Cage of Night

by Ed Gorman

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Hi, Mrs. Brasher. I was just wondering if Cindy was up yet."

  "I'm afraid not, Spence. Would you like her to call you?"

  "No, that's all right. I'll just try her a little later."

  "All right. I'll give her the message."

  Mrs. Brasher was always nice to me. I'd only been out there three times but each time she went out of her way to make me comfortable. With Mr. Brasher it had been different. He said hello and shook hands and everything but then he didn't say anything else, just sat in his recliner and watched TV. Every once in a while I'd sense him staring at me. Sizing me up, I suppose, wondering why his daughter would trade in a football hero for somebody like me. But hadn't they noticed her black eyes and all the other bruises?

  "Thanks, Mrs. Brasher."

  I tried half an hour later.

  "Hi, Mrs. Brasher. It's me again."

  "Oh, hello, Spence."

  This time she didn't sound quite so happy to hear from me.

  "Is she—"

  "—not yet, Spence. But I'd be happy to have her call you."

  But what if she got the message and decided not to call me?

  These were dangerous times.

  "Nah, that's all right. I'll try again later."

  "I wouldn't try before noon, Spence."

  "All right, Mrs. Brasher. I'm sorry to bother you."

  I spent most of the morning driving around in my old beater. I stopped in at the used paperback place and found an old Dan J. Marlowe I hadn't read—Marlowe was a great crime writer—a novel called Never Live Twice. Usually, I would have been pretty excited.

  But all I did was pay for it and then walk outside and drop it on the passenger seat and start driving around again.

  "Hi, Mrs. Brasher."

  A long sigh. "Hello, Spence."

  "I was wondering if—"

  "I thought we agreed to twelve o'clock."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you said around twelve." My whole body was shaking. Now I'd alienated my one lone ally in the Brasher house.

  "Well, even if I had said around twelve, Spence, it's only two minutes after eleven."

  "Oh."

  "This isn't a good way to make her want to see you, Spence."

  "It isn't?"

  "No. You've got to give her a little room."

  "Oh."

  Then: "I'm sorry, Spence. I really like you."

  "Well, I really like you, too, Mrs. Brasher."

  Then: "She's going shopping at the mall this afternoon. Maybe you could just kind of 'accidentally' meet her there. She's supposed to meet some of her friends there around two o'clock."

  "God, thanks for telling me, Mrs. Brasher."

  She laughed. "My pleasure, Spence—as long as you don't call back in fifteen minutes."

  "I won't. I promise."

  "We both like you, Spence, the mister and me. We hope she'll want to see you again. But just take it a little easy, all right?"

  "Thanks, Mrs. Brasher."

  On weekends, the farmers come to the mall, a lot of them. It's kind of funny to think of us as "town people" when the town's barely 25,000 but there is a difference in the way we dress and talk and even walk around the mall. I guess we all have to feel superior to somebody so we feel superior to the farmers. They just don't understand life as it's lived by big-city sophisticates like ourselves.

  God basically invented malls so high school boys would have a nice dry place to hit on girls. At least that's how I see it.

  This Saturday was no exception. Love and lust bloomed every three yards or so, all kinds of boys making all kinds of fools of themselves over all kinds of girls.

  I got there early to check out the B. Dalton. There were a couple of Roger Zelazny reprints I wanted to buy but I figured I wouldn't look real macho coming up to Cindy with a couple of books in my hand.

  She wasn't there at two, and I got almost panicky. And she wasn't there are two-thirty, and I got even more panicky.

  I patrolled the mall south to east, west to north.

  As I'd been ever since she dumped me, I was alternatively despairing, optimistic, angry, joyous, confident, terrified.

  And then I saw her.

  The scariest thing in the world for most boys is to approach a girl when she's with a group of other girls. At least it is if you're as shy as I am.

  But today I didn't even hesitate.

  I went right up to her.

  A couple of her friends smirked.

  Cindy herself looked nervous then faintly angry then a little bit sorry for me.

  The girls kept on smirking.

  They were the popular girls and to them I was the kind of guy who installed their VCRs or worked on their cars. I wasn't the kind of guy you talked to in public.

  I knew I had to do what Josh had told me to.

  I said, out loud and right in front of all of them, "I thought maybe you'd like to go over to Orange Julius with me."

  Titters.

  She looked embarrassed for both of us.

  Then, one of her friends nudging her and giggling, she said, "Sure, why not?"

  The nudging friend said, "Hey, you were supposed to go shopping with us."

  "Go ahead," Cindy said. "I'll catch up with you later."

  They all looked at me with great scorn. Then they looked at Cindy with great puzzlement.

  Why would she be going over to Orange Julius with me?

  "I think your mom's mad at me."

  "Actually, my mom likes you."

  "Yeah, but I called you a lot this morning."

  "Oh, right. Well, I guess she was a little irritated. But not much."

  "I really like her."

  I wasn't sure what I'd actually planned to say to her but whatever it was, this wasn't it.

  We sat at a small table in Orange Julius and watched all the people go by in the mall.

