Shame

by Alan Russell

  That was the picture he wanted. He held it between the fingertips of his tied hands. Visible in the background, illuminated by a spotlight, was a sign that started with the letter K. He could just make out the second letter: an A. The rest of the lettering was obscured by Brandy’s face. The letters were ornamental and large, archaic-looking. Greek.

  Kappa.

  Caleb held the picture closer, trying to see better. The photo had been taken at night. Brandy Wein’s lifeless eyes seemed to be offering up a warning to the living. Caleb tried to imagine the mindset of a killer driving around with a corpse in his backseat, a killer who had posed Brandy to stare out at a sorority house, the dead looking out at the quick. The killer had taken her with him to scout out future victims.

  Caleb understood his message. And maybe his sickness. The killer had given him a portent of what was to be. And with it a time frame. Elizabeth was the first Kappa Omega he had wanted to kill, but not the last.

  The sorority had to be warned without delay.

  Caleb hopped back to the living room and saw the mess he had left behind. Food and drink littered the hardwood floor. He reached for Lola’s portable phone. It was sticky, had apparently been bathed in ginger ale and Diet Pepsi. Caleb pressed the Talk button, heard some odd clicking noises, then smelled burning circuitry.

  The phone was dead, victim of the soda bath, the fall, or both.

  Caleb dropped it. Maybe there was a second phone in Lola’s bedroom. He hopped over there, scanned the room, saw nothing.

  Phone book, Caleb thought. Get the address and phone number of the Kappa Omega sorority house. And then find a way out of his bonds.

  He located the white pages on a kitchen shelf. With his bound hands, Caleb had trouble turning the thin pages. Breathing hard and cursing harder, he finally managed to get the page he needed. The sorority was located on Montezuma, a street adjacent to the San Diego State University campus.

  Caleb memorized the telephone number and the street address, then looked around desperately for a knife. He flung kitchen drawers open until he found a butcher’s knife. Getting a grip on the knife was difficult; trying to cut the tape was impossible. Some sort of vise was needed. He opened the kitchen window and closed it on the knife to try to secure it. With his chin he pushed down on the windowsill but was unable to supply enough resistance to keep the knife from moving.

  He opened a kitchen drawer, positioned the knife’s handle, then closed the drawer on it. The blade pointed skyward, with the sharp side facing away from him. But to get the knife to stay in place Caleb had to lean hard into the drawer, his belly and rib cage pressing into the blade. Awkwardly, laboriously, he pushed and pulled, moving his taped hands in an up-and-down sawing motion against the blade.

  Sweat began to pour off him. He tried to work through the pain shooting through his arms, tried to resist the temptation to stop, but the cutting motion kept bringing on cramping. As he fought through a charley horse he was distracted for a moment, long enough for the knife to start slipping from its hold. Caleb overreacted, pushing forward too hard against the drawer.

  The blade cut into him just under his sternum. At first, with so many places on his body hurting, he thought he had just scraped himself, but then he saw the redness spreading throughout his shirt and he felt the throbbing pain. Shit. Just what he didn’t need. But he couldn’t slow down. He went back to trying to free himself. His sawing was as ragged as his breath. Blood and sweat dripped on the blade, lubricating it.

  He tried to hold the tape taut, tried to offer resistance to the cutting edge of the knife, but the tape was slow to give. Caleb kept at it until there wasn’t any part of his arms and shoulders not in agony. When the last fiber finally separated, Caleb’s arms fell to his sides, and then he dropped to the floor. For a short time he didn’t have motor control over his hands. They flopped up and down like fish out of water. It seemed like minutes before they yielded to his directions. He pulled the tape off his hands and arms, then lifted off his bloodied shirt. He grabbed a dish towel and wiped the blood from his wound. For what looked like a relatively small cut, there seemed to be an awful lot of blood.

  Caleb applied pressure to the wound with his left hand, and with his right hand he reached for the knife and began cutting at the tape around his ankles and calves. It took him less than two minutes to free himself. He pushed himself halfway up, then slipped on the blood that had pooled on the floor. He reached out for a counter and righted himself. His bloody handprints were all over the linoleum and the counter.

