Now You See Her (16 page)

The room whirls, and colors shift. “You will stay.” The sofa squad stands up. Doc yanks the lever on the recliner and snaps
forward to sit upright. One of the squad fingers a length of tire chain. The knife behind me—is the naked blade exposed?

“We have matters between us. We must bargain,” Doc says. Does he want more money? “We must get personal. The House of Spirit
and Health is person-to-person, heart and skin.”

Meaning assault? The chain clanks, and the men stand at attention as the drummer hammers with his knuckle, bone on steel.
It takes every particle of my being to look into his dilated pupils and speak. “I must go. Someone expects me.”

“I expect you.” The huge red-robed arms open like giant wings, the long nails like talons. “Doc is master here.”

I hear a click—a gun cocked? My gorge rises, and I swallow to fight the nausea. “Whatever you say. But I feel sick. Do you
have a restroom?”

“This lady wants to rest.”

“For just a few minutes.”

“Ganja is JAH’s way.”

“It makes me… sick. The kerosene—”

“Take her up.” Doc leers, his pupils huge. “Then bring her down.”

The knife man grips my elbow, and it’s helpful because I’m reeling. He doesn’t look so steady himself. We climb the stairs
together, each keeping the other from falling. My knees are rubber, my head spinning. We stumble down a hallway, reach a door.
“In there. I be out here.” He snaps a light switch on and gives me a little shove inside. I latch the door from within, then
noisily raise the toilet seat and cough and gag and run the taps and look around.

Thank God, a window, just big enough to crawl out of, though painted over like all the others. I steady myself against the
sink, open the clamshell lock, and push up. It doesn’t budge. It’s the thick paint. It’s painted shut.

“How you doin’ in there?”

“Dizzy, sick.” I stick my middle finger down my throat and gag and retch as though I’m turning inside out. Then I grab the
commode handle and flush and flush again. My one hope is this window. Should I break it? Kick it out? No, he’d hear it shatter,
and the jagged glass would cut me to ribbons. Dizzy, light-headed, I tell myself to focus. I open both faucets until they
gush and make a big noise, then I bang both hands against the sill. Still stuck.

“You comin’ out?”

“In a minute.” I pull out my car key, and as I retch and heave and brace my hip against the wall, I dig the key into the hardened
paint.

“Come on out of there.”

“I’m throwing up. Got to puke.” Which is almost true. I retch and flush again and gouge at the paint. The key slips, and I
nearly fall. The door shudders. The knife man is yanking the doorknob.

“Come on, move on out of there.”

“It’s your fault if I puke on Doc.”

This gets me maybe two minutes. The taps run, the key digs, the thick paint and rotten wood start to splinter. Then the window
frame gives, rises. The window is up, and warm, wet air rushes in. Rain splashes my face. I pocket the key. It’s maybe eight
feet to the ground, and there’s a stockade fence down below.

“Bitch, time’s up.” It comes out bidge. He’s stoned. “Come on, bidge.”

“I’m washing up.” I’m actually standing on the toilet bowl rim, then thrusting my legs out the window and twisting around.
Grabbing onto the window frame with both hands, I lower myself until I’m hanging there.

“Yo, bidge, move it.”

He’s thumping on the bathroom door. In minutes, the others will join him. I let go, tuck my head, bring my knees up, feel
the rain and wind—and slam on my back in mud.

“Bidge, what the f—”

I get up and limp, stumbling across a yard and under a tree. Tiny white rags cover the ground. Blossoms, they’re apple blossoms.
I reach the sidewalk. My car is up the block. I stagger ahead, limping and dizzy. I grasp the key, open the car, get in, and
lock it. It takes two hands to crank the ignition. The engine roars to life, sweet sound. My mind’s strobe light still flashes,
and my brain spins. Biscuit squeals, happy. I invite her into my lap. I’m not fit to drive, can’t pass a drug test. The dog
licks my face and tilts her head. I put the flashers on and go slow. It takes forever. Nobody follows. It’s as though I’m
in a maze, a blur of mud and motion. It’s pitch-dark when I finally pull into Barlow Square.

S
tu Albritten is a dapper, compact man in a houndstooth sport coat with a foulard scarf and bridle-bit loafers. At 10:03 p.m.
on Tuesday, we shake hands at the Eldridge lobby elevator. It’s four days since the Big Doc episode, and I’ve told no one,
not Nicole, not even Devaney, especially not Devaney. The whole thing hangs over me, the stupidity and close call. At home,
I’m skittish, startled at the least noise. Out in public, I feel as though I’m playing a part, nervously impersonating my
normal self. I’ve come from the visitors’ parking on D level, a catacomb of gray concrete studded with surveillance cameras
and blazing with fluorescents. “Meg’s on her way, Ms. Cutter. She just phoned.”

