First to Die

Chapter49

I SAW HIM… That bastard. What was he doing here? In a large, fast-moving crowd, on lower Market. Just a quick movement in the throng fighting its way toward the ferry. My blood froze with the sight of him. He was wearing an open blue shirt, brown corduroy jacket. He looked like some college professor. On any other day, I could have passed him by, never noticed. He was thin, gaunt, totally unremarkable in every way but one. It was the reddish-brown beard. His head bobbed in and out of the crowd. I followed, unable to narrow the distance. "Police}" I shouted over the din. My cry dissolved into the hurrying, unheeding mass of people. At any moment I might lose him. I didn't know his name, I only knew his victims. Melanie Brandt. Rebecca De George Suddenly, he stopped. He bucked against the flow, turned right toward me. His face seemed illuminated, shining against a dark background like one of those medieval Russian icons. Amid the commotion, our eyes met., There was a moment of captured, enlightened recognition. He knew that it was me. That I was the one after him. Then, to my horror, he fled; the swarm of people engulfed him, swept him away. "Stop," I shouted. "I'll shoot!" A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I drew my gun. "Get down," I cried, but the rush-hour commuters pushed on, shielding him. I was going to lose him. The killer was getting away. I raised the gun, focused on the image of his red beard. He turned- with the sneer of someone who had totally outwitted me. I drew a breath, steadied my aim. As if in slow motion, every face in the crowd turned toward me, too. I stepped back. In horror, I lowered the gun. Every face had the same red beard. I had been dreaming. I found myself at my kitchen counter, blinking into swirling circles in my glass of chardonnay. There was a familiar calm in my apartment. No rushing crowds, no fleeing faces. Only Sweet Martha, lounging on her futon. A pot of boiling water was steaming on the stove. I had my favorite sauce ready to go- ricotta, zucchini, basil. A CD was on, Tori Amos. Only an hour ago, I had had tubes and IV lines sticking out of me. My heart had kept pace to the metronome like rhythm of a monitor's steady beep. Damn it, I wanted my old life back. My old, favorite dreams. I wanted Jacobi's sarcasm, Sam Roth's scorn, jogging on the Marina Green. I wanted kids even if it meant I had to get married again. Suddenly, the downstairs buzzer rang. Who would be here now? I shuffled over and said, "Who is it?" "I thought you had somewhere to go," a static voice replied. It was Raleigh.