Part 11 (2/2)

I turned around and saw that while I'd been trying to find a suitable object for dropping on his head, the old man had recovered and was sitting against the wall, meat cleaver balanced on his knees. ”I'm sorry,” he said, giving us a sheepish smile.

I really wasn't sure what to say to that. ”I'm, uh...sorry, too.”

The old man nodded as if my apology were acceptable. ”I'm Jervis Taywood.”

”It's Jervis! I knew it!”

”I knew I was going to be discovered sooner or later,” said Jervis. ”But I just couldn't do it. I couldn't stay below all the time. Sometimes you've got to get up and wander around the house, you know?”

”Absolutely,” I agreed.

”I felt horrible abandoning my family and all, but these...these rages...I got to the point where I couldn't control them.”

”So these are like, drag people to your underground lair and threaten to eat their leg kinds of rages?” I asked.

Jervis nodded. ”Yes, basically.” He glanced over at Roger. ”I wouldn't really have eaten your leg. I may have scooped out a forkful, but it never would have made it to my mouth.”

”Shut up you crazy lunatic son of a-!”

”Chill, Roger,” I said, setting a rea.s.suring hand on his leg, which was probably not the best location for a rea.s.suring hand at that particular time and which elicited a shriek of horror.

”I don't know what sparked the rage tonight,” Jervis said. ”Okay, well, I do. It was that whole 'ghostie ghostie ghostie' thing and that annoying whistling. It just set me off. But I never meant to grab your friend and drop him down here. I guess I wasn't expecting to see him standing right there when I opened the pantry door.”

”I can understand that,” I said. ”It's not the best sight in the world. So you faked your death and went to live down here, huh?”

”I didn't fake my death. I just disappeared.”

”What about jumping into the vat of molten plastic?”

”Who said I did that?”

”I heard it...uh, I dunno, somewhere...”

”Did you hear it from the legitimate news media?”

”No, probably not,” I admitted.

”That's a pretty dumb way to commit suicide, don't you think?”

”Yes, probably.”

”Just how old are you?”

”All right, knock it off,” I said. ”I don't need to be lectured by somebody who goes into cannibalistic rages.”

We sat in silence for a long moment.

”So what now?” asked Jervis.

”I'm not quite sure,” I said.

We sat in silence for another long moment.

”I guess we leave,” I decided.

”That works for me,” said Jervis. He removed a small pair of keys from his pocket and tossed them to me. ”Sorry about the handcuffs. They're meant for me. You know, when I get those rage things.”

I unlocked the cuffs. Roger immediately sat up and began vigorously rubbing his wrists, trying to restore circulation.

”Don't worry,” said Jervis. ”I'll try to do better in the future. You're not going to tell anybody about me, are you?”

”No, your secret is safe with us,” I said.

”This is the police!” a voice shouted from above. ”If anyone is down there, make yourselves known!”

Jervis shrugged. ”I'll get psychiatric help rather than jail, right?”

”Yeah, I think that's probably a safe bet.”

”Okay. Could you guys maybe, you know, go up there and kind of plead my case before they come down here? Maybe not your friend so much,” he said, looking at me, ”but you seem nice enough.”

”Sure,” I said. ”Come on, Roger.”

We walked over to the ladder. ”We'll be right up!” I announced.

Jervis was gone when the officers went down the ladder.

My first thought: ”Oh my G.o.d, he was a ghost after all!”

My second thought: ”Check the closet, moron.”

They did. And the fake back wall revealed a small tunnel, which eventually emerged into the pantry of the ”abandoned” house next door.

The police never did find him.

And yes, I got in a lot of trouble when Helen came home.

So to close, I just want to say that if you hear eerie sounds in your house at night, and you have a pantry, and your home was built under circ.u.mstances that would have enabled it to be constructed over a buried mobile home, you can never be too careful...

Oh, and on one final Halloween-related note, who in the world decided that those piddly little miniature candy bars should be called ”Fun Size?” That's not fun size! Fun size would be a block of chocolate the size of a wooly mammoth!

Thank you for your attention.

A Harry McGlade Mystery by JA Konrath ”It's my husband, Mr. McGlade. He thinks he can raise the dead.”

The woman sitting in front of my desk was named Norma Cauldridge. She had the figure of a Barlett pear and so many freckles that she was more beige than Caucasian. She also came equipped with a severe overbite, a lazy eye, and a mole on her cheek. Not a Cindy Crawford type of mole, either. This one looked like she glued the end of a hotdog to her face. A hairy hotdog.

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