“Okay, I’ll have some.” Max didn’t want to reject a second time. The conversation would go faster with a cup of tea. “Thank you,” he said when the cup landed in front of him.
Wilma sipped her tea carefully and continued with more confidence.
“I was young when I saw Mary’s husband. He was much older than she was, or at least looked older. He looked just like a prisoner they would show on TV, her husband did. You wouldn’t believe it. Unshaven, all these black clothes, tattoos. He smoked a lot and drank beer every night. Mary didn’t know what to do with him. She got used to living alone, and then here’s this strange man with his demands. He acted as if he owned the house and her. He wanted to control everything. They fought a lot. The whole neighborhood could hear. Mary walked down the street with her eyes down. Yes. She was so embarrassed, Mary was, but she didn’t know how to get rid of him. She didn’t want him. No. His mother also came, stressed her out. Then he was gone. Fast. Today he’s here; tomorrow he’s not. Like my Angel. However, with him it was clear. He probably found his old friends from prison. Only you asked about his son, Morris. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. It’s all interesting.”
“All right then. Morris was a mommy’s boy. Mary spoiled him rotten and treated him like a girl. I told her that he was a boy. She shouldn’t act like that around him, but she didn’t listen to me. He was her only child, like my Angelica. We visited them often before her husband returned. Me and my Angel. However, Morris didn’t play with her. He didn’t play with anyone. He would sit alone in a corner or on his mother’s lap. When he was a big boy already! You know what else?” Wilma turned around as if somebody might hear her, then bent closer to Max. “He slept with her in one bed until he was a teenager. Yes, he did. Until she found herself a man. Mary did. She told me her Morry—Morry she called him—was afraid to sleep alone. A big boy with his mother in one bed!” The woman drank her tea again. “He grew up like a girl, only he didn’t wear dresses. He liked to draw. He would sit in his corner and draw or paint. I could understand if it was something good, like a cat or a tree, something normal. No, not Morris. He would draw a cat and then strike it all over with red or black. That was Morris. Very quiet too. Mary was so proud of him. I was afraid he wouldn’t have friends. He was too attached to his mother. I was right, Max. They didn’t beat him, not anything like that, but no friends ever. Not a girl either. Never any girlfriend. Not as far as I know. Never.” The woman bent to Max again. “We even thought he was … you know …”
“Gay?” Max suggested.
“Well.” Wilma nodded, pressed her lips. “We don’t know, but it’s strange. Strange not having a girlfriend, or a wife. He’s not an ugly man. He’s smart. Good job. I don’t judge him, don’t you think that. You know, when Angelica”—the woman sighed, drank more tea—“disappeared, Morris came to see me almost every day. He was so worried, asked if I had any news. It’s a shame to say, but his attention was unpleasant to me. He had this look. I can’t explain. I should say it was because he worried so much. Only I didn’t believe him. I don’t know. His eyes were like wet glass. He stopped coming one day and that was it. I know he went to college, became an architect, but I don’t know if he has any work. I think he does, but look where he lives. He stays in his mother’s old house, here in Watervliet. He would be better off somewhere else with his profession, but no, he’s here. I wanted to help him, by the way, when Mary died. We were friends. He went to college somewhere in New York. Then he avoided me, I think. I don’t know why he would do that. Oh, there was a grandma, his father’s mother. She didn’t talk to me or anyone. I asked people and they told me things. I know he has two cars now. One is a van and he doesn’t use it much. Probably for work only. People told me they have seen him going to New York. I don’t know what else to say. He’s alone all the time since Mary died. Maybe he has someone in New York. You know what, Max? If you want to know more, you have to ask people around here. He doesn’t talk to me at all. When he asked me about you, I was in shock.”
“He asked about me?”
“Yes, he did. Morris did. He saw you here and came to me. He said he was worried. Yes. He said I live alone and he was worried. He’s that kind of person. Worries about people.” Wilma sighed.
