Urban Gothic Page 6

  Then gunshots rang out from a few blocks away, and they all relaxed.

  “Think he’s driving around?” Markus asked. “Scoping shit out before he goes up to the door?”

  Perry shrugged. The van was still out of sight.

  “Whatever he’s doing,” Leo muttered, “he’d better hurry his ass up. They been inside there a long time now.”

  The other boys murmured their agreement. Perry nodded, but didn’t respond. Personally, he figured it was already too late for the kids inside the house.

  ***

  With one hand on the steering wheel, Paul Synuria eased the van toward the curb. His other hand clutched a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee that he’d bought at a rest stop along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. He’d spiked it with a splash of Johnnie Walker Black Label whiskey, the half-empty bottle of which was wedged under his seat. With the headlights off, he couldn’t see very well; there were no working streetlights or other homes near this abandoned house, and a bank of thick, slow-moving clouds covered the almost-full moon. His front driver’s side tire bumped up over the curb. The van shook and vibrated, and then slammed back down to the road again, jostling him. Coffee spilled all over his crotch. Cursing, Paul put the van in park. Then he set the coffee in the cup holder and rummaged around until he found a fastfood bag with a napkin inside. He wiped and blotted his pants. It looked like he’d pissed himself. At least the coffee hadn’t been hot.

  On the van’s stereo, Slipknot’s “New Abortion” gave way to Jimmy Buffet. Paul liked to tell people that his eclectic musical tastes reflected that he was a man of contradictions. He’d say that he was the only Maggoty Parrothead around. But the truth was that he’d never heard Slipknot until a few months ago, when he found a carrying case full of compact discs at a construction site he’d been sneaking around. All the CDs were heavy metal—or what passed for heavy metal these days. No big hair. Just vocals that sounded as if Cookie Monster were fronting a band. He’d sold the stash at a pawn shop, but had held on to the Slipknot discs. He liked their melodies, and their shtick reminded him of KISS, from back in the day. Their music pumped him up before he scavenged a site.

  Like now.

  Paul turned off the engine so that the idling motor wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention. Then he blotted at the coffee again and shook his head, wondering, not for the first time, how he’d come to this. He’d once been the site coordinator for a group home that served people who had mental illnesses. He’d loved the job. Sure, it was stressful sometimes, but that tension had evaporated each day when he came home to his family—his wife, Lisa, and their two kids, Evette and Sabastian. But then the group home had been bought out by a bigger corporation, and they brought in their own people to fill many of the positions. After fourteen and a half years, Paul found himself out of work.

  When his unemployment ran out, Paul still hadn’t found a job. There were no other group homes in his area, and when he searched beyond his region, he found that many of those facilities were also downsizing. Desperate, he’d taken a job at a metal scrap yard.

  And that had led to this.

  At first, Paul had been amazed. He’d had no idea that scrap metal recycling was such a big business. It was a booming, sixty-five-billion-dollar industry, thanks to an increasing global economy and the current social movement toward environmental awareness. Scrap metal was America’s largest import to China, after electronic components. Before getting the job at the scrap yard, Paul had always envisioned recycling centers as something out of Sanford and Son reruns. The truth was something different. There was money to be made in junk.

  Especially on the black market.

  He’d started simply enough. Legally, too. He’d been at the yard for a week. On his first day off, Paul explored his basement and the corners of his garage and toolshed. The assorted, castaway debris of their lives had been tossed into cardboard boxes, plastic milk crates, garbage bags, and footlockers and left forgotten in these places. Paul was pleasantly surprised by the amount of recyclable material he discovered—aluminum soda can tabs (saved for some long-forgotten charity but never turned in), brass fittings from an old cutting torch he no longer owned, bits of copper wire that he’d saved from various home wiring jobs, copper and brass pipe fittings, and other assorted junk. He’d hauled it all to the scrap yard the following Monday and made enough cash to cover one of his and Lisa’s payments on their auto loan.

