House Haunted by Al Sarrantonio Page A

left in there had already been hauled away.
    From then on, as he got onto the Saw Mill Parkway, the traffic was light.
    It had been a good trip, as these trips went. He'd been able to get Bridget's business out of the way, still leaving plenty of time to get home and take care of his own.
    He smiled, gripping the wheel hard. Business. Like old Harold and his chess.
    The Invincible Man.
    He gripped the wheel harder. His entire body had become tense, his smile set. Why not test it now? Maybe he would tear the wheel right off its shaft, send the old Datsun into a concrete overpass. Maybe he'd wait until he got off the Major Deegan Expressway, send the car over the Third Avenue Bridge. If the impact didn't get him, the water would, since he couldn't swim.
    But what if she was lying?
    He nearly broke the wheel in confused anger, his eyes filling with blind rage. He was passing a huge diesel rig; he could run the Datsun sideways, jamming it under the bed; the dragging crush of the wheels would—
    She wouldn't lie to me.
    He loosened his grip on the steering wheel. His smile loosened, too. There was no reason to total the car. Why would she have told him all these things if she didn't mean them? A trade, she'd called it. He did a few things for her, was a kind of assistant; she gave him . . . invincibility. A fair trade. And he knew she could do things that weren't . . . normal. She'd proved that to him.
    What if she's using you?
    He was gripping the wheel again. Deliberately, with an act of will, he calmed himself. He was getting upset over nothing. It had been a good trip, a good day; it would be a good night . . .
    What if—
    In the confines of the Datsun, he shouted, “Stop it!” He banged his fist down hard on the dashboard, feeling the cheap padding give with the blow until metal somewhere underneath met and resisted his hand.
    Stop . . .
    He felt better. He stretched his hand out on the seat next to him, letting the pain spread from his fist to his arm, concentrating on it, tasting it.
    In a few minutes, he was himself again.
    He turned his attention back to the road. He was already on the FDR Drive. Even with the delay on the Taconic, he had made good time. His spirits rose. He reversed the neglected Miles Davis tape.
    In five minutes he had reached his exit, passed a couple of stoplights, made two quick turns, and was into his underground garage. The car bounced and squeaked at the bottom of the short ramp, and he thought, Have to get new shocks.
    He was in a good mood by the time he locked the garage door behind him, made a quick trip to the corner deli to buy the three papers (“Hello, Bob”; “Hello, Gary,” a meaningless conversation that hadn't changed in twelve years), and entered the elevator. Mrs. Fogelman was in it. She'd lived in the building since Gary was four years old and had known his mother. “Hello, Gary,” she began, trying to rush into conversation, looking for gossip. He waved his hand at her noncommittally and pushed the up button.
    The elevator was slow; the gate creaked and momentarily stuck when he pulled it open. As the car finally arrived he looked at his watch. Six o'clock. Plenty of time.
    He locked his door behind him, took off his jacket and laid it carefully over the back of the couch. He put the three newspapers on the corner of the coffee table. He reached beneath the couch and slid out a flat square scrapbook, the old-fashioned kind with black pages for snapshots mounted with gummed corners.
    The first three pages were covered with newspaper clippings. He opened to the fourth page, revealing a black-and-white photograph of his mother and himself and a man he didn't recognize. The man had an arm around his shoulder. Gary was standing in front of a low brick wall. He was about six years old. Above where he stood, on top of the wall, was a huge plaster Humpty Dumpty with its arms and legs flailing, trying to regain its balance, a look of extreme alarm on