Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  Now at home, Joe put his portfolio and briefcase away in the closet of his office. He switched on the green and brass desk lamp and sat back in his leather desk chair, allowing himself a few minutes to relax before starting to plan the newspaper ads that Nature Snack wanted him to do. He reached into his pocket for the box of Marlboros that had been burning against his chest all morning, shook one out of the pack, and dug deep in his sport coat pocket for the silver lighter Anne had just given him the previous Christmas. With a mildly bothered expression Joe pulled his hand from his right pocket and reached into his left. No lighter. Joe checked his pants pockets. Both of them. Empty.

  Beginning to feel a slight panic he would not acknowledge, Joe rose and went to the office closet where his Burberry overcoat hung. All pockets were empty. Faster now, Joe began going through each desk drawer with empty-handed results.

  Joe sat for a moment. His breathing was fast; his blood pounded in his ears. Even though the office was a sunroom conversion and even though all that glass kept the room especially cool throughout the winter, Joe felt beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. Calm down, he told himself, you could have lost the lighter anywhere, anywhere at all. It could have fallen out of your coat pocket when you were at the Nature Snack offices. You might have dropped it somewhere right here in the apartment. . . .

  Joe was on his knees, scanning every nap of their champagne-colored carpeting, praying for a glint of silver. He checked the nightstand next to their bed. Nothing. He opened and closed every drawer and cupboard in their high-tech black, red, and chrome kitchen. Nothing. Anne's pockets, purses. Nothing. In the bathroom. Nothing.

  Joe returned to his office and sat down, trying to calm his pounding heart. He told himself it fell out on the street; the lighter lay at this very moment underneath the coatrack in the Nature Snack offices.

  In spite of all his assurances he knew where the lighter was. It was in Berwyn, in the apartment of Maggie Mazursky, the late Maggie Ma-zursky. His lighter . . . with his initials. Damn! He slammed his fist down on the green blotter. He had always been so careful never to leave a clue to his identity. And now the police would find a one-hundred-fifty-dollar sterling silver lighter that could easily be traced to the Michigan Avenue store where Anne had purchased it two months before and had made sure to have his initials plainly engraved on the face.

  Joe went to the window and stared out at the traffic on Lake Shore Drive. Beyond the orderly lines of cars lay the lake. Today its waters were gray and churning, pounding against the beach with fury. Anguished and uselessly eroding, the waves rose higher against the pearl gray sky. Joe forced himself to concentrate on the water. Forced himself to trace the rise of a wave from far out on the dark water and follow its progress to the shore.

  The mental calming would not work. Joe looked down at his sweat-slicked palms, his shaking hands. What would Anne think when she came home? How could he explain such anxiety?

  Joe crossed to the tiny bathroom he had off his office. Inside the medicine cabinet Joe found an old bottle of Valium, prescribed to Anne years ago when she had lost their first and only child to labor complications. He gulped down the small yellow pill without water or thought and returned to his office. Sitting down at his desk, Joe forced himself to close his eyes and wait for the drug to take effect.

  After a while the sweating stopped and Joe regained control over his shaking hands. He walked once more to the window, stared out.

  "I've got to get that lighter back . . . and soon."

  Joe had just put thejrettucine in the boiling water when he heard Anne's key in the lock. He decided he had better work on the cream sauce for the Alfredo rather than run to greet her at the door. Things had not gone well with them since he had let himself get out of hand in bed the previous night. Joe thought he would have to keep the sustenance he got from his victims in check or Anne would grow suspicious.

  "Something smells good," Anne said without much enthusiasm.

  Joe turned from the stove and smiled at her. She did not meet his eyes. Sitting down at the small red lacquered table, she began leafing through the stack of mail that had come that day, all the while wondering how she would confront him with her questions on the clippings she had found in his drawer. Maybe now isn't the right time, she thought, maybe never. It would only embarrass him. Perhaps it's nothing.

  "How'd it go today?"

  She finally looked up and met his eyes. He was smiling, with an eager-to-please expression. His brown eyes seemed so alert, his smile so genuine that Anne was unable to believe there was anything wrong between them.

