Red 1-2-3 (9780802192844)

by Katzenbach, John

  And then, just as abruptly, she saw the weapon raised up in front of her, gripped in both hands, and she realized she had bent into a shooter’s crouch.

  For a moment Sarah wondered whether it was some other person steering the weapon. It was as if she was only peripherally connected to the gun. She wondered when she had last taken a breath. Her lungs demanded air and she gasped out like a swimmer breaking the surface.

  Bizarre, contradictory thoughts like I’m ready for anything or I’m dying now raced through her.

  She wanted to speak out loud, say something strong and brave, but when she tried the words “C’mon, damn it, I’m waiting,” they croaked and shattered and were only barely comprehensible.

  The doorbell rang.

  It was a cheery chime, three notes that made absolutely no sense to her.

  A killer rings the doorbell?

  She found herself half-hopping, moving almost crablike as she crossed the living room, gun still raised. She paused in front of her door.

  The bell rang again.

  Why wouldn’t he ring the bell? Or knock on the door? Or just call out her name to announce he was there? Hello-o-o, Sarah! It’s the Big Bad Wolf. I’m here to kill you . . .

  She suddenly had no idea what a wolf would do. Nothing happening made any sense to her. It was all Alice in Wonderland: Up was down, front was back, high was low.

  She could feel her finger tightening on the trigger. It occurred to her to simply fire. The bullet will go straight through the wood and kill him where he stands. It seemed like a good idea. A really good idea. Almost sensible.

  A part of her stifled a laugh from bursting out. What a joke, she thought. What a great slap-your-knees and wet-your-pants joke. I’ll just shoot him right through the door.

  She aimed the pistol, leveling it right at the spot where she imagined the Wolf’s chest would be. It was like doing measurements in her head: Is he tall? Short? Don’t want to miss.

  The gun quivered, yawing back and forth like a small ship being slammed by storm waves. She saw her left hand reach out and seize the doorknob, defeating what seemed like an eminently fine plan and replacing it with something completely foolish. She imagined that she was opening the door to death.

  With a single, mighty lurch, she flung the door wide. In the same motion, she released the knob and reached back with her left hand and steadied the pistol. She was bent slightly, leaning forward and ready to fire.

  Silence stopped her finger on the trigger.

  Two women stared across the threshold at her. Their faces seemed shocked beneath the wan porch light. Someone inhaled sharply, but Sarah was unsure whether it was one of the two women or herself.

  The two of them seemed frozen. Looking into the gaping barrel of a pistol with the hammer cocked has a way of discouraging most ordinary conversation.

  They can’t be the Wolf, Sarah thought. Two Wolves? But her finger caressed the trigger. Somewhere deep in her understanding, she knew that the slightest pressure would fire the weapon.

  After a heartbeat in which Sarah fully expected to hear the thunderous roar of the gun as she killed whoever it was standing in front of her, she watched completely dumbstruck as one of the women slowly pulled a woolen knit navy watch cap from her head and carefully shook free great waving locks of strawberry-red hair, never taking her eyes off Sarah and her gun.

  Then, as if following suit in a card game, the other woman—older, face lined with concerns—lifted her hands and unpinned her hair, which fell like a dull sheet of fading embers to her shoulders.

  “Hello, Red Two,” the older woman said. “Please don’t kill us.”

  Sarah was ashamed of the way the house looked.

  For the first time in days, she was aware of the trash and debris—the empty liquor bottles and prepared-food containers, candy bar wrappings, and potato chip bags that were littered around the space. She was also embarrassed by the Home Alone defense system spread beneath windows and across doorways. She wanted to apologize to the two women and explain that this really wasn’t like her, except that it would have been a lie and she thought it would be unwise to start her dealings with Red One and Red Three with such an obvious falsehood. So she kept her mouth shut and watched the reactions of the two others as they surveyed the landscape of despair.

  It was Red Three who spoke first.

