CHAPTER TWO
I WAS MURDERED
I walked because he walked.
I stopped because he stopped, I turned because he turned, I ate because he ate, I peed because he peed, I washed my hands because he didn't. I drove because he drove, I smiled because he frowned, I went to his home because he went elsewhere. And he paid me well for it.
I was his shadow.
I have a little shadow, it goes in and out with me.
Yeah, well, maybe not with you.
I was invisible, a will 'o the wisp, the soft footprints which left no mark. I was the low chuckle floating in the wind, growling louder when ignored yet maddeningly faint when strained to hear. I was the prophetic whisper of doom he swatted away but which returned in a swarm to buzz endlessly in his paranoid mind.
I was the look of fear reflected in the store window, seeming to hover over one shoulder, then the next, blending with his image to become him and vanish as he spun in circles.
I was in front, I was behind, I was on the side, I was all around. Following, always following, to the ends of the earth and the edge of sanity. Then, discontent with simply following, I would reach out and administer a gentle touch to undermine precious balance and reveal the bottomless chasm underfoot.
He was walking now, half a block in front of me. He had parked his car a good distance from his destination for security. He thought that clever, as if the act of parking would still the scent. It was dusk and there were people out. There were always people out in this little storefront strip surrounded by suburbs and shoppers. Every now and then he would turn and look back to make sure no one was wise. He'd squint at times, searching, other times more casually, looking at his watch or pretending to be lost. But he wasn't lost. I knew his routine. I knew her name. I knew where she lived. He was almost there.
He actually had two; this one and the one at the office. This one, tonight's fare, was the wife of one of his managers who had been sent out of town for a three-day computer seminar. One must upgrade. The one at the office he did at the office, either behind closed doors or on one of his many lunches spent on a deserted utility road in the company Cadillac. You had to admire a man who could compartmentalize so efficiently, expending equal energies at home and at work.
As he walked I kept the camcorder ready and spoke notes into my digital recorder.
7:14 -- Subject parked black BMW at the southwest corner of Grandview and Brookhaven and began walking in an easterly direction. Walked two blocks on Grandview, headed south on 3rd Ave. one block, then east on Elmhurst to the third house on south side.
7:27 -- Subject entered the yard at 2510 Elmhurst, walked through the side gate and entered the house through the back door which he opened with his own key.
7:45 -- An elderly woman exited the house next door, 2507 Elmhurst, to walk her dog.
7:51 -- Two-tone car heading southbound on Elmhurst slowed in front of my surveillance position, driver seemed to notice me, forcing me to move location.
8:04 -- Woman came back with dog.
9:45 -- Subject had not emerged from house at 2510 Elmhurst. Assuming he was in for the night--as on previous nights--surveillance was ended.
10:05 -- Went to subject's home.
10:07 -- Gave notes and surveillance video to subject's wife.
10:10 -- Carried subject's wife to bed.
10:22 – Received payment.
10:45 – Received payment again.
End of report.
It was a tough job.
She was the exact opposite of my wife and everything I neededlike a hole in the head. Actually, she was very similar to my wife in almost every way with one very important difference: she wanted me.
She longed for me, she desired me, she needed me. She needed something. Most women do, no matter how much they have. It's just over there, right out of reach. Or it could be within reach and they'd want something else. It's the cure. The antidote. The all-purpose elixir, good for what ails you. That which will make all things right and give life meaning. That one thing, that something else, right over there.
Even if that one thing is another man.
Or another.
I fell into her hair and felt her soft skin slide against mine. She was the embodiment of love and lust and sensuality. Nothing was forbidden as we lay on the bed, touching each other, holding each other, sweating together in wave upon wave of pleasure and pain and the bittersweet loneliness of people trying to find acceptance somehow and settling for sheets and between.
Tonight it was enough.
Her name was Brenda and her husband's was Brent and their last name's were still the same, for now--Hewitt--and she hated him. And why not? He worked hard, gave her all the money she wanted, a nice car, a huge house complete with cleaning service and twice-a-week landscaping. But he was a bastard, as my report rightly reported. He had two on the side which was twice as many as me and that made him twice the bastard. He had no time for his wife and she'd had enough, but truth be told she just wanted the money and to wipe the smirk off his face. But truth be told deeper, she just wanted to be someone's honey--even his--like the honey's he'd had and was having. But the honey you don't have is sweeter than the honey you do, hence he was out and I was in and she was happy. Today. Tonight.
"Where were you all my life?" She had her head on my chest and was running her flat palm over my stomach.
"Waiting for you," I said. I knew my lines.
"I never knew anyone could be so...so..."
"Anxious?" I said, helping her out.
She moved her hand lower. "Something like that. Can you keep your wife satisfied, or do I use you all up? Or should I not ask?"
"Keep doing what you're doing and you can ask me anything." Wives, I thought, are never satisfied. I thought better of saying it, thought better again. "Wives,” I said, “are never satisfied."
She laughed. "I suppose I wouldn't be satisfied with you, either."
"You'd need more money."
"You're making good money off of me."
