The Devil_s Garden

FORTY-NINE

Michael stood in the alley behind the building at 64 Ditmars Boulevard. In his mind he saw the numbers on the drawing Charlotte made, the numbers on the refrigerator.

The last time he stood in this place, a time when his heart had been whole and he felt safe in this world, he was nine years old. That day he had played stickball with four of his friends from the neighborhood. Later that night, the night two men walked in the front door and murdered his parents, his whole world fell apart. He had been piecing it back together ever since.

Michael put his ear to the door, listened. Nothing.

Since Abby had bought the building, they’d had all the locks changed and upgraded, putting deadbolts on every door, bars on all the basement and first-story windows.

Michael turned the knob, bumped the door with his shoulder. Solid. He would not be breaking down the door, nor would he be defeating the new lock. He scanned the area for something with which he could break the window pane, saw a broken umbrella sticking out a trashcan. He took it out, fed it through the narrow bars on the door, tapped the pane twice. On three he hit the glass. It smashed. Michael listened to the interior of the space. He was met with a thick brown silence. After a few moments he reached in, scraping his hand on the too-narrow opening, cutting his palm on the broken glass. He turned the lock.

Michael looked both ways and, seeing he was alone, pushed open the door. He stepped into the abandoned bakery, into the dark dominion of his past.