Her Every Fear

by Peter Swanson

He wandered the apartment. In the bedroom, some of Audrey’s things—clothes, books—had been boxed up and left. Maybe the family had begun the process, then got overwhelmed and quit. Henry wondered what would happen if he died. Would his parents come to reclaim his things? Of course they wouldn’t. They were never going to leave Stark, except maybe if Mary reared her ugly head, but not for him. They were a little scared of him, he knew that. He could hear it in their voices on the few occasions when he called home, that slight vocal hitch in the “Hello, Henry” after they’d picked up the phone, expecting nothing more than a call from their church deacon to let them know that the bake sale was going to be understaffed this year, and could they help.

  In the living room, Henry stared down at the empty courtyard, then across into the opposite apartment. There was movement, a light on in an alcove kitchen. Henry watched. It was a man and a woman, the man crossing the dimly lit living room toward a woman with dark blond hair in the kitchen. Henry stared, and began to think that it was Kate that he was looking at, although he couldn’t be sure. The man was in the kitchen again, a tall man with messy black hair who could have been the man that Henry had bumped into on the street, the man Kate had drawn in her sketchbook. That would make sense. Somehow they had met, and now Kate was fucking this guy. When had she got here? Three days ago? She’d wasted no time.

  He watched for about twenty minutes. He couldn’t see all the way into the kitchen, but it looked like they were eating around an island. The man came into the living room again, crouched in a corner—getting more alcohol, maybe—then returned to the kitchen. The light caught his profile, the blade of his nose. Jewish, Henry thought. He started to get bored, and the boredom made him a little angry. He wanted Kate back in their apartment, curled up and asleep in her nest of blankets on the couch. He wanted to watch her twitching face, and listen to her breathe, and know that somehow, some part of her, the animal part, would know she was being watched. They always do.

  But at least now he had the place to himself for the night. He returned to Corbin’s apartment, going straight to Kate’s bedroom to look for the sketchbook. It was under the bed again, and he opened it to that first picture, confirming that it was the same man across the courtyard. He took his index finger and pressed hard against both of the eyes in the picture, trying not to overly smudge them. It felt good, and he liked the effect. The eyes looked different, but subtly different, just enough to make Kate wonder.

  He used the bathroom, then went to his bedroom. He stared out the window, toward the river. The night sky was clear, a scattering of stars visible, a rarity for the city. He lay down on top of the bed, on top of the covers, folding his hands across his stomach, and let himself sink into a river of sleep.

  Kate returned in the early morning. Henry thought of hiding beneath the bed, but decided not to bother. It was easier to listen from where he was. She answered a phone call midmorning, and he heard her asking whoever was on the other end if they had a warrant. If the police were coming then it was time to leave. It got quiet again for a while, and he hoped she was either napping or had left. He put his shoes on, gathered his backpack, and decided to go. He could come back that night and see Kate again. Or maybe he could come back and visit as Jack Ludovico, the bereft friend, see if he could get her to sleep with him. He thought it would be pretty easy.

  He moved silently across the apartment, rubbing his arm where the cat had scratched him, but when he got to the kitchen he saw that the door to the basement was open. She must have gone down there, herself. He made a sudden decision to leave out the front of the building. It would be safe enough, especially since Kate was in the basement. He exited through the front door and walked down the hallway, then heard footsteps coming up the stairwell, plus the identifiable squawk of a police radio. His mind furiously considered his options. Walk casually past the police. Reenter Kate’s apartment. Then he remembered the key that said am on it and dug it from his pocket. He opened Audrey’s door, ducked under the police tape, and was inside, breathing rapidly. He listened to the police lumbering down the hall. A woman’s voice was giving instructions—he heard her say that they were looking for a thin knife. A man’s voice came back: “Like a filleting knife?” He didn’t hear the woman respond. They were knocking on Kate’s door. Yes, like a filleting knife, Henry said to himself. He counted to thirty, then let himself out of Audrey’s apartment and took the stairs down to the lobby, and he was outside in the bright, windy day. He filled his lungs, almost laughed out loud at how close he’d come to being caught by the police. Still, what would have happened? He’d have told them the same story that he’d told Kate. He used to date Audrey Marshall and had been coming to her apartment in order to grieve. Walking down Bury Street toward the park, he imagined the conversation with the police officers in his mind, how he’d make them believe he was some loser who’d lost the girl he loved, while Corbin was the creep next door.

