by Mic Palmer
Try as he did, however, to undermine his newborn repose, his only response was to consider his next move. As much as he could not control the evidence, or Pelletier, or how quickly or slowly his mind worked, he could control his actions, and for now at least that was all that seemed to matter.
Chapter Sixty-Six
The sun found its way through the slats in the blind and tickled Jack’s eyes. Having gone to bed early, he had a deep crease running down the side of his face – evidence of just how well he had slept.
Yawning deeply, he felt his jaw crack as he stretched out his arms and grasped the remote, but just as quickly he tossed it across the room.
“Enough,” he mumbled. Having had his fill of historians, psychologists, and journalists, he decided to sit back and let events take their course.
The killers were obsessed, competitive, dangerously brazen, which meant that sooner or later they’d make a mistake. In the meantime he’d do what he could to clear his mind – relax, sketch, maybe take in a museum, assuming of course he could come up with a suitable disguise.
Almost feeling as though he was playing hooky, he again returned to the book, this time leisurely, bemusedly, hopefully – not so much as an escape, but a truly rewarding delectation.
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon depicted elongated women with primitive, geometric, masklike faces. They were all nude and jagged, as if from a bordello with a fourth dimension.
“Weird,” Jack reflected, wondering how people came up with such things. And yet for Picasso, it was just one of many radical innovations – one so successful in fact that Modigliani seemed to make a career of it.
“Maybe my own repertoire could use a little tweaking,” he thought to himself. Given the abundance of thick glossy pages, his arms were growing fatigued, so he grabbed a pillow, placed it on his chest, and then rested the book on top of it.
There he was, Orozco. Jack had always thought of him as being rather small, ponderous, propagandistic, but that in large part was due to his teacher.
Orlando always saw everything in terms of groups and politics, but the more Jack read, the more he came to feel that Orozco wasn’t like that at all. Having scrutinized the half dozen works reproduced in the book, he sensed in the artist not only flexibility, universality, and transcendence, but in many ways the whole history of art.
Originally thick, blocky, and immobile, such as in his Revolution Trinity, his subjects slowly but surely came to life, until by the end of his career they had become airy, animated, even impressionistic. Looking down upon his Man on Fire, Jack recalled the uncanny sense of becoming he had received from the unfinished Michelangelo pieces. The mural was violent, swirling, and in many ways frustrating, mostly because of its inchoate form and loose brush strokes.
At the center of the piece is the burning figure of a man, who only partially formed seems to be coming into being through what appears to be a circle formed by the arms of others, as if to invoke a cycle of creation and destruction.
“It’s all a struggle,” Jack couldn’t help but reflect, but then he read on.
Originally exuberant over the revolution, Orozco signed a pact with Rivera and Siqueiros to the effect that art should be pre-Cortesian, nationalistic, worker oriented, class conscious, and socialistic. Such formulas, however, were soon deemed just as narrow and stale as the reactionary forces he had originally railed against.
For the dialectic to proceed, for the process to work itself out, for any chance of a unified understanding of what is, Orozco eventually embraced the need for perpetual conflict, not for its own sake, but to challenge perceptions, especially those pertaining to tribalism.
Thinking about his own recent musings on the issue, Jack couldn’t help but laugh. Did he really believe that being from a different background would somehow change who he was?
Caustically observing that people often spoke of their bloodlines as if they were racehorses, Orozco believed that if there was any hope for the future, the past would have to be placed in its proper perspective – not forgotten mind you, but not mythologized either. This being the case, the artist’s later work was a tribute to conflict, destruction, and synthesis. Quite fittingly, therefore, the section on him concluded with a piece entitled, The Raising of Lazarus, which was about as different from his earlier efforts as night and day.
A somber Jesus places his hand upon the skeletal remains of the title character in the presence of a rather sordid looking crowd, which both terrified yet appalled react much like people always have. They resist, deny, attack, but eventually it sinks in, and before long they are reborn.
“Interesting,” Jack thought to himself. Orozco apparently had spent some time up the road in Coney Island. More than that he had written about it. Fondly recalling the crowded beaches, colored lights, pyrotechnics, and freak shows, he seemed to find in the former amusement capital all of the action he hoped to capture in his art.
Above him Jack could hear the thumping of children as they slammed doors and raced up and down the uncarpeted hallways. “What a place to bring kids,” he mused. Tossing the book onto the end table, he stretched out his arms and legs over the lumpy bed.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Just as usual the morning began to the sound of knuckles rapping against doors. “Housekeeping,” shouted the cleaning lady, and for the first time in days Jack didn’t consider ringing her neck.
Feeling a powerful hunger, he took a quick shower, got dressed, then headed out in search of pancakes.
Just a couple of miles down the road he found an old fashioned diner. Situated beneath an Italian restaurant, it required its patrons to descend a flight of narrow concrete steps that opened up into a large anteroom containing a shoe shine stand and newspaper kiosk. Not surprisingly, it was jammed, and Jack had to take a seat at the counter.
“Coffee?” asked the bus boy, already with a pot in his hand.
