Spanish maraca. 'Nothing for you; pills for Sidney,' Fidel says, flashing his wide smile.
With my briefcase in one hand and mail in the other, I wedge the package under my armpit, slide it off the desk, and head for the elevator. 'Have a good night, Fidel.'
Angling the corner of the oversized box to press the elevator button marked 7, I stare at the name on the package. Sidney Gottesman. Apartment 709. Celebrating his ninety-sixth birthday in October, Sidney's been my neighbor for the past two years. And bedridden for two months.
When I first moved in, on a Superbowl Sunday, he was nice enough to invite me over to watch the game--he was asleep by the second quarter. When his doctors amputated his right leg because of diabetes complications, I did my best to return Sidney's favor. In his wheelchair, he can handle the mail--he just hates taking packages.
Balancing the package in one arm and my briefcase in the other, I knock on his door. 'Sidney! It's me!' He doesn't answer. He never answers.
Knowing the routine, I leave the box on his rubber doormat and cross the hall to my apartment. As I turn, the hallway's quiet. More quiet than when I arrived. The building's air-conditioning hums. The dryer in the laundry room tumbles. Behind me, I hear the clunky arrival of the elevator. I spin around to see who's there, but no one gets out. The door slides shut. The hallway's still silent.
Searching for my keys, I reach into my right pocket, then my left. They're not there. Damn. Don't tell me I . . . Did I leave them downstairs with the . . . No--here--in my hand. Wasting no time, I shove the key into my front door and twist the lock. 'Looking for a new job?' a man's voice asks from down the hall.
Startled, I turn to my right and see Joel Westman, my next-door neighbor, coming out of his apartment. 'Excuse me?' I ask.
'Some guy knocked on my door this afternoon and asked me a few quick questions about you. Last time that happened, it was the FBI.'
My briefcase slips from my hand and falls to the floor. As it hits, the locks pop open, releasing my papers all along the front of my door.
'You okay there?' Joel asks.
'Y-Yeah. Of course,' I say, struggling to sweep the papers back into place. When I started at the White House, the FBI talked to my neighbors as part of the background check. Whatever they're up to, it's faster than I expected.
'So you're not looking for a new job?'
'No,' I say with a forced laugh. 'They're probably just updating their files.' As Joel heads up the hall, I add, 'What'd they ask anyway?'
'It was just one guy this time. Late twenties. Boston accent. Heavy on the gold chains.'
I look up at Joel, but stifle my reaction. Since when does the FBI wear gold chains?
'I know, kinda weird, but . . . hey, whatever keeps the nation safe,' Joel continues. 'Don't sweat it, though--he didn't ask anything special: what I knew about you; when you were home; what kind of hours you kept. Similar to last time.' Joel starts to read the nervousness on my face. 'Was I not supposed to say anything?'
'No, no, not at all. They do this every couple of years. Nothing to worry about.'
As Joel heads toward the elevator, I'm left trying to figure out who he was talking to. A minute ago, I was panicked by the FBI. Now I'm praying for them.
Opening the door to my apartment, I notice a sheet of paper folded in half. Someone slipped it under the door while I was gone. Inside is a three-word message: 'We Should Talk.' It's signed 'P. Vaughn.'
P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn. I roll the name through my subconscious, but nothing comes up. Behind me, the front door to my apartment slams shut. I jump from the bang. Although the sun hasn't set, the apartment feels dark. As quickly as possible, I turn on the lights in the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room. Something still feels wrong.
In the kitchen, I hear the measured pings of the leaky faucet. Two days ago, it was a sound I had long since internalized. Today, all it does is remind me of finding Caroline. The puddle of coffee that ran to the floor. One eye straight, one eye cockeyed.
I pull a sponge from the counter and stuff it in the drain. It doesn't stop the leaking, but it muffles the sound. Now all I notice is the muted humming of the central air-conditioning. Desperate for silence, I head toward the living room and shut it off. It fades with an awkward cough.
I look around the apartment, studying its details. My desk. The rented furniture. The posters. It all looks the same, but something's different. For no reason whatsoever, my eyes focus on the black leather couch. The two beige throw-pillows are exactly where I left them. The middle cushion still bears the imprint from where I watched TV last night. A single bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck. Without the air conditioner, the room is stifling. I look back at the name in the note. P. Vaughn. P. Vaughn. The faucet's still dripping.
I step out of my shoes and take off my shirt. Best thing to do is lose myself in a shower. Clean up. Start over. But as I head to the bathroom, I notice, right by the edge of the couch, the pen that's sitting on the floor. Not just any pen--my red-white-and-blue-striped White House pen. With a tiny presidential seal and the words 'The White House' emblazed in gold letters, the pen was a gift during my first week at work. Everyone has one, but that doesn't mean I don't treasure it--which is exactly why I wouldn't leave it on the floor. Once again looking around, I don't see anything out of place. It could've just fallen from the coffee table. But as I reach down to pick it up, I hear a noise from the hall closet.
It's not anything loud--just a quiet click. Like the flick of two fingers. Or someone shifting their weight. I spin around, watching for movement. Nothing happens. I put on my shirt and stuff my pen in my pocket, as if that's going to help. Still nothing. The apartment is so quiet, I notice the sound of my own breathing.
Slowly, I move toward the closet door. It's barely ajar. I feel the adrenaline rushing. There's only one way to deal with this. Time to stop being a victim. Before I can talk myself out of it, I race at the door, ramming it shoulder first. The door slams shut and I grab the handle with everything in me.
'Who the hell are you?' I scream in my most intimidating voice.
With my weight against the door, I'm braced for impact. But no one fights back. 'Answer me,' I warn.
Once again, the apartment's silent.
Looking over my shoulder, I peer into the kitchen. A wooden block full of knives is on the counter. 'I'm opening the door, and I have a knife!'
Silence.
'This is it--come out slowly! On three! One . . . two . . .' I pull open the door and race for the kitchen. By the time I turn around, there's a six-inch steak knife in my hand. The only thing I see, though, is a closetful of coats.
Wielding the knife in front of me, I take a step toward the closet. 'Hello?' In a teen slasher pic, this is the moment when the killer jumps out. It doesn't stop me.
Slowly, I pick my way through the rack of coats. When I'm done, though, I realize the truth: No one's there.
My shirt now pressed with sweat against my chest, I return the knife to the kitchen and turn the air- conditioning back on. Just as the hum returns, I hit the play button on the answering machine. Time to get rid of the silence.
'You have one message,' the machine tells me in its mechanical voice. 'Saturday, one-fifty-seven P.M.'
A second passes before a man's voice begins, 'Michael, this is Randall Adenauer with the FBI. We have an appointment on Tuesday, but I'd like to send some officers over tomorr--' He stops, distracted. 'Then tell them I'll call him back!' he shouts, sounding like he's covering the receiver. Turning back to the phone, he adds, 'I apologize, Michael. Please give me a call.'
Pulling the White House pen from my pocket, I jot down his number and breathe a quick sigh of relief. He sent them over--that's who it was--gold chains or not, that must've been who Joel was talking to. FBI Agent Vaughn. I hit Erase on the answering machine and walk back to my bedroom. When I reach my nightstand, I stop dead in my tracks. There it is, on top of yesterday's crossword puzzle--a red-white-and-blue-striped pen with the words 'The White House' emblazed on it. I look down at the pen in my hand. Then back at the one on my nightstand. Rewinding twenty-four hours, I think about Pam's visit with the Thai food. It could easily be Pam's, I tell myself. Please let it be Pam's.
