The one lock was engaged as she’d left it, but when she pushed on the door, it caught. For an instant she didn’t realize what was wrong, just stood there staring at the door that wouldn’t open, then she saw that the chain was on. And remembered-the boy from down the hall.
“Just a minute.” It was a whisper from inside. The door pushed almost closed, she heard the greased slide of metal against metal, then the door was open, though the boy was canny enough to stand behind it so no one outside could see him. She shuffled in, irritated that the boy was there because she didn’t have the energy to cope with company, to bestir herself and put on her company face. She dropped onto the couch with a sigh and a groan, pulled off the dark glasses that had begun to be too small to conceal the bruises round her eyes.
The boy stood hesitantly in the middle of the small shabby room, then went out into the kitchen. He came back almost immediately with a tray. Her teapot and a cup of tea poured out. He set the tray on the couch beside her and stepped back. “There wasn’t any coffee so I figured you wouldn’t want that, but I don’t know if you use sugar or lemon or milk or what. If you’re like Hank… was… you drink it straight. You use loose tea like him and there wasn’t any of the other things.” He looked down at his hands. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve made a casserole out of the chicken in your refrigerator. Something I could reheat without ruining it.” He knew he was chattering but he looked as uneasy as she felt.
She smiled, took up the cup, sipped at the hot liquid, holding each mouthful a second then letting it flood down her throat. The heat spread through her, washing away some of her tension and uncertainty. She sighed, held the cup with both hands curled about it. “Feels marvelous,” she said and watched the boy relax even though she winced at the phoniness she heard in her voice. “And I’m half-starved.” That was true, she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. “Smells good.” At least that was real, the truth of her sudden enjoyment firm in her voice. She sniffed again and smiled.
“It should be done in another fifteen minutes.” He moved to a straight-backed chair next to the phone. The lamp beside him, picking out fine lines about his eyes and mouth. He’s older than I thought, maybe even late twenties. He looked gravely at her. “You were right,” he said. “Police came about a half hour after you left, took him away, started pounding on doors. Most everybody was out working, I suppose, so they didn’t get many answers.”
“Half hour. Long enough for the blackshirts to fix up their respectable alibis.” She poured more tea, gulped at it. “I didn’t see anyone hanging about.” She lifted the cup and held it against her cheek, her eyes closed. “But I wasn’t in any shape to notice much.”
His long mobile mouth curled up in an ugly grin. “If one pervert kills another,” he said in the round mellifluous tones of a TV preacher, “that is God’s judgment on them for their evil, sinful ways, God’s way to protect the righteous from their corruption.” His face looked drawn and miserable, the effect exaggerated by the light shining down on him.
“What are you going to do? Do you have family you can get back to?”
That painful travesty of a smile again. “I grew up in a small town a few hundred miles east and south of here. If they’ve got a local branch of the blackshirts, my dad’s more likely than not the head man.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“Been living with it more than long enough to be used to it. He kicked me out when I was sixteen. That’s a while back.”
She sat up, sore still all over. “I forgot. They were in here. The blackshirts.”
“Uh-huh.” This time he showed his teeth in the familiar broad grin. “I swept the place. Not to worry. They left a passive bug in the phone. No imagination. It’s down the garbage chute. That’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh. Been playing with gadgets, games, computers long as I can remember. I’m good, if I can brag a bit. And I work in this hobby shop that’s more than half a comp-security source, so I keep up. Besides, you know from what you said, the kind of shit I get rained on me, so I like to keep my nose sharp. And it’s not like these batbrains are government, not yet anyway; they get their stuff from shops like Dettingers.”
She refilled her cup, sat back holding it, the warmth in her middle spreading outward, loosening up stiffness, making the soreness more bearable. “I’m not used to all this ducking and swerving.”
“Better get used.” He shrugged. “There was a time.” He lifted his head, sniffed. “I better check. You want to eat in here or in the kitchen, or what?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “Give me a hand.”
She looked down at her plate. “You could make a living at this, young Michael.
He shook his head. “Hank was a lot better, but he taught me a few useful tricks. What about you? You going to stay here or what?”
“Not here. I’m going to see about getting myself across the border. Pain’s no turn-on for me-that I can swear to-and those vultures will be around when they get their nerve back.” She arranged the fork and knife in neat diagonals across the plate. “Besides, I’m going broke too fast. She watched as he put what was left of the casserole in a small bowl and topped it with foil, then began filling the kettle with water. She was amused as she watched him run cold water in the sink and frown at it, then set the pots and plates in it. He was so much more domesticated than she’d ever been.
He looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have any hot water. Cold baths all the time?”
“No. Just lots of hauling.”
“Stinking landlords. Won’t fix it or let you?”
“Not a hope.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I tried.” She put her hands flat on the table and stared at them. “Happens I need a mastectomy in the next few months and I haven’t a hope of money for that either which worries me a trifle more than a niggling little inconvenience like a hot water heater that won’t heat water. Sorry, didn’t mean to dump that on you, it’s just… hell.”
“Hey, Julia, no sweat, hey. I thought I had problems.” He tried to smile but his mouth quivered helplessly before he could control it and he turned hastily away, began scrubbing hard at one of the plates.
“Forget it,” she said briskly. Her parents had died within six months of each other not long after she married Hrald. She remembered how her mother kept looking about her for that six months, almost as if she expected to see the old man walking in or standing about, then breaking down when she realized he was gone; it was the same now, Michael suddenly remembering that his lover was dead. “Look,” she said. “You have to get out of here sometime. Try going out any window and you’ll have alarms going off, the police here before you could sneeze. Well, you know that.” She watched the taut slim back, muscles bunching and shifting about under the skin-tight tee-shirt as he used the scrubber on the casserole dish; he said nothing, making no response to her words. “Garbage truck isn’t due till the end of the week, so the chute’s out. You’ll have to get past the guard and he knows you.” She chuckled. “I wrote a thriller once, so I’ve got the patter down and can pull a plot together with the best.” He looked over his shoulder at her as he rinsed the dish, a slight but genuine smile denting his cheek. He said nothing, just started on the frying pan. She chuckled again, feeling infinitely better for no reason she could think of. “There’s a gaggle of secretaries on the second floor who usually leave in a bunch, seven-thirty most mornings. I’ve seen them several times since I gave up being a nightowl and sleeping through the mornings. So-you’re small-boned and about my height, a little shorter maybe but not enough to hurt. I’ve got clothes left over from the days of my servitude. And a rather nice wig I haven’t worn since… well, never mind that. Shoes could be a problem, but if you’ve got a pair of boots, they might do. What you can’t carry out in a shoulderbag, I could smuggle out if you’ll give me somewhere to send it. If our landlords keep on form, I’ll be getting an eviction notice before the week is over. That will give me excuse enough for taking boxes out. No need to leave your things for the vultures to inherit. Me, I’d take the paint off the walls if I could.” She looked around, sighed again. “Dammit, Michael, I earned this place. I’ve lived here ten years, It’s been home.”