Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  When the knock on her door came, Pat thought she had nothing to fear and opened her door to the woman.

  "Yes?" Pat asked.

  The woman brushed some of her dark hair away from her face and took off her sunglasses.

  Pat laughed and said, "I'd hate to see what the other guy looked like."

  Anne didn't smile. "Could I come in?"

  "Sure, if you want to go to the trouble of telling me who you are and why you're here."

  "I'm Anne MacAree. Joe's wife." Anne paused, thinking she would see some expression on Pat's face, expecting Pat to hurry her inside.

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "I'm Mrs. Joe MacAree. I believe we spoke on the phone recently."

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Come on. Let's not play games."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Pat started to close the door, and Anne put up her hand to stop it. "Please," she whispered, desperate, "if you care at all about Joe, you'll let me talk to you."

  Pat thought for a while, then let Anne in. She opened the door and wheeled away from the entrance. Once Anne had seated herself on the corner of a chair, Pat said, "Listen, I can't help you. Everyone seems to think I have some sort of connection with your husband, but I don't. I happened to see him leaving Maggie Mazursky's apartment on the day she was killed and I tried to blackmail him, but he didn't go for it. Beyond that, I really don't know anything about him."

  Anne started to cry. She lowered her head and sobbed, but there were no real tears. "I still love him and I think you love him too, but of course you wouldn't admit that to me. I just want to help him. Can't you see that?"

  "Ma'am, maybe you should go. I'm real sorry about your predicament, but I really don't know more than I just told you."

  "If I could see him just once more, I know I could convince him everything would be all right again. I just need to see him once more," Anne sobbed.

  Pat thought about how much Joe wanted to kill Anne and wondered how she had managed to fight her way away from him. "Really. I can't help you. Please leave. I'm expecting company."

  Anne stood. "I don't believe you. If you see him will you tell him? I'll meet him again, anywhere and anytime. And please tell him I still love him and understand how sick he is."

  "I can't tell him anything because I don't know him."

  Anne hurried from the apartment.

  Pat wheeled herself over to the window, willing Joe to think of her and get in touch. With his bitch out of the picture once and for all, Joe would be all hers.

  In Pat's dream, she was running. Even in the dream she knew she was dreaming, because her running days were long behind her. But that knowledge did nothing to decrease her terror. Joe MacAree was behind her, holding a huge knife in one hand, his erect and disembodied penis in the other. She was screaming, but no sound came from her lips. The only sound was a loud heartbeat that increased the faster she ran.

  She awakened, sweating. Someone was pounding on her window. Pat looked over and saw Joe peering up into the window. She screamed. It took several moments for the terror from her dream to subside and for the familiar surroundings of her apartment to become comforting once more. She looked out into the darkness once more.

  Joe was gone.

  "No," Pat whispered to herself. "I need to see him." She pried up the window, not opened since last fall, and felt a rush of cold air. She pulled her robe tight around her and stuck her head out the window.

  Joe was crouching below the window. "What are you doing down there?" she whispered. "Come in."

  She reached down4 to help him climb through her window, looking all the while into the night to see if anyone was witnessing this strange visitation.

  "Turn off that light," he said, once he was inside.

  Pat hurried to the bathroom and flicked the light off. Joe lay down on her bed and whimpered, "I'm tired. I need to sleep."

  She lay down beside him, holding on to him because the narrow bed really didn't allow for two people. He smelled bad, but Pat told herself she didn't mind. Her hand wandered down to his crotch and she stroked him. He gently moved her hand away.

  "Your wife was here today."

  Joe sat up. "What did she want?"

  "She wants to see you again." Pat started to tell him what she said about still loving him, but decided he didn't need to know that part.

  Joe stood. "Let's call her."

  "What? Now? It's three o'clock in the morning."

  "All the better. The sooner we get rid of her the sooner you and I can be together. Please, baby," he said, stooping down and kissing her, "do it for me."

  Pat started dialing.

