Three

GAVIN WANDERED DOWN THE CLUTTERED AISLES feeling like he was strolling through Salvador Dali’s flea market. With rows of junk stacked high on shelves, the area was set up more like a cluttered library than a pawn shop. It was a claustrophobic space, dense with knickknacks, furniture, and moldy clothing that had been out of style for many decades. He smirked, imagining himself transported into one of those TV hoarding shows, or better yet, the Island of Misfit Toys.

He moved slowly. The light was as dim as a carnival freak-show tent, and he certainly didn’t need to bump something and bring all of this junk toppling down on him. Worse was how the uneven shelves of junk barricaded any airflow. The air was dank, and in this corner of the metal box of a building, Gavin felt the July sun roasting the top of the roof far above his head.

He turned the corner of the labyrinth of junk to see a white ceramic cat perched on a shelf at the end of the aisle. Amused, Gavin said to himself, “This must be what the sign meant by ‘Antiques and Things.’ This must be the ‘and Things’ part of the exhibit.”

The cat was a typical mold-made piece like those found in any pay-to-paint shop in a mall. What made this one so bizarre was that someone had bored a dozen or so holes in it. Translucent marbles of every color plugged the holes. Examining the ceramic’s underside revealed a fist-sized hole and a mounted forty-watt bulb with a cord. “Oh, man, it just keeps getting better and better,” Gavin said with a snort. “Maybe today wasn’t a total waste after all.”

He looked around like a man on a mission. “I’ve got to plug this in. This is the perfect weird, tacky gift for Billy.” He imagined the older man opening the gift box and, after the shock, politely smiling and thanking him for such a thoughtful present. The real fun would come later when Beverly would undoubtedly forbid Billy to display the monstrosity anywhere in their home and Gavin would act wounded. Gavin would be able to use the item as proof that the man was totally “whipped.” He knew that Josephine would get a real gift on behalf of them both, but he’d rack up a lot of mileage with this little stunt.

“I’ve gotta see light shining through these marbles.” He looked for an outlet to plug it into until he remembered the penlight on the rental car keys. The crescent-moon flashlight was a marketing item from Crescent Car Rentals. Gavin had taunted the rep at the counter until she had admitted that it looked more like a banana than a moon crest.

He wedged the ceramic cat under the arm holding his jacket and took the gaggle of keys from his pants pocket. He did his best to shake his own keys from the rental ones, but the curved “moon” had hooked through the ring. The keys jingled violently until his heavier set dislodged and, with brittle chimes, bounced across the cement floor. Gavin let out an exasperated sigh as he placed the rental keys with the penlight on the shelf next to a shoebox labeled “Classey Neckties.”

As he bent to pick up his house keys, there was a rustling on the shelf behind him. He turned as the box of ties hit the floor. The keys were gone.

What the…

Gavin tried to peer through the opening left by the dislodged box of ties. He determined that whoever swiped his keys from the other side had been quick enough to block his view by placing a hot-air popcorn popper in the way. A sudden chill ran through him, manifesting in goose bumps. He stole a quick glance upward, but there wasn’t any A/C ductwork in the rafters.

He called out to his unseen culprit. “Hey, whoever’s there, the joke’s on you. I walked here. The car is miles away.” He scurried down to the end of the aisle, shouting, “So you’ll never find it if that’s your plan!”

As he lumbered around the corner of the labyrinth of junk, he was astounded that the pathway was empty.

No one could have run away that quickly, so they had to be hiding in one of the shelf nooks.

He hunched over, spying for crawlspaces in which the thief, or what he hoped was just a prankster, could have made their escape. A brief wave of nausea swept over him, causing him to shudder and break into a cold sweat.

“What was in those breakfast burritos I had this morning? Ugh… or what if it’s the flu?”

He shifted the cat lamp to his other arm as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. If he were sick, Jo would have to cancel the tour for a couple of days. That actually wouldn’t be too bad. He could use the rest.

He returned to his pursuit, though it was more of a brisk walk than a trot now. “Hey, whoever’s out there, I’m not feeling so good here. Say I give you twenty bucks and you come out.” He slowed down even more as another shiver crept up the back of his neck, making his neck hairs bristle. He swallowed hard to keep from vomiting. He was short of breath. He was definitely getting a day off from the tour. Jo wouldn’t dare risk him contaminating the “Damien Marksman Faithful” with influenza.

He sensed someone watching him from the shadows, though the person was wise enough to stay safely out of sight. “Look, no harm done,” he shouted. “I’m not mad or anything. I’ve just got to get out of here, okay? You’ve had your fun. Come out where I can see you.”

He stopped to listen for any trace of footsteps, breathing, giggling—anything. There was only the sound of his own panting. His stomach felt like it was somewhere far away. He tightened his grip on the ceramic cat in frustration.

Gavin closed his eyes to concentrate. There was a smell, a scent different from the mixed stench of mothballs and mold. It was a pleasant smell, the scent of… lavender.

The scent must have been from a perfume or body spray.

A woman.

A strong gust of air brushed the nape of his neck, and the smell of lavender was overwhelming. Gavin opened his eyes and spun around, but he remained the sole occupant of the aisle. “What’s going on here?” Gavin yelled. He swiveled back around in hopes of catching a glimpse of someone.

