effect was both pleasing and somewhat dizzying to those who stared upward. Cantrell explained that the staircase was designed to provide a seamless transition from floor to floor that was smooth and welcoming.

Complementing the tree and garden was an ornate floor of alternating black and white marble squares, a motif that was repeated in the common hallways of each floor.

The walls were textured with silk fabrics and marble wainscoting. Large canvas prints of Monet and Renoir masterpieces, and less famous American impressionists, graced the hallways and common areas.

The entire effect was one of space masterfully and artistically used. The building was huge, Cantrell explained, and he felt liberated by the challenge of making the dimensions intimate. The lines, the repeating circular patterns, the carefully calibrated angles all joined into an effect that Cantrell wanted to communicate to both the conscious and subconscious.

“Ladies and gentlemen: it is people who design and build buildings; people who transform utilitarian ugliness into inspired beauty.”

Based on their smiles and awed expressions, Cantrell sensed they agreed with him.

He fielded a series of questions about the building’s construction, its physical plant, foundation and the extent of the renovations that had transformed it from slaughterhouse to living space.

Then a man raised his hand and asked a question that Cantrell had hoped might be avoided. He recognized the man as a reporter for the Telegraph, one of the very few who seemed less than impressed today.

“Mr. Cantrell, can you tell us about the body?”

“The body?”

“Yes, the transient who was found in your basement a year or so ago, when construction began.”

The crowd grew silent as Cantrell tried to maintain his smile.

“It was very unfortunate. From what I know, the man apparently sought shelter here during a snowstorm. He froze to death.”

Cantrell moved to answer another question, but the reporter was persistent.

“Yes, that was the coroner’s ruling, sir, but don’t you think it’s odd that a man could freeze to death when he had already started a fire, and there seemed to be plenty of fuel to keep it going?”

Cantrell matched the reporter’s gaze. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for that.”

The crowd seemed to shift uncomfortably, but nobody seemed to have anything to say.

“What about workers dying on the job?”

The reporter’s polite voice now had a sharper edge.

“What’s your question?”

Cantrell’s voice was also growing harder.

“Your construction workers. My count is that three died during the renovations, and many walked off the job. Why?”

Cantrell swallowed. “Tragically, there was a heart attack, a stroke, and one fatal fall during the reconstruction. This was a very, very difficult renovation. Unfortunately, despite all of our precautions, there was a run of bad luck. I can’t think of another way to put it. On a job like this, where there’s plenty of danger, the margin for error is extremely small. And, yes, some workers did walk off the job. I really can’t blame them.”

He cleared his throat and before the reporter could speak again, invited the new tenants for coffee in the conference room.

“There are a few practical details I’d like to go over with all of you, and perhaps you’d like the chance to meet your new neighbors.”

He turned to the others. “For the rest of you, thank you very much for your attendance today.” They filed to the front door—the thwarted reporter among them—while the tenants followed Cantrell to the conference room.

Like the rest of the building, the scale was impressive. There were 30 people here, but the room could easily have held three times that. Designed both for conferences and social events, the room was further testimony that Cantrell had achieved the synthesis of art and function. A long walnut table dominated the center of the room, but there was plenty of space to accommodate sofas and easy chairs along the marble and silk-covered walls. Warm sconces bathed the room in soft amber illumination. English countryside paintings added to the gentle and soothing ambiance.

The tenants positioned themselves at various spots along the table, settling into soft leather chairs, awaiting his words.

“I want to welcome you all—the first residents of the Exeter.”

He began with a lengthy talk on practical matters—parking, trash and recycling; the use of common rooms for parties and events, keys and security, then fielded questions from the room.

“Now,” he continued. “Let’s have everyone introduce themselves; tell us a little about who you are and why you’re here. After all, we’re all neighbors now.

“I’ll begin with myself. My flat is in the tower, just behind the clock. The point I’m making is that I’m not an absentee landlord. I want you to know that I’m here to help with whatever you might need, whenever you might need it. Now you, sir.”

He gestured to the man who was sitting to his right; a short, rather rotund older gentleman, about 60 years old. He’d shaved his balding pate and wore expensive glasses, ornate and oversized, jeans and an expensive silk shirt, opened halfway down to reveal a heavy gold medallion laying upon his hairy, graying chest.

“Stu Brown,” he announced in a deep and gravelly voice, the accent reminiscent of Brooklyn. “I’m in the bar and restaurant business. I’d be surprised if most of you haven’t been in one or more of my establishments at one time or another—the Lancelot, Rick’s, the Lime Light, Fifteenth Street Grill… ”

Some of the others nodded their heads in recognition.

“… I’m pretty damn good at what I do,” Brown continued. “I make people happy.”

He smiled, the expression insincere, leering.

Cantrell made a mental note to himself: Tough character. Tread lightly with this guy…

He indicated the person to Brown’s right.

“My name is Derek Taylor… ”

He was in his late 20s, movie star handsome, complete with deep tan and dyed blonde hair. He was dressed impeccably in clothes that screamed Neiman Marcus or Hugo Boss; flowing baggy trousers, black t-shirt; a matching black linen sport-coat.

Taylor smiled casually. “I’m not exactly working right now, but I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. I’m here because I love this building. Mr. Cantrell, you’ve done an absolutely amazing job. It’s the most beautiful building in town. I can’t wait to move in this weekend.”

Trust fund punk; spoiled, self-infatuated; a kid who’s never worked a day in his life.

Next in line was a couple; a man in his 60s, dressed in plain khakis and a polo shirt, while the woman—just shy of fifty if Cantrell were any judge—wore a casual sun dress. They were holding hands. The man spoke for both of them:

“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Sloane, Bill and Janice. I’m a retired attorney—corporate and tax—and the little lady is my beautiful wife. She’s what they used to call a housewife, but I call her my better half.”

The others laughed.

“We’re looking forward to spending a lot of time on the home front, enjoying life. And enjoying this building. I have to second Mr. Taylor in giving kudos to Mr. Cantrell here.”

Nice people; a sweet couple, despite their cheesiness. Still, they were folksy and down-to-earth. They’d fit in well.

The next person introduced herself without prompting:

She was in her 40s, a little heavy, dressed in a conservative suit. She kept her red hair short in a bob with bangs and wore gold-rimmed glasses. She looked scholarly, but far from dowdy.

“My name is Sharon Knaster. I’m a shrink. I specialize in Alzheimer’s Disease and other forms of dementia, mostly associated with aging. I’m on staff at three hospitals in town and have run my own practice for the past ten years.”

She paused to examine her listeners. “And I warn you all: I don’t give discounts.”

Everyone laughed, including Cantrell.

Honest, doesn’t take herself too seriously. I like her.

“As for my reasons for being here, let me be honest: I’m at that stage in my professional career where I can actually reward myself. I can afford to live here, and I’m happy about that. Let’s face it, this place ain’t cheap… ”

There was another ripple of laughter.

“… I think we all deserve this reward, or we wouldn’t be here… ”

Everyone’s heads were nodding.

“… but there’s another reason I’m here.” Knaster took the hand of the woman who sat next to her. “This is my dear friend, Su Ling Nguyen. I’ll let her speak for herself.”

She paused before she spoke. She appeared to be about 35, petite, dressed in pastel cotton. Her hair was medium length, straight, cut in a modern style.

Intriguing. He’d noticed her from the dais, before her daughter cut the ribbon. He saw the pride in her soft black eyes, the deep love she felt for her daughter; the pain in her smile. Beautiful.

“Thank you, Sharon. This is my daughter, Anna. She’s five years old.”

The little girl, pretty like her mother, kept her head down, eyes glued to the tabletop. She said nothing.

“I’m not used to speaking in front of others. I came to this country when I was five years old, from Vietnam. I was among the last to leave Saigon before it fell. I guess you have all heard the story of the refugees.”

Heads nodded.

“My daughter and I are here because this is where I’m convinced my husband would have wanted us to be. It’s a beautiful place, and I think I like it because it’s so quiet, so far away from all the bustle and noise.”

She paused and looked at Knaster. “Sharon, I’m so grateful that you introduced us to this place… and for everything else you’ve done.”

Cantrell already knew a little about Su Ling from having gone over her lease papers. He wanted to know more. There was something mysterious about her, something compelling. He liked the way she didn’t offer her whole biography to this room of strangers.

He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late, folks, and I know you have a lot of things to do before you move in. A couple of details: You have your keys. Please adhere to your moving schedules, and do feel free to call on me for anything. Welcome home, folks.”

The tenants filed out one by one, shaking Cantrell’s hand and congratulating him. When Su Ling passed, she gave him a subtle smile.

§

Cantrell stood alone in the foyer. He wasn’t sure how to feel. The place was no longer a project, no longer merely a concept. It was open for business, with real flesh and blood residents. He had arrived, but the feeling was vaguely bittersweet, somehow anti-climactic. In many ways, his job was done. For the next year or so, he would consider himself on architectural sabbatical, devoting all his energies to getting the Exeter off the ground and running smoothly.

He would be the manager, of course, which would entail a lot of work, but that was a far cry from being the creator. Would he be able to adjust to his new role? Would it bore him? Maybe it would drive him mad to see his creation slowly decay around him, to lose its veneer of newness.

Would he need another project someday?

The sun was setting, sending angled rays down through the skylight. As he ascended the stairs to his own flat, he paused, staring at the shadows cast by the wrought iron railings, feeling a vague sense of unease. The shadows puzzled him. The angles looked somehow off kilter—slightly expressionistic.

He knelt on a stair and brought his eye close to the iron railing, looking up into the rotunda design. It looked perfect to him, exactly as he designed it. Everything was square, level and plumb, the angles exactly as they should be.

But when he stepped back and regarded the shadows once again, it still seemed oddly different.

He laughed at his own life-consuming obsession with perfection. Now it looked like it’d finally started to take a toll on his sanity.

The Exeter

=§=§=§=

The disturbances spread through everything.

They were manifold, seeming to come from all directions—vibrations, changes in light and temperature, shifting currents of air.

They were frightening.

It had been quiet here for so very long. Then change; a period of unsettling disorder. It was terrifying.

But these upheavals were different; more gentle, yet pervasive, as if they would never cease.

And that was worse than terrifying.

Quickly, very quickly. Not looking—hunting—for the source; openings were crossed, solid obstacles passed through, hard and unyielding surfaces seeming to melt.

Finally, from high above, through the prismatic film where the light was always the strongest, they could be seen. What they were was impossible to say, but there were many of them; different shapes and sizes, different vibrations and temperatures emanating from them.

One of the shapes was smaller than the rest. Its vibrations were different—very different—from the others. There was something there…

=§=§=§=

3

The Exeter was coming back to life.

By mid-morning, over ten residents had successfully transferred their belongings from trucks and vans into their new flats.

Cantrell had orchestrated the move impeccably. He oversaw the entire process watching the movers haul furniture and boxes across the matted floors and staircases.

There had been two mishaps:

The first involved an antique armoire; the property of the Sloanes. The mover seemed to be doing fine, transporting it through the foyer, until he lost his balance. The dolly listed, threatening to spill the armoire, until Cantrell rushed to his aid.

The worker mopped his brow and thanked Cantrell, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’ve been movin’ for over twenty years,” he said in a confused tone, “and not once have I ever dropped anything. I could swear to you on a Bible that somebody was on the other side on this armoire here, pushing on it.”

Cantrell gave the incident no more thought.

The next incident occurred two hours and two moves later, and proved somewhat more calamitous:

The front wall of the building shook as a huge crate slammed against it: A crated piano, hoisted via pulley, since the crew had determined it was too big to go up the stairs.

Cantrell rushed outside. Christ, had a truck hit the building? Instead, he saw workers on the second floor reaching for the cable. It flailed beyond their grasp, the heavy piano swinging wildly. On the inward swing, it struck the building’s facade.

And screamed—the discordant sound of a musical instrument gone insane.

The workers froze in their tracks, as did Cantrell. Their expressions changed in an instant from grimaces of hard labor to blank stares of panic.

When the swinging slowed down and they brought the piano back under control, they laughed at their own reactions.

Cantrell glanced up at the building and was relieved to see no damage. Aside from a splintered crate, the piano itself seemed to be okay. But the sound of the piano’s shriek resonated in his mind long after it had grown silent.

§

“How’s it going?”

Su Ling had stopped to rest in the hallway before her open apartment door. She put down two huge shopping bags, wiping her forehead as she regarded Cantrell.

“I forgot how hard moving is,” she smiled breathlessly.

“Let me help.”

She hesitated for a moment, but smiled permission. He followed her into the apartment, which looked like a warehouse with its piles of unopened cardboard boxes, stacked chairs and luggage.

Cantrell noticed that Su Ling’s possessions were modest, especially in comparison to those of the other residents. The furniture was simple; mass produced rather than high-end. It looked to be at least ten years old. But the chinaware she had stacked on the counter looked authentic. Its intricate Oriental design suggested a family heirloom.

He made no superficial judgment about what he saw. In fact, knowing that Su Ling’s circumstances were different than all of the others was refreshing to him. He felt her pride and sensed her values. Of her material goods, he couldn’t care less.

She directed Cantrell where to place the bags he’d carried in. She thanked him.

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said. “You did a great job with the ceremony yesterday. I really liked the idea that your daughter did the honors with the ribbon.”

She smiled widely.

“I could tell it meant a lot to you,” she said. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure how much Anna was able to appreciate it.”

She gestured toward the window where the little girl was seated, Indian style, on the floor. She had a piece of paper before her and was busily scribbling. She seemed oblivious to their presence.

“What do you mean?”

“My daughter is… going through a very difficult time,” she said, a brief shadow of sadness crossing her face. “At least, she has been since the accident. I’m hopeful that things will improve, now that we’re here.”

Cantrell sensed that the opening was closing and that further questions would be intrusive. He took another look at the little girl, noticing how the dress and blouse she wore seemed expensive, quite unlike her mother’s attire.

She was pretty, slight and delicate, about five years old. She made no eye contact, either with him or her mother, focused intensely on her scribbling.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

She smiled again. “I think I’m about done for today, but thanks. Now comes the fun part—figuring out where everything goes.”

“I’m only two stories up. You know how to reach me. Call if you need anything, okay?”

She nodded.

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

§

Cantrell’s pen glided across page after page of the permanent loan documents as his banker, Ted Ballens, beamed across the desk. It was a tedious but necessary process, the legal culmination of the past two years of Cantrell’s life as developer and creator of the Exeter.

The documents represented the final financial phase of the project, a loan for tens of millions of dollars—a sum Cantrell had never dreamed he would one day be personally responsible for.

The late afternoon sun sparkled through the opaque glass of the clock face which served as the visual centerpiece of Cantrell’s study. Every 60 seconds, the eight-foot long minute hand clicked another notch.

The middle-aged Ballens, immaculate in his gray flannel and Ivy League haircut, poured through the lengthy contract with a watchmaker’s precision. He checked each signature, each initial, each date and each figure, and there were many.

At last, he closed the documents and regarded Cantrell. “Congratulations, Alex. You’ve just signed your life away.”

The two men laughed, and Cantrell poured two fingers of his best scotch. They clinked glasses and smiled.

“Thanks for all your help, Ted. I appreciate your trust in me.”

“I’m just your banker, Alex, but you’re right—I do have trust in you. You’re going to make this work. I look at you as a very good risk.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“So tell me, what’s bugging you?”

The question caught Cantrell off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“After this deal, you should be the happiest man in the world.”

“I’m happy, Ted. Believe me.”

“To be frank, I’m not sure that I do. I’ve watched you since the beginning, the planning, schmoozing investors, your performance with the press, the tenants… you’ve done a fantastic job with all of it. But now something’s wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”

Cantrell laughed at Ballens’ uncanny insight. Despite everything, he was unhappy, or at least unsettled. He felt the culmination of the project in an almost voyeuristic way, as if it were all happening to someone else, someone far more fortunate and deserving.

What he couldn’t deny was the fear. The project was so huge, so demanding, so complex, that he doubted his ability to master it; to make the Exeter into what everyone expected it to be.

He wondered what his father would think if he were still alive. Would he be proud of his son? Or would it be like that football game, so long ago, when Cantrell ran the perfect pattern, caught that long difficult pass, pulled it in, eluded two defensive backs and dove into the end zone for the winning touchdown?

Amidst the celebrations, all his father had to say was that he didn’t like the way the boy bobbled the pass before he secured it, and that his foot was just inches away from the sideline.

Only his father, who elevated negativity to a high art form, could turn a moment of glory into humiliation.

He returned his focus to Ballens.

“I’m fine. Just finish-line jitters.”

The banker regarded him, smiling. “Well, you’ve got lots of time, Alex. Thirty years, to be exact, not to mention the interest.”

They laughed again.

“But seriously, I meant what I said: I have a lot of faith in you.”

Ballens rose and picked up his briefcase.

“And here’s my two cents’ worth,” he added, “and worth every cent of it. No matter how hard it is for you, enjoy the fruits of your labors. You, of all people, owe it to yourself.”

“You’re right, as always.”

The banker nodded.

“I’ll show myself out,” he said, doing so.

Cantrell leaned back in his leather chair and finished his drink. It actually felt good to be alone right now. No phone calls. No speeches. No problems to solve. Nothing but the ticking of the clock.

The study was the main room in Cantrell’s flat. He allowed himself the indulgence of the Exeter’s largest space. Unlike the other residences, his flat was designed strictly for himself. The book-lined study and office was dwarfed by the two story tall clock, the rest of the apartment furnished in a combination of art deco and neo-modern, along with one or two touches of the unexpected: One corner boasted a 1940s Fina gasoline pump, complete with glass globe and nozzle, another the restored grill of a 1940 Cord.

He closed his eyes, listening to the to the building’s rhythmic respiration. He’d lived here for over a month as the lone tenant, and had grown accustomed to the building’s assorted creaks and groans. It struck him as almost human in some ways; in its cyclical predictability—noises caused by air conditioning, structural settling, water coursing through pipes.

But now he heard something he’d never heard before.

It was mechanical, and it sounded big, like large metal gears meshing, or pistons pumping against a shaft of steel.

He opened his eyes and listened closer. Maybe one of the systems having trouble? Or something there that isn’t supposed to be…

Cantrell was about to rise from his chair, when it abruptly stopped.

4

The Exeter at last began to feel its heart beat, to breathe, to flex its muscles…

Bill Sloane had another ten minutes to endure on the treadmill in the second floor exercise room. He was having a tough time of it today. The remaining minutes would feel like hours.

His t-shirt was drenched with sweat, his face a florid red. The only sounds to accompany him were his raspy breathing and the monotonous rhythm of the belt.

He put his hand to his chest. His heart was beating fast, a dull soreness spreading throughout his chest, the whole area taut and trembling.

Sloane had seen the cardiologist just days before. He made monthly visits without fail, despite the doctor’s repeated assurances that he was in remarkably good shape for his 65 years.

“You’ll live another 20 years,” the doctor said, “unless you develop a sudden fondness for doughnuts and cigarettes.”

But Bill wasn’t sure.

He knew, as an attorney, that things could change in a moment’s notice: A microscopic obstruction, previously undetected with all of the best of modern technology, could lodge in that crucial highway leading to the aorta… there would be no warning. He could be working out, like he was now, sweating and panting… the pain would strike in an instant, like lightning on a forlorn field. Worse yet, he would be alone, with no one to call an ambulance or perform CPR. He would die, writhing in agony on the floor, staring at the bleak ceiling of this lonely gymnasium as he gasped his final breaths. Waiting desperately for help that would never come.

The image was all so clear, so familiar. The ten minutes had passed, the regime complete. He stepped off the treadmill and dried his face with a towel.

Why the hell was he thinking like this?

He’d never been morbid, nor a hypochondriac; this obsession with death was totally unlike him. But for the past two weeks, he’d had dozens of such visions. They all involved his heart, a terrible cardiac arrest, and they all ended the same way—with him dying alone.

As a highly analytical man, he tried to dissect the phenomenon, but he was coming up with nothing. He wasn’t the kind of man to run to a shrink when faced with problems; his sanity wasn’t in doubt, but that didn’t allay his confusion.

Probably just the stress of moving, he told himself. It was a stressful business at the best of times, and he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore.

He and Janice had agreed months earlier to sell their stately home in the suburbs; to free themselves from the labor and worries of owning a sprawling house. They looked forward to the Exeter, and the simpler life it promised. There had been a great deal to do, selling the house, packing up, seeing to the decor of the new flat. They planned extensively, but still found it difficult to pare down their possessions to fit their new home.

It had been exhausting, but not so much that he feared it putting him in the dirt.

“The hell with it,” he said aloud, running a hand through his gray hair and stepping into the warm embrace of the steam room. He sprayed a jet of cold water onto the thermostat. A plume of steam hissed into the air. He leaned back on the tiled bench and closed his eyes.

They flashed back open in a second.

Voices, seeming to come from somewhere beneath the floor. Men’s voices, several of them, their tone urgent, desperate, though he couldn’t make out what they said.

Sloane rushed out the door, followed by the spectral hiss and chatter of escaping steam.

§

Where the hell was he?

Janice Sloane sat fidgeting in the living room. It was 4:30 p.m. Bill had been gone for almost an hour. She smoked a cigarette, which she never did in his presence, and had already bolted two scotch and waters. She looked at the clock. 4:31 p.m.

Still no sign of him.

She rose and paced through the flat. It was a lovely place—not as regal as her family estate, but more intimate. Each of them had contributed a little of their own aesthetic to the final design. Bill’s was an eclectic collection of pop art and modern; hers the classical and traditional. The disparate styles blended well, reflecting their lives together.

She stared at the big Degas on the south wall, well-lit by the massive curved window. She took another sip of the drink and swallowed.

Her nervousness was slowly evolving into anger.

The exercise room. Yeah, right.

As if she would really believe that. Or the increasingly regular doctor’s appointments. Or the weekly “visits” to his office. Did he think she was that stupid?

She took a mouthful of Scotch, sighing.

What had happened to them?

In eight years of marriage, they’d gone through the usual ups and downs; the former mercifully outweighing the latter. Until recently, they’d made love a minimum of twice a week. And it had been good sex, fulfilling. Not the sort of thing one might expect from a man on the shady side of sixty and a woman 20 years his junior. Good, lively, nasty sex.

But she’d found a worm in the apple. It had appeared a few weeks ago, barely noticeable at first. It seemed to whisper to her; its words squirming slick and poisonous through her thoughts, slowly growing louder, and louder.

By now, she was convinced that Bill was seeing another woman. Perhaps more than one. It was obvious. She’d smelled no alien perfume, detected no trace of lipstick on his linen collars, but he no longer seemed as passionate as he used to; didn’t look at her like before. He closed his eyes when they made love, imagining someone else in her place.

He’d been her attorney when they first met; a probate case in the wake of her father’s death. Bill handled the complications remarkably well. They fell in love. He was already middle-aged at the time, and widowed. With his graying hair, trim physique and conservative but commanding demeanor, she saw her father. It was natural.

Janice had once come close to marriage, way back when she was still in her early 20s. She’d fallen head over heels in love with a man she’d have done anything for. Anything.

At least Janice felt that way. The man—she would not even think of his name now, let alone say it—apparently felt otherwise. It all ended with a surprise visit to his apartment. He wasn’t alone. Sharing his company, and considerably more than that, was her best friend—another name Janice refused to say.

She’d thrown an ashtray at the entwined lovers, then left them to their rutting.

Since that immemorial night, Janice had had gone unmarried and unattached, well into her 30s, and had grown distrustful and timid, convinced that she would remain a spinster—a word she hated but had to admit applied to her—until Bill purged those foolish and resentful illusions.

For years, she’d not even considered that other women might find Bill attractive, as she did. But the worm insisted. Sometimes it almost seemed to shout. She thought about those other women all the time now, about the attention she knew he was giving them, attention that was rightfully hers. And she imagined what she might do to each and every one of them.

The worm had even begun to suggest what she might do. She’d begun to pay attention to the call log on Bill’s cellular phone. She would go through it, calling each number on the list. Sure enough, there were calls to the doctor, his office; to restaurants where he made reservations for them, to ordinary and legitimate recipients.

But she wasn’t fooled by that.

She began to follow him, to his so-called appointments. Sure enough, she tailed his Jaguar to his office downtown, to the doctor’s clinic on the west side, to the grocery store and to the golf course. So far, he had not stopped at a swank hotel for a clandestine tryst.

But she wasn’t fooled by that either.

This man was oh so clever, she reminded herself. How shrewd, how meticulous, how deceptive he could truly be.

She was working herself up to a blind rage. She no longer cared about the drink or the Degas or the big window or her goddamned life. She was so worked up that she never noticed that her wall clock still showed 4:31 p.m.

§

The BMW M-3 pulled into the underground garage at the Exeter. Sleek, black and new, it was the perfect vessel for its owner, Derek Taylor, who matched its sleekness in almost every respect.

It was late, nearly 3 a.m. Taylor wasn’t alone. He opened the door for his date, a tall blonde who could easily have passed for a model. As she rose from the seat, he took her in his arms and caressed her hair. She responded by grabbing his face in her hands and planting a wet kiss on his lips.

Taylor broke away long enough to open the trunk and retrieve a large vinyl cover, custom-made to drape the curves of the M-3. Gently, and with great care, he tucked his automobile in for the night.

He looked up at the girl who stood patiently near the door. She looked hot—skintight pants, heels, a top that revealed her taut stomach and a sun tattoo on the small of her back. Delicious.

She gave a delighted cry when she took in Taylor’s flat. It was techno-industrial, lots of stainless steel, thick white carpet, furniture that looked like it came from the set of Star Trek. It screamed money, which was the part the date most appreciated.

He put on some Sinatra and poured Taittinger into two small fluted glasses. He played the courtship and foreplay expertly and efficiently, wasting little time and even less emotional investment. The seduction was rapid, the foreplay even quicker. She was willing and ready.

Like everything Taylor did, sex was precise, energetic and fast. In the massive beveled glass mirror that covered his bedroom wall, he watched himself as he pleased her, in several ways. In turn, she did her best to please him. Yet for Taylor, the sex, for all its physical intensity, was tiring and businesslike, the date falling asleep in his arms almost as soon as it was over.

Taylor gently pulled himself away from her and rose from the bed. He covered himself with a satin robe and walked into the living room. He lit a cigarette and exhaled it busily. Although he had never been fond of flowery perfume or the uniquely female scent of apres’-sex, he took his hands, anointed with his lover’s essence, and rubbed them thoroughly over his chest and torso, making himself breathe the aroma deeply. It made him feel like a man.

He walked to the window and stared at the lights of the sleeping city far beyond. He watched the blue smoke of the cigarette tumble in the air of his flat, and frowned.

A stranger might have wondered why this man had anything to frown about. He was the proverbial playboy, a trust fund baby whose father was the scion of an immense manufacturing empire. Since birth, he’d been given everything he’d ever wanted and, not surprisingly, had come to expect that as a right. He had dutifully gone through the motions necessary to earn a BA at an Ivy League school but had done little of note since. He had no career, nor did he need or want one.

Taylor seemed content playing the role of privileged prince. When he reached 25, his father set him up to live independently—essentially paying him to stay away. That was fine with Taylor. He’d resided for the past five years in a series of opulent townhomes, of which the Exeter was the most recent. With each new home, he spent ever greater amounts of money. He spared no expense in decor or the best and latest in electronic gadgetry—built-in computers, plasma televisions, alarms and sound systems.

He was the kind of man whose likeness could be found in magazines like GQ, Esquire and Maxim. His hair was dark, made even darker by his habit of having it dyed black each month at the city’s trendiest salon. His suits were all custom-tailored, his shoes Italian, his shirts handmade silk. It was not unusual for Taylor to visit Zegna on regular buying sprees.

Women flocked to him, not only for his obvious wealth, but his striking good looks and taste. He was very seldom alone. He was a member of various cliques in the city, composed of the hippest crowds. This provided him with a never-ending supply of female company.

Taylor’s women, as a rule, were not very deep, and not very sincere—they were, in fact, mostly hungry opportunists—but they all were beautiful, sexy and looked very aesthetically pleasing draped on his arm.

Invariably, none of them lasted long. Not that it particularly concerned him; the presence of a female—the most beautiful, most hip, most sexy—was an essential component of his meticulously calculated image. Everything else—clothes, flat, wheels—was tertiary.

Nothing brought Taylor greater pleasure than to see a photograph of himself; his arm encircling the slender waist of one of his many Venuses, or his hand grasping hers, ideally on the daily’s society page.

He caught the ash of his cigarette at the last minute. His thoughts had strayed from the moment, out into the sparkling city. He wondered what was going on behind all those lights, what he was missing.

Taylor’s loins were empty, the animal edge of his lust momentarily sated, yet he was still hungry. He wanted to hunt.

The predatory desire was almost overwhelming, but he found himself unable to picture, or even imagine, his prey.

He was lying to himself and somewhere deep inside, he knew it. The realization made his shoulders twitch involuntarily. He began to chew on his thumbnail.

Taylor sensed what lurked out there, what waited for him. Like a moth circling a deadly, forbidden flame, he’d flirted with it here and there over the years; knew that he would likely do so again. There was both dread and excitement in that prospect.

It would happen sooner or later. When it did, the Derek Taylor that his friends and lovers knew; the Derek Taylor that he had always thought and hoped he was, would die forever.

Nothing in the world could terrify him more.

§

Stu Brown swallowed his Metamucil—he detested it, but it was the only thing that worked—and divided his attention between the morning business outlook on the Internet and Bloomberg’s stock index report on cable. Both led him to the same bleak conclusion:

“Fuck!” Cigar smoke streamed through his clenched teeth, hanging in the air of the flat. “Goddamn candy ass investors. Nobody has balls anymore.”

He shook his head in disgust, extinguished the TV with his remote and walked away, wondering how much he would lose today. The thought brought a sour taste to his mouth.

That the loss would likely be made up in a day or two, and the fact that his corpus was significant enough to withstand an entire year of such reports, made little difference to Brown. Any loss was untenable: if there was such a thing as a Golden Rule of business, that was it.

This morning, Brown was alone, as always. His flat was so arranged that it appeared a grand party was mere moments from the offing. The table was set for six, with silver, crystal and Delft. A decanter of Scotch—which he also detested—stood ready on the sideboard. Magazines he would never read were strewn tastefully across the coffee table. As for the classical art and sculpture, the Renaissance furniture and the ornately woven rugs… his concern for them was roughly equivalent.

Although Brown happily conceded his miserly qualities, he was no materialist. The things that money could buy were mere trappings to him. The same was true of his clothes; all purchased from the finest stores, sewn by the finest tailors and informed by the latest conservative trends.

Brown wore them with élan. They draped his stocky body, but in truth, he would have felt just as comfortable in sackcloth. The only reason he dressed as he did was the fact that he could, and that it was good for business.

And business was his reason for living.

His stock in trade was alcohol. That, and a wide variety of attractions, bells and whistles he expertly manipulated in order to attract consumers to it. He’d started humbly, with one bar—an old neighborhood gin mill, purchased for a song. It was 1964, and the world was ready for go-go, but only Stu Brown knew it. By 1965, the place had become the hottest spot in town, turning customers away. It was a place of excitement, where groovy boys could meet even groovier girls, where music pulsed and—most important—spirits flowed like nectar.

That first bar revealed to Brown his own greatest talent—seeing beyond the curve when it came to entertainment; knowing what the masses would want even before they knew it themselves. That, and an uncanny knack for promotion, would serve him very well.

