He reassured her they’d probably never need it, but for safety’s sake it was going to stay in his bedside drawer. He was going to teach her how to use it. “Besides,” he said, joking, “the gun probably won’t work, knowing Vince’s shady friends who got it for him.” And he reminded her once again, “Never say never. You never know when you might change your mind about something.”
This was her chance and she grabbed at it. “Frank, dear. Now that we have Frances, isn’t it time to leave the city? It’s getting so dangerous. Can’t we move somewhere quiet in the country where Frances will have a better life?… Please?”
“Let me think about it.”
A few days later he told her he had thought about it. He loved the city. It was a great place to grow up. Didn’t he turn out fine? Think of the good schools and the parks. The museums. And all the friendly people. Besides, he didn’t want to deprive his family of closeness to their new grandchild. So the answer was no.
Linda lost all hope.
Six unhappy months later, she was awakened from her sleep by a sound. Linda turned to Frank’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there; he’d gone out on a house call. It was hard for her to pull herself awake because of the sleeping pills she took every night. She squinted at the alarm clock. It was nearly 2 a.m. It took her a few moments to focus. There was a shadow at the window facing the courtyard. She had forgotten to close the curtains. She stiffened. Someone was there. A nosy neighbor? No, it looked like he was dressed in black. With a pasty white face pressed against the glass.
Linda felt her skin crawl. Covering her head with the blanket, she groped for the phone. With shaking hands, she dialed the operator. Her breath raspy from fatigue and terror, she whispered, “Call the police. A prowler, someone’s in my courtyard.” She gave the operator her address. Moments later, the operator said the police were on their way.
Linda’s heart hammered against her chest as she peered over the blanket. The prowler was gone. She bolted out to the baby’s room. Thank God, she’s asleep! She stared at little Frances in her crib. Her throat tightened, on the verge of sobbing. I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Never.
Why wasn’t her husband here to protect her when she needed him?
Linda had no idea how long she had been standing at the crib when the police arrived. They searched the courtyard, and all around the building, found nothing. They were blasé — routine stuff for them. They told her not to worry — probably some passing neighbor or a Peeping Tom — they’re harmless. He was probably miles away by now.
Suddenly she remembered the gun, and suddenly she wanted the police to get out. When they left, she hurried to their bedroom and removed it from Frank’s drawer and held it. She thought of the life insurance policy. Never say never, he’d said. She giggled. And Frank was always right. It’s now or never.
Moving as if in a trance, she took a towel and wrapped her iron in it and opened the kitchen window. She reached outside and smashed in the other side of the window, making sure the glass fell inward.
Linda stood in the kitchen for what seemed like hours. When she heard Frank’s key in the lock, she dialed the police again. “Hurry,” she sobbed, “the prowler’s come back!”
Frank was surprised to see her. “What are you doing up so late?” When Frank moved toward her, she raised the gun and fired.
Frank had been right about Vince’s contacts. The gun was faulty and it exploded, killing Linda as Frank watched in horror.
The family tearfully buried her in a nearby cemetery. All the neighbors came to pay their respects.
Linda had also been right. She knew the Bronx would never let her go. She would be stuck there for all eternity.
Part II
In the still of the night
Rude awakening
by Lawrence Block
Riverdale
She woke up abruptly — click! Like that, no warmup, no transition, no ascent into consciousness out of a dream. She was just all at once awake, brain in gear, all of her senses operating but sight. Her eyes were closed, and she let them remain that way for a moment while she picked up what information her other senses could provide.
She felt the cotton sheet under her, smooth. A good hand, a high thread count. Her host, then, wasn’t a pauper, and had the good taste to equip himself with decent bed linen. She didn’t feel a top sheet, felt only the air on her bare skin. Cool, dry air, air-conditioned air.
Whisper-quiet too. Probably central air-conditioning, because she couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear much, really. A certain amount of city noise, through windows that were no doubt shut to let the central air do its work. But less of it than she’d have heard in her own Manhattan apartment.
And the energy level here was more muted than you would encounter in Manhattan. Hard to say what sense provided this information, and she supposed it was probably some combination of them all, some unconscious synthesis of taste and touch and smell and hearing that let you know you were in one of the outer boroughs.
Memory filled in the rest. She’d taken the 1 train clear to the end of the line, following Broadway up into the Bronx, and she’d gone to a couple of bars in Riverdale, both of them nice preppy places where the bartenders didn’t look puzzled when you ordered a Dog’s Breakfast or a Sunday Best. And then…
Well, that’s where it got a little fuzzy.
She still had taste and smell to consult. Taste, well, the taste in her mouth was the taste of morning, and all it did was make her want to brush her teeth. Smell was more complicated. There would have been more to smell without airconditioning, more to smell if the humidity were higher, but nevertheless there was a good deal of information available. She noted perspiration, male and female, and sex smells.
He was right there, she realized. In the bed beside her. If she reached out a hand she could touch him.
For a moment, though, she let her hand stay where it was, resting on her hip. Eyes still closed, she tried to bring his image into focus, even as she tried to embrace her memory of the later portion of the evening. She didn’t know where she was, not really. She managed to figure out that she was in a relatively new apartment building, and she figured it was probably in Riverdale. But she couldn’t be sure of that. He might have had a car, and he might have brought her almost anywhere. Westchester County, say.
Bits and pieces of memory hovered at the edge of thought. Shreds of small talk, but how could she know what was from last night and what was bubbling up from past evenings? Sense impressions: a male voice, a male touch on her upper arm.
She’d recognize him if she opened her eyes. She couldn’t picture him, not quite, but she’d know him when her eyes had a chance to refresh her memory.
Not yet.
She reached out a hand, touched him.
She had just registered the warmth of his skin when he spoke.
“Sleeping beauty,” he said.
Her eyes snapped open, wide open, and her pulse raced.
“Easy,” he said. “My God, you’re terrified, aren’t you? Don’t be. Everything’s all right.”
He was lying on his side facing her. And yes, she recognized him. Dark hair, arresting blue eyes under arched brows, a full-lipped mouth, a strong jawline. His nose had been broken once and imperfectly reset, and that saved him from being male-model handsome.
Late thirties, maybe eight or ten years her senior. A good body. A little chest hair, but not too much. Broad shoulders. A stomach flat enough to show a six-pack of abs.