  They all seemed infinitely happier than I would ever be, and I hated them a little bit for it.

  "Boy, isn't it great out today?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Great."

  "I heard on the weather report that it only ever got this hot in November once before."

  "Wow. I didn't know that."

  Now it was weather.

  "Cindy," I said.

  She looked at me a moment and then reached over and touched my hand. I went through the usual mixture of feelings, resentful, happy, and scared. A lot of fear.

  Her hand was touching mine now but she'd take it away eventually. And then she might never touch me again.

  My entire body—my entire consciousness—was alive and vibrant with the feel of her flesh.

  But soon enough I'd be banished to the darkness again.

  "I don't blame you for hating me," she said.

  "God, Cindy, I don't hate you, I love you."

  "You shouldn't love me, Spence. You should hate me."

  "Oh, Cindy."

  "There's something you don't know and that I can't tell you and until I figure a way out of it then I can't see you or anybody else."

  "Except Myles."

  She wore an emerald green sweater and jeans today. Her shining dark hair was pulled back into a playful little ponytail with an emerald green ribbon.

  "You don't understand about Myles," she said.

  "No, I guess I don't."

  "I don't love Myles."

  "Really?"

  "I don't even want to see Myles."

  "Then why do you see him?"

  "That's the part I can't tell you."

  "Oh."

  "Maybe someday I will."

  I thought of Josh again. Making a fool of yourself over women and all. And how they like it.

  "I'll wait for you, Cindy."

  I ached all over. It was like having the love flu. Every ounce of flesh, every piece of bone ached to possess Cindy Marie Brasher.

  "That's sweet of you, Spence."

  "I mean it."

  "I know you mean it. And that's why it's so sweet. But f
or right now—I don't know what to do, Spence. You can't help me—nobody can."

  Then she looked at her watch. "I really have to get back with the girls, Spence."

  "I know."

  "I just want you to know that I'm sorry for how I've acted the past week or so. I really am. I was a real bitch to you."

  "Don't say that about yourself, Cindy."

  "It's true, Spence. A real bitch." She looked about to cry suddenly. "Maybe that'll all change someday, Spence. Maybe we can go back to how things were between us."

  "God, Cindy, I sure hope so."

  And then she was gone.

  Again.

  Maybe forever.

  I just sat there in a kind of stupor.

  And now when I looked at the farmers, I didn't feel superior at all.

  Oh, no, when you looked at all their smiles and happiness, you knew that these people knew the secrets to a successful life. Their haircuts might be funny, and their clothes might be four or five seasons out of date, and their conversations might sound kind of dorky, but they looked happy and content.

  I got up and left, even though I had absolutely no place to go.

  Richard Mitchell, KNAX-TV:

  "Earlier in the day, there was some hope among the lawyers that their client would be granted a stay of execution. But Justice Stoddard of the Supreme Court has turned down the last minute plea. Now the only person who can save the prisoner is the Governor. And that's unlikely. This is a Governor who was elected on the promise of bringing back capital punishment to this state."

  Tape 22-D, October 15. Interview between Risa Wiggins and her client in the Clark County Jail.

  A: You said it was like being paralyzed?

  C: Yeah. Right after I looked down the well, I had this kind of seizure. I mean, I was afraid my arms and legs were going to break, I was throwing myself around so hard.

  A: What do you think it was?

  C: (Angry) What do I think it was? Are you kidding? It was the fucking alien down in the well.

  From a Police Report-September 2, 1903

  One of the regular drunks from Carney's Tap found her down by the river. He claimed that he was there relieving himself on his way home. He said he screamed when he saw what had been done to her. Several people in the neighborhood testified that they heard his scream.

  This one was even worse than the one who got her head cut off. I know we're not supposed to put personal opinions in these reports but I need to, Chief. There's no other way I can tell you how awful it was.

  He's torn all her clothes off and then cut off her breasts and fingers, and then dug out her eyes, same as the first one.

  I saw this raccoon crouched under this bush watching me. He had one of her bloody fingers in his mouth.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Just about seven hours later, that same Saturday night, the murders happened, and my life would never be the same again.

  After the mall, I went home and laid on my bed and read some old Theodore Sturgeon stories. People don't read him a lot these days but they should because he's not only one of the best science fiction writers of all time, he's one of the best writers period. I look on him as the patron saint of fuck-ups. He was sort of a fuck-up himself, from what I've been able to read about him. Takes one to know one.

  "You do what I tell you to, Romeo?" Josh said when he came into my room after taking his Saturday night date shower. He had on a starched white button down shirt, jeans, and a pair of cordovan penny loafers without pennies and without socks. He was also wearing about a quart-and-a-half of Brut.

  "Pretty much," I said.

  I told him about meeting her at the mall.

  "Sounds promising."

  "It does?" I said.

  "Sure. Sounds like he's got some kind of hold on her and she's trying to break away."

  "What kind of hold could he have on her?"

  "Who knows? She had those mental problems, you know."

  "Yeah. But so what?"

