Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  would be available the following afternoon. * * *

  Elizabeth Rawlings's mother, Bella, stared at her daughter's two children: her two granddaughters. They had all shared this two-room apartment, supported by Elizabeth's small paycheck. Where would the children go now? Bella thought, I can't afford them. I'm too old to take care of them. Where is the man who took my baby away from me?

  She slumped over in her chair, weeping. The children looked up from the floor where they were playing with plastic oleo bowls, building skyscrapers and houses for the little clothespin people Gram had made for them. Their dark eyes widened. They wondered why their mother never came home from work and if that had anything to do with why Gram was crying.

  Bella got up from the kitchen chair she was sitting on and went into the other room. On top of the TV set was a photograph of all four of them, taken at Sears. Elizabeth had insisted on having the picture taken, Bella remembered, because she said, "Soon enough, my babies are gonna be women with babies of their own. I wanna remember."

  "I wanna remember too, baby," Bella whispered, fingering the no-glare glass of the frame.

  Anne gathered up the newspapers in the apartment and took them to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. She listened to the fluttering sound they made as they fell. She had read all the news stories, had copied down the hotline number. She had watched the news, listening as the newscaster recounted the murders over the winter by the unknown person now known as the "Chicago Slasher."

  It was late, 3:00 a.m., and Anne had a photo shoot in the morning. She crawled into bed, wishing Nick were there with her to hold her and reassure her that Joe wasn't the Chicago Slasher. She pulled the comforter up to her ears and curled into a tight ball. Closing her eyes, she tried to force herself to think peaceful thoughts. But in moments her eyes snapped open, staring into the darkness of the bedroom.

  This is useless, she thought, flinging the comforter off and getting up. She wandered into the kitchen, poured some milk into a pan, and set it on the stove to warm. While she waited she sat down at the kitchen table and tried to think of reasons why Joe couldn't be the slasher. He was too weak, she thought. He had never been the macho type; he was always sensitive. He used to feel sorry for the mice he had to trap in his college apartment. How could someone who felt guilty about killing mice take the lives of human beings? But, she told herself, Joe wasn't the man she fell in love with at school.

  Pouring the milk into a mug, she noticed the pad on the counter where she had written the hotline number. The newspaper had said the number would be manned twenty-four hours a day. Could she actually pick up the phone and call? What would she say? She had no real evidence. "I found a bloody X-Acto knife in our bathroom. I think my husband is the killer. By the way, we're separated and I don't know where he is." She would be filed under disgruntled wives and given a low priority number. It wouldn't do any good, she lied to herself. I couldn't tell them about the journals.

  Nick, she thought, oh, Nick, please find him soon.

  The metallic shriek of the buzzer in the living room startled her. The mug of warm milk crashed to the tile floor. The mug shattered and Anne gasped as the hot milk splashed up on her leg.

  The buzzer sounded again.

  Anne ran to it, wondering. Nick had told her he had some industrial work to do tonight at a factory. He said he would be working all night. Maybe Nick got lucky, apprehended his suspect, and was coming home to Anne.

  She picked up her pace as the buzzer sounded two more times. It almost sounded angry.

  "Nick?" she asked, pressing the intercom button.

  A singing voice came through the speaker: "I'll be seeing you." Anne cut off the weird laughter before it had a chance to fill the room.

  "Who is this?" she asked after a moment.

  Laughter. "I'll be seeing you," the voice sang again.

  Anne screamed and gripped the wall for support. Joe. She gasped, taking in quick, panicky breaths.

  When she pressed the intercom button again, dead air was all that answered her. She hurried to the window, looking down at the circular drive at the front of the building. Empty.

  Oh, God, she thought, what am I going to do?

  She hurried into the kitchen and picked up the phone, actually dialed the seven-four-four of the hotline number before hanging up. She leaned against the counter and listened to the pounding of her heart.

  From Joe MacAree's journal (undated):

  Paid Annie a visit. Don't know if she's ready for me yet or not. She has to be ready. That's part of the plan. When we get together again I'm sure it will be just like old times. Only this time, when I "take" her, it will be for keeps.

