"C'mon, you come with me until we sort this out." I guided her up the slippery stairs.
We stepped onto the second-floor landing. I looked over the railing thinking that from up here I could scope out more than I could down there. It was still the same barren, soggy parking lot, but I could see the puddles better. The lot extended behind several other businesses. There were various employee cars parked in the spaces, but not the light-blue car belonging to Barbara.
She stumbled twice as we climbed to the third floor, but we made it. I fumbled with my newly expanded deadly key bundle, and found one of the new keys. It sure would have been better if I could have figured out the locks while I didn't have water rolling in my eyes. But such is life.
The one key unlocked both the knob lock and the dead bolt. I opened the door and tried to usher the disoriented woman into my apartment.
She pulled away, shaking her head. "It's too dark. Monsters in the dark."
I twisted around and looked at her. I'm going to pretend that I didn't just hear that.
I reached in and flipped the light switches on the control panel. Soft track lighting ran the length of the apartment's open layout and instantly dispelled the encroaching darkness.
Barbara hesitated, then smiled and entered.
We stood on the vinyl kitchen floor shedding copious amounts of water that puddled around us and threatened to run under my refrigerator. I guess I hadn't quite thought out the watering-the-apartment angle of my singing-in-the-rain adventure.
I grabbed a roll of paper towels and made a dam to hold the expanding flood. I love walking in the rain but I'm sure not fond of cleaning up the mess it makes. Sooner or later I needed to learn from the consequences of my silly actions.
Barbara stood perfectly still, her head down and her hands clasped. Her teeth chattered, though it didn't feel cold to me. Then again, I had been running through the raindrops with wild abandon, not huddled in a ball on the steps, imitating a mushroom.
I peeled off my shirt, and stood in front of the sink in my wet Cross Your Heart bra that, cross my heart and hope to die if I lie, had never done a thing for me other than dig into my shoulders. I wrung out the excess water and slipped the shirt over my head.
Lightning crackled. I flinched. A boom of thunder vibrated the walls. The lights blinked off for a few seconds, then returned. Barbara jerked. She gasped and pulled her arms up around her head.
Sheesh, it was only the lights. Lighten up, lady. "It's okay. You're safe in here." I don't have a clue why I said that, but it seemed the right thing to do. She appeared to be soothed for the moment.
She whimpered and lowered her hands, but continued to clasp and unclasp them. She kept lifting her right foot, as though marching in place.
I kicked offmy shoes and removed my slacks and began to wring them out over the sink. My hands ran into the bulge. I angled my back to Barbara, pulled the gun from my pocket, ripped open the baggie, and shoved the weapon into the silverware drawer. She didn't need to think that she was trapped in an apartment with a gun-toting nut job.
Lightning zipped across the sky outside the kitchen window. A boom of thunder exploded in tandem with the light display. The storm must be right on top of us for the two to be that close together and so loud. The lights flicked off again.
Barbara wailed and I reached for her.
She pulled away. Uh-oh, I had forgotten this facet of her behavior, mostly because she'd not done anything like it since that morning I found her. I admonished myself. Don't invade her space or touch her.
"It's okay. They'll come back on." And as I finished the sentence, the lights obliged.
Her shoulders dropped, and she seemed to chill out some.
I remember Mom hadn't been the happiest camper in storms either. But for me, that was one of the few pleasant traits I inherited from my dad. He loved storms, loved to be out in the rain, loved to watch the lightning. As a child, I liked nothing better than to sit in my little rocking chair on the back porch, wearing my raincoat and rubber boots, holding an umbrella and watching the storms.
Lightning and a low roll of thunder rumbled in as the storm moved in. The lights flickered. Barbara clenched and unclenched her fists. I hurried to the bathroom on this level where my washer and dryer were located and grabbed a stack of fluffy towels. I reached over and shut the adjoining door that led to my office.
"Barbara, would you like to come in here? We can run your clothes through the dryer." I moved outside the bathroom door to motion her in. At least then my furniture would be spared a soaking. Scotchgard was not going to help in this case.