  “I’m Jordan,” she said. “Do you have a picture of your husband and your daughter? The ones who died?”

  Sarah was taken aback by the question. It seemed incredibly intimate, as if she were being asked to remove her clothes and stand naked.

  She stammered her reply. “Of course, but . . .”

  And then her words faded away. She went to a bookcase in the corner and brought out a framed picture of the three of them, taken shortly before the accident. Wordlessly, she handed it to Jordan, who looked at it carefully and then passed it over to Karen. She, too, examined the photo carefully.

  There was a small silence. Sarah thought that usually someone examining a photograph like the one of herself, her child, and her husband taken on a summer day at the beach would say, Isn’t that cute or They’re sure beautiful. But she realized those responses were meant for the living. She was suddenly not exactly angry, but upset, or uncomfortable, and she reached out for the picture.

  “What are you looking for?” Sarah asked.

  “A reason,” Karen replied.

  It took Sarah a few seconds to understand that Red One wasn’t searching for the reason why Red Two’s husband and daughter had been killed. She didn’t want to hear about a runaway fuel oil truck and the capriciousness of fate.

  “Or maybe an explanation,” Jordan said. She wasn’t talking about the accident, either.

  “How did you find me?” Sarah started.

  Karen looked over at Jordan, who shrugged. “Your video on YouTube. It ended with a picture of a headstone. I fired up the computer and then worked backward from those names.

  “It didn’t take me that long,” Jordan continued. “The local paper had a story about the memorial service at the fire station. They had a color picture. You were there. With this . . .”

  Jordan pointed at Sarah’s red hair. She remembered how bright Red Two’s hair had looked spread across mourning black.

  Sarah thought she should say something, but fell into silence. After an uncomfortable moment, Karen spoke up. “We shouldn’t stay here,” she said. “We need to go to a safe place to talk.” Sarah seemed about to say something, so Karen spoke quickly, stopping her before she spoke. “Look, when Jordan and I first met yesterday, one thing we realized is that if and when the three of us are together, it increases our vulnerability. All of us being in the same spot, at the same time, makes us all into a much simpler target.”

  “It’s kinda like us getting together is what he really wants and he throws a hand grenade at us,” Jordan said. “Boom! Red One, Red Two, and Red Three all disappear at once.” Cynicism mingled freely with anxiety in her voice. Karen didn’t bother to expand on the hand grenade concept, although a part of her thought, It makes as much sense as anything. Because none of it makes sense. Or all of it does.

  “But we’ve still got to talk, to figure out what we’re going to do . . .”

  “I know what we’re going to do,” Jordan muttered beneath her breath. Karen didn’t turn toward the youngest of the trio. Instead she kept her eyes fixed on Sarah. “So, we need to go someplace where we know we can plan without being watched.” Her eyes flicked over to the large living room window. “We don’t know,” she said, “we can’t be sure he’s not right out there . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Sarah felt dizzy. She thought there were a hundred things she needed to say, but all of them escaped her tongue. What she managed was, “Let me get my coat.”

  “Hey,” Jordan said br
iskly. “Bring the gun.”

  16

  There are three stages to a killing, the Wolf wrote when he finally got back to his office after his lengthy interview with the police detective and was able to lock the door and revel for a moment in quiet concentration.

  Planning. Execution. Aftermath.

  Neglect any of these three phases, and failure is inevitable. The key is demanding more of oneself. It’s crucial to recognize that at the conclusion of the second stage, as profoundly emotional and satisfying as that might be, and as much as one has built to that moment, there are still critical steps that need to be taken. Simply put, it’s not over. It’s just begun. I believe it’s a little like the soldier coming home from the war trying to negotiate a fast-food restaurant after months spent in deprivation and fear, or perhaps the astronaut returning from a lengthy stay in space confronting the motor vehicles registry. There is decompression necessary before returning to ordinary life, a stepping-back time, where the killer needs to slide out from beneath the excitement and passion of the hunt and the murder and let it flow into sweetened memory. Creating the emotional context for enjoyment requires as much careful plotting as does the actual killing. It’s where the clumsy amateurs and the unprepared wannabes fail. After they accomplish the death they’ve invented, they then don’t know how to savor that moment. And it’s important to be aware that not anticipating the needs of this final stage engenders frustration and dismay—and leads to mistakes in the first two stages. There is great danger in not fully preparing for post-death enjoyment.

