Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (194 page)

I touch the record button, keeping the microphone near the little girl’s mouth for a few seconds, gathering the sounds, collecting a moment which would otherwise be gone in an instant
.

Time slows, lengthens, like a lingering coda
.

I withdraw my hand. I do not want to stay too long, nor alert the mother to any danger. I have a full day ahead of me, and cannot be deterred.

“She has your eyes,” I say
.

The little girl does not, and it is obvious. But no mother ever refuses such a compliment.

“Thank you.”

I glance at the sky, at the buildings that surround Fitler Square. It is time. “Well, it was lovely talking to you.”

“You, too,” replies the woman. “Enjoy your day.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sure I will.”

I reach out, take one of the baby’s tiny hands in mine, give it a little shake. “It was nice meeting you, little Ashley.”

Mother and daughter giggle.

I am safe
.

A few moments later, as I walk up Twenty-third Street, toward Delancey, I pull out the digital recorder, insert the mini-plug for the ear-buds, play back the recording. Good quality, a minimum of background noise. The baby’s voice is precious and clear
.

As I slip into the van and head to South Philadelphia I think about this morning, how everything is falling into place
.

Harmony and melody live inside me, side by side, violent storms on a sun-blessed shore
.

I have captured the beginning of life
.

Now I will record its end
.