Amanda got home. Sipping it as I approached my apart ment, I set it on the call box and searched my pockets for my keys.
Staring ahead as my fingers felt around for the familiar metal, suddenly my body froze.
The door to our building was glass. Through the il lumination of the lamp on the corner, I could see the re flection of the street behind me. And what I saw was a man approaching holding what looked to be an unopened switchblade.
He was a few inches shorter than me, white, with a scraggly beard and loose-fitting clothes that had surely been bought when he was a few pounds heavier.
In that light, he looked scarily like my brother had the night I saw him.
Slowly I reached up, picked up my coffee cup, took a small sip. My fingers trembled as I pretended to be unsure of where I was.
Then I heard the chilling snick and saw a long, thin piece of metal protruding from the man's hand. His blade was now open.
My heart hammered. In just seconds he would be behind me. And I would be dead.
Then I saw the man's hand rise above his head, the knife pointed down, ready to bury itself in my neck. I had one shot to do this right, or I'd feel that knife point inside me, the cold steel lodging itself in me.
I spun around, startling the man, and swung the entire cup of steaming-hot coffee into his face.
He shrieked, his hands clawing at his face. The knife clattered to the ground, and I kicked it as far as I could before he could react. It skittered away and stopped beneath a parked car thirty feet down the block.
While he was still pawing at his face, I swung an elbow that hit him right in the chest. It connected solidly, and he went down in a heap, still moaning, his face red from the scalding liquid. He was curled into a fetal position, so I knelt down on top of him, spreading his arms wide.
Once his arms were spread I placed my knees inside the crook of his elbows until his upper body was pinned underneath me. His legs thrashed as he screamed like he was the one being attacked.
I raised my fist, ready to rain blows upon the man's head, but then when I saw the fear in his eyes, the utter helplessness of him, I relented. Keeping my knees pinned on his arms-just in case he had another weapon handy-I placed my palm under his chin and forced him to look at me. My other hand fished in his pockets to see if he had any more weapons. I found none. I patted him down-legs, ankles, even pressed an elbow into his crotch just to be sure. The squeal he let out was very satisfying. Then I dug back in his pockets until I found his wallet. I flipped it open, saw credit cards, a few crumpled singles and a driver's license.
Rule number one of attacking someone, never carry picture ID.
Suddenly I felt him rock forward, making me tilt slightly back, then he thrust his entire body weight forward. I lost my balance, toppling over. I could feel him squirm out from under me as my head smacked against the pavement.
I tried to stand up, but a kick to the side of my neck made me fall back over, the breath leaving my lungs for a moment. The man stood back up, then looked around, trying to locate the knife. He couldn't find it, and by that point I'd managed to prop myself up. I took my keys from my pocket, inserted them into my fist, each key sticking out from between my fingers like a makeshift pair of brass knuckles.
The man saw me do this. Looking around once more for the knife, he took one step toward me and said, "You don't watch out, your ass is a ghost. And if that doesn't bother you, maybe we'll stick one in your old lady, too."
Then he sprinted away and didn't look back.
I lowered my hand. Watched him go. I got lucky. If
I hadn't seen him, I could be lying in the street bleeding.
I remembered that I'd taken his wallet and removed the license. The man's name was Trent Buckley. His license stated that he was six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds. According to the address, Buckley resided in Boulder, Colorado. The license was dated
2002, so it was likely that Buckley had moved to New
York from Colorado.
Who sent him here? And how did he know where I lived? And who was Buckley referring to as "we"?
Paranoia seeped in. I looked around, checking out the abandoned street, wondering if someone else was waiting to pounce.
Then my mind went to one place.
Amanda.
My "old lady." Did they really know who she was or where to find her?
If someone was after me, they could very well know various ways to get to me.
I knew where she was. Knew what I had to do.
Calling 911 was a priority, but I had a more pressing one right now.
Taking the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front door and pressed the elevator button. It took a moment for me to notice that an Out Of Service sticker was pasted over the jamb.
I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, until I reached our apartment. The door was locked, but I opened it with the caution of a man who'd previously wandered into his apartment only to find a psycho pathic killer waiting. When I was convinced there was nobody hiding in the closet, I grabbed the biggest suitcase I could find and began throwing clothes into it.
I had no idea what garments were most important to
Amanda, so hopefully she'd forgive me if in my haste
I couldn't put together a matching outfit.
Once the bag was full with clothes, I jammed it shut and zipped it closed. Then I dragged it carefully back down to the lobby, burst onto the street and began waving my hand in the air. It took only five minutes for a cab to see me and pick me up.
"The Kitten Club," I said breathlessly.
The driver nodded, and off we went.
The Kitten Club held a lot of memories for me. As well as being the hottest nightspot in the city, it was where blond diva Athena Paradis was murdered.
Strangely, once the investigation had ended and the club had reopened, its cachet as the most exclusive club in the city skyrocketed. Not only was it the place to be, it was basically a city landmark now. Lines that once stretched around the block looped each other. Darcy's husband was an old fraternity brother of Shawn Kensbrook, the Kitten Club's promoter, so they were able to hop the line. All that for the privilege of spending five hundred bucks on a bottle of Smirnoff.
The lights of the Kitten Club pulsated as the cab drew near. I lowered the window. The smell of cologne, perfume, cigarettes and sweat permeated the air. Natu rally there was a line snaking all the way out the door and down the block, and that it was three people deep led me to believe it would be a two-hour wait just to get in.
But I wasn't planning to wait in line.
As the cab pulled up in front of the club, I threw him a twenty and hopped out, dragging my heavy luggage behind me. A few people waiting in line noticed my odd appearance-jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and a massive Samsonite-and pointed me out to their friends. A few laughed. The rest looked slightly worried, as though they expected me to be lugging a bomb or a body in the suitcase.
I had to shove my way through the line to get to the front. A massive bouncer with biceps veins thicker than his waist blocked the way. He looked at me and rolled his eyes.
"Line starts over there," he said. He jerked his thumb in the opposite direction of where I thought the line started. Based on a rough calculation, the people at the end of the line would be allowed in right around the
Rapture.
"I need to see Shawn Kensbrook," I said.
"I need a blow job," the bouncer said.
"One of those is going to be much easier to achieve than the others," I replied. "Listen, tell him this is about
Darcy Lapore and her husband, Devin. He'll know who you're talking about."
The bouncer looked me over, trying to see if I was for real. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie, pressed a button and spoke into it.