Victim

by Gayle Wilson

  "I want her and anybody else who's got a beef with Tate out of the way, so this department can deal with him. I really wish you were going to be around to help with that."

  "Don’t worry. From what I've seen of the department's ability to deal with this guy. I'll be back in plenty of time."

  "Four weeks," Morel said. "And no, you won't."

  Three

  "Want me to walk him for you?"

  Sarah turned at the question and then wished she hadn't. Of course, it wouldn't have done any good to ignore him. The child was nothing if not persistent.

  "I saw you were limping." he added. "Did you hurt your foot?" Blue eyes, filled with what appeared to be genuine concern, lifted from her sneaker to her face.

  Sarah resisted the urge to smile at him. She'd been resisting it since she'd moved into the building three months ago.

  "Old age. Thanks for the offer, but I need the exercise."

  "You aren't old."

  The boy fell in beside her, taking a couple of steps to each of hers in order to accommodate her longer stride. She was trying not to favor the leg that had taken the brunt of yesterday's fall, but every step she took jarred her hip. It had hurt like hell all last night, despite the ibuprofen she'd ended up popping every few hours.

  The bruises on that side of her body, viewed in the mirror this morning as she'd dressed for work, had been nothing less than spectacular. She knew from experience that they'd become more colorful before they faded, but she also knew they'd be less painful tomorrow. Right now she just needed to grit her teeth and bear it—at least until after she had taken Toby for his evening walk.

  "Older than you," she said, glancing down at him.

  Why the hell couldn’t she leave it alone? Ignore him, and eventually he'd get tired of trailing along beside her. After all, other than the attraction the dog held for him. it didn't make a lot of sense that he'd persisted this long. It wasn't as if she'd been friendly.

  One afternoon shortly after she'd moved in. the boy had been in the foyer when she'd come down the stairs with Toby. The dog, inveterate admirer of all things small and male, had wagged and slobbered as if the child were his long-lost brother.

  Or his master, her heart reminded, cutting a clean, sharp path through her pretended cynicism.

  "So how old are you?"

  The boy was skipping a little to keep up as Toby pulled her along, faster than was really comfortable. After being cooped up in the apartment all day, the dog was eager to reach the small neighborhood park and its bushes.

  "Thirty-four." She'd had to think about it. Maybe because she felt a hundred. At least today.

  Most days she found it hard to believe she was almost thirty-five. She had been nineteen when she and Dan married. Twenty-one when Danny was born.

  Every step along the way, her life had sailed along just as it should. The major events nicely timed. Orderly. Well-planned. And then one day—

  "You're supposed to ask me now" the child prompted.

  Her eyes considered the top of his head, bobbing beside her. Just as she had had to deny the urge to smile at him. Sarah fought the mother-impulse to run smoothing fingers over that badly cropped hair.

  Ridiculous. She didn't even know his name.

  And I don't want to.

  Maybe he hung around her so much because he didn't have any friends. She had never seen him with anyone else, although there were plenty of children in the neighborhood. He had never been among those she watched from behind her curtained windows as they played ball or ran shrieking through some variation of hide-and-seek along the alley behind the building.

  "Okay" she said. "I'll bite. How old are you?"

  "Nine nearly ten."

  The words were pronounced so quickly they came out of his mouth as one. Obviously he had said them innumerable times in exactly that way. Or, she amended, remembering his solitary existence, maybe they always were right there, ready to be offered to anyone who could be goaded into asking for them.

  Nine nearly ten.

  Third grade? Multiplication tables and long division. Cursive writing. Too old, probably, for puzzles and coloring books. And not yet old enough for—

  She jerked her mind away from the image, refusing to let it form in her brain. This was why she had avoided this child. This particular child.

  "I go to Davidson," he added helpfully.

  For a moment Sarah drew a blank, and then she remembered that Davidson was the elementary school that served the neighborhood. A run-down brick building surrounded by dirt playing fields and rusting jungle gyms. In the winter grayness, which was the only way she'd ever seen it, it looked as uninviting as the aging, boarded-up properties around it.

  "Mrs. Sharpton is my teacher."

  At least she wasn't having to talk, Sarah decided, giving in to the ache in her hip and allowing herself to limp. It couldn't hurt to listen. He seemed willing to fill any dead air by telling her things she couldn't possibly want to know. And as for the ones she did want to know...

  "What's your name?"

  "Dwight David Ingersoll."

  Again the words had no spaces between them. And this time there was a singsong inflection to them that surprised an upward tilt at the corners of her mouth.

  When she was a little girl, her grandfather had sung some silly song about a man named John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith. The child's recitation of his name sounded enough like that to evoke an almost pleasant nostalgia.

  "That's a pretty big name for..." She almost said for such a little boy, but before she finished the sentence, she realized he wouldn't appreciate that.

  Rustier than I thought.

  "For a kid," she finished.

  "I was named for a president. What's your dog's name?"

  Obviously a more important question than what her name was.

  "His name's Toby. He wasn't named for a president."

  Actually, she didn't know who the mutt had been named for. She'd let Danny choose both the dog and the name, and she hadn't questioned the process that had resulted in either.

