The Ex

by John Lutz

  He said nothing else as he went out the door.

  He didn’t leave the building. As he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, he became angrier with every step. And more frightened.

  Deirdre answered the door immediately after he knocked, almost as if she’d been expecting him. She was wearing a robe fastened tightly at the waist with a sash and was barefoot.

  “David,” she said simply, not in any surprise.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Of course. Anytime.”

  She stepped back and he entered and closed the door.

  “You look upset,” she told him.

  “You were in our apartment, weren’t you? In our bedroom?”

  “Why, you know I’ve been there. With you.”

  “I mean today, while we were both gone. You were there today.”

  “Heavens no.” She smiled.

  “You wanted her to find it, didn’t you?”

  “Find what?”

  “The unmade bed. The shirt she sleeps in. Maybe even the red hair on her pillow. But I found the mess you left. Molly hadn’t been home long and didn’t go into the bedroom, never saw any of it.”

  “Then even if what I think you’re implying is true, no harm was done.”

  “Listen, Deirdre-”

  “I just got home from work, David, and I was about to shower. The water’s running, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “I won’t excuse you. Myself, either.”

  “Martyrdom doesn’t become you. Guilt’s like acid, David. It’s a stupid thing to carry around inside you.” She walked away from him, toward the hall.

  As he followed her, he became aware of the roar of water thundering into the old claw-footed tub. At least she hadn’t lied to him about that.

  “I want your key to our apartment,” he said.

  Still walking, she untied the sash of her robe and let it fall from her body as she made a right turn into the bathroom and left the door open.

  He stepped over the robe and trailed after her, saw her part the shower curtain and step into the tub.

  “Deirdre!”

  She didn’t answer him from behind the curtain.

  He moved toward the shower, knowing he shouldn’t. Her form was barely visible behind the opaque plastic.

  Suddenly she opened the curtain and smiled out at him. Her hair was wet and plastered to her skull. A layer of soapy bubbles was just disappearing beneath the hot needles of water, flowing in milky streams along her smooth stomach, down between her thighs, to swirl down the drain.

  “Come in here with me if you want to talk, David.”

  Standing there staring at her, he wanted to, but he didn’t move. Heat rolled out at him. The shower continued to roar.

  “Then you’ll just have to wait until I’m finished,” she said, and closed the curtain.

  He knew his time was limited here. He had to talk to her. And what more could he be guilty of than he was already?

  He hurriedly unbuckled his belt and peeled off his shirt, removed shoes and socks and stepped out of his clothes.

  “Well, hello!” Deirdre said with a grin when he opened the curtain and stepped into the tub. “This is where you belong, David, with me. Birds of a feather fly together.”

  He kissed her hard on the mouth, held the length of her wet body to him. The bar of soap thumped hard on the bottom of the tub, something to avoid. His hands moved over the small of her back, down the smooth soapy mounds of her buttocks.

  “Isn’t this rape?” she asked, still smiling.

  “Hardly,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Her tongue slid into his mouth, then out. “No, don’t do this,” she said without conviction. “No means no, David. That’s the law. This is definitely rape.” She bit his earlobe, then inserted her tongue in his ear, flicked it around. “No is easy to understand.” Her words were distorted, her breath hot. He felt her fingers gently grip his erect penis and stroke it vertically. “No, no, no, please!” She laughed.

  He gripped her slippery body with both arms, lifted her, then brought her down on him and was inside her, turning her sideways and pinning her against the wet tile wall. He felt the bar of soap with the edge of his foot and kicked it away, struggled and found purchase on the slippery porcelain and drove himself into her. She groaned and laughed again, breathlessly. “No, no, no!..”

  He grabbed a handful of her wet hair and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him as he slammed into her, bouncing her off the wall.

  She never blinked but her eyes narrowed beneath the stream of warm water from the shower head. “That’s right, David. You’re angry. Take it out on me. Get it all out. Harder! Harder!”

  Gripping her hair tighter, he braced a foot against the side of the tub and hurried his thrusts into her, felt her body stiffen and her stomach press hard into his, heard the wet slap of flesh as his rhythm drummed her against the tiles.

  He climaxed and pressed against her hard, then realized her eyes were bulging. He was squeezing the wet clump of her hair harder than he’d realized, straining her head back so that she was staring up at the ceiling. Her pupils were glazing over as if she were strangling, but she was grinning.

  Alarmed at the violence within him, he released her, pulled out of her, and stepped back.

  She stood gasping and hunched over, still leaning against the tiles, one trembling arm outstretched as if for balance.

  When she caught her breath, she said, “So how do you feel now, David?”

  “Brimming over with that acid you talked about.”

  He threw the plastic curtain aside and stepped out of the tub, then began drying himself with one of the towels from a porcelain rack.

  She remained in the tub with the shower running and the curtain open, languidly soaping herself and gazing lovingly at him as he began to get dressed.

  “Where are you going?” She asked as he sat on the commode and put on his shoes and socks. “Look out the window. It’s starting to rain.”

