Someone Is Watching (31 page)

“I was asleep when it happened. Didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything.”

“Would you mind if I had a look from your balcony?” I ask, already half-inside her apartment before she can stop me.

“I don’t understand what good that will do.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Well, all right.” She deliberately looks the other way as we walk past the closed door at the end of her hallway. Why? Is someone there?

Her apartment is freezing. Most older people prefer being too warm to being too cold. I wonder if it is her “weird grandson” who likes things so frigid. I also wonder where he is now, if he is the one behind the closed door at the end of the hall, if he knows anything about my attack, if he is, in fact, the one who attacked me. I decide I should probably get the hell out of here, but of
course I do no such thing. I’ve come this far. It would be crazy to leave now. And
I’m not crazy.

A beige leather sectional and matching armchair are grouped in front of the high-definition TV mounted on the far wall beside the door leading to the balcony. To the left of it are a small dining area and tiny galley kitchen. I note a can of Coke and a half-empty bottle of beer in the middle of a glass coffee table as I cut across the living room. A thin, blue blanket is folded up on one pillow of the sofa and a stack of magazines beside it rests on the floor, the top one bearing the title
Motorcycle Mania.
“You like motorcycles?” I ask.

Mrs. Harkness purses her lips and tucks several nonexistent hairs behind her ear. “I do, yes. My late husband used to own one.”

I have to admire her skill. Were it not for her tell, Mrs. Harkness would be a first-class liar. “Oh my goodness,” I say suddenly, as if just noticing the bottle of beer. “You have company!” I feign looking around. “I’m so sorry.…”

Mrs. Harkness tucks more invisible hairs behind her right ear. “I don’t have company,” she says quickly. “Just couldn’t decide what I felt like drinking.” Another purse of her lips, another unnecessary tuck of hair behind her ear. “I know they say that things go better with Coke,” she says with a laugh. “But sometimes there’s nothing like an ice-cold beer.”

That’s another thing about liars. They always feel the need to embellish.

“This is really a lovely apartment,” I say. “One bedroom or two?”

“Just one. Don’t need more space than that. Since my husband died.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask, keeping my voice determinedly casual as I unlatch the door to the balcony and slide it open.

“Three years. Do you think we could speed this up? I’m missing my soap.…”

“I shouldn’t be much longer.” I step out onto the balcony, the
onslaught of warm air covering my head like a pillowcase. I gasp, throwing my head back, my body slamming into the railing overlooking the street below.

I tell myself to calm down. This is a simple episode of post-traumatic stress. That’s all it is.
I’m not crazy.

Looking down, I see an unimpeded view of the bushes where I was raped. In the daytime, everything is visible: the flowers, the shrubs, the space in the middle of those shrubs where I was crouching when I was overpowered, the exact spot where I was violated. There is a street light at the corner, so even in the black of night, it’s entirely possible for someone standing on this balcony to have seen at least some of what went down. Was that what happened? Had someone been standing on this balcony and witnessed the attack, or had that someone seen me crouching in those bushes earlier that day and decided to launch an attack of his own? And did that someone like beer, motorcycle magazines, and the air conditioning turned to high? Could that someone be described as weird or a little “off”? And could that someone be hiding in the bedroom of his grandmother’s apartment at this very minute, someone who is creeping steadily toward me.…

I spin around, my hands shooting out to thwart my attacker, a strangled cry escaping my lips, becoming louder, as whatever semblance of control I had goes flying off the side of the balcony.

Mrs. Harkness underlines my scream with her own. She backs into the living room, her eyes spinning around wildly, as if afraid to settle. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

I take a minute to catch my breath and pull myself together. Tears are cascading down my cheeks. No one is there. Only Mrs. Harkness.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, clearly unnerved by my behavior.

