The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  “Go to sleep. I’ve been to a movie. I went to a movie last night. Now go to bed. Shut up.”

  “But”—her head was slowly, stubbornly shaking—“but I—”

  “I’ve been to a movie, I told you. Goddammit.”

  Slowly she was turning, on command. The door was closing behind her, and her feet were shuffling across the bare floor of the bedroom.

  He went to his own room, entered, and locked the door behind him. He never locked the door when he was gone, only when he was inside. When he was gone, and they couldn’t see him, he didn’t fear them. But inside, he must have a warning: footsteps in the hallway, the rattle of a locked door. Even with the energy patterns intact, he needed a warning.

  He moved to his desk and slid out the center drawer. The drawer had been cut down, supporting his secret tray. Slowly, carefully, he slid out the slim plywood tray and placed it on the desk top, exactly in the center.

  Everything was enclosed in transparent bags, carefully arranged. In one corner of the tray, neatly folded and rubber-banded, he kept the empty plastic bags. He slipped off the rubber band and spread out the empty bags. Into the first bag went the knife and the brown envelope. At first, he’d considered keeping them separately, but finally decided against it. Somehow the keys and the knife belonged together. His tools slid into a second bag—the flexible probe, the stiff steel blade, the diamond-crusted steel wire with its one removable steel ring. The wire could curl through a door crack, then cut through the thickest bolt. Momentarily he caressed the wire. It was his secret weapon. They bought the bolts from the dime store and screwed them to the door and went happily to sleep. But the bolts were made of butter-soft steel. Only the chains could stop the wire. He couldn’t hold a chain steady, to cut it.

  The penlight went into another bag, along with other lights, other batteries. The paper and pen and envelopes were flat on the bottom. The surgical gloves slipped into the last bag. Finally, everything was in place, properly arranged. A final push, a last adjustment, and everything was aligned. Because it was important that everything be aligned. Energy traveled in patterns. Disorder destroyed the force lines. Ipso.

  Now, finally, he could touch the two bags in the lower left corner of the tray—the one bag with the small diamond watch, the other bag with the wisp of stocking. This was the best moment of all. Because only when he touched them could he remember how their screams had gurgled into silence.

  Tomorrow night, he’d take something of hers—something that he could touch, and use to remember.

  The tray slid smoothly into place, concealed. The drawer slid underneath. Everything was in place, carefully fitted together. Now he was safe. With everything hidden, nothing could harm him.

  Except for his mother, he was safe.

  Only his mother could harm him.

  Once before, she’d questioned him as she’d done tonight. Once before, he’d heard that same dull, dogged note in her voice.

  And the next day, the police had come for him.

  Wednesday Morning

  JOANNA GLANCED AT THE clock as she beat the eggs. The time was ten minutes after eight. In twenty minutes, she’d be on the bus, riding to work. She wouldn’t have time to wash the dishes.

  Would Kevin consider it a slap at his masculinity if she left the dishes for him?

  How did his blonde girlfriend handle the problem?

  She poured the eggs into the frying pan and turned up the gas. Fanny Farmer advised a low heat for scrambled eggs. But this morning she was late. With Kevin in the house, everything had taken more time—dressing, dealing with Josh, going to the bathroom. Strangers in the house chased the clock ahead. It was something her mother used to say.

  Was he a stranger now? Really a stranger?

  What were his thoughts last night, sleeping on the couch while she slept in the next room? Had he wanted to knock on her door? Had he considered breaking down the door and taking her by force?

  Drunk enough, he might have done it.

  Drunk enough, he could have saved their marriage. This morning, lying side by side, they could have awakened man and wife again.

  Behind her, the bathroom door was opening. The toilet was flushing noisily. Kevin was ready for breakfast.

  “Daddy, come here. I want to show you something.”

  This morning, Josh wasn’t sitting immobilized before the TV. This morning, bright-eyed and smiling, Josh had his father.

  “All right, you two,” she called. “It’s on the table.” And, instantly, the sound of her own words stung. Every morning for years she’d called them to the table with those same words.

