Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Huh, dream on…”

  Their voices faded as they walked up the driveway toward the house.

  Ben let out a sigh. He wanted to get out of there before Seth or his roommate came back. But now he had to wait for that man to walk his dog and return home. Maybe then they’d turn off the front light.

  With a shaky hand, Ben reached up and switched off the lamp in the living room. He would wait on the floor, in the dark. He’d already searched the place. He wasn’t going to find anything. He had a feeling they were wrong about Seth Stroud.

  Hannah was in her bedroom, packing a second suitcase. She planned to leave tomorrow morning.

  She’d called Dr. Donnellan, explaining there was a family emergency in Portland. And did he think—after nine days, and no residual fever or symptoms—that Guy was all right to travel? He’d given a cautionary okay for the commute, so long as Guy was kept comfortable, warm, and as isolated as possible. Hannah had decided to take a cab down to Tacoma. She’d lay low in a cheap hotel for a couple of days. Then they’d take a train to Portland or Eugene, maybe even further south. Guy liked trains.

  The intercom buzzed. Ben had been gone for over ninety minutes, and she hoped it was him. She wasn’t expecting anyone else—unless the police worked even faster than she and Ben had figured.

  Hannah grabbed the intercom phone. “Yes, hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Paul. I brought that film book you wanted. Can I come up?”

  Hannah hesitated. “Ah, sure. Just a sec.” She pressed the entry button, then hung up the phone. Retrieving the small knife from the kitchen drawer, Hannah hid it in her back pocket again. She unlocked the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind her.

  Paul came from the stairwell. He looked more relaxed this time around, and even had a confident stride to his walk as he approached her. Hannah noticed the book in his hand.

  “Do you still have company?” he asked, handing her the book.

  She nodded. “Yes. Thanks for bringing this, Paul.”

  “I missed you in class tonight,” he said. “You know who else wasn’t there? That Ben What’s-his-name.”

  She shrugged. “Well, thanks again, Paul.” She reached for the door.

  He stepped toward her, then glanced in the window. “Could I come in for a drink? I’d like to meet these friends of yours.”

  Hannah wrinkled her nose. “Now’s not a good time.”

  He smiled. “You don’t really have people over, do you?”

  Hannah hesitated.

  “Are you afraid of me, Hannah?” He smiled. “I just want to help you.” He reached over and touched her face.

  She backed against the door. “Paul, I do have someone here right now. He’s—um, spending the night.”

  He frowned. “Is it that Ben character?”

  “That’s really none of your business,” she said quietly. “Anyway, thank you for the book—”

  “Hannah, I wouldn’t trust him if I were you—”

  “I’m all right,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay, Paul? Good night.”

  Shaking his head, he turned and started for the stairwell.

  Hannah ducked back inside, and locked the door. She slipped the knife out of her back pocket and set it on the kitchen counter. She glanced at the book’s cover. Darkness, Light, and Shadow: Essays on Film was emblazoned across a series of celluloid strips. Hannah anxiously flipped through the book until she found the piece Paul had stolen from Seth. It was on page 216: Objects of Obsession: Directors and Their Leading Ladies, Essay by Paul Gulletti.

  Hannah began reading:

  In Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Vertigo, Scottie Ferguson’s (James Stewart) unquenchable obsession for the blond, enigmatic Madeleine (Kim Novak) leads to a Kafkaesque courtship, ultimately realized in Madeleine’s apparent suicide, her resurrection through a surrogate—the shop girl, Judy (Novak again)—and finally Judy’s death. It is one of Hitchcock’s most personal films, and a parallel to the director’s own obsession with certain leading ladies.

  Hitchcock is unquestionably not alone in this phenomenon. Observe, among others, Chaplin, Von Sternberg, Bunuel, Preminger, and Polanski in their personal as well as cinematic relationships with particular actresses, especially those whom they have discovered, groomed, and introduced in their films. Master puppeteers pulling the strings on their beautiful marionettes, these master directors…

  Hannah shook her head and sighed. “God, what a snooze.”

