The Hollows (Part One)

By Ben Larken

Former detective David Alders is forced to downsize to an apartment after a decade searching for his missing wife. To avoid staggering debt, he and his daughter Melanie move into the Whispering Hollows, a complex full of older residents, like the charmingly befuddled Eldon or the redneck property manager Charlie.

On the first night Melanie is terrorized when a burnt corpse crawls into bed with her. And events only get stranger as David finds himself reliving the same day twice! Suddenly, time travel is an all-too-real tool at his disposal, one he can use to finally return to the love of his life.

But time travel comes with rules. Deadly consequences await anyone bold enough to break them. As David wades cautiously into the past, he learns the awful truth of his existence:

He didn’t choose The Hollows. The Hollows chose him...

REVIEWS:
“If you are an aficionado of noir fiction, The Hollows will immerse you in a nether world, terrifying yet scintillating at the same time. The Ben Larken mystery thriller is strongly recommended.”
—Compulsivereader.com

“Ben Larken’s The Hollows breathes whole new life into the horror genre by taking the time-honored device of time travel and turning it on its head. The Hollows was truly a book I didn’t want to put down the entire time I was reading it.”
—Dark Scribe Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC
• Release date: May 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781619500945

Ben Larken

Ben Larken resides near Fort Worth, the city in which he was born and currently works as a police dispatcher. He is the winner of three Epic eBook Awards for Best Horror.

Book preview

The Hollows

by

Ben Larken

All rights reserved

Copyright © March 20, 2013

Cover Art Copyright © Eleanor Bennett, 2013

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-094-5

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: May 12, 2013

Also by Ben Larken:

Pit-Stop

The Man in the Wall

Pillar’s Fall

Exit Us

The Babel Walker

Dedication

To Jill,

who doodles and dances and constantly steals my heart

Elise’s Journal: December 28, 1993

I tried to get my wedding ring back today. I pawned it two weeks ago so we could buy some decent presents for Melanie. David doesn’t know. He started at the police academy last month and he’s barely bringing home enough to pay the utilities. He probably thinks I borrowed the money from my brother, although he doesn’t realize that the idea makes me as livid as it makes him. But I wanted Mel to have some good presents. I know she’s only three months old. I don’t care. This was her first Christmas and our first Christmas as a complete family. I wanted it to be special.

The pawn shop guy couldn’t find my ring. He spent an hour searching the jewelry shelves, the merchandise storage bins, the owner’s desk, everywhere. I don’t know if he did it for show or if he saw a young woman with a baby in her arms and tears streaming down her face and felt compelled to keep going. His compassion hit its expiration after sixty minutes. He stopped at the counter, shrugged, and said something to the effect of, That’s that.

Excuse me? As far as I was concerned THAT most definitely was not THAT.

Look, lady, he said. You gave us the ring. We gave you money. I know you didn’t mean it to be permanent, but sometimes you have to take the trade as it stands.

The jackass.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at home, crying my eyes out, wondering if David would forgive me. Melanie was the one who pulled me back. I watched her in her crib, staring quietly up at her new Beauty and the Beast mobile. She focused on each individual character as it circled past—the princess, the candle, the Beast, the clock. Her wide eyes flickered in amazement for all of them. That’s when I realized the pawn shop guy was right, even if he would forever be known as Mr. Jackass. Our first Christmas as a family had been perfect. I would remember it always. At the end of the day, the wedding band was just something I wore. The trade was worth the memory.

Tomorrow I’ll tell David the ring fell down the bathtub drain.

The Clock Strikes One

1

The Buckner Farm

May 13, 1949

For Tess Buckner the only worthwhile activity on that blustery Texas afternoon was standing between two clotheslines in the backyard and letting the sheets billow against her. White cotton sheets lifted on the breeze, tickled her nose, and played dead again. She held out her arms, turning her little body into a T. The sheets rose to the occasion, taking her hands in loose, but enthusiastic handshakes. Tess giggled.

