The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  There remained one more thing to do. Carefully he opened the desk drawer exactly two inches. If anyone looked, they’d realize that he was careless about the drawer—that he cared nothing for its contents. It was another secret. Sometimes, seeing the drawer open two inches, he laughed.

  He turned sharply to the door and stepped out into the hallway. The walk to the bus stop would take three minutes. The bus would—

  “Leonard.”

  It was his mother’s voice, from the kitchen. He stopped at the sound, standing motionless. There was danger in the single word she’d spoken. He could hear the danger clearly.

  The bus, then, must go downtown without him.

  But he mustn’t turn, mustn’t move. He must stand motionless, waiting for what came next:

  “Leonard, I’m worried. You know what about. All night I was awake. I couldn’t sleep. All night I couldn’t sleep.”

  He’d been right, then. Last night when he’d come home, this morning at breakfast. Both times, he’d been right. She’d said these things before. Once before, he’d heard this same whine in her voice—this same clear warning.

  Slowly he turned to face the kitchen. She was standing just inside the kitchen door, staring dumbly. She was wearing a shapeless cotton dress and white shoes. She was ready to go to work, waiting on tables. Using both hands, she held a cracked plastic handbag squarely in front of her, waist-high.

  “I talked to a—” She swallowed painfully. Her pale, sparse brows drew together nervously over close-set pig eyes. “I talked to a man downtown. I talked to him yesterday. You’ve got to talk to him too, Leonard. You’ve got to take time off work and talk to him. You’ve got to—”

  “The police.” The words were very soft, almost as if he hadn’t heard them. “You talked to the police.”

  “I had to do it, Leonard. You know I had to do it. The man in St. Louis. The psy—” She licked at her lips, awkwardly forming the word. “The psychiatrist. He said that if you ever started to do it again, only worse, then I had to—”

  “The police!” It was a scream, echoing and reechoing in the narrow hallway. “You went to the police?”

  “It—it wasn’t exactly the police, Leonard. Not exactly.”

  Her face was coming closer. He could see her eyes. The black pupils were very small, shrunken by fear. But she hadn’t moved. It was him. He was moving toward her, step by step. He could hear the scrape of his feet.

  “Did you tell them about me? Did you tell them my name?” Now the sound of his voice was very soft.

  Her head was shaking.

  “Are you sure you didn’t give them my name—didn’t tell them what happened in St. Louis?”

  Now her head was eagerly bobbing. Hope shown timidly in her small, desperate eyes.

  “Say it. Tell me you didn’t give them my name.”

  “I didn’t. I swear to God, Leonard, I—”

  “You told them your name, though.” Now they were standing close together. He could touch her—reach out and touch her. The sound of his words was still very soft in the quiet kitchen. Was it a stranger’s voice?

  “You did tell them your name.” As he spoke, his fingers suddenly flicked out to sharply strike her hand, still clutching the black plastic handbag. “Didn’t you?” Again their hands crashed together, knuckle to knuckle. Now her eyes were wide and round, terrified.

  “No, Leonard. I swear it. I only—” Her helpless mouth was quivering. “I only—”

  His hand struck the twitching, mewling mouth.

  “No! Don’t!” It was a shriek. Doubled into a fist, the hand crashed into her forehead. The other fist drove into her throat.

  “Help! Help!” Her face was hidden behind her raised hands. Blood was smeared on the flesh of her forearms. Blood flecked the printed cotton dress. Still screaming, she was backing toward the rear kitchen door. Her face was still hidden. She stumbled once, recovered, stumbled again.

  If she got outside, screaming, the police would come. He would die. If the police came, he’d die. She would kill him.

  Kill him.

  Hand knotted in her hair, he flung her against the counter. Pans clattered to the floor; dishes shattered. She fell to her knees. Her blood-smeared face was unprotected. Her arms hung limp at her sides. She could be praying. But the fist-split, bleeding mouth was open wide. She was screaming. Still screaming. Killing him.

  Killing him.

  A black iron skillet, unwashed, lay on the counter. Now the skillet was in his hand.

  “Leonard! No!” It was a demon’s cry.

  Killing him.

