Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

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  "If thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee."

  —Nietzsche

  "Abyss: The primeval chaos. The bottomless pit; hell. An unfathomable or immeasurable depth or void."

  —The American Heritage Dictionary

  You're holding in your hands one of the first in a new4ine of books of dark fiction, called Abyss. Abyss is horror unlike anything you've ever read before. It's not about haunted houses or evil children or ancient Indian burial grounds. We've all read those books, and we all know their plots by heart.

  Abyss is for the seeker of truth, no matter how disturbing or twisted it may be. It's about people, and the darkness we all carry within us. Abyss is the new horror from the dark frontier. And in that place, where we come face-to-face with terror, what we find is ourselves. The darkness illuminates us, revealing our flaws, our secret fears, our desires and ambitions longing to break free. And we never see ourselves or our world in the same way again.

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  Obsessed

  RICK R. REED

  A DELL BOOK

  Published by Dell Publishing a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  666 Fifth Avenue

  New York, New York 10103

  Copyright © 1991 by Rick R. Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  ISBN: 0-440-20855-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  July 1991

  10 987654321 RAD

  Joe MacAree "had just murdered a woman, and all the things he felt when he killed the other four he was feeling right now. How would he describe it? In his journal, he might call his feelings an "elevation of the senses" or "an ethereal quality bringing the world into sharp focus."

  After each killing the reaction was the same. There was a moment of sharp pain right behind his left eye, an instant where the pain was so intense as to block out the act he had just committed, the blood and the ripped flesh . . . then a moment where brilliant flecks of silver light swam before him, and he could not keep his eyes from rolling, trying to follow the patterns the stars made.

  And then the clarity.

  As he guided his light blue Honda Accord along Harlem Avenue just south of Chicago, ev-

  erything seemed more alive, as if to contrast the death he had just brought about. He noticed things he never noticed: the shifting red, amber, and turquoise of the reflections the stoplights made on the rain-slicked pavement. He noticed how the color spread, muted, over the slick black roadway. Even his radio, usually sounding tinny tuned to WLS, seemed more vibrant. He heard the different instruments in "Hungry Like the Wolf" as if Duran Duran were in the car with him, playing. Although it was February and his windows were rolled shut, he listened to the sounds of the other cars, the hiss of their tires on the pavement, the bass of their engines. He felt each perforation on the cover of the steering wheel. He thought he could even sense the mechanical smell of his own and the other cars as they all made their way northeast, to the Eisenhower Expressway and the city.

  And in his mouth, he savored a slight metallic taste.

  Randy Mazursky had lived in Berwyn all his life. The suburb just west of Chicago had been where his father grew up and where his grandfather had set up his home when he came over from Poland to work in the meat yards of Chicago.

  Randy liked Berwyn. It was familiar: The streets, gridlike, had always made it easy to get around and easy to give new people directions to his house on Oak Park Avenue. And best of all it was close to where he worked, the North Riverside Mall, where he managed an ice cream parlor called Whipped Dream.

  Tonight he had spent a little longer at the restaurant than usual, since one of his waitresses had come down with the flu that everyone (his wife, Maggie, included) seemed to be getting just as it looked like winter was about to come to a close. She had left midway through her shift, leaving a busy Friday night crowd of screaming kids, hassled parents, and birthday party victims.

  Randy had donned the blue and white striped waiter's cap he had worn when he started at Whipped Dream three years ago and, like the trooper he thought himself, had gone out and served up Tin Roof^ sundaes, blown whistles, banged drums, and sung "Happy Birthday" with the rest of the crew. He knew it wouldn't hurt the "kids" to let a pro show them how it was done.

  Randy had enjoyed the change. But it had been a long time since he had waited tables and he barely had the strength to hold the steering wheel properly. It was only ten minutes to his home and Maggie, but the eagerness to get there made the ride longer.

  He knew he didn't have to worry. Maggie would have a great dinner waiting for him. Ever since Maggie had quit her job as a proofreader of Sears catalogs, she had become a virtuoso cook, even taking classes in Chicago. Randy had gained fifteen pounds.

  He and Maggie had been married for only seven months and already she was pregnant. The baby was unplanned; they had wanted to wait until they had a chance to buy a house before they had children. Right now they rented the second floor of a two-flat.

  But when Maggie had whispered "we're going to have a baby" in his ear right before he fell asleep one night, he felt nothing but delight. That delight and anticipation had not worn off in the two weeks he had been aware of his imminent fatherhood.

  Now as he backed the car into a space in front of their yellow brick home, he felt a sudden urge to run up the stairs and hug Maggie. He knew she didn't like him working late and wished he had thought to bring her something.

  Well, he could make it up to her in other ways. As he closed the door of his car he smiled: There was no trace of the exhaustion he had felt just moments before.

