You've Been Warned

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  Chapter 27

  MAYBE TWENTY SECONDS LATER, the guy with the ponytail is walking toward Beth, Connie, and me, slowly weaving his way through the traffic jam of people on the dance floor. He’s wearing a black suit and white shirt, open collar.

  My instinct is to give him a wink—just a little one. But I don’t do it.

  “Beth? Connie?” I say.

  They can’t hear me. They’re so wrapped up in the music, they don’t even notice I’ve stopped dancing.

  He’s getting closer, and maybe because of what’s happened lately, my skin is starting to crawl.

  “Beth! Connie!” I say again.

  But the music’s too loud.

  A strobe light kicks in, hurting my eyes. It’s like a million flashbulbs going off, one after the other. I can’t see him anymore, and that makes it worse because I know he’s there. And getting closer.

  There he is!

  A dozen feet away.

  What does he want?

  He’s stopped in the middle of the dance floor. It seems as if everybody in the club is moving except for the two of us.

  His blank stare is gone. In its place, a slight smile. I get the feeling he knows me, or at least knows who I am. This isn’t a chance encounter, is it? Could he be a detective? Maybe he works with the older, skinny guy? That makes some sense to me, as much as anything does lately.

  He comes up to me and stands maybe, oh, I don’t know, two feet away.

  “You were watching me,” I say. “You were staring.”

  “You caught me. You’re very pretty, y’know. You must know that?”

  I do—kind of. Usually I dress down, but not tonight. Maybe because I feel safe with my girls around.

  I start to say something, but he raises his hand and cuts me off. Like he’s used to being in control.

  “Listen. You seem like a nice person. You ought to really watch yourself. Be careful, huh?” He leans in real close. Too close. “I’m not kidding around. You’ve been warned.”

  Chapter 28

  NOT AGAIN.

  Please, not again.

  I awake the next morning to everything repeating itself. Well, actually, that’s not accurate.

  This time I open my eyes to total darkness. Not the darkness of a room in the middle of the night. Like—nothingness. Blackness.

  With a sound track—that unidentified song playing in my head.

  Then comes picture—the dream—the four gurneys, the hand emerging from that body bag... and I’m jolting up in bed, screaming, sweating, trembling.

  I hear a loud banging, only it’s not at my door.

  This time it’s coming from my ceiling, or rather, from the apartment above me. Apparently it’s not only Mrs. and Mr. Herbert Rosencrantz I’m waking up at the crack of dawn.

  “Sorry!” I shout out. I truly am.

  Double sorry because it’s Saturday.

  I hope my upstairs neighbor will be able to get back to sleep. As for me, I know I can’t. Or won’t. As exhausted as I am from being out last night with Connie and Beth, I’m not about to close my eyes again. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got the weekend off. My dream—this nightmare—doesn’t.

  Besides, how could I sleep with this music in my head?

  It’s still there—the mystery song. Worse, I think it’s getting louder.

  Or is that just my head throbbing? Yesterday was Michael’s turn to have the hangover; today it’s mine.

  Slowly, I will myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I shake a couple of aspirin into my hand, washing them down with some New York tap.

  Then it’s straight to the kitchen to make some coffee.

  I’m not much of a java junkie and usually only drink the stuff for “medicinal purposes.” Like now. A while back, though, Michael turned me on to Kona coffee from Hawaii, and I’ve been loving it. I get it over at Oren’s Daily Roast on 58th Street.

  Michael’s particular about his coffee but not really in a snobbish way. The only reason he doesn’t like Starbucks, he says, is due to the “laptop losers” who treat the place like their own personal office and hog all the seating. One morning I saw him go a little nuclear on a guy who was using two chairs for just his knapsack.

  Sipping a cup of Kona in my kitchen, I try to get a handle on the growing weirdness of the past few days. Is that even the right word for it, I wonder? Weirdness?

  Maybe there’s more to this than I realize. Or maybe it’s the opposite, and I’m overreacting.

  Or maybe I’m simply thinking about it too much. It’s not as if I have a solution to make it stop.

  I’m weighing that last possibility when the phone rings.

  It’s awfully early for someone to be calling. The caller ID says “Operator.” Strange.

  I pick up. “Hello?”

  The operator sounds close to being a recording without actually being one. “I have a collect call from Kristin Burns. Will you accept the charges?”

  Clearly the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet because I could’ve sworn she said a collect call from Kristin Burns.

  “I’m sorry, who’s calling?”

  “This is the operator.”

  That part I got.

  “No, I mean, who’s trying to call me?” I ask.

  “Hold on a second, please.” There’s a click on the line, and she’s gone for a few seconds before returning. “It’s Kristin Burns,” she says.

  Is this some type of joke?

  “Michael, is that you?” I ask.

  There’s another click, and I wait.

  But the operator doesn’t come back.

  No one does.

  The line goes dead.

  I guess Kristin Burns doesn’t want to talk to me after all.

  Chapter 29

  I’M NOT SURE WHAT to think after that phone call except that I really don’t feel like hanging around my apartment. Maybe because I’m shaking and I can’t make it stop.