Barbara took a few hesitant steps and stopped. Her head moved in jerky motions as she looked around at her surroundings.
Is she that freaked out by the storm?
I turned on my mommy voice. "Here, let's get you out of those wet clothes." I held out a freshly laundered terry cloth robe. "You can put this on."
She hesitated several times but finally reached out and took the bathrobe. Her fingers stroked the bathrobe as though she were petting an animal. Very strange.
She made her way into the bathroom. I handed her a couple towels, and shut the door to give her privacy.
I moved around the counter and dropped to my knees with the rest of the towels to sop up the water that was doing a slow ooze under the refrigerator. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and, as I looked up, a dark patch crossed in front of the frosted glass panel in the back door. It was followed by a thump.
I froze.
Was there someone out there?
I watched the door handle. It didn't turn.
I scrambled to my feet and slowly approached the door. Was it Trey, coming after me? Did the book thieves find me? I listened at the door. No sounds. I sucked in a breath. Careful not to make a sound, I slid the chain in place across the door and opened it a tiny piece.
The push broom lay across the doorway. I pushed out a hard sigh. My heart left my throat and returned to my chest. A shiver rolled up my back. No prowlers, just wooden sticks. I almost laughed. Seemed like my world was made up of unstable people, so why should this be any different? I closed the door, pulled off the chain, and flung it open to slide the broom out of the way without standing it up. It would be just like me to trip over it in the dark and propel myself over the banister.
As I shut the door I inspected the new locks. I tried to pull the removable thumb turn out. It wouldn't budge. I grabbed up my keys from the counter and inserted the key into the lock. Turning the tumbler allowed me to remove the thumb turn.
I shut the door and used the key in the now-exposed keyhole to slide the bolt into place. A new bit of calm rolled over me. I hadn't realized that the glass panes had unnerved me that much. I tossed the thumb turn in the silverware drawer and headed for the front door to do likewise. Unless I wanted to switch to doors with no glass panes, using a key was going to be my new reality. I figured a little nuisance was worth it for peace of mind.
As I passed the bathroom door, I could hear the dryer running, and then a gagging sound. I tried the doorknob. It was locked. "How are you doing in there, Barbara?"
The pit of my stomach was fluttering. I didn't even know of anyone whom I could call about her.
"My-y clothes are g-getting dry," said a small gasping voice.
"Do you need help? Let me in." I tried the door again. This was beginning to feel strange.
She mumbled something, but I didn't catch it.
My hand rested on the knob. I was getting a funny feeling. She was acting strange even for her. "But you're sure you are all right?"
A growl emanated from the closed space. "Yes!"
Startled, I moved away from the door. All righty then. She did not just growl at me. "Well . . . when your clothes are done, come on out and I'll make you something to eat."
I kept going to the front door and released the thumb turn from the new lock and set it next to the TV. I felt better. I had created my own fortress of safety. I looked toward t
he bathroom. I was having second thoughts about bringing Barbara up here, but what else could I have done? I couldn't just leave her on the steps.
I stared across the room at the circular staircase, winding down into Mom's apartment, then glanced at the bathroom door. I could go downstairs, fix the locks, and be back up before I heard the dryer stop. Maybe she's just modest, and doesn't want to come out till she's dressed again. I was getting used to being in wet clothes. Changing could wait a few more minutes.
I finished all the locks and ran upstairs to my bedroom to change into sweatpants and a top. I slowly walked down to my third-floor kitchen.
Fresh clothes, and I still felt just as wet. I was sweating bullets and feeling like I had just gone through the workout from hell. Seven flights of stairs in the last fifteen minutes! Three up from the street and then two flights up and down inside of here from my apartment to Mom's, and then from this floor up to my bedroom and back. My thighs burned like there was no tomorrow. I need an elevator . . . I need an elevator.
