The Animal Hour

by Andrew Klavan

  He was a small man, much smaller than his brother Oliver. His strict diet kept him thin almost to the point of emaciation. Still, he was sinewy, muscular. His stomach rippled. His legs were strong. When he burst out of the bed, he went quickly, a blur of limbs and white skin. He tossed the sheet aside. Scooped his clothes up as he hit the floor. He pressed the pile of clothes to his chest, feeling the squish of his blood-soaked shirt against his flesh. He grabbed his sneakers in his other hand …

  He heard the lock turn over. He froze and gaped at the door. A frightened squeal squeezed through his teeth. “Eeeeee …”

  But it was only the first lock. The upper lock. There was still the latch below it. He had a few seconds left. Grimacing with fear, he started to lope across the room. He ran on tiptoe, barefoot, trying to make no noise. He heard the key click into that second lock, that last lock. He heard the men’s voices again.

  “… ready behind me,” one of them said. “Smooth and easy.”

  Oh God. Oh God, please, Zach thought as he ran. He felt the hard braid rug beneath his soles, then the gritty floor. Oh Jesus please please please.

  There was a closet against the far wall, the door only halfway closed. There was a poster on that door too. An ink drawing of swirling clouds and mythic mountains; unicorns in the mist, nymphs and centaurs. Eternity was the caption. Zach tore bareass for Eternity.

  Then the second lock turned. The front door opened. Zach slipped through the closet door, slipped inside.

  He pulled the closet door toward him as best he could. He stood there, still as stone. He was in among Tiffany’s clothes in the close, gray dark. Linen brushed against his nakedness. He could smell Tide detergent, and talcum powder, and the musk of Tiffany’s skin. He was huffing, his teeth gritted. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes were wet with tears.

  Oh please, Jesus, he prayed. Oh please, please, please.

  Just in front of his nose, the closet door was ajar. A line of light fell through it across his eyes. Zach wanted desperately to reach out and shut the door, but he didn’t dare. The policemen were already entering. He could hear their voices become louder, their words more clear.

  “Steady. It’s a railroad flat.” This was Mulligan, his high, mild tone.

  “Fire escape in the other room.”

  “Closet over there. Bathroom.”

  “Burke the closet, Brown the John. I’ll move through,” said Mulligan.

  Now Zach had moved. He could see them. Not Mulligan—he’d stepped too quickly into the other room—but the two others, Burke and Brown. Burke was a black man, broad and muscular in a plaid jacket, a sky blue shirt. Brown was white; round, mustachioed; he wore a green leisure suit. Each man was holding a small revolver in his right hand. Each had it pointed upright. Each held his hand steady, his left hand wrapped around his right wrist.

  They’ll kill me, Zach thought, clutching the blood-soaked clothes to his chest. They figure I did it, and they’ll shoot me. Oh Jesus, please. What could I do? I just wanted something good. I just wanted something good of my own for me and Tiff. Just give me a chance to convince them, Jesus. Please. To get out and convince them. I’ll do anything, I swear, I’ll tell everyone what I think about you, I’ll explain your words to everyone, just please …

  He watched as the two detectives moved to their places. They moved stealthily but swiftly, taking long quiet strides. Brown went to the bathroom across the room. He entered and was out of sight. Burke was at the closet door in a second.

  Please please please please please, thought Zachary. He clutched his fists around his clothes, around his sneakers. His whole body shook. He could barely keep his quick breath silent. He hated himself for this, for praying like this. It wasn’t like him at all. It wasn’t the sort of prayer he believed in. But he was so afraid. Jesus, he was so fucking scared. He clamped his mouth shut to keep his teeth from chattering.

  Burke threw open the closet door.

  The detective held his gun high, right beside his cheek. He reached into the closet with his left hand. He moved Tiffany’s dresses to one side and then the other. He pushed them back and looked down under them. Then he stepped away again.

  By that time, Brown had returned to the bathroom doorway. Burke looked at him and shook his head once. The white man answered softly, “Not here.”

