by Ed Gorman
The man jerked the knife out of the wood and turned to face her again.
"You think you're going to make it out of this all right. But you're not. Take my word for it. You're not."
Marie said nothing, just kept moving so he couldn't easily grab her, and kept glancing at the opening on the side of the counter. Two steps led to the counter platform and the cash register.
By now, the man had pulled his clothes on again. Except for his crooked tie, he looked pretty much as he had when he'd first come in here.
He kept circling, circling, muttering angrily to himself.
The knife kept snicking at the air, snicking.
Then Marie heard the knock.
At first-her mind spinning with fears of her own death and with what seemed to be her doomed attempt to reach the gun-she wasn't even sure if it was knocking.
Maybe it was just some extraneous sound from the sidewalk or street.
"Marie!"
Several knocks fell against the door now.
She clearly recognised Richie's voice.
Her gaze began flitting to the door. If she could let Richie in…
But she made a mistake by watching the door too long.
She gave the man just enough time to jump across the four feet separating them and grab her around the neck.
In moments she felt his sweaty face breathing hot foul breath against the side of her face, the blade of the butcher knife held tight against her throat.
"You're going to walk over to that door and let him in," he said. "Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"You're not going to scream. You're not going to kick me. You're not going to do anything except let him in and then stand back. You got it?"
Again, she nodded.
He shoved her with his hips, keeping the edge of the blade exactly against her carotid artery. One slice and-
She felt so many things as he pushed her toward the door- terror, confusion, panic. She even felt guilty. If only she'd cried out, warned Richie away.
Now she'd drag him into this and God only knew what-
"Open it," the man whispered harshly in her ear.
This time when he shoved her, she felt his swollen erection against her buttock.
My God, even in the midst of all this, he was still sexually aroused.
The thought of this stunned and sickened her.
She reached out and tripped the hold that would undo the lock.
The lock opened like a shot.
The door crept open half an inch or so.
Diesel fumes and the chilling night air rushed through the tiny crack.
"Marie?"
She could hear the fear and indecision in Richie's voice, hear the questions he had to be asking himself: Should he come in? Should he run for help? By now, he had to know that something was wrong in here, terribly wrong.
The door creaked open.
A section of Richie's head angled around the edge of the wooden frame.
"Marie-" he started to say. And then he saw her there, took in the man who had the knife at her throat.
Something terrible started to form in his throat, some sympathetic wail of protest.
But before Richie could get much of the sound out, the man said, "Get in here, punk."
Richie's first instinct was obviously to run. You could see him start to withdraw in the doorway, wriggle himself free, and run for help.
The man said, "If you don't get in here right now, I'm going to kill her on the spot. You understand?"
Marie could see the colour fading fast from Richie's face. She could also see that he was just starting to take serious note of her virtual nudity. While she'd been able to pull her jeans up around her waist, she hadn't had the opportunity to snap them shut. Her panties tom by the man, she knew that dark pubic hair blossomed in the V of her open fly.
Richie came inside. "Don't hurt her. Please. All right?"
"Lock the door and come over here."
Richie came over. Stood two feet away.
The man said, "Anybody else know you're in here?"
Richie shook his head, glanced at Marie. She saw both fear and sympathy in his eyes.
"Then you're going to be the only witness, kid."
And with that, the man began to pull the knife across Marie's throat.
There was no pain. That was the first thing she noticed. She knew she'd been cut but still there was no pain. Not yet anyway.
She was wriggling against the man's grasp when she saw Richie hurl himself across the empty floor between them.
Richie let out a sound that was both bravado and nerves, some ancient war noise that humans had learned long ago from some lower species.
Richie hit them so hard that all three of them were knocked to the floor. He scrambled to his feet immediately, grabbing Marie's hand and helping her get upright, too.
On the floor, the man was crawling toward the knife that had once again been knocked from his grasp.
"Call the police!" Richie said to Marie.
Frantically, she shook her head. "He tore the wires out from the wall."
The man grabbed the knife, jumped to his feet, spun around, and faced Richie.
"You little sonofabitch," the man said.
He seemed even more insane now than he had earlier. Obviously he'd assumed that Marie would be all his, to do with as he chose. But Richie had spoiled those plans and the man was enraged.
"Richie, watch out!" Marie cried as the man started circling Richie, much as he had Marie herself.
Richie looked about desperately. Whatever courage had come to him in the first moments of seeing Marie in the man's grasp was now given to caution and anxiety.
Marie realised that there was only one way she could help Richie. Reach the door and run out to the sidewalk and start screaming for help.
But as she started for the door, she saw a nightmare take shape.
The man jumped on Richie, slamming him to the floor. In seconds he had the knife at Richie's throat and had tom a deep gash from one side of the throat to the other.
Richie made a horrible gasping sound-almost as if he wanted to vomit-and the man once again pulled the knife all the way back across Richie's throat.
