Someone Is Watching (2 page)

“There is that.”

“We still have to eat.”

“There’s that, too.” The courtroom doors burst open and Sean Holden strides purposefully toward me. “If you’ll excuse me a minute … my boss …”

“Of course.” Owen Weaver reaches into the inside pocket of his navy jacket and hands me his card. “Call me.” He smiles, first at me, then at Sean. “Give me ten minutes with my client,” he tells him before moving away.

Sean nods. “What was that all about?”

I slip Owen’s card into my bag and shrug, as if to indicate our conversation was of no importance. Sean looks back toward the courtroom, my eyes following his. Mrs. Elder’s husband is standing alone and stone-faced beside the door, his fists clenched at his sides, his body muscular and coiled, ready to spring into action. He catches my glance and mouths the word
bitch,
transferring his fury at his wife to me. Not the first time misplaced anger has been pointed in my direction.

By the time court resumes half an hour later, Mrs. Elder has agreed to drop her suit if our client will do the same. Our client grumbles but ultimately gives in, and nobody leaves happy, which I’ve heard is the sign of a good compromise. At least Sean and I are pleased. “I have to run,” he tells me as we’re leaving the courthouse. “I’ll catch you later. And Bailey,” he adds, hailing down a passing cab and climbing inside. “Congratulations. You did real good.”

I watch the taxi disappear into traffic before hailing a cab of my own and returning to Biscayne Boulevard. Despite our victory in court, I’m feeling a bit let down. I guess I’d been hoping for something more than an ungrammatical pat on the back. A celebratory lunch would have been nice, I think as I locate my car in the underground garage and climb inside, unlocking the glove
compartment and returning my gun to my purse, where it lands on top of Owen Weaver’s business card. I’m toying with taking him up on his offer. Since breaking up with my boyfriend, I’ve spent far too many Saturday nights alone.

I’m still debating whether to accept his invitation some twenty minutes later as I turn the corner onto Northeast 129 Street in North Miami. Parking my car on the quiet, residential street, I head toward the lemon-yellow building at the end of a row of similarly old-fashioned, pastel-colored, low-rise condos. This is where Sara McAllister lives. Sara was Roland Peterson’s girlfriend at the time he fled the city rather than support his children. My hunch is that Sara McAllister just might be the reason he came back, something I intend to find out.

Near the end of the street is an elongated circle of shrubbery, a spot both self-contained and secluded, despite its proximity to the road. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect surveillance spot. Taking a quick look around to make sure no one is watching, I retrieve my binoculars from my bag and slip into the middle of the bushes, dislodging several coral blossoms as I crouch among the flowers and raise the binoculars to my eyes. I aim them at the third-floor corner unit of the four-story building and adjust the lenses until they merge into a single image.

The drapes in Sara McAllister’s living room are open, but with the lights off, it’s difficult to make out much of the interior except for a white-shaded lamp positioned next to the window. The apartment appears to be empty, which isn’t surprising. Sara is a saleswoman at Nordstrom and usually works till six. I decide there’s little to be accomplished by hanging around now. It makes more sense to come back this evening.

I have two meetings scheduled for this afternoon as well as a backlog of paperwork to finish off. I also want to call my brother, Heath. It’s been a week since we’ve spoken, and I can’t stop worrying about him. I take one last, seemingly casual look around the old street, frozen in the sunlight as if it were frozen in time, as still as a photograph.

I’m pushing myself to my feet when I see something flash in a
window across the way, a hint of someone moving just out of frame. Has someone been watching me?

I lift the binoculars back to my eyes but see no one. Professional paranoia, I decide, as I extricate myself from the bushes, brushing a fallen hibiscus blossom from the shoulder of my white blouse and swiping at the dirt clinging to my knees. I decide to change into more appropriate attire before coming back tonight, when I can use the darkness as a protective shield. I’m foolish enough to think it will keep me safe from prying eyes like mine.

This is what I remember: the warm night air, darkness as soft and inviting as a cashmere shawl, a gentle breeze brushing flirtatiously across the tops of the sweet-smelling shrubs in which I’m hiding, their coral flowers now folded in on themselves, closed to the dark. I’m vaguely aware of their faint aroma as I peer through my binoculars into Sara McAllister’s third-floor window, my knees aching from squatting so long in the same position, my toes cramping. It’s closing in on midnight, I’ve been here for hours, and irritability is curling around my consciousness like a hungry boa constrictor. I’m thinking that if I don’t see something—
anything
—soon, I’m going to call it a night.