  She had a sudden mental picture of her son walking, big-eyed and almost solemn, along the metal cages at the Humane Society. He had weighed his selection so carefully that she'd hoped at the time he didn't realize the implication for those animals he didn't choose.

  Naming the white-and-tan mutt he'd selected had occurred that same day. In the car on the way home, actually. There had been no announcement. No "I'm going to call him..." No "What do you think I should name him?"

  He had simply begun calling the dog by his name. And Toby had responded as if he had known it all along.

  "That's a nice name." The boy put his hand on the top of Toby's big head as if in benediction.

  "Thank you."

  Not so hard. She had managed to get through the entire sequence of the dog selection memory without wanting to cry or scream.

  It had taken her a full year after Danny's death to be able to do that. Every passing day of the next two years had been easier, until she had finally gotten to the point of actually being able to remember the good times. To relish her memories of him. And then Samuel Tate had been arrested, and with the media circus she'd been right back at ground zero.

  "I can't go any further."" The boy stopped at the curb, balancing dramatically on the balls of his feet and windmilling his arms to maintain that position. "To the end of the block, but not into the park. That's what my mama said. She worries about me."

  Sarah nodded, feeling the burn of tears she'd just congratulated herself for not entertaining. The boy didn't notice, stooping to wrap his arms around Toby's neck. The dog leaned into his thin body, looking up at Sarah over the child's shoulder.

  "Dwight or David or Dwight David?"

  "Dwight," the boy said, looking up at her, too.

  It would be, she thought, feeling a surge of bitterness toward the mother who supposedly worried about him. The ridiculously old-fashioned name fit with the jacket that was too short in the sleev
es and the scuffed tennis shoes with their knotted laces and the poorly cut hair.

  "You better run on back home then."

  "You gonna stay out here long?"

  "Probably not. It's pretty cold"

  The current cold snap was as low as the temperatures ever got in New Orleans. The wind off the river carried a wet chill that seeped through clothing and settled under it, against the skin.

  "If he had a ball, you could throw it, and he could chase it."

  Another flash of memory. This one she banished as quickly as it formed. "I think I'm too old for playing ball."

  "If you asked my mother sometime. I bet I could come with you and throw one for him." The tone was as hopeful as the eyes looking up at her.

  Unable to deny either. Sarah said. "We'll see."

  Like "nine nearly ten." those words had been too accessible. Familiar. They had come out of her mouth as if she had last said them yesterday rather than three years ago.

  "You better go on home now.,” she said again, her voice low.

  After another fierce hug, the boy released Toby and stood, moving from that awkward, semi-kneeling position with the unconscious grace of childhood. "I think my uncle may have a ball. I'll ask him if we can borrow it."

  Unable to speak for the thickness in her throat, Sarah nodded again. He nodded in return, and then he began to run back along the way they had come. Halfway down the block, he turned around to face her, running backwards.

  When he saw that she was watching him, he waved. A thin, white wrist poked out of the dark sleeve of his jacket like a bone, his hand moving from side to side.

  Unable to stop herself, she lifted her own hand, waving back at him in the same way. When he turned around, he increased his pace, hopping over the lines in the sidewalk. Making a game of it.

  Just as she had done as a child. Just as Danny had always done. Step on a crack, break your mother's back.

  And in spite of Toby's efforts to draw her on to the park, she watched until the boy had disappeared into the lengthening shadows at the end of the street.

  "So what are you gonna do for four weeks?" Sonny asked.

  Mac muted the television, considering the people on the screen, now mouthing words they had been speaking only seconds before. Good question, he thought, switching the phone to his right ear. What the hell was he going to do while everybody else was out hunting Tate?

  "Catch up on my laundry."

  Sonny would know what he was feeling. It didn't have to be put into words. Not between the two of them.

  Mac had had plenty of time to think about what had happened. And he'd decided he didn't regret anything he'd done, except maybe a couple of remarks he'd made to Morel on which he could have toned down the sarcasm a decibel or two.

  "So what's the word on our boy?" he asked, his eyes following the action on the screen.

  There wasn't a lot of furniture in his living room, but the television was top of the line and the couch wasn't a bad place to catch a couple of hours of sleep when the bed felt like the last place he wanted to be. As it had last night.

  "We got nothing," Sonny admitted. "He ain't been back home. Bank account's not been touched. Credit cards silent. He must have had a stash somewhere."

  "Locker at the bus station," Mac suggested. "Or the airport."

  "Yeah, well, if either of those were where it was at, he hit 'em before we got there."

  "Maybe he'll just lay low."

  "You believe that?"

  "No," Mac said. "I think that's why he was out roaming around that night with his neat little kit in the back of his van. Considering the time between the last one and now..."

  "He's due." Sonny's voice was full of resignation.

  "Bingo," Mac agreed softly.

  That was the bad part. Knowing you had a guy who was going to kill again, as sure as the sun was going to come up tomorrow, and not being able to anticipate who or where. Some kid. Some poor, unsuspecting kid...

  "I gotta go," Sonny said. "Want me to bring you something by on the way home?"

  "I got pizza from last night. Let me know what you hear."