“Please,” said Jack, having just sat down. Feeling unnaturally relaxed, he found himself taking a couple of subtle sniffs to further evaluate the rather pleasant mix of aromas he was sensing. Through the smell of bacon and onions he could detect the sweet sappy but not overly confectionary aroma of real maple syrup – no plastic containers and sugar sauce for this place.
While waiting to order he turned to the sports page. The Jets were eleven point underdogs against New England. That seemed a bit high to him. Nevertheless, he wished he could have called Gomez to put in a bet for him.
Feeling rather silly in his ski cap and sunglasses, he ordered the “Rockaway Sock-it-way,” which consisted of two eggs, two pieces of bacon, two links of sausage, a stack of pancakes, and hash browns. To hell with the diet.
Irresistibly, Jack began sketching the waiter on a napkin. He was a wide faced mono-browed fellow with expressive eyes, wind burnt skin, and silver hair as thick as a shoe brush. In his seventies, he had the look of a fisherman.
“Is that me?” he asked Jack, when he saw what he was doing.
“That’s your tip.”
The man didn’t know what to say.
“I’m joking,” chuckled Jack.
The waiter lifted it up and waived it to his co-workers. “Look at this,” he boasted with a Greek accent, “have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” said Jack, with a wry grin.
“No, what you mean? I can’t wait to show my wife. Maybe then she’ll understand what she got.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“I bring you extra,” the waiter told him, and within minutes he was back with a platter so densely packed that it could have crushed a small dog.
Jack didn’t think diners like this existed anymore. The eggs were fresh, the pancakes buttery, and the home fries crispy, with just the right amount of peppers and onions. Already covered in butter, the crunchy white toast quickly sopped up the bright yellow yolks – just as a cocker spaniel paraded its way before one of the basement style windows.
For a mom
ent Jack thought it was going to do its business right there in front of him, but before it could comfortably position itself, it was yanked away, only to be replaced by a small boy in a red jacket. Pressing his index finger against the glass, he touched into existence a rather obvious yet important idea.
“Windows,” Jack whispered to himself.
Noticing that he appeared visibly upset, the waiter asked him if anything was wrong.
“No,” Jack told him. “I just forgot something.”
The waiter sympathized. “Last week I run around all morning looking for my keys and where were they? In my pocket.”
“I’ve done the same thing, only with my wallet.”
“Age. I tell you.”
“I know.”
“Ahh. You’re young.”
Throughout the exchange Jack’s mind was elsewhere. He was trying to picture Pelletier’s backyard, but try as he did, he couldn’t recall any basement windows.
Covering his toast with blueberry jam, some of which dripped onto the face of Kim Jong Un, he abruptly stopped himself. “Leave it to the police,” he again heard himself thinking.
Then again, what if both lunatics simultaneously decided to suspend their killing spree? What would become of him then? Maybe they’d have some kind of psychological breakthrough, die of heart attacks, or much more likely, just disappear.
Some of these guys manage to last for years, and the way they do it is to act in spurts. Rather than taking more and more chances, they tone it down, take a break, go normal. That would be just his luck, but both of them – what were the odds?
Taking a big gulp of coffee, he crumpled his napkin and threw it onto what remained of his breakfast. His first thought was to return to Pelletier’s while he was still at work. Then again who was to say he hadn’t already taken off? Perhaps the alarm had made him suspicious. Most likely, however, he didn’t even know about it. Having sounded for a while, it had probably re-set itself, but even if it didn’t, alarms go off all the time. In all likelihood he’d attribute it to some sort of mechanical failure, the wind or just plain happenstance. After all nothing had been disturbed.
The truth, however, was that he couldn’t be sure, which was why he again decided to call him, only this time he’d hang up. No more games. If Pelletier found this to be suspicious, so be it. Jack would be in and out of the place before he even reached Queens. Nevertheless, he was counting on two things; one, that a serial killer wouldn’t have his alarm tied to a central station; and two, that whatever neighbor managed to hear the alarm over their televisions and headphones would wait a few minutes before calling the police.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Nothing ever goes without a hitch, Jack’s quick telephone call being no exception. For Pelletier wasn’t picking up, and the man taking his calls wouldn’t say if he was in. Whether he was being evasive or had language problems, Jack couldn’t tell, but the exchange was infuriating.
“I’ll just call back,” Jack told him. “Let’s say five minutes?”
“Ok.”
“He’ll be there in five minutes?”
“I no sure.”
“What about a half hour?”
“That good.”
“I’ll be able to speak to him then?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m thinking about stopping in. Will I be able to see him? Is he there?”
“You leave message. He call you back.”
Speaking loudly, Jack wished he could reach through the lines and shake the man by his shoulders. “Listen. I’m coming over. I just want to make sure he’s going to be there.”
“Yes. I take message.”
Now he was shouting. “WOULD YOU JUST TELL ME WHEN I CAN SPEAK WITH HIM.”
Pelletier’s worker answered in kind. “ANYTIME. LEAVE NAME.”
Jack made a conscious effort to calm himself down. “When you say ‘anytime’ do you mean within the next hour?”
The man on the other end was trying to be polite, but couldn’t help but display his own frustration. “Any time, any time!” he responded, as if he were making a point.
