by Unknown
He looked at his wristwatch. It was only fourteen minutes after six. It was still early. The evening was very young.
And I, Eric thought, feel old.
Eric’s first meeting with the killer was on a Sunday morning at the Newbury Artisan’s Market. It was an open-air flea market with rows of covered stalls from which the merchants sold their wares. Some weekends, Eric had a stall there at the market, where he displayed under glass his mint-condition first-edition Cornell Woolriches and David Goodises and Jim Thompsons and Dan Marlowes and Dorothy B. Hugheses and many others, some signed. But of course, it was just an excuse to get out of the house. Other than selling some of his regular used paperbacks, all in very good condition, for half the cover price—the James Pattersons and Stephen Kings and Elmore Leonards and John Sandfords and both the Kellermans and the Tony Hillermans and Carl Hiaasens and many others—he barely made back the rental of the stall. He’d had a small store in the Newbury Mall once, but not for long. Books always pulled people in, but as soon as they saw the prices of the rare collectibles, they were gone. No curiosity whatsoever as to why they were so expensive, no interest at all in any of the writers they’d never read before. Nothing. It disgusted him, and he was so sick of it by the time he had to close, only seven weeks after opening, that he was glad to be rid of the place. Alma had been glad, too. Oh, she’d been so happy, she threw a party for all their friends. It wasn’t the first hateful thing she’d done lately, but it was one of the meanest. She’d been ashamed of the store, because she was ashamed of the books he loved so much. “You can tell by the covers they’re trash!” she’d declared more than once. Now Eric did all his business online. where he made plenty of money, and where he was connected to other people with the same interests, people interested in trading books.
People like HardBoiledGirl. These days, Eric’s thoughts returned to HardBoiledGirl often. After all, she was the reason he was doing all this…
Eric had no idea what Judas looked like, but he discovered that Judas knew him. Eric walked slowly through the market that Sunday morning, stopping at each table to look at the items for sale, whether he was interested in them or not, and to look around him, too—mostly to look around him. The next time he stopped and looked around, a man was standing beside him, looking at him. He was a little shorter than Eric, who was six-one and lanky, with a pot belly that was impossible to hide. Judas stood about five feet, nine inches. He had on a broad-brimmed hat and a long grey coat, black pants, and shiny black shoes. He wore silver-framed glasses with lenses tinted just enough to make it impossible to determine his eye color. His face was oval-shaped, and his nose was straight, but ended in a bulbous, bisected knob. He wore leather gloves on his hands and smoked a long, narrow, black cigar that smelled like some kind of roadwork to Eric.
“Hello, Eric,” he said.
Eric recognized the voice immediately. It was deep, and just beneath that deep voice was the sound of sandpaper against stone. Something, at some point, had happened to Judas’s throat. That’s what Eric had decided after talking to him on the telephone. He wondered exactly what had happened to cause the damage to his voice—his imagination hopped from one ludicrous, melodramatic possibility to the next.
“Heh-hello,” Eric said.
“I’m Judas. Come on, let’s just walk along slowly and browse the tables, okay?”
So that was what they did. They said nothing for a while because Eric was waiting for Judas to talk, and Judas was waiting for Eric to talk.
“How did you know me?” Eric said finally.
Judas cleared his throat. “I knew who you were, where you lived, what you looked like, what you did for a living, where you went to school, and whether or not you were banging anybody at the moment before I even returned your first phone call, Eric. It’s my business to know you. I don’t go into business with just anybody. Some do. They don’t care. Not me. I care. I don’t go into business with psychos and nutburgers. So I had to make sure you weren’t one of those, or some other kink of human nature. If I didn’t want to do business with you, you never would’ve heard from me, and you’d never be able to contact me again. But, of course, that’s not how it worked out, is it?” Judas smiled.
Eric said, “Is that your real name? Judas?”
Judas stopped and had a close look at a painting, a colorful abstract. He sniffed once, then said, so quietly that Eric had to strain to hear him, “You aren’t by any chance writing a book about me, are you?”
