Jack in the Box

by Blake Banner

  I watched it back for a while, wondering again whether I was lying on the table or standing in the shadows, watching myself. A long time seemed to pass, but it may have been just twenty or thirty seconds. Finally I said, “Is that all we’re going to do, stand there and stare?”

  Nothing happened. There was no response. The figure remained motionless, watching me. The words spilled from my mouth as though of their own accord.

  “What do you think you are going to achieve by killing me? I am you and you are me. We are one. Life is death and death is life. It’s all the same. Besides, this place is going to be swarming with cops within the hour, like an ant hill. Nothing changes because I die.”

  Then I heard something. It was like a sniff, or a slight hiss. It dawned on me that it was a snigger. A feeling of sinking dread seemed to drain me from inside. “You’re out of your mind,” I said, but the words sounded suddenly hollow. I realized that he was lost inside his mind, and I was out of mine, and free. “It’s not too late. Cut me loose and stop this before you get completely lost. I can show you the way back.”

  There was movement, a shuffling of feet and the figure seemed to grow within the doorframe. I strained my eyes to make out some detail. I imagined I could see some pallor where the face was, but hard as I strained, the details fogged and merged and became hazy.

  I flopped my head back again. “You must realize that you are in a maze. You must realize that you are in a game of Troy. The only way out is death. You can’t kill me, I am already disembodied. But you, you are lost.”

  I looked again. The shape shifted, warped slightly and the door slowly closed.

  * * *

  Dehan took an unmarked Charger and, with two patrol cars, headed with sirens howling along the Cross Bronx Expressway, and, at the George Washington Bridge, hurtled south down the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  They screeched to a halt outside Penelope’s block and Dehan scrambled from her vehicle shouting to Vazquez and Torres, “Stay on the door! Get security! Find out if there is a rear door. Cover every damn exit on the building!”

  And as they ran to their task, she bellowed at Günther and Brown, “You! With me!” and stormed into the lobby, holding her badge in front of her. The guy on the desk looked startled. Dehan snapped at him, “Detective Dehan, NYPD. Get security! Has Detective Stone been here?”

  “Yes, Detective. He went up, oh, two hours ago? A little more… Ninth floor, Miss Peach…”

  “Just the two elevators?”

  “Yes!”

  “You two,” she pointed to Günther and Brown, “Take that one. I’ll take the other.” To the guy on the desk, she snapped, “You, get security to cover the stairs. Nobody leaves!”

  They rode to the ninth floor and as the doors slid open, she pushed through and ran down the red-carpeted passage to the walnut door where she hammered with her fist, bellowing, “NYPD! Open the door! This is Detective Carmen Dehan! Open the damned door!”

  As Günther and Brown caught up with her, she drew her piece and they drew theirs. She hammered again and rang the bell. “NYPD! Open up or I’ll kick down the door!”

  The door opened and Penelope stood staring at her. Her face was pale and her hair was drawn back from her face. She was still in her satin housecoat.

  “Carmen… Detective Dehan, what on Earth?”

  “Is Detective Stone here?”

  “He was, a couple of hours ago, but he left. What is this about?”

  “Ma’am, we have cause to believe that a serious crime might have been committed in this apartment and we are going to enter and make a search. Please stand aside.”

  “What?”

  One look at Dehan’s face told her not to argue and she stepped aside. Dehan pushed her way in, snarling over her shoulder, “Every room, every wardrobe, every cupboard. Search the damn toilet cisterns! I want every nook and cranny in this apartment scoured!”

  When they had disappeared into the bedroom, Dehan turned on Penelope, took a handful of her satin gown in her left fist and rammed her against the wall. When she spoke, her voice was an ugly rasp.

  “Between you and me, sister. You like taking other men’s husbands? You like hurting them? Let me put you on notice, babe. If you have touched him, if you have breathed on him too hard, I will make sure not a day goes by for the rest of your miserable life that you don’t weep and regret what you did today. Do we understand each other?” Before Penelope could answer, Dehan pushed her face closer, so they were barely an inch apart, and whispered, “Let’s cut the crap. I promise you, if you have hurt him, the law will not protect you. He’s my partner, but he’s my husband too, and I am a bad, bad bitch from the Bronx.”

  She held her eye for a long moment, then let her go and said, “Now, Penelope, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Penelope stared at her wide-eyed. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Count on it. Where is he?”

  “He was here, but he left.”

  Günther and Brown came out of the bedroom. Brown made for the kitchen and Günther went out onto the terrace. Dehan repeated, “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

  Penelope’s voice began to rise. “I keep telling you, he was here and he left!”

  Günther’s voice came from the terrace. “Detective, two cups of coffee out here!”

  “You better start talking, Penelope. You’d better tell me where my partner is or things are going to get real ugly for you.”

  Her voice was getting shrill. “Will you please listen to me! He came here. He had found discrepancies in my story. He wanted to know why I had changed my telephone number, why I had lied about calling Jack…”

  “I’m pretty curious about that myself.”

  “We talked and I explained it. When I had finished, he said he wanted me to go to your station house this afternoon and make a new statement. I was just getting ready to go when you showed up. He left and that was the last I saw of him.”