  Zachary continued to cower. He was in the secret compartment now. He had managed to slip in there as Mulligan gave his orders. It was a small chamber at one end of the closet. He had built it himself: He was an excellent craftsman, a fine carpenter. The door was pivot hung and molded at the edges. It looked just like the closet wall when it was closed. Then, when you put your shoulder to it, it swung around at the middle like a secret door in an Abbott and Costello movie. You could slip right into the compartment and the door would shut silently behind you.

  Inside, the compartment was dark and cramped, just big enough to stand up in. With the bundle of clothes in his arms, he had to stand very straight, his back against the wall. But he could jut his head forward and put his eye to the peephole—that’s how he watched the detectives moving.

  He had fitted the peephole with a wide-angled lens. He could see the bed through it and much of the room on either side. Out in the room, the peephole was hidden in yet another poster. A sketch of Adam and Eve on this one, and a little verse about how Eve was drawn from Adam’s rib in order to stand beside him, not below him or above. The peephole was hidden neatly in Eve’s left nipple.

  Now, as Zachary watched, Mulligan returned to the bedroom. He was a short guy, Zach saw. He did not look like a cop, not like a very tough cop anyway. He had a round baby face under receding curls of sandy hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and he blinked repeatedly behind the lenses. His pug features were impassive, like his high voice. He was wearing a khaki trench coat.

  “Well, he was here,” he said mildly. He stood with the other two cops beside the bed. It was a cheap double bed with a metal frame. Its sheets were all tousled. Its gray blanket was pyramided on the floor. Mulligan bent down and laid his palm on the bottom sheet. “He was just here.”

  Zach’s eyes fogged with tears. He licked his lips. They’re going to search the place. They’re going to find the red bag under the bed. Then it’s over. He would never be able to explain things now. If they found the red bag, he would never be able to convince them that he was not their man.

  “Are the windows open in the other room?” Burke asked.

  Mulligan nodded absently. “But Southerland would’ve seen him if he used the fire escape. He was just here, and he left through the door before we came.”

  Please Jesus please, Zach thought. He leaned closer to the peephole, almost lifting onto his toes. He really did feel like crying: It was half terror and half frustration. How could he have let this happen? How could he have done this to himself? He had had a perfect plan. A perfect way to present the evidence to the police so they would believe it, so it would convince them. How could he let it all go wrong like this? For God’s sake—how could he have overslept?

  “Maybe he went to breakfast,” Brown said. And now, as Zach watched, as he prayed, the little round white man was kneeling down painfully. He was bowing his head down so he could look under the bed.

  He’s going to find it. He’s going to find the red bag. Zach’s mouth contorted. One tear ran down his cheek. He blinked it away so he could see out the peephole. With the blackness so close around him, his whole being was concentrated on the other room, on what he saw.

  “Maybe he went to work,” said Burke. “I mean, he may not even be the guy.”

  That’s right! That’s right! thought Zachary desperately. I may not even be the guy, for Christ’s sake.

  He saw Brown straighten. He heard him groan. Brown looked at Mulligan. Mulligan, blinking mildly, turned his head to survey the room.

  “Some kind of red overnight bag under there,” Brown said. “We oughta toss this whole place.”

  Mulligan nodded again, as if
he hadn’t heard. “He might’ve gone for a bagel. That’s true. Southerland can watch half an hour, rope him if he comes back. Burke can go to the magazine, ask around there. That way we don’t scare him away. And half an hour, forty-five minutes, we can come back with a warrant too. That way we’ll be legal guys. Happy legal guys for all to see.” He said this tonelessly, softly, as if to himself.

  “Listen …” Burke, the big black man, tugged his own earlobe. “Listen, the feds are gonna go nuts. They’re going nuts now. Aren’t we gonna bring ’em in at all here?”

  Detective Mulligan just kept nodding, kept looking around. Then he said: “Fuck the fucking feds.” Only he said it very mildly. It sounded strange coming out of his blinking, baby face.

  With one last nod, he started walking to the door. The other two exchanged a glance and followed him.

