Locked Doors

10

IN the North Carolina night Luther shins down the pine. On the ground he checks the time and dusts the bark off his jeans. He shoulders the Gregory daypack that holds the tools of his trade: duct tape, latex gloves,. 357, small tape recorder, hairnet, two pairs of handcuffs, four Ziploc bags, sharpening stone, and one very special bowie, constructed of a five and a half inch battle-proven blade and ivory hilt. He appropriated the knife seven years ago from Orson Thomas’s desert cabin. He treasures it and is thinking of giving it a name.

Shortleaf Drive runs for a quarter mile along the shore of the moonlit lake, a cul-de-sac at each end, the houses built on roomy wooded lots, draped in sweet suburban silence.

As Luther walks down the road he registers all sounds: the handful of chirping crickets which will be silenced by month’s end, a jet cruising in the darkness overhead, the horn of a distant train carrying across the water.

The Worthingtons live in the brick ranch with long eaves, second from the cul-de-sac, surrounded and shaded by tall broad oaks. The house is dark. Because the blinds aren’t drawn he is tempted to sit in the driveway and stare through those windows into rooms he will soon inhabit. But that isn’t how one carries oneself on a residential street at 1:30 in the morning. So he moves on down the driveway past a Volvo and minivan, each adorned with the obligatory bumper stickers boasting of terrific Honor Roll children.

He creeps along the side of the house into the backyard. The grass runs down to the water where a pier is rotting into the lake. A monster oak stands in the center of the lawn, an elaborate tree house built twenty feet up upon its staunchest limbs. A rope swing hangs from a branch overhead and on this calm October night is absolutely still, like the minute hand of a watch that no longer keeps time.

Luther kneels down in the grass below the boy’s window, thankful that the old oak shades him from the brilliant harvest moon. He unzips his backpack and removes the latex gloves. After pulling his hair into a ponytail he slips on a hairnet and rises.

The window comes to his waist.

He peers inside.

The boy lies asleep in bed. A nightlight spreads soft orange illumination upon the wall beside the open doorway.

Caricatures of stars shine weakly from the ceiling.

Luther aims the laser pointer and a red dot appears on the boy’s pillow. The laser moves onto his face and holds against the eyelid. The boy jerks his head, rubs his eyes, and is still again. The pinpoint of bloodlight finds the eyelid once more. The boy sits up suddenly in bed.

With his middle knuckle Luther raps twice against the glass.

Seven-year-old Ben Worthington regards the dark shape of the man at the window.

The laser shines on Ben’s pajamatop.

In the blue darkness the boy looks down at the glowing dot on his chest, then back at Luther, smiling now, remembering.

Luther smiles too.

Ben waves to Luther and climbs down out of bed. He walks in pajamafeet through scattered Legos to the window. Sleeplines texture the left side of his face.

“Hey!” he says at full volume.

Luther touches his index finger to his lips, dangling the laser pointer between his thumb and forefinger.

And boy and man whisper plans to make their rendezvous at the back door.