I pull the blanket around my shoulders. It’s too warm up on the barn deck, but the blanket helps with the mosquitoes. I adjust my telescope so I can see through the upstairs window. Someone is moving around in Mr. Engel’s bedroom. I guess maybe they found more evidence up there.
When the phone rings, I panic and fumble to shut off the sound. The people in the lens of the telescope look close enough that they might hear it.
It’s the policewoman. She asks me if I can come in tomorrow and record a statement about what I saw. I ask if I’m in trouble and I immediately regret the question. That’s the kind of thing a guilty person would ask, and it’s the kind of question that she would ever answer honestly.
“No, of course not. We just would like to get your statement clearly recorded.”
I agree. What else would I do?
A couple of years ago, I watched a video posted by a lawyer on why one should never talk to the police. It was a long video—two parts, that I believe ran more than an hour—but it was really interesting. The lawyer had broken down every angle in a way that wasn’t scummy at all. It made me realize how technical lawyers are. Perhaps this is obvious to everyone else. I used to think that lawyers were very creative and intuitive. The way that this guy examined his thesis from every possible angle, I began to think of lawyers like physicists. They take a statement or an idea and then they probe it, scientifically, from every possible perspective, looking for weaknesses.
In the end, I had been completely convinced. It is never advantageous to talk to police. Any sort of statement can be misconstrued and used against you, regardless of your innocence. Even if you’re the person who is making a complaint, you can be cornered and accidentally implicate yourself without even knowing it.
Talking to the officer on the phone just now, I had agreed immediately to come in and make a statement. How dumb is that?
I think that it’s because she was there, in the house. I went through a traumatic event and I’m seeking the company of other people who witnessed the same things. It was smart of them to have her call me. I want to talk to her—to find out if she felt the same ominous energy that I did down in that cellar. We had been poking around in a predator’s den with the threat that it might return at any second. It was like swimming in the ocean, far from shore, knowing that sharks lurk below.
PART THREE:
Sacrifice
Visitors
(What was I thinking?)
What was I thinking?
I could have fled. I should have waited for the police to leave Mr. Engel’s, packed a getaway bag, and then hit the road. I could be at the Super 8 near the highway, worried about bedbugs instead of holding my breath and staring at the ceiling.
I swear that I just heard a knock downstairs.
There were no headlights, and I definitely didn’t hear the sound of a car rolling into my driveway. Uncle Walt has a rubber hose across the driveway. He got it from a service station that went out of business when self-serve gas stations took over. If a car runs over that hose, a loud chime sounds in the house. Even a bicycle can trigger it. So I know that whomever just knocked must have arrived on foot.
Assuming, of course, that I really heard a knock.
It’s possible that I was half asleep and the sound was part of a dream.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
I exhale slowly and lower my feet to the floor. There’s no denying it this time.
It has to be the police.
I turn on my light and squint until I can see.
They probably found evidence of a dead body and they’ve moved up my questioning to right now. It’s the only explanation that I can live with, so I act accordingly. My shorts are draped over the chair, but I go to the closet instead and grab a pair of jeans. Another knock comes while I’m putting on my socks.
“I’m coming,” I whisper. I check myself in the mirror. Unshaven and puffy-eyed, I look a little homeless. Whatever.
I put on every light on my path as I walk through. Moving down the stairs, I realize that I’m already fixing in my imagination what I will find when I open the front door. I’ll see two uniformed officers with their hands vaguely near their belts, ready for anything.
They knock again as I’m crossing the living room.
I’ve never seen this door used—not once. There’s a bird feeder hanging out there, but my uncle never even used the front door in order to refill it. Using an old coffee can, he would walk the birdseed around from the side door. My mother asked him one time why he didn’t open that door, if at least to get some sunlight and fresh air into the living room. His response was, “Open that door? I might let some of the spiders out.”
There’s no light out there for me to turn on. I reach for the lock and pause just before I turn the bolt.
“Who is it?”
There’s a pause. One second passes, two, three, and then, finally, the visitor knocks two more times. The skin on the back of my neck crawls. My mother would say that someone had walked over my grave. She said that whenever I got goosebumps.
“Who is it?”
This time, there’s no response at all. I take a step back from the door, wiping my hands on my jeans. All of a sudden, my palms are sweaty. I’ve thrown away most of the junk that was piled on the floor in the living room, but there’s a trophy next to the garbage can that I haven’t been able to get rid of. Uncle Walt won the trophy