  “You called Jack, and lied about it. He came to your apartment and disappeared. Stone catches you in that lie, comes to your apartment, and disappears… You’d better pray he turns up safe, Penelope. You better pray. Get dressed, you’re coming down to the station.”

  Penelope gave a ragged sigh and went to the bedroom. Dehan gave Brown a nod and she went with her.

  “Günther, go down. You, Vazquez and Torres start canvassing the area, start with security and the guy on the desk, I want to know who saw Detective Stone leave and where he went. I want to know who he was with. Also, search the area for a burgundy Jaguar Mk II, 1964, right-hand drive with spoke wheels. It shouldn’t be hard to spot. Put a BOLO out on the car and on Detective Stone. Somebody saw him leave. I need that person. Go!”

  Penelope emerged from the bedroom, dressed and with an overnight bag. Dehan told Brown to join the search and took Penelope down in the elevator. In the lobby, she met Torres coming in.

  “Detective, we found Detective Stone’s car.”

  “Where? Where is it?”

  He looked embarrassed and a little confused and gestured toward the street. “It was right outside, less than a block down the street.”

  Dehan stared at Penelope. Penelope looked scared. Dehan grabbed her and shoved her at Torres. “Put her in my car. If she tries to run, restrain her. Use any necessary force. I’ll be right out.”

  Torres led Penelope out to the cars and Dehan went to the desk, where the guy on reception and the security guard watched her approach with the kind of expression you usually reserve for an important guest who’s just thrown up at your dinner party. She said to them:

  “Think, and think hard. The life of a police officer is on the line here. You saw Detective Stone arrive and go up to Ms. Peach’s apartment.”

  “Yes.”

  “She swears he left, but his car is parked outside. Did you or did you not see him leave.”

  The porter shook his head and his expression was adamant. “I have been on the desk all morning, I did not se
e Detective Stone leave after he went up to Ms. Peach’s apartment.”

  “Back exit? Service entrance? Some other way out?”

  The security guard shook his head. “No, no. Nothing of that sort.”

  She hesitated a moment. “Then Ms. Peach has some other property in this block. She must own or have access to another property?”

  The porter looked startled. “No, not at all!”

  Dehan’s voice was rising. “A parking garage, a store room!”

  “No!”

  “Goddammit! Detective Stone did not just vanish into thin air!”

  The man drew himself up with dignity. “That is as it may be, but Ms. Peach still has no other property here!”

  She scowled at him and then an idea began to form in her head. She pulled her cell from her pocket and called the inspector.

  “Carmen! What news? Was he there?”

  “No, sir. So far it looks like he left and stepped into the Bermuda Triangle. He has vanished without a trace, but his car is parked just outside. The doorman swears he did not leave. I have checked and Penelope Peach does not own any other properties in the apartment block, or have access to any of them.”

  “Then where in God’s name…?”

  “Sir, we need to know who owns the other apartments. We need to know if Grant Shaw owns any of them.”

  “Good heavens! What are you…?”

  “It stands to reason, sir, if he didn’t leave, he’s here. If he isn’t in her apartment, he’s in somebody else’s apartment. It’s a process of elimination. Who else might have an apartment in the same block as her? Not Helena, not Lenny dos Santos…but maybe the man she was having an affair with.”

  “All right, yes. Good thinking.”

  “I’m going to take Penelope in, sir, she’s in the car. I’m going to start grilling her…”

  “I’ll make inquiries about the other apartments. Meanwhile, canvass the area in case anyone saw him leave.”

  “Already on it, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll send more men down, with photographs. He’ll turn up, Carmen.”

  “I know, sir. Thank you.”

  She went out and found Torres standing by the unmarked Charger.

  “I’m taking the suspect to the 43rd. You have more men coming, with photographs. I want everyone, everyone, canvassed in a four block radius. Check the block, too, apartment by apartment, show them the photograph. Somebody must have seen him.”

  “If he’s here, we’ll find him, Detective.”

  Torres left to join the search and Dehan climbed in the car. She fired up the engine and pulled out into the traffic, heading back toward the Bronx. She studied Penelope’s face in the mirror. She looked scared. Dehan spoke, keeping one eye on her reflection, watching her reactions.

  “We’re checking the property register to see who owns the other apartments in your block.”

  She saw Penelope frown. “What?”

  “If Stone didn’t leave, he is still in the block, in one of the apartments. If not yours, then somebody else’s.”

  Penelope shook her head, frowning harder. “Well, who do you expect to find on the property register?”

  “What do you think? Who do you think we’ll find?”

  “I have no idea, Detective. I honestly have no idea what happened to him after he left.”

  Dehan curled her lip. “Sure, only your honesty ain’t carrying a lot of weight at the moment, Penny, and I have a funny notion we are going to find Grant Shaw on the property register, or at the very least Shaw Line Security. What do you think?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. She just stared at the back of Dehan’s head. Then she said, “What does that mean? What are you driving at?”

  Dehan raised an eyebrow at her reflection. “Let’s save it for the interrogation room, but it’s beginning to look to me like your relationship with Grant Shaw might have gone a little bit beyond the bedroom, Penny. And that is an idea I am increasingly keen to explore.”

