The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

by Jonathan Lethem

  Jones saw me turning around, scanning the elevator’s blank interior, and chuckled. “It knows me automatically and it knows where to take us.”

  “What if you wanted to visit someone else?” I asked.

  “I have a remote,” he said, as if that answered everything. Maybe it did. But I felt a stab of fear, the kind a trapped animal feels.

  The elevator stopped and the door opened onto a clean undecorated corridor. Jones led me down the plain but well-lit hallway to one of the unmarked doors we were passing, and when he stepped up to it, it opened.

  “How’d you know which door was yours?”

  “I’ve lived here a long time. And of course only this door opens for me.”

  Inside his apartment things were very different. In a curious way I was reminded of Rudolph’s place. Both were full of stuff and dimly lit. Jones’s stuff was undoubtedly better and on nice built-in shelves, but it still amounted to clutter. And instead of Rudolph’s cheap fragrances, this place had a cinnamon-incense odor—pleasant, but odd.

  I turned slowly around as I took in the big room, finally coming to the shelves on the wall that had been behind me as I’d walked in.

  Books! Lots of books! More than I’d ever seen in one place, a whole wall of books, floor to ceiling, the shelves even running over the door, and the ceiling more than nine feet high. I saw a funny-looking ladder, its top resting on wheels that ran in a track along an upper shelf. Handy. It was hard to read any of the books’ spines in the dim light, so I couldn’t tell what they were about—but there were so many! For that moment I completely forgot Jones.

  A stab of adrenaline brought me back to reality. All those books were great, but I had walked into a chrome-and-glass trap, with no way to get out on my own. I shouldn’t let myself be distracted. I slipped my hand into my pants and fingered my knife for reassurance.

  It was a big, irregular room, with alcoves, heavily draped windows, and doors to other rooms, and filled with things. There was a lot of furniture—upholstered easy chairs and lounge-recliners, a big L-shaped couch that could seat half a dozen and little tables scattered between the chairs. Standing on pedestals were an ancient suit of armor that looked like it might have been worn by somebody my size, and a bigger space suit, probably a replica, but maybe real. It was white, but looked grimy, the face plate fogged.

  Then I saw her. She was standing in an alcove, shadowed, and looking directly at me. She didn’t move. She was dressed as I was, her hair short and uneven, a small cowlick falling over her forehead, a sullen look on her narrow face.

  I turned and stared at Jones. “That’s me.”

  He grinned at me. “A hologram. I shot it when we came in.”

  “Why? What’re you doing with it?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Is that why you brought me here?”

  “Of course not. It’s just a memento, something to remember you by.”

  “I think it’s creepy.”

  I walked over to it. It continued to stare coldly at me. I reached out to touch it, but my hand passed right through the image, like it was a ghost. Maybe it was. Maybe it was my ghost.

  Jones opened a refrigerated cabinet and removed two glass bottles. “Something to drink?”

  “What is it?” I asked. I couldn’t make out the labels on the bottles.

  “Just water,” he said, twisting off their caps and pouring one with each hand into two tall glasses.

  “It’s green,” I pointed out. “And fizzy.”

  “Vitamin water,” he said. “A little flavor, a little color, and some carbon dioxide for the bubbles.” He set down the empty bottles and handed me a glass. “Cheers,” he said, and took a sip from his glass.

  It was cold and didn’t have much flavor. I’d once had something called club soda, which was just carbonated water, and this wasn’t very different. I was thirsty, so I drank the glassful in several swallows, and burped.

  Jones had gotten out his tab again, and I could see the first page of the IQ test on it—multiple choice, five choices per question, just touch the correct answer.

  “I’m tired,” I said. “I don’t want to do that.” And I realized that I really was tired. I couldn’t smother a major yawn.

  “I’m sorry,” Jones said. “It is pretty late. Sometimes I forget the time when I get into a project.” He gestured at the test. “This can wait for morning. Let me show you a room where you can sleep.”