In the 1970s, he had a chain of 10 discos, stretching across the region like a rhinestone necklace. Each one had a distinct concept and theme, but the results were the same.

By the 1980s, Brown started to slow down: He no longer cared for the whims of adolescent culture, where beer was the drink of choice and the funds for it quite limited. He began a gradual transition toward the higher end of the spectrum. His uncanny eye for the curve led him to sushi when that culinary fad was virtually unknown on this continent. He went from there to traditional French, to northern Italian, to exotic seafood, to USDA prime steak.

In the course of this mercenary journey, he discovered a fundamental truth: it was just as easy to sell fine champagnes and wines to high-end clientele as beer to post-adolescents.

By now, with most of his properties sold off and just a couple of flagship restaurants that he kept for show and various tax purposes, Brown was basically retired. His primary task was the daily monitoring of his vast fortune, most of it in stocks, some in bonds and commodities, and some in real estate.

It was the latter category that brought him to this place. In Alexander Cantrell, Brown had sensed a little bit of himself. True, Cantrell was an architect, perhaps even an artist—and he detested that too—but Brown could forgive him for that. He believed in his vision, and Brown suspected that Cantrell had some of the same skill for seeing beyond the curve. Perhaps most important, he had the balls to pull it off.

That’s why Brown was a significant investor in the Exeter. He liked the symmetry of living in a place he partially owned, with the inevitable headaches belonging to somebody else. Needless to say, he had no doubt that the development would bring him profit.

Profit, in the end, was Stu Brown’s family, his creed, his purpose in life.

Poverty was a lingering demon; a nightmare stalker always snapping at his heels. One stumble, the slightest slip, and it would be on him, devouring him whole.

His childhood had been one of empty bellies and bone-chilling nights in a Brooklyn tenement; of insects that lived in the kitchen and rats that shared his bedclothes.

His father had skipped town by the time he was two. It was only him and his mother, who was often away from home working two jobs, sometimes even three, just to put food on the table.

By the time Brown was 14, he was already working; emptying barrels of grease for neighborhood restaurants. He paid for some of the food and utilities by 16. At 18, he was paying all the bills. Tough, physically demanding, low-paying jobs, but he learned so much from them.

The most abiding lesson? That, in the end, he could only rely on himself.

When he was 20, he held his last job as bar-back in a popular jazz joint. He washed dishes and glasses, replenished liquor bottles, slung buckets of ice, emptied the trash for bartenders, and learned a few things about alcohol. He grew fascinated with the profit potential in the liquor trade; that each bottle could be marked up as high as a thousand percent, and that no matter what was going on in the outside world, economically, socially or politically, people would always be thirsty for booze. And willing to pay a premium for it.

Brown showed an inherent skill for negotiation, in convincing the elderly owner of the Clown’s Tears Lounge to turn the business over to him for $1,000 and a share of the profits.

It was a very inauspicious beginning. The bar was a dive, a hangout for neighborhood lushes and lounge lizards. Two months later, renamed the Yellow Pages, the place was packed seven nights a week.

He dove into his destiny with a vengeance. The Yellow Pages was only the beginning. Nothing would stand in his way.

Success followed success, each one greater than the last, none truly satisfying his hunger. His three wives were no more successful in keeping him happy, nor were his houses, his cars or his press clippings.

But happiness had never been Stu Brown’s goal: Keeping the wolves at bay was the only thing that ever mattered. He couldn’t hear them yelping or howling, but they were always there, always waiting.

And he’d never stopped fearing them.

5

The psychiatrist, Sharon Knaster, took in the view. “It’s fantastic!” she gushed. “I absolutely love what you’ve done with the place.”

Sharon was being polite. In reality, the flat in which Su Ling and her daughter resided was sparse, especially compared to other units in the Exeter. There was no expensive furniture or art, no state-of-the-art electronics, no Persian rugs, no evidence that an interior decorator had ever set foot in the place.

Over the fireplace was a simple color photograph of the family—what used to be the family—Su Ling, her daughter Anna, and Quan.

There were other mementos: etchings of Asian folklore scenes, an American flag, a framed copy of Su Ling’s and Quan’s citizenship papers. The American decor heavily outweighed the Asian, which was not accidental. The Nugyens were intensely proud of their adopted homeland, and only faintly nostalgic for their native Vietnam.

“How’s our patient this morning?” Sharon asked, getting down to business.

Su Ling attempted a smile and shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t need to say what the gesture signified: Same as always.

Sharon sighed and made her way to the bedroom. She carried a large black valise. It always reminded Su Ling of old-fashioned doctors making house calls in the dead of night.

She creaked open the door.

Anna lay on the carpet, staring blankly at the gray sky outside the window. There was a look in her eyes that struck Sharon as profound sadness, although her professional caution prevented her from rushing to such conclusions.

Anna’s toys lay untouched on their shelves, alongside an impressive collection of neglected juvenile books. The perfect neatness of the room was broken only by a simple pad of paper and a pencil which sat next to the girl, as if waiting to be used.

She really is beautiful. Sharon closed the door behind her. Just like her mother.

Sharon opened her valise, produced several medical tools, and began with a cursory physical examination of the child—pupils, heartbeat, blood pressure—all of which indicated remarkable physical health and strength. Throughout, the girl was passive, almost pliant, like a plastic action figure.

Sharon followed up with a series of stock questions, meaningless in and of themselves; designed to provoke specific responses in the subject.

As usual, there were none. The girl did make limited eye contact when questions were put to her, but there was no sign of cognitive response, nor did she open her mouth to speak.

Anna was not typical of Sharon’s patients. In fact, she was the only child the psychiatrist was seeing. The idea of having children as patients was depressing to Sharon. She had believed in a naïve notion—that children were like flowers, innocent, beautiful and pure. She just couldn’t handle the idea that they could be anything else.

She still wasn’t sure why she made an exception nine months ago when Su Ling had begged her for help.

It was only three months after the accident, and the child had made no progress in the care of other specialists. She remained unresponsive, apathetic. Perhaps the challenge that Anna posed made Sharon bend her own rules.

Sharon’s field of specialty was Alzheimer’s and dementia. Her expertise in this area was renowned. She’d published several papers in prestigious journals and taken home half a dozen national awards. Her waiting list for new patients was six months long.

The diseases in which she specialized were most often associated with the elderly. Her patients, in virtually all cases, were terminal. All Sharon was able to do for them was provide comfort for their families and perhaps, in the luckier cases, alleviate some of their symptoms. It was a rewarding profession, but certainly not a hopeful one.

Hope was what Anna offered.

There was something in the girl’s catatonic stare, something in the way she glided her pencil over the paper—with passion and a focus only she could see—that hinted at a possible breakthrough. There was a certain logic, perhaps even the hint of form, to the girl’s scribblings, which had begun only a few weeks ago. The drawings intrigued Sharon, who took many of them home and studied them at length. They were all different, all abstract, without apparent meaning.

Sharon rose from the carpet and took a chair in Anna’s room. She gazed at the child, feeling an unusual stirring of maternal instinct. She hated to admit it, but she would love to have a daughter, even in this silent, impassive condition. She knew that her relationship with Anna and Su Ling was already well beyond professional interest.

Sharon was not one to live in denial, especially in psychological matters. She prided herself on being a realist in every part of her life. Her loneliness, therefore, was not something she could hide from.

Her professional accolades and considerable income would never fill the profound void she felt. There’d not been a man in her life for a decade. It had been a brief marriage, and not a great one, for he was jealous of her prestige and the time she was forced to commit to her work. The marriage broke up after six months, and there had been no rebound. At first, Sharon was happy with that—it freed up time for patients and work—but now, years of solitude later, she pined for companionship, if not exactly for love.

She wondered whether it was this need that made her think twice when Su Ling barged into her office, her silent child clasped in her hand, no appointment, pleading for help. Their need was obvious, their sincerity a given.

Sharon felt a connection with them from the outset. They were alone, desperate; in need of a friend as much as a psychiatrist. Sharon decided that she would do everything in her power to help them both during that first meeting.

And to help herself at the same time.

The timing was fortuitous. Sharon had just signed a lease for a new flat at the Exeter. There was something intriguing about Cantrell’s vision for the place—the idea of transforming something ugly into something beautiful—that corresponded to her professional ethics and passion.

It took most of the intervening months for Sharon to convince Su Ling to consider joining her at the Exeter. Sharon had professional reasons for the idea—the proximity would make their increasingly frequent visits much easier—as well as her personal investment. Sharon was eager for a new start, but she didn’t want it to be entirely solo. She would love moving into the Exeter much more if a friend were to join her.

At first, Su Ling resisted. She lived in a modest house in an aging, tired suburb, but was reluctant to leave her first home. It was full of memories for her, some good, some very bad. What finally convinced her was Sharon’s argument that the change in scenery might have a beneficial impact on Anna.

Besides, Su Ling had been fortunate in at least one way—she had the life insurance settlement, which made the move possible.

The gaining twilight outside Anna’s bedroom window reminded Sharon of the time. She approached the girl, looked into her vacant eyes, and smiled. “It was so good to visit with you, sweetheart. You’re doing so well, and we’re all very proud of you.”

She planted a kiss on the girl’s jet black hair and left the room. The psychiatrist did not notice that upon her exit, Anna immediately picked up her tablet and began to scribble.

Sharon joined Su Ling on the sofa in the living room.

“How’d it go?”

Sharon leaned back on the couch and sighed. “It’s hard to tell, Su. I wish I had an easy answer for you. There are times when talking to her is like talking to the wall. Other times, like today, I could swear she was listening to every word… not just listening; understanding. I’m not giving up on a breakthrough.”

Su Ling nodded. A tear began to form in the corner of one eye.

“We can never lose hope, Su. Things like this are very unpredictable. They change in their own good time. You have to remember that it’s only been a year—in post-traumatic terms, mere seconds—and you can’t forget the trauma itself.”

Su Ling’s tears began to flow. “How could I forget?”

Sharon covered Su Ling’s hand with her own. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was what Anna had to go through… ”

The day on which Quan—Su Ling’s husband and Anna’s father—died, he’d insisted on taking his daughter to the ball game. It was a beautiful Sunday, almost exactly a year ago. The circumstances of the accident itself were simple: Quan was apparently distracted, had no time to react. A car had swerved directly in front of theirs. His only instinct was to lean over Anna, to protect her with his arm.

It took him five minutes to die. Trapped beside him, but unhurt, his daughter held his mangled hand the whole time, calling his name. That was the last time she’d ever spoken.

“Listen Su, you’ve been living a nightmare. You lost your husband and your daughter too. I can’t bring Quan back—we know that—but we’ve got a chance for Anna. Please don’t lose faith.”

Su Ling dried her tears with a handkerchief and feigned a smile.

“I know you’re right,” she replied. “And I haven’t lost faith. That’s why I’m here, Sharon. That’s why I followed you to this place. If you say that Anna is hearing you, that she might understand your words, I believe you. And don’t worry if I cry now and then. Part of me just doesn’t want to let go.”

There was a long silence.

Su Ling smiled at last, this time for real. “So, you really like what I’ve done here?” She gazed at the modest but neat surroundings.

“I love it,” Sharon said. “I really do. I can tell you and Anna are at home here.”

She paused and squeezed Su Ling’s hand. “Speaking of home, I should be heading for mine.”

“Thank you so much, Sharon,” Su Ling rose with her. “You’ve been a great friend.”

“So have you.”

§

The soft lights that illuminated the hallway came on just as Sharon entered it. There was no one else around. She could hear music coming from one of the flats, the muted sound of a television from another. She suddenly felt very tired and longed for the solitude of her own place.

When she opened the door, the blast of hot air struck her face like a slap.

Her first fear was fire, but there was no smell of smoke. She ran to the thermostat, but there was no heat on. In panic, she ran to the kitchen.

The oven was on full, set for 450. She immediately turned it off and opened a window, breathing in the cool that rushed into the room.

How in the hell… ? Then she remembered:

She’d turned on the oven this morning, before she left for the office, intending to quickly bake a batch of frozen cookies. It was an old custom; one that endeared her to her patients.

She’d forgotten about it, plain and simple. The roll of frozen cookies lay unopened and thawed on the counter, the baking sheet clean and naked beside it, the oven door yawning open.

How could she possibly forget?

And then the old fear crept in, snaking through her belly and resting there.

Was she starting to lose it? Was this how it started?

Sharon tried to shake it off. “Anybody could forget something so ordinary,” she said aloud. “It doesn’t prove a damn thing. People do it all the time.”

But the fear was stubborn; it clung to her. The oven wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten lately. Her last credit card bill was a month late. The tuna steak she’d planned for dinner had spoiled in the refrigerator. Last week, she had totally forgotten to refill a patient’s prescription.

She had seen dozens, if not hundreds, of cases just like this. They always started out banally—lights left on, keys left in the front door lock, a stove left on—and then grew progressively worse. Pieces of memory would start to fall like leaves in autumn, until there was nothing left but a blank smile and a meaningless stare.

“Come on, get over it,” she told herself, pulling a bottle of wine from the cupboard and pouring herself a small glass.

She silently scolded herself for being selfish. Here she was, obsessing over herself, worrying about nonsense, when Su Ling needed her so badly, not to mention her many other patients.

§

Sharon awoke with a start. She heard rain, falling hard and steady, and stared at the digital clock by her bedside. 4:02.

She rose clumsily and looked out the window. The night was pitch black, but she could tell it wasn’t raining.

Still, the sound was unmistakable.

She trudged to the bathroom and flipped on the light. The sound was louder in here—had she left the shower on? The curtain was drawn… Jesus, was someone in there?

Sharon stood for several minutes, trying to make sense out of the scene.

With a deep breath, she yanked back the curtain.

Nothing.

The noise was gone. The shower was not running, the tub was dry. There was no one there.

But the jangle of terror was not relieved.

A bad dream?

She had no answer, feeling ridiculous standing in her nightgown, staring at nothing.

Sharon turned out the light, went back to bed and drew the blanket tightly around her body, hoping for sleep.

Unnoticed, the clock at her bedside read 4:02.

6

“Okay, everybody. How are things going so far?”

A characteristic opening for Cantrell; blunt but casual. He hoped it would get the chattering group in his conference room down to business.

It was, to put it mildly, a mixed assembly, with the only apparent common denominator being their shared residence in the Exeter.

Among the group seated at the long conference table were the Sloanes—not in the best of spirits, by the looks of it; Derek Taylor—arms crossed, lips pursed, impatient; Sharon Knaster—preoccupied with her Blackberry, obviously busy with other matters; Stu Brown—leaning back in his leather chair, bored, restless; Su Ling Nugyen—shy, quiet, a silent Anna seated by her side.

Brown was the first to answer Cantrell’s general question.

“Everything’s fine,” he spat, “except the rent’s too damn high.”

There was a smattering of giggling which ceased as soon as the people saw the apparent seriousness on Brown’s face.

Cantrell chuckled along. “That’s how we keep our clientele, such as yourself, Mr. Brown, so very select.”

A few more tenants chuckled; Brown merely shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“Seriously folks,” Cantrell continued. “It’s our first formal Tenants Association meeting. I know there must be some real issues you want to discuss.”

There was a long, uncomfortable delay, broken at last by Bill Sloane, goaded on by a sharp jab to his ribs from his wife.

“I do have one issue… ” he began in a voice that reflected the smooth tenor of an experienced litigator. “It’s about the, uh, about the… sounds.”

“Sounds?” Cantrell asked.

“Well, yes. Voices, to be exact.” He paused to exhale before continuing.

“It’s a little odd, and I don’t know quite what to make of it. I was in the steam room and I could swear there was a group of people on the other side of the door. The voices were loud, urgent, like something was wrong. But when I opened the door, there was nobody there.”

Cantrell paused.

“What day was that, Mr. Sloane?”

“I’m not sure. A couple of weeks ago.”

Cantrell was about to provide a banal explanation—a repair crew, for example—but Mrs. Sloane spoke before he could.

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ve heard!” she snapped, the tension obvious in her voice.

Her husband put a hand on her arm, as if to calm her. She roughly pushed it away.

“He didn’t believe me,” Mrs. Sloane said to the gathering. “He said I was making it all up!”

“Honey, please… ” Sloane urged, hoping to avoid a confrontation.

“I’m talking, goddamnit!”

“Go ahead, Mrs. Sloane,” Cantrell urged.

“Thank you. I’ve heard noises. Mechanical noises, things like chains or gears grinding. Just awful. I hear it at night, when Bill,” she gestured at her husband, “has nothing better to do than sleep.”

“Can you tell where the noises are coming from?”

“How the hell should I know? They sound like they’re everywhere, like the whole building is ready to collapse. I mean, no disrespect intended, Mr. Superintendent, but what kind of a rat trap are you running here anyway?”

Her husband whispered “Shhh. Take it easy, dear.”

Cantrell broke the embarrassed silence around the table. “It’s a very old building, Mrs. Sloane, and it’s been totally remodeled. I’m sure you’ve heard noises, and I’m sure that everyone else has heard noises as well.”

He turned to the table, where several heads nodded in agreement.

“The building is settling, Mrs. Sloane, that’s all. Please think of it this way: the old has been married to the new. As a result, there’s tension; a little friction here and there. The structure itself is over a century old, but most of the physical plant is relatively new. It’s quite natural for there to be some… growing pains.”

It was a good line, though Cantrell wasn’t sure if he believed what he was saying. He wasn’t sure that what Mrs. Sloane was hearing was nothing more than an old building sighing and adjusting its bones.

For her part, Mrs. Sloane found his remarks patronizing, but she was already tired of the discussion and wanted nothing more than a second stiff scotch and water.

“Whatever,” she muttered, letting the subject die. She stalked angrily out of the conference room.

Derek Taylor uncrossed his arms and put a hand in the air.

“I have a question, Mr. Cantrell: I’ve been smelling things since I moved in. Are you saying that smell is part of the settling process too?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“It comes and goes,” Taylor said, rubbing his hand through his gelled hair. “It doesn’t seem to be there just when the air conditioning is running, for example, or at any given time, or place, for that matter. The last time I was relaxing on my couch when it hit me again.”

Taylor looked around the table to check out the reactions and was met with blank stares. It struck Cantrell that Taylor seemed to be checking whether anyone was looking at him.

“Can you describe the odors, Derek?”

“I don’t want to gross anybody out,” he began, “but the closest thing I can come up with to describe it is something you’d smell at the circus or the zoo; you know, animal. The first time it happened, I kind of assumed that maybe a small animal; a rodent or something, had crawled behind a wall and died. But it was stronger than that, and there was more to it. There’s an odor beneath that, something… metallic. I can’t really put my finger on what it is.”

“Do you notice this anywhere in particular?”

Derek thought for a moment then shook his head. “No. It’s happened in my bedroom, in the kitchen; even in the weight room downstairs. I can’t believe nobody else has noticed it.”

Cantrell scratched his head. This one stumped him. He wasn’t sure how seriously he should take this guy.

“I’ll check it out, Derek; I’ll do an inspection myself. If that doesn’t help, I’ll have the duct work checked. Fair enough?”

Taylor shrugged and resumed his silence.

Mrs. Daniels, an elderly widow, put a timid hand into the air.

“Yes, Mrs. Daniels?”

“I… I’m not sure how to say this,” she began. “There is… well… No, never mind. It’s okay.”

“Please, no complaint is too small: I want everyone here to feel free to express themselves. That’s my job.”

But Mrs. Daniels, red-faced and breathing deeply, wouldn’t be drawn. “No, really; it’s okay. It’s not important… ”

Cantrell thought he saw fear in the old woman’s face, but she was resolute and he felt no reason to push. He’d let it rest for now.

There was a long pause, broken at last by Su Ling.

“I don’t have a complaint, but I do have a compliment: I just want to say that we are very lucky to have Mr. Cantrell with us. I think he is doing a marvelous job in this beautiful building.”

There was a quick round of polite applause, save for Stu Brown, who once again rolled his eyes.

At that, the meeting came to an awkward conclusion. As the tenants filed out, Su Ling and Anna waited by the door. Cantrell took her hand and thanked her for the kind words.

“That was sweet of you, Su Ling. It felt good after being run over the coals.”

“And I meant it,” she replied, the sunny smile still in place. “But actually, I do have one tiny little complaint.”

“Okay.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you please check my balcony door. It doesn’t seem to lock. I know I’m on the second floor, but I worry about Anna.”

“Come on, let’s take a look.”

§

The balcony door took Cantrell less than five minutes to repair—a simple adjustment with a screwdriver. When he was finished, Su Ling insisted that he stay for coffee.

As she busied herself in the kitchen, Cantrell relaxed on the couch. He saw movement at the corner of his eye and turned in that direction. He was startled when he saw Anna emerge from her room and slowly approach him. She came to within a few feet of the couch and stood, still and silent, like a statue. The girl made intense eye contact with him.

She made him uncomfortable; her stare piercing; somehow too knowing. It was as if she were trying to communicate something to him, but couldn’t, at least directly. He averted his eyes once or twice, but his gaze always returned to hers, which remained fixed.

“How do you like your coffee… ?”

Su Ling stopped in her tracks when she entered the room.

As if sensing her mother’s presence, Anna slowly walked backwards, with confident grace, her eyes glued to Cantrell’s as she withdrew to her room.

“That was amazing,” Su Ling said. “It’s so unlike her to approach another person like that. She hardly trusts anybody. I wonder what it means.”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope it didn’t make you uneasy… ”

“Just a little, but I’m kind of flattered at the same time.”

“You should be. She must like you, otherwise she would have stayed in her room and ignored you. Like she does everybody else. I’ve never seen her act like that before. The way she was staring at you… ”

“I don’t know, Su Ling. For a minute, I got the feeling she was trying to tell me something… ”

She sat beside him on the couch, setting the china cups on the table.

“Who’s to say? Dr. Knaster says her mind appears to be fully functional, which is to say the brain wave patterns are active. But what she’s actually thinking no one knows. I’ve gotten the same feeling you just did myself, once or twice, but it never lasts long… ”

Su Ling dabbed her eye as a tear trickled down her cheek.

There was an awkward moment as Cantrell waited for her to regain composure.

“I’m sorry, Alex… is it okay if I call you that?”

“Of course. And don’t be sorry.”

She sipped her coffee. “I can’t tell you how much I miss her. She was such an outgoing girl, so full of life… a beautiful child. Now she’s… she’s… I mean, I love her every bit as much, but I can’t help feel that she’s a stranger at the same time. I don’t know her anymore. That frightens me. Sometimes I think I’m starting to give up hope, and that frightens me even more.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

She did, recounting the accident and its aftermath in all its painful detail. Su Ling cried throughout, growing silent when she was finished.

“Do you have a family photograph?”

“Yes,” she said, pointing to the wall. “There.”

Cantrell rose and studied the picture. It was taken on the front porch of what appeared to be a suburban ranch house. A small minivan was parked in the driveway. Quan was handsome, with a wide smile—the smile of a proud young father and husband. Su Ling looked happy too, and noticeably younger than she did now. Anna stood between them, a beaming smile on her face, a teddy bear clasped tightly in her hands.

“It’s a beautiful picture,” he said at last, rejoining her on the couch. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you.”

She looked at him, a faint smile appearing on her face. “You’re a very nice man, Alex. I can tell you’re a caring man. Thank you for listening to me.”

He was at a loss for words. It had been a long time since anyone had paid him so personal, and so honest, a compliment. He knew he was blushing and hoped she didn’t notice, so he merely smiled in response.

“Can I ask you a question?” Su Ling asked, sensing his discomfort. He nodded.

“How did you do all this?” She extended her arms, indicating not only the flat, but the entire building. “It’s incredible what you’ve created here; a thing of beauty.”

Cantrell beamed. “This was my dream. And I’m very lucky: my dream came true. That’s the poetic part of it. The reality is it was equal parts very hard work and an unbelievable amount of stress.”

“You don’t seem like a nervous person. You seem confident and in control of everything.”

He smiled. “Then I guess I fooled you. There are so many things that could have gone wrong with this project, so many opportunities for people to back out. That’s what I mean by lucky. I worried over this for years. There were times I wanted to give it all up, believe me.”

“Yes, but your talent is obvious—getting all these powerful people to see things your way, to believe in you… ”

“I don’t mean to be cynical, but all of my backers—every one of them—are interested in only one thing.”

“Money?”

“Yes. I’m not trying to diminish my own accomplishment—I’m proud of it—but to them, at the end of the day, this building is only a revenue-producing asset.”

“But you don’t think of it that way.”

“Of course not. The money is secondary to me; a means to an end. The vision was the thing. And that’s what troubled me. I was never sure—in fact, I’m still not sure—that this whole idea wasn’t just some selfish obsession.”

She laughed, then caught herself: “I think you know better than that, Alex.”

He nodded. There was a moment in which they briefly caught each other’s eye, interrupted by a shrill buzz from the laundry room off the kitchen.

“The washer,” Su Ling said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

He watched her walk into the kitchen, graceful and sensuous. He smiled.

Her scream ruptured his thoughts.

Cantrell ran, his heart pounding.

She stood in front of the dryer, her hand covering her mouth.

His eyes followed hers to the floor.

A red surge seeped from beneath the dryer, following some slight incline of the floor and pooling on the tile.

“Oh my God!” Su Ling cried. “Anna!”

She rushed from the laundry to her daughter’s bedroom. Cantrell followed.

The girl was sleeping peacefully, her teddy bear clasped in her hands. There wasn’t a mark on her.

Su Ling turned to Cantrell. He reached behind her and softly closed the bedroom door.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Let me check.”

They returned to the laundry room. The pool was growing.

“I hate to say this… ” he began.

“It’s blood,” Su Ling muttered.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Where is it coming from?”

“Let’s find out.”

It took Cantrell a few strong heaves to move the heavy Maytag from its resting place. The floor beneath the appliance was likewise covered in a thin pool of the red fluid, but there was nothing else. He grunted as he tilted the dryer to the side and examined its underbelly. It was clean and dry.

He let the dryer back down and looked at Su Ling.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “There must be a logical reason for this… just don’t ask me what it is.”

“I’m scared, Alex,” she said quietly. “That’s blood! What in the hell is it doing on my floor? What if Anna sees this?”

“Do you have a mop and bucket? Go sit down, I’ll clean it up. We’ll figure it out later.”

She found the necessary tools and gave them to him. It didn’t take him long to mop up the hideous mess, rinsing both mop and hands in the nearby sink.

Even before he went back into the living room, Cantrell determined not to tell her something that made his stomach lurch:

The thick liquid—the blood—was warm.

7

The Exeter basked in the warmth of a June afternoon; golden light slanting off its improbable angles, gables and glass. The grass in its small, well-maintained front lawn had taken root, growing lush and green; the ornamental trees fully in leaf, the roses in bloom.

No longer did the place look so glaringly new; instead assuming a lived-in appearance. It almost looked as if it belonged.

It was mid-afternoon on a quiet day. Most of the tenants were gone, working or enjoying the outdoors. The parking lot was practically empty, except for one anomaly that marred the peaceful landscape: a lone police cruiser.

Lieutenant Joe Maudlin spoke to Cantrell as they made their way to the third floor.

“So, we’re talking a couple weeks?” Maudlin asked Cantrell.

“The last time I saw him was at the Tenants Association meeting, just over two weeks ago. Not a trace since then.”

“Did he have anything special to say at the meeting?”

“No. He was critical, which is par for the course for him. He tends to be gruff.”

“You mean you don’t like him?”

Cantrell paused, sensing a trap.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I understand he’s one of the investors in the building.”

Cantrell was impressed by the detective’s apparent homework.

“Yes he is, but he did tell me something after the tenants’ meeting: he said it was his intent to liquidate his investment in the building. He asked me to look into the technicalities.”

Maudlin raised an eyebrow. “Really? What do you make of that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was he a big shareholder?”

“More than some, less than others.”

“I see. So you’ve gone in, taken a look?”

“Yes, and let me warn you, it’s unbelievable.”

Maudlin seemed uninterested in Cantrell’s warning. As they ascended the staircase to the third floor, Maudlin took in the decor, the art; the impressive tree that towered through the building’s central atrium.

“Nice place.”

They stopped before door 308.

“Why did you go into Brown’s apartment?”

“I was scared that he might be sick, or dead. There was no answer on the phone, no answer to my knocks.”

“And you’re absolutely sure he’s not in there somewhere?”

“I checked every closet, under the bed, under the sofa. Nothing.”

“Believe me, if there was a body in there, you would have known it.”

Maudlin paused, regarding the closed door.

“And he left no word with you, no notice that he was taking a trip or something?”

“Nothing.”

Maudlin exhaled. “Okay, let’s take a look.”

§

Stu Brown was incensed. He was waiting on hold, and he hated nothing more than waiting on the fucking telephone. Who understood better than him that time was money?

The voice of his money manager finally came back on the line.

“So you’re serious about this, Stu? You really want to sell your shares in the Exeter?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I talked to Cantrell about it yesterday. He’s looking into it for me.”

The man’s voice betrayed a trace of frustration.

“Why, for Christ’s sake? You won’t get a dime of appreciation, and the Exeter is a winner, Stu. You know it and I know it. Hold onto it for five years, then dump it for a windfall.”

“Fuck the windfall, Steve, and fuck you! I’m selling, and that’s that. Now, what I want to know from you is have you done everything else I’ve ordered?”

The broker paused.

“Christ, no Stu! It’ll take me a week at least to get rid of everything. Come on, buddy. Don’t you want to meet and talk about this over lunch or something? We’re talking a lot of assets here. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Get this straight, Steve. You’re the broker and I’m the client. What part of that is hard to understand?”

“But I have a fiduciary responsibility, Stu, and I have to… ”

“… Listen to your fucking client! You’re right you have a fiduciary responsibility, you son of a bitch—to me! I’m ordering you for the last time: liquidate all of it, Steve—everything. I’m talking about the stocks, the bonds, the treasury certificates, the property, the rentals. Every fucking dime of it, liquidated and turned over to me in currency. That means cash, Steve, hard cold cash, in case you’ve forgotten what that is. Nothing else will do. And I want it done now.”

Brown paused, catching his breath. When he got angry like this, his chest hurt and his breath grew short.

“Now if you can’t get this done,” he resumed in a dangerously calm tone, “I’ll fucking find somebody who can. Have I made myself clear?”

The manager sighed. He was accustomed to Brown’s anger and impatience, but he’d never heard anything like this. He’d already done his best to delay Brown’s drastic decision, but sensed that it was fruitless.

“Clear as a bell, Stu,” he said in a tone of surrender. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Brown slammed the receiver down, but not without a twinge of pleasure. He enjoyed the sound of fear, of desperation, in Steve’s voice.

Brown had always believed that when you turned up the heat, the rats would come out, and good old Steve had turned out to be just another rat. In the end, they were all the same: thieves who couldn’t keep their hands out of his till. He’d suspected it for years and years, just like he had his waitresses and bartenders; his hostesses, partners and wives. All they ever wanted was to fuck him, and he figured that he’d been sufficiently fucked by now.

Stu Brown had put his foot down for good. There would be no more banks, no more professionals posing as friends, no more advisors, counselors or consultants. He’d worked way too hard for his money to allow those parasites—those rats—to suck it all away.

The only man left to trust was himself.

He stood in the kitchen, facing the expensive wood cabinets, copper pots and pans hanging unused from their racks. The cabinets were all open. Each shelf was lined with neat rows of cans. The counter was likewise covered with them. The refrigerator was similarly stocked.

