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Gray Widow Trilogy 1: Gray Widow's Walk

Page 9

by Dan Jolley


  Tim tried to keep his breathing even and silent, and succeeded, barely. Setting the gray bundle aside, Janey Sinclair had taken off her sweatshirt, revealing a red sports bra, and was unlacing her sneakers. She straightened, stepped out of the sweatpants, and stood in front of her dresser, clad only in the bra and black boy shorts.

  For three long seconds Tim stared, before tearing his eyes away. The shame threatened to choke him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but her image remained, vivid in his mind’s eye.

  She was magnificent.

  Tim held his breath and gambled on another peek, ready to bolt as soon as she entered the bathroom. Janey Sinclair turned slightly toward him. Above the tantalizing swell of her sports bra, two circular scars, each about the size of a dime, marred her upper left pectoral.

  Gunshot wounds?

  They looked old. Tim’s eyes widened as he judged the distance from her heart to the nearer scar. Janey Sinclair was very lucky to be alive today.

  Moving to the closet, Janey opened one of the metal doors—which squealed loudly—and dropped her sweats into a hamper. She returned to the chest-of-drawers, picked up the bundle she’d brought in with her, and entered the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her, and a few seconds later water started running and music came on, small and tinny. The tone of the water changed as it switched from faucet to shower head, and Tim unfolded himself from behind the easel.

  He crept out of the bedroom, didn’t spare even a glance at the air filter—and stopped dead, looking at the stack of other filters still leaning against the wall beside the front door.

  His story of getting distracted wouldn’t hold up very well if Janey had seen the other filters when she came in, but found them missing when she got out of the shower.

  But, if the emergency that called him away were pressing enough, he might have left all of them behind, and could maybe chalk it up to simple forgetfulness. Or, maybe, Janey hadn’t noticed them when she came in. If that were the case, he could take them with him now and possibly get the rest of them installed before five o’clock when the office closed.

  Trying to decide what to do, he turned the doorknob, and with a start realized it wasn’t locked.

  He let go of it.

  Janey Sinclair had returned to her apartment while he was inside, so she would have found her door unlocked when she went to open it. Yet she’d shown no signs of alarm when she came in, and he hadn’t heard her make any phone calls, to the police or otherwise. Had she not realized her door was unlocked? How was that possible?

  Unless she came back, tried the door, found it unlocked...and came into the apartment anyway, fully conscious that someone was there, but acting as if nothing were amiss.

  Why would she do that?

  Had she figured out Tim was in the apartment, and decided to play a game with him? He glanced back over his shoulder at the bedroom, scowling. The shower still ran, the tinny music still played. He recognized “These Boots are Made for Walking” by Nancy Sinatra, a perennial favorite on a local AM station.

  Surely to God Janey Sinclair wouldn’t have undressed in front of him if she’d known he was there.

  Or was she so forgetful that she might leave her apartment and simply forget to lock the door? Odder still to think about, was Janey that trusting, not to even bother locking her door in the first place?

  Tim saw something, a tiny detail, but striking: the coat closet, the one he had noticed earlier, stood open about four inches. He was absolutely certain it had been closed, latched, when he came in. Against his better judgment, he quickly crossed to it and looked inside.

  It was empty. Nothing on the floor, nothing on the single shelf. Even the light bulb was gone.

  All right. So Janey came in, grabbed something out of her coat closet and took it into the bathroom? That bundle?

  Tim couldn’t think straight, and tried to keep from shuddering as he picked up the stack of air filters and hastily left Janey Sinclair’s apartment. More out of reflex than anything else, he locked her door behind him.

  As he hurried away down the hall, huge raindrops spattered like a shower of rocks against the window, and another detail struck him: Janey Sinclair’s sweatsuit hadn’t had a single spot of rain on it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The bell sounded, signaling the end of another day in hell.

