D.O.A.

Lisa woke up alone.

Actually, "alone" came third. Her first realization was that she was naked under the covers. Her first thought was I don't sleep in the nude. Reasoning, then, the reason she was naked, struck her, a second realization, this one in three parts: remembrance of last night, shock at that remembrance, and-- most surprisingly of all-- the pleasure she felt at that remembrance. Which led, finally, to realization number three: she was alone.

Rippner wasn't with her.

She stretched like a cat, lazily and totally, and then lay on her back in the soft jumble of sheets and blankets and looked up at the off-white ceiling while her body told her tingling tales, wonderful tales, slightly sore tales, too, of last night.

Or yesterday afternoon. What time is it--?

She propped herself on her elbows and looked about for an alarm clock. A Sony on what had been Rippner's side of the bed told her in digital black: 10:18. She'd had a good sleep. Almost too good, given where and with whom she'd spent the night. And he was long gone, by the coolness of his pillow, his share of the covers. She sat for a moment, still and listening: no sound of running water from the bathroom, no radio or television from elsewhere. Nothing but quiet. She was accustomed to living alone; she felt she would know if Rippner were in the apartment.

Finding the note helped. A good-quality gray terrycloth robe was laid over the end of the bed. The paper was anchored beneath the robe's belt. Precise cursive lettering in sharp black ballpoint:

Got a call. Business. Help yourself to anything. If you leave-- Here followed locking instructions for the door, a key code. The location of his spare car and keys, in case she decided against a cab. How he was to re-acquire his car he left open.--

Had a wonderful time last night. Really. Hope you did too.

Dinner later?

J

Ah. So that was how.

Her suitcase, purse, and carryon were on the floor near the foot of the bed. Her clothes from yesterday were draped neatly over a chair near the room's clean-lined wooden dresser. An odd feeling, strangely quaint, to think of Rippner tidying up for her. Lisa slipped into the robe, belted it at the waist, and picked a fresh outfit from her suitcase. Clean but slightly wrinkled. She regretted not unpacking yesterday. Then again, how could she have known how long she'd stay--? She took a quick shower, fixed her hair, applied her makeup much as she would on any working day. She'd taken the red eye night before last out of ingrained practicality, to save the company some money in sending her here, out of town, to a mini-convention of hotel managers; her first seminar wasn't until two. She felt the heavy, velvety relaxation lingering in her muscles and bones, and she thought--

Lucky I didn't oversleep. She smiled at herself, saw herself looking back, radiant and a little wolfish. She blushed.

"Harlot." Her smile became a grin. "Tramp."

Memories. A warm wash of them. Rippner touching her. Touching him in return. Kissing him, being kissed, his taste coursing through her like electricity--

"C'mon, Reisert. Time to focus."

When she walked back out into the bedroom, though--

Help yourself to anything.

Lisa paused. She hesitated. Then she looked at his dresser, his closet. She opened the closet doors and looked in. A short row of dark tailored suits. Dress shirts. Mostly pale green, pale blue. Like his eyes. To the left, leisurewear. Polos, sweatshirts. Sweaters in neutral or woodsy colors. Jeans. She fingered the waistband on one faded pair. T-shirts farther to the side. Not undershirts. A series of commemoratives from various marathons. She lifted the bottom edge of one, pressed her nose to the soft fabric, took a sniff, caught the lightest hint of lavender.

It was then that she realized: He's letting me stalk him.

Certainly he'd decided what he did-- and didn't-- want her to see. Still, at least this corner of his world was open to her. Case in point:

An upright chest, like a short mahogany wardrobe, at the back of the closet. Two outward-swinging doors, unlocked. Lisa opened the doors and looked.

A chill ran through her.

Knives. Blades gleamed in the closet's dim light. A double row of bladed mayhem on each door, strapped neatly against crushed blue velvet. Fixed blades, lockbacks. Among others, three matte-black Ka-Bars much shorter and more refined than the one Rippner had wielded at her father's house. A pistol-draw Ka-Bar belt-knife, a close-knuckle slasher. Two single-piece black CRKTs. A S.O.G. commando knife, a spring-action S.O.G. lockback. Three exotic Spydercos with handles beautifully inlaid with semi-precious stone, green shot through with black; streaked purple; striated, luminous gold. One of the handles bore an inscription: With love.--Milla.

Lisa found herself staring. There were two empty spaces on the blue-black velvet. She shivered--

A man who keeps knives in his bedroom.

She shut the cabinet and the closet, took her luggage and purse, went downstairs. In an alcove-study off the living area, Rippner's computer was on. He'd left that for her, too. She wondered just how far he'd seen into her apartment. Was he showing her what he'd taken from her...? His idea of trust: an exchange of violations?

Or was he simply being honest?

He might have hurt her last night. Or this morning. She'd slept while he woke, took his call, got dressed, left. Those knives ten feet from the bed. Had he watched her sleep--?

She found the idea eerie. She found herself amazed, too: she'd never imagined she could sleep so soundly with another human being moving about so near her.

To the right of the computer's flat-panel monitor, a phone set trilled. She reached for it automatically. With her hand inches from the receiver, she caught herself. At best, answering Rippner's phone would be bad manners. At worst, it might confirm her as a target for one of his enemies, a most deadly case of curiosity. She let it ring while she checked her purse for her copy of the convention schedule.

On the sixth ring, the answering machine kicked in:

Hi. This is Jackson. I can't pick up right now, but I'd love to talk to you. Please leave a message. Wait for the tone, okay?

Right as she was thinking how unlike him the greeting sounded, or how unlike her impression of him-- the message on the machine seemed positively genial, that of a man with many friends, not many knives-- a voice began to chant from the speaker:

Pick up, Lisa. Pick up pick up pick up--

It wasn't Rippner. A man's voice, tenor, lilting. Possibly British ex-pat. Things you learned from talking to travelers day in, day out. She froze, staring at the phone--

If you're there, pick up.

A sudden, cold spike of paranoia--

I have Rippner.

Lisa snatched up the receiver. "Who is this?"

Hello, Lisa. It is Lisa, isn't it--? My name is Matthew Leon. Matt. I'm an associate of Rippner's. Make that, ah-- how best to say it-- a soon-to-be former associate of Rippner's.

Lisa could hear a man coughing in the background. Retching. Her stomach tightened. "Let me speak to Jackson."

Well, that will be difficult, Leon said. His voice was coldly pleasant. He's busy dying, you see. May I take a message?