A Dark Pattern

A Dark Pattern

By Glen A. Dodge

Copyright 2014 Glen A. Dodge

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1. Friday May 27, 2011

Silence. Feague stood on the stairwell and listened, confirmed the stillness, breathed slow and shallow. He began up the stairs. His feet found familiar solid spots on the steps and he got to the fourth floor without a sound. He paused at the top of the stairs and experienced the scents of the fourth floor: the multi-part perfume from the shower room rode above the bitter aroma of carpet dust. Beyond those constants someone had made eggs and toast for breakfast. A bus went by outside but inside all was quiet. He moved down the hall to 403.

He took the master key out of his front pocket then put the palm of his hand on the door panel. He knew there was no one inside; he’d listened to the footsteps coming from above his own apartment, the clack of hard shoes on wooden floor, heard the slam of the door and waited to give the tenant, a college girl named Kimberly Kim, plenty of time to leave the building. Still, he hesitated. His breath trembled a bit and gooseflesh broke out on his arms. He took a deep sniff of air, slotted the key, unlocked, and passed inside.

The studio apartment was a mess of wayward clothes, books, papers, and open doors. Several ranks of paired shoes guarded the open closet and the floral scent of female beauty and hair products flowed out of the restroom. A large futon dominated the area next to the windows and though it had been folded into a couch it still sported sheets, pillows and an eggplant-colored blanket. Feague took a couple steps toward the kitchen and paused to consider a pair of lacy white thong panties that hung from an upper corner of the futon frame. He took a step toward the futon then shook his head and stepped through the open arch into the kitchen.

The kitchen hosted a continuation of the mess begun in the livingroom. Cupboard doors stood ajar, the trashcan was near overflowing, and dirty dishes dominated the counter space. Feague wrinkled his nose at the unwashed stink, then moved to the cupboard and began searching for lunch. He was standing in front of the cupboard trying to decide between pork u-don and spicy shrimp ramen when he heard the jangle of a heavy keychain followed closely by the apartment door opening then slamming shut.

Feague’s balls crawled up inside his body. He turned in place and froze. Something heavy hit the floor in the livingroom then the sound of sorting and rustling began. The noises were punctuated by low muttering which Feague began to understand as Kimberly Kim’s voice got closer to the kitchen arch.

Where the fuck did I put it . . . book, book, book, book . . . ah! Shit! Fuck!

Feague glanced over at the counter near the half-sized refrigerator where Jean-Paul Sartre stared sightlessly back at him from the cover of Essays in Existentialism.

Think, think . . . I had it last night after dinner . . . futon!

Her voice moved away but Feague didn’t relax. The morning sun found him painted into a bright and shallow corner. A knob from one of the cupboard’s doors was pressed into the middle of his neck and the reek of old tuna wafted up from the garbage can next to his thigh.

Shit, shit, she said from quite nearby. Gah, I’m so stupid!

A bead of sweat dribbled into Feague’s left eye. He blinked the sting away and caught himself before drawing in a big sniff of air. He pressed down with his hands onto the countertop to take some of the strain off his legs.

#

Yellow Jacket finally flew under the base of the clear wall into the inner space. She had been knocking herself against the clear wall for a few minutes after being enchanted by the scent of food on the air. She did a quick tour around the first space then flew out into a second, bigger space. She noticed that though there was an interesting overtone of female mammal pheromones in the bigger space, the smell of food was less. Yellow Jacket executed a tight turn and scanned the smaller space with a series of zig-zags until she was certain that the food smell was coming from a crowded hole about three feet from the ground. Yellow Jacket landed in a nest of offal, buzzed her wings, and dropped a dab of her own pheromones before climbing down into the nest.

#

Feague watched the candy-colored wasp go down into the garbage can and listened to the cursing and rummaging get closer. His limbs were full of ache and his hair was full of sweat; he knew that it was long, long past the time he could jump out and yell, Surprise! with any chance of being believed. Headline visions of THEFT and PERVERSION danced through his mind’s eye along with lurid details of apprehension, incarceration, and prosecution. Details continued to mount: the dull pinprick of primitive jailhouse tattoo art, starchy, unsatisfying meals crowded thigh to elbow with thugs, nights with his nasal passages choked with shit-smelling air, and over it all the fear of beatings and buggery.

He blinked those visions away, challenged himself to bluff it out, to be brazen, to step into the livingroom and tell Kimberly Kim he had been looking at some plumbing behind her cabinets and didn’t want to freak her out when she came in. Best not to startle her too much, he thought. Wouldn’t want her to pee her pants. And then his mind flashed to the panties he’d spotted. Please, God, just get me through this and I’ll never consider dirty stuff like that again. The muscles in his legs began to shake like he was a half-day into detox.

