by John Lutz
“It was more like somebody moving around out there, trying to keep quiet. I thought I heard the refrigerator door open and close.”
He took in a deep breath, then sighed and propped himself up on his elbows. Donald was a big man, long-limbed but fleshy and with thinning blond hair. He was out of condition and not particularly strong to begin with, but his size was a comfort to her.
He cleared his throat and swallowed so he could be better understood. “So you want I should go out and talk to this hungry burglar?”
“You’re not taking this seriously enough. Maybe we should call nine-eleven.”
“Lotta trouble for nothing.”
“Maybe not.”
He wearily sat up in bed, then turned his back to her as he planted his feet on the floor. “I’ll go out and look. It’ll put your mind at ease, and besides, I could use a glass of water.”
She wondered if he was showing off, trying to impress her with his seeming nonchalance. “Okay, you go look while I call nine-eleven.”
“Don’t do that, Mary. Really. All it’ll be is a big pain in the ass. And next time, if something serious does happen and we call, they might not respond. I’m gonna go out there and find an ice cube on the floor, or something that fell over in a cabinet.”
“It didn’t sound like either of those things.”
He reached back and patted her knee. “Maybe not in your sleepy mind.”
“I was awake, Donald. I couldn’t sleep.” A lie. I’m afraid enough to lie to him.
He stood up and began plodding barefoot toward the bedroom door.
“Wait!” She was out of bed in a hurry, slipping on her robe. “I’ll go with you.”
While he waited, she went to a row of books on the windowsill and picked up one of the plaster pineapple bookends. It was painted plaster, but lead filled and plenty heavy enough if she had to use it.
Donald pried it from her rigid fingers. “I’ll take it.” He hefted the bookend in his right hand. “I wouldn’t want you to panic at a mouse and accidentally hit me with this thing.”
“We don’t have mice.”
Mary followed him from the bedroom. Why am I doing this? Why don’t I stay and call nine-eleven?
But it was all happening too fast, and she couldn’t let him go out there alone. Besides, he was probably right. She told herself he was probably right. Whatever she heard, or thought she heard, was probably nothing she needed to fear.
But she was afraid.
The kitchen was softly illuminated from the light on the stove. Mary stood just behind and to the side of Donald as he stepped through the doorway. She heard his intake of breath and saw his body stiffen, and she moved to the side so she could see around him.
A man was seated at the kitchen table. Before him was an opened milk carton, half a glass of milk, and a partly unwrapped loaf of bread. Mary realized she smelled something familiar and an instant later saw what it was—spicy lunch meat. The man was eating a pastrami sandwich. He was leaning forward over the table and had just taken a big bite when they’d interrupted him.
He seemed surprised, though not exactly. More like disappointed and angered.
What happened next took her breath away.
It was almost as if he’d expected to be discovered. He was ready to act. In one smooth and lightning motion, he was up out of his chair and around the table, wielding a long knife. Mary saw in that instant that he was wearing flesh-colored rubber gloves. The bite of pastrami remained in his mouth, forgotten and unchewed, a long red slab of the thinly sliced meat protruding like a shredded tongue. Donald, paralyzed with shock, had no time to react. It was as if his assailant had rehearsed for this moment, as if it were choreographed. The man was on him without hesitation and the knife blade flashed.
The explosive violence, the sudden blood flow and horror, rooted Mary where she stood. Donald lay folded on his side like a full-scale, discarded doll at her feet, the plaster pineapple still clutched in his right hand. It had all been so fast, so fast!
It has to be happening to someone else. I’m here but only watching, like a movie…. Time, time for everything, about to stop…
A powerful hand gripped her hair and yanked her head back and she knew her throat would be slashed.
Instead, the long knife blade lanced like ice low into the softness of her belly. It took her breath away and numbed her more than hurt. Each time she began to fall, the blade winked in the kitchen light, piercing her and holding her up with its force. Somewhere in her terror her mind was working. She wanted to drop, wanted this to end, but he wouldn’t let it happen. Not yet. She couldn’t die.
