by Karen Hayes
I stare at the Wikipedia page dominated by my father's logo: a predatory crescent-shaped steely boomerang with the monogram BT inside. There's also a picture of him and Mom holding hands. Both appear to be in their early thirties. By then, father had already created his company.
The caption under the picture says, "James and Anne Brana". Further searches produce nothing on either her or myself.
This isn't much, is it? He may be no celebrity but still, he's rich enough and judging by the article, he happens to own a very successful business. Problem is, there doesn't seem to be much information about his business, either. The company web page is virtually empty: the logo, the founder, years in business: 1994-current. Nothing else.
How weird. Is it my imagination or someone has gone over the search results, deleting everything they could find? Is that even possible? Then again, someone with a bit of money and clout could probably do it. Father? Why not?
Casting cautious glances at the cops outside, I continue my search, hurrying to close any pop-up adverts flashing me with half-naked human bodies. Shame I can't do the same with election banners. All this junk slows the computer down really a lot. Don't they understand I'm not interested in their political games? Still, at this point in time the Internet is absolutely packed with election reports.
I don't find anything about myself, only a couple of mentions about Mom. About her murder, actually. An archived article in the New York Times and a follow-up.
I skim the text and the pictures.
They never found the masked men - nor whoever had sent them. The article implied it might have been one of father's competitors getting even.
What, is that it? So much for the World Wide Web! What did I use to do all this time? Did I work? Or study?
A mental image comes into my view: a campus, a classroom, the heads of students in front and a lecturer by the blackboard. What did I study? Something technical... probably... or was it finances? Definitely not humanities: the blackboard is covered in formulas.
That's right. I did study. In Princeton.
Bits of memories begin to resurface: my campus room, then the apartment I rented when I'd got access to Mom's money. So I left home to study, then came back here... why? I'm only twenty-two. Why didn't I finish my studies? What caused me to come back?
I think about the second address in my satnav: the mysterious "Sarah, club". I run it through Google Maps. The place is called Oshumare. It's in the center of Manhattan, not far from HK.
I stare at the descriptions and the pictures. A posh place, quite pricey. Somehow I can imagine myself frequenting it. I might have met this girl, this Sarah there.
I can't remember the third address, only that it's somewhere in Harlem. I finish off my coffee and steal a look outside. The short cop has pulled a walkie talkie on a long spiraled lead out of the car and is talking into it. The tall one is staring right through the café window as if looking directly at me.
I have the urge to jump to my feet and run for my life.
Calm down, Chris. You're only a late-night customer doing some research online. Can happen to anyone.
I turn away from the window, open a Word file and begin typing,
1. The murdered man. The tattoo. Who is he? How did I get there?
2. The car. Mother's money. Do I have money? Check the bank account. Is it blocked? Do it online. No visits to the bank.
3. The three addresses. Why so few? Did I delete the rest? Why?
4. Oshumare: who's Sarah?
5. Mom's murder. They wanted to kidnap me, why? That was ten years ago. Could today's events have something to do with that?
6. Father: he's hiding something from me. Why? Has it got something to do with today's events?
7. Father's house. The ambush. The three thugs, the silenced gun. They recognized me. They were after me. Any connection with the dead man?
8. My next step:_____
Questions, questions. The whole world seems to be made of them. Still, it looks like some kind of picture is beginning to form. I'm getting used to my face. I have some idea of who I am. I still can't piece it all together though.
What's the connection between the dead body I found earlier, the ambush waiting for me at my father's place and my mother's murder? If there is a connection, of course. I need more information - and apparently, the Internet isn't much help in this respect.
I glimpse a movement out of the corner of my eye and look up. The waitress is standing by the table with a coffee pot and an empty tray in her hands. "More coffee?"
I stare at my empty cup, realizing I've already finished all my food. When did I do that?
I give her a nod. She pours me some more coffee and begins to collect the empty plates. From where she stands she can see the computer screen, so I save and close the file.
"Night shifts are so boring," she says. "We don't have many customers at this time of night."
I nod without taking my eyes from the screen, then reply with a forced smile, "I'm really sorry. I'm a bit busy at the moment."
She tries not to show her disappointment, just swings round and carries the dirty dishes away. Sorry, honey. It's really not the right moment.
I cast a quick glance checking on the cops outside, pour more sugar in my coffee and reopen the file. Frowning, I try to make sense of what I've just jotted down. What would be the key thing here? All of it, apparently. The information stares me in the face like a tangled ball of wool. If only I knew which of the loose threads I should pull to unravel it...
The coffee is surprisingly hot: she must have kept it on a hot plate. The café is quite warm, in fact. Much warmer than the chilly night street outside. I remove my jacket and hang it on the back of my chair.
The doorbell dings as a young couple come in, talking in loud voices and groping each other. They're probably drunk. Laughing, they take a table in the far corner. The waitress walks toward them.
I really should check my bank account but it's way too risky. Even withdrawing some cash from an ATM isn't a very healthy idea: if the police are monitoring my movements they'll immediately know where I am. They have cameras everywhere. In which case they might already know the identity of that crazy van driver. They might even have something on the car that was waiting for me there.
