by Rick R. Reed
Anne stared at him, surprised.
"Just try to forget it for now. I know you don't need a relationship right now. But I'm willing to
wait and I'm willing to help you find out what's going on, because I care about you and not because it's my job. Please let me do that."
Anne looked at him and smiled. Anything you want, she was thinking. She felt a tightness in her stomach at the thought, which tumbled out with no concern for truth or even decency.
17
Randy lay on his bed, staring out his window: gray, low-hanging clouds and naked branches of an oak tree in front of the house, reaching up to meet the sky.
"Randy! The paper came. You wanna see it?" his mother called up the stairs.
Randy hoisted himself up and went to the top of the stairs. His mother stared into the late afternoon shadows, holding the paper in front of her like a gift.
"Why don't you look at it, Ma? I don't need to be first."
"I gotta get supper on the table. Your father'll be home soon and you know he'll disappear into the bathroom with it. Come on, take it."
Randy went down the stairs and took the paper from his mother, knowing it would make her happy. He went into the living room and sat down with it.
Every Thursday the local Berwyn paper came out. It was mostly ads, listing of area movies, and articles on the city council's activities. Randy was about to skip over the front page and go right to the sports section when something made him turn back.
second murder strikes berwyn. The headline screamed out, and for a moment he couldn't focus. He felt dizzy, staring at the photograph of a young man in tears trying to turn away from the camera. The caption described the man as John Piccone and went on to say his wife, Rebecca, had been brutally killed late Sunday night when she was walking to her mother's home. The murder took place not four blocks from another killing, that of Margaret Mazursky last month. Story continued on page two.
Randy opened the paper and read, noticing the similarities, especially the cuts made with what seemed to be a razor blade, and the draining of blood. He read that the police thought there might be a connection between the two killings. Thought? Randy's contempt for the police force grew. The woman, Rebecca Piccone, had had her head bashed in on the sidewalk. At least he hadn't done that to Maggie.
"What's the matter? What are you crying about?"
Randy looked up to see his mother standing above him. He felt disoriented, as if he had left the house for a while and somehow been transported back. He held the paper out to his mother, and she took in the story at once. "Yeah, ain't that a shame?"
"Ma," he looked at his mother, pleading. "Don't you see? It's gotta be the same guy who killed Maggie."
His mother began shaking her head immediately. "No, Randy. That's not for you to figure. Just leave it to the police."
"What's wrong with you?" He screamed at his mother and then, ashamed, lowered his voice. Without the volume, though, his words had a more hateful intensity. "Why don't you face it? The police can't catch that bastard out there. They're too fucking stupid. He's going to keep killing innocent people until someone else puts that bastard out of his misery. If I knew who he was, I wouldn't hesitate to slit his throat and leave him bleeding on the sidewalk."
He looked at his mother, saw the tears in her eyes and didn't care. Not now. He hurried from the room. He heard his mother calling after him up the stairs, "Randy, you gotta let this go. You gotta get on with your life. Just let it go."
Never, Ma, never, he thought, closing the door behind him.
Pat Young let the Berwyn paper slip from her fingers, leaned back in her wheelchair, and closed her eyes. "Oh, Joe," she said aloud, "you naughty, naughty boy." She laughed and looked down at the grieving face of the husband and said, "Maybe I could get some money from you too." She wondered if she and Joe could go into business together: He would kill them and she could blackmail the loved ones.
In spite of her lack of sympathy over the trage-
dies, Pat found herself admitting that maybe she was a little bit afraid. She remembered the description of how the last woman had been killed, how she had been the victim of several hard blows to the back of the neck and how her head had been repeatedly beaten into the sidewalk. The worst part was that she had been cut in several places with a very sharp instrument and blood had been drained from her body. If Joe ever found out Pat was bluffing she could meet with the same fate, possibly worse, because of the pain she had caused him.
