The phone whined in my hand. I winced.
“—train?” she finished.
“Yeah,” I said. “Had to split early, Rache. Nothing I can’t handle though, don’t worry.”
“Didn’t catch that last part,” Rachael said. “You’re—ouble?”
I frowned. This was exasperating.
“Listen, I’m heading over to Martin Grace’s apartment in Brooklyn. That’s it, just looking for something to help him. Like I said, nothing to worry about. But Rache, sorry to get all high school on you, but don’t tell my dad, okay?”
The line whined again, garbling whatever Rachael was saying now. I hung up.
The phone vibrated in my hand. I hit the “talk” button without looking at the screen.
“Hey Rache,” I said.
But it wasn’t Rachael. For a heart-pounding moment, I heard Martin Grace speaking to me… and beneath his voice was the husky breathing of his Dark Man, tktksssssstttt—
“—ust got off the phone with your employer,” my dad was saying. “Young man, you’re in…”
“Oh, fuck you,” I snapped, and hung up. Disgusted, I switched off the phone.
I spent the rest of the train ride in troubled silence.
12
When I arrived at Grace’s brownstone, Lucas was showboating for no one, deftly juggling concrete shards from the broken steps.
I pulled up on my bike, tugged off my helmet. He grinned, tossed the concrete, and sprung from the steps like a Pop-Tart.
“Chica sends her regards,” he said.
“No she doesn’t,” I replied. I dismounted the Cannondale.
“Nope,” Lucas affirmed. “But it’s the polite thing to say. Let’s stash the Black Stallion there.”
I followed him to a tight alleyway beside the brownstone. Grace’s building and its neighboring identical twin loomed over us, blocking out most of the afternoon sun. Rusty fire escapes raced down their sides.
My brother pointed to a graffiti-tagged Dumpster. Black sacks of garbage lay inside. I groaned.
“Lucas, this bike cost more than a grand,” I said. “I’m not gonna leave it in the trash.”
“How far up?”
“Five floors.”
“Well, you could make like a Sherpa…”
I sighed, checked my watch. We were already down to fifteen minutes. I prayed Dad’s crony was trapped in Brooklyn traffic.
“Come on,” Lucas said.
“Shit, okay. Just help me hide it.”
We stowed the bike on its side near the Dumpster, covering it with sacks of trash. Our camouflage job was effective; it would take more than a glance for a passerby to spot the bike. I reminded myself that we’d only be gone for fifteen minutes.
We trotted to the front of the building. I unbuckled my satchel, stuck my hand into the envelope Malcolm had given me. Based on the admittance papers, I knew there were three items Grace had had on his person when he was admitted into the system: A wallet, a cellphone and a key ring.
I found the keys. There were tiny, textured stickers on each one. Braille.
Jesus, this was crazy. I looked at Lucas.
“Don’t fret, Z,” he said. “Superglued to your hip. Thick as thieves, you and me.”
“You have no idea,” I replied. “I’ll give you the score on the way up, okay?”
As Lucas nodded enthusiastically, I slid a key—amazingly, the right one—into the brownstone’s deadbolt. We were in.
I can only imagine what we must have looked like, skulking past the battered doorways and water-stained wallpaper. Poseur secret agents, mostly likely. But nobody saw us as we climbed the stairwell.
We faced Grace’s door. Apartment 512. The words Sealed by New York City Police Department DO NOT ENTER glared at us from a vertical strip of tape covering the seam of door, where the door met the frame. It lanced from eye level down to the deadbolt.
“Shit,” I whispered. I had the door key in my hand, but…
Lucas reached into his jeans pocket and removed a foldable multi-tool. As he coaxed a blade from its handle, I shook my head. Cut the tape to get inside, leave proof that an intruder had been here. No go.
“Did you come this far to turn back now?” he said. “Trust me, bro. We’ll put it back.”
He slid the knife’s edge under the tape, gently nicking the wood. Soon, he’d tugged away enough of the strip to grip it with his fingers. He pulled the tape now, slowly peeling it from the door frame.
I nodded, and slid the key into the deadbolt.
From across and down the hall, the tinny rattle of a doorchain against wood. Shuck, went a deadbolt. Shuck, went another. Fuck. 509’s tenant was coming out.
“Wind chill,” Lucas hissed. He nudged me and gave the tape a frantic yank. It snarled as it snaked from the wood. “Motorvate, dude.”
I unlocked the door. It swung open, and Lucas shoved me inside. I stumbled as he followed, the key jangling in my hand, and I heard the door’s latch snap home behind me, and was I gasping now, like a asthmatic, head reeling with fear, it was slick and sickening and everywhere fuck jesus dark, dark not a pinprick of light, fuck
I staggered backward, banging against the door, my hand swishing out into the black, finding nothing.
Blind. Truly blind.
I heard the rapid-fire click-clickclickclick as Lucas flipped a light switch, heard him swear at the thing, it was firing blanks, mocking us, there’s not a single bulb in my apartment, you know, Grace cooed in my ear, keeps things quiet, keeps things sane. Shitshitshit sane, sane for whom, shit
Lucas’ hand was on my bicep, firm and reassuring.
“Right here, Zach, right here, one sec… ″
He faded away, lost in the ink. I couldn′t hear him. I could only hear my heartbeat, a terrible derailed L line train thundering and smashing inside my skull, and my screeching gasps, hyperventilating now, there wasn’t enough air in the world for my lungs, not now, not in the black.
Light, flaring and explosive, filled the room. Lucas looked up from the Sony Handycam in his hand, its pop-up light glowing like a beacon. He dropped the open backpack in his other hand and reached for me. I clutched at his arm, blinking, sucking down air. Ghoulish shadows scratched at his face, lit from underneath.
Lucas’ eyes swept over me, his face grim with concern. He squatted, sweeping the videocamera’s light around Martin Grace’s living room. His free hand fished inside the backpack. I watched the spotlight traverse an unremarkable couch, an easy chair.
He passed me a tiny flashlight. I clicked it on.
“He’s blind,” I whispered, breathing easier now. I slid Grace’s keys into my satchel. “No need for lights.”
“Con Ed must hate the bastard.”
We squinted in the gloom. The absolute absence of light in Martin Grace’s home was unsettling, but even more was its absence of… of what? I flicked my flashlight this way and that. It was an eerie, spartan place. Bare walls. A coffee table, its surface unblemished and blank. Built-in bookshelves near an unused fireplace, all empty. The mantle above the fireplace, also empty. This place was creepy in its whiteness, its utter lack of personality.
Lucas frowned at the curtains beside him. He pulled them aside. The white LED of his vidcam blasted back into our eyes.
“Aluminum foil on the windows,” he said. “This guy’s got a fuggin’ phobia.”
I turned away, flashlight probing my half of the room. “Come here,” Lucas hissed suddenly. “Mother lode.”
Stacked against the wall was a tower of rack-mounted audio equipment—digital receivers, amplifiers, two massive multi-disc CD changers. No recording gear… just premium-brand, audiophile stuff, made for listening.