The Girl in the Attic

by Ed Gorman

  It was in the bandstand that he would find the money that always awaited him on the second day of the month.

  He heard the children in the darkness behind him, but he paid them no mind. He was long past the time when others could hurt him. Now all he thought of was hurting others—he thought of it as his Plan—though what form this would take, he was not sure.

  He crossed the park and passed between the statues of heroes, around the small duck pond, where the water was probably only a few degrees cooler than the steaming night itself, and finally came to the bandstand.

  He looked back to see if anybody was watching. He saw nobody.

  He went up the creaking wooden steps. Again he stopped, looked around, and listened: nothing.

  The money was where it always was. He lifted a board in the bandstand and down there found an envelope with four one-hundred-dollar bills. Always crisp ones. Always. One time a rat had been in there. It had bitten him. When it finished feasting on One Eye's hand, it wriggled to get away, but One Eye had other notions, the first of which was to lay it flat against the floor and choke it to death. Then One Eye took it home and carved it up into dozens of pieces. His next stop, late that same night, was at the Dew Drop Inn, where the cook always liked to let his famous chili simmer overnight. One Eye knew how to break in with a nail inserted and wriggled just so in the lock. He put the pieces of rat in the chili and left. Next noon he was there to watch everybody eat. One Eye had nothing more than a Cherry Coke with extra ice (it was a standing rule that he ordered extra ice).

  So he just watched them eat.

  Knowing something they didn't know.

  Enjoying himself . . .

  One Eye came down off the band platform and went over behind a big mulberry bush, and splashed piss all over the mulberry leaves. In the vague light of the streetlight, his piss shone. Behind him he could hear the kids giggling.

  With the money in his jacket, he knew where he would go tonight—where he always went when he had money.

  To see the whore. The one who would fuck for Mexicans and Taiwanese and African Americans.

  But who would shudder and wince every time she saw that she would have to fuck for One Eye.

  Watching how disgusted she got gave him almost as much pleasure as he'd had watching the people eating pieces of rat in their chili.

  4

  Since her father's death, Jamie'd had the sense that heaven would look very much like a dusk sky, one of those where the colors seemed to run all together—salmon pink and yellow and red, with fleecy gray clouds looming on the horizon line—and now as she sat by the hotel room window, an image of her father returned to her.

  She was perhaps six, and her father was getting out of his car, already running to grab her and lift her up and kiss her. But as he reached out for her, he tripped over some toys she'd left on the drive. She saw him—as if in slow motion—falling, falling . . . finally cracking his chin on the drive. His face filled with pain as, horrified, she watched, helpless . . .

  "Honey?"

  Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts, thankfully. She didn't like thinking about causing her father to trip and fall. There was no way she could apologize to him now . . .

  "Um?" Jamie said, turning around.

  "You getting a little down?"

  "I guess."

  "You miss your music, don't you?"

  And it was true; the second her mother said it, Jamie recognized it as true. She'd like to be home listening to her IPod: in her own room, taking calls from Phil or Bob. Or maybe (and she almost grinned thinking about it), calls from both of them.

  "I'm sorry about the car, hon."

  "I know. It's not your fault."

  Her mother looked around the room. "This place doesn't exactly lift your spirits, does it?"

  Jamie laughed. "Not unless it was a choice between this and a dungeon."

  The wallpaper was a dark brown; the wood trim was brown. The carpeting was brown; the bedspread was brown. There was a brown shade on the lamp so that even the light cast in the room was brown.

  Cheery.

  "Tell you what. Why don't I take the first shower; then you take the second one; and while you're in there, I'll see what we can do about some food, okay?"

  "Are you still thinking about him?"

  "Who?"

  But her mother's blush said she knew darn well whom.

  "The blond man downstairs at the desk."

  Her mother grinned. "You're not going to let me forget that, are you?"

  "You don't want to forget it, do you?"

  "I think I'll take that shower now," her mother said.

  A few minutes later, Jamie was alone, propped up against the back of the bed, reading a Jackie Collins novel her mother didn't know she had.

  Jackie Collins seemed to know more about Hollywood than even the people on "Entertainment Tonight." And considering the rate men and women (and men and men, and women and women) went to bed together, Jackie had to be just about the dirtiest writer Jamie had ever read, much to Jackie's credit.

  With the shower running, the sky a grave but lovely purple in the window, and the brown light getting more tolerable the longer it was on, the room began to feel comfortable to Jamie.

  That was why the knocking disturbed her so much.

  At first she thought it was someone at the door, so she started to get up and cross the room. But then she realized the knock was coming from someplace else. All this was particularly irritating, because Jackie had just managed to get two men and three women into bed, with another woman waiting in the closet.

  But the knocking put a quick end to Jamie's juicy reading.

  Now she stood in the center of the room, listening.

  The more attention she paid, the less the knock sounded like somebody trying to get in.

  It almost sounded like a code of some kind. There'd be two quick raps and then after a pause another one, then nothing for a long time.

  But who'd be signaling her, and for what reason?

