The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  But he’d known better.

  Because the longer the envelope lay secretly in his pocket, close against his thigh, the more power could come to him. So he’d walked from the bus to the house the way he always walked—slowly, carefully, with eyes straight ahead. He’d walked as if his pockets were empty—as if he were a stranger, going nowhere. Because that meant power too. Round, empty eyes staring straight ahead kept everything out, kept everything else in.

  They hadn’t penetrated through his eyes to reach him. They hadn’t discovered. Wouldn’t discover. Couldn’t.

  Never never never.

  His fingers were wafer-rubbing the refolded envelope. He could clearly feel the shape of the two keys. The keys lay side by side, secretly. For now, this moment, he couldn’t break contact with the two secret key shapes. He must stand motionless.

  And think.

  Think how it had happened—how simply, secretly, slyly, it had happened. It had been a Saturday. He’d gotten his Yamaha and ridden to her house. He’d taken the same streets he’d taken before, turned at the same corners. It was important, he knew, to do everything the same—to never change anything, never give them a chance to slip between. He’d parked where he always parked, walked where he always walked.

  But then, in front of her house, he made the change—the change he’d been planning so carefully. He hadn’t walked past, as he’d always done. Instead, he’d turned left.

  Turned left.

  He’d walked down the narrow, broken sidewalk with grass tufts growing up through the cracks. He’d approached the building’s service door. He’d imagined that he was a meter man. Because, if he imagined it, then it was so. As he saw himself inside his brain, so everyone saw him from the outside. He was a magic lantern, projecting himself for all the rest to see. So he’d been a meter man, ipso, dressed in a poplin jacket, carrying a pad of paper and a long yellow pencil. He’d walked straight to the door and immediately stretched out his hand, to touch the padlock.

  Master padlock.

  Number 0939.

  He’d written down the number, turned, retraced his route—all the way to the Yamaha, all the way home, until he was locked in his room. On his desk, he had everything ready: ballpoint pen, paper, envelope, stamp. He’d written to the Master Lock Company, as the hardware-store man had told him. He’d explained that he’d lost his keys. He’d given them the number of the lock. He’d enclosed a dollar bill.

  And so, tonight, he would have the key in his pocket when he got on the Yamaha and rode to the blind alley a block from her house and secretly parked the motorbike and walked to her house. When he turned left, as he must, the key would already be in his hand. Eyes straight ahead, he would walk to the service door, open the lock, slip inside. He’d be in the basement, beneath her flat. Directly, precisely beneath her flat. He’d…

  His mother was turning away from the counter.

  He quickly lowered the Seven-Up, pushed away from the wall, and stepped through the archway into the living room. Behind him, he could feel the weight of his mother’s stare striking him squarely in the back. He crossed to the TV, pushed the “on” button, sank into a red plastic armchair. Beneath his fingers, cotton stuffing trailed like white intestines bulging from slashed red flesh.

  But the opposite was true: flesh was white, and…

  “…are keeping their own council concerning what progress, if any, they’re making on the Tarot case.” It was the static-scratched voice of a newscaster, who now slipped into stretched-out focus. The voice and the eyes were serious. “However, the police do confirm that this latest communication from Tarot appears to be genuine. Just minutes ago, our reporter spoke to Sergeant Matthew Connoly, head of the so-called Tarot Squad. This is what Sergeant Connoly had to say…” For a moment the newscaster’s face blanked expectantly; then the picture changed. A heavyset man with wiry, close-cropped hair and a wide, heavy jaw was staring directly into the camera. A tiny hand-held microphone was close in front of his face. Offstage, someone asked how the police were dealing with the “Tarot menace.”

  “Well,” the new voice grated as the thin, stern lips began to move, “we can’t divulge everything we’re doing, of course. But we do have several leads that we’re following up. Plus, we’re getting a lot of tips this time, just like we did when we got the last letter. Of course, most of the tips are worthless. Worse than worthless, because they send our men out on wild-goose chases.”

  The off-camera voice was asking another question. Frowning, the thickset detective was answering.

  The Tarot menace…

  All over the city, they were frightened. Terrified. All over the country, they would soon hear about Tarot—about the panic, the menace, the terror.

  Was she listening?

  Did she know what would happen tonight?