  Anne was flipping through an old issue of Vogue when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock on the VCR: 3:10 a.m. She shivered and wondered if she should answer. She could face talking to Joe during the day, but not now. Not with the darkness outside and everything so quiet.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Nick was in the other room, she told herself. Nothing can happen over the phone. And how do you ever expect your plan to work if you don't even have the nerve to answer the phone?

  She hurried to answer.

  "Didn't get you out of bed, did I?" The woman, whom Anne was sure was Pat Young, laughed.

  "No, as a matter of fact, I couldn't sleep. Have you spoken with my husband?"

  "Maybe."

  "Have you or haven't you?"

  "Probably. There's only one way to find out for sure."

  "What's that?"

  "Ten o'clock tonight, same place. Come alone. No tricks."

  "I will. Tell him I promise not to hurt him. Tell

  him I love him." Anne realized she was speaking into a dead receiver.

  Pat looked up at Joe. "Was that okay?"

  "That was beautiful. You're my darling girl." He bent down and kissed her. "Soon," he said, after the long kiss, "we'll be able to take off together. Do you want that?"

  "Yes," Pat whispered, "and I also want something else."

  Joe laughed. "What could that be?"

  She rubbed his crotch. "This," she said.

  "Don't you know? It's yours." Joe unzipped his pants and took out his penis, which was already stiff.

  "My, my," Pat said, "you're certainly in the mood. What were you thinking about?"

  Joe's answer was a solitary moan as she touched him.

  "We better do something about this." She lowered her head and surrounded his penis with her mouth. She made a humming noise as she swallowed him.

  With one hand he pushed her head down further on his cock and with the other made a shallow slash at the nape of her neck with his X-Acto. Pat lifted her head and gave out a small cry, reaching back to feel the line of blood Joe had drawn. She looked at her finger, at the red drops adhering to the end of it, then raised that finger to Joe's lips. He raised his finger and worked it into the cut on her neck, using it to bring the blood to his lips, doing it repeatedly until the blood grew clotted. She lowered her head to his penis once more and continued to suck. The touch of his finger at her neck, the flowing blood, and the semen finally jetting out of him caused Pat to shudder.

  29

  Randy kept the apartment dark for two reasons. One, with the rooms filled with darkness the shadows obscured everything familiar ... all the things that could remind him of his life with Maggie: the furniture they had chosen together, the snapshots on the wall, her decorations. That life now seemed like it had gone on such a long time ago, almost as if the things that had happened here happened to someone else. His previous life as a husband, prospective father, and manager of an ice cream parlor almost seemed like something he had read or dreamed about.

  The other reason he kept the apartment dark was to make sure he didn't alert Pat Young to his presence. If she saw him, or knew he was watching her apartment, he could forget what he'd finally decided was his only way to get Joe MacAree.

  He had left his parents' house two days ago over his mother's tearful object
ions and his father's silent reproach. He had told them he needed to get away, to have some time alone. His parents didn't disagree with this plan—in fact his mother saw it as a sign he was beginning to heal. But when he told them he didn't want anyone to know where he was going, they started to try to talk him out of it.

  "What if those detectives need to talk to you?" his father had asked.

  "Yeah, Randy, there might be a break in the case. Don't you want them to be able to get ahold of you?" his mother had asked.

  Randy replied that it would probably be for just a day or two and he would check in with them for developments. Reluctantly, and because they could see by his determination that they had no choice, they let him leave.

  And he had called his mother every evening after he was sure they had eaten dinner and talked to her about how good he was starting to feel, about how when he returned he could start looking for a new job. Make a fresh start. His mother sounded happy for the first time in a long time, and Randy wondered if he was being unnecessarily cruel. He knew when he hung up the phone and stared into the darkness of his former apartment that none of what he said was true.

  Because he was going to kill Joe MacAree.

  He had no other goal in his life and didn't think he ever would. His life had died when Joe had taken Maggie away from him. There was nothing left for him now but to make sure Maggie's death was avenged.