  Her first impulse had been to reply that things could have gone better had she had a little sleep the past two nights. But why chafe against him? Surely things weren't going to get better if she resisted his efforts at friendliness.

  "Things went . . . very well. They always do with Louise. She makes me feel more comfortable, less afraid to experiment."

  Joe waved his hand. "Ah . . . with your looks it really doesn't matter who's behind the camera."

  "Please." Anne laughed and got up from the table. "How soon till dinner? I'd like to take a quick shower. Do I have time?"

  "Go ahead." Joe went over to the red sink, straining the noodles, his face obscured by clouds of steam.

  As Anne walked by Joe's office she noticed the door ajar. Glancing in, she was stunned to see the usually orderly room looking as if it had been ransacked. The desk drawers were pulled open, Joe's overcoat was in a heap on the floor, and his sport coat was flung across his leather chair.

  Anne's fragile sense of well-being disappeared as quickly as it had come. What was he up to?

  As she headed toward the shower she heard him in the kitchen, humming. Things weren't fitting together. How many people was she living with?

  She knew she should find out, just come out and ask him. Wasn't that what they were always saying, "keep the lines of communication open"?

  As the hot water hit her Anne thought, let's wait. There can be no harm in giving things a little time. A little time to restore equilibrium. No, there could be no harm in that at all.

  Anne hoped.

  The fettucine Alfredo was wonderful. And Joe prepared the veal simply, cooked in butter with a light flour coating. Joe even went out before dinner and bought a bottlg of Liebfraumilch, Anne's favorite wine.

  Shoveling the last forkful of fettucine into her mouth, Anne thought to herself, boy, the way to my heart is no secret. She sat back in her chair, the glass of wine in her hand, and looked across the table at Joe.

  In the light from the burning-down candles his face had a radiance, a glow of innocence. The candle's flame brought out a tinge of color in his cheeks, and his eyes reflected the light. Anne wondered how she could have ever imagined leaving this beautiful man.

  The two did not speak. The corners of Joe's mouth turned up in a smile as he raised his wineglass to her, and she returned the gesture. Anne thought one thing that was comfortable about their marriage was the silence.

  Anne finished her glass of wine. After a time of sitting and looking at each other, Joe rose and blew out the candles. Now the room was lit only by the bright moon outside their floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was silvery. Joe crossed to Anne and, taking her hand, led her to the windows. He faced her toward the glass and draped his arm over her shoulders. Both stared out at the shimmering waters of Lake Michigan below them.

  Slowly, Joe slid to his knees and encircled Anne's legs with his arms. He unfastened the buttons of her jeans and worked them down over her hips and further. She did not move except to lift her legs to get out of the jeans. Joe began kissing her ankles and worked upward until he was slowly licking the insides of her thighs.

  Anne murmured and reached down to bury her fingers in his curly hair. His tongue went to the outside of her panties and he pressed his lips against the outline of her vulva. Soon her panties (pale blue) were wet enough from herself and Joe's actions that he could see the outline of her
pubic hair through the satin. With one finger he pulled her panties aside and thrust his tongue deep inside her as she moaned, unsure of her ability to stand much longer. She hurried to get out of the panties to allow him to move more freely. Joe's tongue moved up and down her vulva with alternating soft and hard strokes, stopping every so often to press and swirl against her clitoris. Joe forced his tongue deep inside, tasting her.

  When she came, she practically winced, one hand against the cold glass of the window, the other pulling at his curls.

  "Please," she whispered, reaching down and placing her hands under his arms to pull him up. Once she saw that he was standing Anne pulled the white sweater over her head. Joe's hands immediately covered her breasts. Gently, she took them away, saying, "Wait; it's your turn."

  She unbuttoned his shirt, kissing him after each button. When the shirt was off she removed his pants and underwear. She giggled, "Take off your socks." Then she slid down him, her body never losing contact.

  In one swift movement she swallowed him and he cried out, his hands holding her head while he thrust into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around his cock, trying to meet his thrusts with her lips, her tongue.

