The Twisted Window (6 page)

He awoke to the sound of his voice mumbling groggily, "find somebody who will," and opened his eyes to find the dull gray light of dawn seeping through the thin slits between the Venetian blinds.

He lay for a time without moving, staring up at the ceiling, reviewing both Jamie's statement and his own. He still could hardly believe his friend had fallen down on him. The two of them had always supported each other in everything.

In the end he had lied to Jamie, as he had to his mother. He had told them both he was going to spend spring break up at his father's old cabin in the Pecos Mountains.

His mother had been upset at the thought of being left alone for a week. "You know how I hate being all by myself," she had said piteously.

"I've got to make sure the place survived the winter all right," Brad had told her. "There was a lot of snow this year, and it might have caused some damage. That cabin adds a lot to the value of the property. We want it to be in good shape when the time comes to sell it."

Now, hundreds of miles away from the fresh green beauty of the Pecos Wilderness, he lay in a lumpy bed in a third-rate motel in Texas, reliving the previous evening and making plans for the day ahead. Watching the room grow slowly lighter, he tried not to listen to the sound of the Trade Winds coming to life on either side of him. Through the thin wall there came the rush of a toilet being flushed in an adjoining bathroom. Then pipes started to rattle as somebody turned on a shower. The doors of the various units began to open and slam closed, and a car engine sputtered to life outside Brad's window.

He made no move to get out of bed and participate in the morning activity. He knew there was nothing more he could accomplish on his own, and Tracy would not be available until school let out.

How ironic, he thought, that a stranger would listen and believe him, when the people he should have been able to count on had failed him. Well, he didn't need any of them now—not his mother, not fair-weather Jamie, not Lieutenant Souter. Now that he had Tracy, he would not be alone anymore.

Brad drew a long breath and willed himself to relax. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing his problems.

Rolling onto his stomach, he pressed his face into a soft hollow in the lumpy pillow and sank at last into the solid state of oblivion that had eluded him throughout his restless night.

CHAPTER 6

The Continental Arms was a four-sided apartment complex laid out in a rectangular design, with all the units facing out upon the landscaped, open-air recreational area at its center. The building could be entered in one of two ways, either through an underground garage or through a street-level set of double security doors. The first of the security doors led into an entrance hall, which contained a row of mailboxes labeled with the names of tenants. Visitors were required to buzz an occupant and identify themselves over an intercom. The tenant could then, if he or she chose, press a button that would release the lock on the inner door and allow the visitor entrance.

Brad had investigated the situation upon his arrival in Winfield and had come to the conclusion that the better way of gaining entrance to the building was through the underground parking area.

"The tenants activate the garage door with remote control boxes," he explained to Tracy. "Once the door rises, they're usually too set on getting their cars inside to notice much else. That's especially true during rush hour, right after people get off from work. It's a madhouse then."

Now, standing with him across the street from the apartment house, Tracy had to agree that his observation had been correct. It was 5:45 in the evening, when the surge of homecoming traffic was at its peak, and the garage door was lifting and falling like a battery-powered guillotine. Even so, she regarded the situation with measured doubt.

"I can't make myself invisible. Even with all the chaos, somebody's bound to see me."

"The driver of the car behind you will, but he won't be able to do anything about it," said Brad. "He won't have a chance to react before the door cuts him off." He paused and then asked, "You're not getting cold feet, are you?"

Tracy shook her head. "I don't want to make any mistakes, that's all."

"You won't. After all, you're the daughter of professional actors. You can pull it off. All you have to do is find out if this Drummer is Gavin." He put his hand on her arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'd go into the building with you, but I'm afraid to risk it. If Gavin ever once caught sight of me, the game would be over. He'd take off with Mindy, and all we'd see would be dust. I promise you, though, getting in there is going to be easy."