  Somewhere, amid the heavy-handed writing and paragraph-long sentences, was a possible explanation for what was happening to her. She read on, and found something in the fifth paragraph:

  Just as Marilyn Monroe was known to “make love to the camera,” the greatest directors use their camera to make love to their leading ladies. They are the voyeurs, guardians, and manipulators of these screen goddesses. Often, they became executioners as well, killing off the objects of their obsession in their movies….

  Hannah grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled down the words voyeur…guardian…manipulator…executioner.

  Those were the roles her secret admirer had taken on with her. He made love to her with his camera. And that camera would be focused on her when he carried out her execution.

  Hannah started reading again. But the intercom buzzed once more, catching her off guard. She put down the book. Without thinking, Hannah grabbed the intercom phone. “Ben?”

  “Hannah, it’s me again, Paul,” he said urgently. “Let me in.”

  “What?”

  “It’s important! C’mon, buzz me up.”

  “Paul, I told you—”

  “Hannah, please,” he said. “Something just happened, and I need to talk with you now. We can meet out on the balcony again. I don’t care. Just buzz me in, goddamn it.”

  “All right,” she said. Against all her better judgment, Hannah pressed the entry button. She ran down the hall to Guy’s room to make sure he was asleep. Then she hurried back toward the door, stopping for a moment to grab the knife off the counter. She concealed it in her back pocket again.

  Paul was already halfway down the balcony walkway when she stepped outside. He was frazzled, and breathing hard. Hannah noticed he had some photos in his hand.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered. “You know, my neighbors just called to complain about us talking out here—”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he said, interrupting her lie. He showed her the photos. His hand was shaking. “I found these in my car just now.”

  Hannah numbly stared at the pictures, two high-quality photocopies on card-stock paper: a series of shots off a TV screen, about forty smaller images in sequential order showing Janet Leigh being stabbed in the Psycho shower. Hannah remembered Scott telling her early last week that the store copy of Psycho had been stolen.

  “I think he’s out there now,” she heard Paul say. “I locked my car earlier. I don’t know how he got in. I was only up here talking with you for—what, a couple of minutes?” Paul glanced down toward the parking lot. “I’ll bet you anything he’s watching us.”

  Hannah was gazing at one of the small photos: Janet Leigh wincing as she tried to fight off her attacker, the knife just a blur in front of her.

  “You realize what this means?” Paul asked, pointing to the photos. “Once he gives me a photo of the movie murder, it’s not long before…” He trailed off.

  “Before I end up dying just like this,” Hannah murmured. “But no one will know—except maybe the girl after me. He’ll videotape my murder in the shower, then make sure his next leading lady sees it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Paul asked, snapping Hannah out of her stupor. “What girl? Whose leading lady?”

  “I’m talking about the next girl you’ll be screwing around with, Paul,” she replied, frowning at him. “Your next ‘favorite student,’ my replacement. Can’t you see the pattern? These are women you’ve been involved with—or, in my case, a woman you wanted. We’ve all become his
leading ladies, his victims, Objects of Obsession.”

  He shook his head. “Hannah, I’ve had nothing to do with any of this—”

  “No, you just keep moving on to the next one,” Hannah said. “And you don’t look back. If no one found out, it didn’t happen, right?”

  He was still shaking his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. But listen, if you don’t want to go to the police, maybe you should pack up and get out of town, go stay with some old friends, someplace where you know you’ll be safe.”

  She backed toward the door. “Thanks, Paul. You can go now.”

  “Hannah, please—”

  Ducking inside, she closed the door on him, then locked it.

  Her back to the door, Hannah suddenly realized that she was stepping right into her killer’s trap. Tomorrow she would leave Seattle a fugitive, and stay the night in a cheap roadside motel.

