Page 3 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

It may have been the third floor, which was better than the eighth floor, but it still meant six flights of stairs, which were just as hot as the lobby.

The old pipes snaked along the exposed-brick walls and followed the stairs upwards like thick iron and copper snakes.

And, just like snakes, they hissed too. Whatever serious problems this building may have had, heating was not one of them.

By the time they reached the third floor and the door to Logan’s apartment, both of them were out of breath and covered in sweat.

‘Thank God,’ said Logan as he put his key in the door and pushed inside.

The apartment was like a lot of spaces in the city for young professionals – small but no doubt ridiculously expensive. A tiny kitchenette on the right. A living space with a tasteful leather couch pointed at a TV, some bookcases, and two doors beyond – one bathroom and one bedroom, she guessed.

Elly brought the case through to the living space, asked, ‘Where do you want this?’

‘Ahm, just dump it on the floor. I can slide it into the bedroom with my feet,’ said Logan, breathing hard from the effort of hopping up the stairs.

He was being mindful that Elly was in a strange place with a strange man, and maybe asking her to step into his bedroom might make her feel uncomfortable. Even though her arms were aching, and she was out of breath and sweating from the stairs, she appreciated the thought.

Logan was alright. Considerate, even.

‘It’s okay, honestly. Where’s the bedroom?’ she asked, between breaths.

‘On the right,’ said Logan, who kept back, giving her space, allowing Elly to push open the door.

The bedroom had a double bed, white sheets, a built-in closet and just about enough floor space to walk around the furniture.

She dumped the case on the bed, came out of the bedroom and opened her coat, flapped it to help her cool off.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Logan. ‘There’s some water in the fridge if you’d like some. Help yourself to a carton. I’ll just be a minute or two repacking. I just need to find my backpack . . . ’

He moved into the bedroom and closed the door.

Elly checked her watch. She still had a ton of time.

No rush. Her lips were dry, and she really did need something cool to drink.

She shook her arms, trying to get blood back into her biceps, then opened the refrigerator.

While Logan may have seemed like a woke, hip, metrosexual type of New Yorker, he was still a guy, and this was definitely a guy’s fridge.

Some elderly vegetables in a drawer, a jar of mustard, jar of peanut butter, some milk and half a dozen cartons of water. No plastic bottles; cartons of Icelandic spring water. Obviously, Logan was passionate about the environment too.

Elly exposed her neck to the cool air from the refrigerator, took a carton of water, opened it, and enjoyed a long drink.

Still with the door open, the air cooling her skin, she drank most of the carton.

Closing the fridge, she looked toward the bedroom.

The door wasn’t fully closed, just shut over.

Elly took the opportunity to take a better look around the apartment.

It all appeared clean and nicely decorated.

Neutral colors, two windows either side of the TV with a view of the street below, but not much light.

A coffee table with some large art books carefully arranged on top.

Copies of the New Yorker magazine in a rack on the bookcase.

Most of the books were old – the classics, she guessed.

Elly loved books. She took a few minutes to study the racks, noting a couple of titles which were also among her personal favorites.

This Logan guy was really growing on her.

Two bulky garbage bags were piled up behind the door in the short hallway.

The only things out of place, really. She remembered him mentioning the garbage chute was blocked, probably the construction workers’ fault, throwing something down there that didn’t belong.

She imagined Logan would struggle to get those garbage bags downstairs on his crutches.

Poor guy seemed to be having a bad time of it.

Logan was still in the bedroom.

Elly was in two minds. She could leave now, and head back to the station, but Logan was probably heading back that way too.

And she wanted to make sure he had a backpack, and that he could manage.

She decided to give it another few minutes, walk back that way with him. There was a charm to his helplessness.

And he was proving to be shelter from the nuclear heat of the explosion that had ripped through Elly’s life these past weeks.

For a moment, her mind flashed on the night before, the calls to James that he didn’t pick up. A drunken mistake. Even the thought of it sent waves of loathing through her stomach.

She tried to focus her mind on Logan, and his apartment, and how fate can sometimes lend a helping hand – making sure you meet the right people at just the right time in your life.

But thoughts of her pleasant morning with the man on his crutches didn’t shift the uneasy feeling in her stomach.