The drunk couple seem to be making problems, demanding alcohol. The waitress stands her ground. The black kid casts angry glances at them from his computer. The cops are busy talking outside; the short guy throws his hands in the air, getting all emotional.
I open the newsfeed and check for any murder reports. There is one that fits the description of the man I found. Nothing specific though: all they say is that "the police are investigating a fresh lead". Which is what, me? No idea how much they might know already - but in any case, staying here isn't really a good idea. I need to get out of the city.
I reread the file, trying to remember everything I've written, then delete it and clear the recycle bin. All done.
Relieved, I lean back in my chair, allowing my arms to hang listlessly at my sides. I should be on my way now.
My hand brushes the edge of my jacket hanging on the chair. There's something hard inside. I pull the jacket off and feel the lining around the pocket. Aha. There's a hole in there, big enough for whatever it is to have slid down the lining.
Finally, the waitress manages to pacify the drunken couple. As she walks back to the bar, I'm trying to fish out whatever it is that fell down the jacket lining. I crumple the fabric, trying to get my fingers as far into the hole as possible. Finally they touch a piece of metal. I pinch the object between my fingers and pull it out.
Two keys on a keyring. One is long and flat, definitely the key to some front door. The other is tiny and round, riddled with a complex maze of grooves.
I roll the keys in my hand trying to figure out their purpose. Finally I choose the bigger one and lift my hand as if about to unlock an invisible door. I close my eyes and slowly turn the key in the air.
A modest redbrick on a quiet street. It's nighttime. I slide the key in the lock, turn it and push the door open. I'm home. This is my home.
Yes! The last address in the satnav! The first one turned out to be my father's house, the second a night club and the last one was my own! The apartment I'm renting!
A secret apartment. I've only moved there very recently. I was in hiding. Don't know why or who from.
One thing I do remember is setting up a small stash the moment I moved in there. That's what the small key is for.
What's in there?
No idea. I do remember it's something very important. Something I had to have on me at all times, that's why I couldn't leave it in a safe deposit box.
Very well. That decides it. I need to go to my apartment, find the stash and check what's inside.
The door opens, letting in the two cops. The short one beelines for the restroom. The tall one looks over the café, gives me a fleeting glance and heads for the bar.
As he speaks to the waitress, I put on the jacket, leave ten bucks on the table and get up. The waitress stares at me over the cop's shoulder. She turns away, ignoring my nod. I shove my hands into my pockets, suppressing the desire to wipe my fingerprints off everything I've come into contact with, from the keyboard to the coffee stirrer. Quietly I walk out of the café and get back in the car.
It would probably be a good idea to dump it somewhere. Not now. I need to find my apartment first.
Chapter Four
Sarah
I IMAGINED the cabman would take me to some posh neighborhood with manicured lawns and imposing mansions. At least that's what I thought when he turned off to Central Park. I braced myself, racking my brain for something believable to say to the mansion security.
I really didn't expect him to take me to this very modest street. It's not a slum, no, but it's unfriendly enough to make me feel uncomfortable. Narrow barred windows overhead resemble gun slits.
The driver stops by a three-story red brick, lets me out, then takes off as if the devil's after him, leaving me alone on the street.
There's someone cussing in one of the back yards. The sound of breaking glass travels far in the clear autumnal air. Could Chris Brana, this posh playboy, really live in a place like this? Did he run out of daddy's money?
Or did the driver took me for a ride - metaphorically speaking?
Still, I have a funny feeling I've been here before. I've definitely seen those two old maple trees towering on both sides of the street, their entwined branches forming a crimson arch over the road. The low porch behind the tiny front gate, the dark wood door, the intercom...
I walk over to it and run my finger over the battered buttons. Twelve in total. Nine of them have the lodgers' names next to them; three more are anonymous.
I decide to start with those.
The phone keeps buzzing like forever. Finally, a woman's voice echoes in the speaker. I duck inside the narrow doorway praying she doesn't look out the window. Wrong number.
A male voice answers the second buzzer.
"Chris?" I ask cautiously.
"Fuck you, lady! Any idea what time it is?"
Oops. Definitely not Chris Brana. Let's hope the guy doesn't come down with a gun just to check for any intruders. 'What time it is!' It's only twelve o'clock, mister. No need to get so worked up.
The third button - marked 9 - doesn't reply.
What now? I step back and study the building. The house next door is actually very close. A fire escape flanks its side. Should I try and climb it, maybe? And what if I get the wrong window?
Footsteps resound behind the front door. I freeze. Is it that guy with a gun? Clutching my backpack's strap, I step back into the street, close the gate and spit out the chewing gum, preparing to run for my life.
My heart is pounding like a bass drum. Should I run? Should I stay? Should I run? Should I-
The lock clicks. The front door swings open, letting out a sleepy disheveled man. He's fully dressed, with a sports bag in his hand.
The man pauses in the doorway as if hearing something, sets the bag on his knee, leaning it against the open door, unzips it and begins rummaging through it in the doorway's dull light.
