Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  Scars you can never see.

  She reaches the den, still crouching sheepishly, one hand tucked under her shirt. She walks to the bar. Her back is to me as she reaches the counter, a deep mahogany brown. She keeps looking up at the ceiling, probably listening for her husband upstairs? At the bar, she raises a trembling hand to the ice bucket. She removes a couple of cubes but knocks the tumbler sideways, the ice spilling onto the bar and floor.

  Her head turns upward again.

  It’s only when he drinks.

  She sets the glass upright, stuffs some more ice into it, and reaches for a bottle of liquor. She fills the glass and tries to gather the spilled ice. But her hand is shaking so hard that she can barely put the cubes back into the container.

  The other hand remains tucked under her shirt.

  She looks up again, but this time not straight at the ceiling. This time, she looks more toward the staircase in the hallway. Her hands are still now.

  A clumsy, uncertain foot stomps onto that last stair, then into the hallway. Dr. Reinardt is wearing an oxford shirt, haphazardly tucked into his pants, with the sleeves rolled up. His movements are slow and awkward. He stops at one point in the hallway and reaches out to the wall to steady himself.

  The doctor can’t see Rachel yet; she is still by the bar, against the front wall of the den. But now Rachel has placed the drink on the bar; she is reaching behind the bottles of booze that line the back of the countertop. She pulls the bottles back and reaches out with her other hand. I catch a glimpse of shiny steel as she raises the object over and behind the bottles.

  I shift and feel the wood from the Reinardts’ deck. I’m only about twenty feet from the glass door now. The deck is raised three steps off the grass, leaving me the perfect amount of space to crouch down from their view. I reach up to the deck for balance and realize that my hands, like Rachel’s, are trembling.

  The outside porch light is off, so they can’t see me unless they’re looking. And as Dr. Reinardt enters the den, he is not looking out the glass door.

  He stops and just stares at Rachel. She reaches for the glass on the bar, but the doctor, without moving, says something to her that makes her put her hands at her side. He says nothing more, just glares at her.

  Rachel fidgets. She brushes back a strand of hair from her face, then puts her hands at her side again. She’s talking to him, her head moving compliantly, but he doesn’t respond. Finally, she picks up the glass and offers it to her husband. When he doesn’t take it, she sets it down on the bar near him. The doctor lashes out with his right hand, knocking the glass and its golden contents to the carpet. Rachel instinctively steps back, says something in apology, then crouches down to retrieve the glass and ice. She is facing me now. For the first time, I see her face. I can make out cuts and bruises on her cheeks.

  Scars you can see.

  Rachel stands now, turning away from me and toward her husband. Her hands raise in compromise; she’s trying to calm him.

  The doctor staggers toward his wife, who holds her ground. They are face-to-face now. As slow as he’s moving, his right hand rises in a flash, fist half closed. Rachel’s head whips to the right, her hair and arms flying wildly, her knees buckling as she falls backward to the carpet. She lands awkwardly on an elbow, then rolls over so she’s facing the carpet. The doctor nods approvingly, that’s-what-ya-get, as Rachel brings a hand to the developing bruise below her eye.

  Rachel slowly makes it to her feet again, her hand returning to her cheek, her entire body trembling.

  “I know how it’ll end,” she told me only a few days ago. “He told me how.”

  Dr. Reinardt approaches her. He grabs her by both arms, shaking her. Rachel breaks a hand free and swings it lifelessly toward his face.

  I am on the deck now, crouched down like a catcher, as I watch this silent horror movie, no sound but the thump-thump, thump-thump of my pulse. The only thing separating me from the sliding glass door is the wooden bench and the picnic table.

  “Tell me how, Rach.”

  Dr. Reinardt reasserts his grip on Rachel. He pulls down on her, forcing her to the carpet in a vise grip. Once on the floor, he tears at her blouse.

  “He’s going to rape me first. He said he’ll rape me then kill me.”

