Monday Mourning Part 12

"Life's too short, Tempe. I don't want my obituary to read, 'Here lies a woman who sold houses.'"

"Isn't it a bit soon to just pull the plug?"

With a sweep of the hand, Anne sent the sc.r.a.ps spiraling to the floor.

"I have aspired to be the perfect wife more than half my life. The result has been deep disappointment. Cut and run. That's my new philosophy."

"Have you considered counseling?"

"When h.e.l.l and the golf courses freeze over."

"You know Tom loves you."

"Does he?"

"We meet very few people in this life who truly care."

"Right you are, darling." Anne drained her fourth chardonnay with a quick, jerky move, and set the gla.s.s onto the mutilated napkin. "And those are the folks who hurt us the most."

"Annie." I forced my friend's eyes to mine. They were a deep, dusky green, the pupils shining with an alcohol buzz. "Are you sure?"

Anne curled the fingers of both hands and placed her forehead on her fists. A hesitation, then her face came back up.

"No."

The unhappiness in her voice stopped my heart.

During dinner the wind had bl.u.s.tered up for a personal best, and the temperature had dropped in opposition. Negotiating the quarter mile home felt like mushing the Iditarod from Anchorage to Nome.

Gusts moaned up Ste-Catherine, manhandling our clothing and sandblasting our faces with ice and snow. Anne and I ran hunched like soldiers on a bunker charge.

Rounding the corner of my block, I noticed oddly drifted snow against the outer door of my building. Though cold teared my eyes, something about the white mound looked very wrong.

As I blinked my vision into focus, the drift expanded, changed shape, contracted again.

I stopped, frowned. Could it be?

An appendage snaked out, was drawn back.

What the h.e.l.l was going on?

I dashed across the street and up the outer stairs.

"Birdie!"

My cat raised his chin slightly and rolled his eyes up. Seeing me, he shot forward without seeming to flex a limb. A small cloud puffed from my mouth as my chest caught his catapulted weight.

Birdie clawed upward, laid his chin on my shoulder, and pressed his belly to my jacket. His fur smelled wet. His body shivered from cold or fear.

"What's he doing out here?" A gust s.n.a.t.c.hed Anne's question and whipped it up the street.

"I don't know."

"Can he let himself out?"

"Someone had to have opened a door."

"You tight enough with anyone to give out a key?"

"No."

"So who's been inside?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, we better find out."

Pulling off her mittens, Anne produced a Mace dispenser from her shoulder bag.

"I think that's illegal here," I said.

"So shoot me." Anne yanked the outer door.

Entering the vestibule was like stepping from a vortex into a vacuum.

Handing off Birdie, I removed my mittens, reached into a pocket, and took out my keys. Palms sweaty, I unlocked the interior door.

The lobby was graveyard quiet. No snow residue or wet prints marred the runners or the marble floor. Heart hammering, I crossed and made a hard right. Anne followed.

Faux bra.s.s wall sconces light the interior lobby and corridors. Normally, the low-level illumination is sufficient. Tonight, two candles were out, leaving murky pools of darkness between the islands of yellow dotting my hallway.

Had the bulbs been out when we left? I couldn't remember.

My condo lay straight ahead. Seeing it, I stopped dead, totally unnerved.

Black s.p.a.ce gaped between the open door and jamb.

10.

THROUGH THE GAP, I COULD MAKE OUT DISORDERED SHADOWS COULD MAKE OUT DISORDERED SHADOWS and an odd luminescence, like moonlight on water. and an odd luminescence, like moonlight on water.

I glanced over my shoulder. Anne stood with one arm wrapping the cat, the other upraised, Mace at the ready. Birdie clung to her chest, head twisted one-eighty to stare at his home.

I turned back to the door, straining to hear sounds on the far side. A footfall. A cough. The whisper of a sleeve.

Behind me, Anne's ragged breathing. Beyond the door, intimidating silence.

The three of us held stock-still, eyes wide, a triptych in trepidation.

A heartbeat. A lifetime.

Then Birdie made his move. Scrabbling upward, he gave a "Rrrp," rocketed off Anne's chest, and shot toward the opening. In a lunge to grab him, Anne only managed to divert his flight path.

Paws slammed the door, sending it backward into the wall. Birdie sped inside as the door ricocheted back from the wall and shut.

Blood drained from my brain. Options kaleidoscoped.

Retreat? Call out? Dial 911?

I find cell phones in restaurants annoying beyond tolerance. I hadn't brought mine to dinner.

d.a.m.n!

I turned to Anne. Her face was a tense white oval in the dim light.

I pantomimed punching numbers on a cell phone. Anne shook her head, canister on high. Lady Liberty with Mace, but no phone.

We traded looks of indecision. I spoke first, barely a whisper.

"Could the latch have failed to catch?"

"I pulled it tight. But it's your d.a.m.n door." Barely a sibilant, but she managed to hiss. "Besides, that doesn't explain Birdie being outside."

"If someone was waiting to a.s.sault us, the door wouldn't be open."

"a.s.sault us?" Anne's eyes saucered. "Oh, sweet Jesus. Are you talking about some homicidal crazoid you've p.i.s.sed off through your work?"

"That's not what I meant." It was exactly what I meant. "I meant some random intruder."

Anne's eyes ballooned. "Great. Some crazoid rapist. rapist."

"That's not the point. Leaving the door open would be a dead giveaway of a break-in."

"Excellent choice of wording."

Under stress, Anne's sarcasm keeps its cool.

"If it's a routine burglary, they wouldn't announce their presence with an open door. The door makes no sense if anyone's inside."

Lady Liberty relaxed her arm a fraction, but said nothing.

Creeping forward, I placed my ear to the door.

No noise.

But something else.

Squatting, I held my hand to the crack. Cold air was seeping out.

"What?" Anne was still using her church voice.

I straightened.

"There's a door or window open inside."

"Meaning the Ripper has split? Or settled in for a Guinness and garroting?"

At that moment the lobby door opened. We both went rigid.

Voices. Male.

Anne's Mace arm shot skyward.

Footsteps retreated down the wing opposite mine. A door opened, closed.

Silence.

Then more footsteps. Coming in our direction!

I motioned Anne into the stairwell hallway parallel to my door. We shrank sideways as one.

A figure filled the frame of the main entrance to my corridor, tuque pulled low to his eyes. Dimness and the hat obscured the man's face. All I could make out was body form. Tall. Lean.

The figure hesitated, then pulled off the tuque and strode toward us.

Anne's knuckles went white around her canister.

The figure pa.s.sed under a sconce. Sandy hair. Bomber jacket.

Relief flooded through me. Followed by embarra.s.sment. And feelings of which I was uncertain.

Defusing Anne with a gesture, I stepped forward.

"What are you doing here?" Whispered, but shrill, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through me.

Ryan's smile sagged, but held on. "I've come to view that greeting as a sign of affection."

"I'm always saying saying that because you're always showing up unexpectedly." that because you're always showing up unexpectedly."