#

Yellow Jacket shivered in frustration. The taste of food on the air was dense but an uneven wall of paper had blocked her progress and left smut on the ends of her legs. The taste of smut warred with the flavor of food and ultimately turned her back. She needed to climb free and fly. She followed her pheromone trail to the open air and took a few moments to groom her legs before she flew away from the offal.

Despite her frustration she tasted something else on the air: male animal pheromone with weird highlights of salt, sweet, and decadence. She tasted the air and found the animal was standing motionless right next to the offal pit: she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before. The scent was almost intoxicating. The animal’s body was motionless but its eyes were awake and following her flight. She slid up to it in a cautious sideways drift and landed on its moist flesh.

#

Feague tried to relax but found himself rigid with dread. The wasp wandered around his chin and up his cheek and even tickled his nostril with its wings. Its tongue touched his skin fast as a sewing machine needle. It flitted into the air then landed on his right bicep and walked under his shirt until it was near his shoulder.

Oh shit, oh shoot, oh mama damn shit.

Something fell to the floor right outside the kitchen. A tremor lurched through Feague’s body and the wasp twitched in his armpit hair. He tried not to breathe.

A cell phone warbled and interrupted the rummaging. Hello? Hi Mona . . . I haven’t left yet . . . I can’t find my fucking book . . . I guess I don’t but what if Steiner gives a reference . . . He does not . . . He does not! . . . For one thing my boobs aren’t nearly big enough . . . Ha ha ha . . . Okay . . . Alright I’m leaving right now . . . Save me a seat you cow . . . Laters!

The rummaging resumed while the wasp crawled back onto Feague’s upper arm then flitted up to his lips. Shoes . . . bag . . . keys . . . fuck, bus pass! The front door of 403 opened then slammed shut. Feague blew the wasp off his mouth and got ready to bat its body away. The wasp charged at his face so he ducked and made a blind swing with his hand that hit the open cupboard door and banged it shut. He stood still, listening for Kimberly Kim’s return until a spot of pain blossomed on the back of his neck.

He swatted at his neck and spun out of the kitchen and into the livingroom to find himself in the midst of even greater disorder than before. His entire body tensed up and a freezing sensation ran up his spine to the back of his head and his vision nearly whited out. He lurched into the restroom and puked into the sink.

#

Yellow Jacket cruised the air. She flew in broad sweeps opting for elusiveness over precision. There was tasty salt on her proboscis and decadence clinging to her hair. The big male mammal lurched into the large space and into range. She aimed her abdomen at the damp salt field that coated its head beneath its berm of red hair and attacked.

#

More stings blazed: on his face, on his arms. Feague gyrated, crouched, jumped, seeing a hint of deadly yellow or hearing an agitated buzz wherever he went. He used his hands like paddles, swatted the air and eventually drove the wasp back toward the kitchen. He tracked it thinking that if it would back off for a few seconds he could snatch a notebook off the ground and smack the bastard to death. It didn’t back off. It swirled around, flew up near the ceiling, then dove back in. Feague cupped his hand and swung, not realizing he’d caught the wasp until it stung him on the palm. He dropped to his knees and crushed his hand against the floor. Mother-fucker, he said then wiped his throbbing hand on a throw pillow.

He left 403 a few minutes later. There was a hot feeling suffusing his muscles like a complete body-cramp was about to clamp down on him. He stumbled and fell right outside unit 401.

When Feague came-to he was curled in a fetal position below the door to 401. For a few moments, looking up, the door seemed like an enormous cream-colored cliff and as he dragged his eyes upward the cream began to show a fractal tracery of blood-colored veins. The image throbbed with his heartbeat, his gorge tried to rise again, and underpinning everything he heard a woman’s voice droning purposefully on and on until the drone was replaced by savage laughter from a female chorus.

The laughter frightened him into motion. He dragged himself over to the stairs and pulled himself upright using the rickety newel post for leverage. Each step down brought a sense of dissonance in his body like he’d been taken apart and put back together incorrectly. The sensation continued to grow, spreading from his head and arms and down through his torso. By the time he’d gotten into his apartment and locked the door he’d begun to feel a weight settling on his chest. Two steps brought him from the front door to his own restroom and another step brought him to the sink with its medicine cupboard behind the wavy mirror. He fished out a box of Benadryl from the second shelf, freed two capsules, then drank them down with a handful of tapwater before retreating to the livingroom and his desk.

The sensations of heat, weight, and general alarm passed slowly and as the faded he became more and more aware of the itchy burning spots left behind by the hornet stings. When he couldn’t stand the feeling any more he got up and went into the kitchen to get some ice only to find he had none.

It was the desire for something cold to press against his wounds that took him out of his apartment, across the street, and into the dark cool confines of the Ordborg tavern.

Sweet Jesus, Red, Babe the bartender said from the far end of bar. What happened to you?

The beery atmosphere greeted him as he swung himself onto a barstool and leaned his elbows on the bar. I got stung. Can I get a Bud in a bottle and some ice? Babe popped the cap off the beer and brought it to him, then vanished into the kitchen. She returned bearing a large baggie filled with ice cubes. He was still sitting on his bar stool nursing both his beer and his wounds when Rosemary came in.

