Looking at the door, I wondered if the chipped nine was originally a six, just upside-down. Probably. Probably if I went downstairs I would find the door with the missing number, a demoted three digit apartment staring sadly at the empty hallway. Maybe one day out of the week someone passed that lone door, maybe they noticed the missing number. Maybe not. Now, here on my door several floors up, it looked disfigured and curved at a careless angle. Like someone had nailed it up there without really watching. Someone who had hurried down the hall right before I stepped out of the elevator. Someone who wouldn't be back later to straighten it. Someone who would see me on the street around town, laughing on the inside because of the crooked, false number nine.
"Stop it, Maria," I warned myself. There was no use getting worked up over somthing as insignificant as a metal number. A terribly crooked and tarnished metal number. A horribly twisted and dented -- "No, you spent too much money getting here just to wimp out now. So, stop it. The number nine, that's all it is." Suddenly, the door behind me opened, and my neighbor from #983 slipped past me and down the hall. Great, just what I needed, to be assumed crazy by Kevin, especially when he at least seemed relatively normal. "Wonderful, good job, Maria," I told myself as I unlocked the door and looked glumly, and for only the second time, in on my dingy apartment.
The first time had been yesterday after tripping along the street from the SMARTA station with my six boxes, avoiding sidewalks to the frustration of the drivers around me. "Deal!" I had muttered angrily at the woman on the sidewalk who looked at me strangly. "Everyone has their oddities, some of us are just odder than others." I then traipsed through the front doors of Washington Heights and along the hall, making the largest arc possible around the banged up vending machine that stood sentinal in the lobby, if you could even call it a lobby. The room was dim and sticky. I wanted my hand sanitizer, too bad it was still sitting on the bedside in my parents' house. Too bad it was all the way in freaking Columbia. But, hey, I had a cousin here somewhere, albeit a distant one. Maybe he could lend me some.
I stepped inside and dropped my keys on the floor because I hadn't found a table for my whopping three rooms yet. "You need furniture, Maria," I said as I turned to shut the door behind me. A little, dirty tabby kitten looked back at me. "Hey, kitten, care to join me in my insanity?" I asked gently. No reply. "Well, come on in, it's not like anybody else is taking up space, and I sure don't need three rooms to myself. My boxes only take up twelve feet. Well, twelve feet squared and a bed." I pushed the door wider, and the kitten wandered in, looking bemused and somewhat spacy. "You can keep me company while the oddities of this shady building wander the halls at wee hours of the morning, kitten. Maybe you can even sit on my shoulder when I walk into that bar down the street. Maybe your cuteness will stay their guns, as I'm sure they are carrying something, don't ask me how I know." The kitten just stared at the wall. "We'll make a great pair, but, first, a job the human."
No reply from the cat. "You need some milk." Silence, but it was a relaxed one. "Canned milk. Don't worry, though, Maria will get you some."
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Kevin Lansing
Kevin awoke to the tinny buzzing of his alarm clock. The red LCD lights read 6:00. Kevin groaned. Not another early morning, he thought. He smacked the snooze button, threw back the covers, and sat up. His feet dangling off the edge of the bed, Kevin surveyed his room.
The apartment was run down, but that was to be expected on a student's budget. The window in the corner of the room was cracked and barely transparent. Through his bedroom door, Kevin could see the sparsely furnished main room. He could hear the leaky faucet in the bathroom dripping at regular intervals.
Kevin pushed himself onto his feet and staggered into the bathroom. The tile felt cool beneath his feet. After disrobing, Kevin climbed into the shower. The lukewarm water running across his face really helped to wake him up.
After drying himself off and dressing in a wrinkly tee shirt and jeans, Kevin plodded into the apartment's kitchenette. There, he popped two Eggo waffles - stale as usual - into the toaster and poured himself a glass of juice. Sitting down in a creaky chair at the table, he gulped down the waffles, now drowned in syrup. He washed everything down with the juice.
Glancing at his watch, Kevin trudged into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Glancing in the crusty mirror, he noticed the dark bags under his eyes. They gave Kevin's normally handsome countenance a haggard look. Spitting into the sink, Kevin put down his toothbrush.
Picking up the bag that he had carelessly dumped by the front door the night before, Kevin left his apartment. As he locked the door, he noticed that his neighbor across the hall - Maria was her name, he thought - was muttering something to herself about numbers. Not giving it a second thought, he brushed past her and clambered down the stairs and out the front door of Washington Heights.
Having crossed the street, he plodded down the stairs into the SMARTA station. Finding a seat on the eastbound platform, he waited for the 9 train, which would take him to school. As he sat, he pondered the long day that lay ahead of him.