  So Paul went looking for more. Before this, he’d never broken the law. Sure, he had a few unpaid parking tickets, and there was a citation for public drunkenness when he’d been in college, but that was all. He took to blackmarket metal thievery like it had been what he was meant to do all along. Looking back on it, maybe he’d been bitter about how things had turned out—giving most of his adult life to a company only to be tossed aside like so much garbage. He told himself he was doing it for Lisa and the kids—the money he brought in was more than he’d ever made in his life, and although they didn’t know how he was earning it, they were happy with the results. But the truth was, he enjoyed it. After a life behind a desk, a life of board meetings and memos and stress, being a metal thief was exciting. Liberating.

  He broke into construction sites, new homes that were not yet occupied, storage areas, foundries, ware houses, abandoned buildings, and even other recycling facilities. He scavenged electrical cables, aluminum siding and gutters, pipes, manhole covers, railway spikes and plates, electrical transformers, bolts and screws—anything he could resell. He even managed to score one hundred and twenty feet of steel and copper from an old abandoned radio tower in a remote section of Adams County.

  Paul was smart about it. He didn’t steal near their home, preferring instead to scavenge throughout the rest of the state, and even into Ohio and West Virginia. He used the van, which wasn’t registered to him, and changed the tags each time he made a run. He drove the speed limit and obeyed all the traffic laws so he wouldn’t get pulled over. Since most scrap processors required a driver’s license for each transaction, Paul had obtained two phony licenses. When he sold scrap, he did it under the aliases of Mike Heimbuch or Jeff Lombardo. He’d practiced signing their names on sheets of paper until both signatures looked different from each other—and nothing like his real signature.

  Since the economy’s downturn, he’d had to scavenge more metal than ever. Prices for copper, lead, and zinc had plummeted to levels lower than those during the Great Depression. Paul had come to Philadelphia because he’d heard that the pickings were good, and he hoped he could make up for the lower prices with a higher take. He’d never been to the city before, so he’d just driven aimlessly until he found a location that looked promising. The deeper into the city he went, the worse the neighborhoods became. Paul locked the doors and stared straight ahead, not wanting to attract attention.

  Now, as he gazed out at the decrepit old Victorian home across from him, he wondered if he should scout around for another location. Surely this place had been picked clean already. It looked positively ancient—older and bigger than any of the row homes located farther up the block. He studied it for a moment longer and decided that he should at least take a closer look.

  Paul got out of the van and quietly closed the door behind him. He glanced up and down the street, making sure nobody was watching him. Farther up the block, he saw a group of people gathered on a porch step, but he couldn’t tell if they were looking in his direction or not. Near them, on the other side of the street, a lone hooker leaned against a brick wall, adjusting her skirt. Otherwise, the street was deserted. No cars or pedestrians. Paul turned his gaze skyward. The clouds were still covering the moon. He was pretty sure that even if the group on the porch steps was looking his way, they wouldn’t be able to see him. It was dark.

  He made his way to the rear of the van, opened the door, and pulled a large toolbox toward himself. Inside were various items that he used from time to time: flashlights, wire cutters, metal shearers, bolt cutters, crowbars, a tool b
elt, screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, chisels, leather gloves, and a small, handheld acetylene torch. He slipped on the gloves and flexed his hands. Then he grabbed a flashlight and a flathead screwdriver. His intention was to quickly check the house. If it looked promising, he’d return to the van and retrieve the tools for the job.

  Paul approached the house cautiously, alert for any sign that squatters or other undesirables inhabited it. The structure was silent. He tiptoed up the sagging porch. The boards groaned beneath his feet. He reached out and tried the door. It was locked. He rattled the brass knob, surprised at its resilience, and made a note to pry it off later. While not as in demand as copper, brass still fetched a good market price.