  The fantasy conversation was so enjoyable that he almost didn’t notice that he was being followed. But he did notice. He could feel it, the way you could feel warmth on your skin when your eyes were closed and know that the sun had come out from behind a cloud. He took a sudden left turn onto another residential street. There was a tree half a block down the brick sidewalk. He briskly walked, then leaned against its trunk where he wouldn’t be seen by someone coming from Bury Street.

  Fifteen seconds later he heard the hurried footsteps coming his way, then watched as Kate’s boyfriend—Alan was the name—raced past like a man who’d lost his dog.

  “Are you looking for me?” Henry asked, and the man jerked around, like a fish that’s been hooked.

  Chapter 34

  Henry spent a very pleasant afternoon with Alan Cherney. He remembered his surname from Kate’s drawing. They went together to a small neighborhood bar about three blocks from Bury Street. Henry did the grieving friend act and told Alan all about his theories that Corbin was a serial killer who liked to mutilate his victims.

  He told Alan about Rachael Chess, found murdered on a beach in New Essex, the same place Corbin’s mother lived. Alan was riveted, but slightly uncomfortable. Henry talked him into having a couple of beers, and that began to loosen him up. Color came back to his face. As they talked, Henry tried to get a read on this Alan character. He was about the same age as he was, successful enough, or rich enough, to live where he did on Beacon Hill. He was that typical Jewish intellectual who thought he was smarter than everyone in the room, but acted neurotic so no one would know it. He’d known the type well at Aurelius. But there was something else that he couldn’t read, like a blurry line of text in an otherwise simple book. Alan cared too much about Audrey, for one thing, or maybe he cared for Kate. Either way, he cared about what Henry had to say, was hanging on every word. So Henry led him directly to Corbin, in the same way he’d led Kate to Corbin. He painted him as a psychopathic killer, and he painted himself as the unhinged boyfriend who was out for revenge.

  Alan drank several beers, becoming more and more animated. Henry matched him, not just beer for beer, but also in his exuberance. They were like two college freshmen arguing philosophy in a dorm room. Alan kept sliding forward in the booth, one knee vibrating like a tuning fork. He feels too much, Henry thought, fascinated. And while they talked on, Henry formed an organized fantasy in his mind. He pictured Alan and himself killing a woman together, maybe Kate, maybe someone neither of them had met yet. And they were taking their time in killing her and arranging her. And they were splitting her down the middle. And no one ever would know why except the two of them. Corbin would know, though. Corbin would know exactly what was happening. Then the fantasy passed, and Henry felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of shame, as though those thoughts constituted not infidelity, exactly, but something like desperation. The need to take a singular experience and try and replay it with someone else.

  “You okay?” Alan said.

  “I am. Sorry,” Henry replied. “I get these moments when everything seems nor
mal, the world exactly as it should be, then I realize that she’s not in it anymore. Audrey’s dead. And the world hasn’t stopped with her.”

  Alan’s lips were pursed. He nodded his head in understanding. Henry straightened up, felt as though he was seeing Alan for the first time properly. He wasn’t another playmate. He was a patsy. The perfect patsy. “Sorry, man,” Henry said. “I keep talking about myself, and Audrey. What about you? You must have a girlfriend.”

  Alan hesitated. Henry wondered if he was about to mention what he had done with Kate the night before. Instead, he said, “Nothing much to tell. I had a girlfriend. We lived together, and she moved out. But you don’t need to hear about that.”

  “No, please. I want to hear about it. I want to just stop thinking about my situation for a moment. Please, tell me.”

