The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  “No. But I was just wondering. I mean—” She felt a tremor beginning, deep inside. She saw him looking down at her legs. The robe was parted halfway up her thigh.

  Why was her stomach quivering? It was the same feeling she’d experienced when she’d awakened, staring up at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, inexplicably terrified.

  Had someone been in the bedroom with her?

  Could it have been Kevin?

  At the thought, she felt her eyes momentarily close. She realized that she was blindly groping for the robe, pulling it together along her thigh. Across the room, she heard the couch squeak. It was an unpleasantly evocative sound. She’d last heard that particular couch squeak two weeks ago, with Tom.

  “What’s wrong, anyhow?” Kevin’s voice was impatient.

  Opening her eyes, she saw that he was sitting straighter. He was frowning at her. But it was a frown of puzzlement, no longer irritation. And his eyes were clearer, more alert. His mouth was firmer.

  Was he worried about her?

  “What’s bugging you, anyhow?”

  “I—I thought someone was in here—in my bedroom. Anyhow, I woke up, and I was scared. And then I—I heard you, outside.”

  “In here? Someone was in here?” He was on his feet. His slim, graceful body was taut as he advanced a step toward her. He was frowning sharply. His eyes, still so blue, were snapping now.

  He’d always been good, playing the role of family protector.

  “Are you sure?”

  She knew that she was doggedly shaking her head, suddenly unconvincing. She was unable to meet his gaze, somehow. Why should it happen like this? He was the one who’d been discovered prowling in the dark.

  “Are you sure?” he repeated. “Tell me, Joanna. What the hell’s it all about?”

  Her head was still helplessly moving from side to side in a small, forlorn arc. Was she going to cry? Was that to be her final indignity? Why did he always win? A moment ago, standing on the porch with arms calmly folded, she’d been coolly assessing his telltale tics with her trained artist’s eye. Now her chin was trembling and her stomach was quavering while he stood over her, demanding an explanation.

  She drew a deep, stubborn breath.

  “I’m not sure,” she said finally. Then, in a rush of sudden words, she was telling him everything, beginning with the switch-blade knife, ending with her moment of terror, lying in bed. Had it been only minutes ago that she’d awakened? It seemed like hours.

  As she’d been talking, he’d gone back to the couch and sat down. He sat hunched forward, staring at her intently. But his elbow had slipped off his knee. He’d probably been drinking all evening—steadily, as he always drank, once he started. His expression was serious, almost dolorous. As she talked, her eyes never left his face. It was a good face, with a squared-off jaw and gracefully arched eyebrows. The nose was just a little too long, but the mouth was wide and expressive. Because the features were subtle, not strong, it was a challenging face to paint. Many times, she’d painted this face. When he’d worn his beard, in New York, he’d looked a little Biblical, especially when he smiled. When he laughed, though, he looked like a buccaneer.

  “Did you tell the police about the knife?” he asked finally.

  “No, I didn’t want to worry Josh. He—” She hesitated. “He hasn’t been sleeping well.”

  As she said it, she saw his mouth tighten. Had she told him that Josh sometimes had nightmares these last two months? She couldn’t remember.

  “Of course,” he was saying, “it could all be coincidence. Or, more likely, the same person—some creep who’s imitating Tarot. That happens, you know.”

  “Was this—” Involuntarily, she hesitated. “Was this person you saw trying to get into the basement?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I don’t think so. He was crouched in the shadow of that big bush, just to the right of your window. If I had to guess, I’d say that he’d been looking in your window, then crouched down out of sight when I came along. I’d say that he was trying to see into your room, to get his kicks. Maybe he was scratching on the screen or something. Maybe that’s what woke you. That’s how they turn themselves on, as I understand it. They like to stare, but they don’t get their jollies until something happens—a scream or something. When they get a reaction—a scream—they have an orgasm.” He paused, frowning at the thought. Then: “Are you sure you heard someone inside the house?”

  “Well, no. But I—”

  The doorbell rang: one short, decisive ring.

