The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  No. Not this one. But one just like him, long ago. Brucie had been the first name, Hanson the last. Brucie Hanson. In grammar school, Brucie had been the one that all the other children had tormented. And, consequently, Brucie had turned to art. So they’d become friends, she and Brucie. They’d taken “special” art classes, after school. They’d often walked partway home together. But only partway. As she’d drawn close to her own neighborhood, she’d found excuses to walk alone, usually pretending an errand at the grocery store. She hadn’t wanted to be seen walking with Brucie. So, really, she’d been no better than her classmates. They had at least been forthright in their torture tactics.

  And here was Brucie Hanson, reincarnated as Leonard-the-stockboy, standing barely ten feet away. Everything was the same: the narrow, timid shoulders, the pale, uncertain eyes. Even the washed-out color of the hair was the same, and the oddly tentative angle of the head and neck, as if the man were still braced against the remembered blows of childhood. Only the face was different. The face across the aisle was coarser than Brucie’s would have been, grown up. Leonard’s face was unarticulated, as if a sculptor had taken oddments of features from several different subjects and had then failed to mold them into a convincing whole. Brucie Hanson, at age twenty-odd, would look all of a piece, however forlorn. This one—this strange, silent stock clerk—was somehow fragmented. He was—

  The elevator doors were opening. This time, she slipped between two stoutly corseted bargain hunters. She was already two minutes late.

  Kevin braked to a stop, waiting for the traffic to clear. He shifted into low, then returned the gearshift to neutral and shifted again, double-checking. He’d never liked Volkswagens, and was uncomfortable driving Cathy’s car. Without the car, though, he’d spend most of the day in buses. And he’d feel conspicuous walking up the circular driveway to the Golden Calf. Driving a VW, dressed in flares and an expensive sportshirt, he could fake it. He could be an eccentric, with-it sportsman, too rich to care what people thought of the car he drove. But not walking.

  The clogged traffic stream suddenly eased. He let in the clutch, swinging the little car into the Golden Calf’s palm-arched driveway. Except for two cut-stone pillars, the driveway was unmarked. The Golden Calf disdained signs. Ahead was the canopied entrance. He left the Volkswagen behind a long silver-blue Cadillac, then strode to the entrance, nodding to the impassive doorman.

  Someday, that doorman could be himself.

  Graduate of Oberlin. Author of an off-Broadway play. Teacher. Philosopher. Seer-with-a-camera. Presently a seventy-five-dollar-a-week part-time TV continuity writer, local sustaining.

  Soon to be a doorman.

  But not today. Not here. Not now, striding confidently among the hand-hewn oaken tables, looking for Dick Wagner. The confidence, of course, was bogus: a play-actor’s part, for which he’d meticulously prepared himself. Today—now—he was a young, successful filmmaker. Like Dick Wagner, he was on the way up. As he walked between the tables, he moved his shoulders to fit the part: a relaxed, confident Kevin Rossiter, easy in body and mind. A rising talent. Soft-spoken. For this Kevin Rossiter, it was all together.

  Just for an hour. Please God, just for an…

  In an alcove, Dick Wagner was half rising, waving to him. Beside Wagner was a red-haired girl wearing a brilliant green blouse with a sparkling white collar and matching Gibson-girl cuffs.

  The remains of their lunch littered the table before them.

  They’d eaten. Already eaten. Without him. Wagner had never intended to—

  “…have you been?” Wagner was saying, gripping his hand. “God, it’s been—how long? Six years? Seven? How’ve you been, anyhow? This is Victoria. Victoria Grand. That’s her real name. She’s an actress, but that’s her real name. Here—sit down, Kevin. We’re just having coffee. Or would you rather have a drink?” Gesturing to a chair, Wagner waved for a waiter, at the same time glancing at his watch.

  “I’m really glad we could get together, Kevin,” he was saying. “Even if I don’t have much time. But when I got your letter, I was determined to—What’ll you have, anyhow?”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  “Three coffees, then,” Wagner told the waiter. “And you can bring the check with the coffee.” Wagner’s voice was low and resonant. Over the years, Wagner had worked on his voice. He’d gained twenty pounds and gone partially bald. His speech and his gestures worked smoothly together, perfectly projecting the forceful, knowledgeable communications executive, relaxing over a twenty-five-dollar lunch. On the job, Wagner would pose as the actor’s friend: earnest, understanding, compassionate. But in production conferences, Wagner would tune himself to the whims of the money men.

