Shiver

by Michael Prescott

  “One moment, please.”

  Delgado waited.

  Could it be this simple? This blessedly, damnably simple?

  “Detective.” Panic was jumping in Khouri’s voice. “Yes. It was the same man each time.”

  “His name, please.”

  “Franklin Rood.”

  “Is he there today?”

  “Why ... no. He called in sick.”

  Bang.

  “Did you speak with him when he called?”

  “No. He telephoned my office before the start of business and left a message on my answering machine.”

  “What was his reason for missing work?”

  “Illness. Nothing specific. I have no reason to mistrust him. He’s one of our most reliable people.” Khouri was babbling now. “He’s been with us for over two years. I started him in Audiovisual”—Delgado thought of the cassette recorder and mixing board used to make the tapes—“and then one day we were short-handed in Jewelry, so I transferred him there, only temporarily, you understand.” The mythical gryphon was a guardian of jewels; had Rood thought of that? “But he was so good with the wristwatches, and they make up half our receipts at that counter. You know how small the batteries are, how difficult to work with, yet he pops them in, just like that. He has such big hands, but a delicate touch.” Delicate enough to pick locks. “So I left him there, even though it is perhaps unusual for a male salesperson to be stationed at that counter, but our female customers never minded, because, you see, Mr. Rood is unfailingly courteous, extremely polite... .”

  Polite. The same word Wendy had used to describe the man who tossed a loop of steel wire around her neck. A man careful to address his victims as Miss or Mrs. while he tightened that wire to choke off their lives.

  “Mr. Khouri,” Delgado interrupted, “would you kindly give me Mr. Rood’s home address?” Khouri did so. Delgado scribbled down a number and street in West L.A., near the intersection of Bundy Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. “Very good. Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch with you again shortly. In the meantime, please do not discuss this matter with anyone.”

  “You ... you think he’s the one, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t said that.”

  “I can see how it must look to you. But let me assure you, Mr. Rood cannot possibly be responsible. He’s not a killer, not the type at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s considerate of everyone. Always punctual. Very neat. You should see him, every morning before the start of business, dusting the display case, whistling and ... and ...” Khouri gasped. “Oh, God in heaven. God in heaven.”

  “Mr. Khouri? Are you all right?”

  “The display case. Detective.” There was horror in his voice now. “The display case.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s full of ... of heads. Styrofoam heads with black velvet skin. They’re all around him every day, and he dusts them off, dear God, and he whistles. Rows and rows of women’s heads.”

  28

  Wendy stepped into the trailer warily, the way she would have entered a house choked with gas fumes or a cellar smelling of rot. There were no windows, and the only light came from the doorway at her back, the brittle translucent light of the desert. Then the door closed, shutting out the sun, and she experienced a sudden sensation of falling, which came from the wordless certainty that she would never see daylight again.

  She felt a hand close over her arm with a tender, affectionate squeeze. The Gryphon guided her forward, into the middle of the room, navigating around obstacles she couldn’t see. She heard him unshoulder the drawstring bag and deposit it heavily on something soft and yielding, perhaps a bed.

  Metal clicked. A jet of flame sprang from the cigarette lighter in his hand. She watched, motionless, still holding the two shopping bags from the trunk of the car, as he lit the candles scattered throughout the trailer’s interior.

  The narrow tunnellike space was a single room, forty feet long, eight feet wide, nine feet high. It was no more than a shell of steel, like a storage shed, with no bathroom or kitchen, no built-in amenities of any kind. Gray short-nap carpet covered the floor. Sheets of corkboard lined the walls and ceiling. Cork, Wendy knew, was often used for soundproofing. What went on within these walls that the Gryphon didn’t want passersby to hear? Too many possibilities occurred to her, none good.

