by Bassoff, Jon
I made my way toward the first bedroom, which had been converted to a study. Several bookcases lined the walls and they were filled with titles like The Intelligent Investor; Technical Analysis of the Financial Markets; and Full of Bull: Do What Wall Street Does, Not What It Says, To Make Money in the Market. Various diplomas and more vanity photographs (a grinning Turner shaking hands with wealthy clients) hung from the wall. On the desk were several folders filled with reports and graphs and uncashed checks. The trash cans were empty, and there were no damning memos left on the pad of paper centered on his desk.
Now onto the bathroom and there were no anti-depressants or Preparation H or laxatives. Only a well-scrubbed toothbrush, a new tube of toothpaste, dental floss, a black comb, and men’s vitamins. And in the kitchen, only the healthiest of foods: fruits and vegetables and milk and fresh meat. A virile man, this Dan Turner, and how could any woman resist that bleach-white grin?
Finally I came to the master bedroom. Here the bed was neatly made with a half dozen throw pillows at the top and a mink blanket folded at the bottom. In contrast to the living room, the furniture was white and minimalistic. A vase filled with fake flowers rested on the dresser. In the corner was a white shell chair. The blinds were open, and I could see the cityscape peeking through the fog. I paced around the room for several minutes, and I was soon filled with an emptiness that matched the décor.
I sat down on the bed, on top of the mink blanket, and rubbed at my scalp. My skull buzzed with exhaustion, but the ambiance of the city soothed me, so soon I lay down, folding my hands beneath my head. I stared at the trowel-textured ceiling and breathed deeply. The world meant nothing, was “a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury,” but I remained its slave. I squeezed my eyes shut and for a moment, just a single moment, I saw an image of a woman’s face pass behind my lids, and she was beautiful, and she wasn’t Claire, and I wanted to cry because I didn’t know who the woman was, didn’t know if the memory was mine.
A voice: You’re just like your old man. You’ve always been just like your old man.
I jerked my head sideways. Nobody else was here. It was my own mind filled with disturbances. My eyes spotted something on the nightstand. It was an envelope addressed to Turner. I reached across my body and picked it up. The envelope had already been opened, but the letter had been placed back inside. With curious fingers, I pulled out the letter written in lovely penmanship on a piece of stationery. It was dated from only three days previous. The paper shivered slightly as I read:
My Darling Dan,
I know this is old-fashioned of me, sitting down to write a letter. Do people do that anymore? Easier to go to the store and buy a Hallmark card, I suppose. But these days (for obvious reasons) I stay out of public places, and I doubt those ingenious greeting card poets would be able to find the right words or place them in the right order. Because this letter—should I call it a love letter?—must start with a confession. It’s difficult to write, but I must. You see, there were nights, not so long ago, before we met, when I couldn’t bear another waking moment, when I longed for the everlasting darkness. A handful of pills, I figured, a blade to the throat, a bullet to the brain. Never again would I feel the breath from my lips. Never again would I feel the pain in my soul. Never again. Oh, yes, I fantasized! And more than that, I schemed. Because, let me be honest, there was real happiness and hope in imagining death. Because when you know it’s all about to end, when you’ve got nothing left to lose, nothing can really frighten you anymore. Well, that’s not entirely true. The actual act of dying scared me. Yes. That’s it. I wasn’t afraid of being dead—how could it be any worse that being alive?—but I was scared of suffering. I began having this recurring nightmare where I’d dive from a bridge, but right before splashing, the water would transform to concrete and my head would slam into it. I wouldn’t be dead, though. I would still be alive, only paralyzed. I’m sure those terrible dreams were why I put off killing myself for such a long time…
But with enough pain, with enough humiliation and hopelessness, came a morsel of courage. It was Christmas Eve—one of those cold, windy nights. Despite the temperature, I put on a black evening gown and, of course, my black veil. My funeral outfit, I called it. I got a lot of strange looks and whistles as I walked toward the promenade of the East River. And then I was alone. For a long while, I sat on a wooden bench, staring across the river at the twinkling factory lights. A barge floated by, its horn echoing through the winter night. Then I gazed up at the bridge. It was high and menacing. If I tried—my nightmare withstanding—I was sure I wouldn’t survive the fall. And even if I did for a moment, I’d be pulled under by the tide and the filthy water would fill my lungs and put me to sleep. And as I considered it, strange images started passing before my eyes. Memories from childhood: the sound of my mother gently calling my name one cold winter morning when I was under the covers, half-asleep; the walk to school in the morning with my brother as the shopkeepers swept and washed the sidewalks; me singing louder than anybody else in a school musical. And then memories from the previous months, memories of him, of Anthony, and those memories seemed just as distant. For some reason, I could barely remember his face.
