She had thought herself in a dream.
And the dream had continued. After the play had come the elegant candlelight dinner in the city’s most expensive restaurant. Julian had preordered the menu—a peek of what was to come. But that evening she had mistaken his controlling nature for élan and confidence. He had arranged everything, starting with the appetizers—beluga caviar accompanied by blinis and crisp cold vodka. Next came a puree of warmed beets served with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of chives. Then a salad of wild greens, followed by a lemon sorbet to clear the palate. All the courses enhanced with the appropriate wines.
She always remembered the feast clearly. So real. If she thought about it long enough, she’d wind up salivating.
The delectable beef Wellington dressed with pungent, freshly ground horseradish, accompanied by boiled red potatoes and julienne carrots and celery. And the desserts! The most sumptuous pastry cart. To complete the evening’s meal, a deep, full-bodied sherry aged over fifty years.
They had eaten and eaten, and afterward their stomachs had bulged to dangerous proportions. So he had suggested a ride to the lake. They had walked the banks in bare feet, small wavelets spilling liquid silver over their toes and onto the shore. How beautiful he had looked that night, his fine sandy hair slightly disheveled by a rippling breeze, gentle blue eyes full of longing and love. At the perfect moment, he had wrapped his arms around her waist. Strong, muscular arms in perfect proportion with his hard, well-worked body. During the kiss, he had slipped the diamond on her finger.
It had been pure magic.
That night she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven. Looking back on everything that had transpired since, she wished she had.
Subtle changes, barely noticeable at first. The catch in his voice when she came home a few minutes late . . . the questions he had asked.
What happened?
Who were you with?
Why didn’t you call, Dana?
She explained herself, but he never seemed satisfied. She brushed off his nosiness and irritation. It was because he cared.
Then there were other things. The lipstick in her purse placed in the wrong zippered compartment, her clothing drawers in disarray even after she distinctly remembered folding her sweaters neatly. Finally came the strange clicks on the extension when she talked to a girlfriend or her mother.
No, it couldn’t be, she would tell herself. Why would Julian want to listen in on my boring conversation?
Yet the clicks continued—day after day, month after month. At last she summoned her nerve and asked him about it. At first he had waved her off as imagining things. She took him at his word because the clicks seemed to suddenly stop.
But they returned—occasional at first, then once again at frequent intervals.
He’d been eavesdropping: Of that she was sure. She was puzzled by his odd behavior, then angry. He was violating her privacy, and that was inexcusable. Another discussion was in order. Despite his initial denials, she knew he was lying. So she pressed him.
Her first mistake. He exploded, raising the phone upward, yanking it out of its jack, and heaving it against the wall.
“Goddammit, Dana! If you wouldn’t tie up the phone so long, I wouldn’t have to pick up the extension to see when you finished your conversation.”
Tears welled up in her eyes; her ears were shocked with disbelief. She stammered, “J-Julian, why didn’t you just ask me to get off the phone?”
“I shouldn’t have to ask you; you should goddamn know.” He was breathing very hard. Suddenly, he lowered his voice. It became quieter but not any softer. “A wife should know what her husband wants. And where’s your consideration, for God’s sake? What kind of a wife are you, anyhow?”
Stunned, she turned on her heels to leave. He caught her arm, spun her around. Spittle at the corners of his mouth, red angry blotches on his face. His fingers clamped around her arm like an iron manacle. And his eyes! They had turned into hot pits of violence. She shrank under his scrutiny. His voice so whispery it was sepulchral.
“You don’t . . . ever . . . walk out on me, you hear?”
Paralyzed with fear, she hadn’t been able to respond. When Julian repeated his demand a second time, the threat in his tone even more menacing, she somehow managed a nod.
It was the first of many incidents. The slightest insult—real or imagined—sent him into fits of uncontrollable temper and rage. Though he never actually hit her, his demonic eyes were enough to cause her to cower. She didn’t dare tell anyone the truth. Sinking faster and faster into a quicksand pit of despair and loneliness, she knew she had only two options: to die or to escape.
Her defection was quick and complete. One day when he was away at work, Dana simply packed up her meager belongings and left. For six months, she hid under many aliases and assumed identities. As expected, he caught up with her. But six months was a long enough time for her to recover her ground. She boldly marched into the lawyers’ offices. A few months later, Julian was served divorce papers along with an official restraining order. She knew that the order had little enforcement or protection power; a weak remedy akin to the Dutch boy plugging up the dike by putting his finger in the hole.
So she took precautions. Every time Dana got into or out of her car, she scanned her surroundings, looking over both shoulders. Keys gripped in her right hand, Mace locked into the fingers of her left hand, she always made it a point to walk quickly from her car to her destination, her head pivoting from side to side, her ears and eyes alert, attuned to the simplest of nuances, perceiving imminent danger out of seemingly innocuous events.
“Terrible to live like this,” Dana muttered angrily to herself, “but what is the alternative?”
Dana knew Julian was possessed, just too crazy to be dealt with. Maybe it was because the wound was so raw. She hoped that things would get better after the divorce. Julian was no dummy. Surely he’d come to his senses and realize that his obsession was no solution for either of them.
