The Menace: A Thriller

Chapter 5

The work-out equipment in the attic was gleaming and new in the dreary bare-wood space with its slanted roof and open beams. There was a stationary bike, a treadmill, a rowing machine, and a barbell set with a weight bench. Also a jump rope, curled on the floor like a snake. Richie thought the jump rope was for girls till his dad told him that wasn’t so and showed him how to use it.

Richie’s dad was planning to make a real room out of the attic — a do-it-yourself project that hadn’t got done yet. For now, lots of boxes and trunks and stuff were piled at the far end, with the light of the single hanging bulb over where Richie did his exercises not reaching that far.

That end of the attic was spooky and Richie stayed away. His dad said the flooring back there wasn’t so good, and that was another reason to stay at the other end with the gym stuff. So was the chugging air conditioner in the window. Before Dad put that in, it wasn’t nice up here at all. Stuffy and musty and really, really hot.

But Dad had used soap and water and a bucket and got the cobwebs out and used a hammer and nails and lumber to replace some floorboards. He hammered some nails back, too, that were sticking out and nasty.

Richie felt comfortable up here, at the gym end anyway, and was happy that the two policemen were hauling his birthday present up. At first he followed them from downstairs, then at the top showed them the way. Otherwise the policemen wouldn’t have known where the door to the attic was. The door was in his room and that made it convenient for Richie with his mini-gym (as Dad called it) up there.

One of the policeman was tall and young and the other old and kind of pudgy. The old pudgy one made a lot of noise but the young one didn’t as they carried the wooden box. Richie went on ahead up the narrow steep stairs to the attic and behind him there was some swearing from the pudgy old policeman. The young skinny one was in front coming up, carrying the box behind him, and kind of smiled at Richie when the old pudgy one said bad words.

Richie liked that. Not the bad words, but the young one smiling at him like there was a secret between them. Like he understood how older people could be.

They set the wooden box down where Richie’s mini-gym ended and the storage area began. The pudgy one was huffing and puffing, but he got some words out.

“So now... now we’re damn... damn morticians,” he said. His hands were on his waist above his gun belt. “Wait till... till the police union... hears about... about this.”

The pudgy policeman was sweating. The skinny one wasn’t. It was pretty cool up there, the air conditioner on high.

The young one asked, “You don’t really think that thing is for real, do you?” He wasn’t breathing hard at all.

“You heard ‘em talkin’ down there. You heard the doc and all that talk about his brother digging up shit in Mexico.”

“Language,” Richie said.

The pudgy policeman just looked at him. “Is this where you want it, kid?”

“Can you take him out?”

“Take who where?”

Richie pointed. “My friend. Lift him out and set him there. In front of those boxes?”

The pudgy policeman let out a whole bunch of air. The skinny one laughed. Not loud. Just one “ha.”

“What if he comes apart,” the pudgy policeman asked the skinny policeman, “in our hands?”

“Then he comes apart in our hands,” the skinny policeman said and shrugged. “But we can’t leave him in this crate.”

“Why not?”

“Just do it, Lou. Be careful with that thing. It’s even older than you are, y’know.”

“Very funny.”

The skinny one came around on the pudgy one’s end and together they lifted the sitting mummy from the crate. Dust puffed off the figure like smoke. Both policemen made faces and turned their heads away. Richie’s friend was in a kind of dress, Richie noted, very worn-out looking. No, more like kind of rotted but not rotted everywhere. The fancy color collar was faded but it was still cool. Even though that looked like a dress, Richie assumed this was a man. The white hair on top of his head was real short.

The skinny policeman pushed the mummy toward the pudgy one and said, “Kiss him, Lou.”

The pudgy one made a face and turned away. “You crazy or something, Freddie?”

“Ah, he’s only a dummy, you dummy.”

Richie said, “Be careful with my friend.” But at least now he knew his friend wasn’t a girl. The skinny policeman had called him “him.”

They set the mummy down on the wooden plank flooring in that same sitting position, backside on the floor, knees bent and up, feet on the floor, too. Then they slid the empty crate back with the other boxes and stuff. An old rocking horse of Richie’s was back there between an old trunk and a fake Christmas tree.