  And then, as I grip the wooden bench and slowly rise, it is suddenly clear to me. And something like calm sweeps over me, a certain focus through the panic. Because now I know how this story will end.

  2

  THE SHOWER WATER IS MUCH HOTTER THAN I would normally prefer. I stand in the tub for what must be forty-five minutes, obsessively scrubbing my body with soap. The red is now long gone from my skin. Even the bar of soap, reduced to a nub, is restored to its blue-white stripes. My head falls gently against the front wall of the shower and I stare down at the tub, the warm water pulsating on my neck, watching the last of the crimson liquid swirl around the drain and disappear. Finally, I punch off the water, not because I’m clean, or because the water has turned cold, but because I’m simply too tired to stand.

  I dry off and make my way through the steamy bathroom. I throw on a pair of sweatpants, and for the first time tonight I let my body collapse, onto the unmade bed.

  Think now. Think.

  Tomorrow is Friday. Good to be so close to the weekend. Nothing big planned for work. Our meeting with the Texas investors; but I’m ready for that, and it should be over by two.

  The next week will be shortened for Thanksgiving. I could make some excuses and skip the holiday dinner.

  I force myself to take a deep breath. I can get through this.

  I close my eyes, which sink into my head as exhaustion sweeps over me. But I can’t sleep. Not now. I take inventory of my condition.

  My lower back, which has given me fits since high school, is throbbing. My biceps ache. My knuckles are swollen and bruised. My legs, conditioned for jogging only, feel like noodles. My head is congested, and I’ve been sneezing on and off since I’ve been home.

  And from somewhere deep down, a gathering sense of loss comes over me. I guess I never fully expected that Rachel and I would be a couple. She made a point of promising nothing; I was in no position to push. The truth is, I never really confronted myself on the subject. Caught in the whirlwind, I was living for the moment. But somewhere in the web of elation and ecstasy was some measure of hope. Now I’m left with the irony that, because of what I’ve done, I may have less of a chance than ever.

  Yet in the swirl of emotions surging through me, the prevailing one is not fear, or self-pity, or pain. I am euphoric. I am fulfilled. I have saved Rachel from a horrible man, giving her the chance to be happy. Or at least not miserable.

  The repercussions—losing Rachel, not to mention a life spent in a jail cell—form a canopy over me, following me, haunting me, but for the moment I am on a plane that transcends such mortal concerns. I’ve never been one for religion, but for the first time I can relate to the notion of higher judgment, whether it is that of some god or simply my own.

  Or, for the less theological among us, it’s like taking a painkiller after breaking an ankle: You’re aware of the pain, and you know it’s going to hurt like hell in a few hours, but for now it’s just a muted throbbing.

  Before I start to sound too self-congratulatory, let me add that I have no interest in paying any price for what I have done. I didn’t climb the altar until I’d addressed the basics: I’ve scrubbed all of Dr. Reinardt’s blood off my body, stripped off all of my clothes and thrown them into a garbage bag, and now I’m planning the immediate future.

  I think of Rachel. When I left her, she was barely conscious. She had taken a brutal beating from her husband, not to mention what happened afterward.

  What is she doing right now? Did she call the police? Did someone else? Either way, the police were there; I heard the sirens. What would they make of the scene they found at that house? And then panic. Will they—no—will they suspect Rachel?

  But it doesn’t m
ake sense. They would have no reason to. Nobody knows about us, nor does anyone know about our little secret shows every Thursday night. And the police will find Rachel with bruises on her face, if not her whole body. They will assume that the intruder beat her up. And how will they explain the broken glass door? Rachel is a thin, demure woman. She couldn’t break through a thick glass door.

  I shake my head forcefully. Jesus, get a grip. They’re not going to think she broke into her own house!

  Concentrate. Think logically, like the police are.

