The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  “It doesn’t mean anything, except that I’m sick of all these—these games you’re playing. I’m sick, and I’m tired. I—” Again her voice caught. But now she was helpless to stop the angry rush of words: “I’m sick of pandering to your wounded male ego, and your postadolescent sex fantasies, and your—your vocational identity crisis. I’m sick of trying to tell Josh a different lie every time he asks about you. And I’m—”

  “Listen, Joanna. You’re—”

  She watched her arm raise, saw her hand trembling, pointing toward the hallway. She heard her voice drop venomously low: “If you want to have it both ways, Kevin, then I want you to tell Josh. That’s all I’m asking. I want you to sit down and explain to him what you’re doing—what you think you’re doing, playing house with Cathy. Josh might not understand. He probably won’t. But at least it’ll be off my back. Because I’ve got my own problems. Up to now, that fact might have escaped your notice. But I—I’ve got my own problems, and I just don’t have the—the strength left over, to cover for you any more. So from now on, if it’s all right with you, I’m going to tell Josh to ask you, instead of me. If you don’t mind, I’m going to—”

  Suddenly sobs choked off the rest. Face buried in her hands, she was slowly, hopelessly shaking her head. Over the wracking sound of the sobs, she heard the couch creak as he rose. Between her fingers she saw him standing before her.

  “Joanna. Please.” His hand touched her shoulder. “Please.”

  She pulled away. “Let me alone.”

  “But there’s no reason to—”

  “Go back where you belong. Go back to your—your blonde playmate. You don’t belong here. You hate the sight of us. Both of us. And do you know why?” As she spoke, the sobs ceased. Dropping her hands, she was staring at him with dry, hot eyes.

  Still standing before her, he was shaking his head. “You’re wrong, though. You’re wrong if you think that—”

  “Every time you look at us, either one of us, you see your responsibilities staring back at you. And that’s what you can’t take, Kevin. You say you need your freedom, to express yourself. But that’s a copout, Kevin. You just want out from under. You just want to—”

  “Listen, Joanna. Leave Josh out of it. This is between you and me.”

  Violently, she was shaking her head. “You’d like to think it’s between you and me. That’s one of your neat little deceptions, Kevin—one of those little white lies that you tell yourself. But it isn’t true. All your life, your parents gave you the best of everything. You never knew what it was to hurt. Not really. You still don’t. But my parents were divorced. And I can tell you, Kevin, that this is between you and Josh. In the long run, it’s mostly between you and Josh. I’ll survive. And you’ll survive, probably better than I will. But all evening I’ve seen Josh follow you around the house. I saw—” She broke off. Once more, her eyes were stinging. “I saw how he’s hurting. I saw it, and I felt it. Because I know exactly what he’s feeling. But you don’t, Kevin. Not really. There’s no way you can know. No way at all.”

  He turned away, walked to the couch, slowly sat down.

  “Don’t be too sure.” His voice was expressionless. She saw his guilt-clouded eyes falter, then fall to the floor. Blinking, she looked away. She’d hurt him. Finally, she’d hurt him. And so now her own eyes were tear-glazed. She was—

  “Mommy.”

  In the archway, Josh was standing with both hands concealed inside too-long pajama arms, both feet covered by the generous pajama legs. He was blinking sleepily.

  “I’m hungry.”

  As she rose, she felt the leaden ache of weariness drag at her legs. “You’re sleepy too, darling. Why don’t you get into bed? I’ll bring you some hot chocolate.”

  “And a cupcake, too? From dinner?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “Is Daddy going to stay here tonight?”

  “I—” She turned to look at Kevin, who was rising slowly to his feet. His shoulders were slumped. His lean, overbred face was defeated.

  “Not tonight, Josh,” Kevin said. He was advancing tentatively toward the boy. “I can’t tonight.”

  “But why not?”

  “Well, Josh, I just can’t. You see—” Close to the boy now, Kevin reached out. But Josh stepped quickly back. “You see, I’ve got to—to go back where I’ve got my clothes, and everything, to sleep. You know that. We’ve talked about it.”