  He tried to sleep during the day and watch Pat's apartment at night, because he figured that was when, if Joe was going to show up, he would appear to her.

  Glancing down at the digital readout of his watch, he saw that it was two forty-five and wondered if this was going to be another wasted night. When he looked back up, he caught his breath and felt his stomach leap.

  Someone was creeping alongside Pat's building, crouching to make sure he went under the dark windows. Could this be the man? Randy felt around him in the darkness until his hands rested on the binoculars Maggie had bought him just a year ago for Christmas.

  In the darkness Randy was unable to tell for certain if this was the man he was waiting for. What he could make out was the face of a filthy bum, someone you'd see in the Loop panhandling. Could a few weeks of hiding do this to someone? Randy remembered the smiling face in the photograph he had stolen from the MacArees' apartment.

  But then he saw something that made him think this was probably just whom he was waiting for. The man paused under Pat's window. His hand went up and rapped quickly on the window. Again. Finally the man raised himself up enough to look into the apartment. After a while a dim light went on in another room and Randy watched as Pat Young came to the window. She struggled to raise it and finally succeeded. As much as she could from her wheelchair, she helped the man climb into her apartment. Once he was inside Pat drew her curtains closed.

  Randy leaned back against the wall and for the first time let himself breathe. This had to be the guy. Pat seemed like a recluse, and even if she did have visitors, why would they sneak into her apartment in the middle of the night?

  Randy owed it to himself not to let Joe MacAree leave without his knowing it. He would follow Joe. If he missed his exit he might never have another chance. The police were closing in. And Randy knew what that meant: a cushy life in a mental institution because the "poor man" was "sick." Randy felt himself shaking with rage as he thought about it. Cool down, he told himself. This plan would never work if he acted on passion. Everything must be done with precision and care.

  Theresa Mazursky sat shivering in the blue Buick Electra. What's he doin' in there? What's goiri on across the street? She wanted to sleep: Her eyes felt itchy and dry. It had been years since she had been up past ten o'clock.

  She looked up at the dark window of Randy's apartment once more. I should just march right up there, she told herself, be a good mother and bring my boy home. That's what I should do. But her son had become a different man since his wife was . . . murdered. Theresa hated to even think of the word, think of it and all it had stolen from her.

  She was habitually quiet, she knew, preoccupied with making dinner and cleaning up around the house, ironing. But she wasn't so dumb: She knew what her son was planning. And she knew how stupid it would be, even if he did rid the world of someone as evil as the man who took her daughter-in-law's life.

  Across the street she had seen a man climb into a window. What kind of neighborhood was this becoming? Was he the killer? Theresa had thought she had seen movement at Randy's window when that happened. But she couldn't be sure.

  Oh, but it was cold! Theresa pulled her coat tighter around her, pulling the crocheted muffler up over her nose arid the stocking cap down more firmly over her ears.

  Please let this be over soon, Lord. Let me stop my boy before he does somethin' stupid.

  After about a half hour there was movement once more at the window. Randy watched, standing and struggling into his jacket, as the man climbed out the window. Randy ran to the door, flung it open, and bolted down the stairs.

  Joe MacAree was walking up Oak Park Avenue as if he were a member of the neighborhood who was having trouble sleeping on this early spring night. There was no stealth in his pace, no nervous looking around. He seemed confident in his stride. Randy thought darkness and night must be the man's element.

  Randy moved along behind him, keeping to the lawns of the two-flats and bungalows that lined the street. The grass under his feet kept his footsteps muffled, and the shadows provided by the dwellings kept him hidden.

  Once they were on Roosevelt Road and heading east, keeping quiet was harder to do. There were no lawns to muffle his footsteps, and the brighter streetlights made it impossible to blend in with the background. Randy crossed the street and tried to put a block between Joe and himself. Even with that distance Randy was uncomfortable, fearing he'd lose this one opportunity if Joe saw him and fled back to wherever he was hiding.