  Did she realize that it was impossible for him to go back—that, having once turned left to the basement door, he must always turn left? Did she know that, once he opened the door, he must always open the door—always enter the basement, always look until he found the way upstairs?

  Did she realize that, really, the switch-blade knife was the warning he’d promised?

  But did she think he wanted to kill her? Did she believe them when they talked about the Tarot menace?

  Or did she know the truth—that, when he found her, he must stand motionless over her bed, looking down at her? It was all that was required, to stand in the darkness, looking down, watching her breathe. He must stand there until, stiffening, his body convulsed to a climax. Only then was he released, standing limp and exhausted in the darkness. It was then—only then—that he could leave her.

  It was all he wanted—all the needed—all he must do.

  But sometimes they awakened.

  Sometimes they almost screamed.

  Tuesday Night

  JOANNA DRAPED HER ROBE across a chair, turned back the covers, and slipped into bed. The room was dark; the shades were drawn. The bedroom faced the front of the house, and the sidewalk. Even during the day, it was necessary to draw the shades.

  Naked beneath a sheet and a light cotton blanket, she slowly extended her legs full length, thighs and feet close together. Her legs ached—a dull, leaden ache that came, she knew, from the mind, not the body. Whenever she was depressed, she ached.

  She was lying with arms straight at her sides—at attention. If she crossed her arms across her breasts, she would be lying in state.

  Rest in peace, Joanna Rossiter, née Joanna Harrington.

  When she was younger, she’d never really liked her name. She hadn’t liked Joanna, because it seemed so awkward, somehow. She hadn’t liked Harrington, because it sounded so Irish. So déclassé.

  At the thought, she smiled wearily. She’d been twenty-one, at least, before she could even pronounce “déclassé,” much less use the word in a sentence. Had Kevin taught her to use the word?

  She couldn’t remember.

  Did Kevin have class? Did he still have class, after so many years of failure? She wasn’t sure—couldn’t judge. It was ultimately a matter of definition. Class was in the eye of the beholder. Like happiness, and love, and sorrow.

  She turned on her side, slowly drew up her legs, allowed her eyes to close. Soon, she knew, she would fall asleep. Whatever happened to her, good or bad, she always fell asleep promptly. It was doubtless a dodge—an escape mechanism. Some schizophrenics, she knew, slept constantly. It was the only way they could escape reality.

  And from the reality of the evening they’d just spent together as a family, she must certainly seek escape.

  It had been, first of all, a mistake to let Tom bring her home. Why had she done it? Why hadn’t she made an excuse—told a lie? Or, for that matter, she could have told the truth, a last desperate gambit.

  “My husband is probably at home,” she could have said. “Maybe you should drop me at the bus stop. He’s the jealous type.”

  Husband?

  Ex-husband?

 
; Legally a husband, actually an ex-husband, impatient all evening to escape—to return to his blonde. Finally he’d left at nine o’clock, admitting that he was “expected.” Then he’d mumbled something about a party, avoiding her eyes.

  Superficially, he’d seemed reluctant to go. He’d seemed sheepish. Ashamed. But really, she knew, he was glad to go—glad to retrieve the pound of flesh she’d exacted, driving up with Tom. All evening, there’d been nothing to talk about, nothing to say. Even Josh had finally felt it, and had finished dinner in mournful silence, gazing from one parent to the other. When dinner was over, Josh had gone immediately to his room and pulled up his little red stool in front of the TV. He’d turned the knob and blanked out the world. She’d watched Kevin’s eyes follow the boy out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Later she’d seen Kevin standing outside Josh’s room. Kevin’s back had been toward her. But she’d recognized the sadness in the line of his shoulders, and the dispirited droop of his head. Kevin remembered the Christmas he’d made the little red stool for his son. They hadn’t talked about it. But she knew he remembered. And she knew that the memory saddened him.

  Yet tonight Kevin and Cathy would sleep together. Without doubt, after the party they’d make love.

  And tomorrow night she’d be with Tom Southern.

  How would the evening go, tomorrow? How had Tom planned it? Martinis first, of course—a tall, ice-cold pitcher of martinis. And there’d be the hi-fi, pulsing out slow, sensuous rhythms. During the first martini, Tom would doubtless treat her to one of those soft-spoken, self-confident monologues he did so well. The sensuous monologue would be perfectly attuned to the erotic beat of the music and the icy perfection of the martini.

