The Animal Hour by Andrew Klavan

mayonnaise—her mother had always warned her about that. Whatever it was, she wanted to see her ID now. She wanted to make sure she wasn’t completely nutso.
    She opened her wallet. Again, she looked up quickly to check the beggar. He was on his way, all right. Casual as could be. His hands in the back pockets of his dusty black slacks. His black coat flapping in the breeze over his rag of a shirt. The yellow leaves showered down around him. The red oaks behind him set off his dark shape. He kicked the leaves at his feet idly as he shuffled toward her across the path.
    Damn it , she thought again. She looked to her right, toward City Hall. There was still a cop in the parking lot, pacing along the line of government cars. And under the branches of the trees, she could see the legs of the cop on the Hall’s steps too. They were definitely within screaming distance.
    She went back to her wallet, angry at the bum for frightening her like this. Just because she opened her purse didn’t mean he had to get some money from her. I mean, cripes.
    She unsnapped the wallet’s card pouch. She felt her heart speed up a little. An accordion of plastic holders spilled out onto her lap. Immediately, she saw her mother’s picture. Tubby little mom, laughing, waving the camera away: “ Don’t point that silly thing at me. ” And there was her father, all silver haired and red faced; his crinkle-eyed grin.
    Yes, yes, yes , she thought. A bus surged loudly on Broadway. Then, as the rumble of it died, she heard the beggar’s footsteps coming closer on the path. She went through the plastic holders quickly, searching for her driver’s license.
    There was her MasterCard. Her name was on it, at least—Nancy Kincaid—right there at the bottom. And there was her Visa: same name, same girl. And then: bingo. The license. She closed her eyes for a second with relief after she saw it. Her picture. Her face. With its strong chin and the broad cheeks and the clear, honest eyes. The same old familiar face she had just seen reflected in the deli window. And there was her name—her own name—Nancy Kincaid—right there by its side. Proof positive. She was who she was.
    Well, who the hell else would I be? she thought. She gave another exasperated shake of her head. But she smiled too. The knots inside her were starting to loosen.
    Then she remembered the beggar. She glanced up. She caught him midway across the path. He stopped beside a garbage can. Studied its contents, muttering darkly. Just checking out the garbage, lady. Don’t mind me.
    I better get out of here , she thought.
    She folded up the plastic accordion. Popped it back into her wallet. Snapped the wallet shut. All she needed to do now was to go back to her office. Talk to someone who knew her. Someone who was willing to listen.
    And don’t hear any more voices.
    And nix those voices, right. But she wasn’t worried about that anymore now. She felt sure it was going to be all right. Just a flu or something. A fever. That bad, bad mayo. She put her wallet back in her purse. She pushed it down deep, as if to protect it from the oncoming beggar. Just as soon as she could go back and speak to Henry Goldstein, as soon as she got everything straightened out, it would be …
    On the instant, she went cold again. Her heart went cold. Her skin prickled with it.
    Something …
    Her fingers had touched something. Something in her purse. Something hard. Something black and chilly.
    What the hell …? she thought—but somehow she already knew.
    The sounds of Broadway traffic seemed to recede from her. The plash of the fountain, the rattle of the sycamore leaves above. Even the sweetly cool autumn breeze that stirred her hair on her brow seemed to be blowing far away.
    What …?
    Her fingers were groping over the object in her purse. Feeling out its shape. Tracing it along its cold black surface.
    Then, almost without meaning