Maybe, she thought, maybe I should tell Randy Mazursky who Joe is. She had a feeling Randy would take care of things, if not by going to the police then by getting rid of Joe himself.
But then she thought of Joe's perfect body standing before her, naked, his hand stroking his long, thick cock. . . . He must feel something to be so excited by her. He must care.
She didn't know what she should do. She wheeled over to the TV and turned it on, thinking, I've got to get one of those remote control things.
It was time for The People's Court, Pat's favorite show.
Theresa Mazursky opened the can of green beans and dumped them into a pot. She sprinkled salt on them and threw in a couple of pats of butter, then turned the blue flame below them low. She sat down at the kitchen table and massaged her temples. Ever since Maggie had died, Theresa had had a headache. Sharp pain
behind both of her eyes, like needles. She looked out at the sleet coming down in the purple dusk outside and remembered Randy as a little boy, winter days like this one, and how safe she felt in this kitchen. The cold wind outside just made the kitchen seem warmer, cozier with the smells of supper cooking.
She didn't feel safe anymore.
Upstairs, someone was in her son's room. He looked like her son, but he was a stranger. The physical resemblance ended with his eyes. Randy's eyes used to sparkle, almost with a life of their own. Always turned up with laughter or a smile.
Now those eyes were dead. The green in them had gone almost to a murky brown. Theresa crossed herself, whispering, "Father, Son, Holy Ghost."
Please, Lord . . . help me with my boy. Help him to get on with his life. Make him like he was before. He was always a good boy, you know that. Don't do this to him, no more. He's gonna ruin his life and he has so much to give.
Theresa stood up, the cold outside making her joints ache when she stood. She went to the stove, turned off the flame under the beans. She stirred them and took one out, ate but didn't taste. "We gotta make this right, Father. We gotta make this right," she whispered.
It was time to set the table.
Three-fifteen. Sleet pounded against Randy's bedroom windows, sounding like needles against the glass. He had pulled up the blinds his mother
had lowered an hour or two ago, when she had crept into his room thinking he was asleep. He liked the silvery light that came into the room from the streetlight outside his window. The light and the sound of the sleet made him feel comfortable under the quilt his mother had thrown over him. He felt himself drifting off to sleep and looked over at the clock.
The phone rang. In the silence it sounded loud, jarring. He was sure his parents must be sitting up in bed now, their eyes wide and staring. He grabbed it before it had a chance to ring a second time. His heart was pounding.
"Hello," he breathed into the phone.
"Don't hang up on me," a woman's voice came through firmly. "I am your friend."
Randy lay back on the bed. Ever since he had read the story about Rebecca Piccone, he had been hoping this woman would call. "I won't hang up. Not this time." Randy felt chilled. The room seemed darker than it was a few minutes ago.
"Good. I'm glad to hear you're willing to cooperate. It's for your benefit."
"You said you know who killed my wife."
"That's right. I know."
"How do you know?"
"I told you, information like that doesn't come cheap."
"How am I supposed to know you're not just some nut trying to get a few bucks
out of me? The world is full of people who want to exploit the desperate."
"Don't I know it. Listen: I have proof."
"I have some proof too. What do I need you for? Maybe I could just take this proof to the police station."
Pat sat back, thinking. He's bluffing; he has to be bluffing. "What do you mean?" she snapped.
Randy thought he had nothing to lose by telling her. "When my wife was killed, the murderer left a lighter in our kitchen. A very expensive lighter, and monogrammed."
Pat thought. It didn't take long for her to come up with her next idea. "I can tell you the initials on that lighter."
"Okay. So tell me."
"The telephone is such an impersonal instrument. Don't you agree?" Pat's voice went from cheerful to angry. "I tell nothing for free."
"When can we get together?"
"Can you meet me tomorrow morning, early?"
Randy thought that would be perfect. He could call into work and say he was having car trouble and would be late. He wouldn't say anything to his family, who would assume that when he left in the morning he was leaving for his job. "I can meet you then. How about eight thirty?"