  Eight years ago, when Kevin’s play had been in rehearsal off Broadway, Dick Wagner had been turned down for a walk-on part.

  “How long’ve you been in Santa Barbara, anyhow?” Wagner was asking. “And how’s Joanna?”

  “We’ve been here a year. She’s—fine.”

  “What’ve you been doing, anyhow? The last I heard, you were in San Francisco. What the hell’s in San Francisco? For that matter, what’s in Santa Barbara? I mean, if you’re doing scripts, you might as well write them where they buy them, it seems to me.

  “Well, in San Francisco, I was working for Kessler and Brand. They do—” He cleared his throat. “They do educational films, mostly. And here—” He raised his hands in vague defense of Santa Barbara. “From here, it’s only a hundred miles to Los Angeles. And it’s—quieter here.”

  Wagner’s glance was shrewd now, narrowly speculative. His voice matched his eyes. “When you say ‘educational films,’ what’d you mean, exactly?”

  “Well, they were—” He watched his hands once more moving in a flip-flopping gesture of wan defense. “You know—thirty-minute shots, mostly.”

  “You mean like for audio-visual aids? Classroom stuff?” The prospect of a negative judgment was plain in the other’s tone.

  “Yes. Right.” Again he cleared his throat. Across the table, the red-haired girl was glancing around the dining room, fidgeting. He’d forgotten her name. In the brief silence, the waiter served their coffee and presented the bill. Wagner signed the American Express chit with a small, decisive flourish.

  “What about you, Dick? How long’ve you been with N.E.T.?”

  “I just started with them. I’ve got a year’s contract. I mean, it’s a good spot right now, with this goddamn recession. That foundation money keeps flowing, you know, no matter what. I’m going to give it a year—see if I can’t stir things up a little. Those foundation guys, you know, are pretty precious. Someone kicks their ass, he does them a favor. And in a year money’ll be looser. Then I’m going to give Hollywood a shot. Sooner or later, you’ve got to see whether the big boys are going to let you play in their game. And, what the hell, I’ve made the New York scene. Marty and I—Do you know Marty Feldman?”

  “I—No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, we put together three pictures in five years, which isn’t too bad. They weren’t exactly classics, of course. But we learned the ropes: how to buy the properties right, and how to put the package together. So now I know how to package. With this N.E.T. thing for a credit, I figure to try and do the whole thing: package the deal, get the financing, do the shooting. I’ve already got a tentative commitment from a director—a good director—provided I can show him a decent property. That’s half the battle right there. If you get the director, you can get the money. Then you’re in business.” As he said it, Wagner drained the last of his coffee, turning inquiringly to the girl. “You ready?” His voice was flat, plainly possessive. The girl had been bought and paid for.

  She nodded, gathering up her things. Now Wagner turned back to him. Dropping his voice to a lower, heartier register, Wagner said:

  “It’s really been good seeing you, Kevin. I promised Chat Fisher I’d look you up. I’ll be seeing him in Chicago day after tomorrow. When he heard I’d be here,
in Santa Barbara, he said to be sure and look you up.”

  “Wh—what’s Chat doing now?”

  “He’s in advertising. J. Walter Thompson. Christ, he’s a V.P. He’s really doing it. He went up through the creative side, which is unusual. TV commercials, actually. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him for three years, at least.”

  “Yeah. Well…” Wagner considered. Then, in still a different voice, boardroom-brusque, he said: “Well, that’s the trouble, you know, with being stuck in a place like Santa Barbara. I mean, Santa Barbara is great if you’re a retired millionaire, for instance—or if you’re a big enough talent that the checkbook boys come to you, instead of vice versa. In fact, Santa Barbara’s got to be one of the most beautiful spots in the country. Santa Barbara or Carmel. But, Christ, you just don’t see people. You’re off the beaten track. You don’t see them, and they don’t see you. They forget about you. Take me, for instance. I wouldn’t even be here, except that I have to kiss ass with some foundation director. Who, as it happens, is a retired millionaire.” Wagner rose, extending his hand. “But anyhow, it’s been great seeing you, Kevin. I always remember how, when it looked like you were going to pick up all the marbles, you never let it go to your head. Really. You never fell in love with yourself. And in this business, that’s pretty rare. Can we drop you anywhere?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a car.”

