the river you cross when you're dead.'
'Never mind that. Can I be sure you got my message?'
'Sure, Harley. I'll sleep on it.'
'That'll have to be good enough for now,' Renz said. 'But let me know early tomorrow morning so I can be sure. Not that you got a choice, but you're a stubborn bastard.'
'I'll call you.'
'I'll be waiting. And Quinn, I know my rivers.'
13
Mary attempted to scream, but the sight of the man from the subway right there, in her apartment, turned her throat to stone. She couldn't breathe, much less scream.
And he was the subway man. The same wrinkled, soiled clothing. The same baseball cap with its bill worn low so he seemed to be staring at her with half eyes. The same bristly beard stubble. The same horrible, frightening stench of stale sweat and urine. Of the street. Of everything about New York that was raw and dangerous.
He seemed as shocked as Mary for a moment; as if he could hardly comprehend finding her in her own apartment. It was as if she'd surprised and frightened him. As if she didn't belong.
He actually smiled. His teeth were crooked and yellow, one of the upper incisors broken half off. As he stared at her, he ran his tongue over his lower lip.
He bent low at the waist and removed something from just inside his pants cuff. When he straightened up, Mary saw that he was holding a knife with a long, thin blade. A boning knife, she knew. She had one something like it in her own kitchen drawer.
Was it her knife?
No. Hers had a wooden handle. The handle on this knife-what she could see of it inside the man's hand-was steel, like the blade.
Mary inhaled again to scream, and the man moved quickly toward her. It was all so fast, as if film frames had been skipped. Suddenly his forearm was pressed vertically against her upper body, between her breasts. It was the arm that held the knife, and she could feel the cold steel of the blade against her throat. The knife point probed eagerly beneath her jaw, not quite breaking through flesh. If he pushed upward the knife would go into her mouth, through her tongue and the roof of her mouth, into her brain. She could imagine it. Could almost feel it.
Mary was still too paralyzed with fear to scream. She felt her bladder release and the warmth of her urine trickling down her legs.
The man with the knife became aware of her mixture of terror and humiliation, and his smile broadened. She was his entertainment, and she was performing well, his smile said. He wasn't tall and didn't seem particularly muscular, but Mary could feel his strength like a current as he moved her a step backward with a shifting of his slender but powerful arm.
Any second he might use the knife.
She managed to make a few gasping, hoarse noises, almost like a bagpipe bellowing, but muted. She had never known such fear was possible.
Leaning his body weight into her, he walked her backward, through the living room, down the short hall to her bedroom. Her entire body was trembling as if electric shocks were running through it.
The bed! Once I'm on the bed I'm lost!
Without warning he shoved her hard, and she staggered backward, catching her heel on the carpet, losing her balance.
She was on her back on the hard wood floor before she knew what had happened, and the back of her head ached as if her skull had fractured in a thousand fragments.
He straddled her, seated on her stomach, waving the knife before her eyes so she'd be sure to see it.
He clutched the front of her blouse and ripped it away, sending buttons flying. She wasn't wearing a bra. With his free hand he clamped her nipple between thumb and forefinger and squeezed hard.
Then his weight was lifted from her, and she could breathe easier.
Through her pain and dizziness Mary realized she was looking up at the man's back, at the dark crescents of perspiration stains on his shirt beneath his armpits. She watched him move quickly toward her bedroom window, knowing as she did so that the air was different in the room. Warmer and more humid.
The window's open. I left it unlocked, and now it's open.
She shifted her gaze and saw that she was right. He'd left the window open where he'd gained entrance from the fire escape.
He looked back at her, and their gazes locked. His unblinking eyes were hypnotic. Snake to mongoose.
With a surprising grace and confidence he let himself out through the window, moving backward and not taking his sullen, greedy eyes from her. Beneath the half-moon eyes was the broken-toothed grin, as if he had her completely in his power and knew every evil thing about her, all the secrets of her body.
She was his for the taking, that grin said. And when he was ready, he would take.
Mary understood that and knew she was helpless to do anything about it.
Still lying on her back, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows and watch the man outside the window. He turned away from her, and began his descent on the black iron fire escape. She could barely hear the leather- on-metal scraping of his shoes as he scrambled down and away from her. She was safer with each of his hurried steps.
She dropped so she was flat on her back again and lay silently for a while, then rolled onto her side. When she tried to stand up her headache exploded behind her eyes, and she sat down on the floor near the bed.
Using the mattress to lean against, she finally managed to pull herself up to where she was sitting hunched over on the bed. She stretched out her hand and without looking found the phone on the nightstand, dragged the receiver from its cradle, and held it in her lap. She pressed it between her thighs so it wouldn't drop to the floor. Her head flared with pain again as she turned slightly and focused her bleary vision on the base unit. She pecked out nine-one-one on the keypad.
Her voice was strangled, but she was sure she'd included her address in her rambling, choking conversation with the 911 operator.
Mary heard herself begin to sob. Her body shuddered, and she leaned back into deeper and deeper darkness.
There was a clock by the phone. Though it had seemed like seconds, she knew that fifteen minutes had passed and the police were pounding on her door.
14
He'd dropped silently from the iron fire escape into the courtyard and made his way through the narrow passageway on the side of the building to the street. No one had seen him, he was sure. And even if someone had noticed him, they'd never be able to recognize him. He was away clean. Things hadn't worked out as he'd planned, but he was safe.
He hadn't wanted to hurt her. Not at this point. He'd only wanted to learn more about her.
Her name was Mary. Mary Bakehouse. He knew that much from riffling through the contents of her desk. He knew where she banked, how much she owed, where she left her laundry, that she had family in godforsaken South Dakota. He'd seen photographs of her and her country relatives, the Bakehouse clan, and a close-up of lovely Mary wearing a white blouse buttoned to her throat and grinning with every tooth. Desk drawers could be so revealing.
He'd been about to switch on her computer and learn even more about her when he heard her out in the hall, fumbling for her door key.
He'd barely had time to sweep everything back into the drawers and push them shut, then conceal himself
