Watch Them Die (4 page)

Hannah imagined cutting back on her hours at the store and spending more time with Guy. She figured she could write under a pseudonym to keep her name out of the papers. And she loved creating those mini-reviews. It suddenly seemed possible that she could make a semi-decent dollar with her writing. Womanizing sleazeball or not, Paul Gulletti was offering her a wonderful opportunity.

Paul also suggested she take his film class at the college. “It’ll fine-tune your skills,” he said. “I think you’ll benefit from it. And I’d feel better recommending one of my students as my successor at the paper.”

Though Hannah hated giving up precious time with Guy for this class one night a week, it seemed worth her while.

She’d been in the film class for five weeks now. Clearly, she was Paul’s favorite student, and all the special attention embarrassed her. She kept Paul at arm’s length. She needed his help, but didn’t want to become another notch on his bedpost.

Paul’s assistant, an arty, edgy young man named Seth Stroud, confirmed for Hannah that his boss did indeed want to get her in the sack. “Professor G. usually picks one female student every year,” Seth had confided to her one evening after class a while back. “He leads her around, tells her she’s brilliant and he’s gonna leave his old lady for her. Then he drops her at the end of the semester. You seem nice. I don’t want Paul doing that to you.”

“Well, thanks for the warning,” Hannah had replied. “But I’m not interested in Professor Gulletti that way.” Then she’d added, “You must not think very highly of your boss.”

“Actually, he’s okay,” Seth had admitted, with a shrug. “He’s just a shit to women. Hey, do me a favor and don’t tell him I said anything, okay?”

Now, whenever Paul asked her to stay after class for something, or picked her to explain the workings of a certain film director, Hannah would steal a look at Seth. Standing at the side of the room, he’d grin and roll his eyes a little. He was an oddly attractive man in his late twenties, with rectangular designer glasses, and brown hair that he’d gelled to stand in a dozen different directions. They’d had only a few brief conversations in the past few months. But Hannah had come to like him.

“Seth, if you could get the lights,” Paul announced, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “From 1962, John Frankenheimer’s
All Fall Down
.”

Seth switched off the lights, then stepped over to the projector and started the film. The MGM lion was roaring as Paul made his way down the aisle. He took the seat on Hannah’s left.

She caught Seth giving her one of his looks.

Paul leaned toward her. “I called you this week,” he whispered. “Didn’t you get my message?”

Hannah nodded. “Yes. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. It’s been kind of crazy at work. I was hoping we could talk during the break tonight.”

“I thought you could help me with some research,” Paul explained, while the music swelled on the film’s soundtrack. “It’ll get your foot in the door with my managing editor. I’m doing an article for the newspaper on movies that broke the blacklist. Maybe we can discuss it over dinner this week?”

Hannah hesitated.

“Excuse me, Professor,” Ben piped up. “I can’t hear the movie.”

Paul frowned at him, then reached over and touched Hannah’s arm. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered.

Squirming, Hannah sat between the two men. She gazed at the screen.

At the break, Paul said he’d talk with her after class.

Hannah nodded. “Okay. But I promised the sitter I’d be back by ten.”

She wandered out to the hallway, where the other students gathered by the vending machines and rest-room doors. Ben Whats-his-name seemed to be waiting for her. “You were right,” he said. “It was a good movie. I didn’t nod off. Warren Beatty’s character was sure a jerk, though, wasn’t he? I thought Eva Marie Saint would be too smart to fall for him.”

Hannah gave him a polite smile, then stepped over to the vending machine. “Maybe you ought to bring it up when the class reconvenes for the discussion period.”

“I don’t think I’ll stick around for that.” He leaned against the vending machine. “I wasn’t exactly gaga for his theories on
Casablanca
last week.”

Hannah slipped some coins in the slot, pressed a couple of buttons, then fished her candy from the vending machine’s drawer. “Would you like a Good & Plenty?” she asked.

