The Shut-In

by James Patterson

  Chapter 16

  Target Diary—Day 12

  Hello, Miss Patricia Celano.

  So good to finally put a face to the name.

  I spent the better part of my afternoon reading up on you. You seem to live your entire life online, revealing yourself in bits and pieces through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Tumblr, and the like.

  So why are you being so shy now, ducking behind the window like a frightened child? When you reveal yourself to the world, you can’t be shocked when someone like me looks back at you.

  But it’s not only the information you willingly gave up to the internet. With a little simple digging, I was able to flesh out a fairly detailed biography. I know it all—your work record, your shopping habits, your tax records. I know all of your friends. Your family. Your neighbors.

  I know about your medical condition.

  Oh yes, I know all about your poor skin, my dear. Such a pity, being cooped up in that $1,350 a month studio apartment all day long.

  I almost feel sorry for you.

  But alas, you’ve stuck the nose of your drone in my business, so now it’s time to return the favor.

  Don’t worry, Miss Celano. You won’t really see me again until the very end. And by then, it will be too late to do anything about it.

  Chapter 17

  My entire body freezes. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that this is just my mind playing tricks on me. Perhaps the image of Mrs. Archer outside my window is just some kind of bizarre hallucination because I’ve completely tired myself out today.

  But no. When I dare to look again, Mrs. Archer is still standing there, her beady eyes staring right up into mine.

  Then she cocks her head slightly, slowly removes a hand from her pocket, and makes a little tsk-tsk motion with her thick index finger. As if I’ve been naughty.

  Nope nope nope nope…

  I choke back a scream, fall to the floor, and duck my head under the windowsill like a small child who’s hiding from the bogeyman. How on Earth did she find me so quickly? And how did she know I’d be looking out of my front windows at this exact moment in the middle of the night?

  Calm down, I tell myself.

  No, YOU calm down, shouts my inner voice.

  Then I remember: those cracking sounds. They were from her! She must have been throwing tiny rocks at my window like a lovesick schoolboy. She was trying to wake me up, draw me to my window so she could get a look at my face…

  And now she’s seen you.

  I feel my heart pound the inside of my rib cage. The muscles in my neck tighten. I’m dizzy and I can’t breathe. For a horrible moment I think I’m having a heart attack, and wonder how long it will take for the police to find my dead body. Days? Weeks, even?

  Then I realize what I’m actually experiencing, and recognize that it’s not cardiac arrest. No, I’m having a good old-fashioned panic attack.

  I used to get them a lot back in college, when my condition first appeared, albeit in tiny doses. I used to be the kind of kid who loved being outdoors, playing and cavorting from pretty much the crack of dawn until the sun finally went down for the count. So when I found myself unable to enjoy the fresh air on a regular basis, my subconscious took it very, very badly. Or so said my therapist. Deep down, she explained, you feel like you’re being buried alive. It took many expensive sessions in cool, dark rooms to work my way past that feeling.

  And now it was back, big time. Thank you, Mrs. Archer.

  My brain splits in two: one half tries to push back the sheer panic, and the other focuses on what to do about the murderous stalker outside. What does she want? Is she just frightening me into silence? If so, then I might as well give her the big thumbs-up as I hold up a sign in my front window: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

  And that’s when I hear the front door of my building open. The sound is unmistakable—the creak of the hinges, the echo through the hall.

  Someone is entering my building.

  Chapter 18

  After a few deep, collected breaths, I force myself to crawl across the hardwood floor. My heart is still pounding like it’s trying to launch itself out of my chest. My throat is constricted so tightly that I might as well be wearing a noose.

  Halfway to the door of my apartment, I realize that I’m on the ground because subconsciously I’m afraid Mrs. Archer is going to shoot one of those arrows straight through my window and into my skull.

  My target: my front door. Because as difficult as it will be to look through that peephole (hello, arrow!), I can’t just hide in my apartment, waiting for death to come knocking.

  I have to know if it’s her out there.

  As quietly as I can, I place my palms on the door to steady myself as I get my legs up under me. Then, I rise.

  And place my eye to the hole.

  And…

  It’s not Mrs. Archer.

  Alert the media! Tricia Celano catches a break!

  Instead, it’s my handsome dark-haired guy from apartment 3-D, just standing there by the mailboxes, lingering, looking down at his cell phone.

  He’s probably just returned from a night out with his bros, hoisting a bunch of craft beers over artisanal tacos while listening to some indie band over in Northern Liberties or whatever the heck else it is normal people my age do on a Monday night. And now he’s probably checking his texts to see if anyone is still up and carousing about before he decides whether it’s worth it to call it quits.

  I’ve fantasized a thousand times about opening the door, propping my elbow on the frame and saying, Hey, there, how’s it going? But a desire to save myself from a case of terminal embarrassment has prevented me from doing so.

  This time, though, I have a very good reason to talk to him.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I yank open the door.

  Handsome Guy from 3-D looks up from his phone.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” he says, with a curious expression on his face. It’s hovering somewhere between bewilderment and confusion.

  “I have a weird favor to ask,” I say.