  Vague alarm spread through me, but I felt foggy with fatigue. I couldn’t stop yawning. I followed him through several doors to a small room with a single bed. He didn’t turn on any lights in the room, but I could see the bed in the light from the doorway, and I went straight for it and collapsed on it, facedown.

  Sunlight on my face woke me up. I was lying on my back, under covers, in a girl’s bedroom. I knew immediately it had to be. Everything was in bright cheerful colors, and stuffed animals sat in a small easy chair across from the bed. My clothes were tossed over them. I did not remember taking them off.

  The bedroom door was closed. I scrambled out of the bed and then stopped, transfixed by the sight of the sheet I’d been lying on. It was blood-smeared in one area, in the middle of the bed.

  I looked and found a little dried blood on my upper inner left thigh.

  I knew exactly what that meant.

  I started for the door and then stopped and turned back to my clothes. I needed to get dressed first. I ached in a new place as I pulled my clothes on. They smelled, but they were all I had now.

  I couldn’t help looking out the window. It faced east and the early sun. I was high up and I could look out great distances, but I couldn’t see much—just the vast city extending into the haze, the horizon indistinct. There were other tall towers nearby, and I could tell that they defined the area of the CeeZee.

  The bedroom door wasn’t locked. I opened it and ventured out, not sure which way to go. But I found the next door I came to was to a bathroom, which I realized I needed. I went in and locked the door behind me.

  It was spare but had all the necessities. I showered thoroughly, after which putting my clothes back on again felt disgusting. I examined myself while I sat on the toilet, but learned nothing new. Finally I wiped the steam off the mirror and stared at myself. Did I look different now? The hologram’s twin stared back at me. If I did, it wasn’t obvious.

  When I opened the bathroom door I found myself face to face with Jones.

  “Hi. Sleep well? Ready for breakfast?”

  I just stared at him. He looked unchanged, still the Greek god, his hair a little tousled, morning-fresh, a dimpled smile for me.

  “You drugged me,” I said. Start small and work up, I decided.

  “Just a mildly opiated relaxant, same as I had,” he said.

  “Why lie about it? We both know what you did.”

  I waited for him to deny it, but he just smiled, as if dismissing my accusation, and said, “Come on. Let’s eat. Let’s get some food in you. The way you ate those burgers, I’ll bet you don’t eat well. You need to put a little flesh on your bones.” He turned and casually walked down the hall, almost sauntering, like he hadn’t a care in the world, leaving me to follow.

  Put a little flesh on my bones, huh? He’d seen my scrawny body naked and didn’t care that I knew it. He exposed his back to me, I thought. He’s a fool.

  Unwillingly, I followed him into his dining room. It was a relatively small room—but bigger than the bedroom I’d used—dominated by a large table in the middle. A chandelier hung over the table and cast a warm light. There were chairs along the walls and one already pulled up to the table.

  He swung out another, placing it next to his, but I ignored the gesture and went to the other side of the table, opposite him, and pulled up a chair. We both sat, facing each other, Jones with a shrug and a disarmingly rueful smile.

  “What would you like for breakfast?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re having,”
I said.

  “Okay,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim black object, putting it on the table. While he held it in place with his left hand, he jabbed his middle right-hand finger at it repeatedly, then stopped. He looked up at me. “On the way,” he said genially. He put the black thing back in his pocket.

  A discreet chime sounded. Jones rose and went to a cabinet on the wall behind him. When he opened it I could see two plates of food sitting there. A mouthwatering aroma wafted out with the steam. I realized how hungry I was.

  Jones set one plate in front of me and one at his place and turned back to get two cups of what smelled like first-rate coffee. I stood up and reached across the table to swap our plates.

  He saw me doing it and laughed heartily. I was starting to truly hate his laughter. “They’re exactly the same,” he said, still laughing at me. “I don’t care which one I have.” And to prove it, he picked up a fork and took his first bite of his eggs.