  All too soon, she could tell by the rapidness of his breathing, he was ready to come. She pulled quickly away from him, squeezing tight on his penis. "Not yet," she whispered and lay back on the carpeting.

  He knelt between her raised knees, positioning himself. Then, supporting his weight with his arms, he entered her swiftly, burying his cock deep, then pulling out almost to the point where he was out of her, then plunging back in again.

  It was over in minutes. They came together, each crying out into the silver darkness of the room, Anne digging her nails into his ass, contracted to shoot his come deep inside.

  He lay on top of her for only a few moments, then he lifted her and carried her into the bedroom. Once under the maroon comforter they rested in each other's arms for no more than twenty minutes, then she climbed on top of him and they took their time.

  After, nestled in the crook between his arm and chest, feeling the easy rise and fall of his breathing, Anne whispered, "What about the clippings?"

  Because she was so near, she felt him tense, his breathing suspended for a moment. No, she thought, please, I didn't want to ruin this moment.

  "What clippings?" he asked in a voice that showed his anxiety more clearly than if he hadn't tried to be casual.

  Anne tried to laugh, make it seem as if they meant nothing to her as well, but already she was worried. "The ones in your desk. All those murders. Planning on writing a book?"

  His breathing became easy once more. He laughed. "How did you know? That gory stuff fascinates me no end. I'm kind of embarrassed, but I think it would make great best-seller material. Don't you?"

  And because she was a much better actor than he, she was able to look at him, smile and say, "Yes."

  Soon she felt the regular breathing of his sleep. Her anger ebbed. Perhaps he was just using the murders as source material for a novel. Why else have the clippings?

  Because she wanted to believe so much, she did.

  •k "k "k

  When Joe was certain Anne was asleep he got up from the bed and went to his office. As soundlessly as possible, he closed the door behind him. He went to his chair, placed his face in his hands, and wept.

  Why? he asked himself over and over. Why would he kill all those women? How could he and feel nothing? Now he was faced with Anne's knowing and he could not, would not, lose her love.

  Nothing meant more to him.

  After the sobbing subsided and he had blown his nose, Joe went to his desk and removed the shoe box he had put the clippings in. Stupid, he thought, stupid to leave these lying around. And as he began shredding them into his wastebasket, he swore to himself he would never be so stupid again.

  Staring out the window, he swore he would never kill again. He could never replace the lives he had taken, but he would take no more. And he would not be caught. His mind flashed on the lighter. Stupid to have lost it, but he must get it back. How he would get it back was still open to a plan, but when was clear: tomorrow at the latest. He could not risk discovery. He would get his lighter back and that would be the end of it, never again.

  He pulled the calendar on his desk over and circled the date he had killed Maggie Mazursky in red. The red would serve as a reminder. A hot touch to his pain ... he must never forget. The pain would keep him away from the sickness and he would keep Anne. But the pain, yes, the pain, must always be kept fresh in his memory.

  This last one was pregnant.

  Tomorrow Joe would pay his second visit to Berwyn. He prayed he would think of a clever way to retrieve what was his. A clever way to save himself from the loss of all he held dear.

  When Joe awakened the next morning the first thing he noticed was how bright the light filtering through their Levolor blinds was. He rose and walked to the window. Pulling the cord to glance outside, Joe was confronted with a world of blinding white. The sun sparkled down from a cloudless blue sky on at least four inches of snow. Normally Joe wouldn't have minded the sight, but thoughts of breaking and entering and retrieving a lost lighter sprang into his mind. He thought of icy roads and unex-plainable car accidents in Berwyn. "What on earth were you doing in Berwyn of all places?" he could hear Anne asking. He thought of looking particularly conspicuous against a backdrop of white snow and brilliant sunlight. "Hey, mister, you wanna tell me what you think yer doin' nosin' around here?" he could hear a policeman asking. He thought of schools being out of ses-

  sion, canceled due to the weather, the surrounding yards filled with children building snowmen and having snowball battles. "Hey, there's some guy standing outside the house where that lady got killed! You think we should tell somebody?" he could hear a snot-nosed boy asking.

