"So, what did you think?"
"Why don't I tell you while we're between the sheets?" Diana said in a mock-coy voice.
"Okay!" Cary exclaimed, laughing. "I'll be over in an hour."
"Don't keep me waiting too long..."
They rung off, and Diana put Cary's drive on the end table by door and thought about what she was going to say to Cary. It was against her principles to be dishonest, but she wasn't the sort of person who said exactly what she thought if it was something bad, either. She didn't want to hurt Cary's feelings or alienate him. Knowing the state of the world today, she thought, this book will probably be an even bigger seller than Vengeful Ghost.
Diana went into the bathroom to freshen up a little before Cary arrived. If he did have any groupies, she figured she'd better be looking her best at all times. Now that Cary was financially secure and more optimistic, she hoped that one day they could marry and maybe even have a baby. She laughed to herself, knowing she was really rushing things. It would probably take some time to win back Cary's trust. She knew he loved her, but if he didn't trust her, things could never work out.
She undressed, dropping her cool summer dress, now damp with perspiration, into the hamper. She put a shower cap over her short chestnut bob and stepped into the shower stall. She just went in for a quick, cool drenching, then toweled off, sprayed some Eternity on her throat and behind her knees, and threw on her royal purple shortie nightgown. She decided to forego the matching underwear.
She tidied up a bit, but there wasn't much clutter to begin with. She was in the kitchen cutting up some apples and cheese when Cary knocked at the door. Diana didn't live in a security building, so she checked through the peephole before opening the door. Cary looked rather comical from that warped, fish-eye view, holding a bouquet of pink carnations and a bottle of wine.
Diana opened the door and stepped over the threshold to give him a hug as she took the flowers and wine from him. "Hi, honey!"
Cary stepped inside and shut the door quickly. "You shouldn't go out in the hall dressed like that," Cary admonished. "You look great." Diana wore no makeup, and the way the nightgown showed off her long, coltish legs, she looked like jail bait. Cary's heart swelled in his chest; he really had missed her so. He desperately hoped she wouldn't leave him again.
"Thanks." Diana was in the tiny kitchen now, putting some unleavened Indian bread on the serving tray with the apples and brie. "Would you pour the wine? The glasses are in the cupboard to your left."
Cary did as he was asked, pouring the dark red burgundy into two glasses and then leading the way to the bedroom. They lay side by side in bed together, half watching Casablanca on the TV, half making out between bites of bread and apple.
When Cary obviously could restrain himself no longer, he asked casually: "So, what did you think of the book?"
Diana hesitated, then answered with a question of her own. "Have you shown it to the editor at Carousel yet?"
"No, I wanted your opinion first." Cary turned his head so he could see her face. "Didn't you like it?"
"Well, my opinion really isn't the one that counts. You ought to show it to the editor."
Cary was concerned now. "You did read it, didn't you?"
"Yes, yes. Of course I did."
"And...?"
"And...I thought it was a very intriguing story. The ending was fantastic. I was really happy to see that man get exactly what he deserved." Although it could have been a bit less graphic, she added to herself. The description of the woman filleting the man's penis with a straight razor while he was still alive had almost made her physically ill.
Cary laughed. "Yeah, I had fun writing that part." Had he? He could only vaguely remember writing the manuscript. It was kind of like a waning dream, or a faded memory from childhood. He remembered going through the motions, but not really much about how he had decided to develop the character, or even what direction the story would go in. It had almost seemed to write itself in the end, and he couldn't recall exactly how Bonfiglio had died...he would have to read the book over again before turning the story over to Carousel.
Diana gulped. Fun? She looked at Cary. He still looked like the same old Cary. He was reclining next to her, wearing only his boxer shorts and glasses. Humphrey Bogart's image reflected from the TV onto the lenses of Cary's glasses, so she couldn't see his eyes. His almost hairless body was as pale and soft as ever. Diana decided not to ask how such a thing could possibly be described as fun. Instead, "Did you have to do lots of research on serial killers?"
