by Rick R. Reed
Then she started to fight me. I felt her fist come down hard on my neck. I didn't want to take my mouth away from her bleeding breast, but she was squirming and hitting me, harder each time. My movements seemed automatic. I looked up at her like an angry dog being disturbed while it was eating. I can picture myself clearly at this time, as if I was outside myself, watching. There was something funny in the predatory look on my face, the ring of bright red blood around my lips.
I lashed out at her face with the X-Acto. She screamed, and it was as if someone had lifted the volume for just a second. The shriek was painful to my ears. I grabbed her head and slammed it against the bathtub.
And I couldn't stop myself. I slammed her head again and again into the hard porcelain. I did it until long after she was dead.
But it was beautiful! There was blood flowing from the cuts on her face, blood oozing out of the back of her head, running through her light brown hair, puddling on the floor. I began sucking it up as fast as / could, fearing it would congeal The blood was hot . . . coppery. The blood was everything. I cut into the arteries in her arms with the X-Acto and let the hot blood pump into my mouth. I could barely swallow fast enough, and I felt some of it sluicing over my chin and wetting the front of my shirt.
I came two times in my pants.
Joe put down his pen and lay his head on the green blotter at his desk. The onslaught of tears was sudden and furious. The guilt overwhelmed him. He remembered the girl, that beautiful young girl. The eyes he had seen alive and shining, staring up at him with admiration and hope. The eyes that had shown gratitude for saving her. Those eyes in the darkness looked glazed, focused in on a final nightmare.
He wept bitterly. He had felt alive in the park, as he had all the other times in the past. He could smell the damp wood of the trees, the humus of the earth beneath him.
He could smell spring coming. He felt its revitalizing power; he felt seventeen again.
But now none of it seemed worth it.
He closed the leather book he had written in and returned it to its hiding place under a false bottom in one of his desk drawers.
Outside, dawn was filling the city with gray light. A few cars moved quickly along Lake Shore Drive. Joe wondered about the girl's family, where they were and if they missed her.
He fell to his knees and begged God to forgive him this one last time. He promised God it would never happen again. He promised himself he would never, ever let it happen again.
He begged God to return Anne to him, to give him the strength to avoid the desire that drove him to kill, to lust for the taste of blood, so foreign yet so basic.
"Just give me strength," he sobbed. "I'll never let it happen again."
And if a God did look down, He would have thought: "I've seen this scene six times now."
9
The test shots were nowhere to be found. Last week when Anne had done the spread for Evans Furs, she had asked her photographer, Louise Sullivan, if she could borrow the initial test shots to study them. Anne used the shots from each assignment to learn something new about her look.
A search of every room in her mother's Lake Forest home revealed nothing. She had even searched through drawers where she was certain the photos couldn't be; that was better than the alternative of calling, or going back to, Joe.
Sitting in her girlhood bedroom with its lace and canopy bed, she lowered her head to cry at her frustration. The past two days hadn't been happy ones. She had lifted the phone so many times to call him.
Too many times. Last night she had called and decided to let the call go through before hanging
up. With relief, she listened to the ringing of the phone a dozen times. She wouldn't have to try to make small talk, since she really had nothing to say. She longed for the sound of his voice, even if she didn't want to admit it to herself or to Joe. But her relief turned to anger as she called sporadically throughout the evening. The calls got more frequent as the evening wore on. As the hour grew later, Anne grew more and more angry. He seemed so upset when I left, she thought, was it really just an act?
Or was there something wrong?
A sharp gust of wind outside sent a pine tree's branch crashing into her window just as the bedroom was filling withxlawn's black-and-white unreality. Anne awoke, and Joe was the first thing that came into her mind. She lifted the white receiver and punched in the buttons of her phone number.
Anne wasn't sure she had the right number when he answered. His voice was caught somewhere between a sob and hoarseness. Anne, feeling a mixture of sorrow and longing, hung up the phone without a word.
