Goren did not sleep that night; he sat on the couch with his knees tucked underneath his chin, his arms around his ankles, staring hard at nothing. The hours ticked by like drops draining from a leaking faucet; the detective mumbled softly to himself and started at loud noises, hard at work questioning his own sanity.
A pale, cloudy morning dawned and nothing had happened. Goren stumbled over to the fridge on his stiff, aching limbs and poured himself a cold glass of water, downing it in a single gulp. Another three glassfuls and he was wide awake--steady on his feet and ready to get himself together.
He trundled into his bedroom and started to dress, rummaging around in the top drawer for a pair of socks and fishing out his shirt from the closet. He had just finished straightening his tie, giving his reflection a once- over, when the mirror in front of him shattered explosively.
Goren nearly fell over the bed as he backed away, reeling from the shock. Bits of broken glass had been sprayed everywhere--all over the dresser, embedded in the carpet, lying on the blankets... Scattered points of light were glinting at him from all directions, sparkling and shimmering as he moved.
He barely had time to absorb the cracked mirror before the light bulb in the bedside lamp broke with a sharp crack. A flash and sizzle of electricity hissed along the bright shower of broken glass, which fell on the table and the surrounding floor with a tinkling sound.
Before Goren could make another move, more explosions were heard. Glass crunched under his feet as he dashed out into the hallway. The panes of glass in the picture frames on his walls were splintered, the bathroom mirrors were smashed, the windows were split into several pieces, and all of the glasses in the kitchen cupboard had been reduced to shattered fragments.
Without a single pause, Goren grabbed his things in a rush and fled.
"What the hell do you suppose is going on?"
Deakins listened in concern as Goren sipped at a large cup of coffee. The detective's eyes were lined with exhaustion and fear, dark shadows staining his tanned skin.
Goren had tried to explain. "These things--they're happening in patterns now. It's not random destruction. First all the pictures got turned upside down, then those knocking sounds, then all the glass broke."
"Whoever your intruder is, they're pretty damn good," Deakins admitted.
"That's just it." Goren put his head in his heads, swallowing a bitter taste in his mouth. "I thought it was a criminal, at first, but it can't be. The knocking and the glass happened while I was in the apartment, and I couldn't see anybody. It's possible they could have hidden, but then they'd need one of my keys to get out of the apartment--and I carry my keys with me everywhere. Besides, I've searched the place. Fingerprints, footprints, scraps of clothing, strands of hair, blood--nothing. There's no trace of anybody."
Deakins tapped his fingers lightly on the desk as he thought. Finally, he shrugged. "It beats the hell out of me. Try getting yourself an alarm system. Rig up a couple of surveillance cameras if you're really worried, but get some sort of security installed. And keep your gun with you at all times."
Goren nodded, tilted back his head to finish off his coffee in one long draught, and tossed the cup into the garbage can. "I'll talk to my super."
The building superintendent, a short, stocky man with blonde hair and glasses, was not adverse to Goren's new plan. He did, however, mention that he'd heard strange noises coming from the detective's apartment that afternoon.
Goren, too impatient to wait for the elevator, charged up the stairs to the fifth floor and hurried down the hallways to his apartment. He tested the front door, found it locked, and fished out his keys to open the door.
He pushed open the door slowly and stepped inside even more slowly; once he made it into the front hallway, he stopped altogether.
Before Eames had left, Goren had a big bookshelf in his living room stacked full of loosely arranged books and magazines. Every possible subject was there; Goren had Mexican cookbooks, travel guides to Russia and Australia, trashy romance novels, books on the mating habits of salamanders, a few of Shakespeare's plays, encyclopedias, several copies of National Geographic magazine...
Now the bookshelf was completely empty.
Goren turned his head and saw one of the books sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and flipped through it; no, nothing had been torn out or scribbled on...
Another book was sitting on the kitchen table, another in the sink. One in the cutlery drawer, one in the cupboard with the plates. One on the lowest shelf of the fridge, one in the freezer. One in the bathtub, one floating in the toilet, one in each drawer of his dresser.
Everywhere Goren turned, another book was lying in front of him. None of them had been opened; none of the pages had been touched.
He stumbled back into the living room with an armful of books, staggering under their weight, baffled beyond belief, and tripped over a manual for the TV. The books went flying and scattered all over the carpet; Goren sat, swearing, in a pile of paper and ink.
The moment the last book had slid into its place on the top shelf, the phone was off its hook. Goren would not waste another moment installing an alarm system. Before the evening was done, the apartment had been taken apart and pieced back together, and a keypad with a glowing console was fixed to the wall beside the front door.
Goren, too weary to do anything else, shed his clothes in silence and dropped into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.