The pop of discharge echoed and no doubt created attention, but Balz knew two things: One, people under the bridge did not get involved in other folks’ drama as a rule; and two, if there was an onlooker or an interloper who was inclined to get involved, he could handle them no problem.
The body collapsed to the ground, landing like a side of beef. And while muscles randomly twitched in the arms and legs, and the smell of urine wafted up, Balz kicked the torso over so that things were faceup. The subpar bomber jacket was partially open, and inside, he found all kinds of white-powdered goodies. As he peeled the dead—well, dying—dealer like a grape, he was jealous of the lights-out.
And prayed V would keep his promise.
Tucking the cocaine into his own jacket, Balz wanted to curse a blue streak. But he didn’t have the energy.
Especially because he was now sucked into drama that was not his own.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the dream, Erika was back in the triplex at the Commodore, descending the curving staircase, passing by the modern artwork while an alarm went off down below. From her shoes on the fine carpeted steps to the gardenia-scented air to the up-high view over the Hudson, everything was both crystal clear and also foggy, the details as familiar as her drive to work and yet disorientating, too.
Except this isn’t a dream, she thought to herself.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused and looked across a sitting area that belonged in a hotel lobby, everything so anonymously perfect. On the far side of the silk chairs and sofa, there was a high-ceilinged hallway off of which were many dark rooms.
That was where she had to go, where the collections of strange and somewhat disturbing objects were… where Herbert Cambourg, owner of the penthouse, collector of the Victorian surgical instruments and the bat skeletons and the books about death and black magic, had been nearly torn in half by forces that could not be explained.
Kind of made someone wonder if his explorations of the dark side… had made something reach back at him.
As soon as she entered the corridor, the other rooms disappeared from her periphery, fading away unevenly as if they were being manually erased. Dim lighting was her beacon, but she would have known her destination even in the pitch dark.
She was being called…
And then she was at the threshold of the room that held all the books. Bracing herself before she looked up, she took a deep breath—because she knew what was coming.
Erika’s exhale was sharp as she lifted her eyes: There he was, the man she could not find during the day, whose presence she could not forget at night.
“It’s you,” she said roughly. Which was what she always said to him. “And this actually happened, didn’t it. This is not a dream.”
Wincing, she put a hand to her head, but that was what she always did. And so was her wondering why she could only see him like this, when she was sleeping. Then she forgot all of that and properly focused on the man. He was not alone, but the guy standing next to him didn’t register. All she saw was the tall figure dressed in black, his eyes locked on her, his body poised and muscled. He was… incredibly beautiful, even though she knew he was dangerous.
And she didn’t need to count all those weapons on him to come to that conclusion.
“What did you do to me?” she asked. “Why can’t I remember you when I’m awake?”
His lips moved, as if he were answering her, but she couldn’t hear: Even though the alarm’s staccato beeping was loud, and her own voice was in her ears, his words couldn’t cross the short distance between them.
“You did something to my mind,” she accused him. “What was it—”
The man looked away from her, to the guy who was with him. Now both of their lips were moving, their expressions changing, becoming aggressive. As she studied the profile that haunted her, she told herself that this time would be different, this time, when she woke up, she would remember him properly and be able to do something about it.
What that was… she didn’t know.
The man looked back at her and he seemed sad in a remote kind of way. As his lips moved, she leaned in, trying to hear him—and then she realized… he wasn’t talking to her. He was still talking to his partner in crime, even though he was focused on her.
She had a moment of confusion, and then she thought, Oh, right. This was how it went.
This dream somehow inserted herself into the memory she couldn’t access when she was awake: Everything that he did or said had actually happened. Everything she did was just her trying to get through to a recording in her mind.