And now, at midmorning, Anne found herself trying to stop her sobs as she heard her mother knocking on her door.
"Anne?" Phyllis Hobson's raspy, cigarette-scarred voice came through the door. "Is everything all right?"
Anne took a breath, tried to muster up a normal voice. "Mother, I'm fine."
Her mother rattled the locked door. Anne heard her sigh. "Well, I'm running into North-brook for a few things. Is there anything you need?"
Anne wiped her eyes and got up. She opened the door. Her mother, a barrel-shaped woman with silver hair and hard features, faced her. She wore pince-nez glasses on a gold chain and a brown Ultrasuede pantsuit. Anne's looks had come from her father: a tall man with Irish features, black hair, blue eyes, and the kind of face that made women stop to look at him. Her father had died in a plane crash when Anne was five years old. Her mother never missed an opportunity to tell others how unfortunate the accident was: "He was on business and wasn't supposed to leave until three hours later, but the meeting he had to stay for was canceled and he decided to hop an earlier flight. You see, it was Annie's birthday." Actually, it was two months before Anne's birthday . . . and Anne never understood her mother's need for melodrama. But her father had left his wife and young daughter well provided for. His knowledge and hunches on the stock market were always right on target, and his investments in Chicago real estate left his survivors enough money to insure their never working.
Her mother's expression turned to one of concern. She touched Anne's cheek. "Honey, you've been crying."
Anne smiled to show her everything was all right. "It's okay, Mother. Listen, have you seen a big manila envelope around here? There are some test shots I'd like to see."
Her mother shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Listen," Phyllis said, dismissing the envelope, "why don't you throw some clothes on and we can both go over together?" She smiled. "I'll treat you to lunch."
"Oh, I don't think I'm really in the mood. I wanted to look over those test shots. I must have left them at home."
Phyllis frowned when she called the apartment home. "Well, dear, they're not here, so why don't you come with me?"
"No, I really should get dressed and go down and get them."
Phyllis closed her eyes in a subtle gesture of disgust. She had never trusted Joe and through a thin veneer of concern had made her happiness at Anne's return obvious. "Do you really think that's such a good idea? He might have one of his little girlfriends there with him."
Anne shook her head. She wished she hadn't spilled all her suspicions to her mother. "If he's there, Mother, I'm sure we can behave as adults. I'm not worried about it and you shouldn't be either."
"Suit yourself. Can I get you anything from Northbrook?"
An hour later Anne steered Phyllis's Saab down Lake Shore Drive. Part of her prayed Joe wouldn't be in the apartment when she got there, and another part told her that if she didn't really want to see him she wouldn't be going there in the first place.
She pulled into the visitor's section of their underground parking garage and took a quick walk back to see if Joe's car was there. It wasn't.
The apartment hadn't changed, which really wasn't so odd; she had only been gone two days. Anne supposed the turmoil of those days had led her to think things should look different.
But all was in place, including the envelope of test shots Louise Sulliva
n had let her have. Anne picked it up from the dresser in the bedroom and turned to use the bathroom before she headed back to Lake Forest.
The X-Acto knife caught her eye as soon as she walked into the bathroom. It lay on the sink that she had stood at so many mornings. Anne recognized the dark residue at once as blood.
It shook her. Had Joe tried to kill himself?
She heard a key being fitted into the front door lock. The knife in her hand, Anne froze.
Anne looked wildly about the room, as if she'd been caught burglarizing her own apartment. She threw the knife in the wastebasket.
In the living room, she had just managed to put her jacket on when Joe opened the door. He came in, his coat folded over one arm, and stared at her for a minute, almost as if he didn't recognize her. Then he smiled.
"Anne . . . have you . . . have you come back?"
For a moment Anne considered saying yes when she saw the hope in his eyes. As much as there was wrong with their marriage, she still loved him and hated to extinguish that hope.
"Joe." She smiled. "I . . . uh . . . wasn't really expecting to see you. I just came to pick these up." She held the envelope up.