  Nathan stood, gathered his books under one arm, and walked out of his classroom. He made his way calmly down the hall, ambled past a cluster of football players standing by the main entrance, and headed for his car in the parking lot. More than once he heard people snickering after he’d passed. He slammed his car door shut a lot harder than necessary and laid rubber on his way out of the lot.

  Trying to find a good song on the radio, he came across yet another news report of the vigilante working in the city. They’d started calling her “the Gray Widow” now. Nathan decided he liked the sound of that. This time, according to the announcer, the masked woman was responsible for the near-maiming of two suspected crack dealers. Both men were taken to Gavring, one with both arms broken at the elbows. The Gray Widow had not as yet made any attempts to communicate with the police or the media. She simply showed up, beat the living shit out of one or more people, and vanished. Nathan smiled as he thought about it.

  Now there’s someone I can get behind. Someone who doesn’t take any shit off anybody. Someone who sees something that needs to be done and does it.

  Nathan had been following the exploits of the Gray Widow for the last few days, since the story first showed up in the Chronicle. He remembered seeing the homeless woman on the street, flapping around a torn-out article about the vigilante, right before he’d just about knocked that guy in the suit off his feet.

  According to the media, the Gray Widow was now believed to have committed at least five brutal assaults on criminals, all within the city limits.

  Even though Nathan enjoyed the idea of a real-life masked vigilante fighting crime on the streets, it shot a pang of homesickness through him, because that was exactly the kind of thing he would have talked about with his friends. He and Peter and Whit would have sat around and shot the bull for hours, speculating on what the Gray Widow would be like in real life. Trying to profile her, like bargain-basement versions of John Douglas. They’d try to get in her head, figure out what motivated her, speculate on what must have happened to her in the past to make her put a mask on and wreak such killer havoc on unsuspecting dirtbags.

  “I know what makes her tick,” Nathan said aloud, over the song that came on after the announcer finished. “I know exactly why she does what she does. ‘Cause she’s pissed off, that’s why.”

  He fell silent again, but something was there now, in his mind, that hadn’t been before. He switched off the radio and squinted his eyes as he drove, the mental gears whirring and clicking.

  Both his parents were gone, of course, when he got home. This was the time Nathan liked best, when he had the house to himself. When the two ghouls who’d brought him into the world weren’t around to ignore him. He let himself in, went upstairs to his bedroom, and started rummaging around in the back of his closet. After twenty minutes of digging, tossing wrinkled comic books and old, battered action figures over his shoulder, he found what he was looking for: a souvenir from a past Halloween. He dusted it off and held it up to the light.

  It was a black domino mask attached to a black nylon hood. Nathan slipped the mask over his head and adjusted it so the eye holes felt comfortable. He glanced in the mirror and smiled.

  Nathan pulled the mask back off, stretched out on his bed and grinned like a fool. He began making plans.

  * * *

  Shortly after Tim fled from her apartment, Janey finished her shower, clicked off the radio that hung from the shower head, toweled dry while she stood in the tub, walked out into her bedroom and began going through her underwear drawer. The air f
ilter bothered her. She didn’t know exactly why; maintenance had never been great in any of her other apartments, she didn’t see why it should be any different here. Nonetheless, something about it worked under her skin.

  She took out a pair of white silk boy shorts and pulled them on. Lightning flashed outside, rendered the room in chiaroscuro for a split second, and caused Janey to glance over toward the window.

  She froze, and by reflex clicked off the overhead light.

  As thunder pealed, Janey pulled an aluminum baseball bat from under her bed.

  With both hands on the bat, she crept from the bedroom into the living room. The small apartment afforded very few potential hiding places, but Janey checked them all quickly and efficiently. Satisfied, she returned to her bedroom and leaned on the doorframe.

  Someone had moved her painting.

  Not much; only a few millimeters. But she’d deliberately aligned the tallest of the trees with the center of the easel’s upper tension knob that morning, before she’d finished up the painting and left to go to the basement. Now the tree rested to the left of the tension knob, and she hadn’t touched the painting or the easel since she’d been back.

