Hailing a cab, I decide being in my apartment might not be so bad anymore. Perhaps a nice, quiet evening at home will help calm the nerves. Then maybe I can figure this out, though I seriously doubt it.
In fifteen minutes, I’m there.
I begin with a superhot bath, the kind you need to ease your body into an inch at a time. I even add some herbal salts that Connie gave me for my birthday last year. “Soothing Citrus,” says the label.
After lingering in the tub until I’m “Wrinkled Prune,” I towel off, climb into my comfy terry cloth robe, and force myself to dial up some Chinese — sesame chicken and vegetable fried rice, my standard order. No MSG, please. I am trying my very best to have a normal night at home, which is ridiculous, I know, but it’s the only idea I have at the moment.
On a full stomach, after the day I’ve had, I should be dead tired. Instead, I’m wide-awake. Restless. Wired.
I try not to think of the one-eyed man on the corner — How did he know my name? — but if it’s not his face I’m seeing in my mind, it’s another’s. Dakota’s.
“Miss Kristin?”
Her sweet voice echoing in my ears, I remember that I’ve got an entire roll of her and Sean in my camera, the two of them swimming and playing by the pool.
At last, something that might put me at ease.
My darkroom.
I literally roll up the sleeves of my robe and get busy. Almost immediately, I can feel my mind and body relaxing. I even crack a smile as I think of a great name for an exhibit. “Stakeout.” It would be strictly pictures I’ve taken while parked somewhere, hiding.
No, wait, I’ve got an even better name. “Bob and Me.”
This is more like it. Moving the negatives to the holding bath, I catch a glimpse of the first few shots from the roll.
“Oh, how cute!”
I actually say the words out loud. My two favorite kids in the world, splashing around and having so much fun. Even in the negative I can see their beautiful smiles.
It’s a little weird, though. I always make a point of showing Dakota and Sean every picture I take of them. But these they’ll never see.
Eventually, I get to the shot I snapped with Penley in it. So typical, her pointing and barking orders at the kids. She looks more like a warden than a mom.
I’m about to shift to the next picture when something makes me do a double take, and my stomach just about drops to the basement of the building. I grab the magnifying loupe, pulling the image of Penley right up to my face.
I stare in amazement.
Utter. Freakin’. Amazement.
Chapter 44
I QUICKLY CHECK the previous shots, the ones of only Dakota and Sean. Is it happening with them too?
No. No, it isn’t.
Everything looks fine. Better than fine, in fact.
I grab the shot of Penley again, staring, squinting hard, running my finger over it. The negative seems fine to me.
Her image, though. Not fine. Not good. Not possible.
It’s that same effect as with the body bags outside the Fálcon, subtle yet definitely there. Or, should I say, not there.
Transparent. Like I can see through her. Like she’s there but isn’t.
Penley’s thin, but she’s not that thin! How is this happening again? Why?
I flip on the light, spinning around to face the black corkboard behind me. The other shots, my father — I never checked to see if the effect was happening with the photos of him. Did I just not notice?
My eyes race along every picture pinned to the wall, and not a single one has the effect. No problem with these shots — just a man who’s been dead for twelve years!
So it isn’t the lens after all. The new one did the same thing the old one did. Must be the camera, then. At least I hope it’s the camera.
I remember a business card that Javier at Gotham Photo once gave me. On the back he wrote his cell phone number. I think maybe he was fishing for a date. Nonetheless, he said I should call him anytime I have a problem with my pictures.
I think this qualifies.
The only question now is where I put that card. I start with my wallet, shuffling through ATM receipts, my AmEx, Visa, Discover, driver’s license, a frequent-coffee-drinker card from the Java Joint.
Javier’s card isn’t there.
I check all the drawers in my bedroom, including the one in my nightstand. It’s amazing how much junk I accumulate. Do I really have to take a book of matches from every restaurant I eat in, for God’s sake?
C’mon, Javier’s card, where are you?
I try to think back to when he handed it to me. When was it, what time of year?
Winter, I decide.
Maybe it’s still in a coat. In fact, I’m pretty sure I know which one. A shearling I splurged on — a beautiful “just gotta have it” that I saw in the window at Saks. I ate a lot of tuna fish sandwiches for dinner that month, as I recall.
I also recall Javier complimenting me on it . . . when he handed me his card.
I’m pretty impressed with my memory as I head for the hall closet. Maybe I’m not completely losing it.
With any luck, I’ll reach Javier and we can meet. I’ll show him the pictures, he’ll study my camera, and he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Simple as that. Mystery solved.
First things first, though — that card of his.
I open the closet door.
At least I try to. It’s stuck. The knob twists, but the door itself seems to be jammed. Oh, brother. Now I’m not so sure I want to get into this closet.
But I have to, so I pull harder. Then harder still, with both hands. It’s almost as if the damn door is locked from the inside; only that’s impossible, isn’t it? This closet’s never been locked. Who would lock it?
Changing my grip on the knob, I really put some muscle into it. I yank so hard my shoulders ache.
Slowly, the door begins to give — until it flies open.