  A futon was stretched along one wall. Near it stood a bookcase, the kind made of pressed wood with simulated grain, put together from a do-it-yourself kit. The shelves were stocked, not with books, but with boxes of Ritz crackers, bags of Doritos and Lay’s potato chips, and bottles of soda pop and mineral water. Beyond the bookcase was a table piled high with picnic plates, Styrofoam cups, paper napkins, and plastic utensils, as well as more food: jars of Skippy peanut butter, bags of Oreo cookies, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and a litter of candy bars.

  On another table, against the opposite wall, three boombox-style cassette players were displayed. The speakers had been detached; the speaker wires ran along the floor, crawled up the side of the large storage cabinet next to the table, and disappeared under the lumpy white sheet that draped the cabinet as if it were a body in a morgue.

  Not far from where she stood, four metal folding chairs were arranged around a card table dressed in a red-and-white-checkered vinyl tablecloth. Two candles in silver holders flanked a plastic floral centerpiece. The Gryphon lit those candles last.

  She looked around at the trailer that had become her prison. The candles’ flickering glow rippled over the walls and ceiling like rain shadows.

  “So what do you think?” the Gryphon asked.

  “It’s very nice. Very ... homey.”

  “I know you’re going to be happy here, Wendy.”

  Her name sounded obscene sliding out of his mouth, filthy and slimy, a pale mucid earthworm emerging from its hole.

  She forced a smile. “I’m sure I will.”

  The twenty-five-minute drive from the gas station to the trailer, most of which had passed in silence, had given her time to think. She’d decided her best hope of survival was to agree with everything he said. If she could mollify him, humor him, go along with whatever he wanted, then maybe he wouldn’t kill her. Maybe.

  She was pretty sure he’d been serious when he claimed to feel something like love for her. Of course it wasn’t love in any terms a normal person would understand. He seemed to regard her not as a human being but as a toy, a plaything, like ... like one of those life-size inflatable dolls sold as masturbatory aids.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Wendy.”

  She realized he was watching her face. “Oh, nothing,” she answered lightly.

  “No, no. When I say, ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ you have to tell me what you’re thinking. It’s a rule, see? A rule for lovers.”

  “I see. Well, I was just thinking that ...” Make it good. “That, as nice as this hideaway of yours is, it sure could use a woman’s touch.”

  “Which is precisely why you’re here. To make my special place even more special.” He grinned. “You can put those bags down now. Gently, please.”

  She’d forgotten she was holding them. She placed both shopping bags carefully on the floor near the card table.

  When she looked up, she saw the Gryphon slip his sunglasses into his pocket, then put on an ordinary pair of glasses, which he hadn’t worn before. Thick-lensed glasses with heavy black frames. They struck a chord of memory in her.

  Gazing at him in the alley, she’d had the feeling his face was familiar; now she was certain of it. She’d seen this man before. And when she had, he’d been wearing those black-framed glasses—yes—glasses that had caught the amber glow of a computer terminal’s display screen.

  The clerk at Crane’s. That was who he was.

  “You,” she whispered.

  He smiled at her. “Recognition at last.”

  “You sold me the necklace.”

  “It wasn’t much of a sales job. You wanted it quite badly
. And it looked lovely on you too. I saw you wearing it when you came home last night.” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Shame you don’t have it with you.” His face brightened. “Hey, I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a new necklace, just like the old one. And a beautiful new dress too; we can’t have you wearing that plain gray skirt in here. Not that there’s anything wrong with your outfit, but I want you to look your very best for me. What’s your size?”

  “Four.”

  “I’ll remember that. Tomorrow, when I’m in the department store, I’ll buy you a gorgeous evening gown, and then when I come here after work, you can dress up for me. Won’t that be fun?”

  “I’m sure it will. I love getting new clothes.”

  “Women always do. They need to feel pretty and feminine. It’s in their nature, the same way a man needs to feel strong.”

  Smiling happily, he shrugged off the brown coat and tossed it on the futon, next to the drawstring bag. Despite the uniform, he looked nothing like a policeman to her now. She wondered how she could ever have been fooled.