  Alan spoke while Henry thought. Maybe this guy really should be the patsy. All along, Henry had thought that he wanted Corbin arrested for the crime of murdering Audrey Marshall. Maybe not arrested, but suspected. It was all part of the game they were playing. But maybe he didn’t really want Corbin arrested. And it wasn’t just because Corbin would try and finger him for his part in the crimes. He could handle that. It wouldn’t be easy to track down Henry Wood these days. Not impossible, but not easy, not since he’d legally changed his name. It would sound as though Corbin were making up a bogeyman. But, no, Corbin in prison was not really what Henry wanted. It was more fun to play with something when it wasn’t in a cage.

  Henry formed a plan, then turned his attention back to Alan, who was sputtering along about someone named Quinn. Their eyes met, and Alan suddenly stopped talking, as though embarrassed. He excused himself to go to the bathroom.

  Henry moved fast. The bar was empty except for two men, both in button-down shirts, sitting at the bar and watching sports highlights on the television. He removed the knife, still in its plastic bag, from his backpack. It had been reckless to hold on to the murder weapon for so long, but now it was going to come in handy. He pulled it from the plastic bag, pinching the blade between the sides of his fingers so as not to leave prints. Alan had brought a leather bag with him, about the size of a briefcase. Henry opened it. Inside was a computer tablet, a book—The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle—and a thick wad of unopened envelopes, mail he hadn’t dealt with yet. Henry dug toward the bottom of the bag. A small, black umbrella nestled there, and Henry slid the knife underneath it, returning the bag back to the way it had been, just as Alan came back into the bar. “I should go,” he was saying.

  “Sure. I understand,” Henry said. They paid the bill at the bar, each contributing cash, then walked out together, Alan slinging his bag over his shoulder.

  Henry made the call to the Boston Police Department Tips Line from a pay phone near the Tufts Medical Center. He wore gloves to touch the phone, just in case.

  “I know who killed Audrey Marshall,” he said to the man who answered the phone.

  “Can I get your name, please, sir?”

  “I’d rather not say. I’m calling from a pay phone because I’m scared.” Henry let his voice, pitched a little higher than usual, noticeably tremble.

  “Can I ask you what you’re scared of?”

  “I’m scared of Alan Cherney. He lives in the same building that Audrey Marshall lived in, and I’m pretty sure he killed her.”

  “Can you tell me his apartment number?”

  “I can’t. I don’t know it. But he lives right across from where she lived. It’s not hard to find out. All you need—”

  “Okay, of course. We’ll look it up. It will be easy to find out. Can you tell me why you think Alan Cherney was involved in Audrey Marshall’s murder?”

  “Because he has the knife that killed her. It’s in his bag.”

  Henry hung up and, keeping his head down, walked away from the phone. He hadn’t seen any surveillance cameras around, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Chapter 35

  When he got back to his apartment, Henry put on New Order’s Brotherhood as loud as he thought he could without getting a complaint. He’d known, as soon as he hung up the phone, that he’d made the right decision. It was time to take some of the heat off Corbin. Even if Alan wasn’t convicted, Henry had muddied the waters. It was going to be fun to follow it from afar. His work was done, for now.

  He took a long, stinging shower, then dressed, replayed the album, and lay down on his made-up bed. He was going to miss Kate. When he’d left the apartment that morning he’d only thought of it as a temporary absence. Still, it was best that he stayed away. He closed his eyes, flexing one foot in time to the music. He floated on his river, cool and refreshing, and fell asleep while he was still on the surface, bobbing along, contented, maybe even happy.

  He woke in a dark apartment, cold and shivering. He’d slept too long, and when he sat up the air felt liquid and he nearly lay back down again. He was plagued with doubts. Had he gone too far with the call to the police? Alan Cherney didn’t know his real name—he’d just said “Jack,” hadn’t he?—but he could describe him. And so could Kate. She could draw him, as he knew. Henry decided that his involvement with Kate and Corbin and Alan was now done. He’d set his traps, and it was time to walk away. He’d been extraordinarily lucky so far—the near miss with the police this morning—and for the next few weeks he wouldn’t leave his apartment except to go to his office in Newtonville.