  As for the word weirdness to describe what’s going on, it’s officially far too mild a term.

  At times like this, as if there’s ever been a time like this before in my life, I try to think of a bigger picture. For example. One second the whole universe was smaller than the head of a pin. The next second it was billions of times larger than the Earth. And the lesson to be learned from the big picture is exactly what?

  Thankfully, there’s an errand I have to run. Errands are good when you think you might be going stark-raving mad. So after showering and getting dressed, I hail a cab for Gotham Photo over in Chelsea. I’ve got a camera that needs a new lens.

  “Hi. Is Javier here today?” I ask, walking up to the counter at Gotham. I notice that my shaking has finally stopped. Hey, the song in my head is gone too.

  “He’s in the back,” says the clerk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait for him.”

  “Sure, I’ll let him know,” he says. “You’re Kristin, right?”

  “Yep. Hi.”

  The entire staff at Gotham Photo is friendly and they all know their stuff, but Javier’s my favorite. He’s always able to explain some of the more technical aspects of lenses and film without making me feel like an amateur. Truly, he’s as nice as can be.

  “How are you, Kristin? It’s good to see you,” he greets me, smiling. He’s tall and thin and cultured, with a very gentle way about him.

  We chat for a bit about anything and everything—so long as it has to do with photography. This isn’t merely a job for Javier; it’s more like a calling. He loves cameras that much. “My mother bought me my first, a Rollei Thirty-five when I was six years old,” he once told me.

  I believe it.

  “So when am I going to read about you in Blind Spot?” he asks. That’s the hip magazine that covers the famous as well as up-and-coming photographers.

  “Just as soon as I get a new lens,” I answer.

  I tell him about breaking mine, and we get busy choosing a replacement.
After discussing a few, we settle on the latest Leica, which he highly recommends.

  “It’s lighter and shoots cleaner,” he says. “And the best part is that I can give it to you for over a hundred dollars less than the one you had.”

  Twist my arm, Javier.

  As he writes up the sales slip, I casually tell him about the transparent-like effect happening with the pictures I developed from the hotel. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to bring the shots with me. I do my best to describe the glitch, but without Javier’s being able to see it, he can offer only educated guesses. Most I’ve thought of, a few I haven’t.

  “Of course, if it had anything to do with your old lens,” he says with a grin, “your problem is solved.”

  I’m anxious to find out, so I start taking pics the moment I leave the store. I want a full roll to develop when I get home later.

  After snapping a few shots of a meticulously groomed Lhasa apso being walked by a woman who looks like Nancy Reagan, I head north and come upon two block-shaped movers struggling to load a huge armoire onto their truck. Both their faces twist and contort so horribly that it’s absolutely beautiful.

  Click, click, click.

  I smile to myself. I never feel more comfortable, more at home, than I do behind a camera. It’s so relaxing and yet, at the same time, so empowering. You see people in an entirely different light. Sure, they say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but for my money it’s the camera eye that gives you the real glimpse of what’s inside a person.

  I’ve got a few more shots left on the roll as I’m aiming at the stream of people crossing the street up at the next “Walk” sign. They move in almost perfect unison and yet remain oblivious to one another, all looking directly ahead at the coming sidewalk.

  All, that is, except for one.

  It’s a man standing still at the corner. He’s caught my eye.

  I focus on his face, watching in the viewfinder as the image slowly transforms from blurry to —

  Holy shit!

  Staring back at me, clear as day, is something I can’t believe. Not even after what’s happened during the last few days.

  Something impossible.

  Something that makes me feel that I must be crazy.

  Only it’s worse than that, because I know I’m not crazy.

  But what I’m looking at sure is.

  Chapter 30

  I’M SHIVERING UNCONTROLLABLY and that burning smell is in the air again, but my lens remains focused straight ahead. On him.

  He’s standing on the far corner, wearing a long single-button gray coat that looks as if it came from one of those vintage clothing stores over on Bleecker Street.

  Only I know it didn’t come from some shop on Bleecker or anywhere else in New York. Actually, it’s from Concord, Massachusetts.

  Suspicious, I lower my camera as if somehow this piece of metal and molded plastic in my hands is the culprit, the cause of all this.

  It’s not.

  I can see clearly with my own eyes. The square jaw, the bullet-shaped head, the thick glasses, even the narrow, hunched shoulders. It’s him.

  My father is standing there on that street corner.

  Don’t think, just shoot.

  Quickly, I snap a few shots, even though my hands are jiggling the camera insanely. Then I call out.

  My father sees me, I know he sees me, but he doesn’t answer.

  I take a few steps forward and call out again, louder. “Dad!”

  He’s looking right at me. Why won’t he say anything? Or wave? Or something?

  I continue toward him, and at last he reacts.

  By walking away! Fast walking. As if he’s afraid of me or something.

  “Wait!” I yell. “Dad! Please don’t go. I need to talk to you!”

  He disappears around the corner, and I immediately sprint after him. Crossing the street, I see him farther up the block. He’s running now.

  What’s going on? What can this possibly mean?

  I call out again, begging him to stop. “I just want to talk to you! Dad! Dad! Daaad!”