I stumble back into the frigid interior of the apartment, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

Mrs. Harkness moves swiftly to the tiny galley kitchen and returns with a plastic glass of cold water, holding it out for me. I gulp it down, my hands shaking so badly that I lose at least half
the water down the front of my T-shirt. “Who are you? What’s going on?” she asks, her eyes glued to my every twitch. “You’re not with the police, are you?”

I shake my head.

“You’re that woman, aren’t you?” she says after a lengthy pause. “The one who was raped.”

I shudder at being so easily unmasked. First Colin Lesser, now Mrs. Harkness. I might as well wear a sign.

“Do the police know you’re here?”

“I was hoping I might be able to discover something they missed,” I explain when I’m reasonably sure I can speak without my voice breaking.

“And have you?”

“Possibly,” I tell her, too exhausted to lie. “I understand you have a grandson.”

“Who told you that?”

“Is he here now?”

“I bet it was Mr. Saunders, from next door. He’s always trying to make trouble for me. That bastard’s had his eye on this apartment ever since he moved in, wants it for himself. He’s been trying to get me to move out ever since my husband died.”

“Is your grandson here now, Mrs. Harkness?”

Mrs. Harkness purses her lips and pushes her hair behind her right ear. “I never said I have a grandson.”

“Well, I guess that’s something the police can find out easily enough.”

Her face crumples in on itself in defeat. She suddenly looks every one of her seventy-plus years. “That bastard’s always complaining about Jason, that he makes too much noise or plays his music too loud. But he doesn’t. And nobody else has ever complained. Only Mr. Saunders. And only because he has way too much time on his hands. He was let go from his job about six months ago and can’t find anybody else who wants to hire him. Surprise, surprise.”

“Is Jason here now, in this apartment?” I ask.

“I’d like you to leave,” she responds.

“Are you sure that’s really what you want? Because it will only throw more suspicion your grandson’s way. The police can get a search warrant.”

“They won’t find anything. My grandson is a fine young man.”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“He had nothing whatsoever to do with what happened to you.”

“Then he has nothing to be afraid of.”

“I saw you that day, you know,” she says accusingly.

“You saw me?”

“Saw you hiding in the bushes. Staring at the apartment across the way through your binoculars. I almost called the police to report we had a Peeping Tom.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I decided it was probably best not to get involved.”

“Because of Jason?”

“Of course not.” Another pursing of her lips, another tug of her hair.

“Jason was here that night, wasn’t he?”

“That’s irrelevant. Jason has been staying with me off and on since the summer. He doesn’t get along with his stepfather. I said he was always welcome to come here, that I was grateful for the company.…”

“Did you tell the police that Jason has been staying with you?”

“I didn’t see any reason to. Neither of us saw the actual attack. We were both asleep when it happened.”

“You said you have only one bedroom.…”

“Yes. So what?”

“I’m assuming that Jason sleeps out here, on the sofa.” I glance toward the blanket resting in the corner of the leather sectional.

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“That you don’t really know where Jason was at the time I was attacked, do you? That he could have easily slipped out after you went to bed, and that that’s the reason you failed to mention him to the police.…”

“That’s utter nonsense. What were you doing hiding out there
in the bushes anyway, spying on people? If you ask me, you were just asking for trouble.”

Her words hit me like a slap on the face, producing a fresh barrage of tears. I turn away.

Which is when I see him.

A young man of medium height and weight, in his late teens or early twenties, with chin-length brown hair and impenetrable brown eyes. He is standing no more than ten feet from me, and although his arms hang still at his sides, I can feel them reaching for my throat. “What’s going on, Nana?” he asks.

Tell me you love me.

“Oh, God.” I feel my legs wobbling beneath me. The glass of water slips through my fingers and falls to the floor.

Instantly Jason is at my elbow, pulling me toward the armchair, pushing me into the seat.

“Take your hands off me!” I cry, swatting him away.

“Hey,” he says, his voice suddenly angry. “What the hell …?”

“Jason, sweetheart,” his grandmother says, her voice soothing and low, “go back into the bedroom, darling. This lady was just about to leave.”

