by Rick R. Reed
Anne sat up, restless. Tomorrow was another shoot, for Carson, Pirie, Scott. She knew the assignment was not a challenging one, modeling spring hats. A lot of facial close-ups. Anne knew if she appeared with bags under her eyes she wouldn't be used by Carson's again. That was the frustrating thing about her job—the competition.
She needed something to calm her. Joe kept some Seconal in the medicine chest, but Anne had never liked to take it. But as she glanced at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was one twenty, she knew she had to take some out-of-the-ordinary measures to get some sleep. She was supposed to be at the studio at eight.
Anne got out of bed and slipped into her robe. In the bathroom she discovered Joe had taken the Seconal with him. She sat down on the edge of the tub feeling frustrated and weary.
After a moment or two she rose and went into Joe's office. She knew there was some pot in there. She remembered him buying it for a party they had had on New ^Year's Eve. It was a little old now, but it would do the trick. He had kept it behind his files in the lower right-hand drawer. Stooping, Anne pulled the drawer open and found the Baggie under some papers in the back.
She pulled out the bag and the E-Z Wider papers that were nearby. Laughing to herself, she whispered, "Let me see if I can remember how to do this." Anne made several attempts at rolling a joint, and on the fourth try she managed.
"Now all I need are some matches." She took the joint back to her room and checked her purse. None there. "Shit." She headed back into Joe's office and rifled through his top desk drawer. There among the pens and paper clips (she avoided the X-Acto knife) was a book of matches.
Anne picked them up and noticed they had hardly been used. She sat down as she noticed they were from the Chicago Center Inn motel.
This was supposedly Joe's first week away from home. What was he doing with these? Anne tried thinking of some logical explanation, but could think of none.
She put the joint down on the desk blotter. Rapidly massaging her temples, she wondered what was happening. Was there more? Anne began going through his desk drawer like the wife she never thought she'd be, searching for clues of her husband's infidelity.
It was not long before she was rewarded. At the bottom of one drawer, under Joe's directory of advertising agencies, was a file full of magazines. Slowly, Anne took them out.
She was sickened by what she saw. They were all graphically pornographic. Each depicted women being beaten, women in chains, women with painful-looking clamps on their nipples, labia, women being tortured by faceless men. Come shots on blood, come shots on bruises. Anne paused, her stomach churning at a centerfold of a nude woman. She had deep gashes in her abdomen, her breasts, her body covered with blood. Were these real? The woman looked to be in genuine agony, her face covered with purple welts.
Anne placed the magazine on the desk before her. Trying to hold back the bile rising up in her, she covered her eyes. Too stunned to even think, Anne fought hard to control her breathing, the overpowering nausea. Who was this man she had married, lived with for years? Joe's handsome face came to her in memory, in a thousand different guises: smiling and boyish over a mechanical dog in F.A.O. Schwarz, clouded with concern over her doing something (like water skiing) that made him fear for her, his lids at half-mast, lust for her on his face . . .
She closed the magazine with a slam, lifted the stack, and threw them in the trash. What else, she thought, what else?
No longer thinking, she began going through his drawers, throwing the paper and supplies in each one wildly over her shoulder as she looked for more evidence.
After the room was a total wreck, looking as if a vandal had broken m and ransacked the place, Anne sat down on the floor, her breathing heavy. She had found nothing more.
She stood up, in control of her breathing now, and went into their bedroom. Methodically she removed each drawer from his dresser and emptied it on the floor. She watched as the heap grew: expensive woolen sweaters she had bought him over the years, belts, cuff links, underwear, socks, tie clasps, T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweat pants, shorts, a plaid flannel shirt. Anne stopped. There was something odd; something strange had passed her field of vision, but she didn't know what. She glanced back at the blue flannel shirt and thought, I've never seen that before. So? she asked herself, Joe probably has quite a few things you've never seen or noticed.
