Fear Itself
Page 15
“You robbed me,” Dave Collins said in an easy, steady voice. “You helped steal my soul. I almost lost it altogether, but it was stronger than you. Stronger even than I could have guessed. Since you tried to destroy it, it’s only fair you help bring about its renewal.”
Raucher grunted. The wound hadn’t started to hurt yet, but he knew it would. He had seen the glitter of light on the serrated edge of the knife in its arc towards him, felt it puncture his gut—oh, God, why was he doing this? But the psychologist couldn’t speak to ask Collins.
“Come with me, Doctor.” Collins half carried, half dragged Raucher up the street, watching with fascination the trail of blood that dribbled along in their wake, abstract dabs on the rain slicked pavement. He kept the knife in the doctor, his hand pressing it in place. He knew if he were to withdraw it, the blood would wash out of Raucher, spill onto the street in a great, steaming torrent. But that wouldn’t do; it would be wasteful. He only need wait a few moments longer and he would be able to savor it all.
Collins smelled the cigarette smoke at the mouth of the alleyway and paused. Somebody in there? Dave smiled. More food for the beast. He continued on his way, the cool of the rain dripping down his neck a delicious contrast to the blood warmth oozing over his fist as he gave the knife just a little tug, biting deeper into Raucher’s flesh and increasing the flow.
“Got yourself another one, Davey?”
Collins laughed some more and said “Hiya, Bill,” to Hardin, who leaned casually against the alley wall, a soggy cigarette dangling from his puffy lips.
“I came looking for you at your place, man. Good thing for you I did, too,” Hardin said, shaking his head. “A fucking blind man could’ve figured it was you offed your wife. But,” he smiled, “I did a little clean-up, wiped away a few fingerprints, and bah-dah-bing, you can play it all innocent and grief-stricken when the cops start asking questions.”
“Thanks, Billy. You’re a pal.” Collins dropped Raucher’s body behind the shelter of some garbage cans and knelt beside him. He looked up at Hardin. “How’d you know I was here, man?”
“The white pages, man. You left it open to the page with his name, with your bloody fuckin’ fingerprint under his address. Sloppy shit, man, but I got rid of it for you. You’re gonna have to be more careful if you’re gonna make a habit of this, start picking people at random.”
“Son of a bitch.” Collins’s eyes were wide. “You know about the beast, don’t you?”
Hardin shrugged. “Remember you said I thought it was cool to sell my soul to the devil and I told you I had other priorities?”
“Yeah?” Raucher started to thrash around on the ground.
“Well, maybe I chose hedonism over writing, but that’s just me. You gotta write, but all you’re gonna produce is shit if you’re pussywhipped into sanity. You didn’t want it to happen, but the civilians talked you into it.”
Collins glanced at Raucher as the psychologist yelped, regaining his wind and finding his voice. Collins cursed and slashed the knife once, hard, across Raucher’s throat, then turned his attention back to Bill Hardin.
“The beast?”
Hardin started to flick the cigarette butt to the ground, but thought better of it and held it in his cupped hand. “It’s no beast, man. Beasts are ugly. What you got here is beautiful. “
Collins nodded and squeezed his eyes shut in ecstasy, near tears. He knows, it howled inside him, sharing his joy. “It is, Billy. She’s just so fucking beautiful.”
“That’s what I figured,” Hardin said, his voice a soft, sad whisper. “She’s why you wrote the way you did when you were at your best. She’s the inspiration that kept you going. You had her … and I wanted her, man. I was so fucking jealous, and then so angry when you turned your back on this incredible creature … and I still couldn’t have her. I never will, because she’s always wanted you. She kept after you even after you stopped caring.
“Now you’re back together with that bloody, beautiful bitch who’s gonna make you brilliant again. And you know what’s fucked, man? I’ll bet you don’t even know her name.”
Collins smiled. “I do now, man. She’s my muse.”