  “But what about Tarot? What if he comes again tonight? What if—” A throat-bobbing gulp stifled the rest.

  Standing helplessly before the boy, hands gesturing futilely, Kevin was shaking his head. “He won’t come tonight, Josh. I promise you.”

  “He will too. The detective said he would. And the policeman too, this morning. That’s why they came here. Because of Tarot. You even said so yourself.” It was a shrill, quavering accusation. With tears threatening, Josh was blinking indignantly.

  “No, Josh, that’s not what I said. Or, at least, that’s not what I—”

  “You don’t even care if Tarot comes tonight.”

  “Josh. Listen.” Kevin advanced another step. Josh retreated. Now, with eyes fixed, Josh was slowly shaking his head. This rigid, dogged mannerism had once been a prelude to hysterics. Did Kevin know?

  Unaware that she’d moved, she realized that she was standing beside Kevin.

  “You don’t care. I know you don’t.”

  “Josh. Please. I—” Kevin’s voice caught. “I’ll come back. I promise you, I’ll come back. I—I’ve got to go now. Pretty soon, anyhow. But then, later tonight, I’ll come back. Now, come on.” Kevin ventured another slow, cautious step. This time, Josh stood still, allowing Kevin to touch his shoulder.

  “Come on.” Kevin turned Josh gently back toward his room. “Let’s get you in bed, and I’ll tell you a story. How’s that?”

  “What kind of a story?”

  “Any kind of a story you want,” Kevin said as they disappeared around the hallway corner. “You name it.”

  Still standing in the living room, she heard the father-and-son sounds coming from Josh’s room. During dinner, they’d decided that, tomorrow, Kevin would take Josh to the park and practice baseball. So now, clattering and banging, they were searching among Josh’s toys for the bat, the ball, the glove. Josh’s voice was cheerful, Tarot forgotten. Beginning the bedtime story, Kevin’s voice was resonant. It was his “Orson Welles” voice—the voice that always held Josh rapt, round-eyed. Too rapt, sometimes, to go to sleep.

  Returning to the easy chair, she sank down gratefully. Thanks to Kevin, a traumatic scene with Josh had been averted—a scene she couldn’t have gotten through.

  “Tell me another story, Daddy. Just one more.” Josh finished the last of the cupcake, handing over the plate.

  “No, Josh. It’s already eight thirty. Your mother wants you asleep. And I do too.”

  “How soon are you coming back?”

  “In an hour or two. A little earlier than I did last night.”

  “But I won’t be awake.” As he said it, Josh’s eyes blinked drowsily.

  “You aren’t supposed to be awake. You aren’t even supposed to be awake now. So good night.” He rose from the little red stool—the one he’d made, so long ago.

  “Will you stay tonight, Daddy—sleep here?”

  “Josh, I’ve already explained that—”

  “How can we play baseball tomorrow, if you aren’t here?” At the thought, Josh moved his hand to touch his ball glove. Before he’d gotten into bed, they’d carefully arranged everything: the baseball bat and ball close beside the bed, the glove on the counterpane. Throughout most of the bedtime story, Josh had worn the glove. The story had been about baseball—about a twelve-year-old boy who’d pitched a “slump ball” that nobody could hit. The boy had won the World Series, then returned to his grade school class a hero.

  Kevin smiled. “If I’m not already here tomorrow morning, I’ll be here soon. Right? But now, you’ve got to go to s
leep.”

  “But—”

  “Go to sleep, now. I mean it.” As he spoke, he leaned down to kiss the cool, smooth forehead. “Good night, Josh. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll—”

  The boy’s small arms were suddenly circling his neck, drawing him fiercely closer. For a long, desperate moment their faces were pressed together, cheek against cheek. The boy’s cheek was wet.

  Just as suddenly, the fervent embrace ended; the boy twisted on the pillow, to face the wall. There was the short, sharp sound of a sob, then silence.

  Slowly straightening, Kevin stood staring helplessly down at the small shape beneath the covers. Head tucked beneath his shoulders, legs drawn up, the boy lay in the fetal position, motionless. It was the ageless expression of despair.

  As he turned away silently, he realized that he was blinking back tears. He touched his cheeks. They were wet, like his son’s.