  He tried to stanch the flow of blood before running down the hallway to Lola’s room. In her bathroom medicine cabinet he found gauze pads and bandage strips. He tried to doctor his wound but did a poor job of it. His hands were too slick, and the gauze pads filled with blood too quickly. Impatient, not wanting to waste time, he applied enough tape at least to slow the seepage of blood. He wasn’t used to dressing his own wounds. Anna always tended to his cuts. He thought of her sure hands, his memory taking him back to when they’d first met. She was a healer, and he had been in need of her healing. How much, she’d never known.

  Caleb left his bloody shirt in the sink. He went to Lola’s walk-in closet and flipped through the hangers, desperate to find anything he could wear. The closet was overflowing with outfits, but there was nothing he could use. He continued his search, rummaging through a wardrobe, then a dresser, then a second dresser. In the bottom drawer of the second dresser he found a sweat suit. The top was oversized, would have been stylishly baggy on Lola. As it was, it was a size too small for Caleb. He put it on anyway.

  As he ran for the door, Caleb caught a glimpse of the cat clock. Small whiskers on the eleven, large whiskers on the five. Caleb seemed to remember that his father had attacked Elizabeth line’s sorority sisters at a little after midnight.

  The cat’s eyes moved from side to side, and its pendulum tail flicked back and forth. It was a clock, Caleb knew, but it was still a black cat.

  He ran out of the house.

  23

  “SH, SH, SH, sh.”

  Dana Roberts awoke to the shushing sounds coming from right above her.

  She thought she was dreaming, until a hand slapped tape across her mouth and a body fell on her, pinioning her arms. She tried to scream, but the tape swallowed the sounds. The only sounds that filled the room were his.

  “Sh, sh, sh, sh.”

  Dana tried bucking him off, but he was too heavy. She lifted her head and attempted to butt him, but he slammed her forehead with the flat of his palm, a blow that snapped her head back and left her dazed.

  And the whole time she heard “Sh, sh, sh, sh.”

  Dana tried to take in her situation and think through her panic. As her thrashing ceased, the intruder’s tone changed, becoming more lulling than demanding.

  “Shhhhhhhhhh.”

  The sound gradually became softer until there was only silence in the room.

  “I won’t harm you,” he said.

  Dana exhaled pent-up breath through her nose. She had wanted to hear those words more than any others.

  “I need money for a fix,” he said. “I want your jewelry and cash.”

  Her head moved forward, a frightened nod, but glad.

  “I need your cooperation.”

  Another nod.

  “Give me your hands.”

  In the darkness she could see him holding plastic ties. Dana tensed. He could feel her body tightening up.

  “Shhhhhhhhhh.”

  He massaged her panic, put it in check again. In his calm voice, he explained, “All I want is your valuables. After this room, I’m going to try a few others and I don’t want you raising an alarm. Give me your hands.”

  He eased his weight off of her. From under the covers, Dana felt her arms rising, as if they’d been summoned by a hypnotist.

  Plastic loops were slipped around her wrists, and then the ties were tightened.

  “And now your feet.”

  He reach
ed for the blanket, lifted it. Dana was glad she was wearing her pajamas. She didn’t want him reaching under the covers, so she offered him her ankles.

  “Good,” he said, applying the ties.

  He got off the bed, moved a few steps away from her. The room was too dark for Dana to make out his features.

  “Ah, university life,” he said. “Nothing like it, is there? Young, active minds in search of knowledge. Do you like poetry?”

  He didn’t sound like a junkie, Dana thought. She shook her head.

  “Pity, that. I was going to quote you some Whitman, a short poem, his ‘Your Felons on Trial in Courts.’ But I’ll respect your wishes. In truth, I don’t much like poetry myself. But I do like universities. John W. Deering had the right idea when he willed his body to the University of Utah. Just before he was shot by a firing squad, Deering said, ‘At least I’ll get some high-class education.’”