Jack felt like smashing the phone into a thousand pieces. He was in the area and ready, but couldn’t confirm whether the guy was home or not.
Just as he was about to try one more time, the operator asked for a coin deposit. Jack patted himself down and then raced to his car, but by the time he returned the line had already been disconnected.
“Maybe I should just call him at his home,” he ruminated, “but if he picked up, that would be it.”
After all of the funny calls Pelletier had been getting, he’d know for sure that something was up, and Jack’s chance to search the place would probably be lost forever.
About as ready as he was ever going to get, Jack worried that if he was forced to wait another day he’d again reconsider. Worse yet, it finally dawned him that doing nothing could very well result in the death of yet another innocent woman.
Parked a few blocks from Pelletier’s house, Jack stared off into the distance. A misty rain fell. Good. It would keep people inside.
While his inclination remained that Pelletier had gone to work, he decided to play it safe by sneaking into his backyard from a neighbor’s, just in case he was keeping watch.
“Ok,” Jack thought to himself, having made his way to the garage, “let’s see what we’ve got.” Just as he thought, the truck was gone, meaning that the house was most likely empty, but did he really want to do this?
Whatever was in that basement wasn’t going to be pretty. More than this, it would be just his luck for Pelletier to arrive just when he was at his most vulnerable. Nevertheless, he urged himself forward, all the while soothing himself with the reassuring notion that just as always his observations and deductions would prove to be nothing more than the wild meanderings of a feeble mind.
Glancing at this watch, he decided to give himself eight minutes and not a second more – whether he found something or not. Although an arbitrary choice, he looked upon it as if it were a commandment. Mildly superstitious, he assured himself that so long as he stuck to this simple rule everything would turn out alright.
Having picked the lock, he again triggered the alarm, and as much as he was prepared for it, still found himself reeling. Finally, crossing the threshold, he felt as though he was entering some sort of horror film.
Pelletier was as neat as Bundy, even more so, and Jack began to lump them together. “Sociopaths,” he mouthed to himself. Pathologically anal, they couldn’t stand to have a thing out of place and for this reason lived sparsely, austerely, with neither clutter nor ornamentation. As if trying to simulate what a home should look like, they gathered up all of the necessary furniture and decor, but failed to create the impression of warmth or comfort. There was no sentiment about the place, no personality, no charm. Much like a hotel suite, it was cold, sterile, vapid, inviting comparisons to its owner.
Having entered through the kitchen, Jack went from room to room, looking for a door to the basement. All he turned up, however, were some rather ordinary looking closets.
“Damn it,” he uttered, with the alarm still blaring. Realizing that time was running out of time, he figured he’d make one last search of the kitchen after which he’d have to leave.
With twenty foot granite counters, silver bladed ceiling fans, and the most expensive appliances money could buy, it certainly didn’t look like the type of room that would lead to a dungeon. Nevertheless, he ran his palms over the wallpaper, lifted the mats, and shined a flashlight into cabinets, but again he came up empty.
“That’s it,” he thought to himself, somewhat relieved. “Time’s just about up.”
Having seen one too many slasher film, however, he thought he’d take a quick look in the refrigerator. Perhaps he’d find a severed appendage or some other keepsake.
The silver door was large and heavy, with nary a post card, reminder, or photograph on it. Feeling the suction of the magnets as he pulled it
open, he girded himself for what he had hoped would be a significant piece of evidence. What he found, however, were a couple of boxes of Chinese food, a few cans of soda, a quart of milk, some cheese and butter, and an old fashioned glass bottle of ketchup, all of which were tossed about the shelves without the slightest bit of care. Odd for someone so neat.
Whether it was the pressure of being caught, the revelations about his youth, or the lingering doubts he held about his own role in the murders, he couldn’t say, but the tipped over bottle of ketchup for some reason made him sick. Feeling as though he was about to lose consciousness, he placed his palms against the refrigerator and turned his head to the floor.
Sure, ketchup had always bothered him, but never like this. With the high pitched alarm buzzing through his thoughts, he felt as though he had been stabbed in the temple with an ice pick, but then it passed, quickly, easily, as if something had broken free, and all at once he understood.
Even while the events of the last couple of weeks had begun to tickle long dormant parts of his brain, it took a home invasion to wake them up, only the result wasn’t quite what Jack expected.
Rather than some deep dark secret that would forever change him, the answer proved just as mundane and silly as every other damn aspect of his life. As a matter of fact it was laughable.
For that terrible liquid he had been covered with as a child was nothing more than Ketchup.
As opposed to butchering a small animal, he had simply gotten up in the middle of the night and spilled the stuff all over himself, probably while attempting to drink it.
He wasn’t a vampire at all, just a typical kid, with a minor sleep disorder. That’s why his father went back to the adoption agency. He wanted to know if it ran in the family and if so what to expect.
As to the repression of this episode, what could be more natural? A young child forced to stay overnight at a clinic of some sort; who wouldn’t try to forget it? His subconscious, unfortunately, refused to play along, the upshot of which was that he had spent the last thirty years taking his hamburgers with mayonnaise.
