The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  “Tom, please.” The doorbell rang again, longer. “Josh’ll wake up in a minute. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “All right, ducks. There’ll be another chance. One more chance. Fair?”

  She laughed softly. “Fair. Good night.” She cradled the phone and moved into the hallway. Peering through a small side window, she saw a uniformed policeman standing on the stoop. A police car waited at the curb.

  She turned the lock, slipped the night chain free, and opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Is everything all right, ma’am? We’ve got orders to check. Did I wake you up?”

  “I—I wasn’t asleep, thanks. Everything’s all right.”

  He nodded, touched the visor of his cap, and turned away. “We’ll be driving by every twenty minutes or so. All night.”

  “Good. Thank you.” She relocked the door, slipped the night chain into its slot, and stood watching the tall, slim patrolman stride back to his patrol car. His questions had been polite, but his manner had clearly implied that he considered the call a waste of time. How many hysterical women would he call on that night? How many times would—

  “Mommy?”

  Startled, she turned sharply and walked quickly through the living room to Josh’s bedroom.

  “Was that Daddy?” the sleepy voice asked.

  “No, darling. It was—” She hesitated. “It was just someone asking directions.”

  “Has Daddy come yet?”

  “Not yet, but he will. Now you go to sleep, Josh. It’s late. Have you been awake all this time?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  In the darkness, she smiled. “All right. Go back to sleep, then.”

  “Did you work that bolt that we put on the kitchen door?”

  Standing close to his bed now, she reached down to lightly caress her son’s cheek. “Yes, I worked it. You did a beautiful job, honey, and everything’s all right. Thanks to you and—” Her voice caught. “And Dad.”

  “You’re welcome.” Already, his eyes were closing. As she bent low over the bed to kiss him lightly on the forehead, she whispered, “Good night, darling. Sweet dreams.”

  Across the room, Kevin watched her throw the pen to the floor, then stare moodily at the notebook open on the desk before her. Cathy was writing in her journal. It was a nightly ritual, party nights excepted. Usually the entries covered less than a half page, and took less than a half-hour. Tonight, though, the entry was going badly. In twenty minutes, the pen had twice been thrown to the floor. This time, she made no move to retrieve it, but simply sat motionless, still staring down at the notebook. In profile, backlit by the desk lamp and surrounded by the finespun cloud of her long, loose hair, her face was as innocent and as delicately modeled as a child’s.

  Since he’d returned, they’d hardly spoken. The dutifully purchased bottle of Chablis was on the coffee table, uncorked but still almost full. The bottle, unenjoyed, was symbolic of the mood between them. It was a mood of opposites, suspended in delicate equilibrium—a formal truce in the battle between the sexes. Sexual tension crackled between them whenever they moved within reach of each other. It was a tension that could heighten the excitement of love-making, once pride and pique had been resolved.

  He watched her suddenly bend forward to snatch up the pen. Beneath a loose-fitting fisherman’s sweater, her breasts swung freely with the quick movement of her torso. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Was it part of her pre-game strategy, not to wear a bra?

  He realized that he was ruefully, wearily smiling.

  Had he ever played these exhausting little games with Joanna? They’d lived together for three months before they’d gotten married—just a little longer than he’d lived with Cathy. But, seven years ago, there’d been a difference. At the end of their second month together, Joanna had announced that she was pregnant. It had been a raw, windy night in the Village. They’d been sitting in Nick’s, drinking beer and listening to Cal Tjader. There’d been no preliminaries. With downcast eyes she’d simply said, very softly, that she was pregnant.

  His first reaction had been dismay. “Oh, Jesus,” he’d muttered, flapping his hand down flat on the table and staring off toward the bandstand. Then, bitterly: “You goofed.”

  She’d made no response, simply sitting motionless, head bowed, staring down at the table between them. It had been a penitent’s posture. He’d seen her throat move as she swallowed. Then he’d seen a single tear slowly streaking her cheek—just one tear. He’d seen her lips move as she answered him, but the words were lost in the nightclub noise. It was then that he’d first felt guilt. Her eyes had pleaded with him—pleaded for the baby. He’d—

  Across the room, the notebook snapped shut decisively. The desk drawer came open to receive the journal, then, sharply, slid shut. The drawer was never locked. Cathy had never invited him to read the journal, but she never locked the drawer. He’d never peeked.