"Stay for breakfast?"
Anne laughed. "Joe, it's afternoon."
"Lunch then?"
"No, I really have to be getting back." She wanted to ask him where he was all last night, wanted to ask why the X-Acto knife was bloody. But she didn't want to risk complications, wasn't sure she could really take what the answers might be if she heard them. So she said, "Joe, I really, as I said, need some time. It would be better if I just get on my way. Okay?"
She could see the pain on his face and his effort to circumvent it while he was with her. "Okay. Be on your way then." He opened the door.
"Thanks, Joe." She glanced down at his bare wrists.
There were no marks.
The Saab wouldn't start. Anne looked around the dark parking garage as if an answer was hiding in its shadows. Once more she turned the key in the ignition, now furiously jamming her foot into the gas pedal. "C'mon," she cried, her voice heavy with impatience. After a few sputters the Saab was silent once more. Anne slumped back against the leather upholstery. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples, where a headache was beginning. "Oh, please . . ." she whispered.
She glanced around her and saw Joe walking toward the car. She could see the mixture of pain and hope apparent on his face. "Shit," she said to herself and looked away, hoping he didn't notice her looking at him. His face was so innocent and vulnerable; she could always read everything there. How could he be lying to her? There was no way that face could conceal a falsehood. So why all the unexplained hours?
He was tapping on the passenger window. She turned and looked at him, and he made a motion for her to roll down the window. Why was he making everything so hard?
"Yes, Joe?"
"Having some trouble?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." Joe didn't even know how to change a flat tire. Anne knew it would be useless to have him take a look at it. "I'm sure I'll get it going here in a minute. It's just being temperamental; you know how these little foreign cars can be." Weakly, she smiled at him. "Is anything wrong?"
Joe laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Funny you should ask. My wife just left me."
Anne closed her eyes and placed her head on the steering wheel. This I don't need, she thought. Taking a breath, she looked back at his face, examined the pain there. "What I meant was, why are you down here?"
"Um ... I thought maybe you could reconsider about lunch. I could make a real Caesar salad for us." She saw the animation go out of his face when she shook her head. 'The truth is I don't know why I'm down here. I had hoped there'd be some way I could stop you. Not likely, huh?"
"Not likely," she said so softly she barely heard herself.
She saw tears brimming in his eyes. Shit. Turning the key in the ignition, she tried the Saab once more, the only result a futile sputtering.
Joe leaned into the window. "It's just that I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you. I don't think I could go on."
"Don't do this to me!" She hadn't meant to scream, and she caught her mouth with her hand. "Please stop with the melodrama. This isn't as easy for me as you think."
Holding back her own tears now, Anne got out of the Saab, slammipg the door behind her. "Would you mind reaching in and locking that door?"
She started walking away from him. There was a phone in the lobby; she could call a cab from there. These Lake Forest cab rides were getting expensive.
"Anne, wait up." Joe ran after her and she paused, not looking back at him. "What are you going to do?"
Anne was beginning to think Joe sounded like a child; and the whining was starting to inspire more pity than love. "I was going to the lobby to call a taxi."
Finally even with her, he matched her paces to the lobby. "To Lake Forest? Annie, that's getting pretty posh. Don't be crazy; I can at least drive you."
"That won't be necessary. I'm sure Mother won't mind paying for the cab." "Don't talk crazy, Anne. I'll drive you back to Lake Forest and that's it."
Suddenly, Anne was too tired to argue. "All right, Joe."
He said he had to grab a coat upstairs and wouldn't she come up with him. Wordlessly, she followed him. Back in the apartment she told him she had to use the bathroom and went in, closing the door behind her and locking it.
Her eyes went first to the wastebasket, where she had tossed the X-Acto knife. She wanted to make sure she wasn't mistaken about the blood.
But the knife wasn't there.
"Anne, are you sure you won't stay for lunch? I have some great pastrami I just bought."