Brone Barnheart Apt. 223
I smelled it again. That scent that has been haunting me all my life...her. There in the graveyard I saw her, her silky blond hair playing across her face. She was not smiling. Trembling, she pulled out her pistol and pointed it right at my chest. I couldn't run, I couldn't draw my gun, I was frozen. "Meredith," I whispered. BANG...
ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR
I instinctually slammed my palm on the snooze button, again, but no sleep came. "It was just another dream," I thought, but that didn't comfort me at all. I finally opened my blood-shot eyes, and a slit of sunlight burned into them. "Agh."
I looked at the clock; I looked at my watch. The clock was wrong. The power must have gone out last night. Today was going to be beautiful. I fell out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, slamming my knee against the sink. "Ugh." I turned on the knob for hot water and splashed cold water onto my face, no surprise there. Looking in the fractured mirror, I ran my hands through my hair, pretending that sufficed for a shower. The sound of a muted phone reached my ears. "There's a phone in here?" After a quick search I located the phone under my jacket. I made sure it wasn't booby-trapped and then answered it.
"Hello, is this Low Ride?" a timid voice asked.
"Nope," I replied with a sigh and dropped the phone back on the receiver.
My grogginess finally subsiding, I thought "Wait a minute...how did I get here?" I couldn't remember. "Well, whatever." Seeing nothing entertaining in the room, I got all my stuff together. At the door I paused: cigarettes, holster, lighter, Spyderco folding knife, cellphone, Jericho 941, jacket, window punch, wallet, zip-tie handcuffs, ammo, shoes. As I glanced down, a white envelope slid under my door. Without thinking, I picked it up. Then I flung the door open, stupidly realizing that I should have done that first, but no one was in the hall. I examined the envelope's contents: 150 dollars and a letter in some ridiculous font. "Must be from that snot nosed kid." It read:
Brone
New target, car thief, likes to gamble, only known as “Sugar Macoy,” lives in Washington Heights.
“Oh, so that’s where I am.” I put the money in my wallet, threw the letter on the floor, closed my door without bothering to lock it, and sauntered down the hallway. I glanced at the numbers as I passed. 224, 225, 22 , 227…“pft.” Lethargically, I walked down the stairwell admiring the graffiti art as I passed. Out onto the sidewalk, the sun shone down on me like God’s high beams reminding me just how early it was. I lit a cigarette, put my hands in my pockets and let my feet guide me. I avoided the graveyard. “Shit, I need a drink.”
It was a quarter 'till eight when Elizabeth mounted the final step to the seventh floor. As she passed the many doors, she began to wonder if anyone else would find the silence awkward — the absence of blaring televisions and blasting stereos. In fact the only thing that gave a hint of inhabitants on the floor was the faint smell of perfume echoing from her neighbor's apartment, eight doors down. It was a faint fruity fragrance — peachy as it were.
The waning elevator chimed its arrival on the seventh floor.
"Mamie Wainwright!" Elizabeth called as the aged woman with pearly white hair exited the contraption.
Hard of hearing Mrs. Wainwright began waddling towards her apartment, a few short steps away.
"Mrs. Wainwright," Elizabeth repeated, after sprinting to her side.
"Yes, deary?" The woman turned her small head.
"You're from Georgia, aren't you?"
"I am."
Mrs. Wainwright fidgeted as she stood.
"Thank you," Elizabeth smiled. "Good night,"
"But dearest?"
"Yes?" Elizabeth replied.
"Where are you from?"
"That's a good question."
"Pardon?" Mrs. Wainwright inquired.
"San Francisco, ma'am. Good night," Elizabeth said before hurrying off to her apartment.
'Georgia. Why Georgia?' Elizabeth thought, sliding John Mayer's "Room for Squares" into her stereo.
She turned to her laptop.
One email from Jerry and one from—
She paused.
"A message from the golden gate," she read the subject line.
She opened the email:
'Hey Elizabeth —
ow is your book coming? Evryone can't wait to read it back here. I hope Jerry han't gotten on your case too much. Stress can cause the mind to deonstruct ones creativity. Kaylee's follwing your passion for history. She's just finished a paper on Joan of Arc and has aditted she's enthralled wth the past. Scott is goig to Enland soon with Colin. They should have some fun.
Best of luck,
Mom'
"What?" Elizabeth asked as she backed away from the email. Having grabbed her coat, she bounded out the door and to the stairwell. Her feet rapidly tap danced their way down the stairs, until ...
"Hello,"
On the platform between the stairs to the first and second floor she had run into a tall early twenties lad with a backpack on his shoulders and deep circles under his eyes.
"Oh," Elizabeth gasped. "I'm so sorry Kevin."