  “Christ!” On his feet, Kevin glanced at his watch. “It’s midnight.”

  She twisted in her chair. Through the window she saw a police car at the curb.

  “It’s the police.”

  “Ferguson called them. Shall I talk to them?”

  She nodded. Rising from the chair, she was suddenly conscious of the skimpy robe. It had never been intended for anyone’s eyes outside the family.

  “Do you want to go into the bedroom?” he asked in a low voice.

  Again she nodded. “Don’t—encourage them. I don’t want them to poke around. Josh might wake up.”

  Now a knock sounded: three brisk, authoritative raps.

  As she stepped into the bedroom she heard Kevin fumbling with the night chain. With her hand on the bedroom doorknob, she hesitated. Should she close the door or leave it open? Closed, it would discourage the policeman—and also Kevin. Finally, with a small shrug of resignation, she pushed the door until it was six inches ajar. Now, irresolute, she moved to the chair where she usually draped her robe. From the living room came the sound of male voices—Kevin’s and another. She was standing in front of the chair. Unconsciously she’d loosened the robe’s belt. But now, with a resigned sigh, she reknotted the belt, turned, and sat down in the chair.

  Kevin slid the night chain free, turned the night lock, and opened the door. A policeman stood in the deep shadows of the front stoop.

  “We had a report of a prowler.” It was a young voice, speaking in flat, unaccented officialese.

  “That’s right.” Kevin stepped out on the stoop, pointing to the left. “He was hiding down there. When I saw him, he ran through two hedges, then disappeared. Did you check the alley?”

  “Yessir.” With a lighted flashlight clamped under one arm, the policeman held a ballpoint pen poised over a small notebook. Watching the deft manipulation of flashlight, pen, and pad, Kevin nodded privately. It was a good bit of business—a touch that could lend authenticity to a cops-and-robbers script.

  “May I have your name, sir?”

  “Kevin Rossiter.” He hesitated, then added, “This is my house. My wife was home alone. Just she and our child.”

  Nodding noncommittally, the policeman played his light over the front of the house until he found the number. He made another notation, then tucked the notebook and pen away in his pocket, carefully buttoning the flap.

  “Can you describe this…” A brief moment of skeptical-seeming hesitation. “This prowler?”

  “Not really.”

  “Was it a man?”

  “I—I suppose so. He wore pants, anyhow. Whatever that means.”

  “Young or old?”

  “Not old, certainly. He moved like a young man.”

  “What weight, would you say?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I’d only be guessing.”

  “Guess, then.” Now there was a laconic note of faintly contemptuous boredom in the other’s voice.

  “A hundred fifty.”

  “And you say that—”

  From the patrol car parked at the curb came the sound of two short horn-bleats. Immediately the patrolman glanced back over his shoulder, acknowledging the signal. He stepped down off the stoop.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rossiter. If you see anything else that’s suspicious, call us. Make sure your doors are locked.” The patrolman touched his hat with a casual finger as he turned away. The patrolman was tall, with broad shoulders. His equipment belt was draped aro
und narrow gunfighter’s hips. Silhouetted in the dim light from the street lamp, the patrolman moved with an easy, predatory confidence. Another emergency awaited him. Plainly, the prospect appealed.

  Kevin stood on the stoop and watched as the police car pulled sharply away from the curb, gathering speed. As the car swung hard around the corner, a rotating red light on its roof began winking.

  Someone somewhere was in trouble.

  He stood motionless for a moment, listening. Were the Fergusons, next door, peering out their darkened windows, awaiting developments? Had Ferguson spilled the beans—told the patrolman that the Rossiters were estranged?

  Had anyone else seen the intruder?

  At that moment, where was Tarot? Was the madman stalking his third victim? Would tomorrow’s headlines reveal another Tarot murder?

  He turned, entered the house, closed the door behind him. He set the lock, but not the night chain. A single lamp in the living room had been left lit. From where he stood, he could see that she’d left her bedroom door slightly ajar. The bedroom behind the door was dark.

  Signifying what?

  It was a good question—one that only she could answer.

