The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  The Long Way Home…

  It could be a title—a good title, owing just a little to O’Neill. At the thought, he smiled. Perhaps someday he would write a script about this day. The events, of course, must be rearranged. Characters would be reshaped. The part of the blonde, for instance, could be enlarged. Drunk, he’d let her take him to her place. She would, of course, be beautiful—hard, but beautiful. But he’d be unresponsive to her charms. Drunk, he’d be reliving this whole disastrous day, a microcosm of his whole disastrous life. The disasters, of course, would be dramatically sharpened. Both Joanna and Cathy would have thrown him out, after four-star traumas. Dick Wagner would have ridiculed him. Enraged, he would have knocked Wagner down.

  But, worst of all, Josh would have turned his back and walked away from him—walked alone into his bedroom, and the TV’s cynical embrace.

  He realized that he was blinking. He’d been walking for blocks. Now he was turning into Joanna’s block.

  The Long Way Home…

  The blonde would be a complex character. Her surface hardness would conceal an appealing, well-protected vulnerability. At first, she hadn’t taken him home to lay him. Instead, she’d responded to his air of dark, mysterious melancholy. She’d—

  A figure stood near the door to Joanna’s basement entryway. The figure had taken a single step aside, seeking the shelter of the huge azalea bush that grew close to the house, a few feet from Joanna’s bedroom window. Their bedroom window.

  Aware that the beat of his heart had suddenly accelerated, he was forcing himself to walk naturally, eyes front, arms swinging freely. The house was still three doors away. The dark figure could be an upstairs tenant, throwing out his garbage. It was essential, then, to remain uncommitted, all options open. Tonight, during the Tarot hysteria, countless citizens were seeing countless suspicious figures lurking in the shadows.

  Two doors remained. And still the figure stood as before, motionless—plainly hoping to remain undiscovered.

  Had Tarot used a gun? He couldn’t remember.

  Abreast of their lot line, with the entry sidewalk twenty feet away and the small access sidewalk another ten feet beyond, he cleared his throat. Perhaps the sound might tip the balance—resolve this impasse. Yet the figure remained as before—silently, ominously motionless. The distance between them was closing. Was the crouching figure aware of his presence?

  At the entry sidewalk he turned, as if to make for Joanna’s front door. It was, after all, a turn he’d made many times. He was playing a role he knew well. He was a tenant in this house. Now, a few feet along, he stopped short, pretending to see the crouched figure for the first time. He’d decided on a name—the name of an upstairs tenant.

  “Is that you, Steve?” His voice, in the darkness, was unexpectedly loud. “What’re you—”

  Suddenly the figure was running, leaping the ragged privet hedge into the next yard. Gone.

  “Hey!” For a moment he stood rooted, immobilized by shocked surprise. But now he was running. His feet were pounding the sidewalk as he rounded the hedge. Already the figure was breaking through another hedge. Kevin heard a voice shouting—his voice. Ahead, the second hedge concealed the fugitive. But there was no sound of running feet. Had he gone between the houses—found an open gate? Had something momentarily gleamed in the figure’s hand—something slim and dangerous?

  Across the street, a door opened. Still on the sidewalk, trotting, Kevin was drawing even with the second hedge. But ahead, he could see no movement, could hear no fugitive sounds. He slowed, stopped, stood listening. His quarry had leaped one hedge, broken through another, then disappeared. The third barrier was a high redwood fence, impossible to climb.

  Somewhere close by the shadowy figure was hiding. The front yards were fenced, offering no escape between the houses. And in this yard trees and bushes grew thick. In this yard a dozen men could hide, waiting to strike.

  Another door opened; a shaft of light fell across a lawn, touching the sidewalk where Kevin stood.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” It was Ferguson, the next-door neighbor.

  “It’s—” Momentarily, his throat closed. Then: “It’s me. Kevin Rossiter.” As he spoke, he was aware that his voice was thick, blurred by the wine and the pot and the bourbon.

