And then there was the baby thing.
Paul had not brought up the subject in a long time, but he’d hoped he and Charlotte would one day have a child. Had he stayed with Hailey, he was sure Josh would have ended up with a baby brother or sister. Hailey had as much as said she and Walter were trying. But Charlotte had not warmed to the idea of becoming a mother herself.
Well, fuck all that.
This was a new day, Paul told himself. This was the day when he took control. This was the day when he stood up to the demons. This was the day when he would start rebuilding himself and his marriage.
He was going to tackle this Hoffman thing. He was going to write something. He was going to write something beyond the notes he’d already made. He was going to write something good. He didn’t yet know what shape it would take. Maybe it would be a memoir. Maybe a novel. Maybe he’d turn his experience into a magazine piece.
It had everything.
Sex. Murder. Mystery.
Coming back from the brink of death.
The fucking thing would write itself, once he decided which direction to take it in. This was the key to putting his life and marriage back together. He wasn’t doing this just for himself. He was doing it for Charlotte. He wanted her to see that he could be strong, that he could get his life back.
Enough of this sad-sack bullshit.
Maybe he could even be the man she’d want to have a child with.
But hey, let’s take things one step at a time.
Paul reflected on how he’d come across these last few months. Christ, even Bill seemed worried he might kill himself. Yes, he’d been depressed. He’d been traumatized not just by the event itself—the nightmares, the anxiety—but also by physical manifestations. Headaches, memory lapses, insomnia. Who wouldn’t be depressed?
But suicidal?
Had he come across as that desperate? Maybe.
“See how you are when you’ve got Kenneth Hoffman visiting your sleep every night,” he said to himself.
Shit.
Of course.
The typing he’d thought he’d heard was clearly part of a Hoffman nightmare. Paul must have been dreaming about those two women typing out their apologies. Charlotte’s gift of that antique Underwood had triggered a Hoffman dream that zeroed in on that aspect of his crime.
That was the chit chit chit he’d heard in the night. Jill Foster and Catherine Lamb tapping away.
Paul got out his phone. Josh was very likely at the game now, so Paul wasn’t going to call him. But Josh might see a text.
Paul quickly wrote one.
Hey pal. Luv you. Sorry about this morning. Ur Dad was a jerk. Hope u r having fun at the game.
He sent it. Paul stared at the phone for a long time, waiting for the dancing dots to indicate his son was writing him a reply.
When none came after three minutes, Paul put his phone back into his pocket.
Thirteen
So, Gavin, how did you spend your weekend?” Dr. Anna White asked as the two of them settled into their respective chairs in her office.
Gavin appeared thoughtful. “Reflecting.”
Anna’s eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. “Reflecting?”
He nodded. “About the hurt I’ve caused, and if there’s any way I can make amends.”
“Amends.”
“Yes. Do you think it would be possible to arrange a meeting with the people I’ve wronged so that I might apologize?”
Anna eyed him warily. “I don’t know that a face-to-face would be the way to go. I think it could end up badly for all concerned.”
Gavin, innocently, asked, “How so?”
“I think the woman whose cat you hid would be too fearful, and that father you called . . .” At this point she shook her head. “I hate to think what he might try to do to you if you were in the same room.”
“You might be right,” he said. “Maybe I should write something instead.”
“We’ll get to that. But besides reflecting, what else did you do with your weekend?”
“Not much,” he said. “Well, I worked Saturday. I usually work evenings at Computer World, but they’re not open Saturday night, so I did a day shift.”
“Did you work Friday night?”
Gavin nodded. “I did.”
“What time did your shift end?”
“Nine,” he said slowly. “Why are you asking me?”
Anna hesitated. “A troubling thing happened to someone on Friday night.”
“Someone? You mean, someone you know?”
Anna slowly nodded.
“Another one of your patients?” he asked.
Anna studied him for several seconds, weighing how to proceed. She ignored his last question and continued. “Someone did a very sick, very cruel thing to her.”
“This person you know who might be a patient,” Gavin said.
“Her dog was recently run over by a car. Someone snuck into her house and hung a dead Yorkshire terrier in her bedroom. According to the tag, the dog had belonged to a family in Devon. They were making up the missing posters when the police notified them.”
Gavin sat back in his chair and put a hand over his mouth. “Wow. That’s pretty sick.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “It is.”
“So, you’re telling me this why?” he asked.
Anna hesitated. “The other day, when I came in here, you were standing over there. Behind my desk.”
Gavin looked at her blankly, then shrugged. “Uh, I guess.”
“What were you doing over there?”
Gavin glanced over to that part of the room. “Just looking at the books.”
“You’re interested in psychology texts?”
Another shrug. “You don’t know what a book actually is until you look at it.” He grinned. “You could use a few more graphic novels.”
“When you were over there, Gavin, did you look at my computer?”
“Huh?”
“My laptop. Were you looking at my laptop?”
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Holy shit. Let me guess. This lady with the dead dog hanging on her door, she is a patient, and you think I was fucking with her head?”
“I didn’t say the dog was hanging from her door.”
