The walk to her car seemed endless. On the avenue, streetlamps filled the darkness with a coarse, shallow light. But along this far western stretch of Thirty-seventh Street, the murky blackness enveloped Georgia. Cellar doors and entranceways lost all form, and metal trash cans bulged with strange, menacing shadows.
She kept to the middle of the deserted sidewalk, pulling her jacket around her and clutching her keys tightly in her fist. Too late, she remembered the green laundry bag on her car’s backseat, bound for the dry cleaner. She hoped some kid wouldn’t bust a car window for the privilege of discovering that laundry bags do, indeed, carry dirty laundry.
Her Ford Escort was wedged in between two vans, which half buried the car in shadows. She fumbled with the lock for only a second before inserting the key. A pallid interior light instantly welcomed her, like the glow of a diner sign from a highway. She threw her pocketbook on the front passenger’s seat and jumped in. The door closed with a resounding thud, and she punched down the lock.
There was a soft rustle from behind.
“Turn, and you’re dead.”
A weight settled on Georgia’s chest. Every muscle tensed. Her pulse quickened, and she breathed rapidly.
“My bag’s on the seat. I have about eighty dollars in it—”
“I don’t want your money.”
If this wasn’t a robbery, then it had to be a…
No. Please. Not that. A thousand showers could never make her feel clean again.
Slowly, Georgia tried to maneuver her right hand to the holster under her windbreaker. The intruder caught the movement, highlighted by the pale green glow spilling out from the car’s digital alarm clock. He grabbed her arm and yanked it behind the seat. Pain seared through Georgia’s shoulder socket.
“I could burn you and this whole friggin’ car in the time it’d take to shoot me.”
With his other hand, the man reached under her jacket and dug through a layer of sweater before he was able to slip the nine-millimeter out of its holster. “You buried the goddamn piece, anyway. What’s the matter? Afraid you might kill someone? It wouldn’t be the first time, now, would it?”
A shudder traveled up Georgia’s spine, electrifying the hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t recognize the voice, but the tone, the references—the familiarity of it chilled her.
“Do…I…know…you?”
The intruder chuckled to himself. “You do now.” Then he let go of her arm. It still ached at the shoulder. Her feet had grown numb. She could no longer move them. “So…” he exhaled. “You meet any of the brothers at the hotel while they were engaged in their…um, civic activities?”
His words tore through her like a hot poker. A bitter, metallic taste settled on her tongue. A pins-and-needles tingling washed over her whole body.
“You’re…the Fourth Angel,” Georgia whispered, as if the name itself had the power to ignite. All at once, her conscious mind seemed to bail out of her body, then hover in the air above, like a spectator at a movie. The earthly vessel it left behind—in the driver’s seat—barely had the power to talk.
“What do you want?” she managed to choke out.
“Something you took from me and can’t give back.” He paused, watching her fidget and tremble as she tried to make sense of his words. Then, abruptly, he leaned forward. Georgia could feel his hot, soggy breath on her neck and the polyester fibers of his ski mask.
“But hey, this little chat’s been grand. We’ll have to do it again sometime…real, real soon, Georgia. I promise.”
The blow came sharply and swiftly from behind. A crack, then darkness, then a cool burst of air. Shattering glass. Voices…
…The sound of her back window being broken.