The pudgy policeman wasn’t breathing hard now. He looked at Richie, over by his stationary bike.

“I remember,” the pudgy policeman said to the skinny policeman, “when kids went somewhere on their bike. Not nowhere.”

Richie felt like he could say something about that even though they weren’t speaking to him. They were speaking about him, so he said, “I have a bike. We live on the outskirts.”

“So what?” the pudgy policeman said.

“So it’s dangerous out here for a boy on a bike. Trucks and cars picking up speed. But Dad takes me to the park, sometimes. And then I ride my bike.”

“Yeah, swell, good for you, kid. Is this piece of crap okay here?” The pudgy policeman gestured to Richie’s seated friend.

The skinny policeman said, “If the chief hears you talking to that kid like that, Lou, you’re gonna lose your goddamn pension.”

“Language,” Richie said softly.

“Yeah, yeah,” the skinny policeman said. “So is he all right here, kid?”

“Yes.”

More proof his friend was a boy. Or a man. The skinny policeman called the mummy “he.”

The policemen headed for the well of the stairs, but Richie called out to them.

“And he is real.”

The two policeman looked at him.

“And he’s my friend.”

“Sure he is,” the skinny policeman said. Not mean. Just agreeing. But the pudgy policeman was shaking his head and muttering.

More bad language.

When they were gone, Richie went over and sat in front of the mummy. Both were sitting on the floor, mummy with knees up, Richie cross-legged. The light wasn’t good here, but it wasn’t bad either. He could see his friend but his friend’s face didn’t seem so scary like it did under a lot of light. His friend’s eye holes were dark and Richie really kind of liked that big smile.

Richie stared at his friend’s face and, after a while, he thought he could see something glowing in those eye holes.

At Helen’s insistence, Roy walked with her outside to have a look at the footprints. The two cops who’d lugged the crate upstairs had rejoined the other two officers patrolling. The mugginess still lingered and the sun was high and hot now. The strange footprints were still there and Helen knelt over them.

She asked, “Could this be some horrible prank?”

He crouched beside her. “I don’t follow.”

“Maybe somebody faked these things.”

He gave her a look. “You accusing me again of some bizarre stunt to—”

“No! No.”

She stood and so did he. “But couldn’t those prints come from boots or shoes of some kind?”

“Oh, Helen...”

With a raised palm, she said, “Hear me out. Could this be some kind of fear campaign? The grotesque footprints, the flaming projectile... Do you have enemies? Someone who owes you money for medical services on treatment they consider botched? Some husband whose wife died because he thinks you were negligent?”

His eyebrows climbed. “Oh, well thank you. Glad you have such a high opinion of me. No, my patients seem perfectly content with the quality of their medical care. Anyway, I saw whatever it was, remember... You sketched the damn thing! Or do you think I’m lying, or imagining things, or... what?”

She shook her head, frowned but not angrily. “No, no. Nothing like that. We’re past such accusations. Could it have been a child? Some poor thing from Richard’s special education class?”

“Are you serious?”

Her forehead tensed. “Some twisted child with a grudge against him...?”

“Right. Some kid Richie’s age who has special needs problems but somehow fabricated monster boots and put together a creature-feature get-up, fright wig and all. Just getting a jump on Halloween.”

She sighed, shook her head again, laughed bitterly. “I know how I sound.”

He slipped his arm around her. “Like a mother crazy with concern for her child. It’d be unnatural otherwise.”

“Something unnatural is happening here. Roy, we have to protect Richard.”

“Damn straight we do.”

They walked to the front of the house, Roy’s arm still around her.

She said, “I’m going to spend the afternoon with Richard. Drawing, doing crafts. He’s probably up in the attic with that awful thing.” She shivered. “I could just kill your brother-in-law. And your sister!”

It was Roy’s turn to sigh. “He meant well. But, yeah — that was over the line even for Pete.”

Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. “I want you to go up there and make sure that child is not... not fooling with that disgusting thing. Will you please?”

“I will, I will.”

“And get it out of here tomorrow.”

On the porch, they paused before going in.

“Can you busy yourself this afternoon?” she asked him.