  It was just what Janet Leigh had done in Psycho.

  Crouched down at the foot of the stairs, Ben put Seth’s key back under the flowerpot. He had watched the owner of the house, a stocky man with red hair, return from walking the dog. Now, only two of the windows were lit up in the big house. It was almost eleven o’clock.

  Ben started up the driveway, past the car, a Dodge Caravan. He glanced over his shoulder toward the garage, and stopped. He wondered if the family let Seth store anything in their garage. They didn’t seem to use it for parking their car.

  Skulking back toward garage, Ben found the side door, and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. He stepped into the dark two-car garage. It was crammed with so much junk there was no room for a car. A dim shaft of light came from a window on the opposite wall. Ben could make out silhouettes of bicycles, a lawnmower, rakes, brooms, a broken chair on top of a table, old lawn furniture. But he couldn’t see anything else.

  Ben noticed the light switch by the door. There was no window along the wall where he stood. No one from the house would know the garage light was on. He decided to take a chance, and flicked on the switch.

  All at once, he heard a click, then a loud mechanical humming noise. The light went on, and the garage door started to yawn open.

  “Jesus,” Ben murmured, flicking the switch again. The gears shifted noisily. The light from the garage had already spread out to the driveway. But the descending door started to block it out again.

  Ben knew he would have to make a run for it. He quickly glanced around the garage while the light was still on, taking everything in before it became dark again. He saw an old kiddie pool, more lawn equipment, old cans of paint stacked up; but no file cabinets or mysterious boxes—nothing where somebody might be storing some secret videotapes or photographs. No one would leave expensive video equipment in such a dusty, unkempt place.

  The garage light went out.

  Ben opened the door a crack and peered back at the house. No change: the same two windows with lights on. Everything was quiet again.

  Slowly he opened the door and stepped outside. In the distance, he could hear a siren. He crept around to the front of the garage. Looking up at the house again, Ben noticed someone at one of the windows. He ducked behind the car.

  The wail of the police siren grew louder, closer.

  Ben carefully peered above the hood of the Dodge Caravan. He could still see someone in the window. It was the stocky, red-haired man, and he seemed to be looking out toward the garage. He finally turned away, then disappeared from view.

  Staying low, Ben darted from behind the car to the bushes at the side of the driveway. It sounded as if the police car or fire truck was coming up Aloha Street. He glanced back to see if he could escape into the neighboring yard. A tall chain-link fence divided the properties.

  The siren was deafening now. The trees and houses along Aloha were bathed by a swirling red strobe. He held his breath as the squad car sped past the old Tudor mansion, then continued up the block.

  He waited another minute. Staying close to the tall shrubs at the side of the driveway, Ben hurried to the street. Then he started back toward Hannah’s.

  She hadn’t quite fallen asleep, but she felt herself drifting off. Hannah was lying on the sofa with her head resting on Ben’s lap. He’d covered her with a blanket. From his breathing, just a decibel away from snoring, she guessed he’d nodded off an hour ago. They were both still dressed. It might have been more comfortable in her bed, but she didn’t feel right about that. At the same time, she needed to be with him. Perhaps they were meant to be uncomfortable tonight, a reminder that he was going back to his wife, and in a few hours she would be leaving town.

  Ben had been upset with her for letting Paul come by a second and third time tonight. Having found no evidence whatsoever in Seth’s apartment, Ben was now convinced that Paul was the killer.

  Perhaps he was right. Though Seth claimed to have written the essay, it was Paul’s name on the piece.

  The article kept focusing on the director’s courtship-by-camera with the objects of his obsession. Once again, the author mentioned four stages to this type of fixation, with the director as voyeur, protector, manipulator, and finally, executioner.

  Ben had said it was a bit far-fetched to assume someone would commit a series of murders based on some theory about film directors.

  “What about Charles Manson basing mass murder on the Beatles song ‘Helter Skelter’?” Hannah had pointed out.