But they were not cans of food. They were coffee and soup cans, long emptied of their original contents, and now used for a new purpose. Each can had been messily stuffed with rolls and rolls of cash; everything from ones to hundreds. There were literally thousands of bills, and this was only the beginning. More than three quarters of his assets had yet to be liquidated.

Brown had no idea how much money lay throughout his flat, nor did he care. He was driven by one overwhelming desire: to convert everything he was worth into more stuffing for his cans. He hoped desperately—he lusted—for the moment when he would realize that every last dollar had been gathered here under his watchful eye.

Nothing else mattered to him. He hadn’t bathed in weeks, nor shaven, nor eaten properly. His clothing—once an expensive silk shirt and knit slacks—were filthy, wrinkled and tattered. His beard was growing in full, his gray hair reaching well over his collar. He stank.

It took several days to complete the task. It culminated with the arrival of an armored truck, the contents of which required several trips by the guards to deliver in full. It came in heavy canvas bags. When the guards were gone, Brown methodically transferred all of it into cans.

He didn’t bother to count it, somehow sensing that it was all there.

Brown wasted little time. On the morning after the big delivery, he double-checked the locks on his door, drew the curtains, and stepped into his living room. He slowly turned in all directions, taking it all in. Each filled can represented another step in his long and profitable life, another step away from those lean and hungry early days. Each one symbolized hard work—the product of his own sweat and blood. Every bill in every can was a victory.

And now, they were all here, before their creator. Now they were finally safe.

But not for long.

Brown knew that Steve and the others—the rats—would be coming. They knew that he was gathering his money here, and they wanted it, like they always had. He hadn’t slept in days. Sooner or later, fatigue would get the best of him. That’s when the rats would strike. They’d wait until he was sleeping, in the middle of the night; silently creep in, remove each can, leaving him nothing. He could picture them smiling; their drool dripping onto his precious bills as they skulked about his apartment. Not one fucking penny left… not one.

He had to find a safe place, now, before it was too late.

The solution struck him in an instant. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. He had a refuge, right here, right before his eyes. The company safe. A black, iron monstrosity: utterly impenetrable.

Yes. It would be safe there.

Brown looked at his clock, the only item of furniture that didn’t fit his richly appointed decor. It was a round electric model, emblazoned with the words “Miller High Life”—a relic of his first bar. The neon showed ten-thirty in the morning. If he moved quickly, he could finish by tonight.

He set to work. Can by can, he gathered the bills and flung them into the gaping maw of the safe. Handful by handful, his precious work, his way of keeping score his entire life, his protection from want, was swallowed.

He hummed as he worked, reveling in his progress. Soon, he was surrounded by a sea of empty tin cans. With every thrust into the door, the empty cans clanked and rolled.

When the rays of the summer sun were growing long, he was finished at last. With one last heave, he slammed the door shut.

Try to get it now, you fucking rats. Just try.

His work done, Stu Brown stretched out on the living room carpet, scattering cans in all directions. Before he drifted off to a deep, untroubled sleep, he took one last glance at the clock.

It didn’t surprise him that it still showed ten-thirty.

§

As Cantrell unlocked the door of 308 with his master key, he heard the cop take in a deep breath, as if by old habit.

“Ash,” Maudlin said immediately. “He’s been burning something.”

They entered the living room. It was dim, the curtains drawn. Each step scattered tin cans in all directions.

Cantrell found the lights.

“What the hell… ?” Maudlin said, taking in the hundreds of empty cans strewn across the apartment. They covered every square inch of carpet, tile and linoleum.

“You said strange,” Maudlin muttered to Cantrell. “This is light years beyond strange. Is this guy nuts?”

“Not to my knowledge. You must know who Stu Brown is, Detective; the guy who owned the Yellow Pages, the Righteous Dove, the Barbary Coast… ”

The cop grunted. “I know the places, not the man. You say he isn’t crazy?”

“He’s a tough guy, like I said. Not the most trusting fellow, or the most pleasant. But how many multi-millionaires do you know who are crazy?”

“Good point.”

Maudlin moved into the kitchen, where he was greeted by an open and empty refrigerator, a sink full of filthy dishes and more cans.

He stepped back into the living room and sniffed the air.

Instinctively, he was drawn toward the fireplace; a large stainless steel unit that dominated a corner of the expansive room. Its glass windows were blackened with soot.

He opened the door with a pencil and peered inside.

“Ton of ash in here,” Maudlin said, his voice echoing through the open flue. He switched on a penlight and shone it inside.

“Holy shit… ”

“What?”

“Come here. Take a look at this, and hold your breath. I don’t want this evidence destroyed.”

Cantrell leaned toward the fireplace and followed the beam of Maudlin’s light. He gasped when he saw it: a clear facsimile of a $500 bill. The impression was printed on a micro-thin wafer of ash. There were dozens more in the fire-pit, and a substantial layer of indecipherable ash beneath.

“When we have this analyzed, Mr. Cantrell, I’ll bet my career we find at least several million dollars in there. Unbelievable. This guy burned everything he had.”

“Are you sure that stuff is real?”

“I’m no expert, but those look pretty damn real to me. The lab will confirm it. They’ll take a fine-toothed comb to everything in the place.”

“Why would he do something like this?”

“That’s the first question I intend to ask him, providing we ever find him. Any ideas on that?”

“Not a clue. You guys are the experts in finding people.”

The cop rubbed his forehead. “So they say, Mr. Cantrell, so they say.”

§

A dozen blocks away, in a part of Derbytown that remained forgotten and forlorn, a solitary figure sat against a brick wall in a litter-strewn alley. His clothes were rags, his hair in wild disarray. A month’s worth of gray stubble was forming itself into a straggly beard.

Just another homeless derelict in a part of town full of them. He was hungry, his stomach churning, but he didn’t know what to do. Instinct told him to make for downtown. It took all his strength to rise to his feet. On wobbly legs, he began wandering in that direction.

Where there were people, there would be food. And how are you going to find it, hmmmm? Beg? Steal? Rummage through trash cans?

For all his financial acumen, for all the business skills he’d spent a lifetime honing, today Stuart Brown found himself as confused and helpless as an infant.

8

There must have been thousands of grams of cholesterol in the feast before him.

Janice had gone all out to impress this Friday night, planning the dinner with impeccable taste and richness—mussels on the shell in a rich butter garlic sauce, fois gras and beef tenderloin. It was presented with silver, linen and crystal, the latter containing a rare vintage French Bordeaux.

Bill Sloane silently counted calories in his head. He’d been to his cardiologist once again, just that afternoon. As always, the doctor had assured him that his cholesterol levels and blood pressure were fine, exceptional in fact.

He believed none of it, of course.

Janice’s appearance reflected the elegant presentation. Her hair was freshly coifed at the finest salon in the city, her makeup impeccable. She wore a designer slit skirt that revealed a generous length of thigh; the diamond necklace he’d given her on their fifth anniversary; the black satin pumps that never failed to seduce him.

“It’s wonderful, darling,” he said, sipping the wine. “We could have gone out and… ”

She flashed a kitten smile and put a finger to his lips.

“Tonight, sweetheart, you’re dining at the best place in town.”

“And with the sexiest lady in town… ”

“I want tonight to be perfect, Bill. In every way.”

He smiled, retrieving a mussel from its shell. It was delicious, but as it slipped down his throat, he wondered how many minutes on the treadmill it would take to wear it off.

Janice enjoyed watching him indulge himself. She was happy, for the moment at least. Bill was here, enjoying himself; they had the whole night ahead of them. All to themselves.

The moment was shattered by the shrill beep of Bill’s cell phone.

“I’m sorry, darling… ” he pulled out the device, flipping it open. He quickly read the text message, deleted it, and returned it to his coat pocket.

He made no mention of the call, resuming his meal.

Janice let it slide for a few minutes, but that was all.

“Who was that, Bill? Who would be texting you at… ” She glanced at her watch. “… eight thirty p.m. on a Friday evening? A client, perhaps? A legal assistant… ?”

Bill recognized the tone. The soft, purry questions were only the start. He knew the pattern of her progression only too well.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” he smiled, putting his fork back onto the plate.

“But I am concerned, Bill.” Her tone went up a notch. “Why can’t you tell me who it was?”

Janice glanced at her empty glass and began to pour herself more wine. She changed her mind and went instead for the decanter in the cabinet. It held scotch. She filled a tumbler with the golden fluid and downed half in one gulp.

“Who was it, Bill?”

He knew she wouldn’t believe it. She never believed it, but he answered anyway.

“It was a text message from my doctor, Janice. My cardiologist. That’s all.”

“Oh, your cardiologist again. He sure seems to call you a lot, doesn’t he?”

“You know I’ve been going weekly. You know I’m worried.”

“Yeah, you’re worried.” She took another slug of her drink.

“But I’m the one who should be worried, shouldn’t I? How do you do it, Bill? How do manage to disguise those incoming messages and phone calls? Do you have some sort of secret code or something?”

“Janice, you’re getting… ”

“Don’t say it again! I’m not hysterical, Bill! I just deserve the truth. I should be worth at least that much to you, or am I just a piece of shit that you’re tired of?”

“Janice, please… ”

She didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. It amazed her how goddamn handsome he was, despite his age. The women called him the “silver fox” down at the office. He only grew more attractive with each passing year. Janice knew she couldn’t say the same for herself. She wasn’t unattractive, but she’d gained a few pounds here and there over the past few years; needed rinse to keep the dreaded gray out of her hair, and, despite using the most expensive creams and ointments on the market, the lines on her face were becoming impossible to hide.

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying, Bill? Come on, grow up! You’re not in the courtroom. You’re with me. There’s no jury, no judge. For God’s sake, just tell me the truth for once.”

She feigned a smile. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”

“Janice, let’s not ruin a wonderful night.” He sounded tired. “I’ve told you over and over that I’m not hiding anything from you. I love you.”

He was thinking something rather different as he spoke. He was thinking that he should have known better; that this supposedly romantic interlude at home was really nothing more than an elaborate set-up. She’d baited him, only to ask the same old ridiculous questions, with the same old equally ridiculous accusations. This was really great—first a heart attack for a meal and then, for the coup-de-grace, a cardiac argument to finish it all off.

Bill took a sip of wine and suddenly realized that telling her the truth might be the best thing after all.

“You want the truth? Okay, I’m going to give it to you. There is no girlfriend, Janice, no mistress, no crushes, no secret encoded phone calls or text messages. Nothing. But there is something. For the past few months, I’ve become scared. Terrified, in fact. I’ve been thinking a lot about my father. You know how old he was when he died, and you know how he died. It was a massive heart attack, Janice, at the age of 66 years. And do you know why?”

She shook her head mockingly.

“He ignored the warning signs; too much of a hero to take one hour away from work to visit the goddamn doctor. He could have been alive to this day. I’m not going to let that happen to me! I’m 65 now, and I’m already getting the warning signs—chest pains, difficulty breathing, a tingly feeling in my arm. I know it’s creeping up on me, but I’m too young to die.

“So here’s the big dark secret, Janice, the same one I’ve told you over and over and over: I’ve been going to the cardiologist. Every week, like clockwork. And every week, I get the same response. I’m fine, I’m fit as a horse, I’ll live another twenty years! But I don’t believe it. I feel the truth, right here in my chest. And I’m not going to go down without a fight. That’s the whole story, may God strike me dead.”

Janice took a languid drink of scotch and flashed him a warm, reassuring smile. She rose from her seat and approached him, planting a warm kiss on his lips, running her fingers through his silvery hair. For a moment, just a moment, Bill believed that she believed. She returned to her side of the table.

“Is that the best you can do, Bill?” she purred in a warm tone that chilled him to the bone.

Although disappointed, he wasn’t really surprised. He was condemned to live with a woman who had gone mad with paranoid jealousy. As an experienced lawyer, he knew the difference between logic and emotion; between someone who lies and someone who suffers from delusion. Janice, sadly, was among the latter.

He shook his head and closed his eyes, preparing himself for the verbal onslaught that he knew was coming.

It did, like a tempest.

Janice’s voice rose to a shrill, accusatory pitch, the high ends of her syllables breaking into tortuous little shrieks. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared, spittle flew from the side of her mouth.

Through it all, Bill did his best to tune her out. It wasn’t easy, but after a while, all he heard was noise. The individual epithets were inaudible, buried beneath the static of her harangue. He just hoped it would end soon.

After some time, he opened his eyes. They were immediately attracted to a flashing red light in the distance—strangely reminiscent of an ambulance’s flashing red lights. He peered into the kitchen, noticed that it was the digital clock on the counter. Had there been a power outage? The red light began to blur, then other things too: the kitchen, the hallway; even Janice’s contorted face across the table. He became oblivious to everything—the shrieking, the smashing plates, the overturned vases.

Oh God… was this it? He’d often wondered how it might start…

Even as the thought entered his mind, Bill felt the pang in his chest; a shortness of breath, the strange ache in his left arm. He sensed that it was going to be a big one—a killer—and desperately hoped that someone would be there to rescue him.

The son of a bitch wasn’t even listening anymore, just… sitting there like a lump, his eyes closed, shaking his head like a damn baboon. Liar, cheat; pathetic gutless coward!

Janice didn’t even know what she was saying anymore, her voice distant and disembodied, functioning of its own accord. The words were nothing but noise; white static or animal chatter, pouring from her like poison from a lanced boil.

Her focus blurred, her sense of orientation faded. She felt drunk, far more than she should have been on only two scotch and waters.

Where… where was she? What had she been doing… ?

She opened her eyes, finding herself in the entrance to a large motel room. The carpet was white and thick, the lights low, with a soft pink cast. She heard the distant strains of lounge music, and low voices, whispering nearby…

Bill was somewhere else too.

It might have been his office building. It might have been his doctor’s office. It was a room, a place, but nothing looked familiar.

A sharp pain in his chest forced his head back. He felt himself falling, from a chair perhaps, striking the hard floor. There were explosions in his head—white fireworks—an outrageous roaring in his ears, like he was standing in front of Niagara Falls.

Janice crept toward the bedroom, making no noise on the thick carpet. Now she could discern two distinct voices—a man and a woman. They were talking low, and giggling. Obviously enjoying each other. There was also the sound of clinking glass—a bottle of champagne being poured.

She peered around the corner of the bedroom door and was not at all surprised at what she saw:

Bill was in bed, nude from the waist up. Sitting on the edge, a glass of champagne in her hand, was a blonde. She was nude, buxom; no older than 22. The woman took a sip of champagne, turned to Janice, licked her lips and smiled.

He felt and heard movement all around him, but he couldn’t see it. Those damn white fireworks were still going off like a thousand fourth of Julys in his head.

Bill heard the clank of metal, the excited voices of men working. They were speaking in technical jargon—medical, perhaps—that he couldn’t understand.

He felt himself being lifted and then slid, or wheeled, into a small space. He still couldn’t see, but he could smell—antiseptic, medical, sterile.

The pain in his chest was now intolerable. He would have screamed, if only he could.

She was suddenly calm.

She knew what to do now.

Somehow, the blonde no longer existed. There was only Bill, lying luxuriously in the ridiculous heart-shaped bed with an obscene mirror high above it. He looked at her smugly, as if daring her to do something about it.

She felt something in her hand. She had no idea how it got there; long, cold, and very sharp, matching the smile that spread across her face.

Bill was suddenly able to see. He saw the technicians tearing open his shirt, rudely applying some sort of device to his chest, smelled the rubber of the oxygen mask covering his face. He saw the lurid red glow of the ambulance lights outside the tiny window on the back door as it hurtled through the night.

Then pain.

The earlier pangs had been mere hints of this. Paralyzing, indescribable agony, all thought and personality swept away beneath it.

Real. This is real.

And not only real: reality, the same reality whose revelation he’d so long feared. At last, it had made itself known, and now, there was nothing to obscure or deny it.

Shuddering, he let it take him, sinking into a condition where all notions of his former life dissolved, where self was picked apart by cold surgeon’s hooks and scalpels. Death, once the ultimate terror, became something prayed for; the only desire, or hope of salvation.

Be quick, be quick! He begged.

But it was not.

§

All was quiet in the Sloanes’ flat.

Aside from a few broken plates and overturned glasses, the dining room almost appeared normal.

Janice crossed her legs, sipping her scotch and water, and leisurely lit herself a cigarette. She was smiling.

Across the table sat her husband. He was sprawled back in his chair, hands clutching his chest, open eyes staring at the ceiling. A large carving knife protruded from the left side of his chest. A stream of blood dripped from the wound, down his white shirt to the floor.

On the kitchen counter, a red light—strangely reminiscent of an ambulance—suddenly stopped flashing. The device began, once again, to tell time.

The Exeter

=§=§=§=

Everything was red.

The shapes below screamed in fear. It surrounded them, engulfed them; clouds of shrieking, searing red.

First the vibrations were soft and then grew in force. They grew until they hurt, until shapes flew through the air and became smaller shapes. They grew until one form struck another. Then the vibrations climaxed, as if everything that surrounded the forms were focused on one point. And that point was red.

At that moment, on the shiny surface of a shape that flashed across the vague light, there was a reflection. A reflection of the self.

Beyond terrifying.

After this, the vibrations slowed. The forms came to a stop.

All came to a stop, except for the knowledge that this had been seen before. It was not at all understood, but it was known—all this had been before.

The terror of that knowledge was deep. It was necessary to be away from this place. Surfaces and barriers were passed through, unknown distances traversed.

A corner was found, in which to cower.

=§=§=§=

9

Laura Bostick, in Apartment 108, was awakened early Saturday morning by the cries of her infant son. The disturbance was unusual; little Matthew usually slept well past seven in the morning. She nudged her husband Greg. Characteristically, he declined to respond, simply grunting and rolling over.

She stumbled toward Matthew’s nursery, just off the dining room, and turned on the light. She comforted the baby and soon he was back asleep.

Laura stepped into the dining room, turning on the light. Everything looked normal.

Until she looked up.

She wasn’t sure at first what she was seeing. The otherwise pristine crystals were dark. Looking closer, she saw that something had seeped through the ceiling from the apartment above; an expanding patch that had dripped down over the chandelier.

She ran a finger through the film coating one of the lower crystals. It came away sticky. And red. She sniffed it.

Then she screamed.

§

It was deja vu for Detective Maudlin.

“Long time no see,” he quipped to Cantrell at the front door of the Exeter.

Cantrell did not have a quick one-liner in response. He merely exhaled and stood clear of the door, making way for the small army of police technicians who followed in Maudlin’s wake.

Parked in the circular drive before the building was a host of police cruisers, a sinister black van marked “Coroner,” and a trailer marked “Crime Scene Investigation.”

After curt commands to key members of his crew, Maudlin took Cantrell aside. He was all business. Cantrell was clearly upset.

“Who found the body?”

“Technically, I did,” Cantrell replied.

“Technically?”

“I heard her scream. Laura Bostick, the tenant in 108. Her chandelier was covered with blood.”

“Really?”

“Her flat is immediately below the Sloanes’. It must have dripped through the floor.”

The old cop rubbed the back of his ear. “Don’t see that one every day. Okay, what then?”

“Well, I ran up to the Sloanes, knocked on the door. There was no answer. I let myself in with the master key, then… ”

Cantrell was running out of breath. He ran a hand over bloodshot eyes.

“Take it easy. Tell me what you saw.”

The architect exhaled.

“The body. I’ve never seen a dead body before, believe it or not. He was… he was… ”

“Never mind. Where was she?”

“It scared the hell out of me. She was just sitting across from him—from it—at the dining room table.”

“Go on.”

“At first, I thought she was dead too. She was just sitting there, like a statue, not making a move. Her husband is sitting across from her, a knife sticking out of his chest… it was something out of a horror movie.”

“So what did you do?”

“I said her name. Just once. That seemed to snap her out of it. She looked at me, blinked, and then stared at her husband.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked me, `Who killed my husband?’ Over and over and over. I told her I didn’t know. Finally, she went to the couch and started crying. Sobbing, really. That’s when I called you.”

Maudlin was taking everything down, word for word, in a notepad.

“Do you think she killed him, Cantrell?”

“I don’t know. There was nobody else in the apartment. The door was locked. There was still food on the table. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You didn’t, unless you touched something.”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right. I’m going to need your help. I’m putting a man at the front door. Nobody gets in or out without I.D.’s. Make sure he has a list of every tenant’s name. I’m cordoning off the entire apartment. Only cops get in until I say so. Clear?”

“No problem. How much time will you need?”

“At least 24 hours, maybe longer.”

The cop looked at his watch. “Couple more questions, if I may.”

Cantrell exhaled again.

Maudlin wanted to know if Cantrell had noticed any suspicious activity between the Sloanes: Was there noticeable tension between them? Did neighbors ever complain about loud noises or arguments? Did either of them speak ill of the other in his presence?

To all of these questions, Cantrell responded no.

Maudlin also asked for all the documentation Cantrell had on the couple—credit reports, lease, legal papers, application, everything. He readily agreed.

“What do you think?” Cantrell asked, when Maudlin finally grew silent.

“I’ll tell you what I think when I know what I think. Meanwhile, maybe you can tell me something. This is the second time in two months that I’ve been to your building, Cantrell. That’s pushing the odds.”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying… ”

“Coincidence. Unfortunate timing. Bad luck. I don’t know.”

Maudlin chuckled quietly.

“I don’t believe in any of those.”

Without another word, the detective ascended the staircase to the second floor crime scene to see the carnage for himself.

The door to the flat was open. The crew was already at work—photographers, fingerprint team, forensics, uniforms. Maudlin entered without a word while Cantrell paused at the door.

Bill Sloane still sat at the dining room table, oblivious to the flurry of activity around him. His head was arched back, eyes wide open, seeming to peer at the ceiling above. The rosewood handle of a large knife protruded from the left side of his chest. Both of the dead man’s hands were clasped around the wound, crisscrossed around the stock of the murder weapon.

“That’s an odd position, don’t you think, Smitty?” Maudlin asked his second-in-command. “It almost looks as if he had a heart attack or something, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” the other detective replied, obviously preoccupied with something else.

“Where was Mrs. Sloane when you got here?”

“Sitting on the couch, crying her eyes out. She was in total shock. The husband, meanwhile, was dead as a doornail, just where you see him now.”

Maudlin looked at Mrs. Sloane, still sitting on the davenport, nervously smoking a cigarette and regarding the investigation with horrified eyes.

“Has she said anything?”

“Not a peep.”

Maudlin approached the sofa and crouched down before her. Up close, he could see that her trembling hands and forearms were covered in dried blood. He introduced himself and quietly read her the Miranda.

“What happened here, Mrs. Sloane?”

She regarded him with a look like a rabbit trapped in the headlights, mascara running down her pale cheeks, and shook her head.

He repeated the question, more firmly.

She spoke at last:

“I knew I was right… he didn’t leave me any choice, the son of a bitch. He threw it in my face, gloating all the while!”

“What did he throw in your face?”

“His infidelity, detective. You see, my husband had a problem: He couldn’t keep his zipper up. He was unfaithful; fucking around, if you prefer. He’d been doing it for years.”

“So what happened last night?”

“I finally caught him, that’s what happened. Right here, in this seedy, piece of shit hotel.”

She pointed toward the bedroom.

“Right in there, plain as day. Bill and his latest slut—a blonde with big tits, of course, the way he liked them. Cheap and whorish—you must know the type. They were laughing at me… ”

She stopped speaking and looked somewhere over Maudlin’s shoulder. “You say this happened in a hotel room, Mrs. Sloane?”

“Yes. Right here.”

“But we’re in your apartment at the Exeter. You’re at home, Mrs. Sloane.”

She looked at him blankly. “No, you’re wrong.”

Maudlin knew better than to press the point. He recognized delusion when he saw it.

“So why did you have to kill him? Did he threaten you? Attack you?”

She smiled. “No, he didn’t threaten me. Not in the way you’re thinking. You have to understand that he made me do this. He wasn’t only asking for it, detective. He was begging for it. He was throwing it in my face. His whore was laughing right along with him. I’m telling you—I had no choice. Any woman, any loving wife, would have done exactly the same thing.”

“So you’re admitting to me that you did kill your husband?”

“Fuck yes!” She broke into a chilling laugh, then lapsed into silence. Her face took on an almost childish look of desperation.

“Can I go home now?”

§

Anna sat in her customary perch, on the side of her neatly made bed, tiny legs swinging in the air, dark eyes staring at nothing.

Dr. Sharon Knaster began the visit with the usual medical routine—a quick check of the child’s blood pressure, respiration, heartbeat and eye contact. As she went through the motions, Knaster hoped that Anna did not sense her fear.

Like all the other residents in the Exeter, she was unnerved by recent events. The murder of Bill Sloane was horrifying in its own right. That the police believed that his wife did it only made it worse. Knaster had met Mrs. Sloane several times. She seemed like a pleasant enough woman. What it in the world had possessed her?

She banished the dark thoughts from her mind, in the not entirely scientific belief that Anna might pick up on them. The child had fascinated her from the start, but for reasons she couldn’t identify. There was something about her, something in the nature of her mental trauma, that seemed odd. Something that wasn’t clinically normal; that went well beyond her own training and experience.

She closed her eyes, dispelling such unprofessional thoughts. She finished the preliminary and began to ask Anna a few basic questions:

“It’s a beautiful day, Anna. Don’t you think?”

Impassive silence.

“It’s going to be a lovely, warm day. The trees are very green today, aren’t they?” She turned toward the window, as if to encourage the child to follow her glance.

Silence, not a flicker of motion.

“What have you been doing today, Anna?”

The girl continued to swing her legs, nothing else.

“Do you hear the birds singing outside your window? In the morning? When you wake up?”

Anna’s eyes didn’t even blink.

Knaster followed with a series of similarly banal questions, all of which received no response. Exactly as expected.

She was about to rise and close the session when the girl’s breathing suddenly grew more rapid. It almost sounded to Knaster as if Anna had become excited about something.

She jumped when Anna’s arms began to flail, her fingers outstretched, as if seeking something. The psychiatrist tried to respond to the non-verbal gestures. She reached for a teddy bear and presented it to her. The girl ignored it. She tried several picture books. These too were ignored.

Finally, Knaster spotted the child’s writing tablet on the bookshelf. Anna grabbed it hungrily and began to move her hand, almost violently, over the blank paper. Knaster found a pencil and placed it in the child’s quivering fingers.

Anna began to draw.

Although her expression and posture did not change, her hand moved rapidly across the page and her breathing continued to heighten. Knaster paid close attention to what was appearing on the paper. She had seen the child’s artwork before, but had never witnessed it in action.

Just scribbling; pointless scrawling… but still, there was something there; some sort of pattern in the erratic motions of Anna’s hand.

After many minutes, the pencil and tablet fell out of her grasp. She resumed her vacant stare, swinging her legs.

Knaster picked up the tablet. The entire page had been covered in pencil. She had no idea what the child had tried to represent.

Was Anna trying to communicate? What triggered this?

She studied the scribbling more closely: there was a certain form to some of it, though nothing Knaster could clearly discern: clusters of grass or weeds? Impossible to be certain…

In reality, she thought, the drawing could have been anything. Or nothing. It was impossible to tell.

She would note the entire event later, and give serious thought to it.

Knaster closed the door behind her and joined Anna’s mother in the living room. She recapped the session, telling Su Ling that she found Anna’s drawing to be intriguing, albeit mysterious.

“What’s next?” Su Ling asked.

“I don’t know. But until I do, there’s one thing you must do: Make sure that she has plenty of paper and pencils near her bed. And keep every little scrap of what she draws.”

§

There was unbearable silence. The tenants of the Exeter sat in a neat circle beneath the shade of the ornate arbor that graced the rear of the building. Constructed of fine teak with a floor of Italian tile, it might have been gracious and calming in another environment. Here, beneath the shadow of the Exeter, it felt strangely confining and repressive.

As he watched them fanning themselves in the late afternoon August sun, Cantrell sensed their restlessness, and was not surprised by it. Moreover, he felt their anger.

The meeting had begun calmly enough with Cantrell’s announcement that Stuart Brown’s former flat had been totally cleaned and repaired and was now back on the rental market.

The tenants were obviously uninterested in the news. They were more concerned with the fate of Bill Sloane and the arrest of his wife only a week ago.

That event, preceded by Brown’s bizarre behavior and disappearance, had clearly affected them.

Cantrell still wasn’t sure where they all stood. From the looks on their faces—Su Ling being the only exception—common fear had begun to curdle into hostility.

“Why are we all sitting here? What’s wrong with you people?”

The voice belonged to Crispin Tucker, a 40-ish, pony-tailed, well-heeled New Ager, who seemed to have a mystical explanation for everything.

“We need help,” Tucker said, rising from his folding chair and addressing the group, as if he were in charge.

“What sort of help are you talking about?” Cantrell asked, attempting to reassert his leadership of the meeting.

“You know what I mean: we need a professional… ”

Cantrell, who’d always had a problem taking Tucker seriously, tried for a glib retort:

“Are you talking about a plumber, Crispin, or someone who can wave a magic wand?”

Nobody laughed.

The New-Ager stared at Cantrell.

“Maybe you think this is funny, Cantrell—one man crazy, another man murdered at his own table—but I think I speak for the group when I say that none of us agree with you.”

Cantrell leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head. “Okay, Crispin. Point taken. Seriously—what do you recommend?”

“There’s bad karma here. Something’s wrong.”

“You’re saying that the Exeter is a haunted house?”

Tucker grimaced. “Kind of. I’m talking about the vibe. It’s wrong, off kilter. Negative.”

Cantrell remained silent before the various nods and grunts of agreement.

One tenant stood up and wondered why complaints that had already been made weeks ago—about noises at night, strange smells, clocks that stopped momentarily, and more—had yet to be addressed.

Another testified to a new phenomenon: She claimed to have seen something in her flat—“a wispy shred of something”—that flitted through her apartment, just out of her field of vision.

When the tellers of several such tales were finished, Cantrell rose and addressed the tenants:

“Okay, folks; my job is to listen and to help find solutions. To prove that I have listened to you, I have looked into every single concern that has been expressed to me. I’ve had the boiler inspected. No problem. The pipes checked. No problem. The electrical circuits. All fine. The foundation inspected. No problem. I can show you the reports and the bills—this building checks out perfectly. It’s sound, well above code in each and every category.

“But I want to remind all of you. The Exeter is an old building. It’s settling. It’s adjusting to the renovations it has undergone. This is a process of time.”

He could see by their expressions that the tenants weren’t buying it.

Tucker stood up and faced Cantrell.

“You don’t believe that any more than we do. You know that none of what we’ve been experiencing can be explained by engineers and architectural mumbo jumbo.”

Cantrell sighed in defeat.

“All right then. I’m open to your suggestions, Crispin. Are you saying we ought to hire an exorcist?”

“In a way, although I would prefer a less cliché term. How about a shaman? A holy man or woman? Someone who can check this building out, and perhaps do something about what seems to be inside it.”

The tenants again nodded their agreement.

“If we bring in a medium, or a shaman as you call it, none of us will ever live it down: the Exeter will become a freak show. Forget about media attention—word of mouth will do it. It will gain a reputation and we’ll be lucky to ever see a new tenant again… ”

Tucker was not vanquished. He had another idea.

