You've Been Warned

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  Leaving the building is another story.

  It’s a lot easier to sneak in than it is to sneak out. Hey, Adam, would you mind looking in the bathroom again for my purse?

  I don’t think so.

  So I hang out in the stairwell off the penthouse until morning. A new day, a new doorman—and if Louis pauses from his imaginary sword fight with Sean to ask why he didn’t see me come in, I’ll just joke about him going blind or having Alzheimer’s.

  I try to sleep, Lord knows I’m exhausted enough, but concrete steps make for a lousy pillow. After an hour or so, I give up on the hope of catching any Z’s, choosing instead to plan in my head every detail of Michael’s and my honeymoon.

  The Caribbean? Maybe the Bahamas and the One & Only Ocean Club? Venice and the Gritti Palace? The French Riviera?

  All I know is that when we get back, Sean can sleep in our bed whenever he wants. In fact, maybe for our honeymoon we’ll take the kids to Disney World. Why not?

  At about five-fifteen, I hear the first signs of life on the other side of the stairwell door. It’s Michael leaving for his office. Five-fifteen? That’s even earlier than usual. I suppose that’s what a night in the guest room will do to you.

  At about a quarter to eight, it’s my turn. For the second day in a row, I’m early for work. If I keep it up, I might just get a raise!

  I let myself into the apartment. Again.

  “My, someone looks tired,” says Penley with an obnoxious grin as I greet her in the kitchen. “You must have had a late night.” Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

  It takes me a second to catch her drift. My blind date with Stephen seems like a week ago, or like it didn’t even happen.

  “I want all the details,” she insists.

  I’m too tired and in no mood, especially because there isn’t much to tell. “He was very nice,” I say.

  Penley frowns, then she shakes her head. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Kristin.”

  I thought as much. So I ply her with some mindless details about the dinner, and while I don’t come right out and say it, I make it clear that her gym friend is not “my type.” For sure, I don’t want her pushing for a second date.

  Then she surprises me. “Yeah, Stephen pretty much felt the same way.”

  “You spoke to him already?”

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she says with a shrug. “He’s a friend, after all, and I was curious.”

  I can see that.

  She turns and pours herself another steaming cup of c-offee, which looks delicious, by the way. One day she might actually ask if I want one.

  “You know, Stephen got the sense that you were already seeing someone.”

  Thanks, pal!

  “I tried to assure him I’m not,” I say. “It’s a little funny to hear that, though, given he still seems hung up on his ex-girlfriend.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. Did you know she’s a married woman, by the way?”

  Her eyes go wide. Apparently not.

  “He neglected to mention that,” she says with a smirk. “I apologize.”

  Penley? Apologizing?

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Thinking Stephen was right for you. I don’t approve of that sort of thing. He should know better,” she says, frowning. “Don’t you agree?”

  Oh, the irony.

  Chapter 56

  I STRUGGLE TO STAY awake while I walk the kids to school. I’ve got one eye just about closed, the other trained on Dakota, as I still wonder what’s going through her mind.

  Indeed, she wasn’t quite herself yesterday, spending most of the time in her room. Her daddy and I were only talking behind those hedges out in Westport, but the whole vibe of the moment must have seemed a little less than innocent. Eventually, I take Dakota’s hand in mine, and she lets me.

  “Hey, Miss Kristin, guess what?” chirps Sean as we march across the street at Madison and 76th. “You were in my dream last night!”

  Oh, great... double trouble.

  For the last couple of blocks before Preston Academy, I listen to Sean explaining his dream in great detail. Apparently he and I had a picnic on the moon.

  “Or was it Mars?” he wonders.

  The details are a little fuzzy, but what’s clear is that he has no recollection of my being in his room. Hallelujah. One less thing to worry about.

  That leaves only about a dozen others. What’s bumming me out the most, I think, is that after all I went through last night, I wasn’t able to snap a shot of Michael. I was so spooked by nearly getting caught that all I could think about was escaping from the apartment as soon as possible.

  “Okay, my angels,” I say, kneeling just outside the gates of Preston Academy. “Have a wonderful day, listen to your teachers, and I’ll be here this afternoon to pick you up.”

  “Bye,” says Sean, and he kisses me on the cheek.

  “Thanks,” says Dakota. “Just for being nice.”

  As always, I watch their mad dash to join their friends and head inside the school. When Sean falls behind, Dakota stops and sticks out her hand, patiently waiting. My heart sighs.

  It’s settled. Michael and I are definitely taking them to Disney World for our honeymoon!

  I turn and head back toward Fifth Avenue, a different song—finally—playing in my head. “It’s a small world after all....”

  Less than a block later, my cell phone rings. What’s this?

  Serendipity! It’s Michael. I knew it was only a matter of time before he called.

  “I was just thinking of you,” I say.

  “Not as much as I’ve been thinking of you, Kris. I’ve missed you so much!”

  Before I can say ditto, he apologizes.

  “For what?” I ask. “That’s what I should be doing. I’m so sorry for what I did. I’m mortified.”

