Infinite(25)

He knew I was coming. He could feel me. I was sure of that.

The neighborhood around River Park was dark, with only the occasional streetlight spilling a yellow glow on the ground. The cab let me off at the corner. I waited until it drove away before going anywhere, and I checked to make sure I was alone. I took the sidewalk beside the park, keeping an eye on the trees and empty benches.

If I was looking for him, then he was looking for me, too.

Halfway down the block, I stopped near one of the mature trees, its branches hanging down nearly to my face. From there, I could see my apartment. This was the place where I’d lived since I was thirteen years old. The building was two stories, tan brick, shaped like the rook on a chessboard. Upstairs, where Edgar lived, one large square of chambered windows faced the street. A matching set of windows was below, where Karly and I lived. I saw no lights anywhere, but I stayed where I was, watching for any movement.

It was a humid early morning, with a dank stench wafting from the river a few hundred feet behind me. The birds were starting to awaken and sing. A few traces of white fluff from the cottonwoods still clung to the grass, weeks after it had fallen. I wasn’t far from a children’s playground, and when the wind blew, metal groaned on one of the rusty swing sets. Parked cars lined the curbs on both sides of the street, but I saw no people.

I kept looking behind me, expecting him to stalk me from the rear, coming up on me with silent footsteps. I tried to embrace the madness of this situation, to listen to my senses and see the world through his eyes. I had to believe, had to accept, the reality that there were two of us. I needed to feel what he felt, receive the echoes of his presence as he was obviously receiving mine. I needed to connect with him, which was the same as connecting with myself.

Where are you?

Then I saw it.

A light came and went in our downstairs apartment. It lasted only for a moment, like a flashlight turning on and off, but it was enough to give him away. He was there. He was inside. Soon after, the shadows in the glass seemed to change shape. He’d gone to the window to look out. To look for me.

I backed away, still invisible. When I knew I was safely out of view, I ran to the corner of the street and down the block to the dead-end alley that led behind the buildings. Power lines dangled overhead. The concrete was riddled with cracks and weeds. I made my way slowly between the garages on both sides. A couple squares of light from early risers showed in the bedroom windows. One of my neighbors had a rottweiler that slept outside, and he must have smelled me coming, because he began to bark.

I reached my garage. My back fence. I let myself quietly into the yard, which was nothing but a strip of concrete patio with an old gas grill and a few plastic chairs stacked against the garage wall. Ahead of me, wooden steps climbed to our back door, then to the entrance to Edgar’s apartment above. Two buildings away, the rottweiler kept barking. I took the steps slowly, trying to avoid the squeal of loose boards. At the landing, the rear door led into the kitchen. I expected the door to be locked, but when I turned the handle, it gave way under my hand, and I felt the door opening inward. I slipped into the kitchen and eased the door shut behind me.

The air felt warm and stale, shut in for days with no windows open. The room wasn’t completely dark; a butterfly night-light cast a faint glow near the sink. I had to squeeze my eyes closed against a frontal assault of grief. Karly’s scent perfumed the kitchen. I expected to hear her humming and singing. The kitchen faucet leaked—it always did—and with each slow drip, I felt water pouring over my head, as if I’d dived into the river and was swimming through blackness.

Dylan, come back to me!

I had to force away my wife’s screams.

Where was he hiding? I listened, but wherever he was, he was frozen stiff, a statue, waiting for me to make the first move. Ahead of me was the unlit hallway. On the right was our bedroom, then the postage-stamp dining room that doubled as Karly’s office, and finally the living room, which faced the street, with a fireplace where we would sit with wine on winter nights and kiss as we watched the flames dance.

Stop it!

I couldn’t think about Karly now.

I needed a weapon. Something. Anything. I went to the kitchen counter and grabbed the butcher’s knife from our wooden block, but when I slid it out, I hissed in shock. When I held the knife high in the air, I could see that the blade was bathed in dried blood.

I knew what it was. Scotty’s blood. I was holding his murder weapon in my hand. Leaving my fingerprints. But wouldn’t they be mine anyway?

The grip of the knife was slippery. That was sweat. I started down the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. In here, I could have made my way blindfolded, because I knew every square inch of the house. As I approached the doorway to the bedroom, I looked inside, seeing the queen-size bed unmade, the way my hotel bed had been. I might leave a bed undone, but Karly never would. I realized that while I’d been staying in the hotel, he’d been staying here.

I kept going. I crossed into the dining room, where the ceramic tile changed to a hardwood floor. It should have been replaced years earlier; it had water stains and warped boards. With each footstep, I announced myself, but it didn’t matter. We both knew the score. We were both here. Strange glistening patches of wetness made the floor slippery. He was tracking water from somewhere. I continued past the dining room into the living room, all the way to the front windows. I looked outside, seeing no one illuminated under the streetlights. He hadn’t escaped. There were no places to hide in the rooms I’d checked, so that told me where he was.