by R. L. Stine
But I only ordered coffee. I didn’t really want anything. I just wanted to know why Tommy was acting so mysterious. And I needed to know that Shelly had been locked up.
I’d found Tommy at the end of the long bar, Corona in hand, eyes on the Yankees game on the wall TV. He was wearing a shiny blue sports jacket over an open-collared white shirt and jeans, and he looked more hangdog than ever with at least a day or two of stubble on his long, lined face.
I had to tap him on the shoulder to take his attention away from the game. He wiped beer foam off his mustache with one hand and motioned me to a narrow, wooden booth with the other.
I ordered coffee and leaned across the initials and graffiti carved into the hardwood tabletop. “Please— don’t keep me in suspense. What happened?”
Tommy patted me with a hand cold from his beer. “We took your friend Shelly into custody. He was there in his apartment, waiting for us, I guess.”
“So he didn’t chase after me.”
Tommy shook his head. “He didn’t put up any kind of struggle. Said he was ready to confess.”
Something good must have happened in the baseball game. Two preppy-looking guys at the bar let out a cheer and gave each other a high-five.
Tommy didn’t glance back at the TV. He kept his eyes on me. “Shelly confessed to murdering six women.”
I gripped the coffee mug. “I . . . could have been number seven. I could be dead.”
Tommy shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He had a smile on his face. What was so funny?
“He told us he met the women on the Internet. You know. Dating Web sites. Like you did. He gave us the names of the women. He even had their addresses. He knew them by heart.”
“Knew the addresses by heart?”
Tommy nodded. He signaled to the waitress for another beer. “We checked them out, Lindy. And the women are all alive.” He stared at me, waiting for my reaction.
I stared back. He wasn’t making any sense. “Tommy, give me a break here. I don’t understand.”
“The women are all alive. Shelly only murdered them in his imagination.”
“You’re joking.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t be more serious. He’s a psycho, all right. But a harmless psycho, as far as we can tell.”
“But . . . the body parts?”
“He made those. Carved ’em or something. Some of them came off mannequins.”
“But he confessed?”
“Yeah, the poor guy is totally delusional. He lives in a fantasy world. Turns out he has a history of confessing to crimes. Confessed to twelve murders in New Jersey about five years ago. He spent time in a mental hospital there. Did he tell you he’s a writer?”
“Yes. I begged him to let me see what he writes, but he never would.” My hands were shaking. I clasped them together tightly on the tabletop.
“Well, we found a lot of writing samples when we searched his apartment. They were murder stories. They were all about him murdering some woman and cutting off her hair or her fingers or something.” Tommy made a sour face. “Sick stuff. Not even that well written.”
I shook my head. I felt dazed. I’d really considered Shelly a friend. I’d confided in him! He was so funny, so energetic, so . . . crazy.
Tommy finished his second beer and set the bottle down on the table. “He even wrote a story about murdering you, Lindy.”
“Oh no,” I whispered. “I don’t believe it.”
“In the story, he strangled you in your apartment, left you on your bed, and went home to find another victim on the Internet.”
“Sick,” I whispered. I lowered my gaze, picturing Shelly at the dance club, Shelly in my apartment, meeting Shelly for the first time at that bar, thinking he was Colin.
“Yeah, a real sicko,” Tommy agreed. “But a murderer only on paper. He never killed anyone. Lucky thing, huh?”
“Well, yeah.”
“When we confronted him with the truth, he said he could kill if he had to. Then he said he didn’t want to kill you. But he had no choice. He said he liked you so much, he’d kill for you—if he hadn’t already killed you. What a fucked-up bastard.”
“Pardon your French,” I said. “Isn’t that what cops say after using foul language in front of a woman?”
A weary smile crossed his lips. “Only on TV. But I’m glad to see you’re getting your sense of humor back.”
I sighed. “I don’t think I’ll laugh about any of this for a long time, Tommy. Where is Shelly now? He’s locked up, right?”
He nodded. “Bellevue. You’re safe, Lindy. Hey, you want to grab an early dinner somewhere?”