  When you’ve accomplished something special, it takes great nerve and focus and strength of character to allow yourself to become outwardly ordinary once again even when you know that the persona others see is a complete lie.

  As always the words came in a rush to the Wolf. His fingers seemed to dance above the computer keyboard, his concentration entirely on the entry that was taking shape in front of him. He felt a kind of ease, as if he were an athlete settling into the routine of a workout, where the miles he stamped beneath his feet or the water that flowed underneath him with every overhand stroke were like so many familiar pushes from behind. He paused briefly to steal a thought about each Red and believed that he was fast approaching the time when he would have to begin the hands-on process of each specific death. Red One is special because she has faced death so frequently with consummate professionalism, but now she must confront a death that has no diagnosis. Red Two is unique because she’s so eager to die, and now is confronted by her very secret wishes coming true, just not how she expected them to. And Red Three is exceptional because she has done so much to toss her future away, and now must face someone else stealing from her what little remains of that future. He shook his head and grunted out loud. Appetizer. Main course. Dessert. Each stage of murder had its own tastes.

  He wrote down: I want to let each phase run its course. The Wolf was acutely aware that as in any relationship, a murder needed to be fulfilling at every level. Like machine-gun bullets, words leapt at him: Threat. Fear. Process. The moment. The follow-up. Memory. Any slippage at any point would detract from the overall experience.

  He hesitated again, this time letting his eyes scan his latest entry on the computer screen. What makes a book really work? he wrote at last. It must take risks. It must suck the reader inside the story. Every character has to be fascinating in his or her own special way. It must make it a paramount necessity for readers to turn each page. This is equally true for a novel of manners or a science fiction thriller. The same rules of murder apply to writing. What good is telling a story that doesn’t resonate long after the final page has been read? Doesn’t the killer face the same question? Both writer and killer are engaged in creating something that will last. The writer wants the reader to remember his words long after the final page. The killer wants the impact of the death to linger. And not just for him, but for all the others the death has touched.

  Murder isn’t about a single killing. It’s about a ripple through the lives of many.

  He drummed his fingers against the wooden desktop, as if this rapid tapping would accelerate his thoughts into new words that he could write down. For a moment he envied artists who simply drew a line on a blank white canvas and let that small motion define everything that was to follow. Painting, that’s easy, he thought. He understood that the similarity between a killer and an artist was that both already had firmly in their mind a finished portrait of what would emerge when they drew their first stroke. This notion made him grin.

  Then he wrote at the top of a new page: Why I Love Each Red.

  The Wolf sighed. He told himself, It is not enough to tell readers how you expect to accomplish their deaths. You need to explain why. In the fairy tale, it’s not just a fine meal that the wolf wants as he stalks Little Red Riding Hood through the woods. He could sate that hunger at any point. No, his real starvation is far different and it has to be addressed with intensity. The wolf wants to eat. But he also wants a relationship.

  Again, the Wolf hesitated. It was dark outside, the afternoon having given way to night, and he expected Mrs. Big Bad Wolf to arrive home shortly, the way she did every day, just a few minutes before 6 p.m., letting out a cheery “I’m home, dear . . .” as she passed through the front door. The Wolf never immediately responded. He allowed her a few moments to observe his overcoat hanging on its customary hook, his umbrella in the stand in the vestibule, and his shoes thoughtfully removed by the living room entrance, replaced by slide-on leather slippers. Her pair, which matched his, would be waiting for her. Then she would tiptoe past his closed office door—even if she had grocery bags in her arms and could use a little assistance. He knew she would immediately go to the kitchen to fix their dinner. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt that making certain he was overstuffed was a key element to fueling the writing process. He didn’t disagree with this.

