watched.
He landed softly on the top floor and threw his light up and down the hallway.
Clear.
The scuttling resumed in one of the abandoned apartments at the end of the corridor. Cal crept down the hallway to 5E. The door was off its hinges. He peered into the void and listened before shining his light through the doorway.
The radio suddenly blared.
“Four-One Ida, what’s your status? Over.”
His heart almost burst from his chest. Cal turned the volume down and left the response to his partner. He cursed himself for not turning it down earlier. His position was now compromised, which could be bad if the suspect turned out to be a full-blown wacko. Few assailants would actually attack a police officer, but any cop who depended on that to keep him safe had one foot in the grave.
A few tense seconds passed with no response.
Cal secured his nightstick and drew his pistol. He walked through the doorway and shone the light around the room. It was a studio apartment; the kind coveted by creative types in Manhattan. Beer cans, old newspaper, and dirty dishes were scattered across the wet floor. Plastic buckets caught leaks from the roof, but not enough. A stained mattress lay flopped in the corner. Cracks in the plaster exposed wooden slats in the walls. He could see into the bathroom, the only extension of the single room. There was nowhere to hide, not a corner or a box from which to conceal anything larger than a cat. The room was empty. Yet, something was wrong.
If Cal really had a sixth sense, it was the ability to know when he was being stalked. The image of a gazelle in high grass kept popping into Cal’s head. Every nerve in the cop’s body fired up, his hackles stood on end.
He started to back out of the room slowly. Someone was in there with him, he just was not seeing them. He shifted his light around as he backed up. Rain dripped on his shoulder… and something gooey, too. It smelled acrid, its texture like melted glue. He spun around, ready to fire. No one was there. Then a frightening thought occurred to him. He looked up. Pressed against the black ceiling, two yellow eyes and a fanged grin looked back.
CHAPTER 2
1
Seth Raincrest slammed the snooze control for the fifth time. Each nine-minute reprieve was, of course, the last before he would drag his lanky frame from the mattress, but the slow roll down to his pillow appealed more than the walk to the bathroom. The day officially began when Hoshi-fully aware that it was within her master’s power to end the incessant buzzing-planted her furry rump on Seth’s head until the bad noise stopped.
Seth sat on the edge of the bed and clicked on the news. A student in Queens had been murdered, a baby in Cleveland was kidnapped from day care, India and Pakistan were pointing nuclear missiles at each other again, Meredith Vieira started her five-part series on colon cancer, and Mafia capo Dominic Tagliatore, the Debonair Don, was finally indicted on thirteen counts of racketeering. “Yay for the good guys,” Seth grunted.
He lit a Camel and decided he could get by another day without showering or shaving, so long as he changed his underwear. Seth could stretch a bar of soap for two months, a technique he had perfected in foster care. In the bathroom, his reflection studied him-bloodshot hazel eyes shaped like crescents standing on their tips, a Roman nose, and greasy brown hair. He hadn’t a clue which side of the family he took after. All record of his past had been destroyed, along with his parents, in a house fire thirteen years earlier. And, Seth could not recall anything from before the day of the fire. Because of a passing resemblance to John Lennon, friends teased he was probably the Beatle’s love child. Seth always felt more like Ringo.
He shuffled into the spare bedroom he used as his photo studio. The answering machine beeped. He ignored it. The ashtray on the work counter, piled high with bleached white carcasses of Seth’s addiction, overflowed with a halo of ash around the base. The workspace was decorated with small figurines of Bugs Bunny, Minnie Mouse, Porky Pig, and other cartoon characters, positioned in ways that would perturb any censor. Behind the figurines, an eclectic collection of bongs loitered against a wall marked with vertical measurement like that of a police lineup. A sign over the bongs read The Usual Suspects.
He pulled out a nude photo layout he had shot earlier in the week. Six days overdue, Seth just couldn’t muster the interest to get the job done. He attributed his procrastination to working best under pressure.
Seth studied the layout. The girls, a blonde and an Asian, were going at each other with rubber sex toys. The story began with them in a doctor’s waiting room. Since the doctor was taking so long, patient and nurse decided it would be the perfect time to get each other off. Just like it happens in real life, Seth thought. He’d hired them through an ad for models in the Village Voice. Seth was amazed that he could always find someone willing to do a shoot for a few hundred bucks or less. He had yet to encounter the girl, filled with righteous indignation, who would accuse him of being a pervert and a detriment to humanity. Apparently, those types did not read the Village Voice.
The girls who answered Seth’s ads always needed more money than their social situation or education would allow them to earn. The blonde in the photo, a coed, needed airfare to Cancun for spring break. The art store she cashiered at paid crap. So there she was, naked, with her head between a stranger’s thighs, clueless that this easy-money moment was going to follow her for the rest of her life like herpes. Most girls didn’t realize that the sets were resold to multiple publications; that they were uploaded to Web sites and downloaded by tens of millions everywhere throughout the world.
Seth lit a fresh cigarette as his roommate Joe walked in.
“Who’s on the machine?” Joe asked.
“Dunno.”
Joe played the message.
“It’s Carmine. Where’s my goddamned photo shoot?! You screw me on this and you’re not only fired, but we’ll come at you so hard you won’t be able to afford a disposable camera! Hell! You won’t be able to hold a disposable camera!”
“Crap! Are you gonna make the rent?” Joe asked.
Seth took another drag on his Camel and began to thumb through an issue of Penthouse.
“Man, this routine is getting old, Seth.”
Seth shuffled to the window. Cracked open, the winter air brought sounds of commuters, shopkeepers, and local transients beginning the day’s hustle. From his five-story perch, he followed the line of Avenue A past Tompkins Square, through the heart of the East Village, until it disappeared at Houston Street. Tenements once home to a million immigrants were now filled with artists, musicians, actors, students, and outcasts. Ramshackle shops and bars, clustered around the foundation of every building, were the best way landlords could afford the taxes on their rent-stabilized properties.
“I’m serious, man,” Joe continued. “You quit school, you bagged on Kevin’s wedding without a word, you dumped Mindy the day you were supposed to take her to the clinic. You never come through for anyone.”
Across the street, an old hooker hustled a man sweeping snow off his stoop. Her skin, dry and brown, sagged from her bones like she had just walked out of the desert. She had to work mornings because she couldn’t compete with the new girls at night. There were always new girls.
Their voices bounced off the buildings and echoed through the nearly deserted street. The man shouted about children living there and kicked her off the stoop. The hooker stumbled to the corner. Her erratic footprints in the snow traced her muddled perceptions.
Outside the Korean deli, a stray mutt pissed on a crate of oranges. Mr. Cho chased it away with a broomstick, then hosed down the oranges and put the fruit out on display. Kids hurled snowballs at a city bus. A beautiful redhead with map in hand searched for the right street.