  It had been his day for questions—a day for questions, but no answers. For him, it had been a grim Tuesday. The time was twenty minutes after midnight. At Cathy’s house, the party would be winding down. Some couples, contentedly spaced out, would already have gone home to share a lazy, pot-blurred night of love. In another hour, the others would be gone. Cathy never encouraged late parties. By one o’clock, they were always in bed, making love. After-the-party love, they’d always agreed, was the best love.

  He was staring at the pitch-black void between Joanna’s bedroom door and the door frame. Was she in bed? Naked?

  Did she expect him to come in, make his report? Or was he expected to leave quietly? How many minutes had passed since the gunslinger patrolman had left? How many…

  The black void was widening. Prim in her close-gathered robe, she was walking toward him. Now they were standing silently in the center of the living room. They were facing each other as strangers might, waiting for someone to introduce them.

  Seven years ago, at the Thompsons’ party, they could have faced each other just as they were doing now. Her eyes, he saw, had softened. Behind the half-opened door, in her darkened bedroom, she’d been thinking about him. Wondering.

  She’d been worrying, too. Between her eyebrows, her forehead was drawn into a characteristic pucker of concern. She’d been thinking about the prowler—and Tarot.

  “What did the policeman say?” she asked.

  He spread his hands. “Nothing, really. He just said to keep the doors locked. I get the impression that the police are having a busy night.” He hesitated. “You did check the doors, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was the night chain on the front door?”

  “Yes.” With her arms folded, she seemed to shiver slightly. “Do you think he was trying to get inside? Into the basement, maybe?”

  Unwilling to watch her concern deepen, he shook his head decisively. “No, I don’t.”

  As if accepting his authority, she nodded. Still they stood facing each other, but now they were awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. At the Thompsons’ party they’d been more at ease. They’d always been able to talk to each other. Right up until the end, they’d been able to talk.

  “Why…” She paused. “Why were you outside? You didn’t tell me.”

  “I—I was just out for a walk.”

  “At midnight?”

  He’d known the question would come. But he hadn’t prepared an answer. Because there was no answer. No explanation.

  Yet he was answering: “I was worried about you. And Josh, too. Everyone’s worried, you know, about Tarot. So I just thought I’d walk by.”

  “Oh.” Again she was nodding. Her eyes were mild. Did she believe him?

  Should he offer to go? Offer to stay?

  “I”—she moved her head back toward the bedroom—“I should get to sleep. Tomorrow’s a work day.”

  “Do you—” He was forced to clear his throat. “Do you want me to check the kitchen doors?”

  “All right.” She turned away quickly, walking into the hallway. Beneath the floor-length robe he saw her long legs moving with graceful assurance. She’d always moved easily, economically. Her hips and buttocks were provocatively modeled, trim and firm. He used to pinch her playfully, telling her that she had a bareback rider’s backside. She’d always laughed—and returned the pinch.

  She clicked on the kitchen light, then stood aside, leaning against the sink, arms folded, robe taut across her breasts. Why couldn’t he meet her gaze? Why were his eyes lowered like a teenager’s, looking her over on the sly?

  He rattled both doors, checked both locks.

  “They’re all right.” He was standing with his back to the refrigerator, facing her across the narrow kitchen. “Except that”—he gestured to the door leading down to the cellar—“except that you—we—should really put a bolt on that door. If you want me to try and fix that fuel pump tomorrow, I could put on a bolt then.”

  She nodded—still with that same short, submissive bob of her head. “All right, if you want to.” A pause. She was lifting her chin and swallowing—something she did when she was ill at ease. The movement was a graceful one—feminine, proud. Now she glanced toward the cupboard. “Would—would you like something to eat?”

  “No. No, thanks.”

  Another long, painful silence was finally broken when she ventured, “You’re going to be late getting—” Breaking off, she bit her lip. She couldn’t finish it—couldn’t say “home.”

  And she was right. She shouldn’t have to say it.

  With his eyes fixed on her folded forearms, he abruptly said, “Do you want me to stay? Stick around? It—it might be a good idea.”