“No. No thanks,” I muttered.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay then. Case closed.”
He stood up, but something was bothering me. “Tommy, what about my underwear?”
He squinted at me.
“You know. Stolen from my apartment. Did Shelly have it?”
“We didn’t find it, Lindy. Buy yourself some new panties.”
I squeezed out of the booth. “But don’t you think—?” I started.
Tommy turned at the door. “We got the creep, Lindy. Now go have a nice life.”
43
That night we celebrated the end of the mystery. Luisa called in sick, and the three of us headed right to the bar at Calle Ocho, a big, noisy, sleek Latin-style restaurant on Columbus Avenue, my favorite restaurant in New York.
We were feeling pretty good after two or three mojitos. “We should do this every night,” Luisa said. She laughed. “Maybe I’ll quit my job.”
“I’m already drunk,” Ann-Marie confessed. “Isn’t that pathetic? On only two mojitos?”
“Four,” I said. “But who’s counting?”
“Let’s keep right on celebrating in the Hamptons this weekend,” I said.
“We should give up men and stick to drinking,” Ann-Marie said, stirring the sugarcane stick in her glass. She removed it, licked it, then slid it back and forth in her mouth, moaning in pleasure.
“Gross,” Luisa said.
“I’ve seen worse,” Ann-Marie said.
We all laughed and ordered another round.
“I knew it was Shelly all along,” Ann-Marie said, taking my hand. “I knew it had to be him. He was so . . . what’s the word?”
“Nice?” I said.
“Yeah. Nice.”
“You can’t solve the mystery after it’s already been solved,” Luisa told her.
“Well, who did you think it was?” Ann-Marie asked.
“The quiet one,” Luisa said, without having to think. “Jack? The boring one? It’s always the quiet ones, right?”
“I didn’t have a clue,” I said, shaking my head. “Not a clue. That’s what was so frightening.”
Ann-Marie took a long sip from her straw. “Well, now you can dump them all.”
“Except for Colin,” I said. “He may be a keeper.”
Luisa frowned at me over her glass. “How can you like someone so straight? He’s a stockbroker or something, right?”
“It’s the dimple in his chin,” Ann-Marie said. “He probably had that done.”
“That’s sssstupid,” I said. Why was the room tilting up and down? “I’m going to that party Thursday night. You know. The business party Colin invited me to. That should be weird.”
Ann-Marie squinted at me. “If you’re so into him, why don’t you invite him to the Hamptons this weekend?”
“I’m not ready for that,” I said.
The waitress leaned over us. “Another round?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Why not?” Ann-Marie said, holding up her empty glass. “It’s New Year’s, isn’t it?”
The waitress stared at her. “In June?”
I bought a new dress for Colin’s party, a sleek Donna Karan number, your basic little black dress. It was low-cut in back and came down only to mid-thigh, and with a silvery chain belt, the high-heeled black silk Jimmy Choo
pumps I’d bought on sale, a beaded bag I’d borrowed from Ann-Marie, the opal necklace my mother had left me, and my hair in a French braid, I was feeling sexy and elegant.
I could see a lot of eyes on me as I walked with Colin through the crowd of well-dressed people. Come on, I’m used to it, but tonight I felt sophisticated and beautiful, and didn’t care if people stared or ogled me. I’m a New Yorker, I thought with some pride, and tonight for a change I’m part of the New York party scene.
I couldn’t figure out why Colin was acting so stressed. It was just a crowded, noisy party, after all, and he looked pretty elegant himself in a navy pinstriped suit, a pale blue shirt, and a red Ferragamo tie I recognized from magazine ads.
His wavy hair fell over his forehead, and he had even shaved his dark, stubbly beard close so that his skin was smooth and shiny.
But his hand was too cold and sweaty to hold. And he kept clearing his throat and smiling an uncomfortable smile at me, patting away perspiration on his forehead even though it was cold inside the museum.