  The skillet, incredibly light, was swinging back, then up.

  “Help me!”

  The skillet was crashing into her skull, above the left ear. No longer praying, she was slowly toppling to her right. Her eyes were surprised; her bloodied mouth was slack. New, bright blood covered her ear, her neck.

  The screams had stopped.

  In the silence, he was suddenly safe.

  But he couldn’t catch his breath—couldn’t breathe. Were the sobs his? Or was he remembering the sound of her sobs—his mother’s?

  Looking down, he saw her skirt pulled up to reveal the white, fat-flabby flesh of her thighs. As he stared down at her dress, he realized that he no longer held the skillet. Had he dropped the skillet? He didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t heard a crash.

  But he couldn’t look for the skillet. He must stand over her body. He must watch for the flutter of an eyelid, the rise and fall of breathing, the twitch of a finger. And he must pull down the skirt. Not touching her flesh, unclean, he must take the fabric of her skirt between thumb and forefinger. He must bend down over her body. He must—

  Beneath her ear, the flesh was rising and falling. It was a pulse. She was alive.

  Alive.

  Soon her eyes would come open. Her lips would part. A gurgle would begin, deep down in her throat. Blood would bubble out as the screaming began again.

  The skillet was on the floor.

  He lifted the skillet, felt its weight as it slowly rose above the body. But now, rising higher, the skillet was heavier. His arm was trembling; the skillet was faltering, falling back to swing helplessly at his side.

  She still lay motionless. Her half-open eyes stared off across the kitchen. Her eyes were glazed, saw nothing.

  The heart, dying, could still beat.

  This time he heard the clatter as the skillet fell to the floor. Suddenly sights and sounds returned—too bright, too loud. Blinding-bright. Banshee-loud. The room was whirling wildly as he turned away. His shoulder struck the door frame as he staggered through the hallway into his bedroom.

  The desk drawer was still open its precise two inches.

  Now the drawer tumbled out, fell with a crash. Had the wood split? It didn’t matter; he couldn’t come back. Not while she lay there, staring at nothing. The secret tray was in his hands as he turned, placed it on his bed. His fingers were tearing at the clear plastic envelopes. The knife and the keys were slipping into his right-hand pocket. The tools slipped into the left pocket.

  Was he sobbing?

  Still sobbing?

  It could be her. The sound could have come from the bleeding body in the kitchen. He must straighten, stand motionless, listen. And he must hold his breath. Eyes open, he must hold his breath as he listened.

  Silence.

  Safety.

  It was possible, now, to escape. In the silence, no longer sobbing, he could turn toward the bedroom door, enter the hallway, turn left, walk out into the living room. The front door would come open. Outside, in the bright summer sunlight, he would walk to the bus. He would…

  No.

  Not the front door, but the back door. In the hallway he must turn right. He must enter the kitchen. As he walked toward the back door, soundlessly, he must look down at her one last time, to be sure. Then he must get the Yamaha.

  Because without the Yamaha, tonight, it could never begin.

  “
It seems to me,” Sally said decisively, “that you’re slouching to some pretty sloppy conclusions concerning the nature of coincidence.” She bit into her bearclaw. “That’s alliteration. One of the tools of the copywriter’s trade.”

  Sipping her coffee, Joanna smiled.

  “I probably never mentioned it,” Sally said, “but I once thought I’d be a statistician. Until, that is, I realized that lady statisticians were unsexy. And I can tell you, Joanna, that a switch-blade knife yesterday morning and a prowler last night is, statistically speaking, no coincidence.”

  “But I don’t want to disturb Josh, Sally. I’ve already told you that he’s—”

  “To put it another way, the chances—the statistical chances—are that the occurrence of the knife and the occurrence of the creep are related. One of the same phenomena, in other words. Of course, to say the creep is Tarot, that’s a horse of a different statistical complexion. However, as a matter of simple prudence, I say that you should call this so-called Tarot Squad and tell them what happened. Sure, it’ll probably come to nothing. But the police are used to that. For every lead that means anything, they check out five hundred, no question.” Sally popped the last of her bearclaw into her mouth and reached across the drawing board for her coffee. “Besides,” she said in a quieter, more serious voice, “it would take your mind off your troubles. Which, judging from your pale and wan expression, would definitely be a plus.”

