It was a quarter past two in the morning. Rachel had been asleep for an hour, curled on the floor near the wall. She’d made no sounds or sudden moves; that effect of the drug, at least, was long gone.
Dryden thought he could tell when she was dreaming, though: At times the chill at his temples seemed to intensify, doubling or tripling in strength. He’d gotten used to the steady background feel of it—it was there even when Rachel was asleep—but these swells and ebbs were something new. Some artifact of dream sleep, he guessed—uncontrolled activity, like rapid eye movement or night tremors.
He watched the blinds for the glow of headlights and listened for vehicles stopping or footsteps ticking on the sidewalk. Every time it happened he checked the window. So far, no arrivals at Holly Ferrel’s house. The paper lay right where it had been.
He’d familiarized himself with the apartment; it hadn’t taken long. There were five rooms: the kitchen, the living room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The second bedroom had a sliding door to a small balcony off the building’s rear. In the murky light outside, Dryden saw a narrow alley running east to west, paralleling the street in front. On the far side of the alley were a few more town houses, but mostly there were nondescript little buildings that could’ve been anything. Real estate offices. Travel agencies. Coffee shops. There were broad alleys between them, leading out to the next street over.
He was sitting now, his back to the wall beside the living room window. From this position he could check Holly’s porch just by turning his head.
He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in well over forty-eight hours. He dropped his hands to his sides and opened his eyes. If he kept them closed for any length of time he’d only get more tired.
He listened to the sounds of the building. The HVAC system humming. The dull bass of speakers somewhere upstairs. Laughter—drunk friends, men and women.
Life being lived.
“Do you ever think about trying again?”
He turned.
Rachel was lying with her head on her good arm, her eyes open. Regarding him.
“Having a family again, I mean,” she said.
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t. I haven’t, at least.”
He’d told her almost nothing about Trish and Erin—not by speaking, anyway.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “There’s no way to keep from hearing it in your head, but I can shut up about it, if you want.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry.”
The song upstairs ended and another started. Dryden thought he recognized the bass rhythm—“Undercover of the Night,” by the Rolling Stones.
“You should be someone’s dad again,” Rachel said. “You’d be good at it. You are good at it.”
She got up and crossed to the window and sat down beside him. She leaned her head against his shoulder. A minute later she was asleep again.
*
It was twenty to four. The party upstairs had ended. There was no sound but Rachel’s breathing.
In Dryden’s peripheral vision, faint light rimmed the window blinds. A vehicle slowed and stopped close by.
Dryden turned and put his eye to the gap.
A dark sedan. Right in front of Holly’s house.
Two men got out fast; the driver stayed at the wheel. The two outside scanned the street up and down.
“Rachel,” Dryden said.
He nudged her gently with his elbow.
She came awake, disoriented. Looked around in the darkness. Then she understood. She cocked her head as if listening, though not with her ears.
“Two men in front of her house,” Dryden whispered. “Another inside a car. Can you read them?”
She nodded.
“Anyone else in the car?” Dryden asked.
Rachel shook her head.
Dryden was still watching them. The two men finished surveying the street. They went up the front walk, unlocked Holly’s door, and went in. Dryden could almost see Rachel’s attention swinging to follow them, her head tilting, turning by tiny degrees.
“Their thoughts are like a checklist,” she said. “Kitchen clear. Front bath clear. Hallway clear.”
“Sounds like a security sweep,” Dryden said. “Making sure the place is empty before the owner comes home.”
Holly had bodyguards working for her. Interesting.
Rachel continued listening. Dryden pictured the two men checking the place, room by room, proceeding methodically upward through its stories.
They came back out five minutes later and stood sentry on the porch. One of them picked up the paper and set it inside. The sedan pulled away, and for a long time after that nothing happened.
At 4:05 by the clock on the stove, the sedan came back. One of the men on the porch went down the walk to meet it. He opened the vehicle’s back door, and a woman emerged. Forty years old, give or take. Small frame, delicate features. Though the light wasn’t great, Dryden could see it was the woman from the hospital Web site photo.
Rachel was already locked onto her.