Then the breeze quieted and so did she. Momma’s head bobbed over the clothesline on the right, her squinty gaze catching Tess at once.

I thought my pischouette came out here to help her mother, she said in that tone, sounding both amused and annoyed.

I’m only so big, Tess explained. These clotheslines are too high for me.

Which means I should give you a chore more suited to your size.

But Maw-aaah, Tess said. I’m helping. I’m looking out for dropped drawers.

Mare Buckner smiled. I assure you, my drawers are not in any danger of dropping.

Tess took a moment to catch her mother’s meaning. I mean from the line, silly. She laughed. The sheets thought it funny too. They billowed up in their own silent fits of hilarity.

Tell me a story, Tess said. She couldn’t see Momma beyond the sheets, but she didn’t have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. Tess waited and asked again. Tell me a story… pleeease?

You’ve heard all my stories, Mare replied, but Tess didn’t believe her. There are endless quantities of certain things. The beach will always have enough sand. The sky will always have enough rain. And Momma will always have a story squirreled away in the corner of memory taken up by childhood.

Mare Buckner grew up in Nawlins. At least that’s the way she pronounces it. Papa insists it’s pronounced New Orleans. It’s only a teensy bit away from Texas, where they live. Tess once put her fingers on the United States map at school, one on New Orleans and one on Fort Worth, and the gap was barely the size of a dime. Part of her longed to see Momma’s Nawlins, but Papa sounded like the distance was too far to be troubled with.

Tess rounded the sheets as Mare pulled one of Papa’s shirts from the basket. Tess tugged on the shirt. A story, Momma. Story, story, story…

Tess Elizabeth Buckner, Mare said, snapping the shirt back. You’re about to hear the story of the girl who spent all day pulling weeds as punishment for back-sass.

But you haven’t told me one in weeks, Tess pleaded. Momma didn’t know that Tess repeated the stories at school. She had grown popular retelling them. A small circle of third graders on the playground gawked at her in awed silence as she spun tales of Southern jinxes and Vodun curses. Even big-shot Arnie Fetters occasionally shuddered or gasped in surprise. If the stories ever got back to the teachers she’d be in for an earful from her mother. But for the moment Tess was willing to take that chance.

Besides, Tess loved the way Momma sounded as she told them. That accent she tried hard to simmer down most times came bounded back to life during a story. Tess always thought she was glimpsing Momma in her truest, most beautiful form.

I’ve got it, Tess said, holding a finger up like her teacher did when making a point. If you tell me a story I’ll pull weeds in the flowerbed for a full hour. She rocked on her feet as her mother looked at her. You have to admit, that’s a pretty swell deal.

Mare watched her. From the kitchen window ledge the radio switched songs. I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover gave way to the dreamy Bing Crosby crooning Now Is the Hour. Tess listened, swooning in the breeze, as Bing melodiously said goodbye to a dear loved one sailing away.

The weeds can wait another day, Mare decided. But that doesn’t mean you’re getting a story for free.

Tess grabbed her mother’s dress. I’ll do anything.

Mare grabbed another piece of clothing from the basket. Tess cracked a smile when she saw it was Papa’s drawers. Fetch that pail off the back porch, Mare instructed. If you can go down to the river and make it back with a pail-full of water I’ll tell you a story.

That’s it? Tess bounced happily. Their well pump had gone out yesterday evening, giving Papa a chance to use many of the words Mrs. Gershon said were Paddle Words. I can do that.

Mare propped her hands on her hips. Then why are you dancing around here?

Tess didn’t need further motivation. She darted for the porch, grabbing the pail by the handle without slowing. Rounding their two-story farmhouse, she nearly banged the pail into Papa’s candy apple red Studebaker. She pulled back in time, thankful she didn’t scratch the paint. That wouldn’t have been pretty, for the paintjob or her behind.