Eric chuckled. “No, sir. I’m simply curious. I didn’t mean to pry. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
Judas asked about Alma, her habits, her schedule. Eric answered all his questions without hesitation.
“Okay, listen. Can you do that? Listen?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll show up between eight and nine o’clock Tuesday night. That’s this coming Tuesday, the day after tomorrow. I don’t set exact times for myself because in this profession, it doesn’t work out that way. Never. Sometime during that hour, I’ll show up and do the deed. Now, you gotta tell me—is there any chance, any chance at all, that there might be someone else there with her?”
“Well, frankly, um, yes,” Eric said, nodding.
They spoke in tones so low, they were almost buried by their own footsteps on the gravelly ground.
“And who might that be?” Judas said.
“My wife’s sister, Marianne.”
Judas sighed. His sigh was louder than his words. “Now you tell me.”
“Hey, look, really, that’s not a problem. If she’s there? Please, for the love of God, go ahead and ki—”
Judas broke into a fit of loud coughs, cutting Eric off. When he finally calmed down, he leaned close and whispered into Eric’s ear, “Don’t ever use that word out loud. I know what you’re talking about. No need to use the word.”
Eric realized he was trembling a little from the surprising jolt of Judas’s coughing fit. “All right,” he said. “I won’t.”
Eric had not thought about his sister-in-law Marianne. They did not get along, but that was beside the point. The best part of getting rid of Marianne, too, would be that she would not be able to contest Alma’s inheritance.
“Now, you were saying there could be two problems on the premises?” Judas said.
“That’s right. Although I really hadn’t thought about it until now. I’m glad you brought it up.”
Judas shook his head with frustration, then said, “Yeah, me too. Now, you say you’d like me to solve both of these problems. That’s never been discussed before.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up sooner, really, but it just didn’t occur to me until now. My wife’s sister—she seems to spend half her time at our place.”
“You’ve only paid me to solve one problem, Eric.”
“I’d be perfectly willing to pay you for the second one, too. If it’s there. We can’t be sure. There’s no way of knowing when Marianne is going to show up, she’s like a Jehovah’s Witness, or a plague, but when she does, the two of them sit there at the bar and all they do is talk about me, denigrate me, demean me. You know, there was a time—a brief time, yes, but a time, still—when I was considering asking Marianne to marry me. Now I wish I’d run the hell away from the whole family. I’m telling you, Judas, they’re all crazier than shit-house rats.”
“You can’t possibly think I care about any of this,” Judas said.
“Oh.” Eric coughed. “I’m sorry.”
“Where will you be?”
“Excuse me?”
“Make sure you’re seen by plenty of people Tuesday night,” the hit man said. “I’ll be doing the deed between eight and nine o’clock. Make sure you’re someplace where people can see you between six and ten. You’ll need as many witnesses as you can possibly get. More than that, if we can swing it. Is that perfectly understood?”
“Yes. I’ll nee
d witnesses, people who will remember me.”
“That’s right. Where will you find them?”
“There’s a pub I go to pretty regularly. Sometimes she goes with me, but not always. I know a lot of people there. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to go there and just sit around for a few hours, play some games—they have pool, and darts, and—”
“You want to be remembered so you go to a room full of drunks?” Judas said.
“It’s not that kind of place, and they’re not that kind of people. Most of the people, they’re parents, they have kids at home. I can’t remember the last time I saw anybody there get that drunk. It’s the perfect place, really. I’ll be up to my neck in witnesses.”
Judas nodded. “Okay. That sounds good.”
They talked awhile longer, going over every little detail, every possibility.
“Contingency plans,” Judas said. “You’ve gotta have contingency plans. You don’t? You’re fucked.”
So they made up some contingency plans.
They walked through the entire market twice, slowly, talking so quietly they could barely hear each other.