  Quickly he unlocked the two locks on the outer door and took the steps two at a time. As quietly as he could, he slid the key into the door of their apartment, hoping he could surprise Maggie in the kitchen.

  He opened the door and closed it behind him, trying to stifle the click of the door as it closed. Randy crept through the living room, not wondering why the apartment was so still, why their stereo, Maggie's constant companion, wasn't on. He noticed only the yellow block of light that was the entrance to the kitchen as he ma
de his way toward it on tiptoe.

  As he stood in the archway, he began laughing. And the laughter did not stop until almost an hour later when paramedics put him under sedation.

  Maggie, her dark hair a bizarre contrast to the pasty white of her usually dark Italian skin, lay dead in the middle of the kitchen floor, her throat and wrists cut. Her hair fanned out on the beige linoleum and her arms were out, almost as if she had been crucified.

  The cat, Scruggums, sat beside her, licking his paws.

  From the Chicago Tribune, February 18, 1989, page seven:

  Murder has come to west suburban Berwyn once again. Margaret^ Mazursky, 23, was discovered early last night by her husband Randolph in their second-story home at 2511 S. Oak Park Avenue.

  The victim's death was attributed to massive loss of blood from stab wounds in the wrists and throat, Cook County coroner Michael Senn told officials.

  Little blood was found at the scene of the crime, a Berwyn police official commented. Trace elements were found in cracks in the linoleum floor of the kitchen, where Mazursky's husband discovered her body. Otherwise, according to officials, as much as a quart of blood was removed by her attacker.

  Joe MacAree placed the newspaper on the oak desk in his home office and looked down at it lying on the green blotter. He was grinning. Page seven. Surely, he thought, if they had known about the others, the story might have been front-page news.

  He leaned back in his leather desk chair, listening to its squeak, and placed his hands on the back of his head. The others. He remembered the first.

  You always remember your first. First kiss. First fuck. First murder and taste of blood. The other firsts never had the kick of the last.

  He had never known her name. He remembered the night, deep in the middle of August when Chicago sweltered amid ninety percent humidity and daily temperatures as high as ninety-eight degrees.

  Two years ago. He had left his wife sitting in front of a fan in their Sheridan Road apartment, a sweating glass of iced tea in her long, delicate hand.

  Everything, in minute detail, was clear about that night. Anne sat in front of rotating fan blades, wearing a pair of faded cutoffs, her long black hair pulled to the nape of her neck.

  He explained he had to go out . . . get some air. His clothes stuck to him all over and he felt like he couldn't breathe. Maybe near the lake there would be a little breeze, at least some air. Anne had been too wilted by the heat and humidity to protest. She asked him to turn up the Vivaldi on his way out. He closed the door quickly behind him, the volume of the music making his temples throb.

  He had made his way down Sheridan, not noticing the heavy traffic. The air was still, not a leaf stirred. No one was out.

  There was a large beach at Ardmore Street, and it was here that Joe ended up. He walked slowly along the low concrete wall that bordered the beach, looking for a place dark and cool to sit.

  He reached a turn in the wall and seated himself on a bench overlooking Lake Michigan. A maple hung over the bench and the leaves whispered in the darkness. Joe listened to the rhythmic pound of the lake against the beach, observed the full orange moon above, its brightness obscured by a mist that hung over it like a caul. He remembered his grandmother telling him when the moon looked like that it was going to rain soon. Joe hoped sot

  Joe was just beginning to realize his walk wasn't going to offer him much consolation when she walked by.

  He knew she didn't see him sitting in the darkness. Without yet knowing why, he stood and moved under the tree, standing rigid, his back pressed against the bark.

  She was young. Straight blond hair, blunt cut at the shoulders, tall, perhaps a little too tall for most men, but Joe was a big man, six four.

  She approached. She was wearing a white bikini bathing suit top and white linen shorts. Even in the darkness Joe could see the contrast of her tan skin against the white.

  Joe felt his penis begin to stiffen. And he was filled with a strange longing . . . not yet knowing what he wanted.

  Suddenly she veered to the left and began padding through the sand, making her way to the water's edge.

  He observed silently, saw her look around, making sure no one was watching. It seemed for an instant that she was staring right at him, but then her gaze moved on. Even from his distance Joe was certain she hadn't seen him.

  She undid the halter tie at the back of her bathing suit top and threw it on the sand. She slid out of the shorts and stood naked on the beach. The moonlight gave her body an opalescence, a silvery shimmering. Joe traced the outlines of her bikini on her nude figure.

  She ran into the waves. Waist deep, she put her arms above her head and dove. When she surfaced moments later she shook the water from her hair and began a slow side stroke deeper into the water.