"It's alright," he said, exhausted.
"Listen, can I ask you something?"
"You can," he sighed. "But I don't think I'll be much help. Try Maria, she's probably upstairs."
"Doesn't she live across the hall from you?"
"Yeah,"
"Then why don't you let me take your backpack?"
"Sure, but why?"
"So," Elizabeth began, slipping the straps around her shoulders. "You don't have to become any more tired out than you already are."
"Thanks,"
A weary smile crept upon his face as Elizabeth sprinted up the stairs.
"Hey," Elizabeth smiled as she found Maria on the ninth floor.
"Hey," Maria said, beginning to slide into the crack in her door.
"Maria wait,"
Maria quickly returned to the hallway and shut the door behind her.
"My name's Elizabeth. I'm a friend of your neighbor."
"Kevin?"
"Yes—are you alright?" Elizabeth inquired, as she lowered the backpack to the floor. It landed with a thud.
"Yes," Maria said, meeting her gaze. "I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
Maria nodded. "You wanted something?"
"Yes," Elizabeth began. "My mom, who was an English teacher, wrote this letter—"
Elizabeth paused.
Maria's apartment number had caught her eye. The first number had a rising diagonal chip in the upper right portion of the curve. But no one chips anything while raising an object and without chipping the neighboring number. They always drop something, being clumsy humans, and, with the help of gravity, leave a mark on it and the other numbers in its path. It didn't make sense.
"Nine eighty-two," she read.
"Yeah?" Maria inquired, with a confused expression.
"Is that a ... no it can't be."
"What?" Maria asked, looking to the door.
"An upside down six?"
Maria smiled.
"The mind chooses what it wants to see."
Elizabeth thought for a moment. "Thanks,"
"Don't mention it. Kevin was muttering something about it this morning."
"Oh, well have a good night."
"You too," Maria said, slipping into her apartment.
When Elizabeth returned to her room, she reached for her laptop at once.
"What's missing?"
She scanned the email.
"Correct spelling?" she wondered.
'Ow. Evryone. Han't. Deonstruct. Follwing. Aditted. Wth. Goig, Enland,' she scribed on a scrap piece of paper.
"They're all missing a letter," she whispered.
'H, E,' she began writing. 'S, C, O, M, I, N, G'
"What does that mean? Hescoming?"
She pulled up the Google homepage on her computer and entered the nonsensical word.
"He's coming?" Elizabeth asked, as she read over the top response. "Who — who's coming?"
She sighed.
"Why can't parents make anything clear?"
She opened a document on her laptop — The Narrative of a Most Substantial Regret — and, transferring her frustration to the keyboard, began to type:
Elizabeth watched the mysterious yet pleasing gentlemen return to his seat.
“How did you know my name?” she inquired.
“You’re driver’s license.” he said, turning to her. “They asked me to find a form of identification.”
“Right,”
A pause followed.
“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “You’re probably wondering who I am and what in the world I’m doing here. I’m—”
“Malcolm Gainnes.”
“Right,” he smiled. “So you’re from San Francisco?”
“How’d you—” she paused. “Driver’s license?”
He nodded. “What were you doing in Atlanta?”
“Research,” she replied.
“Really? For what purpose?”
“Inspiration, really. I had a meeting with a few cops and a forensic pathologist.”
“Inspiration for the perfect crime?”
“Kind of,” Elizabeth smiled.
A look of surprise overcame Malcolm’s face.
“Not to commit,” Elizabeth explained. “I’m trying to decide whether I want to write a crime novel, and if I did decide to, how I would do it.”
“What have you decided?”
“I majored in English for a reason,”
Malcolm laughed.
“And,” she continued. “Romantic comedies are more attractive than late nights in the morgue.”
“That makes sense,”
“So what do you do, Malcolm?”
“Please, call me Mal,” he insisted. “I’m a Private Investigator.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” he smiled.
“So, are you from Atlanta?”
“No, my office is in Berkley.”
The phone rang over “St. Patrick’s Day.” Elizabeth was too involved in her writing to notice it, much less answer it. She continued typing.
“Michigan?” Elizabeth inquired.
“No, California. We should have lunch sometime.”
“We should.”
At that moment a man with short grey hair, about six feet in height, wearing a black suit and a shiny red silk shirt strolled into the hospital room.
“Dad,” Elizabeth smiled.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, beside her.
“Better,”
“What happened?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Elizabeth began, looking to Mal.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Mal began. “I’m—”
“Malcolm Gainnes,” Mr. Farraday began. “My wife said you had called.”
“Right,” Mal smiled as they shook hands. “Well, Elizabeth and I had a bit of a collision.”
“Driving?” he asked.