Then they were walking slowly through the parking lot, their conversation winding down. It was a cold, grey day. The ground was spotted with the white of snow left over from the season’s first snowstorm. Now, big dark clouds threatened rain. Eric’s and Judas’s breath misted before their faces when they exhaled.
“Well, Eric, it’s about time for us to part.”
Judas stopped and turned to Eric. He tipped his hat back a little and made his face more visible. The lower half of his oval face was unshaven and stubbly. He slid his glasses up on his forehead and squinted at Eric with red-rimmed grey eyes that were puffy underneath, as if he hadn’t slept in awhile.
“I started calling myself Judas at the age of fourteen, when I figured out what a big favor Judas did for Jesus,” Judas said. “I hated my real name, and I really liked the sound of Judas when I first heard it in Sunday school, but my mother was horrified by that, saying he was the man responsible for getting Jesus killed. So I read the story for myself. Didn’t seem that way to me at all. Jesus had to die. If He hadn’t, I don’t see Christianity getting beyond the surrounding neighborhoods, you know what I mean? If Jesus had just gone on living, and grown old and fat, and maybe got married? No, there’s nothing compelling about a religion built around that guy. Jesus had to die. Judas made that happen. Judas made Christianity possible. To me, that’s a pretty amazing guy, a guy who changes history like that. So I started calling myself Judas.” His face split into a dazzling smile and for a moment, his tired eyes lit up. “I also liked it because it pissed off my mother.”
The glasses dropped back into place and he brought the hat forward again. “You won’t be seeing me again, Eric. If there is a second problem, then you’ll hear from me to arrange the extra payment. If not, we’re through. It’s been a pleasure. Oh, one more thing. You might not want to be the one who discovers her. It’s going to be bloody, Eric. Nice and bloody.”
Then he turned and walked into the rows of cars to the right.
Eric hurried to his car to get out of the cold. He got into his Honda Civic, started the engine, and turned on the heater. It was a great heater. It warmed up fast and would have the cab toasty in no time at all.
He could feel the heat coming from the vents at his legs. He could feel the cab becoming warm. But it did no good. He still felt chilled to the bone. He began to tremble. The trembling quickly grew worse. His teeth chattered together like machine-gun fire in his head.
The heater was working… but not for Eric.
He sat behind the wheel, and his entire body spasmed with shivers, and he suddenly felt short of breath, and he realized what was wrong—he was having a panic attack.
He’d just arranged to have his wife murdered, and he was having a panic attack.
Clumsily, he reached over to the glove compartment and opened it up. There was a bottle of Xanax in there. He grabbed it, shook out two of the tiny oval-shaped white pills and popped them into his mouth. There was some Diet Dr. Pepper left in the can in the drink well between the seats, and he drank it down, flat and warm, to swallow the pills.
Then he sat there and waited for it to pass.
Jill, Eric thought as he sat at the bar in the Fox and Hound. Why isn’t she here yet?
He looked at his wristwatch. It was four minutes after eight. He gasped at the time, and his eyes bulged, and his jaw went slack for a moment. But only for a moment. He caught it all and pulled it back in and hoped to God that no one had seen it.
… between eight and nine o’ clock, Judas had said.
In the last couple hours, he’d played some pool—a couple games with regulars he knew, and a couple with friendly strangers. Then he’d gone back to his seat at the bar, marked for him by his long black coat, and ordered a second Guinness.
After taking a couple swigs of the ale, he sat there awhile and stared at it on the bar in front of him. He decided he would call Jill.
Eric did not carry a cell phone. He hated the damned things. He was convinced that at some point down the line, people were going to start getting some kind of really aggressive brain cancer—brought on, of course, by the frequent use of cell phones. He would get up and go to the pay phone in the basement, where the restrooms were located. In a little bit. He wanted to think first. Think about what to say. It was enough to have Alma angry with him. Alma was always angry with him. But he did not want to say the wrong thing to Jill and make her angry, as well. He didn’t want to demand that she come down to the Fox and Hound, not like some possessive, grumpy husband. At the same time, he wanted to see her, he craved her company.
