Killer Move

I got Steph to try calling Karren back, but there was no answer. There was nothing I could do before I got there, so I just drove, fast, and on the way learned from Stephanie that Nick had started being attentive almost from the day he joined the magazine, that she’d politely resisted all this time, and it was only the pictures she thought I’d taken of Karren—and a lot of wine—that had broken her resolve yesterday afternoon. Nothing had actually happened, nothing would have happened, she said. I believed her, at least ninety-nine percent. I was certainly prepared to believe by now that all it took was a couple of tiny modifications, for someone to move the walls just a little, for a life previously solid to look like it had been made of cardboard all along.

Karren’s apartment was in a development a couple of streets back from the bay, half a mile north of downtown, an area favored by young professionals with money to spend and no kids to get to school. It was a three-story block, the building surrounded by small but well-tended gardens and angled so the upper stories got half-decent views of the bay. Karren had got into the development early. A smart buy. She was a smart woman. I knew the place a little, having once sold property in it.

As I parked in the lot, however, I realized I didn’t know the number of Karren’s apartment.

“Come into the driver’s seat and lock the doors,” I said. I reached into the footwell on her side and picked up the gun. Steph stared at it.

“How have you got a gun, Bill?”

“Long story.” I got out. “You see anybody approaching, anyone at all, just drive. Get away from here, okay? When you’re safe, call me. Okay?”

Steph didn’t move. I stuffed the gun down the back of my jeans, the way I’d seen Emily do it. Thus ended my entire knowledge of firearms. “Honey, are you hearing me?”

She jerked back to life.

“Yes,” she said. She was lost in a combination of fear and dopiness that was hard to know how to deal with. “But I’ll move over slowly, okay? I really ache. All over.” She sounded about eight years old.

“Sure, honey. Of course. I’ll be back soon. I’m going to shut this door now. Lock up after me, okay?”

She nodded. I shut the door. She locked it. We gave each other a thumbs-up.

I trotted across the lot, glancing back when I got to the entrance to the building. Steph was laboriously hoisting herself into the other seat. I felt a twist of love for her that was so deep and sharp it hurt, and I wondered if I shouldn’t leave Karren to sink or swim. She was just background, after all. Part of the filler God provides so you’re not so aware of the joins and silences. But I thought back to the younger man I’d been—or hoped I’d been—and knew I couldn’t leave without at least checking whether she was okay.

At the entrance to the building I realized there was another method of finding which was her apartment. I didn’t know the number—but I could work it out. I changed course and went around the side of the block instead. When I got there I walked quickly backward into the grassy area, looking up at the windows.

I’d seen pictures of this structure recently, of course. The earliest photos in the sequence planted on my laptop had been designed to establish the environment, to make it look like the work of a voyeur homing in on his prey. The rear face sloped back, floor by floor. The window shown in the pictures had been on the extreme right middle floor. Now that it was in front of me, I recalled Karren extolling the virtues of a corner balcony, of having bought that apartment off-plan.

And there it was. There was a light on, but it was dim. I watched the windows as I tried calling her number again. She still wasn’t picking up.

I ran back around to the front of the building. I didn’t know what else to do but start pressing buttons on the entry phone. The first one with a 2 at the front was 201. A man’s voice answered, and was quick to tell me he wasn’t Karren. So then I tried the last number that started with a 2—204, which I hoped would be at the other end of the floor, thus at the other corner.

It rang, but nobody answered.

So maybe that was hers. But now what? I glanced back at my car and saw Steph in the driver’s seat. Her head was bent forward, and I thought once more—Christ, just leave it. It’s not like Karren was involved—why would they need to do anything to her? I could call her again and leave a message saying I’d gone out of town, that if she was concerned about anything she should call the cops (the ones in Sarasota, not Longboat, and certainly not Sheriff Barclay) and lock her doors and take care and blah blah blah. It wasn’t as if I was going to be able to offer her more than that, anyhow.

Would that do?

Could I just leave it at that and live with myself?