twenty-eight

Rush hour seems to start earlier each year. It was six o’clock by the time I got back to my apartment. I unlocked the front door, grabbed my mail, and jogged up the twisting staircase to my apartment. I always get one workout a day.

I reached my door. More steps led off to my right. The staircase continued on to the roof. Maybe I’d go up there and have a nice homemade dinner. I had some romaine lettuce and some chicken breast. I’d grill the chicken and put it on a Caesar salad.

I worked the key and opened the door. The coffee pot sat on the counter where I had talked to Kevin yesterday. The dirty carafe was a tangible reminder of his life.

Kevin is gone.

I put my mail on the counter, sighed, shook my head, and opened the first piece of mail. It was the telephone bill. I had to use the bathroom. I put down the bill and walked toward my bedroom.

A wire bit into my neck, choking off my air.

I was startled and jumped. The jump tightened the wire further. I scrabbled at the garrote, followed it, and felt strong hands in latex gloves. I tried to scream, but my lungs wouldn’t fill. The guy had been hiding in my office opposite the kitchen. He pulled at me. I resisted and turned, grabbing his hands to release the pressure and lifting him off the floor over my shoulder.

I tried to punch behind me, but I couldn’t reach him. Scratching at the latex-covered hands was useless. The rubber protected the skin. I tried to hit him with my elbows. I found nothing. My vision was narrowing, and my ears filled with a rushing sound. The kitchen was withdrawing down a long tunnel.

The coffee carafe was at the end of the tunnel. I pulled toward it, but the guy held me back. I punched again and missed.

The carafe was right there. Just out of reach. I stamped down with my foot, and my heel caught him on the instep. He grunted and moved his foot. I lunged forward, grabbing the carafe and shattering it on the granite countertop. Cold coffee and glass flew through the room.

I stabbed the handle into the latex-covered hands, cutting them with jagged remnants of glass. I heard a grunt and cut the hand again. It moved out of reach. That loosened the wire for an instant, and I was able to turn my shoulder and punch back with the glass, catching the guy in the face.

He screamed something in a foreign language and let go. I spun completely and slashed at him. He blocked my blow, and the glass cut his hand again. He was wearing a dark suit and had blood running down the right side of his face. It was the guy from the Apple Store. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun.

I pushed him into the living room and ran out the front door and up the stairs toward the roof. I didn’t want to be below him on the staircase where he could shoot down at me. I burst out the roof door and into the little deck that turned the roof into a city porch.

The buildings on my block are connected. Their roofs run together to make a broad plaza with firewall hurdles. I vaulted the deck’s fence, landing on the roof. I didn’t know what to do. If I ran across the roofs, he’d shoot me. I had no wind. My throat burned.

A voice called, “Under here!” It was Carol. She was beneath the deck. I dove, rolled, and lay still. I couldn’t see Carol, but I heard her whisper, “Shhh.”

I lay on my back, looking up through the thin space between the slats. Quiet footsteps walked above me. I saw a shadow on the deck. Then muttering in that language: Russian?

It was dark in my hiding place. It smelled of mold and rat droppings. The footsteps moved back toward the door, then disappeared. An ambush?

I pulled out my BlackBerry. I pushed a key. The phone was locked. A dialog box asked, “Emergency Call?” I selected the option and the phone dialed 911. I didn’t have to talk. The phone’s GPS would do the rest.

“You’re safe, baby, just stay here.” Carol’s voice was tight and quiet. My heart was pounding, and I still had trouble breathing. My throat felt swollen, and I closed my eyes for a second.

I must have passed out, because strong hands were pulling me out from under the deck. I pulled back, wishing that I hadn’t dropped the carafe handle. I said, “Get the fuck away from me!”

The guy was wearing a blue uniform. He said, “Easy, pal. Easy.” Blue uniforms were everywhere. Cops swarmed over the roof. I was safe.