He nodded, gesturing to the cement-block outbuilding where he maintained his practice. “I’m going to make some calls from my office. Let my nurse and receptionist know that they’re on paid leave till this settles down. Call the other two family practice docs in town and make arrangements for my patients. Call a couple of specialists in Atlanta to take over certain key cases. I have plenty to do.”

“All right.” She sighed and her smile was small and sad. “Pity it took a bunch of dead doctors and a murder threat against our son to bring us together.”

He studied her. “Are we? Together?”

“Where the welfare of our son is concerned? We may disagree about the ‘how,’ but not that there’s a need. And responsibility.”

They went inside and Roy headed upstairs and went to his son’s room. The walls had posters of TV shows and movies Richie liked — Star Trek, Batman (the old Adam West one), Scooby Doo. The boy kept a neater room than most his age and was protective of his comic books, which were in neat piles atop a low-slung bookcase filled with Little Golden Books and Dr. Seuss.

But the child, predictably, was not there.

And the stethoscope, so precious and compelling to the boy the night before, lay abandoned on his bed. At least Richie had made his bed, which was one of his regular chores.

Roy went quietly up the stairs and heard his son’s voice: “I’m going to do Track and Field at the Olympics. I do a lot of running in the yard to get ready. And Dad got me all this stuff to get in shape...”

Roy entered the attic, Richie hearing him immediately. The boy, who’d been sitting Indian-style in front of the ghostly-looking mummy — which looked like a refugee from the end of Psycho — sprang to his feet and turned to his dad. The child’s smile indicated he knew he’d been caught doing something maybe he shouldn’t.

“Hi, Dad. I was just talking to my friend. Do you know his name?”

Roy walked over to Richie. “No, son, I don’t. Your uncle didn’t put that in his birthday note to you. I’m guessing your gift’s name is lost to time.”

“Oh. Well, he doesn’t need to have a name to be my friend, does he?”

“No, but you do understand he’s a pretend friend, son. He’s not alive.”

“I thought you said—”

He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I told you before that you’d misunderstood me. He was once alive, of course, but we don’t know exactly when he died. He’s not a toy or a plaything.”

“No. He’s my friend.”

“Pretend friend.” He put his arm around his son’s shoulder, putting the mummy to both their backs. “He was a real living breathing someone once, and it would be disrespectful to play games with him.”

“I wasn’t playing games.”

“I know. But go on down to your room now. We’ll be having lunch soon and then your mom wants to do some art and crafts with you. Spend the afternoon with her favorite son.”

“I’m her only son.”

“Right. But that doesn’t mean you’re not her favorite.”

The boy was uncharacteristically sullen as he walked down the attic stairs, but at least he’d obeyed.

Roy tousled his son’s hair as he passed through the bedroom on his way downstairs. He had a lot of work to do this afternoon in putting his practice on hold, and he was pleased his wife would be spending some quality time with their boy. Maybe she’d realize just how much she and her father underestimated Richie.

At least she might if the kid kept his mouth shut about that mummy being his pal and still alive...

They had spaghetti for supper, a favorite of Richie’s and a specialty of his mother’s, and the evening was quiet and homey — the only fire being the one in the fireplace. Helen reported her afternoon with their son in loving detail, Roy went quickly over what he’d accomplished with his work, and Richie watched TV in the book-lined study.

Helen went up to bed early, around nine o’clock, which was Richie’s bedtime. They tucked the boy in together and Roy said goodnight to his wife at the guest room door. Then he went downstairs, fixed himself a highball, thought about how much he still loved that woman, fixed himself another highball, and after while went back upstairs.

He knocked at the guest room door.

She said, “Yes,” and he went in. She was in a negligee with her covers at her waist, the full breasts discreetly covered by the garment but still a formidable presence in the room. Roy came over and, rather boldly, sat on the edge of the bed near her.

She nodded around the room, where three of her framed landscapes hung, including the Hawaiian one she’d painted on their honeymoon. “I’m a little surprised to see so much of my artwork on the walls. I kind of thought they’d be stowed away in the attic.”

“Then where would I put my brother’s gift?”

She actually chuckled at that. “What about my self-portrait?”

“It’s in my bedroom. Care for a look?”

