She grabbed her blanket out of the bedroom, and a hammer from the tool drawer in her kitchen. Hannah curled up on the sofa, with the hammer on the floor beside her. She listened to every little sound in the night. Whenever she opened her eyes, she glanced at the sliver of darkness and moonlight between the drapes.
Hannah didn’t really fall asleep until traces of dawn showed through those curtains.
Four
“Mom, are you awake?”
Hannah managed to get her eyes half open. It took her a moment to realize she was lying on the living room sofa. Guy stood in front of her in his underwear. He gave her shoulder a shake. “Mom?”
She cleared her throat. “Hi, honey,” she muttered. “What time is it?”
“The big hand is on the eight, and the little hand is on the seven.”
“Okay. Go brush your teeth.”
Throwing back the blanket, she climbed off the sofa. She couldn’t have gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep. She tried to focus on the door and the front window. Everything was locked up. The broom handle was still in the window.
Putting on her robe, Hannah rubbed the sleep from her eyes. With a bit of trepidation, she unlocked the door and opened it. She padded down the walkway a few feet and stared down at the dumpster, still open. She noticed the green trash bag in there, but no video. He’d picked it up.
He’d seen her throw it away last night. How long had he stayed out there? Was he still watching her?
Shuddering, Hannah hurried back inside and locked the door again. She told herself that anyone could have taken the tape. The building’s maintenance man, the newspaper deliverer, or maybe a neighbor had absconded with it.
After walking Guy to Alphabet Soup Day Care, she returned home and called the video store. She told Scott she needed a mental health day. “I think it’s sleep deprivation,” she explained. “Can someone cover for me?”
“Yeah, there’s Cheryl,” Scott said. “I hate her with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, but I’ll call her for you. Hope you feel better.”
“Thanks. Listen, can you do me another favor? Do we still have our copy of Rosemary’s Baby in the store?”
“Yeah, hold on a sec.”
Hannah waited. She wanted to know if the tape had been stolen. She hadn’t noticed an Emerald City Video label on it, but someone could have peeled it off.
Scott got back on the line: “Hannah? It’s here. Do you want me to hold onto it for you?”
“No, but can you do me one last favor? Could you go into the computer and see if it was rented recently, maybe returned early this morning? Sorry to be such a pain.”
“Want me to donate a lung to you while I’m at it? Ha, just kidding. I’m here to serve. Okay, Rosemary’s Baby was last rented two weeks ago by Laheart, Christopher. Returned on time. Anything else?”
Hannah sighed. “No, thanks. You’re a doll, Scott. I’ll be back to work tomorrow. See you then.”
After Hannah hung up with Scott, she called Joyce and gave her the night off. Then she phoned her apartment building manager. After some haggling, she persuaded him to let her change the locks on her front door, and add a second dead bolt. Then Hannah called a locksmith and made an appointment for that afternoon.
“I’m sorry.” The twenty-something Asian man with the Seattle Mariners sweatshirt shook his head at him. “I can’t give out anyone’s phone number.”
Ben stood at the counter, in front of an open sliding glass window. The man refusing to help him was alone in the community college’s administration office.
“I understand,” Ben said, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “But this woman and I are in the same film class, and last night she accidentally left her Palm Pilot on her desk. I want to get it back to her. Her name’s Hannah, but I’m not sure about the last name—”
“Tell you what, leave the Palm Pilot with us,” the clerk said. “We’ll call her.”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t have it with me right now. I—”
“Then leave us your name and a number where she can reach you.” The man slid a pen and a pad of paper across the counter at him. “We’ll phone her for you.”
Running a hand through his blond hair, Ben sighed. “Listen, I’ll be honest. I’m in the same film class with this woman, and I really want to ask her out. I was hoping you might give me her phone number—or at least her last name. Could you throw me a bone here? I mean, I look like a decent enough guy, right?”
The clerk frowned at him. “No, not really. What’s your name, anyway? Whose film class are you in?”
Ben took a step back. “Forget about it. Sorry I bothered you.”
