skin hung loose and rotten from its curved, arachnid bones. Its arms were as long as its legs.
With a deep grunt, she hoisted herself up along the wall. Hopped on one leg, but tripped again on the metal ring, and fell again, too. Landed in the same place. Her kneecap came loose. The sound was like an airtight jar twisting open. Explosions of sparks. “Oooowww!” she howled as her body went into cold shock, then scrambled on her hands and good leg, dragging the bum one behind her.
Two more steps. One more step. No more steps. The rope had to be here, in the center of the hall.
Shhp!-shhp!, the thing behind her. She could hear its wheezing breath. Something cold and soft grazed the back of her foot. A finger, perhaps. Or a spider’s leg.
“Go away!” she cried as she hoisted herself again, using her good leg and letting the other one dangle. Waves of pain came too fast for throbbing; instead they were an endless red scream. Weeping, she turned her back on it and reached for the switch. She didn’t know she was speaking, nor what she was saying as her hands swung blindly through the air: “Huhuh. YoucandoitAudreypleasedoitIknowyoucan huhuh…”
Panic. Another cold, soft finger. This time, it grazed her neck. The pull string! Where was it?
Creak! Something warm and wet trickled from above. It dripped along her hairline. A spider’s web? She felt the displaced air like a summer fan’s soft breeze, and then Schermerhorn was upon her. He pulled her down by the shoulders and onto the floor.
His breath, old and boozy. Too unspeakable to scream. She flailed, tearing away his soft parts as his fingers squeezed her throat. Maybe his clothes. Maybe his skin. And then he was looking at her. Spider eyes. They stole all the light, so that even his reflection was gone, and she understood now why the hall had been so dark. “No one gets out!” it shouted.
It squeezed tighter. She flailed in the dark with her thumbs cocked, seeking to squash his eyes, and wishing she’d kept that engagement ring, so she would die with something of his still close.
And then, suddenly, the hall lit up. Everything got bright. The man-thing was gone. The hall was empty. In shock, she flailed the air. “Ahhh! Ahhh!” she sputtered, her legs pulled close to her body, kneecap floating. Feet bleeding. Shadowboxing a ghost.
All down the hall were the streaking footprints of her blood, as if she’d walked alone. The tenants watched her from just outside 14E. She noticed this in a flash, then turned her face to The Breviary’s heavens. Something dripped. And creaked.
She hoisted herself up. Sparks of pain strong as defibrillator currents pulsed through her skin. Up above, saddle shoes swayed in concentric circles. Their soles were worn to a thin layer of rubber, and wrapped around one knee was a thick Ace bandage. Dyed red hair, faux diamond earrings lining her infected left lobe like decoration. A felt poodle skirt, open and flowing like a flower to reveal pale, bruised legs. Like a dirty old man’s joke, white underpants, wet and soiled.
Drip. Drip. Urine pelted Audrey’s forehead, because when people die, their bladders release.
She saw now what she’d tripped over. Not bones. A metal ladder, from which Jayne had climbed, then kicked aside. The rope wasn’t tied right. Her neck wasn’t broken. That was why she was swinging, and the reason the rope had creaked. Too much slack.
She looked lonely as she rocked, so Audrey reached up and touched the sole of Jayne’s left shoe. “Silly girl,” she said, then burst into tears, as the tenants of The Breviary approached.
32
Baby’s Breath
Six days after Audrey Lucas discovered Jayne Young’s body hanging from a noose, Jill Sidenschwandt’s phone rang. It was two in the morning, and her Madison Avenue bedroom was liquid ebony. Tom reached across the king-sized bed and swatted the antique rotary off the Prince Edward nightstand, then draped his arm over her and squeezed.
Jill burrowed her face into her pillow. “Noooooo,” she moaned. It had to be one of the Pozzolana brothers. Not even Tom’s China clients had the balls to call this late.
“Are they kidding?” Tom asked, then flicked the Tiffany lamp. Shards of colored glass ignited like a rainbow. “You’ve got to quit. Start your own business. You paid your dues with those people.”
Half the office had shown up at the funeral three days ago. Even Mortimer had put in an appearance. But by now, he and