  They sat in their regular places, as they had done last night. Across the table, Josh was demanding to stay home today, “to help fix the car.” Beside her, Kevin was reaching for her plate, to serve the eggs. His eyes were solemn, his manner subdued. Since they’d gotten up, they’d hardly spoken. It hadn’t been hostility, but rather constraint. Last night, agreeing that he should stay, they’d tentatively tried to reach each other. But they hadn’t dared to touch.

  “Can I stay home, Mommy? I want to stay home.” Josh’s voice was high, unusually plaintive. He intended to have his own way.

  “It—” She glanced at Kevin, only momentarily meeting his eyes. “It’s up to your father, Josh. It’s all right with me.”

  “Can I?” Now the plea was more tentative as Josh turned to Kevin. Dealing with his father, Josh could no longer make demands. Between strangers, there was always constraint.

  “Well, I…” With uncertain eyes, Kevin sought help from her. Deliberately, she looked away. If he was compelled to return to his blonde, then she wanted to hear him say it—wanted to hear his explanation to Josh.

  “Well, I don’t see why not, Josh. Except that we’ll have to take the bus to the auto-parts store, and then come back and put the fuel pump on. And then, maybe, I might drive you to day care later on, if I have to go to work. How’s that?”

  Excited, Josh was nodding. “Fine. That’s just fine.”

  Nodding too, Kevin turned to her. His eyes were clearer now, relieved of parental guilt. His handsome mouth was set in a firmer, more virtuous line. Kevin’s eyes and his mouth were his best features. Had she ever told him?

  “Leave the dishes,” he was saying. “I’ll do them. Josh and I.”

  She glanced at the clock, smiling as she rose. “I was going to leave them anyhow. I’ve got to go.”

  “I know.” He was rising with her. They stood silently for a moment, facing each other across the narrow table. Then blinking, he was uneasily clearing his throat. He was about to ask her about the money for the fuel pump. A small spasm of humiliation was tugging at his face. Was this the moment she unconsciously craved?

  “I, ah…”

  “I’ll leave the BankAmericard on the hall table,” she said quickly, turning away as she spoke. “Your name’s still on it.”

  As she walked down the hallway, she heard him mutter something in reply. Suddenly she was glad that she couldn’t see his eyes—that she’d turned her back on his brief shame.

  “Here, you hold this.” Kevin handed Josh a wrench, authentically grease-smeared. Already smudges dappled the boy’s forehead, his chin, and the front of his clean gray T-shirt.

  “Is it almost fixed, Daddy? Did we fix it yet?”

  “Well, we’ve got it off, at least. That’s the—” Seeing the boy’s eyes widen as he stared toward the street, Kevin straightened, ducking around the Chevrolet’s raised hood to face the street. A police patrol car was pulling to a slow, deliberate stop in front of the house. Just as slowly and deliberately, the car’s passenger door swung open and a uniformed patrolman stepped out. Nodding impersonally as he adjusted his hat, the patrolman was walking toward them.

  “Mr. Rossiter? Kevin Rossiter?” This patrolman was thickset, with heavy shoulders and thighs large enough to swell his uniform trousers. His face was swarthy, with round, healthily glistening cheeks and a heavy jaw. His sideburns and a turn-of
-the-century moustache were so dark and so full that they seemed artificial. Were all Joanna’s callers fugitives from central casting—the leading-man type in the Alfa, the gunslinger last night, now this muscular Mafioso type, incongruously uniformed in blue?

  “Yes.” He reached for a rag and began wiping his hands. “I’m Kevin Rossiter.”

  “We have a report that you had a prowler last night.” As he spoke, the muscular patrolman swept the premises with a quick, heavy-lidded scrutiny that projected both boredom and proficiency.

  “A peeping Tom, probably, more than a prowler.” As he said it, Kevin glanced significantly toward Josh, already standing saucer-eyed, staring at the newcomer. Would the policeman insist on their talking in front of the boy?

  The patrolman glanced briefly down at Josh, then deliberately returned his gaze to Kevin. Petition denied.

  “Was anything disturbed?”