He tipped his mug back again and took a few more swallows of ale, still thinking about Jill…
Eric played a game of air hockey with a friendly guy named Chuck Wagner who obviously needed someone to talk to about his wife, and talk he did. It seemed Mrs. Wagner, a beautiful blonde named Clarice, did not understand Chuck. He tried his best to understand her. He knew how important her candle making was to her and he did his best to encourage it, to support it, and appreciate it for the talent that it was. Her candles had won awards. They were works of art. He was proud of them. She’d turned a little hobby she’d indulged in while the kids were napping, back before they were in school, into a profitable online business. People looked forward to getting Clarice’s candles as Christmas and birthday presents. Clarice’s Candles—that was the name of the Web site, the name of the business. She was quite a little whirlwind, his wife.
Chuck, on the other hand, was quite passionate about his particular hobby—metal detecting. He got together with like-minded friends on the weekends and scoured parks and playgrounds all around the area. They weren’t interested in finding change, they were after old coins, jewelry, interesting little pieces of history. From his metal detecting, Chuck had become quite the numismatist, with an impressive collection. But when it came to Chuck’s hobby, the thing he liked to do, Clarice was not only uninterested, she mocked it.
Eric remembered what Maggie had said to him earlier, and he suggested to Chuck that what he and Clarice needed was communication. It was the only thing that would save them. Chuck needed to tell Clarice how he felt, or she would never know.
Of course, the truth was, Eric had no idea whatsoever how Chuck could solve his problems with Clarice. He was just talking because Chuck had stopped, and because he thought Chuck expected something. Problems like that—who knew what the solution was? Anyone who said they had all the answers was full of shit, including and especially Dr. Phil.
And yet Eric found himself pontificating about marital communication, as if he were some kind of expert, as if he’d even given it some thought. Then as he spoke, he glanced at the door, and Jill did not stand there, looking for him, and his words faltered, and he stopped talking and frowned.
“You waiting for someone?” Chuck said.
Eric nodded vaguely. Then he
smiled at Chuck and said, “I’m going to go outside for a smoke, Chuck. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Sure, man. See you later. And thanks for the advice. You’re good at that, you know?”
“Glad to help.”
Eric went to his barstool and was about to take his coat from it and put it on, but stopped and thought about that a moment. It was going to be cold outside, but he had to leave his coat there because he wanted to give the illusion of not being gone long, even though he was probably going to be gone a little while.
Is that wise? he thought. Being in this pub is your alibi.
He could hurry, he wouldn’t be gone long. People would see his coat on the stool and know he was still around, right? Was that enough?
He had to see Jill; he craved her, hungered for her. No one at the pub knew about his relationship with Jill, so they could not be too familiar there in the Fox and Hound. But just to see her, be near her, smell her perfume, to maybe sneak outside for some furtive kisses and embraces.
He needed it.
He held his hands out and looked down at them. They trembled. His nerves were frayed. Seeing Jill—just being around her—would calm him down.
He left the bar, got into his car, and left the parking lot…
HardBoiledGirl lived, it turned out, in Hope Valley, a town just to the north of Newbury. She shared Eric’s love for pulp fiction and comic books. They spent a lot of time in a private chat room, getting to know each other. That process was expedited online. People said things to each other online that they would never say to someone in person. They revealed themselves more easily and sometimes were more honest about themselves online than in person. Eric and Jill, her real name, got to know each other quickly, and they both liked what they learned. She was twenty-seven years old and had never been married and had no children. She worked in the Barnes & Noble in the Newbury Mall. She had a cat named Twain and some tropical fish. She had an impressive collection of film noir on DVD and VHS—she’d sent him her entire catalog and he’d read some of the harder-to-find titles with envy—and she watched the dark, moody films over and over again. Just as Eric would if he had such a collection. Of course, Alma would never approve.