“Appreciate your flexibility, Stu.”

“No problem, I’m a night owl. I understand you currently reside on Barlow Square, Ms. Cutter. Classic South End townhouses.”

With effort, I speak brightly. “Yes, charming. But these days I’m security-minded. My alarm system doesn’t seem like sufficient
protection. It’s a source of great concern.” I turn toward Pam’s concierge nook. The face of Big Doc flashes like a hologram.
I blink. He disappears. Tonight the sole staffer is a sharp-faced older man with thick yellowish glasses. His thatch of iron-gray
hair says he can’t be Carlo. “I seek security,” I say to Stu. “Peace of mind.”

“Then Eldridge may be for you. Management is serious about the twenty-four-hour concierge, as you see, plus security services
and private underground parking. I myself got clearance moments ago at the desk. Ah, here’s Meg.”

“Reggie, Stu, good to see you.”

The gray-thatched man approaches to screen Meg and me, while Stu taps the elevator up button. “Have a good evening, folks.”
The doors open, we get in, and Stu pushes 6. The surveillance camera lens glints from a light fixture.

“Remember,” Stu says with a Realtor’s gravity, “availability might change any moment. Eldridge sells fast. Let me remind everyone,
however, that every client has personal tastes. Sometimes clients at a showing need to see through to the future.”

Meg chuckles. “Stu’s warning you, Reggie, that we’re about to see something extreme.”

“Highly individual. Here we go.” He keys in and flips the lights.

The condo is a storm of rose and pinks. The overstuffed sofa, the chaise and side chairs and carpeting—all pinks. A mounted
antique carousel horse fills a corner, its wild eyes, flaring nostrils, and bared teeth not one bit softened by the pink and
gold saddle and hooves. Every chair features at least two satin and grosgrain tasseled pillows in the shape of hearts, and
shelves abound with china and crystal hearts, mostly Steuben. The wall art from here to the dining room—more hearts, also
serigraph Cupids. A tabletop Zen sand garden is raked into the word “LOVE.”

“It’s a Valentine’s Day museum.”

“Or a cardiologist’s dream.” I mentally edit wet dream. “Bet it’s a divorcing couple. They OD’d on love.”

“Every owner redesigns and updates. Let’s see the kitchen.” We note the Viking range and Sub-Zero fridge. “Caterers love an
operational kitchen like this. The staff can come in and get right to work.”

Meg says, “It’s perfect for parties. Perhaps you plan to entertain, Reggie?”

“Perhaps.”

“This way to the master.”

We gather at a king-size bed whose pale pink duvet spreads like a field of eyelet lace. “Ooh,” says Meg, “a mirrored ceiling
over the bed.”

“Indeed. And a bar and his and her walk-ins.” Stu opens each closet door with a footman’s flourish to reveal a terry robe
and jeans jacket, a woman’s driving moccasins, a man’s running shoes and gray running suit. The clothes look like effigies
of the owners.

“Who owns this place?”

“It’s a business-owned property held in the name of a company.”

“Surprising. It’s so personal.”

“Let’s see the master bath,” Meg says. “My bet’s on a heart-shaped honeymoon-special tub.”

We chuckle, momentary peephole conspirators. The bath is marble with gold fixtures, plump towels, and lavender sachets. I
try to keep my mind clear of the bathroom at Big Doc’s House of Spirit and Health, a house of pot and threats. My dreams of
black sacks now mix with nightmares of the cellar and of me pounding on windows as walls close in. Did Doc say anything real?

“Plenty of closet space,” says Stu. “All Eldridge residents are entitled to a storage locker in an underground level.”

“And the second bedroom?” I chirp with brittle cheer. “For guests, or a study or TV lounge.” The second bedroom, however,
is empty except for a NordicTrack. Its walls are gray, and the carpet shows no imprints whatsoever from removed furniture,
which seems odd.

“The space would be just right for me,” I say, “but security is uppermost in mind. I need to be able to come and go freely
both in daytime and at night. Especially at night.” We walk out into the hall, and Stu locks up. “For instance, here in the
hallway to the elevator, I’d need to know the security arrangements will protect me.”

“All common areas are protected. Of course, fire sprinkler systems are state-of-the-art.”

