Red 1-2-3 (9780802192844)

by Katzenbach, John

  She took her laptop to a corner of the library where there were small cubicles for students to use preparing term papers or researching English class essays. She did a Google search for stalking and came up with over forty million entries in less than a second. She scanned some of these, from what appeared to be government or police organizations. They didn’t help either.

  Each began with the eminently wise admonition to “limit contact with the obsessive personality.” Great, she thought. That’s a big goddamn help. Her problem stemmed from the fact that all the connections between her and the Big Bad Wolf had been his to begin with. It simply wasn’t the same as an estranged boyfriend or a deranged classmate or coworker. On the one hand, the Wolf was completely anonymous. On the other, he was so close she could feel hot breath against her neck.

  And none of the websites—like none of the books on killing—gave her the slightest idea what to do next.

  So, Jordan thought, you are sort of on your own and not on your own at the same time, because there’s always Red One and Red Two.

  She looked across the library. There was an assistant librarian at a desk in the corner and perhaps a half-dozen other students either wandering through the stacks or hunkered down with a pile of books. The assistant librarian was a middle-aged woman bent over a copy of Cosmopolitan and obviously killing the last few minutes before she could chase the students from their research and lock up. The students were bookish types who would have been ashamed to sneak some unattributed Wikipedia information into whatever paper they were writing, a practice universally frowned upon by the faculty but regularly employed by almost the entirety of the student body.

  She knew the Wolf wasn’t there. It made no difference. He had created the impression that he was always close by, as if he was in the next cubicle, smirking behind a stack of research materials as he watched her.

  She asked herself, How can I tell when I’m safe and when I’m not?

  This question reverberated within her. She stood up sharply, pushed all her books aside, slipped her computer into her backpack, and walked quickly out of the library. On the steps, surrounded by early night, she realized that the Wolf could be there. Or could not.

  Uncertainty dogged her every stride.

  She hunched her shoulders against the chill and headed back to her dormitory. She expected to pass another night neglecting her assignments and tossing fitfully as sleep tortured her.

  I can’t run away. I can’t hide. Just the opposite. I have to get close enough so I can see him clearly.

  Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. The word repeated in her head like an unwanted melody, so much so that she almost missed the sound of her cell phone ringing. She reached first for the throwaway that Karen had given her. But it was her other phone buzzing.

  Mom? Dad? she thought, knowing that it wouldn’t be.

  Sarah was also outside in the early evening, letting cold air flow steadily over her, but not really feeling the chill. Remarkable, she thought, how a little bit of terror keeps you warm.

  She had been unable to remain inside her house. The ever-present television set had failed to distract her. Memories and fears had coalesced into a stew of anxiety, and she had known she had to do something, but was unable to think of what that something might be.

  Go to the movies? Ridiculous.

  Go out to dinner alone? Don’t be stupid.

  Head to a local bar to drink? That would be really smart.

  So, for lack of any other idea, thinking that it was incredibly foolish to make herself so vulnerable but unable to withstand the buildup of tension within her, she had tossed on a pair of jogging shoes and taken a walk.

  Up one block she traveled, down the next, then across a few streets, as haphazardly as possible, with no fixed direction. She had passed a few homes where once she had visited friends and neighbors, but she did not stop. From time to time she had come upon other people, usually out exercising a dog, but on almost every occasion she had hunched up her shoulders and buried her head and neck into her coat and refused to make eye contact. She did not think that some businessman home from work at the office and taking Fido or Spot out for an evening bathroom break would turn into the Big Bad Wolf, but she also knew that this possibility was as likely as any. Why wouldn’t some guy walking his mutt be a killer? In fact, the only people she discounted were those whose dogs were irrepressible and had that dog-demand and dog-need to greet any stranger on the street with a wag and a sniff. And then, after roughing up the ears and stroking the neck of the third such dog that accosted her despite the apologies and admonitions of its owner, she abruptly asked herself: Why wouldn’t a killer have a friendly dog?

  The idea that it didn’t seem right hardly comforted her.

  She half-hoped the falling night would make her a poor target. The other half within her hoped that the Big Bad Wolf would just seize that moment to end things. It was almost as if resolution was more important than life.

  She was unaware of how long she walked. The blocks stretched into miles. The neighborhood changed, then changed again. She turned first one way, then the next, and finally, feet starting to complain with raw blisters, she turned back and limped her way home. By the time she stood outside her home, she was breathing hard and exhausted, which she considered a good thing. Her knees ached a bit and for the first time she felt cold.

  She did not immediately enter. Instead, Sarah stood beneath her entranceway light, door key in hand. Maybe he broke in while I was out, just like he does at Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house, so he can wait comfortably inside for me.

  She shrugged and slid the key into the lock. For an instant she felt as if she had exhausted all the fears she could hold within her, the same way there always comes a point when one can cry no more tears. From inside, she suddenly heard her home phone ringing.

  No one had called her in months.

  Karen had stayed behind long after office hours were finished for the day. The nursing staff, the receptionist, and even the night janitor had all departed. A solitary lamp threw shadows against the wall.