He turned away from the counter and almost bumped into a tall, thin black woman with tangerine hair. “Excuse me,” he muttered, continuing down the hallway.
“Well, hello, Ben!” the woman called. Her tone was singsong, teasing.
He stopped and stared at her. “Oh, hi. How are you doing?” He recognized her from the class. She sat in the back row.
The woman sauntered toward him. She wore jeans, a white peasant blouse, and gobs of silver jewelry. The orange-colored hair was done in a pageboy flip with bangs. It looked like a wig. Her eyelashes were false, too. In fact, Ben had always figured she was really a man. This close, he could see her Adam’s apple.
“You don’t know my name, do you, Ben?” she asked, one hand on her hip. “Are you embarrassed at the social faux pas?”
He stole a glance at his watch. He didn’t feel like chatting, but didn’t want to be impolite, either. And there was the whole gender-bender thing that made him slightly uncomfortable, but eager not to offend. Ben tried to smile. “Well, um, I know we’re in the same film class, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“You’re Ben Sturges. I made it a point to find that out three weeks ago when you started the class. I said to myself, Dede, you are going to get the name of that gorgeous man with the blue eyes and the wavy blond hair.” She snapped her fingers. “And, child, I knew your name by the end of the break that first day.”
“Well, that’s very flattering, thanks, um, Dede.” Ben looked back over his shoulder at the door.
“Dede Liscious,” she said, patting his shoulder with her man-sized hand. “But what do you care, Ben? You only have eyes for Miss Hannah, the ice-queen blonde. Am I right?”
Ben gave her a wary grin.
“Oh, I saw you try, try, and try again with Miss Thing last night. And I couldn’t help overhearing just now. Why do you want that girl’s digits? She’s not buying or selling, honey. The market is closed. Hannah is the teacher’s property.”
Eyes narrowed, Ben stared at her.
She nodded, then placed her hand on her chest. “It’s been going on for a few weeks now, ever since she started class.”
“Well, you certainly know a lot,” Ben said, with a forced laugh. “Um, you don’t happen to know Hannah’s phone number, do you?”
She smiled. “No, Ben, but I can tell you where she works. If you want your heart stomped on by an ice queen, that’s your business. You can call Hannah at Emerald City Video. You can call her, Ben. But she won’t call you back.”
“Is Hannah working today?” Ben asked.
There were only a couple of customers in the video store. Behind the counter was a petite young woman with long, curly blond hair. She gave Ben a little flirtatious pout. “Hannah called in sick today.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Do you know if she’ll be in tomorrow?”
The woman shrugged, and flicked her hair. “Not until Monday.”
“Oh, she’s that sick, huh?”
“No, she has weekends off. She’s probably okay. Often when Hannah calls in sick, it’s actually because her little boy isn’t feeling well or something.”
Ben nodded. “Oh, yeah. It’s been a while. How old is he now?”
“Four, I think. She brings him in the store every once in a while.”
“Have you ever
met the father?” Ben asked.
“No,” she whispered. “Hannah never talks about him. Did you know him?”
Ben shook his head.
“I think he died a couple of years ago,” the young woman said.
“Oh,” Ben said. “Well, I guess Paul comes in here quite a lot.”
She frowned. “Paul?”
“Paul Gulletti. Isn’t he kind of seeing her?”
The clerk laughed. “That’s news to me. I don’t think Hannah’s dating anybody.”
“Really? Huh,” Ben said, raising his eyebrows. Then he smiled at her and casually leaned on the counter. “Listen, it’s been forever since I’ve seen her. You don’t happen to have Hannah’s phone number, do you?”
“My coworker probably has it. Want to hold on for a sec?”
“Thanks.” Ben watched her retreat to the back room.
The young woman glanced over her shoulder and gave him a big smile. She opened the door to the break room, where Scott sat at the desk, labeling a new shipment of videos.
He looked up from his work and squinted at her. “Cheryl, who were you talking to out there?” he whispered.