What does the other guy look like, Rosemary asked then began a chuckle that ran until it turned into a hacking cough. She tried to clear the phlegm from her throat but when nothing came up she settled for taking a couple of deep swallows of beer from the pint that Babe brought her.

Flushed the little fucker, Feague said and pressed the baggie against the left side of his face. One of those black and yellow wasp things.

Rosemary hawked at her phlegm again and peered closer. How many times did it sting you?

You’re sounding more and more like Tom Waits each time I see you, Feague snorted. He took the bag off his face and leaned toward her. Less than ten, I think: my hand a couple times, my arm, on my neck, by my eye, by my mouth, and right on my cheekbone: that one hurts like hell.

Poor baby. It’s a good thing you’re not allergic. She looked around the empty bar then back at Feague. Has Mickey been around?

Feague put the ice bag back against his face and took a pull from his beer. I saw him a few nights ago. We had a $1 and $2 hold ‘em game going and he was losing so bad he lit up a cigar right at the table. Babe ended up bouncing him.

Physically?

No; he left after a couple shouts and a dirty bar rag upside his head.

Is he allowed back in?

Feague knocked on the bartop with his bottle. Babe, when can Mickey come back?

Babe looked up from prodding her smartphone at the far end of the bar. His money’s as good as anyone else’s.

Feague shrugged. Why are you looking for Mickey?

I thought maybe he’d seen Denise and Sandy. You know how he knows everyone’s business, she added and drank.

I thought they moved to San Diego?

They did but the job Sandy got went tits up and they came back in March. They were on a list for subsidized housing but I lost track of them. Rosemary leaned forward. You know places they could stay don’t you?

As long as they’re clean and quiet I could help probably help them out until the University starts back up in September. He took a drink. What’s Mickey supposed to know about them?

How does Mickey know about everything?

True that.

Rosemary finished her pint and tapped the empty on the bar and Babe drifted down and refilled the glass. You’re in really early aren’t you, she asked Feague when Babe had retreated.

Seems like a reasonable response to a fucked up day.

What do you do all day?

Maintenance, installation, cleanup kind of stuff. A little rent collection, a little trouble shooting, a very little gardening. Wilson has properties all up and down the Ave.

There a future in that?

Feague didn’t answer. He rolled the beer around inside the bottle and watched the bubbles float up. Rosemary slid back off her barstool and stretched her back before reaching into her handbag and bringing out a pack of Kents and a bright pink Zippo. She walked to the front door and for a moment bright hard May sunlight painted the floor before it disappeared with a spring-shrieking slam.

A few minutes later Feague was still de-carbonating his beer when the door slammed back open. Ginger; drinking a bit early for such an erudite college grad, ain’t you? Mickey blotted out the bright sun and lit up the bar’s interior with his smile instead. Christ it’s gorgeous out today. Can I get a boilermaker, Babe?

Babe pushed back from the bar and decanted a draft and a shot of Jack, leaving the glasses in the middle of the bar before moving back to her station. Mickey was busy rearranging a trio of four-top tables into one long table. He set a long aluminum case on the table and turned to look for his drinks. Ain’t still pissed at me are you, Babe?

Babe looked up from her phone and jabbed a finger in Mickey’s direction. I’ll say it again: no smoking. You start smoking in here and everyone will start.

Mickey nodded. He walked down the bar and dropped a twenty in front of Babe before turning to the booze. He downed the shot and drank down the beer in a single pull before gritting his teeth and bending over to rest his head on the bar. Brain freeze, he gritted out. God I love your beer, Babe. Never a colder draft in the whole city.

Stop trying to butter me up: no fucking smoking. I don’t want to have to bounce you again.

Mickey held up his hands. I got the message, I’ll take it outside like a good nigger . . .

Aw, whatever . . .

Mickey smiled and laughed. Same again please. He studied Feague while Babe poured his drinks. Someone pop you in the head? Some coed catch you rummaging through her unmentionables and slug you with her backpack?

Feague set the ice bag on the bar. Wasp.

Mickey sat on the stool next to Feague and Babe set his glasses in front of them. Was it an accident or Karma? He shot the Jack then cocked his head. Feague looked away. Oh, so it was Karma. What were you after? Food . . . booze . . . some personal memorabilia?

I’m off tequila for good, Feague said and slugged back most of his Budweiser. "It’s really unfair to pour shots into a guy until he can’t stop himself from blabbing his secrets.

Too late for that, Ginger. Besides, confession is good for the soul, even if it’s tequila-inspired. So run me the details.

I got stung by a wasp.

Mickey reached out and kneaded Feague’s shoulder with a hand the size of a first-baseman’s mitt. The details, Ginger.

I was after lunch.

Lunch? No bullshit?

