А Финн - The Woman in the Window

Just as I zoom in further, she storms to the left, out of sight.

“Hold your breath.” I turn to the television. Bacall again, almost purring. “Cross your fingers,” I say along with her. I face the window again, Nikon at my eye.

Once more Jane enters the frame—but walking slowly, strangely. Staggering. A dark patch of crimson has stained the top of her blouse; even as I watch, it spreads to her stomach. Her hands scrabble at her chest. Something slender and silver has lodged there, like a hilt.

It is a hilt.

Now the blood surges up to her throat, washes it with red. Her mouth has gone slack; her brow is creased, as though she’s confused. She grips the hilt with one hand, limply. With the other she reaches out, her finger aimed toward the window.

She’s pointing straight at me.

I drop the camera, feel it rappel down my leg, the strap snagging in my fingers.

Jane’s arm folds against the window. Her eyes are wide, pleading. She mouths something I can’t hear, can’t read. And then, as time slows to a near halt, she presses her hand to the window and keels to one side, wiping a bold smear of blood across the glass.

I’m stricken where I stand.

I can’t move.

The room is still. The world is still.

And then, as time lurches forward, I move.

I spin, shake the camera strap loose, lunge across the room, my hip butting into the kitchen table. I stumble, reach the counter, wrench the landline from its dock. Press the power button.

Nothing. Dead.

Somewhere I remember David telling me as much. It isn’t even plugged—

David.

I drop the phone and race to the basement door, yell his name, yell it, yell it. Seize the doorknob, pull hard.

Nothing.

Run to the stairs. Up, up—crashing against the wall—once—twice—round the landing, trip on the final step, half crawl to the study.

Check the desk. No phone. I swear I left it here.

Skype.

My hands jumping, I reach for the mouse, streak it over the desk. Double-click on Skype, double-click again, hear the sweep of the welcome tone, bash 911 into the dial pad.

A red triangle flashes on the screen. no emergency calls. skype is not a telephone replacement service.

“Fuck you, Skype,” I shout.

Flee the study, rush the steps, whip around the landing, crash through the bedroom door.

Near bedside table: wineglass, picture frame. Far bedside table: two books, reading glasses.

My bed—is it in my bed again? I grab the duvet with both hands, snap it hard.

The phone launches into the air like a missile.

I pounce before it lands, knock it beneath the armchair, reach for it, grip it tight in my hand, swipe it on. Tap in the passcode. It trembles. Wrong code. Tap it in again, my fingers slipping.

The home screen appears. I stab the Phone icon, stab the Keypad icon, dial 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My neighbor,” I say, braking, motionless for the first time in ninety seconds. “She’s—stabbed. Oh, God. Help her.”

“Ma’am, slow down.” He’s speaking slowly, as if by example, in a languid Georgia drawl. It’s jarring. “What’s your address?”

I squeeze it from my brain, from my throat, stammering. Through the window I can see the Russells’ cheery parlor, that arc of blood smeared across their window like war paint.

He repeats the address.

“Yes. Yes.”

“And you say your neighbor was stabbed?”

“ Yes. Help. She’s bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said help .” Why isn’t he helping? I gulp air, cough, gulp once more.

“Help is on the way, ma’am. I need you to calm down. Could you give me your name?”

“Anna Fox.”

“All right, Anna. What’s your neighbor’s name?”

“Jane Russell. Oh, God.”

“Are you with her now?”

“No. She’s across—she’s in the house across the park from me.”

“Anna, did . . .”

He’s pouring words in my ear like syrup—what kind of emergency dispatch service hires a slow talker?—when I feel a brush at my ankle. I look down to find Punch rubbing his flank against me.

“What?”

“Did you stab your neighbor?”

In the dark of the window I can see my mouth drop open. “ No .”

“All right.”

“I looked through the window and saw her get stabbed .”

“All right. Do you know who stabbed her?”

I’m squinting through the glass, peering into the Russells’ parlor—it’s a story below me now, but I see nothing on the floor except a floral-print rug. I brace myself on my toes, strain my neck.

Still nothing.

And then it appears: a hand at the windowsill.

Creeping upward, like a soldier edging his head above the trench. I watch the fingers swipe at the glass, drag lines through the blood.

She’s still alive.

“Ma’am? Do you know who—”

But already I’m bolting from the room, the phone dropped, the cat mewling behind me.

33

The umbrella stands in its corner, cowering against the wall, as if afraid of some approaching threat. I grip the handle by the crook, cool and smooth in my damp palm.

The ambulance isn’t here, but I am, just steps away from her. Beyond these walls, outside those two doors, she helped me, came to my aid—and now there’s a blade in her chest. My psychotherapist’s oath: I must first do no harm. I will promote healing and well-being and place others’ interests above my own.

Jane is across the park, her hand trawling through blood.

I push the hall door open.

It’s thick with dark in here as I cross to the door. I snap the latch and flick the umbrella spring, feel it huff air as it blossoms in the blackness; the tips of its spokes catch against the wall, drag there, tiny claws.

One. Two.

I set my hand on the knob.

Three.

I twist.

Four.

I stand there, the brass cold in my fist.

I can’t move.

I can feel the outside trying to get in—isn’t that how Lizzie put it? It’s swelling against the door, bulging its muscles, battering the wood; I hear its breath, its nostrils steaming, its teeth grinding. It will trample me; it will tear me; it will devour me.

I press my head to the door, exhale. One. Two. Three. Four.

The street is a canyon, deep and broad. It’s too exposed. I’ll never make it.

She’s steps away. Across the park.

Across the park.

I retreat from the hall, towing the umbrella in my wake, and move into the kitchen. There it is, right by the dishwasher: the side door, leading directly to the park. Locked for almost a year now. I’ve placed a recycling bin in front of it, bottle necks poking from its mouth like broken teeth.

I push the bin aside—a chorus of chinking glass from within—and flip the lock.

But what if the door closes behind me? What if I can’t get back in? I glance at the key dangling on the hook beside the jamb. Slip it off, drop it into the pocket of my robe.

I swivel the umbrella ahead of me—my secret weapon; my sword and my shield—and lean over to press my hand to the knob. I turn it.

I push.

Air breaks against me, cold and sharp. I close my eyes.

Stillness. Darkness.

One. Two.

Three.

Four.

I step outside.

34

My foot misses the first step altogether, falling hard on the second, so that I wobble into the dark, the umbrella wobbling before me. The other foot trips after it, skitters down, the back of my calf scraping the steps, until I spill onto the grass.

I crush my eyes shut. My head brushes against the canopy of the umbrella. It’s encasing me like a tent.

Huddled there, I stretch my arm back along the steps, up, up, up, tiptoeing one finger ahead of the other, until I can feel the top step. I peek. There’s the door flung open, the kitchen glowing gold. I reach for it, as though I could snag my fingers in the light, tug it toward me.