He waited for her car to leave before getting into his. Before driving home, he pulled her wallet out of his pocket. Thank you, Father. In his gloves, he unzipped it and found the driver’s license, ignoring cash and credit cards. She didn’t look stunning in this photo; she wasn’t even attractive.
“I would cut this photographer’s hands.”
Bags under her eyes, a spot on her face, and gray skin. At least he captured her eyes. Captivating and ironic. Amazing.
“Anna Stevenson. How old are you Anna? Twenty-nine. Very well. Not a young girl by any means, but you look good. I’m good.”
As usual, Morris wrote down her address, but changed his mind about mailing the wallet. He left his car, pulled his cap down, almost covering his eyes, and headed toward the brick building. The entrance was still open, and there was a security guard at the table to the left of the door. Morris didn’t care about coming in contact with somebody from her work. There were hundreds of people every day, guards changed and Morris wore a disguise.
“I think somebody from this building lost this,” he said as he moved toward the guard. An older black guy with a huge mole on his cheek.
“Oh yeah?” He looked at Morris suspiciously.
“I didn’t take anything, just checked the driver’s license. Here.” He showed the picture to the man.
“Oh yeah. She works here.”
“Can you give it to her? I came to order something, but I’m late. I can bring it to her when I come tomorrow or another day.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give it to her.” The guard sounded offended.
“Thank you,” Morris said. “You can give her a call, so she won’t worry. You know what I mean? Have a good night now.”
“You too, sir.”
Morris left, thinking about what he had done. She would get her wallet and documents back faster, maybe before noticing they were missing. She would know exactly when and how she lost them and thank a good stranger for returning them. Then she would forget about it forever. All of them would forget.
CHAPTER 23
Morris drove home in a good mood and didn’t think so badly of the writer. That talk about murders in his house and mentioning the dress still worried him, but he looked at it from another perspective now. Now it was a sign from above. Everything was for the best. His mother told him that. He didn’t believe in omens or in all these conversations about God, demons, retribution, all that stuff, but sometimes everything fit together so perfectly, he wanted to be grateful. Then he thanked his mother, because she loved her son more than anything. He loved her too. She had never known how much he loved her.
Morris sighed. Yes, she had told him that she loved him more than anything and would never put anyone above him. Not men, not mountains of gold. It hadn’t stopped her from dating that fat dude who laughed with his mouth open, showing his tobacco-stained teeth. Morris could see the fillings in some of them. Hair stuck out of the man’s nose, and he grabbed Mother’s butt any time the opportunity arose. She later told Morris that no one would marry her at her age and with a kid, but Nicolas loved children and helped her financially.
The last was true. He saw to it they had more and different foods on their table. He also bought flowers for Mother and books for Morris every weekend. Morris didn’t read the books. He collected them in a pile, so he could throw them away later, when Mother had forgotten about them. The man came to their house for a few years and Mother kept telling Morris they were going to get married. He disappeared when Mother told him about her health problems, and never came back. Besides physical pain, his mother had endured deep emotional agony
First, it was Morris’s father, who chose theft over a quiet family life. Then this fat ass, who didn’t want complications. He didn’t want sick Mary. Morris wanted to kill him and maybe he would do that some years later when murder stopped being immoral to him, but he couldn’t find the man. He had never known his last name, let alone his address. With time, he forgot his first name as well. He called him Nikolas for the convenience of keeping memories, for himself, but his real name was different.
Morris still missed his mother. He needed her. Her embraces, her kisses, her love. No one could give him what she did. Did women like her even exist? Women who were self-sacrificing? No. She was unique. Others seemed to be like her. They could play her role temporarily, but they didn’t have that illuminating and naïve soul that his mother had. They couldn’t sacrifice themselves for anything.