“I think he might be an old boyfriend of Hannah’s or something. He was asking about her—”
“Yeah, I heard. I was about to come out there. Listen, Cheryl, I don’t think Hannah would be especially thrilled that you’re telling strangers all about her personal life. Is he a customer? Did you get his name?”
Cheryl frowned. “God, do I have to get, like, a security check on somebody just because he asks a couple of questions? He’s cute, and I’m just trying to help. All he wanted was Hannah’s phone number.”
Shaking his head, Scott got to his feet. He brushed past her and stepped out of the back room. “Um, can I help you—” he started to say, making his way toward the counter. Scott stopped in his tracks.
No one was there.
She was deciding whose Sunday newspaper she’d steal this morning. Dressed in a lavender jogging suit, and with her black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, Cindy Finkelston stood at the mail table in the lobby of her apartment building. She hadn’t been jogging. Cindy had power-walked to the coffee shop three blocks away for her usual Sunday morning latte to go.
Some asshole in line at the coffee place had given her flack, because she’d cut in front of him while he was glancing out the window. She’d dished it right back to him, claiming she hadn’t known he was in line. He’d called her “rude” and “obnoxious.” But, ha-ha, she’d gotten her coffee before him.
Cindy set the hot, heavy-duty paper container on the mail table, and studied the pile of newspapers. She ignored the note that had been taped by the mailboxes about three weeks ago:
SOMEONE HAS BEEN STEALING MY VANITY FAIR MAGAZINES. THIS WAS A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION FROM MY BROTHER, AND WHOEVER HAS BEEN HELPING HIS-OR-HERSELF TO MY MAGAZINES ISN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY. IF THIS CONTINUES, I’M TAKING IT BEFORE THE CONDO BOARD.—RACHEL PORTER #401
A couple of other residents at the Broadmore Apartments had scribbled comments on the typed notice: “I have the same problem. Someone keeps taking my Sunday paper…M. Donovan #313,” and “Ditto - J. Vollmer, #407.”
Cindy took The Seattle Times, with #313 written on the clear plastic wrapping. The way she figured, if they really wanted their Sunday paper, they should have gotten up earlier. You snooze, you lose. After all, it was past eight o’clock. This was her newspaper now, and there wasn’t a single, solitary thing they could do about it.
She picked up her coffee and rang for the elevator. Cindy rode up to the fifth floor. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she pulled out her keys and unlocked her door.
Cindy stepped into her apartment, then stopped. It was too cold. She automatically glanced over at the sliding door that led to a small balcony off her living room. But the door was closed. Along the other wall, she noticed the sliding window—wide open. The screen was open too.
Suddenly, something flew down at her from above, fluttering past her shoulder. Cindy dropped her coffee—and her neighbor’s newspaper. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She realized it was a pigeon. The damn thing must have been perched up on her bookcase. Now it settled on the back of one of her dining room chairs.
“Goddamn it!” Cindy hissed, once she got her breath back. Coffee had spilled on her pale blue carpet.
She hadn’t opened that window earlier. What was going on?
“Filthy thing,” she muttered. “Shoo, get out!” she said, waving at the bird.
But the pigeon only flapped its wings as if it were about to take off at her. Cindy got scared and backed away. “Shit!” she muttered. She decided to let the caretaker get rid of the damn thing.
Then it suddenly dawned on her that she might not be safe in the apartment. Someone else had opened that window, and he could still be there—hiding, waiting for her.
Cindy turned toward the door and gasped.
A man stood in her path. He wore an army jacket and black jeans. A nylon stocking was pulled over his face, distorting his features. Cindy couldn’t tell what he looked like. But she could see he was smiling.
She started to scream.
All at once he was on her. He slapped his hand over her mouth. Cindy couldn’t breathe. She struggled and kicked. She tried to bite his hand, but his grip was so tight, she couldn’t even move her jaw. Cindy thought he might break her neck.
He maneuvered his way behind her. He was twisting her arm.
The pigeon took off, flying out the open window.