“Let’s speak to the night concierge for a moment.” Stu and Meg are reluctant, but when the elevator opens, we cross the lobby
to the thatch-haired man, who’s deep into a crossword puzzle and barely looks up.

Stu says, “Our client has questions about security. Walt, is it?”

“Walt Kane, yes, sir, I keep an eye on the goings-on from ten at night to six a.m. You might say I monitor the monitors.”
His watery gray eyes blur behind the thick reading glasses. A National Enquirer and a magnifier lie at his elbow. He’s nearly
finished his puzzle; eraser crumbs scatter around a column of open squares.

I smile. “So, Mr. Kane, you are the night manager?”

“No, ma’am. That would be Mr. Feggiotti.”

“I wonder, could we speak to him? Stop by his office for a moment? Or could you page him?” Meg looks puzzled.

“Sorry, Mr. Feggiotti doesn’t stay in his office. Take it from an old navy chief, he’s the officer of the deck. He doesn’t
stay on the bridge. He’s on watch all over the vessel. You might come back in the daytime, talk to Pam Kagel. She’ll fix you
up.”

Stu and Meg look relieved and ready to go. “Crosswords,” I say. “Your hobby?”

“Mind games. Use it or lose it. Eight down. I’m stuck.”

“Oh, do let us help.”

Walt shrugs. “An eight-letter word for sad and regretful,” he says. “The third and fourth letters are i and g.”

I step closer, smile again, and whisper, “Try p-o-i-g-n-a-n-t.” In moments, Carlo Feggiotti is on his way.

The flattop haircut could be gauged with a Home Depot level. Carlo is six feet, broad-shouldered and taut, his arms out in
a stance I recall from my Jack’s season of high school wrestling. Chewing gum, he strides forward with a thrust of the hips,
sidestepping the rug, his heels crashing with each step across the lobby. The Eldridge uniform of gray slacks and navy blazer
is cut in fabric light-years higher in quality than the doormen’s. Carlo’s chukka boots are Italian leather, and his uniform
is custom-tailored.

Tailored almost well enough to conceal the hip bulge of a holster. Not for nothing my time with Devaney.

“Mr. Feggiotti, I’m Reggie Cutter. So good of you to take time out.” I offer my hand.

His grip is a mitt of bone and callus, his scent Bazooka. Stu, too, shakes hands, winces, and then says good night. Meg lingers.
“I’m also a Realtor,” she says. “I’m with Gibraltar Residential.” She hands him her card, a business pitch even in a baffled
moment. “We just showed Ms. Cutter a fine unit on the sixth floor.”

“Six oh three.” His voice is a high tenor. His dark eyes, which are narrow and close together, remind me of Renaissance portraits
that follow you everywhere in a room. His jaws work the gum.

Meg says, “Ms. Cutter’s main concern is security.”

“Because of a robbery of my home some years ago, Mr. Feggiotti. The ghastly memory is vivid to this day.”

“Eldridge Place is all about security, Ms. Cutter.”

“Perhaps I could ask a few questions.”

“But before you do, Reggie, if you wouldn’t mind …” Meg looks at her watch. “Perhaps since we’ve already seen the condo unit,
I’ll say good night.” She disappears into the elevator. Silently, Carlo mouths, “Level D,” cracks his gum, turns to me, and
asks, “What’s on your mind, Ms. Cutter?”

“Peace of mind, Mr. Feggiotti. The reassurance that if I should move into Eldridge Place, my home will be safe and secure
at every hour of the day and night.”

“No worries on that score here. As the poet says, ‘If in its inmost petals can reside so vast a light.’ ”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Dante, The Divine Comedy, canto 30 from Paradiso.”

Is he joking? “Eldridge Place…a paradise?”

His laugh is high, a countertenor. “As much like paradise as we can make it. The residents leave security worries to us, as
they should. The Eldridge staff are trained professionals. Most have self-defense training, plus our integrated premises control
system. There’s fire and HVAC, UL-listed central monitoring, motion detectors, and CCT.”

“Closed-circuit television?”

“ ‘Gazing upon every row, now upwards and now down, now circle-wise.’ Canto 31. Dante knew it all. He’s the genius for all
time. Like he said, ‘The piercing brightness of the living ray.’ So to help secure the perimeter, we have V-plex polling loop
technology to let us spot the exact location of any trouble spot. Our camera Internet video server has alarm capabilities.
Plus the Pan Tile zoom network day and night.” He pauses to shift his gum. “Of course, all outdoor mountings are weatherproof.
We belong to the Electronic Life Safety, Security and Systems Professionals. The motto is, ‘Our mission is to make America
a safer place.’ ”