Lowell is folding the canvas drop cloths and stacking them neatly in the back of his truck. From habit, he reaches between them for the backpack, and when his hand finds nothing, panic fizzes through his blood and his heart cavorts. Sudden dizziness overwhelms him and he has to lean against the side of his truck. Then it comes to him, with a great lifting of the spirit, that he has taken care of all that. He feels like someone waking from a nightmare. He does not need to worry anymore. The ring binders are safely sealed into his walls. They could stay there for a decade and the only risks would be from insects and damp. As for the backpack and the tapes: they are back where they started, where his own father had deemed them to be perfectly safe, in a locker at Logan Airport. He put them there yesterday and he alone has the key, which he has threaded on a thin gold chain around his neck. He touches the key through his T-shirt and its outline cheers him so much that he whistles as he folds and stacks canvas. I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus … underneath the mistletoe last night …
He levers the aluminum extension ladders off the roof rack, balancing them against his gut, lowering them to the ground. They are awkward, but not heavy. He drags them down the drive to the cement-block storage shed that is shared by all tenants. He has his own key for the padlock, and his own section inside. He hangs the ladders on steel hooks high on the wall. He goes back to the truck for his paint cans. In the shed, he pries open a ten-gallon drum of oil primer, tilts it, and pours from its spout to top up a small gallon can.
“Hey, Lowell,” Kevin says from the doorway.
“Hey, Kevin. How’s things?”
“Great,” Kevin says. “Things are great. Great time in Buffalo. Great Christmas. And you?”
“Best Christmas in years. When d’ya get back?”
“Got back this morning, just after you left for work, probably. Met a girl at my brother’s Christmas party. Could be the one.”
“Go for it, pal. What’s her name?”
“Shannon.” He smiles when he says it. “Kevin and Shannon McCarthy. I’ve been trying it out. Has a good sound, don’t you think?”
“Sounds meant to be.”
Kevin grins. “She’s coming east next month, so I was thinking, you know, got to fix the apartment up a bit.”
“Hey.” Lowell grins. “Serious stuff.”
“You better believe it. So I was wondering … I mean, that’s your thing. I was wondering if we could trade some way. Like, you paint my apartment, I can get you box seats at Fenway Park for a game. I can get ’em from where I work, through my boss.”
“You got yourself a deal,” Lowell says. “I love to take my kids to Fenway Park. Hey, Rowena might even come.”
“Hey. Must have been a really good Christmas.”
“Fantastic,” Lowell says. “Best ever. Got my fingers crossed.”
“Looks like a good year coming up all around,” Kevin says. “Going to be the year for the Sox too. I got a good feeling about that.”
“I think so,” Lowell says. “Great lineup. I think it’s going to be a Red Sox year.”
“So, d’ya think maybe next weekend we could get a start on my place? Cream, I think. Almond. Whatever they call it.”
“Well, I don’t know, Kevin. I mean, I hope I’ll have the kids this weekend.”
“Oh, right. Well, yeah, your kids come first. So, ah, when d’ya think …?”
“How about late on weeknights, instead of weekends?”
“Sure. Sure. No problem. I mean, I can pitch in too. Can’t be that much to it.”
“Stick a roller in your hand, you can do it.”
“Great,” Kevin says. “Oh, listen, nearly forgot. The guys came with your sink today.”
“Came with my sink?”
“Yeah. The new one. They got it installed.”
“Not me. I didn’t order a new sink. Must be Darlene.”
“It was your apartment,” Kevin says. “They showed me the specs. I had to get the master key and let them in.”
Lowell can feel foreboding move through his body like heavy blood. “Must be Rowena, then,” he says clumsily. His tongue feels wooden in his mouth. “Must be a New Year surprise.”
“That must be it,” Kevin says. “Well, let me know what night you can start.”
“Right. Night, Kevin.”
“Night.”
Lowell padlocks the shed. He pulls the cover across the back of his pickup and fastens it down. His hands are shaking. The muscles in his legs feel weak, stretched too far. They feel like elastic gone slack. His whole body aches. Dread rises with him up the stairs.
He opens his door and knows instantly. The worst has happened.
White powder floats everywhere like smog. Drywall has been pulled from the studs. The apartment has been stripped and ransacked. He knows without looking, but he looks anyway. His pantry shelves are bare, the milk safe empty. In the storage room, the pegboard lies in fragments on the floor. There is nothing in the space between the studs.
He feels for the chain around his neck. The key to the locker is there.
Very quietly, he closes his front door, pulls off his shoes, and walks downstairs in his socks. On the porch, he slips his feet back into his sneakers. He does not go to his truck. Keeping to shadows, he moves down the street. He is wearing the old paint-spattered running shoes that he uses for interior jobs, and the shoes slip and slide on the snow. He breaks into a run, making for the subway stop in Union Square. He begins to plan his route. He will take the Red Line to Park Street, but he will not take the Blue Line direct to the airport. He will need to be more devious and more cunning. He will need to plan a roundabout route.