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Authors: Dean Koontz
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flamingos.
“Bet my ass there’s a couple plastic gnomes somewhere around here,” Michael said.
Someone had painted four of the flamingos other tropical hues—mango green, pineapple yellow—perhaps hoping that a color change would render these lawn ornaments less absurd if not less tacky. The new paint had worn off in places; the pink shone through.
Not because of the implication of borderline poverty but because of the weirdness of the place, it was an ideal building for odd ducks and geeks like Bobby Allwine, he of the stolen heart. They would be drawn here, and in the company of their own kind, no one among them would receive particular attention.
A grizzled old man knelt on the front steps, fixing a railing brace.
“Excuse me. You work here?” Michael asked, flashing his ID.
“No more than I have to.” The old man looked Carson up and down appreciatively, but still spoke to Michael. “Who’s she?”
“It’s bring-your-sister-to-work day at the department. Are you the super here?”
“‘Super’ don’t seem to be a word that fits anyone or anything about this dump. I’m just sort of the jack-of-all around here. You come to see Bobby Allwine’s place?”
“News travels fast.”
Putting down his screwdriver, getting to his feet, the jack-of-all said, “Good news does. Follow me.”
Inside, the public stairwell was narrow, dark, peeling, humid, and malodorous.
The old guy didn’t smell so good, either, and as they followed him up to the second floor, Michael said, “I’ll never complain about my apartment again.”
At the door to 2-D, as he fumbled in his pockets for a passkey, the jack-of-all said, “Heard on the news his liver was cut out.”
“It was his heart,” Carson said.
“Even better.”
“You didn’t like Bobby Allwine?”
Unlocking the door, he said, “Hardly knew him. But this makes the apartment worth fifty bucks more.” He read their disbelief and assured them, “There’s people that’ll pay extra.”
“Who,” Michael asked, “the Addams family?”
“Just people who like some history about a place.”
Carson pushed inside the apartment, and when the old man would have followed her, Michael eased him aside and said, “We’ll call you when we’re done.”
The blinds were drawn. The room was uncommonly dark for a bright afternoon.
Carson found the switch for the ceiling fixture and said, “Michael, look at this.”
In the living room, the ceiling and walls were painted black. The wood floors, the baseboards, the door and window casings were black, as well. The blinds were black.
The sole piece of furniture was a black vinyl armchair in the center of the room.
Closing the front door behind him, Michael said, “Does Martha Stewart have an emergency design hotline?”
The windows were closed. No air conditioning. The moist heat and the blackness and a tauntingly familiar sweet fragrance made Carson feel slow, stupid.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“Licorice.”
Thick, sweet, pervasive, the aroma was indeed licorice. Though it should have been pleasant, the smell half nauseated Carson.
The black floor had a glossy sheen, unmarred by dust or lint. She wiped a hand along a windowsill, down a door casing, and found no grime.
As it had in the library with Allwine’s corpse, fear found Carson, a creeping disquiet that climbed her spine and pressed a cold kiss to the back of her neck.
In the meticulously clean kitchen, Michael hesitated to open the black door of the refrigerator. “This feels like a Jeffrey Dahmer moment, severed heads among the bottles of pickles and mayonnaise, a heart in a OneZip bag.”
Even the interior of the refrigerator had been spray-painted black, but it held no heads. Just a coffee cake and a quart of milk.
Most of the cupboards were empty, too. A drawer contained three spoons, two forks, two knives.
According to his employee file, Allwine had lived here for two years. An inventory of his possessions would give
“Bet my ass there’s a couple plastic gnomes somewhere around here,” Michael said.
Someone had painted four of the flamingos other tropical hues—mango green, pineapple yellow—perhaps hoping that a color change would render these lawn ornaments less absurd if not less tacky. The new paint had worn off in places; the pink shone through.
Not because of the implication of borderline poverty but because of the weirdness of the place, it was an ideal building for odd ducks and geeks like Bobby Allwine, he of the stolen heart. They would be drawn here, and in the company of their own kind, no one among them would receive particular attention.
A grizzled old man knelt on the front steps, fixing a railing brace.
“Excuse me. You work here?” Michael asked, flashing his ID.
“No more than I have to.” The old man looked Carson up and down appreciatively, but still spoke to Michael. “Who’s she?”
“It’s bring-your-sister-to-work day at the department. Are you the super here?”
“‘Super’ don’t seem to be a word that fits anyone or anything about this dump. I’m just sort of the jack-of-all around here. You come to see Bobby Allwine’s place?”
“News travels fast.”
Putting down his screwdriver, getting to his feet, the jack-of-all said, “Good news does. Follow me.”
Inside, the public stairwell was narrow, dark, peeling, humid, and malodorous.
The old guy didn’t smell so good, either, and as they followed him up to the second floor, Michael said, “I’ll never complain about my apartment again.”
At the door to 2-D, as he fumbled in his pockets for a passkey, the jack-of-all said, “Heard on the news his liver was cut out.”
“It was his heart,” Carson said.
“Even better.”
“You didn’t like Bobby Allwine?”
Unlocking the door, he said, “Hardly knew him. But this makes the apartment worth fifty bucks more.” He read their disbelief and assured them, “There’s people that’ll pay extra.”
“Who,” Michael asked, “the Addams family?”
“Just people who like some history about a place.”
Carson pushed inside the apartment, and when the old man would have followed her, Michael eased him aside and said, “We’ll call you when we’re done.”
The blinds were drawn. The room was uncommonly dark for a bright afternoon.
Carson found the switch for the ceiling fixture and said, “Michael, look at this.”
In the living room, the ceiling and walls were painted black. The wood floors, the baseboards, the door and window casings were black, as well. The blinds were black.
The sole piece of furniture was a black vinyl armchair in the center of the room.
Closing the front door behind him, Michael said, “Does Martha Stewart have an emergency design hotline?”
The windows were closed. No air conditioning. The moist heat and the blackness and a tauntingly familiar sweet fragrance made Carson feel slow, stupid.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“Licorice.”
Thick, sweet, pervasive, the aroma was indeed licorice. Though it should have been pleasant, the smell half nauseated Carson.
The black floor had a glossy sheen, unmarred by dust or lint. She wiped a hand along a windowsill, down a door casing, and found no grime.
As it had in the library with Allwine’s corpse, fear found Carson, a creeping disquiet that climbed her spine and pressed a cold kiss to the back of her neck.
In the meticulously clean kitchen, Michael hesitated to open the black door of the refrigerator. “This feels like a Jeffrey Dahmer moment, severed heads among the bottles of pickles and mayonnaise, a heart in a OneZip bag.”
Even the interior of the refrigerator had been spray-painted black, but it held no heads. Just a coffee cake and a quart of milk.
Most of the cupboards were empty, too. A drawer contained three spoons, two forks, two knives.
According to his employee file, Allwine had lived here for two years. An inventory of his possessions would give
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