“Okay then, have you ever given any thought to fen shui? What about rearranging, or even redecorating, the entire place? I’ve heard that fen shui can have a profound impact on negative spaces. It couldn’t hurt.”

Cantrell sighed. He suppressed the urge to smile, even as anger rose.

“Okay, I’ll look into it. Bring me some names, Crispin, and we’ll discuss it further.”

A young couple suddenly stood and glared at Cantrell.

“This is all bullshit!” the man said angrily. “Fixing the pipes isn’t going to cut it. We could bring in the pope to bless the place; it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Don’t any of you realize that this place used to be an abattoir, a slaughterhouse?”

An uneasy silence greeted these words.

“Yes, Marshall. I do know what this building used to be, as do most of you by now. But it’s been transformed into something new. I’ve got to be honest with you: I have a hard time believing that things that happened 60 or more years ago have any bearing on what happens today. Call me a skeptic. I just can’t accept that.”

“Not only are you a skeptic, Mr. Cantrell,” the young man’s wife said. “You’re a fool. Can’t you see it? This place is cursed… ”

Stunned silence greeted her words.

“I can’t speak for anybody else in this God-forsaken building, but we’re leaving,” she continued. “We’re out! By the end of the week, we’re gone, lease or not. Sue us if you want.”

The woman turned to the group. “And if the rest of you have any sense, you’ll do the same.”

The meeting obviously over, the tenants began to file out.

Cantrell knew there was nothing he could say or do to stop them, so he didn’t try. Nor did he say a word when the rest of the group followed suit; all except Su Ling.

He looked out at the darkening arbor, occupied now only by Su Ling, who sat quietly on the wooden porch swing near the end of the patio, Anna sitting quietly on the grass, oblivious to everything around her. Su Ling beckoned him with a finger.

“So you’re not running away with the rest of them?”

She smiled. “Did you think I would?”

He returned the smile. “No. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Have a seat,” she said, motioning for him to sit beside her. “After all, you designed this swing, didn’t you? I love it. Have you ever sat in it?”

Cantrell shook his head and took a seat. “No. I loved swings when I was a kid. I designed this as a little personal touch. I’m glad you like it.”

They sat in silence for several moments. “I guess I blew it with them, didn’t I?”

“That’s a harsh way of putting it.”

“But that’s what it is. I don’t think a single person walked out of here feeling any better than when the meeting began. I’m starting to feel as if I’m under siege.”

“How do they say it? The wolves are at the door.”

He smiled. “And that’s not harsh?”

“But it’s honest, Alex. These people are scared. Do you really blame them?”

Cantrell nodded. “Well, to share your honesty, Su, I can’t blame them. Too much has gone wrong. Too much is impossible to explain. I mean, what do you make of all this?”

A sudden chill, despite the warm evening, seemed to cross Su Ling’s spine.

“I think you are a skeptic, Mr. Alex Cantrell, and that’s why none of this makes sense to you. I am not a skeptic. In my home country, and even here as I was growing up, I heard many stories of ghosts. The Vietnamese people, like most Asian people, have no problem believing in the supernatural. And let’s be honest again. That’s what we’re really talking about, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he said quietly, almost fearful of being overheard.

“The Chinese regard spirits as routine. They put bead curtains on their doorways to confuse spirits who might wish to enter their homes. Other people cover their mirrors, or put salt on the threshold. To them, spirits and the supernatural are as real, and as common, as the sky and the birds that fly in it.”

“Let’s suppose you’re right; let’s say that spirits are as common and routine as you say: Is it common for spirits to make a man suddenly go insane? Or to encourage a woman to murder her husband for no apparent reason? Or to make a pool of blood appear under your clothes dryer, for God’s sake?”

He realized that his voice had risen, and he apologized for the momentary lapse.

Su Ling took his hand and held it.

“No, I don’t think any of those things are common. They’re terrible, but I don’t have the answers, Alex. Still, I feel pretty sure telling you this—all the awful things that have happened in this building were not caused by leaky pipes or settling foundations. Or any fault of yours, for that matter. You understand plumb lines. You’re comfortable with blueprints and construction schedules and precision. That’s not what this is about. This is no failure of yours, if that’s what you’re thinking. This is way beyond even you, Mr. Alex Cantrell.”

He looked her in the eye, immersed in her dark beauty. He realized, very suddenly, that he trusted this woman. That he needed her.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “One more lapse into honesty. I’m scared, Su. I really am.”

She smiled. “I know you are. I am too. But I want you to know this—you’re not alone. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Without thinking about it, he brought his lips to hers. They kissed passionately, though the new emotions blossoming between them only provided camouflage for the fear that had brought them into one another’s arms.

10

“So you’re Derek Taylor. You’re not at all what I expected.”

Taylor looked at the man—30-something, narrow rectangular glasses, black turtleneck, slicked-back hair—and wondered what he had been expecting.

“And you are?”

“David Dunn,” the stranger replied. “I’m a friend of Ella Sanders. I work with her.”

Taylor tried to remember not only where Ella worked, but who the hell she was. He realized that he didn’t care. His eyes returned to the stranger—to David.

“Glad you could make it tonight,” he said warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

They shook hands firmly before David pulled away, merging into the swirling mass of party-goers liberally enjoying Taylor’s sumptuous flat, open bar and assorted high-end drugs.

It was turning out to be a highly successful soiree. At least 50 of the city’s hippest, most desired, young executives, artists and nouveau riche had gathered here, most of them eager to check out Taylor’s hot new digs at the Exeter which, at the moment, was considered the best address in town. All of them had come to see and to be seen.

He vaguely enjoyed their presence; the din of collective conversation, but, as usual, felt detached and remote from his contemporaries. If it weren’t for the fact that he was obliged to throw this party, he’d happily hoist each and every one of them out the door. That would be social suicide, of course; as much as Taylor didn’t fit in with these people, they counted him as one of their own.

As the hours swept by, punctuated by Godzilla bass and escalating mirth as the champagne flowed, Taylor watched as men and women—occasionally, women and women—began to pair off and leave. It almost amused him how predictably ritualistic, the mating dance was—casual touching, leading to close dancing; to passionate kissing; intimate groping.

At least they had the good taste to save their actual copulation for later—on their own sheets.

Invariably, one would remain behind. This particular sacrifice was named Susan. She stood five foot five, her dyed red hair contrasting with his own close-cropped ebony. She was gorgeous; shapely, well dressed, and seemed moderately intelligent, although the cognac and cocaine had obviously had an effect.

She drew close to him—crowding him—and he smelled the alcohol on her breath. She brought her lower torso into contact with his own and began a slow, side-to-side gyration. Taylor felt the vague stirrings of early arousal.

Susan brought her lips to his ear. “I heard you’re the best, Derek,” she whispered. “Prove it to me?”

Prove what? That I can fuck the next gold-digger in my sleep?

He took her hand and led her into the mirrored bedroom, which was lit by several candles, scented with jasmine incense.

§

Derek was 12 years old. His uncle Steve was watching over him, as he frequently did when Derek’s parents were out of town, on one of their many jaunts to exotic locales. The uncle and his nephew had always been close.

On this particular evening, Steve tried to expand those interests, in a direction that the boy did not anticipate.

“I want to show you something. You won’t believe this, Derek.”

He pulled out a number of slick and glossy magazines. Derek read their titles—Penthouse, Hustler and Oui. He recognized some of them from his forays into the 7-11, but had never gotten a good close look.

Especially inside.

Steve fanned them out on the carpeted floor, the pages turned to the large format centerfolds. There, before Derek’s unbelieving eyes, were photographs of what he considered older women.

His first reaction was one of shock to see the hair. How odd, he thought, for hair to grow in such an unlikely place.

There were other photographs—close-ups. These were even more shocking, the way they revealed the secret contours and surfaces of places Derek had never seen nor imagined.

“Doesn’t that turn you on, man?” Steve whispered. “Look at their faces. Pretend that they’re thinking about you. Thinking about you fucking them.”

The use of the profanity shocked Derek; that it came from a grown-up, his uncle.

He didn’t seem to take particular notice that his uncle had laid down beside him on the floor.

Derek found it difficult to imagine that these women were thinking about him “fucking” them. To him, they all seemed to be pouting or in some sort of mysterious pain.

“You can borrow these anytime, kid,” Steve offered, pulling himself onto the couch. “Just call me whenever you want to see them, and swear never to tell your mom and dad.”

Derek took a place beside his uncle on the couch. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to borrow these magazines, and he didn’t know what Steve meant when he said “turned on.” To him, the naked women pictured in their glossy centerfolds looked more like photographs of animals in a biology book. He took in their breasts, huge mounds of flesh, their vaginas, strange and dangerous looking organs, wondering what the big deal was.

He found it all very confusing.

“There’s a lot I could teach you, kid,” Steve said softly, placing his hand on Derek’s thigh. “There’s a lot I could show you.”

Even then, Derek didn’t quite get it. He didn’t want to get it…

It was more than a horror to him. Much more. It was also painful, embarrassing, humiliating, confusing, Dirty.

When Steve left late that night, he gave his nephew a grateful kiss on the lips, and repeated his warning never to tell his parents:

“We’ll have to do this again sometime, Derek,” he said, winking as he closed the front door.

It never did happen again. Steve moved to a faraway city not long after, and he never once brought it up during his brief visits.

It was like it had never happened at all. After a while, Derek stopped thinking about it, stopped crying himself to sleep at night. It was as if he’d hidden that awful memory, locked it up, perhaps in the same secret and dark place where Uncle Steve stashed his nasty magazines.

§

Susan gasped and sighed at Derek’s bedroom. He laid down on the bed and watched her explore every nook and cranny—the closet with his collections of suits and shoes; the art; the mirror on the wall behind the bed; the stunning Cartier clock on the nightstand.

He could tell that she knew it was of silver. She struck him as the type of girl who studied the composition—and value—of articles very closely.

He smiled to himself: It is silver, and it probably cost more than she made in a year.

She began to undress, doing an impromptu striptease on the bed. She was wearing black satin underwear, a push-up bra and matching thong.

He smelled her perfume—something heavy and musky—and tried not to yawn.

§

Derek was 16 years old.

He was feeling pretty good about himself. He’d landed a date with Debbie; one of the hottest girls at Central High. It was his first date alone with a girl. He was excited, and a little nervous.

Derek knew she liked him. The grapevine at school had made it very clear that she wanted to, as they put it, “… jump his bones.” He knew what that meant, of course, but he worried over the proper way to get there. When should he first take her hand? Put his arm around her shoulders? Kiss her?

He’d been told by more experienced lovers that the best place to make a first move was in the haunted house ride at King’s Park. They had progressed through the carousel and bumper cars before Derek suggested the “Tunnel of Horrors.”

Debbie didn’t hesitate.

The ride progressed through a predictable phalanx of zombies, mummies, vampires and witches, before entering a long stretch of total blackness. Recognizing his cue, Derek leaned over for a kiss.

He closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and was met with a mass of Prell-scented hair in his mouth. He felt her recoil in surprise and then, with amazing smoothness, gently brushed her hair aside and brought his lips to hers.

The sensation was pleasant at first—soft against soft—but then something happened. Debbie’s hand grabbed the back of Derek’s head and she thrust her tongue deeply into his mouth.

It felt like a writhing slug; wet and slimy. He lurched back, striking his head against the metal side of the car, and coughed loudly.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, the hurt evident in her voice.

“Nothing,” he replied lamely. “It’s just that I… that I’ve never done this before.”

Debbie didn’t buy it. She never spoke to him again.

§

Susan was very aggressive, and surprisingly skilled. She took full command of the situation, bringing him to full arousal with her hand and tongue. He liked the way she purred as she worked him.

He laid on his back, watching in the mirror as she performed, admiring the smooth, perfectly-tanned curves of her body, the way her long red hair encircled his groin, the fullness of her lips, the tautness of her nipples.

She’d make a perfect model for a sculptor or an artist… pretty and passionate.

Derek brought his mind back to the task at hand. Susan was slowing down, sending him a subtle but unmistakable message that it was his turn. He resigned himself to the obligation.

“What would you like?” She told him, assuming the appropriate position.

Derek positioned himself behind her, inwardly groaning at the cold and mechanical labor to come.

It was not so for Susan, her moans escalating to screams. Derek struggled to keep up with her.

Her screams grew to such a crescendo that they drowned out all other sounds in the flat. Neither of the lovers noticed that the handsome Cartier clock by the side of the bed had momentarily stopped ticking.

As they continued, Derek watched himself in the mirror above his head board. He admired his own body—the lean firmness of his chest, the way the muscles in his hips moved with their gyrations…

Something was happening.

Derek felt it first in the heightened sensitivity in his loins, then everywhere. His heart raced, his breath grew rapid, his skin and hair acutely sensitive to every motion.

He didn’t believe it, but he was actually making love. He didn’t think of it at the moment, nor did he yet understand its source, but knew it subconsciously: It was the first time he had ever done this.

His partner clearly felt the change as well, responding with even more fervent movement; louder, more animalistic exclamations.

As the pressure in his loins approached bursting point, he arched his back and opened his eyes. There he was—handsome, lithe, strong—in the reflected image of the mirror.

And there was his lover who cherished each thrust; who cried with every movement that Derek made.

David.

Instead of Susan, he saw David Dunn, the man who had expressed interest earlier that evening. Handsome, attractive, beautiful David. He was all his now.

Derek was no longer just making love. He was fucking, with the ferocity and sincerity of someone who had abstained since eternity. He savored the hard feel of his lover’s body, the deep sound he made with each assault.

He could no longer hold himself. Derek exploded deep inside David and their bodies shuddered with each violent spasm. And then they came again.

The screams became pants, which eventually became measured breathing. Derek’s lover parted from him and lay spent upon the bed, facing him.

Derek reached over to caress his face, but the touch beneath his fingers was not what he expected. It was soft and delicate. A woman’s face. Susan. She looked into his eyes and smiled.

In that moment, Derek Taylor came face to face with truth.

The time for denial, the time for hiding, was over. He knew now what he had longed for all these years; understood the lie he’d been living.

But Derek couldn’t live with it.

No! This couldn’t be him, and yet it was. The person he had believed himself to be was an illusion, and he would refuse to live as the person he had discovered.

He trembled, but did not shed a tear. His action was swift and sure, an epiphany. Without saying another word to Susan, without giving her a parting kiss, he reached to the nightstand, opened the drawer and removed the weapon.

Before her unbelieving eyes, he placed the pistol into his mouth, pulled the trigger and blew his brains all over the once spotless mirror in which he’d liked to gaze at himself.

It was very late, and the Exeter was silent as the grave until Susan ran naked, shrieking hysterically, down the hallway. Beside the remains of its former owner, the unnoticed Cartier—its once gleaming silver now streaked with scarlet—resumed its ticking.

11

Cantrell stood in the foyer and racked his mind.

What was wrong with it? Why doesn’t it look right?

He hadn’t slept all night. At three a.m., tired of tossing and turning, he gave up trying. He dressed, left his apartment and wandered downstairs to the main floor into the foyer; the heart of his creation.

The main lights had been turned off, but the foyer was illuminated in the eerie glow of a full moon whose rays peeked through the skylights above.

Something was off kilter.

His tired eyes could have been playing tricks on him, or it might have been the misty moonlight, but he swore that what he saw wasn’t what he’d designed. He’d worked for months on the plans of this central room; its graceful wrought-iron staircase, the towering linden tree that provided the primary focus. He knew every curve, every plumb line; every angle and elevation of the space. But tonight it was different.

There was a skewed quality to the way the shadow of the stairs fell on the mosaic tile floor—an expressionistic perversion of what he’d originally created.

His gaze went upwards, toward the skylights and the moonbeams that were pouring through. The walls seemed to incline inward, the vertical space constricted, lending the spiral stairs a squeezed, sinister aspect.

Cantrell reached for the light switch and turned it on. He re-examined every angle. The illusion of distortion—if illusion it was—was not affected. He turned the light back off.

Troubled, he looked at the moonbeams; the way the panes above had split them into finger-like extensions; the way they illuminated some parts of the room to a state of bluish-yellow daylight, yet left others in total blackness.

Looking up, he saw something near the apex of the space, far above. At first, he thought it was an effect caused by the imperceptible motion of the moon—a subtle flicker, like the dying flash of a light bulb.

But the phenomenon began to assume a vague shape, an amorphous mass of swirling pastel color and wispy substance, not unlike a cloud or puff of smoke. The thing began to slowly descend towards where Cantrell stood.

Whatever the hell it was, it was no trick of the light.

Slowly and methodically, the thing lowered itself to the ground floor. At last, spinning lazily, it came face-to-face with Cantrell, suspended weightlessly a few feet from him. He sensed its energy, but saw nothing definitive in its gauzy substance.

Mustering his courage, he extended his hand toward it. It recoiled, spinning more quickly, its wispy qualities taking on a reddish hue. It darted away from him, flitting horizontally down the hallway. Cantrell followed. Halfway down the tunnel-like expanse, the object tilted and reversed direction, rushing past his head with incredible speed. Cantrell ducked and pursued.

When it reached the foot of the stairs, it began a vertical ascent, picking up speed as it went. Cantrell rushed behind it, forced to take the cumbersome staircase. He reached the second floor, his breath now labored as the strange cat and mouse game continued.

Past the third floor and up to the fourth, the object paused momentarily, as if considering its next move, then began to move vertically again, back down to the second floor and past the doors of the sleeping flats.

The object halted directly before the door of Su Ling’s apartment. In stunned disbelief, he watched as the spinning mass lowered itself to the floor, flattening out and seeping through the space beneath the door.

His head throbbing, Cantrell reached into his pocket for the master key. It wasn’t there. He tried the doorknob. Locked. In desperation, he pounded on the door, calling out Su Ling’s name.

It seemed like an eternity before it opened. Su Ling stood in her nightgown, hair in disarray, half asleep.

“All you all right?” he demanded, looking past her into the flat. He saw nothing unusual.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, fear already rising through her sleepiness.

“Is everything okay? Is there . . ?” Cantrell suddenly realized he had no idea how to explain himself.

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine. What’s the matter?”

“Anna… where’s Anna?”

“In her room… ”

She followed him as he rushed through the living room and yanked open the door to the child’s bedroom.

She was not asleep.

Anna perched on her bed in a pink nightgown decorated with little pictures of teddy bears. In one hand she clenched a pencil; in the other, a broad-lined writing tablet. She was scribbling frantically, the pencil ripping holes in the flimsy paper. As soon as she’d covered a page with her scrawling, she ripped it from the pad, starting again on the page beneath. The floor was already littered with her discarded scrawls.

“Anna?” Su Ling asked. “Darling, what are you doing? What’s the matter?”

The girl didn’t look up from her work, didn’t speak. The expression on her face was blank, strangely calm, in stark contrast to the frenzied motion of her hand on the paper.

The girl stopped suddenly, her gaze rising from her tablet to the ceiling.

“Anna?” Su Ling asked.

The tablet fell from the girl’s hand, her eyes growing distant and unfocused.

Cantrell kneeled to the floor and began picking up the sheaves of paper, examining each one carefully then sharing them with Su Ling.

They exchanged puzzled glances as they looked at the indecipherable drawings until, near the bottom of the pile, Cantrell stopped. He examined this one very carefully, before handing it to Su Ling.

“You’re not going to believe this… ”

Su Ling’s expression dissolved into shock. She began to ask a question, but was interrupted:

The sound was loud, but muffled. A gunshot?

Cantrell and Su Ling looked at each other for the briefest of moments before another sound shattered the predawn silence:

The scream came from somewhere above, then again, louder this time, accompanied by the sound of frantic running.

Doors opened on several floors, voices muttering.

Cantrell and Su Ling rushed out the flat and peered over the railing. They caught only a glimpse of the running woman, totally naked, fleeing in absolute terror down one of the hallways above. The woman’s long red hair almost totally covered her face, her breasts and torso drenched in blood.

§

Cantrell tried not to stare at the broad spray of blood and other matter that covered Derek Taylor’s once elegant mirror.

Detective Maudlin had no such aversion. Indeed, he examined the spray with minute obsession, no doubt drawing conclusions and forming theories that only an experienced homicide detective could. It suddenly struck Cantrell that the detective really enjoyed his work.

Behind them was a deja vu of official activity—the same crime scene attendants who had been in the Exeter only too recently, collecting forensic traces, dusting for fingerprints, going through every inch and fiber of the flat with fine tooth combs.

“We picked up the girl a few blocks from here,” Maudlin said to Cantrell as he scraped blood samples onto a fresh cotton swatch. “Stark naked, hysterical, covered in blood. We haven’t gotten a coherent word out of her yet. She’s still in a squad car downstairs, wrapped in a blanket.”

Cantrell could not think of a reply.

“She’s about 30, Cantrell. Redhead, pretty. According to her driver’s license, which we just found in a purse by the side of the bed, her name is Susan Lordes. Know who she is?”

“No.”

“Come on. You must have seen her coming and going.”

“Derek had a big party last night, lots of people. For all I know, it might have been the first time she was here. Why? Do you suspect her?”

Maudlin smiled. “You and I know better, Cantrell, but I have to do my job.”

“In other words, you’re saying that Derek killed himself.”

“You said it, I didn’t. I’m just an old cop on the scene.”

Maudlin paused, and sealed the swatch inside a plastic bag. “In this case, however, it’s a matter of being back on the scene, isn’t it?”

Again, Cantrell aid nothing.

“Last time we talked, Cantrell, you said something about bad luck and coincidence, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. So?”

“And I told you I don’t believe in either one. I was willing to suspend disbelief long enough to accept that maybe, just maybe, this kind of thing could happen in the same place two times in a row. But this is number three, and as they say, third time’s the charm.”

“You’re right,” Cantrell replied, a trace of anger creeping into his voice. “But that doesn’t help us, does it?”

The detective looked him in the eye. “Look, I can’t advise you on a professional level. I’m just a dumb public servant who’s seen way too much over the years… ”

“What’s your point?”

“You and I know that something is very wrong with this place. I’m no fortune teller or psychic, and I’m not sure I believe in any of that shit, but something is obviously wrong. You’ve been denying it from the beginning, and maybe I have too. But I think we’re at the point of no return. Denial isn’t going to cut it anymore… ”

“But what the hell do you want me to do? What the hell can I do?”

Maudlin gently removed his latex examination gloves and deposited them into a haz-mat bag. He rubbed his callused palms together and watched the technicians survey every millimeter of the death scene.

“I’m not much good at advice, but it seems to me you’ve got two choices, Cantrell: One, you can suck it up, pretend none of this ever happened and hope your luck changes. Or two, you can give refunds to all your tenants—if there are any left after today—board this place up and cut your losses. And then move on with your life.”

§

Su Ling gently closed the door to Anna’s bedroom, grateful that the commotion hadn’t awakened her. She walked into the living room and peered out the window, barely parting the curtains.

In the brilliant sunshine of what promised to be a beautiful autumn day, the courtyard was filled with people and assorted vehicles: Numerous journalists and their camera crew; print photographers, their cameras flashing; reporters scribbling in their notebooks, jostling for position with the TV people.

Several policemen were guarding the front door, allowing no access. The press was obviously hungry. Neither Maudlin nor Cantrell had said a word to them; they were eager to get something in by their morning deadlines.

One person in the crowd caught her attention; tall, thin, white-haired, dressed all in black. He looked vaguely familiar, as if she’d seen him on television or in a magazine.

The man was beginning to attract the attention of others as well. Su Ling watched as several reporters and cameras headed towards him, the man beginning to speak. Feeding time.

She opened the window, allowing in a stream of cool morning air.

The crowd grew silent, and she was able to hear pieces of what the stranger said:

“It’s clear to me that the Exeter is much more than an upscale loft; it’s… ” The breeze obscured his next few words, “… most likely a case of demonic possession or poltergeist… ”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

A reporter asked something about the Sloanes and Stu Brown.

“These things don’t happen by accident,” the man said. “There’s a clear pattern to events that have taken place here.”

Another obscured question, and a partial answer:

“… my hope that the owners will consent to allow me to do a full psychic investigation… confident that I will be able to cleanse… ”

Su Ling closed the window, retreating to her couch. She suddenly felt very alone, very afraid. The sound of the gunshot from Taylor’s flat; the sight of the young woman screaming down the hallway, were horrific enough. But somehow the scene below, with all the frenzied reporters and worried policemen, made it all horribly real.

She wanted Alex, wanted him here beside her.

§

Another curtain, another window; a day later:

Sharon Knaster gazed out from her third floor flat to the now vacant courtyard and parking lot below. Yesterday’s chaotic entourage—police vans and cruisers, antenna-sprouting media vehicles, the black coroner’s van—had finally departed, leaving the building and its occupants in peace. Peace? Hardly.

The Exeter was quiet, but the tension remained, like the bad odor permeating the old walls of the structure. Since the apparent suicide of Derek Taylor, hardly a soul had ventured beyond the doors of their individual apartments. Even pets—the few whose owners had ventured out for walks—seemed skittish and morose.

The tenants themselves avoided one other, staying away from the common areas of the building, almost as if they feared a plague, or that they were somehow collectively guilty…

Guilty? Of what?

The answer came to her in an instant: Of staying.

Despite herself, she couldn’t keep from watching the 10 o’clock news last night. They led with the “… apparent suicide in Derbytown,” angle, and milked it for every ounce of sensational value. She watched as a man who identified himself as a world famous medium courted the cameras and scribes like a lover: He spoke of poltergeists and possession, restless entities and “unfinished spiritual business.”

Con man. She angrily shut off the TV. Damn charlatan…

Knaster’s education and experience told her one thing—everything had a logical explanation. Spirits and things that went bump in the night were not the stuff of science, and she was a scientific person.

She remembered reading Joseph Campbell and his explanation for fear and myth—how people create myths to put a form to things they don’t understand and are afraid of.

And yet…

Was it rational, was it even possible, that the things that had taken place in the Exeter had no supernatural connection?

Was it reasonable to believe that a millionaire would go mad and burn all of his money; that a wife would murder her husband; that a young man would shoot himself after making love, all in the same building, in just a few months?

Hell if I know, she thought, sitting at her kitchen table.

Whatever she believed, she had no doubt that she was no more immune to the Exeter than the rest.

For the first time in her life, she’d been having trouble sleeping. The insomnia had been going on for several weeks. She often woke in the middle of the night with the strange sensation that someone was watching her, accompanied by a sense of dread she couldn’t quantify.

Just the other night, she could have sworn that her mother was sitting at the end of the bed, watching her. She could almost smell her rose perfume, so real was the momentary vision. When she rose to a sitting position, there was nothing there but the rumpled form of her blanket.

Her mother had died alone, more than 20 years ago. She’d tried to get there in time, but the plane was delayed by weather. There was nothing she could have done, but she still blamed herself. It horrified her to think that her mother had no idea of who she was, or where, or what goddamn year it was, when she closed her eyes for the final time.

Sharon had spent the last 30 years devoting herself to the study of Alzheimers and still wasn’t even close to anything resembling an answer…

Stop it; stop it right now, before you drive yourself crazy.

This was perverse nostalgia, with a generous sprinkling of good old fashioned guilt… classic patterns. Sometimes she wished the human mind was more like a TV; just the flick of a switch, then blissful nothing…

A sharp knocking at her door jolted her.

Who the hell could that be? She rarely had visitors before nine in the morning. Maybe a cop, or a damn reporter. Hell, maybe even the idiot mystic… ?

No; a surprise more welcome than any of these: Su Ling, with little Anna dressed prettily in pink Oshkosh overalls.

“Su Ling, what a surprise.”

“Are… are we late?”

“I’m sorry… what do you mean?”

“We have an eight o’clock appointment. Or did I get it wrong?”

Knaster was immediately embarrassed. Of course they had an appointment. She’d written it in her journal a week ago.

“I’m sorry, my mistake. Come in.”

Su Ling entered, her silent, expressionless daughter by her side, and took a place on the couch in Knaster’s study. She handed Knaster a small bundle of notebook paper. The doctor immediately knew what it was.

The scribbling was, for the most part, as indecipherable as all of Anna’s earlier work. Still, Knaster took the time to examine each one carefully, as if reading an unbound manuscript, page by page.

“There is one thing you should know, Sharon,” Su Ling said as Knaster examined the papers. “Anna went almost a whole week without drawing anything. Then, last night—just before that gun went off—I found her in her room. All of these came from last night. She was at it for almost an hour.”

“Indeed,” Knaster replied, her eyes returning to Anna’s work.

Erratic, random lines and circles; scrawlings; violent, jagged forms. As always, they appeared to be without logic.

But one page was different. Su Ling had kept it separate from the others, and gave it to Sharon when she was finished with them.

“What do you make of this one?”

Knaster gasped when she saw it.

An eye—a large, staring, horrified eye.

The composition and shading showed amazing skill; astounding even, considering the artist’s age.

Knaster looked at Anna and held the picture up for the girl to see.

“Anna,” she said quietly. “Is this your eye that you’ve drawn?”

No words, no reaction.

She turned to Su Ling.

“This is remarkable.”

Su Ling nodded. “I know. I realized that the minute I saw it. What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, but it gives me hope. It’s a beginning of some sort, I’m sure of it.”

Su Ling smiled. She might not have had she known what Knaster was thinking:

Whatever it was that eye was looking at, she thought, I hope I never see it.

12

Sharon Knaster couldn’t get the image of the eye out of her mind.

There was something frantic, demented, about it. It haunted her. Since Su Ling had brought the drawings earlier that day, she’d found herself unable to concentrate on anything else.

The day had been quiet and uneventful. She couldn’t remember the last time she didn’t get at least one call from the hospital concerning a patient.

So quiet… strange, considering her fellow tenants, not to mention recent events.

The only sound in her flat was the ticking of the mantle clock. Sharon didn’t notice when it stopped, grew silent for a few seconds, then resumed.

She couldn’t get her mind off Anna’s drawings. Healthy children invariably drew pictures of happy things—trees, birds, mom and dad, flowers, circuses and houses with crooked chimneys. They were simple and innocent, just like the artists who had created them.

She thought back to her own pictures that she’d drawn at Anna’s age. A smile lit up her face as she remembered showing off a picture of Tawny, the family dog, rendered in new Crayola. Her mom and dad beamed when they saw the crude picture; the pride she felt at that moment had stayed with her all these years…

Sharon’s smile faltered. It had been so many years, so much pain…

Her mother’s favorite meal was Sunday night. Roast chicken, squash, mashed potatoes, green beans, always a pie for dessert. The menu seldom varied, simply because no one ever complained. Everyone loved it, but little Sharon particularly longed for Sunday afternoons, when the entire house would be filled with the delicious aromas of cooking.

Sharon’s eyes turned to her own kitchen as her reverie deepened. She saw her mother—dead these 20 years—still young and strong, busy at work, rattling pots and pans, selecting spices and stirring. She was short, hair tied back neatly in a bun, and she always wore a red smock when she cooked.

The kitchen in that lovely old house in Des Moines was old-fashioned and impractical—ancient linoleum on the floor, battered wainscot on the walls and an old gas stove that seemed to take up half the room—but to little Sharon, it was heaven on earth. Especially on Sundays.

Even now, she thought, here in this strangely silent apartment building, she could smell her mother’s chicken wafting through the air.

Crazy. That was so many Sundays ago. Her mother was long gone. The aroma of her cooking would never fill the air again.

Sharon unconsciously bit her lip as another memory surfaced. Once again, her mother was cooking, but this time she was not at home. She was in the nursing home, the place Sharon was forced to send her after the repeated “wandering” episodes made independence no longer possible.