Another blast of air assaulted him, giving him the unnerving feeling of being caught in a vortex. The air that swirled around him was cold, but not like air conditioning or the chill of a freezer. It was as if someone doused him with a bucket of ice water, yet he was completely dry.

The sensation only lasted for a couple of seconds, but it was enough to cause Gavin to lose his footing. The cat slipped from his grip, shattering on the floor with a loud crash. Brightly colored marbles ricocheted in every direction, leaving only shards of the original piece on the ground.

The blood rushed to his face. “What the crap!”

Taking a few steps, he called to his unseen voyeur. “Let’s stop this game now. I’ll double it. Miss? I’ll give you forty bucks. Just bring my keys to me… now.” The last word soured as it left his lips, but he didn’t care.

“Enough of this. I’m Gavin Curtis. Gavin Curtis, the writer! I’m a… celebrity!”

His anger smoldered as he resolved to make whoever was doing this to him pay. His steps became purposeful—defiant even—until a blue-tinted marble found its way under his heel. Though the tiny glass orb barely weighed an ounce, it brought all 263 pounds of the man down for the second time in less than an hour.

The impact of his fall shook loose an uneven tower of vinyl records, launching a domino effect of miscellaneous small housewares and junk until the entire aisle toppled behind him. Gavin let out a grunt because of the pain in his back, followed by a few choice expletives as the area cascaded down like a faulty mineshaft of knickknacks and rotten furniture.

He stood, surveying the piles of junk that blocked the way he’d come, and spewed out a venomous rant at the debris. “If there was any money in this dump, I’d sue Béla and his brother, or cousin, or whatever that Puma-jacket-wearin’ freak of a welcoming committee is, and level this entire place to the ground!” He rubbed at the crick in his neck before adding, “And for good measure, I’ll evict that old harelip of a witch, Madame Kovács, next door!” He picked his jacket up from the floor, dusted it off, and slung it back over his forearm as he continued his search. His tirade melted away into a whine. “Jeez, all I wanted was a cigarette!”

He made his way around another aisle. A small beam of light cut through the right side of a taller shelf. The light mockingly peeked through the spaces between the boxes and clutter as if signaling to him to come. “So, hide and seek, huh?” he whispered to himself as he trotted to the source. The light bounced in exaggerated motions from the other side of the wall of junk. “That’s right, tease me all you like, but we’ll see what happens at the end of all this.”

As stealthily as he could manage, he navigated through a row of waist-high piles of clothes that lined both sides of this junk-infested corridor. The dingy fabric spilled out of overstuffed trash bags stacked two high and reeked of mildew.

Where did they get all of this junk?

When he got within a few yards of the light, it went off. At least he was close. He rounded the corner and was shocked to find that the path made a dead end at a cyclone fence. The barrier stretched up into the rafters. A metal sign posted on the gate warned “Keep Out,” embellished with a crudely painted skull-and-crossbones in red. More rows of mismatched shelves of junk blocked the view of how far back the caged area went.

He examined a large padlock—opened—and the corresponding chain that had been tossed onto the concrete floor.

The chill and sickly feeling returned briefly with the fragrant reminder of lavender. He fought down feelings of confusion and panic as he peered between the links for any sign of movement. All was still.

She had to be in here.

The gate resisted at first but finally gave way and swung open with a long squeal.

Gavin moved inside, looking for the woman. “If you need a ride or something, I can help out.”

He moved along the shelves. These were higher-quality items, though still eccentric in nature—a rack of antique muskets and bayonets; a stack of perfectly folded blue flags, bearing what he guessed to be the state emblem of Connecticut; and enough choir robes to outfit the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

“This must be where they lock away the ‘good stuff,’” Gavin huffed, heading down another alleyway of antiques. Deciding to call upon the old Gavin Curtis charm, he injected his voice with a friendly, melodic quality. “Like I was saying, I can give you a lift somewhere. I don’t mind.”

He made it to the end of another aisle. A large, rectangular object draped with a thick mover’s blanket leaned against the wall at the end. He tugged at it, causing the heavy cloth to fall to the floor. It looked like an old western saloon mirror, and on its side, it was as tall as he was. He studied his reflection in the ornate mirror.

He watched himself as he lied, laying on even more sweetness. “I’ll drive you, but I have to have my keys. I have to have my keys first, and then we can go.” He had no intention of helping this person. This game had gone on long enough. As agitated as he was becoming, he was also rethinking the forty dollars. What were they going to do about it, anyway, if he didn’t reward them?

With one hand, he tried to make himself more presentable, running his fingers through his windblown hair. As he did, the reflection showed a woman approaching from behind him, about ten feet away. He guessed her to be in her mid-twenties by the yellow sundress she wore, but he couldn’t be certain since the dim light left her face in shadow. The soft fragrance of lavender filled the area.

A few more seconds—a few more steps—and he’d have her, whoever she was. He smirked at his reflection as he turned around. “Ah, so you wanna take me up on my off—”

He froze mid-sentence—he was completely alone. His mind reeled as if it had been sucker punched. “What’s going on here?” Gavin’s lip quivered as the question escaped from his mouth. After a second, he mentally snapped back, scanning the area for the woman, but there were only shelves of junk.

The return of nausea accompanied the unsteadiness of his stance. He staggered to lean on the shelf nearest to him, but at the last second, he decided against it for fear of it collapsing. “What are you doing here?” he finally managed to sputter out. “What is this? What are you doing to me?”

