Nick had already looked around downstairs. Time to expand the search. If he could get the money and whatever else had been stolen, then he could take it easy and figure out his next step in peace.
He’d memorized the text that bastard Elliot had sent. Should’ve listened when you told me to keep clear of the Espositos. Somebody may come to your apartment looking for something, but it’s safe in a place they’ll never find. Sorry I suck as a friend.
When Nick had tried to send a return message asking what the hell Elliot was talking about, the text bounced. A disposable phone, no doubt, and Elliot long gone to wherever.
Nick bet no one in New York knew Elliot was from a little village in Wisconsin. He’d only admitted that to Nick when they got drunk one night in college. He seemed ashamed of the place and told everyone he was from Chicago—as if
coming from a big city made you a better player. Arnesdale, Wisconsin, seemed like the most logical place Elliot would’ve gone to ground, or stashed stuff he’d taken from criminals.
Elliot had called his special hangout the Old Place. And his description matched this farmhouse perfectly. Hell, turned out everyone else in town called it the Old Place too.
Nick climbed the stairs two at a time. The house had personality; Nick had to give it that. He walked through a couple of oddly shaped bedrooms and two strange little tower rooms composed mostly of windows—which weren’t broken. No graffiti, either. This definitely wasn’t the city.
He tapped on walls, knelt by floorboards, peered into closets and thumped on their walls, a penlight between his teeth. Nothing.
Sighing, he switched off the penlight and made his cautious way back downstairs. He had a sleeping bag and other camping gear. He was far better prepared this time for a break from his regular life, he thought grimly as he hauled a can of fruit from the cupboard.
A cake sat on the counter. A lady had left it on his doorstep, along with a note welcoming him to the neighborhood. She’d signed the note “Missy” with a smiley face dotting the i.
He’d watched her from upstairs. She’d had hair piled on her head, an okay figure under an ugly, tight, flower dress, high heels and painted nails. Not exactly the overalls and freckle-faced farm-girl look he’d expected to find in the country. She’d seemed nervous as she’d waited and had hung around way too long before giving up and driving off.
What had that meant?
Nick studied the cake for a minute, then dumped it into a garbage sack. He wouldn’t take any chances. His father’s example had taught him that.
The sight of the cake made his stomach rumble. Right. He’d stored maybe a week’s worth of food in the cupboard. And then what?
His reserves, the money he’d saved up for years, was gone. Some of it had gone into his new identity; most of it had gone into getting this place. Land contract had been the only way he could get his hands on the house—and that meant a hefty deposit. Not that he had any intention of sticking around after he got what he needed. Even if this wasn’t the place Elliot had referenced in his text, at least Nick was safe enough here. And his new license said “Sam Allen”. Not the best alias ever, but better than “Sam Adams”. The idiot who’d sold him the ID had wanted to give him that name—inspired by a beer bottle, not the founding father.
Nick opened the peaches and ate from the can, standing at the sink, which he still hadn’t managed to unclog. The pipes had rumbled ominously the first time he’d tried the taps. A farm had well water, of course. No city supply out here in Nowheresville.
He drank the aluminum-flavored peach syrup and flipped the can into the garbage. Dinner was over.
Someone knocked on the door. He slid to the wall and drew the pistol he’d taken off the guy who’d shown up at Elliot’s place at three a.m. two weeks ago. That was the night it started, the night he’d gone to find out what was going on. The night Elliot vanished as if he’d never existed.
Through the small window in the front door, Nick could see a shadow moving and heard two voices. Two women, talking together about the weather. More neighbors?
What the hell? This house was at least four miles from the closest town, Arnesdale. Didn’t people move to areas like this, past Podunk, beyond the outback of nowhere, because they hated being near neighbors? He thought of the movies set in the country—god-awful horror movies he and Elliot had watched in college. Usually some lunatic farmer slaughtered people and made them into pies, carrying on for years before anyone noticed. That was when Elliot had described this house. The country was isolated, not Grand Central Station.
Nick sank into a crouch, resting on his heels. Eventually he’d have to go into town and interact with other people, but he had no desire to face anyone before he had to.
The women knocked again. They even rattled the doorknob. He could hear their surprise when they discovered it locked. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.
Eventually they clattered off the porch, still talking. He strained his ears and for a moment felt dismay that they were chattering about “the back porch”. Except, no, they weren’t trying another approach to this house—there was no back porch, just a door off the kitchen. Their words made no sense until he remembered seeing a sign for a Back Porch Diner in town. That was where the crowds would gather to plan their next attack on the new neighbor, he supposed. Women offering plastic containers of food and aluminum-covered cakes.
He laughed, and the sound echoed in the nearly empty room. After a lifetime of dealing with the fallout from his father leaving the “family business” and then the whole nonsense with Elliot, no wonder Nick had gone over the paranoid edge. There wasn’t some kind of conspiracy, just a bunch of bored, curious locals stopping by the house.
Probably.
Nick went back to searching the house—Elliot’s “safe place” maybe meant an actual safe. Nick had bought a shovel. Time to start digging in the dirt basement.
Nick started in the far corner, where the dirt was darker, and dug down at least two feet per hole. He was on his fifth unpleasant hole when the floorboard over his head creaked.
He froze, held his breath, listened. Footsteps crossed the floor, moving from the front of the house toward the back. The tread sounded too light for the person to be one of the thugs he’d half expected to show up on his doorstep. On the other hand, no one was calling out a welcome to announce their presence. And, damn it, his gun was upstairs in the bedroom where he’d left it.
He hefted the shovel in his hands, turning the spade head up so he could use it as a weapon; then he crept to the stairs and slowly began to ascend, catching his breath every time one creaked.
Crap, he should probably just stay put in the basement. If this home intruder had a gun, he was screwed. There was an exit from the basement to the outside—one of those old-fashioned, slanting doors. He should probably have used it and hidden out in the woods until the house was clear. But he was nearly at the top of the stairs now. Through the partially open door, he caught a glimpse of someone moving. He drew a breath and leaped out into the hallway, brandishing the shovel.