  He watched her switch off the lamp and get to her feet. She was wearing white ducks, tight-cut. The waistband of the outsize fisherman’s sweater hung down almost to mid-thigh, covering her buttocks and crotch. Her feet were bare. He watched her turn to face him fully—watched her breasts rise as she drew a long, deep breath. Was this part of her game strategy too—this sensuous, sinuous lifting of firm, round breasts beneath the soft folds of the sweater? In response, his genitals were tightening. To whose advantage—his or hers?

  “It looked like a rugged entry.”

  “It was.” She remained as before, standing motionless. Her arms were loose at her sides, relaxed. Her legs were braced at a wide, self-confident angle. Only the bare feet betrayed tension. Her toes were tightly gripping the carpet. In the dimly lit room, her face was shadowed, invisible.

  “I was writing about you,” she said finally. “Or, rather, about us.”

  Unable to find a suitable-sounding answer, he said only, “It figures.” Then, gesturing to the sofa beside him and speaking lightly: “Sit down.”

  In response, she was moving deliberately toward him—reluctantly, almost. Was she unwilling to give up her dominant position, standing with feet braced like a buccaneer’s, staring down at him with eyes he couldn’t see?

  “Are you curious?” She sat on the far end of the sofa, facing him. Her legs were drawn up; her back was arched. She was posing for him—provocatively, petulantly posing.

  “Does that mean that you want to tell me what you wrote? You never have before.” As he twisted on the sofa to face her, he felt a sudden sense of exasperation. What precisely was he doing in this dimly lit room, playing pre-sex games with someone who didn’t really like him? Two hours ago he’d left his son’s room with tears in his eyes. For the last half-hour, waiting for Cathy to finish her journal entry, he’d been staring at the opened bottle of Chablis, his peace offering, apparently unacceptable.

  “It means,” she said, “that I’m puzzled. I have enough trouble, you know, figuring myself out. Let alone figuring you out.”

  “What’s to figure? If you’re talking about what I did today, it’s simple. I fixed my wife’s car in the morning, and went to the beach with my kid in the afternoon. I ate dinner with them. Then I—”

  “I’d like to meet them sometime.” Her voice was expressionless; her eyes revealed nothing. “I never have, you know. Not really.”

  “Maybe I can get you a dinner invitation. How about tomorrow night?”

  “If that’s supposed to be funny,” she answered, “it doesn’t make it.”

  “Sorry.”

  For a long, silent moment they stared at each other. Finally, breaking off the contest, he gestured to the Chablis. “Want some?”

  “All right.” Sitting perched on her heels, leaning back away from him, she waited for the glass to be put into her hand. Then, speaking in the same low, impersonal voice, she said: “Don’t lay your hangups on me, Kevin. That’s all I ask. That’s all I’ve ever asked.”

  “What hangups are those, exactly?” Drinking, he gaz
ed at her over the rim of his glass. His voice, he knew, was mocking. Suddenly he was ready for a fight, superciliously goading her. For the second night, he was ready for a fight.

  “For openers,” she answered, “I was thinking of your family problems. Not that you don’t have other problems.”

  His invitation to combat had been accepted.

  “Suddenly you’re an authority on my hangups.”

  “Suddenly you’re laying them on me.”

  “Oh, Christ!” He banged down the glass. “You’re the one who’s—”

  “Ever since yesterday, you’ve been pouting. And you’ve been taking it out on me.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. It so happens, though, that I’ve been hurting lately. That happens sometimes, you know. That’s what divorce is all about. It hurts.”

  “It’s not your divorce that’s hurting. It’s your ego. You were doing fine until your producer friend took you over the high hurdles.”

  “I don’t believe,” he answered slowly, “that you know what’s hurting me. That’s the trouble with—” He broke off, futilely searching for the word. “With our relationship. Or rather, that’s one of the troubles.”

