She managed to escape before the loud women emerged from the stalls.
OKAY, SHE SAID to herself, walking the lonely streets again. Now what?
The responsible, conventional, good-citizen thing to do would be to find a pay phone and call 911. And say what? Hi, I’m out on the street without any money or credit cards because my home was invaded by ninjas. Yes, you know. Ninjas. Like those Japanese assassin guys. Except I’m fairly sure they weren’t Japanese. No, this happened several hours ago….
And how am I going to explain all the dead bodies and bloodstains in my apartment? she wondered.
The strong desire to return home came over her. She doubted her attackers had hung around long once she fled. Even in New York the sounds of pitched battle might be expected to draw attention. Although it occurred to her the whole affair had been pretty quiet, all things considered, and the soundproofing was actually quite good in her building, testament to its industrial-grade construction. But in any event her attackers would not want to risk getting caught.
She hiked back to her apartment. It wasn’t that far. Her wanderings had been more winding than linear.
The fire escape still hung low, unsurprisingly. A faint light shone from her window. She jumped up, caught the bottom step, hauled herself up. Then she climbed the metal stairs, moving carefully to make no noise.
The window had been closed. She put her back to the wall and risked a three-second look inside. A lamp burned in the living room. She saw no sign of anyone.
She summoned the sword and tried the window. It was unlocked. She caught her breath when it creaked as she raised it. Then she bent over and stepped inside.
She straightened. Something was wrong. Alarms yammered in her skull. Yet she did not turn and bolt back out the window and down the fire escape.
Because she realized that what was wrong was that—nothing was wrong.
The kitchen was clean. Intact spice jars lined the racks. They looked vaguely out of order, and she thought there had been more. But the floor was not a crunchy carpet of broken glass and cinnamon and thyme.
Cautiously she moved to the living room entrance. She smelled the sharp tang of disinfectant.
There were no bodies, no bloodstains, no shattered glass on the floor. The couch sat upright. The skylight overhead was intact.
It was as if nothing had happened.
6
Morning sunlight streamed through the window, bringing its peculiar vivid-edged glow. The sky was clear except for a few white clouds. Down in the street the traffic rumbled and honked.
Annja sat on the window seat and tried to concentrate on notes she was trying to type up for the show. It was all so normal she wanted to scream.
Normal it may have been. But all was not as it had been before.
There were little things out of whack. The papers and periodicals were stacked on two-thirds of the couch as haphazardly as usual. But the cushions on the couch were new, the colors and patterns different from what they had been before. Similar—but distinctly not the same. Likewise the throw rug. The one that had been comprehensively bled upon was just an inexpensive throw she’d bought at Wal-Mart. This one, again, resembled the old one. But it wasn’t the same. Aside from lacking bloodstains.
The semblance of normalcy did nothing to diminish her creepy feelings of violation. They only added an edge of eeriness, as if the old Twilight Zone theme played constantly in the background.
Aside from the mind-fry elements, Annja had to admit a certain elegance to it all. It made reporting the incident to the police even more problematic. Hello? Remember me? Ninja girl? Well, it turns out the ninjas took all the dead bodies with them and cleaned up the bloodstains. They even replaced my throw rug and the contents of my spice rack!
Mentally replaying the hypothetical conversation for about the tenth time she shook her head. That conversation would not end well.
Why? she thought, for far more than the tenth time. Who? She sighed. She didn’t even know where to start investigating.
She tapped at the keys a bit more.
Investigate recent reports from the Republic of the Congo of sightings of a large animal which allegedly resembles a dinosaur. If there’s anything to it, it may be the model for the mysterious creature, the dragonlike sirrush, represented on Babylon’s ancient Ishtar gate….
She stopped. “I can’t concentrate,” she said aloud. “I may just have to go out to get anything done.”
She picked up the remote to click on the TV. It felt like an admission of defeat.
The 24/7 news channel had finally gotten over the abortive Ocean Venture hijacking. It was back to showing the usual processions of disaster and despair, interspersed with the standard assurances that all would be well, if only the viewers trusted the government. She sighed and turned it off.
Her phone rang and she answered it. “Hello.”
“Hello.” The man’s voice had a mannered, almost English accent. “My name is Cedric Millstone. Am I speaking to Ms. Annja Creed?”
“Yes, you are, Mr. Millstone,” she said, secretly glad of the interruption. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d very much like to meet you and talk to you, Ms. Creed.”
Uh-oh, she thought. He sounded a little older than her usual obsessed fan. “I’m sorry, Mr. Millstone,” she said. “I’m pretty tied up right now. I have a number of very pressing commitments.”
It was true. Annja couldn’t—honestly—claim she never lied. But she tried to tell the truth.
“I’m sorry,” the mellifluous voice said. “I know how this must sound. I could tell you I am a man of some standing in the community, a man of considerable means, but I fear that might only tend to confirm your altogether natural suspicion that I harbor improper intentions. I can provide you references, but doubtless you are aware the voice that answers at any number I give you might not be whom he portrays himself to be.”
“You’re right, Mr. Millstone. I have to tell you, that’s almost exactly what I’m thinking,” Annja said.
“Then let me tell you I wish to offer an apology, and an explanation, for your recent inconvenience.”
She drew in a sharp breath. She felt a complicated mixture of fear and anger.
“Inconvenience,” she said. It was almost a hiss.
“An inadequate word, I grant. As I say, I shall endeavor to explain, and insofar as possible, make amends. May I call upon you?”
Don’t do it! the ever-cautious voice at the back of her head cried. Nothing good can come of this.
She felt her mouth stretching in a tight-lipped expression that someone near-sighted might mistake for a smile in bad light. I can rationalize about how it’s a matter of personal security to find out all I can about whoever attacked me last night, she thought, but the truth is I’ll go crazy if I don’t find out.
“We’ll meet,” she said.
ARJUNA’S COFFEE SHOP was a favored hangout of Annja’s, in easy walking distance of her loft and convenient to the subway station where she caught the train to Manhattan to work. It managed to be at once spotless and cozy, not an effect all that easy to achieve and not too common in this part of Brooklyn. The owner, Mr. Brahmaputra,