The Shut-In Page 2

  Dilettantes waste those glorious moments after a successful hit. To me, they’re everything.

  But nevertheless, I am distracted. Because there’s something out of place. A sound.

  A buzzing sound.

  Chapter 5

  Okay, now I’m freaking out.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was pretty much freaking out the moment I watched a business lady shoot a freakin’ arrow into the chest of a poor homeless man.

  But then, just as the guy was begging for his life and wriggling around like a worm on a fish hook…she shot him again! With another arrow!

  And this time, it worked. He stopped wriggling.

  Part of me is praying that what I’ve watched is some kind of elaborate form of street theater, a pretend assassination for the delight and amusement of commuters. Then I remember that no one can possibly see these two people, except if you happen to be flying a drone at a specific angle, high above the blocked-off viaduct.

  This is no street theater. I’ve just witnessed a murder.

  I’m frozen in place, my thumbs trembling as they hover above my phone screen. Amelia hovers, too—almost impatiently. What are we going to do next, boss?

  “We’re going to retreat, Amelia.”

  I pilot her straight up into the air, not wanting to bang her on the railings of the viaduct. But at the same moment, the business lady turns around, and for a fleeting moment, it’s as if we’ve locked eyes.

  Oh no.

  She saw me.

  Go go go go go, Amelia!

  My thumbs do a desperate dance and poor Amelia is spinning and the image on the screen is chaotic and confusing.

  Don’t flake out now, Tricia, says a voice in my head. Not when it counts.

  Because even in my panic, I’m formulating a plan. And the plan is this: take Amelia to a safe height, and then wait for this business lady and her arrows to emerge from the viaduct. There are very few ways in and out. Once I have a fix on her at street level, I call the police, and they can go scoop her up. As long as she stays in the quarter-mile range, I can follow her and lead the cops directly to her.

  Miraculously, I’m able to stabilize Amelia. She’s hovering above 20th Street, just up the block from those safe and familiar bastions of urban life—the hipster coffee shop, the organic grocery store. You know, civilized places, where people don’t go around shooting other people with arrows.

  But when I hold down the right button and spin Amelia around, I see a large white object coming right at us at approximately sixty-five miles per hour…

  …and it’s the top of a white delivery truck.

  My thumbs go ballistic as I struggle to put as much distance between Amelia and the speeding truck as possible.

  And I would have been successful, had it not been for this pesky building nearby.

  Amelia crashes on the edge of the roof, right smack into an old metal frame that used to hold an ancient sign.

  “No no no,” I murmur as I futz with the controls. “Please don’t be stuck…”

  Good luck with that.

  And the voice inside my head is right; it’s no use. In my haste to escape, I somehow impaled poor Amelia on that old, rusty sign. She’s pinned like a butterfly in a collection.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” I say as I give up and power her down.

  I’ll have to mourn her later, though. I close out the app, then push 911 on my cell. This is the first time I’ve ever done such a thing in my life.

  It’s also the first time I’ve ever said the words:

  “Hello? Um, I think I’ve just witnessed a murder…”

  Chapter 6

  Target Diary—Day 7 (continued)

  I turn to look, but the sun temporarily blinds me. After shielding my eyes I’m able to make out a blurry shape rising out of view. The buzzing sound fades away.

  It’s entirely possible the two are unrelated. The buzzing may have been an echo of nearby traffic. The humming of a motorbike, for instance.

  But I don’t think so. My senses are finely tuned to notice any sights or noises that don’t fit the usual patterns. This is also something a dilettante will ignore. But if something is coming for you, the environment will give you plenty of warning.

  From my perspective, however, all seems normal.

  I slip on a pair of latex gloves and prepare for the grunt work.

  There’s a fairly deep pit approximately a hundred yards from my current location. It is the current resting place of Numbers One through Three.

  I grab Number Four by his wrists and begin to drag him toward it. I would usually pull the legs, but he’s not wearing any shoes and the stench is already disgusting enough.

