Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller) (22 page)

Idiot
.

He got up and went straight to the front door, leaving the can of nuts on the front hall table. The elevator released him into the lobby, and he was jogging immediately. Out the door, back to Lexington, back to the little delicatessen with the wide yellow awning. And there was the wiry Latino man behind the counter, still reading the paper. As if he had not moved from this spot since the night before. Kevin headed for the back of the store.

He found what he wanted and came to the front. The Latino man was still rocking back and forth, still shimmying his arms to the beat of the low-volume music coming from speakers hidden somewhere behind the counter. He looked up at Kevin, and after a moment he grinned, a little spark of recognition in his eyes. Kevin put the vodka bottle on the counter, and the man rang it up and put it in a paper bag.

“Good night.”

Kevin nodded and walked out.

He was back in his apartment less than ten minutes after he had left. He went straight to his kitchen and found himself a tall glass, then opened the huge refrigerator. Not looking for beers this time.

Jesus, look at all this food.

He found a half-gallon carton of Tropicana, and then it was back to the living room with his glass and his bag and his juice. Then to the couch, where he sat down again next to the girl. She did not look as if she had moved one inch.

“Miss me?” Kevin asked.

He took the bottle out of the bag and lined it up on the coffee table beside the glass and the orange juice carton, as though preparing to mix a set of drinks for a party that was just about to begin.

Another glance at the girl next to him.

For the second time he felt a wave of envy pass through him as he watched her. All at once it seemed only natural: surely he could simply
imitate
her. He curled his legs up under him as best he could, put his arms up to his chest, and let himself lean over to one side. His head rested gently on the girl’s hip – not the perfect pillow, but good enough – and he closed his eyes.

He waited.

They lay there for a minute together, a 6-foot-3, 220-pound man in formal teacher’s clothes curled up and trying to mimic the form of a blond, overworked pixie passed out on his couch. The one was aware of the other and not the other way around, but there was, at least for a moment, an interlude of relative peace.

The interlude passed quickly.

Kevin could feel himself becoming aware of his pulse, of the movement of blood through his veins. The inactivity was having its usual effect, revving his system up when it should have been calming him down. In a minute he knew the voice would come to him, would start telling him he was supposed to be doing something, was supposed to be getting
ready
, and he didn’t want to wait for that.

He opened his eyes and sat up. He reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and began mixing vodka with orange juice. A very little bit of orange juice.

The first few swallows made him shiver, but after a minute he got used to it. On the second drink he mixed in even less juice, and by the third and fourth he was putting in only enough Tropicana to give the liquor a hint of color. Half a bottle of vodka seemed like plenty to start, so after the fifth tumbler he paused and sat back on the couch.

Kevin’s stomach was full of salted peanuts and alcohol. Plus the three beers from the bar. A burp escaped him, and he groaned with relief. The girl beside him slept on, uncaring.

Kevin closed his eyes and waited. Again.

He was suddenly aware that his breathing had slowed dramatically, and he worried that the clocks might be betraying him again. But this time he was ready; he simply got up and walked to his bedroom, grabbed the remote, and turned on the gigantic television. It was still on the evangelism channel, but he didn’t care; he wouldn’t be watching for long.

After fifteen minutes, though, he grew impatient.

Half a bottle of Vodka. Come on.

He walked back to the living room and sat down. The girl had begun to snore softly, as though mocking his inept attempts at sleep. Kevin suppressed an urge to drench her with the remaining contents of the Tropicana carton.

I’m the one who should be passed out here.

A
s if on cue, the room began to spin.

It turned slowly at first. A subtle shifting of items moving left to right, as if he had gotten up too quickly. But it accelerated quickly. The bookshelf began to lean. Soon the entire room was moving around him with a rocking, surging rhythm that seemed to mirror the rhythm of his own heart. He rose unsteadily to his feet, both hands out for balance. He turned toward the kitchen and took a few shaky steps.

Then he ran.

His shoulder hit the doorframe as he was lurching into the kitchen, and the impact spun him around. For a moment he was sure he was not going to make it. But he pivoted neatly, completed the turn and continued forward, and he arrived at the sink with a half-second to spare.

His stomach convulsed powerfully, and everything came up.