Yes, I was left with only memories and no future. What kind of life would it be forever covered with a mourning veil? The water crashed against the promenade, and I rose from the bench and started walking dreamily toward the bridge. A soft breeze blew and my dress swayed. Up above, I watched the cars rushing by so fast. Then, as I neared the cement staircase that led to the top of the bridge, I stopped. I can’t say why exactly. But I got down on my knees and started talking to God. And the strange thing was that I hadn’t prayed since I was a little girl. I wasn’t asking for strength or anything like that. Instead, I was telling God how much I hated him, how he had broken all the promises he had made in the Bible, and how I hoped to spend my days burning in hell instead of being forced to spend eternity with him. That’s what I told him. But then, at the last moment, I asked him for a favor. I asked him to give me a sign. I swear I did. If my life was meant to be lived, I asked him to give me a sign. Anything. I got off my knees and started walking up the steps, like a death row inmate marching toward the electric chair. Did he hear me? Did God, the invisible puppet in the sky, hear my plea? I don’t know. What I do know is that right before reaching the bridge something caught my eye. I stopped and glanced back down toward the promenade. That’s when I saw you. You looked like an angel standing beneath a light diffused by the mist. Your hands were buried in your pockets and you were staring toward the dark water. How did you see me? How did you know? As if in a dream, you turned and started walking in my direction and I knew you were coming for me. It seemed like hours as I waited for you. So handsome in your black trench coat. And then you were upon me. You reached out and touched the lace of my veil and you whispered, “Not yet.” The tears streamed instantly down my cheeks. And when you pulled back the veil, I wondered if maybe I was already dead, if the sign from God had come too late. But you looked upon my face and said, “My heart love till now for sweared sight, for I never saw true beauty till this night.” The words of Shakespeare, but did you know those words saved my life? Did you know that you saved my life?
And so, to you, a stockbroker by trade, it is only fair that I, too, quote Shakespeare. Can you name the play? “I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”
Until the next time our lips touch!
Love, love, love,
Claire
And that was it. There were no more words. Carefully, I returned the letter to the envelope and set the envelope on the nightstand. Then I lay back on the bed and squeezed my eyes shut and now all I could see was blood.
CHAPTER 20
The city sky had turned to coal, and I knew that Turner might be returning soon. Now that I understood the scope of their relationship, I wanted to know more about him, wanted to understand the appeal, wanted to scratch around until I located th
e dirty details of his life. Because it’s always the people with the most pristine exteriors who are concealing the filthiest interiors. And so I pulled myself up from the bed, breathed deeply a few times and continued my search through the apartment.
I rifled through drawers and beneath the mattresses and rugs. There were no crumpled editions of Hustler or stashes of cocaine. One more look in the study, and I was beginning to fear that Turner was perfect and that he and Claire would live happily ever after. Once more, I opened up drawers and reached inside searching for something, searching for anything. And then this happened.
Adjacent to a grouping of pigeonholes was a section of wood an inch or two shallower than the rest of the panels. It was only by chance that my forefinger felt a slight depression in the wood. Curious, I pressed firmly, and a wooden panel popped open. Concealed beneath the panel were tiers of small drawers, and in those drawers were photographs. Dozens and dozens of photographs.
Sitting in Turner’s chair, I thumbed through the photographs slowly, felt the bile rising in my throat. In each of the photographs appeared a man (was this Turner himself?) wearing an expressionless white mask and performing lewd acts on badly deformed women. Never before had I seen images so relentlessly disturbing. See the woman with a face burned beyond recognition getting hammered from behind. Or another one with both arms missing sucking on the masked man’s swollen member. Or the freak with the protruding forehead and snaggletooth pinned to the floor. All types of deformities were represented: scorched skin and lesions and missing limbs and misshapen skulls and extra eyes. There was one woman with a tail and another with fused fingers.
I didn’t make it through all of the photos—I couldn’t—so eventually I placed them back in the drawers and snapped the panel back in place. And for a long time I sat in that chair staring into space. So this was the man Claire loved? This was the man to whom she was quoting Shakespeare? My mind was racing in a million different directions. What was clear was this: Claire Browning loved Dan Turner. And Dan Turner was a sick man.
But what I couldn’t figure was Turner’s angle. He obviously was aroused by the grotesque. Yet, Claire Browning was anything but. So why would he have gone out of his way to save her, as Claire had detailed in her letter? And then a terrible thought came to the forefront of my consciousness. What if Turner aimed to transform Claire into something monstrous? What if he wanted to add Claire to his grotesque collection? It was horrific to think about, but everything had to be considered here. While I was trying desperately to immortalize her beauty, was it possible that Turner was ready to destroy it? Yes, I was certain that was it. It all made sense. The world was teeming with evil, and Turner was its prince.
And so what steps were necessary to stop Turner, the monster in our midst? I considered contacting Claire and warning her about Turner but quickly dismissed that idea. She didn’t know me, didn’t trust me, and if I appeared in her apartment building again, she would surely call the police. No, I had to deal with Turner myself. But how?
Before I could process an answer, I heard a faint rattling coming from the hallway, a jiggling of the door. Dan Turner was home.