  The bright lights of the bus station hurt his eyes. But it's warm here, Joe thought, slumping down on one of the chairs. And he realized he needed warmth and sleep.

  But sleep wouldn't come. Even though just a day had passed since he last had blood, he could think of nothing else. The need pounded in his head, begging for satisfaction. Every time he closed his eyes he saw round red shapes rising up beneath the darkness of his eyelids. His imagination conjured up rivers of flowing blood, and the erection in his pants would not go away.

  He stood and went into the men's room. Maybe if he masturbated, the urge would go away and he could sleep.

  He sat down in a stall and closed the door. Next to him, a man's loafered foot moved over, closer to Joe's foot. Joe peered down at the foot, wondering. He leaned down to scan the floor below the partitions and saw that the rest room was empty. The foot on the other side moved over another few inches.

  Joe moved his foot toward this other man's, not sure yet what he was going to do. The other man's foot nudged Joe's, and Joe returned the pressure.

  Suddenly the man knelt, facing him. The partition covered him from the waist up. An erect penis pointed up at Joe's face.

  Something inside him took over, and Joe knew what he must do. In almost one motion he removed the X-Acto from his pocket and slit the penis from its root up to its purplish head. He heard the man gasp, and Joe grabbed onto his legs and held him while he struggled. Joe lowered his head and sucked the blood that pumped wildly from the man's penis. Joe swallowed quickly, trying to take it all.

  The man's scream came at last, resounding off the tile walls of the rest room. The shrillness of it hurt Joe's ears, and in his surprise he eased his grip on the man's bare legs enough to give the man a chance to get away.

  Joe stood and pulled up his pants, hearing the slam of the stall door next to him and the footsteps of the man. Joe heard him say, "Please, God, somebody help me."

  Opening the door, Joe was confronted with an almost funny scene. The man was fat, and he ran toward the door with his pants around his ankles. Blood ran down his white and hairless legs. This is almost too easy, Joe thought, coming up behind him and jabbing him in the neck with the X-Acto knife, cutting off his gibbering and causing him to lash out at Joe with his hands. The man dropped to the floor and Joe attached himself to his neck and tried to swallow the blood.

  The door opened. "What the fuck!" There was terror in the question and Joe looked up into the face of an old black man. Joe brandished the bloody X-Acto.

  "Keep quiet," he said, and shoved the old man to the floor.

  As Joe ran through the bus station he heard the old man screaming for help, but couldn't hear anyone coming to his aid. Thank God for the cities, Joe thought, bursting out of the double glass doors of the bus station.

  The night air was cold. Joe wiped the blood off his face with his coat sleeve. On the eastern horizon, the sky was turning pink.

  23

  Nick and Anne stared at each other across the scarred wooden table. The Fine Young Cannibals were blaring out of a jukebox in the corner of the room, singing "She Drives Me Crazy." The sound of a sizzling grill competed with the voices, and the smell of smoke and hamburgers filled the little bar.

  Nick had insisted on bringing Anne here: a little Bridgeport neighborhood bar calle
d Pilsen's. Since her last modeling assignment she had not left her apartment. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and there was something vague and tired about her features that aged her. Nick hated seeing her this way. He wanted to bring her someplace where the noise and bustle would cheer her, make her forget about the mess in her life.

  He hadn't wanted to talk about Joe, and neither had she. But there was really no other subject for the two of them. News reports on television and the front pages of both newspapers caused them both to think of little else besides Joe MacAree and to wonder if they knew the identity of the Chicago Slasher and were keeping it secret.

  Anne didn't want to hear why Nick thought Joe was probably the man responsible for the killings. Now, as she stared at him, she thought of how tired she was. How nothing seemed more attractive than going home and crawling in bed and sleeping until all of this was over. She didn't want to face this anymore. She wasn't responsible. Why did she have to be a part of it?

