Closing Costs Page 4

  The man whipped around the staircase and raised his arm, something dark in his hand like a piece of shadow pulled from the murky room. Evan’s eyes went wide with realization just as the man’s arm swung down and the black injection-molded mini bat that Evan usually kept by the front door bashed against the back of her husband’s head. He went down, limp and loose like a doll, his chin bouncing off her lap on the way to the floor.

  She screamed through her gag.

  The man sneered down at Evan and reared back with the bat for another blow. But Evan didn’t move, so the man slowly lowered the weapon. He grinned, and it was horrible.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow this,” he said.

  She screamed again. Howling in rage and terror and frustration and more that flowed through her with the speed and force of a river.

  He raised the bat and said, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” But she screamed incoherently at the intruder through her gag.

  He said it again louder, and the words formed in her mind slowly. He took a step closer, with the bat over his shoulder.

  Nelle stopped screaming, though she couldn’t keep herself from making grunts and small peals of desperate sound. Terror deranged her. Behind the cotton in her mouth and the tape over her lips, she formed Evan’s name in her throat, needing to say it, needing to wake him, but too out of breath to give volume to her urging. Oh god he’s dead don’t let him be dead oh no please no I love him so much!

  The man took a step back, lifting his knee high and stepping over Evan’s body. He tossed the bat behind him without looking and grabbed her husband’s wrists. He dragged Evan over to the weight bench. He glanced up at Nelle and, for a second, seemed surprised at the look she gave him. Maybe he expected fear, or concern for her husband. He seemed not to have anticipated hate. But she did hate him—more than anyone else she’d ever known or even thought of. She hated him more than cancer and domestic violence and depression and drunk drivers who killed whole families and everything else she’d ever seen at work that ruined lives. If she got the chance, she’d kill him. She wanted to do it now. Bash his brains in with the bat he’d clubbed her husband with. But that had clattered away into the shadows. It might as well have been on the moon.

  Before she knew what was happening, the man drew the gun out of the back of his pants, stepped over to her, and hit her in the face with it. Lights flashed behind her eyes and the room spun. “You don’t get to give me those looks, y’fuckin’ bitch,” she heard him say from what seemed like far away. “Not if you want him to live through this.”

  Not, “if you want to live through this.” Want him to live through this. She wanted them both to survive . . . whatever this was. On the news they call it a home invasion, an unhelpful voice in her head informed her. Other stories filtered through her daze. That one about the doctor and his wife murdered in Connecticut. The other one with those kids who killed the woman up in Mount Vernon. She couldn’t recall a news story about a home invasion ever ending with the occupants of the home surviving. It was always, “they were found dead at the scene by investigators,” and “the victims of the deadly break-in included . . .” There wasn’t any reason to take the man at his word about Evan’s survival, or the slight implication of her own. He’d brought a gun into their home; she figured he intended to use it eventually.

  Stunned from the blow, she tried to soften her expression. She’d go along with whatever he wanted until she thought of something better . . . or she died. Nelle tried to think of something better.

  The intruder turned away, shoving the pistol back in its holster. He rolled Evan onto his back and grabbed him under the arms. He started to lift him, but stopped when his grip slipped and had to reposition his hold. Evan was slender, but fit, and weighed more than he appeared to. He’s deadweight. She tried to push the thought away, but it lingered, an intrusive melody. Deadweightdeadweightdeadweight. Evan’s head lolled as the man ducked down to get a better grip on his body. He lifted him again, pulling him up and onto the slightly reclined weight bench.

  The man lost his balance stepping over the dusty dumbbells and almost dropped Evan again. When he finally got her husband up onto the bench, he was panting. Evan’s head rocked forward, and he slumped down. The man caught him in a bear hug and shoved him back. He steadied Evan against the backrest and stepped away slowly, hands out waiting to catch him if he went over, like a narrow-bottomed vase. For the moment, Evan stayed where he was. The backrest was inclined, and he sat there reasonably well-balanced.

  The man grabbed the duct tape and pulled a strip off the roll. The terrible ripping sound made Nelle’s stomach turn. She watched as he taped her husband down like he’d done to her.

  At least he won’t fall.

  He started at Evan’s midsection, taping him over his chest and arms to the backrest before moving on to his wrists and ankles. Every minute he spent binding Evan, Nelle’s hope faded. She was near to losing it completely when he finished.

  The man stepped away, returning to the laundry dryer behind her. He reappeared and stuffed a piece of clothing into her husband’s mouth before taping over it as well. Nelle grunted and shook her head, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good and might even get her pistol-whipped again, but beyond caring. Her cheek where he’d hit her was mostly numb anyway. A little hot.

  “Shut up.” The man’s voice was hotter. Mean.

  Nelle did as she was told.

  “Good girl.”

  Good girl. She’d bristled. I’m not a dog, motherfucker. She couldn’t say it aloud, but her defiance, even silent, was the only thing she had. I am not a dog.

  The intruder wiped an arm across his forehead and sighed. He turned and went upstairs.