He had picked me up in a black Town Car with a driver and had struggled with small talk as we made our way through evening traffic, across Central Park to the museum. After telling me how awesome I looked three or four times, he started spouting information about the Temple of Dendur, as if he was some kind of tour guide.
Yes, the Temple was built out of sandstone blocks in 15 B.C. in Egypt. And yes, the Aswan Dam caused the waters of the Nile to flood, which meant the Temple would soon be completely submerged. So the Egyptian government gave the Temple to the United States in 1965.
“This is the cool part,” Colin said. “They shipped the Temple to the Metropolitan Museum block by block. But the museum had no place to put it. So these ancient blocks sat outside in the grass behind the museum for eleven years until they built a wing to hold it.”
Um, hi, Colin. Remember, I went to school in New York City? We used to visit the Temple of Dendur all the time. When I was eleven or twelve, after Mom died, my dad even liked to bring me here. We’d walk around the wading pools filled with pennies, and we’d gaze out the glass walls at the park and the playground across the street. And sometimes we’d walk slowly, circling the Temple and Dad would tell me about the Ancient Egyptians and how they worshiped and the mystery of how they ever built their amazing buildings.
It was a beautiful room for a party, the long glass wall looking north and the sky so low overhead, the long, white-clothed tables set up on both sides of the Temple with tall platters of shrimp and lobster salad and filet, the waiters carrying champagne flutes on silver trays.
Colin started talking to a group of people, and I had to pull his sleeve to remind him to introduce me to everyone. And then a middle-aged man with a very young woman at his side approached, and Colin introduced me and we chatted about the party for a short while.
“That’s my boss,” Colin whispered when they’d moved on. I started to say something, but he turned to get us some champagne. We clinked glasses and then tilted them to our mouths.
Colin spilled some champagne down his chin. “Why are you so klutzy tonight?” I asked.
He twisted up his features. “I’m cute when I’m klutzy, don’t you think?”
“Kind of,” I said, laughing.
“I’m just . . . not my best at parties.” Then he whispered in my ear. “I’m better one-on-one.” His lips brushed my cheek.
“Well, just relax. Everyone seems so nice.”
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to work with them.”
“Have some more champagne,” I said. “That’ll put you in a better mood. I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
I handed him my champagne flute and made my way through the crowd. I had to ask a museum guard where the ladies’ room was. He pointed down a long corridor that stretched through part of the Egyptian wing. I found it easily at the end of the hall. No one else was there. I took a little time to straighten my hair and redo my pale lip gloss.
A minute later, I thought I was returning through the same hallway, but I must have made a wrong turn. I stopped and listened. No. I couldn’t hear the party from here.
I turned to go back. Where did I make my wrong turn?
There were no guards to ask. I followed the hall into a vast display room; dimly lit cases revealed vases and pottery parts, carved cats staring out at me from behind the glass with blank eyes, graceful pitchers, a sculpted bird, pale yellow, with its head down, wings raised, ready to attack.
Squinting in the dark, I nearly bumped into a giant stone sarcophagus. Was there a mummy inside? I didn’t want to see. Why couldn’t I hear the party from here?
I stared at the sculpted bird, frozen in midair, its beak open, anticipating its prey. On the far wall, I saw a dimly lit, red and white EXIT sign.
I was nearly to the open doorway when I heard a cough behind me and the soft scrape of footsteps on the carpet. I spun around. No one there.
Strange. I listened hard. No. No one.
I turned back to the exit, and clutching my little beaded bag, took a few steps—and heard a harsh, whispered cry:
“Lindy, don’t say no. Don’t ever say no to me.”
44
I gasped. “Colin—is that you?”
No answer. I heard footsteps behind me, rapid now.
I glanced back. Too dark to see. The bird in its lighted case stared out at me, wings raised, body arched to attack.
I turned and ran into the wide corridor. I blinked in the bright light, the orange walls a blur.
“Don’t ever run from me!” a raspy whisper from close behind.
My heels clonked the hard floor as I tried to run in them.
“Don’t run, Lindy. I’ll fuck you up. I’ll fuck you up bad if you run from me!”
