Awakenings Read online

  “Four-One Adam unable to respond due to vehicular accident en route—redirecting Four-One David to your location. ETA is ten minutes. Recommend you wait for backup, over.”

  “Negative, Central. Officer already in pursuit, over and out.”

  Erin was not happy with the turn of events. Ten minutes could be an eternity. A shadow at the top of the stairs dissolved into the darkness. If Cal had scared out the perp and he spotted her, then he’d be looking for another exit. Her plan was to sandwich the suspect between herself and Cal. Erin took out her Maglite and crept up the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs she shone her light across the landing. Nothing.

  She walked across the hall to the second set of stairs and put her foot on the first step. She heard a creak behind her. Before she could turn, there was a swish, like the sound of a switch whipped through the air. Then silence. Not a drop of rain, not a squeak; someone had pulled the plug on the whole world. She realized she was tumbling forward, only because the floor raced toward her. An odd sensation, like gravity had been turned off. She was floating. The moment slowed (a Hollywood special effect) and her view rotated, like clinging to a ball in flight, past the floor and back to the scene behind her. Her temple bore the weight of the fall, hard—she couldn’t move. A beautiful man with long dark hair and bronzed skin had one arm across his chest, and in his hands he held a gleaming sword parallel with the ground. He was the second-to-last thing she witnessed before everything went dark. The last thing Erin Ramos saw was her headless body falling toward her.

  4

  Cal searched the roof thoroughly before hopping over the brick divider between the buildings. He landed in a puddle. The cold rain was still coming down hard, and the door to this roof creaked open and shut at the wind’s whim. It was bent, which kept it from closing completely and there was a rusty hole where the lock had once been. He turned on his Maglite and carefully opened the roof door. Something scuttled on the floor below beyond the range of his light. He entered the access way and proceeded down the stairs, his white breath trailing behind him.

  The dilapidated tenement, once a shelter for many, now reeked of must, urine, and burnt ashes, the by-product of transients trying to keep warm. Patterns pressed into the tin ceiling reflected a previous era when intricate moldings, rich with details and fancy woodwork, were built into every structure by skilled immigrants. Slumlords turned these edifices into havens for rodents, roaches, and drug addicts.

  Cal started to unholster his gun, then changed his mind in favor of the nightstick. He was worried about squatters who might be living there. Nothing hurt worse than accidentally killing someone already down on his or her luck.

  The air was colder inside the building. Cal took that as a bad omen. Back at the precinct, the veterans told stories to spook the rookies. The most popular was about taking statements from a person in a building who they later found out had been murdered there years earlier. When they checked photo records it would be a perfect match. Others spoke of homes, which even during winter, were colder inside than outside; it was as though they were no longer connected to the natural world. Nothing good ever came of these places. What they stressed most was, turn around and leave. Just get out of there. Cal chuckled at their intensity, especially Mookie Malone, who would get that glassy stare and even forget his beer. Grown men with guns getting spooked by bumps in the dark. Cal assumed those stories were an elaborate prank to haze the younger officers. He was sure of it—until he entered this building.

  The hairs on his arms bristled and he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. His decision not to wait for backup haunted him.

  In his career, Cal had performed a wide range of unpleasant and dangerous tasks. He had recovered decomposed corpses, faced down drug dealers and violent addicts, and broke up angry mobs, while suffering the protestations of a police-wary citizenry. Each day, he left for work confident that he could handle anything “the citizens” threw at him. Now, he felt beyond the safety of that assurance. And, he thought he was being watched.

  He landed softly on the top floor and threw his light up and down the hallway.

  Clear.

  The scuttling resumed in one of the abandoned apartments at the end of the corridor. Cal crept down the hallway to 5E. The door was off its hinges. He peered into the void and listened before shining his light through the doorway.

  The radio suddenly blared.

  “Four-One Ida, what’s your status? Over.”