This is my chance.
I swing the gate open and walk past him as if I've lived here my entire life. He casts me a sideways glance, then returns to his search of whatever. I can hear a cell phone's muffled buzz somewhere in the depths of his bag. So that's what he's looking for, then.
There's no elevator. I walk up the stairs. One of the steps is dented and crumbling: in the past, I've tripped over it quite a few times.
Finally, the third floor. The familiar potted plant, dead since time immemorial. Four doors: two brand new, the two others old and scratched. Number nine is one of the latter, its white paint streaked with rust.
I tap it gently first. Then harder. Banging on it is probably not a good idea. No one answers it, anyway. I pull the cheap door handle: locked.
Oh, well. Apparently, it wasn't meant to happen. Now I really need to leave. Flee the city, escape the crazy nurse, the blond guy and his henchmen. I might have to lie low somewhere, go to some backwater hole in the ground and...
The sheer thought gives me shivers. Then again, do I even have a choice? One thing's for sure: I can't stay here forever. I've lost too much time as it is. I might already be on the Wanted list, you never know.
My shoulder is already numb from the weight of my backpack. I rearrange the strap and begin scrambling down the stairs.
The flash of headlights in the street brushes across the stairwell window, blinding me. I cover my eyes. A car parks up outside. I can hear its engine stop, followed by the slamming of the car doors.
Now who the hell might that be? Not the cops, hopefully.
I press my back against the wall next to the window and sneak a look out. I can't see very much: the maple trees' generous foliage hinders the view. Still, I do make out a black Ford and two figures next to it.
They walk over to the house and look up, peering at the windows. Now I can see their faces clearly in the streetlight.
Blond hair in a ponytail; a gray raincoat draping her burly body; the harsh, unrelenting features. The nurse again! Or fake nurse, rather. What's going on? How does she manage to be constantly on my back? Is she smelling me out or what?
The man next to her is equally huge. It's a miracle how they both got in the car together. The black sports jacket can't conceal his burly shoulders and bull neck. I can see his plain, scarred Latino face and the crazy zoned-out look in his eyes. Probably a junkie. A black circle beard makes him appear strangely handsome. What a face.
Now there're two of them. Oh great.
Biting my lip, I shrink deeper into the corner and wait for the front door to slam. They'll be here any moment. Where am I supposed to go then? Up to the roof?
I'm shivering. Sweat is trickling into my eyes. My damp sticky hair tickles my cheeks.
What can they be doing down there? I sneak another peek. They must be standing next to their car now, judging by their feet barely showing behind the foliage. A discarded cigarette flashes through the air.
The car doors slam. Are they leaving? I wait for them to start the engine and switch on the headlights but the car stays put.
Ah, so this is an ambush, then? Who are they waiting for? Me or Chris?
I steal away from the window and return to No 9. I pace the doorway for a while, trying to level my breathing, until I remember the gum. I throw one in my mouth and chew hard until my anxiety calms down, replaced by the ability to think straight.
So what do I do? There's only one way out - which is currently blocked. I can't get to the fire escape. Should I just stay here and wait for Chris and risk attracting the attention of the other tenants and possibly also the police? Or should I call the cops myself? Yeah, right.
Or should I try and pick the lock?
I stop chewing as I stare at it. What's the sentence for h
ousebreaking? In my situation, it's academic anyway. I've nowhere else to go. What would I say to the cops? 'Hi, this is Sarah, I had to escape from a mental asylum because someone wanted to kill me. They didn't find me so they killed my roommate instead. So if you find a dead body in my apartment, I didn't do it!' Bullshit.
I contemplate the door. There might be other ways out of the apartment. I might be able to climb out the window onto a balcony or a fire escape. Besides, I know this lock only too well. It's easy. If I can't pick it, no one can.
I lay the backpack on the floor and start taking my things out one by one - a sweater, a pair of jeans, some socks - until I finally locate my makeup purse. I don't use makeup often apart from an occasional coat of mascara to add an edge to my long, thick eyelashes. The only other thing I ever use is concealer to hide the dark circles around my eyes. But if I dig deeper into it...
Rustling through the bag's contents, I finally feel a touch of steel. A bunch of hairpins. I grin. No ballerina is complete without them.
I pull two of them out, straighten out one of them completely and bend the other into a right angle, then shove it into the lock's lower half. Gingerly I slide the straightened wire in slightly higher and feel inside for the levers. I learned this trick years ago when Grace and Andrew used to lock me in my room. They weren't very happy!
I grin, remembering their expressions every time they'd finally find me. Those were the days! Shame about the latch he finally mounted on my door though. There was no way I could pick that. So I just started using the window.
The lock isn't easy. I keep trying but fail every time. Casting cautious glances at the stairs and other doors, I gingerly rotate the bent pin in my hand. Creaking, the lock catch struggles to give.
Suddenly the lock clicks. Eh voila!
I push the door. It opens into darkness. Doesn't look as if anybody's home. I step inside and close the door softly behind me.
Congratulations, Sarah. You've just successfully broken into somebody's property.