  Nelle wondered what unrealized need was keeping him from killing them. What was it he wanted? She listened as he paused overhead in the kitchen. She heard the sound of clinking glass and then the faucet. He was getting himself a drink. Choke on it, you son of a bitch.

  A movement from the weight bench drew her attention. From the corner of her eye, a shadow seemed to flit away into deeper blackness behind it.

  Evan’s head tilted slightly. A short bob up and then down again. She saw it. Saw him move. Nelle tried getting his attention, grunting his name, which came out “Ea-uhn.” But his head didn’t right itself; his eyes didn’t open. She worried that even if the intruder didn’t shoot him, Evan would still die. Did he have a concussion? Bleeding in his brain? He’s dying right now. He’s dying and I can’t see it except I can totally see it and I can’t call for help or get his attention or even say his fucking name. There was a feeling she got at work, that the world was an unfair place and embalming the dead gave her a front row seat to its many injustices. She’d gone to mortuary school because she wanted to help people, even if just meant helping them say goodbye in a loving and dignified way. But then she’d have to work on a child who drowned or a college student killed in a drunk driving crash, a young mother with cancer, and there it would be, right in front of her. No matter how many good people populated it, the world wouldn’t be any less terrible for them or anyone else, because it was the world. Cruelly absurd and indifferent. Sure, standing over the table was different than being the family member waiting for her work to be done. It was different than being the person on the table. At the end of the day, she walked away, went home, and had a glass of wine with the love of her life and watched TV or read a novel until she got drowsy and retired to a warm bed. And then in the morning, she did it all again. She was—they were—part of the world’s unfairness—willing participants, and now it was their turn on the table.

  She shook her head, trying to dispel her dark thoughts. They would only hinder her from finding the will and the way to get free. She looked around the cellar for something she could use to cut the two of them loose. Their meagerly appointed toolbox was upstairs in the garage, and everything else around her was either unwieldy or ill-suited. And none of it was worth a damn if she was stuck in this chair and couldn’t rai
se a hand to reach it.

  Nelle tried working at the tape around her wrists, focusing on her right one. Freeing her dominant hand would lead to everything else being undone. If she could get it loose, she could get free. And then she’d grab a weight or a bottle of wine out of the rack to use as a weapon. A wine bottle seemed like a better cudgel than a dumbbell. But the duct tape held—as it was made to do. It always tore so easily from the roll, but wrapped around her wrist in multiple layers, it might as well have been a steel handcuff. Her fingers were beginning to lose feeling. She realized couldn’t feel her feet at all, the man had tied her so tightly. She struggled harder, rocking the chair, but it was no use.

  She felt like crying again, but that was wearing her out, making her head hurt. Or was it being smacked in the face with the pistol that did that? Worst of all, tears made it hard to see clearly, and while the irrational part of her was fine with that, the rational part knew that seeing was important. She needed to be able to see the intruder when he came back, watch his movements, his face.

  More than anything else, she needed to be able to see Evan.

  She promised herself she’d close her eyes only when the end came. She’d allow herself that kindness.

  She kept her eyes open and worked at the tape.

  She wondered how long the man had been watching them.

  III

  ◆

  Closing

  7

  FORTY-FIVE DAYS BEFORE CLOSING

  It was the fire that made them fall in love. Evan and Nelle had seen plenty of places they liked, a couple they even called their agent about, but the market was competitive and they were beginning to lose hope. There didn’t seem to be anything out there worth putting an offer on, let alone having a bidding war over. They’d been to so many open houses and seen so few worth the money the sellers were asking. Even the fixer-uppers were selling for above listed value. One place, for sale “As Is,” with brown nicotine-stained walls and sagging, angled floors, had still gone for fifty thousand dollars more than asking. It depressed them that even an uninhabitable house that was probably going to be knocked down to build a McMansion was outside the price range they’d set for themselves. They could afford anything they wanted, but they’d agreed to a budget. They had to be disciplined, even while looking for a house they both knew they shouldn’t buy right now.

  They’d started out cautiously, but after a while, house hunting got to feel like being a shark. They wanted to keep moving, keep searching. If they didn’t go to at a least a couple of open houses a weekend, it felt like sinking. Even if there wasn’t anything worth seeing. They kept telling themselves it was December and most sensible sellers were waiting for spring to list their homes. There’d be more in March and definitely April.

  Despite the snowy roads and cold temperature, this open house was busy. People moved through the place, clutching flyers the listing agent handed out at the door, pointing at features they liked and disliked, trying to imagine their things inside instead of the show furniture. They flowed around the other buyers, trying to get a sense of the space as it would feel with only them inside, instead of a crowd. Everything about the first story open floor plan connecting the living room, kitchen, and dining room felt right. The colors the walls were painted, the fixtures and appliances, the hardwood floors—they wouldn’t have to spill a drop of paint or even change a light bulb to make it theirs. And then they saw the fire burning out in the back yard through the kitchen window.

