Rooms - James L. Rubart [83]
Micah eased onto I-5 and merged into the flow of cars. Part of him wanted to head farther south, but the more practical side of him won out, and twenty minutes later he reluctantly took Seattle’s Union Street exit and headed toward his condo.
The familiar buzz greeted him as he swiped his key and walked into the lobby. Right choice, he thought as he trudged over to the mail slots. He was wiped. Head for the top floor and crash.
Micah had purchased the penthouse suite as they were building the condo so they’d offered him the choice of where his mail slot would be. Normally it would be in alphabetical order, but since they asked, he told them far right. That way he could get his mail even in a blackout.
It had become so automatic over the years he hardly looked anymore. Key in. Open slot. Take mail. Close slot. Except this time, it didn’t work.
Micah sighed, tried again, looking intently at the keyhole this time. No problem. The key went in like velvet. It just wouldn’t turn. All he could get the mailbox to do was rattle. He bent forward to read the name on the mailbox. Where it should have read Mr. Micah Taylor, it clearly read Mr. & Mrs. C. Murphey.
Tendrils of panic crept into his mind and heart, and perspiration dotted his forehead.
There had to be a logical reason for this.
But he knew there wasn’t.
He snatched his cell phone and dialed the building’s super. Five rings. Six. C’mon.
“Hallo.”
“Phil!”
“Yes. You have reached me.”
“Micah Taylor.”
“Mr. Micah. Always good to hear you! What can I do for you on a Tuesday night?”
“You can tell me what’s going on with my condo!”
“What is wrong, Mr. Micah?”
“The name on the mailbox for the penthouse suite.” Micah closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
“Yes?”
“It’s not mine.”
“Yes?”
“Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you, Phil?”
“No, but what are you saying, Mr. Taylor? You want that you should move up?”
“Move up? What are you talking about? Move up where? How do you get higher than the twenty-first floor when the building only has twenty-one floors?!”
“So you want up to the penthouse, eh? Well, when Mr. Murphey bought the whole twenty-first floor; he say he will never sell. I know you are much rich now with your company and big dollars are with running software, but I do not know, you know? I believe that Mr. Murphey has pleasure with owning the whole floor, yes?”
Micah tried to stop from hyperventilating.
“But, Mr. Micah, there is nothing wrong with the nineteenth floor. View from there is fine too and it is available. I call Ronie for you, and she will see if you can move there. The nineteenth floor, right away you know, if you want. Two thousand square feet, just like you have now. You think that would work for you? In the morning I will call her and—”
“Where do I live now, Phil?”
“I do not understand.”
“Please. Just tell me where I live.”
“In your condo, Mr. Micah, of course.”
“Which floor?”
“Eighth floor like you always have. You feel okay?”
“Fine. Thanks.” Micah snapped the phone shut and ran his finger down the mail slots. Saxxon, Swenson . . . Taylor.
He opened the slot and yanked out the contents. Three pieces of mail scattered to the floor, but it didn’t matter. He looked at four different envelopes in rapid succession. It was the same on each of them: Micah Taylor, 4210 2nd Street, 8th Floor, Seattle, WA 98717.
He slid down the wall like syrup on a cold day. When he reached the floor, he took his head in his hands and held it for a long time. When he finally rose, he got in the elevator and punched the button for the eighth floor. He had to sleep somewhere.
Entering the condo he took a slow look around. Bizarre. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing except for the fact he now resided on the eighth floor instead of the twenty-first. Same furniture. Pictures. Books. Same coffeepot with the tiny chip in the glass on the right-hand side.
Sleep came slowly and ended early. He looked at his