“No, running — in the airport. I was completely oblivious to what was in front of me, and I suppose Elizabeth was too, but she fell backwards, banged her head against the floor, and soon lost consciousness. The medic thought she might have suffered some neck damage, but the doctor’s sure it was only a whip lash.”
“Right,” Mr. Farraday confirmed. “So nothing else seems wrong?”
“Nope,” Elizabeth said confidently.
“Scott and Kaylee will be glad to hear of that.”
“Scott and Kaylee?” Mal inquired.
“Scott is my elder brother and Kaylee is my younger sister." Elizabeth explained. "We were all supposed to meet back home for the weekend.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, genuinely.
“She’s still breathing.” Mr. Farraday smiled. “That’s all that matter’s.”
Mal looked to Elizabeth apprehensively.
“Dad,” she began.
“And I can see the head wound. A small cut above the brow?” he inquired, noticing the stitches.
“Dad,” Elizabeth began again, wearily.
“You’re right,”
“She is?” Mal inquired.
“She needs rest, and you need nourishment.” Mr. Farraday said, turning to him.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth sighed.
“Where are we going to go?” Mal asked, confused. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I was thinking of the cafeteria downstairs.” Mr. Farraday admitted. “It’s close and convenient.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mal smiled.
“We’ll see you soon,” her father said.
“Have fun,” Elizabeth said, turning to her side.
Footsteps trailed out of the room.
The door closed.
Elizabeth sighed as she fell into sleep.
Silence.
“Elizabeth,” whispered the wind.
As if it were in a dream, Elizabeth ignored it. She turned over in the bed.
“Elizabeth,” the wind whispered again.
Her eyes opened lazily in hopes of ending the eerie whispering — dream or not.
Mal’s attractive face appeared only inches away—his chin resting on the edge of the bed.
“Hmm?” she whispered.
“Will you be ok?”
“Yeah,” she said drowsily. “I’ll be fine.”
“Alright,”
He smiled.
As Mal began to stand, Elizabeth’s eyelids fell again.
“Good night,” he whispered in her ear. His nose brushed her the side of her face as he turned to leave.
Elizabeth bit her lip as she looked up from the laptop.
'It's awfully quite,' she thought.
With a few steps and a swapping of CDs, Coldplay began echoing from the speakers. She turned her back on the stereo, smiling. She noticed her cell phone on the floor. The screen was illuminated.
'1 voicemail,' it read as she reached for it. Apprehensive, she selected the message and put the receiver to her ear.
"Hey Elizabeth, it's Mal."
"Great," she said softly, her available hand sliding into her jean pocket.
"I'm in town and—"
"Yeah, right." Elizabeth laughed, mockingly.
"You know that tracking device came in handy."
Elizabeth froze.
He laughed.
"And you thought you'd gotten rid of me."
"Shit," she whispered. "He's coming."
Upon Returning Home
Kevin emerged from the SMARTA station feeling tired as always but refreshed by the time spent with his friends at school that day. After crossing the street and passing a few dimly lit storefronts, Kevin entered Ming-Ming's. He ordered some sesame chicken and rice to go. Having received the greasy, white paper to-go box, he sauntered out the front door of the restaurant and headed back to Washington Heights. Kevin entered the cramped lobby and started climbing the stairs. On the landing between the first and second floors, his friend Elizabeth Farraday bumped into him as she darted down the stairs.
Great, thought Kevin. The last thing he needed now was a delay. He had work to get to. After deflecting Elizabeth's question to his neighbor, Maria, Elizabeth offered to take Kevin's bag upstairs for him. Kevin gratefully accepted, watching Elizabeth dash back up the stairs.
Upon reaching the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to his apartment. He waved at Elizabeth and Maria, picking up his bag which lay by his door. Upon entering, Kevin set down his bag by the door as usual and sat back down in the creaky chair in which he ate breakfast. Stretching back with his feet on the table, Kevin began to shovel the sesame chicken and rice in his mouth.
When he had finished eating, he chucked the to-go box in the trash as he headed for the door again. Peering through the eyehole, he saw that Elizabeth and Maria were no longer in the hallway. He cracked the door open and slipped into the corridor. He tiptoed to the apartment next door, #981, and got out his key ring. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside.
The room was frigid. Kevin's every breath formed a small cloud of steam. All around the walls were makeshift shelves. Some held containers of every chemical imaginable. Others held vials of herbs that presumably had magic powers. Along one wall, the shelves held an assembly of electrical wires and mechanical parts. In the center of the room was an industrial-sized stainless steel table. And in the center of that table, bound with chains bolted to the table, was a corpse.
"Hello, Patrick," Kevin said.
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