  She went to the door, opened it, and went out into the hallway.

  Sometimes on cable there were old movies that showed how hotels used to be: real narrow hallways, not very well lighted, just like this one. When she looked left, she saw only the gloom leading to the staircase downstairs.

  When she looked right, she saw a door marked EXIT.

  She walked down the hall to check it out, listening all the time for any sign of the knocking.

  When she stood beneath the EXIT sign she saw that there were actually two doors. She tugged one open. It led to a fire escape. The mugginess of the night air invaded the hallway instantly.

  The other door would not open. She pulled hard as she could, but nothing happened. This was when you needed somebody like Phil around. He worked out with weights. He wanted to make the JV football team next year. He could probably get the door open with no problem.

  She leaned against the door, intent on any knocking sound.

  It came.

  Two quick knocks, and another knock moments later.

  The code.

  It was coming from upstairs, beyond the locked door. But from whom? And why?

  She waited for another knock, but none came. Then she shrugged and went back to the room, closed the door, and picked up the Jackie Collins novel. The pile of people were all ready to do it again.

  5

  Silver light from the early moon cast deep shadows in the attic.

  A jack-in-the-box sat watching over everything with a forced smile and dead eyes.

  A trunk lid lay open for someone to plunder its treasures of 1939 World's Fair plates, of Kate Smith 78-rpm records, of Daniel Boone raccoon caps.

  A dress form without arms or legs stood silhouetted against the silver-moon window.

  The humidity here matched-the temperature: 97.

  Nothing moved or stirred—it was too hot.

  In the corner, on a table decorous with a vase of red paper roses, stood an old fashioned sta
nd-up phone. It was not connected to anything and was useless except perhaps as an antique.

  The phone began ringing.

  In the shadows and memories and silver cobwebs of the old attic, the phone rang.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  It stopped.

  For minutes after, the ringing seemed to vibrate in the attic.

  Then there was silence.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1

  "I'm going to lock the door behind me, so you'll be all right," Sally Baines said as Jamie stepped into the shower. "Since there isn't a phone in the room, I'll have to go downstairs and see what I can find for food."

  "Burger and fries," Jamie called as she slipped out of her jeans and then her underpants.

  Sally laughed. "Still on your health-food kick, huh?"

  "Mom, I'm a teenager. I'm supposed to eat stuff that's bad for me."

  "That's right. I forgot. It's in the teenage contract, isn't it?"

  "See you," Jamie said, and stepping into the shower, pulled the brown curtain across. In moments water exploded from the shower nozzle.

  Sally glanced around the room, making sure there were no signs of anything untoward (she had an irrational fear of fire, having been caught in one as a little girl), then set off to see whether the hotel had anything resembling a kitchen.

  The hallway was ill-lit and smelled of stale cigar smoke and wine. As she passed various doors, she could hear TV sets murmuring in the gloom. How sad it was that people came to die in places such as these. Yet there was evidence that this was exactly that kind of hotel—the heavy coughing, the chrome walkers placed outside doors, the occasional aged sob that lay on the steamy air like a curse. She was glad when she got to the edge of the staircase.

  From up here it was easy to see that the hotel had once been a good one. A huge crystal chandelier hung from a wide double-doored entrance leading to a massive dining and dancing room. The registration desk was long and made of real mahogany, the way they were in luxury hotels. The lobby was spacious enough to accommodate a few hundred people. It was easy to imagine all this in its prime, with red-jacketed bellhops in shiny shoes catering to women in mink stoles and men in blue serge suits being led around by their dollar cigars. As she stood watching it now, the hotel had the air of some fabulous party that had been ended abruptly, perhaps even violently.

  "You look beautiful."

  The words startled her. When she looked down to the bottom of the wide, curving staircase, she saw him there.

  It was the blond man who'd checked them in.

  Already her temples had begun to throb and her stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. She felt girlish—and stupid.

  "Thank you," she said, flustered.

  "Why don't you come down and join me in some ice tea?"

  "That's just what I was looking for—something to drink and eat for my daughter and me. I was hoping you had a kitchen."

  A melancholy look that almost robbed his face of its aristocratic handsomeness came down like a mask. "I'm afraid the kitchen has been closed—for some time now." Then he smiled. "But Carlotta, the maid, just fixed a roast beef for sandwich meat today and left it in my refrigerator. Plus I've got plenty of rye bread and lettuce and tomatoes."

  She laughed. "You'd make a good salesman."

  A hint of the melancholy came back. "Actually, I'm afraid I wouldn't. At least, I haven't been very good at bringing much business back here."

  She glanced around again at the faded majesty. "Yes, I imagine this was quite beautiful in its heyday."

  "People came from as far away as the state capitol to stay here. We had weekend vacation packages that you had to book months in advance to guarantee a room. And we had some great entertainment—the big bands mostly—Si Zentner, Les Elgart. Gene Krupa even played here once."

  By now she had reached the bottom step. It seemed natural for him to extend his hand and help her down.