  Then, perhaps during the second martini, Tom would set his glass aside and turn toward her, draping one arm casually over the back of the couch they shared. Because, certainly, she couldn’t chose a single chair. Tomorrow there could be no coyness—no protest, no tears. Tomorrow night she was going to Tom’s place to get laid. It was understood—a sure, solemn compact. If she didn’t propose to get laid, she should send her regrets. She should…

  She was sobbing—softly, silently sobbing. Lying in the big, empty bed, hugging her knees to herself like a small, frightened child, she was crying.

  Because, suddenly it was all so sad.

  For all of them—all three of them—it was all so terribly sad.

  Seated cross-legged on the floor, back propped against the sofa, Kevin grunted as he leaned forward for the half gallon of white wine. The wine bottle and oversize ashtray and a saucer full of joints formed the center of their loose, floor-sprawled circle. In less than an hour, they’d gone through two half gallons of wine and a half dozen joints. When someone had suggested that they should buy their wine by the gallon, Cathy had waved airily. She never bought wine by the gallon, she’d announced. It was a thing with her.

  With her, not him.

  Translation: Cathy bought the wine, not Kevin. Except that, by agreement, he bought their wine.

  Splashing the wine into his waterglass, he eyed the current joint, now across the circle, coming his way. Grant Carter was just finishing his toke, passing the joint to Cathy, seated to his right. When Cathy reached for the inch-long cigarette, Grant gently stroked her cheek with his long, expressive fingers. A tall, hollow-chested graduate psychology student at U.C.S.B., Grant affected a Ho Chi Minh beard, boots, bangles of beads, and Mexican peon shirts. Grant had the hot, intense eyes of a zealot, complementing the beard and the bangles and the shoulder-length hair. But his voice, especially when he was stoned, was a pipsqueak’s.

  “Our hostess…” Grant murmured, stroking Cathy’s cheek a last time, then allowing his artist’s hand with its dirty fingernails to fall languidly to the floor. “Our beautiful hostess with those soft, laughing eyes. Thank you, Cathy. Thank you for being so beautiful.”

  A soft ripple of dreamy agreement traveled around the spaced-out circle. As she drew on the glowing stub of the joint, Cathy bobbed her head in blissful, blank-eyed acknowledgment. Cathy was bombed.

  “Beautiful,” someone echoed softly. “Really beautiful.”

  “I was just thinking,” someone crooned, “that it’s a good thing Tarot isn’t here.”

  A long moment of somnolent silence passed before someone finally asked, “Why?”

  “Because,” the speaker said, “he’d lose all his aggressions. Everything’s so mellow here, Tarot’d be out of business. He’d have to take back everything he ever said.”

  “But not everything he ever did,” Cathy said, passing on the joint. “He couldn’t very well take back everything he ever did.” At the thought, Cathy shuddered. The memory of the Tarot atrocities had penetrated the cannabis haze that enveloped her. As Kevin watched her, she shuddered again.

  Why was she sitting beside Grant Carter, and not beside him?

  The answer was depressingly plain. She’d been irked that he’d come back late, after some of the guests had already arrived. Imperiously, she’d ordered him to get back into her car and go get some wine. When he’d gone into the bedroom, to get some money from his meager hoard, she’d followed him, demanding to know why he’d been late. He’d debated saying nothing. But finally he’d blurted out that he’d gotten hung up telling a bedtime story to his son. Then he’d turned away, leaving her alone in their bedroom.

  At his side, someone nudged his elbow, offering the soggy, brown-stained butt. Abruptly, he passed it on, unsmoked. Tonight he wanted the sharp, raw sensation of alcohol, not the muzzy, soporific buzz of pot.

  Grant Carter was speaking. He was, as usual, less stoned than the rest of them—more lucid, more in control. They were all Grant’s audience, willing or not.

  “Tarot probably wouldn’t want to take back what he’d done, even if he had the chance,” Grant was saying, glancing around the circle as he spoke. “People have the idea that he’s scared—that he’s terrified of getting caught. But that’s not so. Psychologically, he’s reveling in the risk—in the possibility of getting caught. That’s what it is—a guilt trip. He wants to get caught—needs to get caught. But, at the same time, he does everything he can to avoid getting caught.”

