A tap on the wall. Toilet paper, probably. I sighed, and began to roll up a wad I could hand under the flimsy divide between us. I wish people would check before—
A tap on the other wall. Adrenaline washed through me, as sickening and sudden as the warmth down your leg when your bladder lets go. Another tap, and another higher up, and another, and a shadow began to coalesce on the ceiling, where someone, or something, was creeping up the wall to the gap.
My shoulders turned to concrete. I could not move. It’s aiming to kill you.
I needed my stick. But if I pulled it to me it would know I was here.
It already knows you’re here …
I breathed, great gusts, in and out, in and out, and ran through the sequence in my head. Bend, grab the stick, pull it up and stand, pull up pants with one hand, open door, run.
I bent, pulled the stick—and it pulled back, so hard I nearly went over. I yanked with two hands, crashed back into the opposite wall, scrabbled at the door, and bolted. Silky laughter followed me as I burst into the main room, eyes staring, shirt hanging out and pants askew.
Outside, the night was warm, but I could not stop shivering. I sat on the step and texted Christopher.
* * *
I TURNED OFF THE LATE NEWS. Somewhere in the night I heard the faint whistle of a train. Car doors thunked down the street and people shouted goodbye; a neighbor’s well-wined dinner guests were leaving. Not Josh; his guests would likely be stoned and peaceful, not drunk. I listened until I was sure they were gone, that there would be no stealthy steps up my path. Eventually I breathed more evenly. My legs ached but I didn’t want to move; Rip had just curled up tight on my lap. The inside of her left ear was a swirl of creamy fur. Like cappuccino.
I stroked her, over and over, while she breathed under my hand. I had not talked to anyone all day. I had not left the house, even for the paper; it was still out on the sidewalk. This was how it felt to turn into a crazy old cat lady, the kind with six locks on the door and bones like sticks, the ones with the pinched faces who won’t let anyone in the house, who call the police every time the guy from the gas company comes to read the meter. But they weren’t crazy; they had good reason to be afraid. Old people were mugged and robbed and beaten all the time. They knew there were monsters. They were vulnerable. Like women, like children and small animals. Like cripples.
That morning the mail that plopped through my front door had included five pieces of junk mail. Three of them had the fake initial. I couldn’t stop it now. It’s aiming to kill you. And I doubt you’ll stop it. Instead I had made it easier, offering names and addresses neatly listed. What would the oldest woman in the world with MS do? Set her pug on the crip-torturers and cackle while it savaged their ankles? But a fat, wheezy pug could not win against work boots, and a tire iron would make short work of her ruined raisin face.
I went to bed early, but like last night, and the night before, it took a while to get to sleep. And then I woke up thinking: Maybe it’s not my list. I’d made assumptions about that man’s intentions toward what turned out to be his wife. Maybe I was wrong about this, too.
I got up and began to dig through my spreadsheets, looking for commonalities. Age: Doug and Lory were both over fifty-five. Maybe they were on a list for older people? I couldn’t think what. AARP? I made a note. Something to check later. Maybe they were on one of those terrible fake-peer-support pharma lists. I looked at their profiles, what meds they were on: Avonex and Aubagio. Different manufacturers. Not that, then. And maybe this was all coincidence. Two data points do not make a trend. I should be grateful to Rip for interrupting my message to Slack admitting liability. It might not be my fault.
But I still couldn’t sleep. I got on Twitter. I sent a warning.
Nothing anyone could use against me; nothing actionable.
* * *
JULY. Day and night the air was like warm, sticky syrup. Off the prednisone, I felt hollow. Even with the modafinil I had no energy. I did not want to go back to the co-working space. I did not want to go to the dojo. I did not want to talk to Rose. Josh waved once or twice, and I knew now he noticed more than he seemed to. I’d got his number from Rose; in an emergency I could text, but I didn’t want to talk to him. The only person I wanted to talk to was the oldest woman in the world with MS. I wanted to ask: How do you survive? How come you’re still alive?
Barbra in Dubuque didn’t respond to one of my DMs. She was as regular as clockwork: every night around nine, a bright little set of tweets about what inspiration she had gained that day and from what source. She was a flake who thought vaccines gave children autism and the government could control your mind. But she was our flake. She hadn’t missed a day in months.
Nothing.
… the smell of cigarettes as he steps into the living room, rain shining in his hair. The list crackles in his pocket …
I got up, cranked up the air, and sat again at the laptop. I checked the PAWS list; she was on it. Not taking any meds I knew of.
Three data points did make a trend.
I used the landline—it felt more formal somehow—and got her number from information. As the phone rang and rang and rang, the places went through my head like a train-track rhythm: Minneapolis, La Crosse, Dubuque. Minneapolis, La Crosse, Dubuque.
My hand wrapped around the phone got colder and colder. Minneapolis, La Crosse, Dubuque …
I felt something on my shin and jerked back, half expecting the wheezing pug. But it was Miz Rip with her paws against my leg, mewing. I looked down at her and for one horrible moment I didn’t know what she was. Cat, I thought. Then, My cat. Then, How long have I been sitting here? I was still holding the phone. I couldn’t move my hand. The knuckles were white and the skin mottled purple and blue. Death grip. No, not yet.