  She felt herself flush. "I—why don't I go get my daughter?"

  He smiled. "Why don't you let me show you around first?"

  "The hotel?"

  "Yes, I'll show you what it was like in the good times."

  "Well. . ." she said.

  Now it was his turn to flush. "I'm sorry. I guess I am pushing things."

  "That's all right."

  "It's just that I'm alone so much." He shook his head. "But it isn't just that. When I saw you this afternoon—I'm not sure how to put this—I knew I wanted to get to know you better."

  This time she didn't flush at all. They felt a mutual attraction to each other. She was an adult. Why bother with being coy? She didn't need to make any type of commitment, didn't need to jump in bed with him or pledge undying love. All she needed to do was accept his invitation to let him show her around.

  "Is your offer still good?"

  He smiled. "You bet."

  2

  Hanratty was in his room again. The radio was on. Jerry Vale, of course. Hanratty was, in some perverse way, starting to like the guy.

  The video camera was rolling and the telescope was aimed directly at the window just below the captain's walk.

  Nothing.

  He was in the darkness. In his underwear. The window air conditioner wasn't exactly efficient.

  He checked the luminous numbers on his watch face.

  Time to call his editor.

  All day he'd been planning this call, devising one scenario after another, then rejecting it.

  He found his pants and pulled them on. He got some change from the plate on his dresser and went down the hall.

  Downstairs, the woman who ran this place was playing her Dolly Parton album, the same album she played every night: Dolly Parton singing hymns.

  Shit.

  He got to the pay phone, dropped a quarter in, and waited for the operator to come on the line; then he gave her all the information she needed. And then he gave her the first round of quarters, sixteen frigging quarters. What he wouldn’t give to be able to afford a cell phone again. Maybe if this story panned out . . .

  Hanratty always called Garfield at night, in hopes that a few martinis and the relaxation of home would put the gray little man in a good mood. But the fact was that Garfield was never in a good mood. Or a bad one. He was bloodless as a goddamned accountant, the type of guy you almost never met in the newspaper business.

  Garfield answered the phone himself. When he recognized who was calling, he said, "I assume you're getting somewhere on the story."

  "Getting close."

  There was silence.

  "In other words," Garfield said, "you're not any closer than you were last time you called."

  "Stories take time, Mr. Garfield." He hated the pleading tone of his voice.

  "We've given you time. And money."

  "That's what I need to talk to you about, Mr. Garfield."

  "Money, of course."

  "Yes."

  "There'll be no more money."

  Now it was Hanratty's turn to pause. "Do you know how big this story will be when it breaks, Mr. Garfield?"

  For the first time in his life, Hanratty heard Garfield laugh. "Do you want to know something funny?"

  "What's that?"

  "I think you actually believe this stuff."

  "Of course I do."

  The laugh again. "My God! You are in bad shape."

  "I resent that, Mr. Garfield. Deeply."

  "Here I thought you understood what supermarket tabloids were all about."

  "I do understand. They're about getting stories."

  "Yes, that part you've got right. They are indeed about getting stories. But not necessarily true ones."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means simply that you've had plenty of time to file the story you've been working on."

  "But nothing's happened yet."

  "Then pretend something's happened, for God's sake!"

  "Pretend?"

  "Yes, pr
etend, the same thing all our other writers do."

  "But I thought I wasn't supposed to be like your other writers. I thought you were hiring me . . ."

  "'. . . to give my paper some prestige.' Those were my exact words, and there's no denying that. But what you don't seem to understand is that when I say 'David Hanratty, former CBS Evening News Reporter,' I'm saying all I need to. The yokels who buy our papers will say to themselves, 'Isn't that nice,' and then go on and read the story no matter who wrote it." He paused. "We've had enough credentials. Now we need a story."

  "You want me to make it up?"

  "I don't give a damn what you do—as long as it's here in 72 hours and as long as you're ready for your next assignment in one week."

  "But . . . "

  "You're in no position to 'but' me about anything. Do you understand?"

  Hanratty was too glum to say anything, to be able to say anything.

  "Do you understand?" Garfield asked again.

  "Yes," Hanratty said, virtually voiceless. "Yes, I do."

  3

  Jamie heard the knocking again.

  She stood in the hotel room bathroom drying herself off while catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She almost had breasts. Almost. By tenth grade she hoped to have beautiful ones.

  Then she heard the knocking.

  For some reason, the sound bothered her. She picked up the hair drier and turned it to HIGH.

  For the next few minutes, she could hear nothing except the drier engine roaring in the moist silence of the bathroom.

  When she looked at the mirror now, she saw it was covered with steam. Her body was little more than a vague outline in the glass now.

  Even above the roar of the hair drier, she thought she heard something. Ice-cold goose-bumps covered her. She snapped off the drier, listened; all she could hear was her heart. Even if somebody did come through the bathroom door wearing a hockey mask and carrying a knife the size of a broom handle, she knew she'd never be able to move. She was paralyzed.

  Her eyes fixed on the doorknob.