  "Maybe she did some real crazy shit and he knows about it and says he'll tell everybody about it if she doesn't keep going out with him. I mean, face it, she's a little bit psycho."

  I got mad. I couldn't help it. I didn't like to hear her talked about that way.

  "She isn't a psycho. She just had a breakdown."

  "Only psychos have breakdowns, Romeo." He grinned at me and I couldn't be mad at him any more. "When you get to be a little older, you'll understand stuff like that."

  "I will, huh?"

  "Yeah." He grinned again. "So what's up for tonight?"

  "Probably go out and drive around."

  "Alone?"

  "Yeah."

  "Boy, you really know how to live. Excitement piled on excitement."

  "Better than standing around watching a bunch of high schoolers have puking contests."

  The grin again. "I guess I couldn't argue with that one."

  He gave me a jaunty salute and left.

  When I was younger, I used to go uptown on Saturday night just to watch the arrests for drunk and disorderly. Small town like this, that can be a major source of excitement.

  I did pretty much the same thing this Saturday night, except I drove around doing it.

  I drove past "Harley & Co." which is the biker bar; and "Blood Sweat & Tears," which is where the construction gangs hang out; and then I drove real slow past "Bronco Billy's," which is where the country western folks congregate.

  The problem was, by nine o'clock, I'd driven past them eight, nine times each and I still hadn't seen anybody come catapulting out the door and land on his head on the pavement and then get up and start punching it out with the bouncer who'd kicked him out, to be followed by sirens and gendarmes.

  I was on one of my last passes, losing all hope, when I saw the flasher on top of a cop car go on behind me. So did his siren.

  He pulled me over.

  "You can get the chair for this," Garrett smiled when he walked up to my window.

  "I really do something wrong?"

  "Light's out on your back plate."

  "Oh."

  "But I'm not going to give you a ticket."

  "I appreciate that."

  I noticed that, as always, he had his hand on the butt of his weapon.

  "How're things going?" he said.

  "Oh, you know."

  "She's still seeing fuck-face, isn't she?"

  "Myles?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "For the time being, anyway."

  '"For the time being,'" he said. "That sounds like something she probably told you."

  "Matter of fact it is."

  He shook his head. "About 95% of what women tell you is bullshit. You got to get a lot smarter about pussy, Spence. You really do. For your sake."

  Not only had Garrett become a swaggering cop, no longer recognizable as the kid I'd known, now he was an expert on women in general and Cindy in particular. Like Josh.

  "We got to get her away from that sonofabitch," he said.

  At first, I was kind of touched by what he said. He liked me enough that he wanted to help me get Cindy.

  "She deserves a lot better."

  And I knew suddenly that he wasn't talking about me.

  He was talking about himself.

  "A lot better," he said again.

  Then he patted my car door with his hand and said, "Well, see you around, Spence."

  "Yeah."

  "But get that license plate light fixed, all right?"

  "Right away."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I took the car over to the DX station. Luckily, they had a light for the license plate.

  After that, tired of riding around, I stopped in at the video store and picked up the 1978 version of Invasion of The Body Snatchers. I think it's almost as good as the original.

  I was passing McDonald's, on the way home, when I suddenly got hungry.

  I went in and got a fish sandwich and a vanilla shake and some fries. The place was pretty much empty
except for a couple of giggling high school girls in the corner.

  I sat at the front window and watched the traffic along Hawthorne Street. I figured out once that Hawthorne Street was at least seventy years old. Sometimes I thought of all the different kinds of cars that had driven up and down on this street, from old boxy Model T's to the big-fin jobs of the fifties. Then I thought of all the people who'd come and gone who'd driven up and down Hawthorne. The passing parade, generation after generation. Sometimes, it made me sad to think about the way Mom and Dad would have to die someday. Then the way I'd have to die, and Josh, and Cindy, and everybody else.

  If I hadn't been in the Army, I probably wouldn't have figured out the gunshot for what it was.

  But it was a gunshot, all right.

  Big city people always have this notion that small-town folks are used to guns. But except for hunting trips, gunfire is not something you hear very often in a town like ours.

  Then there was another; and another.

  Three shots in all.

  I glanced hack at the high school girls. They were still giggling.

  I looked over at the counter. The two boys wiping everything down didn't even glance up.

  None of them had any idea that a gun had just been fired. They probably thought it was a car backfiring or something.

  I was curious but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

  Anyway, I still had a shake and fries I owed some attention to.

  I was just tilting the shake back when I saw Fred Wyman running down the sidewalk. He looked as if he was going to run right past me but when he saw me in the window, he ran into the parking lot, and came straight inside.

  Fred lived down the block from us. He was about Josh's age.

  He was chunky. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt. His fleshy face was glazed with sweat. His breath came in gasps.

  "You hear what happened?"

  "Huh-uh," I said.

  "David Myles."

  "Myles?"

  "He just killed Nancy Tumbler over at the Stop 'n Shop."

  "Killed her? What the hell're you talking about?"

  "Killed her, Spence. Shot her three times in the chest. Blood all over the place. He took off runnin'. They're lookin' for him now."