"I'm leaving tonight," Cary said, shocking himself. He still had some commitments, not just in California, but in Washington, Denver, Chicago and New York. He suddenly decided that he needed a rest. He didn't care what Carousel Books would say. They probably deal with eccentric writers all the time, he told himself. They won't skip a beat. Maybe it will even boost sales. I really could be the J.D. Salinger of the modern era.
Gray raised her eyebrows. "So soon?" That clinched it. Publicity stunt. Oh well, she'd hand the photos over to Homicide anyway, just to be on the safe side.
Chapter 8
Four hours later Cary was sitting on a plane destined for New York. He hadn't called Diana. He definitely hadn't called Susan Montgomery. What would she say? Was he violating some obscure clause in his contract by doing this? At first, he hadn't given much care to what the consequences were, but now he had niggling doubts. Perhaps he would continue the tour later; right now, he simply could not bear the stress. All he wanted to do was go home and stay in bed for three days--preferably with Diana--and not think about Insta-Pic photographs or the living nightmare of the Al Jackson television show.
Cary closed his eyes and tried to unwind, but he was jolted bolt upright by the shocking and sudden and almost movie-like clear image of horror that greeted him. Unbidden, like an embarrassing but titillating sexual fantasy, an overwhelming image crowded his brain.
It was he, Cary, straddling Diana in a cruel, domineering stance. She lay on the bare wooden floor of her apartment bucking under him like an unbroken filly. Her eyes were half-closed and her mouth was smiling in languid ecstasy. In his mind's eye, Cary saw his hands go around Diana's throat and he began choking the life out of her...
The older man seated next to Cary gave him a sharp look of extreme annoyance when he jerked forward suddenly in his chair. "Sorry," Cary mumbled. "Nightmare." Probably almost gave the poor old geezer a heart attack, he thought ruefully.
The first thing he would do, Cary decided, when he touched down at JFK, would be to call a cab and go directly home. He would then take the phone off the hook, shut off the cell, and stay by himself for a couple of days. He missed Diana terribly, but he didn't want her to see him in his current negative state; he hoped that she had taken Tweetie to her own apartment. After a few days’ rest, he would think about going to see Diana's doctor for his sleeplessness.
The widebody touched down on New York terra firma at exactly 5:01 P.M. Cary found an empty cab waiting by the luggage carousel and after quite a long ride he was deposited at his home.
It felt like biting into a soft, partially melted bar of milk chocolate to be back home. He savored it slowly. He smiled at his welcoming lady statue and set his bags down by her feet. He stood in the center of the living room for a while, just absorbing the ambiance of home.
Cary noted with relief that the hook which allowed Tweetie's cage to be suspended from the living room ceiling was empty. That had to mean she was with Diana. Cary sighed and walked to the ivory Victorian reproduction telephone and took it carefully off the hook. He saw the message light flashing on his answer machine...he decided he did not want to hear what anyone had to say just now.
He walked into the bathroom and shed his clothing as he went. His body stank of dried sweat from his run the night before, and the dog vomit had seeped through the tongues of his shoes and permeated his socks. Cary imagined it clogging the very pores of his skin. He stepped into the shower. In complete contrast to him, it smelled pleasantly of lemon Lysol and Diana's fragrant cherry almond shampoo. That would be nice, he decided; a little frou-frou perhaps to use a woman's shampoo, but it did have a lovely scent.
Cary turned the hot and cold faucets on and the shower head spurted forth a heavenly warm water that enveloped him like a soft blanket. He lathered himself with some deodorant soap, then reached for Diana's shampoo. He unscrewed the cap and squirted its contents directly onto his wet head. A horrible, nauseating stench immediately filled the shower stall. Cary knew that stench...it was puke and something else. Rotting meat. Dog vomit. The dog vomit. He put a trembling hand to his hair and scooped what felt like ordinary shampoo off the top of his head. He brought his hand to his face and saw, there in the palm of his hand, a viscous yellow, slimy fluid with small chunks of moldering meat suspended in its glue-like mass. He could swear he saw sperm floating in there, too. His heart was in his throat, and so was his stomach. As his gorge rose he rinsed his head frantically and leapt from the still-running shower.