  Zachary stood amazed. They were leaving! Just leaving! Yes! he thought. His whole body was taut and eager as he leaned toward the keyhole, as he watched them go. Detective Mulligan paused at the door, his hand on the knob. Zach peered at him, protected by the dark; feeling well hidden now and powerful—and a little guilty, too, about that sense of secret power. Staring out at Mulligan like that, he thought the detective looked like a pretty decent guy actually. A sweet guy. Zach would have liked to come out and talk to him directly. Explain things to him, person to person.

  But he didn’t; he didn’t move. He stood still, his head jutting forward, his bloody clothes smearing his chest. He held his breath as Mulligan took one last look around. Then the detective pulled the door open. Zach watched as he went out, as the others followed after.

  The door shut. Zach started to breathe again. He pulled away from the peephole. Leaned his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes and let all the breath come out of him. For a second, he felt his innards unclutch themselves. Relief washed over him.

  But it was only for a second. Then he was thinking: They’ll be coming back. Half an hour, they’d said. They would search the place and then they’d be sure to find him. He shook his head. He opened his eyes and gazed up at the dim ceiling. Jesus God, he thought. Jesus God. Overslept. The perfect plan, the one way out, and he had overslept. He had blown everything. Now he was trapped. The cops were after him. There was a guard on the street outside so he couldn’t escape. And once they had him in custody, once they had the red bag … it was over. There would be no way they would ever believe that he was not the guilty guy.

  Christ, Christ, Christ, he thought. He hadn’t even meant to lie down. He remembered everything now. He had come home and stripped off his bloody clothes. He had just been about to clean up. He hadn’t even meant to lie down, and then …

  The drug. Yes. He remembered that too. He had injected the drug again. That’s what had overcome him in the end. He had injected Aquarius. Even though he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t. Even though he had promised Ollie; and Nana. Even though he had promised God.

  Sorry, he thought up at the ceiling. Sorry, sorry. He had never broken a promise to God before. Never once. It was a pretty shitty feeling. Like he’d swallowed a rat and it was trying to gnaw its way out of him. The Giant Rat of Remorse. Sorry. Sorry.

  For one more moment, he stayed where he was, the wet clothes in his arms, his head tilted back. For one more moment, he appealed to the ceiling with his eyes. Please, Jesus. Please.

  It was not that terrible a sin, after all. It was not like cutting down the rain forests or spilling oil all over the ocean or anything. He had tried to stay off the stuff. He had stayed off it for a long time. Surely God would not let him get arrested now. God would not let the police believe that he was guilty for what had happened in the mews.

  No. With a breath of resolution, he straightened up. There had to be a way out. God closes a door, but opens a window. Somehow, Zach had to push on. Even with the guard on the street, even with the search party on the way. Somehow, he had to continue with the original plan. Get cleaned up, get rid of the bloody clothes, get the red bag … and get the hell over to the only person who could save him. The one person on earth who had always saved him before.

  He smiled a little at that, a goofy, lopsided smile. In a way, it was just like the old days, wasn’t it. It was just like after Mom died, after Dad deserted them and went to California. In those days, there was no one in the world who could help or comfort him—no one, except for his older brother. And now it was the same.

  Now again—somehow—he had to get to Ollie.

  The day exploded. The revolver bucked in Nancy’s hand. Startled pigeons fluttered up from the park path, up from the squares of grass and out of the trees’ branches. They rose in a gray mass and tacked off in a body to soar toward the dome of the Hall.

  Nancy stood immobile. Her mouth was open. The pistol’s handgrip was hot against her palm. Uh-oh, she thought. The explosion seemed to go on and on forever.

  She stared horrified at the beggar. He stared back, amazed. His slack jowls wobbled. His strings of gray-yellow hair trembled on his brow. She expected him to fall in the next second. To clutch his stomach and drop to his knees on the path. But he just stood there. He just stared at her.

  “Jesus, lady,” he burst out finally. “All I wanted was a quarter.”

  Nancy looked down, at the pistol: a squat black monster in her small white hand. The muzzle was pointed off in some wild way, up into the trees. She glanced up there and saw a squirrel crouched in terror on the stout branch of a sycamore. She had missed—missed the beggar at point-blank range. She lowered her eyes to him again with a green, sickly feeling …

  And she saw the police coming after her.