What was going on?
"No, Joe, I really have to be getting back." She opened the bathroom door. She looked at him, standing there beside the bed they had shared and thought, why not just come right out and ask him?
"What was with the X-Acto knife in the bathroom?"
The way his face contorted and the involuntary jerk of his arm told her all she needed to know. Something very strange was going on.
"What knife?" He laughed.
'The X-Acto that was on the bathroom sink a little while ago. It looked like there was blood on it."
Joe smiled, but all the color had drained out of his face. "My, getting gruesome!" He didn't say anything else, but she could see by his face, his eyes, he was frantically looking for an explanation to give her.
"Well?"
"I cut myself," he said, and all of his features softened. "I was doing a little pasteup work this morning. I cut myself and went into the bathroom to wash it off. Why the third degree?"
"No third degree. I was just curious if you had hurt yourself."
"It was nothing."
They said nothing for a short while. Then Anne said, "Well, shouldn't we be getting on our way?"
"Sure." Joe slid his leather jacket on (I haven't seen that in a while, Anne thought) and held out his arm to her. "Let's go."
Anne didn't have the courage to ask him if she could see where he had cut himself. She didn't know what she was more afraid of: seeing a wound or not seeing one.
"Joe, how good it is to see you." Phyllis Hob-son's face and greeting couldn't have been more of a contradiction.
"Good to see you too, Phyllis." He stopped to kiss her cheek. "How's everything?"
"Good, thank you." She stepped back away from the door. "Come in, Joe. I was just getting ready to fix a little lunch. Maybe you could stay?"
Or maybe not, Joe thought, completing the question. "Oh, no, I just brought Anne here back. Seems your little Saab conked out on her. I'll call a repairman to have a look at it."
Phyllis gave Anne a troubled look that said, If you had just come with me . . . "Oh no, Joe, our mechanic is the only one that knows the Saab. It'll be much easier all around if I just give him a call."
"Suit yourself. I better be getting back. Got a late afternoon meeting."
>
"Sure you can't stay?"
"Positive." He gave Anne a quick kiss on the mouth and hurried back to his car. Joe honked the horn and waved as he backed down the drive.
In her clutches, he was thinking, I'll never get Anne back.
io
From Joe MacAree's journal, February 26, 1991:
This is how I picture fat Phyllis: She is lying in the middle of her designer living room in Lake Forest, her rolls of naked fat covering the parquet floor. There are several open wounds on her, inflicted with a butcher knife. The blood pumps out of her. She is gasping, trying to reach out for the little pince-nez glasses on the floor beside her.
A dark heel enters the frame and stomps down on the glasses. There is the sound of glass crunching. The wooden floor is scarred and Phyllis's eyes widen in terror as she looks up at the face above her.
All we can see are the dark, black boots of the stranger. One of the feet lifts and comes down on
her fingers, the heel connecting with the flesh that connects them to the hand.
Her knuckles are crushed.
Phyllis does not cry out. Her eyes close tightly and her head lolls to one side. She gurgles. Her throat has been slashed.
All around her there is a mist, kind of like they use in TV dream sequences. The mist closes in, obscuring the black heel of the stranger. Zoom into a close-up of Phyllis. Her face is in agony. Tears stream from reddened eyes.
The black boot comes in fast and kicks her teeth. Blood spurts from her lip. The warm red squirts out at least four inches and her teeth are broken.
The mist closes in, obscuring everything.
The next scene is in sharp focus. The elegant Tudor edifice of the Hobson home is in plain view. The double oak doors open and Anne runs out, her face contorted by terror. She is screaming, but there is no sound.
Anne wears a white dressing gown and stops for a moment, catching her breath.
She looks around her, searching wildly for help. Her face softens and she smiles. A white car pulls up in front of her, the door opens and I step out. Anne collapses in my arms.
And I comfort her.
Joe looked down at what he had written, pen poised to cross it all out.