  Yet, the disadvantaged are perfect for my needs, and abundant here in Philadelphia, especially near the Parkway. Many of them are wary, but it’s easy enough to find the few who are willing to believe a perfect stranger is offering a hand up.

  Some are even willing to believe that there might be more than a warm meal on offer.

  Perhaps even a real personal connection, and a way out of a desperate situation.

  I can spot the tiny flicker of hope in their eyes, and I’m just the person to fan it into a proper flame.

  It helps, too, that my appearance is homely. This works to my advantage, because nobody trusts a gorgeous face.

  Finally, I reach the edge of the pit. I can smell the others, decaying there. I crouch down and roll Number Four into the darkness with the rest of his kind. Thank you for your services.

  Still, when I ascend back to street level, the mysterious buzzing sound that I heard continues to vex me. I walk around the neighborhood, searching for its possible source. I’d like to be able to put this out of my mind.

  I head down Hamilton Street and watch the construction crews assemble yet another condominium. I stroll toward the Parkway, where tourists blindly flock to the museums, pay their entrance fees, and look at objects they are told are beautiful.

  But they have no real appreciation for beauty. They possess neither the mental capacity nor the imagination for it.

  The bodies in the pit. They are beautiful.

  Nobody pays me any particular mind as I wander around. My garments are that of any workaday Philadelphian, on her way downtown for a pointless office job.

  Which, frankly, is the whole point.

  Chapter 7

  The knocking is so loud that I think my door’s going to pop off its hinges.

  I’m not surprised the cops have shown up, but I am a little disappointed. Aren’t phoned-in murder tips supposed to be, you know, anonymous?

  Because I don’t want to be involved. I don’t want my name in a report. I just want to be a good citizen, even if I spend my days locked away from the general population.

  “Ms. Celano?” one of them asks, butchering my surname. It’s sell-AHH-no, but this one, weirdly, is asking for “Miss Kell-AYE-no.”

  I look through the peephole at both cops, and the glass morphs their bodies in carnival funhouse dimensions. Big heads, little legs and feet.

  “We’re here about your phone call,” one of them says. “Can you open the door, please?”

  My hand rests on the lock and I take a deep breath. I can’t remember the last time someone’s actually set foot in my apartment. Whenever there’s a delivery, I accept it in the relative safety of the building’s hallway. If I look through the security doors and feel uneasy, I simply head back inside my apartment.

  But where can I hide from these guys? My tiny bathroom?

  “Miss Kell-AYE-no?”

  “Uh, one minute please!”

  I take another deep breath then flip the lock and open the door. The two cops slowly make their way inside, their eyes expertly scanning the interior of my apartment. I wonder what they are thinking. Perhaps they’re looking for telltale signs of crazy?

  “You’re Miss Kell-AYE-no?”

  “It’s Celano,” I say.

  “I’m sorry?” the taller of them says.

&nb
sp; “Apology accepted.”

  My peephole view didn’t prepare me for the sight of these two land monsters in the flesh. The tall one is seriously tall. He’s at least six three, but has a baby face that he tries to hide with a little chin scruff. He would be sort of adorable if I weren’t terrified of him and everything he represented.

  His partner is almost as tall, and is also nearly double his width. He had to practically step through my doorway sideways.

  All of which makes my studio apartment feel all the more claustrophobic. As they look around, I see the place through their eyes and I’m ashamed. My entire world is a dark box subdivided into a tiny galley kitchen, a bathroom, a messy living room with a desk shoved into the corner, and a loft space where I sleep on a single twin mattress. One look at this place and you’d agree: I’m pretty much failing at being an adult.

  Baby Face, whose name tag reads YATES, tries to hide his amusement. “Can you tell us what you saw?”

  “There was a lady who shot an arrow at a man down by the old viaduct,” I say. “And now he’s dead.”

