Then he heard it. A sniffle.
Gladys was crying.
“You know, Tom, that son of a bitch makes me angrier than anyone I’ve ever met. But if anything has happened to him…”
“I’ll find him, Gladys.”
“Rhonda needs her father.”
“I’ll find him. My love to Rhonda.”
Tom hung up. Listening to women cry was almost as bad as informing next of kin that someone close to them had died. And Tom had to wonder if that’s what he just did with Gladys.
He found the FedEx invitation and dialed the number, using his land line. A machine picked up, the voice synthetic. One of those text-to-speech generators that just missed sounding human. Futurists called it the uncanny valley. A sense of revulsion that people felt when they experienced something that was almost human, but not quite. It was thought of as a survival mechanism, to help people avoid those who looked or sounded strange. Tom could understand how that worked, on a genetics level, because procreating with those who had some sort of defect meant potentially defective children, and avoiding someone who was odd decreased the chance of getting whatever disease they had. At least that’s how the futurists explained it.
But listening to the voice, Tom realized it could help humans survive in another kind of way. By helping them avoid things that almost looked human, but weren’t.
Things like ghosts.
“Please say or punch in your reservation number, followed by the pound sign.”
Tom used his phone keypad.
“Hello, Tom Mankowski,” the creepy robotic voice said. “You are invited to spend the night at the haunted Butler House in Solidarity, South Carolina, where you will participate in a fear experiment. The house is located on 683 Auburn Road. You are expected to arrive on Saturday, before noon. You can bring whatever items you’d like, including weapons, religious paraphernalia, and ghost detecting equipment. If you take any prescription medication, please bring it along. The experiment will end Sunday at 4pm. Informing others about this experiment will disqualify you from your million dollar participation fee. Polygraphs will be administered to ensure compliance. Have a nice day. We’ll see you soon.”
Tom held the phone, trying to understand the weird feeling that had come over him. The instructions were straightforward and polite, but the call hadn’t left him with warm, fuzzy feelings.
Quite the opposite, he was experiencing something that only happened rarely. like when a perp ducked down an alley, and Tom had to follow. Or the second just before he had to kick in a suspect’s door.
Fear of the unexpected. Also known as dread.
He shook his head, trying to brush off the feeling. But the dread clung there like cobwebs.
Tom startled when the off-hook tone began to beep from the handset.
“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you need help—”
He hung up.
Tom considered calling Joan, but the two hour time zone difference would have meant waking her up. Instead, he padded over to the shower and turned it on, hot as he could stand it. Then he stared into his bathroom mirror and began to scrape the stubble off his face. His beard, like the hair on his head, was turning prematurely gray. He also needed a haircut.
The mirror began to steam up, and Tom raised his hand to wipe it off, but stopped before his fingers touched the glass.
The fogging had revealed words, handwritten on the mirror.
I’M WATCHING YOU
THE NEXT DAY
Mililani, Hawaii
Josh
Fran was in a bikini, sitting on their porch, stripping and cleaning one of their AR-15 semi-automatic rifles. She had a look of intense concentration on her face as she ran a cleaning rod through the bore. If there was anything sexier than a woman in a bathing suit with a firearm, Josh didn’t know what it was.
He set the lemonade he’d brought for her down on the table, and took a sip of the one he’d kept for himself. It was a perfect Hawaiian day, sunny and hot and smelling like paradise, and the lemonade was cold and sweetened just enough to take the edge off the pucker.
Mathison was perched on the seatback of Fran’s chair watching damselflies. Though Josh had never seen him do it, he had a suspicion that the monkey liked to catch the bugs and eat them.
Mathison chittered when he saw Josh. He hopped down, ran into the house through the dog door, and returned a moment later with his plastic infant cup. He held it out to Josh, who poured in some lemonade. Mathison chirped a thank you, took a drink, then made a face and stuck out his tongue.
“I like it tart,” Josh said.
Mathison set down his cup, ran inside again, and came out with a packet of sugar and a spoon. As the monkey mixed his drink to taste, Fran spoke.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Didn’t we discuss it? I thought we agreed.”
“Can it hurt to discuss it some more?”
“No,” he admitted.
“So are you sure?”
Josh took another sip of lemonade. Mathison did as well, then made a sound like he was throwing up. He put his tiny hands on his own throat to emphasize his displeasure.
“So get more sugar,” Josh told him.
The monkey ran off. He came back a moment later with five more packets.
“You’re going to get diabetes,” Josh said.
Mathison gave him the finger.
“Did Duncan teach him that?” Josh asked his wife.
“What?” She was absorbed in her cleaning.
“Mathison flipped me the bird.”
“No. I think it was South Park.”
“The TV show?”
“Yeah. He has a few DVD box sets.” Fran squirted more solvent on the patch holder.
“You bought South Park DVDs?”
“No. He grabbed them in the store while I was shopping, put them in the cart, and paid me. He also bought The Untouchables. He’s watched it seven times. I think he wants to be Sean Connery.”
Mathison nodded at Josh, then added more sugar.
“And how did the monkey get money?”
“He was doing tricks in front of Walmart with his cup.”
“Huh.” Maybe the monkey had an organ grinder heritage. “How much did you make?”
The capuchin held up three fingers on his right hand, five on his left.
“Thirty-five dollars? Seriously? How long did it take?”
One finger, and five fingers.
“Only fifteen minutes? Fran, that’s a hundred and forty bucks an hour.”
“Josh, can you get back on topic? I asked you if you’re sure.”
Josh sipped more lemonade, then thought about the invitation to Butler House. The whole concept of it, from the way they were approached in the wee morning hours, to the dial-in number with the weird voice, failed to pass the sniff test.
“It’s bullshit,” Josh said. “The military is trying to hoodwink us. Those weren’t feds.”
“I agree.”
Josh settled back in his chair, putting a foot up on the table. Mathison added a fifth sugar packet, took a sip, and gave Josh a thumbs up.
“Brush your teeth when you finish,” Josh said.
The monkey replied in sign language. “Woof ate my toothbrush.”
“The dog ate it? When?”
“A week ago.”
“I watched you brush your teeth last night.”
“That was Fran’s toothbrush.”
Josh frowned. He’d just kissed Fran less than an hour ago.
“What did he say?” Fran asked, looking up from her bore cleaning.
“We need to buy everyone in the house a new toothbrush. Maybe I’ll let Duncan drive. He’s getting his permit next week.”