  He heard the rattle of a pan in the kitchen and tensed. Anne was supposed to have an early morning shoot; the modeling session had been marked on her calendar: 8:30 a.m. He looked at the digital clock on the nightstand next to their bed; it was nine forty-five. Could someone have broken in? Cautiously, Joe reached for his robe. Then he heard Anne's voice clear and high on "Take the A Train." What was she still doing here? He had counted on her absence, counted on not having to make up a story. The problem with their closeness was that Anne knew his schedule very well; she could have easily rattled off the meetings he would have to attend for that week. He knew she would be curious and he hated lying to her. Somehow, breaching the honesty they shared was unthinkable to him. Absurd, he knew, in light of some of the acts he had committed during their marriage.

  Joe slid into his robe and wandered out to the kitchen. Smells of a country morning greeted him: bacon frying, coffee percolating. The sound of eggs sizzling in butter and the sight of the table, set with a crystal pitcher of orange juice and a matching crystal bud vase with a white rose, caused him for a moment to forget his mission.

  Anne turned from the refrigerator, a bowl of orange wedges in her hands. When she saw him she smiled, lifting the bowl of oranges to him in greeting. "Guess what? The shoot for Marshall Fields has been postponed until next week. You're in luck . . . your free day doesn't have to be spent all by your lonesome."

  Joe smiled at her. Think fast, he told himself; there was no time for hesitation.

  "Everything looks great. But, honey—"

  The disappointment on her face was swift. Joe felt a sickness in his stomach; he dreaded lying to her, felt certain the falsehood would show through on his face. "What is it? I checked your calendar. Joe, I had the whole day planned."

  "Sorry, honey. Yesterday the Nature Snack people asked if I couldn't come in for a little while this morning. One of their buyers is going to be in from New York just for today. I couldn't say no." He added, "I just didn't have a chance to put it on my calendar."

  He went to her and put his arms around her. "But it shouldn't take the whole day. And I still have time to do you the honor of ea
ting this great breakfast."

  "Thanks a lot," Anne said, disappointment plain. She smiled anyway.

  Joe sat down at the table, and even though the feeling that there was a plate of worms before him persisted, he ate with obvious hunger. It was his best performance yet.

  Anne finished her breakfast quietly, staring at the brilliant blue sky outside their kitchen window.

  Joe took his plate, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. He leaned down close to Anne and whispered, "Really, it won't take that long. I'll be back before you know it."

  Anne said nothing, but crossed to the window and looked down at the drifting mounds of white that had fallen during the night. "We could have made angels."

  Joe showered and dressed in jeans, a Ragg wool sweater, and hiking boots.

  The plan came to him while he was in the shower. On his way to Berwyn he would make a quick stop at Sears and buy a khaki-green work shirt and matching pants. With his hiking boots and workman's outfit, Joe thought, he wouldn't make a half-bad meter reader. At least, he prayed, no one would question his entering the building. He decided he should buy a clipboard for good measure.

  After parking his car in a high-rise parking garage downtown, Joe proceeded to Sears, and after a long look around on several floors (why did Anne's shoot have to be canceled? he lamented. I feel like I'm in some kind of loony Beat the Clock), he found the men's work clothes and bought his sizes without taking the time to try them on first. He hurried to the stationery department, got a clipboard, and hurried from the store, his parcels tucked under his arm.

  Joe got into the back seat of his car and prayed no one would come by while he changed. Fortunately for him, he had parked on a high floor where there were cars all around, their owners otherwise occupied working in the Loop.

  Joe managed to change, and even though the pants were baggier than he would have liked, a quick look down at himself convinced him he made a fair meter reader.

  Joe didn't want his car to be spotted in the Berwyn neighborhood once more, so he left it in the parking garage and headed for the subway. A combination of the Congress line, a bus, and his legs would carry him inconspicuously to Maggie Mazursky's home, which Joe prayed would be empty.