Her Every Fear
Page 23
There was a bench across the street, and Corbin sat there, keeping an eye on the building. He needed a moment to think. He couldn’t quite believe how close he’d finally gotten to Henry. It was entirely possible he was up in his office right at this moment. The thought filled Corbin with equal amounts of hope and fear. If Henry actually was up there, he had no doubt that he could kill him with his bare hands, choke the life out of him. But what if there was someone with him? Or someone on the same hall who heard the commotion? What if Henry had a gun?
Corbin stood, the seat of his jeans now slightly damp from the wooden bench, and looked up and down the commercial block. There was a tavern, a sub shop, two banks, a jewelry store, and down at the far corner, what looked like a mom-and-pop hardware store. It was exactly what he was looking for. He walked briskly to its entrance, pushing through the door, jumping a little as it set off a bell to let the owners know they had a customer. The place was dark and narrow, its aisles just wide enough for one person.
“Can I help you?”
Corbin didn’t immediately know where the voice was coming from. He swiveled his head and spotted a woman with tightly curled gray hair behind the register. He thought for a moment that she was kneeling, because her head barely rose above the countertop, but then watched as she scooted up onto a tall chair. She was incredibly short, possibly with some dwarfism.
“No, thanks,” Corbin said. “Just looking around.” His voice, to his own ears, sounded nervous and disingenuous.
“Just holler if you can’t find something you’re looking for.”
He entered a random aisle that turned out to have plumbing supplies, shelf after shelf of plastic pipes and fittings. What am I looking for? Corbin thought. He found another aisle filled with hand tools—hammers and screwdrivers and wrenches. There was a smallish hammer, its rubber handle only about five inches long. It fit nicely in his hand. He could easily knock Henry out with it, then either strangle him or hit him till he was dead. But even though it was small for a hammer, it would be awkward to carry, too noticeable in his jacket pocket. He kept browsing, considered a chisel that really wasn’t sharp enough, then found what he was looking for, a heavy-duty box cutter with a rubber grip. It was small enough to fit in his pocket with the blade retracted. He could even carry it in his fist without its being too visible.
He was about to take it up to the register, but paused. If Henry was in his office, and Corbin killed him with the box cutter, then wouldn’t the woman working at the neighboring hardware store remember the shady man who bought the cutter just before the murder occurred? He glanced at the ceilings, looking for mounted cameras, but saw none. He slid the box cutter into his sweatshirt pocket, wandered over to the next aisle, picked up a cheap bottle of rubber cement, and brought that up to the register.
The woman put down her Dean Koontz paperback and rang up the rubber cement on a cash register that looked as old as she did.
“Found something you couldn’t live without, I see,” she said and smiled.
“Can never have too much glue,” Corbin responded, trying not to make eye contact. Maybe he should have just walked out of the store with the box cutter in his pocket. Now this woman would definitely remember him.
Back outside, carrying the small plastic bag with the rubber cement, Corbin walked with purpose down the street toward the sub shop. There was a large garbage bin on the corner, and he dropped the rubber cement into it, then stripped the box cutter of its flimsy paper packaging and threw that out as well. There were people around, mostly commuters, a few preteens on skateboards, but no one was paying any attention to Corbin. If Henry was in his office—and that was a big if—then Corbin needed to take advantage of that fact. It didn’t matter that the woman from the hardware store might remember him. The only thing that mattered was getting to Henry.
He crossed at the crosswalk and made his way through the glass door into a small vestibule with water-stained walls and linoleum floor. The cramped space smelled of fresh bread and industrial cleaner. On the largest wall were three buttons, and three businesses listed. Corbin pressed the buzzer next to henry torrance, mediation specialist, and waited. What would he say if Henry’s voice came through the speaker on the wall? Corbin could feel the adrenaline in his blood. He decided to say nothing. If Henry was here, he’d simply bolt up the stairs, break down his door if necessary, and slit his throat with the box cutter. His fingers twitched at the thought.
But there was no answer to the buzzer. He pressed it again, held it longer. No one was there.
Corbin went up the narrow stairwell anyway. Off the landing was a short, poorly lit corridor with three closed doors. melanie gellar, licensed therapist. joseph hahn, cpa. And then simply henry torrance. That door was locked, but the knob felt flimsy in Corbin’s hand, like a tin can that he could crush. He considered busting through into the office for a lead on where Henry lived, but then he heard a phone ring in one of the other offices and a man’s voice answer it. Corbin took his hand off the doorknob. No, now he knew where Henry worked, and if he broke into his office, then Henry would be alerted. It was better to leave now and come back early the next day, stake out across the street, wait for Henry to show up.
Back outside, Corbin realized he didn’t have a way to get back to his hotel. Newton, although just on the outskirts of Boston, was still a suburb, and not an easy place to flag a cab. He spotted a bar across the street called Edmands Tavern. Inside, a small after-work crowd was filling up the padded leather seats around the horseshoe bar. Corbin leaned against the bar, ordered a Lagunitas Pils, and asked the bartender if she’d call a cab for him. She was young—college age at the most—with an arcane symbol tattooed onto the back of her long neck, and she looked at Corbin as if he’d just asked her if he could tie his horse out back for the night.
