The Request

by David Bell

“Be careful. Okay? Just come over here, and we’ll deal with all of it. I know you’re not perfect. None of us are. I’m certainly not. And all of this is making me afraid. The police, the questions. The way they want to tear into everything about us.”

  I wanted to ask what she was talking about.

  “Ryan, we can just go somewhere else. Maybe we should, somewhere all of this can’t reach us.”

  “Why would you say that? What’s going on?”

  “I’m just trying to help. Forget I said that.”

  But Blake’s call kept insisting on being answered.

  “I’ll be there soon,” I said. “Tell the police.”

  I switched over to Blake’s call, and at first, he said nothing.

  “Blake? Where the hell are you? Where’s my computer?”

  The sound of breathing and then something shuffling.

  “Ryan? I need you to listen to me.”

  “No, Blake, you need to listen to me. The cops have cleared Kyle. He had an alibi. It’s us they’re looking for. Me. They’re looking for me. Some guy saw me by Jennifer’s house. They think I know something. They might think I killed her.”

  “Ryan—”

  “The cops are waiting for me, and I’m going to go over there and tell them what I know. They’re probably testing hair fibers or fingerprints or something from Jennifer’s house. You need to go along too. I can pick you up. But we have to come clean. Bring that computer so we can show them the stuff from Jennifer’s phone—”

  “Ryan, listen. Listen.”

  He shouted the last word. The sound came through the phone like the slicing of a blade. It stung my ear, so I had to move the phone away and then back into place.

  “Are you listening to me?” I asked.

  “Ryan, I need you to do what I say. You need to listen very carefully because there isn’t much time. And I have to get this out.”

  “What are you talking about, Blake?”

  “Do you know that condo development out on Gap Springs Road? The one they started and never finished?”

  “Hilldale Estates? Yes, why?”

  “I need you to come out here. I’m already here. With your computer. You’ve got to get here too.”

  “Why? You’re crazy. We have to get to the police. Now. Or they’re going to lock us up and not let us out until Henry is a grandfather.”

  “No, we can’t. You have to come here. Ryan . . .” It sounded like someone took the phone or placed their hand over it. Muffled sounds. Maybe another voice? And then Blake was back. “Come out here, or people will get hurt.”

  “Who?”

  “Your family, Ryan. Amanda. Henry. Sam too. You’ve got to come out here.”

  “But—”

  Amanda? Henry? I thought of the man who had come to the door, trying to get in. Looking for Blake and me. It was terrible that the girl got killed.

  “I can’t tell you more, Ryan. But when you get here, it will all make sense. But you can’t tell the police where you’re going. Or Amanda. If you tell anyone, it won’t be good. If you tell anyone or call the police, Amanda and Henry could die. They really could. . . . I know you can’t go to the bathroom without sharing it on Twitter, but don’t tell anyone—”

  Then the call cut off. No farewell. Nothing else. Just the end of the call.

  “Blake? Blake?”

  And once again, I really worried that Blake was in way over his head. And couldn’t get out on his own.

  And I was in danger of being pulled down with him.

  Amanda and Henry were in danger of being hurt. If I didn’t go . . .

  I grabbed the bat and left the house.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Hilldale Estates sat on the far edge of Rossingville. A local developer—a man named Forsyth who had already made several fortunes creating subdivisions, strip malls, and office buildings—had decided that what the town really needed were luxury condominiums and townhomes on the outskirts of town, the kind of place that would be a neighborhood unto itself, complete with its own shops, restaurants, and even a bank.

  To say Mr. Forsyth overreached would be an understatement. People in Rossingville didn’t want to pay a lot of money for a luxury condo or townhome. They didn’t want to pay exorbitant condo fees. To make matters worse, Mrs. Forsyth decided she no longer wanted to tolerate her husband’s infidelities, and she filed for divorce, which left everything tied up in court. As a result, Hilldale Estates remained half-built and unoccupied, the buildings erected but unfinished inside.

  As far as why Blake wanted me to go there, I couldn’t guess except it was remote and quiet and unlikely to have anyone around to interrupt.

  While I drove across town, the rain continuing to spit against the windshield, my phone rang twice. Keeping one eye on the road, I managed to glance at the ID screen. I really didn’t need to. I knew who was calling.

  Amanda. Both times.

  She’d want to know where I was. She’d want to know if I was coming to talk to the police.

  And I desperately wanted to answer. I desperately wanted to turn around and go to her. The desire burned in my chest so much, it hurt. Like a burning firework.

  But I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to lie. I wanted to be done with Blake and have it all finished. He ran loose in the world, carrying my computer, and his knowledge of everything that had happened in the distant past as well as with Jennifer’s death. Wasn’t it time to escape from under the dark cloud all of these problems trailed with them, once and for all?

  I drove past the edge of town by a half mile. The strip malls, gas stations, and warehouses faded from view, and then I saw the entrance to Hilldale Estates. The sign remained in place, optimistically and against all odds informing everyone that units were for sale or lease. Inquire inside! But I had recently read on Twitter that the management office had sat empty for six months, the door locked tight with a giant padlock.