  “Right. Is there any message for Chat?”

  He realized that he was smiling. “Just tell him not to drop any of the marbles. It’s a drag, picking them up.”

  Cautiously, he raised his eyes. He’d seen her come into the store. To the minute, he’d know when she’d come. To the second—the split-splintered second. He’d willed her presence. And she’d come. Ipso.

  Now she was stepping back from the elevator, allowing the customers to go first, filling the elevator. Her pale blue eyes were idly circling the showroom. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders. Her face was turned half away. In her bold harlot’s stance she stood with one leg thrust forward, hips obscenely aslant. She wore a beige rib-knitted sweater, molding her breasts. Even the nipples, unclean, plainly protruded through the—

  Her eyes had suddenly found him. He was helpless, impaled. And now those mockingly innocent blue eyes were widening. The painted red mouth was curving upward, forming itself into the slow, secret obscenity of a smile.

  If she discovered him now—saw into his wide-open eyes—then she claimed him, took from him the certainty of his secret. She robbed him of himself, saved herself—all with her round witch’s eyes, cast so cleverly into soft, guileless calm. Just to save her unclean self, she would destroy him. Because a look, only a single look, could—

  He was released. Her eyes had strayed aside. Quickly he turned to the nearest counter. It was a table-setting display. Stainless steel. Assorted place mats. Glassware. But suddenly the shapes were awkward in his hands. The knives and forks changed as he touched them; the place mats wilted. It was another threat. When she watched, even steel could change. And straw, too. Straw and steel.

  Her power, then, was swelling somewhere deep inside him, secretly. She was stronger, he was weaker. Time was against him. As it always was. As it always would be.

  Slowly, cautiously, he raised his eyes. She was turning away, again approaching the elevator. The doors opened. She stepped quickly inside. Disappeared.

  Gone.

  Free.

  Incredibly, she’d gone. Another moment—one more knowing witch’s smile—and she could have walked up to him and touched him. Taken it all from him—everything. Because, touching him, she could end it. Only he could touch her. The energy must go from him to her. Reversed, the energy could destroy him.

  But she hadn’t known. She was unclean—diseased—putrefying deep inside. So she hadn’t known. Always, she would never know. Not until the last moment, soon to come.

  He’d touched her only once, two weeks ago. Only once had his energy contacted her, flowing from him to her. He’d been working at Gorlick’s only three days. He’d never met her, didn’t realize she worked at Gorlick’s. He’d been unpacking cartons near the front entrance. He’d been kneeling down, working with the carton cutter. He’d seen her harlot’s roll of hips and thighs and buttocks-bunched. She’d been walking toward the front door, going to lunch. Her back had been to him. But, seeing her, he’d known. As if he’d been waiting for her, and she for him, he’d known. So, when he’d moved in front of her, she’d sought his eyes, and smiled. And in that moment—in the split second before looking away—he’d realized that, again, he’d found one more. So, that first time, he’d followed her, realizing that he was helpless to remain behind. Incredibly, no one had seen him leave. Mr. Bingham, the stock manager, had been out to lunch—a long, late lunch. It had been the first sure sign: the first realization of the true, final judgment. Everything was aligned, spontaneously. Therefore, she was the one—the one next time. So he’d followed her. First they’d walked along the sidewalk, fast. But she hadn’t looked behind. She’d been too smart for that. Because she was smart: too-goody-smart, pretending, faking. Foxy. Bitch-bushed foxy. She’d moved as if she were merely hurrying to lunch, therefore not trying to outrun his slow, sure judgment. She’d looked only ahead, straight ahead. Innocence, perfectly pretended. The worst ones could do that—only the worst. The sidewalks had been crowded, and as he fell in behind her he’d realized that he was walking closer, closer. Too close. Suddenly he’d felt suffocated—helpless, nerveless. And, too late, he’d realized that he was standing directly behind her as she waited for a traffic light. In that instant, incredibly, he’d felt himself drained of his own volition. His consciousness had suddenly pinwheeled wildly away, tilting the nearby buildings, choking the passing voices into a muttering, meaningless silence. He’d been aware of only one single, searing sensation: the willful, wanton brushing of her buttocks against the knuckles of his hands, clasped before him. As if he’d been wounded by the unclean contact, he’d shied away, clasping himself, probing the instant’s injury. And then he’d felt it: the hideous wetness behind his clasped hands. It had been—

  “Leonard!”