This did, indeed, prove to be the case. When the door reached the peak of its next ascent, Tracy was able to step quickly into the garage on the tail of a cream-colored Subaru and slip unchallenged into a shadowy passageway between two rows of parked vehicles. By the time the door had fallen and risen again, she was well on her way to the elevator at the corner of the basement.

She rode up to ground level in the company of two men in business suits and a woman in a nurse's uniform. Then, stepping out into the spaciousness of the recreational area, she found herself greeted by pink-tinged twilight, the astringent odor of chlorine, and planters filled with an array of flowers and shrubbery.

It was immediately apparent that the area around the pool was a regular gathering place for the more social-minded residents of the Continental Arms Despite the fact that it was still early, the after work crowd had begun to congregate, and the patio had already developed a partylike atmosphere. Several people were splashing in the pool, and at least a dozen others were either sitting on the edge or relaxing in deck chairs with glasses and beer cans in hand. There was a lot of talk and laughter, and a portable tape player was spewing forth rock music as background for conversation.

Tracy stood for a moment, absorbing the scene before her Was it possible that one of these men was Brad's former stepfather? If so, she thought, he must be much younger than Brad's mother. This attractive group of people appeared to be in their twenties and early thirties, and men and women alike were as uniformly healthy and trim as though their bodies had been cloned at a Nautilus fitness center.

Shifting her attention to the apartments themselves, Tracy noted that the units at ground level were identified by three digit numbers starting with the numeral one Stairways at either end of the recreation area led to the second level of the building, where the higher-numbered apartments faced out upon a walkway overlooking the pool.

The nearest set of stairs was situated next to the elevator she had ridden up on. Leaving the pool party churning behind her, Tracy mounted the steps and walked slowly along the balcony, counting off the numbers of the apartments until she stood in front of 204. A card inserted in a slot next to the buzzer read BRUMMER-TYLER.

I don't have to do this, she reminded herself. I don't owe a thing to Brad Johnson. I can still change my mind and turn around and walk out of here.

She pressed the buzzer.

She could hear the sound of it, faint and far, at the back of the apartment. For several moments there was no additional sound from within. Then, just as she was preparing to accept the fact that no one was going to answer, the door was yanked open to reveal a shirtless young man with a towel thrown across his shoulders. He was barefoot, and his matted hair was glistening with droplets of water. With the hand with which he was not grasping the doorknob, he was cinching the belt of a pair of Levi's 501s.

He did not seem disconcerted to find his caller a stranger.

"Hello, there," he said in cordial greeting "Sorry for the delay, but you caught me in the shower. If I'd had any idea somebody this gorgeous was standing at the door, I'd have come racing out in a bath towel "

"If you'd like me to wait until you've finished—" Tracy began haltingly, thrown off balance by such an enthusiastic welcome

"Not at all. I'm decent now, and if it will make you feel more comfortable, I'll even put on a shirt and shoes in your honor Why don't you start by telling me who you are? After that, you can come in and give me the story of your life "

"My name's Tracy Lloyd," said Tracy. "I'm a new neighbor of yours. I just wanted to ask if it would be possible for me to use your phone."

"No problem about that. Beautiful ladies are always welcome here. I'm Jim Tyler." The man thrust out a damp, freckled hand for Tracy to shake. "I was certain I hadn't seen you around here before. Did you just move in?"

"This morning," Tracy told him. "I haven't had time yet to get a phone installed. In fact, the call I need to make is to the telephone company."

"Be my guest." Jim Tyler stepped back from the doorway and motioned her in.

She stepped past him into the living room and glanced about her, half expecting to find a blond child curled up on the sofa. Instead, she saw a pile of newspapers and a copy of TV Guide. The room was furnished in an impersonal manner that revealed almost nothing about the apartment's occupants. The abstract prints on the walls matched the shades of rust in the two-tone carpet, and the couch, chairs, and coffee table might have been purchased as a set during a sale at Sears.

