Chapter 9
Dante pulled lamp plug before we left. Apartment went dark except brick wall gray in streetlight. I held duplicate envelope against ribs. Original stayed taped behind radiator. Wooden floor creaked under my socks. He pointed toward back hall, not main door.
He whispered, "Service hall. Not door with brass knob."
I nodded. Hand shook. We moved past kitchen, past table lamp now cold. He carried duffel low. I wore boots unlaced. Hallway air smelled radiator dust and old paint.
Second scene service door stuck. Dante lifted, not pulled. Hinge groaned. Narrow hall beyond held mops, breaker box, exit sign dim red. Floor here bare concrete. Light switch missing plate. He flipped breaker off for hall lights. Darkness complete for three seconds. My breathing loud. He touched my elbow, guided forward.
He whispered, "Stay on wood edge. Concrete echoes."
I followed. His jacket brushed pipe. Pipes hissed. Back exit door had push bar and small wired window. Outside parking lot visible through glass. Black SUV parked under lot light, engine running, exhaust fogging. Man inside, phone to ear, facing building. Lot empty else.
Dante crouched. I crouched beside him. Knees to chest. Envelope crinkled. He put finger to lips. My mouth stayed shut. Heart hammered throat. We waited.
Man in SUV opened door, stepped out, stretched. Boots on asphalt loud. He walked toward building service door, flashlight swinging, not yet on. He checked phone, then looked toward our window. We sunk lower. I held breath. Dust burned nose. Dante hand pressed my shoulder, steady. Watcher passed within ten feet, turned toward main entrance sidewalk, not service door. Footsteps faded.
Dante mouthed, "Now."
He pushed bar slow. Cold air hit face. Metal door sighed, not slammed. We slipped out to cracked concrete beside dumpster. Brick wall blocked lot light. We kept to shadow along building. Wooden floor hallway now behind us. Parking lot gravel crunched. I stepped heel-toe, silent as possible. Dante led to chain fence gap behind gas station sign.
Parking lot watcher now at front doorway, back to us, flashlight on, scanning entry windows. He didn't turn. We crossed narrow strip of sidewalk between building and street. Streetlight threw long shadows. I kept mouth closed, envelope tight, didn't cough, didn't speak. Breath shallow through nose.
Dante's car parked two blocks down past gas station, not in lot. Old dark sedan under flickering station canopy, near pump 2. Neon sign buzzed. We reached it. He unlocked passenger door manually, key not fob. No beep. I slid in. Duffel went footwell. He circled to driver side, stayed low, opened, started engine. Engine caught soft. He didn't turn headlights yet.
He rolled forward slow, lights off, past pumps, onto side street. At stop sign he flipped headlights on. Gas station attendant inside didn't look up.
On highway edge, he exhaled. I exhaled too. Loud.
He said, "You stayed silent."
I said, "I thought I'd choke."
He glanced, hand on wheel tight. "Good. He listened for voices."
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Street passed. Diner lights blurred. County road empty. Building shrank in mirror. I pressed envelope flat, felt copy inside. Foundation tower direction next, north on highway, lights ahead.
We left neighborhood. Pursuit still behind, but not on us.