  She had cut him off with her silence. He had tried to explain why they should go to the police, reminding her of what they knew. But Anne knew how to make her expression icy, knew how to look right at someone without giving them the dignity of seeing them.

  He had stopped talking and the two of them now stared wordlessly at one another, each waiting. She was waiting for him to change the subject, take her home, order another beer. He was waiting for her to say something like "I'm sorry for cutting you off, please tell me what I have to hear."

  "Anne, please listen. I'm just saying these things to help—" He stopped when he noticed her staring at the jukebox. He looked over at it, then back at her.

  She waved her hand at some cigarette smoke that had gotten in front of her. "You know," she said, "I think Phil Collins should have stayed with Genesis."

  "What?"

  "I mean, he's a talented musician, but I just don't like him all that much alone. He"—she groped for words—"he's too slick. You know what I mean? In high school we used to call it bubble gum music. Like Barry Manilow. Only Phil Collins isn't quite like Barry Manilow. He's cooler." She laughed and glanced around her.

  "Anne, what are you talking about? I'm trying to discuss something important here. I don't think I'm being melodramatic when I say it's a matter of life and death."

  Anne rolled her eyes. "I've been trying to get it across to you that I don't want to talk about . . . him. Besides, I don't think Joe would ever hurt me." There was an added fierceness to her words that made them lack conviction. Anne massaged her temples, remembering Joe's voice coming through her intercom, singing "I'll be seeing you," at three o'clock in the morning.

  Nick covered her hands with his. "Okay. Do you want to get out of here? We can hop in the car and be in Evanston in a jiffy. You hardly ever come to my place. It's not much to see—"

  "I want to stay here. I like it. It reminds me of the bars I used to go to in college." Anne put on an overly bright smile.

  "Okay," Nick said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. "What should we talk about?"

  "About this bar. How did you know about it?"

  Nick glanced around the interior of the little bar, noticing once more the wooden spindle tables that had been carved over and over again, the fake-beamed ceiling, and the curving bar at the front of the place. There was a mirror behind the bar, reflecting in a greenish light all the bottles of booze lined up in front of it. "I've known about this place for a long time. I grew up in this neighborhood and my dad used to know the owner." At the mention of his father, Nick grew quiet for a moment. He knew Anne was staring at him, wondering why his face had grown troubled. He breathed in and forced himself to smile.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah ... it was a different place when I was a kid. People used to come in here—families, people from the neighborhood. They served a mean Sunday dinner. The best Polish you ever ate. When my dad used to work late on Fridays, my mom used to send me over here for fish sandwiches for supper. I can still remember smelling the fish through the brown paper bag."

  "Where are your parents now?"

  "Dad got killed in the line of duty ... a cop. Mom's living off his pension down in Florida."

  "Where?"

  "Near Tampa." Nick stared at her.

  "So is that why you became a detective?"

  "What?"

  "Because your father was a cop. Is that why?"

  "Yeah, I guess so." Nick seemed preoccupied. He scratched at the back of his neck, looked around the room, almost as if he was searching for a familiar face.

  "What is it?" Anne asked.

  Nick smiled, but it was nervous. He lit another cigarette. "Nothin'. Just keyed up."

  "Is it something about your dad? Did you two not get along?"

  "Oh, no, we got along great, just great." He took a drag off the cigarette and smiled at her. "Look, you want to come to my place?"

  "No, Nick, I told you. I want to hear more about your family. So what precinct did your dad—"

  "Will you shut up about my dad?"

  Anne looked up, surprised.

  "I'm sorry." Nick stared at the scarred surface of the table, tracing some of the carvings there with his finger. Finally he looked up at her. "I'm gonna tell you something. Something I never told anybody before. I'm gonna tell you once and then I don't want to hear any more about it."

  Anne stared at him, looking for a clue in his face. "Okay."

  "After my dad died, I had to go through some of his papers and, well, I found some letters."

  Anne breathed out a sigh of relief. "He was having an affair, wasn't he?"