He knows where to stab me where it hurts but won’t kill me!
He’d been standing back from her and slightly to the side. So he doesn’t get too bloody. Now he shifted position and his face was inches from hers and in brighter light.
I know him! My God, I know him!
He stabbed her differently then, harder, just beneath her breasts and twisting up to touch and detonate her heart. The explosion of pain turned the world white and then dim, dimmer….
The last thing she saw was her killer’s leering face, with its lolling pastrami tongue—familiar, faint memory from a thousand nightmares that had become real. She sank, sank, and both her palms were flat on the floor, in warm liquid. Through silent blackness she crawled until her feeble, bloody right hand contacted something solid, a wall.
With her forefinger she blindly began to write.
32
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
They heard his heavy footfalls on the front porch’s wood floor; then the door opened and closed.
It was no surprise. As was his custom, Milford was home in time for the dinner Cara had simmering on the stove. She’d set the burners on warm and the oven’s thermostat at 150 degrees; then she’d come up to the master bedroom, where Luther waited.
Luther raised his nude body off Cara and sat on the edge of the bed. He was breathing hard, watching the bulge of his slight belly go in and out like a bellows. A bead of perspiration clung to the tip of his nose, then plummeted to leave a dark, almost perfectly round spot on the carpet. He studied the spot for a moment, losing himself in it while his breathing evened out.
There was no hurry. The lovers knew Milford’s habits. He’d stay downstairs and sit in his usual chair and have his usual before-dinner scotch.
Nevertheless, Cara was nervous. She climbed out of bed and dusted herself with deodorant powder; then she slipped her dress over her head and smoothed the material. After switching the slowly rotating overhead paddle fan to a higher speed, she went to the vanity mirror and arranged her hair. Luther, who was by now back into his Levi’s and holding the rest of his clothes, kissed the side of her neck. She locked gazes with him in the mirror and they exchanged smiles that were amazingly similar in their secret desires and contemplations.
Luther headed for the door.
“Luther!” she whispered in alarm.
He paused.
“Don’t forget.” She pointed to the covered china plate on the dresser that held a sandwich along with vegetables from the beef brisket dinner staying warm downstairs. Some of Milford’s food that Milford wasn’t going to eat.
Luther grinned at her and picked up the plate, his shirt draped over his wrist to free his hand that wasn’t holding his shoes. Barefoot, he left the bedroom and padded down the hall to the narrow stairs in the back of the vast house. He wasn’t worried about making some slight noise. If Milford happened to hear it downstairs, he’d attribute it to Cara moving about above him, or simply to the sounds an old house frequently made, like the creaks and groans of an old person acknowledging age.
When he reached the undecorated third floor, Luther relaxed. Milford and Cara planned on painting and furnishing the rooms on this floor, but they hadn’t gotten around to starting the project and both of them knew they probably never would.
Moving more freely, Luther made his way down the hall to where a stou
t rope with a knot at the end dangled from the ceiling as if waiting for a hangman to tie a knot. He put down his shoes temporarily, yanked on the rope, and the folding stairs to the attic levered down from their opening in the ceiling.
Luther retrieved his shoes, climbed the stairs, then with a practiced effort raised them from above.
He was in the dim, shadowed attic, with no sign below of his passing.
Cara had fixed him up with a cot and a sleeping bag, and even an electric hot plate in case the food she gave him needed warming. He had books, most of them on painting and interior decorating, which he read by the light of one of the bare bulbs that hung from rafters by their cords. He’d removed one of the lightbulbs and replaced it with a screw-in socket, from which ran an extension cord that provided power for the hot plate and an ancient but quiet box fan. When he read at night, he usually draped the old blanket he’d cut in half over the vents at each end of the attic so no light escaped. That was when it became uncomfortably warm and he’d lie nude on top of the sleeping bag.
