by Jason Starr
Okay, this was getting more and more bizarre, and she had to admit, though she was terrified and was actually fearing for her life, on another level this was turning her on. Maybe that was the whole point—fear as an aphrodisiac.
“Move over, oysters,” she said out loud, laughing, not because she was in the mood to laugh; it was purely for tension relief.
He was gone for a few minutes—she was even starting to wonder if he’d ditched her here—and then the sudden noise of the car door opening gave her a jolt.
He got in.
“So,” she asked. “Did you kill whoever you wanted to kill?”
“Yes,” he said.
He placed the object on the seat between them and, without turning on the headlights, made a U-turn and drove about a half block in total darkness.
“Come on, not again,” Olivia said. “What’re you doing?”
He went about another half block and turned on the headlights. Enough light made it into the car so that she could see that the object between them was a gun with what looked like a very long barrel. It looked like one of those, whatchamacallits . . . sound suppressors.
She wasn’t concerned, though, knowing the gun was part of the game. He was just trying to get her to believe he was an erratic, dangerous hit man who was even willing to drive with no headlights.
In the dark he said, “You won’t tell anyone what you saw tonight. If you tell anyone or even think about telling anyone, I will have to kill you, and I don’t want to kill you. I like you.”
“Thank you, that’s probably the nicest thing a guy ever said to me,” she said, leaking sarcasm, and why not? She knew he wouldn’t pick up on it because he was so goddamn serious.
She looked away, toward the pitch-darkness outside the passengerside window, and rolled her eyes.
Then he pulled over again.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Get out,” he said.
She glanced briefly at the gun between them. She couldn’t stop her heart rate from accelerating again. “Why?”
“Get out,” he said.
She got out—the combination of fear and exhilaration was addicting. She could see faintly, as the moon was casting some bluish-white light. They seemed to be in some woodsy area. She couldn’t see any houses.
Then he got out too. She noticed he left the gun, which kind of surprised her. She expected he was going to pretend to whack her or something.
“Follow me,” he said.
“How can I follow you? I can’t see anything.”
He ignored this; why was she surprised?
Grabbing on to the back of his long leather jacket, she followed him in the dark. Although she couldn’t see, she knew they were definitely in a woodsy area. She could smell the rotting leaves and feel the leaves and fallen tree branches crunching beneath her boots. Jesus, why did she have to wear her new Anne Kleins on tonight of all nights?
“You’re ruining my new Anne Kleins,” she said, realizing how spoiled and whiny she sounded. His only response was to walk even faster, at what seemed like a jogging pace. She gripped his jacket tighter, terrified to let go. There had to be trees all around them that they could potentially bang into faces first, but as when they were driving without headlights, he somehow knew where to go. Had he been here before? Did he hang out in the forest out in Nowheresville, New Jersey?
They continued walking at the same pace, zigzagging through the woods for maybe five minutes until they reached a small clearing. She knew there were no trees around because she could see the star-filled sky.
Looking up she said, “Wow,” with the wonderment all native New Yorkers have for starry skies.
“Get naked,” Michael said.
“Here?” Olivia asked, acting surprised, though she was kind of turned on by the idea. So this had been his idea of foreplay after all. Despite the cold it had been ages since she’d had sex outdoors—since that camping trip to Vermont like five years ago with her ex-boyfriend Todd.
“Why not?” she said. “I mean, ‘when in Jersey,’ right?”
She took off her boots and pulled down her skirt. Shivering, saying, “It’s so cold, can’t you put your arms around me or something?” she undid her bra and stepped out of her panties.
Her eyes were adjusting a little, and thanks to the moon giving off very dim light she could make out the outline of his body. He had taken off his clothes and was buck naked with his usual erection.
Then he was on her. It happened in an instant. One second she was standing, the next he was practically tackling her to the ground. She shrieked from being caught off guard, but she was into it. This was the crazy, unpredictable Michael she loved, the Michael she couldn’t get enough of.
“Turn around,” he demanded.
In the woods, under the moonlight, with only the noise of Michael’s deeper-than-usual grunting, the sex was raw, unrestrained, and animalistic.
“Oh God, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
She reached back to touch Michael’s arm—why was it so hairy? He always had hairy arms, but this felt different. His arm was covered with hair.
She didn’t give this too much thought because she was so close to coming and it was difficult to think, really think, about anything else. As always when she was about to orgasm, she consciously shut out the world, so focused on the intense feelings.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Oh God, baby, you have me so close . . . I’m so, so close . . . Just like that, yeah, just like that.”
About to climax, she looked back over her shoulder, but not at Michael, at someone else, or something else. He was part human, part animal. His face was covered with thick gray hair; his nose was thick and dark, like a dog’s nose; his nostrils were flared; and he had huge sharp teeth. Only his eyes were recognizable. They were definitely Michael’s eyes.
Had Michael put on some kind of mask? But how could a mask look so real?