Gavin blinked. “Yes, you did. That’s exactly what you said. Jesus Christ, you’re actually accusing me of this.”
Anna hesitated. “I haven’t accused you of anything, Gavin.”
“Of course you are. What did I do this weekend? Where was I Friday night? This is unbelievable. I come here for help. I come here, trusting you to help me deal with a personal crisis, and what happens?” He shook his head. “This is fucking unbelievable. So I guess every time something bad happens to anyone in Milford, I’m immediately the number one suspect. Was there a hit-and-run this weekend? A bank robbery? Did someone steal a candy bar from the 7-Eleven? Do you think I had anything to do with those things, too?”
Anna had begun to look slightly less sure of herself. “You have to admit, Gavin, that what happened to that woman is not unlike the stunt you pulled, the one that landed you here.”
“I swear, I don’t even know who that woman is. What’s her name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Yeah, well, if you think it’s me, you might as well, since I’d already know it, right? But I don’t. If I’m the prime suspect, why haven’t the police been to see me?”
Anna said nothing.
“So wait, not only are you accusing me of doing this horrible thing, but you think I’m snooping around in your computer? Checking out who comes to see you and what their problems are?” He shook his head and adopted a wounded expression. “Wow. So this is the kind of help and understanding I’m getting. I’m sure going to get better coming to see you a couple of times a week.”
“Gavin—”
He stood. “I can’t do this.”
“Gavin, killing an animal is a sign of a more serious issue than any we’ve dealt with so fa
r. You need to understand that—”
“Understand what?” he shouted. He jabbed a finger in her direction. “I should report you or something. There must be some kind of ethics commission or something for you people. They need to know!” He stood.
“Gavin, sit down!”
“No, I think I’ve had just about—”
The door suddenly swung open. Paul Davis stood there, looked quickly at Gavin, then at Anna.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I heard—are you okay, Dr. White?”
She got out of her chair. “We’re fine here, Paul.”
“I heard shouting and—”
“Whatever your fucking problem is,” Gavin said to Paul, “don’t expect her to help you.”
Paul gave Gavin a long look. “You need to calm down, buddy.”
“Buddy?” Gavin said. “Are we buddies?” He regarded Paul curiously, as if wondering whether they had met before. “You’re Paul? Did I hear that right?”
Slowly, Paul said, “Yeah.”
“Well, Paul, good luck.”
He started for the door so quickly that Paul didn’t have time to step out of his way. Gavin put his hands on the front of his jacket to toss him to one side, knocking Paul’s head into the jamb.
“Shit!” Paul said, touching his head for half a second, but just as quickly pushing back. Gavin stumbled from the office to the small waiting room.
“Asshole,” Gavin said.
Now they were both pawing at each other, each trying to grab the other by a lapel so as to make it easier to land a punch with a free hand.
“Gavin, stop it!” Anna screamed.
They stopped, looked in unison at her. As each released his grip on the other, Gavin turned and ran for the door.
“Paul, I’m so sorry,” Anna said.
He brushed himself off, as though some of Gavin had somehow stayed with him. “I’m okay.”
“Your head,” she said. “Did you hit your head in the same spot?”
He touched it again. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine. What about you?”
“I’m okay,” she said, then frowned.
“What the fuck is his problem?” Paul asked, glancing at the door through which Gavin had departed. “What was his name? Gavin?”
“I think I just handled something very badly.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Mr. Hitchens is my problem, not yours. Do you still want to talk? I’ll understand if all this—”
“I’m okay, if you’re okay.”
“I just need a minute,” she said, taking her seat.
“You’re shaking,” Paul said. “We don’t have to do this.”
“No, no, we do. What just happened here, it’s still nothing compared to what you’ve been through.” She sat up straight, raised her chin, and said, “I’m ready.”
“You’re sure?”
A confident nod to assure him she was back on track. “So, tell me what’s happened since we last spoke.”
He filled her in on his online research and how it was having an empowering effect, although it hadn’t stopped the nightmares. He told her that Charlotte’s gift of an antique typewriter had triggered a bizarre dream that seemed so real, he ended up blaming his son for something he clearly had not done.
“I texted him an apology. It took him the better part of a day to reply.” He paused, reflecting. “Do I seem borderline suicidal to you?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“It was something a friend said. He seemed worried I might do something stupid.”
“I would say no,” Anna said. “But you’d tell me if your thoughts were trending in that direction?”
“Of course.” He also told her about not remembering his drive home one day, forgetting about texts he’d sent, other memory lapses.
“When do you see the neurologist again?”
“Couple of weeks.” Another pause. Then, “Do you know anything about visiting someone in prison?”
“Not much.”
Paul nodded. “From what I read on the state website, the inmate needs to put you on a list. Unless you’re, you know, a police detective or a lawyer or something.”
“You still want to see Kenneth Hoffman.”
Paul bit his lip. “I think so. I know closure is a huge cliché, but a sit-down with him might provide some. You always hear it on the news. How the family of a murder victim gets closure on the day the accused is convicted.”
