EIGHT

“Did you see what happened over there?” Gert Gorin gushed to her husband as they returned to their own house. “Did you see the way Bryan grabbed Heather and practically yanked her away from that wife-killer?”

“You know, Gert, you really ought to be a headline writer for the National Enquirer.”

Arthur was about to settle into his favorite, frayed, worn-down armchair. Pointing the remote control at the television set, he pressed his thumb and the Yankees game appeared like magic on the screen. He settled back into his chair.

“I’m telling you, Arthur, something very peculiar is going on in this neighborhood. I’ve seen Heather Pierce go in and out of John Manning’s dark, gloomy castle more times than I can count. And today, I saw the way she was looking at him, her eyes all filled with jealousy and rage, while he carried on with that German teenager.” Gert was taking down her binoculars, which she kept hanging on the wall from a hook. “But the joke was on him! He didn’t know that girl is actually Jessie’s lover.” She placed the binoculars against the glass of the picture window and pressed her eyes into them to peer outside. “I don’t really blame Jessie for going lesbionic after all the crap she’s been through with men.”

“Maybe you oughta try it, Gert,” Arthur said, not really paying attention to her, keeping his eyes on the ball game.

“But I wasn’t the only one to notice Heather’s raging eyes. Her husband saw it all too well. And you saw what he did, didn’t you, Arthur?”

Her husband didn’t reply. The bases were loaded. He leaned forward in his chair, watching the television.

Gert pulled away from the binoculars and looked over at him. “You saw what Bryan did, didn’t you, Arthur?”

“Not really,” he said, watching the guy at bat strike out and cursing under his breath. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“He decided two could play that game so he started hitting on Jessie. You know they used to date in college. I remember the day she brought him up here to meet her mother. And I also remember that fast-and-loose Heather swinging her butt up the road in her short shorts and stealing Bryan right away from innocent little Jessie.” Gert shook her head and returned her eyes to the binoculars. “Back in those days Jessie was still innocent. My, how times change.”

“Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You, poking your nose into other people’s business.”

Gert spun around at him. “I don’t get involved! I just watch! Because it’s better to know what’s going on in the neighborhood than be surprised. Remember, I was fully aware of how dangerous that Emil Deetz was months before he killed that man. I’d been watching him and Jessie fly up and down the road on that ungodly loud motorbike of his. I knew something bad was going to happen, so I was prepared. When everyone else was shocked to see the police cars across the street, I wasn’t. I had expected something like that all along.”

The guy up at bat got a hit, and the guy on third base slid home. Arthur let out a whoop.

“Oh, Arthur, stop yelling! It scares me!” Gert gave up on the binoculars. It was getting too dark to see anything. “But I tell you, seeing Bryan try to hit on Jessie was something else entirely. Really, the man has no shame. I understand that his wife was embarrassing him, plopping herself down next to John Manning and making goo-goo eyes at him. But after how Bryan dumped Jessie, for him to start whispering to her . . .” Gert shuddered. “I mean, did you see the way she stood up so quickly and stormed off? I can only imagine what he said to her.”

For the next hour, as the last of the sun disappeared behind the trees, Gert kept up her watch of the neighborhood, peering out the window, hoping to see something, anything. Finally, just as she was about ready to call it a night, something caught Gert’s eye. She quickly grabbed the binoculars again.

“Somebody’s coming out of John Manning’s house,” she announced. “I can’t see who, though. Too many trees.”

“I’m sure Mr. Manning will be glad to dig them up to give you a better view.”

“Whoever it was didn’t walk out into the street,” Gert said, straining her eyes to make something out in the darkness. “He—or she—must have cut through the trees toward Jessie’s house.”

A flash of movement, a hint of color, suddenly appeared among the shadows. Then it was gone.

But it was quickly followed by what sounded like a scream.

“Arthur!” Gert shrieked. “Did you hear that?”

But he didn’t reply, All he could hear were the horns and chants coming from the bleachers at Yankee Stadium.

“Arthur!” Gert said, waving at him to get his attention. “I just heard a scream.”

“Of course you did, Gert. You live to hear screams.”

“No, I did! Seriously! Please come here! Put the ball game on mute and come over to the window. Please, Arthur!”

He groaned, but he did as his wife asked. He knew if he resisted, she’d keep caterwauling until he followed her instructions. So he turned off the volume on the television and pushed himself up and out of his chair. His back was aching him, so he walked extra slowly over to the picture window.

“Hurry up, Arthur!”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“I’m telling you, I heard a—”

The sound came again. It was high-pitched and shrill.

A strange sort of sound. Maybe a scream . . . but maybe laughter.

“That’s what you heard, Gert,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “The little girl is over there playing. Sorry to tell you, but the show’s over for tonight.”

He shuffled back over to his chair. Within moments the sounds of Yankee Stadium were once again filling their living room.

Gert peered outside. She tried to see something. Anything. But finally she gave up. Arthur was right. The show was over.

But she’d be back at the window the next morning. Who knew what she might see then?