  Paul moved around to the side of the house, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the coast was still clear. When he got out of sight of the street, he approached one of the first-floor windows and peered inside. It was pitch black. He turned on the flashlight and shined it into the window. The light reflected back to him. It took Paul a moment to realize that the glass had been painted black. A quick check verified that the rest of the windows on this side of the house had also been painted over. Shaking his head, he listened one more time. The house was still quiet. Paul pulled out the screwdriver and rapped the corner of one pane. The glass cracked, but did not shatter—exactly what he’d hoped would happen. Using the screwdriver, he pried the triangular wedge of glass loose from the window, then shined his light inside, peering into the hole.

  He saw nothing but brick.

  Somebody bricked over the window?

  Now he was intrigued. If someone had taken the trouble to prevent entry in that manner, then there was a possibility that the building had remained free of squatters or looters. There was no telling what he might find inside.

  He moved on to a second window and repeated the process. Behind it, he found another brick wall, but the masonry was a different color and texture. Paul assumed that it had been built at a different time than the previous wall.

  No way I’m getting in here.

  He walked around the house and found a back door. It, too, was locked and just as sturdy as the other. Paul had no doubt that he could break either door down, but doing so would make a lot of noise and might attract unwanted attention. Instead, he decided to see if the place had a basement, and if so, if there was outside access—storm doors or even just a set of stairs. He searched for several minutes, and while he determined that the building did indeed have a basement, there was no access from out here. There was, however, a nearby manhole cover. Paul wondered if the tunnel led into the cellar somehow. That happened sometimes in these old houses.

  He returned to the van and fetched a thin but strong cable. Then he went back to the manhole cover. He threaded the cable through the lid, braced himself, then lifted the cover, grunting with exertion. Pain coursed through his lower back, and the tendons stood out on his neck, but the manhole cover moved. An inch. Then two. Finally, he moved it out of the way, revealing the hole. He let the cover drop on the ground with a muffled clang.

  Sweat dribbled down his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand. Manhole covers were always a bitch—but they were also worth good money. He’d have to load this one into the van before he was done.

  Paul picked up his flashlight and shined the beam down into the shaft. A rusty iron ladder had been built into the side. It was dark at the bottom. He heard the sound of trickling water. A noxious stench wafted up from the tunnel. Paul winced, turning his head aside. He smelled sewage, obviously, but there was something else, as well. Something he couldn’t identify.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered. “I came this far. Might as well check it out.”

  He returned to the van and put on the tool belt, adjusting it to fit around his prodigious belly. He equipped himself with a variety of tools—the portable acetylene torch, bolt cutters, crowbar, screwdrivers, and other items. There was no telling what he might need once he got inside, and he didn’t feel like running back and forth to the van. Satisfied, he returned to the hole. Then, tucking the flashlight under his arm, Paul started down the ladder and disappeared from sight.

  EIGHT

  Javier clamped his hand over Kerri’s mouth before she could scream again. She squirmed against him, her mouth hot on his palm, and let loose with a string of muffled squeals. Javier squeezed her tighter, and Kerri’s hands flailed, slapping at him. He barely noticed. Instead, he stared wide eyed at Heather, who had just emerged from a room to their right. Her expression of astonishment matched his own.

  “Javier?”

  “Heather! Holy shit, where have you been? Are you okay?”

  Kerri went slack. Javier released her and embraced Heather, hugging his girlfriend tight.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated. “When you took off like that . . .”

  “I’m fine . . . now.” Sighing, Heather slumped against him. “Feel like I’m going to throw up. That’s probably the adrenaline.”

  He stroked her hair. “Are you sure? You cut your foot.”

  “It stopped bleeding, but it still hurts. I lost my shoes. I’m a little banged up, but nothing serious. I was so worried that you guys were . . . that he’d gotten you.”

  Javier squeezed her tighter. “We got away. So did Brett.”

  “Where is he?” Heather glanced around, looking for him.

  “We don’t know. Kerri saw him take off in the other direction. We’re guessing that thing went after him.”

  “Oh my God. I hope he’s okay. And Steph, too.”

  Neither Javier or Kerri responded.

  Heather’s eyes grew wide. “Steph’s okay, right? She got away, too?”