As he reluctantly turned to face the mirror, his entire body felt clammy. Most noticeable was the anxious look on his face in the reflection, but the image of the woman was gone.

Something on the opposite side of the row of shelves caught his eye. Nearly ten and a half feet up on a shelf shone a tiny light. “There it is!” he exclaimed, trotting down the row. He no longer cared about the woman or what she was doing to him or even about the radio. He just wanted to get his keys and get out of there as quickly as humanly possible.

Reaching the end of the aisle, he searched for boxes or anything else that could support his weight. Quickly slinging his jacket over a bundle of PVC pipes protruding from a nearby shelf, he dismissed the idea of shaking the keys down—that’d be too risky. He’d knocked over enough stuff for one day.

On the end of a nearby shelf was a stack of pre-war knockoffs of Samsonite luggage. As he grabbed one of the cases to test the loadbearing capabilities of it, he realized he was panting. Thankfully, the case didn’t buckle beneath his weight. Any moment now, he’d have the keys and be on his way out.

He anxiously looked around to guard against a sneak attack from the woman. Seconds later, he’d formed a suitcase ziggurat and slid it against the shelf to steady it. Taking a deep breath, Gavin cautiously scaled his luggage construction. The cases were manufactured to be slightly bowed instead of flat. Sweat poured down his brow as he moved carefully to prevent the cases from sliding off one another. His heart raced.

Halfway to his destination, he saw it. Time slowed to a crawl as Gavin gazed upward at the fiery orange hues reflecting off a copper object. It had the circumference and height of a wide-brim pith helmet. At first, he hardly recognized what manner of device it was, but then he remembered photos of turn-of-the-century typewriters. That was before the machines were shaped like rectangular boxes, back when the design trend involved semicircular keyboards sprouting from a base. The QWERTY keyboard layout hadn’t even been accepted yet. Though Billy was the expert on that type of antique hardware, Gavin knew this was something special.

He guessed that the flat, round, nickel-sized pads attached to the twenty or so metal tendrils were the keys of the contraption. Even from his vantage point, the overlapping, spoke-like stems weaved in and out, twisting like pipe organ tubes before disappearing into the midsection of the typewriter. A tiny wireframe cage extended three or four inches from the top.

Thrilled with his discovery, he ascended the remaining levels of the precarious luggage staircase. “Now, that’s something Billy will love,” he said aloud.

There was a noise from behind him down the aisle, and Gavin caught a whiff of lavender again. He carefully twisted his head, but the only motion was his reflection in the mirror at the far end of the aisle. He looked like King Kong laboriously scaling the Empire State Building.

The middle suitcase shifted slightly, causing him to flail about for a second. He instinctively grabbed for the edge of the shelf but connected with the outermost typewriter keys instead. The machine responded with four rapid-fire snaps. Clack-clack-clack-clack!

Gavin caught his breath and steadied himself. He was intrigued with how the metal keys were unexpectedly warm to the touch. “Well, at least it still types.” Gavin cautiously took his final step, bringing him eye-level with the device.

A rush of confusion washed over him as he read the four letters on the page.

OUCH

At the precise moment that he grabbed the sides of the machine, a spring released with a click and thrust the carriage back into the starting position. The crisp ding of the mechanism’s internal bell acknowledged the swift reset. A perplexed Gavin was helpless as the shift in weight made him wobble on the stack of suitcases. The world moved as if in slow motion again as he let go of the device. He attempted to gain a handhold on the shelf, but it was too late—he was already falling.

He hit the ground hard, landing flat in a sitting position. Pain exploded up his spine as he let out a wail. With his head cocked back, he saw the machine teetering on the edge of the shelf above him.

Uh oh…

He watched in horror as the device broke free from the shelf’s edge and came tumbling down to meet him. There was a painful flash of light and then darkness.

Gavin dreamed of a memory from when he was ten years old. The boyhood version of him left the cramped two-bedroom apartment that he and his mother occupied on the south side of the city. They often found it necessary to relocate in an attempt to find her a better-paying job or to avoid creditors that always seemed to hunt them down eventually. Sometimes, the two of them would move two or three times during one school year. The nomadic existence sentenced Gavin to a world of social awkwardness—forced into a perpetual state of flux, doomed to the role of the outcast wherever they landed.

So it was no surprise that when the boys in the apartment complex hollered for him to come and see what they were doing, Gavin eagerly ran to them in the hopes of establishing new friendships. Maybe it’d be different this time.

The two older boys were crouched over something on the sidewalk, studying it with an uncommon intensity for pre-teens. As he approached them, the bigger of the two said with his back still turned to him, “Hey, come here and check this out.”

The dream played out exactly as it had in real life. The other boy asked, “You’re not squeamish, are ya?”

At that moment, young Gavin noticed a dissected frog on the ground and gulped, saying, “No, I’m fine.” He forced himself to take a step closer. If this was what it took to establish a friendship with the boys, he was willing to do it.

“I’m Gavin,” he said, bending to the ground. He positioned himself next to the larger boy, who repeatedly doused a cotton ball in a flimsy, disposable plastic cup and then mashed it on the frog’s head for a few seconds. Next to the frog was a small, slimy mound of what Gavin suspected to be the creature’s entrails. He noticed an odd, pale bubble beside the frog. The small sack, about the size of a nickel, was connected by a sinewy tangle of innards that came from within the jaggedly cut abdomen. The bubble expanded and contracted slightly.