  Bracing himself, he gripped the rough wood of the box lid. He lowered the lid slowly to the floor, then leaned it carefully against the box. There was no noise. Even in the darkness, there was no sound. Tarot moved soundlessly beneath the level above, unseen. And death moved beside him—death, and silence. If Tarot willed it, there was no sound. Only death. Even the darkness had changed—the darkness, and the terror. Hunched inside the box, trapped without light, Tarot had simply to close his eyes. Immediately the old, remembered terror had faded, drowned in the deeper darkness behind his eyes. Death and darkness and decay had disappeared.

  And so shapes were visible now, because terror had paled. He could see the bar-crossed oblongs of the two small windows, lighter than the darkness around him. He could see shadows and shapes, and the pathway to her door.

  So the missing flashlight had been neutralized. Tarot was therefore in control.

  But not yet ready.

  Not until the television sound above him had faded to silence. Not until the foot-scuffling sound of her movements had ceased. So, sitting propped inside the box, with the shape of one oblong window securely in sight, he could wait. With eyes open, safe in the silence, memory could leave this place, wandering back. Because it was always necessary to go back—to remember. Aligned, what happened before overlapped what happened next, and what must happen now. Patterns could change, but could never move out of alignment. So memory must now go back. It was safe now—safe in the darkness. But memory must be controlled, and could go back no further than St. Louis. First came the noisy, gritty city, then their basement apartment, damp and sour-smelling, filled at night with the sound of scurrying rats. Finally, slowly, Lafayette College could come into focus, beginning with the first day of classes.

  His I.Q. had been a hundred thirty-five. He’d been a scholarship student, one of the needy. A streetcar student, she’d called him, teasing. At first, he hadn’t recognized the evil in her smile. It had been his first experience with evil, unclean. For the first two months, he’d watched her in English class, unsure of what he was meant to do. Then, leaving the library one night, he’d seen her walking alone. She’d kept to the shadows, inviting him. So he’d followed her, discovered where she lived. It was a rooming house of shabby yellow clapboard set on a littered lot. As this house—this very house—was also shabby, also set on a lot cluttered with things thrown away. So the patterns, ipso, converged. So it was therefore necessary to remember. It was necessary to see how each related to the other, all of them unclean.

  Her first name had been Judy.

  Her last name had been Gray.

  She’d been half a head taller than he—a slender, quick-moving girl with obscenely suggestive eyes and a cruel, mocking mouth. Sometimes her body had been hardly clothed. Once he’d seen white silk underwear through a rip in her skin-tight blue jeans. Once he’d seen her breasts, unclean, when she bent to pick up a pencil. Even in cold weather, she’d worn leather sandals that displayed painted toenails. Once she’d painted each toenail a different color.

  For more than a month he followed her, slowly putting together the pattern of her life: where she studied, where she lived, when she returned home at night. From the backyard of an abandoned house, he could see directly into her window. He’d even made a hiding place for himself, so no one could see. It was the first time he’d had a hiding place. The first and the last, until now.

  He’d seen her in her underwear, seen her with men, unclean. Once, crouched beneath her window, he’d heard the low, guttural sounds she’d made, with a man. It was after that—the night after—that he’d first entered her boarding house. Creeping through the hallway, hearing the soft sound of voices and laughter from behind alien walls, he’d first realized that he could move where he wanted, safe from their hostile eyes. It was the first time he’d felt the power—the first time he’d known that he could move from one dimension to the next, invisible.

  The next night he’d entered her room, to find her sleeping. That night, he’d taken her alarm clock—a small travel clock, on her bureau. As he’d touched the leather-covered clock, he’d heard her bed rustle. Quickly he’d turned. He’d been standing at the foot of the narrow bed. The blankets trailed on the floor in a twisted tangle. From a street lamp outside, pale white light fell across the blanket, the bed, the sleeping girl. With both hands clutching the clock, he would have been helpless if she’d screamed. He couldn’t have reached her, to stop the scream. His hands would have been locked around the clock, frozen. It had happened before—once before. Only the touch of hands had released him—savage strangers’ hands, burning like fire on his shoulder. Released, he’d lashed out at them with fists and feet, finally escaped.