No bullshit. The girl in 403 is Korean and her family sends her boxes of this soup stuff. Like instant noodles, but better. I had a taste for them so after I heard her walk out I walked in. I wouldn’t have got stung but she came back and I was trapped in the kitchen.

Mickey smiled. Mmm, those little Korean girls love to come home and find tall, skinny, redheaded men in their kitchen. You could have had some fun for sure. You ask Yoon about it and he’ll tell you.

Is Yoon coming in tonight?

That’s what he told me a little bit ago. Get us a nice little game going. Find out who’s the Man among men. You’re up, right?

Feague tilted back the dregs of his beer and set the empty on the bartop. He pulled out his wallet and set two dollars on the bar. My life savings.

What the heck you’ve been spending your money on? Not clothes, he said and plucked at the sleeve of Feague’s t-shirt. You got no car, got no girl: hell you got no expensive habits at all that I know of. He pulled a face. I guess you haven’t been doing too well at poker lately.

You could say that again.

When do you get paid for that handyman shit?

Once a month, Feague said with a shrug. So not until Wednesday.

Ah, no wonder you’re sneaking them Korean goodies. Mickey looked down at Babe then back. How she smell, he asked in a lower voice.

I’ll have you know that I left all her stuff right where I found it.

Mickey nodded and pursed his lips. So you never checked her out before? That’s what you’re saying? He grinned an evil grin. How she smell?

Feague blew a sigh up his face and ruffled the hair dangling over his forehead. A little fishy.

Mickey broke up. He slammed his hand down on the bar then rolled off the barstool and onto the floor. Hoo, Jesus ain’t that some stuff? He laughed on the floor for a bit then got back up and dusted himself off. Hope them noodles were good at least.

I told you I left all her stuff where it was. After the wasp attack I forgot ‘em.

Mickey shook his head. You poor sad motherfucker. Babe, please bring this man a menu . . .

I don’t have any money Mickey . . .

Yes, thank you, I can remember shit for that long. He took the rigid plastic menu from Babe, and ran a blunt finger down to the sandwich section. Two times the Philly Grinder. You want fries or rings?

Mickey I’m not going in debt to you.

Two times rings. And another Bud for this sad motherfucker.

Mickey . . .

Tell you what . . . Mickey went over to the aluminum case and pulled out a deck of cards. I’ll cut you for it. If you think you can beat my card then go ahead and cut the deck and if your card’s higher, then I buy our supper. If I win then I’ll pay tonight and you pay me back on Wednesday.

So you cut a king . . .

Then don’t do shit, stay broke, and stay hungry. But cut the deck and at least you’ll get fed tonight.

Feague closed his eyes then opened the left back up. Aces are high or low?

Low.

And if we match?

Mickey laughed and began shuffling the cards. I’d think you were a careful motherfucker if I didn’t know about your extracurricular activities. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. You match me and I’ll pay off double: buy your supper tomorrow as well. He slapped the cards onto the bar and cut about a third of the deck off to expose the six of diamonds. Oh you’ve got to like those odds!

Feague reached his hand out then pulled it back. This isn’t some kind of joke deck, is it?

Yeah, it’s a deck completely made of fives, fours, three, deuces, and aces aside from that one six.

Feague touched the back of the top card on the un-cut portion of the deck. He moved his thumb and index finger down the side of the deck and cut it nearly at the end. He held the card up to Mickey who snorted and said, At least I don’t have to pay double. Feague set the deck down and stared at the seven of clubs. Shit, and here I was looking forward to having you under my thumb.

Babe brought Feague another Budweiser and in a few minutes was back with two sandwiches and a large basket of onion rings. Tarter, Mickey asked and Babe rolled her eyes and headed back toward the kitchen.

Feague took a big bite of sandwich then mumbled, Did you see Rosemary out there?

Mickey finished his mouthful and wiped his lips with a paper napkin. You got the manners of a goat, Ginger. He took a sip of beer. Yeah, I saw her: lost Denise and Sandy.

I didn’t know they were back.

Yeah, back and living in Tent City when it was over at University Presbyterian then Sandy pulled some of his shit and out they went. Last I heard they were hoboing in one of those old brick dugouts down in the ravine off Cowen Park but that was back a month or so.

Squatting in the rain? Shit.

Yeah, well maybe they came to their senses and headed back to the sunshine.

Feague shrugged. This is a damn good sandwich.

Isn’t it? Hey, Babe, who’s back there in the kitchen today? Is it Felipe?

Babe shook her head. Calderon.

Damn, best thing to come out of Colombia in a long time. My compliments to the chef!

They finished eating then took their drinks over to the long table where Mickey stacked and counted chips while Feague watched the news. He was trying to piece together what was going on with Libya when the front door opened and Mickey stood up. Shit, look what just crawled in here, he said and laughed. Babe I think you got a health-code violation here.