  A large omelet, slices of toast, sausages, coffee—it was a decent breakfast and I ate all of it. I also drank all my coffee, after switching cups while Jones watched, grinning. I drank it black because Jones did.

  When I put down my fork on my empty plate he asked me, “Feeling better now? How about a smile?”

  “I’m no longer hungry,” I said, “but I don’t feel like smiling at you.”

  “You did last night,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Last night. I made you happy then.”

  I pushed to my feet, the chair catching on the rug and falling over. I didn’t care. “You miserable smug bastard!” I glared at him. “You raped me. You raped me!”

  “I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head but still smiling. “You loved it. I had trouble keeping up with you. So demanding!”

  I stared at him. I couldn’t believe his gall, his calm denial.

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t I measure up to your usual lovers? You told me I was better than Jonny.” The words seemed to ooze out of him.

  “You lie,” I told him. “You drugged me and you raped me. You are the first man to ever sex me.”

  His mouth dropped open, the phony smile gone at last.

  “Your first?” A sly look spread across his face. “You were a virgin? Delightful! Well, good thing that’s behind you now. You should thank me. You will thank me.”

  I sighed. A total disconnect. I picked up the chair and returned it to its spot at the wall.

  “I started to ask you last night—in the car,” I said. “What’s your first name?”

  “My first name? Euclid. Euclid Jones.” He mock-bowed. “At your service. And yours is Nicole, isn’t it?”

  He seemed happy with the change of subject. Like what he had done to me the night before had no consequences, no real meaning. And like my moving on to something totally different was the most natural thing in the world. I felt cold inside.

  “No. Jonny told you, but you got it wrong. It’s Nikola. Do you—did you have a daughter?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “That room, that was a girl’s room.”

  He gave me a lazy smile. “It is a girl’s room.”

  “Whose?”

  “It could be yours. Think about it. You said you needed a place.” He gave me a considering look. “We’ll have to get rid of that body hair—your underarms, your legs . . .”

  I didn’t want to go there. “How many of those books have you read?” I gestured through the doorway to his big front room.

  “Most. Well, some. I inherited them with the apartment.” Another smile. “I’ll call you Nicky.”

  “Show me. I love books.” Nobody calls me Nicky.

  He led the way to the front room and the books. “What would you like to see?”

  I looked around and noticed his tab where he’d left it the night before. The display screen was blank. No more IQ test. No longer needed, I guessed.

  “What’s up there?” I gestured at the upper shelves, which held fat volumes that looked like sets of books, uniformly bound.

  “Let’s see,” he said, sliding the ladder over to the area I’d pointed out, and mounting it with lithe grace, totally confident of himself.

  I waited until he was reaching to his right to pull free a book, complaining that these books were wedged in and hard to pull out, leaning over the edge of the ladder. Then I yanked the ladder hard to his left.

  As I’d hoped, he lost his balance, dropping the book to the floor, flailing with his arms and falling. What I hadn’t expected was that his left leg got entangled with the ladder, between the rungs, causing him to hit the floor headfirst with a solid thud.

  I approached him with my knife out. His leg was still hooked in the ladder, his head and shoulders on the floor. His head seemed to be at an awkward angle.

  His eyes followed me, but the rest of him didn’t move.

  I nudged his body with my foot. No resistance, limp.

  “I think you broke your neck. What do you think?”

  He blinked at me, rapidly. Then a tear formed at the corner of his left eye. His lips seemed to quiver, but no words came out. He was breathing shallowly.

  “I can’t leave you like this,” I told him.

  He blinked slowly.

  I gestured with my knife. “I’m gonna have to kill you,” I said. “That was my intention anyway.”

  His lips opened, formed an O.

  “Why? You’re wondering why I want to kill you?” I laughed, a short humorless bark. The first and last time he would hear me laugh.

  “I want to kill you because you’re such a clueless arrogant fool.”

  He blinked several times.

  “I want to kill you because you’re the enemy—an enabler of the fire troopers, a user of girls.”

