Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [51]
Frightened and numb, I drove around and around until I finally spotted what appeared to be Jacob’s car. It was down a deserted alley that had become a kind of panhandle lot. I parked the Range Rover on the street and walked down the drivewaylike street toward a structure that did indeed seem to be a duplex—a very run-down and decrepit duplex with pieces of broken-down cars and old furniture strewn across the tall brown grass that had once been a lawn.
As I got closer, I knew by the distinctive dent in the left-rear fender that it was Jacobs car. I peeked into the Subaru, just in case Jacob was sacked out in the back, but only saw a messy pile of blankets and clothes and general Jacob debris. Taking a breath for courage, I went up and stood before the front door. A broken lawn chair was propped against the porch railing, and the paint on the siding was blistered and peeling. To my left, I noticed what appeared to be a bedroom window, but it was broken and “repaired” with duct tape and a weathered piece of cardboard and appeared to have been like that for some time.
It was broad daylight and about three in the afternoon, so I wasn’t feeling concerned for my own welfare, although I was certainly uneasy and apprehensive about knocking on a strangers door. But, I reassured myself, my son was probably inside. No need to be afraid of my own son. I took another deep breath, remembering Dr. Abrams’s exercises for centering myself, as I pressed the doorbell. Then unsure as to whether the bell worked or not, I knocked lightly and waited. It seemed I stood there for about ten minutes, knocking again and again, a little louder each time, but when the door finally swung open, I felt my mouth open right along with it.
The smell hit me first. A sickly sweet, nauseating mixture of rotten garbage, filthy laundry, and various human body odors. I must’ve stepped back when it assaulted my nose.
The young woman who stood at the door looked to be anywhere from fourteen to twenty-four, but I couldn’t be sure. She wore plaid boxers and a skimpy, stained undershirt that left nothing to my imagination. Her bleached-blond hair fell in greasy tangles around her face, which was extremely pale, and her eyes were glazed as if she wasn’t quite focused on me.
“Is Jacob Harmon here?” I asked in a voice that reminded me of an old curmudgeon principal I worked for before Sarah was born.
“Huh?” The girl stared blankly.
“Jacob Harmon,” I repeated a bit louder, looking past her bare shoulder to the cavelike interior splayed out behind her. The room was dark and shadowy, the result of blankets that were hanging over the windows. But I could see a couch with what appeared to be a person, not my son, sleeping on it. And in what seemed to be an old recliner was another person, again not my son.
My heart began racing as I stood there witnessing what was obviously some kind of flophouse, a place for people to get high. For all I knew there could be a crystal meth lab percolating away in a back bedroom. Maybe the cops were on their way over to make a big bust even as I stood there gaping.
“I’m, uh, looking for my son,” I said and took a tentative step into this den of horrors. “Jacob!” I called loudly enough to echo through the whole house, but the two sleeping bodies didn’t even flinch.
I could see the kitchen from where I stood, and it was piled high with filthy dishes, rotting food items, and dozens of empty booze bottles and beer cans. A couple of partially filled garbage bags littered the floor, as if someone had begun cleaning and then given up. Not that I could blame them. It would take days, maybe weeks, to clean up something like that.
“Jacob!” I yelled again.
“Oh, you mean Jake,” said