If he got too uncomfortable, late at night he’d venture down the back stairs into the main part of the house. Milford was no worry; he also enjoyed a nightly before-bed scotch and slept soundly.
Sometimes Luther and Cara had sex in the early-morning hours while her husband slept upstairs or, if they were in the attic, while he snored beneath them. Most of the time, however, they followed a routine of making love during the mornings or afternoons, when Milford was at the mine office and Luther had free run of the house. They could act with more abandon if they weren’t afraid of waking Milford.
Occasionally Luther would sneak down from the attic and quietly slip into Milford and Cara’s bedroom and watch them sleep, wondering how it would be if he were Milford, if Cara and the house, and being a solid citizen in Hiram, were all his to have and to hold and enjoy.
Maybe it didn’t matter, he told himself. He was quite happy with things as they were, living secretly in his cozy attic nest. It was almost as if he were Cara’s pet, under her protection. She’d told him once during sex that it gave her a delicious thrill knowing he was in the attic while she and Milford were living their dull lives downstairs, or while Milford was making love to her.
In a sense, Luther thought, things had worked out very well. Everyone had what they wanted. Everyone was…happy enough, which was about all anyone could ask of life in this hard world.
So, during the night, Luther would leave the attic only secretly, and not often. He also ventured outside occasionally in the daytime, making sure no one saw him coming or leaving the house. Though lately he hadn’t gone out at all; there was always the possibility he’d draw attention, that someone would recognize him and ask where he was staying, what he was doing with himself these days.
The limited times of sunlight and fresh air weren’t worth the risk, considering everything he needed was here, in the vast old house he regarded as his home. In the mornings, after Milford had left, Luther showered and brushed his teeth in the downstairs bathroom. Cara did his laundry separately, washing and drying during the day so Milford wouldn’t notice extra clothing he didn’t recognize. Luther had a jug of drinking water in the attic, and a chamber pot if necessary, if he couldn’t wait until morning.
The best times were after Milford had left for work and the two lovers were on their own. Cara sometimes came up to the attic and told Luther how she adored him while she woke him gradually with her mouth. Usually they’d finish downstairs in the main bedroom where it was cooler. Afterward, Luther would casually get dressed, then help Cara with some of her housework. Sometimes they made love again, and sometimes they didn’t. It was all up to them. Confined and secretive though they had to be, they both had more freedom than they’d ever experienced.
Luther sat down on his cot and fitted the earpiece of the battery-operated portable AM-FM radio Cara had given him. Then he stretched out on his back on top of the sleeping bag, laced his fingers behind his head, and listened to his favorite local station. He was confident no one way down on the first floor would hear his movements. And even when Milford and Cara were upstairs in their bedroom, Luther was still two stories above them. It was almost like having a private apartment in the same building, separated by more than an entire floor. Why should Luther worry in his spare but comfortable home in a corner of the Victorian’s vast attic?
Roy Rabbit, a local disc jockey, was on the radio, playing the kind of music Luther liked, old songs from the 1960s. Lots of Beatles stuff. Luther especially liked the Beatles. The Monkees he thought were just okay.
When Roy Rabbit said good-bye and segued into news, Luther removed the earpiece and turned off the radio. He ate the sandwich Cara had made for him, but not the green beans and carrots, telling himself it was because they’d gotten cold but knowing he would have skipped them, anyway.
After dinner he listened to the radio some more, then read for a while, before falling asleep.
It was well after midnight when Luther awoke, warm and with a parched throat. He reached for the nearby water jug but decided a lukewarm drink wasn’t what he needed. Something cold would be a lot better. And as he stood up from his cot, he realized he was hungry.
He left the attic, not raising the stairs behind him, then crept down the back steps to the third, then second floor. On the landing he stood very still, listening. He was sure he could hear Milford snoring.
Luther followed the sound down the dark hall, then peered in through the couples’ half-open bedroom door.