"Well, of course! I couldn't very well write from experience."
"Of course not." She laughed with nervous tension. "What I mean is, the book really does give the reader a glimpse into the sociopathic mind. I found that part very interesting. But you do know, of course, that I really am squeamish about horror stories."
"Me, too."
Could have fooled me, Diana thought.
Cary stroked her thigh. "I know how to give you thrills and chills the old-fashioned way."
Diana really wasn't in the mood anymore. In fact, she felt a little bit scared of Cary at the moment. But that was ridiculous. It's only a story, she told herself as she moved the tray from between them and placed it on the floor. Cary closed the gap and put his arms and legs around her. For such an unprepossessing man, Diana had to admit, Cary was pretty darn good in the sack.
The next day, Monday, Cary stayed holed up in his apartment all day making little word changes and punctuation corrections here and there on The Brandie Killer. He wanted it to be absolutely perfect when he handed it over to Susan Montgomery the next morning.
Cary had a strange mix of emotions as he read over the murder scenes. He was horrified over the involuntary stirring in his loins as he read his own descriptions of the Brandies getting sexually violated. He wanted very much to tone down some of the scenes, but whenever he tried, he just couldn't bring himself to do it for some reason. Don't sabotage your own bestseller, he told himself. This is what your public wants. Just because you don't condone violence doesn't mean you shouldn't make a dollar or two along the way.
After he ran through the whole story, he realized why Diana had quailed over giving him an answer the night before. He realized that he really should have read it again himself first before giving it to her. He hadn't remembered just how sadistic and shocking the story was. Of course, she would have read it anyway once it was published, but at least he could have prepared her, or explained himself. But what was there to explain? It's not like he really identified with his main character. Still, he wondered why he had glorified Bonfiglio's actions and justified them by blaming what he had done on his mother. It was true, he had learned through his research, that serial killers almost without exception had had a rough start in the world. A lot of them were adopted and all of them were neglected and emotionally abused. But that did not make the parents the criminals. After all, these sociopaths were the ones doing the killing of the innocent victims who were totally blameless. And yet, in Cary's story, although Bonfiglio did die at the end, the reader knew his dynasty of death lived on through his own murderer and that the killings would never really stop.
At least that leaves it open for a sequel, he thought perversely. Tomorrow I pick up my advance!
Tweetie twittered in her cage, demanding to be fed. Cary was thankful for the distraction.
"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" Cary said, squeezing his proportionately huge hand through the tiny door of Tweetie's cage. They must think only eight-year-old girls keep birds as pets, he thought with irritation as he strained to stroke Tweetie's yellow wings with one finger. "I'll bring Diana over to spend some quality time with you real soon," he promised. "Then we'll both give you lots of attention."
Cary fed the canary and filled her water bottle. Then he went into the bathroom to his medicine cabinet and took four aspirins. Reading his manuscript had not only given him eye strain physically, but brain strain emotionally. He hoped Carou
sel wouldn't find his book so distasteful that they would refuse to publish it, or worse still, cancel his contract. But then, Bret Easton Ellis's publisher had gone ahead with American Psycho...or "American Sicko," as some called it. Cary wondered if the publishers were sorry or pleased over all the controversy? His head throbbed even more insistently at the thought and he popped two more aspirins before trudging back into the kitchen to make himself some hot tea.
Less than an hour later, as he lay in bed, Cary thought about what a big day he had planned. In the morning he was to meet with Susan Montgomery. He would he handing over The Brandie Killer and in return getting a very nice advance. It was more than enough for him to put towards buying a condo. After he went to the bank, he had an appointment with a real estate agent and an attorney.
He would be meeting with the attorney to see what kind of recourse he had against Old Scratch Press. He had been unable to track them down on his own, and now that he no longer feared he would be sued by them, he wanted to sue them for the rest of his money and royalties. All he had ever received on his big seller was the modest advance before it had even been published.