More than once, Sharon had been forced to call the police after her mother had gone missing. Once they found her wandering zombie-like through a park 20 blocks away from her home. Another time, she was in a mall, in her bedclothes, staring aimlessly at window after window.

At the home, she could no longer wander. She’d been placed in a special section, reserved for people just like her—those in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. The windows were barred, the doors routinely locked, along with myriad precautions which kept her “safe and sound,” as the head nurse liked to put it.

Although there was no kitchen in her new home, Sharon’s mother was often busy cooking. She would lift imaginary pots and pans onto her fantasy stove, stir imaginary stews and soups in them, and then smile as she offered her daughter an invisible taste.

She kept it up for hours at a time, maintaining the strange ritual until a week before she died.

Sharon awoke from the memory with a start. She was in her flat at the Exeter, standing before her own stove, stirring a pot that wasn’t there, with a spoon that didn’t exist.

She gasped.

“Oh God… ”

But the smell was unmistakable—apple pie, spiced with cinnamon, baking. In her oven.

In spite of herself, she flung open the oven door and was blinded by a brilliant flash of white light.

She was no longer in her flat. She was in a place she didn’t recognize. An antiseptic, sterile place, with pastel green walls, pristine white borders outlining the windows and door.

An Alzheimer’s facility, her mind whispered.

The faint sound of soothing Muzak came from somewhere. The soft hiss of air conditioning was barely perceptible. Everything was cast in the soft glow of indirect lighting.

All of it was designed, she knew, to keep people like her calm. To keep them from the powerful urge to wander. To keep them safe from themselves.

She touched the softly rounded corner of her table, placed safely in a little nook against the wall. She walked to the bathroom and saw how the toilet seat stood out in brilliant red.

Contrasting colors are easily discerned by Alzheimer’s patients, her mind whispered again. The furniture is padded for obvious reasons. The designs are simple and clean, so as not to confuse the mind.

She had to get out of here, her mind now screamed.

I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them. I’m a psychiatrist. I am not my mother!

Sharon made for the door, then stopped. Before her was something black, rectangular.

What was it? Some sort of hole; a door before the door, but to where?

A hole? A deep, bottomless abyss to keep her from crossing the threshold to freedom?

No… just black tiles, designed to confuse. Alzheimer’s sufferers saw the color black as a vacuum, an empty space, an impassable barrier.

But it looks so forbidding. So deep. So terrifying.

It’s nothing but fucking black tiles!

She lifted a foot tentatively above the abyss, then pulled back. How could she be sure?

She ran her fingers through her hair, perspiring heavily. She took a deep breath.

Would you rather die, or spend the rest of your life in this place? Putting it like that, there really was no choice at all.

She stepped out into the void.

There was a brief sensation of falling, similar to what she sometimes felt shortly before falling asleep. A chill ran the length of her spine.

The room disappeared, as did the doorway, as did the black hole.

Above her was blue sky; below, three stories down, green grass. In her face was a fresh autumn breeze.

Sharon found herself standing on the stone railing of her balcony at the Exeter, inches from death. One of her feet was suspended in the air. Her entire body was leaning forward. She felt gravity trying to pull her like a groping hand.

I don’t want to die… please…

She teetered, a clumsy tightrope walker, for what seemed like a very long time; the difference between death and life too small to measure. The sudden spark of survival instinct dragged her back from the brink; balance slowly returning, allowing her to inch back, back towards the building.

At last, her fulcrum shifted. Gravity finally became her ally. She fell back onto the hard floor of the balcony, weeping for an hour before she could stand again.

The Exeter

=§=§=§=

It felt nice here, like something from long, long ago; almost, but not quite, forgotten.

This shape was pleasing, familiar and had a temperature that did not hurt. It posed no threat; it helped, tried to understand…

But the temperature was rising. Something displeased this shape, frightened it. This was different; this one oscillated, as if it were riding, or suspended in the air.

It began to fade, then returned. Departed, returned, departed…

Fear, growing…

This one, the soother, was afraid. This one traveled, not knowing the destination, fearing the journey. This one made a great vibration.

And it was terrifying.

Solid forms allowed passage away from this fear, from this undulation. Darkness and cold again, obliterating comfort.

Again, solitude.

=§=§=§=

13

Cantrell should have been dreading the meeting, but he wasn’t. The news would be bad—of course it would—but being away from the place had somehow given him a sense of calm that he hadn’t felt in months.

He chose to take side streets instead of the highway, actually enjoying the ride downtown. The leisurely pace gave him a little time to think.

His destination, the office of his lawyer, was still 20 minutes away. The sky threatened snow, and the streets had little traffic in mid-afternoon.

So much had changed since his last meeting with his attorney, when the business of the Exeter was consummated and formalized. That had been a time of excitement, of creation, of what appeared to be a boundless future, based on his dream and his hard work.

Now, only nine months later, his entire world had turned as bleak and hopeless as the sky above.

The past two weeks had been the worst. The Exeter had become his Titanic, her tenants the passengers scrabbling for the lifeboats.

Each day saw another departure; another moving van and broken lease. Only a few of them had actually said goodbye. Even fewer had stated their reasons. All of them, however, had the same look of relief on their faces when they exited the front door for the last time. One of them even made a sign of the cross upon heading out into the cold December morning.

They were terrified, all of them, and Cantrell had no problem understanding why: They believed that the building had turned against them, that it had murdered two people, drove another two to insanity; almost killed another. They wondered when their turn would come.

Cantrell knew that he’d been living in a state of hardcore denial about the whole thing. He could no longer hide behind that cloak. Nor could he blithely reassure nervous tenants that everything would be just fine; that everything that had happened in that building was a product of coincidence, imagination, confusion or structural adjustment. Not that he had any better idea as to why the ship was sinking so fast. Was the place cursed? Lousy with demons and murderous poltergeists? The very notion made him want to laugh, but he couldn’t.

Even so, as its captain, its creator, he could not desert the Exeter.

§

He parked his car in the bowels of his lawyer’s building and made his way up to the 15th floor, noticing how modern and sterile the building looked in comparison to his own.

Josh Billings looked grim when he rose to shake his client’s hand.

Not a good sign. But not terribly surprising.

He sat before his attorney, beginning the conversation with a simple question:

“How hopeless is it?”

The lawyer grimaced before replying. Billings asked Cantrell if he would mind if he lit a cigarette.

He’s nervous. Another bad sign.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Alex,” he began, exhaling a long plume of blue smoke. “Are there any tenants left? Who’s still living in the place?”

“Besides me, there’s only one. Two, actually; a mother and her daughter.”

“I see. Are they staying?”

A look of concern briefly passed over Cantrell’s face.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay then, let’s establish a bottom line: what are your prospects of drawing new tenants to the building?”

“Next to nil,” Cantrell laughed. “To be honest, Josh, I don’t think we could draw tenants with the promise of ten years’ free rent. The media has had a field day with all of this. Those who aren’t laughing are scared shitless. The place can’t attract flies.”

The lawyer grimaced again. He paused, as if mustering up the courage to ask his next question:

“Be straight with me, Alex: Does this place have a curse on it or something? Is it fucking haunted or what?”

Cantrell could see that the lawyer didn’t believe any of it. And why should he? He was a black and white guy, interested only in the facts. But when it came to the Exeter, the facts were strictly in the gray zone.

“I don’t know. You’ve read the papers, heard what they’re saying on TV. To be honest, I’ve seen things myself that don’t make any sense. I honestly don’t know what to make of it.”

He looked at Billings directly, skepticism apparent on the lawyer’s face.

“I do know this: whatever it is, it’s real as hell.”

“Okay, Alex. I’m not saying that I doubt you, but let me ask you a question: Is it possible that somebody is setting you up? A prank or shakedown of some kind?”

Cantrell watched Billings’ smoke rise to the ceiling.

“Trust me on this, Josh. Whatever it is, it’s bad, and it’s real. I doubted it for a long time, but I can’t anymore.”

The lawyer waited a minute before going on:

“Okay. Let’s leave that for the time being. Let’s look at the practical side.”

He opened a thick file filled with notes and accounting sheets.

“How long can you last? Financially, I mean.”

“Thirty days, at the outside. After that, the reserves are gone.”

“Have you talked to your partners?”

“They’ve all called, of course. I’m trying to delay a meeting, at least for the next few days. I mean, I have no idea what to say to them.”

The lawyer snubbed out his cigarette and bit his lip. “You know we’re going to have to talk to them, Alex. And pretty soon. Do you want me to set something up?”

“Yeah. But what are we going to tell them, Josh?”

“The same thing I’m going to tell you. There are three basic options here. The first is the most obvious: We can go Chapter 13; turn everything over to the bank and walk away. Two, there might still be time to sell the place. That is, if there’s anybody willing to buy it after all the shit that’s gone down.

“Third and last my friend, you can make a cap call.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s when you ask your partners how deep they want to dig their hole, and whether they’re willing to throw good money after bad.”

Cantrell put his hand across his forehead.

“What do you think?”

“You’re paying me to provide options, Alex, not to do your thinking for you. I know this place means a great deal to you, and I’m sorry as hell that things have turned out this way. Chalk it up to good old Murphy, blame God, blame your past life, but frankly, things aren’t looking too rosy. But I can’t tell you which road to take. All of them have consequences and you’re a bright guy, you don’t need me to tell you that. Give it some thought, a few days at most, and let me know. We’ll get the partners together and try to hammer something out. That’s my counsel.”

With that, the meeting was clearly over. Cantrell rose and extended his hand to Billings.

“Alex, one last question,” the lawyer said. “What do you plan on doing? Are you still there? Do you plan to stay?”

Cantrell paused at the office door.

“Yeah, Josh. I’m there and I’m staying. No matter what.”

“In God’s name, why?”

Cantrell flashed a weak grin, shrugged his shoulders, and strode into the hallway.

§

It was twilight when he returned.

The feeling of deep dread, almost familiar by now, came back like a breath of chill wind the moment he turned up the drive.

The Exeter loomed in the wintry dusk, its verdant landscaping now brown and dry. He saw no lights in any of its windows. Nor were there any other cars in the parking lot. The empty spaces made the place look sad and naked.

Still, anything was better than the circus of press that had filled this lot only a week ago. The frenzy had lasted forever. He felt considerable relief that the media seemed to have finally lost their appetite for whatever the Exeter was serving up.

The bleakness also permeated the interior. For the first time, Cantrell felt the emptiness of the vast building, the sheer mass of its silence. There were no sounds of human occupation—no television, no music; no footsteps on floors and stairs, no laughter.

He noticed a small doll on the floor—a Raggedy Ann. Its once pretty face had been trampled by dirty shoes, the movers no doubt.

The little thing had been left behind during someone’s move. He picked it up, regarding its expressionless face. The doll’s feelings were impossible to gauge, but he felt sure that its owner was happier to be somewhere else. He tossed the doll into a corner.

The staircase which wound around the tall tree—still green and lush despite the season—looked stranger than the last time he examined it. Its angles and shadows even more perverse; still maddeningly impossible to analyze, even for an experienced architect.

His eyes turned toward the skylight far above. He was almost disappointed to see nothing there—no gauzy form wafting its way down the atrium toward him.

A sudden sound made him jump—a loud thump followed by the hammering of steel against steel. The furnaces. I’m jumping like a cat at a furnace.

He sighed, shaking his head at his own timidity.

As he began walking up the staircase, however, he couldn’t help but think that the sudden sound was something more; that the house was laughing at this rational man who tried to explain everything in rational terms.

§

When she saw his car pull into the empty parking lot two stories below, Su Ling felt enormously reassured. The past four hours had been torture. She was acutely aware of the slow passage of time, and the horrific emptiness that had now become the Exeter. With only her and Anna left in the entire building, she felt infinitesimally small and vulnerable—at the mercy of… she wouldn’t allow herself to finish the thought.

She quickly turned on the light and blew out the solitary candle she’d been burning in the living room. She knew it was foolish, but felt that the muted light of a candle left her less exposed.

She went into the kitchen and did a cursory check of the dinner she’d prepared—straightforward American comfort food. She passed through the living room and made sure that Anna—who sat drawing in the middle of the carpet—was okay. She checked her makeup, adjusting her top in the bathroom mirror.

She thought she looked good, and could not entirely suppress a feeling of giddiness. And with that sensation, a pang of guilt, like a cloud passing over the sun. She thought of her husband—only gone a year—how much she loved him, and missed him.

How could she possibly be falling in love again?

There was a knock at the door. She almost ran to open it.

She gave Cantrell a tight hug as he entered, and saw the look of dread and despair on his face immediately melt away.

When Cantrell saw her—dressed in black slacks and a pink cashmere sweater that exposed a thin band of smooth belly—he felt something he hadn’t felt before. He already knew that he’d gone well beyond just liking her, but this was something else.

They sat together on the couch, silently enjoying each other’s presence as they watched Anna’s pencil make long, sometimes vicious, movements across her tablet. There was something almost hypnotic about the child’s actions. While they first appeared erratic, on closer examination, there seemed to be a definite purpose to each line and scratch.

“What does she do when she runs out of paper?” Cantrell asked.

“I took Sharon’s advice,” Su Ling replied with a smile. “I have reams of tablets for her; she’ll never run out.”

“What do you make of it, Su? What does it mean?”

“I wish I could believe she was trying to communicate with me. I think that’s wishful thinking. Sharon was convinced that part of Anna’s mind was trying to communicate to itself, almost as if she were trying to find a way out of her silence—out of her sadness—through her pencil. I think maybe Sharon might have had something there. All I know, Alex, is that it’s important. I know it is… ”

“How is she taking Sharon’s absence?”

“It’s impossible to say. She doesn’t react to anything, as you know. Her drawing now is the same as it was before. Does she miss Sharon? Maybe somewhere deep inside. I hope so. And I know there’s no question that Anna liked Sharon very much.”

“How could you tell?”

“Mother’s intuition. The same intuition that tells me she likes you very much too.”

Cantrell blushed. “Really?”

“Yes. And I have to tell you, my daughter has very good taste.”

They stared at each other, laughed. They brought their foreheads together, pulling back, smiling. Su Ling reached out and caressed the back of his head, brought his lips to hers. The kiss was deep and long. At last, she pulled away and whispered in his ear.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

He smiled.

Su Ling rose and approached her daughter. Gently, she placed her hand on the girl’s drawing arm. Without looking up, Anna’s movements began to slow, and eventually stopped. The paper and pencil fell soundlessly to the floor. Su Ling’s hand moved to Anna’s and gently raised her. The girl followed her mother to the table and took her accustomed place.

It amazed Cantrell that although Anna was totally uncommunicative, there was an obvious understanding between mother and daughter—a modus operandi that went beyond words.

Dinner was quiet and pleasant. They talked of ordinary things, but their minds were on something else.

Cantrell marveled at the dexterity Anna showed as she ate. She was neat and meticulous, taking tiny portions of food from the small plate. Although she could not communicate a single word, nor even convey a meaningful expression, she conducted herself like any little girl her age.

After dinner, Su Ling led Anna away from the table to the bathroom. There, she brushed her teeth and was then led to bed.

Cantrell cleared the table and joined Su Ling at Anna’s bedside. They both tucked her in, and the girl was asleep almost before they left the room.

They found themselves back on the couch, finishing the last of their wine, looking at each other in the warm glow of the candles that Su Ling had relit.

Despite her best efforts, she found her eyes returning to the photograph on the wall—the one that depicted her, Anna and Quan. It seemed like a century ago, yet it still hurt. Maybe it would always hurt. Even as she kissed Cantrell, this time harder than before, her thoughts were divided.

As if sensing her apprehension, he cupped her face in his hands and let the words flow from his mouth with no hesitation, no analysis, no explanation.

“I love you,” he whispered softly.

She felt her cheeks grow heated, her heart quicken.

She hadn’t heard those words since Quan. Was it a betrayal to hear them now? A form of adultery? Could a woman be unfaithful to her dead husband?

No. She would not cling to the past, no matter how attached she was to it. She would not look at Quan’s picture on the wall… at least not tonight.

She replayed Cantrell’s words in her mind, realizing in an instant that she believed him. And that she owed him the same honesty: that she loved him too.

Not because he was handsome or sexy, or that he was a successful architect; amazingly creative in his art; adept at translating his vision into tangible reality. These were all attractive, but what really drew her to him was the little boy she saw hidden deep inside.

The little boy who was afraid of failure, who dreaded his father’s disapproval, anyone’s disapproval, who needed someone to accept him, to hold him when the doubts rose.

She knew at that moment that she would surrender to Cantrell. She knew that, with his help, she could let go of her past.

He caressed her fine black hair, enjoying the sensation of his fingertips running through its length. He brought her lips once again to his.

He hadn’t planned on saying those three simple words. He’d never said them to anyone before.

Like Su Ling, he believed them.

There had been lovers in his past, or at least women whom he’d called lovers. None of them had lasted for very long. His work always seemed to push them aside, to take precedence over everything.

He couldn’t have predicted any of this. His life was already beyond complicated. But looking into her dark eyes, feeling the softness of her hair on his face, he didn’t have a single doubt. He wanted to fall into this woman; to melt together with her, to realize the strength he knew her love would bring him.

And the strength his love would bring to her. He saw far beyond her exotic good looks, even far beyond the loving and worried mother that she was. He, much like her, saw her past. He saw her as a little girl, very much like Anna, who was afraid, who feared losing her home and her parents, who wanted nothing more than to be secure and to be loved.

He also saw her courage. He saw how that frightened little girl had grown into this strong and persevering woman, this beautifully vulnerable yet courageous woman.

Now Su Ling brought her lips to his ear.

“I love you too.”

She felt his lips tremble and break into a smile.

“Will you make love to me?” she asked, a twinge of doubt still lingering in her voice.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, in one gentle motion, he swooped her up in his arms and led her into the dark recess of her bedroom.

Their lovemaking began gently.

They removed one another’s clothing piece by piece, bashfully at first, but soon with abandon. They caressed each other for a long time, enjoying the taste of skin, the scent of hair, the yield and resistance of physical pressure.

They teased each other as they grew bolder, and then became fast and fiery, leading to a climax that was as gentle as it was explosive, as spiritual as it was physical.

The lovers lay spent, wrapped in each other’s limbs. As their sweat cooled, they caressed each other, again gently at first, then more fervently, in spite of their fatigue.

They repeated the act of love, only this time, enjoying every moment with the ease of prior experience.

When the time for words returned, it was Su Ling who broke the silence.

“Thank you… ”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, kissing her again.

“Our pleasure,” she corrected him with a giggle.

14

The lovers fell asleep in each other’s arms, but their slumber was not destined to last long.

Once again, Cantrell was startled by a loud noise, echoing from somewhere below in the empty building.

The furnaces again…

But the noise repeated, growing louder, and did not stop. Eventually, it brought him fully awake. Su Ling’s breathing remained soft and regular. She was oblivious to the noise.

No, not the furnace… somebody was knocking on the main door. He glanced at the clock—just after 3 a.m. Who the Hell… ?

He got out of bed and fumbled in the darkness of the unfamiliar room for his clothes. He put them on hastily, creeping out of the flat into the dark hallway.

The banging was much louder now, like a sledgehammer against the thick wood.

Cantrell reached the door and angrily flung it open.

Momentarily illuminated by flashes of lightning, he immediately recognized the man, drenched in the cold rain that was falling.

The visitor was tall and slender, wisps of long white hair trailing from beneath his fedora. He wore a long, dark raincoat, carrying no umbrella. He looks much older in person…

Without a pause, Cantrell began to close the door. Everett Cross deftly blocked it with his foot.

“You need to talk to me, Mr. Cantrell,” the familiar voice boomed through the rain. “You shut me out at your own risk.”

The implied threat made Cantrell pause. Leaving the door open only as wide as the man’s foot, he spoke through the opening.

“I know who you are; that guy on television. You were here after Derek Taylor’s…”

“Untimely demise?” Cross offered.

“Whatever. I saw you talking to the press.”

“Yes. All true.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I have business here, with this building. With you.”

“You have no business here. I know what kind of business you’re in, Mister, what’s your name, again?”

“Cross. You can call me Steve.”

“Yes, of course. `Night Crossing,’ that joke of a television show.”

The man in the rain laughed softly. “Another cynic, I see. Do you have any idea how many cynics I meet? Do you have any idea how many of them I convert?”

“I really don’t care, Cross. It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning. Leave me alone.”

“I could do that easy enough, Mr. Cantrell. Leave you to your bankruptcy, your failure to deal with whatever’s roaming these God-forsaken halls of yours. Or, you can let me in, give me five minutes, and let me talk you out of your disbelief. What do you have to lose?”

He’s nothing but a huckster; an exploiter; the kind of man you’d see at a carnival, barking at passers-by, trying to lure them into a freak show.

Still, there was something behind the man’s pale blue eyes, something vaguely authoritative in his professional, baritone voice, the voice of a consummate pitchman.

What did he have to lose?

“Okay, Cross,” he said, opening the door wider. “You have your five minutes.”

Cross entered, removing his sodden coat and hat, placing them on the elegant tiles of the foyer floor. Cantrell directed him to the conference room at the far side of the lobby.

Su Ling’s voice, echoing from the second floor above, was apprehensive, almost fearful.

“Alex?”

“It’s okay, Su,” Alex shouted back. “Just a visitor. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Cross’s head followed the sound of Su Ling’s voice. He then looked sharply at Cantrell, as if he understood at that moment their situation.

Cantrell hit the lights in the conference room and motioned his visitor to a chair. They sat down across from one another; two men at a table built for at least a dozen.

“Okay,” Cross began, wasting no time. “Let’s be frank: you and I have the opportunity to help each other; what you might call a win-win situation, different but coinciding interests.”

“Explain.”

“It’s not complicated. I’m the man who can solve your problem.”

“Which problem are you talking about?”

“Ah, that’s the beautiful thing,” Cross said with a smile. “All of them. Let’s start with the money. We both know you’re running out of it. Except for the young lady I just heard upstairs, I know this place is as empty as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. And I also know that it takes a steep pile of cash just to keep this place running.”

For a moment, Cantrell’s temper flared. Who the hell was this guy to come in here and delve into his personal business? Part of him wanted to throw this carney huckster back out into the rain. Another realized that he was making perfect sense.

“Okay,” Cantrell conceded. “But how can you help me with that?”

“First, I’m going to offer you a check for $20,000. That ought to buy you at least a little breathing room. But that’s just the start.”

“I’m listening.”

“After that, I’m going to put your building on television. National cable TV, Mr. Cantrell, with an audience of at least 12 million people, devoted fans of mine, each and every one of them. And then I’m going to rid this creation of yours of whatever ails it. I’m going to set the forces free, send them elsewhere. And you, my friend, will be in a position to attract new tenants. They’ll be tenants who will stay this time, and the reason they’ll stay is because there won’t be anything to scare them away. There won’t be anything to make them kill themselves, or each other, or go stark, raving mad. That’s my deal, in a nutshell.”

Cantrell rubbed his lower lip, looking silently at the man across the table.

“You’re speechless, aren’t you? You don’t believe me. You’re trying to find holes in my argument.”

“Yes, I am. After what’s happened here, I might be willing to believe in things I used to laugh at. But it’s you I have a problem with, Cross. I’ve seen your show. I don’t believe in all your mumbo-jumbo. It’s staged, phony. Excuse me for getting personal here, but I think you’re a con artist.”

Cross laughed. “Of course you do. Lots of people do. I’ve heard this my entire life, and you know what? It doesn’t matter whether you believe in any of it. What’s important is that I believe in it, and so does my audience.”

The medium ran his fingers through his white hair, just now beginning to dry.

“This place of yours, Mr. Cantrell, is loaded with energy. Very negative energy. The Exeter has been on my radar screen since that first incident, you know, the guy who ran nightclubs, what was his name?”

“Stu Brown.”

“Yes, ever since Stu Brown went nutty and burned his fortune in the fireplace. There was no doubt in my mind. Everything that’s happened since—and you’ve got to admit, Mr. Cantrell, you’ve had a few doozies—has only reaffirmed it. My point, obviously, is that this building is not done yet. Far from it.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’m an expert, that’s how. This is my business, my trade, and I take it very seriously. Despite your earlier comments, I do not consider myself a con artist.”

Cantrell did not apologize. “Go on.”

“My network likes to label me a ghost hunter. I don’t particularly like that phrase, but it brands well. I call myself other things. I’m a medium—I can see things, hear things, smell things, taste things from the other side. I’m a clairvoyant—I can tell what certain people are thinking at certain times. And I’m an expert at the science of the paranormal. You’d be bored by the details of such things as electronic voice phenomena, or infrared photography. But I can assure you that I’m as knowledgeable about my career as you are about yours.”

“That’s all very impressive,” Cantrell said, “but I’ve devoted my life to facts, to physical science. I have a hard time swallowing any of this.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That’s okay. That’s your choice. You don’t need to believe any of it. Like I said, the important thing is that 12 million viewers do believe it, and I haven’t disappointed them yet. I can give the Exeter a clean bill of health.”

“But what if your magic, whatever you do, doesn’t work? What if you can’t cleanse this place? Where does that leave me?”

Cross smiled again.

“We’re both intelligent men, Mr. Cantrell, so I think I can speak frankly to you. Without disavowing my own abilities, I can safely guarantee you that I will be successful.”

“There’s no way you can guarantee something like that.”

“Don’t be naïve. I am the creator, the writer, the producer and the star of a very successful television show. I will never allow any of my shows to fail. It wouldn’t look good for my reputation, wouldn’t be good for the ratings.”

“So you’re admitting that you’re a fraud? Is that what you’re saying?”

With that, Cross’s pale blue eyes squinted in a momentary flash of anger. It was gone in an instant.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I can exorcise entities and have done so many times. I can cleanse buildings of such entities. I really do have that kind of power. But here’s the rub—sometimes things must be adjusted, for entertainment’s sake. My show adheres to strict guidelines—a bible, as we call it in the biz—that follows a logical story line and builds to a satisfying conclusion, all within a set time period. The viewing public demands clear and final answers, in a tidy, one-hour sitting. Whether my work achieves that or not is irrelevant. The show must go on. It’s as simple as that.”

Cantrell looked Cross in the eye. “In other words, whether or not you’re able to clear this place, people will believe that you were successful. That’s your guarantee?”

“Essentially, yes. But I’m offering you more than that. If it should so happen that my exorcism, my cleansing, if you will, doesn’t take during the taping of the show, I promise to return. I’ll come back, with no cameras and no crew, and I’ll fix it for good, no matter how long it takes.”

Cross let that sink in for a moment before continuing.

“I’m not trying to sell you a bill of goods here, Mr. Cantrell. It’s a straightforward transaction. I get viewers, you get tenants, not to mention twenty grand. Both of us walk away happy. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

Cantrell pushed himself away from the table and crossed his legs.

A slight grin appeared on the medium’s face. “I can sense that you’re actually considering this. That’s all I can ask.”

“I have to think it over.”

“Of course you do,” Cross said, rising from his chair. In one motion, he produced a check from his pocket and handed it to Cantrell.

“I know you’re a trustworthy man, Mr. Cantrell, so I’m giving this to you as a sign of good faith. It’s yours for the taking. And trust me, it’s not rubber.

“Just for planning’s sake, there are two things you must understand. I’ll need an answer no later than tomorrow night. My production schedule is unforgiving. And, should you accept, I’ll need total access to the Exeter—every room, every closet, every nook and cranny—for one entire night, no more than that. My crew and I will do our thing, and, if things work out the way I expect, you’ll never hear from me nor speak to me again for the rest of your life. Fair enough?”

“Like I said, Cross, I’ll think about it… ”

“Excellent. I’ll let myself out.”

The medium gathered his soaked coat and hat from the lobby floor, opening the front door to an all too perfect flash of lightning.

Cantrell watched as Cross disappeared into the storm. He was relieved to see the man go, but couldn’t help considering his offer, just as the man himself predicted.

What do you have to lose? There was a bitter truth behind the question. Without Cross’s admittedly crazy idea—and the $20,000—the Exeter would be boarded up in less than a month. He’d be regarded as a laughingstock, a failure, to his investors, to the city, to his peers, to the public.

To himself.

On the other hand, to see his beloved Exeter exploited on “Night Crossing”—not exactly Architectural Digest—would hardly be good press. It’d be a freak show.

As opposed to what? A horror show?

But what if Cross were successful? Or at least managed to convince his viewers that he was? Would tenants actually return? Would the press finally grow disinterested?

Would people stop dying here?

The thought brought him a moment of sharp clarity. He was thinking of the Exeter in the past tense, as though the horrors that had taken place here had suddenly ended.

He knew better.

Su Ling and Anna still lived in this building. They were as vulnerable as anyone else.

There was no hesitation in his mind that he would protect them, at any price. They were his life now, he realized, putting form to the idea for the very first time. Su Ling would have to know about Cross’s offer, and she would have an equal say in their response.

He rubbed his chin in thought, his eyes drawn to the walls of the conference room. The art on the walls appeared crooked, as if improperly hung. Impossible. Everything had been set with lasers.

Still, the lines were off, the shadows distorted, the proportions skewed. For the briefest of moments, it seemed as if one of the corners compressed into itself, as if the walls themselves were breathing. Then it was gone.

Idiocy. Rooms cannot move on their own. Buildings do not breathe. Geometry is absolute…

Really? Do you know that for sure? Of course you don’t; not after everything you’ve seen here…

He couldn’t deny it. There was something going on in this building; something that cared nothing for Cantrell’s geometry; something that operated by rules that scientists knew nothing about.

He did believe it. Now.

§

In the morning, the rain had eased, but the sky remained steely gray.

Cantrell hung up the phone and regarded Su Ling.

She rubbed his temple and smiled.

“Alex, you made the right decision. We made the right decision.”

He exhaled loudly. “Whether we did or not, it’s all in motion now.”

“How did he sound?”

“Happy as a peddler making his first sale of the day. And greedy.”

“Was he surprised that you said yes?”

“Not in the least. He already knew what my answer was going to be. Remember, he’s a psychic.”

“What time will he be here?”

“They’re moving really fast. They’re set to start shooting tomorrow night, at 9 o’clock. The crew will start arriving in the late afternoon. He told us to make sure not to step on any cables and break our necks.”

Su Ling looked troubled.

“Does it have to be at night?”

“Cross insists on it. Better atmosphere. His viewers expect darkness, shadows and things that go bump in the night.”

That made her smile a little.

“I guess it doesn’t make any difference, does it?”

“No. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen. I hate to say this, but my worst fear right now is that nothing will. And if that happens, Su, we’ll both be packing up. In my case, I’ll probably be headed to the poor house. And you… ”

“Will be right next to you, wherever that may be. Have no doubts about that, Mr. Cantrell.”

Now it was his turn to smile. He took her in his arms and gave her a long kiss.

As their lips met, both felt a flash of excitement and anticipation—a feeling perhaps of hope.

§

The crew began arriving at 3 p.m. An entourage of four trucks was parked in the circular drive, their crews soon busy disrupting the cemetery silence of the Exeter. On the side panel of each was the logo for “Night Crossing,” in lurid colors and cheesy horror movie graphics.

They were mostly young, men and women, toting cables, lighting equipment, tripods and screens. Soon, the mechanical whine of a master generator, set up beside the building, filled the darkening evening.

