Keeper by Greg Rucka Page A

got a call after you two left, no voice, just a disconnect. He thought it might be a probe, so he asked me to come down here.”
    “Anything to it?”
    “He went to the window and took the glance, says that there was somebody in one of the windows of the opposite building, looking out. He said he thinks it was a male, perhaps my height, but it was all in silhouette.”
    “What do you want to do about it?”
    “I’ve already identified the apartment, and it seems safe. When Rubin’s up I’ll head to the clinic. You guys aren’t going to be coming back down, I assume?”
    “At this rate, no, we’ll be staying,” Natalie said. “All right, I’ll see you when you get here. Any other orders?” 
    “Keep her safe,” I said.
    “I am my sister’s keeper,” Natalie said, and hung up.
     
    Katie started moving a little before seven, coming down the stairs to where I was reading on the couch, yawning. Her heavily lidded eyes looked even smaller, and she rubbed them several times before they appeared of use to her. Her nightgown was yellow with small blue prancing horses printed on it, and it made her look fat. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and looked at me.
    “Where’s my mommy?”
    “She had to go out.”
    “The phone, who was on the phone, calling here?” 
    “That was Natalie. Your mommy’s all right.”
    “I know that, I know she is,” she said. She pointed to the drawn curtains, where daylight was showing. “Breakfast time, what’s for breakfast, ’Cus?”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want waffles, want waffles and syrup.”
    “Go get dressed and I’ll make you waffles with syrup.” 
    “Okay. I’ll do it. ’Cus, where’s my mommy? Where is she?”
    “She had to go to the clinic. She’ll be back before too long.”
    “My mommy works, that’s right,” she said, turning back up the stairs. “Mommy works so people don’t like her because she does a job.”
    She disappeared into the bathroom above and I stepped around the counter into the kitchen, looking for a skillet or waffle maker. The light in the kitchen wasn’t strong enough to cast shadows on the curtains. After some rummaging, I eventually discovered a waffle iron at the back of a cabinet, hidden behind an automatic juicer. It took another few minutes to get everything together for the batter, and I started to worry that the waffles wouldn’t be ready by the time Katie was dressed. But the water in the bathroom continued to run, and I had finished a first batch and was working on the second before she came down, wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt with the cover of Madonna’s “True Blue” album printed on it. When she turned I could see concert dates on the back.
    “Did you change pads?” I asked.
    She looked angrily down at her bare feet, saying, “He shouldn’t talk about that. He shouldn’t be talking about that, to me. I did. I did it.” She looked at me again and said, “I did.”
    “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you breakfast.” She headed for the television, in a line across the glass doors, and I said, “Katie, sit at the table, please.”
    She changed her course without protest, settling into a wicker chair that creaked, then looked to me expectantly. I brought her a plate of three waffles, stacked, and a glass of orange juice. She went for the orange juice first, and when she drank she placed her tongue inside the glass. It seemed a slow and difficult way to drink, but pointing that out seemed petty. If it made her happy, why criticize? I returned to the table with a bottle of Log Cabin and a cup of coffee for me.
    “How did you sleep?” I asked.
    “Fine. I slept fine.” She opened the bottle of syrup and held it in both hands, pouring the contents onto her waffles. She poured a lot of syrup.
    “Katie, don’t you think that’s enough?”
    She looked at me, honestly surprised, then said, “Oops, oh no! That’s too much!” She turned the bottle quickly right side up and the