13 Suspense

by Parnell Hall

  My god.

  Where was I?

  What happened?

  Who was here?

  My eyes, now open, darted around the semi-darkness. Could see virtually nothing.

  The next sensation was that I could not move.

  What the hell?

  I strained my arms to no avail.

  And my legs.

  I could not move at all.

  I was sitting upright in a chair, and I couldn’t move my arms or legs.

  Or upper body. I strained with my chest, but could not push away from the chair.

  My neck was free, though. I could twist and turn my head, look around. Not that I could see anything in the dark.

  Except me.

  I could see the outline of my body, see where I was.

  I was sitting in a hard, straight-backed armchair. My hands were attached to the arms of the chair. In fact, my whole lower arms were. Attached by something silvery, something that glimmered in the dim light.

  In a flash, I realized what it was. Gaffer’s tape. At least, that’s what they called it in the movies. The other name was duct tape. Anyway, it was strong, wide, silver tape. And it was wound around my arms from the elbows to the wrists, taping my forearms to the arms of the chair.

  Though I could not see, I realized my legs were taped to the legs of the chair in similar fashion. Just as my chest was taped to the back. Just as larger loops of tape encircled my upper arms, pinning them to the back of the chair as well.

  Good god.

  Who had done this?

  And why?

  The who I thought I knew. Wilber Penrose. That’s why he wasn’t home. He was down here, lying in wait. For what reason I could not imagine, but say that he was. Was it possible? Could that meek, ineffectual little man have done all this? Have planned all this? Have had all this in mind? Even while he sat there, leading me on, play-acting, talking about his books? Could Wilber Penrose be such a cold, ruthless, calculating fiend?

  I just used the word fiend. Get a grip. Don’t panic. Hang on to reality. You’ve got to find a way out of this.

  As if there was anything I could do.

  The main thing was not to panic, not to lose control, not to give in to the sheer terror, utter fright.

  What is he going to do to me?

  And why, why, why? There is no reason. There is nothing I have done. In my whole investigation, there is nothing I have done that is the equivalent of stepping on anyone’s toes. No reason to make it personal, put fish in my car, leave notes with my name on them. Guess who? I can’t even guess why.

  I sat there in the semi-dark, strapped to the chair, my mind racing, going over it all, trying to make some sense.

  What was it Winnington had said about suspense—the identity of the killer wasn’t important. Like hell. But that wasn’t what he meant. Not that it wasn’t important, that it didn’t necessarily have to follow the logic of a standard mystery. That it wasn’t play-fair. That it didn’t have to be a logical suspect, someone you had met before. That it was merely an inexorable source of evil, powering the events.

  Did that help me? Not one bit. And I didn’t buy it for a moment. The killer was someone who knew me, and someone I knew. Guess who?

  Guess who indeed.

  My mind raced over the suspects, Wilber Penrose chief among them. But there was the other wannabe writer—what was her name? Oh, yeah, Linda Toole. I never met her, but could it still be her? Could she have somehow found out I was on her trail?

  No, more than likely it was someone I had met.

  Agent Abe Feinstein? Quite possible. Another little old man. No alibi for either murder. The motive I couldn’t even begin to guess at. Still, he was certainly possible.

  Elizabeth Abbott? Could it be? Did the killer have to be a man? Well, it was a man who put the note in my mailbox. At least according to Jerry the elevator man. Still, a man with a coat and a hat pulled down over his eyes. A little man with no beard or moustache. Could it have been a woman?

  My mind took the next unwilling leap.

  Could it have been my client?

  Could it have been Maxine Winnington?

  No, logic told me. Not possible. Entirely too convoluted. She sets up the crank phone calls herself, so she’ll have an excuse to hire a private detective, so she can kill him?

  Why did I say kill him? No one’s trying to kill me. This is all a game.

  Isn’t it?

  Get control.

  Keep thinking. Get your mind going. You were thinking about the suspects.