“I’d say that’s something of a myth,” Anna said. “But I won’t stop you from looking into a visit. In the meantime, you can think about what you’d want to say to him. What you’d want to ask him.”
“I’d like to know if he’s sorry.”
Anna smiled wryly. “Would it make a difference?”
Paul shrugged. “If I can get in to see him, I don’t want to go alone.”
Anna nodded. “You’d want to take Charlotte.”
“No. I’d want you to come.”
Anna’s eyebrows went up. “Oh.”
“I don’t know if I could come back here and give you an accurate account of what happened. Having you there to observe could be helpful.”
Anna appeared to be considering it. “I don’t normally do house calls.”
Paul grinned. “You mean, Big House calls.”
_________________
WHEN PAUL WENT OUT TO HIS CAR, HE COULD NOT FIND HIS KEYS. Anna said if she found them, she’d let him know. He called Charlotte, who picked him up at Anna’s, drove him home, and unlocked the door. Once he had his spare keys, Charlotte drove him back to Anna’s so he could retrieve his Subaru.
That night, over dinner, he told Charlotte about what had happened at Anna’s before his session had started.
“Some people,” he observed, “are even more fucked-up than I am.”
They killed off a bottle of chardonnay while watching a movie. At least, part of one. Halfway through, Charlotte ran her hand up the inside of Paul’s thigh and said, “Is this movie boring or what?”
“It is now,” he said.
When they turned the lights out shortly after eleven, Paul thought, Things are getting better.
_________________
AND THEN, AT SIX MINUTES PAST THREE, IT HAPPENED AGAIN.
Chit chit. Chit chit chit. Chit. Chit chit.
Fourteen
Before the sounds of the Underwood reached him, Paul had been dreaming.
In the dream, he has a stomachache. He’s on the bed, writhing, clutching his belly. It feels as though something is moving around in there. Something alive. It’s like that Alien movie, where the creature bursts out of John Hurt’s chest as the crew of the Nostromo eat lunch.
Paul pulls up his shirt, looks down. There’s something in there, all right. There’s something poking up from under the skin. And then, as if a zipper ran from his ribs down past his navel, he opens up. But there’s no blood, no guts spilling all over the place. His belly opens up like a doctor’s bag.
Paul looks at the gaping hole in his body and waits.
What come up first are fingers. Dirty fingers with chipped nails. Two hands grasp the edges of his stomach. Something— someone—is pulling itself out.
Holy shit, I’m having a baby, Paul thinks.
Now there’s the top of a person’s head. It’s Kenneth Hoffman. Once his head clears Paul’s stomach, he looks at Paul and grins. He’s saying something, but Paul can’t make out what it is.
It turns out he’s not saying actual words. He’s making a sound. The same sound, over and over again.
Chit chit chit. Chit chit.
Paul reaches down, puts his hands over Kenneth’s face. He doesn’t know whether to push Kenneth back inside himself, or try to drag out the rest of him. He feels Kenneth nibbling at his fingers.
Chit chit chit. Chit chit.
Paul opened his eyes. He was breathing in short, rapid gasps. He touched his hand to his chest and found it wet. He’d broken out in a cold sweat. He craned
his neck around to look at the clock radio glaring dimly at him from the bedside table.
3:06 A.M.
He didn’t want to close his eyes and return to that nightmare. Slowly, so as not to disturb Charlotte next to him, he swung his legs out of the bed and onto the floor.
He decided to take a leak.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked at Charlotte. She was sleeping with her back to him, head on the pillow, hand slipped beneath it. He could just barely make out her body slowly rising and falling with each breath.
Dressed only in a pair of boxers, he padded silently across the floor to the bathroom and closed the door. The plug-in night-light glowed dimly.
He lifted the toilet seat, drained his bladder, cringed as he flushed, hoping the noise wouldn’t be too disruptive. He rinsed his hands at the sink and dried them, waiting for the toilet tank to refill before opening the door.
The tank refilled, and silence again descended.
As his fingers touched the doorknob, he heard it.
Chit chit. Chit chit chit.
He held his breath.
I am not dreaming. I am awake. I am absolutely, positively, awake.
It was the same sound from the other night. A typing sound.
He waited for it to recur, but there was nothing. Slowly, he turned the knob, opened the door, and took a step out into the hallway. He froze, held his breath once again.
Still nothing.
All he could hear was the distant sound of the waves of Long Island Sound lolling into the beach, and Charlotte’s soft breathing. Could something else have made a noise that sounded like keys striking the cylinder? Something electrical? Water dripping somewhere in the house? Maybe—
Chit chit.
A small chill ran the length of Paul’s spine. He wanted to wake Charlotte. He wanted her to hear this, too. But waking her would also create a commotion. Whoever was fooling around with that typewriter—and clearly it was not Josh, who was miles away in Manhattan, but it had to be somebody—was going to stop once they heard talking on the floor above.
Paul wanted to catch whoever it was in the act.
No, wait. He should call the police.
Right. Great plan. Hello, officer? Could you send someone right over? Someone’s typing in my house.
A Noise Downstairs Page 8