I look inside.
Oh, no! Oh, God! Help me!
And then I’m screaming at the top of my lungs.
Chapter 45
“KRISTIN, WAKE UP. Wake up!”
My eyes snap open, and I gaze around, confused and out of sorts. Not to mention petrified. Everything is soft focus. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my apartment,” says Connie. “On the planet Earth.” She looks concerned, scared, even.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“Am I okay?” Connie shakes her head in disbelief. “My God, the way you were screaming, I thought somebody was trying to kill you in here!”
I can see sunlight slicing through the blinds. It’s morning, and I’m lying on the pullout couch in Connie’s living room on the Upper East Side, that much I’ve got figured out. Everything else is sketchy at best.
“I . . . don’t . . . remember. . . .”
“You came here last night, hysterical,” explains Connie. “You were going on and on about this dream and some pictures you’d taken — oh, and you were telling me about your closet. The one in the front hallway? Is any of this ringing a bell?”
“The cockroaches . . .”
“Yeah, you said there were a million of them. It was horrifying just to listen to you describe it.”
That’s the last thing I remember. The entire closet was crawling with cockroaches. Maybe not a million, but a thousand, and I’m deathly afraid of cockroaches. They got in my hair, on my face. The rest is a blank.
Connie takes my hand. “You were quite the mess, sweetie,” she says. “I gave you two Xanax and put you to bed. You slept straight through the night, not a peep.”
Until now.
The hotel, the four gurneys, the hand. The same dream, only I had it in a different location. It travels.
“What can I get you, Kristin? How do you feel?” Connie asks.
Like shit.
With a sound track to boot. Will I ever figure out what this song in my head is? I wish Connie could hear it; maybe she’d know
what it is.
But she can’t. So I don’t mention it, or anything else. If I don’t understand what’s happening to me, how could she? Plus, I don’t want to frighten her any more than I have already.
I’m fine, I tell her. “In fact, what time is it?” I ask — panicked. “I can’t be late for work.”
I pull back the covers, and Connie stops me.
“Hold on,” she says. “This is serious, Kris. You should’ve heard yourself last night, the things you were saying. Something’s very wrong. I think you need to see that psychiatrist of yours again.”
Been there, done that.
“I’m so sorry I scared you,” I say. “I’ve been having this recurring dream, and it seems so real. I guess I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
“What about these pictures you were ranting about? Ghostly images? Transparencies?”
“Part of the dream,” I lie.
Am I embarrassed about going bonkers? Ashamed? Why can’t I talk to one of my best friends about this?
Connie regards me for a moment. “At least call in sick,” she says. “You need to relax.”
“I can’t, Connie. The kids depend on me.”
“Let the Pencil take care of them today. She is their mother, after all.”
“Really, I’m fine.” I fake a smile and swing my feet to the floor. Then I give Connie a little wink. “Do you think I can borrow some clothes?”
Chapter 46
DONNING A PAIR of black slacks and a putty gray turtleneck from Connie’s closet, I’m out of her apartment in less than ten minutes. Normally it takes me a little longer to get ready for work. Then again, normally I don’t have someone — in this case Connie — eyeing me as if any moment I might climb onto a chair and begin shouting, “I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!”
So as I walk into the Turnbulls’ building and ride the elevator up to the penthouse, I experience something new and different. Being early.
Good. No chance of Penley waiting for me at the door.
Instead, it’s Sean I see immediately. He’s sitting on the floor of the foyer, engrossed in the bright-colored Legos scattered around him. He doesn’t even hear me come in.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
Sean glances up, beaming. “Hi, Miss Kristin!”
I kneel next to him. “Whatcha building? Looks impressive. Sha-zam! What is that?”
“A supergalactic missile launcher that will save the world from the evil aliens of planet Thunder.”
“Wow, are they planning to attack us?”
“I think so,” he says with the cutest nod.
I automatically give him the once-over, checking to see that he’s properly dressed for school. He is, from his head right down to his little toes, which happen to be covered by his Jimmy — or is it Penley? — Neutron socks.
“Where’s Dakota?” I ask.
“She’s in her room.”
I straighten up, barely taking a step before Sean adds, “We’re not supposed to bother her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She isn’t going to school today,” he says, his eyes glued back on the Legos.
“Is she not feeling well?”
“I don’t know for sure. Mommy seems pretty mad, though.”
The words twist my stomach into a million knots. Maybe Dakota came down with a cold. Or maybe she couldn’t keep a secret.
I kneel next to Sean again. “What did you hear Mommy say, sweetheart?”
He snaps another Lego into place. “Hey, look at this, Miss Kristin!” Sean makes a whoosh! sound, waving his missile launcher back and forth.
“That’s neat,” I say, struggling to be patient. “But can you tell me what Mommy said? You remember, Sean?”
My mind explodes with the thought of Dakota spilling the beans to Penley: “I saw Miss Kristin at Nana and Papa’s house — she and Daddy were together!”
Is this how it ends? How this insane house of cards comes crashing down?