  After they had walked for well over an hour, Joe stopped in front of an empty warehouse that had once been a company called Muldeen's. Randy had an uncle who'd once worked for the company, a shoe manufacturer. The business had gone under years ago and the warehouse had stood empty ever since.

  Joe waited until a car and a Mack truck passed by, then ducked into a tear in the link fencing. He looked behind him and then ran to a door at the side of the building. He opened it, and with a slam of the door was gone.

  Roosevelt Road was silent once more.

  Randy stared for a long time at the warehouse, wondering how long Joe had been there, hiding so close to Randy's parents' home. Wondering why the brilliant law enforcement agencies hadn't searched the spot, an ideal hiding place.

  Suddenly Randy wasn't so certain he wanted to follow Joe inside. He had to admit: He was scared. The wind blew and seemed colder. Randy shivered and rubbed his arms. Something that felt like a lump of ice had filled his stomach, pressing. His mouth was dry. He looked up and down the street.

  Randy crossed. He forced himself to stop thinking. From now on he would act as an animal of prey. He cut his hands sliding in through one of the tears in the rusty fencing. He put his hand to his mouth and tasted copper. The cut wasn't long, but it was deep.

  Randy pulled his shirttail out of his pants and tore a strip off the bottom of the shirt. Wrapping the strip around his hand, he continued on to the door.

  Outside the door Randy listened for movement inside, wondering if rigftt now Joe was watching.

  And waiting.

  Randy pushed the door open about an inch. No creaking. With the next movement he pushed it open wide as quickly as he could to avoid squeaking. It worked. He closed the door and stepped into the warehouse.

  It was so dark Randy almost felt he could touch the darkness. There was a small amount of gray light coming in through high windows up near the ceiling. Barely enough light, Randy thought, to even see my hand in front of my face. There were scuffling noises and Randy thought: rats. His deduction was confirmed by several high-pitched squeaks.

&nb
sp; Randy stopped to let his eyes adjust as best they could to the low level of light. What would he do now? MacAree could be anywhere in this warehouse, and he could also have the advantage of knowing Randy was here.

  Randy felt sick with disappointment. This might never work. He stood frozen in the darkness, wondering if he should turn around and wait for MacAree outside.

  But then he heard a sound that was not a rat or the creak of rotting boards in the wind.

  The sound was a footstep.

  Randy froze, feeling all the anger, all the indignation and desire for revenge drain out of him. All were replaced by an awesome fear. Terror that made his spine constrict, made him feel cold, made him sweat. He gripped the gun in his hand tighter. His father didn't know Randy had borrowed his revolver: a Smith & Wesson he'd had for years.

  There was a whispering touch at his back, and he felt his eyes widen in the darkness.

  "No!" he shrieked. "No, you son of a bitch!" Randy whirled and pulled the trigger, jumping back at the gun's recoil.

  It all happened so fast. The bright flash in the darkness, the smell of gunpowder.

  Randy opened his eyes.

  Opened his eyes and moaned into the darkness. The moan was one word, ripped from somewhere deep inside him, a place where pain knew no boundaries. "Nooooo!"

  Randy fell to his knees and dropped the gun to the floor. He doubled over, holding himself. "Noooo!"

  His mother lay before him, a dark hole in her forehead, her eyes staring upward.

  "Randy, you gotta stop this." He heard her whisper. Was it now? Was it before he fired the gun? Had she ever said anything?

  Randy stayed doubled over for a long time, until the pain burrowed deep inside, masked by shock, hidden by cold rage. He finally stood and picked the gun up. "I've got nothing, nothing at all to lose now, you fucker." His eyes had adjusted to the darkness in the warehouse and he began to walk the aisles, searching.

  He stopped when he heard a small sound issue forth from the darkness: a giggle. Randy whirled toward the direction from which the sound came and heard footsteps. Someone was running away from him. Randy clutched the gun tighter in his hand.