Chapter Four
Marek pours coffee from a French press into two mugs. He failed to mention that his grandmother had left with one of the loaves of apple bread. Says she’s at her bridge group. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to be alone with Marek. I don’t know the guy. He could be dangerous. Well, his muscles are, anyway.
“That painting has to be a coincidence,” he says. “How do you even know it is you?”
“The jean jacket. It has the same patches as mine. A unicorn and stars. I still have it. Of course, I don’t wear it. It’s too small.” I’m rambling, trying to string my jumbled thoughts together. “Since I made it, it’s one of a kind.”
“So what are you saying? That my grandfather was stalking you? He has better things to do. Had. He had better…” He trails off, staring at the steam rising from the press as he pours coffee into his mug.
It looks like he isn’t going to stop pouring.
“Watch it,” I clip.
He blinks and places the press on the table. “Maybe he just so happened to be there painting when he saw you. He spent a lot of time in Fishtown. By the river. You were his inspiration or something like that.”
“Maybe.” I sound doubtful. “So then why was he watching me the day of the accident? And he knew my name.”
He passes me a sugar bowl. “He said your name?”
I spoon the white granules into my mug. “Yes. He told me to run and that I was in danger. And my name’s on that list with my parents’.”
“Right, yeah. That is strange.” He lowers his head and studies the intricate lace in the tablecloth, then glances out the window. “But he was a bit eccentric.”
“Yeah, I’d say.” I have the feeling he isn’t telling me something. There are times when a warning blares through my mind like the one that announces class is over at my school. And I know not to ignore it. I did that once while riding my bike and ended up at the bottom of a ditch. Long story.
The warning goes off, and it makes me uneasy, right when Marek turns his eyes away from me and stares out the bay window. There isn’t anything out there to see but the lush green garden just past the rock-paved patio. And I’m pretty sure he’s seen it many times before and wouldn’t give it another glance on most other days. Other days than today. When he wants to hide something from me. Hide the fact that he knows more than he’s letting on.
I shift in my seat.
Marek tears his gaze away from the window, a serious look on his face, so serious it makes me recoil.
“You should go,” he says, the legs of his chair screeching across the tiles as he stands.
I shoot to my feet. “But…but what about that bag? You know something, don’t you? You know why I’m on that list with my parents. Tell me why.”
He lowers his head to avoid my pleading glare. “I know nothing.”
I let out an exasperated breath and stomp my way to the door to show him my frustration. Before I reach the entry, he stops me.
“Wait,” he says. “I don’t know anything about that list or what my grandfather was up to. This isn’t my home. I live with my parents in Baltimore. I was just here for the…for my grams.”
For the funeral, I’m sure he was going to say. “I’m sorry, that has to be tough.”
“It is,” he says. “Grams is having a difficult time. I practically had to force her to go to her bridge club. Anyway, my gramps was a secretive man. I wasn’t blowing you off. Just thinking. Or, more like trying to decide if I should break into the basement.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Break into the basement? Why would you have to do that?”
“My grandfather spent most of his time down there,” he says. “It was off-limits. Not even my grams could go in. We haven’t found the key to the door. She wanted to sort through his things and clean it up after the funeral. But it’s lost.”
I brighten. “Keys. There’s a ring of them in the bag.”
He glances around as if he’s forgotten where he put the bag. I don’t have to search for it. Ever since we entered the house and he placed the satchel on the bench by the door, it’s been a leather beacon calling me.
“It’s over here.” I gather the bag and hand it to him.
He digs through the contents and retrieves the keys. Sadness crosses his face as he flips through them. The metal ring’s tarnished by age. He stops on a skeleton key that strangely looks newer than the other ones that are modern.
The light coming in from the windows beside the door glints across the silver key. On the tip of it are two tiny red bulbs. “That’s unusual,” I say, pointing them out.
He starts down the hall. “Come on. Let’s see if it works.”
Everything in the house is old. The solid wood doors are tall and thin.
