Chapter 2

There was no response. I knocked again and, pushing the door open, stuck my head around it.

Quentin was lying in his pajamas, on his back on a big bed. He looked asleep. Sheer curtains covered the room’s window. Only indirect sunlight filtered in, so the room was darker than the living room had been. It was almost like twilight, and the sense of stillness was even stronger here.

I pushed open the door and went in, approaching the bed.

“Quentin?”

There was no response, and when I stood beside the bed, looking down at him, I felt something icy go down my back. Something was wrong here.

The room gave a feeling of claustrophobia. I went and opened the curtains and the window too. Immediately, I felt the warm, humid air of the city drift in. A sense of freshness came with it, despite the slight smell of pollution.

That’s better, I thought, and surveyed the room. It was as understatedly elegant as the living room, the walls the palest blue, with just a tinge of turquoise—which I remembered was Quentin’s favorite color. The effect of elevation—the condo was a corner suite on the top floor, after all—was so complete that I almost could imagine the bed floating amid clouds in the upper atmosphere, far above the cares of the world.

I returned to the bed to get a better look at my friend, and didn’t like what I saw. But I steeled myself, reached out and took a gentle hold of his wrist. It was cool—not warm but not cold either. And no pulse. I shifted the position of my fingers several times.

But nothing.

As the realization took hold, there came a dull roaring in my ears and I felt momentary dizziness. The room was feeling claustrophobic again, so I let go my friend’s wrist and left.

Back in the living room, I saw that the blond bruiser had not moved. He looked at me questioningly.

“Seen him?” he said.

What?I stared at the man.

“He’s dead!” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

The big man blinked stupidly, which didn’t strike me as nearly as beautiful as before. Then he frowned in a puzzled fashion.

“What?”

“He’s dead!” I half-shouted.

The man winced at this, then covered his face with his hand.

“Don’t!” he murmured, rocking slightly.

A moment later he got to his feet and I stepped back, not knowing what the guy would do. But he just turned left the room, disappearing down the hallway. There came the sound of a door closing, then water running, and finally the white noise of shower spray.

He’s having a shower? I felt confused by this, and vaguely outraged. I had thoughthe was going to check on Quentin. I shook my head to clear it, and became aware of the same sense of claustrophobia I had felt in the bedroom. Going to the window, I reached through the curtains and opened it.

Immediately, air flowed past me, pressing the curtain against the screen. I pulled the curtain aside, which let in the bright sunlight, and a breeze out the window. Clearly, the air was entering through the bedroom window and out here, producing a cross breeze because the two windows faced different directions. It made me think about the other rooms, other windows. They must have all been closed—not surprising with on such a hot, humid day.

The next moment, however, I felt a coolbreeze hit me from the side. I raised my hand and felt the air, then spotted an air conditioning vent near the ceiling. My opening the windows must have set it off. I looked around and spotted an unobtrusive control panel on the side wall.

I went over and examined it. It was set to 72°, humidity 30%, filtering on, in a closed-cycle configuration. I was about to turn the thing off, but then stopped myself.

Touch nothing, change nothing. Other than the curtains and the windows, I had followed that dictum. I thought of the waste of energy having windows open and the air conditioning going, then decided that at the moment it wasn’t important.

Which reminded me. I pulled out my phone, and called 911.

I have always found the mundane tasks associated with any tragedy to have meaning, and by the time I ended the call—having given the location, situation, and my identification—I felt somewhat better. The shower was still running, so I went back to the living room window and stood there, looking out.

I was lost in my own thoughts, turning over memories of Quentin and my feelings about his death at such a young age, when I was brought back to myself by an awareness of the big bodybuilder standing next to me.