Blood began to flood the floor.
Richie's eyes showed pleading and panic. He looked like a small child in the throes of death.
Marie knew she was screaming but it sounded as if somebody else were making the sound.
The man was bending over Richie like some feasting animal and then abruptly he was on his feet.
Marie was running.
She had no idea where.
She was just running.
Running.
Through the door. Out onto the sidewalk. Screaming, screaming. Out into the street.
Headlights and blaring horns. Shouted obscenities.
Collapsing into the middle of the street itself. Brakes screeching. The stomach-turning sound of one car slamming into the rear end of another car. More blaring horns. More shouted obscenities. Richie lying bleeding to death back there on the floor and the man-
Richie; Richie…
***
He didn't get the bitch. He'd come here to get the cunt-fuck her till she cried out-then slash her throat.
Instead he cut up some goddamned punk who must have been her boyfriend or something.
He saw her go for the door and he went after her.
He knew his whole hand was bloody, that the knife blade was running, dripping with blood.
He also saw-peripherally-that there were people on the sidewalk watching him as he lunged into the street after her.
He didn't care.
The only thing that brought him back to his senses was the noise of cars slamming on brakes and horns shouting at each other like wounded animals.
He didn't follow her into the street.
Hell, she was probably going to get killed out there.
Taking stock of his circumstances-wild looking man wi
th a bloody knife in his hand, neighbourhood yokels starting to shout for help now, terrified of him-he decided the only thing he could do at this point was get in his car and get out of here.
Somewhere a police siren exploded.
Not far away.
He pushed past two simpering old ladies and ran to the side of the bookstore.
All he could think of was the tower and safety.
He ran.
9
BY THE TIME Chris, Emily Lindstrom, and O'Sullivan reached the crime scene, squad cars had cordoned off the entire street. Grim looking uniformed cops-men and women alike-stood next to their squad cars waving long silver flashlights and rerouting traffic. Car passengers seemed equally divided between those who were irritated at being sent two blocks out of their way, and those who were irritated because they couldn't get a closer glimpse of all the trouble.
O'Sullivan took a big PRESS card (black letters on white cardboard for easy reading), set it up behind his steering wheel, and pulled up to one of the uniformed cops.
"I'm O'Sullivan from Channel 3."
The cop-a trim black man-leaned in and said, "There isn't much room in there with the ambulance. Why don't you pull over by that tree there."
"Thanks."
The cop nodded and went back to his job.
After they'd parked and got out, Chris looked at the display past the yellow police tape. The old buildings of the neighbourhood were awash in the splashing red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles. On the other side of the barricades the police had set up stood at least twenty cops, some in uniform, most in suits.
There wasn't a smile to be seen anywhere. Reporters from TV stations were busy with mobile lights and cameras trying to get interviews with officers who clearly had no intention of saying anything at this point. It was too early to know what had gone on here. Ordinary citizens stood on the edge of the perimeter. Most of them looked shocked. Death is always hard to accept but sudden violent death is even tougher-it reminds everybody of how fragile life truly is. One moment you can be walking down the street happy and content, the next you can be on the sidewalk bleeding to death from a stab wound or a gunshot. And no amount of prestige or wealth can save you from the unexpected, either.
Then Chris saw the teenage girl the police were leading out of the bookstore. Chris's heart broke for her. Not only was the girl in shock, but even from ten yards away you could hear the low, moaning animal noise that violent death prompts from those forced to witness it.
The girl was drenched with blood and now, as she held her hands to her face as the TV lights bore in on her, her lovely, soft face became streaked with blood, too.
It was then that Chris noticed the girl's limp. She wondered if this was the result of the murder that had taken place inside the bookstore.
"Jesus," O'Sullivan said when he saw the girl trapped in the glare of the lights.
Then before Chris knew what he was doing, O'Sullivan vaulted a barricade-he might be thirty pounds overweight but he was surprisingly nimble-and ran over in front of the lights. He started waving his arms and blocking the girl with his body so the police could more easily help her into the waiting squad car.
Chris smiled, thinking that this was just the kind of move that proved he was first a human being and second a reporter. Much as she liked some reporters, she didn't find many of them all that admirable as human beings.
Once the girl was in the car and speeding safely away, O'Sullivan turned reporter again. The Channel 3 team-two camera people and the station's reigning hunk who didn't look any smarter than usual-came trotting breathlessly up to their boss, awaiting his commands.
Rather than stand around, Chris decided to start soaking up some colour. Even if she'd been demoted to daily calendar lady, she still recognised a good-if bleak-story when she saw one.
She spent the next ten minutes familiarising herself with the scene in general. She wondered what the motive for the killing had been. Robbery seemed unlikely. Certainly the Alice B. Toklas Bookstore wouldn't have contained enough money to justify such slaughter. (Though, of course, if the killer was a junkie, he might well have murdered these people for a few dollars.) And from what she was gathering, a young white middle class boy had been murdered inside.