The day their marriage was declared legally over, things became even worse. First came the midnight tapping on her door. Then the rattling of windows and the unexplained jiggling of doorknobs. One night, after weeks of having been mentally tortured by his lunatic hovering, she drew up enough strength to investigate. In a wild burst of energy, she threw open the front door only to witness an eerie dark landscape of streets and trees and houses, all devoid of human intrusion.
A portent of things to come. He always seemed to disappear just out of fingertips’ reach.
The sounds continued, so Dana moved—and moved and moved. But he always seemed to find her. Not that he ever showed his face directly; Julian was too much the coward for that. Still, she was aware of his presence wherever she went, whatever she did. He appeared as furtive shadows and distant ghosts.
And always at night.
Sometimes she could swear she actually saw him, her fleeting phantom. At these times she’d run down the street, cursing his name. People thought her crazy.
And Dana felt as if she was going crazy. Because no matter how hard she tried, she failed to catch him. Julian seemed to fade into the mist until nothing but air was left behind. Nerves frayed, Dana couldn’t eat, and her weight dropped dangerously low. Fearful for her sanity, she remained housebound except for essential errands. In desperation, she bought a guard dog, a German shepherd that abruptly died one day from food poisoning. She bought another dog. The second canine, Tiger, was killed by a vicious hit-and-run motorist, the vehicle throwing the dog twenty feet into the air, breaking every bone in its body. The driver, of course, was never caught.
In the animals’ martyrdom, Dana finally found an inner strength. Something erupted inside Dana’s soul when she carried Tiger’s carcass, lovingly wrapped in a warm blanket, to the vet. Nobody should be able to get away with this.
So she began to fight back. At first, she carried a knife in her purse. When she learned that carrying a concealed knife was a felony, s
he switched over to a gun. Concealing a revolver was just a misdemeanor, and she could live with that. With her last spare dollars, she purchased an unregistered .32 Smith & Wesson on the black market. Then she began to learn how to use it. Weekly visits to the shooting range became daily visits. Developing her accuracy, her reflexes, her eye. Six months later, she felt as if she had parity with the bastard.
She felt empowered!
Just try anything now, Julian. Just try it.
If he dared to make a move, so would she.
She was ready.
Frequent moves during the last year did little to enhance Dana’s job résumé. After months of rejection in her trained field of social work (who wanted a therapist whose own life was in shambles?), Dana gave up on employment in counseling. Determined to beat her spate of terrible fortune, she managed to land a job as a sales representative for a small family-owned medical supply company. Her job necessitated lots of travel, visits to hundreds of doctors’ offices and hospitals scattered over the Southern California area.
To Dana’s surprise, she loved her work. Her hours were her own, and she liked working with people. The unexpected bonus was Julian. The son of a bitch had been able to prey upon her when her routine consisted of driving to and from the market. But with her on the road most of the time, traveling from office to office, the bastard just couldn’t seem to keep up with her schedule. It was too hard for him to stalk over wide distances.
As a traveling salesperson, Dana was meticulous about the care and upkeep of her car. So she was surprised when her Volvo—
usually as reliable as a dray horse—stalled on the freeway.
Of course this had to happen at night.
Quickly, she pulled the car over to the side, shut off the motor, shifted back to neutral, and tried again. The engine kicked in but knocked loudly as she drove. Then the motor started smoking.
By her calculations, she was still some twenty miles away from home. Immediately, she pulled the car off the freeway, hoping to find a twenty-four-hour service station. But as Dana peered over the deserted ink-washed streets, she decided that getting off the freeway had been a bad idea. Better to be in a trafficked area. She’d phone the AAA from a freeway call box.
Though Dana had only traveled around six blocks, she had abruptly lost her sense of direction. She made a couple of turns, her car bucking at each shift of the wind. Abandoned and fearful, she felt swallowed up by urban decay.
The engine heaved a final hacking cough before dying. Again Dana tried to breathe life into the machine. Though the motor turned over and over, wheezing like an asthmatic, it refused to kick in.
Suddenly, Dana was aware of her heartbeat.
She had been on the road for over three hours, coming back from San Bernardino. She knew she was somewhere in downtown Los Angeles but wasn’t exactly sure where. She had taken the Los Angeles Street exit from the Santa Monica Freeway. During the day, Los Angeles Street held small shops and open-air stalls of discount apparel. But late at night, as the hands on Dana’s watch approached the witching hour, the streets were ugly and desolate.
She didn’t panic, though. Her .32 was in her glove compartment. She inserted the key into the box’s lock, turned it to the left, and then the door dropped like a drawbridge. She picked up the hard-packed metal. Moonlight struck her eyes as she examined her reflection in the nickel-plated steel. Without thinking, she realized she was fixing her hair.
Well, that makes sense, Dana. Primp and preen so you’ll look attractive to all those rapists.
She let the gun drop to her lap and tried the engine for a final time. The motor spat out rapid clicks that sounded like rounds of muted machine-gun fire.
