by Rick R. Reed
He returned to the kitchen and looked in her cupboard until he found a bottle of vinegar. He pulled a paper towel off the roll.
She lay on the floor, staring up at him.
"Going to tell me?"
"No, you fucker! I wouldn't tell you for all the money in the world. The deal is off!"
Randy soaked the paper towel in vinegar. He pressed it to several bleeding cuts on her face. She screamed.
"Want more? How about a little salt? There's a nice deep one on your neck." He reached toward her face with the vinegar-soaked paper towel. She weakly held up a hand.
"No, please," she mumbled. "I'll tell you. His name is Joe MacAree. He lives in the city. His name is in the phone book. I swear it."
"You better be telling the truth, you miserable cunt, or I swear to God I'll come back here and kill you. And it won't be a swift death." He kicked
her once more in the stomach. She gasped. * * *
Randy sat in his Chevette for a long time, looking up at the windows of his old apartment, remembering the times he had shared there with Maggie. Then he looked at the blood on his hands.
He started the ignition.
He thought he had nothing left to lose.
"I'm going to kill you, Joe MacAree," he said. There was no emotion in his voice.
He pulled out onto the street.
18
Joe curled into a tight ball. The pounding on his door grew louder, more insistent. "Go away, Margo. Leave me alone, Daddy," he whispered, slipping his head below the threadbare blanket.
"You in there or not?" There was one last blow to the door, sounding more like a kick than a knock. Joe opened his eyes. The male voice outside his door was not his father's. He sat up in bed, looking around the YMCA room, seeing his trenchcoat thrown over the only chair, his pants and shirt in a ball on the floor. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and combed through his hair with his fingers.
"Yeah, I'm here," Joe said.
"Well, why the fuck didn't you answer?"
"I was sleeping."
"Great. You got a woman on the phone out here. You wanna talk to her or not?"
Joe's first thought was that it was Anne, calling to tell him to come home. His adrenaline level revved. He hurried to pull his pants and shirt on. "I'll be right out. Could you tell her I'll be right there?"
"You tell 'er. Phone's at the end of the hall."
Joe heard the man's receding footsteps. He examined himself in the mirror and then realized Anne wouldn't be able to see him through the telephone wires.
Hurrying down the hall, Joe began to imagine what she would say. "Joe, listen, I know I haven't been very understanding. And I know I haven't been very trusting, but, baby, I know I was wrong. I've been cleaning and cooking all morning and your home is ready for you. Please come back, Joe. I love you."
He picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"I hope I didn't get you out of bed. Lately you need your beauty rest." The woman chuckled.
Joe didn't recognize the voice, although he knew, with disappointment, that it wasn't Anne's. The voice did sound familiar. "Who is this?" Joe asked, not really caring since it wasn't Anne.
"Your sweetheart, honey." The woman laughed again.
Joe put his hand to his forehead. A headache was starting. "What do you want, Pat?"
"Don't take that tone with me, mister. You better be good to me if you know what's good for you."
"I'm sorry. Did you want me to come over?"
"That wouldn't be a bad idea. But I think under the circumstances it might not be safe for you to come here so soon."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm calling to save your ass."
Joe felt sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. The phone suddenly seemed slippery. "I don't know what you mean."
"Maggie Mazursky's husband knows you killed his wife."
There was a thud in Joe's mind. For a moment he was afraid he would faint, and he grabbed on to the little ledge under the phone for support. "How could he know such a thing?" Joe's mind raced. "Unless you told him, you little bitch!"
"Wait a minute, buster! He found out mostly on his own. If you don't watch your step with me, have no fear: I'll go straight to the police. Understand?"
Joe felt humbled. She had all the bargaining power. "Yes, I understand. How did he find out . . . really?"
"You left your lighter with your initials in his apartment. Not the brightest thing in the world to do, but considering your state of mind at the time I would imagine it was completely understandable. Anyway he's been spending almost all his spare time lately making the rounds at jewelry stores, trying to trace it. Lucky for you, the lighter was a custom order, and once he found the right place there weren't too many more steps to find out who the original owner was."
Joe felt sick. He held down the bile he tasted. "So how did you find out?"
"He knew I was the invalid that lived across the street. He thought I might have seen something that would help him."
"So I guess he's already gone to the police," Joe said, feeling more nauseated. He looked out the window across the hall and saw a police car in the line of traffic on Chicago Avenue. He wondered if they were on their way to pick him up.
"That's where you're lucky ... or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. This guy is so filled with rage he wants to do the job on you himself. He's afraid he won't like the kind of justice the court would give you."
"Does he know where I am?"
"How could he? Who else knows where you are?"
No one, Joe thought. But I can't be safe here. I've got to hide. I've got to get away from here right away . . . and take Anne with me. "I don't think anybody but you."
'Then you're safe. Joe, I want you to know something I've been meaning to say. I wasn't quite sure how I should put it. . . . Joe, are you listening?"
Joe leaned against the wall, the sweat pouring down his face, certain he would throw up any minute. "What?"
Pat didn't say anything for a while. "I love you, Joe. And I want you to know that if I can help in any way, I'll do it. I don't care what you've done. Let me help, if I can."
