“Yes, I understand,” Max said as he went to the door, looking at the strange paintings. Strokes of red, black, and orange. Flashes of blue. If you looked hard, you could see body shapes among the lines. “Can I come here again at a better time? When it’s convenient for you? I live in New York, but …”
“No.” The answer was short and sharp.
“Okay. Would you mind emailing me the layout of your house? Do you have the Internet? I mean, of course you do. I can mention you in the book if you want. I always thank people who help me.”
“Thank you for the honor, but I’ll pass. You’re a writer—make up the layout. I don’t mind.”
“I think I know it. The bedroom is there.”
“Yes, you checked it without my permission. You can go now.”
Max looked at the man, smiled again, but his face remained impenetrable.
“I’ll pay you.” Max decided to try the last method, even though he had no experience in making offers like this. Usually people helped him for free and with pleasure. They often offered their help even when the author didn’t ask for it. They were ready to pay him to have him mention their names. He had never met people who refused to help him so categorically and especially when something was so easy. It surprised and upset him. However, these two emotions were only the tip of the iceberg, and many others hid under it. Irrational fear, even panic, and Max started to understand a new emotion—unexplainable hostility toward the owner. Actually, he could explain that one. It seemed mutual. This man didn’t like Max at all. He didn’t care about his writing success, or his charismatic smile.
“Goodbye now,” the man said coldly.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” Max stuck his hand in the inner pocket of his jacket and Morris took a step back, as if the so-called writer was going to shoot him. Max fished out a business card holder and gave one card to Morris. Anna designed it for him: black background, his photo, and name in silver. “Just in case you change your mind.”
“I doubt that.”
Max put the card on the table.
“By the way, my wife is a designer and she works in this company where they make business cards, invitations. Stuff like that. She can make a great design for you. For free. If you’d like to. Just let me know.”
“I’ve never met anyone as obnoxious as you,” Morris mumbled.
“I’m sorry, but it’s important to me.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Bye.”
This time Max complied because the last words Morris said in a tone suggesting a kick in the butt would come next.
Walking down two stairs, Max turned to Morris and saw him waiting by the opened door to make sure the visitor left.
“Have a good day. I hope you’ll change your mind.” Max smiled and went behind the green fence, looking at the woman on the other side of the road. She turned away and hid inside the house.
Perhaps he hadn’t used the right tone in the conversation and acted officiously. That could be the reason he man refused to help. Or maybe he was like some of the characters in his books. Those who didn’t care about anyone and just wanted others to stay away. They lived only for themselves; they hated people. Sociopaths. Or the problem wasn’t in this man, but in Max and his visit. He had rolled up without an invitation, and demanded that he show him the house. Why should a strange man with his own life and problems, who didn’t know a thing about some Stevenson the writer, help him? It was good enough that he let him in the house. And what happened? Dizziness and black out?
“What the hell?”
Max sat inside the car and touched the cold wheel with his forehead.
What happened? Why? Something was wrong with the air. It was the second time. Something like the sensation he felt at Kelvin’s. He didn’t lose consciousness, but he became dizzy. What was it? Could Anna be right?
“No, nothing serious. No cancer, relax.”
His imagination created unhappy pictures. A visit to a doctor, MRI, loss of hair during chemotherapy.
Max started the engine and turned the car to head home.
The man was fine. Max just needed to take a different approach. He would find his phone number and call him. Send him a book.
That was a great idea! Max didn’t doubt that it wasn’t his last trip to Watervliet and not the last visit to this house. Today wasn’t enough.
CHAPTER 13
Max entered the apartment, tossed his boots by the door, hung his jacket in the hallway closet, and went to the living room. Anna sat on the couch with her back to Max, typing on the laptop. He smiled at her creative mess. Sweater in the chair, books and magazines on the glass table. There also was a vase with flowers that should have been thrown in the garbage a few days ago and a coffee mug, which probably was empty. Max approached his wife and covered her eyes with his palms, regretting it at the same second when she shuddered. He saw a sketch of a dragon on the screen.
“Let me guess,” Anna said. “A serial killer finally broke into our apartment.”
“Oh yeah,” Max hissed, moving his hands to Anna’s neck. Then he bent down and kissed her. “It looks great, Babe. How’s the book?”
“I couldn’t finish it, to be honest. I feel bad. I mean, I’ve read the beginning and some stuff in the middle, but fantasy is so not for me. I like to draw dragons though.”
“You’re lucky that I write mysteries. I’m also a genius.”
“Right. So lucky.” Anna looked at Max.
“You doubt my genius?” he asked, as threatening as his acting abilities allowed.
“I wouldn’t dare!” Anna said as she opened her eyes wide.
“That’s better. I like this dragon, Babe.”
“I have about two hours of work. Where have you been? You came later than me.”
Max transferred his wife’s handbag from the chair to the floor, sat down, and leaned back, closing his eyes.
“I drove to Watervliet.”
“Again?”
“I had to get into that house.”
“You’re crazy. So?”