“What’d she hit me for? You don’t hit,” he warns.

“Please, darling. Go back to the bedroom.”

He releases his grip on my elbow, although he continues to stare at me through dark, angry eyes. “I want her to leave,” he says.

“She’s going, sweetheart. In just a few minutes.”

“What’s she doing here anyway?”

“She just came to ask a few questions.”

“What kind of questions? About me? Something about me you want to know?” he demands.

I shake my head, tears springing to my eyes.

“Just give us another minute and she’ll be gone.”

Jason shoots me a look that is equal parts impatience and fury. Then he turns and skulks back toward the bedroom, leaving me trembling in the seat where he has placed me.

“I’m sure you can understand now why I didn’t tell the police about Jason. He’s obviously different.…”

“He’s obviously angry.”

“Jason has had a very difficult life. His mother, my former daughter-in-law, was addicted to drugs and alcohol. Jason was born with fetal-alcohol syndrome. My son isn’t the most responsible of fathers, and unfortunately Jason’s stepfather is even worse. Jason has struggled all his life. But, I promise you, he’s a good boy. He didn’t rape you.”

“You’re aware he fits the general description of the man who did.”

“Jason is not the man responsible.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know my grandson. Now,” she says, walking to the door and opening it, “I’m afraid I have to insist that you leave. Or this time I
will
call the police.”

I remain in my seat. “Please do,” I say.

“Are you crazy? What in God’s name were you thinking?”

Detective Castillo has been taking me to task for much of the past hour, ever since we left Mrs. Harkness’s apartment and returned to my own. I understand his exasperation. I’ve been asking myself the same question, although I would never say as much to him.

“You
do
realize you could have blown this whole investigation?”

“What investigation?” I demand. “You didn’t even know Mrs. Harkness
had
a grandson.”

“We would have found out.”

“Really? When?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What
is
the point?”

“The point is that you had no business going to see Mrs. Harkness in the first place.” He runs a hand through his thick, black hair and turns to stare out my living room window.

“I had every right.”

“You know I could arrest you for impersonating a police officer,” Castillo tells me.

He has implied this several times already. “I never told Mrs. Harkness I was a police officer.”

“You led her to believe …”

“I did no such thing. I have no control over what she may or may not have assumed.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Look, Detective Castillo,” I interrupt, losing patience with the conversation. “I did nothing wrong or illegal. I am perfectly within my rights to question potential witnesses. I am a licensed investigator.…”

“You are the
victim.
”

The victim, I repeat silently, bristling at the immediate and total reduction in my status, of having been relegated to that unfortunate sub-species of human being known simply as
victim.
“Thank you for that little reminder, Detective. I’d almost forgotten. But
be that as it may,
” I continue, throwing his words back at him, “I think you know that I can be of significant help to you.”

“How? By interfering in our investigation, by intimidating potential witnesses, by prejudicing our case.…”

“What case? You have no case. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a suspect.”

“Are you saying you’re ready to identify Jason Harkness as the man who raped you?” Officer Dube asks. Until now, he has remained largely silent, seemingly content to stand in the background and watch me spar with Detective Castillo.

I glare at Officer Dube. He knows I can’t say for sure that Jason Harkness is the man who raped me, that I have only the vaguest sense of the man responsible. There’s no way I can make a positive identification.

“What about his voice?” Castillo asks, his own voice softening.

“What about it?”

“Jason Harkness spoke to you. Did he sound like the man who raped you?”

I close my eyes, hear my rapist whispering in my ear.
Tell me you love me.

I sink to the closest sofa at hand, a wave of dizziness sweeping over my head as I try to reconcile the two disparate voices, to fit one on top of the other, mingle the two of them together, to force a fit. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can’t be sure. It’s possible.…”

“Possible,” Officer Dube repeats with a none-too-subtle shake of his head. “We should have no trouble at all securing a warrant with that resounding endorsement.”