The New World, 5/8

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(See intro for disclaimers)

[THE NEW WORLD, part 5 of 8]
(Second story in "The Disciple" arc)


"Feel the terror draw ever nearer
 The more you stare in the mirror,
 But hold your own.
 Face the wind alone."
             "The Riddle", Nan Knighton


By the time she reached her stoop, Rachel's breathing had
calmed, but her legs felt as weak as tired old rubber.  Shaking,
soaked in sweat, she fumbled in her waistpouch for her keys until
her awkward fingers closed around the cold metal.  She opened
the door, slipped through, slammed it behind her again.  Rachel
leaned against the door and dragged the back of her hands across
her cheeks.  No Buzz.  She was safe.  She was fine.

Stumbling forward, Rachel lurched headlong towards the
bathroom, her free hand groping the wall to support her graceless
legs.  She leaned heavily against the sink and turned on the cold
water, as hard and fast a stream as the rackety old pipes could
manage.  She raked back the loose strands of hair and splashed
her raw, tear streaked face with the icy water over and over, until
she roused a little from her numb confusion, and she felt a little
better for it.

Nervously eyeing the front door and the windows, Rachel grabbed
blindly at a towel and dried her face, mopping spatters of water
from her old sweatshirt before turning back to the faucet.  The
mirror over the cracked enamel sink was flecked with dull spots,
and a small spider-webbed crack distorted the anxious face that
blinked back miserably at Rachel.  The eyes were swollen and
red rimmed, but even as she stared at herself, the puffiness
started to subside.  Rachel ducked her head away from the
unnatural image and splashed her face again.

It was just a little glitch in her day, that was all.  She was home,
whoever it was was gone, and everything was fine.  All she had
to do was shower, and get into some clean clothes, and go looking
at apartments that she hoped wouldn't be too awful.

Rachel walked into the bedroom and picked up her neat little
stack of newspaper ads from the upended crate that she used as
a nightstand, next to the narrow iron framed bed.  Just to make
sure, she checked the big, bright poster on the wall: "Seacouver
Opera", it proclaimed at the top, in bright yellow lettering; the
season's schedule was listed underneath.  Rachel used the poster
instead of a calendar, with all her performances and obligations
marked and annotated.  Mondays were dark, and there were no
extra rehearsals tonight, no promotional or outreach appearances
tomorrow.  She was free until Tuesday night.  Satisfied, Rachel
turned towards the cabinet for her clean clothes, but paused with
her hand halfway to the cupboard door.

Something was wrong.

She wasn't sure what.  She wasn't sure why she thought so.  But
somehow, somewhere, something was wrong.

Rachel turned in a slow circle, looking around the room, ill at ease.
On the second turn, she saw it.

Where was her water glass?

She always kept a glass of water by her bed at night.  Always.
With the heat turned off, it was too cold at night to get out of bed
when she woke up thirsty.  The glass had been there when she
got up this morning, just like every other morning.  And now it
was gone.

Rachel's heart began to pound, hammering in her ears.  Maybe
she was wrong.  She always waited till after her morning run to
eat breakfast and wash her dishes, but maybe this morning she
had taken the glass to the sink already, and just forgot.

Slowly, she walked into the bathroom, the only sink in the
apartment.  The glass wasn't there.  Maybe she had put it up?

Knowing better, but going through the motions just in case some
sort of a miracle struck, Rachel forced her unsteady feet to the
far corner of the front room, where her few dishes and plates
were neatly stored on top of her tiny refrigerator cube.  There
were four glasses in the cheap set from Goodwill; three were in
their places, turned upside down in a precise line behind the plates.

The fourth was nowhere to be found.

Rachel dashed back into the bedroom and knelt down on the cold
linoleum.  No, nothing was under the bed.  But the edge of the
blanket, near the floor, was damp.

Just as if a glass of water had been knocked over, and then
someone had cleaned it up.

Slowly, Rachel sank down onto the floor and leaned against the
bed, rocking back and forth.  Her hands balled into tight, cold fists,
crumpling the newspaper clippings; her breath was coming in
short, sharp gasps.

Someone had gotten in again.  Someone had been in here, right
here in her bedroom.  Someone had knocked over her glass of
water and cleaned it up.  They must have broken the glass, or else
they would have just refilled it and left it where it belonged.
Rachel might never have noticed.

Tears began to fill her eyes again; Rachel automatically pressed
her fingers alongside her eyes to stop the tears from coming.