She slowed to skip across the flat stones surrounding the circle drive, being careful not to get caught on the rosebushes near the porch. Beyond that was the rusty old barn. Tess hurried past it, hearing Papa’s disgruntled tones echo through the loft window. He was somewhere in there, grumbling to himself and banging tools and getting himself all in a dither. Papa spent whole days dithering in the barn and on those days Tess knew to steer clear. When a matter couldn’t wait it was Momma who ventured into the barn, and she never came out looking happy about it.

Past the barn the forest began. It looked dense and forbidding to a first-timer, which Tess was proud to say she wasn’t. The forest wasn’t as vast as it first appeared. It covered three acres at most and once inside, the trails were easy to follow. Within minutes you emerged from the other side, staring at the Trinity River. But for a few precious moments the woods came to life in that same mystical way Nawlins did in Mother’s stories. The silence seemed watchful, as if something unseen waited in breathless anticipation.

Tess was through the first acre when she heard the sound. It was low and barely audible. She cocked her head and stopped, peering up at the canopy of branches and the shards of sunlight that pushed through the leaves like hungry fingers. Her body went rigid as the sound drifted over the breeze again.

A groan. She heard a low, muted, raspy groan.

It was a ragged, withering voice that could have been male or female. She twisted slowly, finding it difficult to move. The sound didn’t come from any one direction. But it was close. The more she listened the closer it felt. She stared at the forest floor, seeing pine needles dappled in sunlight. The shadows were more noticeable.

The groan lifted, becoming a reedy warble. Someone had to be hurt, maybe from tripping over a branch or getting bit by a snake—or worse. Tess wanted to call out. Her lips parted but her voice didn’t follow. Her mouth had gone dry as dirt. The groan spiked again, passing through her like an electric shock. Tess coughed.

Are… are you okay? Had she said it out loud? If it made it past her lips it came out as a whisper. Tess tried again, pushing the words out one at a time. Hello? Who are you? Where are you?

The groan broke into a series of dry coughs, sounding like the distant gunfire she heard during hunting season. A thump followed the coughs, and then silence. Tess waited, realizing the abrupt end to the noise was scarier than the noise itself. The fear put her in motion. Hello? she called louder. Where are you? Tell me where you are.

No answer. She moved deeper into the forest, leaving the path. Bushes snagged at the blue summer dress Momma had bought last week. She couldn’t stop to disentangle herself from every little branch. Faces of her schoolmates floated in her mind as she imagined each one lying with a broken leg and grasping at the air for help. Tess climbed a small rise and tried again.

Please call out again, she cried as she stepped carefully over a trunk and into a small grove of trees. A group of crows took flight, shooting upward from every side. Tess staggered to avoid them. Her foot landed on something that wasn’t ground. Up above, a crow cawed in annoyance. She had already forgotten the crows. Her focus was on the large wooden door she stood upon.

The wood was nearly green from years of overgrowth. The metal clasps and the old padlock on the handle were so rusted they looked bloodstained. It was a cellar door, or more likely a storm shelter. Spring storms in these parts would justify having one, but why so far from the farmhouse and so well hidden? The surrounding trees were like guardians protecting the door from the outside world.

The groan came again. Tess screamed and leapt back, dropping her water pail. The sound came from directly beneath her. She knelt on the ground and knocked on the door in a panic, not wasting time thinking. Someone was down there, someone who needed her. A cold knot tightened in her stomach.

Who are you? she cried, banging the door with her small fist. Are you hurt?

The groan lowered to a whimpering. It sobbed, and Tess brought her ear close to the wood, taking in every sniffle. It whispered only one word.

Mm-mm—momma.

Tess scrambled to her feet and grabbed the first heavy thing she saw, a fallen branch not two feet from the door. Tess hefted it as best she could, shifting it onto her shoulder, and took a stance over the blood-red lock. Don’t you worry, she said. I’m getting you out of there.

With a squeaky grunt she swung the branch and got it on the first try. The branch hit the heart-shaped padlock, and the metal shattered like an ancient vase. She probably could have kicked it with her shoe and gotten the same result.

