Andrew Klavan - Damnation Street

He was in a small living room. Scarred paneled walls. A yellow sofa and a brown chair. A phone on a phone table. A television set on a stand. A wooden floor with a braid rug worn raw.

There was a coffee table in front of the sofa. There was a mug on the table, a yellow mug with brown coffee scum at the bottom of it. There was lipstick on the rim of the mug. That got to him-her lipstick.

He checked out the rest of the house, turning lights on as he went. There was a kitchen off to the right. Linoleum counters and scarred wooden cabinets. A card table set up in a corner with a couple of folding chairs. A couple of windows looking out the side of the house and one on the front, that smaller one he'd seen from outside.

There was a door here with another window, this one uncovered. He twisted the knob. This door was unlocked too. He held it open. Outside, there was a small alley of turf separating this house from the next. The alley led one way to a small patch of backyard, the other way to the front of the house. He could hear the rain falling into the alley grass.

He closed the door. He turned out the light and left the kitchen. He walked back across the living room to the bedroom on the other side of the house.

There was a double bed in here with a white crocheted bedspread skewed to one side. There was a closet with a few skirts and blouses hanging in it, two pairs of shoes and a pair of sneakers on the floor. There was a faint scent of a woman coming off the clothing. Her scent. That got to him too.

He went in the bathroom. There was makeup all around the sink. A toothbrush in a dirty glass. A hairbrush. Strands of hair in the bristles. Julie's red-gold hair.

He went back into the bedroom, switched off the lights. Now the light in the living room was the only light still burning. Weiss went to the threshold between the two rooms. He stood there, looking over the living room again.

He could feel her presence in the house-Julie's presence. She'd made sure he would know she'd been here. The lipstick on the coffee mug, the hair in the brush, the scent: she had not been gone long. Weiss felt almost as if she were standing next to him, speaking to him, trying to tell him something. She had been here and she had gone out, waiting for him to come-waiting to make sure he was the one who came. Then she would return and draw out the killer. That's how he figured it. That's what he figured she was trying to say.

But there was something else too. His eyes kept scanning the lighted room. There was something else she wanted him to know. He could feel it. The lipstick on the coffee mug, the hair in the brush

… She'd had time to choose this place, this house. She had chosen it knowing he would come, knowing it was where they would finish it. She had chosen it for a reason. She had left him something, something he could use.

Then he saw the trapdoor. It was cut into the wooden floor. It was hard to make out. It blended with the floorboards and only a small section of it stuck out from under the braid rug. It ended just in front of the coffee table. The mug-the mug with her lipstick on it-marked the spot.

He stepped to it. He stooped down. He found the iron ring embedded in the wood. He lifted the trap. The smell of damp earth came up to him from the square opening.

There was a steep, rickety wooden stairs. He had to back down it, as if it were a ladder. A string brushed his face as he descended. He pulled the string. A naked bulb went on. He looked over his shoulder and saw a dirt cellar. There were some empty boxes down there, an empty suitcase. Nothing else.

He killed the light. He climbed back up. Closed the trapdoor. He left the rug askew so that the trap was easier to find, easier to get to.

He went to the wall and pressed the light switch down. The little house settled back into darkness. There was silence except for the rain pattering softly on the roof.

Weiss felt his way across the room until his fingers lit on the ridged upholstery of the armchair, next to the phone table.

He settled himself into the armchair, facing the front door. He reached into his trench coat and drew out his. 38.

He waited.

The man who called himself John Foy waited. He was in the brown Taurus parked on the street. He had watched Weiss arrive. He had watched him go inside the gray house. Now he was sitting motionless in the dark, watching the house through the rain-streaked windows of his car.

He had his briefcase open on the seat beside him. He had the computer on. He had the monitor light turned low so it would not give him away. He could see Weiss's heat outline on the infrared readout. He could see Weiss sitting in the armchair, see him right through the walls. He could see that Weiss was alone.

He waited for Julie Wyant. He knew she would come soon. Already, he could imagine the touch of her skin and the scent of her. He could almost hear the sound of her sobbing and taste her tears. He was excited. There was a sort of low thrumming through his whole body.

It was a good feeling. He was not afraid at all. He knew he was going to die soon, but somehow it didn't bother him. It wouldn't be tonight anyway. Tonight he would kill Weiss. He would make Julie watch while he did it. He would make Weiss into something that disgusted her and then he would finish him. Then she would know he was all there was for her. He was everything in her life.

Then he would take her away. He had a place all ready for her. It was a cabin in Colorado, in the mountains, in the woods. He had used it before. No one ever came near. He would keep her there for as long as she lived. Days, weeks. She might last for months even, if he did it right. Then she would die and, when he was done with her, he would die too. It would be good, he thought. They would die there together. He was excited about it. It was the reason he had done everything he had done.

He had never felt the same things other men felt. He knew that. Passing unseen, invisible, down streets, through parks, through malls, he'd seen how other men were with women. He'd seen men holding women's hands, kissing them, leaning toward their lips across a table. He'd seen men in movies, their faces moving toward a woman's face on screen. He knew there was something they were feeling that he didn't feel, something they were doing that he couldn't do. He tried not to think about it, but he did think about it. Sometimes it felt as if he never thought about anything else.

Then he met Julie. She was like someone he had made up for himself. She was like someone he thought about when he was alone in his room. He could hardly believe how perfect she was, how much she was what he wanted. That time he was with her-that one time-it was exactly like daydreams he'd had. Watching her twist in his hands, hearing her cry out, he had thought: now-now, he was feeling what other men felt. And he knew even at that moment, he would do anything to feel that way again.

He had begged her to come with him. He had told her he loved her. She had laughed. Still sobbing, she had laughed. Then she had run away. And he knew he would do anything to find her.

He watched the house. He watched the computer. Weiss sat still, sat where he was. That was good. The man who called himself John Foy had checked the house out before Weiss arrived. There were only two doors, the front door and the one in the kitchen. He didn't think Weiss would have time to get to the kitchen but if he did, Foy would get him when he tried to come back in the front. Meanwhile, he was glad to have Weiss's company. They were in this together. Waiting for her together.

It didn't take long. A movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned and looked down the street. A car came toward him, headlights off. He couldn't tell what make it was. It parked half a block away against the opposite curb. The door opened. The top light went on. He saw a woman slipping out from behind the wheel.