  The two patrolmen who had been chatting together in front of City Hall had leapt into action. They’d jumped the park railing and were jogging across the grass toward her. Their hands were at their holsters, gripping the handles of their guns.

  Instinctively, she swung around, looking for a way to escape. Two more cops had entered the park from the far end. A man and a woman. They were running toward her on the paths, one on each side of the grass. The fountain sent a silver plume into the air between them.

  Nancy swallowed hard. She turned north to the cops from the Hall, south to the cops from the street, then north again as all four cops closed in on her. She started to prepare her explanation in her mind: It’s all right officers I’m Nancy Kincaid even though everyone says I’m not and I couldn’t remember where I went to elementary school so when all these beggars started staring at me I took out this pistol which just appeared out of nowhere in my purse and I …

  “I better get out of here,” she whispered aloud.

  “Crazy bitch,” the beggar muttered.

  Wildly, she turned her back on him. She took a big step up onto one of the green benches.

  “Hey, lady, hold it!”

  “Hold it right there!”

  “Stop! Police!”

  “Drop the gun, drop the gun!”

  The cops’ shouts were small under the thrum of the city. But she heard them. They were already close.

  “Don’t move, lady!”

  “Police! Freeze!”

  She jumped. Leapt over the back of the bench. Down over the metal railing onto the grass. Her flats sank into the soft earth and she stumbled. Then she was steady—running—across the littered grass—her purse over her shoulder—her pistol in her hand.

  “Stop!”

  “Freeze!”

  “Oh my God!” a woman shouted somewhere. “Watch out! She’s got a gun!”

  There were other screams all around her:

  “Jesus!”

  “Watch out!”

  Nancy ran. The peaceful trees shook their leaves above her, their yellow leaves against the so-blue sky. The Hall stood behind them, stately, shaded, to her left. To her right, the traffic groaned and whooshed along. This isn’t happening, she thought. This isn’t real. She ran clumsily, her bare knees breaking from her trench coat. If this were really happening, it would be seriously bad �
�� Her hoarse breath filled her head. And her fear—she couldn’t believe the fear. She couldn’t believe she was still moving with so much fear inside her. It was like a vast dark that had yawned in her belly, that would suck her in. Her tam blew off and fell behind her.

  “Lady! Lady! Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot! Police!”

  Another railing loomed ahead. She grabbed the top bar, vaulted over. She was on a path again. She was past City Hall. If she cut to her left, she could duck through the parking lot, duck around the building. She skidded to a stop. Cast a look back over her shoulder.

  And, good God, there they came. Four uniforms, four silver badges. Closer now. Two on the grass, climbing over railings, crushing soda cups under heavy black shoes as they thudded toward her. One on the path, one through the parking lot; churning like engines. Pedestrians dodged them, crouched down in terror, swiveled to spot her. Pointed. Screamed.

  Me? she thought. It was a high, thin note in her mind, crazy fear. The police after me? The cutest little thing? The neighborhood ladies used to call her that when she was little. It came back to her now. And how Daddy used to catch her up in his arms. Hoist her into the air, her legs kicking. “How’s my little button?” She stared at the onrushing coppers. They’re going to gun down Daddy’s little button?

  There was no doubt about it. Those four stolid faces, their frightened eyes. Each clawed the air with one hand to keep balance. The other hand was at the holster, elbow pistoning. Guns the size of bazookas were circling up into the air. Pointing toward her.

  And when she stopped, when she turned to see, one cop braked on his heels. Leveled his .38 right at her, gripping it in both hands.

  “Drop it, sister! Drop the rod!”

  She bolted. Dashed behind a tree. Broke out, running for the edge of City Hall. With every step, she expected to hear the gunshot. To feel the bullet hit her temple like a mallet blow, knocking her down. I’m not doing this. This isn’t happening. She was into the lot, around the building. Pressing her purse to her side with her elbow, waving her gun, gasping for air.