She lugged the branch aside and grabbed the door handle, hoping it wasn’t as breakable as the lock. I’m opening the door, she announced to whoever was down there. If it was a small child she didn’t want to scare him or her. She squatted and braced herself—and then pulled.

It was hard, but not as hard as she expected. The door didn’t shift from its resting place at first. The roots and weeds at its borders played tug-of-war with her. Tess thought of the cowering child waiting inside and put her back into it. Weeds ripped. Roots cracked. The door swung until gravity helped her, allowing her to let the door fall against a tree. Tess found herself at the top of a staircase, staring down into blackness.

The overbearing stench of mildew forced her to take a step back. Sour air wafted over her, the underground lair exhaling after years of holding its breath. She wondered how someone could actually be waiting down there. She kept looking in the oily darkness, hoping for a sign of movement.

Can you walk?… Hello?

No movement. No sound. Had she scared the child? The daylight could be too bright for someone who spent a long time in darkness. She squatted again and held out her hand, like someone befriending an uneasy dog.

It’s okay. You can come out. I wanna help.

She waited, but no response came. Rising from the squat, she eyed the rotten-looking stairs warily. Only the first four were visible in the light, and there was no way to know how many followed or if they were intact. And yet the toe of her shoe drifted closer to the first one. Her shoe touched the wood, and a soft creak echoed in the darkness. She let her other foot follow until she was completely on the step. It sagged a little, but it didn’t break. She was sure of it. She—

Hands closed on her shoulders.

Tess gasped as she was pulled backward. The hands spun her around until she was staring into Momma’s taut face. Tessie. Tu dèlires? I send you for water and you decide to go exploring instead? Well, I think I have several other chores that need your immediate attention.

But Momma! she erupted. She twisted in her mother’s grip, pointing into the black hole. There’s someone down there! I heard ’em crying. I think the person’s hurtin’.

Mare had started pulling her the other way, but stopped to look back. She eyed Tess first, and then the door. It was obvious she had never seen it before either. She turned her gaze to her daughter. Wait. What?

The child’s down there, I promise. She stared up at Momma, letting the tears come. I know he ain’t making noise now, but he’s down there. He is. I wouldn’t make this up. Not this. She tugged on her mother’s dress, praying Mare wouldn’t think she let her imagination get the best of her. Adults had a way of ignoring the important stuff.

Mare’s gaze remained steady. All right, she finally said. Let me take a look.

Tess nodded gratefully, and they turned to the waiting darkness. Mare stepped past her, keeping one hand firmly on Tess’s shoulder to let her know she wasn’t to follow. Momma went to the doorway and stopped at the edge.

Who’s down there? she demanded. Tell me your name and how you found your way onto our land. There’ll be no hiding and seeking.

Mare waited with hands on hips. Now that she put it in those words, Tess wondered if someone had toyed with her for sport. If that was the case there would be a fight on the school playground tomorrow. And if it was Arnie Fetters he could expect to go away from it with a bloody nose.

No answer came. Momma waited a whole minute before turning to look at Tess.

I heard someone. Tess looked at the hole in the ground, hoping in vain to see a child crawling off of the stairs.

I know you did, Tessie, but whoever’s down there isn’t going to fess up to it. We’ll have to go back to the house and ring the police. Allons.

With a gentle touch Momma took her by the shoulder and turned her around. Tess didn’t need convincing. She was happy to turn her back on the strangely placed storm shelter. And she was happy Momma was with her too. To think she had almost stepped down into that blackness alone.

Don’t worry, Mare said as she squeezed her. I’ll still tell you a stor—

Momma’s hand jerked away as she let out a guttural cry. Tess wheeled around to see her mother on her stomach, writhing in the dirt as she flew backward. Her dress bunched around her waist as some unseen thing yanked on her feet. Her fingers clawed the ground, raking at loose leaves and making trails in the dirt. Her eyes blazed panic.