  "Will you just be quiet and let me tell it?" Nick paused. "Yeah, he was having an affair, as a matter of fact. But the affair was . . ." Nick lowered his eyes once more to the table's surface. After a long while he looked back up at her. His face was red and shining with tears. Angrily, he wiped them away with the back of his hand and then almost spat the words, "But the affair was with a guy. A man, do you understand? My dad was a fag." Nick tried to meet Anne's eyes, but couldn't. He spoke to the table. "I guess it had gone on for years. A paramedic he met on the job. Dan Mc-

  Kinney. God, he used to come to the house on holidays."

  Anne covered his hands with hers. "Hey, that's not so bad."

  Nick went on. "Funny thing is, you'd never in a million years guess about these guys. They were both big, burly guys, man's men. Hunting, fishing, liked to go to Bears' games."

  "I'm sure your father was a good man."

  "What do you know?" Nick smiled. "I'm sorry. He really was a good guy. But when I found this out, I felt like he had been an imposter. Here he was dead, and I felt like I never really knew him. I was sixteen then and I wanted to be nothin' like him. Look at me now."

  They were quiet for a while, listening to music. "I guess I became a detective because of him. But not for the reason you think. He made me see something about people. About how there are always secrets, about how what's on the surface might not mean shit." Finally he met her eyes. "What are your secrets, Anne?"

  Anne swallowed. "No secrets," she said, and thought how she wanted Nick to find Joe and how she wanted Nick to make her forget him. At least until she was better. At least until she could take care of herself again.

  He didn't think she was aware of how she looked glancing around the room, looking from corner to corner as if she was afraid someone she didn't like would show up. He didn't know if she was aware of how she sounded when she spoke: just making fast noise to make sure there was no silence or the subject wouldn't change.

  He covered her hands with his and squeezed. She met his eyes.

  "Anne," he said softly, "we need to talk about Joe."

  "Why?"

  "Because we have to do something about him before he hurts somebody again."

  "Oh, now, we don't know that he's hurt anyone." Anne smiled, but there was something sickly in her expression.

  "I think I know, and I think you do too. I know it's hard to face, but we're just as guilty as h
e is if we don't face up to the very real possibility that Joe may be killing people."

  "Joe couldn't kill anybody. He's much too sensitive."

  "Will you listen to yourself? You don't even believe what you're saying."

  "Of course I do." She stared at the table. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were glassy with tears. "Could I have another beer?" she asked.

  Nick let out a sigh. "Sure," he said, "I could use one too. But when I get back, we have to talk about Joe. You've had my story."

  "Okay."

  Nick made his way through the bar, which was becoming crowded. A bluegrass band was setting up on a platform in one corner of the room, and Nick heard guitars being tuned and microphones being tested; every so often he heard a drum. At the bar he ordered two drafts.

  When he got back to the table Anne was gone. I should have known this would happen, he thought, looking around the crowded room. "Damn!" He slammed the beers down on the table. A couple sitting at the next table over looked at him. The man smiled and whispered something to his date.

  Nick slumped down in his chair and took a swig of beer. He was just about to put his coat on when he saw her weaving through the crowd toward him. He sighed. Looking at her, he wondered how he had been so fortunate to have such a beautiful woman with him. He wondered if she would be with him if circumstances were different.

  "What's the matter?" she said when she got back to the table. She smiled. "Think I'd gone off and left you?"

  Nick didn't answer. He shoved the beer toward her. She took a drink and said, "Okay. I don't know why you look so worried. I wouldn't leave you here." She laughed. "You're my ride." Glancing over at the band, which was getting ready to begin, she asked, "Are they any good? Have you heard them?"

  "I don't know because I haven't heard them. Anne, please don't start this again."

  "Start what?" Anne's face was a mask of feigned innocence.

  "You said we could talk. We have to face—" Nick's voice was drowned out by the band, playing "Orange Blossom Special." They were very good, especially the girl on the fiddle. And they were loud. Nick pictured himself and Anne talking over the music about why Joe was the Chicago Slasher, shouting to be heard. The couple at the next table would love it.