But on second thought, all this working out deserved a slice of Red Velvet cake. I stuck my head in the fridge, just like I actually expected to find cake in there. I knew there wasn't any such thing before I opened it; I must be brain dead today. Lightning cracked, thunder boomed, and I whacked my head on the underside of the freezer compartment. I was not going out in this weather for a piece of cake.
I satisfied myself with sandwich fixings—shaved ham, provolone, lettuce, tomato, onion, my favorite honey mustard, and fresh marble rye bread. I spread the feast out on the wraparound counter and reached in for the sour cream macaroni salad. If I couldn't have cake, I sure was going to delight myself with a healthy dose of carbs.
Where was Barbara? The dryer dinged a while ago.
I listened at the door. No movement. What in the world of porcelain thrones did she do in there, pass out? I reached for the knob. A rustling noise sounded from the next room over. I had closed the connecting door when I brought the towels out. I walked into the living room and peered around the corner, into my office.
Barbara was standing at my desk holding the picture that had been sitting by my computer. It was of me with Andreas. Yo, what was she doing, invading my personal space? Not cool.
Be calm. She's not wrapped too tight tonight. On second thought, she's wrapped tight enough to be ready to snap.
A heavy rumble of thunder vibrated the apartment windows.
I strolled into the office. "Hey, Barbara, there you are. Did you get turned around in the bathroom and come out the wrong door?"
She glared at me. Barbara didn't look so good. Her eyes darted around like pinballs. Spittle collected in the corners of her mouth.
I watched in strange fascination as the collection bubbled and grew.
If I didn't know a whole lot better, I'd say that she'd gone rabid.
She didn't speak, just glared. Her rapid breath heaved her chest.
I reached for the framed picture in her hand. She snatched it out of my reach. "You took my husband from me!" she screamed. Her eyes went wild as she backpedaled away from me.
I raised both hands in surrender. "Uhm, Barbara, it's all right. That's my boyfriend. It's not your husband. I promise."
"Liar-r-r!" screeched Barbara. Her voice morphed into a primal sound, wild and scary.
The hairs stood on the back of my neck. Great! What do I do now?
"Barbara," I cooed. The soothing tone had worked before, so maybe it could do it again. "Why don't we go to the living room? You should sit down, maybe. You're not feeling good, honey. Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?" I inched toward her, a step at a time with small, shuffling steps.
She charged me. I sidestepped and she slammed into the filing cabinet but swung around fast to face me. "I know exactly who you are!" She lunged at me again. "You took my home! My husband! You're the lying, stealing evil—"
"Barbara, please!" She clawed for a handful of braids, but I deflected her blow. Inertia propelled her past me, and I shoved her out of the office and into the open space of the living room. She still had the picture in her hand.
"Barbara, listen to me . . ." I raised both hands, palms facing her, and tried to fill her field of vision. "I own the bookstore downstairs. You made coffee for me. I found you on my steps in the rain. Remember?"
"I'll kill you before I'll let you have him!" She whipped the picture at my head.
I batted it to the side. It hit the coffee table, and the glass disintegrated into hundreds of jagged pieces. I put the table in between us.
Barbara began to rock back and forth as she chewed a tendril of hair.
I need help. Phone! Where's my phone? Oh brother, I don't even remember bringing it upstairs. That's what I get for getting rid of the landline.
The panic button! I had to get to one of the security panels.
Barbara's rocking grew more violent until she fell to her hands and knees in the broken glass. "No. No, no, no." She raked her hands through the shards of glass groping for the picture. Once she had it, she smoothed her hand across the image, leaving smears of blood and glass. She rubbed harder to clean the debris away, which left more blood and led to more frantic swiping. She pressed harder but with each hysterical pass of her hand the glass bits imbedded in her palm snagged and tore the glossy paper. She screamed like a wild animal and began beating her open hand on the floor.