  Her reaction was a quick, involuntary frown. Then, plainly about to shake her head, she caught herself narrowly. Finally, by force of will, she shrugged slightly.

  “All right, if you want to. I’ve still got the sleeping bags.”

  “I—I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  Hearing him say it, she suddenly pushed herself away from the sink, turned, and walked into the hallway. She spoke abruptly over her shoulder: “The sleeping bags are in the hall closet. And the phone’s in the living room, if you remember. Right behind the couch.” She spoke haughtily—an impressive exit line.

  He watched her bedroom door close decisively—then open.

  “Don’t forget the night chain on the front door.”

  The door closed again, even more decisively.

  Engine switched off, Leonard let the Yamaha coast noiselessly past the small, darkened house. There was no driveway, only two dirt tracks, overgrown with weeds. There was no garage, only a sagging, lopsided wooden shed with a roof that leaked and a door that screamed. Many times he’d oiled the hinges, but nothing helped. So now, when he went out at night, he left the door propped open.

  The motorbike was slowing, finally stopping short of the shed. His feet were on the ground; he was slowly, silently pushing the Yamaha into the dark, smelly shed.

  It was the same smell he’d just come from, beneath the floor of her apartment. It was garbage rotting. And rats, maybe, lying dead and decaying in dark corners. Because everywhere, every moment, something died. Something and someone—everyone, all the time. Dirt covered it all; dirt first, then cement. They all walked on rotting corpses. And drove on them, too. Coming home that night, he’d driven over their dead, decaying bodies.

  He lowered the kickstand, turned off the gas. He stepped away from the motorbike to stand motionless. There was no sound inside the shed. There was no light, no shadow. But through the roof, starlight outlined the broken shapes of missing shingles.

  It was necessary that he stand like this, without moving, in the center of this shabby shed. With the motorbike safely out of sig
ht, he must stand silently, slowly allowing himself to turn as he stared around this secret circle of darkness. Because now the energy was returning. Finally safe, he could close his eyes. Then, slowly, he could reach out wide with his hands to touch the invisible fire that pulsed through this dark, silent place.

  Eyes still closed, he waited with hands outstretched, fingers wide. The vortex was whirling close, finally making contact. He could feel the flow touching his fingertips, charging his arms, his torso, his genitals.

  Eyes open now, he was complete. Restored. Ready. Even the noise of the door closing couldn’t touch him. Even the—

  Through the open door of the shed he saw a light come on in his mother’s room. In the same instant, he heard an angry exclamation. It was his voice—his small, surprised gasp of surprise and fury. She shouldn’t be awake. Something could be wrong. Anything.

  Entering the house through the back door, he set the lock and returned the keys to his pocket. The house keys and the penlight were in his right-hand pocket. The knife and the brown envelope were in the other pocket. His tools and his gloves were in his back pocket. Everything was invisible.

  He stepped directly into the kitchen. His mother’s door opened into the kitchen. Light shown beneath his mother’s door, seeping a few inches across the scarred linoleum of the kitchen floor. Behind the door, he could hear her moving. Two shadows broke the line of light—her feet, coming closer. The doorknob was turning; the door was opening.

  She stood shapeless in her flowered chenille robe. With the light behind, her neck was as wide as her head. Her waist was as wide as her shoulders. Her feet and her ankles were stubs, supporting it all.

  “It’s twelve thirty, Leonard.” The voice came from a face shadowed, invisible. But he knew that face. He could picture the broad cheeks, the flattened nose, the wide, shapeless lips that couldn’t smile.

  “It was the same last night, too.” Her voice was toneless.

  “I’m going to bed. Go to sleep.” He’d said it just as he should have—roughly, to command her.

  “I’m worried, Leonard. It’s all happening like before. I’m worried about you.”

  In the hallway now, he stopped and turned to face her. She stood filling the doorway, with the light from her room yellow behind her. Cat’s eyes were yellow too. Cat’s eyes and pimples, ready to pop.