Watch Them Die (5 page)

“If I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream?” he asked.

His partner was coming toward her. Eyeing him, Cindy nodded anxiously. But as soon as she gasped some air through her mouth, Cindy started to yell.

Certainly, one of the neighbors would hear and come help.

“Shut her up,” grunted the man holding her.

All at once, his partner punched Cindy in the stomach. All at once, she couldn’t breathe, much less scream. She automatically dropped toward the floor, and curled up—fetal-like—from the overwhelming pain in her gut.

But the man still had ahold of her. “Get her feet,” she heard him tell his friend.

Suddenly, they were dragging her toward the open window. She was still breathless, paralyzed by the pain in her stomach. They had her by the arms and feet. She tried to struggle, but it was useless.

She felt the chilly wind sweep across her as they hoisted her up on the windowsill. She still couldn’t breath—or scream. Her head was swimming.

Cindy Finkelston knew she was going to die. And there wasn’t a single, solitary thing she could do about it.

“Well, what exactly did you tell him about me?” Hannah asked, keeping her voice low. There were customers in the store that Monday afternoon. She had to stifle the inclination to scream at Cheryl. The two of them stood behind the counter.

“I hardly told the guy anything. God!” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “He came in on Friday and asked if you were working. I said you were out sick, and might be back today. That’s all. Scott’s blowing it all out of proportion.”

Hannah glared at her. No one liked Cheryl very much. At twenty-one, she was younger than everybody else on the Emerald City Video payroll, yet she treated her coworkers in a fake-pleasant, condescending manner. She was a theater major, and always seemed “on.” Hannah found her obnoxiously perky and phony.

“Well, what did this guy look like, anyway?” Hannah asked, one hand on the countertop. “Can you describe him? Age? Hair color?”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Okay, tell me this much. Have you seen him in the store before?”

“God, Hannah,” she said, with a stunned little laugh. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” She flicked back her long blond hair. “I really don’t remember much about him. He was here for, like, two seconds. You know, Hannah, I have guys in here every day asking for my phone number. It might not happen to you so much, because you’re older. But if I were you, I’d be flattered.”

Hannah slowly shook her head. “Cheryl—”

“Hannah, could you come in here?”
Scott called from the back room.

She shot Cheryl one last, venomous look. “Give me a yell if it gets busy,” she said evenly.

Retreating to the cramped back room, Hannah found Scott at the desk with a newspaper in front of him. He was on his break. Hannah closed the door. “I want to kill her,” she whispered.

“Yeah, well, get in line,” Scott replied. He folded back the newspaper page. “I thought you’d want to see this. Did you know about it?”

“About what?” Hannah asked, taking the newspaper from him. She glanced at the headline near the bottom of the local news page, and read it aloud:
“‘SEATTLE WOMAN PLUNGES FIVE STORIES TO HER DEATH.’”

“Keep reading,” Scott said.

“‘Authorities are investigating the circumstances behind the death of a Seattle woman, Cindy Finkelston, 34, who fell from her fifth-floor living-room window at the Broadmoore apartment building on Sunday morning….’”

“There is no ‘H’ in Finkelston,” Scott said. “Remember her from the other day? Miss I’ll-take-legal-action? Looks like she took a half gainer instead.”

“My God,” Hannah whispered, stunned. “How weird. I—I don’t know how to react.”

“Well, please don’t act sad, or I’ll throw up,” Scott said.

Hannah frowned at him.

“Call me a coldhearted SOB, but she was kind of a jerk. Remember how she treated you?”

Hannah anxiously scanned the article. “They don’t say if it was suicide or not.”

Scott leaned back in the chair. “No, they don’t give you much to go on. You look pale. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know about this,” Hannah murmured. “There’s something wrong. I have the strangest feeling—”

A knock on the door interrupted her. “I need help up front!” Cheryl called in a shrill voice.

“That’s really bizarre,” Hannah said, stealing one last glance at the article. She sighed, gave him back the newspaper, then reached for the doorknob. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I still have ten minutes left on my break.”

Hannah emerged from the back room to find about a dozen customers waiting for service. A couple of men were arguing who had been in line first, while another woman moved up to the counter, asking loudly if there was a section for the Beatles.

