by John Lutz
Both women had ordered espressos. Molly took a sip of hers and glanced out the window. The rain had stopped and the hot summer street was steaming. Pedestrians streamed past, many of them with folded umbrellas, their raincoats open and flapping, or draped over an arm. Traffic lurched forward a few feet at a time, with intermittent bursts of horn honking. Though it was crowded, the coffee shop was cool and pleasantly filled with the aroma of its product.
Traci rested a hand on the final portion of the Architects of Desire manuscript on the table. Its pages were bristling with yellow Post-it flags, revisions of revisions.
After a few minutes, Molly and Traci had forgotten about the manuscript as Molly filled Traci in on some of the agonies of the last few weeks.
Now Traci slipped the manuscript into her attache case, then placed the case on the floor and said, “So, it turns out you’re not all happy under one roof.”
“We’re not going to be under one roof much longer,” Molly said. “David and I are searching around for another apartment. In fact, the management company gave me the keys to two that I’m going to look at when I leave here. Want to come along? Help me figure where the furniture’s going to go?”
Traci laughed. “No, thanks. I’m not very domestic and wouldn’t be much help. My idea of good furniture is something you can hose down.”
Molly rotated her clear glass cup on its coaster. “How’s it going with the novel?”
“Novel? Oh, the one where the ex-wife enters the picture and the wife becomes dog food or compacted trash.” She smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it ends the same way, Mol. Bad news for the wife. But like you said, life doesn’t always imitate art. Or vice versa. In fact, I think I can guarantee you that certain reviewers probably won’t even regard this novel as art.”
“But you do?”
“Yes, it’s very good. It just happens to be about a subject that’s sticky with a lot of people.”
“Do you know much about the author?”
“Sure. He’s a kind and simple man who’s been married to the same woman for thirty-five years.” She finished her espresso and smiled. “Case in point. This guy doesn’t even have an ex-wife to conspire with, and probably the thought of murdering his own wife never seriously entered his mind.” She reached for her attache case and grinned. “‘Probably,’ I said.”
Molly laughed and shook her head. “I always feel better after talking with you. Once I get over my terror.”
Traci gripped her attache case and stood up. “We all know life’s a dangerous road,” she said. “And if it weren’t, the safe, smooth stretches wouldn’t be nearly so enjoyable.”
“Well, that’s a comforting thought to hold on to while the potholes are jarring the fillings out of my teeth.”
“Anyway,” Traci said, “I’ve gotta get back to the office and meet one of my ego-inflated writers.” She shifted her attache case, heavy now with the manuscript pages, to her other hand. “By the way, were you at Link looking for me yesterday?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I might have seen you down in the lobby a little before noon.”
“Not me,” Molly said.
Traci reached into her purse with her free hand, fished out some bills, and dropped them on the table.
“This one’s on the publisher, Mol. You look like you need a break.”
Molly smiled. “Thanks, I do.”
She watched Traci push through the crowd near the door, leave the coffee shop, and join the throng of pedestrians on the other side of the window. Within seconds she’d passed out of sight.
Molly drew a slip of paper from her purse, unfolded it, and reread the addresses of the two apartments she was going to inspect in the West Eighties.
They were a short cab ride away, but since the rain had stopped, she decided to walk life’s dangerous road and save the fare.
35
Molly stood across the street and stared at the six-story prewar brick building that was the first address on the slip of paper she carried. It wasn’t unlike the building she and David lived in now, or most of the others that lined the avenue, stone or brick structures with ironwork at the windows and balconies, many of them with stone steps leading to stoops and tall doors. Here and there were canvas awnings, and flower boxes dotted with colorful and fresh-looking blossoms thriving after the recent rain.
She crossed the street and entered the building, finding the vestibule small but clean, with blue-tiled walls free of graffiti. She rode the elevator, also small, with wood paneling that seemed to be closing in on her, to the third floor, then walked down a narrow corridor to 3E and used the management company’s keys to unlock the paint-checked door. There was a lock near the doorknob, and above that a heavy deadbolt lock.
She pushed the door open, then tentatively stepped inside and looked around. It made her uneasy, examining these apartments by herself. She wished David were there, in case…Well, she didn’t know spectfically in case of what, but in this city there were plenty of dreadful possibilities.
But she soon forgot her fear as she concentrated on the apartment. The living room was freshly painted an off-white except for one wall, which the painters hadn’t gotten to with a main coat but had prepared with plaster-patch and primer. A white plastic paint bucket and a paint-speckled, folded drop cloth sat in a corner. The smell of fresh paint made the place seem clean and acceptable.
From overhead came the rapid, muted thuds of a child’s footfalls. Molly smiled. That kind of noise wouldn’t bother her. Besides, the apartment above was apparently carpeted.
She examined the bathroom and found it old but in good repair, with adequate water pressure. The kitchen was in the same condition, but it had a new dishwasher and plenty of cabinet space. It was smaller than the kitchen Molly had now, and the cabinets had multiple coats of white enamel on them, but there was room for a table and chairs. She went to the sink, turned the spigot handles on and off, and nodded with approval.