  He knew the voice. Florence Klein.

  Slowly, cautiously, he turned.

  “You’d better get those bookends up to Advertising. Never mind this. What’re you doing here, anyhow?”

  “There was—” He licked at his lips. “There was a—a little girl. With an ice-cream cone.”

  “Oh. Well, take the bookends upstairs, please.”

  Without answering, he turned away, walking directly to the storeroom. As he walked, reality was returning. The walls, the ceiling, everything was righting itself. Because he’d already imagined the next few minutes. This morning, in his mind, he’d done it all before. He knew every step, every gesture, every word. And this new order—Florence Klein’s order—had been a sign. Coming now, only minutes after the elevator door had closed, it was a sure, certain sign. The meaning was clear. After so close an escape, he now would reverse the energy waves. The danger would pass. If he willed it, the danger would pass. Again energy would flow from him to her. She’d tried. She’d almost succeeded, catching him with his wide-open eyes as he’d stood at the display counter, unprotected, helpless. But, mere minutes from now, he would be speaking to her, using words he’d already imagined—already formed in his mind, this morning. The energy would…

  The bookends

  He would trick her into touching them. Compel her to touch them. Thus, the energy flow would be reversed. The bookends would act as conductors.

  Conductors

  It was a new, exciting, blinding-bright idea.

  He was in the storeroom now, carefully lifting the bookends down from the shelf. Immediately he turned, walking to the freight elevator. Balancing one bookend on the other, he pressed the “up” button. The elevator was coming, clank-rattling. He was inside, pulling the rope, slowly ascending. At the second floor, another stockboy
waited with a loaded dolly. Alone in the huge elevator, he held the cord, sending himself upward. The indignant voice faded away below. The third floor was next. The elevator was stopping. End of the line.

  End of the line

  A policeman had once spoken these same words. The first time they’d come for him, the policeman had said it was the end of the line. Ipso. Ergo and ipso. Like a bug, a policeman could stomp you.

  He was in. the back corridor. Ahead, on the pale green wall, was a sign: ADVERTISING. And an arrow—a fat red arrow. The arrow was flower-festooned, someone’s joke. The first door was marked ADVERTISING MANAGER. Closed. The second was marked COPY DEP’T. Closed. The third was ART DEP’T.

  Closed.

  He was again balancing one bookend carefully on top of the other. He was knocking. Softly. Very softly. No one must know.

  “Come in.”

  She sat behind the big square drawing board. She was looking up, smiling.

  “Hi, Leonard.” She pointed with a slim black drawing pen. “Put them there, will you? If you can find space.”

  Instead, he stepped toward her. Behind him, the door was closed. Softly, he’d closed the thin wooden door. In his hand he held one of the heavy metal bookends, extended toward her.

  How thick were the bones of her skull? How thin? Eggshell thin? Pigskull thick?

  He was speaking to her:

  “Is—is this the right one?”

  She shrugged, smiling. “I suppose so. Are these the ones Miss Klein wants in the ad?”

  For a moment, he couldn’t answer. Then he heard himself saying, “Miss Klein wants you to—to look at them. Feel them.” Then, in a rush: “Bookends have to be heavy, you know.”

  As he’d been speaking, her smile had faded. Her eyes had narrowed. She was frowning now. But, at his last words, the smile suddenly returned. She was extending her hand. Accepting the bookend. Hefting it, using both hands.

  She was still smiling.

  “It’s good and heavy. I like it.” She was extending the bookend out to him. But he’d already turned away, pretending not to see. Because he’d known she’d try it—try to reverse the flow, as she’d tried downstairs. Beaten, in danger, she was trying again to trick him.