  Reaching for her own coffee, Joanna sighed. She watched Sally assume a casual, offhand air, gazing at nothing in particular. It was the inevitable prelude to a bluff, well-meant probe:

  “I, ah, gather that Kevin’s visit last night wasn’t exactly a huge success.”

  “Not exactly.” She realized that her eyes had fallen helplessly to the floor. Why did she feel so depressed—so defeated? Why did her arms and her legs ache? Why couldn’t she smile?

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Sally said. “Not exactly. But… well, I can listen, you know. You probably never noticed, because of my naturally ebullient nature. But actually, I listen a lot.”

  “Oh, Sally—” As she said it, she suddenly felt tears stinging her eyes. “It’s all so—”

  A knock sounded on the door of her cubicle.

  “Crap!” Sally said with feeling.

  As Joanna reached for a Kleenex, turning away, she heard Sally growling permission for the visitor to come in.

  The door swung open to reveal a short, thickset man wearing a wrinkled stay-pressed summer suit, a wilted shirt, and shoes that needed a shine. In his middle fifties, he wore his wiry gray hair cropped drill-sergeant close. His squared-off face was unsmiling; his small eyes were watchful and steady as he looked directly at Joanna.

  “Are you Mrs. Rossiter?” Asking the question, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sergeant Matthew Connoly.” The newcomer spoke with slow, measured clarity. As he stepped into the cubicle, he held up a plastic identification card. “I’m following up on the call we had last night concerning a prowler on your premises.” Connoly turned expectantly toward Sally, who promptly slid down from her perch on the drafting stool and edged to the door. Connoly’s broad-shouldered bulk suddenly made the cubicle seem impossibly crowded.

  At the door, Sally snapped her fingers. “I saw you on TV last night,” she said. “You’re the head of the Tarot Squad.”

  Connoly’s bullet head gravely inclined on his thick, short neck. “Right.” He waited impassively as Sally flipped her hand, muttered something about ESP, and pulled the door shut behind her. As he turned back to her, Joanna watched Connoly draw a slip of paper from somewhere inside his jacket. Frowning as he held the paper at middle-aging arm’s length, Connoly began speaking in a policeman’s uninflected monotone, reciting the events of the preceding night. Next came an account of Kevin’s “supplementary interrogation,” an hour ago. When he’d finished with the paper, Connoly returned it to his pocket with obvious relief, then looked directly at Joanna. His eyes, she realized, were a clear, disconcerting gray. Didn’t the man ever blink—ever look away?

  “Is that about what happened, Mrs. Rossiter?”

  “Yes. Th—” She cleared her throat. Why did she feel so ill at ease? “Yes. That’s what happened.”

  “We haven’t been able to find anyone except your husband who saw this prowler. Have you found anyone who saw him?”

  “Well, no. But—” Again clearing her throat, she hesitated. What did he mean? Why was this stocky man with his predator’s eyes staring at her as if she’d done something wrong—as if she were lying to him?

  “Did you see anything last night? Did you hear anything suspicious?” the detective pressed.

  This was her chance. Now—right now. Sally had talked about two related phenomena: the knife and the prowler. But she hadn’t told Sally that something—someone—had awakened her last night, leaving her to lie in helpless terror, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I’m not sure. Some—something woke me up.”

  “When was that?”

  “I’m not sure of the time. I—I’m a very heavy sleeper. But it was just a few minutes later that I heard Kevin outside. Or, really, I guess I heard Mr. Ferguson, next door.”

  Connoly seemed to consider the point carefully. Now he was nodding inscrutably, as if her answer had confirmed his own suspicions.

  “How long have you and your husband been separated, Mrs. Rossiter?” He stood with his arms folded high across his barrel chest—as headsmen stood at the block, waiting for the executioner’s signal. Connoly’s arms were short and thick, muscle-bulging the thin fabric of his summer suit. For the first time, she realized that he was perspiring; his whole face was sweat-glazed. Somehow it helped, seeing this menacing man perspire.