The AC was roaring. I was half frozen.
Imagine you’re getting into the bath. Imagine warm water rising up your legs, your hips, your waist. Relaxing your muscles. Now your back, elbows, shoulders, neck …
The phone fell on the rug. I could still hear the faint, endless ring on the other end. Rip sniffed it, then jumped when it started that awful shrilling howl. I turned it off and picked her up carefully, felt my hands warm. Carried her over to the thermostat, turned off the air.
I made myself coffee, very hot. While it cooled I called the chief’s number again. Again I left a message. Paced. Looked at my phone. Nothing. Looked at the photo of the young me, back on the wall, now without glass. No glass meant no reflection; this way there was no chance of seeing anything that wasn’t there. But without glass the young me looked naked and alone. On display with no protection. How had that old woman survived so long? What would she do in my position?
Minneapolis, Minnesota; La Crosse, Wisconsin; and Dubuque, Iowa. They had crossed state lines. I looked up the FBI contact info. No phone number, just an online tip form with a 3,000-character limit. I had to leave out things I thought were important.
After a bit of digging I found the phone number of the local field office and phoned. Straight to voicemail. I began a long, detailed message that was cut off after ninety seconds.
I imagined the old woman getting ornery. Maybe that’s what it took. I could do that. I called back. And again, but it was hard to stay coherent in such small bits. The coffee was beginning to work. I thought for a bit, then wrote the whole story in 250-word chunks, complete with an introduction with my name and contact info, the subject matter—Hate Crime Murders Across State Lines—and the fact that I would be leaving multiple messages, each numbered and in order. I timed them, rewrote some bits. Then I called eleven times, and read, enunciating clearly, until I had given them every last detail.
It might be a waste of time. Most probably they would not eve
n call back. I knew how it would go if they did. A grown woman left her own house? And you expect us to do what, exactly, ma’am?
Nothing. They would do nothing, because no one ever did. They just watched, glad it wasn’t them. And often they could not see the thing that pursued us. Perhaps they did not believe it existed. But I had to try. Because I was the one who had laid the trail for the monsters.
I needed to talk to a human being, feel their breath, the vibration of their voice. The presence of others kept the monster at bay. I texted Christopher. No response. I called. He let it roll to voicemail.
I called the chief again. I told her I needed to report a hate crime but no one would take my calls, that I’d keep calling, every hour every day, until she responded. If I didn’t hear from her in twelve hours I’d go to the media—if the media would still talk to me. Last time I’d sent a press release I’d had one tiny squib in the AJC Tuesday community roundup, in the same paragraph as the record-breaking sales of Girl Scout cookies by the Dunwoody troop.
My phone chimed: a text. Hey, Mara. Not going around chain of command on this one. Go through Hernandez.
That’s who I was now: the cripple to be brushed off, of no more account than a twelve-year-old selling cookies.
I called the AMSS. It took two hot transfers and a call back before I even got the number for Wendy the counselor. It took her a moment to remember me. “Mara, right. You came to us once but never came back.”
“Do you remember the old woman with the wig, and the dog?”
“The older woman? Of course—Junie. Junie’s a pistol. She’s been here longer than I have, longer than any of us. But she doesn’t have a dog.”
“It’s a pug. With a yellow collar.”
“No—”
“It wheezes, gets in people’s purses.”
“I’m sorry, Mara. Maybe you’re thinking of some other group?”
“It was right there while the guy with—while Matt was talking about his numbness.”
“I remember that. But you’re mistaken. The DeKalb Community Center does not allow pets except registered support animals.”
So that explained why no one took notice of the dog: it was against the rules. “Maybe you could give me her email address. Or phone number.”
“We don’t give out contact information.”
“Does she, does Junie still go to the group sessions?”
“I can’t give you that information, either.”
“I won’t tell about the dog.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
She was very good. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I would have believed her. “No, of course not. But just this once—”
“Ms. Tagarelli.” Her voice was sharp. She softened it immediately. “Mara. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. So let me be very clear: in my group sessions there are not and never have been any dogs.”
The dog was there. It wasn’t a hallucination. The old woman had talked about it. But no one else could see it. I did not understand. How could something be real and not real?
I looked at the wall, touched the new table, my cold coffee mug. They were real, weren’t they?
* * *
ROSE AND I HAD LUNCH at Murphy’s while the ceiling fans turned overhead and tanned bodies in tight cutoff tees showing taut bellies moved past the tables, and bright, white-toothed laughter rang through the room. I felt very distant. Disconnected. Minneapolis, La Crosse, Dubuque. That was real, wasn’t it?
“How’s Aiyana?”
She thinks I’m paranoid and my life is an urban legend, if she still thinks of me at all. “I don’t know.” I turned over the spoons so I could not see anything reflected in them. But when I picked up my water glass a face leered at me from behind my left shoulder and I banged it down hard enough to slop.
“Mara, I’m worried about you.”
I mopped at the mess with my napkin.
“You haven’t eaten any of your lunch.”