  “Only to your phone to order some Chinese carry-out, so it’s ready for me when I walk into the restaurant. That’s where I am now, out buying dinner to bring back to the apartment for Molly. I’m sitting at the bar and waiting patiently while it’s being prepared.”

  “You’ll still be away longer than if you’d gone straight to the restaurant.”

  “They were busy, so the kitchen was backed up. A rowdy group from a convention of some kind, all of them drinking too much and making unreasonable demands on the waiters. They were feeling good and singing songs. You had to wait a long time for the food.”

  “That’s imaginative. Won’t Molly think it might be a lie?”

  “No. She won’t want to think that.”

  “Do you tell a lot of lies, David?”

  “Lately I do. I have to. But it’s to be kind, to avoid trouble and pain for other people.”

  “That’s what all liars say.”

  “The ones who tell mostly defensive lies.” He’d tied his shoes and knew he should finish dressing, then make the phone call to the restaurant and leave, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Deirdre.

  She glided the smooth bar of soap through the cleavage between her breasts, then over her erect nipples. “You certainly are deceptive, David the rapist.”

  “Aren’t I, though?” he said, standing at last and buttoning his shirt.

  Whatever she wanted, he always gave her, even over his own protestations and denial. Even rape. Not really David the rapist, though. David the liar. David the rationalizer.

  He smoothed back his hair and checked his image in the fogging medicine chest mirror, looking away as quickly as possible.

  41

  Later that night, after David had fallen asleep watching television and Michael was in bed, the phone rang.

  Molly was standing next to the phone in the kitchen, pouring Diet Pepsi into a glass with ice in it, and she grabbed the receiver after the first ring so Michael wouldn’t be awakened.


  She expected the call to be for David; he’d mentioned something concerning Josh phoning about work. But the caller, a woman, asked for her.

  “You’re David Jones’s wife?” the woman said in a clipped, educated voice.

  Molly said that she was.

  “You don’t know me, Molly. My name’s Darlene.”

  Molly remembered Traci mentioning a woman who’d called Link Publishing looking for her. Darlene. Molly was pretty sure that had been the name. Maybe this was about a copyediting job. But at this hour?

  “I feel I should warn you about someone,” Darlene said. “There’s a woman named Deirdre.”

  “I know her,” Molly said in a choked voice, speaking softly. She didn’t want David to wake up and hear.

  “She means you harm,” Darlene said.

  Molly didn’t want to think about Deirdre, didn’t want any more trouble or even to talk about trouble. She wished fervently that she could hang up the phone and pretend it had never rung.

  But she knew she couldn’t. She had to talk with Darlene.

  “You’re warning’s a little late,” she said. She could feel a muscle in the right side of her neck twitching. “Deirdre’s already tried to kill me.”

  “Are you sure?” Darlene sounded aghast.

  “I’m sure. There are some who don’t believe it, but I’m sure.”

  “I believe you,” Darlene said, “though I didn’t think she’d go that far this soon. I mean, she’s a little weird. Well…more than a little. And I know something’s building in her.”

  “Where do you know her from?” Molly asked.

  “From the time she came to New York, not long ago. At first she seemed okay, I liked her. Then I noticed some things about her. I didn’t mind. Okay, so she was eccentric. Lots of my friends are oddballs. It didn’t bother me that she had a strange view of the world. Then she started talking like she was crazy, telling me about things she thought, things she’d done. After a while your name came up. And your husband’s.”

  Molly squeezed the receiver. “David’s?”

  “Deirdre has some…well, kind of possessive ideas about him. I guess you know they were married a long time ago.”

  “David’s told me. That’s no secret.”

  “Deirdre thinks she can steal him from you. I mean, seriously.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “She trusts me and talks to me. I might be the only person she can trust in New York, so she tells me things in confidentiality. And I’d keep them confidential, only they’re so…weird. You should watch out for Deirdre.”

  “What’s she told you about David?”

  “I don’t want to repeat it, because I don’t know how much of it’s true. But I’m sure some of it is. Sure enough that I figured I had to call you.”

  Molly was still trying to figure out what the phone call meant. For some reason, she believed this woman, and she had no idea why. “How much does Deirdre tell you?” she asked.

  “Not everything. She’s basically untrusting and manipulative. People like that always keep some things to themselves.”

  “What has she said about me?”

  “She doesn’t like you, Molly. It isn’t just that you’re in her way, that you have something she wants. She really doesn’t like you. She thinks you stole her life.”

  “You mean because I’m married to David?”

  “I guess so. Even though a lot of time has passed since they were together, she wants him and won’t let go of the idea. Sometimes she talks almost like she’s lost her mind.”

  “Darlene, did you phone Link Publishing and ask for me?”

  “No, it must have been someone else. Some other Darlene.”

  “What’s your last name? Who are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I don’t want to get involved. I only called you because it was my duty. Something terrible is going to happen. I can sense it. You’re not the only one I’ve had to warn.”

  “Can I have your phone number?” Molly asked.

  “No. I said I didn’t want to get involved.”

  “But you are involved!”

  “Only to the extent that I felt I should warn you about Deirdre. If she’s already tried to kill you, you need to make sure she won’t try again.”