“No,” he said, frowning. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I didn’t realize you and the teacher…” He trailed off. “Well, I heard people in class say you two were together. But I thought you were too smart to fall for a guy like him. Guess I was wrong about you
and
Eva Marie, huh?”

“What?” Hannah said.

“Like I said, I’m sorry.” He turned and started down the hall.

Hannah wondered how he’d gotten this misinformation about her and Paul. Had he been asking people about her?

She watched him walk away. Then he ducked into the stairwell.

Hannah decided she would take a cab home from the community college. She could hardly afford a taxi, but it was raining. Besides, she was still feeling a little leery after last night; first seeing that video, then thinking someone was in the apartment. And now, this Ben character. He unnerved her.

Paul was very curious about him. “How well do you know that guy?” he asked, pausing with Hannah outside the empty classroom. Everyone else had already left, including Seth. “I noticed him talking to you,” Paul went on. “He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? Is he a customer from the store?”

“I don’t know him from Adam,” Hannah said. “He just sat next to me in class tonight. Up until two hours ago, I never even said ‘boo’ to the guy. Do you know his last name? You must have it somewhere on a class list.”

According to the registration list, his name was Ben Sturges; phone number, 555-3291. Hannah wondered if the number was blocked. She thought about all those hang-ups she’d received lately. Could the calls be traced to his number?

Paul started telling her about his current project. “Some night this week we ought to get together for dinner or drinks and discuss it further.”

Hannah sighed. “Well, this week is kind of crazy,” she said. “But I really want to work for you, Paul. I can squeeze in the research on my own time, and then e-mail you.”

Paul frowned a bit. “Well, then I guess we’ll chat on-line later in the week. Listen, why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“Oh, well, thanks,” Hannah replied. “I don’t want you going to any trouble. I was going to take a cab—”

“Okay, suit yourself,” Paul grumbled; then he marched down the corridor to his office.

Hannah sighed. Obviously, he was ticked off at her. Otherwise, he’d have insisted on driving her home—just to be polite. After all, it was raining, for God’s sake.

She called the cab service from a pay phone by the community college’s main entrance.

Eleven blocks, and it cost her six dollars with tip. She’d have to skip lunch tomorrow. Still, the taxi ride kept her out of the rain.

Hannah stepped inside the apartment and pried off her shoes. She woke up Joyce, who had been dozing in front of the TV.

“Guy’s fast asleep, the little angel,” she told Hannah while collecting her purse and raincoat. “I put a big dent in that bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies. You really shouldn’t have bought those. Oh, and no one called tonight, not a single hang-up either. How about that?”

Hannah loaned Joyce an umbrella for the walk home. She locked the door after her, then checked in on Guy, who was asleep. After a shower, Hannah climbed into her T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and threw on a robe. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she plopped down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. She hoped her soap opera would take her mind off everything. She pressed “Play” to make sure the tape hadn’t run out early on her program.

What came over the screen wasn’t
The Young and the Restless
—or the soap after it. Hannah stared at a young couple, walking down the street. He wore a seersucker suit with a narrow tie, and she had a light coat over her minidress. It took Hannah a few moments to recognize John Cassavetes and Mia Farrow outside the Dakota apartment building in a scene from
Rosemary’s Baby
. They walked into a nest of police and onlookers gathered in front of the building. Amid the flashing lights and chaos, Mia got a glimpse of something on the sidewalk.

Hannah knew the movie. Still, she gasped when the camera cut to the bloodied corpse of Mia’s neighbor and friend sprawled on the pavement. One of the cops said that the girl had jumped from the building’s seventh-floor window.

“What is this?” Hannah muttered. Grabbing the remote, she ejected the movie. She went to the VCR and looked at the videocassette. It wasn’t the blank tape she’d slipped into the recorder this morning. It was a store-bought copy of
Rosemary’s Baby
. “Where the hell did this come from?” she whispered.

“Well, it’s not mine,” Joyce told her on the phone, three minutes later. “I’ve never even seen
Rosemary’s Baby
. I don’t go in for those scary movies.”