To Tracy, the apartment appeared on first glance to be less a real home than a short-term stopover area in which swinging bachelors could change their clothes between social engagements. She could see nothing anywhere to indicate the presence of a child.

"This is nice," she commented politely. "I have a single myself. I'd been wondering what the double apartments were like."

"The only real difference is that the living room's bigger," said Jim. "Then, of course, there's an extra bedroom and bath." He gestured toward the door to the kitchen. "The phone's on the wall to the left of the sink, and unless my roommate's dragged it off somewhere, the directory ought to be on the counter."

"Thanks," Tracy said. "I shouldn't be more than a minute."

When she entered the kitchen, she found that it, too, had the look of a room that received sporadic use only. The remnants of breakfast—a cup half filled with cold coffee, an apple core, two cereal bowls with milk scum dried on their interiors—still sat out on the table. An orange juice carton stood on the counter, and the sink was speckled with charred fragments of blackened toast. The dishwasher gaped open, the bottom section empty and the top shelf stacked with cups and glasses. A trash container standing next to the refrigerator was filled with cartons from frozen dinners topped off by a heavy sprinkling of empty beer cans.

Despite the extent of its clutter, there was nothing about the room to proclaim the fact that one of that morning's breakfasters had been a child. No high chair stood in the comer adjacent to the table; no food-spattered bib hung draped across the towel rack. There were no parental reminders attached with magnets to the refrigerator—Pick up Mindy's sitter at five. Take Mindy for allergy shot. Parent Open House at Mindy's nursery on Friday.

Jim Tyler had not accompanied her into the kitchen, but, conscious of the open doorway, Tracy picked up the telephone directory and riffled through its pages as though busily engaged in looking up a number. Then she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear.

"Hello," she said against the buzz of the dial tone. "I'd like to see about getting a phone installed in my new apartment. My name's Tracy Lloyd, and I'm at the Continental Arms." She paused, as if listening to someone on the other end of the line. "That's right," she continued, "it's Lloyd, spelled with two Ls.... No, I've never had a phone in my own name before." Another pause to listen to the nonexistent second party. "Thank you. I'll be there tomorrow, then. Good-bye."

As she was replacing the receiver, Jim appeared in the doorway. His hair, though still damp, was no longer dripping, and he was wearing a T-shirt and sandals.

"So, what's the good word?" he asked. "When can they install it?"

"Next week, I hope," said Tracy. "I have to go down to their office and sign some papers."

"Hassles!" Jim said lightly. "The whole world's filled with hassles!" He opened the door of the refrigerator. "What can I offer you in the way of refreshments? Beer? Pop? How about a rum and Coke? A bunch of us took a run down to Mexico last weekend and brought back some duty-free Ronrico."

"A Coke would be great. Nothing in it, please," said Tracy. She moved to stand beside him so she, too, could peer into the refrigerator. She was not sure what it was she hoped to find there—bowls of Jell-O, perhaps, or a container of Kool-Aid. Maybe even a Donald Duck glass filled with chocolate milk. All she saw were beverage cans, some apples, and a wedge of cheese.

Jim extracted a Coke and a beer, handed the former to Tracy, and shut the refrigerator door. Then he led the way out of the kitchen. Shoving aside the newspapers that littered the sofa, he sat down, motioning Tracy to take a seat beside him.

"Well, tell me about yourself," he said. "You can't be from around here; you don't have the mandatory drawl. I'd guess you're from somewhere in the East. Am I right?"

"I'm from New York," Tracy told him. Then, anticipating the next question, she continued, "I moved here to be near my family—my aunt and uncle. They're sort of elderly and not too well."

For some reason she found that statement difficult to utter. She was surprised by that fact, for the overall deception did not bother her. As Brad had noted, she was the product of a theater background, and playing a role came naturally and easily to her. Still, the lie about the Stevensons made her oddly uncomfortable. She wished she could have thought fast enough to have come up with some other reason for having made the move from New York to Texas.