* * *
It was strange, but I didn’t panic, not really. Instead, I looked around the room, searching for my best option. Only the closet. Quickly, I rose to my feet and strode across the room. I slid open the door and pushed my way inside. The closet was filled with boxes and cartons and reams of paper. My body was pressed tightly against the door. Still, as long as Turner didn’t need to access the closet, I would be temporarily concealed.
If he had gone anywhere else—to his bedroom or the bathroom or the kitchen—I would have been able to perhaps sneak out unseen, but after the front door opened and closed, I could hear his heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor getting louder and louder. I knew that he was entering the office.
Instinctively, I held my breath. I reminded myself that if he did indeed open the closet door, it would be him in for a surprise, not me. If only I had brought Leider’s murder weapon…
And now I could hear the creaking of the office floor, could see his shadow beneath the closet door. I didn’t dare move a muscle. I had the unsettling sensation that the deranged stockbroker was standing directly in front of the closet, just waiting for me to reveal myself.
But I didn’t and soon everything became quiet, not even the floorboards creaking. Had he left the room? Trying my best to steady my hands, I very gently and cautiously pulled open the door no more than an inch or two. I blinked a few times, my eyes readjusting to the light. And now I could see him sitting at his desk, flipping through paperwork. I didn’t dare close the door again for fear of making even the slightest sound that would alert him to my presence. So from the darkness of his closet I watched him.
Time passed, minutes changing into an hour, and I watched, no more than ten yards away, and eventually Turner closed his files and leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head, and sighed audibly.
He rose from his chair and glanced around, and for a moment I was sure he had seen my glowing eyes in the darkness, but he only raised his hands in the air in a long stretch and then yawned. Then he bent down and pressed on the same panel that I had discovered earlier. He reached into the drawers and pulled out the photographs. I felt my muscles tighten and I longed to reveal myself and confront him. As he flipped through the sordid images, I could hear him breathing louder and louder. Then he pulled out his cock and started stroking it, and I pulled farther back in the closet, conflicted by feelings of disgust, despondency, and rage.
Eventually I heard him groan, and for a few moments all was quiet. I peeked through the crack and watched as he cleaned himself with a tissue before returning the photographs to their hiding place. He rose to his feet and started toward the door, but just before he got there he turned and stared directly at the closet where I was hidden. I didn’t have time to panic. With two quick steps he was directly in front of the closet, mere inches from my breath. I considered bursting out from behind the sliding door, taking him by surprise, but before I could make up my mind he reached out toward the door…and slammed it shut.
I waited ten minutes at least, heart racing, perspiration bubbling, before I finally pulled open the closet door inch by inch and peered into the now vacant office.
Removing my shoes from my feet, I tiptoed through the office, stopping at the door to make sure he wasn’t lurking in the hallway beyond. Satisfied, I moved furtively toward the front door. With only a slight squeak, I opened the door and then closed it behind me. Heart racing, I strode quickly toward the elevator. And I’d only just pressed the button when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I gasped and swung my head around. It was the old woman who had earlier spoken to me from behind a chained door. Her eyes were slitted and mean.
“You find Mr. Turner then?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said and then turned back toward the elevator, hoping my gaze would make it arrive quicker.
“He’s a nice man, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Very nice.”
“Not like the rest of the degenerates in this town.”
* * *
An hour later, I arrived back at my apartment, and I was cold and exhausted and emotionally spent. As I opened the door, I could hear the phone ringing, ringing, and I had the strange notion that it had been ringing for hours.
I walked slowly through the living room, past all of the yellow windows and into the bedroom. I sat down on the bed and stared at the phone. I knew that if I didn’t answer, Leider would allow it to ring forever. Eyes rolling back into my head, I picked up the receiver and slowly brought it to my ear. I could hear him breathing loudly on the other end—or was it my own breath?
“Mr. No Name, Mr. No Name? Are you listening? This is important, otherwise I wouldn’t have disturbed you. Mr. No Name?”
I could only grunt in response.
“It’s just about that man whom you paid a visit today. What’s his name? Dan Turner
? The stockbroker? Yes. Listen to me. He’s not the problem. Sure, he’s a Shakespeare-quoting phony, but he’s not the problem. Claire is whom you should worry about. She’s a good-for-nothing slut. She loves and fucks everybody. Except you, that is. Mr. No Name? Are you listening to me? Claire is the problem, not him. Mr. No Name? Mr. No Name?”
My jaw clenched so tightly that my teeth began to ache. I slammed down the receiver, released an angry curse. My hands gripped an invisible neck. From my nightstand I grabbed my deck of cards and starting shuffling them, trying to keep my hands occupied. But the phone rang again. Five rings, ten rings, fifteen rings. He was trying to torment me. I picked up the receiver. “Take care of her,” he rasped into my ear. “Use the blade this time.”
A maniac, a maniac!
“No, no, no. You’re the maniac! You’re becoming me!”
I screeched in rage and yanked the cord from the wall. My whole body was twitching and tweaking. I rose from bed and lumbered across the room and stared at the portrait of Claire. Suddenly I was filled with God’s grace. I got down on my knees, and I could feel tears wetting my cheeks.