Max took a sip of cold tea.
“Sorry if I’m no help.”
“No, you’ve helped a lot. Thank you very much,” Max said.
“Why do you want to know about him?”
Max decided to tell her a small part of the truth.
“I had dreams about his house first. First, his house and then Angelica. I want to understand why. I found his house as if following my intuition. I felt as if I knew that house. Could Angelica send me to you in such a complicated way?”
“I don’t know. She’s been to that house with me many times. Until she was about eight, she went. As she became older, she found her own friends and stopped going there with me.”
“He didn’t like me.”
“Don’t you worry. He’s just a loner. He doesn’t want anyone to bother him.”
“Mrs. Porter … Wilma, thank you so much for everything. The food was great. I hope you won’t be upset if I go now.”
“Of course not. You have things to do.”
Max didn’t argue. He didn’t have anything to do besides wait, but he had to get out of the house before he told her everything. Before he told her everything and cried, burying his face on the chest of somebody else’s mother. It would be a good and peaceful feeling. Although, she could take it wrong. She was somebody else’s mother; he was somebody else’s son.
Max offered to clean the table, but the woman waved her hands and he left, thanking her for lunch.
“Came, ate, and left,” he said to himself as he got into the car. Wilma waved to him from the porch and disappeared inside the house. Outside, the wind swirled the snow. Max started the engine, looking at the architect’s house, and then he took the key out and headed there.
He called three times with three seconds between calls, but the architect didn’t respond. Max didn’t want to give up and rang a few more times. For some reason, he was sure the owner of the house saw him and didn’t want to talk to him. Max didn’t count, but after about twelve calls the lock clanked and the door was open. Max met sleepy, unhappy eyes. Morris’s hair was disheveled, pajama jacket over a T-shirt opened, his sweat pants stretched on his knees.
“Writer.” He glared.
“Did I wake you? Sorry.” Max didn’t have antipathy for this man before, only curiosity and understanding. Now, after Wilma told him the architect’s story, the man in front of him wasn’t just unpleasant, he irritated Max. He wanted to twist his face in disgust and say something rude. Max didn’t understand his reaction, and it troubled him a little. He’d had cases of unexplainable antipathy before, but never like this. His reaction was abrupt, strange, and heavy. Max held his emotions with all his might and even managed to smile.
“You did wake me. I worked on a drawing the whole night.”
“Sorry,” Max said again.
“You forgot what you told me? You weren’t supposed to come here without a call. You told me you wouldn’t come at all.”
“Yes, true. I just came here to look around.” Max almost mentioned Wilma, but changed his mind. “I just did some research and decided to stop by for a second. I forgot my phone.”
“What do you want? It’s cold and I’m tired.”
“I wanted to look at your paintings.”
“My paintings. Why?”
“I just glanced at them before and they looked interesting. Unique. Do you sell them?”
“No.”
“May I just take a look? By the way, do you still have your mother’s portrait in your bedroom?”
Morris narrowed his eyes.
“How do you know?”
“I told you. Dreams.”
“Dreams.” The man smiled so suddenly that Max flinched. “Dreams you said.”
“I think Angelica is the one who makes them.”
“Angelica?” The man’s face didn’t change, only his pupils widened a little. He knew something about the girl’s disappearance. Max didn’t doubt that now.
“Angelica, your neighbor. She vanished without a trace after going to the store. You should remember.”
“I do.” Morris looked at his legs for a second.
“Do you know what happened to her?” The question blurted out, Max didn’t expect it.
“How would I know? No one does.” The man chuckled. “Something else. I was about to eat and change.”
Max stared at him as he tried to understand what had changed in this man and why he called for such sudden hatred? The architect studied Max from head to toe and back. They stood, one in front of the other, with only snowflakes between them. Morris started to whistle. Quietly, keeping his eyes on the visitor. Everything turned upside down in Max’s head from this melody. Something exploded in his mind, and circles twisted before his eyes. He needed a couple of seconds to come back to his senses. His consciousness hung on a hair string, but he didn’t lose it this time.
