“Anything?” said Chuck, and Sam shook her head.
“I hope nothingbadhappened to her,” Birdy said with vigor. “Should we go check?”
“I will if I haven’t heard from her by tomorrow,” said Sam. “Meanwhile, it’s almost eight, so why don’t we adjourn to the Park Plaza and do some readings?”
“Thank God,” said Jake, ripping off his eye patch. “This thing was squeezing my head.”
He stopped by Sam’s chair as the novelists were packing up. “Hey, boss, you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. He regarded her keenly from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “You seem a little... something. New love?”
Sam smiled. “Just a lot going on.”
“Listen,” said Jake. “I know you’re a grown-ass woman and big-time author and all, but know this: If that Corwyn dude’s a player, I got you. We all got you.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Jake squeezed Sam’s shoulder and headed for the door. “See you at the bar,” he called.
“You mean the barrrrrr,” said Iowa, and they all filed out.
Chapter 15
At Amelie’s
But it wasn’t until the following week that Sam went to check on Amelie. She had, quite honestly, forgotten. After Amelie’s no-show, Sam had sent an email:Hey, Amelie! We missed you in workshop. Please get in touch to reschedule—and let me know everything’s okay.Then Sam had gone back to writingThe Rumrunner, or rather writingaboutthat new novel, and exploring it further with William—including a meeting on the Cape before one of his events at which they admittedly did more body-surfing and naked frolicking in the dunes than talking about the book. Which was fine with Sam, since she still had an unsettled feeling about it and couldn’t tell exactly why. Was it the fact that she was cheating on her contract, sneaking around with the rumrunner when she was supposed to be with the gold miner? Was it that the idea was too connected to Hank’s alcoholism, and she hadn’t gotten the requisite distance to write about it? Was it that Sam wasn’t used to collaboration, or that William was, ever so charmingly and with the best of intentions, pushing her? Sam wasn’t sure, so it was a relief to turn from her own screen to this week’s manuscript for class—whereupon, as soon as she settled into her chair with her pen, she thought: Amelie. Fuck!
Now Sam was in the vestibule of her missing novelist’s building in Fort Point Channel, a harborside neighborhood as different from Sam’s historic district as it was possible to be. The Point was all industrialwarehouses converted to, initially, artists’ lofts; Sam had come to grad school raves here where the only light was old films flickering on the walls and everyone was on X. Then the area was gentrified, the creatives forced into the exurbs. Amelie had to be doing pretty well at her graphic designer day job if she could afford to live here.
Sam buzzed Amelie once, twice, not really expecting a response and not getting one. If Amelie wasn’t returning texts or emails, why would she come to the door? There was a management company listed, so Sam tried them next.
“I’ve been trying to reach my sister for a week,” she said to the gruff-sounding man who answered, “but she’s not picking up, and I’m worried. Is there any way you could let me in?”
“Sorry,” the man said. “Can’t. Security.”
“Not even if you come in with me?”
“No can do.”
“Please?” Sam persisted. “I think it’s an emergency.”
This time the man’s voice sounded softer. “Look, if you really think she’s in trouble, call for a wellness check. You know what that is?”
Sam wanted to smack herself on the forehead like a cartoon character. Of course she knew what a wellness check was. She’d used them for Hank—twice. On the second occasion, the emergency crew had reached him just in time.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Good luck, hon,” the man said.
Sam called 911 and was routed to the appropriate line. Did she think her friend might be in mortal danger? Yes. Were there drugs involved? Maybe. Mental illness? Ditto. The dispatcher said they’d send somebody ASAP.
Sam stepped outside to wait. The vestibule was a sweatbox, the streets not much better. It was Labor Day weekend, and the sun was an angry orange ball, the sidewalk Sam was standing on literally steaming. The air smelled of garbage and brine. Yet Sam’s arms prickled in goose bumps as she realized how alone she was in this maze of old buildings.Was the Rabbit watching Sam right now? Or maybe it was William’s complication: William had ruled her out; he’d spoken with her, he said, and been quite firm, and he felt very strongly that she would not bother Sam. Sam wasn’t so sure. Women in love could be deceptive. And dangerous.
Whoever the stalker was, she could be anywhere: in that doorway, behind that dumpster. Sam hadn’t received any more emails or notes, but she had an ominous feeling that it wasn’t because the woman had given up, it was that she was re-strategizing, recharging and planning a next-level offensive. All it would take was one good bonk on the head and a push, for instance, for Sam to disappear forever into the dark water of Boston Harbor.
She was relieved when a delivery guy arrived on a Vespa with a sack of chicken so she could slip behind him into the air-conditioned building. Ha ha, who’s the Rabbit now? thought Sam. Amelie’s elevator was an industrial cage à laFatal Attraction—one of Sam’s favorite movies as a teen, which probably explained a lot. She didn’t trust the contraption now, so she took the metal staircase, which shook and clanged disturbingly, to the top floor.
Amelie’s door was bright purple. Sam knocked without much hope. “Amelie,” she called, “it’s Sam from class. Are you there?” She disliked the way the words bounced around the stairwell and echoed:... am... ass... err...
No answer from within. On a lower floor, though, there was aclank clank clank!, as if somebody were hitting a pipe with a hammer... or coming up the stairs. Sam rubbed her arms and looked around for a weapon, an umbrella, a rolled-up newspaper. There was nothing.