What had just happened to him? It couldn't be real. Had to be a hallucination from being overtired. Had to be. Cary stood trembling and dripping naked in the middle of his bathroom for at least five minutes before reaching over to turn off the shower. Then he got himself a towel and rubbed himself dry. I'm very tired. What I need is sleep. If I can just sleep through one night I know I'll be fine.
He looked over at the medicine cabinet. In it, he knew, was a half full bottle of Sleep-Eez. He had tried everything to sleep--short of getting a prescription--and he had bought a bottle of these pills shortly before he left. They hadn't really worked, but he would take five this time...anything to buy him some peace of mind, no matter how temporary. He was terrified that he was cracking up. Cracking up like...like his mother. No. No, you're not. He slid open the etched glass door above the sink and got the bottle of Sleep-Eez.
He took it into the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of dark red wine. He sat, still naked and shivering, on one of the cold white Naugahyde barstools in front of the chopping block and opened the bottle. He poured a number of the little midnight blue pills into the palm of his hand and without counting them, popped them into his mouth all at once. He gulped the wine down in two swallows and set the glass down on the block. He sat for a moment or two more, trying not to think of what had just happened. Or did it? All he wanted to do now was escape into sleep.
He exited the kitchen without turning out the lights went directly to his bedroom. He slid between the satiny coolness of his white sheets and lay there in the silence. His body felt completely rung out, but his brain raced on. He couldn't stop thinking about the photos. Who had taken them? And why? Was someone trying to drive him insane? Were the girls really dead? They couldn't be... Did this warped fan know where he lived? Was he--or she--following Cary? Would the Insta-Pics stop, now that he was home?
His eyes were closed, but the brief, flashing image of Diana's horrified face while he strangled her continued to haunt him until the Sleep-Eez mercifully took their toll.
It was very late when he woke. His rise to consciousness was like trying to swim to the surface from the bottom of a pool of warm molasses. The pills had left him groggy, but they had done their job for once. He willed his heavy-lidded eyes to open. His room was flooded in warm yellow late-afternoon light. He rolled over to glance at his alarm clock; he had slept for close to eighteen hours! His limbs felt like wood and his brain was fuzzy, but all in all Cary felt like a new man. He didn't feel anxious or scared in the slightest way, not even when he thought back on the previous night's shower. It had definitely been a side-effect from a feverishly overworked brain.
He lay there in the cozy warmth of his bed for a while, then rolled up to a sitting position, his bare feet touching the carpeted floor. He stretched and yawned and sat for a few minutes more. It felt so good to just relax. But, being the person of action he was, he couldn't languish forever. He got up and padded barefoot and still nude into the bathroom.
He picked up his trail of stale, musty-smelling clothes from the floor and placed them into the bathroom hamper. "Let's try this again," he said aloud as he stepped into the shower stall. It still smelled of Lysol and cherry-almond. Cary purposely used Diana's shampoo, as though challenging his personal demons, but they didn't take the bait. His shower was concluded without incident and he exited the stall feeling so fresh and alert he was tempted to sing. But he didn't. Even in the privacy of his own home, Cary never let himself go that much.
He
put on his white bathrobe which had been hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door and went into the kitchen to start a pot of tea. On his way, he glanced at the answering machine and saw that five more messages had come in while he slept. He went ahead and started a pot to brew, then padded lightly back into the living room. He pressed the play button on the machine and sat down on the divan, his ever-ready pen and paper poised in hand. The messages that had come in while he was away were not of great interest, but the five that had come in that day certainly were.
"Cary. Susan Montgomery here. Where the hell are you? You were supposed to be at NBC for the taping of The Tonight Show two hours ago! They say you never showed up and you never called. I hope to hell you'll be checking your messages."
"Cary. Pick up. It's Diana. Cary, I know you're home..."
"Susan again. I just found out you were on the Al Jackson Show. What in the hell were you doing on that show? It wasn't on your itinerary and we don't appreciate you making unilateral decisions like that!" Cary's heart froze. Carousel hadn't booked him on the Al Jackson Show? Then who did? The message continued. "I also just found out about the police and your trip home. Call me as soon as you get this message."
