Who’s that, you cunt, you cunt! I told you no one comes in!
She could still hear his voice. That terrible voice. It was burning in her ears, branded on her mind.
Tell me who it is now, now, now, now, now!
She pulled the book free. The cookie tin and all the rest settled down onto the sill. She turned around, ready to carry the book back into the living room.
Why didn’t he know?
“Jesus,” she whispered aloud. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. There was no time. She walked toward the kitchen door, carrying the phone book.
But why? she thought. Why didn’t he know who it was? Price had said it, he had announced himself. Hi. Remember me? Billy Price? From down the hall? He’d said it the moment he’d stepped inside. Why hadn’t the man on the phone heard him? Why hadn’t he heard it through his microphones?
She came out of the kitchen, down the short hall.
Maybe he just wasn’t listening. Maybe he hadn’t been near his machines … .
She came into the living room. There was poor Price, looking rather bewildered. Hands in his pockets, feet shuf- fling, eyes aimlessly scanning the walls.
He’d been hysterical—the man on the phone. He’d been panicked. He hadn’t known who it was because …
She lifted the heavy phone book in both hands. She held it out as she approached Price. She forced a friendly smile. “Here you are,” she said.
There are no fucking microphones, she thought. There are cameras—he can see us all right. He saw Billy Price come in. He can see whatever we do. But he can’t hear us. He couldn’t hear us talking through the door—that’s why he didn’t call then. He called when he saw Price. He had to call, he had to scream at me over the phone, to find out what was going on. He couldn’t just listen. There are no microphones.
“Oh … uh … well, thanks,” said Billy Price. “Thanks, uh …” As she reached him, he lifted his hand for the phone book. He looked into her eyes, trying one more time. “I guess this means I’m not invited in for tea, huh?”
Agatha smiled more broadly. Tilted her head in a warm, neighborly manner. “Listen to me, you creepy little son of a bitch,” she said. “I need you to cut the shit right now and help me. My daughter has been kidnapped. My apartment is being watched. Call the police. Tell them. Right now.”
Price’s smile stayed frozen on his face. He looked at her blankly. Then, slowly, the smile melted away. His mouth fell open.
“Get that look off your face, son, they can see you,” said Aggie, smiling sweetly. “Smile. Take hold of the book.”
She stuffed the phone book into his hands. He took hold of it. She gave a tinkly little neighborly laugh.
“Now don’t think I’m joking,” she said. “Don’t think at all. Just trundle back to your pad or whatever you call it, and dial 911 as if a little girl’s life depended on it.” She was pushing him toward the door now—leaning on the phone book so that he was forced backward. Price had managed to fix a sickly smile on his lips and was staring at her glassy-eyed.
She reached around him and opened the door.
“If the police come here, my daughter will die. Tell them that. Make sure they understand. Now say, ‘Thank you and good-bye, Mrs. Conrad.’”
“Thank you and good-bye, Mrs. Conrad,” Price said flatly. She pushed him out into the hall and shut the door in his face.
Agatha swung around and stared at the phone. If she was wrong—if there were microphones—if they could hear her—it would ring. Suddenly, it seemed to her that it must ring, that she had to be wrong. It had all happened so fast, there hadn’t been time to really think it out. There were so many other possibilities. Of course she was wrong. Of course it would ring. It would ring right now and she would hear that horrible voice again, that vicious man. She would hear her daughter, crying. Screaming. She stared at the phone. The phone was silent. But if she’d been wrong … If she’d guessed wrong …
And still, the phone didn’t ring.
She started to walk back across the room. She went on tiptoe, so as not to disturb the sleeping beast—the silent phone. She went slowly, hardly breathing. Back toward the hallway. Back into the nursery. She wanted to get as far away from the phone as she could. If she could get away from it, maybe it would not catch her.
