City of Night

to be touched.
    Yet he had a gentleness about him, a wistfulness, that moved her. And he knew more of the world, and of people, than she had first believed.
    One bad day, when Vicky had been missing Arthur, her dead husband, almost more than she could bear, though she had not openly expressed her misery, Arnie had reacted to her state of mind and had spoken without glancing at her. “You’re only as lonely as you want to be,” he’d said, “and he would never want you to be.”
    Although she tried to engage the boy in conversation, he said no more.
    That day, she had perceived a more mysterious aspect to autism in general and to Arnie’s case in particular than she’d previously recognized. His isolation was beyond Vicky’s power to heal, yet he had reached out to counsel her in her loneliness.
    She’d had affection for the boy before that moment. Thereafter, it grew into love.
    Now, watching him at work on the castle, she said, “I always think it’s perfect as it is… yet you find ways to make it better.”
    He did not acknowledge her, but she felt sure that he heard.
    Leaving him to his work, Vicky returned to the hallway and stood at the head of the stairs, listening to the persistent silence below.
    Arnie was where he should be, and safe. Yet the quiet did not feel peaceful, instead felt pregnant, as though some threat were gestating and at the brink of a noisy birth.
    Carson had said that she and Michael were on a case that “might come home to us,” and had warned Vicky to be security-conscious. As a consequence, she had locked the front and back doors and had left no first-floor windows open.
    Although she knew that she had not overlooked a lock or latch, the silence below called to her, cautioned her.
    She descended the stairs and toured the living room, Carson’s bedroom and bath, the kitchen, checking that all doors and windows were still secure. She found everything as she remembered having left it.
    Half-drawn blinds and sheer curtains left the lower floor shadowy. Each time Vicky turned on a lamp to facilitate her inspection, she turned it off behind her when she moved on.
    Carson’s room was the only part of the downstairs that featured air conditioning. Bolted in place, the window mounted unit could not be removed without a racket that would betray an intruder long before he could effect entrance. At the moment, the air conditioner waited to be switched on; like similar units in Vicky’s and Arnie’s rooms, it was used only to facilitate sleep.
    With the windows closed, these lower rooms were warm, stuffy. In the kitchen, she opened the top door on the refrigerator, not because she wanted anything in the freezer, but because the icy out-draft, billowing against her face, felt refreshing.
    In her second-floor room once more, she found that the hush of the house continued to unnerve her. This seemed like the silence of an ax raised high but not yet swung.
    Ridiculous. She was spooking herself. A case of broad-daylight heebie-jeebies.
    Vicky switched on her CD player and, because Carson was not home to be bothered, turned the volume up a little louder than she usually did.
    The disc was an anthology of hits by different artists. Billy Joel, Rod Stewart, the Knack, Supertramp, the BeeGees, Gloria Gaynor, Cheap Trick.
    The music of her youth. Arthur had asked her to marry him. So happy together. Time had no meaning then. They thought they would live forever.
    She returned to the letter that she had been composing, and sang along with the CD, her spirits lifted by the music and by memories of happier days, the troubling silence banished.
     
    With the floor of the house pressing overhead, surrounded by the smell of bare earth and moist fungus, shrouded in gloom, anyone else might have progressed from claustrophobia to a panicky sense of being buried alive. Randal Six, however, child of Mercy, feels protected, even cozy.
    He listens to the woman come downstairs and walk from room to room as though looking for something that she has mislaid. Then she returns to the second floor.
    When he hears the music filtering down from high in the house, he knows that his opportunity has come. Under the cover of rock’n’roll, the noise he makes getting into the O’Connor residence will not be likely to draw attention.
    He has thoroughly explored the crawl space, surprised by how adventurous he has become. The farther he goes from the Hands of Mercy both in terms of distance and time, the more his