“I lost my cell phone,” Corbin explained.
She pulled out hers, and with rapidly moving thumbs, located a cab company and called them, handing the phone over to Corbin. He named the bar he was in and was told to wait ten minutes.
“You should get Uber,” the bartender said when he handed the phone back to her.
“I have it, but it’s on my phone.”
“Oh right.” She laughed, sliding down the bar toward a pair of bearded men in polo shirts who had just arrived and were studying the beer list.
Instead of having the cabdriver take him back to the hotel, Corbin gave 75 Bury Street as his address, then he leaned back on the worn vinyl of the backseat and closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to relax. He started with his face, forcing his jaw muscles to slacken, then worked his way down his body. He was so close to getting to Henry, and because of that, he allowed himself the briefest of fantasies, one that he’d had a few times. If he could kill Henry and get away with it, then he’d have his life back. Some semblance of a life, anyway. Maybe over time he could learn to forgive himself for what they’d done to Claire and to Linda, and the part that he’d played in Rachael’s and Audrey’s deaths. No, he could never truly forgive himself. But maybe he could atone. He didn’t know exactly how he would do that, but the image that sometimes came to his mind was an image of himself with a family, daughters of his own that he would protect. As soon as that image came into his mind, he pushed it away, knowing it was far too optimistic. No, if he could kill Henry, then the most he could expect from the rest of his life was to not hurt anyone else, to get through the days and years unscathed. That would be enough.
The taxi let him out a block away from his apartment building. It was now dark, the wind lessening but the temperatures dropping. He pulled his hood up over his head and tightened the strings. With his hands pushed into his jean pockets, he walked toward 101, but before he reached the gated entryway, he crossed the street, not wanting to bump into a resident face-to-face. He moved slowly, looking for a place where he could hunker down and keep an eye on the building. If Henry had visited Kate already, he might visit again. He’d feel better watching his apartment
building than he would in his hotel room, waiting for morning to arrive.
Bury Street was primarily redbrick and residential, the entryways well lit, but 106 Bury Street had retained its old stable doors, slightly recessed so that Corbin could sit on a low stone riser. It wasn’t a hidden spot, but he was halfway between streetlamps and relatively in the dark. More important, he could see the entryway to his building and also the living room windows of his own apartment. They glowed with lamplight, the curtains halfway pulled. Corbin pulled his legs up tight, pressing his back against the wooden stable doors, and tried to make himself as unnoticeable as possible.
Over the next two hours, Corbin watched several people come and go from the building. Most of them he recognized. There was the old woman who was friends with the Valentines, out walking her small asthmatic pug. She took the dog just beyond the gates, toward the short hedge that bordered the neighboring property. The pug snooped around and eventually peed on the sidewalk. The woman cast a glance in Corbin’s direction. He raised his head slightly, hoping she’d see that he was Caucasian. Otherwise, she just might call the police. A short time later, Corbin watched Mrs. Heathcote get out of a taxicab in front of the building, the driver carrying her two bags of groceries across the courtyard for her. A few other people Corbin didn’t recognize came and went, but none of them was either his cousin Kate or Henry Wood.
As the night darkened, the streetlamps seemed to cast brighter, wider circles of light, and Corbin wondered how long it would be before some paranoid neighbor called the police to report a loiterer. If the police did come, he could simply say he was resting. He could use a Dutch accent and provide Bram’s ID. They’d move him along, but they wouldn’t take him in. At least, he hoped not.
Corbin heard loud, irregular footsteps and watched as a man who looked about his age stopped in front of the courtyard. He swayed slightly, as though drunk, then looked up, directly at the windows of Corbin’s—now Kate’s—apartment. Was it Henry? It didn’t look like him from behind—too tall and solid—but maybe it was. Then the man turned his head, and in the light from the moon and the streetlamp, Corbin recognized Alan, the guy from the other side of the building who had asked Corbin once if he was seeing Audrey Marshall. Why was he looking up at Kate’s windows? Maybe that was just his thing—a weirdo who liked to look into windows. Hadn’t he decided that that was how Alan had found out about his relationship with Audrey? Corbin pulled his legs in tighter and lowered his head, as though he was trying to keep warm. Alan lurched through the gates into the courtyard; with each step he looked as though he was about to fall, just managing to get a foot down before it happened.
The street was quiet again, and Corbin started to stand, wanting to stretch his legs, when he saw another figure rounding onto Bury from Brimmer Street. He quickly sat back down, pressed against the door into the shadows.
It was Henry.
