Free Manhattan Is My Beat by Jeffery Deaver Page B

backward as the man on the fire escape, his face a foot away from her, screamed.
    Not a gasp or shout but a gut-shaking scream. She’d scared the hell out of him. He’d been standing outside on the fire escape, peering cautiously through the window. Now he backed away slowly, nearly paralyzed with terror, it seemed, easing step by step up the peeling black-enameled metal. Then he turned and sprinted up toward the third floor.
    She guessed he was in his late sixties. He was balding, with a face that was tough and pocked and gray. Not the kind of face that should be screaming.
    Her heart was pounding from the shock of the surprise. Her legs felt rubbery. She stood up slowly and pushed her head out the window.
    Squinting, she watched him—his fat belly taut above hammy pumping legs—as he climbed through the window directly above Kelly’s apartment. She heard his footsteps walking heavily and quickly overhead. She heard a door slam.
    Rune hesitated, then walked to the front door, knelt down, and looked out through the crack. Coming down the stairs: scuffed shoes, baggy fat-man’s pants, and suit jacket tight around the arms. Then his tough, pocked face, under a brown hat.
    Yes, it was him, the man from the fire escape. He walked very quietly. He didn’t want to be heard.
    He’s leaving, thank you, God
….
    His face was the color of cooked pork; sweat glistening on his forehead.
    … thank you, thank you, thank
—
    Then he stopped and looked at the door to Mr. Kelly’s apartment for a long while. No, it’s okay. He thinks I’ve left. He won’t try to come inside.
    Thank
…
    The man stepped closer. No … It’s all right, shetold herself again. He thinks that once he went upstairs I climbed out onto the fire escape and got away through the alley.
    … you
.
    Another step, as cautious as Don Johnson closing in on a dozen drug dealers in
Miami Vice
. The man paused, a foot away.
    Rune was afraid to lock the dead bolt or put the chain on; he’d hear her. She pressed her palms against the door, pushing as hard as she could. The man walked directly to it, then stopped, inches away. The thin wood—hell, she’d whacked right through it herself—was all that protected her. Rune’s small muscles trembled as she pressed against the door.
    Which is when the screwdriver slid out of her pocket. In horror, she watched it fall—as if it were in slow motion. It was a scene from a Brian DePalma movie. She grabbed at the tool, caught it, then fumbled it …
No!
    She reached down fast and managed to snag the screwdriver an inch above the oak slats of the floor.
    Thank you
…
    Frozen in position, like the game of statue she played as a kid, Rune listened to the man’s labored breathing. He hadn’t heard anything.
    He’d
have
to know she left. He’d
have
to!
    She slipped the screwdriver back into her pocket, but as she did so, she brushed the claws of the hammer, which was hooked into the waistband of her pants. The tool fell straight to the floor, its head bouncing twice with echoing slams.
    “No!” she shouted in a whisper. Planting her feet on the opposite wall, leaning hard into the door, Rune ducked her head, waiting for the fist that she knew would slam through the cheap wood, clawing for her hair, her eyes. She’d be dead. Just like Robert Kelly. Itwould only be a matter of minutes, seconds, and she would die.
    But, no … He turned and ran down the stairs.
    Finally Rune stood, staring at her shaking hands and remembering some movie she’d seen recently where the teenage hero had escaped from some killer and had stood frozen, gazing at his quivering hands; Rune had groaned at the cliché. But it wasn’t a cliché at all. Her hands were trembling so badly she could hardly open the door. She peered out, hearing sounds of chatting voices and far-off TVs. Children’s squeals.
    Why had he run? she wondered. Who was he? A witness? The killer’s accomplice?
    The killer?
    Rune—every muscle shaking—walked fast to the