Hard Feelings: A Novel

by Jason Starr

  At a few minutes past six o’clock, I called Rudnick’s office from a pay phone at the corner, looking back over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t miss him. His voice mail answered. I hoped this didn’t mean he had gone home for the day. Maybe he was just in a meeting or away from his desk.

  It was nearing dusk. The crowds on the street had thinned and many of the stores on the avenue had closed. I was about to go back to the pay phone, to call his office again, when I saw him.

  He had just exited the revolving door and was heading toward the street at a brisk pace. I knew my disguise worked, because he passed by me without even looking in my direction. His smug, self-absorbed attitude and the way he was strutting along the street, like he thought he was a movie star, disgusted me.

  I followed him downtown on Madison and then we made a right on Forty-eighth Street. We were heading toward the intersection on Fifth where I had spotted him last week. I was about twenty or so yards behind him, walking at his same, rapid pace. There were several people between us, but he was in full view. No matter what, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight.

  We crossed Fifth and Sixth and were heading toward Seventh. On Seventh he made a left, continuing downtown. He was probably heading toward Washington Street in the West Village, where one of the Michael Rudnicks I had found on the Internet lived. It was twilight, meaning that by the time we reached Rudnick’s apartment it would be completely dark.

  At Forty-second Street, I expected him to head down to the subway, but he continued downtown instead. It seemed as if he was planning to walk home, which would be kind of strange considering we still had about fifty blocks to go.

  We passed Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street, where I had been earlier in the day. Then, at Thirty-third Street, Rudnick crossed the avenue and headed into Penn Station.

  At first, I thought he was going to take the subway after all, but he passed the escalator that led to the subway and went toward the area where the New Jersey Transit and Amtrak trains departed. Without stopping, he glanced at the overhanging board that displayed the departure and arrival times, then he began to walk faster toward one of the escalators leading to one of the tracks. I followed him, jogging to keep up.

  At the bottom of the escalator, he boarded a New Jersey Transit train and I entered at the other end of the car, making it inside just before the doors closed. I watched Rudnick sit down near the front of the car and I found a seat five or six rows behind him.

  Taking a trip to New Jersey definitely hadn’t been part of my plan, but there was no turning back now. I couldn’t stop staring at the back of Rudnick’s head.

  As the train approached the Newark station, the conductor came by and asked me for my ticket. I told him that I needed to purchase one and I asked him what the last stop on the train was. “Trenton,” he said, and I said, “One roundtrip to Trenton.”

  When the train stopped, a number of people stood up and crowded the aisle. I watched Rudnick closely, but he remained seated, reading a newspaper.

  The stations on the New York–Trenton route were about ten minutes apart. At each stop, many more passengers exited the train than entered, and when we reached Metuchen, about forty minutes from Manhattan, there were only about a dozen people left in the car, including Rudnick and myself.

  It was much quieter on the train now, making my thoughts seem much louder.

  At the Edison and New Brunswick stops, several more people exited. Now there were only a handful of passengers left in our car and I knew there couldn’t be many more stops before Trenton. As the train slowed, approaching the Princeton Junction station, Rudnick stood up and headed toward the exit door nearest to him, at the end of the car. Not wanting to trail him too closely, I stood up and waited near the middle door. When the train stopped and the doors opened I made sure Rudnick had gotten off, and then I followed him toward the exit at the middle of the outdoor platform.

  As he walked ahead of me, down the staircase, I started to feel disoriented, the way I sometimes felt after a few drinks. It was hard to see clearly in my sunglasses, but I left them on anyway. Rudnick went through a tunnel, passing under the tracks, and there was the noise above us of the train pulling out. I was about to do it right there, in the tunnel, but then I heard echoing high-heeled footsteps. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a woman following about ten yards behind me.

  Rudnick emerged from the tunnel and headed toward the dark parking lot. There were several cars with their motors running, waiting to pick up passengers from the train. For a moment, I feared that Rudnick would get into one of the cars, but then he veered left toward the darkest part of the lot.

