James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

ITS WAY TOO EARLY in the morning for dead people.

Thats what Id be thinking, were I actually thinking clearly right now. Im not.

The second I turn the corner on my way to work and see the crowd, the commotion, the dingy gray body bags being wheeled out of that oh-so-chichi hotel, I reach for my camera. I cant help it. Its instinct on my part.

Click, click, click.

Dont think about whats happened here. Just shoot, Kristin.

My head whips left and right, the lens of my Leica R9 leading the way. I focus first on the faces around me the gawkers, the lookie-loos. Thats what Annie Leibovitz would do. A businessman in wide pinstripes, a bike messenger, a mother with her stroller, they all stand and stare at the terrible murder scene. Like it or not, this is the highlight of their day. And its not yet eight a.m.

I move forward, even as something inside me is saying, Look away, walk away. Even as something says, You know where you are. This hotel. You know, Kristin.

Im weaving my way toward the entrance to the hotel. Closer and closer, Im being pulled as if by an undertow that I cant resist. And I keep shooting pictures as though Im on assignment for the New York Times or Newsweek.

Click, click, click.

Parked at jagged angles, police cars and ambulances fill the street. I look up from their sirens, tracing the twirling beams of blue-and-red light as they dance against the surrounding brownstones.

I spy more gawkers in the windows of nearby apartments. A woman wearing curlers takes a bite of a bagel. Click.

Something catches my eye. Its a reflection, the sun bouncing off the rail of the last gurney being wheeled out of the hotel. That makes four. What happened in there? Murder? Mass murder?

They sit, gathered on the sidewalk four gurneys each holding a body bag. Its horrifying. Just awful.

My wrist twists, and I go wide-angle to shoot them as a group like a family. My wrist twists back, and I go tight, shooting them one by one. Who were they? What happened to these poor people? How did they die?

Dont think, Kristin, just shoot.

Two muscular paramedics walk out of the hotel and approach a couple of cops. Detectives, like on Law amp; Order. They all talk, they all shake their heads, and they all have that hardened New York look to them, as if theyve seen it all before.

One of the detectives older, rail thin looks my way. I think he sees me.

Click, click, click.

Having burned through a roll of film, I furiously load another.

Theres really nothing more to shoot, and yet I keep firing away. Im late for work, but it doesnt matter. Its as if I cant leave.

Wait!

My head snaps back to the gurneys as something catches my eye. At first, I cant believe it. Maybe its the wind, or just my mind playing tricks early in the morning.

Then it happens again, and I gasp. The last body bagit moved!

Did I just see what I think I saw?

Im terrified and want to run away. Instead, I edge even closer. Instinct? Undertow?

Im staring at that zipped-up body bag, and all I know is that theres been a horrible mistake by the police or the EMS.

The zipper!

Its creeping backward. That body bag is opening from the inside!

My eyes bulge, and my knees buckle. Literally. I stagger through the crowd, staring through my lens in shock and disbelief.

I see a finger emerge, then an entire hand. Oh, God, and theres blood!

Help! I scream, lowering my camera. That person is alive!

The crowd turns, the cops and paramedics too. They glance at me and scoff in disbelief or reproach, shaking their heads as if I just escaped from Bellevue. They think Im nuts!

I stab the air, pointing at the body bag as the hand pushes through the plastic, desperately reaching out for help. I think its a womans hand.

Do something, Kris! You have to save her!

I raise my camera again, and -

I JOLT UP SO FAST I nearly break my neck. Im drenched with sweat, crying hysterically, and have no idea where I am. Everything is blurry, so I try to rub my eyes into focus, but its hard because my hands are trembling out of control. Actually, my whole body is trembling.

I plead with myself, Cmon, Kris.

Finally, shapes begin to appear before me, followed by outlines and, like a Polaroid, it all becomes clear.

It was just a dream, you spaz! Just a dream.

Collapsing back into my pillow, I let out the worlds hugest sigh of relief. Never have I been so happy to be alone in my own bed.

But it was so real.

The body bags a womans hand coming out of one of them.

I turn to my alarm clock a little before six a.m. Good, I can still get a few more minutes of sleep. But the moment I close my eyes, they pop right open again.

I hear something, a pounding, and its not just my stressed-out heart. Someones at the door.

Throwing on the same blue terry cloth robe Ive had since my Boston College days, I trudge across my tiny apartment, which is decorated with the very finest furnishings from the Crate amp; Barrel factory-reject sale. So what if my couch has only three legs and belongs in a Farrelly brothers movie?

The pounding gets louder. More urgent and annoying.

All right already, hold your horses!

Approaching the door, I dont call out and ask who it is. Thats what peepholes are for, especially in Manhattan.

Quietly, I lean forward and squint to look with a tired eye.

Shit.

Her.

I open the door. Glaring at me through a pair of drugstore bifocals is my nosy old neighbor from down the hall, Mrs. Rosencrantz. Shes clearly ticked off about something, and that makes two of us.

Do you realize what time it is? I grumble.

Do you realize what time it is? she shoots back. Once and for all, youve got to stop this psychotic screaming every morning.

I look at Mrs. Rosencrantz all four feet ten of her as if shes the one whos psychotic. I may have been crying, but I certainly wasnt screaming.

You know, if you really want to hassle someone about noise, Mrs. Rosencrantz, you should find out whos playing that music at six a.m.

She gives me a sideways look. What music?

Cmon, you dont hear that? Its coming from I step into the hallway, turning my head left and right.

Wait where exactly is it coming from?

Mrs. Rosencrantz shakes her head and huffs. I dont hear any music, Ms. Burns. And if youre trying to be a little smart-ass with me, Im telling you right now I dont appreciate it.

Mrs. Rosencrantz, Im not trying to -

She cuts me off. Dont think I cant get you evicted, because I can.

I frown at the old bat, who happens to look even more unpleasant and haggard than usual, if thats possible.You want smart-ass, lady? Ill give you smart-ass!

Mrs. Rosencrantz, Im going back to bed now and if you dont mind my saying so, you could use a little more beauty sleep yourself.

With that, I promptly close the door on her stunned, sourpuss face.

Im about to turn and make a beeline for my bed, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the coat closet.Whoa! Im sporting some serious raccoon eyes and a pretty spectacular case of bedhead.Omigod, I look almost as bad as Mrs. Rosencrantz!

Supposedly, I have this killer wink that everybody loves. I wink at myself in the mirror. It doesnt help. I wink at myself again. Nope, nothing.