Someone had been in here, maybe the same burglar who had
gotten in before.  Or maybe it was someone who knew what she
was.  Maybe they were out there, waiting for her to come out.

What in the name of God was she going to do?  She couldn't stay
here, but she couldn't leave either.

Could she?

Maybe she could.  It was daytime; there were people all over
out on the street, in their cars, going to work.  There would be
people around.  Being around people was safer than being alone.
She couldn't forget that again.  Rachel would be safe enough
outside.

She *hoped* she would be safe enough.

And doing anything    just about *anything*    would be better
than sitting here all day and all night, afraid of feeling that
anonymous Buzz again.  Afraid to leave, afraid to stay.

Afraid to live.

"You're not helpless," Rachel scolded herself miserably, her voice
a weak, trembling whisper.  "Grandpa taught you to take care of
yourself.  *Do* something."

Abruptly, she turned and thrust her hand under her pillow, and
pulled out her old Colt revolver: a gift from the foster grandparent
who had loved her.  It was loaded, but the safety was on, just as
he had taught her.  Grandfather Hudson didn't let the cancer take
him without a word or a fight; and even if she died today, Rachel
wouldn't make him ashamed of her.  She'd be brave for him.

It gave her something to focus on besides her terror.

Rachel checked the safety once more, and zipped the Colt into
her waistpouch.  It hung there heavy and awkward, banging
against her hip at every step, but it was the last thing, almost the
only thing, that made her feel she still had the least little bit of
control over her life.

It didn't matter where she went.  She could figure that out later.
The important thing now was to get away, before whoever it was
decided to come looking for her.

Rachel snatched up her stage shoes and her gym bag, always
pre packed with a change of clothes, and took a deep breath.  She
unlocked the deadbolt and closed her fingers around the doorknob,
took a deep breath, and yanked the door open, charging forward
and out into the world.  She paused just long enough to lock the
door behind her, and dashed for the corner bus stop.  Thank God,
thank God, there were already a few people there...

     ...she slowed, hesitating, staring at the small, sullen group of
people waiting for the bus.

What if one of them...  You can't tell by looking...

Slowly, haltingly, Rachel drew nearer, fearing at every step that
the Buzz would start piercing through her head again.

But it didn't.  She reached the corner and waited with the others,
shuffling from foot to foot nervously.  She drew a few annoyed or
curious glances from the six or seven others in the small group,
but beyond that, nobody seemed to take any special notice of her.
When the bus pulled up, Rachel fell in at the end of the line,
waiting her turn to board, looking around fearfully.  If anyone was
watching her, or paying her any attention at all, she couldn't tell it.

She was getting away clean.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Two blocks away, a mittened hand    incongruous, in the mild
autumn weather    lowered a pair of small, powerful binoculars.
When the girl had left the house that morning, she had headed
west and then north.  Now she was taking the eastbound bus, so
she was going towards the business district.  That could mean
anything.  She was carrying a satchel or bag of some sort.  She
was leaving for a while, then.  Perhaps just overnight, but
certainly not for good, not yet.  She'd have to come back for the
rest of her things.

Breaking that glass had been a clumsy error, but not an
insurmountable one.  He wondered if she had noticed it yet.
Perhaps that was what had precipitated the girl's sudden
departure.

Still, there was nothing to be concerned about.  He had
accomplished what he set out to do, and learned what he hadn't
had time to find out before.

He could be patient.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Rachel climbed onto the bus along with the rest of the passengers.
She showed her bus pass to the indifferent driver and took a seat
towards the back where the windows were smaller, sitting down
with a sigh of relief.  She had no idea where she was going,
except that both she and the bus were headed away from her
apartment.  Rachel scrunched down in her seat and stared
straight ahead.  Her fingers moved automatically to drag back the
loose, lank strands of hair hanging around her face.

What in the world was she going to do now?

She couldn't go to the theatre, not yet.  Monday nights were dark,
and she had to be someplace where there were other people
around.  And there wasn't anyplace at the theatre where she
could sleep and be safe.  She had given back Mari's key to
costume storage after the first week, ashamed to keep it any
longer, unable to explain what she was really frightened of.

Rachel looked around the half empty bus.  Nobody was sitting
nearby.  She opened the zipper on her waistpouch and quickly
counted what money she had in her changepurse.  Five, six,
eleven...  Eighteen neatly folded dollars and forty seven cents.
That was all she had in the whole world, and it was supposed to
last her until she got paid on Friday.