  He made himself a cheese sandwich and drank a glass of milk, then went to unpack his backpack. He carefully laid out everything he’d brought to Kate’s house. His extra shirts, the gloves, his outdoor hat, his antiperspirant, his granola bars, the empty bottle in case he ever needed to empty his bladder while hiding, his antislip socks with the rubber grips, his night vision goggles with the head strap, and his sheathed filleting knife, brand new. It was all accounted for except for the Lycra ski mask he slept in so as not to leave hairs behind. He searched the pockets of his backpack, then the pockets of his pants and his jacket. It was nowhere. He remembered pulling it on the night before when he’d been sleeping under the guest room bed. It had gotten warm in the night and he’d pushed it up to his hairline. That was his last memory of the ski mask. It must have slipped off his head in the night, and was probably still under the bed. Where else could it be?

  He headed back out into the night.

  Before returning to Kate’s apartment to look for his ski mask, Henry visited Audrey Marshall’s place one more time. He knew it was his last chance.

  He stood in the dark kitchen, breathing the air, remembering . . .

  Not the work of cutting her—no, that had been hard—but the way she had looked when she was done, cut open, an arm outstretched to point toward Corbin’s apartment. There was so much spilled blood on the floor that the floor simply looked red, a shining pedestal for a girl who got involved with the wrong man. Henry closed his eyes and stood absolutely still for a moment, savoring the moment. With his eyes closed, he felt invisible, the way a child thinks they’re invisible because they can’t see anything themselves. Except that children were wrong, and Henry was right. He was invisible. Almost, anyway. No one could see him but Corbin. And Corbin could do nothing about it.

  He went back down the stairs to the basement corridor, then up toward Corbin’s apartment. As he neared the top, he felt a tiny ripple in the air, and thought he heard the click of a door closing. He paused and listened for a while. Nothing. Then he climbed the remaining stairs and paused outside the door that led into the apartment. He listened for a long time. Just as he felt confident enough to open the door, there was the sound of movement, the pad of steps. Henry sat on the top step and waited. He could be patient. All he needed to do was enter the apartment, go to the guest room for his ski mask, and then leave.

  He heard a flush, the sound of water moving through the building’s walls. He thought he heard steps again, then it was quiet. He waited for what felt like twenty minutes before folding his hand around the doorknob and turning it. The door was unlocked. He
was pleased, but wary. It was the first time he’d found it that way. Had Kate simply forgotten? He swung the door open and stepped into the moonlit kitchen. The apartment was quiet. He shut the door behind him and walked toward the living room, turning into the hallway that led to the guest room. Muffled sounds plus a flickering light at the end of the hall told him the television was on, which meant Kate was probably asleep on the couch in front of it. Henry ducked into the bedroom, lay down on the plush carpet next to the bed, and felt with his outstretched fingers along the spongy fibers for his lost ski mask. Shifting himself farther under the bed, he found the bunched-up hat. Relief swept over him. Once he was standing, he shoved it into his jacket pocket. He was about to leave the bedroom when he sensed movement in the hallway. Kate must have gotten up. But, no, it was coming the other way. Henry stepped back, watching shadows move along the doorframe. Whoever it was entered the room with the television. Henry, feeling trapped in the bedroom, moved rapidly the other way down the hallway toward the living room, where he stopped and turned. He felt better in the cavernous dark. There was a large armoire near the front door and he stood next to it, waiting in its shadow.

  Who else was in here? He guessed it was Alan, coming over for a repeat of the night before. Still, he waited to find out what would happen, listening intently, but all he could hear was the muffled sound of the television.

  And then Corbin appeared, unmistakable, even with short hair. He was in the hallway, coming forward, and something dropped down the center of Henry, like a rock sinking through water. It was fear, but it was also excitement.

  “You came,” Henry said to Corbin. It was something he’d said to him a hundred times in fantasies, wanting Corbin to know that he had summoned him, that he was the one pulling on his strings. It was all worth it, Henry thought, no matter what happens next.