Manhattan Is My Beat (Rune 1)

The man stepped closer. No ... It's all right, she told herself again. He thinks that once he went upstairs I climbed out onto the fire escape and got away through the alley.

... you.

Another step, as cautious as Don Johnson closing in on a dozen drug dealers in Miami Vice. The man paused, a foot away.

Rune was afraid to lock the dead bolt or put the chain on; he'd hear her. She pressed her palms against the door, pushing as hard as she could. The man walked directly to it, then stopped, inches away. The thin wood--hell, she'd whacked right through it herself--was all that protected her. Rune's small muscles trembled as she pressed against the door.

Which is when the screwdriver slid out of her pocket. In horror, she watched it fall--as if it were in slow motion. It was a scene from a Brian DePalma movie. She grabbed at the tool, caught it, then fumbled it ... No!

She reached down fast and managed to snag the screwdriver an inch above the oak slats of the floor.

Thank you...

Frozen in position, like the game of statue she played as a kid, Rune listened to the man's labored breathing. He hadn't heard anything.

He'd have to know she left. He'd have to!

She slipped the screwdriver back into her pocket, but as she did so, she brushed the claws of the hammer, which was hooked into the waistband of her pants. The tool fell straight to the floor, its head bouncing twice with echoing slams.

"No!" she shouted in a whisper. Planting her feet on the opposite wall, leaning hard into the door, Rune ducked her head, waiting for the fist that she knew would slam through the cheap wood, clawing for her hair, her eyes. She'd be dead. Just like Robert Kelly. It would only be a matter of minutes, seconds, and she would die.

But, no ... He turned and ran down the stairs.

Finally Rune stood, staring at her shaking hands and remembering some movie she'd seen recently where the teenage hero had escaped from some killer and had stood frozen, gazing at his quivering hands; Rune had groaned at the cliche. But it wasn't a cliche at all. Her hands were trembling so badly she could hardly open the door. She peered out, hearing sounds of chatting voices and far-off TVs. Children's squeals.

Why had he run? she wondered. Who was he? A witness? The killer's accomplice?

The killer?

Rune--every muscle shaking--walked fast to the incinerator room, scooped up the diapers, and hurried down the stairs. Two women on the landing nodded at her, preoccupied with their conversation.

Rune started past them, head down. But then she paused and in an exasperated voice said, "People don't know how to behave anymore. They don't know a thing about it, do they?"

The women looked at her, smiling in polite curiosity.

"That guy a minute ago? He almost knocked me over."

"Me too," one woman said. Her gray hair was in pink curlers.

"Who is he?" Rune asked, breathing hard, leaning against the banister.

"That's Mr. Symington. In 3B. He crazy." The woman didn't elaborate.

So he lived here. Which meant he probably wasn't the killer. More likely a witness.

"Yeah," the woman's friend added, "move up there last month."

"What's his first name?"

"Victor, I think. Something like that. Never says hello or nothing."

"So what?" the curler woman said. "He's nobody you'd want to talk to anyway."

"I don't know," Rune said indignantly. "I'd have a couple things to tell him."

The curler woman pointed to the box of diapers. "Greatest invention ever was."

"After TV," her friend said.