  Right. What about the secretary, what’s-his-name? I’m losing it, I can’t remember anything. Pryne. David Pryne. After all, he was the one who had the unlisted number before anyone else. Sure, he was there when some of the calls came in. But if he had an accomplice making the calls—well, could he have passed for the old man in the elevator, all hunched up in a coat? Well, why not. Jerry wasn’t sure how old.

  Could it be him?

  Was he the one who tied me up and left me here?

  At that moment there was only one thing I knew for sure—whoever had done this, it wasn’t wannabe writer Noah Sprague, who was currently in the custody of the NYPD.

  Sergeant Thurman was wrong and I was right.

  Small consolation.

  Needless to say, I had been struggling all the while to get free. But I was taped so tightly to the chair that I could not move at all. Nor could I move the chair. Attempting to lurch my body in one direction or another produced absolutely no result. Whoever it was who had done this had me entirely at his mercy. Completely at his whim. For whatever reason I could not fathom.

  For whatever reason I was not sure I wished, to know.

  A sudden creak of the door sent a shock through my body like an electric current. My head snapped up straight. I nearly wet my pants.

  Good god, this was it. Whatever was going to happen would happen now.

  Then the sound of footsteps creaking on the wooden floor. Slow. Deliberate. Taking their time. Too slow. Way too slow for any practical purpose.

  Except to scare me half to death.

  Then, from out of the darkness, from out of the shadows.

  A shape.

  A man.

  Or was it?

  Could it be a woman in men’s clothes?

  Hard to tell It could be anyone.

  Wilber Penrose?

  A step closer.

  A flicker of light on the features.

  Not Wilber Penrose.

  Thin. Clean shaven. And ...

  No one I’d seen before.

  Not Abe Feinstein or Elizabeth Abbott. Not Maxine or Kenneth P. Winnington. Not the secretary David Pryne.

  That left ...

  Linda Toole!

  The other wannabe? The woman? I never met her, so could it be her?

  No.

  It was a man. A man’s face. Unknown, and yet vaguely familiar too.

  The man stopped and stood there, looking at me.

  “Well,” he said, “did you guess?”

  The voice seemed vaguely familiar too. Still I could not place it.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  The lips curled up into a smile. A leering, gloating smile. But the eyes remained hard.

  “So,” he said. “You still don’t know. Have I changed that much? Yes, I suppose I have. But physically? Well, maybe the facial hair. Picture me with a moustache.”

  I’m poor at faces, under the best of circumstances. In a movie theater, for instance, where the worst not recognizing the actor on the screen will get me is the scorn of my wife. But here, now, when my life depended on it—to picture him with a moustache, what the hell did that mean? This little man, standing there, gloating at me. What would a moustache do to his appearance that—

  I thought I had reached the limit. I thought I was as scared as I could be.

  I was wrong.

  Because in that instant, with the revelation, it suddenly felt as if all the blood had drained out of my
body.

  Because suddenly I recognized him.

  Suddenly I knew.

  Standing before me was one man I had never even thought of, had never expected to ever see again.

  Carlton Kraswell.

  46.

  YEAH, I KNOW. THE NAME means nothing to you. There it was, a revelation that didn’t reveal. Just as Kenneth P. Winnington had predicted. Why didn’t I listen? I asked his opinion, why didn’t I take it? Why didn’t I let his logic put me on the right track? But I didn’t, and now I’m dorked, and now in all likelihood I’m going to be tortured and die.

  I know, I know, I’m rambling, I can’t do that, I gotta stay calm, I gotta think clearly, deal with him, find a way out of it. As if such a thing were possible, as if something could be done.

  But, Jesus Christ, Carlton Kraswell.

  Of all the people in the world, Carlton Kraswell.

  My worst nightmare.

  You see, many, many years ago I’d sent Carlton Kraswell to jail. For murder. Cold-blooded, premeditated murder. He’d taken a full fall, twenty-five to life. Which was why I was so surprised to see him. There was no way he could be here now.

  Yet here he was, large as life, grinning like a banshee.

  “So,” he said. “Recognize me, do you? Remember me now? Good. It’s important that you do. It means a lot to me. Really.”