Their expertise and professionalism were obvious. Within a couple hours, much of the old building resembled a Hollywood set.

As the workers conducted various tests of cameras and lenses, Cantrell and Su Ling watched from the landing by the staircase.

“This is cool,” Su Ling said as she watched the preparations. “I never watched a movie being made before.”

He raised his eyebrows at her comment.

“I don’t think anybody here will be getting an Oscar.”

She smiled. “Come on, Alex. I’m just having a little fun.”

He touched her face and replied, “I know. I should lighten up. I’ll keep an open mind.”

There was a lull in the activity around 5 p.m., as the crews ate a quick bite from the catering truck. During the wait, Cantrell, Su Ling and Anna ate their own small supper. As they watched the winter sun setting through the front window, a sense of nervous apprehension came over them.

Both of them knew that it would all begin soon. Cantrell couldn’t wait for it to end.

The Exeter

=§=§=§=

Standing by the great circle, the great circle with great arms, looking out into the place which could not be passed, disturbances were felt.

Many shapes, busy in their movements and rapid in their motions, going to and fro. Going from here to there. Breaking the quiet and sending vibrations into the space.

The quiet, so recently regained, was gone. Again. There were few shapes for a while, and that was nice. These shapes were not nice. These shapes brought disturbance.

One of them, a dark shape, moved more slowly than the others. This shape had a strong temperature. And something else. From this shape, something extended; long and narrow and writhing. Something that sought. Something that could see through solid forms. Something impossible to hide from.

Not nice.

Very bad.

Great fear, and something new. Anger.

=§=§=§=

15

It knows I’m here.

Steve Cross paused at the entrance to the Exeter, gazing into the night sky, seeing his breath in the air, the dark tower looming above.

It’s watching, sizing me up…

Even at this distance, he could tell that that the hands on the massive clock face had somehow frozen in place.

Interesting.

He collected himself and smirked. Tonight’s show would be a killer.

He recalled his initial conversation with Cantrell. The architect had begun resolutely; flat out refusing Cross’s generous offer. No different from the many others he’d encountered over the course of his career.

The resistance, of course, had weakened. Whether Cantrell’s turnaround had been due to greed, a chance at fleeting fame, or genuine desire to rid this place of its illness, Cross neither knew nor cared. He knew that Cantrell would come around. He’d felt it.

The story of my life: Whatever Mr. Cross wants, Mr. Cross gets. Mr. Cross… the blessed man.

Except for one goddamn thing.

The reprieve.

He had wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. A reprieve for his father.

The old man was an evil one, of that there was never any doubt. His mother—who had divorced him a decade earlier—had a kinder way of putting it, branding him a ne’er do well.

Bullshit. Cross’s father had kidnapped, raped, tortured and killed two young women. College roommates, no more than 18 years old. And he’d enjoyed every second of it.

But he was his father, for Christ’s sake! The man who had once rocked his son to sleep after awakening from a terrible nightmare. The man who loved to take his family out for picnics and car trips, and who would sing lovely old-fashioned songs as they traveled.

The son, only 12 years old, refused to believe that his father had done anything wrong. He wrote his own note to the judge, pleading for mercy after the guilty verdict was delivered. He prayed, for nights and nights, that they would give the old man something less than the ultimate punishment.

But it wasn’t to be.

Cross was 22 the night of his father’s execution.

He could still imagine the man regarding his last meal, shuffling down the hallway, priest by his side muttering useless banalities, walking into the death chamber, the sweat pouring off his trembling body, breath coming fast and unsteady, mouth dry, sour.

The young Cross didn’t have the heart or the stomach to be present himself, there in the stark penitentiary room with the electric chair located dead center.

He wasn’t there to hear the loud crackle of electricity, the pounding volts; to smell the burnt hair and flesh. Nor did he hear the final scream.

He didn’t need to; he felt it. He felt it all. And had imagined it, day after day, night after night, replaying like an old 78 rpm record, over and over and over…

God, how horrible it must have been for him. How horrible to know that your death is coming in the next few seconds, and there’s no way to stop it.

It terrified him to this day. It always would.

A cold wind brought him back to the present. Cross’s hands trembled, though not from the cold.

Christ! Not now, not just before I go on…

He pushed thoughts of his father away, sweeping them into the dark recesses of his mind, where they belonged. Where he wished they would stay.

He took a deep breath, glanced back at the massive clock far above, and noticed that its second hand had begun moving again.

Interesting… He turned his attention away, passing through the Exeter’s front door.

There was a flurry of activity inside. His crew had already positioned most of their equipment, following the instructions of Cross’s assistant director, a high-strung and capable individual whom everyone called Wingnut.

The assistant director had already anticipated most of the shots. As the makeup tech patted the star’s face with powder and pale rouge, Wingnut explained that he’d like to do the introduction, then go upstairs to the rooms where the “bad things” had happened.

The plan was for Cross to do a walking tour of the rooms upstairs while two “spiritual technicians” would go through the building, testing for paranormal phenomena. They would check temperatures, take infrared images, and operate sensitive recording devices for evidence of electronic voice phenomena, or EVP.

Cross gave his approval, his impatience obvious. He turned to Cantrell, Su Ling and Anna, who stood to the side of the foyer, and smiled.

Cantrell and Su Ling had discussed whether to let Anna join them in watching the show being filmed. They were both concerned that she might see things that would terrify her. In the end, they agreed that she could come along until something questionable happened, if it did at all. If things turned ugly, Su Ling would take her away.

“You ready for this, folks?” Cross asked them in a jaunty tone. “Because it’s show time.”

The two nodded their heads.

“Okay, J.B., we’re all set here,” Wingnut said into the microphone attached to his headset.

The director, in the production van parked outside, apparently told Wingnut to go ahead and start. He barked to the crew inside and told Cross to take his marked position in front of the winding staircase and towering linden tree.

Cross cleared his throat as the lights dimmed to a sinister bluish tint. A magical transformation came over his face as the cameras began to roll, his expression growing grave, his voice deepening to a stentorian baritone.

“Thank you for joining me for Night Crossing. We are here at the Exeter, a former slaughterhouse, remodeled into what some have called the jewel of Derbytown; a luxurious residence of prestigious lofts, the exclusive domain of the city’s fashionable elite.

“All this,” he said, sweeping his arms in a wide arc toward the staircase, “the dream of brilliant architect Alexander Cantrell.”

Cross turned to face the camera directly in close-up.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “this dream became a nightmare. A nightmare of death and madness.”

He paused for effect.

“There are stories about this building, after the slaughterhouse ceased its killing—old, dusty tales about guard dogs who jumped to their deaths, about tramps and workers found dead of questionable causes in the cellar. In tonight’s episode, we will seek to determine the cause of this nightmare, and perchance drive it away.”

Behind the camera, Wingnut motioned two attractive young people to step forward.

Cross welcomed them warmly.

“You are all familiar with my spiritual assistants, Lisa and Greg. They will take their expertise and their sophisticated array of equipment throughout this cursed building. They will seek disturbances, anomalies and, hopefully, the dreaded center of the evil which I believe dwells here. When they have finished, they will report their findings to me so that I can take the necessary action.”

He directed his assistants to do their jobs and then turned once more to face his viewers.

“As they explore, I shall take you along on a tour of the Exeter. But be warned, my friends; what took place here is far beyond imagination, not to mention sanity… ”

“Cut!” Wingnut cried. “Fucking awesome, dude. You’re really on tonight.”

“Okay,” Cross responded, his voice back to its normal businesslike tone. “Let’s get this gear upstairs. Time is money, folks.”

As he watched his people begin to lug their equipment up the stairs, he turned to Cantrell and Su Ling.

“What do you think so far?”

“I wouldn’t turn the channel,” an obviously impressed Su Ling replied.

Cantrell said nothing.

Upstairs, the crew’s first stop was the empty suite that had once been home to Stuart Brown.

Cross positioned himself in front of the fireplace. He gave a quick summary of the whole story—Brown’s liquidation of millions of dollars; his storage of said money in hundreds of coffee cans; ultimately, the madness that drove him to burn the entire fortune.

He closed with this line: “Nobody has seen Stuart Brown since that fateful evening. He is rumored to be wandering the streets of the city, homeless, penniless, a broken derelict. We call him the first victim of the Exeter.”

Next stop was the Sloanes’ flat.

Cross began this shoot seated at what he called “the table of death.” He provided horrific details of the steak knife that protruded from the chest of the unfortunate Bill Sloane. He sounded almost gleeful describing the murder, and the incoherent, delusional murderess.

“Janice Sloane had no memory of the crime. She is currently charged with first degree murder. Not surprisingly, her attorney informs us that she will plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”

He turned away from the table and faced the camera in another close-up.

“We call this once happily married couple the second and third victims of the Exeter.”

As Wingnut once more cried “cut!” Cantrell shook his head in disbelief.

Next on Cross’s list was Derek Taylor.

“A popular young man, wealthy, good-looking, a man who moved in all the right circles—Derek Taylor. Just months ago, the young Mr. Taylor hosted a housewarming party in this very flat. Many of the city’s most desirable young singles flocked here. They drank, listened to music, danced into the wee hours of the morning. Everyone had a great time, except for Mr. Taylor.”

Cross turned to face the empty space where Taylor’s bed had once stood.

“These walls have only recently been repainted,” he continued. “But had you been here a few short months ago, you would have seen a massive amount of blood, and other matter too horrible to describe, splattered everywhere”

He swept his arms theatrically across the room.

“For Derek Taylor, having only moments before made love to one of the beautiful young people who came to his party, blew his brains out on this very spot. There was no suicide note, no indications of depression or desperation. Only the sudden, undeniable truth of a fatal gunshot.”

Cross again moved in for his close-up.

“Derek Taylor—the Exeter’s fourth victim.”

At last, the host, the assistant director and the assorted crew lumbered to the place where Sharon Knaster had once resided.

“Dr. Knaster, a prominent psychiatrist, on one fateful evening, found herself teetering on the railing of this precarious balcony. She stood upon this tiny railing for an ungodly five minutes, swaying back and forth in the night wind, mere millimeters away from certain death.

“Somehow, in an act of mercy we do not yet understand, the house let her live. In what must have been a titanic effort, she fell toward the inside, and life, instead of toward the outside, and death.”

He turned away from the balcony and stepped back into the room, moving in close to the camera.

“Though she lives, Dr. Knaster, whose whereabouts at this time are unknown, is nevertheless the fifth victim of the Exeter.”

The camera pulled back as Cross walked further inside the empty apartment.

“What in this building drove these people to such terrible extremes? A skeptic might tell you that it’s all coincidence, mere happenstance of fate.”

He paused again for effect.

“You and I, my friends, know better. When we return, Night Crossing will seek out the truth of this wretched place.”

“Cut!”

Wingnut removed his headpiece and smiled at his star mystic.

“Best fucking show of the year, boss.”

§

It was coffee break time on the set.

Cross took a sip and bit the rim of his Styrofoam cup as he turned to his spiritual assistants.

“Okay guys, what did you get?”

The assistants stepped forward, stared silently at each other, as if prodding the other to speak.

Greg broke the ice.

“Nothing, Mr. C. Zilch. Nada.”

Cross did not look concerned. He turned to the young lady.

“Lisa? Same with you?”

She nodded, her disappointment obvious.

The mystic took another sip of his piping Starbucks. Before he spoke, he regarded Cantrell, Su Ling and the young girl a few yards away. They were paying close attention to him, and he lowered his voice to a near whisper.

“Here’s the deal, guys: we’re gonna have to improvise, okay? What’s the best visual in the place? The spookiest room?”

“It’s got to be the basement,” Greg responded.

“There’s a really creepy room just beneath the conference room,” Lisa added. “Very dark, concrete and cobwebs, with a long ramp leading somewhere upstairs.”

“We can have fun with it,” Greg chimed in. “It’s the perfect backdrop for you.”

Cross nodded his head. “Good. Let’s do it.”

Wingnut set up the next shot without being instructed—a quick hand-held, two camera shot with Cross in the lobby, interviewing Greg and Lisa.

He asked them what they had found in their explorations, whether their equipment had registered anything unusual.

The spiritual assistants didn’t disappoint.

Greg, portrayed in the show as an apprentice medium, spun it like a pro.

“There’s definitely something very sinister within the walls of the Exeter… something deeply disturbed. It doesn’t like us being here.”

Lisa, the technician of the pair, then gave her own contribution.

“We picked up several faint EVP’s on the fourth and second floors. Nothing coherent at this stage, but I’m positive there’s something substantive there which should come out in later analysis.

“I also sensed temperature anomalies and variations in several locations, but this is what’s interesting, Mr. Cross: not only did we pick up extremely cold readings—as low as 30 degrees in one case—but also read abnormally hot.”

Cross raised his eyebrows in staged interest.

“And where was this hot reading, Lisa?”

“In the basement. In a room almost directly beneath us. It’s very large and I’m convinced that it serves as the epicenter of the disturbances in this building.”

“Greg, do you concur?”

The young man closed his eyes for a moment, as if reflecting on the question.

“Definitely.”

Cross turned to the camera.

“My able assistants have guided me to the place where I must go. Their spiritualistic and technological expertise have once again given me what I need to begin.”

He raised his chin, allowing the long shadows to cast dramatic lines along his face.

“I invite you to join me as we venture deep below, into the very bowels of the Exeter, to face whatever entity plagues this cursed house.”

After the cut, Wingnut barked instructions to the crew to make their move to the basement. He gave them ten minutes to be ready to go.

Cross seemed especially low-key tonight. He was usually tyrannical in the way that he ran a shoot; usually taking over directorial responsibilities himself, despite the presence of Wingnut and his assistant.

Not tonight. He seemed distracted, bothered by something. Unusual.

§

Downstairs, things weren’t going well.

The crew was having a hard time transporting equipment down the narrow staircase that led into the cavernous basement.

The cameraman was frustrated too; at Cross’s direction, he’d set up the main shot, with the ramp visible in a long diagonal leading upwards. Cross would narrate before it, his face and the outline of the ramp softly lit in an eerie glow.

But the angles seemed somehow off, no matter how much he adjusted the equipment or repositioned himself. It was as if the place were subtly warping every time he blinked, entirely destroying whatever composition he settled on.

“Damn it!” he barked for the third time. “I can’t get this thing lined up. What the fuck?”

Cantrell, standing in an empty corner with Su Ling and Anna, understood exactly what he meant.

“Just get it right, Dan!” an impatient Cross barked at him. “We don’t have all night.”

In their unobtrusive corner, Su Ling whispered to Cantrell.

“What is this place, Alex? I don’t like it down here.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “I don’t like it either. But it’s a handy place to store the trash and recycling.”

“But what did it used to be? It’s got a very creepy feel to it.”

“I’m not surprised. According to the original plans, this used to be the holding pen. This floor space was divided up into back-and-forth rows, separated by iron railings. They used to drive the livestock into this room. This is where they waited their turn to be led up the ramp. We took out all the railings when we did the renovations.”

Su Ling looked at the ramp and shivered.

“You don’t have to tell me where that ramp used to lead.”

He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek.

They were jolted by a loud pop. The reek of electrical smoke filled the room.

“Shit!” one of the lighting technicians called out.

“What now?” Wingnut demanded.

“Fucking bulb just blew, the main spot. I just replaced it this afternoon.”

Cross cursed.

“What the hell is wrong with you people? What is this, fucking high school? Amateur hour? Let’s get it right. Now! I’m getting tired of all this bullshit.”

He faced the floor and muttered quietly, “And this place gives me the fucking creeps anyway.”

Wingnut, the only one who heard him, started. He had never, in all the years he’d worked for him, heard Cross say anything like that.

After a few more minutes of scrambling, the crew was once again ready to shoot. Wingnut silenced the set and Cross took his position in the faint amber glow before the ramp.

“This is what we’ve been waiting for, my friends” he began in a deep tone. “Our spiritual technicians have identified this subterranean room as the source, the epicenter, if you will, of the disturbances in this dreadful building known as the Exeter.”

He paused, and waved his arm across the darkened space. He closed his eyes and put his fingertips to his temples.

“My God. My God!”

Wingnut nodded and smiled. He could already tell this was going to be great.

“Can you feel it?” Cross asked no one in particular. “I’ve never felt anything like this in my life. This place is incredibly powerful.”

He took his fingertips from his temples and wiped them across his brow.

“A blast of hot air,” he said to the cameraman. “Right where I’m standing. The presence of a spiritual energy is almost always manifested in a blast of icy cold air. This is entirely different. This is very hot. Moist. Steamy.”

Su Ling turned to Cantrell, her expression questioning. Neither of them felt any temperature change.

He nodded his head and she understood. It was time to take Anna away from whatever was starting to happen here. With one motion, she lifted the child into her arms and made her way up the stairs.

Cross licked his lips, continuing his monologue:

“And something else. An energy. I can’t quite tell what it is. Something very strong, very threatening. But pleading as well. Helpless and savage at the same time.”

Wingnut whispered to the director outside in the van:

“I don’t know where he’s going with this,” he said as softly as possible. “But it’s kicking ass, isn’t it?”

“Copy that.”

As if trying to embrace the shaft of hot air only he could feel, Cross raised his arms above his head, his eyes following them.

“Whoever dwells in this place,” he boomed, his voice echoing in the chamber, “whatever dwells in this place, heed my words! I am Cross. I command you to listen. I order you to speak, or give a sign. Confirm your presence. Communicate with us.”

He stood there, his arms and face raised to the ceiling.

Nothing.

He lowered his arms, turning back to the camera.

“The spirit resists us. We’ve seen it before, many times. Perhaps it will take a little more coaxing.”

Time for plan B.

“I don’t want you to fear me. I am here to help you. I am here to release you from whatever chains bind you to this place, whatever curse commands you to stay, whatever dark force forbids your escape.”

“Good shit,” Wingnut whispered into his mike.

“Please let me help you. Speak in whatever voice or manner you can. I am here to listen. I can help you find the light.”

Nothing.

Wingnut smirked. Plan C it is…

Cross put his hands back to his temples and closed his eyes. “I am emptying my mind of all thoughts and emotions, of all clutter, so I can hear you. I… ”

The mystic began to walk. With his eyes still closed, he started near the back of the makeshift set, near the ramp. He walked in a straight shuffle until he was just a few inches from the far wall, then changed direction, turning around and walking back the way he came. It looked like somebody advancing in a long invisible line for an amusement park ride.

Wingnut frantically signaled with his hand for the two cameramen to switch to hand-held. They began to follow him in his blind, yet strangely purposeful, shuffle back and forth across the room.

“I think I can hear you,” Cross said at last, not stopping. “But I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. It’s not coming in words. It’s not coming in thoughts. It’s coming in… ”

Cross approached the ramp’s entry point.

Wingnut directed one of the cameramen to move in for a close-up of Cross’s face. When the camera came in tight, the mystic’s face filling the entire frame, his eyes suddenly shot open.

The cameraman jumped, not noticing that the time codes in his viewfinder had begun to flash zero.

“No!” Cross screamed, his voice full of fear. His eyes grew wide and frantic. Terrified.

“No! Not me! Please. I don’t deserve that!”

Wingnut was growing nervous. This wasn’t Cross’s style at all. Something was wrong…

“Not me! Why me, for God’s sake? What did I do?”

His voice was now pleading, more than terrified. He sounded like a desperate child.

Wingnut spoke into his mike. “I’m worried, J. B. This is getting freaky.”

“I know,” the director’s voice came back in the earpiece. “I don’t care. Keep rolling.”

“But… ”

“Just keep it fucking rolling, Wingnut.”

“Gotcha.”

Cross was now stumbling erratically. It almost appeared as if he were being shoved by something behind, and he was trying to resist. At last, despite his contortions, he came to the bottom of the ramp.

Cantrell watched, his horrified expression reflected in the faces of every crewman on the floor. He was suddenly very grateful that Su Ling and Anna had left.

Shuffling up the ramp, Cross began to moan, in long, mournful tones. He no longer made any effort to speak actual words.

Wingnut rubbed a hand across his damp forehead.

“I think we’d better cut this off, J.B.,” he said, no longer trying to keep his voice low. “This isn’t right, dude. I think he’s losing it.”

The calm voice of the director wasted no time in his reply.

“Keep rolling. Just keep rolling.”

§

As his father entered the last mile—his arms and legs shackled—Cross could smell his fear.

He walked slightly behind the small group before him. His father, dressed in his striped prison jumpsuit, led the way, a burly, unsmiling state patrolman holding tight to each arm, urging him on.

A lone priest, a man in his 70s, walked directly behind the condemned man, whispering Psalms into his ear.

The boy who was Cross did not wonder why he was walking down this deadly hallway; the same he’d imagined countless times in the life he was to lead.

But he knew it was no dream. He could smell the linoleum wax on the floor, the institutional sterility of the prison, the cold sweat that was coming from his beloved father.

Cross watched helplessly as the door to the death chamber clanged open.

“This way, Mr. Cross,” one of the guards said in a macabre maitre’d voice, directing his father into the surprisingly small space.

The boy caught only a glimpse of the room—the small crowd of designated witnesses gathered in a neat row of folding chairs on the other side of a large glass window; the executioner standing beside the main switch; the horrifyingly ordinary chair that sat directly in the middle.

Then the other guard led him away from the opening.

“This way, young man.”

Before he turned, the boy managed one final glimpse into the chamber, watching as the guards fastened his father’s arms and legs to the chair with thick leather straps.

He heard a low male voice, almost whispering: “Do you have any last words?”

Cross did not hear the reply. The guard was taking him swiftly away. He wanted to resist, to break away—to remain by his father’s side—but was unable to do any of those things.

Instead, like a sheep, he allowed himself to be herded, silent and unresisting, into another hallway.

But it was not really a hallway.

Cantrell grabbed Wingnut’s arm.

“You’ve got to stop this… ”

Cross was a third of the way up the ramp. His moans had begun to deteriorate, no longer even reminiscent of what a human throat might produce. To Cantrell, they sounded horribly bovine—the unmistakable sound of terrified, lowing cattle.

“I’ve tried, man. The director says to keep rolling.”

“Can’t you see that something’s wrong?”

Wingnut pushed Cantrell’s arm away, and ordered his hand-held cameramen to keep following Cross up the ramp.

It was not a hallway, but a ramp.

And he was no longer alone.

Cross was one of many now, all of them unbearably compressed into the narrow, fenced confines of the chute. He felt them shoving from behind, felt himself being pushed into those in front.

He smelled their fear too, but not the same as before. Much deeper; more primal.

They lowed, and Cross lowed with them.

The mass cries of the condemned.

None of them, including him, knew where they were. None of them knew why this was happening to them, or who was doing it.

But they all knew that this was a place of death.

They heard it above and before them, the pleading cries, the mechanical thump of the device which delivered the death blow, the jangle of chains, the shouting of men, the sharpening of knives.

And they smelled the fresh, warm scent of blood. Endless streams of it.

As their journey up the ramp progressed, they could feel the steaming liquid flowing down the wooden walkway beneath their hooves like a river; their hooves sticking in it as it began to dry, so that when they lifted their legs to take yet another step, they could feel the syrupy resistance.

It felt as if there were no longer any air in the place, or light, or sound. There was only fear—pure, undistilled, unthought, unrationalized fear. It seemed to seep from the stone walls, from the wood floor, from the breath of the condemned.

From everywhere.

The cameras were still rolling when Cross dropped down on all fours.

As he lowed—louder and shriller than before—his tongue protruded grotesquely from his mouth. He shook his head back and forth, as if trying to wake from a bad dream.

“This is insane,” Wingnut said into his mouthpiece.

“That’s an understatement,” came the reply.

Cantrell stood to the side, not believing what he was seeing. Was it possible that Cross was really staging this? Could he really be that good an actor?

He dismissed the thought in an instant. The man now nearing the top of the ramp, crawling on his hands and knees, making noises he’d never heard a human being make, was no longer Cross.

Cantrell feared that he might never be Cross again.

As the ramp neared its apex, there was only room for one animal at a time. The one directly before Cross was shoved into a narrow chute. He could not see what they were doing up there, but heard the awful mechanical thump, a terrible shudder passing through the animal’s pinned body.

He watched as the victim was pulled forward then wrapped in long chains. Its body was raised and rudely swung away into the darkness beyond his vision.

Now it’s my turn.

The pressure from behind pushed him into the chute. He felt its walls press against his body on both sides. He smelled the emptied bowels of those who had gone before, felt his own betray him.

It’s so cold here.

He looked into the cavernous darkness, feeling something metallic pressing against his temple.

For the briefest of moments, he glimpsed the terrified face of a young boy, watching him.

The blow fell. There was no pain. Then darkness.

When Cross reached the top of the stairs, he did not rise to his feet, or open the door to the conference room.

He simply fell over, as if he’d been struck by an invisible force.

“Okay,” Wingnut said at last. “That’s a cut.”

The three cameramen that were filming the scene pushed stop.

“Fantastic job, boss!” Wingnut cried to the man at the top of the ramp. “You were great. We got unbelievable footage.”

Spontaneously, the crew broke out in applause. Smiles were on every face, high fives punctuated the air.

There was no response from Cross.

The applause slowly died away.

Cantrell was the first at Cross’s side.

The mystic’s face was ashen. His mouth gaped open in a horrific rictus. His legs were curled up to his chest in a fetal position.

Cantrell turned back toward the storage room and looked down at the crowd of crewmen below. They were all silent, staring back with blank expressions.

“He’s dead.”

16

The female reporter stood before what was by now a familiar television landmark—the grand entrance to the Exeter. She wore a parka and gloves, for it was snowing and cold, and spoke into the mike that was clipped to her lapel:

“Four days after the untimely death of television mystic Steven Cross here at the upscale lofts known as the Exeter, we have the answer at last.”

The next face to fill the screen was a balding man identified by the crawling words beneath his image as the county coroner.

“The cause of death was a massive coronary,” the obviously uncomfortable man said. “Although the victim, in this case Mr. Cross, was a relatively young man of 55 and appeared in fine health, such coronaries commonly strike without warning and with devastating effect. It is my opinion that he died very quickly of natural causes.”

The view returned to the snow-frosted newswoman.

“The chief of police announced today that foul play is not suspected in this case, and a criminal investigation is unlikely.”

She paused and turned toward a small group of people clustered near the entrance.

“Not everyone agrees with the official assessment,” she continued. “Here at the site of Cross’s death, in addition to fans of the popular host of Night Crossing, are those who believe that supernatural forces might have been at work.”

She paused, taking a quick look at the notebook in her hand.

“Cross’s death is only the latest in a string of tragedies at this location, all of which we have reported in recent months. The uncanny nature of those occurrences, coupled with the deadly results, have given rise to numerous theories, ranging from criminal conspiracy to demonic possession. The death of the television mystic is sure to add to those claims.”

The camera panned to a handful of shivering people, some of them holding signs with such messages as: “The devil lives here!” and “The Exeter = Evil.”

The reporter resumed her report:

“Whatever the cause, it is clear that Cross’s death will leave a huge void. Among those gathered here tonight are devoted fans and believers. Standing next to me is Mary Ann Fulton of Cleveland, who traveled many hours to be here.”

She turned to the young woman at her side.

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“Cross was my hero,” the woman replied in a shaky voice. “He had the courage to bring the supernatural into people’s living rooms. It’s because of him that I believe, and that I no longer fear death.”

Tears began to flow from the woman’s eyes. “Now here I am, paying my last respects to him. I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life.”

She deteriorated into sobs, the reporter resuming her monologue:

“Three days ago, there were dozens of such fans here. As you can see, there are only a few left.”

The camera did a quick cutaway shot of the sparse crowd and a collection of flowers and Christmas wreaths, now stiff and wilted with the cold, the wreaths steadily disappearing under the falling snow.

“Perhaps it’s the cold that’s driving them away. Perhaps their grief is just too much to bear. Whatever the cause, it’s clear that while Steven Cross might be gone, he won’t soon be forgotten.”

Su Ling pointed the remote at the TV and turned it off.

“She’s right,” Cantrell said, looking out the window. “They filmed that three hours ago. They’re all gone now. There’s nobody left.”

“Thank God,” Su Ling said quietly.

She looked at him hopefully. “Do you think it’s over? Will they come back?”

“I doubt it.”

The crowd was different this time. The energy was different. When the press and public gathered after the Sloanes and Derek Taylor, there had been a carnival frenzy. Why was it different this time?

He wasn’t sure. For the first day or two, the carnival atmosphere was certainly there, but it faded quickly. It grew somber and quiet. Even the reporters seemed hard pressed to sustain their interest.

It was almost as if, despite the celebrity of its latest victim, people were tiring of the Exeter. No, more than that. As if they were beginning to sense the place… to dread it.

They left not because of boredom, but because of repulsion.

And fear.

Even Detective Maudlin had displayed a cagey aversion. He’d already warned them to leave the place themselves, the last time something like this had happened. He repeated the warning to Cantrell the day after Cross’s death:

“You won’t leave, will you, you stubborn son of a bitch?”

“No,” Cantrell answered.

“Then God help you.”

§

After a few days, the snow stopped.

Cantrell looked out of the living room window over the bleak winter scene below.

Three feet of snow blanketed the desolate streets surrounding the Exeter. The air was cold, the skies gray and solemn, the traffic virtually nonexistent. Not a single footprint, animal or human, marred the snow-covered sidewalk and parking lot.

The press had withdrawn, the Cross loyalists finally departed, leaving behind only a few frozen wreaths, candles and a handful of handwritten cards and notes.

The Exeter was once more left in restless—but blissful—isolation.

Cantrell sighed, drawing a curtain over the scene. He made his way down to Su Ling’s apartment, barely noticing the vaguely cockeyed slant of the ornate staircase, the shadows that were somehow wrong.

As Su Ling opened the door, he immediately saw the look on her face. He also saw, on the other side of the room, her computer screen blinking off.

“What’s wrong?”

“I saw it, Alex.”

“Saw what?”

“Cross’s death. It was on the Internet. Somebody must have gotten a pirate copy of the tape.”

“Oh Jesus, Su, why in the hell did you… ”

“I had to see it, Alex, that’s all. And I’m sorry I did. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”

He took her in his arms and held her tight.

“I was hoping that you’d never have to see that. I’ll never forget it either.”

They sat at the kitchen table. She’d prepared hot tea for them.

He looked in her eyes.

“I’m not mad at you, Su,” he said. “I just wanted to spare you that, that… whatever the hell it was that happened down there.”

She returned his smile, but it was faint, still colored by her reaction to the video.

“What really happened down there?” she asked.

“Well, the coroner… ”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do. Maybe it was a heart attack, but that’s not what killed him. You know that, don’t you?”

Cantrell said nothing.

“The man turned into something before our eyes,” she said. “Before your eyes. I saw you on the video too; you were scared out of your wits. You can’t deny that.”

“Okay, I was scared. Who wouldn’t be? And you’re right. He did turn into something, or at least, he acted like it. It was awful, Su. I don’t know if it was something that was just going on in his head, or whether something else was happening. I don’t know—something’s happening in this building, something that not all of us can see, something that nobody can understand. Is that what you want me to say?”

“Yes,” she said, a little sharper than she intended. “I do want you to say that, because we both know that’s exactly what’s happening here.”

She rose and went to the kitchen, returning with an envelope.

“This came today. It’s from Sharon Knaster.”

Cantrell sat up, intrigued.

“Let me read this to you, Alex. It’s important. I think Sharon has a far better idea than either you or I about what’s happening.”

