like a jigsaw. According to Mrs. Kochinsky, a few days before the visit she had received a startling phone call from a distant cousin. Startling, it seemed to Rebecca (she could only guess since the woman’s explanations were often non-linear and hard to follow) because the cousin had till then communicated only through widely spaced letters over the years. They had met only once, growing up in different parts of Poland. He survived the war, a young teenager at the time, and moved to the States. All this Rebecca gleaned from the most obscure of references in her notes.
She could see from her scribbled notes yesterday that there had been some confusion about why Mrs. Kochinsky had come downtown to shop instead of staying on Eglinton Avenue where she felt safe. What had she said? My cousin from U.S. coming. He ask me to shop so I looking around. Something like that. But there had been a sense of urgency about the shopping Rebecca couldn’t reconstruct or perhaps didn’t understand to begin with. All she knew was that Mrs. Kochinsky had been shopping when she’d been badly frightened. The man who was going to kill her, she had said. But why was he going to kill her? It had always been so obvious to Mrs. Kochinsky. The people who were after her didn’t need reasons. This gap in the logic had led Rebecca to her diagnosis of paranoia. Not once, but often. And yet the woman was dead.
Rebecca closed her eyes and conjured up Mrs. Kochinsky sitting across from her. The Greta Garbo face mouthed the words but no sound came forth. Her grey-brown hair trembled with effort. Rebecca watched the mouth, willing it to speak, but it was no use. Suddenly the old woman’s head turned dolefully toward the door and Rebecca opened her eyes. She had definitely heard something downstairs.
Treading softly to the office door, she turned the knob without a sound. The light was still on in the hall downstairs. She listened with the door open a crack. All at once a shadow materialized on the lighted wall. Her nerves shot to the surface. Keep calm, she thought. It must be Dr. Arons coming back for something. She held her breath and watched. The shadow crept closer. Why would Dr. Arons aim at stealth? She would just saunter in and go to her office door. The shadow grew larger on the wall, then stopped. It was waiting, listening. Suddenly the shadow moved and the light in the hall went out. It wasn’t Dr. Arons.
Then came a stick and beat the dog That bit the cat that ate the goat That Father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat.
chapter twelve
Rebecca quickly switched off the lights in the office and closed the door, locking it. Turning to face the darkness, she felt a damp chill spread under her arms. A paltry grey light filtered in through the window of the waiting-room. She could try to climb out of it. Problem was the ceilings were rather high in those old buildings, the distance to the ground neck-breaking. And the window faced D’ Arcy; beneath it a cement walkway stretched between the back parking lot and the front door. If all else failed.
In three quick steps she crossed the floor to the phone on Iris’ desk. For the second time that night she dialed 911.
“I need help,” she whispered. “Someone’s broken into the building. Please hurry.” She murmured the address into the phone.
Within arm’s length stood the cabinet of medical supplies. She opened the drawer. Feel around for it. Find it. In the dark she flicked on the pocket flashlight she used to look down throats. Shining it in the drawer, she searched. A weapon. She needed a weapon. Okay, better than nothing: a disposable scalpel. She picked it up and poked off the protective cover, dropping it in her jacket pocket.
Behind Iris’ desk, she stood listening to herself breathe, the scalpel in the palm of her hand. Footsteps began to climb the stairs. Her heart thumped against her ribcage. Someone was going to kill her. He had killed Mrs. Kochinsky and now he was going to kill her. But why?
He was climbing slowly. Waiting on every step. Closer and closer, each step louder. Finally he stopped: he had reached the landing. She gripped the scalpel in her fist, not daring to breathe. She watched the door intently, then focused on the knob. Her pulse pounded. She shone the pocket flashlight on the knob with her left hand. It began to turn, then it stopped. Her heart lurched in her throat. Again it turned until it could go no further in the lock. Several more times the knob turned quietly, discreetly. Her legs began to throb, shake. She had to keep her mind clear, not panic. Maybe he would give up when he realized it was locked. Maybe he would go away. Maybe pigs would fly.
Suddenly she heard him trying to manoeuvre the lock with something. A file, possibly. After a moment he tried it again, only this time he made no attempt at silence. The knob flashed back and forth, back and forth with a loud banging sound. He didn’t care if she heard anymore. The ruse was up. He was going to get through that door one way or another.
She stepped backwards away from the door, her mind aflame. How long would it take him to get through the door, how many minutes did she have left to live?
She ran through the hall toward the farthest examining room. Even at the back of the building the noise was agonizing. He seemed to be throwing himself at the door. She pictured Mrs. Kochinsky in her last moments, panicked, brutalized. Why didn’t anyone hear? Where were those cops? She eyed the window of the tiny room, wondering if she would break her neck as easily on asphalt as on cement. Suddenly without warning, the noise stopped.
She closed her eyes to hear better. The only sound was her pulse throbbing in her ears. No, wait. Something else. A siren. She heard a siren wailing in the distance. He must’ve heard it too. She waited a moment to be sure, then began to creep down the hall back toward the waiting-room.
She wavered near the window of the waiting area. The ragged light that filtered in from D’ Arcy Street lay ghastly on the tweedy sofas and pale walls. She stood there numb and mesmerized. She didn’t know how long before a loud pounding sounded downstairs at the front door.
“Open up! Police!”
Thank God. Yet she held her breath, listening. Could he still be there, waiting by the door? He’d be a fool to stay. But how did she know what he was. Maybe he was a fool and lay in wait on the other side of her door in the darkness of the hall.
“Police!” yelled the man at the front entrance. A fainter yet steady thumping issued from the back. They had the place surrounded.
But what if he killed her before the cops could get in? What difference to her if they caught him later? No, she reasoned, this makes no sense. He’s gone and it’s only your own fear that’s keeping you inside.
She unlocked the office door. Waited. No one jumped in. She creaked the door open.
“Police! Open up!” cried the voice outside. Fists pounded on wood. “If you don’t open the door, we’ll break it down.”
Without stepping out of the office, Rebecca craned her neck on both sides of the narrow hall. No one.
“I’m coming!” she yelled and ran down the stairs.
A strapping young uniform stood on her doorstep pointing a flashlight waist high. His expression was unaccountably wary.
“Thank God! I’m so glad to see you,” she said, acutely aware of her heart still lurching in her chest.
Suddenly the flashlight blazed in her eyes. “Put down the weapon, ma’am,” said the policeman.
“What?”
She could see his eyes moving from her face to her hand. Then she remembered the scalpel. She had never let go of it.
“I’m
