Where Are You Now?

70

I pulled on slacks, slipped my feet in sandals, grabbed a long raincoat to cover my pajama top, and ran for the elevator, shoving Elliott’s note into my shoulder bag as I rushed down the hall. In my hurry to get to Mack before he changed his mind about seeing me, I forgot that the garage closed at three A.M. Manuel reminded me of that when I asked for the garage level.

I did the only thing I could do-got outside, into the street, and looked frantically around to flag down a cab. There was none on Sutton Place, but when I turned up Fifty-seventh Street I saw one of those gypsy town cars coming. I must have seemed a wild sight to him as I waved both arms to catch his eye, but he did stop. I got in, and he made a U-turn to go west.

When we got to the corner of 104th and Riverside Drive, there was no one there, I paid the cabby and climbed out onto the quiet street. Then I noticed a van parked down the block, and even though the lights were off, I had a hunch that Elliott and Mack might be in it. I walked closer to get a better look and made a pretense of reaching for a key, as though I were going to the nearest apartment building. Across the street, I could see a large construction site next to a boarded-up old town house on the corner.

Then a man stepped out of the darkened doorway of the next building. For a moment I thought it was Elliott, but then I could see that he was a much younger person, someone whose face was familiar. I recognized him as being the representative of the owner of Mack’s apartment building. I had met him that first time I stopped at the Kramers’, and he had spoken to me on Monday after I left their apartment in tears.

What on earth was he doing here now, I asked myself, and where was Elliott?

“Ms. MacKenzie,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Howard Altman.”

“I remember you. Where is Mr. Wallace?”

“He’s with some guy I found camping out in that place. Mr. Olsen owns it. Every once in a while I check on it, even though it’s closed.” He was nodding toward the boarded-up corner building. “The guy I found gave me fifty bucks to call Mr. Wallace for him, then Mr. Wallace promised me another fifty bucks if I’d write a message for you and deliver it.”

“They’re inside that building? What does the other man look like?”

“He’s about thirty, I guess. He started crying when Mr. Wallace came in. They both did.”

Mack was in there, trying to hide in that crumbling ruin. I followed Howard Altman across the street and along the construction fence to the back door of the house. He opened it and gestured me to enter, but as I looked into the darkened interior I panicked and stepped back. I knew something wasn’t right. “Ask Mr. Wallace to come out,” I told Howard.

His answer was to grab me and pull me inside the house. I was so stunned I didn’t resist. He yanked the door closed behind him, and before I could scream or fight to free myself, he shoved me down a flight of stairs. Somewhere on the way down, I cracked my head and lost consciousness. I don’t know how long it was before I opened my eyes. It was pitch dark. The air I was breathing was unbearably foul.

My face felt caked with blood. My head was splitting and there was something wrong with my right leg. It was bent under me and throbbing with pain.

Then I felt something move beside me, and a whispery voice moaned, “Water, please, water.”

I tried to move but could not. I knew my leg had to be broken. I did the only thing I could think to do. I moistened a finger in my mouth, then groped in the dark until I could find the parched lips of Leesey Andrews.