  “Okay…”

  “No, I mean it. This is seriously going to sound weird.”

  The Guy smiles. “No worries. What do you need?”

  “Um, when you came in did you see someone standing outside, watching the window to my apartment?”

  The look on Handsome Guy’s face now turns to complete confusion, which makes my thudding heart slam to a halt. There, I’ve gone and done it. I’ve freaked him out.

  But he quickly recovers and flashes a smile that resuscitates me. “Let me go take another look. I’ll be right back.”

  As he moves back through the vestibule, I pray that I haven’t just sent him to his death. That would be one hell of a story to share with the police.

  Girl meets boy, boy meets girl, boy gets an arrow in the eye socket for his trouble.

  Chapter 19

  “The coast is clear,” he says. “Who did you think was out there?”

  “Nobody,” I say out of reflex.

  “So you wanted me to look outside for you on the off-chance that someone might be watching your front windows?”

  “I don’t know…maybe I was dreaming it, but I thought I saw someone out there. I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

  But of course I know this isn’t the truth. At this point, I’m sure my eyes weren’t lying.

  Handsome Guy gives me the same kind of smile you’d give a lost toddler. “You sure you’re okay?”

  My nerves are so fried at this point that I say a few words that I immediately want to suck back into my mouth and swallow. “No, I really don’t think so.”

  Argh, what are you doing, Tricia?

  But Handsome Guy turns out to be the extremely chivalrous type. He gently steers me back into my own apartment and closes the door and guides me to the couch and sits me down and then places himself a friendly, yet respectful, distance away.

  “It’s okay. Everything’s go
ing to be fine,” he says. “Look, my name’s Jackson—”

  “Dolan,” I blurt out, because of course I know his name. The moment I realized he lived in 3-D, I took a peek at a package waiting for him in the hallway one time. Jackson Dolan. Of course he’d have a cool name like Jackson Dolan. (And don’t think I didn’t try that surname on for size. Tricia Dolan. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?)

  Jackson raises his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m a bit of a snoop. Anyway, I’m Tricia…”

  “Celano,” he says with a grin. “Guess that makes us both snoops.”

  No, that makes my heart swell three times its normal size. Jackson Dolan actually knows who I am! That means, at one point, he wondered who I was, and peeked at my mail, too. Or maybe he even asked around.…

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Jackson says. “I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

  I want to gush and tell him everything. My Amelias. Mrs. Archer and her killer arrows. The homeless people she’s probably killed. And the fact that she learned my name and address, all thanks to Amelia II.

  But…I can’t. I mean, I can’t even believe I’m talking to him! That he’s actually here, sitting right on my couch. It’s almost surreal, as if a leading man in a movie just removed himself from his two-dimensional prison and stepped down through the television screen to speak to…me.

  I guess that’s what happens when you look out at life through peepholes and computers. The few things you actually encounter in life feel glaringly real.

  “It’s okay,” he says, reaching out and taking my hand. Geez, even his hands are warm and large. They’re like no other hands I’ve seen before. Then again, I haven’t been touched by another human being in years, so…

  So I tell him.

  Everything.

  My Amelias. Mrs. Archer and her killer arrows. The homeless people she’s probably murdered—and so on, and so on. The events of the past few days tumble out of my mouth in non sequiturs. I’m positive they only make sense to me—and that’s the problem, right? I’m the only one in the world who believes that Mrs. Archer exists, and that she’s doing horrible things to people.

  Jackson, to his credit, takes it all in like a perfect gentleman. And when he’s finished processing everything, an excited look washes over his face.

  “So…you’re hunting a killer?”

  “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

  “That. Is. Awesome.”

  Chapter 20

  Hello, Amelia III.

  I shouldn’t be dropping this kind of money on you, but as Jackson said…I am hunting a killer. And what is an amateur housebound sleuth without her magical flying machine?

  (I wonder if Nero Wolfe would have kicked Archie Goodwin to the curb if he had an Amelia in his life.)

  I have to say, it was Jackson’s enthusiasm last night that inspired me to keep up with this investigation. Not only did he convince me that I wasn’t crazy, but he said that I could actually do something about Mrs. Archer. Like, catch her doing her creepy things with her arrow-shooting device. Maybe even record it this time.

  Hence, Amelia III. Unlike her older sisters, this sprightly young thing has better maneuvering capabilities in order to avoid those lethal arrows. And I’m going to be able to record everything she sees right on my phone, including (hopefully) Mrs. Archer stalking those poor homeless guys.

  How’s that for proof, Officers Yates and Sears?

  Such advances come with a hefty price—not counting the extra money I’m spending for same-day (by 5 p.m. guaranteed!) delivery. But the second fee is also for a good reason: Jackson said he’d stop by right after work so he could learn how to pilot her, too.

  Only I could turn the hunt for a serial killer into a…date.

  With all of the dough I’m spending, you’d think I’d be putting my nose to the grindstone at work. Au contraire, mon frère. All I can think about is the image of Mrs. Archer, looking up at me from the sidewalk. And Jackson, of course. The one person who doesn’t think I’m completely bonkers. Yet.