It only took Gavin a second to realize that the frog was still alive. Though the sight was disturbing, he was determined not to look away, not to “wimp out” in front of the older boys.

His mind raced. He barely heard the second boy return his introduction. “I’m Troy. Troy Bridges. And this is my brother, Des. You just moved into the second-story apartment on the corner, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gavin said, masking his distaste. “Me and my mom, three days ago. Is that chloroform you’re putting on it?” The fumes made his eyes water.

“Nah, I wish. Where would we get any of that? You watch too many spy movies.” Des spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. “This is bleach and acetone. You get acetone from fingernail polish remover.”

Gavin nodded as if this was the obvious chemical alternative, the substitute that he’d have chosen to keep a frog unconscious if he were fresh out of chloroform. He paused before asking, “That mucus-lookin’ bubble there—that’s his lungs, right?”

“Well, Troy says that he read frogs breathe through their skin, but that sack sure looks like it to me.” Gavin was alarmed at the boy casually probing the frog innards with a stubby pocketknife.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Des said, plunging the blade into the soft membrane of the sack. The bubble deflated.

To Gavin’s surprise and disgust, the unconscious frog began to spasm wildly as if attempting to escape. To make it worse, the other two boys laughed, saying, “Look, it’s swimming. It’s trying to swim away.”

Troy added, “I got bad news for you, Kermit. You’re not going anywhere like this.”

Gavin watched in horror as the swimming motion slowed and then ceased entirely. His own breathing sped up.

“Pretty cool, huh, kid?” Des asked, cleaning the pocketknife on the grass.

“Let’s get another one from the ditch,” Troy said with enthusiasm as he sprang to his feet. “Comin’, Gavin?”

Tears welled up. He forced himself to say in as calm a voice as possible, “Nah, I’m cool. I wanna stay here with this one… you know, to look at its guts and all.”

“Suit yourself,” Des said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes with more. Don’t spill that cup. We don’t have any more fingernail polish remover.”

“Yeah, okay,” Gavin replied, transfixed on the lifeless thing before him.

When the brothers were a safe distance away, he ran at full speed back to his apartment. He returned with a shoebox and scooped up the frog’s remains by hand into the makeshift coffin. With tears streaming down his face, he carried the box to the drainage opening at the curb. Gavin crammed the box into the opening between the grates before returning to the scene of the crime. He violently stomped the cup, splashing the mixture in every direction. Doing this was certainly going to get him in trouble with the older boys. He might even get a beating, but he didn’t care. His mind was filled with the image of the frog struggling to swim to freedom.

A high-pitched sound punctured the bubble of the dream, rhythmically stabbing at Gavin’s semi-conscious mind like a tiny dagger. After a few moments, the sound took form. The bursts of noise were the barking of a dog.

Dog… what is that dog barking at? Gavin questioned, still unable to open his eyes. Through the fog of his mind, he felt something pushing his left thigh. Was the dog doing that? He didn’t even have a dog. No, the barking was farther away.

There was another nudge, more forceful this time.

It felt as if his brain was on fire. He struggled to open his eyes, but the most that he could manage were thin, sleepy slits. Bright, orange splotches on a background of black hovered in the haze before him.

A man’s voice commanded, “Get up.”

Something heavy was in his lap. He tried to look down at it, but he stopped short due to the blinding pain that throbbed in synch with the barking.

The orange splotches came into focus. They were a print of flowers on a drape or something.

There was another nudge on his left, even harder than the previous ones. The man’s voice, more clear now, ordered, “I said to get up!” It came from the side of the pushing.

“Where… am I?” Gavin slurred out to the orange flowers. The barking changed from annoying shrieks to a constant rumbling growl. As the image of the flowers sharpened, he strained to open his eyes to a half squint.

It was a dress worn by… Madame Kovács? What was she doing here? Wait—was he in a hospital? How could a dog be in a hospital?

“Get out of here.” This time, the nudge was a kick. Gavin rolled his head to the left. The Puma jacket man was there, ready to administer another blow. “Stop it! I’m hurt!” Gavin instantly regretted yelling at him when the effort compounded the pressure in his aching head.

“Get up or I’m call the cops,” he said with an accent thicker than even Madame Kovács’s.

“Cops?” Gavin did his best to comply, but his arms and legs were like lead. He was slumped in a half-reclining position with his shoulders and head propped against the fallen luggage. Instinctively, he shoved the antique typewriter out of his lap and onto the floor to the right of him. The impact of the device rang out with a loud, metal clang. Madame Kovács answered it with a loud gasp.

With his vision more in focus now, Béla came into focus behind her, holding the dog. The man moved forward and handed off the Chihuahua to Kovács, never slackening the death grip on his Starbucks spit cup.

Kovács stroked the dog, placing her harelip atop the animal’s tiny skull for a kiss, and then pointed at the device next to Gavin. When she said something in Hungarian, Puma Jacket shook his head in defiance.

Kovács repeated the command with more authority.

Gavin studied the man’s reaction. Even through the throbbing of his head, he noticed Béla’s thin-pressed lips and bulging eyes. A bead of sweat trickled down the Hungarian man’s forehead.

He wasn’t angry.

He was afraid.