  His heart almost burst from his chest. Cal turned the volume down and left the response to his partner. He cursed himself for not turning it down earlier. His position was now compromised, which could be bad if the suspect turned out to be a full-blown wacko. Few assailants would actually attack a police officer, but any cop who depended on that to keep him safe had one foot in the grave.

  A few tense seconds passed with no response.

  Cal secured his nightstick and drew his pistol. He walked through the doorway and shone the light around the room. It was a studio apartment; the kind coveted by creative types in Manhattan. Beer cans, old newspaper, and dirty dishes were scattered across the wet floor. Plastic buckets caught leaks from the roof, but not enough. A stained mattress lay flopped in the corner. Cracks in the plaster exposed wooden slats in the walls. He could see into the bathroom, the only extension of the single room. There was nowhere to hide, not a corner or a box from which to conceal anything larger than a cat. The room was empty. Yet, something was wrong.

  If Cal really had a sixth sense, it was the ability to know when he was being stalked. The image of a gazelle in high grass kept popping into Cal’s head. Every nerve in the cop’s body fired up, his hackles stood on end.

  He started to back out of the room slowly. Someone was in there with him, he just was not seeing them. He shifted his light around as he backed up. Rain dripped on his shoulder … and something gooey, too. It smelled acrid, its texture like melted glue. He spun around, ready to fire. No one was there. Then a frightening thought occurred to him. He looked up. Pressed against the black ceiling, two yellow eyes and a fanged grin looked back.

  CHAPTER 2

  SHE’S CRAZY ’CAUSE SHE’S BEAUTIFUL

  1

  Seth Raincrest slammed the snooze control for the fifth time. Each nine-minute reprieve was, of course, the last before he would drag his lanky frame from the mattress, but the slow roll down to his pillow appealed more than the walk to the bathroom. The day officially began when Hoshi—fully aware that it was within her master’s power to end the incessant buzzing—planted her furry rump on Seth’s head until the bad noise stopped.

  Seth sat on the edge of the bed and clicked on the news. A student in Queens had been murdered, a baby in Cleveland was kidnapped from day care, India and Pakistan were pointing nuclear missiles at each other again, Meredith Vieira started her five-part series on colon cancer, and Mafia capo Dominic Tagliatore, the Debonair Don, was finally indicted on thirteen counts of racketeering. “Yay for the good guys,” Seth grunted.

  He lit a Camel and decided he could get by another day without showering or shaving, so long as he changed his underwear. Seth could stretch a bar of soap for two months, a technique he had perfected in foster care. In the bathroom, his reflection studied him—bloodshot hazel eyes shaped like crescents standing on their tips, a Roman nose, and greasy brown hair. He hadn’t a clue which side of the family he took after. All record of his past had been destroyed, along with his parents, in a house fire thirteen years earlier. And, Seth could not recall anything from before the day of the fire. Because of a passing resemblance to John Lennon, friends teased he was probably the Beatle’s love child. Seth always felt more like Ringo.

  He shuffled into the spare bedroom he used as his photo studio. The answering machine beeped. He ignored it. The ashtray on the work counter, piled high with bleached white carcasses of Seth’s addiction, overflowed with a halo of ash around the base. The workspace was decorated with small figurin
es of Bugs Bunny, Minnie Mouse, Porky Pig, and other cartoon characters, positioned in ways that would perturb any censor. Behind the figurines, an eclectic collection of bongs loitered against a wall marked with vertical measurement like that of a police lineup. A sign over the bongs read The Usual Suspects.

  He pulled out a nude photo layout he had shot earlier in the week. Six days overdue, Seth just couldn’t muster the interest to get the job done. He attributed his procrastination to working best under pressure.

  Seth studied the layout. The girls, a blonde and an Asian, were going at each other with rubber sex toys. The story began with them in a doctor’s waiting room. Since the doctor was taking so long, patient and nurse decided it would be the perfect time to get each other off. Just like it happens in real life, Seth thought. He’d hired them through an ad for models in the Village Voice. Seth was amazed that he could always find someone willing to do a shoot for a few hundred bucks or less. He had yet to encounter the girl, filled with righteous indignation, who would accuse him of being a pervert and a detriment to humanity. Apparently, those types did not read the Village Voice.