There was Milford, a lump beneath the white sheet that Luther wouldn’t have minded seeing as a shroud. Cara lay gracefully on her side next to him, one long, pale leg outside the sheet.
Luther smiled, staring at the leg. It seemed the limb of something beautiful in the act of being born. Then he returned to the landing and made his way to the first floor and the kitchen.
He got a cold can of Pepsi from the refrigerator, and then noticed a slice of peach pie on the top shelf.
Why not? Pepsi and pie. If the last piece of pie was being saved for Milford to eat tomorrow, Cara would make up some story. She was getting good at that.
He was at the table and had just finished the pie and was reaching for the Pepsi can when he heard a sound and jerked his head around so fast he felt a brief pain in the side of his neck.
Cara was standing in the doorway with her forefinger to her lips. She was wearing her pale blue silk nightgown that showed the generous contours of her breasts and her hard nipples.
“Jesus, Cara!” Luther whispered.
She walked over and picked up the pie plate, which now contained only crumbs, and carried it over and set it in the sink.
“Was that Milford’s pie I ate?” he asked.
“None of it’s Milford’s pie.” She grinned. “C’mon.”
Carrying the half-full soda can, Luther stood up and followed her into the living room.
The background hum of the refrigerator receded. It was quiet and dim in the living room, but within seconds they could see by the streetlight’s soft illumination filtered through the lace curtains.
“Milford’s sleeping like the dead,” she said. “He won’t hear us.” She took Luther’s hand and led him to the sofa.
“Over there,” he said, and pointed.
She giggled. “Milford’s chair?”
“Can’t think of anyplace better.”
Luther took her other hand, so he was holding both, and walked backward, drawing her to the big wing chair that directly faced the TV. He placed the Pepsi can on an accounting magazine on a nearby table, then stripped off his jockey shorts and sat down. Cara removed the panties beneath her nightgown and sat on his lap. He kissed her cheek and ear and used his hand on her. It was cold from carrying the soda can, but that didn’t last long.
She wriggled around so she could kiss him on the lips. They remained kissing while she adjusted her body so she faced him squarely, straddling him. Then she raised herself so he could suck her n
ipples. Within minutes she lowered herself onto him. She made a sound now familiar to Luther, like a soft and desperate breeze sighing through summer leaves.
Half an hour later, Cara was back in bed beside the lightly snoring Milford, and Luther was back in his corner of the attic, warmed by his love and his secret.
Sleeping the best sleep of his life.
33
New York, 2004.
Pearl and Quinn reached the scene before Fedderman.
Quinn had gotten the call from Harley Renz at eight A.M. Another married couple had been slain in their Manhattan apartment. Mary Navarre’s blood had seeped through a crack in the kitchen floor and spread beneath the tiles. Some of it found its way to the apartment below, leaving a narrow, scarlet streak on the wallpaper above the stove.
The super let himself in and discovered the bodies at seven forty-five, after being shown the apartment below and recognizing that the substance on the wall was blood. He’d wisely touched nothing, locked the Navarre apartment door behind him, and called the police from his own phone. Renz, or someone in Renz’s camp, had intercepted the call and gotten to Quinn immediately. The crime scene unit hadn’t yet arrived. The two uniforms who’d taken the call after it had gotten past Renz were outside in the hall. It was only Pearl and Quinn in the apartment, along with the dead.
“We have our pattern now,” Pearl said in a disgusted tone. They were in the kitchen, staring at Donald Baines curled on the floor, and his wife, Mary Navarre, sprawled dead in a crusting pool of blood on the other side of the kitchen. When the super had told them the victims’ names, that was all they had been—names. Now, too late, they were people. Had been people. Pearl suppressed the nausea and cold anger that built in her whenever she first came on a homicide scene. Violent death always stayed around awhile, hanging in the air like a malevolent ghost.
Quinn slipped on his latex gloves, and Pearl did the same.
“The kitchen again,” Quinn said.
