You’ve Been Warned

At me.

“Espíritus malos! Espíritus malos!”

Javier’s worried face leaves little doubt that this is something his mother has never done before. “I’m sorry, Kristin, but I think it’s best if you leave.”

“Espíritus malos! Espíritus malos!” the old woman shrieks. She’s also stamping her feet on the floor.

“What does she keep saying?” I ask, as I slowly back out of the room.

“It’s nonsense,” says Javier. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I want to know. Tell me. ”

His mother begins to convulse, her rocking chair now like an electric chair. She bites down so hard on her lower lip that blood begins to trickle. My God!

“Mamá!” yells Javier.

The old woman is jabbing her finger at me.

“Espíritus malos! Espíritus malos!”

“Kristin, I’ll look at your pictures another time. At work. You really need to leave!”

But I can’t yet. “Not until you tell me what she’s saying. I have to know!”

He glares at me, clearly vexed at my persistence, if not my presence.

“C’mon, Javier, tell me!” I plead.

Finally, he does.

“Espíritus malos,” he says. “My mother says you’re possessed by evil spirits. She thinks you’re a devil.”

Chapter 61

I’M SO DIZZY leaving Javier’s apartment I nearly do a face plant on the sidewalk. I stagger for a block or so, shaking my head.

What on earth just happened? I’m a devil? Me?

The image of his mother keeps repeating in my mind, her screams echoing in my ears. Espíritus malos! Espíritus malos!

Again I tell myself to keep it together.

For the first time I’m not sure I can.

Espíritus malos… I’m a devil.

Of all the questions I have, I realize there’s now another. Where am I?

I’ve been walking, oblivious to the unfamiliar streets or even the direction I’m heading. It’s almost dusk.

I stop and rummage through my shoulder bag, pushing aside the pictures I remembered to grab on the way out. Next I check my pockets, but they’re not there either. Javier’s directions are nowhere to be found.

Oh, great. I’m lost in Brooklyn.

“Excuse me,” I say to the next person I pass, a young woman with a backpack. She can’t be more than twenty. “Do you know where I can find the F train?”

She barely slows down. “Sorry, I’m not from around here.”

You and me both.

Farther down the block I see an older man, perhaps in his seventies, sitting on a stoop reading theDaily News. He looks sort of like Ernest Borgnine.

“The F train, huh?” He points over my shoulder. “The first thing you want to do is turn around.”

I do exactly that as he begins to rattle off the lefts and rights I need to take. I’m listening as best I can, trying to keep track. Did he say two lefts before the right or one?

I’m about to ask him to repeat everything when I see something I don’t want to see.

Someone, actually. A man.

It may be dusk, but I can see him clear as day. That’s what having darkroom eyes will do for you.

I wait a second, and again he pokes his head out from behind the white delivery truck double-parked at the corner. I don’t even need to see the face.

All it takes is the ponytail.

Chapter 62

“HEY, LADY, YOU’RE GOING the wrong way again!” growls the old man on the stone stoop.

Not as far as I’m concerned. Lost in Brooklyn is one thing. Killed is another.

I’m not quite ru

I don’t see the Ponytail now, and that only scares me more because I’m sure -really sure – it’s him again. Does he want to give me another warning? Or are we out of warnings?

I turn a corner and I’m picking up speed. What I need to find is a cop or someone big enough to protect me. Better yet, someone bulletproof. But there’s no help to be found. All I can see is a deserted street, lined with warehouses and heaps of trash.

Is the Ponytail behind me? I look back again, staring hard at the corner.

I don’t see him anywhere coming after me. Not yet, anyway.

The shadows are disappearing, though. Not good news. It’s getting darker by the second.

I keep looking until eventually I’m standing still in the middle of the block. I’m waiting and waiting. Where is he? What does he want with me?

Maybe he took off. Like, for some reason he didn’t want me to see him this time.

A minute passes. Then another. It’s officially night. I can barely make out the corner anymore. The only available light is a streetlamp at the next intersection. With one last glance over my shoulder, I head that way. I still need directions. I’m still lost in Brooklyn.

Then I see it.

A taxi!

It creeps to a stop at the red light hovering over the crosswalk. Twenty feet away – thirty tops. I can hear the engine rumbling.

Hurry! Before the light turns green!

I break into a sprint, my eyes locked on the taxi, desperately willing it not to move.

With one last surge, I close the gap to a few steps. I wave my arms again and shout, “Taxi! Taxi!” There’s no way the cabbie can miss me.

Or so I think.

The light turns green, and the taxi lurches forward. “No!” I yell. “Wait! Hey, stop!”

It doesn’t. I’m steps away, and it’s about to pass right in front of me.

Over my dead body!

I jump right into its path. The cabbie slams on the brakes, the screech of bald tires piercing the air. By the time the substantial chrome bumper rocks to a halt, it’s inches from my kneecaps.

Ignoring the cabbie’s evil eye, I stomp around to climb into the backseat. But when I reach for the door, out of no-where comes another hand.

“Allow me,” he says.

Chapter 63

BEFORE I CAN RUN, the Ponytail grabs my arm with an iron grip. Then he swings open the taxi door and roughly shoves me in. I tumble onto the seat, and he slides in right next to me. I’m trapped!

“Shhh,”he immediately whispers, pulling back the lapel on his black sport coat. There’s barely any light, but I can still see it. His gun.

Through the Plexiglas divider, I spot the cabbie – a stocky bald guy like that actor on The Shield – glaring at me in his rearview mirror. “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over,” he says. “I almost hit you.”

“Sorry about that,” I answer while glancing at the Ponytail. “Finding a taxi around here can be murder.”

The Ponytail grips my arm again, even tighter. Ow! He leans in, close to my ear. “Don’t get cute. There’s nothing fu

“Where you headed?” asks the cabbie. “I’m not a mind reader, y’know.”

“Just drive,” says the Ponytail. “Stay in the general area. But drive.”

The cabbie flips the meter on and shrugs as if to say, “Hey, it’s your dime.”

And off we go.

I look over at my backseat companion. I don’t want to show fear, but I shudder anyway. His narrow, sharp-featured face is menacing up close. I see a scar beneath the three-day stubble on his cheek. I suspect it’s the kind you don’t get by “accident.” Why is he following me? Is he a cop? Is this about what happened at the Fálcon?

The cabbie fiddles with the radio, turning the volume up on a jazz station.

As scared as I am, there’s a part of me almost emboldened by the idea that my fate is seemingly out of my hands. I’ve got my Bronx up. Or, I should say, my Brooklyn.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Your worst nightmare,” the Ponytail answers, his voice a deep baritone. No accent that I can decipher.

“That’s a very crowded category these days.”

“Serves you right,” he says. “You did this to yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been a bad girl, Kristin. You must know that. You deserve what you’re getting. And it’s going to get worse.”