Max looked at Anna. She bent forward, her eyes shining.
“A lonely man lives there. I think he’s lonely. Maybe he has a wife because I noticed a woman’s hat on a chair, some decorations were feminine. Maybe he’s a widower. I could see a feminine touch, but the house is cold and it has this energy.”
Anna was quiet, biting her lower lip.
“He said no one has ever been killed in his house, but I think something happened. Something is strange about that house and its owner.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s fifty something. Educated, good manners … well, in perspective. Uptight. Fine features, glasses, gray temples. People like him evoke trust, but his eyes … They are like grass on top of a swamp. You can step on it and sink through. I’m probably exaggerating. He wasn’t happy about my visit and didn’t want to let me in. I don’t know how I convinced him.”
“You’re good at convincing.”
“Usually I’m lucky, but not with this dude. He didn’t show me his house, just the living room, but you know what’s most interesting?”
“No idea.”
“Remember I told you about a picture of a man I had seen in the newspaper?”
“Yes, you did.”
Max planted his elbows on his knees.” “The owner of that house is the man from the picture. I started having dreams about the house after I saw that photo.”
Anna picked up a mockup of the book, glanced through the pages remotely, and returned it to the table.
“Hmm,” she said.
“I must have seen him somewhere.” Max faked a yawn, pretending to be indifferent, and rubbed his eyes. He wanted to tell his wife about his sudden loss of consciousness, but thought better of it. She would insist on a doctor’s visit and he didn’t feel sick. Something strange was the cause of his fainting, and he had to figure it out. How and what?
“So, first we decided you had seen this house on TV or somewhere else.�
� Anna put her palms up, gesturing. “You’ve seen it and that’s the reason you dream about it. Right? Then you visit the house and realize that you’ve seen the owner in the paper. It means you saw the man, but dream about the house because … You must have seen them both.” Anna locked her hands and put her chin on them. “It’s strange that you dream about the house every day. I mean, you dream about a house that actually exists, but you’ve never seen it in reality before the dreams. You found it accidentally and its owner … I don’t understand anything.”
“Ann, you’re a realist. I’m sure all of it has a logical explanation.” The fainting must have a logical explanation too.
“There has to be. Also, we can explain why you suddenly decided to write supernatural. What did Foxtail say? I forgot.”
“Just what I expected. He didn’t like it, doubted it, and then relaxed. Got my promise to finish another book.”
“What’s with your new one?”
Max stretched and started to pull off his sweater just to look carefree. He didn’t want to tell the truth, he didn’t want his wife to get nervous or see his eyes. Anna had an ability to see through him. Not always, but in this case, she was going to understand immediately what was going on. He was worried and emotions always had been his weak point. Because of his tearful childhood, he had learned to control his emotions, but not with his wife. He couldn’t fool her.
“It’s going fine,” Max said as he covered his face with the sweater, taking it off. “I wrote two chapters.”
“Are you going to torture me as usual and not let me read before you finish?”
“You know me.” Max dropped his sweater on the arm of the chair. “I’m cruel and merciless.”
“Yeah.” Anna narrowed her eyes, studying the “cruel and merciless” like a fouled puppy whose face she was going to rub into a puddle.
“What?” Max spread his arms.
“Nothing.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Sure, let’s change the subject. You’re so sneaky.”
“What else should I talk about? I went there, I introduced myself, and I entered the house.”
“Oh, Stevenson, Stevenson. So, what’s inside?”
“I saw some paintings on the walls and Morris—that’s the owner’s name—Morris said they were his. He painted them when he was young.”
“An artist? Interesting. Maybe I should talk to him. Like an artist to artist?”
“Sure! Next time I’ll bring you. I bet he’ll greet us with hugs and kisses.”
“Well, maybe he has a soft spot for redheads and will be happy to meet me and help.”
“Now you want to flirt with an older artist. Great.”
“So what? It’s for my lovely husband.” Anna giggled. “You should have found his phone number and called him first. You have friends who could help you with that.”
“I thought about it when I pressed the bell. The house is fenced like in my dream.”
Anna rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Everything is getting weirder. Did you have any more dizzy spells?”
“What dizzy spells? I’m not having dizzy spells,” Max replied, and stood. “I’m hungry. Do we have something in our fridge?”
“Look at me.”
“What?” Max spread his arms again, but he felt like a naughty child.
Anna pressed her lips and raised her eyebrows.
“What?” Max repeated.
“It happened again, didn’t it?”
“Are you my mother?” Max said as he thought that his mother had never cared about his condition. Healthy, sick, it didn’t matter to her. He didn’t matter to her.
Anna stood, approached Max, and looked into his eyes. “I’m not your mother, but I can spank you and give you a time out. What happened?”
“Ann, stop it.”
“You stop this Ann thing.”
“I was hungry and my head spun a little. Like five seconds, not a big deal. Leave me alone, woman.”
“Really?”
“Are you going to feed me or what?”