Diana's pretty, bell-like voice came on after the next beep. "Cary, are you okay? Susan Montgomery called me twice to see if you were here. What happened? Call me."
Beep. Diana again. "I'm coming over."
As if on cue, Diana's key turned in the lock and she walked in, Tweetie's cage suspended in one hand by its ring at the top. She stopped as the door slid closed, just looking at him curiously for a moment. Then, her eyes got soft and she smiled.
"Cary." She set Tweetie's cage down and instantly joined Cary on the couch, giving him a fierce hug. "Oh, I was so worried about you. What happened?" Tears of relief rolled down her cheeks.
She really does care about me, Cary thought incredulously.
"It's a long story..." he said, not sure how to begin. Should he tell her everything? Would she think he was crazy? He felt ever so much better now that he'd slept, he didn't think there was any need to relive his horrible nightmares. But if Susan Montgomery had found out about the cops in Los Angeles, then Diana surely would hear about it, too. "Let's go into the kitchen. I've just made some tea." He rose, stretching. "I just woke up."
"You were sleeping?" Diana asked, eyebrows arched.
"Yes! I've finally broken the cycle. I feel wonderful." Instead of going directly to the kitchen he went toward the door and picked up Tweetie's cage. As he lifted it to the hook in the ceiling his face was level with the tiny canary's. Her flat, black eyes seemed to hold untold malice and an inexplicably ancient hatred as they bore into his own. They were intelligent eyes, knowing.
He dropped the cage in alarm, and Diana gasped as Tweetie screeched in terror when her cage crashed to the floor. Her water and birdseed went flying in all directions.
Diana was there immediately, righting the cage. She put it on the hook and turned to Cary. "What happened? Did she bite you?"
"Yeah," Cary said absently.
"Let me see your finger. Did she break the skin?"
"No, no. It's okay," he waved her away and moved back toward the kitchen. He needed a cup of tea.
Diana followed him and got two white porcelain teacups down from the elegant Sterling silver mug rack that was perched beside the stove. Cary sat on the same barstool as he had the night before and began to tell Diana the story as she prepared their tea.
"Everything was going fine on the tour at first...well, as fine as to be expected." Diana nodded. She knew how he hated being out among the masses. "Until I got to Dallas. Then I got an anonymous Insta-Pic photo handed to me a book signing. It was scary, because it was like a murder scene out of The Brandie Killer."
"What?" Diana asked sharply. She had never liked the idea for that book and was horrified to think that some warped murderer had possibly used it as a blueprint.
"Oh, the girl wasn't really dead," Cary said quickly. Of course, he didn't know whether that was true, but then he didn't know it wasn't true, either. "When I got a similar photo in Los Angeles, I was really scared because that had to mean this person was following me."
"Oh, God, Cary. Why didn't you tell me? Didn't you go to the police?"
"Well...the book was getting enough criticism as it was and besides, this person wasn't actually breaking the law." He gulped nervously at his sweet, blonde tea. That calm, carefree feeling he had enjoyed upon waking was quickly dissipating. "Besides, I can take care of myself."
"Of course you can, but this person is insane. How can you deal with a whacko?" She checked her words abruptly, but it was too late. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. Cary had told her a little bit about his childhood and how his mother had spent some time in an asylum, but he had never wanted to go into detail about it. Then she found out more than she wanted to know by watching The Al Jackson Show. The sight of Cary, cowering like a beaten dog while Al Jackson verbally abused him was pitiful and embarrassing. "Go on," she said gently.
"I did the Al Jackson Show night before last. Did you see it?" Diana's pained look was answer enough. His face went red with shame but he continued, "Okay, well after that horrible experience, on top of no sleep and those spooky Insta-Pics, I just had to get out by myself and think. I wasn't sure how to handle all the stress. I was out, just walking, when two cops picked me up."
Diana gasped. "You were picked up by the police? Why?"