If this had happened at any other time she would have screamed in sheer terror, but she was also so overwhelmed and caught up in the moment that her orgasming brain couldn’t really process anything other than the intense pleasure she was experiencing. As she came, she relaxed her legs and spread out on the cold ground onto her stomach and then she felt his weight on top of her, and she wanted to see his face again. It had probably just been her imagination. They were having sex outside, like animals, so she’d imagined he was an animal; it seemed to make sense at the moment anyway. She wanted to look back at him again, expecting that he would appear perfectly normal now, when she felt his hairy face on the back of her neck and, because his face was so close to hers, his grunting, or panting really, seemed much louder.
This wasn’t her imagination; this was actually happening.
She tried to turn her head but couldn’t, and then she felt him biting into the left side of her neck. She knew she should be screaming, but she didn’t want to scream and, besides, she couldn’t move her mouth or her body. She wasn’t paralyzed, though; she felt as if her inability to move was by her choice entirely. At the same time, she knew this wasn’t normal, something was definitely happening to her, and yet she didn’t care. It was the most pleasurable pain she’d ever experienced and she didn’t want it to stop, ever. Her thoughts were fading and the black night was turning white. The thought I’m dying was somewhere in her consciousness, but she’d never experienced such sheer joy. If this was death, she wanted to die.
Her last thought before the darkness set in:
Bring . . . it . . . on.
TWENTY-ONE
Simon was up early with Jeremy. Alison, dressed for work and pulling her little suitcase filled with medical samples behind her, came into the dining room, where Jeremy was having his Cheerios, and kissed him good morning but didn’t say anything to Simon or acknowledge his presence in any way. That was fine with Simon. He knew that when Alison was angry at him the best thing was to stay out of her way, give her a cooling-off period, because trying to talk about it would only m
ake things worse.
Without looking at Simon, Alison said to Jeremy, “See you around seven o’clock, sweetie,” and rushed out of the apartment.
Simon couldn’t help feeling hurt, but he tried to focus on the bright side. Okay, so she was acting like he didn’t exist, but at least she wasn’t screaming at him about a separation. Baby steps.
Simon had a good day alone with Jeremy. The guys weren’t meeting up today because Charlie had to work a twenty-four-hour shift, so Simon took Jeremy downtown to the Children’s Museum of the Arts on Lafayette Street and they had a blast, playing with the big foam cubes. Afterward, they went to Simon’s favorite pizza place, Ben’s on Spring Street. Jeremy had a plain slice and Simon had a slice packed with sausage and pepperoni piled on. It was nice to spend a nice, normal afternoon with his son.
When Alison came home from work she was acting the way she had earlier—very warm and loving with Jeremy and cold and distant with Simon. Figuring that getting into it again with her wouldn’t accomplish anything and would probably make things worse, Simon went for a long run in the park instead. The flashes of attacking Tom had been subsiding—he’d had them only intermittently today—but he still hadn’t been able to shake an underlying feeling of guilt. He did a couple of laps around the reservoir and then did the big loop around the entire park. Running was the only time he felt truly free, when the problems of his life seemed inconsequential.
When he came home, Alison was already in bed asleep. Simon was horny and wished they were on better terms, but for now he would just have to deal with it. He showered, then joined her in bed, eventually falling into a light sleep.
He awoke to the doorbell ringing.
Alison was up too. In the dark, she asked, “Who could that be?”
Simon glanced at the time—past four A.M.
The bell rang again. This was unusual in itself because when they had visitors the doorman always announced them.
“It’s probably some drunk college kids,” Simon said, although he knew this explanation didn’t hack it, since it was a family-oriented building and there weren’t a lot of drunk college kids carousing in the hallways in the middle of the night.
“Jeremy’s going to wake up any second,” Alison said, flicking on the light.
As if on cue, Jeremy called out, “Daddy!”
Alison seemed very annoyed, and Jeremy asking for Simon definitely wasn’t helping.
“Okay, relax,” Simon said. “You take care of Jeremy and I’ll take care of whoever’s ringing the doorbell.”
Approaching the door, Simon heard a woman in the hallway saying, “He has to be home, ring again.”
“Okay, coming, I’m coming,” Simon said.
He expected it to be some couple, maybe friends of people in the building, or subletters accidentally ringing the bell to the wrong apartment. When they saw Simon they’d apologize embarrassedly and that would be the end of it. So Simon was naturally surprised when he opened the door and saw two cops there.
One was a short, attractive, maybe Puerto Rican woman; the other was a much taller, larger black guy waiting in the foyer, near the front door. Although the guy was in a plain black long-sleeved shirt and the woman was in plain black pants and a black sweater, their whole attitude shouted cops.
Sure enough the Latina said, “Mr. Burns?” He said, “Yes,” and then she flashed a badge and said, “I’m Detective Geri Rodriguez, NYPD, you’re going to have to come with us.”
NYPD?
Panicking but trying not to show it, Simon said, “I think there’s a mistake. I already spoke to somebody from the New Jersey police the other day.”
“There’s no mistake,” Rodriguez said.
She sounded serious; this seemed very different from the “routine” visit from Dorsey. But what could the New York police possibly want to talk to him about?
“This is ridiculous,” Simon said. “It’s four in the morning and you woke my whole family up. I want to know what’s going on.”
“We’re not arresting you, Mr. Burns,” Rodriguez said, “we’re just taking you in for questioning. Do you understand that?”
