Part 16 (2/2)

Past the dead woman's bobbing head he could see the apartment door hanging open. The lock had been smashed. The wood was cracked and splintered around the dead bolt. The hallway beyond looked as neglected as his apartment. A dark stain decorated one wall. It wasn't mildew.

He twisted the monster's arms and levered it back a few more steps. It tripped on its own foot and thumped off a wall. He almost s.h.i.+fted his grip to catch it, but then the gnas.h.i.+ng teeth and chalk eyes reminded him it wasn't a woman.

Another few steps and the dead thing was in the hall. It kept biting the air between them. He bent his arms a little bit and one of its fingers brushed his stomach. The painted nails almost got snagged in his T-s.h.i.+rt.

He shoved hard and the corpse staggered across the hall to crash into the opposite door. Its skull cracked just below the faux-iron numbers, right on the peephole lens. The dead thing slumped for a moment, then pushed itself back up against the door. Its camisole dragged down to expose more gray skin and a purple nipple.

George stepped back and slammed his apartment's door. The broken wood around the lock jammed it before it could close all the way. He gave two more hard shoves and wedged it into the frame. He reached for the dead bolt out of instinct, then fumbled with the chain instead.

The door shook as the pet.i.te woman hit it from the other side. It shook again. And a third time. Then he heard lacquered nails clawing at the wood.

It would be as hard to force the door open again as it had been to close it. He could use the remains of the couch to block it even more and give himself a few minutes to think. And find some clothes.

He double-checked the chain and turned to look at his apartment.

The carpet was clean. The blinds were half-down over the windows. Sunlight streamed in through the gla.s.s. He turned back at the door, nestled in its solid frame.

”Son of a b.i.t.c.h,” muttered George.

He stepped closer to the door but heard nothing. He lowered his eye to the peephole. The fish-eye view of the hallway didn't show him anything. It was empty.

He slid the chain loose and flipped the dead bolt. The door glided open on the hinges. He stepped into the hall and looked both ways. The dead woman was gone. There was no stain on the far wall.

George went back into his apartment and closed the door behind him.

He didn't remember turning the ceiling fan on last night. The nights were getting cool, even in Los Angeles. But the blades were swinging in lazy arcs. The beads wobbled back and forth and tapped the motor housing again and again.

He'd come home and eaten some leftovers. He remembered wondering when he should call Karen, and not being sure what was the best time of night to reach a supermodel. Then he'd just called and they'd talked for ten minutes. He'd made a joke about all of their ten-minute conversations. She hadn't laughed, but he'd sensed she didn't look down on him for it.

He was supposed to be meeting her at a coffee shop near her hotel at ten o'clock. He looked at the clock. He'd overslept. It was almost seven. Rush hour was in full swing, which meant it'd take him close to an hour to get over to the- It meant he was going to be late for work!

Panic made his heart pound. He could skip his shower, put on some extra deodorant, or maybe a spot of the cologne he wore once a month or so. He'd get c.r.a.p from the other workers but it meant he could be on the road as soon as he was dressed.

And then he took another breath. He'd made this decision last night. Whatever was happening to him was more important than work. He'd call Jarvis halfway through the day and tell him the illness had gotten worse.

Seeing Karen again was more important than work.

He shook the nerves out of his arms and gave his apartment another look. Not a single sign of the devastation he'd woken up with. Woken up with twice now.

George double-checked the locks on his door and headed for the shower.

He'd parked his car around the corner. This morning was a scheduled street-sweeping day, which meant last night the whole neighborhood's parking habits had s.h.i.+fted. As an early riser, these days usually meant easy parking the night before-George would be long gone before the parking fines kicked into effect. But last night he'd decided to park somewhere safer, just in case, and that had meant parking a block and a half away from his apartment.

He waited to cross the street as a black sedan with tinted windows rolled past him. There were a few gangs active in the area, and his first thought was somebody was cruising very early in the morning. The car was too basic for that, though. It wasn't a flashy vehicle, it was a workhorse. A Crown Victoria or something like that.

So his second thought, right on the tail of the first one, was that it was a cop. Which was also kind of rea.s.suring after the first thought. But even through the tinted windows he was pretty sure the man and woman in the car weren't cops. They wore dark suits. The woman stared back at him through the gla.s.s as they drove past.

He stepped out behind the sedan and headed across to the corner. He saw his car and grumbled. A black van was double-parked in the street, blocking him in his s.p.a.ce. The other driver didn't even have his hazards on. George steeled himself for a possible confrontation. He knew most folks would move without question and look apologetic when they did, but there was always that small percentage who got angry at the suggestion that every road in LA wasn't built to be their private parking spot. As he got close, though, the van pulled away fast and headed up the street.

George pulled out his keys and heard a squeal of rubber. The van had made a wide turn and cut off two other cars. Not just a turn-a U-turn. The van roared back toward him, cutting across the yellow line. It twisted in at the last moment and almost kissed the front corner of his Hyundai just before it came to a stop.

The two men in the front of the van were both staring at him. The side door slid open and George saw two more men in the back. All of them wore dark suits.

Another squeal of brakes made him spin. The black sedan had doubled back, too. It stopped in the road right behind him. Its nose was inches from the Hyundai's rear b.u.mper. The two black vehicles and his own car had him surrounded on three sides. Even as he thought it a second car pulled up in the far lane. They formed a tight box around him.

The pa.s.senger door opened while the sedan settled and a short blonde stepped out. The woman he'd glimpsed as they drove by outside his apartment. Her hair was cut short. She had a face that might've been cute when she was younger, but had gotten lean and harsh as she matured. She wore the same dark suit as the men in the van, and her driver.

The blonde held up something dark in her hand. A twitch of her fingers opened it to show a gold s.h.i.+eld, a photograph, and some tiny words on a white background. George registered a capital S, but the wallet closed before he could read anything.

”George Bailey,” the woman said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. She was just letting him know everything was intentional and deliberate.

George realized an instant too late he should've spent that thinking time trying to run.

A man grabbed either arm. A third one dropped the bag over his head. It was made of heavy black material, like denim. He heard a zipping sound as it cinched around his neck.

He fought back. The man holding his right arm let go. George swung his arm around and heard a grunt of pain from someone. The man holding the other arm let go, but then someone slammed into him. The world spun inside the black bag, something hit him in the side of the head, and everything stopped.

NINETEEN.

IT WAS VERY stuffy.

George realized the darkness wasn't unconsciousness but something draped over his head. He reached up to pull it away and something cold clicked and cut into his wrists. Then he remembered the van and the men and- ”He's awake.”

The bag whipped off his head. The blonde was standing in front of him. She was going through his wallet. She had his driver's license out and was holding it up to the light. She tilted it back and forth, checking the holograms.

They were in a square room. One of the dark-suited men stood in each corner. One had a bruise on the side of his head that hadn't been there when they grabbed him. Another one had splints on two fingers and his thumb. The only furniture was the chair George was handcuffed to and a table off to the side.

There wasn't a mirror. He thought there was always a one-way mirror in these rooms so people on the other side could watch what went on. He craned his head around. No mirror, and also no cameras.

He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

The blond woman tossed his license on the table. His credit cards were already there, along with what little cash he had and a few receipts. ”George H. Bailey. H stands for Harrison.” She shook her head. ”Seriously, with a name like that you'd think Homeland would've picked you up years ago.”

”It's my real name,” he said.

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