  He definitely didn’t sound like a junkie.

  “I’ve always been attracted to gallows humor,” he said. “To be insouciant in the face of death is a way of cheating it, don’t you think? When George Appel was being strapped into the electric chair, he looked around at the somber faces of all those who were assembled and said, ‘Well, folks, pretty soon you’re going to see a baked Appel.’”

  Dana tried to loosen the tape around her mouth, tried to scream, but the sounds were muted.

  “Sh, sh, sh, sh.” More summons for quiet, but behind them she heard his amusement.

  Dana kicked off her covers. She could at least hop if nothing else.

  “Sh, sh, sh, sh.”

  He was insane, Dana was sure, but she still couldn’t be sure he meant her any harm.

  As if hearing her doubts, he said, “I told you that I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  His declaration stopped her from doing anything rash. She huddled at the head of her bed, trembling. Dana listened as he rummaged through her belongings. The sounds reassured her. Then he made his way toward her door. Every step away from her brought that much more relief.

  He was painstakingly slow about opening the door to the hallway. He stood very still for several moments, looking and listening to make sure that all was clear. Then he turned back to her.

  “Don’t try to raise an alarm,” he whispered. “Don’t do anything more than breathe for the next five minutes.”

  As he slid out the door, she heard him say ever so softly, “I told you I wouldn’t harm you.”

  The door closed behind him.

  For Dana, there was a long moment of blessed relief. She offered up a prayer of thanks, but it was interrupted. The door flew open.

  “I lied,” he said.

  24

  CALEB ALL BUT sprinted the four blocks over to University Avenue. This time he could do something other than just run away.

  The open service station was just what Caleb was looking for. He ran up to the cashier’s booth. Sitting in the cinder-block fort was an old black man smoking a cigarette behind thick, yellowed Plexiglas. The cashier studied Caleb’s hurried approach with a resigned expression that said he had seen it all and wasn’t keen on the reruns.

  “Do you sell gas cans?” Caleb asked.

  The cashier took a long drag of his cigarette, did a little mental cataloging, then exhaled his answer. “Eight ninety-nine,” he said, his words coming out of a tinny microphone. “Plus tax.”

  Caleb reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and put it in the slot. The money disappeared.

  “You gonna want a gallon of gas?”

  “Yes,” said Caleb, offering the expected answer without any hesitation, though until that moment he hadn’t even thought about getting gas. The can was to be his prop for getting a ride, his explanation for walking the streets at night.

  “You want unleaded or premium?”

  “Unleaded.”

  “Pump three.” The cashier rang up the transactions, put the change in the plastic slot drawer, and pushed the drawer toward Caleb. “Can will be outside the door.”

  Caleb grabbed his change, and then ran around to the back of the booth and picked up the gas can. He quickly pumped the gas, then took up a spot under a streetlight on University. Thumb cocked, he waited on a ride. It had been over twenty years since he’d last hitchhiked. When the first few cars passed him by, Caleb started worrying. He looked at his watch, and then considered calling a cab. It was almost eleven thirty. The sorority was about ten miles away, and he needed to get there by midnight.

  The killer won’t make his move before then, Caleb told himself, convinced himself.

  Another car drove by. Caleb found himself unable to just stand around waiting for a ride. He began to pace, but that made him feel like a caged animal in a too-small enclosure. He started walking east, and then, between lulls in passing cars, began jogging. The killer wasn’t going to beat him to the sorority. If necessary, he’d run the whole ten miles there.

  The traffic on University was Saturday-night steady. A few drivers slowed, looked Caleb over, but then continued on their way. What are they seeing? Caleb wondered. Maybe they sensed something wasn’t quite right. He tried to give the appearance of being a harmless, out-of-luck motorist, but his act made him self-conscious. So did the reflection he kept glimpsing in storefronts. He didn’t know the stranger with the blond hair.

  Turn, thumb, and then run. Caleb’s routine took him at least a mile along University. He had this sense of being on a Cinderella schedule, and that at midnight his whole world could change. At the sound of another approaching car he turned and stuck out his thumb. Again, no luck. But he didn’t start running right away. Another car was coming, but as soon as he got a better look at it, he didn’t solicit the driver with his thumb.

