Greg Rucka - Critical Space

I fumbled through my thoughts, trying to find something to say, and came up with, "Leather jacket, the black one she wears, Bridgett and I gave it to her, Christmas, last year. She's a natural blond, always wears her hair long over her left ear because she's missing a piece of it, a chunk of the lobe and cartilage that a man named Sterritt cut out of her."

The woman's expression went from defiance and fear to confusion. "She never told me that."

"You're K.C., right? You're her roommate, you're taking playwriting classes, she told me that the last time I saw her, when I told her that I was going away and that there might be trouble. She told you that, too, or something like that, told you that if anyone came by and said his name was Atticus…"

"Let go of the door. Let go of the door and let me close it. If you're him you'll do it."

I let go of the door, and the second my weight was off it she slammed it closed and I heard the deadbolt slide. I cursed, wanted to stamp my feet, turning in the hall. A couple of the doors farther down had opened, and two young men were watching me with no attempt to conceal their suspicion. I resisted the urge to glare right back, faced the door again, raised my hand to knock once more, and the door unlocked and the woman pulled it open. She was holding a framed photograph in one hand, and she held it up next to my face, comparing the two for what felt like hours.

"You're him," she said. "I'm K.C."

"K.C., I need to find Erika. Now."

K.C. nodded quickly and left the door open as she went to Erika's desk, riffling through the papers scattered atop it. Erika's half of the room was distinguishable from K.C.'s as more disordered, with magazines and books strewn all over the bed and floor. I went for the closet, found the duffel bag that Erika had stolen from me when she'd started school, began stuffing it with clothes from her drawers.

K.C. had put the photo down on the chair, and I saw the picture, Erika and me at Yankee Stadium two years back, when Torre's Glory was really cooking. K.C. was talking as she searched the desk, as I packed the bag.

"I'm sorry about that, she told me to be careful and there are all sorts of freaks in this city, so I didn't know what to make of you. She's got a schedule here, somewhere, she's got a slew of classes this term, I mean, just so many – here, here it is! She's in English right now, Renaissance Playwrights, it's in Main."

"I don't know where Main is," I said.

She grabbed her coat off the hook on the back of the door, a blue-and-black overcoat with a fake fur lining. "I'll show you."

Class was in progress when we reached the lecture hall, and while that seemed to deter K.C. from heading on through, I opened the door and walked in, searching the seats for Erika. For a fraction of a second, as the professor went silent and the students all turned their attention on me, I couldn't see her anywhere, and I felt the panic return and redouble. Then she stood from her seat in the middle, gathering her things, and the relief I felt was so strong that I didn't even feel bad about embarrassing her in front of her peers.

She came down the steps to the floor of the hall, head down, books and bag pressed to her chest, and when we were outside and the door was closed behind her, she dumped most of the things into my arms to hold while she replaced them in her book-bag.

"Thank you for that particular mortification," Erika said.

"You're leaving town," I told her.

"I'm leaving town," she told K.C.

"Yeah, looks like," K.C. said. "So I assume this is Atticus?"

"Oh, yeah, only Atticus has the capacity to humiliate me like this."

She had her bag packed again, and was putting it back on her shoulder, so I put an arm around her and began guiding her out of the building. I was moving fast, and both Erika and K.C. struggled to keep up.

"Slow down, dammit!" Erika said. "At least tell me where I'm going!"

"I don't know and I don't care, but it's out of town, and K.C. should probably come with you."

"I have class," K.C. remarked.

I caught a portion of Erika's frown, and she pulled out from my grip but didn't slow, just clamped her bag harder against her side to keep it from bouncing. "This is the bad thing you were worried about, isn't it?"

"It is," I said. "Midge is dead."

"Who's Midge?" K.C. asked.

Neither of us answered, and K.C. understood that this wasn't a joke, and she lost some of her color as she followed us out onto University Place. I put a hand out on Erika again as we went north to East Eighth, just to keep track of her, while I tried to find a cab to hail. There weren't any, and I took us west to Fifth Avenue to where more cars were moving along the street, then tried again. Three cabs passed with fares before one slowed along Fifth Avenue. I got to the door first, pulled it open and all but shoved Erika inside. K.C. stopped and looked at me like I'd dropped from a hovering spaceship.

"You're serious?"

"Get in the fucking car now," I told her.

"Erika?"

"I'd do it," Erika said.

K.C. slid in, and I went after her, slamming the door shut and telling the driver the address I wanted in Chelsea.

"We're going to Bridgett's?" Erika asked. "Won't she be at work?"

"It's only nine-sixteen," I said. "She never gets into her office before ten."

"Bridgett's the one who's the private eye, right?" K.C. asked, excited.

"Where will she take us?" Erika asked me.

"I don't care as long as it's out of New York, out of the state."

"I've always wanted to see Machu Picchu."

"Unless you've got a passport with you, that's out," I said.

"New Orleans?" K.C. asked softly. "I've always wanted to visit New Orleans."

"New Orleans would be fine," Erika said. "Just tell me that it won't be another four months before I hear from you saying it's safe to come back."

"You'll hear from me in three days, tops," I promised. "Or you won't hear from me at all."

Bridgett opened the door on the second knock, and when she saw me and Erika and K.C, she greeted us warmly. "Motherfucking hell," she growled.

"I need you to get them out of town," I said. "They want to go to New Orleans."

"It was K.C.'s idea," Erika told Bridgett.

"And that would make you K.C?"

K.C. offered Bridgett a hand, saying, "Yeah, hi, I'm K.C. You're Bridgett."

"This is all very nice," I said. "But we're still standing in the hall."

"They can come in," Bridgett said, and she moved aside to let them pass.

K.C. entered first, followed by Erika, who stopped just past the door and looked back at me. "Say goodbye this time, okay?"

"I will."

She went into the apartment, following K.C. out of sight. From the front room I heard the stereo, Joe Jackson singing on the speakers. It would have made me smile if Bridgett hadn't looked so upset with me and the situation; she'd gotten her appreciation of Joe from me.

I pulled out my wallet and emptied it of cash, then went through my pockets and gathered most of the money scattered in them, as well. All told, it looked to be almost seven thousand dollars. Bridgett took the money.

She didn't ask how bad it was, because she knew the answer already. If there was nothing we agreed upon anymore, Erika still meant the world to both of us. That I had brought her here, now, in this way, told her almost everything she needed to know.

"Who'd he kill?" she asked quietly.

"Midge. Last night or this morning. I don't know anything more."

The upset flickered into sadness, but she stayed silent.

"I'll contact you when it's safe to come back," I said. "If you need more money or anything…"

"I don't need your money. We'll be fine."

"Just get them gone, and fast. He's as liable to come after you as he is to go after Erika."