Murder One

5

KIRK DALCANTON COULDN’T DECIDE which he thought more feeble: the spindly rotted staircase or the decrepit old man leading him up it.

“Last tenants I had in here, they didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything except themselves.” The elderly man could only manage one step every thirty seconds or so, which made the ascent even more painfully slow, not to mention hazardous. “And maybe not even themselves. Tore the place apart. Left in the dead of night and never paid me a dime. You’re not going to do that, are you, son?”

“No. No, I mean, I wouldn’t. I’ll pay in advance, if you want.”

“That’d be all right, sure. Not that I don’t trust you. But you know how it is.”

Kirk wrenched a wad of cash out of his pocket. For once, he was flush, at least by his standards. He grabbed about a hundred bucks and shoved it into the pocket of the old man’s ratty cardigan. For a dump like this, that ought to last him a month.

“I appreciate that, son, I do. Gets harder and harder to get good people, if you know what I mean. Quality folk. Not like it was in the old days. Back during the oil boom, even before. Then I had a list of people as long as your arm wanting to get in here. I couldn’t rent space fast enough. People wanted to be near downtown, where the action was. Wasn’t considered a bad neighborhood back then. Nowadays, all the yuppies and high-flyers run south and everyone else follows them and pretty soon I don’t have anyone I can rent to except crack heads and pimps and people who disappear in the dead of night and don’t pay their rent.”

Kirk batted his eyelashes, trying not to fall asleep halfway up the stairs. You’re bo-ring! old man, he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs. But he decided to restrain himself. At least until he signed the lease.

“Here we go,” the landlord said, as he crossed the threshold at the top of the stairs: “Only one room up here, and that’s yours.” He opened the door and flung out his arm, like he was presenting some breathtaking view. What he was actually displaying was a dump. Possibly the worst, most horrible-looking dive Kirk had ever seen in his life.

Kirk stepped inside and took a quick inventory, trying to keep his face from revealing the disgust and revulsion he felt. Exposed wooden planks that passed for a floor, many of them broken or even missing. Bare white walls, with off-color blotches that showed where filthy words had been whitewashed out. There was an exposed sink with a cracked mirror overhead, a toilet in a tiny dark closet. That was what passed for the bathroom.

He saw a chair but no table. Where was a man supposed to eat? There was a bed; he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. But if there had ever been springs in that mattress, he couldn’t tell it now, and the tattered bedspread had a smell that made him gag. This was far worse than the place where he’d stayed with his sister, and he’d thought that was a real rat’s nest at the time. He’d seen better places than this in the worst parts of Stroud—and that was after the tornado hit.

“I’ll take it,” Kirk said.

“Well, wonderful,” the old man said. “I’m pleased. Truly pleased. I have a good feeling about this.”

You wouldn’t, you stupid old man, Kirk thought, if you had any idea what I’ve been up to lately. Or what I’m likely to be doing in the future. But of course, you don’t know anything about that. You just see a chance to get your bony little fingers on a quick hundred bucks. That’s what you have a good feeling about.

“What’s this place like when it gets chilly out?” Kirk asked. This was more than just an academic question. A serious cold snap was expected any day now.

“Well, it’s cold, naturally. What would you expect?”

“Does the central heating—”

The landlord started shuffling toward the door. “My recommendation would be that you get one of those space heaters. Maybe a bottle of cheap wine. Snuggle up to them when night falls. Keep you good and warm.” The man turned slightly and actually winked. “And it’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper than a woman, right? Although, on this street, not by much.”

Sleazy old goat, Kirk thought bitterly. What did he mean by that? What was he suggesting? Why would he want that kind of woman? Or was he implying that he wouldn’t want any kind of woman? Was that it?

All of a sudden, Kirk hated the man. He flashed on that book they’d made him read in high school—Crime and Punishment, right? Took damn near forever for Kirk to finish that one. Boring book, but the guy in it had the right idea. If this landlord didn’t disappear soon, he was going to end up dead, too.

“If I need anything, who should I call?” Kirk asked.

The old man shrugged his spindly shoulders. “God?” He flashed a withered smile, then closed the door behind him.

Wiseass, Kirk thought, as the old man thankfully disappeared from his sight. First the comment about women, then the smart remark about God. Did the decrepit creep have any idea what had happened? Did he know that God had stopped answering Kirk’s prayers?

He threw his backpack onto the floor, causing a crash that threatened to break through the floorboards. He collapsed on the stone-hard bed, suddenly exhausted. He didn’t know when, it had happened, exactly. He’d been praying all his life, ever since he first learned how back in that one-room white-boarded Baptist church in Stroud. And God had always answered in prayers. Not in words, like some weird Oral Roberts-like message from beyond. But Kirk had always had the sense that someone was listening, that even if he didn’t always get everything he wanted, his voice was still being heard.

But not any longer. God had closed the door on him. He was certain of it.

And who could blame Him? He had done a horrible, nasty thing. But surely God could see what he was up against, how he was being pulled one way and the other. Surely God could see some cause for forgiveness. Surely—

He closed his eyes. Sweat oozed from his pores. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. He had sinned. Horribly so. Unforgivably so. God would never smile down on him again. He was an outcast. He was Cain in the land of Nod. Worse, really. Even Cain had never—

But couldn’t God see how he had been tempted? How could any human being resist? At first, he thought God had forgiven him. He allowed Kirk’s sister to be acquitted, right? Surely that was a sign of God’s grace. Except now it was starting up all over again. If what he’d heard on the radio was true, she might not be safe after all. And neither was he. God was sending His demons to torment him. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat.

And he couldn’t pray. He could try, but no one was listening. And what was the point of praying to a god who wouldn’t hear?

Kirk flung himself out of the bed, collapsing on the floor. He pounded his fist on the floorboards, sending a trembling throughout the small apartment. He had to get out of here, had to do something. He didn’t know what, but he had to try something to wrench himself free of this pervasive guilt. He couldn’t live with this, not much longer. He would rather die than live with this.

He pushed himself to his feet, scrounging for his coat. Surely there were answers somewhere, out on the street. Surely he could find some form of redemption. Some kind of relief, some peace of mind. He couldn’t go on living like this, he just couldn’t.

But if God wouldn’t forgive him, who would?