Locked Doors (2 page)

Man was he hungry.

He stopped at 2211, knocked, yelled through the door, “It’s the super!”

No one answered.
 

Joe Mack inserted the master into the deadbolt.
 
It turned easily enough.
 

He pushed the door open.

“Hello?” he said, standing in the threshold, admiring the apartment—roomy, flat-screen television, lush
deepblue
carpet, an antique desk, great view of
SoHo
, probably loads of food in the fridge.

“Anybody home?”

He turned the deadbolt four times.
 
It worked perfectly.
 

Another door opened somewhere in the hallway and approaching footsteps reverberated off the hardwood floor.
 
Joe Mack glanced down the corridor at the tall man with black hair in a black overcoat strolling toward him from the stairwell.

“Hey, pal, were you the one who just called me?” Joe Mack asked.

The man with black hair stopped at the open doorway of 2211.

He smelled strange, of Windex and lemons.

“Yes, I was the one.”

“Oh.
 
You get the lock to work?”

“I’ve never been in this apartment.”

“What the fuck did you call me for—”

Glint of a blade.
 
The man held an ivory-hilted bowie.
 
He swept its shimmering point across Joe Mack’s swollen belly, cleaving denim, cotton, several layers of skin.

“No, just wait just a second—”
 

The man raised his right leg and booted Joe Mack through the threshold.
 

The super toppled backward as the man followed him into the apartment, slammed the door, and shot the deadbolt home.

Karen left Ice Blink Press at 6:30
p.m.
and emerged into a manic Manhattan evening, the sliver of sky between the buildings smoldering with dying sunlight, gilding glass and steel.
 
It was the fourth Friday of October, the terminal brilliance of autumn
fullblown
upon the city, and as she walked the fifteen blocks to her apartment in
SoHo
, Karen decided that she wouldn’t start the manuscript in her leather satchel tonight.

Instead she’d slip into satin pajamas, have a glass of that organic chardonnay she’d purchased at Whole Foods Market, and watch wonderful mindless television.

It had been a bad week.

Pampering was in order.
 

At 7:55 she walked out of her bedroom in black satin pajamas that rubbed coolly against her skin.
 
Her chaotic blond hair was twisted into a bun and held up by chopsticks from the Chinese food she’d ordered.
 
Two unopened food cartons and a bottle of wine sat on the glass coffee table between the couch and the flat-screen television.
 
Her apartment smelled of
spicysweet
sesame beef.
      

She plopped down and uncorked the wine.
 

Ashley
Chambliss’s
CD
Nakedsongs
had ended and in the perfect stillness of her apartment Karen conceded how alone she was.
 

Thirty-seven.
 

Single again.
 

Childless.
 

But I’m not lonely
, she thought, turning on the television and pouring a healthy glass of chardonnay.
 

I’m just alone.
 

There is a difference.
          

After watching
Dirty Dancing
, Karen treated herself to a soak.
 
She’d closed the bathroom door and a Yankee candle that smelled of cookie dough sat burning in a glass jar on the sink, the projection of its restless flame flickering on the sweaty plaster walls.
 

Karen rubbed her long muscular legs together, slippery with bath oil.
 
Imagining another pair of legs sliding between her own, she shut her eyes, moved her hands over her breasts, nipples swelling, then up and down her thighs.

The phone was ringing in the living room.
 

She wondered if Scott
Boylin
were calling to apologize.
 
Wine encouraged irrational forgiveness in Karen.
 
She even wished Scott were in the bathtub with her.
 
She could feel the memory of his water-softened feet gliding up her smooth shinbones.
 
Maybe she’d call and invite him over.
 
Give him that chance to explain.
 
He’d be back from the Doubleday party.

Now someone was knocking at the front door.

Karen sat up, blew back the bubbles that had amassed around her head.
 

Lifting her wineglass by the stem she finished it off.
 
Then she rose out of the water, took her white terrycloth bathrobe that lay draped across the toilet seat, and stepped unsteadily from the tub onto the mosaic tile.
 
