Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  Pat slid the chain on the lock and opened the door. She looked out at the man. He looked Irish. Kind of cute. He reached in his suitcoat pocket and took out a wallet. "Here's my badge and ID." He held it open for her to see.

  "Let me see." She reached out and took it from him, examined it for a long time. She handed it back. "What does this involve, officer?"

  "Could I come in?"

  "I don't see why. I haven't done anything wrong."

  "I think you have and if you don't stop this I'll see that you're arrested for obstruction of justice."

  Pat laughed, but the laugh came out high-pitched and nervous. She couldn't stall forever. She slid the chain back and opened the door. "Won't you come in?" she asked, her voice dripping with sweetness.

  McGrew came in and looked over the tiny apartment. When she saw his gaze wandering over her things, she said, "There's no place like home."

  Neither of them said anything for a while. Finally Pat snapped, "Now, what is it you want?"

  "I think you know something about the Chicago Slasher case."

  "Whatever would make you think that? Because I live across the street? I already told an officer I didn't see anything."

  "I have a witness who said you did."

  "Who?"

  "I'm not at liberty to give you that information."

  "Don't I have a legal right to face my accusers?"

  "You're not on trial, here, ma'am."

  "Is it Randy Mazursky? Tell me."

  The detective didn't say anything.

  "Because if it is, you can just forget it. The guy's Looney Tunes. Thinks I saw something because I live across the street. I tried to tell him how sorry I was but I didn't know anything. I don't know why he won't believe me. Grief does funny things to people."

  McGrew eyed her and realized Pat was an excellent liar. There was nothing in her composure to give her away.

  "My witness has the name of a suspect he says he got from you. I don't know of any other way he'd get that information."

  "Then you aren't much of a detective, Eire you?

  I can think of one right off the bat: Maybe he knows the guy."

  "He doesn't know the guy. Cut the crap."

  "Why, officer, that's no way to talk to a lady—"

  Pat stopped grinning when Pete lowered his face to hers, close enough that she could smell Dentyne. "Listen, lady, I mean it. I have enough on you to make an arrest. Obstructing justice. You wanna go to jail? Come on, I'll take you right now."

  Pat stared at the handcuffs he brought out. She could hear her heart pounding, her palms getting slippery on the arms of her wheelchair. "All right. I might have seen something that night. It doesn't prove the person I saw was the killer. It only proves he was there."

  "What was his name?"

  "I don't know."

  "Cut the crap, I said! Now, we both know you know his name. I need you to say it."

  "Joe MacAree."

  "That's better. How do you know him?"

  "I saw him one day, returning to the scene of the crime, if you will. I went out and introduced myself."

  "And?"

  "I tried to blackmail him."

  "Why would he tell you who he was?"

  "I bluffed. I'm good at that. I got him in my apartment and stole his wallet. He didn't have to tell me who he was."

  "Is he paying you?"

  "I wish." Pat snorted. "No, seriously, he was furious with me." Pat lowered her head and stared at the floor for a long time, until the tears she was summoning began to run down her cheeks. "He said he would kill me too. That's why I was so scared when you came to the door."

  "Why didn't you call the police?"

  "I told you," Pat said, sobbing, "I was scared. I thought as long as I stayed locked up in here, I was safe. He said he'd be watching and if he saw anything suspicious, he'd come in here and kill me." Pat's face took on an expression of dread. "You didn't come here in a cop car, did you?" Without waiting for his reply, she hurried to the window and looked out at the street. She turned back to him. "Unmarked, right?"

  "Right." McGrew looked around for a while, uncertain of what to say next. "Look. I want you to keep in touch with us. If he does anything, contacts you in any way, I want you to try and find out where he is and report back to us immediately. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "If you don't, I swear to God, I'll arrest you. And God help you when this town finds out you've withheld information about this killer."

  McGrew didn't say any more. He left quickly, slamming the door.

  The buzzer cut through the blackness of her room. Pat sat up in her bed and looked around, her gaze coming to rest on the silvery shapes of her furniture, the glow of the TV screen.