"Okay," Joe whispered, without emotion, and hung up the phone.
sfc * tsr
Anne lay on the couch, her robe pulled tightly around her. She faced the back of the couch and tried not to think. Behind her, the Channel 5 news blared out of the television. Lately she had been keeping the television on almost all the time. It kept her company and kept her from thinking. She didn't want to think—not about her feelings for Nick MontPierre, not about her worries and feelings for Joe. Her mother had called several times, leaving messages on her answering machine. Anne had never returned her calls. The voice of Carolyn Dodd came out of the speaker at the side of the screen. It seemed the newscaster's message was especially for Anne to hear. She stiffened as she heard the report about the "continuing investigation into the brutal murder of a Berwyn woman. Rebecca Piccone, nineteen, was found with severe trauma to the head and several deep cuts made with what is believed to have been a razor or extremely sharp knife. The Berwyn police believe there may have been a connection between this murder and that of another Berwyn woman last month, Margaret Mazursky. Officials commented that the two killings exhibited similarities of more than just the proximities of the two women's apartment buildings." Anne hurried to the television and clicked it off, as if that would end the thoughts racing through her mind.
She sat down, her breath coming in quick gulps, almost hyperventilating. Hadn't she found a blood-stained X-Acto knife in the bathroom just a few weeks ago? Didn't Nick follow Joe to
Berwyn just last week? Berwyn, a place she was certain neither of them even knew about before?
She went into the kitchen and, with trembling hands, put some water on the stove for tea. She sat at one of the kitchen chairs and put her head in her hands. Joe could never kill anyone, she thought. That much you can be sure of. Right? There's some logical reason
he went to Berwyn. And that reason has nothing to do with killing anyone. The whole idea is absurd. Lots of people went to Berwyn every day, she was sure, and that didn't make them suspects for murder.
She put a tea bag in a mug and poured boiling water over it. As she waited for it to steep, she couldn't get one image out of her mind.
She remembered the X-Acto knife on the white porcelain of the sink, the blade stained with brown, dried blood. Too much blood for a minor cut.
Joe dipped the razor in the water and took one more stroke along his neck. The beard looked great now that he had blocked it off and trimmed it. His hair, with a good shampoo and conditioning, had regained the luster it once held. His clothes, even though they were wrinkled, were clean from a washing in his sink early that morning. Even though he had lost a good bit of weight and the clothes hung on him, he thought he could truthfully look in the mirror and think he didn't look too bad. The fact that his clothes were rumpled and he was too thin might get a sympathy vote from Anne and make her even more willing to take him back. After all, he knew deep down she loved him. How could she resist? he wondered, winking at himself in the mirror.
He left his room and went down the hall to the pay phone. He hoped Anne would be home.
The phone rang three times before Anne's voice came over the line. "Hi, this is Anne. You've called at just the wrong time! But you can remedy your mistake by leaving your name, number, and message after the beep. I'll get right back to you."
Joe waited with disappointment for the beep. When he heard it he decided he would not sound whiny or pleading. "Hi, Anne, it's Joe. I'd like to get together for a short time, if we could. I'll call you soon."
When the phone rang Anne jumped, gripping the table. Probably Mother again, she thought. She went to the answering machine to listen. Joe's voice made her go cold. She was about to let him hang up when she grabbed the receiver before he had a chance.
Joe was about to hang up the phone when he heard a click. Anne's voice came over the line, sounding a little nervous and scared. "Joe?"
"Hi, Anne. Just get in?"
"What? Oh . . . oh, yes." She laughed. "I was just out getting a little air. Been feeling a little cooped up lately, what with the cold and everything."
"That's understandable. But you should be careful. It's late and you don't know who might be lurking outside. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."
Anne wanted to laugh at his concerns, especially if her suspicions were true. But they couldn't be. Joe wasn't capable of hurting anyone, let alone killing them.
"Joe, I am careful. I just went down the block, turned around, came back."
"Well, try to get out in the day. Okay?"
"Okay."
The line went silent for a while. Finally Joe spoke. "Anne, I'd really like to see you."
"Joe, I don't know if that would be a good idea," Anne said, almost by rote. A part of her wanted to see him. That part wanted reassurance that the Joe she married really did exist.
"Maybe it's not a good idea. But it's important I talk to you. I've been patient. Please ... I won't take too much of your time."
"Joe, I . . ." Anne couldn't think of anything. "Okay, tomorrow morning. Can you come then?"
"I can come anytime you say. I love you, Anne."
"I'll see you tomorrow." Anne hung up the phone.
Joe, smiling, hung up his end.
"Why?" Both of them were in tears. Anne sat on the couch, her feet curled under her, her wide eyes rimmed in red, a balled-up Kleenex in her hand. "I don't understand why this is so important to you."
Joe was on the floor, kneeling at her feet. There was snot in his mustache; his face was wet with tears. "The city is making me crazy. I think we can start over someplace else. Someplace where there's nature and we can be alone. Where we can get to know each other again."
Anne stood up to get away from him. She crossed the room and stared out the window at the traffic rushing by on Lake Shore Drive. She wished she were in one of those cars, on her way to a normal job in the city. What must it be like? she wondered.