  Ben had been worried about her going off alone tomorrow, repeating all of Janet Leigh’s movements in Psycho. He’d mentioned possibly accompanying her—or at least following her to make certain she was safe.

  Hannah wondered whether or not it would be easier for the three of them to “disappear” together. Part of her felt the need to end things with Ben now, and just move on. She and Guy had already become too attached to him. She was used to being alone—even when it was scary.

  Hannah listened to Ben’s breathing. There was a comfort to that sound, and she felt herself drifting off.

  Suddenly, a loud banging jolted her awake. Startled, Ben nearly knocked her off the sofa.

  “My God, what’s happening?” Hannah whispered. It took them both a moment to realize someone was pounding on the door.

  All at once, Guy let out a shriek.

  Hannah bolted off the couch and ran down the hall to his room. She flicked on the light switch.

  Guy was sitting up in bed. He’d already thrown back the covers. He was still screaming.

  Hannah ran to him, and took him in her arms. Hugging her son, she anxiously glanced around the room.

  The pounding outside had stopped.

  “What happened, honey? Are you okay?” she asked, trying to get her breath.

  Guy pressed his face against her stomach. “A lion was chasing me,” he cried, the words muffled.

  Hannah heard the locks clicking on the front door. “Ben?” she called nervously.

  “I’m just checking things out,” he answered.

  Her hand trembling, Hannah stroked Guy’s hair. “You just had a bad dream, honey. That’s all.” She waited until she heard the front door close, the locks clicking once more. “Ben?” she called again.

  A moment later, he appeared in Guy’s doorway. He held up a videocassette in his hand, the label turned in her direction. “They left this,” he whispered. “It’s Vertigo.”

  It was another forty-five minutes before Guy was asleep once again. Hannah had taken his temperature: 98.5. Ben had read him some Dr. Suess. Then Hannah had fallen back on her standard choo-choo routine to lull him to dreamland.

  Hannah switched off the light in Guy’s room. Ben picked up the Vertigo tape, which he’d left on the floor in the hall, outside Guy’s door.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Didn’t you tell me that Gulletti showed you the shower scene from Psycho? Why is he giving us a tape of Vertigo?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Maybe he showed me those pictures to throw me off. I don’t know.” Hannah switched on a light in the living
room. “That essay in the film book kept mentioning Vertigo again and again. Maybe this is his way of making a point to me about something.”

  Ben frowned. “It was weird, him pounding on the door like that. It’s as if he wants us to see this now—right away.”

  “He did something like this before when he tried to kill you. You know, the Bugsy reenactment? He even phoned to tell me it was about to happen.” Hannah took the video from him. “This has that same kind of urgency to it. I think this murder will happen very soon. And I’ve seen Vertigo. Someone will die in a fall.”

  Hannah put the Vertigo cassette in her VCR. The tape was cued to start with James Stewart chasing Kim Novak up the stairs of a church bell tower.

  Hannah knew the movie, and she knew the scene. Stewart wouldn’t make it to the top; he couldn’t save her. And the object of his obsession would plunge to her death.

  Twenty-one

  “I know you sometimes go to church before you come over here,” Hannah was saying into the phone. “I was just wondering if you were planning to do that this morning.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, honey,” Joyce replied. “My, you’re calling awfully early. You’re up with the roosters. Is everything okay there?”

  “Well, actually, I’m a little worried. I got a strange phone call. I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t go out this morning. Let Ben come over and walk you back here, okay?”

  “Good Lord, Hannah,” she sighed. “I’ll be safe for a half a block in broad daylight.”

  “So—humor me, okay?”

  Hannah couldn’t think of any women friends besides Joyce or Tish who might have been tagged for Kim Novak’s Vertigo death. At the same time, both Tish and Joyce were heavyset women, and she couldn’t quite imagine anyone successfully dragging either one of them up a church tower staircase with a hundred-plus steps.