“This will do,” she said under her breath. “This will definitely do so far.”
The bedrooms hadn’t yet been painted, but they were both slightly larger than those in the present Jones apartment, and there was enough closet space. A large air conditioner with a round plastic grill was mounted in one of the master bedroom’s windows. It looked powerful enough to cope with summer, but it wasn’t running, and Molly suddenly realized the apartment was uncomfortably warm.
Satisfied, she took a last look around and then left, locking the door behind her.
In the elevator she paused, then decided to check the laundry facilities in the basement. She pressed the button marked B, and the stifling little elevator descended with a speed that made her stomach queasy.
When the door glided open, she stepped out into a gloomy, stone-foundation basement. Faint light was making its way through dirty, iron-grilled windows, revealing a rats’ maze of wooden partitions for tenants’ storage.
Something brushed Molly’s forehead and she jumped. Then she saw that it was a pull cord for an overhead light fixture. She gave the cord a firm yank, but the light didn’t come on. Then her eyes adjusted and she noticed a sign: LAUNDRY ROOM-SUBBASEMENT. An arrow pointed through the dim, partitioned basement to a door with what looked like a hand-made sign nailed to it.
Molly walked across the hard concrete floor and saw that the sign on the door indeed marked the entrance to the subbasement and laundry room. She opened the door and found herself at the top of a flight of stairs leading down into blackness. Leaning slightly forward, she ran her hand over the rough wall, feeling for a light switch.
A slight scuffing sound alarmed her, and she started to turn around. But she’d barely moved when something smashed into the small of her back and butted her out over the stairs into darkness.
She came down on the wooden steps on her side and slid to the bottom, bruising her hip and ribs and banging her right elbow.
Only when she was sprawled on the floor at the base of the stairs did she com
prehend what had happened. Someone had shoved her! Tried to injure or kill her!
Even as she painfully scrambled to her feet in the darkness, she heard the shufffle and creak of someone coming down the stairs.
She panicked.
Her heart racing with terror, she saw a dim light at the far end of the basement and ran toward it. She struck an ankle on something in the dark and almost tripped, but somehow remained on her feet and lurched forward, her hands outstretched to feel for unseen obstacles.
When she reached the source of the light, she saw that it was a high, narrow window that had been filled in with opaque glass blocks.
No escape that way!
She could hear the unmistakable sound of leather soles scuffing on the gritty concrete floor, closing in on her!
She fled at an angle and made out the outline of a half-opened door. As she bumped her aching hip on something-a wheelbarrow hanging on a wall-she almost cried out in pain. But she swallowed the sound. If whoever was pursuing her in the dim basement didn’t know exactly where she was, she didn’t want to make her location known.
When she reached the door and opened it wider, she saw that it led to a short flight of wooden stairs leading back up to the basement. She climbed the creaking steps, briefly on all fours like an animal, then straightened up and closed the door at the top of the stairs behind her and leaned with her back against it.
There was more light here, revealing the maze of partitions from another perspective. She was totally disoriented. The only sounds were her rasping struggle for breath, her hammering heart.
She felt the doorknob rotate like a drill bit against her back and gasped.
In a panic, she fled through the labyrinth of wooden partitions, bouncing off them. She couldn’t help it-she screamed. Though the sound was deadened in the thick-walled and cluttered basement, she knew she’d revealed her position to whoever was after her.
Finally she reached a crude, unpainted wooden door, another barrier between herself and her stalker. She yanked the door open, stepped to the other side of it, then slammed it behind her and fumbled for a lock.
There was none.
She looked around and found herself trapped in a small storage room. There was somewhat more light there, filtering in through a narrow, iron-grilled window and illuminating a swirl of dust motes.
Frantically she threw herself against a wooden storage crate and shoved it against the wall beneath the window. When she climbed up on the box and peered through the dirty glass, she was looking at a narrow alley littered with trash. There was no one to signal or call to for help.
She was trapped and alone.
Think! she urged herself. Stay calm and goddamn think!
She scampered down from the box, found a thick wooden plank, and wedged it between the door and a support post so tightly that the board had a slight bow in it.
Within seconds something or someone crashed loudly against the door, making the bend in the board even more pronounced.
Another crash!
Another!
The board bowed even more, the door shivered, and Molly saw one of its upper panels crack.
The crack widened with the next crash, and the dry old wood splintered and sagged inward. But brittle as it was, the door had just enough flexibility to hold and spring back.
Molly knew it wouldn’t hold indefinitely. She climbed back onto the crate and tried to work the lever that unlocked the window. It was ancient and rust-fused and broke off in her hand.
Something crashed against the door again, causing the plank wedged against it to jump a fraction of an inch to the side.
Molly struggled with the jagged metal stump of remaining lever and managed to force it sideways, slicing her palm in the process. The old wood-framed window was the sort that opened inward, with hinges at the top. She gripped the tarnished brass handle and yanked the window in and up, ducking her head so it wouldn’t brain her.
She got a mouth full of cobwebs for her effort, but the window rose.
