After Midnight

A guy like that doesn’t have a roommate.

Probably.

The danger would be from tenants of other apartments who might notice me in the building’s entryway and corridors.

Nobody’ll see me. Not at this hour of the night.

What about security cameras?

As I approached the front stairs, I spread the collar of my shirt and lifted it, pulling the shirt up to hide most of my face.

You didn’t do this in the parking lot, stupid.

Fear slammed through me again.

Had there been security cameras in the parking lot?

I didn’t know.

I hadn’t noticed any, but I hadn’t been looking, either.

Instead of climbing the stairs to the front doors, I made a third trip to the parking lot. This time, I searched high and low for video cameras.

I was awfully damn shaken up.

What the hell would I do if I found cameras?

I didn’t have the slightest idea, but I’d probably be sunk. There I’d be on video tape somewhere, delivering Tony’s car in the middle of the night—even wiping it for prints!

I felt sick inside just thinking about it.

Thank God, there didn’t seem to be any video equipment down there.

As you might’ve already noticed, the parking lot didn’t have a gated entrance, either. Anyone could’ve driven or walked in, as I proved. Frankly, the lot had no security whatsoever.

Nor did the rest of the building, as I soon found out.

This might surprise some of you. You might even think I’m lying. Because if you live in a place like Los Angeles or New York City, you probably think every apartment house in the world has security measures like a Wells Fargo bank.

But you’re wrong.

In Chester, we did have plenty of buildings designed to foil criminals. But we also had some that were wide open—ungated, unguarded, uncameraed, and virtually unlocked. They were usually older places that didn’t charge you a fortune in rent.

They aren’t only in Chester, either.

I’d lived in a few of them, myself, before coming to town and moving in over Serena and Charlie’s garage. They weren’t so bad. You had to worry about prowlers, but at least you had your freedom. You weren’t locked in a cage, and your every move wasn’t caught on video tape. There’s a lot to be said for that.

Even if you aren’t doing something bad.

If you are up to no good, a lack of security is splendid.

After finishing my search for video cameras, I didn’t even bother going back outside. I just trotted up a stairway near the front of the parking lot, came to an unlocked door, opened it and found myself inside the foyer.

The foyer and corridor were dimly lighted.

I saw no one.

Nor did I hear any sounds from the rooms as I sneaked down the corridor looking for apartment 12.

Everyone’s asleep, I thought.

God, I hope so.

I felt like a wreck. My mouth was dry, my heart slamming, my whole body dripping with sweat. I was panting for air like a worn-out dog. And shaking like crazy.

The nasty green carpet silenced my footfalls.

But every so often, a board creaked.

What if somebody hears me?

What if a door suddenly opens?

A door wouldn’t even have to open—each had a peephole. Someone might look out at me and I’d never even know.

I felt sick with fear.

If anybody sees me, it blows the whole deal.

What’ll I do?

Pray it doesn’t happen.

At last, I came to number 12. As quietly as possible, I reached into the right front pocket of my cut-offs and pulled out Tony’s key case. I unsnapped it.

Of the six keys, two belonged to Tony’s car.

Four to pick from, but one of them didn’t really look like a room key. It might go to a padlock, or something.

So I selected a key from the remaining three.

You can’t fool around with a bunch of keys and not make some noise. They clinked and jingled, sounding awfully loud in the silence.

When I finally had the key pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I couldn’t hold it still. My hand shook so badly that the tip kept scraping around on the face of the lock, and wouldn’t go in the hole.

At last, it went in.

But just the point of it. I tried to force it in the rest of the way, but it wouldn’t go.

When that sort of thing happens, sometimes you’ve got the key upside down. So I turned it over and tried again.

No luck.

Wrong key.

With more clinking and jingling, I fumbled about for key number two.

By the time I had it ready, my hand was shaking worse than ever. The key bumped and scratched against the lock, and kept missing the hole. I used my left hand to hold my right hand steady. That didn’t help a lot, but it helped some. Enough.

I made it to the hole.

This time, the key slid in all the way.

Yes!

But I couldn’t turn it.

Shit!

No matter how hard I twisted the key, all it did was rattle deep inside the lock somewhere. It wouldn’t turn. The damn thing seemed to be frozen in an upright position.

Letting the bunch of keys dangle, I looked at my hand. I had a red imprint on my thumb and forefinger.

I wiped my hand dry on the front of my shirt, then tried again. This time, I twisted the key so hard that I started to worry about breaking it.

So I quit and let go again.

What the hell is wrong? I wondered. The key fit. It had gone in all the way. Why wouldn’t it turn?

Maybe it’s the wrong damn key.

But it fit!

Sure. Okay. It’s the right size to go in the hole, but not completely right.

Obviously not right enough to unlock the door.

I jerked it out, turned it over, then tried to stick it back in.

This time, it would only go halfway in.

I muttered, “Shit,” yanked it out, then fumbled for the third key. And dropped the whole case. It landed on the carpet in front of the door with a quiet thump and a loud jangle.

I crouched and grabbed it.