Béla jumped into the fray and shouted in Hungarian at Puma Jacket. His shouts stoked the fire of Gavin’s headache. Béla’s yelling went on for what seemed like forever. The man’s face reddened from screaming. Puma Jacket settled for shaking his head in refusal.

These people are nuttier than an outhouse cat. Oh, my head.

Finally, Puma Jacket yelled something, and the area went quiet. Even the dog hushed its growling. Everyone standing shifted their eyes to Gavin on the floor.

This can’t be good.

Béla spit into his cup and ordered, “Stand up! Stand up now!”

Feeling nervous about being the punchline of an impending joke, Gavin went on the offensive. “I oughta sue every last one of you.” He rubbed his head, stopping when he found a tender spot that made him wince. “I’m sure I’ve got a concussion or something.” He pulled his hand back, surprised that it wasn’t covered with blood.

“He said for you to be getting up!” Puma Jacket shouted, adjusting his stance as if to show he was prepared to kick again.

“Gimme a minute, will ya?” Gavin grunted as he rose to his feet. He made the mistake of moving his head too quickly, sending his world swimming again. He waited a moment for the throbbing to return to a manageable level before continuing. “How much for the typewriter?”

Even in his dazed state, he caught the three of them trading peculiar looks. Béla stepped forward, pointing at the typewriter on the floor. His eyes were wide. “Pick that up,” he said. He paused to spit. “Put it on the shelf there.”

“Did you hear me? I want to buy it.”

Madame Kovács chimed in, still speaking Hungarian.

This time, Béla offered a translation, ignoring Gavin’s request. “Yes, and be careful not to touch keys—dangerous here. No typing. Put it back.”

Gavin scoffed as he retrieved his keys from the floor and his jacket hanging on the PVC pipes. “Put it back? I’m going to buy it.” He produced his wallet from the coat pocket.

Béla nervously spit into the cup. “No! Not possible. Not for sale.”

“My dear Béla, everything’s for sale.” Gavin snapped a single hundred-dollar bill from the wallet as if he were a magician performing his signature trick. “You just tell me how many of these you need for me to take it off your hands.” His head still felt awful, but he relished watching Béla squirm, regardless of the reason.

Gavin looked at the old woman in the black dress with orange flowers and wondered how long he’d been unconscious—obviously long enough for her to get dressed. The shining, emerald, pear-shaped necklace she wore matched the dress better than the bathrobe from when he’d first seen her. He wondered why anyone would willingly choose to wear a pear necklace. Maybe it was a Hungarian thing.

She shot him a contemptuous look while placing another wet kiss atop the dog’s head.

He took another bill out, less flamboyantly this time. “Two hundred dollars. That’s a bargain. I doubt this old clunker even works anymore, but I want it for a friend.”

“Two hundred?” Béla scoffed. “Two hundred for stuff you broke, but not that.”

Gavin answered in a belligerent tone, “Look, I didn’t break anything. Your girlfriend, sister, or wife, or whatever threw all of that stuff down when she stole my keys.” Of course, this was a lie, but they didn’t know that he was the one who had knocked everything over in the other aisle.

Béla looked genuinely surprised.

Score one for Team Gavin.

Béla spit and asked, “Girlfriend? A woman?”

“Uh, yeah, a girlfriend would be a woman.” Gavin shifted to Puma Jacket, then back to Béla. “Don’t play dumb—the chick in the yellow dress?” His side of the conversation gained traction, though he didn’t know why. “Come on. What kind of a rube do you take me for?”

Béla’s blubbery face looked puzzled.

Madame Kovács nudged the man. “See? I tell you.”

Gavin pressed his theory. “You have her lure people back here so you can mug them, right? Isn’t that the game?”

Béla spoke softly. “You saw it?”

“Her. I saw her.”

Béla nearly dropped the Starbucks cup from his trembling hand.

These people are nuts.

Béla spun around to Madame Kovács. The two began speaking frantically in overlapping whispers. They reached a consensus of sorts, and he said nervously, “Just put on the shelf, and we’ll let you go. Just put it up, but not typing.”

“Let me go?” Gavin huffed. “Am I a prisoner here? Have you kidnapped me?” He shoved the bills and his wallet into the coat pocket and quickly snatched his cell phone. “The first rule of taking a hostage is to take their communications from them.” His head felt like it would explode from pressure, but he wasn’t backing down, not one inch—not from these clowns. He tapped in three numbers, pressed send, and then activated the speakerphone setting. “See, two can play at that little ‘I’m calling the cops’ game. The difference is, I never bluff.”

Right on cue, a voice from the phone said, “911. What is your emergency?”

Béla, almost pleading, said, “You’re not understand. There are things you don’t know. It’s something—”

“You want the cops sniffing around here or not?” Gavin brandished the phone like a crucifix from one of his novels.

“911. What is your emergency?”

Then the knife came out.

“Hang up!” Puma Jacket howled with the blade in his hand. “Hang up now!”

“Whoa, hold on there, Slick,” Gavin said, lowering the phone.

“Baszd meg! Shut up! Turn off now!”

Gavin focused on the knife. The entire universe shrank to the size of a single switchblade, and that knife was aimed at his neck. His breathing became labored. The blood flowing to his head made his skull feel as if it would explode at any second, but he had to remain calm. The unwelcome image of Eunice Hodge’s worried expression flashed in his mind. “Okay… I’m doing it, doing it right now.”

“This is not joking! Turn it off!”