Coughing, spitting, she clasped her hands over the iron grill and pulled and pushed. There wasn’t the slightest give in the ancient grill.
Then she placed both hands on an end bar, bringing to bear more strength than she would have thought possible, and a corner of the grill gave slightly where it was anchored to stone. She began frantically working the old iron structure back and forth against its mooring, each time causing a raucous squeak she only hoped someone outside might hear. She didn’t think there was enough play in the grill to allow her to weaken it enough so she could escape, but there seemed nothing else to try.
The crashing against the door stopped, as if whoever was out there was getting tired and needed a second wind.
Molly continued working on the grill.
Finally, its lower right corner broke free.
She almost couldn’t believe it.
Whimpering, determined, she leaned her weight against the grill and pushed with her weary arms, trying to bend it outward.
It wouldn’t budge.
Deirdre stood outside the unyielding door, glaring angrily at it and gasping for breath. She’d explored the basement and knew the bitch was trapped on the other side of the door. No way out. There might be plenty of time, but Deirdre wanted to get this over with, to get to her prey before some joke of fate interrupted what was about to happen.
She dragged a forearm across her perspiring forehead, looked around, and smiled.
Leaning against a wall were some old, rusty tools. One of them was a long-handled pickax.
Deirdre rubbed the shoulder she’d been smashing against the door, then walked over and grabbed the pickax, hoisted it, and gave a few practice swings.
Then she returned to the storage room door, drew the pickax well back, and with all her might swung the pointed end at what she knew was a weak spot on the door.
The satisfaction she felt as the old wood split was almost like sex.
Molly continued to work frenziedly on the iron grill, glancing behind her as the rusty point of the pick repeatedly punctured the brittle old door.
She was sobbing now, trembling, working her arms and hands with difficulty. Her palms were bleeding but she didn’t feel the pain, only her terror.
Deirdre knew she was close.
She could sense it!
Over and over she smashed the pointed end of the pickax into the door, seeing the gaps in the wood widen, the cracks turn into fissures that had to fly wide apart soon. Whatever Molly had wedged against the door was squealing with each blow as it jumped and vibrated and slid to the side.
Her mouth gaping wide to suck in air, Deirdre went into a mad fury of motion. The old door bucked on its hinges. Chips and splinters flew. Ancient nails bounced and pinged off the concrete floor.
She grinned wildly as she heard the wooden prop on the other side of the door clatter to the floor.
Wielding the pickax like a weapon, Deirdre kicked what was left of the door open and rushed into the storage room.
Immediately she saw the iron grill bent wide away from the window.
The crate directly beneath the window.
She wheeled insanely in a wide circle, grunting and swinging the pickax like a baseball bat with all her might until it contacted a wooden support beam and stuck, its long wooden handle leaping from her grasp.
She was alone.
A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped and spun around.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” Darlene said.
Deirdre was amazed and outraged. “You followed me!”
“Of course I did. Because I’m worried about you. You’ve been acting more and more strangely, and now this. Were you chasing someone?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Of course not. I just got here.”
“I’m not chasing anyone. I came in here because…well, it was an impulse. I like basements.”
“That’s absurd, Deirdre.”
“How would you know?”
“Anyone would say there was something seriously wrong with a person who suddenly entered an apartment building basement on impulse and began beating at things with…what is that thing?”
“I don’t know. A tool. Some kind of pick. When I saw it, I liked it. So I took it.”
Darlene glanced around in the dim light. “We can talk about this later. Let’s get out of here now!”
Deirdre humored her and trailed along behind, but she was still furious.
With Molly and with Darlene.
36
After the terror of her encounter in the apartment building basement, Molly had been in no condition to resist David’s insistence that she see Dr. Mindle.
She sat now in his spacious office on Lexington near Thirty-eighth Street. It was a restful room with green carpet and drapes, dark woods and black leather furniture, no noise and no sharp corners. All colors seemed to be in the same spectrum. Nothing in the decor jarred.
According to the lobby directory, there were several psychoanalysts in the building. Maybe it was a co-op and they owned it. Even the elevator had provided a relaxing interlude, plush carpet, soft music, no mirrors to reflect anyone’s interior horror. An “up” experience and a prelude to therapy.
Molly was seated in a comfortable chair at an angle to Dr. Herbert Mindle’s desk. He was much as she’d imagined from David’s brief description, middle-aged, balding. But unlike her imaginary Dr. Mindle, he had a deep tan and an athletic build beneath his well-cut suit. The tan reminded her of those acquired at tanning salons then augmented by shopping and drinking expeditions during Caribbean cruises.
He leaned back in his padded desk chair and smiled reassuringly at her. It was the sort of smile shaped by practice at a mirror.
Molly smiled back at him, but only slightly. There was a faint scent of lemon mingled with something less acrid-Dr. Mindle’s shaving lotion or cologne-in the room, and she noticed now that from time to time the traffic out on Lexington was barely audible.
He said nothing, so she said, “It was my husband’s idea for me to come here.” Great! she thought. She’d sounded like some sort of codependent, Babsie Doll wimp.