away, and she looked immediately behind her to make sure there wasn't an approaching bear or murderous criminal, but of course there was not. She was the only one on the road, and she watched him hop up the gravel driveway and disappear into the house.
A moment later, she saw his face at one of the small windows staring at her and scowling.
Despite his obvious fear, something about the man seemed threatening to her, and she hurried on up the road. Again she thought of the association, of telling them that this weirdo had been bothering her, trying to scare her, but she stopped herself. Where was this going to end? Was she going to run crying to the association every time life wasn't perfect, every time she encountered a minor inconvenience or saw something slightly out of the ordinary?
She had changed her mind about calling Chuck, and it took her a moment to realize why.
She didn't want to be beholden to the homeowners' association.
That was a strange way to think. She and Barry paid dues, and she had every right to expect that they be provided services for those dues.
And the association had helped her out with that lunaticDekeMeldrum and had not asked for anything in return. But the feeling remained that by asking for help she would be calling in a favor, a favor that would be expected to be repaid at some time in the future.
As much as she tried to deny it, as much as she refused to admit it, she seemed to have bought into Ray's and Barry's paranoid mind-set. Of course, the fact that nearly everyone at the Dysons’ party had had association horror stories lent their paranoia a certain amount of credence, but it was not logical arguments or recitations of actual events that swayed her, it was her own nebulous feeling that... that if she called on the association for help, she would owe them.
What if, she wondered (and here she was really edging into Barry and Ray territory), those two teenagers at the tennis courts had been sent over specifically to harass her, in the hopes that she would call the homeowners' association and thus be indebted to them?
That was ridiculous, but although her other thoughts were almost as ridiculous, she did not discount them, and she hurried up the last section of hill, feeling better only after she was safely back inside the house with the door shut and locked behind her.
Ray spent the morning sanding and re-staining the deck. It probably didn't need to be painted for another year, but he liked to keep on top of things, liked to have the house looking good. Besides, he knew it drove the homeowners' association crazy that they couldn't cite him for neglect.
Although they'd no doubt find something to jump on his ass about. They always did.
He took a shower afterward, scrubbing his arms with Ajax in an effort to get the redwood stain off his skin. He was reaching around, trying to clean off his elbow, when the shower door was pulled open.
He let out a startled cry.
Six men stood in his bathroom, staring at him.
It was not Neil and Chuck and Terry this time, not the underlings or the toadies, not the newcomers. It was the board. The old men who ruled and ran the association. They stood close together in the confined space, faces partially obscured by shower steam, draped in the absurdly decorated judicial robes that they used when presiding over meetings.
Ray shut off the water. 'Get the hell out of my house,' he ordered.
The steam was clearing, he could see their faces.
The treasurer looked at his shriveled, dangling genitals. 'You call yourself a man?'
Ray's heart was thumping hard enough to burst, and he was filled with a deep consuming terror unlike anything he had ever known. He had never seen any of these men up close before--not this close, at least--and they were older than he'd thought, their skin wrinkled and almost translucent, like ancient parchment.
There was also ... something else about them. Something strange and undefinable that he could not quite place but that frightened him to the bone.
The president stepped forward. He was not snickering, and there was no smile on his face, only righteous anger. 'Neil warned you, told you to behave.' His voice was quiet but growing stronger, tone and volume steadily mounting. 'I thought he and his committee made it abundantly clear that we would not put up with any more of your shit!' One knuckled fist hit the side wall, causing Liz's perfume bottles to shake on their shelf.
The other men were nodding assent.
Ray wanted to step calmly out of the shower stall, dry himself with a towel, and put on his bathrobe as they lectured him. But they were all pressing closer, and he knew that would not be possible. His heart rate accelerated, and though he tried to respond, tried to say something, his mouth would not cooperate and all it did was cough.
The treasurer casually picked up Liz's can of hairspray. There was nothing casual going on here, though, and Ray steeled himself to be sprayed in the face, in the eyes.
Instead, the old man cocked his arm back and threw the metal can as hard as he could at Ray's midsection. The bottom rim connected solidly with Ray's stomach, drawing blood and a gasp of pain. The can clattered to the floor of the shower stall.
'I thought everything was made clear,' the president said. 'I thought you understood.'
This was it, Ray knew. There was no way they could expect to get away with this sort of harassment, no way they could think that he would not turn them in to the authorities. They could not expect to shut him up after invading his house like this.
Not unless they planned to kill him.
And that's exactly what the feeling in his gut told him was about to happen.
He saw all the evidence he needed in the president's eyes.
The bathroom seemed to be getting smaller as the six black-robed men pressed forward, advancing on him. Ray looked around desperately, trying to figure out some way to get by them, some means of escape, but the only window was a small opaque one above the toilet, and the board members had taken up all available space between the shower and the door.
He was trapped.
They weren't wearing gloves, he noticed, and a wild optimism flared within him. They'd left their fingerprints all over the doorknobs and anything else they'd touched. So maybe they weren't planning to take this all the way.
At the very least, if worse came to worst they'd be caught. Even Hitman couldn't shield them from a murder rap, not with Liz on their backs.
'We heard that you were rabble-rousing, inciting rebellion, telling people to--' He inhaled deeply, grimacing, obviously having difficulty even speaking the words, '--ignore the C, C, and Rs .'
There'd been a spy at the party, a traitor, and Ray quickly ran down a list of names and faces, trying to figure out who'd betrayed them.
Frank, he thought. It had to be Frank.
Everyone's an informant.
He should have heeded his own dictum, not been so open in his dissent, so free and easy with his opinions. He had not entirely trusted Frank since the man had tried to defend the association after Barry's cat had been killed, and Ray should have been more circumspect around him. Hell, he shouldn't have invited him to the party.
But he had always been one to see the best in individuals, even those who belonged to organizations and institutions he distrusted, and he had given Frank the benefit of the doubt.
Ray looked into the angry eyes of the president. The smart thing to do would be to deny everything, to explain that he was drunk at the time, to bow down to the board and kiss their asses. But he had the feeling that nothing would make any difference, so he stood up straight. 'I
did,' he admitted. 'And I told them, Tuck the association!''
'You worthless little shit.' The president came at him.
And pushed. Ray slipped, fell backward, hit his head. There was a flash of horrendous pain, the warm feel of blood gushing from beneath his scalp, and he closed his eyes and lay there unmoving, hoping they would think