  How will Rachel handle the cops? Will she be able to lie to them? The police will want to talk to her right away. Given the scene, with the broken glass door and all, she will certainly have to say that an intruder entered the house. She will probably describe him differently than me. Dark hair, not reddish blond. Dark complexion, not pale Irish. Muscular or fat, not trim. Short, not tall. Or maybe she’ll say it was a black guy. That would sell well in an affluent whitebread community like Highland Woods. Tomorrow I might be reading in the Daily Watch that a large black man broke into the Reinardt house.

  You didn’t see his face, I said to Rachel as I left her house.

  But I ready myself for the possibility that she might not be able to protect me, especially in an hysterical state only moments after the murder. And I can’t expect her to lie for me. She didn’t ask me to do this. God, she was so scared. Just lying there on the floor by the carpet, watching me, wondering what I was going to do, hoping, I guess, hoping that I would make this all stop for her, make the pain go away—

  Stop. Think logically.

  Can they trace this to me?

  Every criminal makes a mistake. That’s what the prosecutor who visited my law school class said. Those words, uttered eight years ago, have stayed with me ever since. Did I know back then that this day would come? Did I know somewhere deep down that I had it in me to—

  Stop.

  What mistake did I make?

  I play this scenario out in my mind, over and over. Standing on the deck. Jumping through the glass. My hands on his chest. The gun in my hand.

  Oh, am I a sight, furiously pacing the upstairs, running on empty, powered only by the fumes of fear so deep, so intense, that my body motors forward else it will fall over.

  What mistake did I make?

  Did my coat catch on a piece of the glass? Did some of my hair fall onto the carpet? Did I leave a boot print on the patio? Did I spill any of my own blood?

  The patio the wind the glass the gun the blood the body—

  But as I run through everything, nothing jumps out at me. I was wearing gloves, and I don’t think I touched anything besides the gun and the doctor anyway, so no fingerprints. Most of my hair was covered with the knit cap—I mean, all of it was, right? And because I underestimated the cold weather, I wore my leather jacket, not a cloth overcoat, so probably nothing caught on the glass. Right?

  I take a deep breath and try to relax a little, my hands gripping the comforter in the spare bedroom. Really, what would the police know? If Rachel played it cool and smart, they would have only a very vague description of the intruder. They would have no prints, no murder weapon.

  And if they never find the body, they might not even know that he was murdered at all.

  Okay.

  I walk to my bedroom closet and run my fingers over the hanging suits. The charcoal suit, that’s the one I was wearing today at work. I pull it off the hanger and throw it onto the bed. I wore a cream shirt today, but it’s lying in a ball in my laundry, and I don’t have any others. Gonna have to go with a white one.

  Talk about mistakes. I might be making my biggest one now.

  The steam is gone in the bathroom. I knot my tie in the mirror, not caring how bad it looks; anyway, I should pull it down, a hardworking man working late. I look at my sports watch resting on the sink. Shit. I forgot to clean it.

  I wet a piece of toilet paper and rub the crusted red off the face and plastic band. I really have to be more careful. Thoughts are swirling in and out of my head now: Rachel, the doctor, the gun. I have to be sure not to miss any detail. The toilet paper gets flushed down the toilet.

  I toss the athletic watch in a drawer. I opt for the Gucci timepiece and fasten it around my wrist. The hands on the gold face read just past two-thirty.

  I let out a long, nervous sigh, my heartbeat alternating between a flutter and full-throttle pounding. Leave it to me not to leave well enough alone.

  3

  THE FIRST THING I TYPICALLY DO WHEN I WALK into the garage is hit the opener, which turns on the overhead light. This time, I go straight to the car in the dark. I open the door and the dome light comes on. I get in and quietly close the door.

  I sit inside the car, key in hand, only inches from the ignition.

  It’s not too late. I don’t have to do this.

  The inside light stays on a moment, then fades out, leaving me in darkness, consuming blackness, where everything is safe. I could stay safe, safe for tonight, anyway.

  Or I could ruin everything.

  I grab the lever at my feet and pop the trunk. I reach inside the glove compartment and pull out the flashlight. Then I softly open the door again.