  Carlton Kraswell walked forward into the light. Slowly, step by step, until he stood right before me.

  “Yes, you remember me, don’t you? You remember me now.” He reached out, took my chin in his hand, tilted my face toward his. “But not like I remember you.”

  I recoiled at the touch, jerked my head away.

  He raised his finger. “Tut, tut, now. Let’s have none of that. I’d like to explain the situation to you.”

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out something flat, took it in both hands, pulled it open, held it up. It was a straight razor. What little light there was glinted off the blade.

  He held the razor up against my face. “I expect you to cooperate. If you don’t, measures will have to be taken. I leave it to you to figure what they might be.”

  He snapped the razor shut, stuck it back in his pocket. Looked at me and smiled. His manner was light and whimsical. He had a jaunty air.

  It was positively chilling.

  “So, as I was saying, I doubt if you remember me as well as I remember you. After all, to you I was just another case. Chalk it up and on to the next. But to me ... well, I remember it well.”

  He chuckled a moment, then his eyes got hard. “Do you remember the night of my arrest? It wasn’t just that you gave me to the cops. No, you also taunted me. Gave me a bill for your services. Remember that? Told me I’d paid for my own arrest. Thought it was pretty funny. Do you think it’s so funny now?”

  “Is that why you’re doing this?”

  “Shut up.” Kraswell raised a finger. “When I want you to talk, I’ll say so. If I don’t say so, don’t talk. If you can’t follow this simple instruction, I will have to take certain measures. For instance, I could slice your windpipe, and you would be unable to talk. Unfortunately, in a few minutes, you would also be dead. Now, I don’t want that to happen, so please don’t talk.”

  He frowned. “Where was I. Oh, yes, the humiliating arrest. Humiliating, yes, but how minor. How very minor.” He shook his head, exhaled, looked away. “Do you know what it’s like in prison?” He put up his hand. “No, don’t answer that. That’s a rhetorical question. These are all rhetorical questions, so don’t speak. I’ll tell you when they’re not. But do you know what it’s like in prison? Do you know what it’s like for a man like me? A white man, small and frail? Do you have any idea? Being raped repeatedly by large, black men. Repeatedly. Savagely. Again, and again. To be passed around. Traded for cigarettes. For cigarettes, for god’s sake. To be forced to perform humiliating, degrading acts. While others watched. Mocked and jeered. Waited their turn.” Kraswell’s eyes burned. “Do you know what that felt like? Do you have any idea?”

  No, I didn’t. But I understood. Kraswell’s obsessive hatred. His lust for revenge. When he spoke, suddenly everything clicked into place.

  Good god, what was he going to do to me?

  As if he could read my mind, Kraswell grinned and nodded. “Yes. Yes, you’ve got it now. You understand the game. Because that’s what it is. It’s a game called I win. Or more to the point, a game called You lose. Basically, it’s very simple. I want you to suffer as much as I have. Even though I’m not sure it’s possible, I’m going to give it that old college try.

  “So far, I’ve merely played with your mind. It was fun, but not that satisfying.” He smiled. “Did you like the fish? Did you go nuts trying to figure that out? I was following you that day, saw you get in the car with your wife and drive off. I didn’t try to follow you then, but there was no need. Now I knew your car, and I knew where you lived. How hard could it be? I came back that night, walked the blocks near your building. And there it was, right on your street. I broke the window, left the pile of fish. Did you wonder why?”

  He pointed at me. “You can answer that.”

  It was so abrupt it caught me off guard. I blinked. Didn’t know what to say.

  “Too scared to talk, huh?” Kraswell nodded. “Frankly, I’m not surprised. Anyway, I thought you might enjoy the bit with the fish. Because by then we were already playing the game. Oh, I followed you. I stalked you for days. You got a case. A big case. At least, from your point of view. It seemed only fitting to fuck it up.

  “First off was the publicist. She was a big help. She gave me a lot of information. Before I strangled her. I thought that was a nice touch. You have an appointment with the woman and she dies. The note was fortuitous. There on the coffee table was a note with your name on it. So why not put it in her hand. Did you like that touch? That was rhetorical, you needn’t answer.”

