Catch up on the previous chapters here
Ben hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. It wasn’t an apartment building but a duplex, and the number clearly designated her as living on the top floor, and there’d been lights on up there. People moving around—two of them, one of them clearly taller and bigger than the other. He hadn’t seen anyone going into the side door that went up the stairs, but he’d been able to catch sight of what was parked out front: a single car. Iowa license plate—no surprise there—and he could get the number later if he walked by during the daylight hours.
He knew where she was. It was nearly a confirmed sighting. But it was dusk, time for dinner and then bed, and he couldn’t just go knock on their door now. Especially because it was clearly a they, what with the shadows on the blinds. Maybe the boyfriend worked the night shift somewhere.
That was too much to hope for. His best bet was waiting until after 9 and then swinging by again to see what he could see: if the car was there or gone. If the shade was up and anyone was looking out. It was possible both of them worked, so the apartment would be empty, but …
But that wasn’t such a problem, either. If Ben could get in, he could place a lens or two. Catch some video as well as some audio.
It wasn’t so much about learning the names they’d picked—or, in her case, had forced on her—but learning their habits and schedules. If he heard them talk about work plans and knew she’d be alone tomorrow, for example—assuming he planted the bugs today, in an hour or so when he went over there—then he’d know when to show up. For the last time, that was. Taking her and the bug with him. Today was for leaving the bug if she wasn’t home.
He supposed he’d already made up his mind, then.
The instant coffee wasn’t great, but it was caffeine, and at least he had a microwave to heat up the water for it. He didn’t think he’d be able to put on a normal performance at the café to get any of the good stuff, and he definitely looked like he’d just pulled an all-nighter, even though it wasn’t intentional. Ben would rather be well-rested, just in case she was there and they needed to get a bunch of driving in as soon as possible.
On second thought, he shouldn’t have unpacked everything, but putting it back in his suitcase and getting things in his car meant he was taking up time and guaranteed he wouldn’t arrive at the apartment too soon. This way he’d be after 10, so it didn’t matter if the boyfriend didn’t start work at 9.
The boyfriend might be home. That was all right, too. Ben had a crowbar that would slip up his sleeve, and he’d practiced letting it fall just long enough to grab it, raise it, and swing.
Only if it was the boyfriend, of course. He wasn’t about to swing at her.
Plus, if the outer door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked, he wouldn’t even have to keep it up his sleeve. He could carry it up the stairs and lean it against the wall next to the door at the top, where he could grab it if he needed it, but where he could also ignore it if, say, she answered and she was alone. He didn’t have to draw attention to it, and he could hustle her out and pass it without her seeing it. Just because he’d killed for her didn’t mean she had to know for sure that he was willing to do it again.
Ben parked down the street, which was why the crowbar went up his sleeve, and walked as easily as he could up the sidewalk, which was buckled and broken through with weeds. He had to be careful not to trip because he wasn’t really set to catch himself, not with one arm that wouldn’t bend, but there wasn’t anyone else out. People watching from upper windows, maybe, so he couldn’t relax completely, but no one on the street.
It was a risk, just reaching for the knob like he expected the door to open, but it paid off. He didn’t just collide with a locked door, hand slipping. Ben opened it and went inside, nice and easy, and made sure it latched behind him. He didn’t even realize how tight the muscles in his chest were until he exhaled and it kept going. Letting the crowbar slide out of his sleeve, he rested the end on the ground, wiped both palms on his jeans, and picked it up casually in one hand. Casually, but ready to make things less than casual.
The stairwell was claustrophobic, clearly added as an afterthought to turn a house into a duplex, narrow and with a low ceiling. It wasn’t good for swinging, so Ben quickly started on up, not sure about how much things would improve at the top but, at least if they were on the same level, he could hold it more like a golf club and aim for the knees.
The boyfriend would scream. They’d have to be fast.
That would be okay. He’d made it out of tight spots before.
There was a slightly wider space at the top of the stairs, but it was cut off by a coat tree and a shoe rack. A shoe rack with a gap on the top shelf where a pair of women’s Skechers were off to one side, but there wasn’t a coordinating pair of men’s shoes to go with it. Ben considered his own boots, then decided against the delay of taking them off. Leaning the crowbar to the right of the door, he took inhaled slowly, smoothed the front of his sweatshirt, and raised a hand to knock.
It was impossible not to hold his breath as he waited for the sound of footsteps, counting off his heartbeats and trying to convert them into seconds to figure out when he could knock again. It was certainly possible that she had more shoes than fit on the rack, or that the top was where hers went and his usually sat on the floor, or … well, anything. The car wasn’t there, so maybe the apartment was empty. That was what Ben had planned for, but that was really second-best, and he’d really been hoping …
He knocked again, breathing more easily this time. His heart was still pounding, but he didn’t expect her to open the door and smile politely and then … however she’d react when she recognized him. He tried not to picture it, because expectation led to disappointment.
No one was coming. Casting a look back down the tunnel of stairs, Ben first tried the door—imagine starting to pick it and realizing the door was already open—and then knelt in front of it, pulling the lockpicking kit out of his sweatshirt pocket. He didn’t want to scrub the lock, because that was inelegant, and doing that would be admitting he was too wound up to finesse it. He could maintain control, because he had to maintain control, and if he couldn’t do this one … simple … thing …
The door opened. Good. He carefully put the picks back in their place, snapped the case shut, and returned it to his pocket as he got up. Absently he wiped his boots on the mat, because he wasn’t going to take them off now, either. If he had to run, he’d want them on. If she was just out shopping, for example, it probably wouldn’t be good to be discovered here, because startled people weren’t always predictable. Fight or flight kicked in, and he didn’t want her feeling sorry later for what she might do.
First Ben stepped inside and made sure the door was locked again behind him. No sense in leaving it wide open. If she did come home, she’d get the key out, and then wonder why it was unlocked, and if she’d forgotten and left it that way, and he didn’t want her to worry. The whole point was that he was the end of her worries.
He looked around the entryway, which was actually the main room of the apartment, with the kitchen off to one side and the little dining room set sort of hovering between the tile and the living room section. There was a lamp on the table by the couch, with the sort of lampshade he liked, because he’d already perfected how to attach one of his bugs with the way it unscrewed, and how to position it, and all the rest. Ben even pulled out a pair of thin cotton gloves before getting to work, reminding himself to wipe down the doorknob on his way out. Both sides.
He should’ve worn the gloves earlier, but he didn’t like them for picking, and he wasn’t going to knock on her door wearing gloves. He might as well put on a ski mask and a sign saying he was here to steal whatever he could get.
Carefully he returned the lamp to its spot, making sure the cord went over the edge of the table in the same place and that it still worked. Not like he might’ve broken it, but he wanted to be sure nobody would be fiddling with it anytime soon. If it was long after, that was one thing, but right now time was of the essence. Really, he only needed a little more of it. That was one room done, and it was the main room, so he took a look around to see … well. Just to see.
There weren’t any photos. None in frames on flat surfaces, and none hung on the walls. There were various prints of famous paintings—posters of paintings, really, in frames—but that was it. Ben really only had those collages and stuff in his house because he thought everyone expected you to have them: happy moments, people you were supposed to miss, important travel destinations, that kind of thing. The feds had certainly ogled every single one on their way by, and he supposed he’d studied the ones in Hillier’s apartment, so maybe he wasn’t one to talk,
He wasn’t one to hesitate, either, so he left the newly-bugged lamp and went back toward the bedroom.
Rebecca Frost 
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