  The realtor had shoveled a path through the snow from the back door to the built-in patio fire pit. They walked outside and held their cold hands out to the flames. Nelle looked around at the bright white yard. “It’s big,” she said.

  Evan nodded. “We can get a lawn mower.”

  “Are you going to buy one of those riding ones?” She smiled and shoved at him with her shoulder. “You want me to send in your subscription to AARP magazine when you get it?”

  “It’s not that big. The day I say I want a riding mower, you are allowed to shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

  “Deal!” she said. “After you’re done with the mowing.”

  The agent came walking outside, rubbing at his arms to keep warm as he carefully stepped off the icy deck onto the patio. He sidled up next to them in front of the fire and smiled. “Great, isn’t it?” He held out a hand. “I’m John. It’s so busy in there I didn’t get a chance to ask your names.”

  “I’m Evan. This is my wife, Nelle.” Evan shook the realtor’s hand. The salesman let go quickly, though, and leaned over to shake Nelle’s hand. The guy’s grip was a little too forceful. Still, it was better than that knuckle-up tilt other male agents gave her, like they wanted to give her some chivalric kiss on the back of her hand.

  “Evan . . . and Nelle.” He said it and paused. Nelle caught sight of a small gold cross at the hollow of his throat and knew what was coming next. “Really? Like . . . ?”

  She said, “We didn’t plan it that way. It just worked out.”

  John the real estate agent smiled again, broader this time. His front teeth on the top and bottom were a different color than the rest. Extra white. Nelle tried not to stare, but it was jarring to see dentures in someone she’d assumed was their own age. She guessed either a traffic accident or hockey. Probably hockey around here. He had that look. Stocky and a little cagey, like life moved too slowly for him without skates.

  “Do you have any questions about the property or the neighborhood?” he asked. He looked over his shoulder at the house, belying the fact he was there to let them know he knew they were there, not to take them seriously as potential buyers. They were young. Outside of today’s demographics of home buyers, and their look didn’t help. They’d started out dressing conservatively to tour open houses, but after a few, abandoned the effort. People still treated them like they weren’t serious, no matter what they wore. In their retro outfits, they looked like half a Mad Men inspired punk band. And no one imagined a couple of rockabilly hipsters would have the money for a down payment on a place like this, let alone the income to pay a mortgage. At least it was cold out and he couldn’t judge their tattoos through long sleeves and gloves.

  Nelle held up the flyer and shook her head. “I think everything we want to know is covered here. Except why anyone would want to sell this place.” She let out an awkward laugh, knowing her joke wasn’t all that funny, but trying anyway. She didn’t ever know what to say to the real estate agents they met. It was a weird situation to be in. After spending only twenty or maybe thirty minutes in a place, she and Evan were trying to make a decision whether to spend three quarters of a million dollars on it. And the real estate agents all wanted to make small talk as if that would help people come to a decision instead of distracting them from actually getting the feel for the house.

  John nodded vigorously. “It’s definitely beautiful. The owners have done a complete renovation over the last couple of years. He’s handy, and she’s got a home redecorating/remodel business. They put a lot of effort into making it a showpiece for the business. They vaulted the ceiling in the dining room themselves and converted the sunroom you just came out of from a three-season to an all-year family room. The hardwood floors in the dining room and family room are brand-new too.” He pointed toward the end of the yard where a low New England rock wall bordered the property. “You’ve got a neighbor on the other side of those bushes, but no one else back there or to the north for a couple miles. That’s the Cabot Woods State Park. Miles and miles of hiking trails and gorgeous forest. You folks have kids?”

  It was the sort of thing well-meaning people all over asked every day without any thought other than that it was a conversational bridge. If the answer was yes or “we’re planning on it,” Nelle imagined the man would segue into a monologue about how the house and the yard were perfect for a family—though they were already a family, just one without children. But what if the answer was “we’ve tried, and we can’t”? Plenty of their friends we
re happily “child free”—that way by choice. She and Evan were child less, coming around to accepting that unless they chose to adopt, they’d always be a family of two, never three or four.

  It wasn’t a cruel question, but sometimes it felt that way.

  She didn’t want to make the man feel uncomfortable, so she merely said, “No.”

  Evan didn’t miss the beat. “The park is part of what has us looking at a place this far out from the city. We love to hike.”

  Nelle picked up on his redirection. “Are the trails close to the property? Can you get to them from here?”

  “The trailhead is up the road about a mile or so at the Scout camp, and the paths stick pretty far away from people’s property lines. No one wants to go for a hike just to see patios and swing sets, you know what I mean. From here in the yard, you won’t see a soul. Just trees. You have complete privacy. It’s perfect.”

  “Do you mind me asking why they’re selling?” Nelle asked. “The listing says they only bought the house three years ago.”

  The realtor smiled with half his mouth and winked. “Life happens, you know. Point is, this house is ready for you. But, as you can see, it’s getting a lot of interest.” He glanced over his shoulder at the open house full of people looking to buy. The implication that there wouldn’t be another open house hung in the air between them. He’d walked right up to the line of a hard sell and pointed across without stepping over.