DESPITE HER creaky leg, she managed to get out of the restaurant without stumbling. A brisk chill had settled in, and the streetlamps made puddles of light between black sidewalk. Light, dark, light, dark. In her foyer the mailbox presented her with bills, and the elevator clanked and banged on the way up to the ninth floor. The building’s owner had promised a repairman by the weekend, but none of her neighbors were holding their breaths.
It wasn’t until she’d entered her apartment that she realized something was wrong. The alarm, which she dependably set every morning, was disarmed. That thought barely had time to cross her mind before she felt, against the back of her neck, the movement of air. Instinctively, she dropped to the floor and felt a scratch against the rear of her skull as she kicked backward with her good leg, digging her heel into something—a shin. She rolled against the carpet, finally catching sight of her attacker: a hand holding a syringe; sneakers covered in clear plastic protectors; a green windbreaker; a black balaclava.
The man was stumbling back, one leg up to keep balance, and without thinking Rachel grabbed his other leg and jerked with all her strength. His arms flailed, leg kicking out, and when he crashed onto his back she plunged a sharp, hard elbow into his groin. A choked gasp of pain. She was up on her good knee by then and dropped herself on top of him, all her weight behind an elbow aimed at his solar plexus. The little air still in his lungs escaped him in a tiny explosion, and he lay stunned, gasping, arms splayed out, the syringe rolling across the hardwood floor. Just enough time for her to scramble up his body and shove her forearm into his throat while her other hand snatched the syringe. She slid it into his carotid artery. His eyes popped open. His mouth opened, too, but he didn’t have enough breath to speak.
“I’m going to squeeze the plunger if you don’t tell me,” she said. Since she couldn’t read the expression in his masked face, she jiggled the needle; he winced. “Let’s start with who,” she said.
He managed two syllables. “Don’t … know.”
“What’s in the syringe?”
The man blinked, eyes now bloodshot. “Et—or—phine.”
Now Rachel blinked. A drop of pure etorphine would kill her, but diluted it would knock her out instantly, and deeply. Which version was she holding? His strength was returning; she wouldn’t be able to hold him down much longer. She squeezed the syringe. Once he realized what was happening it was too late. He tried to yell but fell unconscious, his body relaxing before the sound escaped him.
Her leg hurt like hell.
She closed her eyes. Counted to twenty. Then checked his pulse.
He was alive.
She tugged the balaclava off his sleeping face. Forties, Caucasian, thick eyebrows and a flabby jawline. Gray hair. She tried to steady her breathing, but it was hard, because this was him: early August 2017. An Arlington street corner. A .357 Magnum.
Though her impulse was to call the police, she changed her mind after searching his body and finding that he carried nothing at all, not even keys, and that the labels had been cut out of his clothes. No—not like an aggrieved Massive Brigade follower coming for revenge. Not that, but …
Thoughts ran fast and slow in her head, crashing into each other. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on one: Who?
He said he didn’t know, and she believed it. He was just a hired hand who’d failed back in August and had been sent back to finish the job.
Why?
She had nothing. Without one she couldn’t know the other. Who would explain why, and vice versa. But she had neither.
In her steamy bathroom, she discovered that the tub had been prepared with hot water and a straight razor.
Oh.
She threw up in the toilet and cleaned herself off in the sink, trying not to look at the razor.
When she came out, patting her face with a hand towel, she noticed that her desk was clean, her laptop gone. Slowly, she walked through the studio, saw where this nameless man had rifled through shelves and opened up books. On the kitchen counter, she saw an open tin of Quaker Oats, and her heart sank. She hurried over and discovered that the Browning pistol she hid there was missing.
The gun and laptop were nowhere to be found, which meant that either they had been taken by an accomplice or her visitor had put them in his car, still parked someplace nearby …
But he had no keys on him. Therefore …
She pounded her forehead three times with her fist.
Therefore, someone was waiting downstairs for him to return.
She went back to the man, who was still out cold, and slapped his face. “Hey. Wake up.” But his skin felt cool, and she noticed, looking down, that his pants were wet from a bladder that had relaxed completely. Hesitantly, she placed two fingers under his jaw and waited.
Tried again.
Again.
“Shit.”
Though only five minutes had passed, it felt like a half hour had trickled by before she pocketed her cash and left the building, wearing the dead man’s windbreaker, hood up. Rain had begun to fall, black puddles reflecting the lights above. She walked quickly, half-hobble, still trying to get her thoughts straight. Light, dark, light, dark. She watched for waiting cars—accomplices, perhaps, or maybe, she thought, the killer’s car took a fingerprint instead of a key—when a parked van ahead of her started up, lights flashing on, then going dark. It pulled out into the steady drizzle and drove slowly past her. As it passed, in the shadowy cabin she caught sight of the green, glowing tip of an e-cigarette, balanced between a woman’s fingers. Then it was gone. She walked faster. From behind, she heard the van stop. She looked back to see red brake lights. Then the white lights of reversal.
She ran.