  "No news is good news," Sonny said.

  The sudden dial tone in Mac's ear signaled the conversation was at an end. He laid the phone on the cluttered coffee table, pushing the button on the remote. The silence of the apartment obediently filled with the sound of canned laughter.

  No news is good news.

  Not with Tate, he thought. No news was just that. No news. Because there was no doubt in anyone's mind, certainly not in Mac Donovan's, that the bastard was going to kill again.

  "That's all you're getting," Sarah said. "Eat it or don't eat it. I don't care."

  Soulful black eyes lifted from their contemplation of the contents of the can she had just dumped into Toby's dish. They held on hers as hopefully as the boy's had earlier. Ignoring them, too, she used the foot pedal to open the garbage can and tossed the empty can inside.

  When she turned back, the dog was still watching her. Still ignoring him, she walked across to open the freezer compartment on the refrigerator, looking at the three frozen dinners that remained from her last foray to the grocery store. They looked about as appetizing as what was in the dog's bowl.

  She pulled the middle one out of the stack and walked over to the microwave, aware that Toby's eyes followed every move. She opened the box, split the plastic with her thumbnail, and without consulting the printed instructions, shoved the black tray in and punched up a number. Maybe it wasn't the right one, but when the buzzer went off, she'd eat whatever came out.

  Most nights went exactly as tonight had. They got home from the obligatory twice-a-day drag through the park, and then she would dump a can in Toby's bowl and put a carton in the microwave, usually without looking at either of them.

  "It's beef and liver. You like beef and liver."

  She couldn't remember when she'd started talking to the dog. Maybe when the silence around her had gotten so deep she could hear echoes of the voices that had once filled its current emptiness. Danny's laughter. The sound of him yelling about whatever was happening on his Playstation. Hers and Dan's fights. The creak of the old bed as they made love. At some point talking to the dog had become preferable to remembering any of those.

  Almost delicately, considering his size. Toby picked one small chunk out of the rest. He had finished almost half of the can, one unnatural cube of pseudo-meat at a time, before the buzzer on the microwave went off behind her.

  She jumped at the sound, although the dog seemed oblivious to it. She opened the door and picked the black plastic container up by the edges with her hands. She set it down on the counter and peeled back the sheet of cellophane. Taking a spoon out of the drawer beside her, she stirred the contents.

  As she did, she realized she was hungry. Which seemed almost sacrilegious. Tate was out there somewhere, looking for his next victim, and she was thinking about food.

  If that bastard had left me alone...

  Tamping down her anger, she picked up the microwavable tray and walked back over to the refrigerator. She could hear the dog's tongue slurping around the rim of the bowl, cleaning out the last bit of juices from his dinner.

  She set hers down and opened the door to take out a can of Diet Coke. Holding that in one hand and her supper in the other, she crossed the kitchen. Without thinking, she pushed against the swinging door that led to the rest of the apartment with her left shoulder.

  "Son of a bitch," she said aloud as the bruises protested.

  The door opened enough to allow her through. She walked over to the couch and set the tray and Coke on the coffee table. She sat down and picked up the remote to turn on the TV.

  All she wanted was background noise. The local news should be over by now, and if it wasn't, she'd switch stations. She had seen enough pictures of herself last night and today to last a lifetime.

  Sitcom, she realized, relieved. She popped the tab on the Coke and then felt around beside the
plastic tray for her fork. She couldn't find it, and after a few seconds she realized that she hadn't gotten one out of the drawer.

  She stood up and had started back to the kitchen when she noticed that the light on the message machine was blinking. That was unusual enough that it stopped her. She stared down at the small red eye, trying to think who might have called.

  She didn't believe anyone had left a message in the entire three months she'd lived here. She couldn't remember, other than the manager of the restaurant where she worked and her ex-mother-in-law, to whom she had given this number.

  Probably someone looking for a quote or an interview. They'd shown an old black-and-white newspaper photo of her on all the broadcasts last night. No one had accused her outright of trying to shoot Tate, probably out of fear of a lawsuit, but anyone with half a brain could have figured out what they were getting at.

  And from somewhere they'd found out about the animosity that had existed between her and Dan. The fact that she'd blamed her ex-husband for not keeping an eye on Danny that night.

  She had already started by the machine when, moving almost of its own volition, her hand reached out and pushed the Play button. After all. there was always the possibility that the message was from Dan's mother. If Louise had seen the news reports yesterday, she might well have wanted to talk, either about Danny or about what they'd said.

  Instead, when the tape began to play, the recording was of an unfamiliar male voice. And the message one that filled her with horror.

  "I just thought you might want to know. You were the one Danny cried for as he was dying."

  Four

  With her initial phone call, she had wound her way up the chain of command until she'd finally been given the name and number of the detective who represented the N.O.P.D. on the national task force tracking Tate. Instead of calling, she'd decided to come downtown to speak to him in person.

  Now, less than five minutes into this conversation, she knew that had been wasted effort. Detective Cochran had been attentive, his features arranged in the proper attitude of concern, but the horror of what she'd felt as she heard the message on her machine had not been reflected in them.