  Penny closed her eyes and sagged back against the seat.

  FOURTEEN

  The door opened and this time the lights were on in the room and also in the passage outside. The figure in the doorway was clear now: black high heels, black stockings, a black dress to just above the knee, blonde hair tied back and a black, lace veil over her face. The figure was familiar. I struggled to focus, but my sight and my mind were still foggy and I sagged back.

  Rage and frustration welled inside me, but I fought them down. Rage would not help me now. My body was incapacitated. The only weapons I had were my mind and dialogue. I had to start a dialogue.

  “Thank you for letting me see you.”

  The figure took a couple of steps and came into the room, standing at the top of the steps. I kept talking.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first. You were always in the shadows, but I had a hunch it was you.”

  It might have been my imagination, I still felt oddly dissociated, but for a moment I had the sense that the words had struck home. Vanity wanted to be satisfied. How had I guessed? I smiled.

  “It was a process of elimination. There were mistakes you made…” I made a show of hesitating. “Don’t get me wrong. If I hadn’t come along, you’d probably have got away with it. But I am pretty good at this, and the people you were pointing at…”

  I left the words hanging and shook my head.

  The figure turned and descended the steps, disappeared momentarily from view, then loomed over me, looking down into my face through the black veil. The image was grotesque: tragic, infantile and terrifying. The voice, when it came, was, like the face, twisted and distorted with pain and hatred.

  “I made no mistakes.”

  “Come on! Lenny? Way too obvious. And right from the start, the first thing I thought about Lenny was, ‘He decapitates women, not men!’ And then only in a rage. No, he had no beef with…”

  Again I left the words hanging and struggled to focus on the tortured face behind the black veil. The red lips moved. “Jack.”

  “Did you love him?” There was no reply. I pressed on. “Or did you hate him? Or was it both?”

  “You are not here to understand. You are here to set me free.”

  The long, delicate fingers reached out to test the tension of the wire across my throat. I spoke quickly, trying not to sound desperate, and failing.

  “Then why the mourning dress? Isn’t that a message? Aren’t you trying to tell me something? Who’s it for if not me? Who else is going to see it?”

  The pale eyes stared at me for a long moment, then whispered, “Me, me, me.”

  The figure turned away and walked around the trestle bench where the wire was connected to the pulleys. I saw the delicate hand reach down and take hold of a white, plastic handle to which the wire was attached. There was an urgency in my voice that was bordering on panic.

  “Whatever you did, right? Whatever you did, it was never enough. However much you shone, it was never enough; never enough to catch his eye and make him stop and notice! You were invisible! You could have left him. You could have left him a hundred times. But you kept coming back to him. But he never really saw you.”

  A sad smile. A smile that had given up asking for compassion, and was now willing to turn away and allow the most brutal cruelty. The fingers closed on the banal, plastic handle. One pull, I knew, would pull the wire with horrific force through my throat, slicing cleanly through tissue and bone.

  “Tell your story! A jury might understand. It would not be the first time a man like that had been killed for his arrogance and his cruelty. If you can secure a sympathetic jury…”

  “You know nothing of my story. Like everyone else, all you see is him.”

  “I am trying to see you. I am trying to hear you. Tell it. Tell your story! You have the skill, haven’t you? Isn’t that what you do?”

  “You are patronizing me.”

  “No, I am showing you how to walk away from the biggest mistake of your life. You are
a wordsmith. You can weave magic with words. Make people understand how destructive a man like Jack can be. Make them understand how he destroyed lives, how you had no choice in what you did.”

  “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “How do you know that? Do you know me? What do you know about me? Jack I can understand. You knew him intimately! But me? You know nothing about me. And yet you are willing to destroy me. For what?”

  “You don’t know anything about my relationship with Jack. Nobody knows anything about my relationship with Jack.”

  “You keep saying that, but the way to make me understand, the way to make everyone understand, is not this. It’s words! Tell your story. The world will be fascinated.”

  “It is too late for that. I tried to do it. It didn’t work. You only know half the story, Detective Stone.”

  “Tell me the rest. Help me to understand.”

  “Stop.”

  I drew breath, closed my eyes. I didn’t want to show fear, but I could hear my breath shaking. The voice in my ears was quiet, reasonable, relentless.

  “It is time to die now. Make peace.”

  “I know you were in love!”

  “Past tense?”

  “I know you still are. But I know you were not in love with Jack! I know you grew to hate Jack. I know that the other love was—is—all consuming! I know you would do anything for that other love! I know it drove you to kill, and not just once. There have been others, haven’t there? And now you feel you are trapped in hell, inside your own mind, and there is no way out and no redemption for you. I know that, and I know other things too. I do understand and I can help you to find a way back, but you have to talk to me. You have to tell your story!”

  “You are wasting time. Make peace, Detective Stone.”

  “It is not me who needs to make peace! I am already at peace. It’s you! You are the one who turned love into a motive for killing. You are the one who started and couldn’t stop! You are the one who opened the doors to hell! You are the one being sucked in, out of control! You are the one who needs to make peace, not me!”