“NO—!” I screamed. “Colin? Is that you ?”
I let out a cry as a stab of sharp pain shot through my head, my body. Stunned, I staggered back.
A glass case. I’d crashed headfirst into an empty glass case. Dizzy now, I stumbled off my heels. Fell to the floor. Head spinning. Waves of pain rolling over my forehead, down the back of my neck.
I shut my eyes and willed away the pain. And when I opened them, Colin stood over me, breathing hard, sweat making his forehead and his dark cheeks glow. Colin held me tightly, almost fiercely, by the arms, eyes locked on mine. “Are you okay? Lindy, are you okay?”
And then I lost it. I jerked my arms free. “Colin? Was it you?” My voice shrill and angry. “It had to be you. But—why? Why did you chase me?”
And then I remembered our dinner downtown near Ground Zero. I was chased that night, chased for blocks down those dark, empty streets. And then when I’d escaped from my pursuer, Colin reappeared, acting innocent and concerned.
“Why did you want to scare me? Why did it have to be you, Colin?”
He stepped back, arms tensed at his sides. I could see other people behind him, streaming out from the Temple room, eager to see what the commotion was. “Lindy, just sit down, okay? I think you’ve had a concussion.”
“Why did you do it, Colin? It wasn’t Shelly. He only imagines horrible things. It’s been you all along!”
Colin glanced back at the crowd. I could see the embarrassment on his face. “Lindy, what are you accusing me of? You’re not making sense. You’ve hit your head. Listen to me—”
But I was up and running now, carrying my shoes in my hands, plunging barefoot through the museum.
Did he come after me? I glanced back once but I didn’t see him.
I burst out of the museum, down the steps, onto Fifth Avenue, into the warm, fresh air and the night noise of the city, into the back of a taxi . . . and home.
“Why did it have to be Colin?” The ocean wind felt cool and soothing on my hot face. I undid my hair scrunchie and let my hair fly behind me as we walked.
“Why Colin? The only one I liked,” I said, shouting over the crashing waves. “You should have seen his face. Pretending he didn’t k
now what had happened to me. So totally innocent. But he couldn’t pull it off. I could see the truth in his eyes.”
Ann-Marie slid her arm around my bare shoulders and brought her face close to mine, so close I could smell the beer on her breath. “He’s history,” she said. “Did you call your cop friend?”
“I left a message. But I don’t really have any proof, do I?”
Ann-Marie stopped walking. “Hey, I think I just saw a shooting star!”
I raised my eyes to the night sky, charcoal gray with wisps of milky clouds floating under stars, stars, stars. A silvery half-moon sat low over the ocean, lighting the waves as they crashed onto the sand.
“That’s good luck, isn’t it?” Ann-Marie asked, her neck still craned, eyes on the sky. “Isn’t seeing a shooting star good luck?”
I sighed. “I hope so.” We started walking again. “That was the worst party.”
“Some of the guys were cute,” Ann-Marie said.
“They were kids!” I exclaimed.
“Well . . . so?”
That evening, some guys invited us to a party a few houses down the beach. Luisa had her own plans, but Ann-Marie insisted we go, partly to take my mind off Colin and partly because she’s desperate to meet new guys.
So after dinner, we trooped down the beach to the party, and at first we thought we were in the wrong house because it was all teenagers, about thirty or forty of them. The guys who invited us weren’t there. In fact, we didn’t see anyone over sixteen or seventeen.
Talk about a not-happening scene. Two of the guys actually asked Ann-Marie and me if we would go buy beer for them because they didn’t have good fake ID’s.
Not our night.
We got out of there in a hurry. Ann-Marie said we should jump in the car and go to one of the dance clubs in town. After all, we were already dressed to party. “We’ll have six or seven Cosmos—my treat. Then we’ll get laid, and we’ll both feel better in the morning.”
I laughed. “You’re such an optimist.”
We ended up hanging out on the beach instead. We met some guys who weren’t bad. They wanted to put on wet suits and go for a night swim. But the idea made me shudder.