  The buzzer sounded again.

  She rolled out of bed and got into her wheelchair. She pressed the button on the wall to ad-xnit whoever was out there. This time, she knew, it had to be Joe. She prayed no one was watching her apartment.

  The footsteps outside her door were slow, uneven. There was a soft knock.

  "Who's there?" Pat whispered.

  "It's Joe," the voice came back, barely audible through the wood.

  She quickly unbolted the door and opened it. Joe hurried in, looking behind him.

  "Don't turn on any lights," he said. "They're hunting for me. I have to hide."

  Pat was afraid. She wanted to see him. She reached out and stroked his thigh. He stood still for her. She reached up, groping for his crotch, and he moved away. "No," he whispered. She heard the creak of her bed as he sat down on it.

  "What do you want, Joe? Tell me."

  "I want you, Pat. Someday, when this is over, I want you to go away with me."

  Pat stared at his shape in the darkness, not believing what he said but every part of her crying out to take his words and get the solace she had been denied for so long. "Do you mean it?" Her voice was weak.

  "Yes. But first I need your help."

  "Joe, you know I'll do anything."

  "I want you to help me play a little trick on my wife."

  27

  Pat sat in front of the phone, staring at it. The damned thing almost seemed to be waiting for her.

  "Just give her a call and tell her you're a friend of mine," Joe had giggled. "That oughta make her ears perk up." He had paced across the room, thinking. "All you need to do is tell her I want to turn myself in, but only to her. Don't you think that's a good idea?"

  Pat had said nothing.

  "Yeah. You can tell her I'm afraid the police will hurt me." He had giggled again then, and Pat felt chilled thinking about it even now.

  "I can't tell her that," Pat whispered to herself, placing her hand on the phone. Models aren't too bright, but she's not that stupid. God, Pat thought, his idea sounds like something off a friggin' TV show. In fact, she thought she remembered an

  episode of Hunter where the killer had used the same ploy.

  No, Joe's idea just would not do.

  Pat picked up the phone and began to dial.

  Anne let herself forget everything as the hot water rushed over her. Nick had just left, his clean smell still lingering on her sheets. Last night they had drunk too much wine, played Anne's REM tape much too loud, danced until they were breathless, and made love on the living room floor. Later, Nick lit candles and placed them all around the bedroom and made love to her, slowly, in bed. Neither of them had said a word about Joe. Each had made a promise to the other before the evening began. Anne didn't think it would be possible to forget about Joe, but she had. And now, as the cleansing rush of hot water poured over her head, she felt as if some of the tension had lifted. For the first time she was sure she no longer loved Joe, and that made the police department's closing in on him all the more appealing. It wouldn't be easy, but once he was apprehended she could start her life over again, with or without Nick. She wasn't sure just yet if she wanted another man in her life.

  The jarring ring of the telephone caused th
e shampoo bottle to slip from her hands. The intercom's buzzer, the telephone—both instruments frightened her now, annoyed her, made her want to run and hide under the bed. Just a few months ago a small sense of anticipation filled her when the phone rang or the intercom buzzed. This was before Joe sang into the intercom, "I'll be seeing you." Before policemen and victim's husbands had called or shown up at her doorstep.

  She stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around her head, and slipped into the robe that lay in a heap on the bathroom floor. The telephone rang on.

  "Yes?"

  "I'd like to speak to Anne MacAree, please."

  "This is she." Anne listened for a while to silence. She did not recognize the woman's voice.

  "Mrs. MacAree, I'm in love with your husband."

  Anne was about to hang up. Nick had warned her the cranks would start calling and writing.

  "And he's in love with me."

  Anne stopped thinking about hanging up. Maybe this woman was for real. Maybe she's part of the reason he's missing, part of all that's been happening.

  "Who is this, please?" Anne asked.

  "Never mind, dear. Let's just say your husband and I have a real sweet arrangement. He trusts me, which is more than we can say for you."