  “Oh.” Ferguson was a small, truculent man, standing bandy-legged in the backlit rectangle of his own front door. The Fergusons occupied a ground-floor apartment that duplicated Joanna’s. “Well, what’s happening, anyhow? What’s all the noise?” But as he asked the question, Ferguson’s voice became less suspicious, more subtly contemptuous. Ferguson’s suspicions were clear: It was a domestic problem—probably a drunken domestic problem.

  Now, over the hedge, he saw Joanna’s living-room light come on. Her bedroom was still dark. Was she entertaining? Had her leading man with the Alfa Romeo returned to stay the night? At the thought, he involuntarily turned his head to search the street. No Alfa Romeo.

  “What’re you yelling about?” Ferguson demanded.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled, moving to his left, toward Joanna’s. “It’s—just that I thought I saw a peeping Tom, that’s all.”

  “Where?” As Ferguson stepped onto his porch, Joanna’s front door opened. She was wearing her blue robe, pulled close around her. Beneath the robe, Kevin knew, she was naked. At the wayward thought, his genitals stirred.

  “Where’d he go?” Ferguson called out. “I’ll phone for the cops. You can’t be too careful, you know, these days.”

  “Kevin? Is that you?” It was Joanna’s voice, still sleep-slurred.

  And from behind Ferguson came his wife’s voice, querulously questioning her husband.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Kevin muttered, moving away from the Ferguson’s and toward his wife. “Oh shit.”

  The small white cone of light moved unsteadily across the boxes, the crates, the garbage-reeking trash cans. From above him came the sound of floorboards creaking, footsteps shuffling. He was standing motionless, listening. The penlight had gone off. Without thinking, he’d clicked off the light. Yet he could still see the gleam of the knife blade, even in darkness. Was it possible? There were only two small windows, both high, barred. Yet the knife blade, trembling in his hand, glowed in the darkness. It was the energy. The energy had passed into the blade. From himself—his genitals—the energy had traveled up his body to his shoulder, down the arm until finally it was concentrated in the slim sliver of steel, glowing.

  Above him, the footsteps were quiet. There was no voice—no clicking of a dialed phone—no anxious mother’s mewling. It was a sign. A contact. She’d heard, and accepted his presence—his command. It was why he’d left the knife, last night, for her to find. The knife was a contact. A command. A warning, and a command. And, close above him, her whispering footsteps were responding, accepting. He could almost touch the floorboards above. It was another sign—another contact. He could touch the wood that she touched.

  Again the light cone swept through the darkness, seeking the outside door, still latched. As he moved toward the door, she was moving toward the back, the kitchen. He must hurry. So that he could get away, she’d moved toward the back of the flat. But only for a moment. Only for the time it would take him. Beyond that, his power failed. As he got farther from her, his power weakened. It was mathematical. Geometry.

  He lifted the lock from its nail, turned the doorknob, slowly drew open the door. The door opened toward him, so that no one would see him standing in the basement darkness. Outside, the night was quiet—safe. He stepped through the door, slipped the flashlight into his pocket, turned to padlock the door. The padlock was stiff, stubborn. Suddenly his hands were trembling. Because soon her footsteps would return, bringing her toward the front of the house—to her bedroom, directly above. By then, he must have left. Basement door locked, he must be gone.

  He stopped, placed the knife on the ground, rose to grasp the lock more firmly. He’d seen them snap the lock. Many times, he’
d—

  The lock clicked.

  He stooped again, to take up the knife. But now a sound of footsteps was coming—slow, uncertain footsteps, hidden from view. Glancing up at the bedroom window, he moved to his right, standing close beside a head-high shrub, deeply shadowed. Here he was invisible. From the window, from the street, he was invisible. If he willed it, they couldn’t see him. Even with his eyes open, he was invisible.

  The footsteps were closer now, coming from his right—from behind the ragged, children-torn hedge. It was her hedge, her child, chewing at the hedge. She was—

  A man’s figure broke the line of the hedge. He was a young man, tall, casually dressed. The young man’s arms swung loosely at his sides. The easy tempo of his steps revealed no purpose, no alarm. There was, therefore, no danger. Invisible still, he would—

  The steps faltered; the arms locked in mid-arc, then awkwardly caught the rhythm again, but raggedly, imperfectly. The man’s head turned toward the house—toward him. Now, faltering, the head turned again to face front.