  The lot was half-filled with parked cars, but there didn’t seem to be any people close by. I walked faster to keep up, trying not to make any noise. Rudnick turned to the right, between a row of cars. He must have heard me, because he stopped suddenly and turned around.

  Except for some light from a nearby lamppost that cast a faint orange glow on Rudnick’s face, the parking lot was dark. There was some noise of traffic in the distance. I saw Rudnick squinting, as if trying to figure out who I was. I was still walking toward him and then I stopped a few feet away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, still straining to see. “Can I help you?”

  Then his eyes widened and the puzzled expression disappeared.

  Now he looked terrified.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He was smiling with his caterpillar eyebrows and his faceful of acne, yelling, “You’re gonna feel it! You’re gonna feel it!”

  I had taken the butcher knife out of my briefcase and I was lunging forward. Most of the blade entered Rudnick’s chest and his terrified expression returned. I kept attacking, pushing him against a car and yanking the blade free, then sticking it in again. His shocked, wide-open eyes were looking right at me now. I stabbed him again, higher in his chest, closer to his neck. He tried to speak, but blood choked his words. I worked the blade free, noticing that his eyes had shut. I let go, letting his limp body fall onto the concrete between two cars.

  A train was speeding by, probably an Amtrak on the express track, and there was a sudden thunderous whoosh. I kneeled down and gave Rudnick one final stab, in the groin. After wiping the blade clean on his pants legs, I put the knife away in my briefcase and headed back toward the train station.

  10

  I KEELED OVER between two parked cars and gagged. I remained in the same position for about a minute—the sick, sour taste of a partially digested BLT in my mouth—but I didn’t throw up.

  Finally, I felt better. I took off my bloodstained suit jacket and put it away in my briefcase, figuring I’d get rid of it later. There was still blood on my hands and on the bottoms of my shirtsleeves. I took off my shoes and socks. I spat on the socks, making them moist, then I wiped my face and neck, just in case there was blood there. I wiped my hands on the socks, removing as much blood as possible. Finally, I put the stained socks inside my briefcase. Then I folded each shirt-sleeve several times, hiding the stains. In the poor light, it was hard to see if I had any blood on my pants; I was sure there was some there, but my pants were dark navy and I hoped the color camouflaged it.

  I checked myself carefully. As far as I could tell, I looked fine. My hands, especially the palms, were still pink, but that would be easy enough to hide. I straightened my wig and adjusted my sunglasses, then I continued toward the light of the train station.

  Much calmer now, feeling almost normal, I went up the stairs that led to the New York–bound track. As I was nearing the top, a man in a business suit headed down, passing to my right. I looked away as soon as I saw him, making sure he didn’t get a good look at me.

  I walked along the platform, past the ticket office and a bench where a few people were seated. I would have gone in the other direction, but I wanted to board the last car of the next train, where there were likely to be fewer passengers than on the other cars. As I passed the people, I kept my head turned tow
ard the tracks, enough so that my face was out of view.

  The end of the platform was empty. I leaned over the edge and saw a train’s headlights in the distance. It was hard to tell how far away the train was because this area of New Jersey was almost flat to the horizon. I paced back and forth, whispering, “Come on, come on, come on.” Then I decided that I ought to stand still—if I looked nervous it could raise suspicion later. I couldn’t hear traffic noise anymore and the silence was ominous. At any moment, I expected to hear screaming and commotion.

  The platform was better lit than the parking lot and I noticed a big blotch of blood that I’d missed on my briefcase. I looked toward the ticket office to make sure no one was coming, then I crouched near the back of the platform. I took one of the socks out of the briefcase and wiped away as much blood as I could. Then there was a screeching of brakes—a train was arriving on the Trenton-bound track. I put the sock back into the briefcase and stood up, trying to act as natural and unassuming as possible. I could see the profiles of several people in the windows of the train, but no one was looking in my direction.

