As Jeff stepped out of the taxi and approached the tenement steps he saw a faded lace curtain move in one of the windows facing the street. He hesitated, looked around. But for a lone elderly woman carrying a bag of groceries farther down the block, the street was empty. He continued up the steps to the front door, opened it and slipped into a foyer. The walls were cracked, the paint chipped and peeling, and a repugnant odor he couldn’t identify hung in the air.
He glanced down at the paper. Alongside the address were the words: First floor. Jeff knocked. No one answered, but he could hear movement inside the apartment, so he knocked again. After a moment, a shuffling sound indicated someone had moved up closer to the door.
“Hello?” he said, leaning closer. “Hello?”
From behind the door came a female voice; nervous and muffled.
“What do you want?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Wychek.”
“He’s not here.”
“Are you Mrs. Wychek?”
“What do you want?”
“My name’s McGrath. I need to speak to Mr. Wychek, it’s very important.” Jeff looked at the dark stairway leading to the second floor. It was filthy and strewn with garbage. “Could you open the door please?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Ma’am, please, my name is Jeff McGrath and-”
“What do you want with my husband?”
“I need to speak with him about some personal business.”
“What kind of personal business? If this is about the car payment the bank already did a repo, came and took it a couple nights ago.”
“It’s not about the car.”
“What bill’s it about?”
“It’s not about any bill, I-”
“Then what do you want?”
With a sigh, Jeff rubbed his eyes. This was ludicrous. He obviously wasn’t going to get anywhere without turning up the heat.
“Ma’am, I need to speak to your husband, understand? Now if he’s not home I need you to tell me where I can find him. This is very important. I’m not playing games.”
“Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
Jeff thought a moment. “I don’t think Foster Hope would appreciate that.”
After a lengthy pause he heard locks disengaging. The door opened slowly, but only a crack, the security chain catching. Through the opening, a middle-aged woman with bleary eyes and a drawn face peeked out at him. Her hair was mussed and unwashed, her skin pale and unhealthy looking, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. She also looked deeply frightened. Her eyes were filled with tears and her lips trembled like a scolded child’s. “Please,” she whispered, “please, we…I didn’t know, I…”
“It’s all right,” he said, holding his hands up in an effort to calm her. “I’m not going to hurt you or cause you any trouble. I just need to speak to Stephen.”
“Please,” she hissed, shaking as tears streamed her face. “ Please.”
Jeff forced a swallow. “Tell me where he is. I only want to talk.”
“We have kids,” she said, choking on her tears. “Please, I-”
“I want to help your husband, do you understand? Tell me where I can find him and I’ll do everything I can to help him make this right with Mr. Hope.”
Her watery eyes seemed to focus for the first time, and her mouth fell open. “You don’t…You don’t know what’s happening, do you?”
Jeff looked around nervously, as if expecting to find Hope in the shadows, watching him from the top of the stairs. “Look, I don’t want to be here, but I don’t have any choice. They’re making me do this.
All I’m supposed to do is talk to your husband and try to convince him to contact Mr. Hope. That’s all.”
She shook her head, the tears coming faster now.
“Do you know why they’re doing this? What did he do to you and your husband? What are they doing to me?” Jeff placed his hand against the doorframe to steady himself. “If you know, please Mrs. Wychek, tell me. What’s happening? What have we done? Why us?”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with a shaking hand, but they were quickly replaced. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “you don’t have to go looking for the Devil. Sometimes he goes looking for you.”
Despite the heat, Jeff felt a sudden burst of cold from deep within him. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Pray?” she asked hopelessly, her hand suddenly fingering a gold cross around her neck.
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Wychek?”
“He’s not my husband anymore.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
Her sad and frightened eyes looked to the floor. “Yes,” she whispered. “God forgive me…but yes.”
Moments later Jeff was back in Boston. There was a slight break in the stifling heat as an enormous bank of storm clouds slowly rolled in off Boston Harbor. The cab moved through the streets between the theater district and Chinatown, then finally pulled onto a side street and lurched to a stop near a vacant lot strewn with garbage and debris. The driver pointed to a rotting shell of an apartment building just beyond the lot. “That’s it.”
“Crazy,” he mumbled, “no one could actually live here.”
“That’s the address you gave me. You want me to wait again?”
“No.”
Jeff paid him and stepped out. As he crossed the lot thunder rumbled in the distance and a cool breeze provided an unexpected chill. He reached the base of the steps and looked up at the dilapidated, graffiti-covered structure. Most of the windows were blown out and the front doors were missing. He glanced around. The neighborhood was deserted.
A drizzle began to fall, startling a congregation of blackbirds perched along the roof into flight. Jeff watched until they disappeared into the dark clouds overhead. He slowly forced himself up the front steps.
As he entered what had once been a lobby his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light. A variety of lurid smells wafted all around him, and rain trickled in through several cavities in the high ceiling. A timeworn staircase stood to his right. Jeff ascended it cautiously, testing each step with his weight before continuing.
When he reached the top he followed a long hallway filled with garbage and the splintered remains of furniture to the first apartment. The door had rotted from its hinges and collapsed just inside the entrance. He climbed over the door and into an open area.
Broken pallets and a few discarded empty crates lay scattered about, and upon seeing him, a covey of plump rats scurried off, seeking refuge in corners or small portals previously gnawed in the decaying walls.
A rustling sound diverted Jeff’s attention. A large piece of tattered plastic hung over one of the windows, rippling in the mounting breeze, and on the floor just beneath it sat a pile of spent liquor bottles.
“Hello?” The only reply was the echo of his voice. “Is anyone here?”
“Joint’s taken,” a voice behind him said suddenly.
Jeff spun round to see a man standing a few feet away. “Jesus,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“What do you want?” Keeping a wary distance, the man produced an enormous hunting knife from his belt and brandished it about between them with a slow and threatening arcing motion.
“Take it easy,” Jeff said putting his hands up. “I don’t want any trouble.”
His eyes widened, as if he were losing sight of him. “Who are you?”
It was difficult to tell the man’s age. His clothes were soiled and worn, his hair and face needed to be washed and he was clearly exhausted. “McGrath.”
“I don’t know nobody named McGrath.”
“I’m looking for Steven Wychek.”
The man stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Are you Mr. Wychek?” Jeff asked, already wondering if he could outrun this man if need be. “Do I have the right person?”
The man slowly lowered the knife to his side. “Nobody knows where I am. How did you find me?”