Corbin was almost sure of it. His whole body was pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Even though he couldn’t see the man’s features, the way he was walking—fast clip, shoulders back—was so familiar. He was so sure it was Henry that he was baffled when the man walked straight past the entryway to 101, not even turning his head, and kept walking toward the river. Corbin stood and watched. The man—now he was unsure whether it was Henry or not—walked past the next building, then suddenly cut right and out of sight. Corbin crossed the street, breaking into a jog, holding onto the box cutter that was still in his sweatshirt pocket. He slowed when he got to the place where the man had disappeared. There was a narrow, almost impassable alley between two buildings, and just enough moonlight to see that the alleyway was now empty. Corbin stepped into it, each side brushing a shoulder. The pavement below his feet was slippery, and a smell like spoiled milk reached his nostrils. Without thinking too much about it, Corbin turned his body slightly and briskly walked the length of the buildings, coming out on another alley, much wider, that ran behind the backs of Bury Street residences. There was no sign of the man he was following, but he must have turned right, since the alley dead-ended to the left. Corbin walked slowly and carefully toward the back of his apartment building. He’d never seen the rear of 101 Bury, and was surprised to find a wide metal door built into the brick wall, a door that more than likely led to the apartment building’s basement. There was a security camera bracketed to the wall above the door, but it was angled toward the entrance to the alleyway.
Now there was no doubt: that had to have been Henry he was following, and Henry had come back here to enter the building. But why? And how did he get in?
Corbin’s apartment keys were in his hotel room. Now was his chance. If Henry was still in the basement he could kill him there. If Henry wasn’t in the basement, then where was he? No matter where he was, Corbin would find him.
Back at the hotel room, a little breathless from the speed with which he’d walked, Corbin got the apartment keys from the zippered pocket on the outside of his carry-on luggage. There were three on the metal ring: one for the apartment, one for the storage unit, and one that opened the front doors, even though he’d never used that key, since a doorman was always present and the front doors were never locked. Still, he wondered if that same key also opened the back door that led to the basement. It was worth checking.
Before leaving, Corbin chugged three short glasses of water in the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. The short hair and the half-grown-in mustache had changed his appearance, but only superficially. He stared into his own eyes. He was scared but also certain. Henry needed to die, and he was going to kill him.
Chapter 28
Back at 101 Bury, Corbin tried his key in the rear door’s lock. It stuck at first, then turned after he jiggled it for a while. He swung the heavy door open. He’d been right; concrete steps led down into the storage area of the building. He hesitated at the top of the steps, listening to hear if anyone was in the basement. The worst thing would be for some other resident to see his face, especially before he had a chance to find Henry. After listening for a minute, he tightened the hood around his head and stepped down into the harsh white fluorescence. There were very few places to hide in the main room of the basement area; locked storage units dominated one wall, boilers and water tanks the other. Corbin, hugging the wall, crept toward where he could see behind the water tanks. There was no one there.
He crossed the room toward the corridor that led to the back stairwells. His shoes tapped on the poured-concrete floor and he wished he’d changed into the sneakers he’d brought. He opened the door and peered into the empty corridor. Henry, if he had entered the building, must have gone up toward one of the back entrances to an apartment. It was possible he had gone to Audrey’s apartment, revisiting the scene of the crime. But it was also possible he had gone up to Corbin’s own apartment, that he was stalking Kate, for whatever reason.
He walked the length of the corridor to the stairwell that led to his apartment. He’d gone up and down the narrow stairs toward his place many times, but he’d never been so aware of how the low-wattage bulbs on each landing barely illuminated the steps. He felt almost blind, his hands on either banister. When he reached the back entrance to his apartment, he pressed an ear against the door, straining to hear anything, but there was no sound. He honestly did not know what to do. Henry had disappeared. If only he’d had his keys on him earlier, then he’d have been able to follow Henry into the basement. Henry could be anywhere now.
Corbin decided that the best course of action would be to return to the basement, hide behind the water tanks, and hope that Henry reappeared.
He was about to start down the steps when he heard something, a sound from below. He stood perfectly still. It was footsteps, quiet but steady. Someone was coming up the stairs.
In a panic, Corbin fumbled for his keys, feeling for the one that opened the doors to his apartment. He slid the key into the knob and, quietly as he could, opened the door, stepped into the dark kitchen, and closed the door behind him.
What was happening on the other side of the door?
If it was Henry, and he was waiting, for whatever reason, to enter the apartment, Corbin would wait as well. With his free hand on the edge of the countertop, he slowly and quietly moved farther back so that he was partially hidden in the alcove next to the refrigerator. He concentrated on his breathing, making sure it was steady and silent.
He heard something, not from behind the door, but from the interior of the apartment. The rustle of clothes, bare feet on the wooden floors, and Kate was suddenly walking past the kitchen toward the bedroom. If she’d entered the kitchen, or even just turned to look in, she would have seen him. He remained perfectly still, listening. The toilet flushed, and he heard the familiar clunk in the plumbing, the tap being turned on. Moving quickly, Corbin left the kitchen and entered the large living room, lit by a single lamp; he crossed to the darkest part of the room and hid behind the curtain. A few minutes passed and Kate crossed back through the living room. He only heard her steps, and not the rustle of her jeans. She must have changed into whatever she slept in.