  So, as soon as he heard pots and pans clatter in the kitchen as the meal began to get under way, he would call out an answer, as if he hadn’t heard her entry. “Hiya, honey! I’ll be out in a sec!”

  He knew his wife enjoyed the bellow from behind the office door, so he shouted out his greeting regardless of his mood or the moment happening on the page in front of him. He could be writing about something as mundane as the weather or something as electric as how he intended to kill. It made no difference. He still raised his voice so she could hear him. They played the same lively tunes daily:

  “How was your day?”

  “What’s going on at school?”

  “Were you able to work hard?”

  “Did you get around to paying the electric bill?”

  “There are some odd jobs around the yard we need to get to.”

  “Would you like to have Chinese for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Shall we watch a movie on the TV tonight, or are you too tired?”

  “Maybe we should take a cruise this year. There are some great sales on Caribbean trips. We haven’t had a real vacation in months. What do you think; shall we make a reservation and start saving our money?”

  The Wolf heard a distant rattle. It had to be the front door. He waited, and then he heard the expected greeting. This signaled him to start the electronic process of closing up everything he was working on and encrypting it. All this was actually unnecessary. The wall of photographs was incriminating enough—a factoid he knew from his discussion with the detective. “Killers—the type who like to plan, not the thug robbing a convenience store or doing in some competitor in the drug business with a whole lot of automatic weapons fire—like to keep souvenirs,” the policeman had told him in a smug, self-satisfied tone of voice. As if he really knew what he was talking about, the Wolf said to himself. The cop had been very helpful, and had answered all his questions, although sometimes the policeman had sounded like a teacher trying to explain things to a distracted elementary school class.

&nbs
p; But securing the files made the Wolf feel his privacy remained intact when he shut down his computer. It was a little like turning off a machine but switching on his imagination, because each Red would glow in his thoughts right through the remainder of the humdrum evening that awaited him.

  If you are a plumber, make sure you wear your utility belt and carry your tools. If you are a salesman, make sure you maintain that glib, quick, handshaking demeanor at all times. And if you are a writer, make sure you ask questions like you’re looking for information to put on a page.

  “I’ll be out in a sec!” he called, just as he did every night and precisely as he knew she expected him to. “Just finishing up in here!”

  Meat loaf, he thought. That would be great tonight. With gravy and mashed potatoes.

  And then, if his wife wasn’t too tired, after they’d finished clearing the table and doing the dishes, a movie. They rarely went out to the cinema anymore, preferring to hunker down in front of their wide-screen television. The Wolf was very sensitive to the fact that Mrs. Big Bad Wolf worked hard at a job critically important for their lives—it paid the creditors and allowed him to be who he was—and with her past heart problems, even with the recent clean bill of health, he didn’t like to create stress in the household. He rewarded her with loyalty, which helped provide a nice quiet, private life for the two of them.

  It was the least he could do. If he thought she needed something special, he would surprise her with the occasional night out to a nice restaurant or front-row tickets to a local acting company’s rendition of Macbeth. These outings helped cover up the inevitable disappointment he could see in her eyes when from time to time he announced he had to go out alone “on research.”

  This night he thought he’d check the on-demand television listings and attempt to find something funny and romantic that wasn’t too modern. He didn’t like the latest crop of films, which substituted gross-out for slapstick. He preferred classics. The Marx Brothers and Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, right up through Steve Martin and Elaine May. He knew about Judd Apatow, but couldn’t really understand what the kids saw in his brand of cinematic comedy. He and his wife would agree on one of the old-time channels, and he would sit in his reclining chair, and she would plop down in the adjacent love seat. She would fix them each a bowl of vanilla ice cream with some chocolate sprinkles on top right before the movie started.