  The girls who answered Seth’s ads always needed more money than their social situation or education would allow them to earn. The blonde in the photo, a coed, needed airfare to Cancún for spring break. The art store she cashiered at paid crap. So there she was, naked, with her head between a stranger’s thighs, clueless that this easy-money moment was going to follow her for the rest of her life like herpes. Most girls didn’t realize that the sets were resold to multiple publications; that they were uploaded to Web sites and downloaded by tens of millions everywhere throughout the world.

  Seth lit a fresh cigarette as his roommate Joe walked in.

  “Who’s on the machine?” Joe asked.

  “Dunno.”

  Joe played the message.

  “It’s Carmine. Where’s my goddamned photo shoot?! You screw me on this and you’re not only fired, but we’ll come at you so hard you won’t be able to afford a disposable camera! Hell! You won’t be able to hold a disposable camera!”

  “Crap! Are you gonna make the rent?” Joe asked.

  Seth took another drag on his Camel and began to thumb through an issue of Penthouse.

  “Man, this routine is getting old, Seth.”

  Seth shuffled to the window. Cracked open, the winter air brought sounds of commuters, shopkeepers, and local transients beginning the day’s hustle. From his five-story perch, he followed the line of Avenue A past Tompkins Square, through the heart of the East Village, until it disappeared at Houston Street. Tenements once home to a million immigrants were now filled with artists, musicians, actors, students, and outcasts. Ramshackle shops and bars, clustered around the foundation of every building, were the best way landlords could afford the taxes on their rent-stabilized properties.

  “I’m serious, man,” Joe continued. “You quit school, you bagged on Kevin’s wedding without a word, you dumped Mindy the day you were supposed to take her to the clinic. You never come through for anyone.”

  Across the street, an old hooker hustled a man sweeping snow off his stoop. Her skin, dry and brown, sagged from her bones like she had just walked out of the desert. She had to work mornings because she couldn’t compete with the new girls at night. There were always new girls.

  Their voices bounced off the buildings and echoed through the nearly deserted street. The man shouted about children living there and kicked her off the stoop. The hooker stumbled to the corner. Her erratic footprints in the snow traced her muddled perceptions.

  Outside the Korean deli, a stray mutt pissed on a crate of oranges. Mr. Cho chased it away with a broomstick, then hosed down the oranges and put the fruit out on display. Kids hurled snowballs at a city bus. A beautiful redhead with map in hand searched for the right street.

  Red was tall, with a regal air. She walked with an odd gait Seth couldn’t quite place. He imagined she had hooked up with a well-endowed stud after a night of clubbing and was now trying to make her way back to New Jersey. If Red starred in one of his sets, he could sell porn to the Pope.

  “Seth!” Joe shouted.

  “What?”

  “What are we going to do with you? We’re tired of your shit.”

  “We? Who’s we? You’re all discussing me now?” He threw his cigarette butt out the window and lit another one.

  While crossing the street, the old whore was hit by a garbage truck. Her body landed in the middle of the intersection. Traffic stopped. A crimson army marched outward from her broken body.

  “My God!” Joe screamed. He grabbed a blanket off the couch and ran from the apartment.

  The whore had solicited Seth on his stoop once. Her teeth were rotted, her eyes bloodshot, and she smelled like piss. Seth wondered if she was better off dead.

  A man in a long leather coat and Dalmatian-print Stetson elected himself to be in charge. Joe handed him the blanket. Seth chuckled. Joe, a transplanted Californian, was the only one in the crowd who came out of his home to help. He never got over his small-town habits.

  The doorbell rang.