She yanked the keys out of the ignition and threw them in her purse. Exhaling out loud, she rooted through the glove compartment until she found the box of bullets. Little compact things. For a minute she fingered them like worry beads, the slender pellets picking up sweat from her hands. Then she loaded the gun. Checking the safety catch, she stowed the revolver inside her jacket.
Dana got out of the car.
She shut the door, securing the car with the beep of a remote. Forget about fixing the damn engine. Just walk back to the freeway, find a roadside phone, call a taxi, and get the hell home. She’d worry about the Volvo in the morning.
If it was still there in the morning. The neighborhood was rich with car thieves and other bad actors.
Don’t even think about it.
The sky was foggy, moonlight glowing iridescent through the mist. It was good that there was a moon out tonight, because the streetlights offered little illumination. Just tiny spots of yellow blobs looking like stains of dog piss.
First things first, Dana thought. Find out where you parked so you can direct the AAA back in the morning.
She had stalled in the middle of a long, deserted block. Nothing much in the way of immediate landmarks. The street held old two-story buildings fronted with iron bars and grates. As Dana’s eyes swept over the street, she noticed a few vacant lots between the stores, breaking up the rows like a giant smile missing a couple of teeth.
Most of the buildings were in disrepair. Some of them had bricks missing from the facades; others had their surface stucco pocked by bullets. All the structures were heavily graffitied. The shops were chockablock retail outlets. Dust-covered windows displayed kitchen supplies and tool chests sitting next to boom boxes, CD players, and television sets. Dresses and jackets were strung on clotheslines across the ceiling, the apparel looking like headless apparitions. Nothing distinct about any of the shops. No names stenciled onto the doors or windows, and the signs above were illegible in the dark.
Just get home and worry about it later.
Warding off the willies, Dana hurried toward the nearest street corner, hearing footsteps echoing behind her. Though wrapped in a wool jacket, Dana realized her legs, encased in thin nylon, were freezing. Her feet, shoved into hard leather pumps, felt like ice blocks. Looking over her shoulders, eyes darting about, she jogged stiffly to the corner, heels clacking against the sidewalk.
No street signs.
Where was she? And where the hell was the freeway? She couldn’t see in the dark, couldn’t make out any elevated roads of concrete. Dana knew she hadn’t driven very far from the freeway. Damn thing had to be around here someplace.
A distant shriek made her jump. Who or what had made that noise? A victim’s cry for help? Someone whooping for joy? Maybe it was just a night owl.
Heart racing, she realized she was breathing too fast.
Don’t panic! Dana instructed herself. Use your brain!
No, she couldn’t see the freeway. But she could hear it. A soft, distant whooshing of cars passing by at high speeds.
Follow the noise. She turned left at the corner.
Walking toward the sound, making sharp taps on the pavement. Her hands were numb, frigid fingers stuffed into her pockets.
Another turn. She couldn’t be far from the on-ramp now.
Her footsteps reverberating, trailing her like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs.
Clack, clack, clack, clack . . .
The blast of a motorcycle shot through the air. Dana stopped, jumped, brought her hand to her chest. She took a deep breath and pressed on. A turn right, then a turn left. Passing one store after another, her stride quick and efficient.
Clack, clack, clack, clack . . .
Another block. More stores. A disquieting sense of sameness . . . stillness.
A ghost town.
Then the strained rumbling of a semi going uphill.
Freeway noises.
Yet the sounds were as distant as before. Was she walking in circles? Toward the noises? Away from the noise? She was disoriented, lost, and scared.
A chill ran down her spine. She spun around, her eyes catching a glimpse of a shadow.
Or did they?
She was seeing things.
A turn to her left, something darted out of sight.
Her imagination playing head games.
Stop it! she ordered herself.
She began to sweat, clay-cold fingers now slippery wet. She rubbed clammy fingers on her skirt. Looked all around.
Go back to the car!
Where was the car?
Moisture poured off her forehead.
She turned around, heels going clack, clack, clack, clack . . .
Noises followed her.
She stopped cold in her tracks.
Silence.
She continued on, then heard the foreign noises again.
Little pat-pat noises. Rubber-soled shoes—like rodents scurrying in the attic.
Again she stopped.
And so did the noises.
What to do! What to do!
Julian!
Son of a bitch!
This time he was going to get her.
Or so he thought!
She willed herself to breathe slowly, rubbed her hands together.
She took a few steps forward.
Clack, clack, clack, followed by pat, pat, pat.
She stopped walking.
So did he.
She pivoted around.
Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. A quiet night except for the rapid inhalations of her own breathing. Slowly she made out distant echoes.
A few more steps.
She stopped, jerked her head over her shoulder. Saw nothing but dewy air.
Kept walking.
More footsteps behind her.
She started running.
So did he.
Footsteps keeping pace with her, stalking her. Louder, harder, closer. Panic seized her body.
Don’t turn around. Don’t let the bastard see your fear.
And then the absurdity hit her.
Your fear?!
You’re letting the bastard make you feel fear?!
Slowly, her right hand reached for her revolver, icicle-hard fingers gripping the butt of the gun.
With shaking hands, she retracted it from her jacket.
This is for you, you bastard!
No more!
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 11
