Tension racked his body. He couldn’t fight himself much longer.
But perhaps he didn’t have to.
There might be a way out. A way to find relief.
His photo. His special picture.
Yes. Go home. Remove the photograph from its hiding place. And then…
He knew what he would do.
Would it be enough? He wasn’t sure. But it was his last hope.
As he swung off Houghton Road onto 22nd Street, he glanced at the dashboard clock: 8:15.
His apartment was only fifteen minutes away-ten, if he maintained this reckless speed.
And if a traffic cop should pull him over…
He fingered the shotgun mounted under the dash, then lightly touched the handgun in his pocket.
Any cop who tried to ticket him would be dead. Anyone who interfered with him tonight, anyone who fucked with him…
Dead.
47
Annie had trouble finding a parking space in Gund’s neighborhood. Finally she pulled into a curbside slot on a side street, outside a used-car lot protected by a security fence and a restless Doberman. Her dashboard clock glowed 8:05 when she killed the engine.
The guard dog growled at her through the fence as she walked swiftly to the corner. She turned east and hurried past a dreary row of brick houses, their sandy lots bordered by chain-link fencing. Graffiti clung to walls and utility poles like patches of black fungus. From some homes the drone of a television or radio was audible, the voices on the broadcasts always in Spanish.
Gund’s apartment was a ground-floor unit at the front corner of a two-story stucco building. His windows were dark, his curtains drawn.
No fence around the place-that was one obstacle she wouldn’t have to contend with, anyway-but covering the front windows were iron security bars.
Impossible to get in that way, and she lacked the skills to pick the lock on the door. Maybe she would find some means of access at the side of the unit.
A narrow passageway ran between the apartment building and the house next door. Through the wall of the house bled the loud, insistent blare of Mexican music. Shadows of human figures flitted across the lowered window shades like drifting clouds of smoke.
Annie crept down the passage, past a wheeled trash bin and another barred window, then stopped at what must be Gund’s bathroom window. It was a slender rectangle of frosted glass, five feet off the ground, sealed shut, and unbarred.
She studied the window, uncertain if it was wide enough for her to squeeze through. She thought it was-just barely.
For a moment she hesitated. Was she really going to do this?
Then her resolve stiffened. For Erin she would. For Erin.
The music from next door ought to cover the sound of breaking glass. All she needed was a way to smash the window. Should have brought the jack from the trunk of her car, but she hadn’t thought of it.
She’d make a lousy burglar, she decided. She wasn’t even dressed right.
A black jumpsuit would have been the appropriate attire. She was still wearing her clothes from work-a brightly colored cotton skirt and a floral-print blouse. The blouse would look good in the mug shot, at least.
The small joke made her frown. There wasn’t going to be any mug shot. Everything would be fine, and there was no reason, absolutely none, for her hands to be trembling.
They trembled anyway as she rummaged through the trash bin and found someone’s gooseneck lamp, the cord badly frayed. She hefted the lamp experimentally. It seemed sturdy enough to do the job.
Leaning against the bin, drawing a slow breath to compose herself, she felt a hand on her arm.
“ Jesus.”
She swung around, instinctively raising the lamp as a weapon, and saw two green eyes staring at her from a foot away.
Cat’s eyes. An alley cat, that’s all it was, just an alley cat that had climbed atop the bin and touched her with its paw.
“Oh, God, puss, you scared me.”
The cat sniffed her clothes, unafraid. Annie realized the scent of her own house cat must have drawn the stray’s attention.
“His name is Stink,” she whispered. “He’s got green eyes like yours-and mine. Maybe the three of us are related.”
The cat appeared unimpressed with this hypothesis.
“Okay now, scoot. Scoot.”
Gently she brushed the cat away. It bounded off the bin and meandered a few yards down the passageway, then stood watching, a silent spectator.
Her conversation with the cat, one-sided though it had been, had calmed her somewhat. She always felt soothed in the presence of a feline, whether Stink or this mangy stray. Cats were good for the soul. Maybe if Harold had a cat, he wouldn’t A new worry froze her. How did she know he didn’t own a cat? Or worse, far worse, a dog? A guard dog, even, like that Doberman at the auto lot?
She might enter the apartment only to find herself pinned to a wall, fangs at her throat.
Then she shook her head firmly. “That won’t happen. Come on, girl. No more procrastination.”
A quick breath of courage, and she turned to face the window. Holding the lamp by its base, she jabbed the glass. The window cracked on her first attempt, crumbled to shards with a second, stronger thrust. Both sounds were largely swallowed by the wail of mariachi horns next door.
Carefully she swept the frame clear, using the metal neck of the lamp, then rolled the Dumpster under the window and climbed onto the lid.
A glance at the far end of the passageway revealed two green eyes still burning against the dark.
“Wish me luck,” she whispered to the cat.
Its answering meow heartened her.
Gingerly she inserted one leg through the window, then the other. Inch by inch she wriggled in, holding fast to the sill, her feet probing until they found a smooth, sturdy surface. Resting on it, she was able to release her grip on the sill and draw her upper body, her arms, and finally her head inside.
She found herself squatting on the porcelain lid of the toilet tank. For several breathless seconds she waited tensely, until she felt reasonably confident that no German shepherd was about to charge out of the dark and savage her throat.
Then she stepped cautiously onto the seat of the commode and hopped to the floor.
She was in.
It was a strange feeling to be alone in the dark in an unfamiliar home-uninvited, an intruder, a trespasser.
She listened for sounds of movement elsewhere in the apartment. Heard nothing but the Mexican music and, overhead, a creak of restless footsteps.
Had Gund’s upstairs neighbor heard the window shatter or glimpsed her sneaking in? Dialed 911? Reports of a prowler were given top priority; response time would be short.
The footsteps continued, back and forth, back and forth, registering no urgency. Annie decided the tenant was merely pacing.
It must drive Harold crazy to hear that all night, she reflected, before reminding herself that he might be crazy anyway.
Okay. Search the place. Fast.
