Her very next customer was Ned Reemar, a slightly strange man of forty who came in the store every day. He always wore the same clothes: a brown shirt with a Snoopy emblem sewn over the pocket, jeans, and sneakers. He had ugly haircuts, but he wasn’t a bad-looking man. In fact, Scott once admitted he’d sleep with Ned if someone gave him a makeover. Now he regretted making the statement, and Hannah still teased him about it. Ned always talked their ears off, mostly about the technical aspects of every film ever made. That wasn’t so bad. What was unsettling was Ned’s way of picking up personal information about each one of the employees. “Is Hannah married?” he’d asked Scott months ago. “Is Scott gay? Does he have a boyfriend?” he’d asked Hannah.
“I think Nutty Ned wants to be your main man,” Hannah had later told Scott. “Maybe he’ll get a makeover—just for you.”
“Not even with a blindfold and a case of Stoli’s would I let him touch me,” Scott had replied.
Hannah had always thought Ned was a bit peculiar, but harmless. Yet as she waited on him now, and he complained about the sound on their DVD version of A Clockwork Orange, Hannah studied him with a sudden wariness.
For the rest of the day, she regarded practically every male customer with the same apprehension: the strangers, the regulars, the ones she knew and liked, and the few who were jerks. With each man, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something more behind the simplest smile, the off-hand polite comment, or even a blank stare. Any one of those men could have been the killer in that video.
Any one of them.
“Do you know what the movie is tonight?”
The man sitting next to Hannah in film class was ruggedly handsome in a Gary Cooper kind of way. He had wavy blond hair, and blue eyes that matched his pale denim shirt. Hannah guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He’d just joined the class a couple of weeks ago. She’d noticed him looking at her several times during the last two sessions. Tonight he’d sat down next to her.
Ordinarily, she might have been flattered. But not tonight.
Slouched in his chair-desk, he grinned sheepishly at her. “Hope it’s something good,” he said. “I’m really bushed. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep.”
Hannah gave him a cool smile. “It’s All Fall Down, with Warren Beatty and Eva Marie Saint. I’ve seen it before. It’s very good.”
He planted his elbow on the desk panel. His sleeves were rolled up. Hannah noticed his muscular arms, covered with blond hair. “By the way, my name’s Ben,” he said, reaching out his hand.
“Hannah.” She quickly shook his hand. Then she opened her spiral notebook and tried to look interested in it.
“If I start snoring during the movie, promise you’ll give me a nudge.”
She didn’t look up from her notebook. “If you’re so tired, maybe you should have sat in the back, where no one would notice you sleeping.”
“But I wanted to sit next to you.”
Hannah glanced up at him.
He smiled. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way of introducing myself to you for a couple of weeks now.”
“Well, that’s very flattering,” Hannah replied. Then she went back to her notebook. “Thanks anyway.”
“Ouch,” he whispered. “Shot through the heart.”
Hannah looked at him again. “Pardon?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
The instructor stepped up to the front of the room. “Tonight we’ll be checking out an overlooked classic from John Frankenheimer,” he announced.
Hannah tried to concentrate on what he was saying. But all the while, she felt this Ben character in the next chair looking at her. She finally turned to glare at him, but he was staring at their instructor. He actually seemed interested in the lecture.
“Frankenheimer assembled a terrific cast here,” the instructor was saying. Perched on the edge of his desk, he was the embodiment of a relaxed, confident authority figure. “They’re all at the top of their form: Beatty, Eva Marie Saint, Angela Lansbury, Karl Malden….”
His name was Paul Gulletti. He had a swarthy complexion, dark eyes, and receding black hair. He was a nice dresser, too: expensive sweaters, silk shirts, Italian footwear.
In addition to teaching a film class at the community college, Paul reviewed movies for a popular Seattle weekly newspaper. He also rented at Emerald City Video. Hannah used to think he was kind of a cocky, womanizing creep. His wife was on his account at the video store, but that didn’t stop Paul Gulletti from coming on to Hannah, her coworker Britt, and even Tish.