The man who entered the Ordborg was about six feet tall and was wearing jeans and a black tanktop. His arms were well muscled but he looked almost childlike compared to Mickey’s breadth an bulk and where Mickey’s color was a golden brown, the other man was on the ashy gray end of the African American skin palate. Mickey caught the man up in a hug, his large hands sounding like dictionaries striking his back. Tyrone Higgs you look good and you don’t smell bad neither. I was worried you weren’t going to show up.

After all the trouble you went through with me I wouldn’t dare punk out on you, Higgs said.

Feague jumped up and shook Higgs’ hand. Holy crap, Higgs: when did you get out of rehab?

About a month ago. They all sat down. Had to go make peace with my family then scramble around to get my job back.

A good, honest mechanic is hard to find, Mickey said.

Higgs nodded. Anyway I’m back on over at A-Plus auto body and the owner’s letting me crash in the break room until I get a roll together and find some place of my own.

You need to talk to your man Ginger, here. He’s a bagman for a noted U-District slumlord.

Feague rolled his eyes. You come see me when you’re ready and I’ll get you a deal. There’s a bunch of places going to open up soon with the Semester at the University about to end.

Higgs held out his hand and Feague shook it. Solid, man: thanks a lot.

Babe arrived with a tray that held a pint of beer and a bottle of Coke. She set them on the table and left, but not before giving Higgs a dark look up and down.

She don’t like me, Higgs said when she had returned back behind the bar.

She don’t like anyone, she just like money, Mickey said. He picked up the beer and handed Higgs the Coke. Here’s to you man: welcome back.

They clinked glasses then Higgs sniffed at the lip of the Coke bottle. This is going to take some getting used to.

That’s the real cane-sugar Mexican item, Mickey laughed, then they drank.

It’s good to have you home, Feague said.

Sweet Jesus, Ginger, you’ve turned the air positively maudlin, Mickey said. He picked up a deck of cards and riffled the edges. You boys want to play some blackjack?

You sure you want to try to stand against my gigantic bankroll, Feague asked.

You broke, Higgs asked him.

As usually, Mickey snorted.

Higgs pulled out his wallet and put a ten-dollar bill on the table. You can catch me on the first.

I don’t know . . .

We’ll keep the stakes real low, Mickey said. Quarter a hand, two split max, double down on any two cards, no insurance, no surrender or any bullshit like that, okay?

Fine, Feague said, but only if I get to be the house.

By the time the poker game began that night Feague was up over twenty-five dollars even after he paid Higgs back. He invested twenty dollars of his blackjack winnings into the entry fee for a Texas Hold ‘em tournament, came in second and wrapped up the evening more than forty dollars to the good.

It was almost 1:00 AM when he said his goodnights and exited the Ordborg into the sultry night air. There was a reek of old cigarette smoke haunting the doorway but just a few feet down the street the smell of blackberry vines took over. He crossed the street in the middle of the block and walked on until he got to the Nottingham apartments, unlocked the front door and took the staircase up to his place on the third floor. He kicked his shoes off then went to the restroom and took a long pee. He studied his face in the mirror and decided that most of the swelling from the stings had receded. He did a quick tooth-brushing before stripping out of his clothes and opening the closet door where he dropped down into his nest of pillows and blankets and fell almost instantly asleep.

Chapter 2. Saturday May 28, 2011

Feague woke buried deep in his bed-nest, his wasp stings itching. Resisting the urge to scratch he crawled out of the closet then walked over to the window and looked down on the Ave as a large Metro bus rushed by. The clock that hung above the archway into his kitchen read 7:06.

He took his robe off the back of the restroom door and grabbed a bath towel and his bathing kit before he headed into the hallway and down to the shower room. The door was unlocked and it puffed out a spurt of mildewed air when he opened it. He took a quick, hot shower then shaved and brushed his teeth. He walked through the front door to find a slim, short man dressed all in black standing in the middle of the room. The man had black hair that was lacquered in thick strands that extended from a central part that stood out like a pale wound above the dark brown skin of his face and forehead.

I knew it was you in the shower.

Good morning, Tony. You up early or up late?

Tony shrugged and walked into the kitchen. It’s all the same. You got any coffee?

Feague shut the front door. I don’t drink coffee: it messes up my stomach.

Tony came back out of the kitchen. Right, I see those scars on your stomach, man; you get stabbed?

No . . .

"And what happened to your face? Someone take a shot at you?

Just got stung by a wasp: so, what can I do for you?

Stopped by to pay the rent, you know? He stepped up closer, scanned Feague’s face, then stepped around him to look into the closet. You sleep in there?

Feague turned in place and adjusted the towel around his waist. It’s a big closet. Plus a bed would take up the entire livingroom footprint. The rent?

Tony reached into his black leather jacket and pulled out an envelope then tapped one end against his chin. No one’s been coming by my place, have they?

No.

Tony nodded. Cause that would be really bad, man.