  I made a left turn, entering the complex, the bat I’d brought with me rolling on the seat and falling to the floor on the passenger side. The combination of rain and churned-up earth from construction meant the roads were muddy and littered with pebbles and sticks. There were no street signs, no guideposts of any kind, so I drove down the main thoroughfare past windows and doors that stared back like sightless eyes. Wherever Blake was, he must have seen me turn in, because my phone chimed with a text. I slowed, looking at the phone.

  Take that road to end. Right and then left.

  I did what he told me, my blood pressure rising. An absurd thought popped into my head—I wish I had a drink. To calm me. To anesthetize me. To give me courage.

  I made the first turn, my tires rumbling over some debris I couldn’t see. I wished to whatever controlled things that I wouldn’t get a flat and be left out in the middle of nowhere with no means of escape. But the car seemed fine. I looked from side to side at the unfinished buildings, monuments to somebody’s busted hopes and dreams. Would they ever be finished? Would anyone ever move in and nest there, making it their own?

  I made the next left, and at the end of the road, which dead-ended against a stand of trees, I spotted a car I didn’t recognize. As I approached, moving slowly, I saw it was about ten years old, with a dented bumper and a missing gas cap. I stopped behind it and looked around but saw no one. No sign of Blake. No sign of anyone else.

  On either side of the road were unfinished town houses, the yards muddy, the sidewalks and driveways just gravel. A window on the upper level of the town house to my right, on the side of the street I’d parked on, was broken, the result of a thrown rock or another projectile. The jagged edges of the glass looked strangely menacing in the midafternoon light. It seemed like a good idea to remain inside the car. If I stepped out onto the dirty road, I’d be exposed to anyone who might be watching, including Blake, and since I didn’t know what I was getting into,
it felt more secure to wait as long as possible.

  But, again, Blake read my mind. His next text came.

  Come inside one closest to you. Door unlocked.

  This was the last turning point.

  I could easily turn and go. The car was still running. All I needed to do was drop it in gear and swing around over the messy road, heading back out toward town. I could travel straight to Bill and Karen’s house, where I assumed Rountree still waited, and spill everything I knew. I’d face some nasty music, but I’d be safe. And so would my family.

  I wouldn’t be walking behind door number three, not knowing what waited for me.

  The phone dinged again.

  Coming? It’s time.

  It was. And I knew it.

  I just didn’t know exactly what it was time for. But I grabbed the bat, pushed open the car door, and started up the gravel sidewalk to the front door of the town house beneath the lowering gunmetal sky.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  I placed my hand on the knob and turned. And the door swung open and wide. I stood in the doorway for a moment, the bat in my left hand, resting against my leg.

  It wasn’t lost on me that all of this had started because I agreed to go inside a house I didn’t belong in the night before. I’d pushed open that door and gone down the wrong road. And there I was again.

  The living room was open and bare. Exposed wires trailed from sockets. Dust and debris littered the floor, and the sweet scent of freshly sawed lumber hung over everything. The cool air brushed over my body, bringing a shiver. My eyes scanned the room, seeing nothing, the bat resting against my shoulder. An open doorway at the back of the room led to the kitchen. I started that way, my shoes scraping over the dirty floor. The kitchen looked as unfinished as the living room. More so. The spaces for appliances were empty, the cabinets not installed. A balled-up paper bag sat in one corner of the room next to an empty Coke bottle, two cigarette butts, and a dead cricket with its legs pointed at the ceiling.

  I risked making noise.

  “Blake?”

  I listened, straining my ears. It was so quiet. No traffic sounds. No people. Only the random chirps of a bird or two. Had Blake led me there for . . . what? Nothing? A wild-goose chase? An elaborate, strange joke?

  “Blake?” I said, louder. My voice echoed through the empty space.

  I took a step toward the back door, planning on stepping out and seeing if he waited there. But then I heard my name. Faint and muffled.

  I listened again, turning my head toward a closed door that led off the kitchen.

  I barely heard what came next. “Down here.”

  I made out what he said. I went to the door and turned that knob, finding myself at the top of a staircase that led down to the basement. The steps were wood, unfinished. And the light from below was faint and weak. I’d assumed there was no electricity in the house, but something provided a measure of illumination in the basement. And I couldn’t hear a generator or another power source.

  I took a deep breath, gripped the bat tighter, and started down the stairs. They creaked beneath my weight.

  I took them slowly, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other. About halfway down, I paused.

  “Blake? Do you mind telling me what’s going on? Why are you out here?”

  “Just come on,” he said, his voice strained. “It’s the only way.”

  “For what?”

  Someone coughed. Or grunted? And I wasn’t sure if it was Blake or not. I didn’t bother asking if he was alone. I knew it was too late for those questions.

  So I went on, taking the remaining steps at an even slower pace. When I reached the bottom, I turned to the left, taking in the rest of the basement. I was ready to swing the bat if need be.

  About fifteen feet away, two droplights hung from the ceiling, providing a circle of illumination. Blake kneeled on the floor, looking even more disheveled than he had at our house. His hands were raised and clenched behind his neck, so he looked like a prisoner facing a firing squad. Behind him, a shadowy figure loomed, one I couldn’t make out in any detail at all.