Bill Hardin nodded and pushed away from the wall. “That’s the one, Davey. So, you got shit to do now. Meet me at the bar after?”
“Yeah.” Collins looked down at Raucher and started to cut open the psychologist’s shirt. “I got a lot of catching up to do there.”
“Cool.” Hardin patted the kneeling Collins on the shoulder as he passed by on his way out of the alley. “Don’t forget to clean up and ditch the bloody clothes before you go prancing around in public, man.”
Collins laughed. “I know what I’m doing, Billy.”
“Yeah. Now.”
“Now’s what counts.”
“Welcome back, Davey.” Hardin slipped around the corner and disappeared into the night, and was, for the moment, forgotten as Dave Collins turned to emBruce his muse. He had forgotten how good it felt to be folded in her warm, raw emBruce.
Mommy
Max Allan Collins
The mother and daughter in the hallway of John F. Kennedy Grade School were each other’s picture-perfect reflection.
Mommy wore a tailored pink suit with high heels, her blond hair short and perfectly coifed; pearls caressed the shapely little woman’s pale throat, and a big black purse was tucked under her arm. Daughter, in a frilly white blouse with a pink skirt and matching tights, was petite, too, a head smaller than her mother. Their faces were almost identical—heart-shaped, with luminous china-blue eyes, long lashes, cupid’s bow mouths, and creamy complexions.
The only difference between them was Mommy’s serene, madonna-like countenance; the little girl was frowning. The frown was not one of disobedience—Jessica Ann Sterling was as well-behaved a modem child as you might hope to find—but a frown of frustration.
“Please don’t, Mommy,” she said. “I don’t want you to make Mrs. Withers mad at me …”
“It’s only a matter of what’s fair,” Mommy said. “You have better grades than that little foreign student.”
“He’s not foreign, Mommy. Eduardo is Hispanic, and he’s a good student, too …”
“Not as good as you.” Mommy’s smile was a beautiful thing; it could warm up a room. “The award is for Outstanding Student of the Year.’ You have straight A’s, perfect attendance, you’re the best student in the Talented and Gifted’ group.”
“Yes, Mommy, but …”
“No ‘buts,’ dear. You deserve the Outstanding Student’ award. Not this little Mexican.”
“But Mommy, it’s just a stupid plaque. I don’t need another. I got one last year …”
“And the year before, and the year before that—and you deserve it again this year. Perhaps it’s best you go out and wait in the car for Mommy.” She looked toward the closed door of the fifth-grade classroom. “Perhaps this should be a private conference …”
“Mommy, please don’t embarrass me …”
“I would never do that. Now. Who’s your best friend?”
“You are, Mommy.”
“Who loves you more than anything on God’s green earth?”
“You do, Mommy.”
The little girl, head lowered, shuffled down the hall.
“Jessica Ann …”
She turned, hope springing. “Yes, Mommy?”
Mommy shook her finger in the air, gently. “Posture.” “Yes, Mommy …”
And the little girl went out to wait in their car.
Thelma Withers knew that trimming her room with Christmas decorations probably wasn’t politically correct, but she was doing it, anyway. She had checked with Levi’s parents, to see if they objected, and they said as long as there were no Christian symbols displayed, it was okay.
For that reason, she had avoided images of Santa Claus—technically, at least, he was Saint Nicholas, after all—but what harm could a little silver tinsel around the blackboard do?
Looking over her shoulder, Mrs. Withers said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sterling. I hope you don’t mind if I continue with my decorating …”
“We did have an appointment for a conference.”
What a pain this woman was. The child, Jessica Ann, was a wonderful little girl, and a perfect student, but the mother—what a monster! In almost thirty years of teaching, Thelma had never had one like her—constantly pestering her about imagined slights to her precious child.
