turned a corner and the traffic died down again. I was all alone on the street.
I found my cell phone and started to dial Arn's number, tapping at the luminous keypad. The keys beeped, loud enough to hear outside the car, so I disconnected to mute the sound, my fingers twitching as I worked through the screens. Then I dialed him again, sitting back and watching the mirror. The street was so quiet I could hear the pulse thumping inside my head.
Arn's phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
One more ring and I would get his machine. I was about to disconnect when somebody picked up on the other end and the call turned weird and spooky.
Whoever had answered, they didn't say jack. Didn't ask who I was or what I wanted at five in the morning. I clenched up when I realized they weren't going to say anything. I was suddenly scared to open my mouth. Scared to breathe. I had this nasty feeling that I had just screwed up again, but all I could do was sit there with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to them listening to me...
A couple seconds passed, then I heard a radio crackle in the background. Static. A distorted voice. Then it got quiet again.
A cold flush oozed across my skin.
Whoever it was, I could hear them breathing. Air brushed the receiver on the other end, faded away, then flowed back again. The connection had a spacy sound – white noise, an undercurrent of signals and voices from the other side of the planet. Then I remembered that cell phones could be traced with GPS locators and I got this flash of panic.
I disconnected. Turned the phone off.
Checking the street, I pulled out as quietly as I could, took the next corner, then drove another block before I switched on the headlights.
#
Things had changed somehow. I could feel it.
By the time I got back to San Pablo, I expected to see flashing lights and barricades in front of my building, but the street was dark and quiet – so quiet I could hear the traffic on I-80 when I cracked my window. A cold, damp fog drifted through the yards, leaving haloes around the porch lights. I parked two blocks away, hiding the Dodge in the shadow of an oak tree growing beside the curb, then I crept through the service alley back to the building. My apartment windows were dark. No signs of life.
I slipped in through the back door and stood by the laundry room for a while, listening to the sounds of the building. Nothing. The hall leading to the front door was empty. A pipe knocked in the wall. I took the elevator up to five, walked down to my door, then listened at the door for a minute, one eye on the stairwell. Nothing at all. The door was locked. No sign of forced entry. I unlocked it, ducked inside, closed it as quietly as I could, then threw the dead bolt and latched the chain.
The living room was dark and stuffy. Rays of light from the alley fell through the blinds across the sofa and easy chair, reflecting on the TV. I could hear the faucet dripping in the kitchen. The compressor in the refrigerator clicked on with a low hum.
"Steffy?"
I turned on the lamp by the couch and walked down the hall leading to the bedroom. The door was open, fragments of light in the mirror on the dresser. I couldn't hear anything inside the room.
"Steffy?"
Then I turned on the light and saw her.
She was lying on the bed, naked and glistening, hands and feet tied to the bedposts with towels, gagged with her own blouse, her eyes staring vacantly at the water stains on the ceiling. Her arms were covered with skin cuts and burns; somebody had been working on her with a cigarette and a knife, maybe a razor. Her face looked like a fright mask, eyes bulging, the gag so tight that it had cut into her cheeks. She had a black hole in the center of her forehead. Blood had spattered the pillows and pooled on the sheets.
I just stood there, staring at her, my mind a total blank. Then I noticed the phone lying on the carpet next to the bed, its cord ripped from the wall. I walked back into the
I found my cell phone and started to dial Arn's number, tapping at the luminous keypad. The keys beeped, loud enough to hear outside the car, so I disconnected to mute the sound, my fingers twitching as I worked through the screens. Then I dialed him again, sitting back and watching the mirror. The street was so quiet I could hear the pulse thumping inside my head.
Arn's phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
One more ring and I would get his machine. I was about to disconnect when somebody picked up on the other end and the call turned weird and spooky.
Whoever had answered, they didn't say jack. Didn't ask who I was or what I wanted at five in the morning. I clenched up when I realized they weren't going to say anything. I was suddenly scared to open my mouth. Scared to breathe. I had this nasty feeling that I had just screwed up again, but all I could do was sit there with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to them listening to me...
A couple seconds passed, then I heard a radio crackle in the background. Static. A distorted voice. Then it got quiet again.
A cold flush oozed across my skin.
Whoever it was, I could hear them breathing. Air brushed the receiver on the other end, faded away, then flowed back again. The connection had a spacy sound – white noise, an undercurrent of signals and voices from the other side of the planet. Then I remembered that cell phones could be traced with GPS locators and I got this flash of panic.
I disconnected. Turned the phone off.
Checking the street, I pulled out as quietly as I could, took the next corner, then drove another block before I switched on the headlights.
#
Things had changed somehow. I could feel it.
By the time I got back to San Pablo, I expected to see flashing lights and barricades in front of my building, but the street was dark and quiet – so quiet I could hear the traffic on I-80 when I cracked my window. A cold, damp fog drifted through the yards, leaving haloes around the porch lights. I parked two blocks away, hiding the Dodge in the shadow of an oak tree growing beside the curb, then I crept through the service alley back to the building. My apartment windows were dark. No signs of life.
I slipped in through the back door and stood by the laundry room for a while, listening to the sounds of the building. Nothing. The hall leading to the front door was empty. A pipe knocked in the wall. I took the elevator up to five, walked down to my door, then listened at the door for a minute, one eye on the stairwell. Nothing at all. The door was locked. No sign of forced entry. I unlocked it, ducked inside, closed it as quietly as I could, then threw the dead bolt and latched the chain.
The living room was dark and stuffy. Rays of light from the alley fell through the blinds across the sofa and easy chair, reflecting on the TV. I could hear the faucet dripping in the kitchen. The compressor in the refrigerator clicked on with a low hum.
"Steffy?"
I turned on the lamp by the couch and walked down the hall leading to the bedroom. The door was open, fragments of light in the mirror on the dresser. I couldn't hear anything inside the room.
"Steffy?"
Then I turned on the light and saw her.
She was lying on the bed, naked and glistening, hands and feet tied to the bedposts with towels, gagged with her own blouse, her eyes staring vacantly at the water stains on the ceiling. Her arms were covered with skin cuts and burns; somebody had been working on her with a cigarette and a knife, maybe a razor. Her face looked like a fright mask, eyes bulging, the gag so tight that it had cut into her cheeks. She had a black hole in the center of her forehead. Blood had spattered the pillows and pooled on the sheets.
I just stood there, staring at her, my mind a total blank. Then I noticed the phone lying on the carpet next to the bed, its cord ripped from the wall. I walked back into the
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