He nodded his assent.

“Dear Su Ling,” she began.

Please forgive me for not having had the opportunity to say goodbye to you and your lovely daughter, who I miss so very much. I know how badly we both wanted my work with Anna to bear results, and I believe that we were on the right track. There’s still hope for her—you must not forget that—but I’m afraid that I will no longer be able to help her, and you, through the darkness. You’ll have to find someone else, and I strongly urge you to do so.

I would have preferred to talk to you by phone, but I couldn’t take that risk. Please don’t laugh at me, but I believe there is a terrible force at work in the Exeter. I will not allow even the risk of my voice being heard within its walls, let alone ever set foot in that wretched place for the rest of my life.

You must have wondered many times what happened to me on that dreadful night. Even now, these months later, I find it almost impossible to explain and believe me, that hasn’t happened very often in the course of my professional career.

I should have died that night. I should have fallen off that balcony, and all the world would have believed that I was a suicide. Somehow, that never happened. I don’t know if it was luck or some inner strength that I never knew I possessed.

Why was I up there, teetering on that ledge? That’s a logical question, but I have no logical answer. All I can tell you is that it began with my secret fear—that down deep, I was afraid, terrified, that I would succumb to Alzheimer’s, just like my mother.

I began to believe that it was happening to me. It was so real, Su Ling, I can hardly tell you. I experienced all the symptoms, and trust me, I know them well. I forgot details, forgot arrangements, began to wander with no memory of where I’d gone.

Eventually, it was more than forgetfulness. I began to imagine myself somewhere else; the same facility where my mother died. It had the same smell, the same touch, the same methods for keeping patients controlled and restrained.

I knew I had to escape. It wasn’t the balcony; it was the door to my cell; a way out.

I know what you’re thinking, my friend. You’re thinking that old Dr. Knaster has finally lost her marbles. Believe me, I thought that too, for awhile. But I know madness, Su Ling. This was something different. How else to explain that the minute I left the Exeter, everything dissipated. The illusions were gone. Most important, so was the fear.

And how to explain what happened to that poor couple, the lawyer and his wife; to Mr. Brown; to that poor young man who used to throw the parties?

How to explain what happened to that television psychic? I read all about it. I was shocked, but not surprised.

It was fear, Su Ling. Pure, terrifying, horrifying, soul-searing fear. Our worst fears. Our deepest fears. Our most secret fears.

Yes, there was illusion in my case, and I’m sure in all of the others too. But the fear was real, and the results… well you already know enough about those.

My dear Su Ling, I feel—no, I know it to be true—that the Exeter is the source. It holds fear within itself, it breeds fear, it amplifies fear.

Ghosts? Hell if I know. Spirits? Your guess is as good as mine. I’m a woman of science and I’m not sure if I believe in any of that crap.

But I do know that you and Anna are at risk, and Mr. Cantrell too, whom I believe you have begun to care about. You need to get out of there, now.

I don’t know if I can be any more direct than that. Please take my words seriously, like you always did before. And know that the three of you remain very dear to my heart, and always will.

Love,

Sharon

Su Ling carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.

“There’s no return address.”

§

They were sweating from their sex, resting from its exertions, but they were having a difficult afterglow.

Su Ling rose from the messed bed and quickly covered her nakedness with a gown. It wasn’t like her. Usually, she liked to linger beside him in bed, to cuddle and feel their skin touching.

“What’s wrong?” Cantrell asked.

“What do you mean?” There was an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice.

“I don’t know… when we made love, it felt different, distant. Like you were thinking of something else.”

She sighed and ran her fingers through her long black hair.

“I’m sorry, Alex. You’re right. It’s this building. It’s so empty, so quiet… ”

“And?”

“I just don’t feel comfortable anymore. And it’s getting worse. Have you noticed how this place is starting to look, I don’t know, different? Crooked.”

Cantrell couldn’t hide his reaction.

“You have seen it. It feels like we’re walking on the deck of a ship. The angles aren’t right. The walls don’t seem straight anymore, but when you look a second time, it’s all back to normal.”

He could think of nothing to say.

“And it’s more than that,” she resumed. “I feel like a blind person, who develops super-hearing or something. It’s so quiet here, so empty… I can hear the trash going down the chute, all the way to the basement. I can hear a leaf dropping from the tree in the foyer. When we make love, I think it can probably be heard three floors away. Like I said, empty. The place is like a tomb.”

Cantrell felt his anger flare.

“It’s not a tomb, for God’s sake. It’s our home. It’s my dream.”

Now the edge was in his voice.

“It’s a tomb,” she said, looking him directly in the eye. “And you know it.”

“All right, so it’s my tomb. And I’ll be buried in it if I have to.”

She smiled sardonically. “Stop it, Alex. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Okay, so what exactly are you trying to say?”

“We need to listen to Sharon. I don’t want the same thing that happened to everyone else to happen to us. You have to realize that we’re not immune. It’s going to be our turn, sooner or later. Can’t you see that?

He sat up in bed and took her hand in his.

“Of course I can, Su. That’s why I’ve made a decision. I want you and Anna to leave. Not for good. Only until I can figure out how to deal with this.”

“And how do you plan to do that? By sacrificing yourself like Cross did?”

“No. I don’t know what happened to Cross, but I know that he was on the wrong track. He didn’t know how to approach… whatever it is that’s going on here.”

She chuckled.

“And you do?”

“Not right now. But I will.”

“You’re a very brave man Alex, after all you’ve seen here.”

“All I’m saying is that I’m not going to back down. I’m going to face it, whatever it is. If Sharon is right, and this is all about fear, then that’s what I’ll have to fight, and I’ll do it as hard and as long as I can.”

She brought her other hand to his. They looked into each other’s eyes.

“Why, Alex? That’s what I don’t understand. Why won’t you come with us, and let this place rot in hell?”

He suddenly rose from the bed and slapped his fist against his open hand.

“I just can’t! This place, as you call it, is more than a building, Su. It’s more than a pile of blueprints and old bricks. It’s my life, damn it! I put everything I have into this dream—my money, my time, my hopes, my soul. And whatever lies in wait for me, I can’t walk away from it. I can’t just give it away to whatever it is that lives here.”

“And you won’t,” she said quietly. “Will you?”

He shook his head, sitting back on the bed, taking her hands.

“But Su, it’s important that I do this alone. You and Anna have to go, just for a while. Just until this is settled.”

She paused before she spoke the next sentence, knowing that it was something that should remain unsaid.

“Is it worth so much to you that you’re willing to die for it?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.

“Good,” she said, taking her hands away from his. “You helped me make up my mind.”

“So you’re willing to leave?”

She laughed again.

“Not exactly. In fact, just the opposite. We’re staying. How about that?”

“No. That’s not an option. There’s no way… ”

She put her finger to his lips.

“Listen to me, Alex. That detective was right. You are a very stubborn man. And I am a very stubborn woman. I’m staying, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

They remained quiet for a minute, merely looking at each other.

“You have to understand something, Alex,” she began at last. “I love you. Anna loves you. You are our family now. We’re not just going to leave you here alone. Whatever it is, we’ll fight it together… as a family.”

The defiant expression on Cantrell’s face finally melted into a smile. “Okay. You win.”

“And you’re right,” she added. “This is our home.”

They found themselves, once more, in each other’s arms.

§

He woke with a start, at some unknown time, deep in the pitch black of early morning. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he felt her presence before actually seeing her.

Anna stood immediately next to where he slept. Her face, as always, revealed no emotion. He saw a plume of breath issue from her mouth, suddenly realizing that the room was ice cold.

Her eyes made direct contact with his, holding them. Through the fog of waking, Cantrell realized it was the first time she’d ever done that; the first time she’d ever communicated with him on any level.

Anna extended her arm, pointing at the wall across the room.

It was also the first time he had seen her make such a deliberate gesture. It was unmistakably a conscious act.

Su Ling stirred beside him, and slowly rose. She looked in astonishment at her daughter, and then followed Anna’s pointing finger to the wall.

Cantrell and Su Ling gasped in simultaneous astonishment.

The long, even wall was dissolving before their eyes, its off-white drywall being replaced with what appeared to be white tiles, their glossy surfaces streaked with long red smears.

The pictures hung on the wall also dissolved, and in their place other images rapidly congealed into focus, harshly lit by some unknown luminescence.

From somewhere unseen, carcasses were being pushed into view, hung on large hooks suspended on a rusty rod. The hooks screeched in metallic protest as the hanging flesh was shoved into position. The carcasses were fresh, blood still dripping onto an unfinished concrete floor. Steam rose from the sides of beef into the icy air.

Unable to look away, they saw that the carcasses were still throbbing, still reacting to whatever violence had killed their original owners.

The scene was hyper-realistic, luridly vivid, the perspective fully three dimensional.

They could smell the coppery stench of blood, feel the eye-burning intensity of industrial disinfectant. The cold was tangible, their ears tingling with pain.

From the same direction as the hanging meat came a new sight—a boy, young, dressed in denim overalls and a striped flannel shirt. He had unruly, sandy hair and wore battered, blood-spattered tennis shoes.

They could see the terror in his eyes and in the way he ran, frantically, as if fleeing something unspeakable behind. They saw his breath in the frigid air, coming in quick bursts.

He was visible only for a few moments, dashing along the length of the wall before disappearing.

The episode couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but to the observers, it seemed more like hours. The duration of time, like the angles of the building itself, seemed distorted.

Neither Anna nor Cantrell made any sound as the transformation faltered, the wall slowly returning to its previous condition.

17

Su Ling’s scream subsided at last, replaced by sobs that gradually became quiet tears and trembling.

Cantrell had never held anyone as tightly as he held her now, clutching her until the terror faded. He stroked her hair, but said nothing. He tried hard not to show it, but was every bit as terrified as she was.

It was real: The smells, the cold, the sights—all of them real. It was still too fresh for him to even attempt to make sense of.

Su Ling finally raised her head and opened her eyes. She reached out and touched his face, as if to make sure that he was not an illusion.

And then she started.

“Where’s Anna?” she demanded, no trace of the old fear in her voice. A new one had replaced it.

The girl was gone.

They ran, Su Ling heading in one direction, Cantrell another.

“In here!” Su Ling cried. “The bedroom.”

Anna sat on her bed. There was no trace of trauma or panic on her face. She held her notebook and pencil, drawing furiously.

“Thank heaven,” Su Ling gasped, unconsciously grabbing Cantrell’s hand. He squeezed hers in response.

They watched the young girl draw, fascinated by her deliberate motions and strokes. It was Cantrell who first took a good look at what was appearing on the white paper:

An eye.

More than that: a portion of a face, sharply angled, incorporating most of an eye and a portion of upper cheek. The expression was unmistakable: Pure terror.

But there was still more than that:

“Look at what she’s drawing,” he said to Su Ling. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”

She leaned over, examining the drawing.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s the boy… the one we just saw. I’m sure of it.”

There was no mistaking it, nor was there any denying the remarkable skill with which it had been rendered. They’d never before seen such coherence in Anna’s drawing. It looked like the work of a professional artist.

“How could that be?” he asked. “The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds. How the hell did she learn to draw like this? She’s only five years old, for Christ’s sake.”

“I have no idea, Alex, but listen: I don’t know if it’s possible, but what if these drawings aren’t just random? What if they never were?”

“What are you saying?”

“What if they’re pieces of… something; a puzzle, something bigger… ?”

Even before she finished speaking, both of them realized that the solution was right before their eyes, and had been since the beginning. It lay somewhere in the pile of notebook pages that Anna had been accumulating for months.

They headed for the pile, but something stopped them. They didn’t know immediately what, but realized soon enough.

The clock on the wall.

A Crazy Cat model, black with spangle decorations; eyes that moved left to right, and a swinging tail that served as a pendulum.

It had stopped.

The globe-like eyes of the cat froze, seemingly staring at the paper on which Anna drew…

In an instant, it no longer mattered. Su Ling lost sight of where she was.

She felt as if she were being sucked into a vortex. She was being yanked backwards, her ears assaulted by a deafening roar, her sight blurred by chaotic motion. She was a tumbleweed in a gale, buffeted out of control, the moorings of her reason trembling, cracking.

At some point—time seemed irrelevant—the roaring began to change, transforming into a deep, basso whump, repeated with metronomic precision—a heavy machine sound.

The sound of helicopter blades.

She felt the humidity and the awful heat, smelled the rank jungle reek, then she saw her destination. And when her vision began to return, she was somewhere else.

She recognized it immediately, felt the newness of it, as if she’d never seen it at all.

Saigon.

She saw the embassy roof as if she were in the helicopter hovering above it; every inch covered in a throng of desperate humanity. They clustered around the door of the big chopper the G.I.s affectionately called a “Jolly Green Giant,” fighting one another for a place. The lucky ones were already aboard.

They looked like survivors of a sinking ship, desperately awaiting rescue.

Amidst the throng, she saw one young girl: a tiny thing; long jet black hair, a look of absolute, childish terror on her face.

Somehow, Su Ling knew that she was looking at herself. What a beautiful little girl I was…

And then she was that little girl.

Now she was looking upward, at the great belly of the thumping beast that appeared as high as the clouds.

She felt the jostling of the adults all around; pain as their feet trampled hers. Felt, saw and smelled their fear.

And her own.

The young Su Ling had no idea how she’d gotten here. She remembered that her mother and father were with her earlier in the day, pulling her frantically through crowded streets and markets. Panic was everywhere; people scrambling with whatever belongings they could carry. Others were busy looting stores.

At some point in that terrible day, she discovered that her parents were no longer by her side. She was standing on this roof, without them, crying, looking for them, calling their names. Understanding nothing of what was playing out before her eyes.

Someone behind picked her up firmly by the armpits and thrust her forward. She tried to look back, thinking that maybe one of her parents had rejoined her, but never saw who it was. She was thrust through the door onto the hard metal floor of the helicopter, already filled with men, women and children. They all seemed to be staring at her.

“No more!” she heard a male voice cry out, but did not understand the English words. “We can’t carry this many! Some of you have to get off! We’ll come back!”

There was pushing and shoving as the great blades above them began to pick up speed. She felt herself being pushed back toward the door and tried to grab something, anything, that would keep her steady.

She felt the helicopter slowly begin to lift itself away from the roof. But something was wrong. The entire ship, burdened with human cargo, was having difficulty taking flight. The rocking deck was making the people sway en masse. A few fell.

A heavy man in front of her began to lose his balance. She felt him press against her, forcing her back. Again, she grabbed for something to hold onto, but found only air.

The child fell from the ship, free-falling out the door for what seemed like eternity. But her hand, still desperately clutching, found something at last.

As the Jolly Green Giant continued its erratic ascent, leaving the chaos of Saigon forever, a little girl could be seen clinging with one hand to its starboard skid…

Cantrell saw it at the same moment. The tail of the ticking cat abruptly stopped. He looked at Su Ling to see if she’d noticed it as well, and froze when he saw her face.

Her expression was one of total shock.

But he didn’t have time to think about her. His own terror hit at the very same moment.

He was pummeled by an unseen force—a wind unlike anything he’d ever experienced. No papers flew, no curtains stirred, no tablecloth flapped, but the pressure was fierce and relentless. It attacked from behind, thrusting him through the room against his will, ultimately shoving him out the door and into the hallway of the second floor. He strove to resist, like a swimmer trying to escape a riptide, but his efforts were in vain.

Whatever it was, it wanted him here.

He stood on the balcony, looking down into the foyer. For the briefest of moments, everything appeared calm.

Then it began.

There were squeaks, sounds of straining lumber or joists, nails being stressed and loosened from their berths.

He looked at the elaborate staircase, its angles more distorted than ever before. Now it no longer vaguely resembled an expressionistic painting. It looked decidedly crooked, definitely warped. It made him dizzy to look at it.

Out of the windows, which were now off-kilter as well, he saw little to reassure him. The entire landscape appeared to be rising, the movement deceptively subtle, but there could be no mistaking it.

The distant buildings outside were rising from their foundations.

Then reality struck him. The other buildings weren’t rising. The Exeter was sinking.

My building is dying. He felt the hard reality of that thought like a punch to the stomach.

Impossible.

As if possibility made any difference. It was happening, right before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The sounds were worsening. The building lurched, as if it were a ship that had struck a reef. The groans were growing into a cacophony of screams, as if every nail, screw, and joint were protesting together, in one awful voice.

The hair on Cantrell’s neck rose as the sounds took on another quality: that of animals in pain. Or in fear. About to die.

“Stop this!” he cried out into the empty foyer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You have no right… !”

In reply, the screams of the building intensified, along with the vibrations that shuddered its skeleton.

The building was now sinking at a rapid pace. Clouds of plaster dust spewed out of the walls, the chandelier rocked wildly, its glass crystals audible even above the other noises. Somewhere a window shattered.

The Exeter was disintegrating, beginning with its skin; the cosmetic surfaces Cantrell had contrived to mask the building’s original character.

The molding splintered from the walls and ceilings with a sickening crack, then curled into itself, as if it had suddenly gone soft. Wallpaper rolled off the walls, resembling discarded Christmas wrapping.

From beneath the trappings of renovation and design, the true essence of the Exeter finally unveiled itself—aged brick, exposed concrete, bare pipes and conduits—the stuff of industry and production, the mechanics of process.

“Stop this!”

But the noise drowned out his protests, the anger that fueled them fast fading to fear.

The nails and screws were giving up their fight, ejecting from the walls with violent force.

The balcony rocked violently, its motion uneven, like the seesaw sway of flimsy buildings in the midst of an earthquake.

The narrow platform began to buckle, as heavy chunks of concrete fell.

Cantrell lost his balance as the balcony leaned into the gaping space of the foyer. Instead of going down with it, he made a running leap. Suspended for two or three terrifying seconds in midair, his feet landed on the staircase.

But it was rocking too.

Moments later, he watched the entire balcony collapse, pieces of it striking the tree, breaking off limbs, then collapsing into a monstrous heap below. The rising cloud of dust choked him and burned his eyes, but he managed to hold onto the wrought iron railing, like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

And then the house began to consume itself.

Below him, the foyer floor rumbled, then erupted. Tiles separated from each other in sharp edges, flying everywhere. A great hole appeared in their place, outlined with jagged shards of broken wood, tile, steel, mesh and pipe.

The ragged maw proceeded to chew the bottom steps of the ornate staircase and the linden’s trunk, steadily climbing upward.

Cantrell retreated as the Exeter sunk into itself, ate itself. The steps below gave way amidst clouds of sparking debris.

He rose to the third floor, the fourth, the fifth.

There was nowhere else to go…

Her hand was perspiring. She was slipping, losing her grip on the chopper’s skid.

The helicopter rose clumsily but rapidly from the embassy roof, providing a terrifying vision of what lay below: Much of Saigon was on fire. Smoke billowed out of buildings, cars were aflame—all of it receded as the chopper climbed.

As it passed through a plume of black smoke rising from a burning building, little Su Ling coughed, instinctively rubbing at her eyes with her one free hand.

It was only a matter of seconds now; she couldn’t hold on much longer…

But something was changing.

It felt as if the metal were changing shape beneath her grip, morphing.

The tubular metal twisted itself into something she vaguely recognized. There was an undeniable design to it; strangely ornate.

And through it, from a place she could not see, came an outstretched hand…

The ravenous mouth below Cantrell was only inches from his feet. As it rose—or as the stairs sunk, he couldn’t tell which—it made a horrifying noise; smashing wood, pulverizing plaster, crunching broken glass. He had no doubt what would happen when it reached his flesh.

But a new noise reached his ears, even amidst the surrounding roar; a machine of some type, rhythmically whirring and thumping.

Then he saw it:

A huge helicopter, rising through the din and dust of the demolished foyer, hovering level to where he stood. It was military green, festooned with a large white star, and filled with people whose look of terror mirrored his.

And someone else—a kid hanging below the chopper, clinging to its skid for dear life.

Even though she was only a child, he knew who she was.

The Exeter and all of its rabid self-destruction faded. He could no longer hear its noise, feel its vibrations, or see the hungry mouth below. All of his intent, his entire being, was suddenly focused on saving the woman he loved.

He held out his hand.

She lost her grip.

Their hands somehow found each other.

Su Ling’s weight, suspended in midair, pulled Cantrell violently into the metal railing at the top of the staircase. He felt the impact on his shoulder and his arm socket screamed in pain.

She fell… then stopped, jarring to a halt in midair.

She felt herself swaying, five stories above the floor of the Exeter.

A familiar voice called out to her, echoing in the foyer.

“Grab my hand!”

She saw the outstretched hand, grasped for it. He held on so tight she felt the bones grinding in her fingers.

He brought his feet to the wrought iron railing for leverage, then pulled, discovering in that desperate moment that he had far more strength than he ever imagined.

He felt great pain as he exerted, but was oblivious to it. He felt great fear, even contemplated the failure of his mission, but ignored that fear.

Somehow, after a length of time impossible to measure, he brought her to a position where she could bring her feet to the edge of a stair. Then, with one desperate tug, he hauled her over the railing.

The two of them landed in a heap.

They said nothing as they took in their surroundings.

Su Ling looked up and saw the starry night sky through the skylight. No longer was the tropical blue of the Saigon sky visible above, nor were the flames of the burning city visible beneath.

Nor was the Exeter consuming itself in a mad feeding frenzy.

Just the foyer—quiet, peaceful.

The lovers, still panting against each other’s chests, knew better.

18

“Ssssh… ”

Su Ling placed her finger over Cantrell’s mouth.

“Do you hear it?”

He looked at her, confused.

“The clock, in Anna’s room. It’s ticking again.”

He smiled.

“Does that mean it’s over?”

“God, I hope so,” she said.

They sat on the living room floor like two animals tending to each other’s wounds. Cantrell had already cleaned and bandaged the dozen or so cuts and scrapes on Su Ling’s arms and legs. She was finishing the same for him.

He winced as she applied hydrogen peroxide to a lacerated forearm.

They’d stumbled back to Su Ling’s apartment after the terror on the staircase, relieved beyond words to find Anna sleeping peacefully in her room, as if nothing had happened.

They were hurting and still frightened, but enough time had passed to allow them to talk.

“Did you see the same thing I did?” Su Ling asked at last, her voice still quivering.

“I saw a lot of things, Su. It was a nightmare, but it was real, especially at the end, with the helicopter. God, I can still smell the fumes.”

She nodded.

“Alex, I could feel the wind from the blades against my face, it was so loud. I only saw it for a few seconds, but it was real.”

“Yes. Everything was falling apart, the walls were collapsing. My building was dying.”

He paused, caressing the back of her hand.

“Did you see me?” he asked.

“Not at first, but I felt you; your hand grabbing mine. Then I heard your voice. I didn’t see you until you were pulling me up… until you saved my life.”

She began to cry again. He did what he could to comfort her.

“What did you see before the foyer?”

When her weeping subsided, she told him of the whole experience; her terrifying journey through the streets of Saigon, the chaos on the embassy roof, the terror of falling.

He, in turn, described his own experience. He left nothing out, the trembling of the structure, the nails and screws firing out of their places like bullets, the collapse of the balcony, the horrific image of his building violently consuming itself.

They stared at each other after their stories were told, wondering how they could possibly believe the other’s if they hadn’t lived through their own.

“Alex, it was so real. So real… ”

He told her that it was just as real for him; that he had no doubt the building would have consumed him as well as itself.

The Crazy Cat clock’s reassuring tick-tock continued unbroken in the next room.

“Su, you were in Saigon as a little girl… is that what actually happened to you?”

Her face clouded over.

“No, but it was very similar. I’ll never forget that day. It was crazy, Alex. There were people everywhere, desperate to find a way out. My parents and I were trying to get to the embassy. My father, who worked for the Americans, was assured a place on one of the evacuation helicopters. But the streets were chaotic. I was separated from them.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven. I can’t begin to tell you how terrified I was. I wandered around in the crowds for most of that day, crying, begging for someone to help me, praying that my father would rescue me. Finally, a man—I think he was a taxi driver—saw me and asked what was wrong. I told him that I had to get to the embassy to find my parents. God bless him, he took me there.”

“And your parents?”

“I found them, thank heaven, and was able to get on the helicopter with them.”

“And did you fall out?”

“No. None of that ever happened. But I remember being afraid of it. The door was open and the helicopter was shaking, there were so many people on it. But no, that never happened.”

“How strange. So it was… some sort of exaggeration of your memory, a distortion of what really happened. Does that make sense?”

She looked at the ceiling, thinking on what he had just said.

“I suppose… but why did it change what actually happened? I don’t understand that. Tell me about your experience, whatever you want to call it. We both know that nothing like that ever happened to you.”

“No, it didn’t. It was more like a nightmare. It definitely wasn’t a reflection of anything based in reality.”

Cantrell paused, putting a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes.

“Wait a minute, Su. Isn’t that what dreams and nightmares really are? Metaphors… projections of what’s troubling us down deep… ?”

She stopped him.

“Or fear. That’s what these experiences have in common. Think about it. They’re all about fear.”

He was beginning to understand.

“So, your fear was about falling out of a helicopter?”

She smiled.

“Yes, but that’s just part of it. You said it was a metaphor, Alex, and I think you’re right. For me, my deepest fear was projected. Abandonment. It’s all about that. It began on that day I got lost in Saigon, but it’s been with me all this time. I went through the same feeling—the same terror—when I lost my husband. And I go through it every day with Anna. I hate myself for thinking it, but I feel abandoned by her as well, when she can’t speak or react to anything I say or do. And it came up again with you, when you told me to leave and said that you’d stay here by yourself.”

“I had no idea… ”

“Don’t blame yourself for anything, Alex. You did nothing wrong. I don’t think I realized all of this for what it was until just a few minutes ago. What just happened has put everything together.”

They were both quiet for a moment, each reliving their own private terror.

Cantrell elaborated on his experience, providing details that he’d omitted from the original, panic-quickened telling. When the building began to self-destruct, he believed that it was destroying its outer skin; literally shedding every improvement, every vision, he had tried to impose on the old building. As if it resented it, hated it. As if it wanted to hurt him personally, in an insane act of vengeance.

“But it didn’t stop there, Su. The building was intent on destroying itself, as if to spite me.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“Why would the building do that, Alex? Why would it kill itself?”

“The building had nothing to do with it. It was me; my thoughts, my fears… ”

“What are you afraid of, Alex?”

He looked down at the floor, swallowed slowly, and met her gaze.

“Failure. That’s what I’ve always feared, from back when I was a little kid trying to please my dad. Trying to please my boss. The critics, the financiers, the press, the clients, the public—myself. No, not really trying to please, trying to avert failure, to prove myself.”

“And the Exeter… ”

“It was my greatest challenge. It represented me. If this failed, then everything I stood for, my entire life, would be like that vision of the floor chewing everything up.”

He paused to take a deep breath, glancing suspiciously at the surrounding walls.

“It wasn’t the Exeter destroying itself, Su. It was me, destroying myself. That’s my greatest fear.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“You’re not a failure, Alex, and you know it. And I’m not a little child standing terrified on the roof of an embassy in 1975. But you’re right, I’m sure of it; this is all about fear, about us… ”

She pointed her finger at him, her expression dawning with sudden comprehension.

“Think about this: Maybe everything that’s happened here was all tied into the same thing. The victims of this place acted the way they did because they were confronted with their worst fears, just like we were. Maybe what happened to them was as terrifying, as real, as what you and I just went through.”

“Then why didn’t our experiences kill us, or drive us mad like the rest? Only Sharon and us made it. Why?”

She bit her lip. “Maybe it had something to do with Sharon’s intellect, and in our case, with us being together. And I mean together, not like the Sloanes. We helped each other, trusted each other. And we love each other, Alex. There has to be power in that… ”

He nodded. “And if it happens again… if the clock stops… ”

“Then we’ll still have each other.”

They kissed, grimacing at the aches and pains that riddled their bodies. But they weren’t finished talking yet.

“So we’re on the right track,” Cantrell said. “This place is acting as some sort of… negative amplifier. But why?”

“What about Cross?” Su Ling offered.

“What about him?”

“You saw it up close, Alex, and I saw it on the video; how he acted, how he sounded, when it happened to him. As if he were an animal, waiting to take that last walk up the ramp to the killing floor… ”

“I’m not following you.”

“Think about it: This place was a slaughterhouse. Thousands upon thousands of animals were killed here. How much accumulated fear do you think these walls have absorbed?”

“My God… ”

“Look, we can’t know what was in Cross’s mind. We don’t know what his fears were, but maybe he really did have a talent for seeing things that other people can’t. Maybe it was more than he could take.”

“So, it’s like all the cattle, all the hogs, that were killed in this building, are somehow still here, haunting the place?”

“No,” she said with a patient smile. “It’s not the animals or their spirits, Alex. It’s the fear they left behind. That’s what’s haunting the Exeter.”

“If that’s all true, then what about what we saw tonight? What about that boy who ran across the room? That was a ghost if I’ve ever seen one.”

Su Ling’s features lit up with sudden understanding.

“My God, Alex, we forgot! Anna’s pictures. That’s what we were doing when all of this began.”

They helped each other off the floor and limped as quickly as they could to Anna’s room.

§

They carried the ponderous stack of paper on tiptoe, in order not to wake the child. The only sound in the room was Anna’s soft breathing, and the rhythmic ticking of the Crazy Cat clock.

Alex moved the end tables and pushed the sofa away from the center of the living room, providing ample space for the job at hand.

It was a considerable task.

Like children with pieces of a puzzle, they moved back and forth, trying to match up the pieces, changing place with each other as they moved around the image slowly taking shape before their eyes.

As in most puzzles, the corners and edges seemed to come together first, then progressed slowly toward the center. At first, they could see the shape of a ceiling and a tiled floor in what had previously appeared to be random markings.

They were so focused on what they were doing that Su Ling and Cantrell lost track of time. Soon a shaft of dawn seeped through the curtains.

They took a break for coffee, but could barely wait to get back to work.

Details began to form: the unmistakable hooves of an animal; a man’s working boots; what looked like a pair of boy’s sneakers.

The first clearly recognizable image appeared on the left side of the drawing: A queue of animals—longhorn steers—approaching the center of the picture from a ramp which led from somewhere below.

Su Ling gasped when that portion of the puzzle became clear.

“Look at that,” Cantrell said. “Can’t you see it? It’s the ramp, I’m sure of it.”

She nodded in agreement, frowning.

“I can’t believe that this came from the imagination of a little girl, Alex… ”

“We don’t know where this is coming from, Su, and we don’t know what it means yet. Let’s keep going.”

Eventually, the center of the picture began to take shape. Dominating the composition was a single longhorn steer; nostrils flared, eyes wide, glaring with terror.

Alex worked from the right of the puzzle, moving steadily upwards.

This section was dominated by the figure of a man; tall and strong looking, wearing some kind of overalls and dark work gloves. The expression on his face mirrored that of the longhorn, though there was something else to his expression… something they couldn’t discern at first, but which gradually became clear the more the figure coalesced.

Su Ling gasped at the sight of it.

“I’m not sure I want to finish this thing,” she said when she saw the man’s face. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“We have to; we have to know what it means.”

She nodded silently, returning to her work.

Half an hour later, they arrived at the center of the picture, finally comprehending the man’s contorted expression.

One of the steer’s horns was embedded in his chest. A long stream of blood spurted from the wound.

Su Ling put her hand over her eyes, like a theatergoer watching a horror movie.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s okay, Su.” Alex put his arm around her shoulders “We’re almost finished. You sit down. I’ll do it.”

