He took the elevator back to the second floor, knowing he was facing the avenue the whole time.
He stepped out and paced off the hallway from the south end of the building, realizing as he did that he had no idea how much difference in length there might be between the end of the hallway, inside, and the end of the outside of the building.
When he had finished pacing it off, he found himself in between two apartment doors, 2D and 2F, with no idea where the wall between the two apartments was located.
But he saw no more that he could do.
He trotted briskly back to his own apartment building, rode the elevator up thirteen floors to the “14th Floor”—yes, it was called the fourteenth floor, quite purposely incorrectly numbered to put superstitious tenants at ease—and let himself back inside.
He called in the assault again.
He was hoping for the same woman, but got a new one. One who did not sound nearly so able to bring everything back into control. He gave her the address of the building where the assault had taken place. When she asked for the apartment number, he calmly and unapologetically gave her two. Either 2D or 2F.
She sighed, much the way the previous dispatcher had sighed. But she promised to send someone out.
Anthony hauled his new telescope in off the balcony and into his bedroom, because it was simply too cold to stand outside all night.
It wasn’t easy.
It weighed well over a hundred pounds with all of its elements assembled. And he damn sure wasn’t going to take it apart again and risk being unable to reassemble it.
He opened the sliding door, wrapped his arms under the scope where it mounted to the tripod, and dragged it in across the carpet. He was strong enough to lift it, but not confident enough of his grip on it, and too afraid it might end up dropped.
Then he closed the sliding door, shivering in the winter cold he had just invited in, and continued to drag the scope until it was sitting by his bedroom window.
He trained it down to the entryway of the building across the street. It required raising the center post of the tripod to give the scope more room to tilt downward. When they arrested the man with the hairy arms and led him handcuffed into the street, Anthony wanted to see him. He wanted to see for himself, close up, what kind of man could do such a thing.
He pulled up a chair and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
He popped awake, sitting upright in his chair, amazed that he had ever fallen asleep.
A police car sat in the “no stopping” zone across the street, its roof lights flashing red.
So they’re inside, he thought. So they’ll be bringing him out any minute.
He positioned his left eye over the eyepiece of the scope and waited.
Several minutes ticked by, with Anthony learning one of the first lessons of using his new telescope: it gives one an eyestrain headache to squint-focus through one eye for any extended length of time.
Then he saw the two officers step out of the building.
They had no one in handcuffs. They had no one with them at all.
Anthony had an amazingly close and detailed view of them. He watched one take off his blue policeman’s uniform cap and scratch his head, and he could see the bald spot on the very top of the officer’s scalp. The other officer lit a cigarette, and Anthony watched the smoke billow out of the man’s mouth and nose in clouds, mixed with frozen breath.
They stepped back into their patrol car and turned off the revolving roof lights.
They drove away.
Anthony repositioned the telescope, back to the third window from the left on the second floor. He stayed awake the rest of the night, watching, to see if anything else terrible would happen there.
He never saw anything more than a white wall with a mantelpiece and an abstract painting.
In the morning Anthony dressed slowly, his plan forming in his mind as he buttoned his shirt and stepped into his shoes. Though, that description makes the plan sound effortless, as though it appeared in his head voluntarily, when in truth he felt as though he were dragging it in, one detail at a time.
He dug around in his father’s office, hoping for nothing more elaborate than a yellow legal pad, but found something better. A clipboard. It had no paper on it, so he grabbed a few sheets from a notebook in his own room and clipped them in. He slipped a pen into his pocket, donned his coat, and walked across the street.
He trotted up the stairs to the second floor, clipboard under his left arm, his right wrist deep in his coat pocket.
He stopped first at 2F. When he knocked on the door, the action of raising his arm even slightly caused him to drop the clipboard onto the Persian carpet. When he had retrieved it and straightened up again, a very old man was standing in the open doorway, watching him.
“Can I help you with something?” The man’s voice sounded gravelly and deep, as though it had been used too hard for too many years. It had a wet quaver to it, as though the man were drowning inside, where Anthony couldn’t see it.
“I’m taking a survey,” Anthony said, surprised by how frightened he felt. His hand was shaking. “I’m hoping you wouldn’t mind telling me how many people live in your household.”
Because, though it would appear this was not the right apartment, Anthony could not leave without being sure. This could be the father or grandfather of one of the people he had seen the previous night.
“Just me,” the old man said.
“Okay. Thank you. That’s all I needed.”
“That’s the whole survey? Just one question? What kind of survey just wants to know how many people live in an apartment? What good does that information do, and for whom?”
“No, sir,” Anthony said, hoping his face wasn’t reddening. It felt hot. “There’s a whole survey. But it’s for the lady of the house.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
“Thank you anyway for your time.”
The man waved vaguely in Anthony’s general direction, and swung the door closed.
Anthony knocked on the door of 2D, his heart hammering.
At first, nothing happened. Then the door swung inward so suddenly that it startled him back two steps.
The man in the doorway was small but wiry looking and probably strong, with dark hair slicked back, showing wet comb marks. He was wearing black dress pants with suspenders that hung free from his waist, as though he’d forgotten to hoist them onto his shoulders, and a white shirt with the cuffs rolled back two turns.
His arms were hairy.
He barked a single word at Anthony. “What?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m taking a survey, and—”
“I have no time for a survey.”
“Well, actually, this survey is for the lady of the house.”
The man froze a moment. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. As if there were a struggle going on inside him and he was waiting, a passive observer, to see which side would win.
Then he turned halfway into the apartment and shouted a name. “Edith!”
The man walked away, leaving the door wide open.
Anthony waited for what seemed to be a full minute or two. He began to wonder if what he was waiting for would ever happen. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, his fear seemed to deepen with each second that ticked by.
Then a woman appeared, walking slowly to the open door, not looking at Anthony yet. Her eyes were trained down to the carpet, as if negotiating a minefield. Her hair was a soft brunette with auburn highlights, gently wavy, and Anthony knew it. Recognized it. From having seen it in the eyepiece of his telescope the night before. It fell forward onto her face, especially on the left. Anthony assumed it was because her head was tilted forward and down. But when she arrived at the doorway, and raised her face to him, he got the impression that it had been brushed or combed over her left eye.