The Animal Hour by Andrew Klavan

chipped. Bookshelves made of bricks and boards, stacked with newspapers and magazines. A dirty braid rug. A broad passage into the other room. He was at home, an East Village railroad flat. His own apartment, his and Tiffany’s.
    â€œMr. Perkins?” The voice at the door was still soft and expressionless. “Mr. Perkins, this is Detective Nathaniel Mulligan of the New York City Police Department. If you’re there, would you open the door please?”
    The mews. It came back to him in a burst of light, like a camera flash. He remembered what had happened in the mews.
    Oh Christ , he thought. He put his fingers to his lips. Oh Christ. They figure it’s me. Oh God. They figure I did it. That would be the first thing they’d think.
    â€œAll right, Mr. Perkins.” A poster of Dali’s Crucifixion hung on the front door. Mulligan’s mild voice came right through it. “We’re coming in now. We have a key from your landlord. If you’re there, please don’t do anything foolish. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
    All Zachary could do just then was stare at the poster. It was a picture of a modern man, half-naked, his head flung back, his arms pinioned against the sky. All Zach could do was watch fascinated as the detective’s voice spoke from it.
    â€œWe’re coming in.”
    Then he heard a key scrape in the door lock. He heard men’s voices murmuring. The lock began to turn over.
    Terror coursed through Zach like blood, like liquid lightning. He jumped out of the bed.
    He was a small man, much smaller than his brother Oliver. His strict diet kept him thin almost to the point of emaciation. Still, he was sinewy, muscular. His stomach rippled. His legs were strong. When he burst out of the bed, he went quickly, a blur of limbs and white skin. He tossed the sheet aside. Scooped his clothes up as he hit the floor. He pressed the pile of clothes to his chest, feeling the squish of his blood-soaked shirt against his flesh. He grabbed his sneakers in his other hand …
    He heard the lock turn over. He froze and gaped at the door. A frightened squeal squeezed through his teeth. “Eeeeee …”
    But it was only the first lock. The upper lock. There was still the latch below it. He had a few seconds left. Grimacing with fear, he started to lope across the room. He ran on tiptoe, barefoot, trying to make no noise. He heard the key click into that second lock, that last lock. He heard the men’s voices again.
    â€œâ€¦ ready behind me,” one of them said. “Smooth and easy.”
    Oh God. Oh God, please , Zach thought as he ran. He felt the hard braid rug beneath his soles, then the gritty floor. Oh Jesus please please please.
    There was a closet against the far wall, the door only halfway closed. There was a poster on that door too. An ink drawing of swirling clouds and mythic mountains; unicorns in the mist, nymphs and centaurs. Eternity was the caption. Zach tore bareass for Eternity.
    Then the second lock turned. The front door opened. Zach slipped through the closet door, slipped inside.
    He pulled the closet door toward him as best he could. He stood there, still as stone. He was in among Tiffany’s clothes in the close, gray dark. Linen brushed against his nakedness. He could smell Tide detergent, and talcum powder, and the musk of Tiffany’s skin. He was huffing, his teeth gritted. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes were wet with tears.
    Oh please, Jesus , he prayed. Oh please, please, please.
    Just in front of his nose, the closet door was ajar. A line of light fell through it across his eyes. Zach wanted desperately to reach out and shut the door, but he didn’t dare. The policemen were already entering. He could hear their voices become louder, their words more clear.
    â€œSteady. It’s a railroad flat.” This was Mulligan, his high, mild tone.
    â€œFire escape in the other room.”
    â€œCloset