"Make it nine." Pat wanted to keep in control. "I'd have you over to my place, but it's such a mess." Pat had thought about the meeting all evening, certain Randy was aware of the other, more recent killing. "I could meet you at a little restaurant I know of. It's called the Breakfast Barn in Cicero. You know it?"
"You mean the Breakfast Barn on Roosevelt? Isn't that kind of public?"
"It's/safe. Besides, we'll whisper." Pat whispered the last part and hung up the phone. She smiled as she thought Randy wouldn't sleep much this night.
Randy put the phone back in the cradle and walked over to the window. He said, "Enjoy tonight, you motherfucker. There aren't going to be many more."
Outside Randy's room, Theresa Mazursky stared into the darkness. Her heart was pounding. She twisted and untwisted the crucifix at her throat.
Randy walked into the Breakfast Barn the next morning, worried. He had no idea how he'd recognize the woman who had called him. He looked over the small restaurant. Several women sat alone at the counter. One woman, with a wheelchair propped at the side of her booth, also sat alone. He thought her red hair and sharp nose looked familiar. He didn't think she could be the one and was about to turn to the women at the counter when she smiled at him and waved him over.
He walked to her table and stood above her. "Are you the one who called me last night?"
"Yes," she said, "I'm the one. Now, why don't you sit down."
Randy seated himself, thinking that the voice was right. He wondered where he had seen her before. Then it came to him. This woman lived across the street from them! Maggie used to feel sorry for her and she'd watch from their window, making sure the woman got out of her building all right and down to the sidewalk. He didn't know her name, but he was sure this was the same woman.
"I know you," he said.
"What?" she snapped at him, fear in her eyes.
"You live across the street from me."
"Get you a cup of coffee, sir?" A waitress with bleached hair appeared. Her uniform stretched tight across her hips. She placed a menu down in front of him.
"Coffee will be all," Randy said, handing back the menu.
"Don't be crazy," Pat said. "I live in the city."
"No, no, you don't. My wife used to watch you. She felt sorry for you."
Pat became angry, her thin lips becoming thinner as she set them in a line. "The bitch didn't need to. I can take care of myself."
"So you do live on Oak Park Avenue. The little building right across from us. That's how you know, isn't it? You must have seen."
Pat gripped the Formica top of the table hard enough to make her fingertips white. This was going out of control. He wasn't supposed to know anything about her. She was going to be anonymous. A mysterious stranger who, after being paid, would give him the information.
Pat stared hard at him. 'You're right."
"Why didn't you go to the police if you knew?"
The waitress had come up to their table with Randy's coffee. She was looking at Pat with interest. She must have heard.
Pat waited until the woman had walked away.
"I didn't go to the police because they wouldn't pay, and I think you will."
The waitress had returned. She leaned over the table; Pat saw that she was interested in their conversation.
"What is it?" Pat hissed.
"Can I get you anything else?" The waitress was overly cheerful and falsely bright.
"No," Pat snapped. "Just our check."
When the waitress left, Pat leaned across the table to Randy and whispered, "Since you already know where I live it's kind of pointless continuing here with Marilyn Monroe over there hanging on our every word."
Randy nodded.
Pat took a sip of the coffee in front of her. "The coffee here stinks anyway. The damn cup wasn't even clean."
Randy glanced down at his mug. It was perfectly clean. "Okay, let's go to your place."
"I guess we will."
The waitress returned and put the check facedown on the table. "Thank you very much," she said, "and have a nice day."
She walked away. Pat slid the check to Randy. "Pay this. I'll meet you at the door."
Randy stood to help her get in her wheelchair. She waved him away. "Just pay the damn check!"
Everyone in the restaurant turned to look at them. Randy started toward the cashier. He heard the hum of Pat's wheelchair as she passed behind him.