  I basically sound exactly like Dr. Seuss. All I can say, in my defense, is speaking to a person in real life, with my actual voice, is not something I do very often.

  “Exactly where was this, ma’am?”

  “You know, the viaduct, by Callowhill Street. The old train tracks?”

  Yates glances over at his partner, whose nametag reads SEARS, just like the company that makes huge appliances. In fact, this guy reminds me of one of them. I wonder if he comes with a warranty.

  “So you were over there with them?” Yates asks. “Or were you just walking by?”

  “Neither, I…uh….” And here’s what I was dreading. The part where I incriminate myself in the process of trying to do the right thing. I force myself to spit it out. “I saw them from the camera feed from my drone.”

  “Your camera on what?” Sears asks, speaking at last.

  “Um, my drone. I use it to look at the city. I was flying it down by the library when I saw two people on the viaduct, which you never see—”

  “A drone?” Sears asks.

  Yates taps his partner on the shoulder. “You know, man, those flying things kids send up by remote control, to shoot videos from the sky.”

  Sears finally gets it, which only makes things worse. “So basically, you spy on people?” he asks, leveling a frosty glare at me.

  “No, I don’t—I swear, I just look at the city.”

  The cops look at each other with a “get a load of this” expression on their faces. Even I know I’m lying. So I give them a brief rundown of my medical history, which is none of their business. They look at me like I’m crazy, and then, as if I hadn’t said anything, they continue.

  “Those things are a public nuisance,” Sears says. “I’m sure your neighbors don’t appreciate you looking through their windows or into their backyards.”

  “I think my neighbors would be more concerned about the crazy lady who’s been walking around killing people with arrows!”

  Officer Yates sighs. “Look, we checked the viaduct. There’s nobody over there. No signs of anything.”

  “I’m telling you, I saw a woman. She was maybe in her late forties or early fifties. She pulled up her sleeve and…”

  “A lot of homeless congregate there. You’re looking down at the scene through your computer—”

  “Through my cell phone.”

  “Yeah? Even worse. I think your eyes were playing tricks on you.”

  Sears interrupts. “Where’s this camera drone now?”

  “It crashed.”

  “Into what?”

  “Um, it impaled itself on a sign on top of a building.”

  “So,” Yates says, “if we pull the camera out of it, we should be able to see what you saw, right?”

  “No,” I tell them. “It only transmits live.”

  “Look, lady,” Yates says, handing me his card, “Take my information. If you have something concrete to give us, give me a call. Because unless you have some sort of tape…”

  “But my drone doesn’t have any recorded footage.”

  “So in other words,” Sears says, “you don’t have any proof.”

  Chapter 8

  Target Diary—Day 8

  In the early dawn hours Friday morning I patrol the length of the Parkway, searching for Subject Number Five.

  “Would you like some lunch?” I ask. “Blessings to you.”

  I pull a rolling suitcase behind me. It is full of dry socks, bottled water, soap, toothpaste, and other sundries. Each item is gathered in an individual plastic Ziploc bag to make them easier to dispense.

  I also have packed individual lunches. Turkey and cheese on wheat, as well as tuna salad for the individuals who are missing too many teeth. Each sandwich is paired with condiment packets and a small treat, such as a shortbread cookie.

  “Are you hungry? Blessings to you.”

  I am posing as the Ultimate Do-Gooder, selflessly giving up her busy morning to tend to the needs of the less fortunate here in the nation’s birthplace.

  It only took me a few days to establish this pattern and achieve a level of acceptance among the indigent population.

  The police have an unofficial understanding with the homeless here on the Parkway. You can stay after 10 p.m., when the museums are closed, but you have to move to somewhere that’s out of sight by 7 a.m.

  So I do my hunting on the tail end of that curfew, as the unwashed masses stretch out the stiffness in their limbs and seek their daytime shelter.

  “Would you like a lunch bag? Can I give you some clean socks?”

  All morning long.