A few people in the crowd recognised her and pointed and smiled. You might not get much money as a local TV reporter but you got about all the fame you could handle. Grocery store, record shop, movie theatre-it didn't matter-wherever you went your public awaited you. Of course, not everyone loved you. She'd been spit at, given the finger to, and cursed out loud. And this was all during her off-duty hours.
The crime scene was laid out, as usual, to keep the maximum number of people out and let the minimum number of people inside the yellow crime scene tape. Two uniformed officers stood logging official people in and out, writing down.what they were wearing so that if later there were questions about fibres or blood or latent fingerprints, they'd know if any of these belonged to police personnel. She'd seen some crime scenes that had been limited to two or three people, police identification officers-who did diagrams and snapped photos and gathered all sorts of evidence-and one person from the coroner's office. All the activity was directed by a police commander on the scene (and many times not even the commander was let inside the yellow tape) and a commander back at the precinct. The object was to survey and catalogue the crime scene and get out before anybody had a chance to disturb or disrupt evidence. Understandably, uniformed police officers kept not only Chris but all the other reporters away as well.
This was the front of the store. She decided to try her luck in the alley, where the investigation was limited to one side of the pavement.
Two white coated men from the Medical Examiner's office stood by a wall examining a great stain of blood. The men recognised her and nodded as she walked past. Probably they didn't yet know she was now the daily calendar lady. They probably still thought she was a crack reporter. They probably didn't know how old she was, either. Too old to be anything but a calendar lady. But that was self-pity and that was one thing she always tried to spare herself. She had her health, her good if not brilliant mind, her good if not gorgeous looks, and there were one hell of a lot of people on this planet who had one whole lot less. She considered self-pity the most unbecoming of all feelings and whenever she felt herself slipping into it she bit her lip till she drew blood.
She drew blood right now.
She walked past the light in the centre of the alley, into the chill gloom near the misty light at the opposite end.
The place reeked of garbage and other filth. Near a light pole she could see the carcass of a cat that had been eaten up by some kind of scavenger. Most of the belly was gone. Its front paws and jaw were frozen in a position of extreme terror and pain. She loved cats. The poor little thing.
When Chris got back to the front of the bookstore, she found that the reporters had doubled, perhaps tripled in number. Uniformed police officers held them at bay ten feet on the other side of the yellow tape. The number of onlookers had increased, too. There was a carnival atmosphere now. Among the gloomy faces you saw a smile or two. Know-it-alls in the crowd pointed things out to newly arrived spectators. The slaying had gone from a numbing, depressing experience to one of novelty and even thrills. By now it wasn't a human experience-a life with a history and loved ones-but rather just one more titillation for the tube.
She found O'Sullivan barking at his reporters, ordering them to try to outflank the officers so they could get a better shot of the store interior. His moment of humanity-seeing that the teenage girl was protected from the wolf pack of reporters- had passed and he was once again his familiar self, a news director in a competitive TV market very worried about ratings and determined to get some kind of edge on his foes at the other stations.
So now, instead of walking up to the crime scene commander, she bypassed him and went over to O'Sullivan.
She had to wait until he was finished intim
idating his troops.
He turned to her and said, "Channel 6 is going to beat the hell out of us on this story. They're up to something. I know it." O'Sullivan always said this. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, "Where's Lindstrom?"
"On the other side of the barricade."
Some of the people in the crowd had recognised her. They were pointing and waving. She waved back. Anything except face O'Sullivan's scrutiny.
"Where you going after this?"
"Emily wants to talk to the Fane girl."
"You think you can get in to see her?"
She crossed her fingers. "Hope so." Then she gave him a most unprofessional kiss on the cheek and left.
***
Five blocks from the bookstore, Richard Dobyns was hiding in the deep shadows of a five-storey all-night parking garage. He was on the third floor.
Crouched in a corner of the place, he was slowly becoming aware of smells: leaky motor oil, fading cigarette smoke, his own sticky sweat, and the chill breeze off the nearby river smelling of fish and pollutants.
He was slowly becoming aware of sights, too: the way the perfectly waxed hood of a new Lincoln shone in the starlight through the open wall, the stars themselves inscrutable and imperious, and closer by the concrete floor slanting down into shadows. There were only a few cars left on this floor. The place looked deserted and lonely in the dim and dirty overhead light. Occasionally, from down below, he could hear footsteps and cars starting up, and then a laugh or two.
He wanted to be one of them. One of those everyday normal people getting into an everyday normal car going home to an everyday normal wife and kids. All his life he'd wanted to be everyday and normal yet he never had been quite-not in high school where he'd been the nerdy editor of the school newspaper or in college where he'd been the nerdy editor of the literary. He'd always felt the outsider, walking around with a nervous insincere smile on his face, and knowing a sorrow even he couldn't quite define.
