"I think I can manage," the old woman said.
"I wouldn't hear of it," Byrne replied.
They were in the parking lot of the Aldi on Market Street. Aldi was the no-frills supermarket chain that sold limited brands at discount prices. The woman was in her late seventies or early eighties, spindly and gaunt. She had fine features and translucent powdered skin. Despite the heat, and the fact that no rain was in the forecast for at least three days, she wore a double-breasted wool coat and bright blue galoshes. She was trying to load half a dozen grocery bags into her car, a twenty-year-old Chevy.
"But look at you," she said. She gestured toward his cane. "I should be helping you."
Byrne laughed. "I'm fine, ma'am," he said. "Just twisted my ankle."
"Of course, you're still a young man," she said. "At my age, if I twisted an ankle, they might put me down."
"You look pretty spry to me," Byrne said.
The woman smiled beneath the veil of a schoolgirl blush. "Oh, now."
Byrne grabbed the bags and started loading them into the backseat of the Chevy. Inside, he noticed a few rolls of paper towels, a few boxes of Kleenex. There were also a pair of mittens, an afghan, a knit cap, and a soiled quilted ski vest. Seeing as this woman probably didn't frequent the slopes of Camelback Mountain, Byrne figured she carted around this wardrobe on the off chance that the temperature might dip down to a frigid seventy-five degrees.
Before Byrne could load the last bag into the car his cell phone chirped. He took it out, snapped it open. It was a text message from Colleen. In it, she told him that she was not leaving for camp until Tuesday, and wondered if they could have dinner Monday night. Byrne messaged her back that he would love to have dinner. On her end, the phone would vibrate and she could read the message. She replied immediately: KEWL! LUL CBOAO:)
"What is that?" the woman asked, pointing to his phone.
"It's a cell phone."
The woman looked at him for a moment, as if he had just told her it was a spaceship built for very, very small aliens. "That's a telephone?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," Byrne said. He held it up for her to see. "It has a camera built in, a calendar, an address book."
"My, my," she said, shaking her head side to side. "I believe the world has passed me by, young man."
"It's all moving too fast, isn't it?"
"Praise His name."
"Amen," Byrne said.
She began to slowly make her way toward the driver's door. Once inside she reached into her purse, produced a pair of quarters. "For your troubles," she said. She tried to hand them to Byrne. Byrne raised both hands in protest, more than a little moved by the gesture.
"That's okay," Byrne said. "You take that and buy yourself a cup of coffee." Without protest, the woman slipped the two coins back into her purse.
"Time was when you could get a cup of coffee for a nickel," she said.
Byrne reached over to close the door for her. With a movement he would have thought was too quick for a woman of her age she took his hand in hers. Her papery skin felt cool and dry to the touch. Instantly, the images ripped through his mind- -a damp, dark room… the sounds of a TV in the background… Welcome Back, Kotter… the flicker of votive candles… a woman's anguished sobs… the sound of bone on flesh… screams in the blackness… Don't make me go up to the attic… -as he tore back his hand. He wanted to move slowly, not wanting to alarm or insult the woman, but the images were terrifyingly clear, heart- breakingly real.
"Thank you, young man," the woman said.
Byrne took a step back, trying to compose himself.
The woman started her car. After a few moments she waved a thin, blue-veined hand, and angled across the lot.
Two things stayed with Kevin Byrne as the old woman drove away. The image of the young woman who still lived in her clear, ancient eyes.
And the sound of that terrified voice in his head.
Don't make me go up to the attic… he stood across the street from the building. It looked different in daylight, a squalid relic of his city, a scar on a moldering urban block. Every so often a passerby would stop, try to look through the grimy glass-block squares that checkerboarded the front.
Byrne took an item out of his coat pocket. It was the napkin that Victoria had given him when she had brought him breakfast in bed, the white linen square with the imprint of her lips in deep red lipstick. He turned it over and over in his hands as he drew the layout of the street in his mind. To the right of the building across the street was a small parking lot. Next to that, a used-furniture mart. In front of the furniture store was an array of bright plastic bar stools in the shape of tulips. To the left of the building was an alleyway. He watched a man exit the front of the building, around the corner to the left, down the alley, then down a set of iron stairs to an access door beneath the structure. A few minutes later, the man emerged carrying a pair of cardboard boxes.
It was a storage cellar.
That's where he would do it, Byrne thought. In the cellar. He would meet the man later that night in the cellar.
No one would hear them down there.