Pain in my heart, treating me poor, Where can my baby be, Lord no one knows.
Pain in my heart, won't let me sleep, Where can my baby be, Lord where is she? (Rolling Stones)
Ralene lay back on the sofa, scraped the last bit of cheese from the bowl, and let herself float away on the music. One of the nice things about living alone. You didn't have to worry about set meal times, or even eating at the table. And nobody could nag you about balanced meals. If she wanted to have an entire "family-sized" box of Kraft Dinner and half a bottle of Zinfandel for dinner, while stretched out on the couch listening to old Rolling Stones on vinyl, she could do that.
Though, she thought, this probably wasn't what she'd led Abby to believe when she'd told her she was cooking tonight. Abby didn't cook all that much herself, she knew. But still, the few meals she'd seen Abby prepare in the 6 months she'd lived here at least looked relatively balanced. They usually at least contained a vegetable..
Ralene got up to put the bowl in the sink. She'd wash it later. The pot too. She grabbed a handful of Oreos for dessert.
Of course the downside to living alone was that evenings were rather long and lonesome. Quiet evenings at home were nice, but not as a daily thing. Since breaking up with Justin 3 months ago she'd spent way the hell too many evenings eating Kraft Dinner with only Mick for company. She didn't have much in common with the rest of the people in the building. Mostly older people, couples and widows, and the Urbaniaks in 3C ... a nice enough young couple, but they barely spoke English.
She did get along pretty well with Abby ... not that they had all that much in common either. But they were both in their 30's, divorced - and usually miserable.
Maybe she'd call her, see how she liked the New Taj. Or she could just go upstairs and see her. Walk off a few of those calories. Abby had told her yesterday that her boyfriend was working nights for a while, so she could probably stand the company too. She'd met John a couple of times, and knew he was a doctor. She wouldn't mind dating a doctor. Maybe John had a nice single friend ...
Grabbing her keys from the hook by the door, Ralene headed into the hall and upstairs. A piece of paper on the floor, right outside Abby's door. She picked it up. "The New Taj." Her menu. Abby must have dropped it, had probably changed her mind.
Ralene knocked. The apartment was very quiet. Abby usually had the tv on, or the stereo when she was home alone. Another knock. She thought she heard something ... a faint sound ... but still no answer. "Abby! Abby, are you there?" Nothing. Must've come from another apartment. The acoustics in the building were a little strange.
Maybe Abby had decided to go out for dinner. The New Taj did have tables, after all, and it was barely a block away. Or maybe she'd gone somewhere else entirely. Or she could be in the shower. Oh well. It wasn't like Abby was expected to report her movements to her! They were barely even friends. Just acquaintances who happened to live in the same building.
Back in her apartment Ralene poured another glass of wine and stretched out on the couch again.
Sirens outside. Flashing lights. Nothing unusual in that. This wasn't the best neighborhood in Chicago. They stopped just outside. Voices in the street. Someone pounding on the outside door.
Ralene hurried back out into the hall. Through the glass beside the door she could see two police officers, paramedics, an ambulance. God ... Mrs. Petrelli in 3A must've had another heart attack. It was bound to happen if she kept climbing all those stairs. She opened the door.
"Do you live here, ma'am?" asked the police officer. Blond, rather good looking. Maybe he was single.
"Yes. I'm in 1A, right here."
"Do you know an Abigail Lockhart?"
"Abby? She's upstairs in 2B. But she isn't home. I was just there a few minutes ago."
"Did you see her leave?"
"No. I saw her come in a couple of hours ago. I don't specifically remember her leaving, but I was just up there. I knocked and no-one answered. The apartment was really quiet. She must have gone out. I didn't hear the front door open, but I had the stereo on."
The second police officer had already gone upstairs. He yelled down, "No answer, Ken."
"Break it in."
"No," Ralene said quickly. "I have a key. She gave me a spare key. Wait a second." Running back into her apartment, Ralene grabbed the key on the Rocky the Flying Squirrel key-ring, and handed it to Ken. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"We're not sure yet, ma'am. You just wait here. We'll bring the key back in a few minutes."
But Ralene couldn't keep herself from following Ken up the stairs. "She always keeps the door chained and deadbolted when she's home," she told them. "You may have to break it in anyway if she's ... hurt or something ..."
Ken turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open. "Miss Lockhart?" Silence. "Miss Lockhart, it's the police."
Ralene followed them inside. Everything in the living room looked normal. "Abby!" she called, her voice breaking a little. "Are you here? Are you ok?" More silence.
Then a slight sound, seemed to come from the bedroom. A sort of scuffling noise. Ralene trailed the two cops towards the bedroom. It also appeared, at first glance, to be empty. But a lamp was knocked over. And the phone. And there was blood on the bed; on the sheets and the pillow.
And on the floor ...
"Oh God ..." choked Ralene. She had been downstairs gorging herself on macaroni and cheese, listening to music. She hadn't heard a thing. And Abby ...
Two slender white legs stuck out from behind the bed. White, except for some bruises. Bare as far as she could see. Bare, that is, except for several layers of duct tape wrapped tightly around her ankles, binding them together.