  Kevin drained his glass and banged it down on the floor between his legs. “Bullshit.”

  Around the circle he could sense a stirring of protest. He was, he knew, producing bad vibes. Deliberately.

  Carter raised a hand in condescending benediction. “Before you say ‘bullshit,’” he intoned, “let me finish. Listen to it all.”

  Grunting, Kevin reached again for the wine bottle, now almost empty. Ten dollars he’d spent, for three half gallons of wine. Almost all gone.

  “By all means, let’s hear it all,” he muttered, filling his glass. “I thought you’d finally run out of breath. Sorry.” He tipped up the glass.

  “You should pay closer attention, Kevin,” came the slyly supercilious retort. “Concentrate.”

  In reply, he burped. Again the bombed-out circle stirred restively.

  “Psychologically,” Grant pronounced, “Tarot is still a child—a vicious, rebellious child who’s striking out in an effort to gain attention, probably from his mother.”

  “She didn’t change his diapers often enough, maybe,” someone said. Scattered dreamy titters acknowledged the remark.

  “Violent behavior patterns begin early in childhood,” Grant persisted. “It starts with striking out for attention. Then, when he doesn’t get attention, the child strikes out in anger. Aggressive patterns develop—actions and reactions. Then, when the child becomes a social animal, sociopathic patterns are superimposed. Instead of striking out with his hand, say, the child begins to steal. But it’s the same thing—part of the same pattern. Stealing is—”

  “I prefer striking out, myself,” Kevin interrupted, staring hard at Grant. “Just give me a reason, and a good target, and I’m happy. Stealing is dull. Also, it involves a lot of night work.”

  “When you consider that, really
, murder is just another form of stealing, though,” Grant answered, “then stealing isn’t so dull. And that’s the case, you see—that’s the key to understanding someone like Tarot. Aggressions and stealing and murder and erotic satisfaction are all tangled together in the psychopathic mind. Murder is simply the ultimate theft. The psychopath steals something—a life, for instance—and he gets an ejaculation. Risks—danger—do the same thing for him. It’s the risk of stealing, you see, that—”

  “Oh, Jesus. How’d we get from changing diapers to sex, anyhow?” Kevin swallowed the wine, once more burping. “Are we still talking about Tarot? Or are you imputing your own—”

  “Let him finish,” Cathy protested. “It’s interesting. Let him finish.”

  He elaborately faced her. “Do I have to listen, if he finishes?”

  “No, you don’t,” came the angry answer. “Maybe it’d be better if you didn’t.” Her eyes, no longer pot-blurred, were suddenly smoldering.

  “Maybe you’re right. In fact, I’m sure you’re right. Undoubtedly. Absolutely.” He drained the thick-bottomed glass, dropped it deliberately on the rug, and rose to his feet. Aware that most of the uptilted faces expressed relief at his departure, he strode to the door, jerked it open, and stepped out into the darkness.

  Kicking the Yamaha into neutral and switching off the engine, he turned into the short blind alleyway, coasting. The alleyway was bordered with scraggly shrubbery, perfect for his purpose. Driving by, no one would notice the motorcycle. Even someone walking could miss it in the darkness.

  The motorcycle, then, was invisible. When he turned his back on it, the motorcycle would disappear. When he returned, it would appear again. Ipso.

  He was on the sidewalk, turning toward the house midway in the next block. Eyes fixed, he walked toward a far point straight ahead. An invisible tunnel drew around him, closing out alien shapes and wayward movement. Sounds in the night were lost in a roar of silence. Ahead, he could see the house. Without turning his head, only moving his eyes, he could plainly see the house. Trees and gates and lighted windows moved past him as the house came closer. Her windows were dark—all of them dark. It was a sign—a sure command. He could see the narrow, uneven service sidewalk with the grass growing in tufts through the cracks. Now his footsteps were on the narrow sidewalk. They were hushed footsteps, lost in the tunnel of silence that surrounded him. Beyond his vision, hands were moving—his hands, rubber-gloved. In his right hand, ready, he held the key. His left hand held a knife.