The front of the house is bright and cheery, painted in yellows and creams. This part is dark and decorated in warm browns. We pass what looks to be the family room. Antique furniture and delicate figurines and vases with lace doilies under them sit on the tables between the chairs. There’s a black onyx sculpture of a cat wearing one gold hoop earring and a thick necklace with hieroglyphs on it. Bastet. She’s the Egyptian goddess of protection. It looks heavy and entirely out of place with all the other stuff.
There’re more decaying floral arrangements placed throughout the house. I want to remove them. The drooping petals are like sad reminders of their recent loss.
Marek stops at the door near the back of the house, inserts the key, and tries to turn it in the lock. “It doesn’t work—”
A bright red glow illuminates the keyhole. Metal sliding against metal sounds from the other side. A series of clicks go off, and the light goes out.
“That’s interesting.” Marek turns the knob and opens the door.
“More like creepy,” I say.
He searches the wall for a switch and flips it up. The lights below flicker on, and I follow Marek down the steps.
It isn’t your typical basement. This one has a stone staircase and wooden beams on the ceiling. The smell of cigar or pipe smoke attacks my nose. Marek reaches the bottom, and four computers on a long cherry wood desk hum to life.
“They must be connected to a sensor.” He crosses the polished concrete floor to the desk.
“Wow, this is nice,” I say, scoping the place. There’re built-in bookcases on one wall and a seating area in front of it with expensive-looking leather couches. “Talk about a man cave.”
Embedded in the wall above the desk are rows of security monitors—six down, six across. Marek clicks on the master power switch, and the screens blink to life. Each one is a live shot of a house or an apartment building.
“Was your grandfather in the CIA or something?” Or worse, a voyeur. I keep that to myself because the dude just lost the old man, after all.
“No.” His eyes scan the images. “At least, I don’t think so. He owns a butcher shop. Owned. Sold it. He’s retired. Those two,” he says, pointing at a pair of monitors on the top right. “That’s the front and back of this house.”
I try to keep my mind from going there, but there’s no stopping it. A butcher? A great profession for a serial killer.
One of the screens catches my attention. My stomach drops. I recognize the red brick structure with the blue shutters. “That’s my house. Why was he watching us?”
“I don’t know.” He searches around the desk and then kneels to inspect the floor. “There isn’t a recorder. He must’ve just been monitoring people.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m completely freaked out.”
Marek straightens. “Me, too. There’ve got to be answers in here somewhere. I’m going to check the drawers. You see if there’s anything in that cabinet.”
The cabinet has four doors. Behind the first two are office supplies. On the middle shelf is a stack of passports. I snatch one from the top and open it. The photograph is of Adam Conte, Marek’s grandfather, but the name on the passport is Martin Cleary.
I check another one. Same picture, different name—Ted Johnson.
They all have his photo with an alias.
My finger bounces on the spine of each one as I count them. “There are fourteen.”
Marek glances up from the drawer he’s searching. “What’s that?”
“Passports.” I hold one up. “All with your grandfather’s picture but different names. Why would he need these? I’ll tell you. He was a spy, that’s why.”
He hurries over and flips through the passports. The look on his face changes from confusion to anger. He throws the stack across the room. “Who was he? What else was he hiding?”
I back up against the cabinet. This isn’t really happening. Some old man was stalking me, and probably many others. The thing is, I didn’t even know I was being followed or monitored. It’s as if bony fingers scratch up my back and over my skull. I’ve never felt so vulnerable before. Then a new thought comes to me. One that rips my heart completely out.
Did he kill my parents and my uncle?
“The list.” My voice sounds shaky, and my legs wobble a little. “He was watching us. Why was he watching us?”
Marek grabs the back of his neck, and his eyes flick in my direction. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out. Let’s keep searching. The answers have to be here.”
I should run. Go to the police. Tell them some crazy—maybe perverted—old man was stalking me. But he’s dead now, and I need answers. Why would my family be so important to this man?
And how had he hidden his secret life from his family?