The Vanished Man

saw his face, shocked,eyes wide, frozen for a moment. He started to relax and laughed. But then he frowned, watching himself slowly falling forward—as the mirror pivoted to the cobblestones and shattered.
    The bearded, middle-aged man hiding behind it charged forward, raising a large piece of pipe.
    “No! Help me!” the young man cried, scrabbling away. “My God, my God!”
    The pipe swung down in a fierce arc directly toward his head.
    But Calvert grabbed the makeup case fast and thrust it toward the attacker, deflecting the blow. He struggled to his feet and began to run. The assailant started after him but slipped on the slick cobblestones and went down hard on one knee.
    “Take the wallet! Take it!” He pulled his billfold from his pocket and flung it behind him. But the man ignored it and rose, continuing after him. He was between Calvert and the street; the only escape was back into the building.
    Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Lord . . .
    “Help me, help me, help me!”
    Keys! he thought. Get them now! Fishing them out of his jeans as he gave a brief glance behind him. The man was only thirty feet or so away. If I don’t get the door unlocked on the first try, that’s it . . . I’m dead.
    Calvert didn’t even slow down. He slammed hard into the metal door and, a miracle, slid the key home instantly, turning it fast. The latch opened, he pulled the key out and leaped through the doorway, slamming the steel door shut behind him. It locked automatically.
    Heart pounding fiercely, gasping in fear, he restedonly for a moment. Thinking, mugger? Gay-basher? Druggie? Didn’t matter, he thought. I’m not letting the prick get away. He ran up the hall to his apartment. This door too he opened fast. He leaped inside, swinging it shut after him and locking it.
    Hurrying into the kitchen, he seized the phone and dialed 911. A moment later a woman’s voice said, “Police and fire emergency.”
    “A man! A man just attacked me! He’s outside.”
    “Are you injured?”
    “No, but you have to send the police!” he shouted. “Hurry!”
    “Is he there with you?”
    “No, he didn’t get in. I locked the doors. But he could still be in the alley! You have to hurry!”
    What was that? Calvert wondered. He felt a sudden breeze against his face. The sensation was familiar and he realized that it was the feeling of cross ventilation when someone opened the front door to his apartment.
    The 911 operator asked, “Hello, sir, are you there? Can you—”
    Calvert spun toward the door and cried out, seeing the bearded man with the pipe, standing only a few feet from him, calmly unplugging the phone line from the wall. The doors! How did he get through the locks?
    Calvert backed away as far as he could—against the refrigerator; there was nowhere else to go.
    “What?” he whispered, noting the scars on the man’s neck, his deformed left hand. “What do you want?”
    The assailant ignored him for a moment andlooked around—first at the kitchen table then at the large wooden coffee table in the living room. Something about the sight of it seemed to please him. He turned back and when he brought the pipe down on Calvert’s raised arms the swing seemed almost like an afterthought.
    •   •   •
    They rolled up, silent.
    Two RMPs, two officers in each.
    The sergeant climbed out of the first squad car before it’d braked to a stop. Only six minutes had elapsed since the 911 call came in. Even though the call had been cut off, Central knew which building and apartment it had been placed from, thanks to caller-ID technology.
    Six minutes. . . . If they were lucky they’d find the vic alive and well. If they were less lucky, at least the doer’d still be in the apartment, shopping through the vic’s valuables.
    He called in on his Motorola. “Sergeant Four Five Three One to Central. I’m ten-eighty-four on the scene of that assault on Nine Street, K.”
    “Roger, Four Five Three One. EMS bus en route. Injuries, K?”
    “Don’t know yet. Out.”
    “Roger, Four Five. Out.”
    He sent one of his men around to the back to cover the service door and the rear windows and told another to stay in the front. The third officer trotted with the sergeant toward the lobby.
    If they were lucky the perp’d jump out a window and break an ankle. The sergeant wasn’t in any mood to run assholes to ground on this fine day.
    This was Alphabet City, its name courtesy of the north-south avenues here—A, B, C how fast I