and the page on which it was written had been torn off. The number was written in somebody else’s hand, in large figures that slanted to the right. My own handwriting was small and perpendicular. I had worked for years to make it so.
I dialed the number on the pad. There was no answer, no answering machine. I dashed to the computer and tried to do a reverse lookup of the phone number. No luck.
Now what? What were my choices? If I dialed 911, the cops would treat me like a hysterical female. There was no point in calling a locksmith. If these people could pick these locks that had cost me a fortune, they could pick any locks ever made. Were the intruders lurking in the hall? On the roof? Where was I going to sleep from now on, where could I work? To whom could I turn? My father was dead. No lover protected me. I didn’t want Henry to know what had happened. I was alone.
They had left the door unlocked. They wanted me to know they could come again whenever they liked.
~ * ~
8
THERE WAS ONLY ONE THING to do—leave. I stayed awake all night reading For Rent classifieds on the Internet, then went to the bank as soon as it opened and withdrew several thousand dollars in cash. Before noon, I found a spacious, utterly sterile place on York Avenue in a tower whose enormous windows overlooked the East River. It came equipped with phony Bauhaus furniture and awful pictures and rugs and a wonderful bathroom and state-of-the-art kitchen. The building manager did not blink when I mentioned that I wished to rent the place under an assumed name. The rent was astronomical. However, I was getting value in return. This was the last neighborhood in which anyone who knew me would think to look for me, and the manager assured me that the building had a squad of large, no-nonsense doormen and a security team of ex-cops that prowled the corridors day and night, on the lookout for intruders. Front and back doors had keypad locks, backed up by deadbolts and what I was told was an undefeatable alarm system.
Before leaving my old apartment, I copied my manuscript onto a flash drive. I left everything else behind—the bed unmade, dishes in the dishwasher, clothes in the closet. I poured out the milk and threw other perishables down the disposal—spoiled food in the refrigerator would be a dead giveaway. I shredded my credit cards and checkbook. I felt a pang when bidding my books good-bye and a surge of anxiety about the new computer Henry had installed until I realized that the intruders had no doubt already drained it of any secrets it might contain.
I put on jeans and sneakers and a coat and hat and sunglasses, and went out. It was a short walk to a bookstore on Second Avenue. I ordered a dozen reference books, paid cash, and had them delivered. A few doors down the avenue I found an electronics store and bought one of those throwaway cell phones that drug dealers use. In a mail store I bought some stamps and envelopes and rented a mailbox. Henry was on my mind. I thought of walking to his house, only a few blocks away. I thought better of this, and instead wrote Please call me at once and scribbled the number of my new cell phone on a page of my notebook and mailed it.
Back in the new apartment, I disguised myself. I changed my hair—shorter, fluffier, darker. I wore my glasses all the time now instead of contacts. I walked more briskly, as if I had places to go and too little time to get there. I felt like a secret agent setting up a cover identity. When I ventured out to do some shopping, a man who needed a shave made eye contact with me. Was he stalking me? Was my every move being watched? Was this going to last forever? Was there no escape? Should I go to the airport and buy a ticket for Rio de Janeiro? Was I losing my senses? Did I have any further use for my senses? The apartment was inhuman in its sterility. The takeout I ordered for supper was blander than the
I dialed the number on the pad. There was no answer, no answering machine. I dashed to the computer and tried to do a reverse lookup of the phone number. No luck.
Now what? What were my choices? If I dialed 911, the cops would treat me like a hysterical female. There was no point in calling a locksmith. If these people could pick these locks that had cost me a fortune, they could pick any locks ever made. Were the intruders lurking in the hall? On the roof? Where was I going to sleep from now on, where could I work? To whom could I turn? My father was dead. No lover protected me. I didn’t want Henry to know what had happened. I was alone.
They had left the door unlocked. They wanted me to know they could come again whenever they liked.
~ * ~
8
THERE WAS ONLY ONE THING to do—leave. I stayed awake all night reading For Rent classifieds on the Internet, then went to the bank as soon as it opened and withdrew several thousand dollars in cash. Before noon, I found a spacious, utterly sterile place on York Avenue in a tower whose enormous windows overlooked the East River. It came equipped with phony Bauhaus furniture and awful pictures and rugs and a wonderful bathroom and state-of-the-art kitchen. The building manager did not blink when I mentioned that I wished to rent the place under an assumed name. The rent was astronomical. However, I was getting value in return. This was the last neighborhood in which anyone who knew me would think to look for me, and the manager assured me that the building had a squad of large, no-nonsense doormen and a security team of ex-cops that prowled the corridors day and night, on the lookout for intruders. Front and back doors had keypad locks, backed up by deadbolts and what I was told was an undefeatable alarm system.
Before leaving my old apartment, I copied my manuscript onto a flash drive. I left everything else behind—the bed unmade, dishes in the dishwasher, clothes in the closet. I poured out the milk and threw other perishables down the disposal—spoiled food in the refrigerator would be a dead giveaway. I shredded my credit cards and checkbook. I felt a pang when bidding my books good-bye and a surge of anxiety about the new computer Henry had installed until I realized that the intruders had no doubt already drained it of any secrets it might contain.
I put on jeans and sneakers and a coat and hat and sunglasses, and went out. It was a short walk to a bookstore on Second Avenue. I ordered a dozen reference books, paid cash, and had them delivered. A few doors down the avenue I found an electronics store and bought one of those throwaway cell phones that drug dealers use. In a mail store I bought some stamps and envelopes and rented a mailbox. Henry was on my mind. I thought of walking to his house, only a few blocks away. I thought better of this, and instead wrote Please call me at once and scribbled the number of my new cell phone on a page of my notebook and mailed it.
Back in the new apartment, I disguised myself. I changed my hair—shorter, fluffier, darker. I wore my glasses all the time now instead of contacts. I walked more briskly, as if I had places to go and too little time to get there. I felt like a secret agent setting up a cover identity. When I ventured out to do some shopping, a man who needed a shave made eye contact with me. Was he stalking me? Was my every move being watched? Was this going to last forever? Was there no escape? Should I go to the airport and buy a ticket for Rio de Janeiro? Was I losing my senses? Did I have any further use for my senses? The apartment was inhuman in its sterility. The takeout I ordered for supper was blander than the
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