Tess! Mare cried. Tess flung her small body toward the dark opening in the ground that wanted to swallow Momma. Nothing happened fast enough. Tess couldn’t make her legs react as rapidly as her heart. Her arms were pitifully short, her hands pushing through air like fish fighting the current. Tess’s index and middle fingers brushed the stony white knuckles of Momma’s left hand. Then Mare was ripped away, disappearing into blackness. Tess heard several hollow thumps as Mare Buckner tumbled down the steps. Then the scream came, so awful and loud Tess thought she had to be in a dream.

Momma! she cried back, crawling madly to the edge of the staircase. She saw movement, like bugs crawling on the trees at night; a glistening shape one moment, a sense of liquid motion the next. She cried for her mother again and again. And then she saw her, or at least her hands, shaking as they came into the light.

They were much too white as they grabbed the lowest visible stair. Momma’s waxy face came into view and Tess screamed. Her chin and neck were red with blood. Momma’s eyes quivered in their sockets, but they bulged farther when they fell on Tess.

Run, Mare said, and the voice might have been the same raspy whisper she heard earlier. Please, Tessie. Run.

Mare’s gaze dropped as she gagged. She vomited on the stairs, spraying blood over the mildewed wood. Something else moved in the darkness and Momma was yanked out of view. A sickening ripping sound followed.

Tess ran. She ran so hard she couldn’t remember running later. It was as if she turned from the hole in the ground and ran straight into Papa’s barn. He rose from his workbench on lanky legs, asking what the hell she was doing. Tess screamed something about Momma and a cellar and a voice. She grabbed Abner Buckner by his overall straps and yanked with everything she had. Help me! she bellowed. Help Momma!

He stopped cussing and followed, grabbing a scattershot rifle as she took off back into the forest. A moment later they were there, looking into the blackness. Abner fished a lighter from his pocket and squatted next to the opening.

Honey? he yelled, waving his lighter toward stairs. Mare, you in there? Did you fall or sumthin?

It’s down there, Tess said through her sobs. Something hurt Momma.

Abner braced the rifle in the crook of his arm and started down the stairs. The flicker of the lighter was barely enough to light his way. But he went down the stairs, seven in all, and then a concrete floor. From the edge of the opening Tess saw glimmers of half-rotted shelves lining the walls. She saw stacks of old crates covered in thick coats of dust. What she didn’t see was her mother.

Are you sure she went down here? Abner asked, bending over to move the light across the floor. I can’t even see her footprints in the dust.

That wasn’t what bothered Tess. What her eyes stopped on and couldn’t veer away from no matter how hard she tried were the wooden stairs. She peered at the grayish-green planks, feeling a lump rise in her chest.

The blood, she whispered. The blood is gone.

Abner Buckner looked at his daughter’s rigid posture. She was on the verge of fainting, and he hadn’t the slightest notion why. But when he stopped calling for his wife, he heard something. It was soft and easy to miss amid the swaying tree branches, but the longer he listened, the more he thought the sound was there in the cellar with him.

Ticking—like the ticking of a clock.

2

The Interview

May 13, 2009

David Alders missed the apartment complex the first time he passed it. Driving his red Ford Ranger pickup around a bend on the four-lane street, he sped by the front gate without noticing it in the periphery. He was admiring the large medians filled with overgrown bushes. The medians were so wide it made the other two lanes a different road entirely. He bet the local traffic cops had fun on this strip. There was no way to see a radar-toting officer until you were already passing him. The tickets would be plentiful. At least they would be if he worked the beat.

Two minutes later he hit a cross street he wasn’t expecting and knew he had gone too far. With knitted eyebrows he rechecked the online map page he had printed out and then made a U-turn around the capacious median. This time he was watchful and still, he almost missed it. As he rounded the bend he caught a glimmer of metal through the wall of median bushes and barely slowed in time to catch the turn-off. With the median out of the way the other side of the street came into view. He brought the Ranger up, surveying the scene with cloudy blue eyes and thinking this couldn’t be it. No one would hide an apartment complex behind so many trees, not if they actually wanted to attract tenants.