  “Can we meet someplace, talk some more?”

  “No. I cautioned you, and that’s enough. I had a responsibility to do that.”

  “Are you afraid of Deirdre?”

  “Sometimes, yes. You should be, too. Goodbye, Molly.”

  “Wait! Please! Will you call if you learn anything else I should know?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve done what I decided was necessary. Be on your guard, Molly. Deirdre wants what’s yours. And there’s something about her. I think she always gets what she wants.”

  “Darlene-”

  “Listen, I’m sorry. We’ve talked long enough. And don’t mention to anyone that I called. Especially David. I wouldn’t want Deirdre to find out.”

  “Why don’t you tell me some way I can get in touch with you?”

  There was only soft silence on the line. Darlene had hung up, but not before uttering, “She’s dangerous.”

  42

  Lisa Emmons had stopped for groceries that evening on her way home from Sterling Morganson. She bought food often, a little at a time, since the nearest place to buy groceries was three blocks from where she lived. That way she never had to carry several heavy bags and then lug them up the three flights of stairs to her walk-up apartment.

  She entered her apartment and, still gripping the plastic bag of groceries, backed into the door and gave it a final shove with her rump to close it.

  After fastening the chain lock, she carried the bag into the small but neat kitchen and laid it on the breakfast counter. She draped her purse by its strap over the back of a chair then began unloading the bag and putting away the perishables she’d bought-a pint of milk, half a dozen eggs, frozen yogurt, a tomato; small amounts, recipe portions for one.

  When she was finished, she got a bottle of Evian from the refrigerator, opened it, and carried it into the living room.

  That room was small, like the kitchen, and also neat, with a gray area rug, blue upholstered chair and sofa, and bookcases that a onetime boyfriend named Chuck had built for her lining one wall. On another wall were two original oils by unknown artists, which she’d bought in the Village on the recommendation of a friend who painted. Alongside a combination secretary desk, bookshelf, and TV stand hung an old-fashioned, schoolhouse wall clock that had a modern quartz movement and ran on tiny AA batteries.

  Lisa sat down on the sofa, slipped her feet out of her high-heeled shoes, and relaxed. Sterling Morganson had briefed everyone on the necessity of the fee reading department to generate more income. Lisa would be given additional duties. There would not be a commensurate increase in salary. It had been a long day at work.

  She sipped water from the clear plastic Evian bottle and again considered seeking another job. She lived alone in her one-bedroom apartment and had few bills, but in New York even a modest lifestyle was expensive. She had excellent qualifications and could possibly find a higher-paying position, but there were other considerations: security, the new health care plan the company might make available…other considerations.

  Maybe tomorrow she would check the classified ads and see how the job market looked, she told herself. She might even call a few people she knew who could furnish leads. It wouldn’t hurt to inquire.

  She smiled. She’d had this conversation with herself a hundred times but hadn’t acted on it with any real resolution. Circling want ads with a pen and calling some of their phone numbers was as far as it usually went. Once she’d gone to interview for an associate editorial position with a large publisher, but at the last moment she’d decided she couldn’t accept the job even if it were offered to her. Which, to her relief, it wasn’t.

  Well, maybe someday she’d listen to herself and take her own advice.


  When the Evian bottle was empty, she took it into the kitchen and dropped it in the container for plastics. Then she went back into the living room, picked up her shoes, and carried them into the bedroom.

  The window looking out on the air shaft was open, letting in warm air and the peculiar musty odor she suspected came from the pigeon droppings on the outside sill. The pigeons used to keep her awake at night, with their periodic cooing and flapping, but finally she’d gotten used to them and even found their presence oddly soothing. Lisa lowered the window and locked it.

  The bedroom was the size of the living room, with a tall walnut wardrobe as well as a closet. The bed had a brass headboard with white porcelain knobs, a gift from her father when she’d moved into the city. A framed blowup of a Gothic romance paperback cover illustration given to her by a writer was on the wall opposite the bed, a young woman with windblown hair and a long, flowing dress standing on a cliff looking out at a sweeping view of sea and clouds. The woman had her hand raised to her forehead, as if straining to see something far out from shore. Something in her stance and expression suggested that she yearned to sail on that sea. It was a corny illustration, Lisa knew, yet some nights in bed it comforted her to lie and stare at it until she fell asleep with the light on. She didn’t like to admit that her life was lonely.

  Still with her shoes in her right hand, she walked to the closet, opened the door, and was face to face with the woman from the office, David’s woman Deirdre.

  Lisa was shocked into paralysis. The shoes slipped from her hand and thunked on the floor.

  This couldn’t be happening!

  Deirdre was smiling and holding some sort of long-handled tool close alongside her body. A shovel, maybe. She moved it slightly and a rusty implement came into view from between two dresses-a mining tool, Lisa thought. A pick.

  This wasn’t real!

  Deirdre took a quick step forward.

  “Wha-” Lisa managed to say, before the pick struck her in the chest, knocking the wind from her.

  She was lying on her back on the floor with no sensation of having fallen, and she was having great difficulty breathing.