I peer over my shoulder at the door to the apartment. The instinct rising inside me is like a power surge to the brain.
Run!
Get out of here!
You don’t want to face her!
But before I can make a mad dash, I hear Penley’s mincing footsteps around the corner of the foyer. I turn to look, and there she is, staring right at me.
“Speak of the devil,” she says.
Chapter 47
“SEAN, DEAR, CAN YOU GO to your room, please?” asks Penley, her voice actually kind of gentle and sweet. Too sweet, I’m thinking. She’s overcompensating for what’s to come, the bloody showdown when it’s just the two of us out here.
Is it too late to make a run for it?
Sean scoops up his missile launcher and shuffles off toward his room. I’m half tempted to beg him to stay. Penley wouldn’t try to kill me in front of her stepson, would she?
Not knowing what to do, I stoop and begin gathering the remaining Legos on the floor.
“That can wait,” she says. “Come, we need to talk.”
Dressed in her workout clothes — what else? — Penley leads me into the living room, motioning for me to have a seat on the green satin couch against the wall. She takes one of the two armchairs facing it, and we both settle in.
“So, how was your weekend?” she asks.
I can’t believe it. She’s toying with me! The pleasant smile and friendly tone. She never asks about my weekend. Never.
“It was fine,” I answer.
“Do anything special?”
“No, not really.” Oh, yeah, I did see and talk to my dead father. Almost forgot.
Is she trying to get me to confess; is that her game?
Nothing doing. I’ll tell her the same thing Michael told Dakota. We’re planning her surprise party. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it!
“How about yourself?” I ask, matching her broad smile tooth for tooth. “Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Very nice,” she says. “We spent yesterday out in the country at my parents’ place.”
“Oh?”
“I mentioned we were doing that, didn’t I?”
“You might have.” Actually, you didn’t, Michael did.
“You know, you should come out with us sometime,” she says. “It’s on the water; there’s a pool and tennis court. It’s a very nice escape from the city.”
Oh, you’re good, Penley.
If this is how you want to play it, I’ll make it easy for you. “Gee, I bet the kids really enjoy it.”
“They truly do. What kid doesn’t enjoy being around the water?” She folds her legs. “Strange, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Dakota.”
Finally . . . here we go.
“Yes,” I say. “Sean mentioned she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Actually, I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. By the time we were heading home yesterday, she seemed a little off. She doesn’t have a temperature, and it’s not her stomach. Something’s bothering her, though. Any ideas?”
I don’t say anything. Every muscle tenses, and I brace myself for the moment. Surely this is when she lays down her cards.
Instead, all Penley does is shrug.
“I’m sure Dakota will be fine. She’s tough, takes after Michael,” she says. “Just in case, I thought we’d keep her home from school today.” She flicks her wrist. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I barely manage a swallow. “No?”
“Guess who I spoke to last night?”
As long as it’s anyone but Dakota, I couldn’t care less at this point. I’m swimming in relief. “Who?” I ask.
“My friend Stephen.”
It takes me a moment to connect the dots. “Oh, the guy from your gym — the cute one?”
“Exactly,” she says. “The very cute one. So, tell me, do you have any plans for tonight?”
“Uh . . .”
“Because you do
now.”
Chapter 48
“DID YOU KNOW that some female cockroaches mate once and are pregnant for the rest of their lives?”
“Wow,” I say, nodding my head and feigning amazement rather than repulsion.
The guy wipes his nose on his sleeve while making some weird clicking noise in his throat that I’ve never heard any other human make. “No wonder there are so many of the little suckers, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “No wonder.”
Of course, things could be a lot worse. This guy could be my blind date for the evening. Instead, he’s my nooner. The exterminator. On my lunch break, I meet him at my apartment. Actually, outside my apartment. There was no way I was going back in there by myself.
Anyway, he’s a fittingly creepy-looking man with thick black-rimmed glasses that magnify his eyes. He sort of reminds me of Stephen King, the pictures I’ve seen of him, anyway. Of course, pictures lie.
“Thing is, cockroaches are basically built to survive almost anything,” he says. “Did you know they can hold their breath for up to forty minutes?”
“Interesting. You are full of information, aren’t you?”
He adjusts his spray nozzle. “So, you saw them in the closet here, huh?”
I nod. Yeah, just a couple thousand of them.
“Then that’s where we’ll start.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
As he reaches for the closet door I stand back. I don’t want to look. I don’t even want to be here.
“Hmm,” he mutters, looking around. “Mmm-hmm, hmm, hmm.”
“What?”
“There’s not a single dropping on the floor.” As if correcting himself, he raises a palm. “Not that I don’t believe you, of course.”
I watch as he flicks on his flashlight, shining it against the closet walls.
“What about your neighbors?” he asks.
“What about them?”
“You all get along?” He wipes his nose on his sleeve again. “I’ve had situations where one neighbor sabotages another with cockroaches — you know, letting them loose in vents or through holes they drill. Happens more than you’d think.”
I immediately try to picture Mrs. Rosencrantz, or her Herbert, doing something so wicked. I suppose I wouldn’t put it past them.