How was she going to eat for the rest of the week?  She had food
at home, but she couldn't *go* home.  And where in the world
was she going to sleep?

Rachel hugged the old red gymbag to her chest and rested her
chin on top of it, rocking back and forth in her seat.  She had a
change of clothes, and soap and things; she always kept the
gymbag packed in case she had to travel on short notice, ever
since that time she wound up in Glyndebourne for "Romeo et
Juliette" with no toothbrush and no clean underwear.  She could
wash things in the sink at the theatre for a while, when she
needed to.  She could get by with just the clothes she wore and
what was in her bag.  She could go without much food for a
while.  Until payday.  It wouldn't be the first time.

But whatever in the world was she going to do tonight?  And all
day today?

Tears began to well up in Rachel's eyes again; she wiped them
away with the back of her hand.  Maybe she ought to just go
home and let whoever it was find her.  Who would notice?  Who
would care?  There wasn't a soul in the world who would know or
care if Rachel died, or even just disappeared, and there hadn't
been for years.  It had never made a difference before.  She had
chosen this life for herself: on her own, self reliant, standing or
falling by herself.  Without anyone else to help or to blame.

Now, Rachel desperately wanted someone to go to.  Just
someone she could talk to, even if she couldn't tell them that some
stranger was coming with a sword to cut her head off.

The tears started to come again and Rachel lowered her head,
resting her brow on the gymbag to hide her face.  Nobody cared,
and she didn't have anyone to go to, and it wasn't anyone's fault
but her own.

The bus hit a massive pothole, bouncing hard, and jarring Rachel
from her fog of self pity.  What was wrong with the street?
Where were they headed, anyway?  She looked out of the
window, trying to place the buildings, searching for street names.
This was... this was downtown, and the bus was headed East.
She'd been out this way before, hadn't she?  Yes, she
remembered this rough patch of street; they were tearing up the
road, putting in a new interchange.  What had she been doing in
this part of ...

The library!  That was it!  She had come this way when she first
moved to Seacouver, to look at the city maps and read the
newspapers, when she was still staying at the Y.

Abruptly, Rachel lurched to her feet, wiping her wet face with her
fingers, staggering towards the door as the bus pitched in and out
of the ruts.  "Next stop, please," she said to the driver.  He nodded
with a grunt, and guided the bus to a stop at the corner.  Rachel
climbed down the steep steps, quailing for a moment as the door
swung shut behind her and the bus roared away.  No Buzz.  She
tried to be encouraged by that.  Rachel looked around a few
moments to get her bearings, and turned resolutely down the
cross street, heading north to the Public Library.

It didn't cost anything to go in, and it was warm, and she could
spend the whole day there.  People did it all the time.  The year
Rachel lived in New York, homeless people practically spent the
whole winter at the libraries.  It would be public, and it would be
free, and nobody would bother her.  Then when it got dark    no,
*before* it got dark, she could take the southbound bus to St
Mark's.  The office staff were used to seeing Rachel come and
go, they wouldn't take any notice.  She could go to one of the
practice rooms.  And when Jerome called to see if she was still
there, all she had to do was sit in the dark and keep quiet.  Jerome
wouldn't check.  He never did.  She'd seen him close the
choirroom up before.  All he ever did was call into the dark
hallway, and if nobody answered, he left.

She could spend the night on Holy Ground, and then let herself out
with her own key before Jerome got there in the morning.  No,
she didn't even need to do that; all she needed to do was tell him
that she came in early to practice.  He'd believe her.

Rachel's sneakers padded more quickly down the street.  She
didn't feel better, exactly, but the panicky feeling was backing off
a little, now that she had some kind of a plan.  She could get
through today, and tonight.  She'd be fine.  Just fine.

Then tomorrow, she could go to the theatre.  She could shower,
and change out of her nasty sweaty clothes.  Maybe get some
sleep while the crew was setting up.  She would be safe there.
She knew everyone, and none of them were... were what she
was.

Just get through today and tonight.  You can spend tomorrow at
the opera house.  It'll be fine.  You'll be fine.

Her steps quickened to a near run as Rachel rushed down the
sidewalk towards the library.  Her pulse was pounding in her
temples, her mouth was dry, and her heart had never felt so heavy
and hopeless.

[End of Part 5]

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