Hannah had been immune to his charm—until he asked her about her mini-reviews. She typed the critiques on index cards, then posted them alongside her Employee Picks for the month. Paul liked Hannah’s writing style—and her taste in movies.
“Ever think about reviewing films for a newspaper?” he asked one afternoon in the store. “The money isn’t bad….”
Paul said he received 130 dollars for every review. But he wouldn’t be reviewing movies much longer. He was preparing to direct his own independent film—as soon as the financing came through. They’d need someone to replace him at the newspaper. He said there was even more money if her reviews got syndicated in other newspapers. Was she interested?
Hannah imagined cutting back on her hours at the store and spending more time with Guy. She figured she could write under a pseudonym to keep her name out of the papers. And she loved creating those mini-reviews. It suddenly seemed possible that she could make a semi-decent dollar with her writing. Womanizing sleazeball or not, Paul Gulletti was offering her a wonderful opportunity.
Paul also suggested she take his film class at the college. “It’ll fine-tune your skills,” he said. “I think you’ll benefit from it. And I’d feel better recommending one of my students as my successor at the paper.”
Though Hannah hated giving up precious time with Guy for this class one night a week, it seemed worth her while.
She’d been in the film class for five weeks now. Clearly, she was Paul’s favorite student, and all the special attention embarrassed her. She kept Paul at arm’s length. She needed his help, but didn’t want to become another notch on his bedpost.
Paul’s assistant, an arty, edgy young man named Seth Stroud, confirmed for Hannah that his boss did indeed want to get her in the sack. “Professor G. usually picks one female student every year,” Seth had confided to her one evening after class a while back. “He leads her around, tells her she’s brilliant and he’s gonna leave his old lady for her. Then he drops her at the end of the semester. You seem nice. I don’t want Paul doing that to you.”
“Well, thanks for the warning,” Hannah had replied. “But I’m not interested in Professor Gulletti that way.” Then she’d added, “You must not think very highly of your boss.”
“Actually, he’s okay,” Seth had admitted, with a shrug. “He’s just a shit to women. Hey, do me a favor and don’t tell him I said anything, okay?”
Now, whenever Paul asked her to stay after class for something, or picked her to explain the workings of a certain film director, Hannah would steal a look at Seth. Standing at the side of the room, he’d grin and roll his eyes a little. He was an oddly attractive man in his late twenties, with rectangular designer glasses, and brown hair that he’d gelled to stand in a dozen different directions. They’d had only a few brief conversations in the past few months. But Hannah had come to like him.
“Seth, if you could get the lights,” Paul announced, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “From 1962, John Frankenheimer’s All Fall Down.”
Seth switched off the lights, then stepped over to the projector and started the film. The MGM lion was roaring as Paul made his way down the aisle. He took the seat on Hannah’s left.
She caught Seth giving her one of his looks.
Paul leaned toward her. “I called you this week,” he whispered. “Didn’t you get my message?”
Hannah nodded. “Yes. Sorry I haven’t gotte
n back to you. It’s been kind of crazy at work. I was hoping we could talk during the break tonight.”
“I thought you could help me with some research,” Paul explained, while the music swelled on the film’s soundtrack. “It’ll get your foot in the door with my managing editor. I’m doing an article for the newspaper on movies that broke the blacklist. Maybe we can discuss it over dinner this week?”
Hannah hesitated.
“Excuse me, Professor,” Ben piped up. “I can’t hear the movie.”
Paul frowned at him, then reached over and touched Hannah’s arm. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered.
Squirming, Hannah sat between the two men. She gazed at the screen.
At the break, Paul said he’d talk with her after class.
Hannah nodded. “Okay. But I promised the sitter I’d be back by ten.”