Gavin’s hands shook from the adrenaline surge. His index finger quaked as he pointed at the disconnect key. He demonstratively tapped the screen, holding it up in surrender. “It’s off. I hung up. Let’s just dial it all down a little. I’m putting it back in my pocket. No more cops, no police. Let’s all just be cool here, okay?”

The man with the knife wiped his forehead with his free hand. “Now, do what my brother said. Put the machine back, there.” He pointed at a low shelf.

There was no room on that shelf. It was full of multicolored porcelain cats wearing sombreros. Gavin cleared them two by two, arranging the Mexi-cats on the floor beside the fallen luggage. When one of the figurines slipped from his shaking hand and shattered on the floor, Béla screamed, “Don’t break them!”

Gavin was grateful that Puma Jacket held a knife instead of a gun. The man would have likely discharged a gun by accident by now.

“I’m sorry! I’m just a little freaked out right now. I’ll pay for them.”

Gavin methodically moved the Mexi-cats from the shelf one at a time to avoid any more mishaps. His palms were slick with sweat, but he didn’t dare stop to wipe them.

Geez, there must be like fifty of these crappy little things. Though they were only the size of salt and pepper shakers, a flash crossed Gavin’s mind—if he could throw them hard enough, he could make an escape. Who am I kidding—what if I missed? I’d never be able to outrun Puma Jacket. Maybe Béla, but not Puma.

“That’s enough,” Béla said. “Now put it in there.”

Gavin squeezed the final Mexican cat figurine tight in his palm. I’m Gavin Curtis. I don’t deserve this. But he put that cat down, too.

Béla nervously spit more tobacco juice into his cup. “Just put it away and then you leave.”

He bent down to the typewriter. The mechanism was just as strange looking from this angle. The stems fanned out of the top like metal plumage, and four brackets held a paper scroll that disappeared into the base of the machine. Everything on it appeared to be hand crafted, making some areas disproportionate from others, like a kid’s science-fair project. It certainly wasn’t mass produced.

How Billy would’ve loved this piece of junk.

“Just put it away so we can get away from here,” the Puma jacket man said. “Not safe for us.”

Gavin picked it up with both hands, intrigued again by the metal’s warmth. How can it be warm? Is that what freaks them out? Bunch of superstitious bumpkins, what do they think this is?

Gavin gently placed it on the shelf. He wasn’t sure why, but he paused while still holding the antique typewriter. He observed a puzzling phenomenon of feeling exhausted and refreshed at the same time. He stared at the device, and for a few seconds, he forgot about how badly his head pounded, how his heart was racing, and how his shirt was drenched with sweat. He forgot about how a crazy man with a switchblade stood waving it at him just a few feet away. He forgot about the fortuneteller and her dog and her busted radio. He forgot about Béla’s spit cup.

Except forgot wasn’t the correct term. He was aware of all of these things, but he was conscious of them in the way someone reading a magazine or newspaper article would be aware of what was happening in the story. He marveled at the sensation of somehow being disconnected from where and when he was. The sound of rushing wind beat against his ears, but there wasn’t so much as a faint breeze against his body.

Béla asked behind him, “What is he doing? Why is he just standing, not letting go?”

The intoxicating smell of lavender enveloped him, except he wasn’t smelling it. The scent was more like it had been transformed into a light.

The dark-grey warehouse faded to a scene of a brightly lit room—a kitchen. The entire area was bathed in ruby-red light, as if he were looking at it through a plastic sheet of red filter gel. The image of a young girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt appeared in Gavin’s mind. His vantage point was over the shoulder of the child as she playfully mashed the keys of the antique typewriter on a kitchen table. He guessed the girl to be about five or six. She giggled with delight each time the antique responded to her touch with percussive strikes.

The image in his mind zoomed in closer. The girl stopped typing and slowly turned. Shaking her head from side to side, she pointed at Gavin.

The hate-filled grimace on her face stunned him. Her mouth formed the word “no” as the scene jolted back into reality. He heard a woman’s voice scream a single word: adulterer. But it wasn’t the voice of Madame Kovács, and he wasn’t certain that he’d heard it with his ears at all.

He let go of the device, and his thoughts returned to normal. The dreamy euphoria instantly subsided into the pain, anxiety, and physical sensations of where he was. All of these things rushed at his mind as if he were looking down into a geyser the moment it erupted. His body felt heavy and lethargic again.

What was that?

Madame Kovács stared at him with her black irises as she placed another harelip kiss atop the head of her rat-dog.

Gavin cautiously put his jacket on despite the fact that he was sweating buckets. “Béla, sir… if you dislike this typewriter thing so much—”

Kovács sharply cut him off. “It is not for sale! Cannot leave here. Not safe.”

“Four hundred dollars! That’s my final offer. That works out to be a hundred bucks apiece, three for you and one for the yellow-dress lady.”

“No lady! Szellem! You go now!” Madame Kovács said through tight lips. She pointed the bug-eyed dog at Gavin and commanded the two men with a single word. “Boys!”

Béla and his brother instantly sprang into action, and before Gavin knew it, the switchblade was at his throat. A shudder of fear ran through his body like he’d never experienced.

All at once, he realized that no one knew where he was. He was keenly aware that these men could do anything to him and no one would know. Be cool, Gav. Just be cool.

Before he knew it, the men had positioned themselves behind him and were manhandling him through the maze of junk down a new pathway for him.