“Mrs. Sterling, we had our conference for the quarter just last week. I really want to have these decorations up for the children, and if you don’t mind, we’ll just talk while …”
“I don’t mind,” the woman said coldly. She was standing at the desk, staring at the shining gold wall plaque for “Outstanding Student of the Year” that was resting there. Her face was expressionless, yet there was something about the woman’s eyes that told Thelma Withers just how covetous of the award she was.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Withers turned back to her work, stapling the tinsel in place.
The click clack of the woman’s high heels punctuated the sound of stapling as Mrs. Sterling approached.
“You’re presenting that plaque tonight, at the PTA meeting,” she said.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Withers said, her back still to the woman.
“You know that my daughter deserves that award.”
“Your daughter is a wonderful student, but so is Eduardo Melindez.”
“Are his grades as good as Jessica Ann’s?”
Mrs. Withers stopped stapling and glanced back at the woman, literally looking down her nose at Jessica Ann’s mother.
“Actually, Mrs. Sterling, that’s none of your business. How I arrive at who the Outstanding Student’ is is my affair.”
“Really.”
“Really. Eduardo faces certain obstacles your daughter does not. When someone like Eduardo excels, it’s important to give him recognition.”
“Because he’s a Mexican, you’re taking the award away from my daughter? You’re punishing her for being white, and for coming from a nice family?”
“That’s not how I look at it. A person of color like Eduardo—”
“You’re not going to give the award to Jessica, are you?”
“It’s been decided.”
“There’s no name engraved on the plaque. It’s not too late.”
With a disgusted sigh, Mrs. Withers turned and glared at the woman. “It is too late. What are you teaching your daughter with this behavior, Mrs. Sterling?”
“What are you teaching her, when you take what’s frightfully hers and give it to somebody because he’s a ‘person of color’?”
“I don’t have anything else to say to you, Mrs. Sterling. Good afternoon.” And Mrs. Withers turned back to her stapling, wishing she were stapling this awful woman’s head to the wall.
It was at that moment that the ladder moved, suddenly, and the teacher felt herself losing balance, and falling, and she tumbled through the air and landed on her side, hard, the wind knocked out of her.
Moaning, Mrs. Withers opened her eyes, trying to push herself up. Her eyes were filled with the sight of Mrs. Sterling leaning over her, to help her up.
She thought.
Jessica Ann watched as one of the JFK front doors opened and Mommy walked from the building to the BMW, her big purse snugged tightly to her. Mommy wore a very serious expression, almost a frown.
Mommy opened the car door and leaned in.
“Is something wrong?” Jessica Ann asked.
“Yes,” she said. “There’s been a terrible accident … when I went to speak to Mrs. Withers, she was lying on the floor.”
“On the floor?”
“She’d been up a ladder, decorating the room for you children. She must have been a very thoughtful teacher.”
“Mommy—you make it sound like …”
“She’s dead, dear. I think she may have broken her neck.”
“Mommy …” Tears began to well up. Jessica Ann thought the world of Mrs. Withers.
“I stopped at the office and had the secretary phone for an ambulance. I think we should stay around until help comes, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mommy …”
An ambulance came, very soon, its siren screaming, but for no reason: when Mrs. Withers was wheeled out on a stretcher, she was all covered up. Jessica bit her finger and watched and tried not to cry. Mommy stood beside her, patting her shoulder.
“People die, dear,” Mommy said. “It’s a natural thing.”
“What’s natural about falling off a ladder, Mommy?”
“Is that a smarty tone?”
“No, Mommy.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Withers would want you speaking to your mother in a smarty tone.”
“No, Mommy.”
“Anyway, people fall off ladders all the time. You know, more accidents occur at home than anywhere else.”
“Mrs. Withers wasn’t at home.”
“The workplace is the next most frequent.”
“Can we go now?”
“No. I’ll need to speak to these gentlemen.”
A police car was pulling up; they hadn’t bothered with a siren. Maybe somebody called ahead to tell them Mrs. Withers was dead.
