Jill had calmed down by the time she got to work. There was no one at Tucker, Simpson, and King she wanted to tell about the subway incident. She didn't know anyone there well enough. And they might think she was crazy. They would think she was crazy. The incident now seemed almost as if it hadn't happened. It was so incongruous to her surroundings aboveground, at work, in the normal world.
But of course it had happened.
Something had happened.
She'd been at work about half an hour and was filing papers concerning a traffic violation appeal when a voice said, "It's for you."
Jill turned around. The receptionist, an older woman named Judy, was staring at her. "Line three."
"Excuse me?"
"You said your name was Jill Clark, right?"
"Right," Jill said.
"You have a phone call. Line three."
Jill straightened up. She looked around and then went to a phone on the other side of the office, where she'd have some privacy.
She pressed the glowing line button and said hello.
"Is this Jill Clark?" A woman's voice. Familiar.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"The woman from the subway."
Jill's heart jumped. She told herself the caller was lying. The voice on the phone wasn't so hoarse, and it was controlled, almost cultured. Not like the subway woman's. But it carried the same note of desperation.
"Don't hang up, Jill. Please!"
"Why shouldn't I? My arm still hurts!"
"I'm sorry about that. You have to understand my state of mind."
I think I do. Insane.
Behind the receptionist's desk, Judy glanced at Jill, then looked away.
Jill lowered her voice, not wanting to attract attention. "Leave me the hell alone! Stop following me! Stay away from me! Stay out of my apartment!"
"Don't hang up!" the woman pleaded again.
"I haven't, have I?"
"I've never been in your apartment," the woman said. "My name is Madeline Scott, and we have to talk."
"I can't imagine why."
"That's the point, damn it!"
"My arm still hurts," Jill repeated.
Jill hung up, careful not to bang the receiver.
American Airlines flight 222 out of Mexico City via Atlanta arrived ten minutes early, and the plane touched down gently on LaGuardia Airport's south runway. When the reverse thrust of the plane's powerful engines had brought it almost to a halt, it taxied toward its assigned gate.
The plane veered gently and arrived at the mobile enclosed ramp to the concourse. The engines stopped whirring, a faint bell chimed pleasantly, and the clacking of unfastening safety belts rippled through the fuselage.
Maria Sanchez, who'd been sitting in a coach window seat just beyond the wings, wrestled her carry-ons from overhead storage and filed off the plane with the other passengers.
She exchanged a polite and perfunctory "G'bye" with the smiling flight attendant at the plane's door. Maria's formerly long dark hair was dyed blond, and she was traveling under forged identification. She'd made it a point not to be at all memorable to the other passengers or the flight crew.
When she emerged from the enclosed walkway into the terminal, she lowered both of her large red carry-ons to the floor and raised their telescoping handles. She followed the stream of passengers along the concourse toward the baggage area, then increased her speed, lengthening her stride and pulling the two rolling suitcases behind her.
She went outside the terminal and waited her turn in line for a taxi. A cabbie finished stuffing a young couple's tons of luggage into his taxi's trunk, then got in and drove away with a brief squeal of tires. The cab lying in wait behind his leaped forward to take its place and came to a rocking stop. Maria's turn.
She watched her driver place her two suitcases in the trunk, then got in the cab and waited for him to join her. When he was settled into his seat and had turned an ear toward her, she gave him an address in Manhattan.
The cab made a squeal like its predecessor's and shot forward, speeding toward the island like a wolf returning to its lair.
Jill stood in the hall outside her apartment door and used two keys to unlock two dead bolts. She was exhausted from her day of filing and following instructions at Tucker, Simpson, and King. That and her morning's misadventure had left her weary and uneasy. It would be good to kick off her shoes, get a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and slump onto the sofa. In fact, it would be heaven.
She opened the door and was immediately aware of an unpleasant odor, then a presence close behind her, crowding her. She was abruptly pushed into the apartment and followed. The door clicked shut.
Jill took two skidding steps on the hardwood floor, almost falling, then whirled and saw the homeless woman from the subway, the one who'd called her at work and identified herself as Madeline Scott. Fury and indignation rose in Jill. She didn't know any Madeline Scott and didn't want to know this one.
Then her anger became fear. She was alone with this woman who might be crazy, who might do anything.
Mad Madeline.
The woman's hair was unkempt and her eyes were wild. Her clothes were wrinkled and frayed. She'd obviously been living on the streets and might be crazy or on drugs. Unnaturally strong. If it came down to it, Jill didn't think she could subdue her. Didn't want to touch her.
Her fear must have shown on her face.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Madeline Scott said. Her wild blue eyes paralyzed Jill. "But I'm determined you're going to hear me out."
Jill was ashamed of the terror in her own choked voice as she backed on stiff legs into the living room and said, "I'm listening."
Madeline smiled and said, "That's all I ever wanted."