When he was done, he ran the faucet and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. He leaned over to slurp water from the tap, rinsed and spat and then took a few slow swallows. Then he walked gingerly back to the living room. The half-empty vodka bottle still sat on the table, mocking him now along with the girl.

“So it was a stupid idea,” Kevin said aloud, and he shrugged. “But look at
her
,” he added, nodding at the still blissfully unaware figure on his couch. “She’ll probably wake up tomorrow feeling great. Back to the routine. 5 AM jog followed by a fruit cup and oatmeal, then a large coffee and the paper, and she’ll be in the office with an hour to spare before the 8:30 conference call.”

He groaned and dropped his head backward, staring up at the ceiling. It was bad enough that this girl was able to sleep so easily, so deeply; but the thought of waking her – of actually interrupting such a blessed state of obliviousness – was too much for Kevin to bear.

An idea occurred to him.

In a low, even tone of voice – as though he were simply talking to the girl, or
to
someone next to him – Kevin spoke to the ceiling.

“Andrew, are you up?”

There were no footsteps to be heard, but Kevin was aware of a gentle, periodic vibration beneath him. A moment later Andrew was there, standing at the entrance to the living room in his gray pants and his tucked-in black polo shirt. Arms at his sides. Ready.

Kevin picked his head up and smiled. “This girl has had too much to drink.”

“Evidently.”

“Could you wake her gently –
very
gently – and get her a cab?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“May I put away the vodka for the night?”

“For good, I think. It doesn’t agree with me.”

“Good night, Sir.”

You’ve Got To Be Ready

Kevin trudged back to his bedroom.
He
turned the television back on and slipped between the sheets
,
a
gain adopt
ing
the pose of the slumbering girl
by
bringing himself into a fetal position. But after a few seconds he decided that this arrangement was uncomfortable, and instead he spread himself out as far as he would go, making himself into
Leonardo’s Vitruvian man.

He thumbed the remote control until he came to a 24-hour shopping channel, and then he let his head fall back onto the pillow with relief.
There were two middle-aged, heavily made-up women on the screen, and before them was a large table covered with
c
amping gear. Neither woman seemed the type to want to head into the woods for any reason, let alone to go camping. But their enthusiasm remained high.

“Look at this tent, are you kidding me?” one exclaimed. “It’s got, um – ” She had to consult the packing list, and even then she seemed briefly at a loss over which items might be worth reading out loud. “It’s got rip-stop material!” she declared, with a happy glance at her partner. To share in the glory of rip-stop. They might never have heard of such a thing, but the concept was easy to grasp. It was a tent that didn’t rip. Miraculous.
“C
amping is just like anything else,
” the lady went on.
“
It’s about being prepared
.
”

Wait a minute.

“You never know what’s going to happen out there in nature, especially at night. Right Linda? You’ve got to be
ready
.”

Oh, no.

“You’ve got to have the right stuff with you,” the first lady said, rising up on her toes. “You need this equipment! I’ll say it again, you’ve got to get ready!”

Kevin threw the covers off and g
ot out of bed. He went to his dresser
, and he was not surprised at all to find the same set of exercise clothes
clean and
folded yet again.

Washed and put away within the last two hours. Naturally.

He dressed quickly, trying to ignore the home-shopping-network ladies. They had shifted their sales tactic subtly. Now instead of demanding that everyone buy this camping package, they were issuing a challenge. “If you’re not going camping, if you’re not taking a break every once in a while, then what’s the point? I mean honestly, take a vacation! What are you doing with your life?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin said to the television, without looking up. “But you’re not helping.”

“Shouldn’t you be camping?” the second lady asked. “What are you doing
right now
?”

“Going outside yet again,” Kevin said. “For a walk this time, because I don’t think I could run another step. But I’ve become some sort of obsessive exerciser, so I’ve got to go. No idea why. It makes me feel calm.” He flipped the television off and threw the remote on the bed.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said to the dark screen.

A Middle-Of-The-Night Showdown

The girl was already gone from the couch, out of his apartment. Andrew had somehow managed to wake her and lead her out (or carry her out, for all Kevin knew) and put her into a cab. All without Kevin hearing a thing.

The man was smooth.

Kevin came down the elevator and walked through the lobby feeling self-conscious. It was one thing for his personal assistant to have a window into his personal life, but the doorman seemed like a different story. Kevin feared judgment.