  “She’s dead,” Javier said. “That . . . big guy got her.”

  “Steph . . .”

  Something scratched behind the walls—light, feathery scuffling noises. Heather and Kerri both jumped, startled by the sound.

  “Just a rat,” Javier whispered. “Ignore it.”

  Heather wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then brushed tears from her eyes. Javier watched her, cracking a slow smile.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked. “How can you be smiling, with everything that’s happened?”

  “Your mascara,” he explained. “It’s running. You look like a raccoon.”

  She pushed away from him. “Asshole.”

  “Hey, come on. I was just kidding.”

  Heather gave Kerri a quick hug.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Kerri shrugged.

  “I’m sorry about Tyler,” Heather said. “I know you guys were having trouble lately, but still . . .”

  Before Kerri could respond, Javier interrupted. “We need to—”

  A door slammed. All three jumped at the noise. Footsteps shuffled toward them, but they sounded weird—as if the person was hopping on one foot and dragging something along behind them. They heard a faint electric hum from somewhere in the house. The string of lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling flickered to life. After growing accustomed to the darkness, the sudden brilliance blinded them for a second. They squinted, shielding their eyes from the glare.

  “What do we do?” Kerri’s voice trembled.

  Javier motioned toward the room Heather had just emerged from. When the girls didn’t move, he shoved them forward.

  “Hide.”

  They ducked into the room, and Javier shut the door behind him, quickly but as quietly as possible. He held his breath, hoping the hinges wouldn’t squeak. They didn’t. His cell phone was their only source of light. Heather’s and Kerri’s faces seemed almost ghoulish in the illumination. It didn’t help that his night vision was all screwed up now, thanks to the hallway lights. He glanced around the room, only able to see a few feet in any direction. The room was sparse, but he found a piece of termite eaten wood about the length of a baseball bat. A long, rusty nail jutted from one end. He picked it up and tested its weight. It wasn’t much, but it made him feel better. More confident.


  In the hall, the strange footsteps grew louder, accompanied by wet, raspy breathing and a slightly sour stench. It didn’t sound like a human being’s breathing. Instead, it sounded like an animal.

  “What if it’s Brett?” Heather whispered.

  “Shhhh,” Javier hissed, motioning at them to go to the back of the room. He stuffed his cell phone back in his pocket as the girls retreated. They vanished from sight almost immediately, swallowed by the shadows, and Javier reluctantly wished that he’d told them to stick by his side instead. The room seemed more sinister without their presence, and even though he knew they were still close by, their absence seemed greater. He couldn’t believe how dark it was inside the room. Hefting the piece of wood, he flattened himself against the wall next to the door and waited. His heart beat faster. A strand of cobweb brushed against his face, sticking to his hair and skin.

  Something pawed at the doorknob. Javier tensed. The door slowly swung open. The light in the hallway seemed like a mini sun. The sour stench became overwhelming. A shadowy form stepped into the room. Its asthmatic wheezing seemed to fill the space. With a cry, Javier whirled, swinging his makeshift club at the space where the intruder’s face should be. The length of wood whistled through the air and smacked against the doorframe. The shock vibrated through Javier’s arms. Dust and plaster from the ceiling rained down on his head.

  I fucking missed?

  Javier’s eyes adjusted to the light. He glanced down at the figure and saw why he’d missed. The intruder was a midget.

  With a very large knife clutched in one gnarled fist.

  “Gotcha,” it wheezed, and then slashed at his crotch with the blade.

  Heather and Kerri screamed.

  Javier leaped backward, narrowly avoiding the attack. He winced as the tip of the blade brushed against the fabric of his jeans. Luckily, it went no farther. Javier swung the club again, this time in a downward arc. The midget shrieked as the nail tore a ragged gash in his lumpy forehead. Blood ran into his eyes. He stumbled around, squealing with rage. Not pausing, Javier swung a third time. The nail caught the dwarf just beneath the chin. His jaws slammed shut as the nail sank deep into the flesh.