“All right,” Gavin said as he stumbled from the shoves to his back. “You can keep the lady’s hundred. I don’t care what you do with it.”

They were heading for the emergency exit of the shop. There was no exit signage, but he recognized the panic bar mounted on the metal door. “Look, guys, wait a minute,” he said, short of breath. “Let’s try this all again.” His head pounded with every step. “Please wait a—what’s the problem here?”

With a final shove—Gavin guessed it to be from Puma, since Béla still clutched the spit cup—he was sent stumbling toward the door. He barely managed to get his hands up in time to the push bar before slamming into the door full-on.

The metal door sprang open, and Gavin’s momentum carried him spinning another twenty to thirty feet. The unexpected brightness and heat of the sun were disorienting. When he finally stopped, he looked back at the brothers laughing just outside the doorway. Puma waved the knife as he shouted, “If you ever to come back here, I’ll cut the balls for you!”

Feeling confident that he was at a safe enough distance, Gavin converted his embarrassment and rage into mockery of the man’s English. “’Cut the balls,’ eh? ‘Cut the balls’ for me? Yeah, I guess they could use a little trim.”

“You come back, I cut you! Baszd meg.”

“If I were ever to come back to this rat hole, I wouldn’t come alone! I’d bring the entire—” Gavin paused to remember where he was. “I’d bring every Connecticut state trooper with me, ya bunch of sick—”

He saw it, but it was too late to move out of the line of fire. The most that he could do was to block with his arm to avoid being hit full in the face. Even so, Béla’s Starbucks cup of a spittoon exploded across Gavin’s midsection. The warm juice sprayed like a paintball hitting the bull’s-eye. His chest was soaked, and his hair was damp, but what did him in was the sweet taste of mint that had found its way into his mouth.

“Béla, you son of a—” But it was already too much, and his stomach emptied a yellow and pinkish paste-like substance that vaguely resembled breakfast burritos and hot sauce from a few hours before.

On hands and knees, Gavin stared with watering eyes at the slop he’d made on the cement a few feet from his nose. The pungent aroma of sick mixed with the smell of sour mint and teased at another heaving.

He heard laughter but couldn’t look up. He hated these guys. He concentrated solely on restraining his gag reflex from sending a second wave of puke through his burning esophagus. His head pounded hard enough for him to hear his pulse in his ears.

Hold it together, Gav.

As he worked at steadying his breathing, the triumphant slam of the metal door rang out from across the lot. Gavin tilted his head.

He was by himself.

An aftershock rumbled through sore stomach muscles, beckoning his gag reflex back into action. Closing his eyes tightly, he fought it down.

He suppressed the urge to cry, and the emotion surprised him. “I don’t cry,” he told himself. The idea was comically foreign to him. He concluded that this emotional treason was his body’s release, the aftereffects of the adrenaline surge now that he was out of harm’s way.

Crazy Gypsy bastards. Why were they so afraid of that thing? What kind of crazy story did that harelip witch concoct for them to act that way?

Still sweating profusely, Gavin stripped off his jacket and clutched it in his fist while it hung behind him on the pavement. He spat to clear his mouth of vomit and any remaining trace of Béla’s juice. He wiped his mouth and returned to his feet.

Why is this happening to me? I’m Gavin Curtis! I just need to get back to the resort, take a shower, change clothes, and hit the bar.

He slid his hand into his pocket, careful to avoid the dark, reeking stains of tobacco juice that had already soaked into the tweed fibers. The cell phone screen displayed: 1 Missed Call—Josephine. “Not now, Jo,” he said to himself, activating the phone’s GPS feature. When it came online, he clicked an app to summon a local cab and plugged in the address.

A minute later, his phone rang. A peppy female voice from Red Dot Taxi confirmed the request and said that her closest driver would be there in five to ten minutes.

He checked the time and looked for a spot in the shade where he could hole up until the cab arrived.

Across the way, there was a click followed by the squeak of the metal door partially opening. Gavin’s heart raced as he scanned the empty lot for cover from Béla and his brother, but they never came out. He eyed the cracked-open door suspiciously for a long moment. Was this a trap? Were they trying to lure him closer so they could really do some damage?

For some reason that he couldn’t explain to himself, he took a curious step toward the door. Nah, think about it, Gav. They had you in hand. If they intended to rough you up, they would’ve done it inside, in private.

He took a few bewildered steps closer, ready to flee at the first sight of the men. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air.

The woman… did she do this?

He paused for a few seconds, searching for any sign of movement.

Maybe she was waiting just inside the doorway to hit him on the head again to get his wallet. Maybe they really didn’t know her after all.

Gavin chided himself for whipping out his wallet so casually during the confrontation. That had been stupid. If the woman was hiding behind a stack of junk, she’d undoubtedly heard—and even possibly seen—him brandishing hundred-dollar bills.

Against his better judgment, he slowly advanced until he was peeking in the doorway. There was no sign of the woman, the men, or Madame Kovács. Gavin’s throat burned with stomach acid and bile.

As he crossed the threshold, the all-too-familiar musty smell assaulted his nostrils. It took a moment for his eyes to acclimate to the darkened area inside, and his heart rate climbed again.

If I make it through this day without having a coronary, it’ll be a miracle.

He hadn’t noticed the sound of his tennis shoes squeaking on the cement floor before, but now it was unbearably loud. He was sure it would give away his location. Gavin stopped and, as quietly as possible, slid them off and cradled them under his arm.