  “No, nothing. He was—”

  “I heard him last night,” Josh offered eagerly, stepping forward. “And I saw him, too, right outside my room. In the hall, right outside my room.”

  “No, no—” Kevin raised a temporizing hand. “That was me, Josh.” And to the policeman: “I, ah, came for a visit last night. His mother and I, we’re separated.”

  The policeman nodded noncommittally. “What time was that, Mr. Rossiter?”

  “It was about—” He hesitated. “About eleven.”

  Once more nodding, the patrolman withdrew a notebook from the same breast pocket the gunslinger had used last night. “The prowler was reported at ten minutes after eleven last night by Mr. Ferguson, next door. Was that about the time you arrived here, Mr. Rossiter?” The question was asked in a dead-level voice. Everyone was under suspicion.

  “Y—yes. That’s right. I saw him just as I turned in at the sidewalk. The prowler, I mean. Not Ferguson. He was crouched down right there.” He pointed. “Right beside my wife’s window. Her bedroom window.”

  “Right here?” The patrolman turned away, sauntered to the spot, and turned inquiringly toward Kevin.

  “Yes. Right there.”

  The patrolman briefly examined the window, the ground around the azalea bush, and the service door.

  “I bet it was that Tarot, Daddy,” Josh breathed. “That’s what I thought last night. I did, really. I almost woke up Mommy, but then I went back to sleep.”

  Smiling, Kevin looked down at his son. Had he been like this at age six—eyes snapping, imagination leaping?

  “That would’ve been a neat trick, Josh—waking your mother up. She never wakes up.” As he spoke, he reached out to touch the boy lightly on the shoulder.

  “She did last night, though. She—”

  “Well,” the patrolman said, striding toward them with his rolling, muscle-bunched gait. “I won’t keep you. You say there’s nothing disturbed, and there’s certainly no sign of forced entry.”

  But the patrolman was standing squarely before them, clearly not completely satisfied—not quite finished with him yet. As he frowned thoughtfully, the patrolman’s hand fell unconsciously to his holster. Fiddling with the safety strap, he said “Will you be around here for the rest of the day, Mr. Rossiter?”

  “I—I’m not sure. I’ll be in and out.”

  “Is your wife in?”

  “No. She’s at work.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “She works at Gorlick’s, in the advertising department.”

  “Gorlick’s, eh?” Surprisingly, the swarthy, impassive face was smiling. “I can’t even afford to walk through that place, myself.”

  Conscious of an improbably strong rush of relief, Kevin smiled in return. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  “Where do you work, Mr. Rossiter?”

  “At KBSB.”

  “Are you an announcer?”

  “No. I write advertising copy.”

  The patrolman nodded. His face was once more impassive, his dark eyes unrevealing. “It’s your day off, eh?”

  “No.” He gestured to the Chevrolet. “I promised to fix my wife’s car.”

  Once more nodding, the policeman returned his notebook to its pocket. It was a decisive gesture. The interview was ending. “Well, I won’t keep you from your repair job. It’s possible…” As he paused, the patrolman looked squarely at Josh, as if acknowledging the boy’s presence for the first time. “It’s possible that a detective will be out later, considering everything that’s been happening around town.”

  “Are you going to catch him?” Josh asked promptly, eagerly stepping forward. “Are you going to catch Tarot?”

  For the second time, the patrolman smiled, more spontaneously now. “No question, sonny. No question at all. Don’t you worry about it, you hear?” He turned and strode toward the patrol car. The passenger door was still open.

  “Did you chase Tarot, Daddy, when you saw him last night?” Asking the question, Josh was staring raptly at the spot beneath Joanna’s window.

  “Josh, it wasn’t Tarot. It was just a man who was probably looking in Mommy’s window.”

  “But he wouldn’t do that. Just look.”

  “He would, though.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Because some men are like that, Josh. They’re mentally unbalanced. Instead of falling in love with a girl—instead of trying to get a girl to fall in love with them—all they can do is hang around outside a girl’s window and wait for her to undress.”

  “But that’s stupid.”

  “I know it’s stupid. But there are a lot of stupid people in this world.”