And yet the phone was not ringing. It still didn’t ring. She had been right. They couldn’t hear her. There were no microphones. Only cameras. She had been right. And little by little, the surging terror fell away. Her mind began to focus, to clear. She went into the nursery. She went to the closet. Somehow, she felt safer there, among Jessie’s friends. She felt protected from the phone.
She went to the back. She reached down and picked up the old gray bear. She held it close. She rocked it back and forth.
We did it, old Snow, she thought. We’ve gotten to the police. They’re going to arrest those men. They’re going to bring back Jessie. I know it.
She held the bear tighter. “Dear Jesus,” she whispered aloud, “help us please.”
In the other room, the phone began to ring.
Street Clothes
Conrad stared at the empty room. He thought he could feel time—feel it racing at him while he stood there, motionless. It was … what? Seven forty-one? Forty-two? He couldn’t look at his watch somehow. But he knew he had to be out of there, on the road, by eight-thirty. And as he stood, sweeping the empty room with his eyes, he could just feel the moment approaching him. He looked at the water basin undisturbed on the plastic table. The empty chair before the grated window. The empty bed, its cover pulled tight. He could feel time bearing down on him like a locomotive.
What did he do now? Where was Elizabeth? Where the hell could she be? She was a violent patient in a forensic ward, for Christ’s sake. She should’ve been here.
He spun around to the door. He reached for the knob.
And then the door opened toward him. And Elizabeth was there.
She came into the room and paused. She stood before him proudly. She posed for him, a sly, proud smile on her face. She was dressed differently, that was the thing. She was wearing street clothes—not city issue—her own. It was nothing much. Just an old pink shift that fell around her shapelessly. But the vagabond look of the rumpled cords and shirt was gone. And her hair was tied back with a pretty black ribbon. Her lips were tinged with orangered lipstick that went well with her light skin. And there was liner highlighting the depths of those deep green eyes. Even Conrad, even then, could see: a lovesick boy couldn’t have invented her—she was that beautiful.
A therapy aide came in behind her. A small, pretty Hispanic woman. She stood to one side to let Elizabeth show herself off. When Conrad didn’t say anything, the nurse said, “She wanted to get dressed for you. She is excited that you are coming. She is very pretty, huh?”
“Uh … what?” Conrad blinked, shook his head. “Yes. I mean, yes, of course. Elizabeth, you look … lovely. Really. You really look … wonderful.”
Elizabeth smiled, her cheeks flushed. “They’re just my old clothes. The ones I was wearing when I came here.”
“You look … beautiful. Really,” Conrad managed to say.
Elizabeth laughed. She seemed about to say something more. But she paused, glanced at the aide.
“All right, all right, I will go now,” the woman said.
“What?” said Conrad. “Oh. Yes. Please. Thank you.”
The aide withdrew, pulling the door shut behind her.
But Elizabeth still didn’t speak. And Conrad stood before her stupidly. He rubbed his hands together.
“Uh … well … ,” he said.
Talk to her. Just like you usually do. Talk to her, get her to relax. Get her chatting with you. I’m giving you maybe a half hour for that.
“Uh … well, Elizabeth,” he said again.
“Doctor,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Doctor, I’ve come to a decision.”
Conrad waited. He could feel the time rushing at
him. With a slow, steady step, Elizabeth walked past him to her chair by the window. Conrad turned after her. He watched silently as she lowered herself into the chair. She sat in her usual position: her head erect, her hands folded quietly in her lap. Conrad felt a drop of sweat fall from his hair, trickle down the side of his neck. Come on, he thought.
I’m giving you maybe a half hour.
“I’ve decided to tell you about Robert Rostoff,” Elizabeth said.
“Robert … ?”
“Yes. The man that … he killed, that the Secret Friend … killed. The thing I’m here for.” She looked up at him. Her mouth was set, her eyes were earnest. “I haven’t told anyone,” she said. “Not the whole story. I’ve decided to tell you.”
Conrad stared at her, his lips parted. “You’ve decided …” And his mind was racing: What is the number? Does it have to do with this, with Robert Rostoff, is that it? Why my daughter, Elizabeth? Why me?
