The tremors were stronger now, a real shaking. And then, to Adrienne’s shock, she saw that he was beginning to bleed, a steady drip that fell from his nostrils to the front of his shirt. She knew what to do—the answering machine was in easy reach—but there was something wrong with her arms and legs. It was almost as if she were in a waking nightmare, paralyzed by the specter of something that, even then, was slouching toward her from the cellar.

And the blood was coming faster now, a steady drip that fell to the floor and spattered her shoes—so that, instinctively, she jumped back. And by that movement, broke whatever spell had been upon her. With a gasp, she slapped the buttons on the answering machine until the sound stopped.

“Jesus,” Duran said in a dazed voice. “Look at that.” He was swaying slightly, and staring at the blood on his shirtfront. “I got a nosebleed,” he told her.

Now it was Adrienne’s turn to shake as she took the telephone from him, and hung it up. Pulling a tissue from the Kleenex box on the desk, she gave it to Duran. “From now on,” she said, “if there are any phone calls or messages—let me handle them.”

Duran gave her a puzzled look, then turned his face to the ceiling. “Whatever… “ he mumbled, keeping his head back. “Who was that, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head, still facing the ceiling. “No.”

An idea occurred to her. “Well… let’s just see.” Lifting the handset on the telephone, she dialed *69. Then she grabbed a pen, and began to write on a Post-it, as an electronic voice revealed that: “The last number to call your telephone was 202-234-8484.” Hanging up, she showed the number to Duran, but it didn’t mean anything to him.

“We can still use your computer,” she told him, sitting down in front of the monitor.

“What for?” he asked, watching as she double-clicked on the AOL icon.

“There’s a reverse telephone lookup at anywho dot com. You give them the number, they give you the address.” Duran watched over her shoulder as she filled in the appropriate windows, providing the telephone number and area code that *69 had given her. Together, they watched and waited as the hourglass floated in the center of the monitor.

Waiting for reply. Transferring document: 1% 2% 3% 26% 49%. Query result. The words Residential listing appeared, and under them the following information:

Adrienne frowned. “Who’s Hector Barbera?” she asked.

Duran stared at the information for a long moment, then held up a hand, and whispered, “We’re in 6-E.”

It only took a moment for Adrienne’s eyes to widen. Then Duran picked up the phone and, shaking off her silent objection, dialed the number listed for Barbera. Soon, they could hear it ringing next door—a long, slow trill that came and went. After the sixth ring, Duran replaced the handset in its cradle.

“No one’s home,” he told her.

She nodded, suddenly relieved.

“You know how to pick a lock?” he asked.

She grimaced in reply.

“Doesn’t matter,” Duran told her. “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Health Club.”

“What?” She was about to ask him if he was out of his mind, but then, it occurred to her that she already knew the answer to that question. Of course he was: that was the whole point. “Why?”

But he was gone and, for the moment, she was alone in the apartment. Alone with the refrigerator’s hum, and with the changing light as clouds drifted across the sun. And not just that—there was another sound that she couldn’t quite place, and could barely hear, a low tone. Room noise, she decided. Or something.

Then Duran was back, carrying a twenty-five-pound dumbbell in his right hand. “Stay with me,” he said.

“But—”

He glanced down the hall to make certain it was empty, then strode to the doorway of Apartment 6-F. Standing about three feet from the door, he drew the dumbbell back, then came around like a discus thrower, slamming twenty-five pounds of chromed steel into the door just above the lock, splintering the jamb.

As the door flew open on its hinges, Duran stepped inside—and what he saw took his breath away. The wall between his apartment and Barbera’s was covered with a gray, wire mesh. In front of the mesh was a long table stacked with electronics equipment: there were oscillators, amplifiers, and receivers, and a cumbersome looking device that reminded Duran of a dental X ray. This last machine was pointed directly at the wall, and was warm to the touch, with a green diode that glowed brightly.

Glancing around, Duran saw that the apartment was not for living. The wooden floor was bare of rugs, the walls empty. The only furniture was a matte-black Aeron chair and a cantilevered desk lamp with a Halogen bulb. A telephone. And that was it.

Except for the objects that Adrienne was staring at: two padlocked steamer trunks, side by side in the far corner of the room. Feeling Duran’s gaze, she turned to him, and shivered. “It’s freezing in here.” An so it was.

“He’s got the air-conditioning on,” Duran told her, crossing the room to her side, dumbbell in hand.

For a moment, they stood next to one another, gazing at the steamer trunks.

“I want to go,” Adrienne announced. “I want to go right now.” She tugged at his sleeve, but Duran was unmoving. And then, without a word, he stepped back and swung the dumbbell in an arc, smashing it into the lock on one of the trunks. Adrienne’s knees buckled as he threw open the lid. Reflexively, she laid a hand against the wall for support, and looked away. Silence hung in the air between them. Finally, she asked, “is it… Eddie?”

Duran didn’t answer at first, just shook his head from side to side, more in wonderment than reply. “I don’t know,” he told her. “But it’s somebody.”

They left the Towers at a racewalk, uncertain what to do or where to go. Adrienne was convinced they should go to the police, but Duran was skeptical.

“All right,” he said, playing the devil’s advocate, “so what if we go there? What do we tell them?”

“About the trunks.”

“Okay. And then what?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, what do you think they’ll do? Do you think they’ll go to the apartment and search it?”

Adrienne thought about it for a long moment. Finally, she sighed. “No. They’d probably just charge us with breaking and entering.”

“Right,” Duran told her. “That’s what I think.”

“Then let’s go to my place,” she said. “At least we can get my car.”

Once again, he shook his head. “You might as well shoot yourself,” he told her. “There isn’t a chance in the world they aren’t watching it.”

“But I need stuff,” she said. “I need clothes. Makeup. Things!”

“Then you’ll have to buy them,” he told her. “Until the police start looking for Bonilla… I don’t think you want to go home.”

So they took the Metro to National Airport and rented a car, then drove to the Pentagon City mall, where Adrienne bought an overnight bag, some makeup and lingerie, and two dresses from Nordstrom’s. As they left the mall, Duran made a call to 911, saying, “I want to get something on the record—whether you do anything about it or not is up to you… “ Then he told them, succinctly, exactly what he’d seen in Barbera’s apartment, gave them the address and rang off.

On the way back to the Comfort Inn, it began to rain, just a few slanting specks against the windshield and then—before Duran could figure out how the wipers worked—an obliterating downpour that had him frantically pushing buttons and moving levers as he peered through the pearlized windshield.

When he finally located the knob that activated the windshield wipers, he turned to Adrienne and said, “I was thinking…”