  “In a moment I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

  She had no appetite whatsoever. “Starved.”

  “First, however, I have a little chore to take care of. It won’t take long.”

  He lifted one of the shopping bags off the floor and set it down on the card table. Holstering the Beretta, he turned his back to her and leaned over the bag.

  She tensed.

  He’d just made a mistake.

  The pistol’s checkered plastic grip shone in the candlelight. Almost within her reach.

  “Unfortunately,” he was saying, “lunch won’t be anything fancy. You see, I’ve got no electricity here, no refrigerator or stove, so I’m limited in what I can prepare. I’ve been meaning to buy one of those portable generators, but I never seem to get around to it.”

  “I’m sure”—her voice was steady—“whatever you make for me will be fine.”

  She took a step toward him.

  “Well, it won’t be as tasty as what you’re used to, I’ll bet.” He reached into the bag with both hands. “You must be a wonderful cook.”

  “Not really.”

  Another step.

  The holstered automatic was inches away.

  “Oh,” he said pleasantly, “you’re just being modest. I’m sure you can cook the pants off me.

  Hey, that’s a funny way of putting it, don’t you think? Cook the pants off—”

  She lunged for the gun. Her fingers closed over the handle. He spun to face her, and his hands flew free of the shopping bag and scrabbled at the holster—too late.

  Wendy aimed the pistol at him from a foot away.

  I did it, a voice in her mind exulted from a great distance. I did it, did it, did it.

  “All right,” she said tensely, “put your hands up.” The words a legacy of every TV crime drama she’d ever watched.

  He stared at her, his eyes almost comically wide, his mouth hanging open. Then he took a shambling step backward and thumped into the card table. The shopping bag fell over with a thud and whatever was inside rolled toward the edge.

  “Come on, come on.” She was losing patience. “Put them up in the air.”

  He went on staring, staring.

  “Do it!” she screamed. “Do it, or I’ll shoot!”

  His eyes narrowed. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. A calm, almost beatific smile.

  “No, you won’t, Wendy,” he said with quiet certainty.

  “Raise your hands.” A tremor skipped lightly over the words. She noticed that the gun was shaking. “Goddammit, raise them right now.”

  He shook his head. “It’s no use. I know you won’t kill me. You can’t. And do you know why? Because, deep down, you love me, just as I love you. Oh, you may not want to admit it yet, even to yourself. But your heart knows how you really feel.” He reached out with one hand. “Now give me the gun, and let’s quit all this foolishness.”

  She drew back the hammer with a sharp click. The sound was loud in the room.

  He froze. She could read the bewilderment in his face, the hint of fear.

  “Hey, Wendy, come on. Don’t joke around.”

  She looked into his eyes.

  “Hands up, you asshole,” she whispered. “Or I’ll blow a fucking hole in you. I swear to Christ I will.”

  He swallowed. She saw his adam’s apple jerk once.

  Slowly, very slowly, he began to lift his hands from his sides.

  “Come on,” she breathed. “Get them up there.”

  His hands were level with his shoulders.

  “Over your head.”

  As she watched, he raised his hands higher, still higher.

  Wendy was sure she had him now. Oh, yes. She’d done it, all right. She’d taken control of the situation. The only thing left to do was—

  A sharp crack, like a handclap in the silence.

  Automatically she glanced down. An object was rolling on the floor. Something large and round and horribly familiar, which had dropped from the shopping bag on the card table. It came to rest at Wendy’s feet, staring up at her with green eyes. Jennifer’s eyes.

  Her head. Jennifer Kutzlow’s head.

  For one second Wendy was paralyzed by shock, and in that instant the Gryphon struck.

  He grabbed the Beretta and jerked it sideways. Her finger squeezed the trigger reflexively. The gun went off like a bomb. She screamed. The recoil kicked her backward, loosening her grip, and the gun was ripped out of her hand. She stared into the black hole of the muzzle at point-blank range. The killer’s face loomed behind it, twisted into an extremity of hatred.