“Did you take Guy out tonight?” Hannah asked, thinking they might have had a break-in, a real one this time. Maybe the last one was real, too. “Did you leave the apartment at all?” she pressed.

“No, honey. It started raining shortly after you left. We stayed put.”

“Okay, Joyce. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”

Hannah hung up the phone, then went back to the VCR. The carpet was damp in spots, and she figured she must have tracked in some rain earlier. On top of a stack of videocassettes, Hannah found the tape she’d slipped into the machine this morning. She played it in the VCR. It was her soap opera; a new episode she hadn’t seen yet, today’s episode.

Hannah stepped back from the TV. Again, she felt the cold, wet patches on the carpet beneath her feet. Frowning, she turned and gazed back at her shoes by the front door, just where she’d kicked them off when she had stepped inside. She looked out the window at the continuous downpour.

Someone else had tracked in the rain—and not very long ago, either.

Swallowing hard, Hannah moved toward the door, along the damp trail on the carpet. She’d locked up before taking her shower. Now, with a shaky hand, she reached for the knob and pulled open the door.

“My God,” she whispered. How did it get unlocked? Was he still inside the apartment?

She hurried down the hall to Guy’s room. A hand over her pounding heart, she listened at the door for a moment, then quietly stepped inside. He was asleep, still breathing. She peeked into his closet.

Hannah checked every closet and every damn corner of the apartment. She made sure all the windows were locked, too. Along the way, she turned on several lights. She and Guy were alone in the apartment, but she still didn’t feel safe.

Hannah inspected the door. Whoever had broken in must have jimmied open the long, sliding window, then reached inside and manipulated the door locks.

Hannah wanted to call the police, but she couldn’t. They were probably looking for her, like that private detective in Chicago. She couldn’t afford to go to the police.

Instead, she finished her glass of wine and poured another. By half-past midnight, she had a tiny buzz and figured she was the worst mother in the world for getting drunk at a time like this—with her little boy asleep down the hall.

She pulled a broom and saw from the kitchen closet. After measuring the front window and the broom, she set the broom across her two barstools, then sawed off part of the handle. Maybe she wasn’t so drunk after all, because the broom handle fit perfectly in the window groove. If anyone wanted to get into the apartment through that window now, he’d have to break the glass.

He would probably be coming back for the tape—as he had last night. She was now convinced that someone had indeed broken into the apartment and switched videotapes on her.

She didn’t want to give him a reason to break in again. And she didn’t want the damn tape in her apartment tonight. After peeking out the window, Hannah grabbed the cassette, hurried outside, and moved down the walkway a few feet until she was standing directly over the dumpster—three stories below. Someone had left the lid open again.

Whoever had delivered the
Rosemary’s Baby
tape was probably watching her right now. She almost hoped he was. She wanted him to know that the tape wouldn’t be in her apartment tonight. She wanted him to see her pitching his video over the railing into the dumpster.

The cassette landed on top of a green trash bag in the large bin.

Hannah quickly ducked back in the apartment, and double-locked the door behind her. Then she tugged together the front window drapes, but they still had an inch-wide gap between them.

She grabbed her blanket out of the bedroom, and a hammer from the tool drawer in her kitchen. Hannah curled up on the sofa, with the hammer on the floor beside her. She listened to every little sound in the night. Whenever she opened her eyes, she glanced at the sliver of darkness and moonlight between the drapes.

Hannah didn’t really fall asleep until traces of dawn showed through those curtains.

Four

“Mom, are you awake?”

Hannah managed to get her eyes half open. It took her a moment to realize she was lying on the living room sofa. Guy stood in front of her in his underwear. He gave her shoulder a shake. “Mom?”

She cleared her throat. “Hi, honey,” she muttered. “What time is it?”

“The big hand is on the eight, and the little hand is on the seven.”

“Okay. Go brush your teeth.”

Throwing back the blanket, she climbed off the sofa. She couldn’t have gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep. She tried to focus on the door and the front window. Everything was locked up. The broom handle was still in the window.