Finally, he would pick Diana up at work and they would go to a celebratory dinner and end up back at his place.
All in all, things were definitely looking up for Cary Bouchard.
Chapter 4
Check in hand, Cary went directly to his bank as planned. He withdrew some spending cash, then went to the real estate office, where he was shown several photos and brochures of places for sale. The agent, an austere and elderly RE veteran named June Bumstead, seemed miffed that Cary wasn't prepared to be more extravagant with his money. She tried to push the view high-rises overlooking Central Park, but Cary insisted laughingly that he was no Donald Trump. He imagined what the woman was thinking. He knew he still looked like a milksop on the outside, but on the inside, he was rich, rich, rich.
June gave him Blu-ray disc of available condos to take home and watch ("These are not online for just anyone to see," she'd said), and even had to throw in a loaner player because Cary did not own one.
Cary hailed a cab and picked Diana up at 5:00 P.M. sharp at the Book Nook. As always, she looked fresh and alert even though she had spent the whole day at work.
Later, over dinner, Cary complimented her on that very thing. "You look great, babe. How do you do it after working all day? As I'm sure you remember, when I got off from JBR I'd be so fatigued and cranky." Even now, Cary was exhausted after running around all day and half-wished he hadn't set up the dinner date for this night.
Diana rolled her eyes and laughed, "Boy, do I! Well, you know what it is, Cary? I love what I do. To me, being surrounded by the books I cherish and talking to interesting, intelligent people all day is not my idea of work."
"Well, I like writing, but I must say it really does take a lot out of me."
"But that's different. It's a creative process which, I suppose, takes a lot of energy."
"Yes, I guess you're right." Cary buttered a piece of bread for her, then stirred his own coffee. "By the way, I never did tell you the story of how I got published in the first place."
Diana leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the flickering candle light. The warm glow of the tiny flame complimented her naturally tan skin and the tight gold dress she wore seemed to blend in with her skin so that if you just glanced at her, you might even think she was nude. "Do tell," she said. "I know how much you hated your job. What did your boss say when you quit?"
"Nothing. He was dead."
Diana gasped. "Really? What happened?"
"Didn't you read about it the paper?" Without waiting for a reply, Cary proceeded to tell Diana the whole story about how he had come in to work to find the art gallery's offices swarming with police, coroners and detectives, and how frightful it had been to see Joshua dead on the stretcher. He decided it was better not to say that he had predicted The Old Man's death by wishing it would happen. He still felt somehow responsible, even though he knew it was ridiculous. It was just a crazy coincidence.
"My gosh, that's terrible!" Diana exclaimed, her doe eyes wide with genuine surprise. "Did the police ever call you back?"
"No," Cary bristled. "I was never a suspect."
"I didn't mean it like that," Diana said placatingly. "It's just that you worked for him all those years. Did they think it had anything to do with work? Did they catch whoever did it?"
"To tell you the truth, I really don't know. After a while the story kind of faded from the papers and I lost interest."
How awful, Diana thought. Even if she didn't particularly care for some people, she would at least be sorry if they died. Cary didn't seem distressed in the least. Of course, it had happened a whole year ago.
She had met Joshua Ryan on a few occasions. One time was at a party at his fantastic high-rise; Cary had been sunk into the depths of depression for days afterward. He had gone on incessantly about how rich, spoiled and arrogant his boss was. She wondered at the time if harboring such jealousy and malice for his employer was healthy for Cary, but hadn't thought of it again until now.
"Let's talk about something else," Cary said. "I have in this," he indicated a blue carrying case at his feet, "a Blu-ray player from a real estate agent. I thought maybe you would look at the disc with me tonight. I have a feeling you'll be spending a lot of time in my new place." He smiled shyly.
"Me, too," she returned the smile. "I'd like to see the condos. Are you ready to go?"
