John Lutz - Pulse

She pressed down on the manuscript in her lap, making sure none of the pages would be caught by the breeze, and looked up at the sky. Stars were becoming visible, and a pale moon was almost full. There were only a few wispy clouds, so the breeze was a bluff; it didn’t figure to rain.

Unhurried, she gathered up her things, sliding the thick manuscript into her computer case, along with pencil, eraser, sharpener, and a paperback Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary that she needed a magnifying glass to read.

She was about to stand up when a figure suddenly sat down beside her, and something was clamped over her mouth and nose.

Startled, she gasped and inhaled something that made her dizzy, and then relaxed, and then very, very sleepy.

Neeve opened her eyes.

Terrific! I’m in Central Park after dark.

None of that wondering where she was, or what had happened to her. Neeve almost instantly remembered exactly what had happened. Only it was much darker now, with shadows moving slightly on the grass of her near and low horizon. She had no idea how much time had passed.

Jesus! I’m twisted like a pretzel.

She was lying on her stomach, her wrists bound behind her, and apparently tied to her ankles that were drawn up close to her wrists and also tightly bound. Hog-tied. The awkward position put a terrible strain on her back, and her movements were restricted to none.

Neeve was breathing through her nose because something-it felt and tasted like tape-was fixed firmly over her mouth. Her lips were mashed open by the suddenness of what had happened. And there was the faint smell she’d experienced moments before passing out. Chloroform was her guess, though she’d never before smelled chloroform.

The way her body parts that touched each other felt, the subtle movement of air over her body, made her sure she was nude. No, she felt something. Her assailant hadn’t removed her panties.

A voice said, “Ups-a-daisy,” and warm hands were placed beneath her shoulders. She had no illusions that this was a rescuer. She was tilted back onto her knees, her spine still bowed, so that she was staring straight up at a full yellow moon visible between overhead branches.

The warm hands cupped her breasts, hefted them, and then released them. There was a darker dark above her that blotted out the stars. Movement. And then a hand held a knife before her eyes so she couldn’t help but stare at it. The hand rotated the blade deftly so it glinted silver in the moonlight.

“You know who I am?” a voice asked.

Neeve made a soft whimpering sound. She read the papers, watched the news. She understood who had her.

Her feet, her painfully bent legs, her brain, her soul, wanted to leap up and run. She heard herself grunting with effort that resulted in no movement other than a shuddering that ran through her body.

The hand without the knife patted her cheek fondly.

The pain began.

Quinn lay next to Pearl in the dim bedroom, aware of the subtle movement of her body as she breathed evenly in deep sleep. She was facing away from him, still nude after their lovemaking, covered lightly with the sheet as if in modesty. It was cool in the room, and the air conditioner had cycled off. The varied sounds of the sleeping city haunted the night, as well as nearer noises of the old brownstone.

Quinn often thought that if houses could indeed be haunted, New York’s brownstones of the 1800s would be among them. During the day he sometimes felt lonely in the looming old building, but at night he seemed somehow not to be alone even when Pearl wasn’t with him. Jody, upstairs, almost didn’t seem to count, so insulated was she by the thick walls and floors of the old brownstone.

Well, if there were ghosts about, there should be no reason to fear them. He might even thank them for the company.

Oddly comforted by that thought, he fell asleep.

A huge wasp was chasing him down a long dirt road, sometimes buzzing past him and circling again behind. The damned thing was as big as a bird, and its buzz sounded like a model airplane engine. Quinn lengthened his stride and ran faster than he thought possible. His heart was pounding.

Then he tripped and fell on the gravelly dirt road, skinning bare arms and elbows. And the harsh buzz of the wasp grew louder.

He scrambled to get up, knowing the wasp meant business now. Its droning didn’t vary; it was no longer circling. It was coming right at him. He forced himself to turn and look at it.

There it was on the bedside table, beyond it morning light piercing the edges of the blinds. He realized he was awake, but the damned wasp…

His cell phone, set to vibrate, was buzzing and droning as it danced over the hard wood surface of the table, not falling to the floor only because it kept coming into contact with the lamp base.

The fright of Quinn’s dream dissipated. The clock radio’s glowing red numbers said it was a little past 6:00 AM.

Christ…!

He was alone in the bed. Pearl must be up already, maybe in the kitchen. Quinn tried to wake up all the way, shook the numbness of sleep from his right arm, and reached for the buzzing, vibrating phone.

He grasped it, flipped the lid up, and silenced the damned thing.

His sleep-fogged eyes were too unfocused to make out who was calling, but he immediately recognized Renz’s voice.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead. Time for a walk in the park.”

T he sun was barely up, shining through a low, glowing haze that lurked between tall buildings. Half a dozen steps outside the brownstone, and already Quinn’s shirt was sticking to him. When he got into the car, the leather upholstery felt comfortably cool on his back. For about five seconds.

Pearl got into the passenger seat and fanned herself with an old playbill from Catch Me If You Can. The humidity was going to be a bitch. Maybe Pearl was, too. The heat.

“It smells suspiciously like cigar smoke in here,” she said.

“Don’t start.”

“You talking to me, or the car?”

“Depends on which one of you gives me a lot of shit.”

They were both quiet the rest of the way. Neither of them liked where they were going.

Quinn and Pearl left Quinn’s big Lincoln parked on Central Park West and entered the park on foot. Renz’s directions were easy to follow. Yellow crime tape was visible ahead and to the left, along with one of several uniformed cops posted to keep people away from the scene. It was something they’d realize in an instant that they’d rather not have seen.

Nift was already there, along with a police photographer and the crime scene unit. Renz stood back about twenty feet from all the activity, wearing an expensive blue suit that made his corpulent body look almost svelte. He was standing away because he was calmly smoking a cigar and didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene. The scent of the cigar immediately made Quinn want to smoke one. That sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Not with Pearl within half a mile. He absently touched his shirt pocket, seeking a cigar, and found only a ballpoint pen.

“Sorry to rouse you two so early,” Renz said, winking at Pearl.

“We were already up and back from our morning jog,” Pearl lied.

Renz didn’t know if she was kidding. He looked confused for a moment and puffed on his cigar. Blew some smoke.

“Is it still legal to smoke in the park?” Quinn asked.

Renz shrugged. “Who the hell cares?” He motioned with his head toward whatever was on the ground and the center of attention just beyond the small rise of dew-damp grass.

Quinn squinted in that direction. “Who found her?”

“Pair of young lovers,” Renz said. “Or so they say. They might have been young muggers. One of them was carrying a sock full of marbles.”