“Questioning about what? There’s no reason to—”
“Did you hear what she’s saying to you?” the black guy said. Although his tone was polite and he was even smiling slightly, his no-BS attitude told Simon that arguing would be futile.
“Why don’t you put on some shoes?” Rodriguez asked.
Had she said “shoes” in a loaded way? Was she looking for some kind of reaction? Had they found his missing shoe in the woods? He felt a pang of fear and saw himself as the wolf, tearing into Tom’s flesh.
As Simon put on his sneakers, he glanced toward the hallway, where Alison was standing with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Although she was looking right at him, Simon felt like he wasn’t even there.
Frustrated, knowing that his being taken away by the police was the last thing their marriage needed right now, Simon said, “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay, I promise. This is just some kind of misunderstanding. I’ll take care of it and be home as soon as I can.”
Alison’s expression didn’t change.
On the street, Simon said to the cops, “I don’t get this. If it’s just questioning, why can’t you question me at home?”
He rode in the back of an unmarked police car to a precinct uptown. As they entered, he saw on the building: MANHATTAN NORTH HOMICIDE.
“Come on, this is insane,” Simon said. “I already spoke to Detective Dorsey from the police department in Bernardsville. Did you speak to Dorsey yet or not?”
Leading Simon down a hallway, Rodriguez’s and the other detective’s gazes were fixed straight ahead.
Then Rodriguez said, “Why don’t you let me ask the questions? Put your taxpayer dollars to work.”
They led him to an interrogation room. Gray walls, a rectangular table with one chair on one long side, two on the other. One wall was glass, a two-way mirror, no doubt. Even if they’d found his shoe, Simon didn’t get what was going on; why were they treating him like an actual murder suspect? Getting paranoid again, Simon wondered if the police had found some new piece of evidence, or maybe another witness had come forward. What if someone had seen him with a wolf that night? What if he actually had sicced a wolf on Tom?
Stop it, he told himself. He knew he was being ridiculous. They were going to ask him some routine questions and that would be the end of it.
After they instructed him to sit on the side of the table with one chair, Simon tried again. “This is absolutely ridiculous; I don’t understand what’s going on.” Again they ignored him and left him in the room alone.
About half an hour later, Rodriguez returned alone, taking the seat across from him.
“Where’s the wolf?” she asked.
“The wolf?” Simon said.
“That’s right, the wolf,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to tell you guys, but you won’t listen,” Simon said. “I have nothing to do with any wolves, and I’ve been through all this with Dorsey. Did you even speak with—”
“Where is it,” she asked, “at a friend’s house? If you don’t tell me, it’s just going to make things worse for you.”
“For the last time,” Simon said. “I don’t have a wolf. Why would I have a wolf?”
“Where were you earlier tonight between eight P.M. and ten P.M.?” Now Simon had absolutely no idea what this was about. “I was home.”
“All night?”
“Yes, all night, but . . . Wait, not all night. I went running in the park.”
“For how long?”
“A couple of hours. Why? What happened?”
“A couple of hours is a long time for a run.”
“I like to take long runs, I don’t understand why—”
“When did you leave for the run?”
“I don’t know, around nine,” he said. “But what’s going on? At my apartment, you made it sound like t
his would be routine questioning, but now—”
“What time did you get back from Jersey tonight?”
“Jersey?” Simon was clueless. “I wasn’t in New Jersey.”
She was studying his expression, as if trying to catch him in a lie.
Simultaneously Simon said, “Look, if you don’t—” and Rodriguez said, “You shot and killed Alan Freedman and his wife, didn’t you?”
“What?” Simon said, shocked. “I don’t even—” Wait, Alan Freedman; why was that name so familiar? Then it came to him. Simon was suddenly dizzy, as if he were on the verge of passing out. “Wait, Alan Freedman. You mean Tom Harrison’s neighbor?”
“You were afraid he was going to ID you, so you drove out there and killed him. His wife was there, so you killed her too.”
“Wait,” Simon said. “Alan Freedman is dead? And his wife is dead too? I—I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
Simon suddenly remembered Michael telling him, I’ll do anything for a member of my pack. But would Michael actually kill two innocent people?
“What’s the matter?” Rodriguez asked. “Uncomfortable? You’re gonna be real uncomfortable in the cell you’ll be spending the rest of your life in.”
“I was home tonight,” Simon said. “I had nothing to do with any of this. I didn’t drive to Alan Freedman’s house in New Jersey. I barely even know Alan Freedman, and I have no idea who his wife is.”
“Lemme ask you another question.” Rodriguez stared at Simon. “How’d you know the Freedmans were killed in their house?”
“You told me they were,” Simon said.
“No, actually I didn’t.”
Did she tell him? Everything was so jumbled he couldn’t think straight.
“Then I—I—I just assumed they were.” Weirdly, Simon felt guilty, like he had to cover for himself.
“How ’bout we cut to the chase,” Rodriguez said, “and you tell me where you really were this evening.”
“I was home,” Simon said. “I was in New York. You can talk to my doorman. He saw me leave and he saw me return. Talk to James, and talk to my wife—they’ll both tell you. I swear to God I had nothing to do with any of this.”