Putting on her robe, Hannah rubbed the sleep from her eyes. With a bit of trepidation, she unlocked the door and opened it. She padded down the walkway a few feet and stared down at the dumpster, still open. She noticed the green trash bag in there, but no video. He’d picked it up.

He’d seen her throw it away last night. How long had he stayed out there? Was he still watching her?

Shuddering, Hannah hurried back inside and locked the door again. She told herself that anyone could have taken the tape. The building’s maintenance man, the newspaper deliverer, or maybe a neighbor had absconded with it.

After walking Guy to Alphabet Soup Day Care, she returned home and called the video store. She told Scott she needed a mental health day. “I think it’s sleep deprivation,” she explained. “Can someone cover for me?”

“Yeah, there’s Cheryl,” Scott said. “I hate her with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, but I’ll call her for you. Hope you feel better.”

“Thanks. Listen, can you do me another favor? Do we still have our copy of
Rosemary’s Baby
in the store?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec.”

Hannah waited. She wanted to know if the tape had been stolen. She hadn’t noticed an Emerald City Video label on it, but someone could have peeled it off.

Scott got back on the line: “Hannah? It’s here. Do you want me to hold onto it for you?”

“No, but can you do me one last favor? Could you go into the computer and see if it was rented recently, maybe returned early this morning? Sorry to be such a pain.”

“Want me to donate a lung to you while I’m at it? Ha, just kidding. I’m here to serve. Okay,
Rosemary’s Baby
was last rented two weeks ago by Laheart, Christopher. Returned on time. Anything else?”

Hannah sighed. “No, thanks. You’re a doll, Scott. I’ll be back to work tomorrow. See you then.”

After Hannah hung up with Scott, she called Joyce and gave her the night off. Then she phoned her apartment building manager. After some haggling, she persuaded him to let her change the locks on her front door, and add a second dead bolt. Then Hannah called a locksmith and made an appointment for that afternoon.

“I’m sorry.” The twenty-something Asian man with the Seattle Mariners sweatshirt shook his head at him. “I can’t give out anyone’s phone number.”

Ben stood at the counter, in front of an open sliding glass window. The man refusing to help him was alone in the community college’s administration office.

“I understand,” Ben said, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “But this woman and I are in the same film class, and last night she accidentally left her Palm Pilot on her desk. I want to get it back to her. Her name’s Hannah, but I’m not sure about the last name—”

“Tell you what, leave the Palm Pilot with us,” the clerk said. “We’ll call her.”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t have it with me right now. I—”

“Then leave us your name and a number where she can reach you.” The man slid a pen and a pad of paper across the counter at him. “We’ll phone her for you.”

Running a hand through his blond hair, Ben sighed. “Listen, I’ll be honest. I’m in the same film class with this woman, and I really want to ask her out. I was hoping you might give me her phone number—or at least her last name. Could you throw me a bone here? I mean, I look like a decent enough guy, right?”

The clerk frowned at him. “No, not really. What’s your name, anyway? Whose film class are you in?”

Ben took a step back. “Forget about it. Sorry I bothered you.”

He turned away from the counter and almost bumped into a tall, thin black woman with tangerine hair. “Excuse me,” he muttered, continuing down the hallway.

“Well, hello, Ben!” the woman called. Her tone was singsong, teasing.

He stopped and stared at her. “Oh, hi. How are you doing?” He recognized her from the class. She sat in the back row.

The woman sauntered toward him. She wore jeans, a white peasant blouse, and gobs of silver jewelry. The orange-colored hair was done in a pageboy flip with bangs. It looked like a wig. Her eyelashes were false, too. In fact, Ben had always figured she was really a man. This close, he could see her Adam’s apple.

“You don’t know my name, do you, Ben?” she asked, one hand on her hip. “Are you embarrassed at the social faux pas?”