  As I pull my bag, I match their pace and try to engage them in conversation so I can look them in the eye. This is vital to my operation. I’m looking for that flicker of hope, that small spark of intelligence. Any small amount of fuel that I can use.

  That said, I also don’t want someone who can look directly into my eyes. Some of the sheep are very adept at spotting a wolf, and those are the ones to be avoided at all costs.

  But as I search and hand out gifts this morning, I can’t help but be distracted. The mysterious buzzing sound from yesterday continues to trouble me. I find my eyes flicking skyward at odd moments, as if expecting judgment from somewhere above.

  When my eyes were squinting at the sun—did I see something moving through the air? Or was that a figment of my imagination? Or was it simply a benign floater in my field of vision?

  “Yo, can I have a tuna?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  My instant kill rate, only fifty percent, also concerns me. I thought I’d have the technique to my wrist apparatus more finely tuned at this point in my mission. Ordinarily I would go days between experiments, because nothing draws the attention of law enforcement like a pattern.

  All of these thoughts are leaving me anxious. I need to perfect my art as soon as possible. I expected the practice period to require no more than five subjects, but I might be forced to go as high as nine or ten.

  “Are you hungry? Blessings to you.”

  Chapter 9

  I wake up early Friday morning and instantly feel depressed.

  There’s no more Amelia to fly around. No way to fly next to my neighbors during their Friday morning commute. No way to check in on my city. I’m trapped in this box of an apartment. I have nothing to look forward to except an e-mail from my German bosses, telling me to restructure my current marketing campaign. Then I’ll probably get one from the California bosses that tells me to ignore the Germans, while the Scottish bosses tell me Aye, ignore the both of them.

  Even when I hear the telltale clomp-clomp-clomp of the hot guy from 3-D coming down the stairs, I can barely rouse myself from my mattress and go spy on him through the peephole.

  But yeah. I’m that depressed.

  As much as I hate to admit it, Amelia is a goner. I can’t very well venture out to pry her off that rusty sign. Nor can I
ask any friends (not that I have any of those left, anyway) to go up there and retrieve her for me. That’ll result in too many questions and too much awkwardness.

  I’ve come to accept that friends are best kept in the virtual world. The ones I used to have in real life pushed too hard. They didn’t understand. I suspect that deep down, they thought I was making all of this up.

  Pity party, table for one? Right this way, Ms. Celano!

  Geez, even my inner voice feels sorry for me.

  There’s only one thing that will get me out of this funk this morning. And that’s going online and searching for a replacement drone.

  Amelia would have wanted it that way.

  After about an hour of surfing and browsing and comparing clips on YouTube, I fall in love all over again.

  Hello, Amelia II, you gorgeous thing.

  The new girl is a bit more expensive. Okay, a lot more expensive: six hundred bucks. But my would-be Amelia II has a better flying range—up to a mile!—and twenty-three glorious minutes of flying time. Best of all, the camera comes with about an hour’s worth of on-board memory. When I hit Record, she’ll make a movie and then fly it back home to me.

  You were looking for proof? I’ve got your proof right here, Officer Sears.

  Ordering her with same day delivery will also be a minor shock to the bank account. But what am I supposed to do? Wait until midday tomorrow? By that time, who knows how many other victims “Mrs. Archer” (yeah, that’s what I’ve started calling her) will have racked up. With any luck, Amelia II will arrive before sundown, and if set her up quickly, I might be able to squeeze in a quick lap of dusk patrol.

  I click BUY NOW.

  While I wait for Amelia II to show up, I try to do some honest-to-goodness detective work. If I don’t know the identity of the killer, maybe I can work an angle from the side of the victim—the one who doesn’t even exist, according to Officers Yates and Sears.

  One thing I’ve learned living life online is that there’s an advocacy group for everything. And sure enough, there’s a Facebook group of concerned neighbors who look out for the homeless around Spring Garden and along the Parkway. I join the group and begin to type: