When I finally reached the gym, I could see, by the ground at the bottom of the wall, a row of skylights ablaze with light. This was what I had been looking for. Crouching, I crept over to the skylights, a dogwood hedge shielding me from view of anyone, and peered through the glass.
Below me was Pelham Greer’s gym apartment. Greer was home. He was in his wheelchair, his back to me, emptying something into a tall garbage can by the door that led to the inside stairwell, the door through which I had first entered his apartment last fall. Then he turned. I leaned back automatically from the skylight, afraid he might catch a glimpse of me, and then slowly leaned forward again. He had rolled over to his kitchenette, where he opened a cabinet and retrieved a spray can. He then sprayed his apartment for a good thirty seconds or so, thoroughly spraying into every corner. When he seemed satisfied, he put the spray can back into the cabinet, rolled his head to stretch his neck, and then wheeled over to his bed. As he started to swing himself out of his chair and onto his bed, I backed away from the windows and glanced behind me down the hill to make sure no one was around. The golf course remained empty. I glanced at my watch: eleven o’clock, lights-out.
I made my way to the right, heading toward the front of the gym, until I reached a Dumpster. Behind the Dumpster was a half-hidden set of double doors. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the set of keys I still had, including the one gym key all faculty had so they could use the gym and other amenities. I’d had these in my pocket when I had been arrested, and I had received them along with my other personal possessions when I had been released that afternoon—Blackburne had forgotten to request their return. I could have gone into Greer’s apartment through the door I had entered all those weeks ago last fall, but that would have meant entering the gym another way and possibly encountering someone else. Besides, Greer’s bed faced that door.
I inserted the key into the lock very slowly, then pulled out my phone, opened an app, and put the phone back in my pocket. Then I turned the key. The lock moved smoothly and quietly. Quickly I turned the knob and opened the door, stepping inside and then closing it behind me.
I was at the top of the shallow ramp that led down to the floor of Greer’s apartment. To my left, Greer jerked his head up toward me, a magazine forgotten on his lap and his mouth open in surprise. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!” he said.
“Good,” I said, turning the dead bolt in the door.
Greer was momentarily shocked by my appearance—I was counting on that. But he had been a soldier, and as I walked down the ramp to the floor, his training and instincts kicked in. He moved with uncanny agility for his wheelchair, parked right next to his bed. But before he could do anything other than get into the chair, I walked to the kitchenette cabinet and opened it, retrieving the spray can I had seen him use earlier. The label on the can read Ozium. I turned and held it up to him as he rolled out from behind his bed, scowling.
“What the fuck do you think —” Greer began.
“Citrus scent,” I said, cutting him off. I waved the can in the air. “Sort of a potpourri smell. Gets rid of smoke odors. Guy I knew in college swore by this stuff.”
I couldn’t tell if I imagined Greer glancing at the trash can or not. “You aren’t even supposed to be here,” he said. “You got arrested. Fired. You—”
“Because of you,” I said. “Because of what you put in my desk.”
Greer blinked. “I don’t—”
I headed for the trash can. Instantly Greer was wheeling forward to intercept me, but as I passed the card table, I reached out and grabbed the one chair at the table, pulling it over onto the floor in Greer’s path. He stopped short, and then reversed and maneuvered around the chair easily enough, but it bought me enough time to reach the trash can and open the lid.
“Get out of my shit!” he yelled.
With my free hand—I was still holding the can of Ozium—I reached into the trash can and pulled out the wilted end of what must have been a rather large joint. My hand was flecked with ash, no doubt from the ashtray I’d seen Greer emptying into his garbage can not two minutes earlier.
There was a quiet snick behind me, and I turned to see Greer right behind me, moving his arm back. A long black stick had magically appeared in his hand. I ducked to the side, just in time for the stick to miss me on the downswing. It smashed into the plastic trash can, cutting a deep gouge into its side. Greer yanked it back, freeing it from the trash can, while I backed up, a spray can in one hand and the butt-end of a joint in the other. Then the baton slashed through the air, its tip just catching the back of my left hand. A burst of white-hot pain seared my hand, and the joint I had been holding sailed across the room. I backpedaled, holding my hand to my stomach. It felt as if it had been sliced open. Greer was working his wheelchair with both hands, the baton in his lap, but before I thought to rush him or do anything else, he stopped pushing the wheels and picked up the baton in his right hand. Instinctively, I stepped to my right, away from the baton—he’d have a harder time hitting me across his body. But Greer’s left hand reached down to the wheel and palmed it back, and he spun to his left like a kid on a skateboard, bringing his baton arm around to me. I avoided being hit in the face only by leaping backward, striking a wall as I did so. Greer wheeled forward and raised the baton again, his face taut with anger. There was no furniture I could throw down in front of him this time. I dove to the left, the baton striking the wall behind me hard enough to chip the paint.
I got to one knee as Greer whirled around and advanced, the baton raised again. I threw the Ozium can at him as hard as I could, and when he raised his baton arm instinctively to deflect it, I got to my feet, ran forward, and leapt at him. I didn’t think about it beforehand, just acted—I was as surprised as Greer was. I crashed into him, pinning the baton between our bodies. The momentum carried him back and tipped his wheelchair over, and both of us fell to the floor. He struck his head on the floor, while some part of his chair hit me in the ribs like a solid kick, and I bounced off the chair and rolled over, gasping, a sharp pain in my side now joining the pain in my hand. Groaning, I turned my head toward Greer in time to see him on his back, the wheelchair on its side like an overturned vehicle, one wheel spinning in the air. He was groping for the baton, which lay next to me on the floor just beyond his fingers. I snatched the baton and flung it away so that it hit the card table with a loud smack before falling back to the floor, well out of reach.
Greer blinked at the ceiling and let out a moan. I got to my feet, shakily, my ribs and hand both complaining about it. “Are you all right?” I asked, a bit harshly.