Okay. That’s fine.
“Let’s dance,” I say to the girls. “It’s my night.”
Chapter 27
MAYBE TWENTY SECONDS LATER, the guy with the ponytail is walking toward Beth, Connie, and me, slowly weaving his way through the traffic jam of people on the dance floor. He’s wearing a black suit and white shirt, open collar.
My instinct is to give him a wink – just a little one. But I don’t do it.
“Beth? Connie?” I say.
They can’t hear me. They’re so wrapped up in the music, they don’t even notice I’ve stopped dancing.
He’s getting closer, and maybe because of what’s happened lately, my skin is starting to crawl.
“Beth! Connie!” I say again.
But the music’s too loud.
A strobe light kicks in, hurting my eyes. It’s like a million flashbulbs going off, one after the other. I can’t see him anymore, and that makes it worse because I know he’s there. And getting closer.
There he is!
A dozen feet away.
What does he want?
He’s stopped in the middle of the dance floor. It seems as if everybody in the club is moving except for the two of us.
His blank stare is gone. In its place, a slight smile. I get the feeling he knows me, or at least knows who I am. This isn’t a chance encounter, is it? Could he be a detective? Maybe he works with the older, skinny guy? That makes some sense to me, as much as anything does lately.
He comes up to me and stands maybe,oh, I don’t know, two feet away.
“You were watching me,” I say. “You were staring.”
“You caught me. You’re very pretty, y’know. You must know that?”
I do – kind of. Usually I dress down, but not tonight. Maybe because I feel safe with my girls around.
I start to say something, but he raises his hand and cuts me off. Like he’s used to being in control.
“Listen. You seem like a nice person. You ought to really watch yourself. Be careful, huh?” He leans in real close. Too close. “I’m not kidding around. You’ve been warned.”
Chapter 28
NOT AGAIN.
Please, not again.
I awake the next morning to everything repeating itself. Well, actually, that’s not accurate.
This time I open my eyes to total darkness. Not the darkness of a room in the middle of the night. Like – nothingness. Blackness.
With a sound track – that unidentified song playing in my head.
Then comes picture – the dream – the four gurneys, the hand emerging from that body bag… and I’m jolting up in bed, screaming, sweating, trembling.
I hear a loud banging, only it’s not at my door.
This time it’s coming from my ceiling, or rather, from the apartment above me. Apparently it’s not only Mrs. and Mr. Herbert Rosencrantz I’m waking up at the crack of dawn.
“Sorry!” I shout out. I truly am.
Double sorry because it’s Saturday.
I hope my upstairs neighbor will be able to get back to sleep. As for me, I know I can’t. Or won’t. As exhausted as I am from being out last night with Connie and Beth, I’m not about to close my eyes again. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got the weekend off. My dream – this nightmare – doesn’t.
Besides, how could I sleep with this music in my head?
It’s still there – the mystery song. Worse, I think it’s getting louder.
Or is that just my head throbbing? Yesterday was Michael’s turn to have the hangover; today it’s mine.
Slowly, I will myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I shake a couple of aspirin into my hand, washing them down with some New York tap.
Then it’s straight to the kitchen to make some coffee.
I’m not much of a java junkie and usually only drink the stuff for “medicinal purposes.” Like now. A while back, though, Michael turned me on to Kona coffee from Hawaii, and I’ve been loving it. I get it over at Oren’s Daily Roast on 58th Street.
Michael’s particular about his coffee but not really in a snobbish way. The only reason he doesn’t like Starbucks, he says, is due to the “laptop losers” who treat the place like their own personal office and hog all the seating. One morning I saw him go a little nuclear on a guy who was using two chairs for just his knapsack.
Sipping a cup of Kona in my kitchen, I try to get a handle on the growing weirdness of the past few days. Is that even the right word for it, I wonder? Weirdness?
Maybe there’s more to this than I realize. Or maybe it’s the opposite, and I’m overreacting.
Or maybe I’m simply thinking about it too much. It’s not as if I have a solution to make it stop.
I’m weighing that last possibility when the phone rings.
It’s awfully early for someone to be calling. The caller ID says “Operator.” Strange.
I pick up. “Hello?”
The operator sounds close to being a recording without actually being one. “I have a collect call from Kristin Burns. Will you accept the charges?”
Clearly the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet because I could’ve sworn she said a collect call from Kristin Burns.
“I’m sorry, who’s calling?”
“This is the operator.”
That part I got.
“No, I mean, who’s trying to call me?” I ask.
“Hold on a second, please.” There’s a click on the line, and she’s gone for a few seconds before returning. “It’s Kristin Burns,” she says.
Is this some type of joke?
“Michael, is that you?” I ask.
There’s another click, and I wait.
But the operator doesn’t come back.
No one does.
The line goes dead.
I guess Kristin Burns doesn’t want to talk to me after all.
Chapter 29
I’M NOT SURE WHAT to think after that phone call except that I really don’t feel like hanging around my apartment. Maybe because I’m shaking and I can’t make it stop.
As for the word weirdness to describe what’s going on, it’s officially far too mild a term.
At times like this, as if there’s ever been a time like this before in my life, I try to think of a bigger picture. For example. One second the whole universe was smaller than the head of a pin. The next second it was billions of times larger than the Earth. And the lesson to be learned from the big picture is exactly what?
Thankfully, there’s an errand I have to run. Errands are good when you think you might be going stark-raving mad. So after showering and getting dressed, I hail a cab for Gotham Photo over in Chelsea. I’ve got a camera that needs a new lens.
“Hi. Is Javier here today?” I ask, walking up to the counter at Gotham. I notice that my shaking has finally stopped. Hey, the song in my head is gone too.
“He’s in the back,” says the clerk. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait for him.”
“Sure, I’ll let him know,” he says. “You’re Kristin, right?”
“Yep. Hi.”
The entire staff at Gotham Photo is friendly and they all know their stuff, but Javier’s my favorite. He’s always able to explain some of the more technical aspects of lenses and film without making me feel like an amateur. Truly, he’s as nice as can be.
“How are you, Kristin? It’s good to see you,” he greets me, smiling. He’s tall and thin and cultured, with a very gentle way about him.
We chat for a bit about anything and everything – so long as it has to do with photography. This isn’t merely a job for Javier; it’s more like a calling. He loves cameras that much. “My mother bought me my first, a Rollei Thirty-five when I was six years old,” he once told me.
I believe it.
“So when am I going to read about you in Blind Spot?” he asks. That’s the hip magazine that covers the famous as well as up-and-coming photographers.