Part Six
The
sun peered into the space between the two buildings. Within a few minutes the
room was filled with light. A lone man sat at the small, tall dining table that
was nestled into the corner of the apartment. Fingers of light crept up the
legs of the table and finally drenched the man in light. He filled and downed a
shot glass.
Three
days had passed since the mysterious footsteps had opened the door. Hamilton
had not slept. His eyes were bloodshot and face sagging. Sunrise signaled that
it was time to transition from alcohol to caffeine, so he corked the vodka bottle
and started a pot of coffee.
He
looked in the bathroom mirror and was horrified by his reflection. Wrinkles
pervaded his spread collar shirt and his tie was hanging limp, its once perfect
dimple a distant memory. He searched the medicine cabinet for a few aspirin and
gulped them down dry.
The usually cleansing and invigorating
waters of the shower did little to alter Hamilton’s state of mind. As he dried,
he wiped the fog from the mirror, his wet hair the only difference from the man
he had seen a few minutes previous. A freshly starched and pressed shirt and
cup of coffee lifted his spirits momentarily. He plodded out the door. As
exhausted as he was, Hamilton was relieved to get out of the apartment.
When
Hamilton arrived, the office was in a state of panic. A recently fired employee
had managed to send some incriminating e-mails to a few of the firms’ bigger
clients before the tech department could shut off his e-mail. These clients
were furious, and temperatures were running high. The boss informed him that he
would need to travel to Memphis, Tennessee and placate one of their bigger
accounts. Moments after stepping through the office door he was out of the
office, train ticket in hand.
Hamilton
made his way home quickly to pack a bag, with just over an hour before the
afternoon train. With a few things packed he flagged a cab.
Penn Station, please.
Quickly!
The cabbie
replied by flooring the accelerator. It was the most harrowing cab ride of
Hamilton’s life. He had never heard more horns than in those twenty minutes.
The cab screeched to a halt outside of Madison Square Garden. Hamilton looked
at his watch.
Five
minutes. Shit.
He threw a
twenty at the cabbie and shouted his thanks.
The attendants were moments away from
closing the gates when Hamilton came sprinting towards the gate.
WAIT!
They turned
and waved him forward. He flew down the stairs and onto the train. A wry smile
from the conductor greeted him.
Cutting
it a little close, don’t you think?
Hands on
knees, Hamilton nodded breathlessly.
The business class car was quiet and
relatively empty. An open pair of seats near the rear looked welcoming, and
after stowing his bag he flopped into the seats. For the first time in three
days he was at ease, and sleep came within moments.
Never had a week away done so much for
anyone. After a few days of Herculean effort he had managed to pacify the
client, with the benefit of several good nights’ sleep. He returned to the city
well rested and confident.
On his first evening home there were
no lights nor sounds nor mysterious figures. Four nights passed without
incidence. Hamilton did not sleep as well as he had in Memphis, but some sleep
was better than none. It was not until the fifth night that the situation
changed.
As you will recall, the lights had
appeared in each of the four windows across the way. This evening the lights
danced in each of the windows simultaneously, weaving a mesmerizing pattern.
Hamilton gazed at them. Time passed, and before long he grew tired. When they
stopped the figure appeared, seeming to taunt him. The figure disappeared and
darkness fell once more on the apartment across the way.
This
is all in my head. There is nothing going on. Just go to sleep.
These reassurances eased Hamilton’s
mind, as did the reassurance he now kept under his pillow. Rest and relaxation were
not the only benefits of his sort vacation; on his travels Hamilton had
acquired a snub-nose Smith & Wesson revolver. If someone was really
entering his apartment at night, he was going to defend himself. Fortunately,
firearm laws in Tennessee were quite a bit different from those in New York.
Hamilton slept well that night. He was
awoken around three by the familiar sound of creaking floorboard.
It’s
here.
The footsteps
approached. The door inched open, one inch, then two. Hamilton wrapped his hand
around the revolvers grip. He thumbed off the safety. Adrenaline coursed
through him as it had before, but his fear had been replaced by determination.
A pale hand appeared on the doorknob and the door opened fully.
Hamilton leveled the revolver and
squeezed the trigger.
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