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Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 3 из 138I’m drenched with sweat, crying hysterically, and have no idea whereI am. Everything is blurry, so I try to rub my eyes into focus, but it’s hard because my hands are trembling out of control. Actually, my whole body is trembling.
I plead with myself, C’mon, Kris.
Finally, shapes begin to appear before me, followed by outlines… and, like a Polaroid, it all becomes clear.
It was just a dream, you spaz! Just a dream.
Collapsing back into my pillow, I let out the world’s hugest sigh of relief. Never have I been so happy to be alone in my own bed.
But it was so real.
The body bags… a woman’s hand coming out of one of them.
I turn to my alarm clock – a little before six a.m. Good, I can still get a few more minutes of sleep. But the moment I close my eyes, they pop right open again.
I hear something, a pounding, and it’s not just my stressed-out heart. Someone’s at the door.
Throwing on the same blue terry cloth robe I’ve had since my Boston College days, I trudge across my tiny apartment, which is decorated with the very finest furnishings from the Crate amp; Barrel factory-reject sale. So what if my couch has only three legs and belongs in a Farrelly brothers movie?
The pounding gets louder. More urgent and annoying.
All right already, hold your horses!
Approaching the door, I don’t call out and ask who it is. That’s what peepholes are for, especially in Manhattan.
Quietly, I lean forward and squint to look with a tired eye.
Shit.
Her.
I open the door. Glaring at me through a pair of drugstore bifocals is my nosy old neighbor from down the hall, Mrs. Rosencrantz. She’s clearly ticked off about something, and that makes two of us.
“Do you realize what time it is?” I grumble.
“Do you realize what time it is?” she shoots back. “Once and for all, you’ve got to stop this psychotic screaming every morning.”
I look at Mrs. Rosencrantz – all four feet ten of her – as if she’s the one who’s psychotic. I may have been crying, but I certainly wasn’t screaming.
“You know, if you really want to hassle someone about noise, Mrs. Rosencrantz, you should find out who’s playing that music at six a.m.”
She gives me a sideways look. “What music?”
“C’mon, you don’t hear that? It’s coming from…” I step into the hallway, turning my head left and right.
Wait – where exactly is it coming from?
Mrs. Rosencrantz shakes her head and huffs. “I don’t hear any music, Ms. Burns.
I plead with myself, C’mon, Kris.
Finally, shapes begin to appear before me, followed by outlines… and, like a Polaroid, it all becomes clear.
It was just a dream, you spaz! Just a dream.
Collapsing back into my pillow, I let out the world’s hugest sigh of relief. Never have I been so happy to be alone in my own bed.
But it was so real.
The body bags… a woman’s hand coming out of one of them.
I turn to my alarm clock – a little before six a.m. Good, I can still get a few more minutes of sleep. But the moment I close my eyes, they pop right open again.
I hear something, a pounding, and it’s not just my stressed-out heart. Someone’s at the door.
Throwing on the same blue terry cloth robe I’ve had since my Boston College days, I trudge across my tiny apartment, which is decorated with the very finest furnishings from the Crate amp; Barrel factory-reject sale. So what if my couch has only three legs and belongs in a Farrelly brothers movie?
The pounding gets louder. More urgent and annoying.
All right already, hold your horses!
Approaching the door, I don’t call out and ask who it is. That’s what peepholes are for, especially in Manhattan.
Quietly, I lean forward and squint to look with a tired eye.
Shit.
Her.
I open the door. Glaring at me through a pair of drugstore bifocals is my nosy old neighbor from down the hall, Mrs. Rosencrantz. She’s clearly ticked off about something, and that makes two of us.
“Do you realize what time it is?” I grumble.
“Do you realize what time it is?” she shoots back. “Once and for all, you’ve got to stop this psychotic screaming every morning.”
I look at Mrs. Rosencrantz – all four feet ten of her – as if she’s the one who’s psychotic. I may have been crying, but I certainly wasn’t screaming.
“You know, if you really want to hassle someone about noise, Mrs. Rosencrantz, you should find out who’s playing that music at six a.m.”
She gives me a sideways look. “What music?”
“C’mon, you don’t hear that? It’s coming from…” I step into the hallway, turning my head left and right.
Wait – where exactly is it coming from?
Mrs. Rosencrantz shakes her head and huffs. “I don’t hear any music, Ms. Burns.