  Maybe the thunder? The vibrations, jarring it? She went to the painting, braced the easel with one hand, and pushed on the side of the canvas with the other. It moved, but only with more effort than thunder would have provided. Janey narrowed her eyes, stepped away...and scrutinized the floor around the easel and the work table.

  The carpet in Janey’s apartment was standard institutional beige, but thicker shag than most economy apartments had. This came with pros and cons. While very kind to bare feet, it clearly showed the tracks left by a vacuum cleaner, and sometimes even preserved footprints.

  Janey found a footprint in the carpet behind her easel, along with five evenly spaced scuffs. Just about right for fingertips, if they—like the footprint—belonged to someone with larger hands than hers. Thunder crashed outside, very close, and the floor vibrated.

  Tim?

  Janey straightened up, leaned the bat against the work table and tried to think.

  Yes, he had access to the apartment. No, it wasn’t unreasonable to think he might perform low-level service, such as replacing air filters. But why would he hide...?

  The painting. He came in, saw she wasn’t there, hoped to find a work in progress, maybe, and took a peek into her bedroom. Janey covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh no.” As raw as the painting was, as much power as she’d poured into it, Tim could have easily had a seizure…or worse. Freaking out and hiding was probably the best outcome she could’ve hoped for. Guilt flooded through her. This is the last time I work on one of these anywhere but the basement.

  Her heart jolted as she realized something else.

  Tim saw the suit.

  He’d hidden right there while she came in and got ready to shower, must have, that was the only time it could have happened, and she’d had the suit with her, right in plain sight. She tried to remember how she’d carried it. The boots, the boots were back in the basement, that was no problem, he wouldn’t have seen those, but could he have recognized the suit for what it was? Maybe...think, come on...

  No. She’d had it folded up when she took it into the bathroom to wash it by hand. Routine, as always. All he would have seen was a big gray wad of stiff material. Could have been anything. No reason to get upset.

  She slumped down on her bed, scooted across it to put her back against the wall, and hugged her knees to her chest.

  No reason to get upset, my ass. This is a perfect reason. What happens, when you finally meet someone who makes you feel something? One of your paintings tries to drive him insane.

  All right. Best to concentrate on one thing at a time. Pick a job, do it.

  She let out a long, slow breath. Two years. Surely two years of self-imposed exile was enough. Enough time to mourn. To heal.

  Of course that was absurd. She hadn’t healed. Healing involved dealing with grief in a healthy way: learning to accept loss and getting on with life as a productive, mentally balanced member of society. It most definitely did not involve jumping around in bad parts of the city every night, or stealing prototype suits of military body armor.

  Janey groaned. “What the hell am I doing?” She thumped her head on her knee a few times, rolled over on the bed and picked up the phone on her nightstand.

  * * *

  Tim sat in the office and stared at the paperwork covering his desk. Badly rattled, he’d returned to familiar surroundings seeking a sense of security, but hadn’t really found one. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—Janey, her apartment, the painting, the closet.

  Get a grip, Tim. You’re freaking out. Why are you freaking out? Nothing happened! If you were going to freak out, it ought to be about how perverted you are, sneaking around in some strange woman’s apartment!

  The LaCroix had no gym, no laundry facilities. Janey would have had to come in from the outside. But no one not wearing a full rainsuit could have avoided getting at least partly wet, and he hadn’t seen any rainsuits while he was in her apartment. Was that what the gray bundle was? But why would she have wadded it up and carried it into the bathroom with her?

  The office phone rang, and Tim jumped again.

  “LaCroix Apartments, how may I help you?”

  “Um, hi, this is Janey Sinclair, in apartment 9C.”

  Tim took a deep breath. Stay calm. Calm! “Hi! What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I came home a while ago and found a new air filter in here. Did you want me to replace the old one? I didn’t know if someone was coming back, or what.”

