The apartment was silent. Almost too silent, now. As if someone were listening, waiting for her to make a move.
Nayva wasn't a woman given to fits of nerves and certainly not to hysteria. And she had always been confident that she could take care of herself just fine, thank you. But suddenly she was stricken by an uncharacteristic twinge of fear.
Silence.
“Who's there?” she demanded.
The shrill, angry shriek came again. It was a hateful sound.
Nayva shuddered.
A rat? Rats squealed. But not like this.
Feeling slightly foolish, she picked up a broom and held it as if it were a weapon.
The shriek came again, from the living room, as if taunting her to come see what it was.
Broom in hand, she crossed the kitchen and hesitated at the doorway.
Something was moving around in the living room. She couldn't see it, but she could hear an odd, dry paper, dry-leaf rustling and a scratching-hissing noise that sometimes sounded like whispered words in a foreign language.
With a boldness she had inherited from her father, Nayva stepped through the doorway. She edged past the tables and chairs, looking beyond them at the living room, which was visible through the wide archway that separated it from the dining alcove. She stopped beneath the arch and listened, trying to get a better fix on the noise.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. The pale yellow drapes fluttered, but not from a draft. She wasn't in a position to see the lower half of the drapes, but it was clear that something was scurrying along the floor, brushing them as it went.
Nayva moved quickly into the living room, past the first sofa, so that she could see the bottom of the drapes. Whatever had disturbed them was nowhere in sight. The drapes became still again.
Then, behind her, she heard a sharp little squeal of anger.
She whirled around, bringing up the broom, ready to strike.
Nothing.
She circled the second sofa. Nothing behind it. Looked in back of the armchair, too. Nothing. Under the end tables. Nothing. Around the bookcase, on both sides of the television set, under the sideboard, behind the drapes. Nothing, nothing.
Then the squeal came from the hallway.
By the time she got to the hall, there wasn't anything to be seen. She hadn't flicked on the hall light when she'd come into the apartment, and there weren't any windows in there, so the only illumination was what spilled in from the kitchen and living room. However, it was a short passageway, and there was absolutely no doubt that it was deserted.
She waited, head cocked.
The cry came again. From the kids' bedroom this time.
Nayva went down the hall. The bedroom was more than half dark. There was no overhead light; you had to go into the room and snap on one of the lamps in order to dispel the gloom. She paused for a moment on the threshold, peering into the shadows.
Not a sound. Even the furniture movers upstairs had stopped dragging and heaving things around. The wind had slacked off and wasn't pressing at the windows right now. Nayva held her breath and listened. If there was anything here, anything alive, it was being as still and alert as she was.
Finally, she stepped cautiously into the room, went to Penny's bed, and clicked on the lamp. That didn't burn away all the shadows, so she turned toward Davey's bed, intending to switch on that lamp, as well.
Something hissed, moved.
She gasped in surprise.
The thing darted out of the open closet, through shadows, under Davey's bed. It didn't enter the light, and she wasn't able to see it clearly. In fact, she had only a vague impression of it: something small, about the size of a large rat; sleek and streamlined and slithery like a rat.
But it sure didn't sound like a rodent of any kind. It wasn't squeaking or squealing now. It hissed and. gabbled as if it were whispering urgently to itself.
Nayva backed away from Davey's bed. She glanced at the broom in her hands and wondered if she should poke it under the bed and rattle it around until she drove the intruder out in the open where she could see exactly what it was.
Even as she was deciding on a course of action, the thing scurried out from the foot of the bed, through the dark end of the room, into the shadowy hallway; it moved fast. Again, Nayva failed to get a good look at it.
“Damn,” she said.
She had the unsettling feeling that the critter — whatever in God's name it might be — was just toying with her, playing games, teasing.
But that didn't make sense. Whatever it was, it was still only a dumb animal, one kind of dumb animal or another, and it wouldn't have either the wit or the desire to lead her on a merry chase merely for the fun of it.
Elsewhere in the apartment, the thing shrieked, as if calling to her.
Okay, Nayva thought. Okay, you nasty little beast, whatever you may be, look out because here I come. You may be fast, and you may be clever, but I'll track you down and have a look at you even if it's the last thing I do in this life.
CHAPTER TWO
I
They had been questioning Vince Vastagliano's girlfriend for fifteen minutes. Nevetski was right. She was an uncooperative bitch.
Perched on the edge of a Queen Anne chair, Jack Dawson leaned forward and finally mentioned the name that Darl Coleson had given him yesterday. “Do you know a man named Baba Lavelle?”
Shelly Parker glanced at him, then quickly looked down at her hands, which were folded around a glass of Scotch, but in that unguarded instant, he saw the answer in her eyes.
“I don't know anyone named Lavelle,” she lied.
Rebecca was sitting in another Queen Anne chair, legs crossed, arms on the chair arms, looking relaxed and confident and infinitely more self-possessed than Shelly Parker. She said, “Maybe you don't know Lavelle, but maybe you've heard of him. Is that possible?”
“No,” Shelly said.
Jack said, “Look, Ms. Parker, we know Vince was dealing dope, and maybe we could hang a related charge on you—”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
“-but we don't intend to charge you with anything—”
“You can't!”
“-if you cooperate.”
“You have nothing on me,” she said.
“We can make life very difficult for you.”
“So can the Carramazzas. I'm not talking about them.”
“We aren't asking you to talk about them,” Rebecca said. “Just tell us about this Lavelle.”
Shelly said nothing. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip.
“He's a Haitian,” Jack said, encouraging her.
Shelly stopped biting her lip and settled back on the white sofa, trying to look nonchalant, failing. “What kind of neese is he?”
Jack blinked at her. “Huh?”
“What kind of neese is this Lavelle?” she repeated.
“Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese…? You said he was Asian.”
“Haitian. He's from Haiti.”
“Oh. Then he's no kind of neese at all.”
“No kind of neese at all,” Rebecca agreed.
Shelly apparently detected the scorn in Rebecca's voice, for she shifted nervously, although she didn't seem to understand exactly what had elicited that scorn. “Is he a black dude?”
“Yes,” Jack said, “as you know perfectly well.”
“I don't hang around with black dudes,” Shelly said, lifting her head and squaring her shoulders and assuming an affronted air.
Rebecca said, “We heard Lavelle wants to take over the drug trade.”
“I wouldn't know anything about that.”