killer.”
“This isn’t like feeding a stray cat, Eden. It’s a little more complicated.”
“Have you ever actually spoken with him? Not spoken at him, not threatened him, but actually spoken with him like you would anyone else?”
“What’s your point?”
“He’s down and out and hurting. Look around the city. The homeless are everywhere, just like you said. But have you really seen them? A lot are women and children. Are they all deranged, too? Are they all criminals? They’re just people that have fallen on hard times. If you hadn’t gotten that job we eventually would’ve ended up out there with them. Are we criminals? Are we scum? Are we deranged? All Ernie’s looking for is a little compassion and understanding, enough to let him know he still matters and that at least some of us care about him and others out there like him.”
“Well it’s good to know that’s all Ernie’s looking for. I love it, my wife and the bum that lives on our street are on a first-name basis.”
“I had a civil conversation with him that lasted all of a minute.”
“During which you told him your name and apparently our apartment number. Was there any other personal information you felt compelled to share with your new best bud?”
“If because of my kindness he took it upon himself to buzz the apartment that’s not my fault. It’s probably not even his. We have no idea what it’s like to be out on those streets night after night. We have no idea what that man’s been through. Maybe he broke down. Maybe he just wanted to spend one night indoors and was making a crazy plea to—”
“There are shelters in the city, let him go to one of those.”
“For his sake I hope he finds one with a free bed.”
“Well if not we can always put good ole Ernie up on the couch, right?”
Glaring at him, she yanked the sheet back from the bed with an angry tug and fired a pillow at him. “Nope, you’ll already be on it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Goodnight Jeff.”
Pillow clutched to his chest, he returned to the den and flopped onto the couch. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “like I need this shit tonight.”
Fine , he thought. Bright and early tomorrow morning he’d get this job done, get paid, make it right with Eden and put this nightmare behind him.
There are no nightmares .
Jeff closed his eyes, but it failed to silence the whispers from his dreams.
There is only the torment of darkness .
-9-
The following morning, Jeff hailed a cab. He didn’t know what to expect and didn’t want his car to be identified later if something went wrong. The address scrawled on a small sheet of paper inside the envelope listed an address located in a rough neighborhood in Chelsea, a small city just outside Boston located on the far side of the Mystic River. It also listed the name of the man in Mr. Hope’s debt: Stephen Wychek. Jeff had been through Chelsea but knew no one there and was unfamiliar with the layout. Thankfully the driver was able to find the address, a rundown two-story tenement on a relatively quiet street. But even in daylight, the area looked somewhat threatening. “Wait for me,” he told the cabbie. “Keep the meter running, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
As Jeff stepped out of the taxi and approached the tenement steps he saw a faded lace curtain move in one of the windows facing the street. He hesitated, looked around. But for a lone elderly woman carrying a bag of groceries farther down the block, the street was empty. He continued up the steps to the front door, opened it and slipped into a foyer. The walls were cracked, the paint chipped and peeling, and a repugnant odor he couldn’t identify hung in the air.
He glanced down at the paper. Alongside the address were the words: First floor . Jeff knocked. No one answered, but he could hear movement inside the apartment, so he knocked again. After a moment,
“This isn’t like feeding a stray cat, Eden. It’s a little more complicated.”
“Have you ever actually spoken with him? Not spoken at him, not threatened him, but actually spoken with him like you would anyone else?”
“What’s your point?”
“He’s down and out and hurting. Look around the city. The homeless are everywhere, just like you said. But have you really seen them? A lot are women and children. Are they all deranged, too? Are they all criminals? They’re just people that have fallen on hard times. If you hadn’t gotten that job we eventually would’ve ended up out there with them. Are we criminals? Are we scum? Are we deranged? All Ernie’s looking for is a little compassion and understanding, enough to let him know he still matters and that at least some of us care about him and others out there like him.”
“Well it’s good to know that’s all Ernie’s looking for. I love it, my wife and the bum that lives on our street are on a first-name basis.”
“I had a civil conversation with him that lasted all of a minute.”
“During which you told him your name and apparently our apartment number. Was there any other personal information you felt compelled to share with your new best bud?”
“If because of my kindness he took it upon himself to buzz the apartment that’s not my fault. It’s probably not even his. We have no idea what it’s like to be out on those streets night after night. We have no idea what that man’s been through. Maybe he broke down. Maybe he just wanted to spend one night indoors and was making a crazy plea to—”
“There are shelters in the city, let him go to one of those.”
“For his sake I hope he finds one with a free bed.”
“Well if not we can always put good ole Ernie up on the couch, right?”
Glaring at him, she yanked the sheet back from the bed with an angry tug and fired a pillow at him. “Nope, you’ll already be on it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Goodnight Jeff.”
Pillow clutched to his chest, he returned to the den and flopped onto the couch. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “like I need this shit tonight.”
Fine , he thought. Bright and early tomorrow morning he’d get this job done, get paid, make it right with Eden and put this nightmare behind him.
There are no nightmares .
Jeff closed his eyes, but it failed to silence the whispers from his dreams.
There is only the torment of darkness .
-9-
The following morning, Jeff hailed a cab. He didn’t know what to expect and didn’t want his car to be identified later if something went wrong. The address scrawled on a small sheet of paper inside the envelope listed an address located in a rough neighborhood in Chelsea, a small city just outside Boston located on the far side of the Mystic River. It also listed the name of the man in Mr. Hope’s debt: Stephen Wychek. Jeff had been through Chelsea but knew no one there and was unfamiliar with the layout. Thankfully the driver was able to find the address, a rundown two-story tenement on a relatively quiet street. But even in daylight, the area looked somewhat threatening. “Wait for me,” he told the cabbie. “Keep the meter running, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
As Jeff stepped out of the taxi and approached the tenement steps he saw a faded lace curtain move in one of the windows facing the street. He hesitated, looked around. But for a lone elderly woman carrying a bag of groceries farther down the block, the street was empty. He continued up the steps to the front door, opened it and slipped into a foyer. The walls were cracked, the paint chipped and peeling, and a repugnant odor he couldn’t identify hung in the air.
He glanced down at the paper. Alongside the address were the words: First floor . Jeff knocked. No one answered, but he could hear movement inside the apartment, so he knocked again. After a moment,
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