  Kraswell chuckled. Shook his head. “Yeah, I know. I’m standing here confessing. Telling you the whole plot. Like a villain in a bad movie. You know the kind I mean? He’s got the hero helpless, why doesn’t he just kill him? Instead he stands there gloating about what he’s done.”

  He broke off, leaned in to me. “Well, in this case, it’s the whole point. I want you to know what I’ve done. I did it for you to know. I don’t want you to die. I want you to suffer.”

  God, what conflicting emotions ran through me at that moment. He doesn’t want me to die. Maybe there’s a way out of this. Maybe I’ll live.

  But at what cost? He wants me to suffer, what is he going to do? He’s got a straight razor. Is he going to castrate me? And if he did—oh, my god, if he did—would I live through it? Would I want to live through it? Oh, my god.

  “Hey, hey.” Kraswell had me by the chin. “Pay attention. Look at me. I’m not half done. So, what happens with the second one? Well, that’s just the same as the first. You call on him, he dies. Only now I’m prepared. I have my gun. This time there’s no note, but big deal, I have the guy at gunpoint, I make him write a note. He’s holding it when I shoot—I don’t even have to put it in his hand.”

  He smiled again. “And what gives me the greatest pleasure, what pleases me to no end, is knowing you will go nuts attributing these murders to the case that you’re working on, and attempting to figure them out, to make them make sense, to absolutely no avail. My god, it’s positively delicious.

  “Because, you see,” Kraswell said, “I am fucking with your head. That is what I am doing all along, and what I am doing now. I am fucking with you the way you fucked with me. I am putting you through living hell. And what I want you to realize, the concept I want you to come up with, is how far I’m willing to go, how ruthless I’m willing to be. I killed two people for no other reason but to fuck up your head.

  “But that was nothing.

  “That was foreplay.

  “That was an appetizer.

  “Guess what I’m going to do now.”

  Kraswell stood
there gloating for a few moments, then turned and walked away. He returned immediately carrying a black bag. It was the size and shape of a gym bag, might have contained his sneakers and basketball.

  Somehow I didn’t think so.

  He set the bag on the floor in front of me, straightened up and smiled. “Do you know what I have here? That was rhetorical again. Don’t worry, I’m going to tell you. See, one of the advantages of being in jail—yes, there are advantages too—is that you learn things. All kinds of things. Would you like to know what I learned? Yes, that was rhetorical again. You are going to learn, whether you want to or not. Here, I’ll show you.

  He bent down, unzipped the bag, took something out.

  I watched, not wanting to see, but unable to look away.

  I gawked.

  Good god.

  What Carlton Kraswell was holding was something I’d seen in movies, read about in books, but could not imagine encountering in real life.

  It was an alarm clock and a bundle of sticks of dynamite.

  Kraswell wasn’t looking at it, he was looking at me, and liking what he saw. “Yes, yes,” he said gleefully. “You recognize it, of course. It’s exactly what it looks like. A homemade bomb. And I have to admit, I had to get over an initial prejudice too. It looks like something out of a cartoon, doesn’t it. One of those old cliffhanger serials. But the thing is, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Believe me, it works just fine. Want me to tell you how?”

  Kraswell chuckled again. “Well, guess what. It doesn’t matter what you want. I’m going to tell you anyhow. Because that’s part of the fun. Let me give you a little lesson here on how this thing works.”

  Kraswell held up the bomb, pointed out the features. “First off, it’s a time bomb. Obviously. Because of the clock.”

  Kraswell pointed to it. It was a metal, round-faced clock with a bell on top. “Just your basic alarm clock. The wind-up kind. I believe it’s fully wound, but let’s make sure. Yes, it’s fully wound. Both the time and the alarm. You will notice it is set to the correct time, which is now what? Three-eighteen. And the alarm—what’s the alarm set for? It’s rather small, maybe you can’t see. But it happens to be set for eight o’clock.”