picked up on the second ring with a male voice.
'Leave it at the beep.'
I hung up and told Pike that it was a machine.
He said, 'Let's go see.'
Pike brought the crowbar. We walked along the side of the building until we found an outside stairwell that residents could use instead of the lobby elevators. The stair was enclosed in a cagelike door that required a key, but Pike wedged the crowbar into the gate and popped the lock. We let ourselves in, then climbed to the third floor. Eric Shear's apartment number was listed as 33. The building was laid out around a central atrium with long halls that T'd into shorter halls. Three-thirteen was on the opposite side of the building.
It was early evening, just after dark. Cooking smells and music came from the apartments along with an occasional voice. I heard a woman laugh. Here were these people living their lives and none of them knew that Eric Shear was really Eric Schilling. They probably smiled at him in the elevator or nodded in the garage, and never guessed at what he did for a living, or had done. Hey, how are ya? Have a nice day.
We followed the hall past a set of elevators until we reached a T. Arrows on the facing wall showed the apartment numbers to the left and right. Three-thirteen was to our left.
I said, 'Hng on.'
I edged to the corner and peeked into the adjoining hall. Three-thirteen was at the end of the hall opposite an exit door that probably led to a set of stairs like the one we had climbed. Two folded sheets of paper were wedged into Schilling's door a few inches above the knob.
Pike and I eased around the corner and went to either side of the door. We listened. Schilling's apartment was silent. The papers wedged into the jamb were notices reminding all tenants that rent was due on the first of the month and that the building's water would be turned off for two hours last Thursday.
Pike said, 'He hasn't been home in a while.'
If they had been put in the door on the dates that were shown, then no one had been into or out of Schilling's apartment in more than six days.
I put my finger over the peephole, and knocked. No one answered. I knocked again, then took out the gun and
held it down along my leg.
I said, 'Open it.'
Pike wedged the crowbar between the door and the jamb, and pushed. The frame splintered with a loud crack and I shoved through the door into a large living room with the gun up and out. A kitchen and dining area were across the living room. A hall opened to our left, showing three doorways. The only light came from a single ceiling fixture that hung in the entry. Pike crossed fast to the kitchen, then followed me down the hall, guns first through each door to make sure that the apartment was empty.
'Joe ?'
'Clear.'
We went back to the entry to shut the door, then turned on more lights. The living room had almost no furniture, just a leather couch, a card table, and an enormous Sony television in the corner opposite the couch. The apartment was so spare that its impermanence was obvious, as if Schilling was prepared to walk away at a moment's notice and leave nothing behind. It was more like a camp than a home. A small cordless phone sat on
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the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, but there was no answering machine. It was the first thing I looked for, thinking we might find a message. I said, 'His answering machine must be in back.' Pike moved back to the hall. 'Saw it when I cleared the bedroom. I'll take the bedroom, you check out here.' So many Corona and Orangina bottles cluttered the kitchen counters that one man couldn't have drunk them all. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and takeout food containers spilled out of a wastebasket. The food had been there so long it smelled sour. I emptied the wastebasket onto the floor and looked for the takeout receipts. The most recent date on the receipts was six days ago. The orders were large, way too much for a man living alone and easily enough for three. I said, 'They were here, Joe.' He called back. 'I know. Come see this.' I moved back to the bedroom. Pike was kneeling by a rumpled futon, which was all that passed for furniture in the room. The closet door was open, revealing that the closet was virtually empty. A few shirts and some dirty underwear were piled on the floor. Like the rest of the apartment, Schilling's bedroom held a feeling of emptiness, as if it was more a hiding place than a home. A radio/alarm clock sat on the floor by the futon, along with a second cordless digital phone with a message machine built into its base. 'Did you hear something on his machine?' 'No messages. He has some mail here, but I called you for this.' Pike turned toward a row of snapshots that had been push-pinned to the wall above the futon. They were
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pictures of dead people. The dead were various races. Some wore the tattered remains of a uniform while others wore nothing at all. They had been shot or blown apart, mostly, though one was horribly burned. A red- haired man who grinned like an All-American boy gone mad posed with the bodies in several of the pictures. At his side in two of the pictures was a tall black man with marks on his face.
Pike tapped a picture.
'Ibo. The red hair would be Schilling. These pictures aren't just from Sierra Leone, either. Look at the vics. This could be Central America. This one could be in Bosnia.'
One of the pictures showed the red-haired man holding a human arm by the pinkie as if it were a trophy
bass. I felt sick to my stomach. 'They lost their minds.' Pike nodded.
'It's what Resnick said, they abandoned the rules. They became something else.'
'I don't see anyone who looks like Fallon.'