Anna shook her head, sighed, spanked her husband on his butt as she’d promised, and then left the room.
“You’re asking for it, Stevenson. I’ll call Kelvin and we’ll tie you up to get you to a doctor.”
“My friend won’t betray me!”
Max went to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. He gazed at his reflection, trying to make a careless expression once again. He tried to think about something insignificant. He wanted to throw away the thoughts of the house and its owner, even temporarily. Think about sex after dinner in the kitchen by the wall. They hadn’t done it for some time. He looked at his reflection and it blurred. He grabbed onto the sink, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and closed his eyes.
Again. Dizziness again. Not just dizziness, but it seemed that he saw something. Something was in the mirror.
“Nonsense. There was nothing.”
“Max? Are you alive?”
“Don’t even think about it, you mean woman! You won’t get rid of me!” he yelled back and pressed his forehead against the cold rim of the sink.
What if she was right? Max had never liked doctors and couldn’t remember when he’d had a checkup last. What if she was right? What if this dizziness was a result of some illness?
“Does the house exist because of the illness? Nonsense.”
He stood to leave the bathroom and stop his wife from asking questions again, even though he wanted to stay alone longer, feeling the cold against his forehead.
“You’re pale,” Anna said as soon as he entered the kitchen.
“You have sour cream on your lips.”
Anna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but kept looking at Max.
“Listen, stop it,” he said, suspecting that could offend her. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Anna sighed. “I can’t make you do anything, really.”
“That’s right.” Max opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer.
“But I’ll try.”
Max gazed at his wife, estimated her stubborn look, and smiled.
“You’re my gold.”
“You remember that.” Anna smacked Max’s arm with a towel, and transferred two plates from one table to another. “My mom made chicken soup. You like hers.”
Max didn’t really like Anna’s mom’s cooking, but he would never say it out loud. He liked the fact that his mother-in-law visited them sometimes though, helped with the house, allowing her daughter to spend more time with her favorite work. Ann’s family supported her in everything. Max didn’t know if he would have become a writer if his family had supported him. He didn’t know if he would have become who he had become if he had grown up in different conditions. He didn’t know. His parents had been dead for fifteen years, and he didn’t want to think badly about them. He tried to remember only good things, even though he didn’t have many.
CHAPTER 14
By lunchtime, Max had a phone number in Watervliet with the full name of the owner. Whatever they said, it was beneficial to have friends with all kinds of connections, especially the ones who worked for the police. Morris Melvin Bishop. He used to live with his mother, but occupied the house alone since her death. As the owner said, the house wasn’t associated with any criminal activity. The owner was squeaky-clean. Max could find more information about Bishop, but he didn’t see it as a necessity.
He didn’t call immediately, but opened the file containing his book instead and read the last lines.
Every day she walked past the green fence. Her mother said it wasn’t here before Mary had gotten married. The new owner built it shortly after moving in.
Max bent over the keyboard, ran his fingers over it, without a single idea of what to write. His heart hammered in fear, as if he walked on a dark street and a serial killer waited for him around every corner.
What was happening to him? Max walked around the room, stepped out on the balcony, but went b
ack in right away because of the cold. He went to the kitchen and made his second cup of coffee. Standing by the window and sipping the hot drink, he tried to divert his attention away from the book, at least for a few minutes. It should come on its own as always. He tried hard, but all he could think about was the house and its owner.
“So much older,” he said, and flinched when he heard his own voice. It didn’t make any sense. Who’s older? “You’re older.” Max looked at his hands. They shook and coffee splashed about the cup. “Okay… enough.”
He put the half-empty cup into the sink, drank icy water from the bottle out of the refrigerator, and then he went back to his computer, deciding to describe the inside of the house. Everything he’d seen. He sat down and wrote about a red tablecloth, abstract paintings. He slowed down at describing pictures. It would be too obvious. He changed the red tablecloth to green and abstracts to landscapes. He wrote about an open cabinet with crystal figurines. An old TV was a part of the design. A vase with fake flowers on the table and beside the TV. The flowers, like everything else, were covered with dust. His mother probably bought them, and he would have felt bad throwing them away even though they didn’t harmonize with the artwork. With landscapes, they wouldn’t look that much out of place. His chandelier had five lamps, but two of them had burnt out and the owner hadn’t hurried to change them.
The walls in the second room were white. There was a full-size bed covered with a blue, faded comforter. Across from the bed …
Max stopped and moved his shaking hands away from the keyboard. He didn’t see anything in that room. Not a bed with a blue comforter, not a dresser as he was about to write. As soon as he approached the room, his vision blurred and his head spun. He couldn’t see anything inside. Why did he visualize them now so realistically?
“Just your imagination. Nothing to be surprised about.”
Only it felt like memories. Did he understand the difference between real memories and false memories? Sometimes he sank so deeply into a story that he started to believe in the reality of it. Of course, characters. They seemed, to him, more real than his neighbors. So, there was no reason to be surprised and question himself. Why was he surprised? Why did he question?
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 7