The cement floor of the warehouse was cool through his nylon socks. Each step filled him with dread, but something inside of him wouldn’t allow him to turn back, not yet. He moved stealthily, ignoring every rational thought in his brain like a moth drawn to a campfire.

Gavin’s spine stiffened at a nearby noise. It sounded close, but perhaps it was deeper back in the warehouse. He wasn’t sure. He froze in place and strained to listen. He wasn’t able to determine if the sound was real or if his imagination had gotten the better of him. After a few tense seconds of absolute silence, he edged onward, taking even smaller steps than before.

His heart thumped punishingly in his chest as if to remind him that he wasn’t well suited to this type of work. Technically, he was trespassing now, though it would have been their word against his. He warily scanned the area for any sign of foul play or his former captors or the woman in the yellow dress. There was still no sign of anyone.

The creative hemisphere of his brain invaded his thoughts, as it was prone to do. As he crept along, caricature-like images of Béla, Puma, and Kovács bombarded his mind. He imagined a grotesque two-headed beast that wielded a massive broadsword. One of the heads was severely misshaped and spewed venomous, armor-melting acid at regular intervals. The other rambled on about castration. The demonic twins were controlled by an equally gruesome abomination: the cave troll queen of the damned, evil in its purest form—a creature who took her orders from a barking dragon’s skull that she obediently carried at her breast.

That’s not helping right now. That’s actually making the situation worse. He bit the inside of his cheek to regain his focus, and the images blinked out of sight.

On the verge of hyperventilating, he paused to regain control over his breathing.

He wasn’t sure what had compelled him to come back. He could have walked away—should have walked away—but now Gavin had a new objective. It was mostly payback, but it was also loyalty to his old friend. He had decided to take the antique typewriter for Billy as an act of retribution for what they’d done to him.

Anxious about the time, he checked the display on his phone. To his astonishment, maneuvering through the area hadn’t taken very long at all. By his estimate, there were a few minutes before the cab would arrive, but he needed to hurry.

Gavin’s heart leapt when he turned down the aisle and the typewriter was waiting on the shelf, although it should have come as no surprise that it was exactly as he had left it. The storeowners wouldn’t even touch it.

What a bunch of superstitious, inbred cretins. That annoying little dog probably has a higher IQ than the three of them combined.

Gavin quietly placed his shoes on the cement and wiggled his feet into them. He moved to the antique but froze in place when indistinct voices echoed in the distance. His heart raced, but he kept his cool.

Was it the woman?

No, it sounded like Béla’s voice giving orders.

Cleaning up that mess would likely take them a while, and he doubted that Madame Kovács and her little dog would offer any help. She had probably returned to her fortunetelling hut by now. The only one unaccounted for was the woman in the yellow dress.

Gavin looked around, feeling vulnerable to attack, but he saw no one. The fragments of the sombrero-wearing cat crunched beneath his shoes as he reached for the typewriter. It felt good to hold the device again. Though he didn’t experience the sense of euphoria as strongly as before, there was an undeniable energy coursing through his body. He was sure that he could run a marathon at that moment if he had to. He attributed the sensation to the release of endorphins. Not getting killed by the Hungarian versions of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum certainly was a boost to the ol’ ticker.

Looking at the scroll of paper spilling from the top of the machine, he noticed a new line of type. Below the word “ouch” was the sentence:

I'M COMING THROUGH.

It struck him as the oddest thing he’d encountered all day. The three Hungarians were terrified to even touch the machine. For one of them to type on it must’ve been a major breakthrough.

Béla probably made Puma do it, but why?

He tucked the device under his arm and headed for the exit. The fear of being caught was gone. He felt invincible. With the typewriter balanced on his hip, he fumbled in his jacket for his wallet. Gavin was many things, but he wasn’t a thief.

He wadded up four of the bills and tossed them on the floor. Then, after several brisk steps, he returned and snatched up two of the hundreds, tucking the crumpled bills into his pants pocket.

Gavin effortlessly negotiated each twist and turn through the maze of junk to the exit. He swiftly shut the door, being careful not to slam it. There was no reason to risk alerting anyone to what he had done. The way they had reacted to him barely handling the antique, they’d blow a gasket at having the device out in direct sunlight.

Boogeyman never goes out in the daytime.

He convinced himself that taking it was actually doing them a service. They were free from whatever morbid fixation they had with the machine. Even more than that, he’d deliver it to a nice home where it would be treasured, not locked away in some junk-heap dungeon. Wherever it came from, whatever it was, those lunatics wouldn’t need to worry about it anymore. As peculiar as it was, he felt a little like a hero of sorts.

Across the vacant lot was a silver Town Car with a Red Dot logo on the side. He tried his best to move inconspicuously to the cab without sacrificing any speed. After a few seconds, he abandoned acting casual and broke into a trot.

The driver got out of the cab as he approached.

“Are you okay?” she asked, opening the passenger door.

He wasn’t sure if she meant because he was running or if she was commenting about the condition of his tobacco-stained clothes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Uh… I need to go to the bathroom really badly.”

It was a lie, but it instantly shut down any further questions.

“Take me to the Droverton Convention Center Resort,” Gavin said, bracing the antique typewriter on the seat next to him. “There’s a big tip in it for you if you get me there quickly enough.”