“You killed her,” Max whispered.
Morris stopped whistling.
“What are you mumbling? I can’t hear you,” he said.
“You killed her!”
“What?” The man staggered back.
“You killed her! You killed Angelica!”
Max took a step forward, but the man didn’t let him open the door farther, holding it with his foot and glaring at Max.
“Get the hell out of here! Nutcase!”
“You kidnapped her! You lured her into this house, tortured her, and then killed her!”
“You’re crazy! Sicko!” the man spat out. “Damn snotter! Get out of here before I call the police! Get out right now!”
“I’ll call the police!”
“And what are you going to tell them?” Morris moved suddenly toward Max, staring at his face. “Will you tell them about your dreams? Go ahead. The media will be happy to report about some sicko writer stalking an honest architect.”
“The killer.” Max grabbed the man by his collar, but he pushed Max away and shut the door, despite Max’s struggle to keep it open. “Angelica found me so I could find you!” Max yelled. “You won’t get away with this! Do you hear me?”
Max breathed heavily, kicked the door, rammed into it, and then dashed to his car and drove back to New York.
CHAPTER 57
He wanted to meet with the detective, but called him first on his way from Watervliet to New York while sitting in traffic.
“I know who killed Angelica Porter,” he said, and only at that moment did he realized the architect was right. They would think he was crazy.
“Angelica Porter?” the detective asked. “Who’s that?”
Max sighed and told him the whole story. He didn’t keep back anything and traffic didn’t move. The detective listened to him and didn’t interrupt. When Max finished—he took a long pause.
“What does this have to do with your wife’s disappearance?” he said when Max was about to ask if he was still on the line.
“Maybe he knows something, knows Anna’s kidnapper. He couldn’t have done it himself.” After this comment, Max wanted to turn off the phone, sit alone somewhere, and think. Just think. What if the architect did kidnap Anna? The idea was crazy and improbable, but what wasn’t crazy and improbable lately? Hadn’t he killed Angelica?
“Alan Walter contacted me,” the detective said. “He heard about your wife and decided to call me. He told me that before this event you had asked him questions. About Angelica Porter. You told him this story about dreams.”
“Yes.”
“Now you’re saying that you know the killer.”
“I understand how it sounds.”
“I doubt you do. But you’re a known personality. You haven’t been caught in any criminal activity or psychological instability. I was asked to work on your case. I want you to concentrate on this particular sentence. I am working on the case of your wife’s disappearance. As far as I know, Angelica Porter’s case is cold. Again, I understand who you are, you’re a respectable member of society, and you’re my boss’s friend, so I would do you a favor. I’ll find that case and …”
“You have to talk to Bishop as soon as possible,” Max interrupted.
“I understand your impatience, but I’ll be frank with you. I don’t believe in dreams. I suspect that I’m not alone here. Still, I will find Angelica’s case and see what I can do. I’ll check Bishop’s interview especially thoroughly, but you have to understand that I can’t go to his house on an official visit. On what grounds? Your dreams? That reason might work for your books, but not in real life. Authors describe our profession in a romantic way, sometimes entertaining. I can’t get a warrant based on your dreams. See what I mean?”
“I see,” Max said as he tried to change lanes so he could stop on the side of the road. While the detective talked, Max listened to the melody in his head. The melody Morris whistled. Quiet, slow, sad melody.
Oh, a beautiful field of daisies;
The most cheerful wildflowers you’ll see;
Dolly and I love the daisies.
Images flashed before his eyes and Max felt that he was close to fainting again. He had the familiar signs: heavy head, pressure on eyes and neck. “I see. Have a good day.”
He couldn’t talk anymore. Throwing the phone on the seat, he grabbed the wheel with both hands, but darkness was already gathering in front of his eyes. It was difficult to change to the right lane, but when Max did it and parked the car, consciousness had left him.