If anything, she began to feel worse by the second.

Her stomach groaned and burbled, and a swell of pain washed her gut.

She bent over, took a breath and it passed, but just for a moment.

She straightened up and the pain came again.

This time, her vision washed in a haze that made the titles on the book spines blur.

Vertigo now.

Her head felt far too heavy for her body, and she had to grab the shelves to maintain her balance.

Elly slipped the carton of water into the large pocket of her overcoat so she could use both hands to steady herself.

She needed some air. She thought of going to the window, but the room was suddenly terrifically hot.

Sweat dripped onto the hardwood flooring as she turned and took a step toward the door.

She took a second, gathered herself, did some breathing exercises she had learned in yoga class and her head felt a little clearer.

The door. The hallway. The stairs. Air.

In that order.

As soon as Elly let go of the shelves and made for the door, her vision swam, her head spun, and she stumbled.

It was as if she was on the deck of a ship being tossed around by waves the size of skyscrapers.

More faltering steps couldn’t find her balance, and she fell forward, her hands outstretched to save her.

Her left knee took a hit as she went down, and she collided with the garbage bags piled behind the door.

The red bark of agony from her knee somehow cleared her head and she was able to get onto her side and sit up.

She blinked, winced and held her knee. There would be a hell of a bruise from that fall.

But her vertigo had eased. As Elly slowly gathered her feet beneath her, and using the wall for balance she stood up, it was then she noticed the garbage bags had ripped when she landed on top of them.

They were quite firm and unyielding. As if a box was in the bag.

Elly wiped sweat from her eyes, and for a second thought how clumsy she was. Maybe she was just faint from the effort of carrying the case up all those stairs.

Then she saw something through the rip in one of the garbage bags.

Something that stopped her heart.

She leaned over, put her fingers inside the bag and tore it open. Then did the same to the bag beside it.

Elly froze. Shock rooting her boots to the floor like cement.

There, in the garbage bags . . .

Two.

Yellow.

Broken.

Suitcases.

The handle hanging limp at the top of each one.

The zippers closed.

The fabric between the zipper and the case, ripped.

Both cases were identical in every way to the case she had just carried up six flights of stairs.

Her gut squeezed.

Saliva filled her mouth and Elly moved.

Out the front door, not looking back.

Down the first flight of stairs, clinging to the rail with her left hand in case she lost her balance again and tumbled over the side.

Panting.

Heartbeat rattling like a snare.

Her feet matching that fast tempo, adrenalin taking her down those stairs.

As she half stumbled, half bounced down the steps, she realized, almost absent-mindedly, that her stomach and right leg felt wet. She grabbed the carton of water from her coat pocket. It was leaking, she probably hadn’t sealed it again properly.

Another flight down. Quick turn on the landing, and down another set of steps. The door to the lobby visible now.

As Elly was almost at the bottom of the stairs, she was about to toss the water but saw, strangely, that it was indeed sealed with the cap.

But her hand was wet.

Elly reached the bottom of the staircase, thumped open the door to the lobby of the building and ran for the front door.

In the sunlight, and the cool air, she felt the pain in her knee and the churning nausea return.

Elly doubled over and vomited, violently. The suddenness of the reaction frightened her. She looked at the carton of water again, thinking about taking a drink to wash out her mouth, and then saw where the water was leaking.

A tiny hole in the top of the carton.

The kind that could be made with a pin.

Or the needle from a syringe.

Her vision whirled into a kaleidoscope of colors and random shapes as the carton fell from her hand and the ground came up to meet her. A terrible pain on the side of her head.

Elly used her arms to push herself off the ground and saw the pool of blood where her head had been.

She crawled forward, onto the street.

People passing by.

Knees and shoes and legs all around her, a blur, as she crawled toward the curb.

Voices. The sidewalk. And then the blue sky.

Elly saw a face before her eyes. She was lying on her back, and the homeless man she had given some money to was kneeling over her.

He looked concerned, and he was saying something, but Elly couldn’t understand a word. More faces appeared, obscuring the sky above.

Strangers.

Their lips moving. But Elly couldn’t hear anything.

Then black.

And a deeper, darker silence.