Tony it’s been almost two years and no one’s asked about your place or tried to get in or anything like that.

Tony smiled, held the envelope out, then pulled it back as Feague reached for it. You ever hang out down at that Ordborg place?

Feague walked over to the bathroom. From time to time. Do you mind if I get dressed?

Tony followed him to the door. You know some big white guy? Like big enough to be a pro wrestler?

There’s a few big guys that hang around there . . .

’cause someone said they saw some big fucking white guy following me last night and I was here last night so maybe they know I got a place here and maybe someone’s been talking shit about shit they shouldn’t be talking about, you know what I mean?

Feague shook his head. I have no idea what you’re going on about.

Tony lowered his voice and leaned forward. He a friend of yours?

I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I already told you no one’s asked about you or anyone else in the building and if they did I’d tell them to fuck off. No one’s getting into your apartment that you don’t want to get in there.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. Look, man, if this guy ever comes around here and wants to see what’s up in my apartment or he asks about me you better be smart, you know what I’m saying?

Alright man, Jesus. Mind if I get dressed now?

Tony dropped the envelope on the floor. Someone’s watching, man, don’t you forget. He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. You’ve always been alright, you know? He slammed the door behind him.

Feague studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the frown below the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the flush of blood on his cheekbones. He went over to the window overlooking the Ave and watched until Tony came out to the street and climbed into a giant black SUV, fired up the engine, and headed off south. Motherfucker!

He stripped off the towel and dressed in the shorts and t-shirt he’d worn the night before all the while considering what he could do as a measure of revenge. A perfect visualization appeared before him: heading down to apartment 206, jimmying the deadbolt, picking the lock on the closet, ripping open the bags of weed therein and pissing all over them.

Instead he padded into kitchen, poured a smallish bowl of bran cereal and skim milk, and ate it sitting at his desk watching an old episode of Dr. Who on Netflix. Tom Baker always reminded him of his father with his big teeth and nose. The Doctor would know how to deal with a drug dealer. Then again, the Doctor wouldn’t get involved with a drug dealer in the first place.

After the episode was finished he opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a clipboard and his cellphone. There were a few missed calls and a voicemail. He noted that T.J. had called Friday night then listened to a voice message from Mrs. Kessel down at the Sherwood asking when he would be able to patch the sidewalk next to the front entrance. He looked down the outstanding maintenance list clamped onto the clipboard and saw that he had three other jobs to do at the Sherwood. So there we have it, he said.

He brought up the tenant list from the Sherwood and called Williams in 307, Tsang in 510, and Lee in Unit B. Williams and Tsang were in and authorized the repairs they’d requested, a slow drain in 307 and stuck window in 510, but Lee didn’t answer. He put the master key for the Sherwood into his pocket and went down into the basement to the workshop.

There was a strong smell of sawdust and paint in the workshop and Feague loved to breathe it in after it had been closed up for a few days. He pulled out his toolkit and made sure he was set with screens and trowels before he pulled out a bucket and mixed up a batch of quick-setting concrete.

The Sherwood was two blocks north up the Ave. The morning was a bit overcast and cool and the Ave was lined with parked cars but the only sign of human activity came from the bike shop a couple doors up from the Ordborg. The Sherwood sat at the corner of University Way and Ravenna Boulevard, a generic six-floor building set on top of a cramped parking lot. It rose like a dowdy fortress on its corner, its western side walled in large and unfitted stones up to the first floor.

Feague set his equipment at the glass-doored entrance and studied the sidewalk where a large maple had dislodged one of the slabs. Someone had taken the time to mark the uneven surfaces with electric green paint but not gone through the effort to make a repair. It took him about twenty minutes to layer on the cement and smooth out both edges of the slab down to its neighbors. He used the rest of the batch on a few more uneven places then moved inside the Sherwood about ten-thirty.

The stuck window took only about 15 minutes to fix but the slow drain was more problematic. Williams, the health-nut in 307, had vomited activated charcoal into the sink and tried to clear the clog with drain cleaner which had pooled in the p-trap and corroded the metal to the point that he could poke holes in it with the tip of a screwdriver.

You’re going to need a new p-trap, he told her

She tugged on her brindled brown and gray braid. Oh. Will it cost very much?

Seventy-five bucks an hour for a plumber but not too much if I do it. Maybe thirty bucks for the parts and thirty more for the labor.

Could you do it today? I really hate being without the bathroom sink.

Sure. I’ll have to get a new p-trap but I can get that down at the True Value. I’ll probably need my Sawz-All and drain snake too. It shouldn’t take too long.

They shook on the deal then Feague left to get the part and tools. He tried Lee again on the way out of the building and got no answer. He stopped by his sidewalk repair job and smoothed out the profanity that had been scratched into the surface, then walked back home, got his bike out of storage, and headed off to the hardware store.