“I can help whoever is next,” Hannah announced, stepping up to her register. “The Beatles are on the top shelf in the far-right corner of the store.”

Three other people started yelling questions at her—all at once. Hannah weathered the onslaught of customers. In about five minutes, the line had dwindled down to one person: a very handsome black man in his early thirties. He set his video on the counter and smiled at Hannah. “I was watching you,” he said. “You got through that rush pretty well. Talk about grace under fire.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said. “I juggle, too. Can I have your name, please?”

“I just opened up an account here yesterday,” he said. “Tollman is the last name. Craig.”

With his chiseled features, Tollman, Craig looked like a model out of
GQ
. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wiry, he wore his hair so short he was nearly bald. He wore a deep blue shirt, tie, and black pants.

Hannah pulled up his account, then punched in the code for his video.

“I just moved up here from Phoenix last week,” he said, taking out his money. “Maybe you can help me. Could you recommend a nice restaurant around here?”

Shrugging, Hannah gave him his change. “I don’t get out much, but I know the Pink Door is nice.”

“Well, would you care to go with me sometime?” he asked. “For dinner?”

“You mean, like on a date?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I’d like to treat you to dinner.”

Hannah felt herself blushing. “Oh, well, thank you.” She glanced down at the counter. “But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“We can make it for lunch—if dinner’s too much too soon. Or if you’re totally date-a-phobic, I’d love to meet you for coffee sometime.”

Hannah shoved his video in a bag. Her face still felt hot. She managed to smile at him. “Thanks anyway,” she said. “I’m very flattered, but no.”

“Maybe some other time?”

She shrugged. “I can’t make any promises. But it was a very nice offer.” She handed him the bag.

He glanced at his receipt. “Are you working Thursday?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, I might see you when I bring the movie back. Hey, you know, I never got your name.”

“I’m Hannah,” she said.

“You’ve got a terrific smile, Hannah. You know that?”

As he strolled out of the store, Craig Tollman glanced over his shoulder at her. Hannah met his gaze, and he grinned.

Through the front window, Hannah watched him walk away.

She took her break at three o’clock on Mondays. Alphabet Soup Day Care was a short walk from the video store, and at three-fifteen, they had snack-time. Parents were welcome to join in. Hannah was there every Monday afternoon for Guy—usually with some kind of special treat.

At five minutes to three, Hannah went to the store’s break room, where she fetched her coat and purse. She noticed Scott’s newspaper on the desk.

Nearly an hour had passed since Scott had shown her the article about Cindy Finkelston’s death. Hannah hadn’t given her any thought since then. She’d been too busy with customers. Now she felt a little guilty for not caring more. Of course, Scott had a point: Cindy wasn’t a very nice person. Had she really taken her own life, or was it an accident?

Hannah tried to shrug it off. Maybe there would be an update about it in tomorrow’s paper.

She stopped by the mall’s food court and bought a couple of fruit shakes to go. The banana shake was Guy’s favorite.

As she walked the five blocks to Alphabet Soup Day Care, Hannah gazed up at some of the taller apartment buildings along the way. She stopped in front of one, figuring it was as tall as Cindy Finkelston’s building. She could almost see Cindy falling from one of those windows near the top story. Then, like a dream, the images in her mind took a strange turn. She pictured Mia Farrow and John Cassevetes walking along the street below to discover a throng of onlookers and police. Hannah remembered how Mia reacted when she saw the bloody corpse on the pavement.

The bag with the fruit shakes slipped from her grasp, and hit the sidewalk with a splat. A dark stain bloomed on the brown paper bag.

It dawned on Hannah that the videotape of
Rosemary’s Baby
was someone’s way of telling her what would happen to Cindy Finkelston.

This person had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she saw the tape. It had even been cued to that scene. Hannah tried to make some sense out of it all. She’d found the video in her apartment on Thursday night. Cindy Finkelston had taken that fateful fall yesterday morning, Sunday. Why would someone choose to forecast Cindy’s death for her? She barely knew the woman.

There had to be some connection to the
Goodbar
video. But what? She didn’t really know the victim in that one, either. Someone was singling her out to preview these “movie” deaths. But why?