He did glance down at his watch now: it was 7:46. He wiped his lips dry.
Talk to her. Just like you usually do. Talk to her, get her to relax.
“Well … yes … ,” Conrad said slowly. “I … I want to hear about that, Elizabeth, of course.”
He turned away from her, setting his face. He walked to the wooden chair in the far corner. He brought it back, placed it backwards in front of her.
Just like you usually do.
Casually, he stripped off his trench coat and laid it on the bed. He saw Elizabeth look at him with surprise.
“Saturday,” he said with a smile. But he did feel a little naked without his suit and tie.
He straddled the chair. Folded his arms on the back. He thought he looked composed and attentive now. He tried to hold on to that. “Go ahead, Elizabeth,” he said.
But she hesitated, searching his face. And then she said, “The thing is … I’ve decided … you’re not one of them. That’s the thing, all right? I didn’t mean to … suspect you but … you have to understand: it’s so hard to tell … I never know. People are nice and then all of a sudden they … change. Do you understand?”
Conrad nodded solemnly. “Yes. I understand.”
“All right then.” She made a determined little motion with her chin. “All right.” She glanced up at him. “Don’t you want to turn on your machine?”
“What? Oh.” Shit, he thought. He unwound himself from the chair. He retrieved his recorder from his coat and set it on the table. “Go ahead,” he said. He straddled the chair again.
“All right,” she said. “All right.”
I’m giving you maybe a half hour. Conrad heard Sport speaking almost as if he were there.
Eight-thirty, he thought. By eight-thirty, I’ve got to be out of here.
It was seven forty-eight.
“Tell me,” he said.
Elizabeth started talking.
The Murder of Robert Rostoff
He’s always different. The Secret Friend, I mean. I guess I told you that already, but it’s an important thing. He’s never the same. You’ve got to understand that. Dr. Holbein didn’t understand. He was my doctor at the state hospital. After the Secret Friend hurt the sailor—the sailor who touched my … touched me, or whatever … after that, I was sent to the state hospital. They gave me medicine there and Dr. Holbein worked with me. Dr. Holbein was good, he was nice. He was like you a little, only older and he had a gray beard. And he didn’t have a sad face like you—he laughed all the time. Anyway, he was from California so I can’t see him anymore. But I liked him.
His medicine made me sleepy, but it made me feel better too after a while. I wasn’t so confused anymore. And the Secret Friend stopped coming—at least, I thought he did. I mean, you never knew for sure. I tried to tell Dr. Holbein that: you never knew, because he was never the same.
But Dr. Holbein said I could live outside the hospital. Lucy—my social worker—she helped me get a job at the Liberty Center for Children. It was for poor children, a day-care center. My job was to clean the place up in the evenings. The cafeteria and the rooms and the windows. It was a big job. There were a lot of things to remember. But I liked it. I liked being near children, even though they’d usually left by the time I got there. I just liked being where they were. I liked going into the classrooms sometimes when no one was around and just sitting, you know? I would sit and think about, you know, being in school, the Sunshine School. But not in a crazy way or anything. It was nice.
Then, the other thing, the best thing, was that I got a room—an apartment—all to myself. It was in a brownstone up on Eighty-first Street, off Columbus Avenue. A social worker lived downstairs, on the ground floor. Ronnie. He would come up and visit me a lot. But the rest of the time, I was by myself. It was just one room, but it had a kitchenette and a bathroom, and a couch that I could fold out into a bed at night. I loved that. I wish I was still there now, I really do. I guess after what happened, though, I won’t ever get to go back.
But that was, like, the happiest time of my life. Maybe seven or eight months. I just worked at the center in the evenings and lived in my apartment. I felt good. I wasn’t confused. In fact, the only trouble was that I felt so happy that, you know, I worried … I worried that the Secret Friend would come back. I mean, you never knew, he was always … Well, I told Dr. Holbein. But he said I should stop worrying. He said he thought the Secret Friend was gone forever.