  But, that night, she hadn’t awakened—hadn’t screamed. She’d shifted once on the bed, sighed, sniffled, then began breathing deeply again. Beneath the covers, her legs and torso had moved sensuously, obscenely. Still with the clock in his hands, he’d moved to touch the bed with his leg. And the touch had released him—caught him, held him writhing, then released him, crotch-wet, exhausted.

  Three days later, he’d returned. It had been necessary to begin where he’d ended, with his legs touching the bed. Standing with his hands empty at his sides, waiting, he’d finally seen her stir. Suddenly her eyes had come open. In the dim light, her wide eyes had stared directly up into his. In slow motion, her lips had parted. Her first words had been a whisper—a soft, puzzled question, sleep-muddled. Then, an instant later, the scream had started. He’d thrown himself on her, felt her body bucking against his—a wild, savage animal, fighting him. With his fingers imbedded deep in the flesh of her throat, they’d rolled from the bed to the floor. But he hadn’t felt the shock of falling, hadn’t heard the noise. His eyes had been closed, his body locked with hers as they struggled. He hadn’t seen the door come open, hadn’t felt the blows. But, when he tried to open his eyes, blood had blinded him—his own blood. They’d used books and ball bats and broken bits of furniture to attack him. Four of them—four men—had pinned him to the floor, one for each arm and leg. The others had passed in and out of his vision like visitors to a zoo. Sometimes their images had faded as his eyes lost focus. When the police arrived, they were laughing at him. With the first sound of their laughter, he’d felt his arms and legs go limp. Because the power of their laughter was too strong for him. He’d even cried, hearing them laugh.

  There’d been no arrest. No trial. But they’d locked him up—first in a barred cell, then in a small white room. They’d opened the door and come in and talked to him—detectives, doctors, lawyers from the State. In the small white room, so much like the other one, long ago, he’d first realized that they meant to harm him—that, together, they could garble what he heard, change what he saw, twist what he thought. With their equipment—their scientific instruments—their power was limitless, even stronger than laughter. And then they’d used their equipment to mind-warp his mother, so that she did as they said, thought as they thought—hated as they hated.

  But finally he’d been released. And then they’d moved—escaped from St. Louis. A
n uncle’s letter had come from Santa Barbara—a letter and a check. It was their last chance, his mother had said. She’d cried when she’d said it. And she’d cried when her brother had died, killed on the highway.

  And this morning, she’d cried again.

  Would she cry forever?

  Judy Gray had cried, but not forever. Alive, she wasn’t crying. Only his mother was crying. Only his mother and Marie Strauss and Grace Hawley. They’d cry forever. And all the while, Tarot would—

  Upstairs a phone was ringing. Immediately, feet thudded on the floor. Her bed was above the garbage pails, across the basement. But the phone was above him—almost directly above. And now the sound of footsteps was coming closer. Her feet were bare-naked. From the sound, he knew that her feet were naked.

  As she lifted the phone she raised her wrist, catching her watch dial in the dim light from the street. The time was almost ten thirty.

  “Hello?” Lowering her wrist, she gathered the robe close around her.

  “It’s Tom, Joanna. Were you in bed?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  A short, significant pause. Then, with meaningful emphasis: “I thought I should give you another chance.”

  “Another chance to do what?”

  “To be…” A second pause—longer, more explicitly suggestive. “To be protected. From Tarot, that is.”

  “Tom, I was almost asleep. Don’t worry, Tarot won’t get me.”

  “I have a bottle of brandy. Hennessy. I thought I’d bring it along.” His voice was almost imperceptibly slurred. Had he been drinking? How many other girls had he tried, earlier in the evening?

  “It’s ten thirty, Tom. You—”

  The doorbell was ringing.

  Was it Kevin? When he’d left, sad-eyed and shaken, he’d promised Josh to return, then told her that he wouldn’t—provided they agreed on a white lie to tell the boy.

  “What’s that?” Tom asked.

  “It’s the doorbell.”

  “I’ll wait.”