"Watch, you've cut yourself!" I reached out, and instantly pulled back. Oh, Lord help me. What am I supposed to do? If I approached her, she'd attack me, but if I let her alone, she was going to turn her hands into hamburger. "Barbara, Barbara! Please, I don't know how to help you. Tell me what you need. Talk to me." With her eyes full of fury, she grunted, and lifted the coffee table.
Run! The front door panel would make me a dead target, so I sprinted toward my office again.
She hurled the table.
I ducked in the doorway.
The frame caught the brunt of the table and the table splintered into pieces. A section of a drawer propelled into the room. I ran through the office, into the bathroom, and out the other door into the kitchen, slamming the bathroom door behind me.
Breathless, I punched the emergency button on the security panel. No light.
Barbara pounded on the door, screamed, and howled.
I punched the button again. And again. Still no light. Stupid! Stupid! I hadn't set the codes and password to activate the system.
I fumbled to unlock the doorknob with shaky fingers. I yanked. It didn't budge. The dead bolt was set. Where are my keys? I couldn't think. Where'd I lay them down?
Barbara wrenched open the door. She passed by the counter, and grabbed up the chef's knife I'd set out for slicing the tomatoes and onions for our sandwiches. I looked helplessly at my options: a locked door or a knife-wielding woman.
With a stomach-curdling scream and the knife held over her head, Barbara charged.
37
THE UNRELENTING RAIN HAD TURNED FULTON INTO A RIVER. STORM SEWers strained to admit all of the liquid rushing down the sides of the street. Cars sent up plumes of road water in their wake as they rushed to navigate. But one vehicle in particular barely made a ripple in the temporary stream.
The black SUV slipped into an empty parking space on the opposite side of the street from Beckham's Books & Brew. It idled for a few seconds before the driver silenced the engine. The black-tinted windows offered observers no hint of who or how many occupants sat within.
Trey Alexander sat in the passenger seat, his nostrils flaring with each breath. He wore a black leather slouch cap, a black nylon Windbreaker over black stovepipe jeans and a black T-shirt, and a stony scowl. The dark ensemble mirrored his mood. His face appeared to be set in a permanent grimace with nostrils flaring with each breath he took.
"Yo, Trey man, why you need to be sittin' here scopin' out this woman?" asked the driver, barely old enough to be called a man.
"Because I said so," said Trey.
"But man, we need to be jackin' up the homey that ventilated your shoulder."
Trey's jaw rolled back and forth like he was grinding his teeth. He didn't answer. He cracked the window a bit to dispel the growing fog.
Thunderous rain pounded on the roof, creating a deafening roar.
The driver swiveled to face Trey. "You know you got backup, man. If you scared to—"
Trey's right hand shot out and snatched him by his T-shirt. "If you ever call me scared . . . of anything . . . ever . . . I'll jack you up, punk." He shoved the boy into the seat and let him go.
The driver smoothed out the grip stretched into his shirt. "Man, I didn't mean to diss you." He grinned, displaying a diamond chip–encrusted front tooth. "I ain't no punk, man . . . I'm a straight-up thug."
"I'm tired of looking at you." Trey stared through the windshield, his eyes trained on the bookstore.
The guy fidgeted in his seat. "What you mean, man?"
"I mean, get out of the car and bounce. Now."
The guy rolled his head into the seat rest. "You don't mean it, man. It's rainin' out there. That ain't right."
Click.
The guy looked down. Trey had inserted a magazine into his semiautomatic handgun.
The guy reached for the door handle.
On the other side of the street, a car rolled to a stop. Andreas Comino exited the car and hurried through the rain to the outside entrance to the right of the bookstore, the entrance to the basement door and the stairs leading up to the apartments.
Trey put his hand across the driver's chest to stop him. "Hang back. I need to scope this out."
"Ain't that the white guy that's been sniffin' 'round your woman?"
Trey briefly left the driver's chest in order to slap him and then returned to keep him still. "Zip it."
The guy recoiled from the hit and pulled himself into the corner against the driver's door. Trey let his hand fall away and continued to watch Comino.
The door opened and Comino entered.
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 23