* * *
Theresa Mazursky put down her menu. They hadn't seen her. But she had seen . . . and heard. And she remembered. She sipped the coffee gone cold in front of her. That crippled woman lived across the street from her son and daughter-in-law. She remembered when Maggie would point the woman out, struggling to get through her front door in her wheelchair. I used to feel sorry for her.
"Warm that up for you, hon?"
Theresa jumped when the waitress approached. "Huh? Uh, no, no. I gotta be goin'."
Randy felt closed in yhen Pat shut the door behind him. The little room was cluttered with enough furniture for three rooms. There were papers and magazines everywhere. A damp smell permeated the room.
Pat shoved a stack of Playgirls off a chair and told him to sit down if he wanted to.
Randy took a seat.
"Before we get started with the information," Pat said, "let's talk finances."
"Wait a minute," Randy held up his hand. "You said you had some proof. I want to know for sure if you know anything before I agree to give you any money."
"So you will pay?"
"I didn't say that. I will pay if you convince me you really do know something."
Randy covered his face with his hands. He had been half-hoping she wouldn't know.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Pat asked. "If those aren't the right initials, that lighter belonged to someone other than the killer."
Randy took a deep breath and looked at her. "You're right."
"Good. Now we can get the money portion of the conversation out of the way."
Randy thought he would pay anything he had to get this guy. He quickly calculated how much he was worth. In a savings account he had about $3,500, along with another $285 in checking. If he sold the car he could probably come up with about $4,400. Maybe his parents could give him a couple thousand, but he couldn't depend on them for more. And he really didn't know if they'd give him anything without knowing the reason. "How much do you want?"
"I've given this a lot of thought," Pat said, folding her hands in her lap, "and I think fifteen thousand dollars would do the trick. Yes, fifteen thousand would do quite nicely."
"I don't have that much."
"Well, then, that concludes our business here, doesn't it?"
"Please, you've got to help me. . . ."
"I don't have to do anything."
"Please . . ." Randy felt tea
rs welling up in his eyes. She had to tell him, she just had to. Didn't she have a heart? "Listen, if you don't tell me who it is, I'm going straight to the police with this little scheme. This isn't legal, you know."
Pat laughed. "Go ahead! It's my word against yours. And believe me, mister, I can be very convincing."
"Please . . ." Randy begged. "I can pay you installments. I promise. I'm living at home now. I'll sign my paycheck over to you every week."
"I have a sneaking suspicion that paycheck won't be around much after you find out who killed your wife. So I'm afraid the offer stands at fifteen thousand dollars cash, within the week. Monday it goes to twenty thousand."
Randy dropped to his knees and took her hand. "Please, you don't know how much this means to me. Please, I'm begging. I'll give you six thousand dollars. Please ... in the name of decency . . . tell me."
Pat threw back her head and laughed. The laugh was shrill. "Get up! You're pathetic. You mean to tell me you really go out in the world and call yourself a man? Bad enough you can't protect your wife, so she ends up dead, but you can't even cough up a few bucks to find out who did the deed. Get the hell out of my sight until you have the money."
Randy didn't know what happened to him then. He grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and tipped Pat from it. Savagely, he kicked her in the stomach once, twice, three times. She groaned and coughed up blood. Then he picked her up from the floor and threw her into the glass front of a hutch near one wall. She fell to the floor, her face a maze of small cuts. Blood seeped onto the pale green blouse she wore. Randy sat on her chest and pounded into her face with his fists again and again until she was unconscious.
He stood.
"Oh, God," Randy said, "I've killed her." But after a moment he realized that was impossible. His beating had been brutal (she deserved it and more, he thought), but not enough to kill her.
He went into the bathroom and filled a glass with cold water. He came back and threw it on her face. She didn't rouse. He went into the kitchenette and rummaged in her refrigerator. There was a two-liter bottle of grape soda on the top shelf. Randy felt the plastic. Cold. He untwisted the top and poured it on Pat's face. He saw a fluttering movement around her eyes.