  I wanted him to argue with me, to defend himself, to justify himself, but he said nothing. Not even his lips moved now. But he was looking directly at me, giving me his full attention.

  “But most of all I want to kill you because you stole from me the only thing I had left that I valued. You raped me. And you didn’t even care.” I wanted to work myself up into a rage, but instead I felt a cold knot forming within me.

  He closed his eyes—in resignation? In defeat?

  “Open your eyes, damn you!”

  His lips compressed and his eyes stayed shut. Denying me to the end.

  I slit his throat and watched his blood and his last breaths gurgle out and then stop.

  It was strangely unsatisfying. I knew I had done what I had to do, but I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt defeated.

  I sat down in one of the big chairs and cried. That didn’t make me feel much better, but gave me the necessary resolve to finish what I’d started.

  I went through his pockets until I found his remote, that black object. It felt oddly comfortable in my hand, like it had been molded to fit it, and I guess it had.

  I looked over at the alcove. My hologram was still there, still watching me.

  “One of us is damned,” I said. I looked at Jones’s remote. There were a variety of buttons of different sizes, shapes, and colors. Some had letters or numbers. Some had pictograms. One showed a dotted stick figure. I touched it. The hologram disappeared. Satisfied, I stowed the remote in my pants.

  Then I started pulling the books off the shelves, dumping them in a growing pile on the floor, fallen open, any which way. This felt sacrilegious to me until I realized that none of these books called out to be read. They were dusty and old, with fine print and dull titles. None seemed to be fiction. I doubted Jones had looked at even one. The book he’d pulled out was titled Greek Rural Postmen and Their Cancellation Numbers. Another was about “stray shopping carts,” whatever they might be. I grabbed them with a growing frenzy. They made a huge pile on the floor before I’d pulled half of them off the shelves.

  I stopped then, my heart pounding. I was feeling a touch of hysteria. I needed to calm myself. I h
ad to act deliberately, think things through—although I’d made my plans hours earlier and I knew what I had to do.

  All those books! My breath caught in my throat as I considered my plan for them. The air was full of dust now. I’d never thought of myself as a book burner.

  I went to the front door. When I was only two steps away, it silently unlatched and stood ajar a few inches. Okay. I’d needed to know that, be sure of that. I couldn’t allow myself to be trapped in Jones’s apartment. As I’d hoped, his remote worked automatically for doors, and, I assumed, the elevator.

  I went back to the pile of books. Some of them had fallen on and around Jones. That gave me an idea, and I stacked more of them on him. “Because you really loved books,” I muttered at him. Was there anything he hadn’t lied about?

  I used my lighter to start the fire, near the base of the books. It would be his funeral pyre, I figured.

  I waited until the fire was well established and it was getting smoky, making me cough and my eyes tear up. I wanted to stay longer and see the fire grow, but I knew I shouldn’t.

  A drop of water hit me on my head. Startled, I looked up. In the center of the high ceiling was some kind of a knob. Water was dripping from it. I suddenly realized what it was—a sprinkler, activated by the fire. But water wasn’t spraying out. It was dribbling. More drops fell on me and I caught one in my hand. It was dark-colored, and when I let it run off my hand it left behind tiny flakes of rust. The sprinkler head must have been clogged up. It served Jones right, I thought, for living in such an old building.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. I went out into the hallway and pulled the door shut. I could still smell the smoke when I got to the elevators, but then the elevator door opened and I escaped that floor.

  The remote got me back to the lobby and out the doors without incident. I saw two women in the lobby, coming in. One of them gave me an odd look, but they continued past me. I looked like some street kid, but I was leaving. I was no threat.

  Out on the street, I crossed the avenue and looked back and up. I was facing west and the late-morning sun gleamed brightly in reflections from the building’s glass outer walls, which seemed to ripple. The building was over a hundred floors tall. I had no idea where to look, but just then I heard a faint explosion and then the much closer sounds of glass hitting the pavement and high up I saw a thin plume of black smoke which got bigger as I watched. I didn’t watch long.