  Somehow I resist the urge to don sunglasses and a knit cap to take a peek out from behind my curtains every seventeen seconds. No good could possibly come of that. (Especially if she’s standing out there…waiting…and tsk-tsking at me.) Maybe that’s why the afternoon drags on like a small eternity. Seriously, no day has ever lasted this long before.

  And then, finally, both things I’ve been waiting for happen almost at once.

  Amelia III arrives in the afternoon, and she’s barely out of the box before there’s a knock at my door.

  “Is that her?” Jackson asks, excitedly.

  “Well, she’s indisposed at the moment,” I tell him, “but yeah, it’s her. Jackson, meet Amelia the Third. Amelia, meet our upstairs neighbor, Jackson.”

  We dig into the scattered pieces of Amelia III like kids on Christmas morning who’ve received a new Lego set. Jackson reads me the instructions, while I do the snapping and screwing and connecting, all of which is cake for me now. The two of us have the easy groove of a married couple putting together a crib.

  The whole evening is shocking to me because I’ve known Jackson less than twenty-four hours, and I rarely have contact with other human beings. Especially startling is my ability to banter with him.

  “I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I crash Amelia III on a roof, I’m going to need somebody to climb up and get her for me.”

  Jackson chuckles. “Well, how about we don’t crash her then?”

  “We? You think I’m actually going to put my girl in the hands of a complete stranger?”

  “C’mon, we’re neighbors.”

  “Stranger danger, stranger danger…”

  But after a brief tutorial, I do let Jackson pilot Amelia III around the neighborhood. He’s quite agile with the controls. (“Years of wasting my life with a PlayStation controller in my hands,” he explains.) I love watching his hands. They are lean and strong.

  Of course, I’m splitting my attention with the image on my laptop. Jackson helped me figure out how to beam it from my phone to the laptop so I’d have a bigger image of the neighborhood as we go speeding by.

  “Any sign of her?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “Just keep her steady, Captain.”

  “I’d better bring her back. Amelia’s almost run out of her battery life.”

  “That’s because we rushed her out before she had a full charge.”

  “We were excited.”

  I’ll say we were excited.

  Jackson is the first person in a long time who doesn’t think I’m a freak. What’s he going to think, then, when I’m forced to explain my medical condition to him? Sooner or later, it’ll come up. It always comes up.

  Only, I’m hoping it doesn’t happen too quickly.

  That is, until he asks, “After we bring her in for a landing, how about we grab a quick bite? I’m starving.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, clearing my throat nervously. “I guess it is getting late. But you know, I’d better get back to work. I’m kind of behind on a few things, with all of this excitement.”

  “Are you sure?” Jackson asks. “I know this great café just a block away, on the corner of Green and 21st. My treat, since you let me fly Amelia the Third and everything.”

  Argh, this is killing me.

  “Maybe we could go some other time? I’m really sorry.”

  Jackson is quiet for a moment, as if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m really swamped with work or just not into him. I want to scream, TRUST ME, I AM TOTALLY INTO YOU! But of course, I say nothing.

  “Sure, maybe some other time,” he says.

  And it kills me.

  Chapter 21

  But after Jackson leaves, I don’t throw myself into my actual job. Instead, I resume my online hunt for the name of the murdered homeless man while Amelia III recharges. (Unfortunately, her batte
ry’s so low that I won’t get the chance to fly her again tonight; the sun is already setting.)

  I try not to think about the hurt puppy-dog look on Jackson’s face as he excused himself from my apartment. Why couldn’t I have said something vaguely romantic like, Hey, why don’t I whip up something here for the two of us? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. We could have shared a meal together, maybe even kept up with some more of that playful banter we had been exchanging.

  But no. I had to tell him maybe some other time.

  Anyway…that’s why I’m distracting myself, looking for some news on the homeless advocacy front. I check Facebook, and there’s a single message waiting for me from an older hippyish-looking guy named John Burke:

  Hello, Tricia. There’s a fellow named Allen Moyer who hasn’t been seen around the Parkway in a while. (But I also hear that he might be up visiting a cousin in Wilkes-Barre.)

  Things are a little chaotic down at the Parkway anyway; they’re preparing for the senator’s visit on Wednesday, so they’ve been shooing people away and putting up barricades like it’s a goddamn police state. Chances are, your missing guy was probably one of the unfortunate ones to be shooed away first.

  Hope this helps. Blessings to you.

  Right back at ya, Mr. Burke.

  Of course, this is no lead at all. I was hoping for…I don’t know, a set of actual clues to go on. It’s not as if I can fly Amelia III up to Wilkes-Barre (wherever the heck that is) to snoop around the Moyer family. If that’s even the right guy at all.

  I do a search for “Allen Moyer,” but there are no hits anywhere near Philadelphia. An image search brings up a bunch of white dudes, mostly in goatees, who look nothing like the man I saw that day.

  So I type Mr. Burke a reply:

  Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Burke! At the risk of pressing my luck…do any of your contacts have a description of Mr. Moyer? Or, by chance, a photograph? I want to be sure I’m thinking of the same man. Huge thanks, and blessings to

  My message is interrupted by a knock at the door.