That’s when I hear it—the snap of a twig, perhaps, although I’m not certain, that signals someone behind me. I turn to look, but it’s already too late. A gloved hand quickly covers my mouth, blocking my screams. I taste leather—old, stale, earthy. And then, those hands, seemingly everywhere, on my shoulders, in my hair, snapping the binoculars from my fingers, as fists slam into my stomach and against the side of my head, causing the world around me to blur and the ground to give way beneath my feet. A pillowcase is
pulled roughly over my face. I can’t breathe, and I panic. Keep your wits about you, I tell myself in an effort to regain my equilibrium and hold my growing terror at bay. Keep track of everything that’s happening.

Except that everything is happening too fast. Even before the pillowcase is pulled into place, the white cotton overwhelming the blackness of the night, I see nothing but a vague shape. A man, certainly, but whether he is young or old, fat or thin, black or brown or white, I have no idea. Has the man I’ve been waiting for been waiting for me? Did he spot me hiding in the bushes and simply bide his time?

This is good news, I assure myself. If it’s Roland Peterson, he’ll want only to scare me, not kill me. Killing me would invite more trouble, and he’s in enough trouble as it is. He might rough me up a bit, throw the fear of God into me, but then he’ll disappear. The sooner I stop struggling, the sooner he’ll leave me alone.

Except he isn’t leaving me alone. He’s spinning me around and tearing at my clothes, his fingers ripping open the buttons of my black shirt and pushing my bra up over my breasts. “No!” I shout when I realize what is happening. Another fist crashes into my jaw, filling my mouth with blood. “Stop. Please. Don’t do this.” But my pleas are muffled and, if the man hears them at all, they do nothing to halt, or even slow down, the ferocity of his attack. An instant later he is tugging my jeans and panties down my hips. I kick furiously at the air, and I think my boot connects with his chest, but I’m not sure. It’s possible I only wish it had.

What is happening? Where is everyone? I already know the answer. There is no one. The people who live in this neighborhood are, for the most part, on the plus side of sixty. No one goes out after ten o’clock, let alone this close to midnight. Even the most dedicated of dog walkers put little Fifi to bed hours ago.

I feel the full weight of the man’s arm across my neck and shoulders, pinning me like a butterfly on a wall, as his other hand fumbles with his pants. There is the sickening sound of a zipper opening, then more fumbling, something being unwrapped. He’s putting on a condom, I realize, contemplating taking advantage of
this distraction when a sudden punch to my stomach leaves me barely able to breathe, let alone attempt an escape. The man quickly pries my legs apart and pushes his way inside me. I feel the sudden cold of the lubricated condom as he tears into me, his hands reaching around me to grab my buttocks. I will my body to go numb, but I can still feel every vicious thrust. After what seems an eternity, it’s over. He bites down on my right breast as he climaxes, and I cry out. Seconds later, his lips approach my ear, his breath penetrating the fibers of the thin pillowcase. He smells of mouthwash, minty and crisp. “Tell me you love me,” he growls. His gloved hand clutches my throat. “Tell me you love me.”

I open my mouth, hear the word “bastard” tumble from my lips. That’s when his hand tightens its grip. My nostrils flare against the stiff cotton of the pillowcase, and I gasp in horror, gulping at the air, swallowing blood.
I’m going to die here,
I think, not sure how long I can remain conscious. I picture my mother and father, and for the first time am glad they aren’t alive to have to deal with this. The man’s thumb presses down hard on my windpipe. Tiny blood vessels explode like fireworks behind my eyes. And then, finally, mercifully, the outside darkness slips beneath my eyelids and I see nothing at all.

—

When I come to, the man is gone.