The True Value was an antique land of possibilities. The store was old and dowdy and wedged between a gyro restaurant and a dental clinic. The aisles were crammed with merchandise that seemed to span decades of need and fashion and for every display of LCD lightbulbs there was a rack of old toilet parts to balance it out. He pulled a new p-trap off of its place on the pegboard and made straight for the register reminding himself that it was a work day, not a fuck-around-the-hardware-store day. That’ll be $19.78. Feague paid with his credit card, took the receipt and the part, and biked back home. He put the p-trap in his tool kit and picked up his bright red sawz-all case before heading back to the Sherwood and 307.

The install took about an hour with some of the time coming from the necessity to trim the p-trap to the proper length and a bit more time having to do with scraping globs of hair, soap, gunk, and hardened activated charcoal out of the gray-water connection pipe. Williams was very apologetic and remorseful and gave Feague forty dollars for his efforts on top of paying him back for the cost of the p-trap.

Feague’s phone rang about halfway through the installation and displayed the number he’d been dialing to get hold of Lee in apartment B.

Reese Feague, here.

Mr. Feague this is Peter Lee; you’ve been trying to contact me about the heater in my unit.

Right; I’m in the building today and wanted to know if it would be convenient for me to take a look at it.

I’m down in Santa Monica with a lady-friend, Peter Lee said. His voice seemed flat and moderate to Feague. Peter Lee could have been a member of any race and at any age from his late teens to early middle age. Do I have to be there?

Not for me to take a look. If I have to make a repair that involves moving significant property around or might entail an outlay of money on your end you’d have to authorize it before I’d proceed.

Why would I have to pay anything for an old baseboard heater, Peter Lee asked, his voice rising.

You probably won’t. But once I came across a baseboard in a unit’s dining room that had been stuffed full of vegetables and had to be replaced. You just never know.

Alright, so go ahead.

I’ll go down to your unit when I’m done with the repair I’m doing right now. Thanks for calling me back.

Unit B was on the first level of the building sandwiched along with two other apartments between the Sherwood’s lobby and the unbroken gray bulk of the condo building next door. When Feague entered the unit it felt like he was entering a tomb despite the fact that a pair of torchier lamps were on and the curtains next to the dining room table were open. The apartment was decorated in a spare fashion with high quality furniture and well-framed art but suffered due to an overriding odor of old carpeting. He made a mental note to look up the last time the carpet had been changed out even though he knew that Wilson Properties would rather search for months to find tenants who didn’t have lung problems or a strong sense of smell rather than spring for new carpeting.

He checked his clipboard and found that the baseboard in question was located in the bedroom. B was a two-bedroom unit so he checked the bedroom nearest the front door first. He pushed the door open and studied the dark within.

#

Delia was startled by a vertical bar of light. She had been floating and was still floating but with the light came other sensations: oppressive cold, confusion, and agony.

A bar of pain ran from behind her right ear down through her face and neck and into her left shoulder. There was a paralysis in her limbs but it felt fragile, like she could shift herself and make a break for freedom if she only had the will to overcome the hurt. But she didn’t.

There was a scream inside her. Something was horribly wrong, something beyond pain, something that was splitting her apart. She could sense another part of herself distant and unconscious. Between the parts was a gulf patrolled by currents of vicious words, curses spoken in a voice full of loathing. The voice had sickened her, broken her, and now kept her divided.

The light that had woken her gave her a faint feeling of hope. If only she could find the source, beg it for help. She wanted to scream but she had no mouth.

#

The room was cold and dark aside from a faint constellation of green and amber lights. Computer room, Feague told himself, but he didn’t move. Cold air flowed out of the room and though the air had no particular smell, he could feel something traveling on it, a horrid softness he found both intriguing in its repulsiveness: he shuddered and studied the blinking lights for a few moments but gained no insight. He shut the door and went to the second bedroom.

The bedroom was spare and squared away like the rest of the apartment. Feague eyeballed the baseboard, located its control, dialed the thermostat up to 80, then sat on the bed while the element began heating up. The bedspread was sea blue and made of something slick and shiny that took a while to heat up beneath him. A couple minutes into the operation the room started to fill with the odor of ozone and hot dust. He turned the thermostat all the way off and dug through his tool kit for a flathead screwdriver. He disassembled the baseboard’s casing and then shined a flashlight on the exposed heating element.

He set his tools down and left B to go to the building’s maintenance closet. He brought out the large black shop-vac then returned to B and gave the baseboard a thorough cleaning before turning up the thermostat again. The second time the burning dust smell was much diminished but the ozone smell returned accompanied by a faint, high ringing sound that intensified as the coiled heating element turned from gray to orange. He dialed down the thermostat and made a note on his clipboard before returning the shop-vac to the closet and packing his tools. He called Peter Lee from the livingroom.

Hello?

Mr. Lee it’s Reese Feague again. I’ve diagnosed your baseboard problem.

Yes?