  Seth was surprised to find the redhead with the map waiting on his doorstep. She was taller than he was, filling the door frame. A tan suede coat ran down the length of her body. A leather satchel hung over one shoulder. Her hair was long and unnaturally bright against her swarthy complexion. Random blond streaks gave the impression that her head was aflame. Her eyes, set far apart, were the color of moss under a full moon.

  She held up an index card, and in what sounded somewhat like an Eastern European accent, stated, “You are Seth Raincrest.”

  “Yeah…” Seth took a drag on his cigarette. “You’re answering the ad?” he asked, licking his lips.

  “No.”

  “Too bad.” Seth exhaled smoke slowly while he studied this Amazon beauty. “Look—I’m not interested in joining any cults, even if you’re a member.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not buying.”

  “I’m not selling.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “We have met before. Are you going to invite me in?”

  Seth was suspicious. Relatives of the girls he photographed sometimes blamed him for their disgrace and tried to hold him accountable, especially when a model OD’d on drugs. The dope was inevitable when you did that kind of work, but it aged them to where they weren’t even useful for sets. Finding new girls was easier than trying to save one. He merely chronicled one stage of their downfall. He wasn’t their friend and certainly wasn’t their analyst. Seth was concerned he’d someday be the target of a family’s vigilante wrath.

  “Sorry, but I’d remember you if we met.”

  She peered at him. “My name is Lelani. We met long ago. A place called Aandor.”

  “And-or? That’s in Canada, right?” Seth took another drag.

  “It’s complicated. Are you going to invite me in?”

  “What’s complicated?” he asked.

  “Really … have you no sense of etiquette?”

  There was a glimmer of condescension in the way she spoke to him. She had an air about her. An image of Lelani, naked with her head between some girl’s thighs, entered Seth’s thoughts. How’s that for etiquette, he thought. Sensitive due to his vocation, any buzz or whisper often gave Seth the impression he was being talked about. He dealt with perceived slights by imagining the offender in a compromising situation. This time it didn’t work. Lelani came off so confident, so superior, that the thought of her nude only made him more insecure.

  “I flunked finishing school,” he said. “And, you’re weirding me out. I wouldn’t invite you in if you offered to jump my bones.”

  “That will not happen.”

  “Then I’m real busy. B’bye…”

  Lelani braced the closing door with her foot. “You were put into foster care when you were thirteen. You have no recollection of your life prior to that year.”

  Seth felt a tug of cu
riosity, but suspected this was a scam. “I already know that, honey. My parents got turned into crispy critters in a fire. There’s nothing mysterious about amnesia induced by trauma.”

  “Yes, but you don’t remember anyone from before that time.”

  Seth’s oldest memory was of sitting on the curb outside his burnt home, breathing with help from an oxygen tank. A medic placed a blanket around his shoulders and told him lies about how everything would be all right.

  Seth’s instincts were telling him she was trouble, but he couldn’t figure out her angle and curiosity got the best of him. There was also the chance that he might convince her to pose. He released the door. “You knew me before the fire?”

  “Give me a chance,” she implored. “I assure you, my intentions are not malevolent.”

  Thirteen years ago his case had stumped everyone from police to social services. No one, not relatives, friends, neighbors, or teachers, came forward to claim him. Social services concluded that his family had just moved to New York. The fire destroyed all evidence of his origins. They could not trace his next of kin. He was placed into foster care until someone claimed him.

  On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, Seth had prayed that someone would come for him before midnight. It was the last time he ever made a plea to a higher power. The next day he was discharged from the foster home. His disappointment festered until he wanted nothing to do with the people who abandoned him. Now, someone was laying claim to a part of his past he had put to rest.

  “Are we related?” Seth asked.

  “Definitely not.”

  He was pleased to hear the news.

  “A cup of tea would be appreciated,” Lelani prompted. “It is freezing outside.”

  “This is New York. You might be psychotic for all I know.”

  “You would be dead by now,” she said, calm.

  Seth wasn’t sure if she was joking.

  Joe returned from the street, shivering.