  Her low, rich voice over the phone sounded open and polite. Tim couldn’t hear any unpleasant undertones, no smugness, nothing accusatory. His mind whirled.

  “Oh,” he began, and tried his best to sound genuinely surprised. “I did forget to put that one in, didn’t I? Sorry about that. Got distracted with a phone call. Let’s see...” He shuffled papers around on the desk. “When would be a good time for you that I could come back and do that?”

  “I could do it, if you’d rather not. It’s no trouble. I mean, it’s just an air filter.”

  “Oh, sorry, but I have to do it. Insurance reasons.” That much was true. The tenants weren’t supposed to do any of their own maintenance beyond changing light bulbs. But as he said the words, he realized he’d set it up so he would have to go back to her apartment.

  What am I doing?

  He thought Janey actually sounded pleased. “Well, right now would be fine, I guess. If it’s okay with you.”

  “Oh, uh...” Tim faltered for a second. “Yes. Um. Well...I guess I’ll be right up.”

  Numbly Tim turned on the answering machine, locked the office door behind him, and headed for the elevator.

  * * *

  A few minutes after she hung up the phone with Tim—who had sounded exactly like someone caught where he wasn’t supposed to be—Janey dressed in dark brown leggings and a rust-red button shirt, slipped on a pair of worn but comfortable flats, and stood in front of a mirror.

  She thought about putting on makeup. But she hadn’t done that in so long, hadn’t even touched any foundation or lipstick since…well. Since Adam. No, whatever twisted version of social interaction she was about to engage in, it wasn’t worth makeup.

  She studied her reflection, turning her face right and left.

  Janey had always thought of herself as “funny-looking.” Taken individually, she supposed, her features weren’t objectionable. Her lips would never rival Angelina Jolie’s, but they were full and dark. And she liked her tawny complexion, which her father had always said was the exact color of a lion’s pelt. But she had the long, straight, somewhat pronounced nose of her German grandfather, which didn’t quite work, she didn’t think, with the slight epicanthic folds above her eyes, while h
er eyes themselves—a blue so light they bordered on gray—looked as if they belonged in the face of someone else entirely. And now, with what suddenly seemed a ridiculous new haircut, the whole effect from the neck up made her want to hide inside some huge, baggy hoodie. Or maybe a ski mask.

  Janey took a deep breath. This is no good. She lifted her shirt and flexed her abs, turning left and right again as the light outlined the rigid, perfectly symmetrical muscles. Keeping the shirt up, she pivoted and glanced over her shoulder. The leggings clung to the curves of her ass, and try as she might, Janey couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with the way that looked. Feeling a tad better, she grinned and let the shirt fall back into place as a knock sounded at her door.

  Tim was taller than she remembered, and even thinner. He’s built like a swimmer. He wore brown loafers, blue jeans, a vivid green polo shirt, and an expression that combined elements of frustration, apology, and...maybe a little fear.

  She opened the door wider and stood aside. “C’mon in.”

  “Thanks.” He nervously gave her just the barest glimpse of straight white teeth.

  As Tim entered and headed for the air filter, which leaned against the wall where he’d left it, Janey said, “I really appreciate the prompt response. Some of the places I’ve lived, you were lucky to get any kind of maintenance work done the same month you reported the problem.”

  Tim didn’t make eye contact. “It’s not really that big a building.” He opened the utilities closet and began removing the old filter. Janey crossed her arms and watched him. Twice, as he worked, Tim cut his eyes toward the door to her bedroom.

  Mm-hmm.

  As he finished, she said, “Hey, listen, I was wondering if I could get your opinion on something.”

  Tim shifted the old filter from one hand to the other, hesitant. “What?”

  She uncrossed her arms and started walking toward the bedroom. His eyes got wider.

  “Well, I just finished this new piece today, and I was wondering if you could tell me what you think of it.” She reached out and put one hand against the door as if to push it open. Tim’s reaction confirmed every suspicion.

 

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