  She remained at her desk, deep in erratic thoughts.

  That she was always scared was a given. But how scared should I be? Like the “pain” scale on the wall of her office, she thought she should be able to rate her fear. Right now, I’m at 8. In the comedy club I was at 9. I wonder what 10 will feel like.

  Instead, she started to repeat over and over, “Red One, Red One, Red One,” in a low, raspy, but singsong voice that sounded like she was developing a common cold, when she knew that it was more tension that had stripped her throat of melody.

  She looked up at the ceiling and realized that the words sounded eerily similar to the little boy’s refrain of “Redrum, redrum, redrum” from the Stanley Kubrick adaptation of Stephen King’s novel The Shining.

  So, Karen tried to run the two together. “Red One, redrum,” she said out loud.

  Karen had just given herself an inner push, trying to energize weakened muscles and frayed tendons into pulling together to get up and head home, when her desktop phone rang.

  Her first instinct was to ignore it. Whatever inquiry from whatever patient could go to the answering service, who would inform the caller to dial 911 if it was life-threatening or else to call back during regular office hours.

  But, hell, you’re here, she told herself. This is your job. Someone’s sick. Answer the damn phone and help them. She reached out and picked up the receiver and answered, “Medical offices. Doctor Jayson speaking.”

  She heard nothing but silence on the other end.

  The absence of sound can be far worse than any scream.

  Red One froze at her desk.

  A few minutes later . . .

  Red Two nearly lost her balance and had to slam back against a wall to keep from falling to the floor.


  A few minutes later . . .

  Red Three stood stock still as darkness flooded around her.

  None heard anything other than breathing for the first few seconds. Each was nearly overcome with the desire to hang up or throw the phone across the room or into the night or rip it from the wall socket. They did not do any of these things, although Red Three cocked her arm and nearly let loose, before slowly returning her cell phone to her ear.

  Each Red waited for the person on the other end to either say something or hang up. The time seemed fierce, relentless.

  Each truly expected something frightening, a disembodied cold voice that said, “Soon,” or “I’m coming for you,” or even some demonic laugh right out of a Hollywood B movie.

  But none of these words or noises came. The quiet merely persisted, as if swelling in timbre and reaching a crescendo, like an orchestra gathering for the final symphonic notes.

  Then, abruptly, it was gone.

  Red One slowly returned the phone to its cradle on her desk. Red Two did the same. Red Three slid her phone back into her pack. But before they stepped away, they all did the same thing: They checked the caller ID on their phones. None allowed even the vaguest hope that this number would lead anywhere near the Big Bad Wolf.

  23

  Mrs. Big Bad Wolf lay crumpled in bed like a discarded piece of scratch paper. It was shortly after the sun had come up, and she stared across twisted sheets and pillows at her husband, who slept peacefully beside her. She listened to the steady, even sounds of his breathing and knew from long experience that his eyes would flutter open just as the clock on the bureau reached 7 a.m. He was utterly consistent in this and had been throughout the years of their marriage, regardless of how late he’d tucked himself into bed the night before. She knew that he would stretch by the side of the bed, run his fingers through his thinning hair, shake a little like a lazy dog roused from slumber, and then pad across the bedroom to the bathroom. He might complain about morning joint stiffness and arthritis. She could count the seconds before she would hear the water running in the shower and the toilet flushing.

  This morning everything would be precisely the same.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Mrs. Big Bad Wolf assessed every crease in her sleeping husband’s face, counted the dark brown age spots on his hands, and noted the gray hairs in his bushy eyebrows. Each item in her husband-inventory seemed as familiar as the weak morning sunlight.

  She could feel an argument bubbling up within her: You know this man better than you know anyone other than yourself versus Who is he, really?

  She had slept precious few hours and felt the nasty sort of exhaustion born of tossing and turning throughout the small hours. And when she had managed to sleep, her dreams had been remorseless and unsettled, like childhood nightmares. This was something she had not experienced since the days of her heart troubles, when fears would shake her night. A part of her wanted very badly to rest and forget, but it was overwhelmed by too many questions, none of which she could ask out loud.

  The night before—after she had violated her husband’s work space—she had stared blankly at a succession of favorite television shows that failed to make even the slightest dent in her worries. She had shut off the television and turned off all the lights and sat in her usual seat in the pitch dark until she saw the headlights of her car reflecting off the white living room walls. Then she had purposely hurried to bed. Normally, no matter how tired she was, she would have stayed up to ask him about the forensics lecture. Not this night. She had feigned sleep when he’d quietly snuck into the bedroom and slid into bed beside her. She had felt cold, wondering whether this was a stranger who slipped in next to her. Once upon a time, he might have stroked her arm or her breast to awaken her with desire, but those days were well past.

  What did you see in his office?

  This question echoed within her. It had seemed loud through the dark of night, and only softened slightly as the dawn arose through the bedroom window.

  I don’t know.

  She wondered if this was a lie. Maybe I do know.