She wandered out to the hallway, where the other students gathered by the vending machines and rest-room doors. Ben Whats-his-name seemed to be waiting for her. “You were right,” he said. “It was a good movie. I didn’t nod off. Warren Beatty’s character was sure a jerk, though, wasn’t he? I thought Eva Marie Saint would be too smart to fall for him.”
Hannah gave him a polite smile, then stepped over to the vending machine. “Maybe you ought to bring it up when the class reconvenes for the discussion period.”
“I don’t think I’ll stick around for that.” He leaned against the vending machine. “I wasn’t exactly gaga for his theories on Casablanca last week.”
Hannah slipped some coins in the slot, pressed a couple of buttons, then fished her candy from the vending machine’s drawer. “Would you like a Good & Plenty?” she asked.
“No,” he said, frowning. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I didn’t realize you and the teacher…” He trailed off. “Well, I heard people in class say you two were together. But I thought you were too smart to fall for a guy like him. Guess I was wrong about you and Eva Marie, huh?”
“What?” Hannah said.
“Like I said, I’m sorry.” He turned and started down the hall.
Hannah wondered how he’d gotten this misinformation about her and Paul. Had he been asking people about her?
She watched him walk away. Then he ducked into the stairwell.
Hannah decided she would take a cab home from the community college. She could hardly afford a taxi, but it was raining. Besides, she was still feeling a little leery after last night; first seeing that video, then thinking someone was in the apartment. And now, this Ben character. He unnerved her.
Paul was very curious about him. “How well do you know that guy?” he asked, pausing with Hannah outside the empty classroom. Everyone else had already left, including Seth. “I noticed him talking to you,” Paul went on. “He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? Is he a customer from the store?”
“I don’t know him from Adam,” Hannah said. “He just sat next to me in class tonight. Up until two hours ago, I never even said ‘boo’ to the guy. Do you know his last name? You must have it somewhere on a class list.”
According to the registration list, his name was Ben Sturges; phone number, 555-3291. Hannah wondered if the number was blocked. She thought about all those hang-ups she’d received lately. Could the calls be traced to his number?
Paul started telling her about his current project. “Some night this week we ought to get together for dinner or drinks and discuss it further.”
Hannah sighed. “Well, this week is kind of crazy,” she said. “But I really want to work for you, Paul. I can squeeze in the research on my own time, and then e-mail you.”
Paul frowned a bit. “Well, then I guess we’ll chat on-line later in the week. Listen, why don’t you let me drive you home?”
“Oh, well, thanks,” Hannah replied. “I don’t want you going to any trouble. I was going to take a cab—”
“Okay, suit yourself,” Paul grumbled; then he marched down the corridor to his office.
Hannah sighed. Obviously, he was ticked off at her. Otherwise, he’d have insisted on driving her home—just to be polite. After all, it was raining, for God’s sake.
She called the cab service from a pay phone by the community college’s main entrance.
Eleven blocks, and it cost her six dollars with tip. She’d have to skip lunch tomorrow. Still, the taxi ride kept her out of the rain.
Hannah stepped inside the apartment and pried off her shoes. She woke up Joyce, who had been dozing in front of the TV.
“Guy’s fast asleep, the little angel,” she told Hannah while collecting her purse and raincoat. “I put a big dent in that bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies. You really shouldn’t have bought those. Oh, and no one called tonight, not a single hang-up either. How about that?”
Hannah loaned Joyce an umbrella for the walk home. She locked the door after her, then checked in on Guy, who was asleep. After a shower, Hannah climbed into her T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and threw on a robe. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she plopped down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. She hoped her soap opera would take her mind off everything. She pressed “Play” to make sure the tape hadn’t run out early on her program.
What came over the screen wasn’t The Young and the Restless—or the soap after it. Hannah stared at a young couple, walking down the street. He wore a seersucker suit with a narrow tie, and she had a light coat over her minidress. It took Hannah a few moments to recognize John Cassavetes and Mia Farrow outside the Dakota apartment building in a scene from Rosemary’s Baby. They walked into a nest of police and onlookers gathered in front of the building. Amid the flashing lights and chaos, Mia got a glimpse of something on the sidewalk.