  As the train left the station, I leaned over the tracks to see if the New York–bound train was any closer. The bright lights in the distance looked the same as before. I was going to have to brace myself now because I knew that some of the people who had just arrived at Princeton Junction would be going to their cars and there was a chance Rudnick would be discovered at any moment.

  Then I had something else to worry about. I looked toward the opposite platform and saw a young woman standing there, searching for something in her pocketbook. This wouldn’t have been a big deal except that she sensed me staring at her and looked in my direction. Reflexively, I smiled and she smiled back at me. I looked away immediately, cursing to myself for being so stupid, but when I looked again the woman was still there, smiling.

  My heart skipped at least a beat. Casually, I walked about ten yards, toward the middle of the platform. I looked to my left, surprised to see that the woman had also walked about ten yards in the same direction. I stopped and watched the woman continue along the platform and exit down the stairs.

  The noise of the train to New York, pulling in to the station, was a big relief. I just wanted to get on the train and get away as fast as possible and worry about everything else later.

  As the train slowed to a stop, I walked quickly back toward the end of the platform and boarded the last car. The train was more crowded than I had expected—filled with loud teenagers in ripped jeans and T-shirts, probably on their way to a concert or a club. I found a seat near the back of the car. It seemed like it took forever for the doors to close, but they finally did and the train started moving. I looked over my shoulder toward the parking lot, but the window had fogged and it was impossible to see out.

  Although I was glad to get away from Princeton Junction, I knew my problems were far from over. It wouldn’t be long before the body was discovered and if Rudnick had told anyone in his office what my name was, the police would track me down and make me their prime suspect.

  The kids on the train were getting louder, but they were so involved in their own excitement that they didn’t seem to notice me. I became aware of a faint odor of pot and one of the kids—tall, thin, probably about sixteen, with bad skin— was drinking from a bottle of beer, poorly concealed by a paper bag.

  After the train left the New Brunswick station, the conductor entered the car. I’d wedged my ticket into the slot on top of the seat ahead of mine and I looked down when the conductor approached, trying not to make eye contact with him. After he collected my ticket and replaced it with a white card indicating how far I’d be traveling on the train, he said, “I think your face is bleeding, pal.”

  I don’t know how I managed to stay calm. I imagined authorities from Princeton Junction calling the train and alerting them that a murder suspect might be on board. Afraid that I would appear even more suspicious if I kept looking down, I glanced up at the conductor for a moment, taking his image in quickly—tall, heavyset, with a mustache—and said, “Thanks, must’ve cut myself shaving.”

  I had no idea how much blood there was on my face and whether this excuse would sound ridiculous or not, but the conductor seemed satisfied because he went to collect the teenagers’ tickets without another word. I moved close to the window, studying the reflection of my face, and was relieved to see that there was only a tiny streak of blood above my right cheekbone that I must’ve missed when I’d wiped my face with the sock. I licked my hand to wipe the blood clean and had to lick it again when it didn’t come off the first time. Realizing that the salty taste in my mouth was Michael Rudnick’s blood, I gagged, but fortunately I didn’t throw up.

  The scare was over, or at least I hoped it was. The blood was gone from my face and the conductor had left the car without glancing at me again. He had no reason to be suspicious, but I realized how easily that could change.

  The one-hour-or-so trip back to the city seemed endless, but the train finally pulled into Penn Station. I knew I had to get home fast so I’d have as little missing time to account for as possible.

  Rather than waiting upstairs on the “taxi line” where it was well lit, I decided to hail a cab on the street. I exited onto Eighth Avenue and a cab stopped for me right away. I told the driver my destination, “Sixty-second and Lex,” purposely choosing a corner several blocks from my apartment, on the off-chance he might be questioned about it.

  I was hoping not to have any more conversation with the driver but unfortunately he was a “talker.” He went into a maniacal, rambling monologue about politics, baseball, sex, and movies. Even though I was ignoring him, he didn’t get the message and kept blabbing away, nonstop, until he pulled over on the corner of Sixty-second and Lexington to let me out.