But it was so small. She picked the shirt up, knowing it wasn't Joe's. And it wasn't just the size. The shirt belonged to a woman. The buttons were the real giveaway. They buttoned on the wrong side.
Anne crumpled into a small ball on the bedroom floor. Her worst fears had to be true. She began to weep.
12
The ringing of the buzzer awakened her. Anne opened her eyes to a gray room, focusing in on the bedroom window. The shade was lowered and framed in brilliant light. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was one thirty in the afternoon.
The buzzing continued, more insistent. She got up and slid into her robe.
"Wait. Wait just a minute!" Anne hurried to the intercom. "Who is it?"
"Anne, it's Joe."
Anne slumped against the wall. She couldn't face him, not after what she had seen last night. Not yet.
She pressed the button again. "Joe, you promised. This isn't giving me any time. Please . . . just go away." Damn it. She didn't want to cry.
Anne walked away from the intercom. It buzzed.
Reluctantly, Anne pressed the button once more. She said nothing. His voice, mechanical, came through the box. "I just need to get some things out of my office. Please, Anne. I don't have my keys with me. It will just take a few minutes. We don't even have to look at each other."
Anne thought about his ransacked den. What would he say? She wasn't ready for a confrontation. "No," she said into the intercom, betraying no emotion.
Once more she started away from the intercom. It began buzzing once more: short, furious blasts punctuated by longer ones. Anne forced herself to walk slowly to the bathroom, where she dropped her robe, switched on the radio, and started a shower for herself. Once under the hot jets she no longer heard the buzzing. And once she emerged, her body revitalized by the water, the apartment was silent.
Joe stood outside, staring at their windows. What had happened? Why? he thought. His hands were trembling. Has she found something out?
He turned and looked out at the traffic whizzing by on Lake Shore Drive. All those people, he thought, going off to lead normal lives; why wasn't I made like them?
He looked back up at the windows, hoping maybe she would pass one of them. He wondered if she had found his journals, hidden under a fake bottom in one of his desk drawers. Those journals contained everything that could ruin his life. Detailed descriptions of each killing.
Joe bowed his head as a few tears escaped. The journals were also an attempt to exorcise his past. No one, even vicariously, should have to relive that past.
Joe placed his hands in his pockets and walked away.
Watching from behind miniblind slats, Anne stared as her husband walked away from the building.
She turned and went back to the bedroom, where the yellow pages lay open on her bed.
Anne thought, as she sat down on the bed, she had no idea how to look for a private detective. She also thought she should be doing her own searching, trying to unmask what Joe was hiding from her. But that idea frightened her, forcing her to confront an unknown she wasn't at all certain she was ready to face. And the idea of a detective appealed to her; it seemed romantic, making her feel like the put-upon heroine of some 1940s B movie. More realistically, though, a private detective could be a witness for her in court if it ever came to that.
She stood up and let her damp hair fall from the towel. Pulling a comb through it, she stared at her face in the mirror. Perhaps it was better, she thought, that I missed the shoot for Carson's. Her eyes were ringed in darkness, underneath were puffy ridges, bloated and red. She walked to the window and stared outside at the
snow, hardened and crusted over with soot.
"Enough," she whispered to herself. "Get to work." She sat down on the bed, flipping through a few pages until she came to the section marked "Private Detectives." She giggled for a moment, stepping outside herself and observing. Did people really do this?
She ran her finger down the list, stopping at words like licensed, bonded, insured, surveillance, confidential, civil, criminal, matrimonial . . . Which one to choose? She noticed a display ad for an agency called Women United. The ad promised "strict confidentiality" and that the agency was staffed by "women who understand the problems of women." Anne drew a red circle around that ad. Finally she circled one other listing, for a detective named Nick MontPierre in Evanston, because she liked the name.
She picked up the phone and dialed the number of Women United. While she listened to the ringing she imagined the agency being staffed by a group of butch feminists determined to brainwash her into leaving her husband and joining them, as a sort of female James Bond. Anne laughed at the idea. After four rings someone on the other end picked up.