I picked up a piece of bread obediently.
“And you’re using two canes, now. You look terrible.”
Minneapolis, La Crosse, Dubuque. They were coming for me.
“Christopher says you haven’t been in all week. Mara? Mara!”
“What?”
“What’s wrong with you? You’re like a zombie. And what’s with the spoons? You’re getting sicker, you haven’t been in to work, and now you act as though I’m not here.” She leaned toward me. Her eyes were very bright. “It’s my birthday today, have you forgotten?”
I stared at her blankly. Birthday. What do birthdays have to do with being stalked? But she didn’t know it was coming for me, it was already in me, turning me into a doily brain, eating me from the inside.
And then the brightness in her eyes overflowed and dripped down her cheek. I reached out, touched the tear. It was warm. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m worried about you.” She wiped the tear away with the heel of her hand. “I read your cards.” Perhaps she wanted me to ask what they said. But I didn’t believe in them. And even if I did, I didn’t want to know. “What’s happening with you?”
I think I’m losing my mind. I think MS is eating my brain. I think I’m being hunted. Or haunted. But I don’t believe any of that. Belief is not data. It’s not real.
She put her wet hand on my wrist. Anchored me.
I tried. “You were cross because I wasn’t facing my fear. But it’s not … I can’t … How can I face something that’s stalking me?” Playing with me. “That’s coming.”
“What? Who’s coming?”
It. But I could not tell her about that. Like the dog, it was real and not real. “The men who killed Doug.” They were real. And I’d written them a personal invitation.
She poured hot water in a cup, added a tea bag. “Here, drink this. But keep talking.”
“Doug was killed in Minneapolis.”
“That horrible torture case in May? The guy with MS?”
I nodded and sipped at the tea. It burned my mouth but I didn’t want to pick up the water glass again to get ice. “He was on my mailing lists. And then a woman in La Crosse—a woman with MS, on my mailing lists—was robbed.”
“Your mailing lists?”
“It’s all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t attack them. It’s no one’s fault but the attackers’. Isn’t that what you used to say? Anything else is blaming the victim.”
I could not disagree. But it was still my fault.
“Was she hurt? The woman in La Crosse.”
“She wasn’t there. But all her Avonex was carefully smashed and put back in the carton. It was the same men.”
“They did that at Doug’s house?”
“No,” I said impatiently. Couldn’t she see?
“But then how do you know it was them?”
“It just was. I know.”
“Drink some more of your tea, Madame Zara.”
“It’s too hot. But it was them. I know it was. There’s something … calculated in what they do. Sadistic.”
“They’re probably just meth heads who have fried their brains.” She pulled my tea over to her side of the table and added a little milk.
“And now I think they’ve got someone else. A woman who lives in Dubuque. She’s tedious, but she shouldn’t have had to die like that.”
She pushed the tea back to me. “It was on the news?”
“No.” I sipped at it. It was better with milk.
“Did someone call you?”
Nobody calls me anymore. “She didn’t reply to my message.”
“She didn’t reply to your—And you think that means she’s lying in pieces around her backyard?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Okay, Madame Zara. Did you call the police?”
“I called the FBI.”
“The—okay. And what did they say?”
“Nothing. They won’t say anything. They’re like everyone else. They t
hink I’m a paranoid cripple.”
She was looking at me the same way she used to when I ranted on about men and their violence and how they beat and raped us because they could. “Maybe this one will be a false alarm, too.”
* * *
IT WASN’T. It was on my news feed. This time they burned all the evidence, including Barbra. The fire was so severe that six other apartments had gone up, and the whole complex had been evacuated. I called Rose first. She did not pick up. “Watch MSNBC,” I told her voicemail. “The apartment complex in Dubuque. They got her.” It’s aiming to kill you. And I had laid it a trail.
Then I called the police and told them I was coming in.
Michaels turned out to be younger than I’d expected from his tired voice. He was sipping coffee at his desk, surrounded by stacks of files flagged with Post-it notes. I limped over. He stood up long enough to clear off a chair. He was tall, rangy. The hand he waved for me to sit was big and dark-knuckled. “I can spare five minutes. We had a double homicide this morning.” His clothes were rumpled but he was freshly shaved. I wondered if he kept a razor in his desk. “You say you’ve got some evidence this time.” He didn’t talk to me in that sympathetic, reasonable tone people use with cripples and children. Perhaps when you’d learned even a nine-year-old could shoot you, you never took anything for granted.
“Another woman on my mailing list was murdered.”
He sipped at his coffee.
“And it’s the same people.”
“What’s your evidence?”
“How much evidence do you need? Two murders, one break-in. All on my list. All in a straight line.”
“A straight line to you?”
“It’s not just about me.”
“How many people on your list?”
“It’s not coincidence.”
“How many?”
“About twenty-eight thousand.” More than a thousand joined just last month, mostly via Facebook. More this month, too, but I hadn’t looked at the totals.
“So say one murder per fifteen thousand.” He rubbed his jaw. “The murder rate in the U.S. last year was four-point-nine per hundred thousand. That works out at…”
So Lucky Page 10