  Suddenly the sound of sudden danger shrieked through the quiet tapping of the shoes on the sidewalk. The head so rigid, the arms so mechanical now, the steps suddenly so careful—they all were signals. But the knife was ready. It would—

  The tall figure was turning purposefully toward the house, straight for her front door. Now the figure was twisting to face him fully. The mouth was open.

  “Is that you, Steve?”

  The voice was low, but the night was splitting around him, crumbling, tumbling down. The man was calling out to the houses with their dark, spying windows. Trees and shadows shifted dangerously. The knife could never save him from so many. The man was a shadow behind the voice, still speaking. To the left, the hedge was low. The night whirled as he ran, leaped, cleared the hedge. From behind came the sound of running feet on cement. His own footsteps pounded on hard ground—grass, unwatered. He remembered the yard, brown and blotched. The next hedge was taller. Head down, knife slashing blindly, he was tangled in branches that tore at his face, his arms, his legs. The hedge twigs were alive, fighting him. But, struggling, he was free. Ahead, he knew, was a tall wooden fence. His breath wracked in his throat; the sobs he heard were his own. He could still hear the pavement-pounding footsteps behind him.

  He knew this yard—knew now what to do.

  He turned toward a small gate, found the gate latch where he’d first seen it, weeks ago. He lifted the latch, pushed open the gate, slipped through. He pushed the gate closed, stood for a moment listening. The footsteps on the sidewalk slowed, stopped. He could hear hesitation in the silence. Puzzlement.

  It was the moment he needed—the time he’d commanded. His power was stronger now, growing every moment.

  Softly, keeping to the shadows, he crept along a garage wall, past a small toolshed, past children’s toys and a black-reflecting plastic wading pool. He’d seen it all; it was all familiar, stored safely behind his eyes. From the street, voices were beginning—voices that would call to other voices. The hyena pack was gathering. He must move slowly, carefully. The rattle of his breath, the constant roaring in his ears must not deafen him to the voices. He must listen—must wait for the full power to return.

  The back fence was ahead, another high wooden fence, another gate, latched only inside. Beyond the fence was a narrow rutted alley. Safety was in the alley, dark and deserted. It was his escape route. Animal burrows had escape routes, too. If hyenas had their pack, he had his burrow. Ipso.

  As he crept toward the gate, crouched low, he saw the knife gleam leading him. Others had followed the gleam of a knife. Saints and soldiers and Hamlet, too. If animals had knives, and no teeth, then Hamlet must chew, and woodchucks were murderers. At the thought, a sudden giggle threatened, saved only by the sound of the gate latch clicking beneath his hand. He still heard their voices. But the voices were soft, unworried. There was no danger in these voices. His power had smoothed out the danger, erased it.

  Now he was in the alley, alone. The voices were gone, disappeared. Suddenly weak with relief, he was leaning against the fence. Safety surrounded him in the darkness like a woodchuck at midnight, burrowed deep and dark. But he could still see the knife. Hamlet might be blinded, dead and buried. But he could still see…

  The giggling returned—quickly, dangerously, desperately. He closed his eyes, clenched one hand around the knife, the other into a fist. With his eyes closed, helpless, he was savagely shaking his head from side to side. But the giggles were sharper, threatening the silence around him.

  His mouth was opening, savagely closing. As his teeth caught the lump of scar tissue, he felt the secret flow of blood begin, heard the giggling swallowed in pain and sudden silence. He drew a deep, slow breath, opened his eyes. Nothing beyond him had changed.

  He drew another breath, testing himself. He pushed himself away from the fence. Within minutes—two minutes, no more—he would be on the Yamaha, safely riding home.

  She folded the robe and draped it across the nearby chair back.

  Should she have awakened Josh and taken him to the bathroom? When he had a cold, he sometimes—

  Outside, directly in front of the house, a voice called out. Had someone called for Steve? Had Steve, upstairs, come home from vacation? An exclamation followed. It was a familiar voice, alarmed. Automatically she reached for the robe.