Max was unconscious only for a few seconds. To his surprise, he noticed the time before and after. He didn’t feel well and climbed out of the car into the snow and wind. During those short seconds while he left reality and then came back, he saw different pictures changing in front of his eyes as on a TV screen with a broken antenna, and it convinced him completely. His guess was the only truth. A couple of days ago, at Wilma’s, the truth started to appear to him. Now he knew and it was beyond belief. Even more incredible than dreams or ghosts inside his head, but that was what it was. His feelings, his visions, his knowing—it was all real. Morris killed Wilma’s daughter. The architect did that. Max saw him, saw his face leaning over a helpless girl. He couldn’t remember it before because Angelica’s brain literally blocked the bad memories. Like that story with the boy. She didn’t want to remember that.
Max felt the cold seeping under his clothes and returned to the car. His head was clear now even though he had pain drilling into his temples, like unpleasant memories.
Max returned to the road and started looking for the turn. He headed back to Watervliet.
CHAPTER 58
Morris didn’t go to the shed right away. He needed time to calm down and not kill her. He needed to calm down and think everything over. He pulled off his jacket, sat down on the couch, and stared at one spot on the opposite wall, beating his knees with his fists. That was the way to think in the most critical moments. Now that moment had come. Fear, hatred, uncertainty, frustration, doubts. He’d had these feelings before, a long time ago, and didn’t expect them to come back.
“How does he know, damn snotter? How? Damn snotter!” Morris almost cried. Or maybe he was crying. His vision was blurry, but he didn’t feel tears. Everything inside him shrank from offense. Why, why didn’t this writer just live in his city and write his damn books? Why did he have to come here and make a damn circus, spoiling a person’s life? How did he dare and how did he find out?
Morris started to rock back and forth. If his mother were here, he would do it in her arms. She would put him on her knees despite his size and rock him like a baby. He would feel wonderful. He would feel safe. Only, his mother had died. Morris protected her from her husband, but not from the sickness. His father was a damn snotter too.
Morris climbed in the corner of the couch
and stuck his thumb in his mouth; he kept rocking and staring at the wall. He remembered his father again, and how he announced and declared his power when he returned. He said exactly—the master has come, the king. Morris worshipped him at first. Here he was—a real man. Man said; man did. Everyone was scared of him; everyone respected him. That was until his father started to yell at his mother, until fights became a new norm, until his mother started to cry. Morris didn’t worship him anymore, but tolerated. Then, two months later, his father hit his mother because the soup she had served to him was too hot. He hit her so hard the poor woman flew into the stove, dropping the pot of food. Fortunately, soup just sprayed on her feet, but his mother had bandages on them for two weeks anyway. Morris started to think.
He thought for three days, and then his father had been getting ready to meet with his friends and Morris decided to join him. He had done it before. His father agreed without hesitation.
“Just don’t tell your mother,” he said. “We don’t want her to bitch. I’ll straighten her out, don’t you think I won’t, but you don’t push it. Got it? I don’t want to hear her whining for no reason.”
“No whining,” Morris agreed.
They told his mother that her husband was going to look for work, but they hadn’t gotten to where they were going. Morris told his father that a boy in his school beat him up. He knew his father would be outraged and mad. For him to hear that his offspring had been beaten up was unbearable. He wouldn’t take it. He smacked his son’s head, promised to teach him some fighting tricks, not only stealing wallets out of some damn snotters’ pockets, and asked where that mutt was. Morris said he knew where that mutt spent his time after school. He walked another mutt.
“We can walk the walk too.” His father spat on the ground and pulled a big folded knife out of his pocket.
They went to the forest by the river. People didn’t go there during the week, and even on weekends, a rare brave soul showed up there.
“Why does he come here with his dog?” his father asked when they entered the thicket.
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 27