The pillowcase around my head has vanished, and the night air is licking my face, like a cat. I lie still for some time, unable to move, trying to gather the thoughts that are scattered among the broken hibiscus flowers framing my face, the taste of blood fresh in my mouth, a painful throbbing between my legs, my breasts bruised and sore. I’m naked from the waist down, and even with my eyes nearly swollen shut, I can make out the rivulets of blood that crisscross my thighs. Slowly, I pull my bra back into position, gather my blouse, and reach through the broken shrubbery for my jeans. My panties are missing, as is my canvas bag, and along with it, my gun and the license to carry it, my wallet, my cell phone, my
camera, my ID (both personal and professional), and the keys to both my car and my condo, although I do manage to locate my binoculars.

“Help me,” I hear someone cry out, barely recognizing the voice I know is mine. “Somebody, please, help me.” I struggle into my jeans, then try to stand up, but my legs have all the strength of wet noodles and they collapse underneath me, so I crawl toward the street where I remember parking my car.

Miraculously, the silver Porsche is still there. Probably too conspicuous to steal. Definitely not the most suitable car for someone in my profession, but it had belonged to my mother and I’m not about to part with it. Now I clutch at the door handle as if it is a life preserver, trying to pull myself up. The car’s sophisticated alarm system instantly erupts into a cacophony of honks, bells, and whistles. I collapse onto the road, my back against the side of the door, my feet sprawled in front of me. Glancing toward the apartment I’ve been watching, I see a man appear at the window. Instinctively, I raise my binoculars. But the binoculars are too heavy, and I’m too weak. They fall beside me, cracking against the concrete.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of an ambulance. “You’re going to be all right,” I hear the paramedic saying.

“You’re going to be all right,” another voice echoes.

They’re wrong.

—

That was two weeks ago. I’m home now. But I’m definitely not all right. I don’t sleep, at least not without powerful medication, and I don’t eat. When I try, I throw up. I’ve lost at least ten pounds I couldn’t afford to lose, being at least ten pounds too thin to begin with. And not on purpose. I’m not one of those women who believes in dieting or even watching what she eats, and I hate exercise. At twenty-nine, I’ve always been naturally slender. “Skinny Minny,” they used to taunt me in high school. I was the last girl in
my class to wear a bra, although when my breasts finally did sprout, they grew surprisingly, even suspiciously, large and full. “Implants, obviously,” I heard one woman in a group of female lawyers at Holden, Cunningham, and Kravitz whisper as I passed them in the corridor one day last month. At least I think it was last month. I’m not sure. I’m losing track of time. Another entry for my “things lost” column. Right under “confidence.” Just above “sanity.”

I’ve lost my looks, too. Before, I was pretty. Large, blue-green eyes, prominent cheekbones, a slight overbite that makes my lips seem fuller than they really are, long, thick brown hair. Now my eyes are cloudy with neverending tears and circled by bruises; my cheeks are scratched and hollow, my lips cracked and even torn from where I bite at them, a habit I used to have as a child and have now revived. My hair, once a source of great pride and joy, hangs lifeless around my face, dry from too many washings, as is my skin, which is rubbed raw from all the showers I take. But even with three and sometimes four showers a day, I don’t feel clean. It’s as if I’ve been rolling around in the muck for weeks and the dirt has seeped so deep into my pores that it has infiltrated my bloodstream. I am contaminated. Toxic. A danger to all who look at me. No wonder I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I have become one of those pitiful-looking women you see on street corners, shoulders hunched, trembling hands extended and begging for spare change, the kind of woman you cross the street to avoid. The kind of woman you secretly blame for her misfortune.

This woman has become my roommate and constant companion. She follows me from room to room, like Marley’s ghost, shuffling across the beige marble floors of my spacious two-bedroom condo. Together, we live on the twenty-third floor of an ultramodern glass building in the Brickell section of Miami, an area often referred to as “Wall Street South.” In addition to being the financial center of Miami, the neighborhood is full of upscale shopping malls and quality hotels, not to mention more than ten thousand condo units in luxury complexes with spectacular views of both city and ocean. The floor-to-ceiling windows in my living
room look out at the beautiful Miami River, while identical windows in my bedroom overlook the backs of other glass high-rises. Unfortunately, many of the apartments sit empty, Florida real estate having been hit especially hard in the recent economic downturn. Despite this, another tall building is going up just across the street. Cranes are everywhere. The new national bird, I can hear my mother laugh. Surely we have enough tall glass buildings, I think. Still, who am I to protest? People in glass houses, after all.…