There was something else he didn’t want to think about, but the thought returned obsessively. No one loved him. He couldn’t understand the reason because he didn’t do anything that other people wouldn’t approve of, but people avoided him. Actually, it seemed as if they wanted to be friends with him at first, but then they didn’t answer his calls and stopped talking to him when they saw him. Morris couldn’t understand why it happened. What did he do or say to push people away? However, he was saying or doing something if this was happening. He had never had friends or a girlfriend, and it wasn’t like he didn’t try and didn’t invite girls for a date …
Morris thought about it again. He didn’t try to find friends and didn’t invite anyone for a date, to be honest. If he wanted to be completely honest, he didn’t need anyone. Friends? What for? For drinking beer together, complaining about life or yelling in front of a TV, watching football? He didn’t drink, didn’t watch football, and considered talking to people a waste of time. He preferred to work or dream. Two girls, Angelica and Ramona were the only ones he had considered dating. If he could find enough confidence. Neither of them paid any attention to him.
Ramona … Ramona, Ramona. She was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Just an inch or two shorter than him, fair skin, thin, with huge brown eyes. Unlike him, everyone in college loved her. Despite her beauty, she was shy and unsocial. Morris often caught her wandering gaze, as if her mind was in a different world while her body stayed here. She was kind, she responded to everyone asking for help, but he usually saw her alone. She was a loner just like him. Morris thought she would understand him and agree, especially because she didn’t have a boyfriend.
At one of the dorm parties, where he found himself by mistake rather than invitation, he decided to approach her. She drank cola, unlike others who held champagne flutes in their hands or bottles of beer. The event was held in three rooms on one floor, and Morris thought half of the college had gathered. He preferred to stay in the dorm. He didn’t have to wake up too early to drive to college and spent less money. He also hoped to find endless friends and a girlfriend. He went home for holidays and weekends, even though no one waited for him there. Most of the time, he was alone in the dorms, bending over his studies or staring at a small TV.
That night, he collected his courage and sat on the old, stained couch near Ramona. He asked her what she was drinking.
“Pop,” the girl answered. It was clear what she was drinking even by the bottle on the table beside her. There was also a bowl of chips on that table and an empty plate with some traces of dip, and another plate that contained crumbles of crackers. The table was dirty, wet, and sticky when Morris accidentally touched it with his hand.
“You don’t drink champagne or wine? It seemed like the only choices of drinks today.”
Ramona shook her head and looked in the direction of a beautiful couple across the table. The girl sat in a chair and whispered something in the ear of the guy sitting on the chair’s arm. He twisted her blond lock around his finger.
Morris’s heart hammered. He wasn’t sure he could keep talking.
“There’s a movie. Good one.” He realized he forgot the name and freaked out, but tried to hold it together. “Do you want to go?” he heard himself saying.
Ramona looked at him again and shook her head a second time. She denied him. She also denied him.
“It’s a good movie. I’ll buy the tickets.” Morris’ voice trembled. He hid his shaking hands between his knees. He didn’t want to
give up.
“Sorry … Morris. You’re Morris, right?”
He nodded, swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I don’t want to go out. With anyone.”
“You don’t like movies?”
Ramona sighed and drank her cola, which had lost all bubbles by this time.
“Bishop!” The voice came from the chair. Morris’s roommate grabbed his girlfriend by her shoulders. His eyes were red from beer or tiredness. It was after midnight. “Drink more and bang her!”
“Martin!” The girl smacked his hand and the guy laughed loudly.
“Really?” Ramona put her glass on the table and left.
Morris felt his face burning. He didn’t say anything back to the guy, just stood and left with his head down, so no one could notice his humiliation.
He left the party right after that and locked himself in his room. He broke one of Mother’s vases in frustration, one he brought from the house to create a homey atmosphere. He broke down into tears and collected all the pieces, asking his mommy for forgiveness, and then repaired it, cutting his fingers on the sharp edges. During this work, sitting at the narrow table under a pink lamp, connecting unfitting fragments by shapes, his tears dried out and his humiliation and anger gave way to boiling hatred.