  “Blake? What is this?” I asked.

  “It’s history,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s the past refusing to die.”

  I waited for the other person to step forward, to resolve into someone I could recognize. But they remained still and silent.

  “I’m calling the police,” I said, reaching for my phone with one hand while hanging on to the bat with the other.

  The figure behind Blake shifted and came forward. It reached up and angled one of the droplights so it shone on his face. A gaunt face, pale. With brown eyes that caught the light and seemed to glow with some combination of anger and manic energy.

  “Put the phone away, Ryan,” the man said. “And the bat.”

  My head cocked at the sound of my name. Had I heard him correctly?

  I kept quiet, watching him, studying him.

  But I shifted my weight, lifting the bat.

  “I don’t . . .”

  “You don’t know me, do you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. I . . .”

  He angled the light so more hit his face. And he smiled. I saw the missing tooth, the brown eyes. The short hair.

  This man had come to our back door and harassed Amanda.

  But it wasn’t just that. Something about his face scratched at my memory. I knew him. I’d seen him before. It had been years, but I knew him.

  “Come on, Ryan,” Blake said from his spot on the floor.

  “Yeah, come on, Ryan,” the man said. “The last time you saw me, I was driving toward my own doom. Surely you remember that night, don’t you?”

  It all came back, like a torrent of rushing water. Ferncroft. Sigil and Shield. The night Maggie and Emily Steiner collided with a drunk driver.

  The man grinned wider, the missing tooth a cavelike gaping hole.

  “Hello, Aaron,” I said. “Long time no see.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Aaron shifted his weight from one foot to the other. When he did, the gun in his free hand, black and sleek, caught the glow from the light above. Aaron pressed it against the side of Blake’s head, forcing him to slump ever so slightly as the force increased. Blake winced.

  “Easy, Aaron,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Nobody does.”

  “Oh, you don’t? All of a sudden you care about other people in a way you never did before.”

  “Aaron, look . . .”

  “Look?”

  He took a step back, moving into the darkness again and sweeping the gun back and forth from Blake kneeling on the floor to me. Aaron let go of the droplight, and the bulb swung free on its cord, casting all of us alternately in light and shadow, like some kind of carnival-fun-house effect.

  Aaron’s breathing increased. I could hear it bouncing off the walls in the empty concrete space.

  “Look,” he said again, but this time the word was a command instead of an expression of incredulity. “Look at me. People have been hurt. Badly. Very badly. And killed, even. And we’re going to settle all of that right now. I’ve finally got the two of you assholes in the same place, so we’re going to settle some things.”

  “Just listen to him, Ryan,” Blake said.

  “Shut up.” Aaron jerked the gun toward Blake and pressed it against the side of his head again. Blake cringed like a whipped dog. “Just shut up. And you. Drop the bat.”

  I did what he commanded. The bat clanged against the concrete floor, sending a ringing echo through the space.

  “Okay, I’m listening,” I said. “Say what you want to say. And to be honest, you can do whatever you want to do to me. Just leave my wife and son out of it.”

  Aaron’s face lit up when I said that
, like an obscene jack-o’-lantern. He looked happy, almost gleeful, and I immediately regretted mentioning Amanda and Henry.

  “Your wife and son,” he said. “Right. I met her. Nice girl. But she slammed the back door on me and wouldn’t let me in. Isn’t that typical? I couldn’t even set one foot into your house. It sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Like another group I wasn’t able to set foot in back in the day.”

  While he spoke, I studied his face and tried to reconcile the gaunt, slightly crazed man I saw before me with the memory of the younger man—almost a boy—I had known in college. The two images failed to line up, even though I clearly saw the shadow of that college student in the face of the person before me. It was him, without a doubt. But gone was any lightness, any of the almost joyful naivete that other Aaron had displayed when he first came around Sigil and Shield, hoping to gain admission. We kidded him then, compared him to Opie Taylor from The Andy Griffith Show, which we all used to gather around and watch on Nick at Nite. But none of that remained. His face was all hard lines and paleness, his eyes lit by a fire of rage and not a sense of wonder.

  “If you want to talk about all of that, we can,” I said. I held my hands out, placating, hoping for calm. “But if you just put the—”

  “Your wife is pretty,” Aaron said. “I didn’t see your son, but I know his name. Henry, right? I’ve seen about three million pictures of the kid on Facebook and Instagram. Most people try to keep their kids off of there, but not you. No, sir. That’s the most photographed and shared kid in the world. He could be a Kardashian.”

  “Aaron—”

  “I made a mistake, didn’t I?”

  He seemed to want me to answer, but I had no idea what he was talking about. “A mistake?”

  “At your house.”

  “You mean, you tried to break in?” I asked. It seemed like a much smaller transgression when compared to waving a gun around at us. But I was in no real position to argue with him.

  “I didn’t try to break in,” he said. “I’m not a thief.” He seemed genuinely offended by the implication. “I’ve never stolen anything. No, the mistake I made was leaving your house at all this morning. Because she saw me. And she can identify me. She can tell the cops I was there, and so they’ll know what I’ve been up to and anything I might have said.”