  Joe felt as if someone else was taking over. A part of him was screaming to go back even as he began striding across the sand. He dreaded and desired the woman . . . not even sure what he wanted. At the water's edge, he shucked off his pants and pulled his green T-shirt over his head. Here, the air felt cold against his naked body, drying his perspiration. He made a few strides into the water, letting it come up slowly around him. The water was surprisingly warm; even in August Lake Michigan was so cold it numbed.

  He looked out at the girl. She was out far, treading water, her head turned from him.

  Joe slid silently under the water and began swimming toward her. Every few seconds he would let his face emerge, gulp a few breaths, then slip back under, hoping she hadn't noticed.

  Finally he saw her legs: perfectly shaped, long, moving back and forth. As he drew closer he made out the dark V of her pubic hair, the soft protrusion of her belly.

  Joe needed air. This time there would be no way she wouldn't notice him. When he emerged from the water he saw her turn and gasp. Her eyes shimmered with fear.

  Joe grinned.

  She began to dog-paddle quickly away from him. Easily, he followed her movements.

  "What do you want?" She stopped for a moment, and through he» fear (Joe remembered this part best; it was his favorite) she gave this brave little smile.

  It was then Joe made his move.

  He dove and went straight for her legs. Wrapping his arms around her thighs, he pulled her under. She kicked and squirmed, but Joe, whose arms were roped with good muscles from years of working out, found it easy to pull her under. Once he had her all the way under, he grabbed her hair and held her down while he rose to the surface. Gasping for air now, Joe held her down. She struggled for what seemed like five, ten minutes. Rationally, Joe knew it wasn't nearly that long.

  Her struggling didn't ebb away by degrees. She stopped all at once. And Joe knew she was dead. He felt nothing, thought nothing. Only a crazy desire filled him as he began swimming back toward shore, pulling her with him.

  The beach was deserted. He heard the drone of traffic on Lake Shore Drive, but that didn't worry him. He left her lying half in, half out of the water as he dried himself with her shorts and top. He amazed himself with his calm as he pulled his pants back on, slid the T-shirt down over his chest.

  This was the best part: He dragged the girl into a copse of trees and there, with a brick, bashed her head in.

  As he saw the dark blood his desire became clear. He bent to the wound and sucked up some of her sluggish blood.

  His first ... he drank only a little, although he wanted more. But a bicyclist had been coming along the concrete wall, and Joe crouched behind a bush until he was long past.

  He bent once more, drinking. The blood was beginning to clot. He slid his fingers around his lips and face and then sucked the blood off his finger.

  He felt his penis begin to throb and took it out, watching as his come arced out onto the grass.

  Up until that point, he had never felt more alive. The night was filled with sound—night insects, horns, the lapping of the dark water at the shore—and with smells and sights.

  His dark communion had given him t
he life he had stolen. He felt no guilt as he stood and began his walk back up Sheridan Road to Anne, whom he knew would be concerned.

  Randy Mazursky could have been posing. He sat in the Berwyn police station, and even the most casual observer would have known at a glance that he was in agony, that he was the victim of a tragedy. In a gray room Randy sat on a worn oak chair, his head in his hands. His ash-blond hair looked dirty and tumbled over his forehead. The khaki slacks he wore looked almost as rumpled as his oversize tweed sport coat.

  Randy's sobbing was soft, but had continuity.

  Near Randy sat his parents. His father, a thin man dressed in denim coveralls and a blue shirt, studied his son with a dull expression, betraying no emotion. His hands were long, the fingers bone-thin, the palms flat. His hands trembled.

  Randy's mother sat on the other side of her son. She had tied a purple nylon scarf over her gray hair and worn a deep-purple cardigan sweater over a yellow cotton shift. She held a balled-up Kleenex, wet with tears and mucus. Her eyes were rimmed in red. She seemed to be trying to abate her sorrow, to comfort her son.

  "Oh, baby . . ." she whimpered, placing her hand on his arm. Randy raised his head. "We don't understand now. Maybe it's never for us to understand why Maggie was taken from us. But you gotta believe it's what the good Lord planned and one day . . ."

  The woman's voice droned on; there was no indication on her son's face that he heard any of what she said. His eyes were vacant.

  Randy Mazursky's mind was uncluttered. There was only one thought and that one thought repeated: a litany. Maggie is dead. . . . Maggie is dead. In spite of the repetition he was unable to make himself believe it. Surely Maggie would come into this barren room any second now explaining how it was all a mistake and wouldn't he come home now? Or she, along with his parents and the detectives he had spoken to, would all join in and laugh at the macabre joke they had played on him. She couldn't be dead. They were going to have a baby.

  He scanned the room, seeing it for the first time. His parents stared at him, their eyes begging. What did they want from him?

  "Son." His mother's voice was raspy. "Listen to me, we'll go see Father Frank. He'll still be up; let him talk to you." His mother stood and Randy noticed her knees were knocking. He started to laugh.