So, Susan hadn't told her. Yet. Cary knew he was doing the right thing by being completely honest. Well, almost. He couldn't bear to tell her exactly how he had gotten the last Insta-Pic, or too many details on the others either. "I don't know. Loitering, I suppose. They found the photos on me and they took me to the station."
"Oh my God. They didn't think--"
"They didn't know what to think. They were just doing their job, Diana. Anyway, I was let go when they heard my explanation. They said they dealt with lots of celebrities who get strange mail, tapes, photographs..." They hadn't said that, but Cary didn't want to appear freakish or unusual. After all, he wasn't the only one. Celebrity stalkers were everywhere.
"What are they going to do to catch this person?"
Nothing, Cary thought. "Well, the Homicide department is going to hold onto the photos, just in case."
Why Homicide? Diana wondered. Cary had said the girls in the photos were not dead. She didn't voice these questions, afraid Cary would clam up if he thought she was questioning his story. "But what about you? What about your safety? Did they contact the NYPD? I think you need police protection, Cary."
Cary waved his hand dissuasively. "This person has never even touched me. The photos were sent anonymously." He thought better of telling her they had been personally delivered by three different messengers. She would ask what they looked like, if he could identify them...he just wanted to put it all behind him. "Anyway, after the police let me go I decided to come home. I'm really, really tired."
"Why didn't you call anyone?" Diana asked, not able to keep the hurt from her voice. "Your editor called me to tell me you'd disappeared from Los Angeles and wanted to know if I'd heard from you." Susan Montgomery's call had made Diana feel small and insignificant in Cary's life. She didn't know he had left the tour.
"It all happened so fast...I didn't mean anything by it," Cary said lamely. Why couldn't anyone understand he just needed some time to himself? Was that so hard to comprehend? "So anyway, when I got home I was totally wiped out. I slept like the dead." He didn't mention his hallucination in the shower. He was sure it wouldn't happen again now that he was rested, and he didn't want her to worry or try and send him to a doctor.
"Poor baby," Diana said, putting her small, perfectly soft and warm hand over his cold, trembling one. "You do need a rest. You just leave everything to me. Have you eaten?"
Cary had hoped she would leave him alone, but he knew her better than that. "No, I just woke up."
"Well, I know you don't have anythin
g here. I'll pick something up. How about filet mignon? Something lighter? Some nice Atlantic cod? Okay, I'll get that. Just let me take care of Tweetie's water and food, then I'll go to the market and be right back."
As she left the kitchen and made for the gilded bird cage, the telephone rang. Cary sprang to his feet. He didn't want to talk to Susan Montgomery. Before he could get into the living room, Diana had picked it up. Damn that woman. What right did she have to pick up his phone?
She caught sight of him and held the receiver out to him, one eyebrow arched, as if to say, "You know who." Cary waved his arms in front of him and mouthed "No," but Diana wasn't going to take no for an answer. She put the phone to her ear and said, "Yes, he's coming," and held the phone out again.
Cary grimaced at Diana as he took the phone from her. She kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, "You can't avoid her forever."
"Cary Bouchard," he announced himself hesitantly.
"What the hell is the meaning of this, Cary Bouchard?" Susan Montgomery shouted, foregoing any of the usual preamble. "You can't just blow off your commitments like this! We've invested a lot of money in you, not to mention time, blood, sweat and tears. I want an explanation. Now!"
So much for the funny, eccentric writer tack. He decided he'd better try and play on her sympathy instead. "Uh, well, the truth is..." He watched as Diana filled Tweetie's water dispenser and feed dish. She then made for the door and turned to wave and blow him a kiss. "Be back soon," she mouthed. "The truth is, I was plagued by threatening fan mail. I was scared. The police thought it was a stalker. They felt I wasn't safe in Los Angeles."
"That's not what they told me," Susan said. The LAPD had called her at 7:00 A.M. sharp that morning. She hadn't been pleased at being accused of trying to pull off some crazy publicity stunt and wasting police time. The dressing down she had received from the police sergeant over the phone had been most annoying. Her protests of innocence were clearly not believed and she was warned to not to try anything like that again.
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 13
