he was sore.”
“Ian, if you think of anything else, I’ll be around.”
“Well, I hope so. What would we do without you?”
We stopped at the supermarket and picked up a few necessities. Ian ate a lot of TV-type dinners. Sometimes when I saw the price of them, I thought how much better off he would be to cook up a stew with fresh meat and vegetables on his own stove. Surely he had the time. There was a weird irony in the similarity between the eating habits of Ian Gallagher and those of Mark Brownstein, one at the bottom of the economic scale, one at the top. Gallagher used his oven to heat up his TV dinners, and Mark popped gourmet frozen meals into his microwave, but the net result was probably pretty much the same.
On the way back to 603, I dropped another quarter into the parking meter. When we got to the third floor, having taken the stairs slowly for Ian’s sake, I remembered the keys Nathan had given me.
“Nathan had the keys to your apartment, didn’t he?” I asked.
“That was the arrangement.”
“Had he ever used them?”
“Not unless he sneaked in when I wasn’t there.”
“I think he gave me the keys to your place by accident last week.” I pulled them out of my bag. “Mind if I give them a try?”
“Anything you fancy.”
I tried the Segal first. It wouldn’t even go in.
“Can’t be my keys,” Gallagher said. “I got three.” Hetook his out and used them, pushing the door open after turning the last one.
“He must have made it for me and forgotten to try it first.” I dropped it back in my bag, feeling irritated that some local hardware store had ripped him off.
I helped Ian put the groceries away and said I’d see him soon. Instead of going down, I went up to five to try the key once more. Maybe it had been my fault that a new key had failed to work properly.
But try as I might, I couldn’t get the key to turn in the lock. In a way, I was glad. I didn’t want to relive the horror of walking into that living room on Saturday morning.
I went back to the stairwell and opened the door. Although I’ve tried not to dwell on that stairwell, I can tell you that every time I entered it, it was with misgivings, and every time I left it, it was with relief. This time, as the door closed heavily behind me, I was aware of a sound. It was like a drummer tapping rapidly with his sticks on some surface, probably the cinder block wall of the stairwell. I stopped, feeling more than my usual amount of anxiety.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and I heard footsteps. “Mrs. Paterno?” I called.
There was no answer, not that I expected one. The sound had come from above, and she was the only legitimate occupant of the sixth floor. Above that, of course, was the roof. I suppose if I’d been a hotshot, gun-toting detective, I would have bounded up the stairs, looking for whatever trouble was up there.
But I was an unarmed female who’d never been trained in the martial arts, and I really wanted to live to see tomorrow. I started down the stairs, and the tapping began again. I moved faster. The tapping stopped, and heavy footsteps descended. Whoever it was was after me.
I knew I could detour at any floor, but what would be the purpose? Four was completely empty—or should be. The locks on all the empty apartments had been removed, andthe best I could do was try to hide behind a door in one while my pursuer looked behind the doors in another. And if he had some sort of a weapon, which was likely if he was an intruder, I’d lose in the end anyway. Big.
By the time I decided to keep going, I had passed three, where Gallagher might have been my salvation, so I kept on, praying that I wouldn’t trip on a stair tread and kill myself before the guy upstairs got his chance.
I reached the door to the lobby and threw myself into it, panting. But it was too soon to stop. I ran out the inner door and then the outer one, and then, at a slower run, up the street. The anonymity of
“Ian, if you think of anything else, I’ll be around.”
“Well, I hope so. What would we do without you?”
We stopped at the supermarket and picked up a few necessities. Ian ate a lot of TV-type dinners. Sometimes when I saw the price of them, I thought how much better off he would be to cook up a stew with fresh meat and vegetables on his own stove. Surely he had the time. There was a weird irony in the similarity between the eating habits of Ian Gallagher and those of Mark Brownstein, one at the bottom of the economic scale, one at the top. Gallagher used his oven to heat up his TV dinners, and Mark popped gourmet frozen meals into his microwave, but the net result was probably pretty much the same.
On the way back to 603, I dropped another quarter into the parking meter. When we got to the third floor, having taken the stairs slowly for Ian’s sake, I remembered the keys Nathan had given me.
“Nathan had the keys to your apartment, didn’t he?” I asked.
“That was the arrangement.”
“Had he ever used them?”
“Not unless he sneaked in when I wasn’t there.”
“I think he gave me the keys to your place by accident last week.” I pulled them out of my bag. “Mind if I give them a try?”
“Anything you fancy.”
I tried the Segal first. It wouldn’t even go in.
“Can’t be my keys,” Gallagher said. “I got three.” Hetook his out and used them, pushing the door open after turning the last one.
“He must have made it for me and forgotten to try it first.” I dropped it back in my bag, feeling irritated that some local hardware store had ripped him off.
I helped Ian put the groceries away and said I’d see him soon. Instead of going down, I went up to five to try the key once more. Maybe it had been my fault that a new key had failed to work properly.
But try as I might, I couldn’t get the key to turn in the lock. In a way, I was glad. I didn’t want to relive the horror of walking into that living room on Saturday morning.
I went back to the stairwell and opened the door. Although I’ve tried not to dwell on that stairwell, I can tell you that every time I entered it, it was with misgivings, and every time I left it, it was with relief. This time, as the door closed heavily behind me, I was aware of a sound. It was like a drummer tapping rapidly with his sticks on some surface, probably the cinder block wall of the stairwell. I stopped, feeling more than my usual amount of anxiety.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and I heard footsteps. “Mrs. Paterno?” I called.
There was no answer, not that I expected one. The sound had come from above, and she was the only legitimate occupant of the sixth floor. Above that, of course, was the roof. I suppose if I’d been a hotshot, gun-toting detective, I would have bounded up the stairs, looking for whatever trouble was up there.
But I was an unarmed female who’d never been trained in the martial arts, and I really wanted to live to see tomorrow. I started down the stairs, and the tapping began again. I moved faster. The tapping stopped, and heavy footsteps descended. Whoever it was was after me.
I knew I could detour at any floor, but what would be the purpose? Four was completely empty—or should be. The locks on all the empty apartments had been removed, andthe best I could do was try to hide behind a door in one while my pursuer looked behind the doors in another. And if he had some sort of a weapon, which was likely if he was an intruder, I’d lose in the end anyway. Big.
By the time I decided to keep going, I had passed three, where Gallagher might have been my salvation, so I kept on, praying that I wouldn’t trip on a stair tread and kill myself before the guy upstairs got his chance.
I reached the door to the lobby and threw myself into it, panting. But it was too soon to stop. I ran out the inner door and then the outer one, and then, at a slower run, up the street. The anonymity of
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