Two uniformed policeman questioned Mommy, and then another policeman, in a wrinkled suit and loose tie, talked to Mommy, too. Jessica Ann didn’t see him arrive; they were all sitting at tables in the school library, now. Jessica Ann was seated by herself, away from them, but she could hear some of the conversation.
The man in the suit and tie was old—probably forty—and he didn’t have much hair on the top of his head, though he did have a mustache. He was kind of pudgy and seemed grouchy.
He said to Mommy, “You didn’t speak to Mrs. Withers at all?”
“How could I? She was on the floor with her neck broken.”
“You had an appointment …”
“Yes. A parent/teacher conference. Anything else, Lieutenant March?”
“No. Not right now, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Mommy said. She stood. “You have my address, and my number.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I got your number.”
He was giving Mommy a mean look but she just smiled as she gathered her purse and left.
Soon they were driving home. Mommy was humming a song, but Jessica Ann didn’t recognize it. One of the those old songs, from the ‘80s.
It was funny—her mother didn’t seem very upset about Mrs. Withers’ accident at all.
But sometimes Mommy was that way about things.
Jessica Ann loved their house on Rockwell Road. It had been built a long time ago—1957, Mommy said—but it was really cool: light brick and dark wood and a lot of neat angles—a split-level ranch style was how she’d heard her Mommy describe it. They had lived here for two years, ever since Mommy married Mr. Sterling.
Mr. Sterling had been really old—fifty-one, it said in the paper when he died—but Mommy loved him a lot. He had an insurance agency, and was kind of rich—or so they had thought.
She had overheard her Mommy talking to Aunt Beth about it. Aunt Beth was a little older than Mommy, and she was pretty too, but she had dark hair. They reminded Jessica Ann of Betty and Veronica in the Archie comic books.
Anyway, one time Jessica Ann heard Mommy in an odd voice, almost a mean voice, complaining that Mr. Sterling hadn’t been as rich as he pretended to be. Plus, a lot of his money and property and stuff wound up with his children by (and Mommy didn’t usually talk this way, certainly not in front of Jessica Ann) “the first two bitches he was married to.”
Still, they had wound up with this cool house.
Jessica Ann missed Mr. Sterling. He was a nice man, before he had his heart attack and died. The only thing was, she didn’t like having to call him “
Daddy.” Her real daddy—who died in the boating accident when she was six—was the only one who deserved being called that.
She kept Daddy’s picture by her bed and talked to him every night. She remembered him very well—he was a big, handsome man with shoulders so wide you couldn’t look at them both at the same time. He was old, too—even older than “Mr. Sterling—and had left them “well off (as Mommy put it).
Jessica Ann didn’t know what had happened to Daddy’s money—a few times Mommy talked about “bad investments”—but fortunately Mr. Sterling had come along about the time Daddy’s money ran out.
When Jessica Ann and her mother got home from the school, Aunt Beth—who lived a few blocks from them, alone, because she was divorced from Uncle Bob—was waiting dinner. Mommy had called her from JFK and asked if she’d help.
As Jessica Ann came in, Aunt Beth was all over her, bending down, putting her arm around her. It made Jessica Ann uneasy. She wasn’t used to displays of affection like that—Mommy talked about loving her a lot, but mostly kept her distance.
“You poor dear,” Aunt Beth said. “Poor dear.” She looked up at Mommy, who was hanging up both their coats in the closet. “Did she see …?”
“No,” Mommy said, shutting the closet door. “I discovered the body. Jessica Ann was in the car.”
“Thank God!” Aunt Beth said. “Do either of you even feel like eating?”
“I don’t know,” Jessica Ann said.
“Sure,” Mommy said. “Smells like spaghetti.”
“That’s what it is,” Aunt Beth said. “I made a big bowl of salad, too …”
“I think I’ll go to my room,” Jessica Ann said.
“No!” Mommy said. “A little unpleasantness isn’t going to stand in the way of proper nutrition.”
Aunt Beth was frowning, but it was a sad frown. “Please … if she doesn’t want …”