She didn’t argue, seating herself on the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her eyes, however, never left the coalescing picture.

It only took a few minutes to assemble the final pieces of the puzzle.

When he was done, he joined Su Ling on the couch and then took her hand, leading her to a standing position upon it. From their slightly elevated position, they had a perfect view of the entire work, which formed a neat rectangle in the center of the living room floor.

They were looking at the final figure, which appeared in the lower left corner.

A boy, dressed in overalls, like the dying man, but he had canvas sneakers on his feet instead of boots. He was looking directly at the violence in the center of the picture, his face an ashen mask of horror.

“It’s him,” Su Ling said. “Isn’t it?”

Cantrell exhaled.

“Yes, no question; he’s the one we saw… ”

“The ghost.”

“It’s the old killing floor, the one that used to be here. It looks like it might have been a typical day at the slaughterhouse, but… ”

“But something went horribly wrong,” she offered. “It wasn’t a typical day after all.”

Something stirred behind them. They both started, turning away from the composition.

Anna stood across the living room in her pajamas. They had no idea how long she’d been standing there.

“Anna, are you okay?” her mother asked.

In response, the child slowly approached the picture, gazing down at it. Su Ling made a grab for her, perhaps to pull her away from the awful vision, but Cantrell grabbed her arm.

“Let her look.”

The girl’s eyes went from one corner to the next, slowly and methodically taking in the whole thing.

Tears began to flow from Anna’s eyes, although she remained silent and expressionless.

When Su Ling saw them, her own tears began to flow.

Anna began to shake her head back and forth, and the stony expression on her face—an expression that had been there, unchanged, for more than a year—began to change. Her lower lip thrust out in a pouting gesture; her forehead furrowed. Her eyes, usually wide open, narrowed as the tears flowed.

“Alex… ” Su Ling whispered.

Anna began to cry, her voice coming in pain-wracked sobs.

“Oh my God, Alex… ”

But as suddenly as it began, the crying stopped. Anna rubbed the tears from her eyes with her hand and slowly turned to face her mother.

Su Ling held her breath.

“He’s coming,” Anna said softly in a voice her mother had not heard for a very long time.

“He’s coming,” she repeated, then turned toward the curtained window.

She walked to it deliberately and parted the curtains, allowing the morning sun to flood the room.

“Rupert,” she called to no one they could see. “Rupert.”

19

The old man’s eyes jerked open. He had heard the call.

His surroundings were the same as they had been for the last six decades—a sterile, unadorned room inside the nursing home, lit faintly by the early morning sun. The room contained no books, for he never read; no television, for he never watched; no games, for he never played; and no photographs, for he had no family or friends.

But he heard the call.

First as a soft whisper which reverberated in his head. Then louder; enough to startle him from sleep.

He didn’t understand the call, any more than he understood where he was, who he was, or why. The nursing home staff occasionally debated whether the old man actually realized that he existed. They had been doing this for years, through various staff and ownership changes.

He was a human fixture here. He never caused problems, never spoke. He was never a challenge, because—despite his condition—he was in relatively good health for a man his age.

He had a name, but nobody used it anymore. He was invariably labeled “the Old Man” and everybody knew who that was.

But he did realize his own existence, if not on the level that most people did. He knew how to dress himself. He knew when it was time to eat, when to go to the bathroom, when to sleep.

Nobody ever realized, however, that he knew much more than that.

The Old Man—in his mid-70s, most likely—was tall, over six feet and rail thin. One would never have called him agile, but his movements were surprisingly sure and steady for a man diagnosed as “near catatonic.”

His head was bald, his face gaunt, but not so much that one could not imagine a good-looking man some years ago. His eyes, his only expressive feature, were vibrantly blue.

He had heard the call, and did not fully understand, but knew, somewhere deep within the fog of his mind, that he had to respond.

§

Su Ling’s emotions had gone from the morning’s unexpected joy to sheer frustration. Now, as noon approached, she felt herself edging back toward her old despair.

The two words Anna had uttered at the window were the last she had spoken. Now, as Anna lay on her bed, eyes wide open, totally silent, it seemed as if nothing had changed at all.

The girl’s mother had spent the last few hours pleading with her, to say more, to express something, anything, afraid that it had all been some kind of cruel joke, perhaps on the Exeter’s behalf.

“Anna… baby… sweetheart… say something. Please say something to Mommy.”

Cantrell approached from behind, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Let her be, Su. Let’s give her a little break.”

Su Ling nodded in resignation, rising to accompany him out of the room. But as they left, Cantrell turned once more to Anna. He saw—but did not mention—that her gaze drifted away from the ceiling toward the window, as if she were waiting for something.

§

With most people, it would have been considered plotting. In the case of the Old Man, who was incapable of such sophisticated thought, it was more instinctual; an intent without context.

He spent his afternoon as he’d spent thousands before—eating his noon meal in familiar isolation; walking, hands behind his back, through the corridors of the nursing home, staring straight ahead, noticing nothing. Only when he reached the doorway to the common room did he pause, staring at the residents playing checkers, watching soap operas, making drawings with crayons. Then he turned away, resuming his aimless stroll.

It was such an ordinary afternoon for the Old Man that nobody—residents or staff—paid any special heed to his ritualistic movements. To them, he may as well have been a ghost. The old man was such a familiar figure, such a fixture, that he virtually blended into the faded floral wallpaper.

Outside, as the winter light grew dim, a few snowflakes began to fall. The Old Man did not notice them. He did notice, however, that the dinner bell had rung. He began to shuffle toward his traditional and isolated table.

§

Su Ling and Cantrell slept the deep sleep of total exhaustion. They lay with their arms wrapped around one another, their breathing deep and steady, their slumber desperately needed.

But Anna did not sleep.

She lay in her room, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, as she had done for much of the day. But when the flat grew silent at last—its only sound the metronomic ticking of the cat’s tail—the girl rose from her bed.

She quietly opened the blinds and regarded the deep gray of the night. In one smooth motion, Anna opened the window wide.

A blast of icy air swept over her tiny body, but she paid it no apparent heed. She breathed in the cold air, snowflakes settling in the perfect blackness of her hair, the smooth contours of her cheekbones.

She stared out into the snowy night.

§

The call was louder than ever now. The Old Man responded at last.

He did not know how late it was, for he paid no attention to clocks. But he knew it was night and he knew it was time.

The Old Man carefully dressed himself. He did this at a time when all of the other residents of the nursing home were long asleep. He put his on his battered corduroy coat, weathered boots and an old baseball cap he had found in the common room.

With great care, he cracked open the door to his room and examined the hallway, looking right and left, just as all the residents had been told to do when preparing to cross the street.

It was empty, lit only by faint utility lights.

With a cat’s stealth, he made his way down the long hallway, past rooms reverberating with snores and forgotten televisions, past the side exit door, which he knew would be locked.

Instinct led him through the dining area, dark and empty, into the kitchen. It too was dark and empty, and he was alone as he walked slowly over its tiled floors.

A sound jarred him. It was like thunder, which always terrified him, and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes went to the source, identified the stainless steel box in which ice cubes were made, and resumed his stealthy walk.

The kitchen’s back door was faintly illuminated by the green glow of an exit sign and the Old Man walked directly to it. If he had been aware of such emotions, he would have felt gratitude when he found it to be unlocked.

He felt the frigid air of the outdoors, but experienced no real discomfort from it. Nor did he experience any sense of freedom, for such concepts were meaningless to him. He walked slowly and deliberately through the courtyard, out the gate and onto the deserted, snow-covered street.

Toward the voice that called.

The snow fell gently, a dry, crystalline powder that squeaked beneath his boots. The air was bitter cold and not a soul, besides him, was out. His were the only footprints visible in the pristine snow.

As he trudged, the surroundings gradually changed. The facility— his home for far longer than he could remember—was gone from sight. Replacing it were suburban ranch houses and quickie marts, gas stations and coffee shops. These, in their turn, were replaced by older structures, second-hand stores and pawnshops.

Eventually, these too disappeared, giving way to old factories and weathered warehouses, dimly lit and made of battered red brick.

The voice was clearer now, its beacon resonating in his skull.

He stopped.

He did not know what it was, this hulking shape that loomed alone on the horizon, but something about it terrified him.

He hadn’t felt this emotion for as long as he could remember.

The place was tall and dark, wide and imposing. It had a tower, with a clock’s face.

He’d been there before. He sensed this instinctually, as he did everything else. In the same way, he knew that this place was very, very bad.

And very, very good.

The Old Man started toward the vision, with the same steady and relentless pace he had maintained throughout the night.

For the voice was coming from within it.

Since time was not important to him, he did not know how long it took to reach the place, but he eventually did. Only then did he halt his steady march.

He stood before its massive door, a strange and frightened knight having arrived at the destination of his quest.

He brought his hand up to knock, but before his aged knuckles could touch the cold wood, the door creaked open.

Warmth and light poured out into the night. And much more—the smiling face of a young, beautiful girl.

Her eyes met his; black against blue. Her tiny soft hand took his gnarled, old one and gently led him inside the Exeter.

The Exeter

=§=§=§=

What’s coming?

Solitude was giving way. Something approached. A shape, a feeling.

Confusion.

Very hot, yet very cold. Terrifying, yet pleasing.

Confusion.

Everything was spinning. And stopping. Spinning and stopping.

Why was this feeling familiar? What was this shape? What did it want?

Does it want me? Who is “me?” What is “me?”

Anticipation, dread.

Rapid passage through solid forms, then passage back. The desire to escape, the need to hide, deep down below. And the desire not to hide. The need to come out. To embrace.

A quandary. Clearly a quandary. But what is a quandary?

Confusion.

Only one clarity amidst all the hot, the cold, the fear, the joy—no escape.

Whatever was to happen, would happen. Was supposed to happen. Could not be stopped from happening.

=§=§=§=

20

Su Ling’s eyes shot open in the silence of deep night.

Wrong. Something terribly wrong.

“Alex!”

She shook the sleeping man almost violently, not yet noticing the frigid cold that enveloped the bedroom.

He came awake groggily.

“What?”

“She’s gone.”

“Who’s… ?”

“Anna’s gone. I feel it!”

She didn’t wait for him, jumping out of the bed and dashing across the apartment to her daughter’s empty room.

Su Ling uttered a cry and began a frantic search of the flat, opening closet doors, peering behind the couch, even—illogically—inside the refrigerator.

Cantrell was soon at her side, placing a robe around her against the pervasive cold that permeated the entire apartment.

“Anna!” she cried, her voice laced with panic.

Cantrell threw open the door and went out into the hall, his breath steaming before him. He started when he saw the towering linden in the foyer. Its green leaves and slender branches were now weighted with thousands of tiny icicles. In a strong wind that was coming from somewhere, they made an eerie tinkling noise.

There was a light below. Peering down, he saw the open doorway.

“Down here, Su! Come on!”

They raced down the stairs, staring in shock at what they saw.

Anna stood before the open door, dressed only in her pajamas, vulnerable to the snow and icy wind that swept in to envelop her. Outside, they saw the outline of a man.

Their hands were clasped together across the threshold.

“Get away from her!” Su Ling cried, rushing toward the door. “Leave her alone!”

Neither Anna nor the stranger seemed to hear. The two of them remained in a fixed position, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Su, wait!” Cantrell urged.

He’d seen the subtle tug of war going on at the doorway. The man—he could tell by now that he was quite tall and old—seemed to be resisting the girl’s pull, as if afraid to come inside.

Su Ling paused, picking up the same signal. They both watched the strange encounter.

At last, the old man surrendered. With one hesitant step, he crossed the threshold.

He was, indeed, tall and apparently quite old. He was thin, dressed shabbily in a snows-wept corduroy jacket and faded baseball cap. His ears and nose were bright red from the cold.

“Who are…?”

Cantrell hushed Su Ling, whispering in her ear: “Let it go, Su. Something’s happening here.”

She wanted to resist, her protective maternal instincts cried out for her to do so. But she relented. Su Ling, too, could sense something special. Anna’s attitude was clearly not one of fear, but of direction and purpose. And something about the old man finally convinced her that he was no threat.

With an enigmatic smile, Anna turned and began to lead the old man further inside, across the foyer, as if she were escorting an old friend. She paid no heed to the other adults in the room, nor the intense cold.

As Cantrell watched the strange procession, his eyes were attracted to the antique grandfather clock which stood beside the door. The hands stopped, then began to move counterclockwise. The clock’s gears made a soft whirring sound as they revolved, faster and faster.

The child led the old man unerringly across the room, stopping in front of the door that led to the conference room.

A wave of horror washed over Su Ling. The killing floor; that’s where she’s leading him.

Anna opened the door and tried to lead him inside. Again, the old man hesitated at the threshold, finally relenting as she continued to tug and coax, allowing her to lead him into the room.

Mirroring her actions, Cantrell took Su Ling’s hand and led her the same way. She, too, hesitated, but relented.

Cantrell switched on the light, revealing the conference room as they had always seen it—bathed in bright fluorescent light, the long walnut table and leather chairs neatly in place, the soft mountain landscapes in their proper places on the wall, a handful of documents on the table, where Cantrell had left them.

As the procession made its way inside, an air of expectation hung over them all. What were they doing here?

Anna stood silent, waiting. The old man had lost his bewildered expression, replaced now with one of approaching terror. And possibly recognition. It seemed as if he had been here before, as if he were experiencing a terrifying déjà vu. Their hands were still clasped together, as were those of Cantrell and Su Ling. The only sound was their soft breathing.

The change was subtle at first, barely noticeable. The long wall opposite them began to ripple, ever so slightly. As Cantrell watched it begin to change, he was reminded of heat mirages on the far horizon of lonely highways. It didn’t look quite real.

The cool, antiseptic air of the conference room was soon replaced by a clammy, steamy heat. Cantrell opened a button on his shirt, Su Ling wiping sweat from her brow. The girl and the old man seemed unaffected.

The mirage intensified, taking on a silvery shimmer. And then came the unmistakable scent of animals. It grew from a hint to a barnyard reek. And there was more to it than the scent of livestock. Mingled with the smell were human sweat, axle grease and something that smelled very much like rendering flesh.

Fresh blood.

Sounds began to break the silence; those of a factory in full operation—chains sliding along pulleys, the thrum of heavy machines and buzzing saws, the shouts and laughter of working men, knives being sharpened on stones.

The lowing of terrified cattle.

Cantrell and Su Ling stood, their backs to the wall, staring open-mouthed at the mirage as it began to slowly dissolve.

Anna and the stranger stood before them, one regarding the scene with open expectation, the other absolute horror.

The struggle between the conference room and whatever lay beyond it was becoming decisive. The conference room, which represented the now, was surrendering to that which was then.

Cantrell knew what it was as soon as it began to appear. What else could it be?

The Exeter was reclaiming itself before their eyes, taking on its true identity.

The abattoir.

No longer were the trappings of the now visible. In their place were stained brick walls, concrete beams, steel hoists and lifts, dimpled steel floors.

So that they can’t slip in the blood, Cantrell thought.

The industry of death lay before them. Five or six men were working in the room, all clothed in heavy boots and rubber overalls. They walked by the intruders as if they didn’t exist. They shouted commands and instructions to each other. One of them, the stub of a cigar in his mouth, barked orders to “keep ‘em movin, keep ‘em movin!”

The intruders watched the assembly line precision in horrified silence.

From the left, a queue of longhorn steers were being forced forward through a long fenced chute, rising from somewhere below. The sounds that came from them made it clear that they knew—in their instinctive way—exactly what was happening. Exactly what was about to happen to them.

The steer at the top of the chute was forced into a narrow enclosure, open for the moment at both ends. First, the rear door, through which the animal entered, was closed behind it. Then, at the front end of the enclosure, a wooden wall—guillotine-like—consisting of two parts, was brought together, forming an opening around the animal’s neck, isolating and locking the head.

The worker standing before the wide-eyed animal raised his burly arm, striking the steer’s head with the sledgehammer clutched in his hands.

It was a sickening thud, and the intruders could hear the cracking of bone. Su Ling cried out when she heard it, but nobody seemed to notice.

The animal slumped within the confines of the chute.

A second worker, to the side of the enclosure, pulled a lever, dropping the floor at a sharp angle, and opening the side of the enclosure. The sound it made was eerily reminiscent of the wooden report made by a falling trapdoor on a scaffold. The stunned animal quickly slid down the sharply angled wood and slumped to the concrete floor. The man went to his knees, wrapping a blood-stained chain around the steer’s hindquarters.

The worker was a man in his mid-forties, tall and barrel-chested, a large and full mustache adorning his sweaty face. When the old stranger, still clutching Anna’s hand, saw that face, he started and made a little sound in his throat, the first sound they had heard him make. Oblivious to the pervasive violence before them, he stared fixedly into the eyes of this man.

The worker rose to his feet, placing his hands on another chain hanging from above. He pulled hard on it, ratcheting it up a pulley, link by link. The steer began to rise, hindquarters first, high into the cavernous room. The man then dragged the body along a conveyer system somewhere above, pulling it to the side of the room where his workmate waited, glistening knife clutched and ready.

When the steer reached him, the animal—its legs still twitching—was suspended over a large steel-grated drain and lowered to within a few feet of the floor. The third worker raised the animal’s head and deftly sliced its throat with one powerful stroke of the blade.

Blood gushed from the steer’s throat into the drain in a steamy cascade, some of it escaping onto the floor, spattering the worker’s already stained overalls.

When it was finally drained, the carcass was moved efficiently along the conveyor into an adjacent room, where the butchery would take place.

In the chute, the next victim was already prepared for its execution.

“Oh my God,” Su Ling whispered, pressing her face into Cantrell’s chest, as the knife did its deadly work. Cantrell, feeling the bile rise in his throat, held her tightly, looking down at the blood-washed floor.

Anna remained motionless, her eyes open in what might have been shock. But she did not blink nor look away. She stood there, unflinching, holding the hand of the old stranger, facing the horror before them, refusing to retreat in the face of fear.

The routine mechanism of death went on. Another steer was shoved into the enclosure, the chute door closed behind it. The first worker raised his sledge, but hesitated. Looking to his left, he smiled, shouting to the second worker: “Hey Garth! Look who brought you lunch!”

The second worker peered around the enclosure and smiled as his son entered the room through a side door.

The young boy, sandy-haired, dressed in denim overalls, plaid shirt and canvas sneakers, entered the killing floor, standing well to the side, aware that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He smiled as his striking blue eyes regarded his father across the room.

“Thanks, Rupert!” the man shouted. “I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay, daddy,” he said, nodding his head.

The first worker finished what he’d started—the sledgehammer landing its blow. He brought it down hard, like he’d done thousands of times before.

Rupert’s father went into action, yanking the lever that simultaneously opened the side of the enclosure and tilted the floor inside. The animal slid out and lay twitching on the floor. The man began attaching the chains to its hind legs.

But the animal came to. The blow to its head had only stunned it. Blood streaming down its nose, it scrambled to its feet in anger and fear.

“Whoa there!” Rupert’s father cried, trying to calm the animal and warn his fellow workers.

The steer did not heed. It swung its head in a violent half-circle, its long horns whistling through the air. Rupert’s father was just able to jump clear of the deadly thrust, his back slamming against the brick wall behind.

In desperation, he pulled out his pistol—a safety requirement for situations like this—but was unable to take aim. The frenzied steer was quicker than he was, driving its right horn deep into the man’s chest.

He cried out in agony, but could not fall—he was impaled on the horn. The horrified cry of the boy, who was witnessing the whole scene, joined that of his father.

Oblivious to the report of another worker’s pistol, confused and panicked, the boy began to run, tears running down his face, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. He slipped on the bloody floor but caught his balance, and continued running.

Toward Anna. She didn’t move out of his way.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t!”

Somehow, the boy heard. Something in Anna’s voice, something in her presence, made him hear. And listen.

He stopped in his tracks, his eyes meeting those of the little girl who stood in his path. It was the first moment when anyone from the killing floor acknowledged the presence of the trespassers.

Behind the boy, the killing floor immediately froze in place, like a movie frame stuck in a projector. The once full color scene—the dead man impaled on the dying steer’s horn, the gun flying from his hand—now took on a brittle sepia tint.

Su Ling gasped in sudden comprehension: Anna’s puzzle… this was what she was seeing!

And then it began to crack, with spider web fractures, like delicate glass. In less than a heartbeat, the vision exploded into millions of tiny shards. Cantrell and Su Ling threw their hands across their faces, but felt no tiny projectiles strike them. When they opened their eyes, they saw nothing behind the boy but a flat, gray pall.

Unaware of the changes behind him, the boy took a few tentative steps towards Anna and stopped. A soft gleam enveloped his body in a gauzy haze. They could see his youthful face, his sandy hair, his faded overalls, but all in soft focus.

Anna held out her hand to the apparition and smiled.

“Rupert,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”

A wisp of a smile appeared on the boy’s face, as if the sound of Anna’s voice comforted him—as if he hadn’t truly heard his name spoken by a human voice in a very, very long time.

His arm slowly extended, he accepted Anna’s hand and placed his in hers. Su Ling watched as her daughter’s hand enveloped what appeared to be an insubstantial shape, but the girl had no reaction to show that anything was out of the ordinary.

Anna led the boy further on, toward the old man who still stood, confused and frightened, by her side. As the boy neared, the old man began to shake. His eyes grew large, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Cantrell was the first to see it. The eyes of the boy and the old man were identical—sharp and intensely blue, with a shape that was unmistakably the same.

The old man began to back away, the boy’s face reflecting a similar fear.

“It’s okay, Rupert,” Anna said, smiling at each in turn.

She brought them closer together.

“Don’t be afraid.”

At last, they allowed their hands to touch, their blue eyes to make contact.

Recognition flooded their features; not that of two people long parted, but of a self divorced from self.

A mutual self.

It was a coming together, after an eternity of separation—a powerful déjà vu, but grounded in reality. A body and a soul—forced apart by fear—reunited by a little girl’s love.

The boy’s shimmering slowed, then stopped. The confused and lost expression on the old man’s face was replaced by serenity and awareness, and something that looked like joy.

They melded together, the larger, corporeal body of the old man absorbing the smaller, ethereal, form of the boy.

Su Ling began to weep when she saw the two of them become one, finally understanding what was unfolding.

Cantrell held her tightly in his arms, trembling as he shared her understanding.

Anna’s smile grew wider. She’d done what needed to be done, and it felt good.

Behind them, unnoticed at first, the gray pall began to lift. In its place reappeared the familiar environment of the Exeter’s conference room.

The joining now completed, the old man—and the spirit that the young boy had returned to him—took one deep breath. The wide smile on his face mirrored that of Anna.

He collapsed on the carpeted floor, holding out his hand for the girl to take. Anna took it, looking directly into his blue eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Anna leaned over and kissed him gently on his wrinkled forehead as he died.

EPILOGUE

The plain wooden casket of Rupert Gustafson slowly descended into the cold ground.

Beneath the bare trees and blue sky of a cold sunny day, five mourners stood at the graveside: Cantrell, Su Ling, Anna, Detective Maudlin and the clergyman who’d been hired to speak a few final words.

The minister had spoken of the peace that for so long had eluded the deceased, and which he finally achieved in the last moments of his life. “For that, Rupert can count himself fortunate,” he intoned. He closed with a few psalms, including one that dealt with facing the valley of the shadow of death without fear.

The minister left after the last benediction, shook the hands of those present, and walked back to his car.

Anna stood at the edge and lovingly tossed a single white rose into the open grave. She smiled, blew a farewell kiss and returned to her mother’s side. Together, the group began a slow stroll away from the grave.

The child, tempted perhaps by the sunshine and plentiful open space around her, felt playful and exuberant. Spotting a lonely patch of snow that had yet to melt, she plopped down on her back and waved her arms, forming a perfect snow angel.

Despite the somber surroundings of the cemetery, her mother could not suppress a giggle. She followed as Anna skipped along through the tombstones, darting here and there, laughing gleefully.

“Remarkable talent for recovery, wouldn’t you say?” Maudlin asked Cantrell as they walked along the stone path. “God, to be a kid again.”

“She’s happy, thank heaven,” Cantrell said. “She knows she did the right thing. The preacher was right. Rupert found peace, and it was all Anna’s doing.”

“Is she back to normal?”

Cantrell chuckled. “Oh yeah, to put it mildly. It’s amazing what a chatterbox she’s become. It’s like she’s making up for lost time.”

“That’s good.”

From a distance, the two men watched Anna’s playful running and Su Ling’s attempt to keep up with her.

“I began to check up on the history of the Exeter shortly after the second incident, after the whole Stuart Brown thing,” Maudlin continued. “I kept it to myself because I don’t like being a laughingstock, and I wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with this case. Now I’m convinced that it has everything to do with it.”

“What did you find?”

“In 1940, one of the employees of the old Exeter Packing Company was killed in the slaughterhouse. Impaled by a steer that had somehow gotten loose prior to slaughter. That in itself wasn’t terribly unusual. I found a number of fatal accidents there over the years. But what was unusual about this was that his son—a boy by the name of Rupert—happened to be on the killing floor and witnessed the whole thing.”

“My God,” Cantrell replied. “That’s exactly… ”

“That’s just what you saw in there, isn’t it?” Maudlin asked.

“Yes. Anna knew, somehow. It was in her drawings… ”

“Anyway, the kid was traumatized by what he’d seen, not surprisingly. He never recovered. He spent years, decades, institutionalized, pretty much a walking

vegetable. As far as anyone ever knew, he didn’t speak a single word in more than 70 years. Not until the other night, that is, according to what you’ve told me.”

Cantrell stopped and looked the old cop in the eye.

“I think they were the same person, Maudlin. The old man and the little boy were one and the same.”

“I believe the appropriate word is doppelganger,” Maudlin replied.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been doing some reading since things started going crazy at your place. Doppelganger is an old German expression, means roughly double-goer. They applied it to a certain kind of ghost—the ghost of one’s self. It was believed to be a premonition of death to see one’s own spirit. But in this case, Cantrell, I think it was something else.”

“A separation,” Cantrell offered.

“Yes. I can’t believe I’m really saying this, but nothing else makes sense. Somehow, after what happened in 1940, the little boy’s spirit and his body were ripped away from each other. The body went on to the care facilities; the spirit stayed in the Exeter, full of fear, no doubt confused.”

“And it was that spirit that caused all of these things to happen to people—these horrible things?”

“Not so much the spirit, Cantrell, but the fear. I think that’s what it was all about. The place must have been lousy with it.”

They stopped when they reached their cars, waiting for Su Ling and Anna to catch up.

“Did I tell you that I’m retiring next month?” Maudlin asked.

“No.”

“It’s time to hang up the badge, Cantrell. I’m old and I’m tired. Not too long ago, I believed that I’d seen just about everything one could see as a cop. I believed in blackand white, in pure logic and hard science. That all went out the door with your building. I don’t know what the hell to believe anymore.”

The old detective laughed.

“You’re a cop, Maudlin, and I’m an architect. We both come from the world of black and white. It wasn’t easy for me either. I didn’t believe any of it—didn’t want to. But in the end, I had no choice. There’s a point beyond which it’s illogical not to believe in what’s right before your eyes.”

Maudlin nodded. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not calling myself a believer. I’ve just become open to possibilities.”

Cantrell laughed. “Me too. Good luck on your retirement.”

“Thanks. And I hear good things are happening for you as well.”

“Word travels fast. Yeah, I just picked up a good contract. The owner of one of the old warehouses near the Exeter hired me to draw up renovation plans. It should keep me busy for a few months.”

“Good for you. What are you going to do with that old pile of a building you still own?”

“Keep it. Try to bring people back. I still believe that Derbytown is ready for a renaissance, and that the Exeter will be a big part of it. It’ll take a while, but they’ll come. They’ll forget.”

“I hope they do, Cantrell. You deserve it. And so does your family.”

The detective shook Cantrell’s hand and got into his car. He drove away without waiting for the others.

§

Anna sat silently in the back seat as they made their way home. She looked out the window as they left the cemetery and passed through downtown.

She gazed at the lines on the roadway, the buildings flashing by.

She thought of her father’s death, on a similar road, not far from here, and of how she’d called out to him, over and over, in vain. How terrified she was as she watched him die. How she cried and cried, and no sound came out. How she forgot how to talk.

She thought of moving into their pretty new home, meeting so many nice people, Dr. Sharon, and especially Alex.

And how, later, things changed.

How those awful things happened to all those others—the married couple, the old gruff man, the young man, Dr. Sharon, the man from television.

She wasn’t supposed to know about those things, but she’d heard people talking about them, in hushed tones, so that she wouldn’t hear.

She knew what happened to Alex, and to her mother. She saw them, in the big room at the front, when they were struggling for their lives.

She knew how afraid they were, and how helpless she felt.

And she knew things nobody else did.

The whispers of a young boy. He told her the stories; put pictures in her mind. He had pleaded for her help. He had made her feel his fear.

She remembered all of this.

And she understood. She knew why those people did what they did. She knew why they died and went crazy. She knew why that animal attacked.

She knew about the fear. She had felt it. She had faced it. She was facing it still.

The car pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the Exeter, and they walked together, silently, to the front door.

Su Ling turned to Anna, brushing the hair from her face.

“What’s wrong honey? Are you okay?”

For a moment, Anna hesitated at the threshold. She looked up at the towering building. its massive round clock that always reminded her of a face, and felt something—a blur of someone running, the barest hint of a smell, a soft sound that an animal might have made, the silence of a stopped clock.

The girl smiled. “I’m fine, Mommy,” she said, and walked inside.

Behind the Exeter, the winter sun set at last, sinking into the horizon in a final blaze of blood red light.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Emanuel Isler, who graduated from Loyola/Marymount University with a degree in film and television, is a former literary agent who sold his first screenplay to Columbia Pictures at the age of 21. He currently works in corporate communications and public relations and has written several screenplays.

Christopher Leppek, a US Navy veteran who studied writing at the University of Denver, has been a journalist for most of his life, working as a reporter and editor for the Intermountain Jewish News in Denver and freelancing for such newspapers as the New York Times and Rocky Mountain News. He is the author of the Sherlock Holmes pastiche novel The Surrogate Assassin, which received honors from Amazon.com.

Leppek/Isler have been writing horror fiction for more than 25 years. Their first short story, “The Eyes of Karma,” written on a whim, was published, which encouraged them to keep going. Another early short story, “The Master of Fear,” won honors in a ghost story contest sponsored by Oxford University Press and judged by Stephen King.

Their debut novel, Chaosicon, was published in hardcover in 2001 to positive reviews. Their more recent work has appeared in Dark Moon Digest and in Dark Moon’s Ghosts and Vampires anthologies.

The collaborators, who credit their visual writing style to old horror films by Universal, Hammer and Alfred Hitchcock, both reside with their families in Denver.

The authors’ website and blog is www.bloodontherainbow.com.

Copyright

DARK MOON BOOKS

an imprint of Stony Meadow Publishing

Largo, Florida

www.DarkMoonBooks.com

ABATTOIR

Copyright © Christopher Leppek and Emanuel Isler 2012

Cover art © Dark Moon Books 2012

All Rights Reserved

First edition published in May, 2012

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938243

ISBN-13: 978-0-9850290-7-4

Printed in the United States of America

The stories included in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Content

Christopher Leppek and Emanuel Isler
ABATTOIR

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The Exeter

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The Exeter

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EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Copyright