She’d nearly polished off the entire bottle of chardonnay and a warm and pleasant gale was raging in her head.

Karen crossed the living room heading toward the front door.
 

She failed to notice that the cartons of steamed rice and sesame beef were gone, or that a large gray trashcan now stood between the television and the antique desk she’d inherited from her grandmother.

She peeked through the peephole.
 

A young man stood in the hallway holding an enormous bouquet of
rubyred
roses.

She smiled, turned the deadbolt, opened the door.

“I have a delivery for Karen Prescott.”

“That’s me.”

The delivery man handed over the gigantic vase.

“Wait here, I’ll get you your tip.”
 
She slurred her words a little.

“No ma’am, it’s been taken care of.”
 
He gave her a small salute and left.

She relocked the door and carried the roses over to the kitchen counter.
 
They were magnificent and they burgeoned from the cut-glass vase.
 
She plucked the small card taped to the glass and opened it.
 
The note read simply:

Look in the coat closet

Karen giggled.
 
Scott was one hundred percent forgiven.
 
Maybe she’d even do that thing he always asked for tonight.
 

She buried her nose in a rose, inhaled the
dampsweet
perfume.
 
Then she cinched the belt of her bathrobe and walked over to the closet behind the couch, pulling open the door with a big smile that instantly died.

A naked man with black hair and a pale face peered down at her.
 
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed.

The cartons of leftover Chinese food stood between his feet.

She stared into his black eyes, a strange coldness spreading through her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

The man grinned, his member rising.

Karen bolted for the front door but as she reached to unhook the chain he snatched a handful of her wet hair and swung her back into a mirror that shattered on the adjacent wall.

“Please,” she whimpered.

He punched her in the face.
 

Karen sank down onto the floor in bits of glass, anesthetized by wine and fear.
 
Watching his bare feet, she wondered where her body would be found and by whom and in what condition.

He grabbed her hair into a ball with one hand and lifted her face out of the glass, the tiniest shards having already embedded themselves in her cheek.
 

He swung down.
 

She felt the dull thud of his knuckles crack her jaw, decided to feign unconsciousness.
 

He hit her again.
 

She didn’t have to.

2

ON the same Friday evening, Elizabeth Lancing lay in the grass at her home in Davidson, North Carolina, watching her children roughhouse in the autumn-cooled waters of Lake Norman.
 

Her husband Walter was on her mind.
 

Tomorrow would have been their seventeenth anniversary.
 

Pushing against her thighs, she rose and strolled barefoot down to the shore.
 

Jenna had wrangled John David in a headlock and was trying to dunk her younger stronger brother as their mother walked the length of the pier.

Beth sat down at the end where steps descended into the water.
 

She moved her fingers through wavy
carbonblack
hair just long enough to graze her shoulders.
 
Her fingertips traced the lines these last brutal years had channeled into her face.
 

Beth knew she was plain.
 
That was fine.
 
She’d been plain her whole life.
 

What wasn’t fine was having the hard countenance of a fifty-year-old when she’d just turned thirty-eight.
 
Lately she’d noticed how lived-in she looked.
 
If Walter were still here maybe what few looks she had wouldn’t be deserting her.
     

She rolled her jeans up to her knees.
 

A rogue jet ski skimmed across the middle of the lake, invisible save for its brief intersection with a streak of moonlit water.
 

Beth’s feet slid into the liquid steel, touching the algae-slimed wood of the first submerged step.
 

It was a chilly night and she rubbed her bare arms, thinking,
October is the cruelest month.
 
Darling, has it been seven years?

In one week Beth would have to contend with another anniversary—this coming Halloween night would mark seven years since Walter’s disappearance.

The writer and murderer Andrew Thomas had been a close friend of her husband.
 
Andrew’s old house still stood in the trees on the opposite side of the cove.
 
Someone had taken up residence there in the last year and it was strange to see those lights across the lake again.
 

The circumstances attending Walter’s disappearance had grown no less bizarre or mystifying through the passage of seven years.