  We were always so close, practically inseparable. When I was a little girl, he used to pretend to race me all the time. Back then I knew he was letting me win because he loved me so much.

  He wasn’t letting me win now, though. Obviously not now.

  Chapter 31

  I’M RUNNING AS FAST as I can. The sidewalk is crowded, and I try my best to weave in and out of pissed off–looking people while keeping an eye on the gray coat and crew cut head bobbing farther up the block.

  “Hey, watch it!” a woman barks angrily, as we slam shoulders.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  My father turns another corner. Then he darts across an intersection, just as the light turns green. Cars, cabs, and trucks hit the gas.

  But I don’t stop. I don’t even look both ways. I have to catch him—nothing is more important. I’m convinced he’s the answer to everything that’s happening.

  Leaping from the curb, I hear tires screeching and feel the hot breezes kicked up from the asphalt by one near collision after another. The huge chrome grille of a bus misses me by less than a foot. “What the hell is your problem, lady?” yells the driver out his window.

  You have no idea.

  “Please, Dad! Please stop!” I yell. “Daddy—please!”

  And just like that, the gray coat comes to a halt. My father turns on the sidewalk, and our eyes meet. We’re maybe fifty feet apart.

  “I want to help you,” he says. “But you have to do it yourself.”

  “Dad, what’s happening to me?”

  “Be careful, Kristin.”

  I open my mouth to ask, Why? How? What is it that I have to do? but he takes off again before the words can form.

  I cave in to my emotions, collapsing to the pavement. My palms are skinned raw as they break the fall. I look up helplessly and catch a final glimpse of his head disappearing around the next corner.

  Meanwhile, people form a circle around me, watching and wondering what my problem is. I know that look. I’ve given that look.

  They think I’m crazy.

  “You don’t understand!” I tell them, tell anyone who’ll listen or even stare down at me with a look of disdain. “You don’t understand!”

  My father’s been dead for twelve years.

  PART 6

  Chapter 32

  ANYWAY, AFTER SEEING my dead father, I can’t get home fast enough, though it’s the very place I had to escape from less than an hour ago.

  In the cab back to my building, all I do is stare at my camera and wonder about the film inside. I squeezed off three, maybe four shots of my father. I can’t remember exactly.

  But all I need is one.

  What’s scarier—that it’s really him or that it’s all in my head?

  Practically busting through the front door to my apartment, I make a beeline for the darkroom. And hopefully some answers.

  “Hurry up!” I implore the film as it stews in the processing tank. “Move it!” I think this is the only time I wish I owned one of those instant cameras.

  I’m so single-minded about getting these shots developed that for a few minutes I don’t pay the slightest attention to what’s all around me. Pinned to the corkboard walls are the pictures from the Fálcon, a morbid exhibit if there ever was one.

  But once I notice them, I can’t keep from looking at them.

  Bad idea.

  Also, on one corkboard are some old shots from my days growing up in Concord, Massachusetts. My mother, my father, my two sisters. And one shot of my boyfriend from college, Matthew, with his head cropped off—which is so richly deserved.

  “Hurry up!” I yell again at the developing film.

  Finally, there’s something to see.

  I pull up one of the shots, staring hard at the image. The gray coat, the hunched-over posture—the man whose casket I saw lowered into the ground back home with my own eyes. It’s my father.

&
nbsp; My eyes tear up as I grab another shot and then another, poring over every detail.

  Suddenly, it’s as if I’m chasing him all over again. I’m out of breath, my chest burning. The room feels as though it’s caving in, and I reach out for the wall to steady myself. So this is what a panic attack feels like....

  Desperate for air, I flee the darkroom, and when that’s not enough, I run around opening all the windows in my apartment.

  I try to breathe normally, but I can’t.

  C’mon, Kristin, keep it together. Somehow, some way, this has to start making sense. You just have to find the organizing principle.

  It wasn’t my father, I tell myself, just someone who looks like him. Maybe someone’s trying to mess with my mind. It’s got to be something like that.

  Christ, how insanely paranoid can I get? Someone messing with my mind? Who?

  Out of nowhere, a sharp pain shoots straight up from my feet. My thighs and calves are throbbing, and I can’t stand it anymore. Not any of this.

  Balling my hands into fists, I begin to pound at my legs. I’m literally beating myself up.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

  Closing my eyes, I let go with a primal scream, and yet at the same time I have a very sane thought. This is no time to be alone.

  Chapter 33

  I CALL MICHAEL.

  Actually, I page him. That’s how we work it on the weekends. The arrangement between us.

  I’m the supposed big client to whom he gives direct access 24/7, so Penley doesn’t raise a tweezed eyebrow when he disappears into his study to call me back on his private line. I even have a name. Carter Whitmore. Sort of sounds like a guy in finance.

  Two minutes later, my phone rings. I don’t bother with hello and cut right to the chase. “I need to see you.”

  Before Michael can respond, I realize how that sounds, or at least how he might interpret it. Sexually.

  “I mean, I need to talk to you,” I tack on. Strangely, I’m feeling better now. Calmer.

  “Okay, so let’s talk.”

  “Where can I meet you?”