Ever since the second break-in three nights before, Hannah had been sleeping on the sofa—with a hammer on the floor beside her. Even after changing the locks, she didn’t feel safe.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her every move. She was constantly looking over her shoulder. She didn’t let Guy out of her sight, and they’d spent most of the weekend inside—with the door locked.

This morning, she’d told Joyce that someone had tried to break in, and warned her to be on her guard.

“It’s those darn crack-heads ruining the neighborhood,” Joyce had lamented. “Well, don’t worry about Guy while he’s with me. I keep pepper spray and one of those electric-shock zap’m things in my purse. I’m armed and dangerous, hon. No one’s gonna tangle with this grandma.”

Just the same, on her way to work, Hannah had a hard time convincing herself that Guy was safe. After a few hours in the store, she’d almost felt as if things were back to normal. But then she’d learned that over the weekend, someone had been there asking questions about her. And now this incident right out of
Rosemary’s Baby
.

Frowning, Hannah bent down and picked up the soggy bag. She tossed it in a dumpster beside of one the apartment buildings, then took a Kleenex from her purse and wiped off her hands.

The sudden screech of car tires made Hannah swivel around. A white Taurus was stopped halfway down the street. Hannah felt her heart skip a beat, and she started moving away.

“Hannah?”
someone called.

She glanced over her shoulder. It took her a moment to recognize the handsome black man behind the wheel. “Hannah?” Craig Tollman said, climbing out of the car. He left his emergency blinkers on and started across the street to her. “Hey, I was just driving down to see you again. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

Hannah quickly shook her head. “No, not at all.” She was hugging her purse to her chest.

“Glad I caught you,” he said. “I wanted to apologize if I came on a little too strong earlier. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate for me to ask you out.”

“No, not at all,” she repeated.

“Anyway,” Craig said. “If you change your mind about getting together, you have my cell-phone number on file at the store. You can call me anytime. Um, listen, can I give you a lift wherever you’re going?”

She shook her head again. “I’m fine. But thanks anyway.”

Craig backed away. “Okay, well, see you in the store.”

He turned around and almost walked into an oncoming car. The driver honked at him. Craig jumped back. He waved an apology at the car, then glanced at Hannah. “Nice, huh?” he called. “I have a lot of finesse.”

She managed to smile, and she watched him climb back inside his car. The one thing she could discern about the man in the video was his skin color. He was white. So why was she so apprehensive around this handsome black man? On the surface, Craig Tollman was just being friendly.

Still, she waited until Craig drove off in his white Taurus. Hannah wanted to make sure he wasn’t following her before she moved on.

“Mom, can I play with Trevor?” Guy asked. “I already had my snack.”

Hannah nodded. “Sure, honey, go ahead. I’ll stay here and have my lunch.”

Her lunch was a container of yogurt that she’d bought at a 7-Eleven near the day care center. She’d picked up a peach yogurt for Guy as well. But three people had been in front of her in line, with a clerk as “slow as molasses in January,” as Hannah’s father used to say. By the time she’d gotten to the play field near Alphabet Soup Day Care, the children had already finished their snacks.

The kids were playing on the swings, jungle gyms, and slides. There were three park benches, where some of the other mothers sat. But not Hannah. At the moment, she didn’t have the will or the energy to socialize.

Neighboring the playground was a baseball diamond. From her seat on the bleachers, Hannah watched Guy carefully maneuver his way down each plank. Then he made a beeline toward the jungle gym.

He didn’t look very much like his father, thank God. That would have been pretty awful, having this sweet little boy running around with that man’s face. Guy’s father wasn’t homely. In fact, he had a rather goofy-cute look to him: a long, narrow face with a prominent nose, and curly brown hair. His sleepy, dark brown eyes were very sexy. Hannah had fallen in love with his offbeat looks. He didn’t become ugly to her until later.

His name was Kenneth Muir Woodley, Jr.

When she’d first met him, five years ago, Hannah had been taking classes at Chicago’s Second City, and waitressing at a bar and grill called McNulty’s, near Wrigley Field. Her father had been a bartender there. He’d recently lost his battle with cancer. Her mom had fought the same fight and lost years ago, back when Hannah was a girl. She had no siblings, no one too close—except her friends from college and Second City. She was very much alone with a very small inheritance when she met Kenneth Muir Woodley, Jr.