But there was the sign—WHISPERING HOLLOWS—in block gray letters on a black background. The sign wasn’t big, and the wrought iron front gate had a dull sheen in the midday sun. Shrubs squished together on either side, and behind the bushes were rows of trees. Past the trees the buildings began, little more than silhouettes in the distance. The place was about as hidden from the world as a place could get.

David shrugged and toed the gas. Maybe that’s not a bad thing, he mumbled.

Getting into the complex involved hitting a button on a keypad and talking to a fizzling male voice coming from a speaker box.

How can I help you? squawked the speaker.

David leaned out the window and stopped himself. He was about to identify himself as an officer because that’s what he had always done at these types of places. Back then, the only time he went to apartment complexes was when he was out on calls. He had never actually lived in one before.

I’m David Alders, here for a twelve o’clock interview, he said. I might have spoken to you on the phone.

The speaker-man didn’t reply. A second later the gate rumbled as it cranked open. David slid on in, finding the front office on his right. He parked in one of three spaces. One other car was parked next to him, a little white Kia. He got out, taking time to scan the buildings facing the front. They were all two-story complexes, probably twelve apartments in each tan brick building, all of them connected to one another by quaint breezeways with ivy-strewn canopies. The view wasn’t spectacular, but it wasn’t tempting him to hop back in the pickup either. Whether it was the greenery or the nice low-80s temperature, the overall atmosphere gave him a pleasant feeling.

He’d wait to see how the interview went. Feelings often turned out wrong.

He heard voices as he entered the lobby. Taking a seat on a small couch, he listened to a couple in the next room explain how they wanted a two-bedroom place in three months. That was when the wife was due and the extra bedroom was for the baby. The voice that responded was the fizzle-free version of the man in the speaker. He said the only two-bedroom openings they had were on the second floor, and he wasn’t too keen on a newborn being that high. The chance for stairwell accidents would nag at him endlessly. The first time one of them tripped and fell down a flight with a baby in their arms he’d never forgive himself. David lifted an eyebrow, surprised at the guy’s honesty. He must have the worst sales record in the office.

The couple continued talking, sounding defensive about their untested parenting skills. David stopped paying attention, instead picking up a brochure from the end table to flip through. There were a few different floor plans, none bigger than 1,500 square feet. He eyed the two bedroom outline, imagining how it could look with all the Alders’ junk inside. The couple emerged from the office, moving swiftly for the exit. A portly white-haired man wearing faded blue coveralls appeared in the doorway behind them.

Ya’ll’re welcome to call in a couple months, he said, giving a rosy cheek smile. I might have something open for you then. I just can’t make reservations that far in advance. I’m sure you understand.

Of course we do, the younger man said, lying through his teeth. We’ll call you then.

The couple headed outside. A moment later the white Kia was at the front gate, waiting for its motion sensor to detect them and set them free. David watched through the window with a slight grin. The white-haired fellow approached with a sigh.

Don’t think I’ll be hearing from them again, he said, not sounding too sorry about it either.

Don’t suspect you will, David agreed. He turned away from the window and held out his hand. David Alders.

Yeah. The portly man bypassed his hand and squeezed his shoulder instead. I know who you are. Come on back. We’ll talk.

Sure, David said, resisting the temptation to glance down at the man’s hand. The guy gave him a friendly tap and finally pulled away. He turned without a word and ambled back to the office. David watched him and then followed, wondering if all apartment complex associates were this strange.

He introduced himself as Charlie Rickett once they sat down at either side of the desk. Clasping his hands over his tummy, Charlie leaned back and propped his worn leather work boots on the desktop. David guessed the man’s age circled the fifty mark. His hair was white but his face had a youthful glint. He smiled in a way David thought of as purely Texan—slack-jawed, a few pearly whites showing in the middle and only the left half of his mouth curled upward. They surveyed each other a long moment. A small fan on a file cabinet swiveled their way, making the papers on Charlie Rickett’s desk flutter impatiently.