  “No, it was wrong of me to cancel on you. Penley is such a bitch,” he says. “I should’ve never gone out to Westport.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  We laugh, and he simply couldn’t be any sweeter. It doesn’t take long for me to make the connection to the rotten night he had sleeping with Sean and Dumba in the guest room. If only he knew I saw it all firsthand.

  It’s amazing, really. For everything I’ve said and done as part of my Dump Penley campaign, my efforts are no match for Penley herself. At this rate, Michael might even dump her by the Fourth of July.

  Independence Day.

  What fireworks that would be!

  “I’ve got another business dinner this evening,” says Michael, “but I want to make sure we’re together tomorrow night. Anything you want, we’ll do it, okay?”

  “You’ve got yourself a date,” I answer.

  “God, I’m so lucky to have you.”

  “Don’t you forget it!”

  We say good-bye, laced with "I love you"s, and I put my cell phone away. Opening my shoulder bag, I see that the lens cap has fallen off my camera. As I snap it back on, I notice something else.

  I loaded a new roll of film before sneaking into Michael and Penley’s apartment last night. Since I didn’t snap a single picture, the shot counter should still read 0.

  Only it reads 1.

  Chapter 57

  MAYBE THE CAMERA JOSTLED in my bag, triggering the shutter. It could happen. Especially these days.

  But there’s another possibility....

  The thought immediately spins me around. Now I’m walking in the opposite direction.

  Out comes my cell phone again, and I call Penley. Actually, I call her answering machine, since I know she’s still at the gym. Not that she’d pick up anyway.

  A filling just fell out, I explain. Luckily, my dentist can take me right away. “Don’t worry, I’ll be done in plenty of time to pick up the kids at three.”

  That takes care of that. Next stop: my darkroom.

  I’ve never burned an entire roll of film for only one picture, but if there’s going to be a first time,
this is definitely it.

  I have to see 1.

  Right before Sean called out last night, I had Michael lined up in my lens. Maybe—just maybe—I managed to get the shot without even knowing it.

  The desire to find out takes over, and I’m quickly hailing a cab in lieu of walking. I’m riding another wave of adrenaline, my mind and body oblivious to the fact that I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours. And counting.

  “Keep the change,” I tell the cabbie, dropping seven bucks in his lap as he pulls up to my building. Less than a minute later, I’m alone in my darkroom, the main light out and the door closed. The safety is on and everything is eerily red in the small room.

  I’m getting pretty good at speed developing lately, and with this roll of film, I set a new record. My eyes and hands are in complete sync—reaching, pouring, setting, shifting—everything it takes to bring this one picture to life.

  What if it’s not Michael?

  It could be anything, really. Maybe it’s Penley. Or nothing at all.

  A blur, a blob, or complete blackness. Perhaps all I’ve got is a glitch in the camera’s shot counter, and this supposed picture doesn’t even exist.

  If that’s the case, I’ll have to be patient. I’ll wait until tomorrow night when Michael and I are together and snap a shot of him then. After all, it’s only another day to wait.

  I glare at the processing tank. “Hurry up, you lazy-ass film!”

  Then again, I’m not exactly in a patient mood.

  I anxiously tap my fingers, waiting for the first sign of an image. Gradually, one appears.

  I shift the negative over to the holding bath and lean in for a better view. It’s someone, but I can’t be sure who. So I hurriedly make a print, and that’s when I know.

  It’s Michael, all right. I did take a picture of him after all.

  And as I look closely at the shot, I see what I didn’t want to see—the same ghosting effect I noticed with Penley.

  “Shit. Don’t do this.”

  But there’s something else, something even more bizarre.

  Scary is more like it. Terrifying!

  I immediately plunge a hand into the cold water of the holding bath, grabbing the shot while reaching for my magnifying loupe.

  Oh, my God, Michael. What have I done?

  He isn’t lying in bed beside Penley. He’s sprawled on the floor of a room I don’t recognize. A place I don’t believe I’ve ever been in my life.

  And he looks dead.

  PART 9

  Chapter 58

  IT’S AS IF THE PHOTOGRAPH literally shocks me, sending a thousand volts of instant pain through my fingertips. It drops from my hands, landing facedown on the floor.

  Like Michael.

  I step back, terrified. How? What? Where? When? I don’t have a single answer to any of these questions. What’s real? What isn’t? There has to be a rational explanation. That’s what I’ve been saying all along, beginning with the dream. But looking at this picture of Michael, I don’t know. How do you explain the inexplicable?

  I don’t.

  At least not yet.

  Back and forth I pace in the tight confines of my darkroom, repeating the same four words over and over in my head.

  Keep it together, Kris!

  I figure I’ve got two choices. Check myself into the loony bin or continue chipping away at this mystery. I stop pacing as the image of a padded room and me wearing the latest style in straitjackets flashes through my mind.

  Decision made.

  I rush out to the kitchen and pick up the phone. If I can’t explain the picture of Michael, there’s still the issue of the ghosting effect. On the heels of everything else, I’m thinking it has nothing to do with my camera. But I need to make sure.

  “Gotham Photo,” the man answers.

  “Hi, can I speak with Javier, please? It’s kind of important.” Like, life and death.

  “He’s off today.”

  Damn. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

  “Afraid I don’t.”

