A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [29]
Her stricken face belied the certainty that the very last thing on earth she’d do would be to call Gordon Loomis in the middle of the night to come murder her in her own bed.
It was the most vivid dream. He was in the Market, naked, stacking an applesauce display. Customers were pushing carts past him, up and down the aisles, but no one seemed to care. Suddenly, the entire pyramid began to shift. He threw out his arms to stop the rolling, tumbling jars, but they kept shattering all around him. He sat up, confused, then leaped out of bed with the alarm of breaking glass and a piercing wail. He opened the window and leaned over the sill.
“Help! Help me! Please help!” a woman pleaded through the leafy darkness.
He pulled on pants, then grabbed the Corcopax flashlight and ran outside. Mrs. Jukas clutched her porch railing. “They broke my window!” she cried as he ran up the steps. “I was sound asleep and then the window broke.”
He said he’d look, but she wouldn’t go inside with him. She stayed by the front door while he checked the three rooms downstairs. None of the windows were broken. Both kitchen doors were locked, the back door dead-bolted, the cellar door with a flimsy hook and eye. As he came through the dining room, she called in to ask about her Hummels. Were any broken? Were they still there?
“They look fine to me,” he said, peering through the glass door of the floor-to-ceiling curio cabinet, every shelf crowded with the small ceramic figures of children with dogs, cats, umbrellas in the wind, buckets of flowers, musical instruments. For all his disciplined recall, he’d forgotten about her collection. These, his mother used to say, were the only children Mrs. Jukas could tolerate. He went back into the living room and asked if she’d called the police.
“Yes!” she answered immediately.
“I wonder what’s taking so long.”
“I’ll call again,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen.
She hadn’t really called, he realized as he tiptoed up the stairs. She’d only said so to curb his homicidal impulses. The small front bedroom and bathroom were intact and empty. The next door creaked open into her bedroom. He flipped the wall switch and splinters of light glittered everywhere. On the floor beside the glass-sprayed bed was a brick. He peered from the shattered window into the new leaves of the old maple, so big now that it shaded both yards. Only a strong arm could have thrown the brick up into the branches and through the window. Another few inches and it would have landed on the bed, perhaps even on the old woman. Leaning closer, he saw a ladder propped against the house. His hand jerked back against the jagged glass edge with the sickening realization that someone had climbed up here and aimed the brick right at the sleeping old woman. He shone the flashlight on the ladder. LOOMIS, said the faded stenciling down the side. It was his father’s old wooden extension ladder. His grip felt sticky on the flashlight; he’d cut his finger. He put his knuckle in his mouth and sucked on the cut. His ladder. His blood on the windowsill and floor. He tried to rub it away. Gordon Loomis, convicted killer, first on the scene and bleeding. A siren swelled in the distance, growing louder. Closer. Is this the way it ends? he wondered, looking wildly between the door and the window. As stupidly as this?
“The police’re coming!” Mrs. Jukas called up, looking past him warily.
“There’s nobody up here, but I just cut myself,” he said, hurrying downstairs.
She turned on the water in the kitchen sink and told him to hold his hand under it. “It’s not my fault. You should’ve been careful. I hope you don’t need stitches,” she fretted from behind.
“No, it’s just a cut, that’s all.”
“Because I can’t have any more claims on my homeowner’s.”
He shut off the water and told her about the brick, the explosion of glass, the ladder.
“Oh, my God!” Her mouth dropped open. “They were right out there, then, weren’t they? Looking in! Watching me.” Her eyes darted from window to