  “Are men that look at ladies undress ugly? Is that why they do it?”

  He dropped his arm across Josh’s shoulders, turning the boy toward the house. “Some of them are ugly, and some of them just think they’re ugly. Come on, let’s lock up and then go catch the bus. We’ve got to get that fuel pump.”

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, Daddy. B.M. I’ll hurry.”

  He smiled. “Go ahead. Take your time.”

  Together they entered the house. Walking with the characteristically cautious scissors-step that betrayed nature’s call too long ignored, Josh made his way toward the bathroom. As he heard the bathroom door close, Kevin turned toward the telephone, beside the couch.

  Cathy wouldn’t be awake yet. Not on this after-the-party morning.

  The party had still been alive when he’d called her last night. The phone had been beginning its sixth ring when she’d finally answered. She’d been cool, professing to be merely amused by his “juvenile exit.” He’d suspected that, as soon as he’d left, she’d refused all drink and all pot, so as to be ready for his call—ready to top him.

  And he’d fallen into her trap. Immediately, he’d started explaining—cravenly excusing himself for staying with his wife and son, to protect them from the fear of Tarot. Cathy had listened in silence. Finally she’d asked only one question: Had he taken her car?

  “If you’ll look out the front window,” he’d answered, “you’ll see it. And, while you’re looking, I’ll hang up. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Whereupon he’d banged down the phone.

  Yet, remembering their conversation, he must discount the accuracy of his own recollection. Had he really turned a phrase so neatly? Had he really emerged the victor? Half drunk, pot-muddled, had he really managed to top her—to get the last word?

  And when would he top her again? Physically, when would he top her?

  Even making love, it didn’t always happen. As a liberated woman, an intellectual, Cathy surrendered the sexual initiative only to the man who took it. Often, with hot, avid eyes and lips drawn back from small, fiercely clenched teeth, she demanded her radical-lib prerogatives, astride him, on top.

  She’d never been denied. Financially, socially, sexually, she’d never been denied. If her affluent father and emotionally absent-minded mother failed to offer the gift of love, they compensated with money and clothes and cars and almost unlimited freedom, the flip side of indifference
. And physically Cathy had always been exciting. So, at least consciously, she had it all. Everything. She didn’t look back, didn’t introspect. She—The toilet was flushing; the bathroom door slammed. A dozen half-running footsteps, and Josh was suddenly beside him, eager to begin their journey to the auto-parts store.

  Standing in the exact center of the bedroom, Leonard glanced first at the small clock on the dresser. In forty minutes, he would be entering Gorlick’s employee’s entrance, on his way to the stockroom. Eyes straight ahead, he would walk directly to his locker. He would pass Mr. Bingham’s office, where yesterday he’d received the keys. But he wouldn’t look aside. Even if the door opened—even if Mr. Bingham saw him—he wouldn’t look aside. If Mr. Bingham spoke to him, he wouldn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Because Mr. Bingham had touched the white envelope that contained the brown envelope that contained the keys. So there was danger. It was a danger twice removed, doubly insulated by two envelopes. But still, the danger was present. Mr. Bingham had touched the keys. Energy charges could have passed, even through double layers of paper. Not much. But enough.

  Now he began to pivot slowly, eyeing the familiar lines and curves and circles and squares: his bed, neatly made, his bureau, uncluttered, his chair. On the walls, the pictures were perfectly aligned: Van Gogh without an ear, an enlarged full-face photo of himself as a small, smiling boy, and two Siamese cats, heads cocked in unison. But the pictures were meaningless—three tricks, to magnetize their eyes.

  Finally his gaze fell on the desk. A miniature sword—a look-alike letter opener—lay in the center of the desk. The sword was aligned precisely on the north-south axis. Twice a day, morning and night, he took a compass from the top right-hand drawer of the desk and checked the sword’s alignment. It was the secret of his safety within the room. Because the sword, razor-sharp, was centered in the whole earth’s magnetic force field. Inside the room, he was sheltered, safe. Sometimes at night, half asleep, he could see the force field glowing, centered on the sword.