Page 42 of The Mystery of the Moving Image
I reached into my back pocket for my wallet as I trudged up the last set of stairs. I heard someone else—about a flight behind me. While our apartment might have been refurbished into a chic loft, the building itself creaked and groaned and sighed with the ghosts of a previous century. I pulled out a credit card as I reached the top floor and walked to the end of the hallway. I stopped outside the door and stuck the flimsy plastic against the frame and dead bolt.
The odds were not in my favor.
I heard Dillon patter to the other side of the door and bark after a minute.
“Don’t worry, bud. It’s Dad’s dumbass boyfriend, not a rob—”
The canister, held between my arm and body, was suddenly snatched from behind. An arm wrapped around my neck, forced me back against the firm body of a man, and started choking me. I dropped my wallet and card and grabbed on to the bicep with both hands. I coughed and fought for air. I clawed at his arm to free myself as black spots seeped into the corners of my vision.
I kicked a foot out and slammed my heel into the door.
The assailant grunted and adjusted his hold. “Where’re the other movies?” he growled, breath hot and wet against my ear. It smelled sickly sweet, like some kind of candy.
Othermovies?
Dillon was barking more incessantly.
I wheezed and gagged as the assailant cut off my air, and in a last-ditch effort, pounded my foot against the door again. This time I got enough leverage that it sent the stranger backward, and he hit hard against the opposite apartment door.
“H-help!” I half screamed, half coughed.
“Where are they?” he shouted with renewed vigor, shaking me.
I heard a dead bolt turn and then the door behind us opened. “What the hell is—whoa!”
I met my new neighbor when Mr. Movie Aficionado and I tumbled into the apartment, knocked into him, and the three of us crashed to the floor. I flailed like a fish out of water as I escaped Movie Guy’s hold. He was up and on his feet before I had a chance to catch my breath. He stumbled through the doorway, grabbed the fallen canister from the floor, and ran down the hall.
“Call the police!” I told my neighbor, voice raspy sounding.
“What?”
Jesus Christ, were three words too many?
“Police!Call!” I ran into the hallway, feet slipping and sliding across the worn, polished wood.
Always wear your PPE! Unless you’re chasing after some nutcase—then it might become a hindrance.
I danced from foot to foot as I yanked the booties off, then ran toward the stairs. I thundered down the steps, holding on to the railing with one hand and the wall with the other so I wouldn’t go careening head over heels. I shoved the front door open and burst onto the sidewalk, looking to the left and to the right.
But there was no sign of my attacker on the busy streets of New York.
“SEBASTIANSNOW?”Officer Shapiro repeated.
“Yeah. Snow. Not Sneeze, or Sleaze, or any combination thereof.”
“I just meant—you’re that guy.”
“I might be.”
“The one who stopped the dirty cop in February.”
“Oh. Technically that was a detective with a gun,” I replied.
“I know. Detective Winter. Popped that scum in the kneecaps.” She looked me over briefly. “They say you’re a bit crazy.”
I sighed.
Shapiro returned to taking her report. “So how are you?”