  I shine the flashlight over the inside of the trunk, the thin brown carpet. Nothing discernible. Quite well done, I must say. Not a speck of blood, far as I can see. No sign whatsoever that only hours earlier, the dead body of Dr. Derrick Reinardt lay in the fetal position on this carpeted surface. Satisfied, I close the trunk.

  All right. Fine. If you’re going to do it, do it!

  And act normal. From this moment on.

  I walk over and confidently punch the garage door opener, something a very confident person with nothing to hide would do. The garage is lit now. The grinding sound of the lifting door breaks the quiet of early-morning suburbia, leaving me cringing in a crouch, waiting for the return to silence. I close the car door and start up the car.

  The streets are deserted. I keep it under thirty.

  I left something at work, I’ll say if I’m pulled over. I’ve got a big deal going down tomorrow, and I need something from work to finish preparing tonight. Dr. Reinardt, you say? No, sorry, don’t know him. Kidnapped, you say? Wouldn’t know anything about that. You see, I was going to work because I left something there, you see, and I need it to finish something I was preparing tonight and sure you can look in my trunk but I can tell you this for sure you sure won’t find any of his blood in the car because I ALREADY VACUUMED AND WASHED IT OUT!

  The ramp onto the highway is only three blocks away. I let out five minutes’ worth of breath as I enter the curve to the right.

  I pop on the radio, an all-news station. No. There might be some breaking story I don’t really feel like hearing right now. I punch one of my preset buttons to a classical station. Piano music. Fine. Good.

  I left something at work. Pause. I’ve got a big deal going down tomorrow, and I need something from work to finish preparing tonight. Shrug. Big presentation, you see.

  Downtown comes into view, only a handful of lighted squares sprinkled among dozens of buildings. Our offices are at the south end of the commercial district, and I follow the highway to the last exit before it heads out of state.

  The Hartz Building is the newest, and among the most modern, of the downtown buildings, said to be the largest all-concrete structure in the state. The atrium houses several little stores and a decent coffee shop. The lobby is an escalator’s ride up, where the security guards sit. After seven o’clock, everyone must sign in and out.

  It’s a big presentation, you understand, and I left something at work.

  Seven o’clock is also the time that the building closes, and you need a key card to get in. There’s access at the west and south entrances. Once in the building, if you have a card you can walk around the atrium to the back elevators, used for the underground parking garage. You can take that elevator up to the lobby, and if you’re really good, you can sneak into th
e main elevators without being seen by security. Often, when people are leaving work after a long day—after seven, that is—they will get off the main elevators and turn straight to the back elevators to get to the parking garage. This was my shtick, always in a bigger hurry going than coming. You’re supposed to sign out, and the guards usually holler after me to come to the desk to sign out and record the time.

  I consider parking in the underground lot, but I don’t want some attendant remembering me arriving at such a strange hour. I park at a meter on the south side.

  I take the stairs up to the building and press the key card against a square sign by the door that reads HARTZ BUILDING. The door pops slightly ajar, and I pull it open.

  I left something at work. I’ve got a big deal going down tomorrow, and I need something from work to finish preparing tonight. I hope I don’t have to use this line now; if security sees me walking in, the plan backfires. I’m supposed to be leaving work after a long night, not coming in.

  I walk along the marble floor, each step echoing off the high ceiling. The atrium is cool and airy, reminding me of other late nights at the office. I look around at the walls and in the store windows, practicing my casual look, waiting at any moment to be accosted by a security guard. I pass the escalator leading up to the lobby. There’s a set of stairs there, too, which I usually take up to the lobby, where the main elevators are located. But this time I keep walking and turn down the hall marked PARKING.

  I reach the back elevator and press the “up” button. The upper of the two circles next to the elevator flashes red, and the door opens with a chime, a little too loud for my liking, but I’m in my nothing-to-hide mode, so I keep calm. Once in, I hold my key card against an identical HARTZ BUILDING square to send me up to the lobby.