"Women United Agency. Can I help you?"
Anne thought the voice sounded pleasant, and not in the least masculine. Still, fear burrowed into her stomach.
"Yes ... I'd like to speak to one of your agents about some . . . surveillance work. Is there someone there I could speak with?"
"Well, hon, I'm the only one here and there's only one other agent working for me. I'm Joan Blake."
There was a pause as the woman waited for
Anne to give her name. Anne thought she would be waiting a long time.
After the silence became awkward, Joan asked, "What kind of surveillance? Industrial, matrimonial?"
"Um . . . matrimonial, I guess."
"Husband cheating on you?"
"Well, I don't know for sure. That's why I'm calling you."
"Hon, you wouldn't be calling me if you didn't already know. Every woman calls here's lookin' for the same thing: verification of something she already knows. Just doesn't want to face it. Makes it a little easier with us tellin' them the truth about dear hubby. What's the symptoms? Don't answer: Let me tell you. He's been gone for hours at a time with no good explanation for his whereabouts; he's been getting caught in lies, seems a little distant. Maybe you found a little material evidence, a phone number, an earring, maybe an article of clothing. Men. They're all alike. It doesn't take much to figure them out. Of course, I could be wrong about yours. Wanna come in and talk about it? There's no charge to talk."
Anne felt dizzy. The woman hit too many sensitive spots. Anne didn't like her tone. She seemed so down on men, so confident she already had the answers.
"Well?"
"Oh, I'm going to have to think about it."
"Okay, you do that. But I'm telling you. Men are all alike. Take it from one who knows." The woman snorted and hung up.
Anne flopped back on the bed. She glanced down at the next name, Nick MontPierre. Maybe a man would be better suited for her. Besides, his name sounded romantic.
After dressing and making herself some tea, Anne sat down at the desk in the living room with Nick MontPierre's number before her.
After one ring, a man picked up the phone. "MontPierre."
Anne heard a deep voice, slightly coarse, as if he had a sore throat.
"Yes, I was interested in talking to you about doing some surveillance work." Anne spoke with more confidence now that she had a little practice.
"What kind?"
"Matrimonial. I think my husband is—"
"I charge twenty-five dollars an hour, plus expenses. It's reasonable."
"That would be okay. As I was saying, I have reason to believe—"
"Wait. I don't like doing business over the phone. I'm free this afternoon. Can you come to my office?"
"Yes. What time?"
"Be here all day. Bye."
Anne stared at the dead receiver in her hand, wondering if she had made the right choice.
Nick MontPierre's office was on the third floor of one of Evanston's oldest office buildings, near Northwestern University on Sherman Avenue. The small office building had tile corridors, wooden doors with frosted glass panels.
His door was open. Anne went into his office, surprised to see such a young man sitting behind the desk. He couldn't have been more than twenty-six. He stood up as she entered and Anne noticed a tuna fish sandwich spread out on his blotter, with waxed paper underneath. There was a carton of chocolate milk and an apple.
He extended his hand. "Nick MontPierre."
Anne heard the same gravelly voice and hurried to shake his hand.
"Sit down, sit down." He motioned to one of two green vinyl chairs across from his desk. He took a sip of milk and Anne noticed a scar on his cheek. His face had a lot of character. His light brown hair was curly &nd clipped very short on the sides. He was clean shaven, with wide-set gray eyes and lashes so long they were almost feminine. But any feminine characteristics ended there. His face had a toughness to it: thin lips and a large straight nose. He was handsome in a way not everyone would notice.
"So what can I do for you?"
"I called earlier, about the possibility of you doing some surveillance work for me."
"Yeah. I remember."
Anne waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she continued. "My husband and I have recently separated, but I want our marriage to work. I guess I'm worried there's someone else in the picture and I'd like you to find out if I'm right. If there isn't, something strange is going on."