  The police officer might or might not have seen him hitchhiking. Caleb turned his back on the patrol car and started walking. Don’t stop, he thought. No need to be curious or helpful. His head filled with mental messages, all aimed at the police officer: I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. He walked with measured steps and a posture that tried to exude confidence that said everything was under control and his car was nearby. He could feel eyes on his back, the cop eyeballing him with X-ray vision.

  The cruiser slowed up as it came alongside him. The officer made eye contact, inquired as to how Caleb was doing with a backward nod of his head. Caleb nodded in return to show that all was well. The cop drove on.

  The short encounter almost brought Caleb to his knees. He stood for a minute, getting control of his weakened legs, then stuck out a trembling thumb to a passing car. If he was so afraid of a cop, how was he going to face up to a killer?

  A red Camaro interrupted his self-doubts, pulling over to the side of the road. Caleb ran up to the car. As he reached for the door handle, the Camaro patched out on the pavement, leaving behind a skid mark, fumes, and taunting laughter that hung in the air even longer than the exhaust.

  Caleb shook his fist at the retreating car. “Fuck you!” he screamed. “Fuck you!”

  He offered his curse to the world. He was tired of being its punching bag, but the world didn’t seem to notice his challenge. Around him all was dark and quiet. He looked at his watch. Almost eleven forty-five. He couldn’t let his opportunity slip away, couldn’t let his time—and maybe the sorority’s—run out.

  Caleb wished he were more clever. Someone more clever wouldn’t be in his position. He would have found a way to get free without almost committing hara-kiri and figured out a better plan than hitchhiking in the middle of the night. He would have hotwired a car or cajoled a ride out of someone. His father had managed more escapes than Houdini, had never lost his cool even when the police were closing in on all sides. His father would have done something audacious.

  Like step out and stop traffic, then use his silver tongue to get a ride.

  Caleb took a tentative step out into the street but then stepped back. He didn’t have to be like his father. There were other ways of doing things.

  Another c
ar approached. Caleb’s expression all but willed the car to stop. Whether it was his look or just luck, the Toyota pulled over to the curb. Caleb ran to it, opened the door, and jumped inside.

  “Thanks.”

  The driver was Latino, around twenty-five, with a goatee. He was wearing black, baggy clothing. Over the blare of the radio, he asked, “Run out of gas, man?”

  “My girlfriend did,” shouted Caleb. “She took my car and forgot to look at the gas gauge, and now she expects me to bail her out.”

  The lie came easily to him, emerged without any thought.

  “Sounds like my girlfriend, man. Anything goes wrong with her car and it’s like, ‘You’re the guy. You take care of it.’”

  Caleb nodded. He didn’t try to compete over the loud Latin pop on the radio.

  “So, where’s your car, man?”

  “Out near State.”

  The driver weighed the location and opted for continuing along his straight line. “I better drop you off on College, then.”

  “Thanks,” said Caleb, then tried to remember his East County geography. The drop-off spot would be a mile or two from the sorority. He looked at his watch again.

  “Want to make five bucks?” Caleb shouted.

  “Doing what?”

  “Driving me to Montezuma. My girlfriend was sort of spooked about having to wait outside for me.”

  The driver shrugged his shoulders a little, then his head started bobbing in agreement. “Spooky times, man. No problem. You just hired yourself Antonio’s Taxi Service.”

  Caleb wished Antonio had the lead foot of most cabbies, but the driver was content to go the speed limit. As loud as the music was, the station breaks were even louder. The disc jockey’s staccato and voluble Spanish made it sound as if he were having an apoplectic seizure. Caleb looked out his window. The ethnic mix that lived in the neighborhoods surrounding University was revealed in its restaurants. Polyglot signs advertised everything from taquerías to dim sum to Ethiopian take-out. Somehow immigrants kept fitting in. That’s all I ever wanted to do, Caleb thought, just fit in.