He knew that Ramona had slept with Peterson and Greenstone. He knew it; everyone did. Why not him? What was wrong with him? Why did his mother tell him that he was the best? Didn’t that little snotter understand that? Didn’t she see? That fucking Martin Eden! What an idiot! How did he even get into college being so stupid? He didn’t even live in the dorm! She was going to be his. He had always gotten what he wanted. He was going to get everything he wanted.
If they don’t give it to you, take it.
And she became his. He killed Angelica because he had no choice, but he knew right away what to do with Ramona. He didn’t know how to bring her to his house or make it quiet. Unlike Angelica, Ramona didn’t live on the same street as him. He didn’t have a car at that time, let alone the van that he bought especially for this business, so he couldn’t think about bringing her that way.
While he worked on his plan, he also watch Ramona’s movements and found out that she didn’t go anywhere besides college. College and dorm, sometimes grocery and book stores. Sunday was the only day she went out. She took the metro to Central Park and sat there with a book, gazing at the sky. She was a strange girl, so similar to Morris in her unconstrained loneness. He found out that almost every Friday and Saturday her roommate went to her idiot boyfriend for the weekend, leaving Ramona alone.
When all the details were taken care of, Morris went home for the weekend and came back with a big, checkered suitcase. He brought it to his room secretly, choosing the moment when the halls were empty. He hid the suitcase in his closet and waited for the next weekend. Of course, he didn’t wait without doing anything. On Tuesday, he was late for class because he wanted to get inside of Ramona’s room. Due to his father’s lessons, he managed to open the lock quickly with the help of a hairpin. He entered the room and studied her things. He touched, smelled, and stuffed a pair of white cotton panties into his pocket.
On Friday, he left early, knowing that no one would notice his absence. He complained about a headache to his professor. The older guy suggested he take Tylenol and said goodbye until Monday. Professor didn’t like him, but Morris was the best student in his class. Morris returned to the dorm and carried the suitcase from his closet to a storage room near Ramona’s room, hiding it in the corner, knowing that no one would check it during the weekend. He left and waited for night. It was the longest eleven hours of his life. He worried that he would have a heart attack from the stress. He couldn’t eat and used the bathroom every ten minutes. He lay down, jumped up, and went outside. He tried to paint, but couldn’t find the right mood for the work.
At two in the morning, when he was shaking, when his towel became wet with nervous sweat and he couldn’t breathe normally, when the noise in the halls diminished, he put his jacket on and left the room. His hands were sweaty and he wiped them on his pants, then he put on rubber gloves before grabbing a pin. He was afraid that Ramona would wake up, but when he opened the door and tiptoed into the room, the girl didn’t move. He looked at her calm face in the moonlight, and then extracted a mayonnaise jar from his pocket with difficulty. Inside of it, he had a rag soaked with chloroform. Without taking his gloves off and keeping the jar away from his face, he pulled out the rag and neatly put it on Ramona’s face, hoping it was going to work as well as on stray cats. He had practiced on them during the week. Ramona opened her brown eyes wide for a second and then slowly shut them again after inhaling the poisonous fumes into her lungs.
Without losing a second, Morris gagged her, tied her legs and arms, and brought in the suitcase into which she fitted tightly.
Morris listened for any noises in the hallway—there were none—and then peeped out to make sure it was empty. He dragged his burden out of the room. Morris knew it wasn’t going to be easy, so he brought a suitcase with wheels that rolled softly over the linoleum floors. The building was quiet, except for some music playing somewhere on a top floor and a girl’s laughter. The smell of French fries, burgers, and beer filled the air.
He took an elevator to the first floor and went to the exit unnoticed, when suddenly he heard the sound of loud steps behind him. He stopped, whirled around, and saw a guy walking toward him. The guy was drunk and held onto the wall. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned and the zipper was open on his pants.
“Dude!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Got a smoke?”
“I don’t smoke,” Morris stuttered as he tried to hide his suitcase. What if she woke up? This idiot could wake up everyone in the dorm.