He stole a glance at his watch. He didn’t feel like chatting, but didn’t want to be impolite, either. And there was the whole gender-bender thing that made him slightly uncomfortable, but eager not to offend. Ben tried to smile. “Well, um, I know we’re in the same film class, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“You’re Ben Sturges. I made it a point to find that out three weeks ago when you started the class. I said to myself, Dede, you are going to get the name of that gorgeous man with the blue eyes and the wavy blond hair.” She snapped her fingers. “And, child, I knew your name by the end of the break that first day.”

“Well, that’s very flattering, thanks, um, Dede.” Ben looked back over his shoulder at the door.

“Dede Liscious,” she said, patting his shoulder with her man-sized hand. “But what do you care, Ben? You only have eyes for Miss Hannah, the ice-queen blonde. Am I right?”

Ben gave her a wary grin.

“Oh, I saw you try, try, and try again with Miss Thing last night. And I couldn’t help overhearing just now. Why do you want that girl’s digits? She’s not buying or selling, honey. The market is closed. Hannah is the teacher’s property.”

Eyes narrowed, Ben stared at her.

She nodded, then placed her hand on her chest. “It’s been going on for a few weeks now, ever since she started class.”

“Well, you certainly know a lot,” Ben said, with a forced laugh. “Um, you don’t happen to know Hannah’s phone number, do you?”

She smiled. “No, Ben, but I can tell you where she works. If you want your heart stomped on by an ice queen, that’s your business. You can call Hannah at Emerald City Video. You can call her, Ben. But she won’t call you back.”

“Is Hannah working today?” Ben asked.

There were only a couple of customers in the video store. Behind the counter was a petite young woman with long, curly blond hair. She gave Ben a little flirtatious pout. “Hannah called in sick today.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Do you know if she’ll be in tomorrow?”

The woman shrugged, and flicked her hair. “Not until Monday.”

“Oh, she’s that sick, huh?”

“No, she has weekends off. She’s probably okay. Often when Hannah calls in sick, it’s actually because her little boy isn’t feeling well or something.”

Ben nodded. “Oh, yeah. It’s been a while. How old is he now?”

“Four, I think. She brings him in the store every once in a while.”

“Have you ever met the father?” Ben asked.

“No,” she whispered. “Hannah never talks about him. Did you know him?”

Ben shook his head.

“I think he died a couple of years ago,” the young woman said.

“Oh,” Ben said. “Well, I guess Paul comes in here quite a lot.”

She frowned. “Paul?”

“Paul Gulletti. Isn’t he kind of seeing her?”

The clerk laughed. “That’s news to me. I don’t think Hannah’s dating anybody.”

“Really? Huh,” Ben said, raising his eyebrows. Then he smiled at her and casually leaned on the counter. “Listen, it’s been forever since I’ve seen her. You don’t happen to have Hannah’s phone number, do you?”

“My coworker probably has it. Want to hold on for a sec?”

“Thanks.” Ben watched her retreat to the back room.

The young woman glanced over her shoulder and gave him a big smile. She opened the door to the break room, where Scott sat at the desk, labeling a new shipment of videos.

He looked up from his work and squinted at her. “Cheryl, who were you talking to out there?” he whispered.

“I think he might be an old boyfriend of Hannah’s or something. He was asking about her—”

“Yeah, I heard. I was about to come out there. Listen, Cheryl, I don’t think Hannah would be especially thrilled that you’re telling strangers all about her personal life. Is he a customer? Did you get his name?”

Cheryl frowned. “God, do I have to get, like, a security check on somebody just because he asks a couple of questions? He’s cute, and I’m just trying to help. All he wanted was Hannah’s phone number.”

Shaking his head, Scott got to his feet. He brushed past her and stepped out of the back room. “Um, can I help you—” he started to say, making his way toward the counter. Scott stopped in his tracks.

No one was there.

She was deciding whose Sunday newspaper she’d steal this morning. Dressed in a lavender jogging suit, and with her black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, Cindy Finkelston stood at the mail table in the lobby of her apartment building. She hadn’t been jogging. Cindy had power-walked to the coffee shop three blocks away for her usual Sunday morning latte to go.