  There’s a slight hitch in his voice, and I suspect he does know.

  “It’s very important,” I say.

  “We’re not allowed to give out personal information. The best I can do is relay a message to him, okay?”

  No, not okay!

  I’m about to launch into the kind of full-frontal “helpless female in distress” plea that would make Gloria Steinem gag when I remember my closet. Thanks to a few cockroaches—give or take a thousand—I never checked the pockets of my shearling coat for Javier’s cell number.

  “Hold on a second, will you?” I say.

  I drop the phone, dash to the closet, and pray that my existential exterminator knew what he was doing with that poison spray.

  I slowly open the door to see only coats—including my shearling. Chalk one up for my memory; Javier’s card is right where I thought.

  “Never mind,” I say, returning to the phone. Click.

  The second I get a dial tone, I call Javier. It’s such a relief when he answers.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Javier.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. I’m sure he likes me and I feel a little guilty about this.

  I remind him about the “ghosting” effect. “Remember? I mentioned it when I bought the new lens.”

  “So the problem wasn’t with your old one, huh?”

  “Afraid not. I know it’s your day off, but would you mind taking a look at the pictures? I really need to figure this out.”

  “That depends,” he says.

  “On what?”

  “On how well you know your way around Brooklyn.”

  Chapter 59

  NOT VERY WELL.

  In fact, the closest I’ve ever been to Brooklyn is watching reruns of Welcome Back, Kotter on Nick at Nite.

  But after picking up the kids at school and pretending all afternoon that my mouth is still sore from the dentist, I board the F train heading out of Manhattan and hope for the best.

  I generally don’t mind riding the subway, except for rush hour, when it’s a madhouse.

  Of course, that happens to be right now.

  Wedged in with a gazillion other people—including the guy hovering next to me whose twenty-four-hour deodorant is clearly living on borrowed time—I’m afraid the old adage is wrong. Getting there is not half the fun.

  But at least I get there, and thanks to Javier’s very precise directions from the 15th Street–Prospect Park station, I easily find the nearby brownstone where he lives.

  It’s a pretty nice neighborhood, and I can’t help feeling a bit guilty about my low expectations, if not outright trepidation. I hate those people who think the good life begins and ends in the 212 area code, and here I am acting like one.

  Javier’s apartment occupies the first floor, and he greets me at the door with his usual warm smile. He’s dressed much the same as when he’s behind the counter at Gotham Photo—khakis and a button-down shirt, in this case a blue-and-white stripe. The only thing missing is his name tag.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks.

  “A Diet Coke, if you have one.”

  He does. I follow him back to the kitchen, stealing quick peeks into some of the rooms.

  I see a beautifully furnished den with a huge flat-screen television and a cozy library lined with leather-bound books. It’s not what I expected, and again I feel like one of those 212 snobs. How fitting that selling camera equipment to those same people would apparently pay so well.

  He pours the soda into a glass with ice and hands it to me. “Now let’s take a look at those pictures,” he says. “Figure out what’s going on.”

  “Excellent.”

  I reach into my shoulder bag and pull them out. He’s barely had a chance to look at the first one when I realize... we’re not alone.

  Chapter 60

  “JAVIER?” COMES A VOICE from another room. “Javier? Is someone there with you?” I
t’s a woman. She sounds old, foreign, and a bit confused.

  “Sí, Mamá,” says Javier over his shoulder. He turns back to me. “My mother moved in last year after my father passed away. Unfortunately, her health is not too good.”

  “Javier?” she calls out again. “I’m talking to you. Javier?”

  He winks at me. “Her hearing isn’t too good either.” He raises his voice. “Sí, Mamá!”

  “Con quién estás hablando?”

  Javier translates for me. “She wants to know who I’m talking to.” He answers her, “Ella es mi amiga.”

  “La has visto antes?”

  He rolls his eyes. “She wants to know if she’s met you before. Now I have to introduce you, otherwise she’ll be offended. Do you mind? I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I say. “I’d love to meet her.”

  Javier leads me out of the kitchen toward the very back of the apartment. He slows for a moment along the narrow hallway to whisper something to me.

  “Just so you know, my mother is very religious and she’s gone a little overboard in her decorating.”

  I’m not sure why he’s telling me this. That is, until we reach her room.

  Jesus!

  Literally. There have to be at least a hundred crucifixes hanging on the wall—big, small, wood, ceramic—with another fifty propped up on a bookshelf and bedside table.

  “Mamá, ella es mi amiga Kristin.”

  She’s sitting in a rocking chair by the window, wearing the plainest of plain tank dresses—cement gray, if I had to name the color. But what I really notice is how incredibly frail she looks. She’s so thin she’d give Penley a fat complex.

  As she glares at me with sunken eyes, I walk toward her and extend my hand. It seems like the right thing to do.

  Wrong.

  Terribly wrong!

  I get no farther than a few steps when those sunken eyes explode with fear. She clutches a set of blue rosary beads in her lap and begins to scream wildly. All hell breaks loose in this claustrophobic room full of crosses.

  “Espíritus malos! Espíritus malos! Mantengase lejos de mí. Ella está poseída por espíritus malos!”