Haunted Humans Part 4

"He doesn't know about you, though."

"We can't know that for sure. I mean, he can't know about me, Gary, but he might know about Morgan; he knows where you work. Can we stash your stuff away from the apartment? That way someone could pick it up later without tipping him by going into your apartment."

"I have storage s.p.a.ce in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"After that we can drive to a public place and catch other transportation," Gary said. "We should be able to evade him long enough to get you some protection."

With Morgan acting as scout, D.J. carried her things down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, which had an in-building access stairway, and put them in her storage s.p.a.ce, pondering whether to padlock them in or not. She had never had anything disturbed in the bas.e.m.e.nt. On the other hand, if Chase were here-- he had made a science out of sneaking into places where people lived and studying them, while people were present and asleep. Wanting to study people's lifestyles was one curiosity he hadn't bothered to hide from D.J. when their relationship was most intense. His favorite movie was Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Rear Window. "Just the little bits of life he sees, don't you love it? All those stories lying there unveiled. You can learn so much by walking around at night and looking in through windows."

She stared at her storage s.p.a.ce and shuddered. Nothing could keep him from pawing through the skins of her new life. She closed the door and fastened the padlock.

Like a padlock would stop him, any more than her locked apartment door had.

"So where should we go?" she asked, turning toward Morgan, who was standing a few feet away.

At the top of the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs, a man stood backlit by daylight.

THREE.

D.J. gripped Morgan's arm and drew him quietly back toward her. Though there was a light on in the bas.e.m.e.nt, it was dim compared with the daylight coming in through the building's back door. There was a chance Chase hadn't seen that Morgan was down here.

"Yes," said that thrilling rich voice, Chase's voice, that once had fueled her fantasies and later haunted her nightmares, "where should we go?"

D.J. looked around for anything that would serve as a weapon. There was some community property scattered around the common area between the storage closets, things n.o.body really wanted but had neglected to throw out. She found a dead-headed mop and gripped it with both hands.

His voice sank to a near whisper, curling its way down the stairs. "If you had a choice, where would you go? I want you on my altar, Dorothy Jean. I need you to be my sacrament this time. Only you can give me last rites."

"Young man!" Afra's voice came from somewhere beyond Chase. "Do you have legitimate business in my building? If not, I'll have to ask you to leave."

The shadowed head looked up, away; and then he was gone, his footsteps pounding down the hallway toward the back door of the building.

Finally D.J. let the trembling take her, now that the immediate danger was gone.

Her shoulders shook, but her hands were locked around the mop-stick. Breathing fast, she glanced at Morgan, saw that he had moved into the shadow of one of the storage cabinets and was holding a splintery baseball bat over his shoulder.

Something about his expression told her Gary was the one behind the eyes.

"D.J.? You down there? What was that all about? Some young hooligan making an obscene phone call in person?"

At last D.J. drew in a deep breath and lowered the mop. "Afra. Afra. Oh, Afra,"

she said, her voice quavering. She walked toward the steps and looked up.

"Thanks, Afra."

"For what? I did wonder if it was exactly an appropriate moment to bring out my hand-gun, but the way things are these days, I thought it better to be safe."

"Much better," D.J. said, climbing the stairs. Morgan followed her. They both held onto their makeshift weapons. "I have to tell you about him." She glanced down the hall toward the back door, which was still open. She and Morgan ran to look out, heard a car engine growling around a corner, gone beyond sight.

"Sounds like a beetle," said Saul.

"You know cars?" D.J. asked.

"Any amateur can tell a beetle," Saul said, "but as a matter of fact, yes, I know cars. One of the few things that kept my interest before I jumped off that bridge in Jersey."

"What's all the fuss about? Who's your young man, D.J?" Afra said. She was, indeed, holding a large revolver, barrel pointed floorward. "I never heard him come in. And I was keeping an ear out."

"Afra, this is Morgan, a friend from work. Morgan, this is Afra, my landlady.

Can we go to your apartment? I've got to tell you about that man."

"You vouch for this rude young man?"

D.J. glanced at Morgan. "Oh, yes, Afra. He has rough edges, but he's really very sweet."

Morgan's eyes widened. She knew it was Morgan inside, and that relieved her. She didn't want Saul talking to Afra.

"All right," said Afra. She still looked suspicious. "Come on in." They followed her into her apartment. Inside, every flat surface that wasn't designed for people to sit or walk on bore treasures from the sea: twisted driftwood, sand-scoured gla.s.s, a crab carapace, bowls of water with shining rocks lining the bottom, fragments of sand dollars and sh.e.l.ls, gull feathers. The air smelled salty.

"Have a seat. I'll bring you some tea," said Afra, disappearing into the kitchen.

D.J. sat on the couch and tried to figure out how to frame an explanation.

Morgan flopped down beside her, turned on his side so he could watch her. "Miss Deej?" he said.

"Morgan," she said. She smiled at him.

"You really think I'm sweet?"

"You are sweet."

"Not just because of Clift and Gary and Mishka and Shadow and Elaine and Saul and Timmy and Valerie?"

Elaine? Valerie? thought D.J., but aloud, she said, "Just because of you."

"Wow," he said. "n.o.body ever said anything like that about me. No girl ever said anything nice about me before."

"Really? Not even the ones inside you?"

"Well," he said, and frowned. "But that's different. It's not like they have a choice."

"Oh, Sweetie," said a new voice from Morgan that D.J. hadn't heard before, a rich husky female voice, "we've got a choice, all right. We could be insulting you all the time; but Deej is right. You are sweet."

"Wow," said Morgan. He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

"Who were you talking to?" Afra asked, coming in with a tea tray, a j.a.panese tea pot and three small handle-less cups.

"Morgan does impressions," D.J. said.

"Really? Who was that supposed to be? Lauren Bacall?"