Cemetery Dance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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Dance
Chapter 11
"Nora, I am very sorry!" The doorman opened the door with a flourish and took her hand, enveloping her with a smell of hair tonic and aftershave. "Everything is ready in your apartment. Locks change. Everything fix up. I have the new key. I offer my sincere condolence. Sincere."
Nora felt the cold, flat key pressed into her hand.
"If you need my help, let me know." He gazed at her with genuine sorrow in his liquid brown eyes.
Nora swallowed. "Thank you, Enrico, for your concern." The phrase had become almost automatic.
"Anytime. Anything. You call and Enrico come."
"Thank you." She headed toward the elevator; hesitated; started forward again. She had to do this without thinking too much about it.
The elevator doors clunked shut and the machine ascended smoothly to the sixth floor. When they opened, Nora didn't move. Then, just as they began to close again, she stepped quickly out into the hall.
Everything was quiet. A muted Beethoven string quartet issued from behind one door, muffled conversation from behind another. She took a step, then hesitated once again. Ahead, near the turn of the hall, she could see the door to their — to her — apartment. Brass numbers screwed onto it read 612.
She walked slowly down the hall until she faced the door. The spyhole was black, the lights off inside. The lock cylinder and plate were brand new. She opened her hand and stared at the key: shiny, freshly cut. It didn't seem real. None of this seemed real. Jamais vu — the opposite of déjà vu. It was as if she were seeing everything for the first time.
Slowly, she inserted the key, turned it. The lock clicked, then she felt the door go loose in its frame. She gave it a push, and it eased open on newly oiled hinges. The apartment beyond was dark. She reached inside for the light switch, fumbled for it, couldn't find it. Where is it? She stepped into the darkness, still fumbling along the blank wall, her heart suddenly pounding. She was enveloped by a smell — of cleaning fluids, wood polish … and something else.
The door began to shut behind her, blocking off the light from the hall. With a muffled cry she reached back, grabbed the door–knob, wrenched the door back open, stepped back into the hall and closed the door. She leaned her head against it, shoulders shaking violently, trying to force down the sobs that engulfed her.
Within a few minutes, she had herself more or less under control. She glanced up and down the hall, grateful nobody had walked by. She was half embarrassed, half afraid of the storm of emotions she'd been keeping bottled up. It had been stupid to think she could just walk back into the apartment where her husband had been murdered only forty–eight hours before. She'd go to Margo Green's apartment, stay with her for a few days — but then she remembered that Margo was on sabbatical leave until January.
She had to get out. She rode the elevator back down to the first floor and walked through the lobby on rubbery legs. The doorman opened the door. "Anything you need, you call Enrico," he said as she almost ran past.
She walked east on 92nd Street to Broadway. It was a cool but still pleasant October evening, and the sidewalks were crowded with people on their way to restaurants, walking their dogs, or just going home. Nora began to walk, briskly; the air would clear her head. She headed downtown, moving fast, dodging people. Out here, on the street, among the crowds, she found herself getting her thoughts under control, finding some perspective on what had just happened. It was stupid to react this way — she had to go back into the apartment sometime, and sooner rather than later. All her books, her work, her computer, his stuff — everything was there.
She wished, for a moment, that her father and mother were still alive, that she could flee to their warm embrace. But that was an even more foolish, futile line of thinking.
She slowed. Maybe she should go back, after
Chapter 11
"Nora, I am very sorry!" The doorman opened the door with a flourish and took her hand, enveloping her with a smell of hair tonic and aftershave. "Everything is ready in your apartment. Locks change. Everything fix up. I have the new key. I offer my sincere condolence. Sincere."
Nora felt the cold, flat key pressed into her hand.
"If you need my help, let me know." He gazed at her with genuine sorrow in his liquid brown eyes.
Nora swallowed. "Thank you, Enrico, for your concern." The phrase had become almost automatic.
"Anytime. Anything. You call and Enrico come."
"Thank you." She headed toward the elevator; hesitated; started forward again. She had to do this without thinking too much about it.
The elevator doors clunked shut and the machine ascended smoothly to the sixth floor. When they opened, Nora didn't move. Then, just as they began to close again, she stepped quickly out into the hall.
Everything was quiet. A muted Beethoven string quartet issued from behind one door, muffled conversation from behind another. She took a step, then hesitated once again. Ahead, near the turn of the hall, she could see the door to their — to her — apartment. Brass numbers screwed onto it read 612.
She walked slowly down the hall until she faced the door. The spyhole was black, the lights off inside. The lock cylinder and plate were brand new. She opened her hand and stared at the key: shiny, freshly cut. It didn't seem real. None of this seemed real. Jamais vu — the opposite of déjà vu. It was as if she were seeing everything for the first time.
Slowly, she inserted the key, turned it. The lock clicked, then she felt the door go loose in its frame. She gave it a push, and it eased open on newly oiled hinges. The apartment beyond was dark. She reached inside for the light switch, fumbled for it, couldn't find it. Where is it? She stepped into the darkness, still fumbling along the blank wall, her heart suddenly pounding. She was enveloped by a smell — of cleaning fluids, wood polish … and something else.
The door began to shut behind her, blocking off the light from the hall. With a muffled cry she reached back, grabbed the door–knob, wrenched the door back open, stepped back into the hall and closed the door. She leaned her head against it, shoulders shaking violently, trying to force down the sobs that engulfed her.
Within a few minutes, she had herself more or less under control. She glanced up and down the hall, grateful nobody had walked by. She was half embarrassed, half afraid of the storm of emotions she'd been keeping bottled up. It had been stupid to think she could just walk back into the apartment where her husband had been murdered only forty–eight hours before. She'd go to Margo Green's apartment, stay with her for a few days — but then she remembered that Margo was on sabbatical leave until January.
She had to get out. She rode the elevator back down to the first floor and walked through the lobby on rubbery legs. The doorman opened the door. "Anything you need, you call Enrico," he said as she almost ran past.
She walked east on 92nd Street to Broadway. It was a cool but still pleasant October evening, and the sidewalks were crowded with people on their way to restaurants, walking their dogs, or just going home. Nora began to walk, briskly; the air would clear her head. She headed downtown, moving fast, dodging people. Out here, on the street, among the crowds, she found herself getting her thoughts under control, finding some perspective on what had just happened. It was stupid to react this way — she had to go back into the apartment sometime, and sooner rather than later. All her books, her work, her computer, his stuff — everything was there.
She wished, for a moment, that her father and mother were still alive, that she could flee to their warm embrace. But that was an even more foolish, futile line of thinking.
She slowed. Maybe she should go back, after
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