  “Bitch,” he whispered. “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.”

  He shoved her against a wall, then pressed the muzzle to her forehead, bearing down painfully hard, as if trying to push the gleaming blue-black barrel right through her skull.

  Why didn’t you shoot him when you had the chance? she was screaming to herself in helpless, hopeless terror. Why, Wendy? Why?

  She waited for the gun to explode in her face. She could feel his index finger bearing down on the trigger. Could feel it.

  Then, incredibly, the pressure on her forehead eased. Slowly he withdrew the pistol, then jerked his head in the direction of the card table.

  “Sit down,” he snapped.

  Heart thumping, she sat in one of the folding chairs.

  “Now I’m going to look at my trophy. The one that fell on the floor because of you and your ... your irresponsible behavior. And if I find that it was damaged in any way, why, then I’ll just have to find myself a substitute, won’t I? Guess what that means, Wendy. Just guess.”

  She didn’t have to guess.

  Holstering the automatic once more, he knelt and examined Jennifer’s head with a connoisseur’s eye. Wendy stared at the head as he turned it over and over in his hands. It looked almost unreal, a wax replica, the smooth skin shiny in the candles’ wavering glow. The long neck, severed at its base, was stiff and straight like the stem of a mushroom.

  Finally he rose to his feet, cupping the head in both hands. She waited for his verdict.

  “You’re lucky,” he breathed. “She’s still fine. Still beautiful.” A smile flashed, lizard-quick. “Of course, not as beautiful as you.”

  Wendy said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Gingerly he placed the head on the table. From the second shopping bag he removed another head. Wendy recognized the woman’s face from TV news reports. Elizabeth Osborn, the Gryphon’s third victim.

  Then it occurred to her that she had carried those bags into the trailer, had felt their contents swinging lightly against her calves as she mounted the stairs. She shuddered.

  The Gryphon opened the hinged doors of the storage cabinet and took out two large glass jars half-filled with a colorless liquid. He unscrewed the lids and dropped the heads in.

  “Formaldehyde,” he told her conversationally. The anger was go
ne from his voice. “Strictly speaking, formalin. Mixture of formaldehyde, water, and methyl alcohol. They use it to preserve biological specimens. You know, frogs and stuff.”

  And stuff, she thought numbly. Yes. And stuff.

  He replaced the lids and left the jars on the table. Wendy shifted her gaze from one to the other, unable to stop looking at the pale dead things inside. With their floating strands of kelplike hair and mushroom white flesh, the two pickled heads no longer looked human at all; they reminded her instead of some bizarre species of plant life cultivated in the darkness of this trailer like fungus in a basement.

  The Gryphon admired his specimens for a long moment, then turned to her. He was outwardly composed, though a little sad.

  “You really were going to shoot me, weren’t you?” He seemed astonished, as if he couldn’t bring himself to fully accept the idea. “You were ready to pull the trigger.”

  “I ... I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Wendy. Remember, love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

  She tasted something bad at the back of her mouth. She kept silent.

  “I’m not asking for an apology. I simply want to know why you chose to act the way you did. I’ve said I love you. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then ... why?”

  “I’m afraid of you,” she answered. She didn’t know what else to say.

  Her answer didn’t seem to offend him. If anything, he looked vaguely pleased.

  “I understand. They all are. They should be,” he added, lowering his voice to inject a brief, stressed note of menace. “They. But not you. I won’t hurt you, my darling.”

  She shivered, hearing those words from his mouth.

  “I would never, ever hurt you,” he said. “Unless ...” He looked at her with less fondness than before, his glasses glinting in the candlelight. “Unless you make it necessary.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. You’re a fighter, Wendy, and I admire that, but even so, there is a limit to what I’ll put up with.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  He sighed. “I wish I hadn’t been so rough with you a few minutes ago. But I had to get hold of that gun before one of us got hurt.”