"Please, Anne, if you really love me you'll do this."
She turned to him, frightened, and not at all sure she did love him anymore. Why was he so eager to leave the city all of a sudden? He had been the one who talked her into moving to Chicago when they graduated from Iowa. She had wanted to stay in Iowa City, where she was working as a legal assistant. For a moment she wondered if she would ever feel that carefree again. But Joe had insisted they move to the city, where they would both make lots of money and make all their dreams come true. He had been right, for a while. Up until everything began falling apart. But this desperation to leave so suddenly only fueled Anne's suspicion that Joe was involved with something very wrong. Not murder, surely, but something. She turned to him.
"Joe," she said, taking a deep breath and forcing herself not to cry, to sound firm, "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me why we have to leave so suddenly." He had been begging her for the last hour to pack her things and leave with him on a 6:00 a.m. flight to Wyoming.
"I told you," he sobbed, "because I think the city is killing us, killing our love for each other."
"Bullshit, Joe. I don't want to hear any more of this. We could leave in two months, when the lease is up on this apartment. That would give us time to find new jobs and a place to live somewhere else. What would be wrong with that?" She was baiting him, trying to call his bluff.
"That would be too long."
"Too long for what, Joe? You're not telling me something."
For a long time he didn't speak. He went up, put his arms around her, and began sobbing into her neck. "I love you so much."
Anne stiffened, her arms at her sides. After a while he noticed she wasn't returning his affection and let go. "You won't come away with me, will you?"
"Not until you tell me why it has to be so soon."
He stared for a long time at her, defeat in his tearing eyes. Then he walked away, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. She heard another door close.
Anne stared out the window for close to fifteen minutes. She didn't want to follow him. She just wanted him to leave.
The apartment was silent. Anne began to get scared. What was he doing? She wanted to go in the bedroom and see, but part of her was afraid of what she might find.
She waited awhile, hoping he'd come out and she could tell him to leave.
But he didn't come out.
Anne walked to the closed bedroom door and paused outside, her hand on the doorknob, listening.
The room was silent.
She opened the door. Joe was nowhere to be seen. She crossed the room and looked into the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Empty.
That left the closet. Why would he be in there? A feeling of dread began to rise up in her. Maybe she should call Nick. Maybe she shouldn't even think of opening that door.
Don't be ridiculous, she told herself, and crossed quickly to the closet door. Without thinking further, she threw the door open.
Joe was inside, curled into a little ball, sobbing. Oh, God, Anne thought, putting a hand to her forehead. "Joe, this isn't going to work."
He sniffed, uncurled, and looked up at her. "Please, Anne. I really do love you. Come away with me."
"Stand up. Get out of there. For Christ's sake, Joe." She waited for him to pass on his way out of the closet. She turned and walked into the living room, heard his steps behind her.
She sat down on a chair and he started to sit at her feet on the floor. Anne took a deep breath. She realized she didn't want him touching her, didn't want him near her. "Just go over and sit on the couch," she said. He did as he was told. He was breathing in small, quivering breaths, trying to stop crying.
She stared at him. His eyes were red. Looking away, Anne focused on a black-and-white picture of them hanging on the wall; Joe was smiling, handsome, boulders from Lake Michigan behind him. Where had that strength gone? Where had everything
gone? Sucked out of him by some black whore? Anne looked down to see she had come close to breaking the skin on the back of her hands; she was clawing at them.
"Joe, I'm sorry." She bit her lip to keep the tears from flowing, or maybe to hold back the scream. She felt like a coil about to spring. "I don't want this anymore."
He started to get up. "I don't think I want to hear this."
Anne stood and pushed him back down on the couch. Her breathing was ragged. I just want this to be over, she thought. She stood above him, staring down, trying to concentrate on his whimpering. "You have to hear it. I don't know what's wrong with you, but I think you need some help."
"Stop. You're hurting me."
"Please, Joe. Don't make this worse than it has to be. I want you to get some help. Will you do that?"
"Will you take me back if I do?"
"I don't know, Joe." She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. "I don't know if I love you anymore. Joe, I don't think we should see each other for a long time." The crying was coming full force now, and Anne damned herself. "I want a divorce."
"There's somebody else."
"Oh, God. Whether there is or isn't has nothing to do with this." She wanted to scream at him— And how many "somebody elses" have you had, you bastard? How many?—but she also wanted to try and stay calm, hold the reins over this scene she felt was already about to spin out of control.
Joe stared at her. He stopped crying and Anne felt uncomfortable under the stare. Was the look in his eyes insanity? Or was she imagining things? He didn't say anything when she asked if he was all right.
To break the stare Anne got up and got his coat. "I think you should be going now," she said, handing him the coat.
Wordlessly, he took the coat and put it on, all the time staring at her. She tried to look away, but his gaze burned into her even when she wasn't looking.
She took his arm and led him to the door. Opening it, she said, "Joe, please try to understand."
He stared.
She was about to close the door on him when he grabbed her. He bent his head and kissed her. His tongue filled her mouth, probing, and she felt a line of his spittle running down her chin. She pushed him away.