  Was it Kevin’s voice?

  Was Kevin out there?

  She was in the hallway, now in the living room. Drawing the robe close, she stepped to the window and parted the flimsy curtains. She could see nothing, could hear nothing. But the voice, moments before, had been unmistakable.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  It was Mr. Ferguson. Whenever something happened, Mr. Ferguson’s voice was always the first one raised. She stepped back from the window, hesitated, then moved to the front door. With Mr. Ferguson still blustering, there could be no danger. She unchained the front door, turned the knob, pulled the door open. Kevin was standing on the sidewalk, facing her. In the dim glow of the street light, she saw him raise his hands to her, as if to mutely explain himself. It was an abrupt, awkward movement, revealing an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

  Mr. Ferguson’s voice came truculently over the hedge: “I’ll phone for the cops. You can’t be too careful, you know, these days.”

  “Kevin,” she called, “is that you?”

  Why had she asked the question, already knowing the answer? Whom did she seek to spare?

  She heard him mutter, saw his impatient hand-sawed gesture as he came toward her. His tall, slim body, normally so graceful, moved unevenly now, out of phase with itself. Was he drunk? Frightened? Both?

  She waited until he’d come up on the small stoop and was standing before her. His face was in shadow. He stood silently, hands still moving uneasily.

  Had it been Kevin inside her house?

  Had he been in her bedroom? Had it all been real? At the thought, she felt her heartbeat deepening.

  “What’s happening?” she asked. “What’s it all about?” Her voice was low. As if he were an unwelcome stranger, she stood squarely blocking the door, her arms folded beneath her breasts. It was a posture her mother had often taken, disciplining her.

  “I was just going by.” His voice, normally so easy and assured, was almost a falsetto. She’d never before heard his voice falter. Even during their worst moments—all of their worst moments—she’d never heard this tiny, lost-sounding tremor.

  “I saw someone by the cellar door—” His hand raised spasmodically, pointing. Involuntarily, her fearful gaze was following the gesture. “He was crouching down, there, under our—your bedroom window.”

  “You said ‘Steve.’”

  “I know. I knew it wasn’t, though.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “I don’t know. I thought—I mean—” He gestured ineffectually. “I thought of all this crap—this Tarot thing. Everyone’s uptight. You know. Me
included, I guess. It was probably a peeping Tom.”

  “Did—” She paused, dreading what she was about to say. “Did anybody else see him? Anyone besides you?”

  For a moment he didn’t reply. His eyes, she knew, were searching her face. She felt herself stiffen, unconsciously braced against the scrutiny she couldn’t see. He’d always been able to put her on the defensive. Always. Effortlessly.

  “What?” His voice, sure enough, was sharp. But something was missing—some small edge of authority. “What?”

  She moved back, turned, and stepped into the entryway. She couldn’t talk on the stoop—couldn’t talk to him with the street lamp behind him, and his face in shadow. “Come in.” She walked into the living room, making for the sofa. At the last moment she veered toward the room’s one easy chair. She switched on a table lamp. She heard the rattle of the night chain from the hallway. Now he stood in the archway, with the light full on his face. He stood motionless for a moment, then moved abruptly to the couch. His eyes were slightly unfocused, his movements erratic. He’d been drinking.

  Could it have been Kevin? Had he been loitering in front of the house, drunk, when he’d been discovered? Had he decided to create a diversion? Already he’d admitted that the mysterious figure hadn’t been Steve, as he’d first said.

  Yet the front door was chained, the back door bolted. Even with his key, he couldn’t have gotten inside.

  Across the room, Kevin was smiling at her. But it was a wry, rueful expression, betrayed by the uncertainty that still shadowed his eyes. He was slumped back against the couch’s lumpy cushions, as if he were exhausted. He was wearing a shirt she hadn’t seen before. The shirt was tailored, and for the first time she saw a small roll of fat bulging over his belt.

  “Are you cross-examining me?” He spoke from his reclining posture, with no urgency or rancor in his voice. His moment of pique had passed—dissolved, perhaps, in alcohol.