  “We’ve been separated about two months,” she answered. Then, spontaneously: “Why?”

  Ignoring the question, he said, “Your husband visited you a little after eleven o’clock. After you and your son were in bed. Is that right?”

  “That’s right. But—”

  “You weren’t expecting him, were you?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “Well, no. But I—”

  “Mrs. Rossiter…” As he said it, Connoly moved a half step toward her. The tempo of his speech quickened, but its pitch remained the same: tonelessly accusing. “As you can imagine, I’m pretty busy, and that’s putting it mildly. So I’m going to put it to you straight.” He gravely paused, plainly for emphasis. “I’m wondering whether your husband could have been the one under your window. Then, when your neighbor saw him, your husband decided to cry wolf. He could have—”

  “But that—that’s incredible. Wh—why would Kevin do that?”

  Connoly shrugged. “He’d been drinking, hadn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He probably felt, ah, stimulated. Maybe, when he saw your lights off, he decided to knock on your window, instead of ringing the bell. Wouldn’t that make sense?”

  “But that’s not what he said. You—you’re accusing Kevin of lying.”

  Ignoring the point, Connoly asked, “Have you noticed anything else unusual lately, Mrs. Rossiter? Anything at all that might tie in with what happened last night?”

  “I—” Looking away, she bit her lip. This was her chance. Even though it might bring the police poking into her life, it was her chance to tell it all—everything. She could let this stolid, flat-voiced man decide how much was hysteria.

  “Well?”

  Aware that her hesitation, eyes helplessly averted, had already committed her, she quickly described how she’d found the switch-blade knife.

  “Where is the knife now?” It was a crisp question. Now Connoly’s manner was brisk, all business.

  “It’s at home. I put it up in the kitchen cupboard. Up high.”

  “Does anyone know it’s there? Anyone at all, besides yourself?”

  “No.”

  He nodded thoughtfull
y, considered for a moment, then asked, “Where’s your husband now, Mrs. Rossiter?”

  “He—he’s probably at home. My place, I mean. He’s fixing my car.”

  “All right. Good.” Connoly turned to the door, reaching for the knob. “We’ll check this out, Mrs. Rossiter.”

  “But—” She stepped forward. “But I don’t understand. Wh—what’re you going to check out? Are you going to question Kevin? Is that what you mean?”

  With the door open, Connoly turned to face her. “In this business, Mrs. Rossiter, we check everything out. And what we’ve got here are two unexplained incidents, both possibly involving your husband.”

  “But that’s not true. He had nothing to do with the knife. And he didn’t do anything wrong last night, either. Just because no one else saw the prowler, that’s no reason to—”

  “Mrs. Rossiter.” Connoly’s manner was impatient. Politely long-suffering, but nevertheless impatient. “Let’s assume, just for the sake of argument, that we should find your husband’s fingerprints on that knife.”

  “But—”

  Connoly raised a hand. “Just assume.”

  “Well, he—he knows about the knife. I mean, I told him about it, last night. So—”

  Again Connoly’s hand came up. “You just said, though, that he doesn’t know where you hid it. You told him about the knife, but not about its location. Isn’t that true?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Connoly nodded. “Good. Then we agree.”

  “B—but we don’t. I mean, I don’t see why, suddenly, the knife is so important.”

  Connoly was stepping out into the hallway, drawing the door shut as he went. “Physical evidence, Mrs. Rossiter,” he said briefly. “In my business, physical evidence is the name of the game. Thanks again.”

  She was standing in the center of her office, staring at the closed door.

  Why was it then, when she heard Connoly articulate the same fears she’d felt last night, the detective’s suspicions seemed so obscene?

  Kevin watched Cathy fling herself into a chrome-and-leather director’s chair. She was wearing a shorty nightgown and a bikini bottom. Under the sheer nightgown, her torso was bare. She’d been in bed when he’d come in. While he’d stood irresolutely before her closed bedroom door, he’d heard a sudden movement within. A moment later, the door had burst open. Furious, she’d stalked past him, into the living room. Her shoulder had brushed hard against his chest, throwing him off balance.