"And on you," I said, and she bit me. "I'll take that away if you do that again." She kissed me better. "Not nearly enough,” I said. “Money,” I added. “I'm never home nights, I'm seldom home mornings. I get paid sporadically and spend half of that on bail. The police don't love me like you do and I spend at least one night a week in bed with a hot, young babe."
She liked that. She laughed and got on top of me. "Husbands," she said, moaning, "are never satisfied."
I closed my eyes in agreement.
I opened them again. Wrong bedroom. She was next to me, breathing deep. I pushed off the covers and eased off the bed. There was no need for conversation; we'd done our talking, consoled each other, solved the world's problems. Let her sleep and dream of better days.
I dressed quickly in the bathroom, looking in the mirror once before catching my eyes and looking away. My hair was greasy with sweat, my skin washed-out and white, my body never as hard and muscular as I think. I smelled of sex. Some nights you're proud to wear it, other nights you just need a hot shower.
I walked through the silent house and shut the heavy front door behind me with a soft click. I stopped at the top of the steps to survey the scene before walking down. It was eerie, as two a.m. should be. The fog hung low to the streetlights, reflecting their yellow illumination downward. The grass and trees were grayish green and the sidewalks full of shadows.
I started across the street to my car. The woman back in bed behind me was as far from my thoughts as I was from her dreams. Inanities crossed my mind as I hit the asphalt.
I thought about a torpedo sandwich and wished there was a place open at that hour that sold more than a micro-waved taco.
I marveled at the pruning done to a nicely shaped pepper tree two houses to my right.
I spun my head in a slow circle, feeling creaky and old and thinking it was about time I used that paid-for lifetime gym membership.
I frowned as I neared my car, tilting my head and hopin
g that the oil stains underneath were not my own car and that the last payment would come before a new engine.
I felt a sharp jab of heat in my right arm which jerked it up in the air as if I were a marionette. I heard a crack by my right ear and a ponk! as a spark shot off my car’s trunk. A hot jolt in the back sent me falling forward toward the road with my arms lifeless at my side, my body slamming into the ground as my face broke the fall. There was surprisingly no pain.
I lay eye-level to the curb, conscious of the sound of fast footsteps, a car door opening slamming, an engine firing, the screeching of tires. The same car sped toward me, missing my face by inches and screeching off with the smell of rubber. I was I was conscious of something else: a body standing over me. A hand touched my shoulder and everything was normal again. I turned over and sat up.
A large black man loomed like a concrete block, wearing black boots, camouflage pants and a white t-shirt which barely contained all his muscles. Later I would wonder if he had anything to do with my predicament, now nothing was further from my mind. He had his arm outstretched.
"Need a lift?"
I grabbed his hand and found myself instantly on my feet. I brushed myself off, examining my clothes for rips or tears. There were none.
"Who are you?"
He shook off the question as if unimportant and moved his head to indicate I should come with him. I did, not bothering to look at the man lying on the ground behind us or to wonder about the events which had just passed. The answers, I knew, lay ahead.
"I've got some good news and some bad news," he said as I tried to match his stride. "The good news is that you won't have to worry about making that last car payment."
There's no escape, I thought, shaking my head dully. Everywhere you go, on either side of life, everybody's a comedian.
A car's headlights suddenly illuminated our steps and a vehicle pulled away from the curb. It was grey-colored in the night, a late model junker with square body, and it was heading toward us. The long-haired, bearded driver gave no look of recognition as he came closer. I thought for a crazy second that it was the Devil, come to pick up another lost soul, and a wave of panic overtook me. But the man at my side showed no concern, so when the car touched–and then drove through--the both of us, I was not surprised. I took a backwards glance as it drove off. Two large red taillights glowed like the back of an amusement park rocket, burning in a night's flight.
There was a diner ahead that I had never seen before, with red and purple neon lights surrounding a sign I couldn't read. It was brightly lit inside, with plenty of accompanying movement seen through the windows. As we reached the front the sign became legible. Weigh Station. Stupid name for an eatery, I thought. There were no trucks in the neighborhood. Perhaps its name held the promise of large portions. A smaller neon sign on the door spelled: OPEN. The man took two quick steps to grab the door and hold it for me. I went in and stood near another sign: Please Seat Yourself. The man motioned me to follow as he walked through the crowded restaurant. Half the people at each table, I noticed, looked dazed, as if they’d just been stuck with the bill.
He found an empty booth and I slid in across from him.
"Coffee?"
"Huh? Yeah."
He motioned to a waitress, who came over with pot in hand. She was blonde, beautiful, and smiling as if she expected a big tip.
"Morning, Cindy," he said.
"Morning,” she said, filling the cups. “Morning," she said to me.
I nodded.
"Give us a couple minutes."
I took a sip. Hot, dark, satisfying, almost sweet enough. I held it to my lips and face for a while, letting the heat flow about me, then grabbed the sugar container and began pouring. "You never did finish," I said.
"Finish what?"
"What you were saying before."
He waited.
"You said you had good news and bad news."
"Yeah."
"What's the bad news?"
He stared, puzzled, then threw back his head and laughed deep and loud while no one turned to look.
Trace the Dead Eye Page 2
