The Red Hunter(42)

“They were looking for something.”

My dad sat in the chair over by the window.

“What?” I asked. “What could they be looking for? He doesn’t have anything.”

My dad lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head.

I picked my way through the mess and reached for the phone beside Paul’s bed. I dialed his voicemail and listened, deleting as I scrolled through the slew of spam from telemarketers, campaign ads, messages from banks, credit cards, his insurance company. Finally, I get to a message left last night.

It took me a long time to figure it out, old man. But I finally did. Time for you to give it up.

Cold moved through my body. I was having trouble connecting the dots, my mind reeling. I hung up and clicked through the caller ID until I found an unfamiliar number with an exchange I knew. I struggled for breath, all my training, all my calm leaving me. I called it back, but it went straight to a generic voicemail, a robot voice repeating the number back. I hung up. Suddenly I was fourteen again. Helpless. Afraid.

That’s when I heard it, the sound of movement toward the front of the apartment.

I took the knife from my pocket and moved soundlessly into the hall.

A creak of weight on the wood floor, the sound of someone moving slowly, quietly. I pressed myself against the wall. Other than the front door, there was no other exit from the apartment except the windows that led to the fire escape. The window in Paul’s room was blocked by the air conditioner—an acknowledged hazard that we never got around to dealing with.

I would have no choice but to fight my way out. I could wait for whoever it is to turn the corner, but instead I decided to rush forward and use surprise to my advantage. I took a deep breath and sprinted.

I saw him in flashes—dark hair, tall, and broad shouldered—as I tackled him and took him to the ground hard. A surprised shout, a whoosh of air as the wind left him when my shoulder connected hard with his abdomen. And then I was on him, straddling his center, the paring knife to his throat. It happened quickly, fluidly.

“No, please.” Panic. Fear. “Miss Zoey.”

That’s when I saw, with alarm, that it was Mr. Rodriquez, the super.

He was looking at me with pure terror in his eyes, gasping hard for air as I sat heavy on his lungs. I slumped with relief, blowing out a breath, removing the knife from his throat.

“I’m sorry,” I said, struggling for air myself.

“Dios,” he gasped. I climbed off of him, offering my hand. I helped him get to his feet. “Miss Zoey.”

He doubled over, coughing. I hurried to the kitchen to get him some water.

“Someone broke into the apartment,” I said, handing him the glass. He leaned heavily against the wall. “I thought you were an intruder.”

“I saw you come up,” he said. He takes a few sips but keeps coughing. “The door—was—open.”

He was looking at me as if he’d never seen me before, which I get. I am half his size and I just knocked him to the ground and held a knife to his throat. Formerly, he saw me as a little girl, someone he watched grow. I guess he won’t be seeing me that way again. I am all grown up.

“I came to give you this,” he said.

He held out an envelope, my name written across in Paul’s scrawling handwriting. “He brought it to me a couple of weeks ago.”

I took it and stared, hefting it in my hand. It is small but heavyish, something, not paper, inside. I opened it and found an oddly shaped key, nothing else. No note or any indication to what the key might open. I held it in the palm of my hand.

“Did he say anything else?” I asked.

“Just that it was important,” he said, looking at the tarnished key. “You don’t know what it is?”

“No idea,” I said. I looked in the envelope again, but there was nothing else. I put the key back inside and stuffed it in my pocket. It’s not like Paul to be cryptic. I thought of his panicked eyes, his warning, this trashed apartment. I bit back a pulse of fear.

“Is he okay?” Mr. Rodriquez asked, still staring at me wide-eyed. He edged toward the door, away from me, maybe wondering if I’m going to attack him again.

“He’s alive,” I said. “But he’s—not doing well.”

He ran a hand through his graying hair, He nodded solemnly. His wife, Elmira, used to cook for us sometimes when Paul was working late and she knew I would be home alone. She’d bring pork, or chicken, with yellow rice and black beans, plantains. She would bring a ton, and we’d eat for days. Paul helped get her nephew out of a vandalism charge, gave him a scared-straight talking-to. They were good neighbors to each other, friends.

“He said if anything happened, I should give this to you,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry. About attacking you.”

He lifted a hand, tried for a smile. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Rodriquez.”

“Who did this?” he asked looking into the living room. “Should we call the police?”

“No,” I said, too quickly. He has his eyes on me, dark, wondering. “No police.”

He nodded as if he understood, even though he didn’t. I didn’t even understand. But if the police came, it’s another thing to deal with, and I couldn’t handle more. And meanwhile, I was the last person who needed to be talking to the police.