Hannah knew the movie. Still, she gasped when the camera cut to the bloodied corpse of Mia’s neighbor and friend sprawled on the pavement. One of the cops said that the girl had jumped from the building’s seventh-floor window.
“What is this?” Hannah muttered. Grabbing the remote, she ejected the movie. She went to the VCR and looked at the videocassette. It wasn’t the blank tape she’d slipped into the recorder this morning. It was a store-bought copy of Rosemary’s Baby. “Where the hell did this come from?” she whispered.
“Well, it’s not mine,” Joyce told her on the phone, three minutes later. “I’ve never even seen Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t go in for those scary movies.”
“Did you take Guy out tonight?” Hannah asked, thinking they might have had a break-in, a real one this time. Maybe the last one was real, too. “Did you leave the apartment at all?” she pressed.
“No, honey. It started raining shortly after you left. We stayed put.”
“Okay, Joyce. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
Hannah hung up the phone, then went back to the VCR. The carpet was damp in spots, and she figured she must have tracked in some rain earlier. On top of a stack of videocassettes, Hannah found the tape she’d slipped into the machine this morning. She played it in the VCR. It was her soap opera; a new episode she hadn’t seen yet, today’s episode.
Hannah stepped back from the TV. Again, she felt the cold, wet patches on the carpet beneath her feet. Frowning, she turned and gazed back at her shoes by the front door, just where she’d kicked them off when she had stepped inside. She looked out the window at the continuous downpour.
Someone else had tracked in the rain—and not very long ago, either.
Swallowing hard, Hannah moved toward the door, along the damp trail on the carpet. She’d locked up before taking her shower. Now, with a shaky hand, she reached for the knob and pulled open the door.
“My God,” she whispered. How did it get unlocked? Was he still inside the apartment?
She hurried down the hall to Guy’s room. A hand over her pounding heart, she listened at the door for a moment, then quietly stepped inside. He was asleep, still breathing. She peeked into his closet.
Hannah checked every closet and every d
amn corner of the apartment. She made sure all the windows were locked, too. Along the way, she turned on several lights. She and Guy were alone in the apartment, but she still didn’t feel safe.
Hannah inspected the door. Whoever had broken in must have jimmied open the long, sliding window, then reached inside and manipulated the door locks.
Hannah wanted to call the police, but she couldn’t. They were probably looking for her, like that private detective in Chicago. She couldn’t afford to go to the police.
Instead, she finished her glass of wine and poured another. By half-past midnight, she had a tiny buzz and figured she was the worst mother in the world for getting drunk at a time like this—with her little boy asleep down the hall.
She pulled a broom and saw from the kitchen closet. After measuring the front window and the broom, she set the broom across her two barstools, then sawed off part of the handle. Maybe she wasn’t so drunk after all, because the broom handle fit perfectly in the window groove. If anyone wanted to get into the apartment through that window now, he’d have to break the glass.
He would probably be coming back for the tape—as he had last night. She was now convinced that someone had indeed broken into the apartment and switched videotapes on her.
She didn’t want to give him a reason to break in again. And she didn’t want the damn tape in her apartment tonight. After peeking out the window, Hannah grabbed the cassette, hurried outside, and moved down the walkway a few feet until she was standing directly over the dumpster—three stories below. Someone had left the lid open again.
Whoever had delivered the Rosemary’s Baby tape was probably watching her right now. She almost hoped he was. She wanted him to know that the tape wouldn’t be in her apartment tonight. She wanted him to see her pitching his video over the railing into the dumpster.
The cassette landed on top of a green trash bag in the large bin.
Hannah quickly ducked back in the apartment, and double-locked the door behind her. Then she tugged together the front window drapes, but they still had an inch-wide gap between them.
Watch Them Die Page 4