  "Are you calling for any reason at all?"

  "Patience, sweetheart, patience." The woman on the other end breathed, letting Anne wait for her next word. The woman had all the power. "Your husband wanted me to get in touch with you. He had a message for you."

  "Come on, please; you're wasting my time."

  "Oh, aren't you the demanding little bitch. No wonder he left you."

  "I'm hanging up. Good-bye."

  "Wait!"

  Anne heard the woman's shout as she put the receiver in its cradle.

  Seconds later the phone rang again. Anne picked it up. "Listen, how do I know you're for real? How do I know you even know my husband? It's funny you should call only after his name is published in the paper."

  "He told me to watch out for you, that you'd be skeptical. That's why he told me to ask you this: Remember making love under the stars on Sheridan Road?"

  Anne wondered for only a moment what the woman was referring to. Her thoughts drifted back to when they were first married and Joe had painted stars on the ceiling. No one could know about that.

  "Please, who are you?"

  "That's not important. Think of me as just a messenger."

  "What?"

  "You know: a messenger. Someone who delivers messages, sweetie. Look it up in the dictionary. I can make other kinds of deliveries too."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Joe needs money. He wants to get away. Has to get away . . . before it's too late."

  "I don't know."

  "Well, sweetheart, you better know this: You can meet me at the appointed time and place with a thousand bucks in hand or Joe can just drop by the old homestead and pick it up himself. Much as you and Joe have in common, I have a sneaking suspicion you might not like that. I shouldn't tell you this, but Joe doesn't even know I'm calling. I'm just trying to look out for you . . . honey."

  Anne gripped the phone, feeling her face flush, her heart begin to pound. "I don't think I can do that."

  "Do you want Joe strung up by some lynch mob? That's what'll happen, lady." Pat snickered. "This town wants blood."

  "Of course not. But how do I know you're for real?"

  "Honey, you know I'm for real. And I don't have time for these games. I'll tell Joe to go ahead and come by and pick the money up from you himself." Pat giggled. "I suppose he'll get his pound of flesh." She put a macabre emphasis on the last part, and Anne felt her stomach churn. "Good-bye, Anne. I'm sorry we couldn't do business together."

  "Where?"

  "What?"

  "Where should I meet you?"

  "There's an empty warehouse out on West Roosevelt Road, near Cicero Avenue. You can meet me there tonight. Okay?"

  "No. Why can't we meet someplace public?"

  "Because I don't trust you. This is not multiple choice. Just be in the general vicinity at the right time; I'll give you a sign so you know where to go. Okay?"

  Anne paused for a long time, thinking about how she should handle this. The woman seemed to hold all the cards. Finally she said, "Okay."

  The woman's voice dripped sweetness as she pronounced, "Good!"

  "All right," Anne said, "I should be going now."

  "Wait a minute! Remember: If you even breathe a word of this to anyone else, I'll make sure Joe knows. If there's any kind of trap he'll kill you." The woman paused. "I mean it, Mrs. MacAree."

  "I know," Anne said. "I won't tell anyone."

  "Joe's very sick. Can't you understand that?"

  "Yes, I can." Anne asked, "What time should I be there?"

  "Ten o'clock. And if you're late or don't show up I'll make sure Joe knows, and he won't hesitate to kill you."

  Anne noticed the pleasure the woman took in threatening her. "I won't be late," Anne said, and hung up.

  The shower was still running in the bathroom. Anne went in and shut it off.

  Pat sat back, satisfied. Soon it would be all over and they could go away together, just like Joe had said. A thousand dollars wouldn't get them far, but used wisely it could get them far enough.

  She looked out the window at the gray, heavy clouds. It would be hard for her to get to Muldeen's, the warehouse where Joe wanted to meet Anne, but she'd do it. Pat knew she had to get herself there, so she could see it for herself when Joe sunk that knife into his wife. There so she could lift the money from her cooling body and surprise Joe with it.