But I did worry. I thought about it a lot. I thought about it all the time.
Anyway, the Liberty Center, the place where I worked, was on a little lane in the Village. A narrow, cobbled lane with one sort of old-fashioned streetlamp on it. The center was a brick building that took up one side of the lane, and across the street was the brick wall of a church. Sometimes, when I was out in the lane, the church’s bells would chime or even play a carol.
When I left work, about eleven o’clock, the lane would be dark and empty. Just the one streetlamp burning across the street. And there would be no one in sight, except over on MacDougal Street where the lane ended.
Then, one night, I stepped out of the center and there was someone there. I thought … I remember, I stepped out the door, and the church bell was chiming eleven, and I thought … I saw someone. A figure, standing behind the lamp, hiding in the glare of the lamp. I could feel him though. Standing there. Looking at me …
Well, I … I was scared. I was scared, but I tried to ignore him. I started walking away from him, toward MacDougal Street. I took about—I don’t know—four steps. And just then, the church bell stopped tolling the hour. And the echo of it died away, and it was so quiet. And I heard a man’s voice right behind me, right in my ear. And it said, “Elizabeth.”
I stopped and turned around.
“Go away,” I said—loudly. “Go away. I don’t want you here.”
But he was there. He was there, coming toward me. I saw his face. His red hair, his white skin, his freckles. He was wearing a dark overcoat and he had his hands hidden in the pockets.
“Go away,” I shouted. “No.”
But he kept coming toward me. And I heard his voice again: “Elizabeth.”
I turned again and ran.
I ran down the lane as fast as I could. I ran to MacDougal. There were people there, young people from the university and the neighborhood. And there were lights from streetlamps and from restaurants and stores. I ran toward the lights as fast as I could. I glanced over my shoulder to see if he was behind me … and as I did, I stepped off the curb.
There were screeching brakes to the left of me. A horn blared. I remember I turned around and saw the front fender of a cab like the teeth of some giant creature about to eat me. I screamed and threw my hands up in front of my face.
And suddenly, someone grabbed me. An arm wrapped itself around my waist. It pulled me backward, back to the sidewalk. The cab went rushing past me.
But the arm kept holding me. And I thought: It’s him. You see? I kept thinking: It’s him. He’s got me. So I hit at him. I pun
ched his arm. I kicked and struggled and I shouted at him, “Let go of me. Please.”
“All right, all right,” he said. He lowered me slowly to the ground. I turned around and faced him. He laughed. And he said in this sort of laughing voice, “I guess that’s New York gratitude for you.”
Because, you see, it wasn’t him at all. It was another man. A young man, handsome. With a sort of round, boyish face. Brown hair falling into his eyes. And he had a nice smile—even though I knew he was laughing at me—a nice smile.
I looked past his shoulder, down the alley. The red-haired man was gone. I stood in front of this new person, this stranger, panting, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t … I’m sorry …”
I didn’t know what to say. I was all confused. I started to walk away from him, but he followed after me.
He said, “Hey wait a minute. I’ve been standing at this corner all day waiting for a pretty girl to step out in front of a cab so I could save her life. Don’t tell me it was just a waste of time.”
Well, that was a funny thing to say. I didn’t … I didn’t know what to answer. I kept hurrying to the corner.
And he said, “No, wait. Really.” He took hold of my arm. I stopped and looked at him. He said—he said, “You know, the Japanese say that when a man saves a woman’s life, he has to buy her an automobile dealership. Or maybe it’s a drink. Who the hell can speak Japanese?”
I didn’t … I just said, “Japanese?”
He laughed again—he had this very nice laugh. He shook his head. And he explained that he wanted to buy me a drink; that’s what he was saying.
Well, I … I just looked at him. I said, “Why?”
And he said, “Why?” He said, “Well, let’s see. Because you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my entire life and I just saved your entire life. And that might not happen to me again for hours. I mean, it’s the least I can do by way of thanks.”
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