“Fuck. I need a smoke. Mike? Mike! Where are you, mother fucker?”
The drunk pushed Morris out of his way and staggered along the hallway of the first floor. Morris, cursing the guy, pulled the suitcase out and closed the door behind him. He peed on the wall of the building before continuing further. He wouldn’t make it without emptying his bladder, which was going crazy from fear. Morris went to the road, trying not to hurry, and after some time, the taxi he had called an hour before arrived. Morris used his grandmother’s money to get home. It was worth it.
He was shaking the entire way home as if he was cold, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice. He listened for any noises from the trunk, but everything went perfectly. Ramona came to her senses only after arriving in his house, on his mother’s bed, and in the green dress he put on her with great care while she was unconscious.
“Green dress,” Morris muttered, coming back from his memories and discovering to his surprise that he was almost home. “How had hе found out about the dress?”
CHAPTER 24
Max remembered that he hadn’t eaten today when his stomach reminded him of its existence.
He turned the laptop so he could see it from the direction of the fridge, found a pack of ravioli in the freezer, put water in a pot on the stove to boil, and waited for it, staring at the computer monitor.
He sat down to work right after Anna left, and during the four and a half hours, he had stood only once to use the bathroom. He had written twenty-something pages and his joints ached. He moved his fingers, reading the last sentences where Angelica’s mother decided to forgive her husband. The girl knew from her mother’s conversations with her friends that her father was unfaithful and that was why she let him go. Angelica didn’t exactly know what unfaithful meant or why her mom was so mad about it, but she sure hoped her father would come back to live with them. Because she loved her daddy.
Max dropped ravioli into the boiling water, salted them, covered the pot, and went to the bedroom to change from the robe into his favorite sweat pants and T-shirt. When he returned to the kitchen, ravioli swam on the surface of the water. Max caught them, placed them onto a plate, and sat in front of the computer again.
Max didn’
t believe in inspiration or writing blocks, he believed in laziness, but this condition of euphoria and the powerful urge to create he had today, he could only call inspiration. He was on fire.
He had another dream and opened his eyes with an already familiar image. Only now, the girl was two years older and didn’t play dolls that much. Max didn’t dream about things happening in her family during this time, but he knew everything and couldn’t wait to write it down. Anna asked him a few times if he was all right, and why he asked her three times if she was late for work. He told her honestly that he wanted to write, but she didn’t comment on that and accompanied her husband’s answer with a long look.
Max opened the book file immediately after she left.
Angelica was a smart girl and liked to spend time with her parents. She went shopping with her mother, and with her, she made clothes for dolls, cooked food, and strolled along the river. Her father took her to the zoo, fairs, and movie theaters. He bought her toys and ice cream. Her mother wanted to divorce Angelica’s dad, but he begged for forgiveness and promised to change. Angelica asked him what he did wrong, but he only smiled and told her that he made a mistake. He told her he loved her momma and wanted to be with her forever. Angelica played with her friends and dreamed of becoming a ballerina.
Max finished his ravioli, stuck the dirty plate in the dishwasher, and stood by the window to let his eyes rest as he decided if he should keep everything he had written. Decide where he was going. It wasn’t a mystery, it wasn’t supernatural, and it wasn’t even a saga. It looked almost like a biography of a small girl. Something he definitely hadn’t written and didn’t even plan to write. Who was going to read it? Who was going to publish it? Foxtail would rather let his favorite writer go to a different agent with this work than shop this book himself. He had commercial, concept literature. Something that brought money. This … What was it? Max wouldn’t read it himself, but now he was writing it and he wanted it. Even more—it seemed that writing this book was vitally necessary. What for? He didn’t have an answer. Only desire. Soul hunger. He was exploding with it. The life of a little angel became his own, but captured in the cage of his mind. His desire grew like a butterfly in a cocoon. He had to open it and set it free.
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 12