I cleaned it up and it looks like the element is going out on it. I can order a replacement on Monday and it should be delivered by the end of next week so I can either change it out when it arrives or I can wait until you return: whichever you’d prefer.

The line was quiet for a bit. Feague could hear birds and crashing surf in the background. Sorry; you said you can fix it?

Yes.

It won’t cost me will it?

No, it’s just a replacement.

Awesome. Look, why don’t you just wait until I get back, okay? Nothing personal.

Feague looked at the door that led to the dark, cold computer room. No problem; just give me a call when you’re back and we’ll schedule it so you can be here.

Great: cheers.

Feague disconnected the call. Right. He set down the toolkit and put his hand on the doorknob to the computer room then stood still for a few heartbeats before opening the door. He reached inside the room, flipped the switch, and the ceiling light flickered on. There was a small server farm against the room’s exterior wall. Hard drive lights and status indicators on uninterruptible power supplies blinked on and off. A pair of tall portable air conditioning units stood sentry near the computers: he walked over to them and both units read 50 degrees.

He thought about turning on one of the dark monitors but decided against it. There was nothing at all in the closet when he slid it open, no skeletons, not even a wire hanger so he slid the door shut and turned to the only other object in the room, a smallish television cabinet. He tugged on the cabinet’s door but it was locked.

Feague studied the lock for a moment and saw that it was a simple lock that had come with the cabinet. He got his set of Allen wrenches out of the toolkit and had the lock opened in a matter of seconds. The door fell open and he froze.

There was no television in the cabinet. The thick white paper that lined the interior space had been covered in black lettering that flowed in organic curves and whorls. Individual words leapt out: whore, cunt, bitch, pain, slave. Every so often in the flow of text there was a larger word, Delia, with the D completed colored in and looming like an axe-head. After a short time studying the paper Feague’s stomach began to feel queasy.

He turned his attention to the center of the space: a large pink and white stuffed rabbit hung there. A silver stiletto blade had been inserted through its head and pushed through until the tip exited its neck and dug into its left shoulder. Feague couldn’t see how the rabbit was hung but it wasn’t slumped. Its arms and legs were spread slightly open, its neck was erect and its left ear alert. Only its crumpled right ear and its flat black eyes seemed to match the sick atmosphere inside the cabinet.

#

Delia cried out to the red-headed man: she was there, she was tormented, she was trapped. His eyes searched around but he didn’t seem notice her.

Something seemed to carry her away like a revolving door, and for a few moments she was aware of her body. She couldn’t open her eyes but she could hear the sound of machines huffing and beeping just like in medical dramas on tv. There was an oily weight inside her body, a sluggishness that kept her calm, kept her asleep.

After a short while her consciousness revolved again and she emerged back in the room. The redheaded man was searching below where her point of view was suspended. She used her will and tried to move, tried to speak. She shouted out silently. She screamed. The man gave no sign he could sense her.

#

Feague finished looking through the top drawer finding nothing but a rubber-banded deck of cards embossed with pictures from the Cape May – Lewes Ferry and a sheet of instructions on how to put the cabinet together. He slid the top drawer shut then pulled out the bottom drawer exposing five plastic specimen cups. He read the labels: nails, hair, blood, urine, skin. He shut the drawer then stood, shut the cabinet doors, and relocked them. Just as he turned out the light both air conditioners turned on and began pivoting back and forth and giving out gouts of frigid air.

Adrenaline hit him just outside the building. His heart raced and with the bloodflow all the hornet wounds flared with pain. He staggered up the Ave toward home with the afterimage of the violent words ghosting his vision while he considered what kind of person could have constructed such a sick altar.

Chapter 3. Sunday May 29, 2011

Reese!

Feague was walking north on the Ave when he heard his name. He paused and turned. Hey, T.J!

Tajinder Singh was built much the same as Feague, tall and thin with a narrow face and long hands, but where Feague was pale, T.J. was dark. He sported a wispy mustache and goatee but his pride and joy was his lustrous black hair kept pulled back in a long queue. T.J. caught up to Feague and patted him on the back. Dude, I guess you don’t return phone calls anymore?

Feague remembered the call he’d missed two days before. Shit, I’m sorry. Had a couple things on my mind. What’s up?

Just wondered if you were interested in some extra work. You want to get a beer?

That’s just what I had in mind. They reached the Ordborg and Feague held the door for T.J. and followed him inside. T.J. went to the bar and ordered a pitcher of Full Sail Pale Ale while Feague went to the back of the room and secured a four-top table with a view of the Mariner’s game. The M’s had just finished their half of the first inning and had yet to begin losing to the Oakland A’s. T.J. arrived with the beer and poured out two glasses. What kind of work have you got?

T.J. swallowed a gulp. "Lucky, dude. Got a call off one of the handyman cards I put up at the Roosevelt Square Starbucks. Some house above the Cowen Park ravine had its fence knocked down. I went and saw it yesterday: beautiful