Her smile was crinkly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself...”

He leaned in. “Okay. Look, I know this has already been an awful ordeal, but I was thinking — really, we’re in a better place with this thing now, since that attack last night.”

Her eyes grew big. “Really? That was a help was it, that flaming bottle of gasoline?”

He nodded. “It gives the police something tangible to deal with. Up till now they thought the doctors might be accidental deaths — now they’re talking serial murder. It has their attention.”

“And you have mine.” She sat forward and those breasts came along for the ride. “But, Roy — nothing’s changed. We’re still legally separated and the reasons for that remain. We’ll always be Richard’s parents, but anything else is... well, we need to face it... It’s over.”

He shook his head slowly. “It sure doesn’t feel like it. And even if that’s so, we have a son in the middle. Right now he doesn’t know what the hell’s happening between us — never mind that he’s the target of some mentally deranged loon who was able to murder three medical men.”

“Roy...”

“I’m just saying... let’s not make it any tougher on Richie than it already is. Let’s just keep it friendly between us, even if it’s only us playing a game. To keep the boy from getting tied up into knots.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms over the shelf of her bosom. “If you’re talking about maintaining appearances in front of our son, that’s a game I can play. But if you think you’re climbing into this bed tonight, buddy boy, you are on the losing end.”

That hurt. He knew he probably deserved it, but it damn well hurt, and the two highballs fueled his response as he got to his feet: “Honey, you better get over yourself. Get something straight, if you can get out in front of that overblown ego of yours. Right now you’re nothing to me but my son’s mother, a biological reality I can’t do anything about at this point. And I have about as much romantic interest in you as a potted plant.”

Her frown was like a fist clenching. “I don’t have to put up with this crap...”

“Then don’t. But the last time you walked out on me, when things got a bit too tough for your sensitive nature? You wound up on the wrong side of a custody battle. And if you walk out now, honey, you might find out that whatever’s out there in the dark wanting to take me and our kid down might just be waiting for you. He might’ve decided you make a pretty attractive alternative target.”

Her chin was quivering and her eyes threatened to overflow. “That was a lousy goddamn thing to say...”

He shrugged grandly. “I’m just being realistic. So play nice... and I don’t mean bedroom games.”

He was at the door when she said, “Roy?”

He turned and looked at her. If he’d ever seen a woman more beautiful, he couldn’t remember when. “What?”

“...Don’t go.”

“Huh,” he said. “Seems to me that’s the same request I made of you six months ago.”

And he left her there with her paintings and her memories and, just maybe, her tears.

In the attic, Richie in his pajamas was kneeling before his mummified friend. The boy had the stethoscope around his neck.

“Nobody around here likes you except me,” the boy said. “But I don’t care. And you shouldn’t either. My name’s Richie and I wish I knew your name. I could make one up, but I don’t know any Aztec names. And everybody seems to have forgot yours, anyway.”

Richie looked at the claw-like hands, the gaping mouth with its Halloween grin, the empty eye sockets that had seemed to glow before but were just black holes now.

“You don’t look so good,” the boy said. “I’m going to be a doctor someday. Like my dad. So maybe I better take a look at you.”

He held the stethoscope’s chest piece to bony ribs and listened.

And listened.

And listened.

Was that a heartbeat he heard?

Then he paused in his examination and said, “Y’know, pal — I think you’re going to be all right.”

In the trees near the walled-in yard and house, facing the side of the old house where the window air-conditioner chugged in an attic window, a Southern Magnolia ruled, a good eighty-feet tall with a spread of fifty feet, its evergreen leaves large, and lustrous even after dark, shimmering with moonlight.

Beautiful.

Up its trunk clambered something not beautiful, unseen on its ascent and all but invisible when it settled onto a branch providing a good view of the house, and the window through which he — because this watcher was not really an “it” — had on previous unrecorded visits seen through his binoculars the figure of the boy, moving from one exercise station to another.

Dennis — for that was the name of the man who some within that house described as a “creature” — had once done exercises himself. Had built muscles on a frame thought too fragile for such a thing. Had developed dexterity for himself through long hard work. He understood the boy and he could, in a way, identity with him.

Pity the child had to die.