Some asshole in line at the coffee place had given her flack, because she’d cut in front of him while he was glancing out the window. She’d dished it right back to him, claiming she hadn’t known he was in line. He’d called her “rude” and “obnoxious.” But, ha-ha, she’d gotten her coffee before him.

Cindy set the hot, heavy-duty paper container on the mail table, and studied the pile of newspapers. She ignored the note that had been taped by the mailboxes about three weeks ago:

SOMEONE HAS BEEN STEALING MY
VANITY FAIR
MAGAZINES. THIS WAS A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION FROM MY BROTHER, AND WHOEVER HAS BEEN HELPING HIS-OR-HERSELF TO MY MAGAZINES ISN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY. IF THIS CONTINUES, I’M TAKING IT BEFORE THE CONDO BOARD.

—RACHEL PORTER #401

A couple of other residents at the Broadmore Apartments had scribbled comments on the typed notice:
“I have the same problem. Someone keeps taking my Sunday paper…M. Donovan #313,”
and
“Ditto - J. Vollmer, #407.”

Cindy took
The Seattle Times
, with
#313
written on the clear plastic wrapping. The way she figured, if they really wanted their Sunday paper, they should have gotten up earlier.
You snooze, you lose.
After all, it was past eight o’clock. This was her newspaper now, and there wasn’t a single, solitary thing they could do about it.

She picked up her coffee and rang for the elevator. Cindy rode up to the fifth floor. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she pulled out her keys and unlocked her door.

Cindy stepped into her apartment, then stopped. It was too cold. She automatically glanced over at the sliding door that led to a small balcony off her living room. But the door was closed. Along the other wall, she noticed the sliding window—wide open. The screen was open too.

Suddenly, something flew down at her from above, fluttering past her shoulder. Cindy dropped her coffee—and her neighbor’s newspaper. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She realized it was a pigeon. The damn thing must have been perched up on her bookcase. Now it settled on the back of one of her dining room chairs.

“Goddamn it!” Cindy hissed, once she got her breath back. Coffee had spilled on her pale blue carpet.

She hadn’t opened that window earlier. What was going on?

“Filthy thing,” she muttered. “Shoo, get out!” she said, waving at the bird.

But the pigeon only flapped its wings as if it were about to take off at her. Cindy got scared and backed away. “Shit!” she muttered. She decided to let the caretaker get rid of the damn thing.

Then it suddenly dawned on her that she might not be safe in the apartment. Someone else had opened that window, and he could still be there—hiding, waiting for her.

Cindy turned toward the door and gasped.

A man stood in her path. He wore an army jacket and black jeans. A nylon stocking was pulled over his face, distorting his features. Cindy couldn’t tell what he looked like. But she could see he was smiling.

She started to scream.

All at once he was on her. He slapped his hand over her mouth. Cindy couldn’t breathe. She struggled and kicked. She tried to bite his hand, but his grip was so tight, she couldn’t even move her jaw. Cindy thought he might break her neck.

He maneuvered his way behind her. He was twisting her arm.

The pigeon took off, flying out the open window.

“Shhh,” he whispered, the nylon material over his face brushing against her ear. “This won’t work if you scream. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He lowered his hand a little from her mouth, and Cindy was able to breathe through her nose. She stopped struggling. She knew she was trapped.

“It was pretty funny with the bird flying in like that, wasn’t it?” he said, chuckling. “But you know what’s not so funny? The way you treated my Hannah at the video store the other night. You might think she’s some nobody clerk, but she’s
my
Hannah, you stupid, silly bitch.”

Cindy tried to speak, but again, his hand was clasped firmly over her mouth. She merely whimpered in protest. She couldn’t break free of him.

“We need to make sure you don’t scream,” he said.

Cindy noticed a second man, coming from her kitchen. His face was deformed with the same nylon disguise. They both looked like monsters, something out of a nightmare. But they were real. The pain in her arm was real. That warm, moist nylon mask scraping against her face was real.