“Shhh,” he whispered, the nylon material over his face brushing against her ear. “This won’t work if you scream. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He lowered his hand a little from her mouth, and Cindy was able to breathe through her nose. She stopped struggling. She knew she was trapped.
“It was pretty funny with the bird flying in like that, wasn’t it?” he said, chuckling. “But you know what’s not so funny? The way you treated my Hannah at the video store the other night. You might think she’s some nobody clerk, but she’s my Hannah, you stupid, silly bitch.”
Cindy tried to speak, but again, his hand was clasped firmly over her mouth. She merely whimpered in protest. She couldn’t break free of him.
“We need to make sure you don’t scream,” he said.
Cindy noticed a second man, coming from her kitchen. His face was deformed with the same nylon disguise. They both looked like monsters, something out of a nightmare. But they were real. The pain in her arm was real. That warm, moist nylon mask scraping against her face was real.
“If I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream?” he asked.
His partner was coming toward her. Eyeing him, Cindy nodded anxiously. But as soon as she gasped some air through her mouth, Cindy started to yell.
Certainly, one of the neighbors would hear and come help.
“Shut her up,” grunted the man holding her.
All at once, his partner punched Cindy in the stomach. All at once, she couldn’t breathe, much less scream. She automatically dropped toward the floor, and curled up—fetal-like—from the overwhelming pain in her gut.
But the man still had ahold of her. “Get her feet,” she heard him tell his friend.
Suddenly, they were dragging her toward the open window. She was still breathless, paralyzed by the pain in her stomach. They had her by the arms and feet. She tried to struggle, but it was useless.
She felt the chilly wind sweep across her as they hoisted her up on the windowsill. She still couldn’t breath—or scream. Her head was swimming.
Cindy Finkelston knew she was going to die. And there wasn’t a single, solitary thing she could do about it.
“Well, what exactly did you tell him about me?” Hannah asked, keeping her voice low. There were customers in the store that Monday afternoon. She had to stifle the inclination to scream at Cheryl. The two of them stood behind the counter.
“I hardly told the guy anything. God!”
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “He came in on Friday and asked if you were working. I said you were out sick, and might be back today. That’s all. Scott’s blowing it all out of proportion.”
Hannah glared at her. No one liked Cheryl very much. At twenty-one, she was younger than everybody else on the Emerald City Video payroll, yet she treated her coworkers in a fake-pleasant, condescending manner. She was a theater major, and always seemed “on.” Hannah found her obnoxiously perky and phony.
“Well, what did this guy look like, anyway?” Hannah asked, one hand on the countertop. “Can you describe him? Age? Hair color?”
Cheryl rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Okay, tell me this much. Have you seen him in the store before?”
“God, Hannah,” she said, with a stunned little laugh. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” She flicked back her long blond hair. “I really don’t remember much about him. He was here for, like, two seconds. You know, Hannah, I have guys in here every day asking for my phone number. It might not happen to you so much, because you’re older. But if I were you, I’d be flattered.”
Hannah slowly shook her head. “Cheryl—”
“Hannah, could you come in here?” Scott called from the back room.
She shot Cheryl one last, venomous look. “Give me a yell if it gets busy,” she said evenly.
Retreating to the cramped back room, Hannah found Scott at the desk with a newspaper in front of him. He was on his break. Hannah closed the door. “I want to kill her,” she whispered.
“Yeah, well, get in line,” Scott replied. He folded back the newspaper page. “I thought you’d want to see this. Did you know about it?”
“About what?” Hannah asked, taking the newspaper from him. She glanced at the headline near the bottom of the local news page, and read it aloud: “‘SEATTLE WOMAN PLUNGES FIVE STORIES TO HER DEATH.’”
“Keep reading,” Scott said.
“‘Authorities are investigating the circumstances behind the death of a Seattle woman, Cindy Finkelston, 34, who fell from her fifth-floor living-room window at the Broadmoore apartment building on Sunday morning….’”
Watch Them Die Page 5