"Why?"
"Lots of reasons. Recently I caught him a cou-pie times missing for hours, and then he comes in with no really plausible excuse for where he's been. I found a woman's blouse in his drawer. I have called our apartment while we've been separated and once he was gone all night." Anne stopped, realized how ridiculous she must sound. So what if he was gone all night, she imagined Nick MontPierre thinking, you said you were separated. She was afraid she'd start crying. She lowered her head and made herself take several deep breaths. She looked up and managed a smile. "Guess you don't hear much of this. I mean, I must sound pretty petty."
"Not at all. Unfortunately this kind of work takes up a lot of my time. So, yes, I do hear a lot of this, and no, you don't sound petty. People's marriages are important. When would you like me to start?"
"Right away, I suppose. It won't be easy. He won't even tell me where he's staying."
"Well, that's for me to figure out. I guess what I need to know from you is everything you can tell me about your husband, including the things you left out just now."
"How do you know I left anything out?"
"People always do. And you'll waste my time and your money if you don't tell me everything."
Anne looked out the window at a tan parking garage behind him and began.
Nick scribbled notes while she spoke, looking up every so often, as if checking her expression, making sure she wasn't making things up. Anne wondered if what he was hearing was everyday to him or if it was bizarre.
When she finished, he had scribbled several pages in a notebook in purple ink. Outside, it had begun to rain. The cold sleet tapped on the window; everything was dark.
The fluorescent light overhead hummed. Anne lowered her head and cried. "I don't know what I did."
Nick was silent for a long time. He got up eventually and put his hand on Anne's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
"Would it help if I told you a lot of the men I follow really do love their wives?"
"How could they?" she whispered.
"Because what they're doing may not have anything to do with love, Or even lust."
She looked up into his gray eyes. She stood and touched his face quickly, drawing her hand back as if his face was hot.
"Maybe that scares me the most." She hurried from the office.
She heard Nick say, "I'll let you know as soon as I have something."
13
Randy cli
mbed the porch stairs to his parents' house. The March day had given the area a cruel taste of what spring could be: sunshine and temperatures soaring into the mid-sixties. Now, as Randy felt icy sleet biting at the back of his neck as he searched in the darkness for his keys, he felt glad he didn't let the capricious weather lift his spirits.
Inside, his parents had the heat much too high and Randy smelled meat loaf made with onion-soup mix lingering in every corner. His parents sat in the living room, their eyes intent on the console color TV (Early American, maple finish). The canned laughter of an / Love Lucy repeat combined with the kitchen odors to make Randy feel nauseated. When Randy's mother heard the swish of his nylon jacket as he removed it, she took her eyes from the TV for a moment to look back at him. When she saw it was her son she jumped from the couch and started heading toward the kitchen.
"I'll get you some supper. Have to work late?" she shouted over her shoulder.
"Yeah, Ma. I worked late and grabbed a sandwich at work. It's okay. Why don't you sit back down and watch your program?"
Randy was tired of all the sympathy, all the attention. He just wanted to be left alone.
His mother paused in the kitchen archway. "A sandwich? What kind of supper is that? You want a sandwich for lunch, okay. But you eat something decent for supper. Come on in. Sit down."
Randy walked toward the kitchen. He stopped within a few feet of his mother. "Please, Ma. I had a sandwich, fries, some cole slaw. I'm really full. You don't want me to get sick, do you?"
"I guess not. But you look like you're losing weight." She yanked on the loose waistband of his pants to emphasize her point.
"Hey, we can all afford to lose a few pounds."
"Not you. You always been too skinny. Just like your father in there." The last part she said louder, so her husband would hear. They both turned to see his reaction. The old man turned his head toward them for a second, expressionless, then resumed staring at the TV screen.
Randy's mother shrugged at him. "You sure I can't fix you just a small plate? Maybe a little cake? I got Sara Lee—"