  “Oh?” She leaned forward, deftly deposited her glass beside his, then returned to her end of the couch. But now she no longer posed for him with back arched, breasts upthrust. Now she was crouched forward, her weight resting on stiffened arms. Her fists were clenched, her eyes narrowed, her lips drawn taut. It was a fighting posture. “What’re the other troubles?”

  “Oh, Jesus!” He was on his feet, pacing to the far corner of the room, then turning to face her. “Look, Cathy—get off my goddamn back. If you want me to apologize for leaving the party last night, then I apologize. It was a silly thing to do, and I realize that it made you look silly—not to mention me. So I’m sorry—for you, and for me, too. So now let’s drop it. Christ, I’ve got a wife and a son who’re scared. And I—”

  “And you promised to go back tonight and protect them.” Suddenly her voice was venomous. This, then, was the crux of it: his wife, his son.

  “I promised, but I’m not going. I told you that.” As he spoke, he heard his own voice change, dropping to a dull, defensive note. It was a copout. A defeat. With her money and her looks and her tousled blonde assurance, she was forcing him to justify a promise he’d made with Josh’s arms locked desperately around his neck—a promise he’d never intended to keep.

  He walked to the center of the room. Standing in front of the coffee table, he stooped, poured a wineglass full of Chablis, and drank it straight down.

  “I’m going out for a walk. A long walk. I’ve got some things to think about, and I don’t want to depress you in the process. Don’t wait up for me.”

  He replaced the wineglass, turned, and strode to the door.

  From above him came the sharp, sudden sound of a doorbell. She was already in the living room, already talking on the phone. “Tom” was the name repeated. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Tom Southern, the buyer. A tall, cruel-smiling man.

  The phone was clattering in its cradle. The sound of her footsteps was shuffling toward the front door. Now the soft, private sound was directly overhead. Was she walking in bare feet? Were the boards beneath the feet bare? Was the whisper-sound of flesh on wood a message?

  Another doorbell-jangle, longer this time. Soft voices came from the entryway. The night chain rattled. The voices continued, inaudible.

  Last night, someone had come and chased him.

  With the lid of the packing case off, he was standing to face the murmur of their voices. Mixed with the voices he could hear a distant siren. Somewhere across the city, they thought they saw Tarot. With their sirens shrieking, guns held ready, they were—

  The door was closing, the chain was rattling, the lock was snapping. Now her footsteps were whispering closer, closer, returning. Taller, he could touch the sound she offered.

  Was he taller?

  Had he grown?

  In the closet, straining on tiptoe, he could touch nothing above, and neither could he now. He couldn’t reach, couldn’t grow taller. But in darkness, grave-rotting, hair and nails could grow. Only arms and legs stayed stunted, refusing to—

  A child’s voice, muffled, cried out.

  Crouching, knife tightly clutched, he searched the darkness, straining toward the sound. Was it happening again? Was the past changing to the present, and the present fading into the past?

  Was Marie Strauss, dead, reaching out for Tarot? The two hadn’t lived at the same time. Yet Marie Strauss, dying, had conceived Tarot. So she’d never touched him. Control was impossible.

  Until now—until the child had cried out—control was impossible. Because if she’d died never knowing of Tarot, then Tarot was safe. Ipso.

  Except for the sound of the child, crying at night, Tarot was safe. The sound of a crying child was the single link between then and now—the one secret shaft that could penetrate, destroying him. Through this single secret sound, the two women could communicate. A deadly warning could pass between them. The men and the dogs could arrive. From the grave, Marie Strauss was blindly searching, reaching out with flesh-rotted fingers to find him with her fatal touch.

  To Tarot, death could be the difference.

  When he’d first seen Marie Strauss, he hadn’t known she was married—didn’t know she had a child. She’d lived across the alley in a small white stucco house surrounded by tall, dark-green trees. He’d been in the alley, throwing out the trash. With his eyes down, stacking boxes, he’d seen her leave her gate and come toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen her feet and her legs, only from the knees down. He’d heard her steps on the gravel. But he hadn’t looked up, hadn’t turned toward her. So it had been her choice. She’d come up to him, and waited. Trapped, he’d turned to face her. He’d listened to the sound of her words, falling like small colored worms from her mouth—big worms and small worms, wriggling words and dead words. He’d seen her eyes laughing at him, watched her red-painted mouth twist into a smile of obscene invitation, unclean. It had been in the spring—Easter vacation. She’d been alone in the small stucco house; her husband and child were away, on vacation. Through a gap in the tall wooden fence, he could watch her shadow moving on the blinds. Always, when she was alone in the house after dark, she locked the doors and the windows, and pulled down the blinds. He’d heard her in the drugstore, telling the clerk. She hadn’t known he was listening—hadn’t seen him until she turned to leave the store. Then, calling him by name, she’d smiled again.