  After exiting the cab, I ducked into a vestibule on East Sixty-second Street and took off my wig and sunglasses and put them away with the other evidence in my briefcase. It was ten-thirty as I walked at a brisk pace toward my apartment building. I was becoming more and more confident that everything would work out and that the police wouldn’t catch me. It was a Friday night, which would work to my advantage. I had once read somewhere that almost all arrests take place during the first twenty-four hours of an investigation. Since the police probably wouldn’t have a chance to talk to the people in Rudnick’s office until Monday, the entire trail would have more than two full days to cool off. By Monday morning, the cab driver, the conductor, and the woman on the opposite platform, or anyone else who might have seen me tonight, would be less likely to remember me.

  Entering my building, I smiled and said hello to Raymond, the evening doorman, like I would do on any normal night, and then I casually went to the mailbox area. There was no mail in my box, meaning that Paula was probably home. I was expecting her to be waiting for me at the door, with her hands on her hips, ready to lay into me for not showing up at the marriage counselor’s office. I knew that a huge argument was inevitable, but I was hoping to put it off for as long as possible, or at least until I had a chance to get rid of the murder evidence from my briefcase.

  The lights were out in the apartment and Otis didn’t come to the door to greet me. The bedroom door was closed, meaning Paula was probably locking me out for the night again. But I knew I had to play this right. I had to act like I wanted her to open up, otherwise it might raise suspicion later.

  I knocked on the bedroom door for a few minutes, saying, “Come on, let me in,” and telling her how “sorry” I was, and how I could “explain everything.” Of course, she didn’t respond, which was perfectly fine with me. I went to the kitchen with my briefcase and took out the butcher knife. I would’ve gotten rid of it, dumped it somewhere, but I knew Paula would miss it. I started to scrub the knife under hot water. Blood covered most of the blade and the handle and some of it had hardened, forming a dark, scablike substance. The sink filled with a shallow puddle of pink water and I was getting nauseous again. I didn
’t mind the blood, I minded that it was Rudnick’s blood and that he wasn’t completely out of my life yet. Until every last drop of him was gone I knew I would feel slightly sick.

  Finally, all the visible blood was gone and the water in the sink had faded to a barely noticeable pink tinge. I kept scrubbing for a few minutes longer, just in case there were any microscopic droplets I’d missed, and then I dried the knife with a dish towel and replaced it in the drawer.

  Next, I took a plastic shopping bag from The Gap out of the cupboard below the sink and filled it with the bloody socks, the wig, the sunglasses, and the suit jacket. Then I unbuttoned my shirt and took off my pants and shoes and added them as well. Blood had stained some papers and folders in my briefcase, but I knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea to dump anything personal with the clothes, so I left the papers alone, figuring I would get rid of them later.

  “Where were you?”

  Holding the plastic bag, I turned around and saw Paula standing by the kitchen door, facing me. I had no idea how long she had been there. For all I knew she had seen me handling the bloody clothes and papers.

  “When?” I asked, aware of my pulse throbbing in my face.

  “I’m not in the mood for any more bullshit,” she said. “Why weren’t you at the marriage counselor’s today? Did you just blow it off or do you have some other excuse?”

  “I was at a bar . . . drinking,” I said meekly.

  “That’s what I figured,” she said.

  I was about to go on, apologizing, but she cut me off with: “I’m moving out.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Come on,” I said. “I know you don’t—”

  “Please,” she said, “I’m not in the mood to discuss it. Tomorrow I’m moving to a hotel. Goodnight.”

  Paula marched down the hallway, then I heard the bedroom door shut and lock. Normally, I would have gone after her and tried to talk some sense into her, but now I was just glad to have her out of the way. Of course, I didn’t want her to leave me, but I figured that this wasn’t exactly the time to try and save my marriage.