So ya needing a perch to plop on? he asked, crinkling his nose.

You could say that, David replied.

I did say that. How old are you? I should tell ya up front I don’t usually take anyone who ain’t old enough to run for president. It ain’t a hard and fast rule, mind ya, but it is a guideline I tend to stick to. We got a lot of older folks in this place who aren’t keen on all-night keggers or skinny-dippin’ in the community pool.

David smiled, wondering if the man was trying to scare him off the same way he had the previous couple. I guess we’re safe then. I’m thirty-six and I’ve never been a big drinker or a nudist.

Rickett nodded noncommittally. Are ya looking for yaself, or is there a missus in the equation?

Well, me and my daughter.

Ah, single parents. No apartment complex would exist without them. I take it you’re trading her back and forth with the ex, so you’ll need that office-slash-spare bedroom handy.

No ex, David corrected. Just me and my daughter.

Charlie frowned. Don’t see many of those these days. I reckon she either runned off on ya or did something so heinous y’all won’t get near her with a ten-foot cattle prod. Am I right?

David glanced feebly toward the lobby. I’m sorry. Are the normal staff on vacation?

Ha! Charlie slapped the desk in time to keep one of the papers from flying off in the fan breeze. Lucky for you I am the normal staff. And the maintenance man. And the guy who’ll be giving you hell if the fourth comes round and I ain’t got rent in my palm. I’m a full service operation.

Wow, David said, almost as a sigh. The owner must have a lot of faith in you.

That he does, seeing as he’s me too. He crossed his pudgy arms. Bought ’er up in ’88. The old owner was some conglomerate that felt The Whispering Hollows was not in an attractive location, meaning we ain’t near no highways. So they let it go to pot over time. By the time I came along they were willing to take anyone who’d bring her up to code without too much haggling. Rest is history.

I see, David said. And has this been a profitable enterprise for you?

Charlie’s sly smile widened. Meaning: can people stand to live here under the Rickett regime? Apparently they can. I keep a full load most times. Openings come along now and then, but they don’t stay open long. Truth is I keep the place from looking like crap, and I don’t bilk ’em on the rent. Whatever else I lack I make up for with my considerable charm.

David tilted his head in that touché kind of way. How about the crime rate? You get a lot of burglaries?

Charlie studied him, never losing the smile. The fan took another pass, finally tossing a paper to the floor where it rested against an old bookshelf. The old man looked like he was holding back a chuckle. Why don’t you tell me, officer?

David found himself copying Charlie’s smile. For a Southern redneck, Charlie Rickett was surprisingly astute. He leaned back and propped his feet on the desk next to Charlie’s. You have one burglary and one attempted arson on file, both from the late nineties. You actually have the lowest apartment complex crime rate in Tarrant County.

This time Charlie did chuckle. Wait ’til they find my meth labs.

David chuckled with him. I’ll keep it on the down low if it’ll lower the rent.

You’re a cop. That’ll take fifteen percent off right there.

Let me guess. In exchange I work security.

Nope. People get to know there’s an officer living in the complex. Makes ’em feel a little safer.

Sounds like this place is safe enough without me.

We’ve been lucky, Charlie admitted. I don’t honestly know how we managed to stay under the radar all this time, but I don’t wanna start resting on my laurels either. Within the year I’m installing security cameras and putting some extra bolt locks on the doors. I figure it’s better to be prepared than sorry. You never can be too careful.

David nodded, losing the smile. His gaze dropped and for a moment the only noise was the whirr of the fan. Charlie prodded David’s foot with his workboot.

I guess all that security talk is about as interesting as oatmeal to a man who carries a gun. You came to see the apartments. What say we grab a beer out of my mini-fridge and go take a look-see?

* * * *

The apartment had new mauve carpet