  Simple, benign explanations warred with dark, dire interpretations. She felt as if she were standing in a square in some foreign country trying to get directions. Every sign was in letters that she couldn’t read, every passer­by spoke some language she couldn’t comprehend.

  “Hey, good morning!”

  The Big Bad Wolf was stirring.

  She thought her voice would quaver, but it did not. Ask the obvious, she told herself: Are you a killer?

  But she did not.

  She thought her voice was weak and reedy when she asked, “How was the lecture? I tried to stay up for you, but just crumped out before you got back . . .”

  “Oh, fascinating. The state police guy was really pretty clever and funny, and damn smart. I learned a lot. Got in late.”

  What did you learn? Did you learn how to—

  She stopped. The questions frightened her.

  She watched him roll from the bed and cross the room.

  Call the police. Call the local district attorney. Call someone. Who?

  “Hey, I noticed we’re almost out of toothpaste,” he said.

  Normal, she thought. Nothing has changed.

  This falsehood made her feel significantly better. She decided to consider what she would make for his breakfast, instead of wondering whether she had stumbled upon some sick secret. But she wasn’t very confident that a decision about eggs or pancakes would hold much sway over Is your husband a killer? for very long.

  By the time she arrived at work, Mrs. Big Bad Wolf was unsure whether she completely wanted answers to the questions that her transgression had created. What she wanted was to rewind time as if it were a ­videotape—return to the moment when she had realized she held the key to her husband’s writing room and decided to sneak inside. A part of her was ashamed that she had lied to him. Another part was simply confused.

  The first thing she did was go to the black steel cabinet that contained all the student records and pull out Jordan’s file.

  On the inside jacket was the official school picture of Jordan taken at the beginning of the fall term. It reminded Mrs. Big Bad Wolf of pictures taken by the police: Front view. Turn. Right-side profile. Turn. Left-side profile. All that was missing was the placard with identifying numbers held beneath the chin.

  She flipped past the photographs and pored over the details contained within the folder. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf had been a secretary in the private school for far too many years not to understand the patterns delineated by the documents on file. She believed they were boringly typical. She had a short conversation with herself: The kids always think all their problems are really special. They’re not. What’s next? Jordan experiments with sex. Jordan starts smoking weed or abusing a classmate’s prescription for Ritalin. Jordan breaks some school rule in a spectacularly obvious fashion and gets kicked out.

  But what she couldn’t see was anything that connected her husband to Jordan.

  And more: Why her? Why would she be a target, either for killing or for modeling a character in a book after?

  Thoughts like this seemed to crash through Mrs. Big Bad Wolf’s thinking, out of control, spastic.

  She found herself staring into the many sheets of Jordan’s file with an unbridled anger. She could feel heat rushing through her.

  What about you is so goddamn special that my husband has your fucking picture on his wall?

  This question screamed inside her.

  And, in the same moment, she realized she hated Jordan. It was a real, fierce, boiling-jealous hatred. She could no more have said why she felt this as she could have related what she was going to do about it. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf closed up the teenager’s file, slapping it shut on her desk.

  This le
ft her doctor and some other unknown woman to worry about. Why them?

  She reached down into her pocketbook and pulled out the piece of paper on which she’d scribbled the names and dates of her husband’s books and the seemingly disconnected murder cases that he’d seen fit to clip from newsprint and store in his leather album.

  She realized she had some research to do. She didn’t know how much time she had to do this, but she knew she had to hurry.

  In his office that morning, the Wolf happily transcribed his notes from the lecture. He was also pleased with the calls he’d made.

  He wrote: Sometimes the loudest noise you can make is no noise at all.

  The cell phone he’d used to call each of the three Reds had been purchased with cash at a small electronics store—one that he’d made certain had no security cameras. After stopping alongside a highway and making the calls, he’d removed the memory chip and smashed the phone beneath his heel. Part had been discarded in a Dumpster outside a rest area. The remainder had been tossed into a small river not far from where the lecture was held. One of the things the Wolf enjoyed most about the science of murder was the preparation in anticipating every small detail of dying.

  The key thing, he typed furiously, is to make sure that you’ve established the correct level of terror. Fear in your victims—whether it’s caused in a few seconds of realization panic or by a slow buildup of uncontrollable anxiety—is what causes them to make immense mistakes and what underscores your equally immense excitement. They stumble and trip and expose themselves while trying to flee or hide. Happens every time. Ever seen one of those teenage “slasher” movies? Every direction they turn either Jason or Freddy Krueger or the Texas guy with the face mask and the chain saw has anticipated their move and is waiting for them. What the victims don’t get is that the actions caused by their fear have made them infinitely more vulnerable. When they run amok, they open the door to someone more familiar with the terrain to exploit their fright. Arguing that Friday the 13th Part One Zillion has it just absolutely right seems a little crazy—but it isn’t really. Remember Little Red Riding Hood? The Wolf knows every inch of the territory with an intimacy she can’t imagine. Those movies are no different. It is into those gaps created by unplanned fear that the really sophisticated killer must adventure. Some of the richest moments in the killing experience come from those places, even if they are short in duration.