  It had been her last smile—the last time she’d found him with her leering eyes.

  Because that night, using the tools he’d brought from St. Louis, hidden among his books and pictures, he’d entered. He’d watched her go to bed; then he’d entered.

  And, inside her house, something had changed. Standing motionless in the hallway, he’d felt the night pulsing around him. It had been his first moment of contact. For the first time he’d realized that energy surrounded him in concentric patterns of interacting force fields, flowing rhythmically to join the final cosmic force, releasing him.

  Yet, that first night, he’d gone slowly.

  She’d been alone in the house. He’d gone into each room in turn: the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, a small empty bedroom, and the toy-crowded child’s room, empty. The last room was hers—her bedroom.

  He’d stopped just inside the door, standing motionless. And, looking down at her, he’d watched her change. He’d seen corruption eating at her face like maggots nibbling through melon-flesh, leaving only a twisted, rotten rind behind.

  That night, he wasn’t aware that he’d crossed the alley, entered his own home, closed his own bedroom door behind him. He’d found himself sitting at his desk. He’d heard the energy whine slowly running down like some giant generator, whirring to a long, slow stop.

  Three nights later, he’d gone directly to her bed
room. Her husband, he knew, had come and gone. He’d come home one day, left the next. He’d left the child behind. Her husband was a salesman—a traveling man.

  This time, he’d crossed her room to stand knee-touching her bed, arms folded, staring down in slow, solemn judgment. He’d seen the movement of her eyes beneath the thin, quivering skin of her eyelids. He’d watched her lips twitch, seen the muscles of her throat contract as her head began to move on the pillow. With the movement, he saw his arms unfold, saw his hands lowering, fingers spread. He hadn’t intended to harm her. He’d only intended to hold her motionless in the force field, untouched. Because he knew—suddenly knew—that he could control her. Ipso.

  But not the child’s voice, crying out in the night.

  He’d heard the cry, seen the room begin to whirl as his eyes sought the sound, to will its silence. But in that instant, released, she’d opened her eyes, seen him, screamed.

  When the sound momentarily shattered his control, blackness followed—an instant’s endless void. When he’d come back, he’d found his hands helplessly locked around her throat, trapping him, holding him fast. Her screams had demanded his death—his death, or hers. Then, dead, she’d imprisoned him, trapped him. And all the while, struggling to free his fingers from the soft, yielding flesh that held him, he’d heard the child’s voice, crying.

  But upstairs now, the small voice was silent. Even the whisper of her footsteps was gone, fading in the direction of her bedroom.

  In the silence that remained, Tarot must wait, preparing himself. All movement must cease, all sound must sink into silence. With force neutralizing force, equilibrium was complete. Justice would be done, because control was achieved. Only time was released, slowly measuring out the final moments, one beat at a time.

  Wednesday Night

  JOANNA TURNED TO LIE on her left side, facing the window. The night outside was quiet. Only a distant siren and the barking of the Clarks’ dog, across the street, disturbed the heavy, humid summer silence. The Clarks never let Sam, their Airedale, into the house until eleven. So Sam barked stubbornly, in protest. Just as stubbornly, the Clarks refused their neighbors’ often indignant pleas for quiet. Mr. Clark was a blocky, beer-bellied heavy-equipment operator. His wife, also beer-bellied, sold lingerie at Sears. Without fail, the Clarks watched TV until one o’clock in the morning. They’d never had any children, Mrs. Clark had confided, because she’d had her tubes tied. Plainly, Mrs. Clark was mildly obsessed by her sterility. On the flimsiest pretext and the shortest acquaintance, the subject of her tied tubes popped up in Mrs. Clark’s conversation.