Cary nodded, picked the check up from the table and rose. He took Diana's hand as she stood, then grabbed hold of the case, paid the bill, and hailed a cab for them outside the restaurant. Once inside the taxi, Cary stole a glance at his watch. He was really tired and knew he'd be up for at least a few more hours. He stifled a contented yawn as Diana snuggled into the crook of his arm.
Twenty minutes later, Cary and Diana were walking into his apartment. "I see you still have to push that door with your shoulder," she noted with a wry chuckle.
"It won't be long 'til I'm out of this place." At the sound of her master's voice Tweetie trilled in greeting.
Diana went up to the cage and put one of her slender fingertips through the bars. "Who's this?" she asked in baby-talk, cooing at the bird.
"Tweetie," Cary answered. "She was sleeping with a blanket over her cage when you were here last. I didn't want to disturb her. I bought her the Christmas before last. She really helped me through a difficult time." He hadn't said it to be accusing, only as an explanation.
"I'm sorry," Diana said and gave him a hug around his waist. "Really I am. I don't know what possessed me to do such a thing. I treated you without respect, and I am so sorry about that." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Cary cupped her chin in his hand and gently forced her to look into his eyes. "I forgive you. Life is too short for resentment. You really did hurt me, but now you're back and I'm very happy. Let's don't bring it up again."
Diana smiled gratefully. "Okay."
"Ready to pick out a new home with me?" Cary turned his TV set on. "Do you know how to hook up a Blu-ray?"
"Of course I do," she replied. "I'm very handy around the house." Diana took the loaner from its case and connected the cables. Before long they were both watching video tours of exclusive condos for sale and secret sub-lets in New York City.
Diana was easier to please than Cary, but finally they saw a place they both liked best. It had shiny white linoleum floors and was fully furnished, complete with an office and computer hutch. The place was decorated ultra-modern with the use of metals and plastics and absolutely everything was either white or dove gray. Cary thought it was very stark in a chic sort of way, and it appealed to Diana's ascetic tastes.
"You'll have to get a white cage for Tweetie," Diana commented.
"I'm going to call the agent first thing in the morning and get that place," Cary said.
"Don't you want to see it in person first?"
"What for? I've just seen
it now. I wonder when I can move in?" Cary thought aloud as he scanned his apartment. There was almost nothing in the dreary little place that he would want to keep. He would call and give the furniture to charity and take with him only Tweetie, his computer, books, clothes and toiletries.
Cary switched off the computer and Diana disconnected the player. He then turned the radio on and led Diana to the small, depressing bedroom. It was dark because the window glass was painted brown (thanks to a former tenant) and the threadbare carpet was also a dark brown color. He was thankful he would be out this place soon. The bedroom in the new place was spacious, sparking clean and bright white. It even had a fireplace with a hearth of painted white brick.
When he awoke the next morning, Cary reached over in bed only to find that Diana had already gone. He groaned as he turned over to look at the digital clock on the night stand. It was late, and Diana had probably left for work hours before. Cary stretched languidly for a moment, then hopped quickly out of bed. He went directly to the shower and emerged feeling much refreshed and fully awake.
It was already very hot, so he put on only a pair of clean gray boxers and went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. "Hi, Tweetie," he said as he entered the room. Tweetie did not reply, but regarded him curiously with her black, shining eyes as he went about making the tea.
Cary stretched again and yawned. He felt that he deserved a day off and aside from calling the real estate company, he planned on doing nothing but reading and watching TV. Since he'd bought the television he hadn't watched it much except to see himself on some of the talk shows. He did enjoy the occasional opera or documentary, but such treats were few and far between. Whenever he did turn it on he was usually bombarded with tear-jerker movies about unwed mothers, soap operas, trash on MTV, reality show rhetoric, and other such mindless entertainment for the masses. But today he wouldn't mind; he felt like losing himself and not having to worry about whether Susan Montgomery was reading his manuscript yet.
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 7