  He would be so happy.

  ie ie "k

  Anne turned around in a parking lot and headed back east on Roosevelt Road. She wished Nick was with her; she'd tried calling before she left, but he was gone. My God, why did he need to do other things besides protect her? She had gone back and forth between Cicero Avenue and Laramie now for the last twenty minutes. Maybe the woman's phone call was a prank: Maybe the stuff about making love under the stars was a wild, and very lucky, guess. As she passed what she thought might be the spot—an empty warehouse that used to belong to a company called Muldeen's—she heard a dull thud at the side of her car. A rock? Could that have been the hint?

  Anne pulled over and looked at the dark and empty lot of the old warehouse. The metal link fence was rusting; holes where the wire had been pried apart stood out in the harsh light of the streetlamp. And there, near the building, was a dark shape. A woman? She stared, trying to force her eyes to focus in the darkness. She saw a part of the shape go up. An arm? Motioning for her to come?

  Anne's breathing quickened. She put her hand on the door handle but couldn't open it. She felt sick; her stomach was churning. She no longer had the strength to open the car door. She looked over again, and the figure motioned more impatiently. The woman on the telephone's words echoed: "He'll kill you."

  She took a deep breath and pushed the car door open. When she stood, her knees felt weak. Her throat felt dry and her heart was pounding so hard it was painful; she could barely breathe.

  She reached back into the car for her purse, feeling inside once more. The feel of the cold steel of the blade gave her some fortitude, and she stood up straight and slammed the car door shut.

  Making her way through the dirt and trash that littered the sidewalk, Anne thought about what she was doing. This is crazy, she told herself. You could die, right here. As she neared the chain-link fence she could make out the shape of someone raising an arm for her to follow and then watched as the shape disappeared inside a doorway. Once she got to the fence she had to grip a rusty post for support. "I can't do this," she whispered to herself. She felt bile rising up in her. She had never felt more afraid ... or more alone. The occasional driver rushing by probably didn't even see her.

  She felt something furry run over her foot and gasped, fighting down an urge to shriek and keep shrieking until someone c
ame and helped her face this. Finding an opening in the fence, she squeezed through.

  The barrier of the fence between the sidewalk and the warehouse parking lot made her isolation complete. She bit her lower lip and took a step forward. The wind blew and an aluminum pie pan danced across the parking lot, clanging.

  As she neared the building she saw a peeling wooden door standing open. It was dark inside. So dark, Anne thought, the blackness looks palpable, as if I could touch it. Every nerve in her cried out, "I'm not going in there." But she forced herself to walk closer.

  She stood at the entrance, peering into the blackness. She began to cry, wanting to turn and run, but also wanting to believe that handing over the money would end everything right here and she could get on with her life.

  She called into the darkness. "Is anyone in there?"

  The wind blew. There was no answer.

  "Please. I'm scared."

  Still no answer.

  Anne forced herself to take two more steps and cross the threshold into the darkness. It smelled damp inside, and Anne jumped at a scurrying noise. "Answer me!" She tried to make herself sound fierce, but fear made her voice tremble. She took a few more steps inside.

  "Annie," the voice was whispering, her name coming out singsong. She heard low laughter, but could see nothing. Oh, God, Anne thought, her heart stopping, it's him.

  Anne turned to run, the adrenaline finally finding its way through her veins and giving her strength to act. Just as she neared the gray en-tranceway, a shape came out of the darkness and the door slammed.

  She stopped and screamed.

  She heard a scraping sound and then saw Joe's face illuminated as he put a match to a candle. He stood in front of the door, blocking her exit. In the light of the candle she could hardly believe this was her husband. His face was covered with stubble, smeared with dirt, and his eyes had seemed to become lighter, the pupils dilated.

  "Not thinking of going so soon, Annie?" He laughed again.

  "I want to leave, Joe. Please . . ."

  "Don't cry, Annie. We have things to talk about." He laughed again, and then the smile suddenly went away. He looked enraged. "Like why you stopped loving me, bitch." His voice was loud, deep, a voice Anne had never heard.