But the big question was why—why would anyone break into his place? He had no valuables beyond his laptop, which wasn’t particularly high end anyway. And even if that were stolen, all his work was backed up in Dropbox. So who—?

Wait. The Septimus folks? Could it be?

He’d been thinking of them as some sort of stuck-up BPOE group, but at the meeting last night the two honchos there had said the Octogon Brotherhood in Frankie’s book was too much like Septimus for comfort. The Octogon had come to him in one of his dreams—utterly ruthless, eliminating anyone who got in its way like the average Joe would swat a fly. And those Septimus honchos had made it very clear they did not want Dark Apocalypse published.

Had they sent someone to make sure that didn’t happen? Ever?

This was the kind of stuff he wrote about. Fiction. It didn’t happen in real life—at least not to him.

Frankie held his breath as the intruder stomped into his bedroom. He watched the guy’s Nikes through the one-inch gap between the rug and the bottom of the nightstand. Saw him get down on his hands and knees and check under the bed.

Please don’t look back here! Please, don’t look back here!

He didn’t. Frankie released his breath when the guy stormed out of the room.

What to do? He couldn’t stay here, balancing on a chair set atop a dresser. His best bet was to—

Out in the front room, the intruder started to talk to someone. Were there two of them?

“Hey, it’s Belgiovene. I’m in the guy’s apartment but he’s not around…yeah, his laptop’s here, open and running, so I don’t think he’ll be out long.”

Sounded like he was on a phone.

“Well, in a way this works out better. I’ll lock his door just like he left it and be waiting for him when he wanders back in…right, won’t know what hit him…and yeah-yeah, I know: Take the laptop.” A pause, then a muttered, “Fuck you, Drexler. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

The realization that this guy was here to either kill him or beat the crap out of him almost tumbled Frankie off the chair. Time to retreat. Bending his shaky knees and praying he didn’t lose his balance, he lowered himself to the dresser and then to the floor.

Okay. No heroics. Call the cops and report a thief or a home invader or whatever in his apartment. He pulled out his phone, punched in 9-1-1, and waited. When no one answered, he repeated. Then he noticed No Service on the screen. How could that be? The only place in this city with no service was a deep basement or a subway tunnel without a repeater.

He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the wall phone there but got no dial tone. And what the fuck—a rotary phone?

Had to find a spot with a signal.

He hurried out to the hall but stopped when he reached it. None of this looked familiar. And the number on the apartment door said 11-M. No way. He’d come down to the third floor, right below his own place.