“Why should he try to change her mind?” demanded his mother. “I knew from day one that girl wasn’t good enough for you. How many times did I say that girl was a bad apple and Jeremy was simply too good-hearted to see it?”
“Please, Lilly,” his stepdad cut in. “I don’t understand. Can’t you go to counseling or something? We had neighbors—the Lustgartens—who swore by their marriage counselor. And they always seemed happy as clams.”
Balint sipped his coffee. As much as he’d dreaded telling his parents, now that he’d made his announcement, he felt surprisingly relaxed. “It’s too late for counseling. Amanda has been having an affair.”
“How dare she!” exclaimed Balint’s mother.
“For years. With one of my colleagues.”
“Better to find out now,” said Henry, “than twenty years from now.”
Balint wondered how long his stepfather’s reasoning applied. Would he have said the same thing if Balint had been married thirty years? Forty?
“I’ll never understand,” said Henry. “How can a mother do that to her daughters?”
“I hope the Choker gets her,” said Balint’s mother. “I swear I do.”
“Lilly! Don’t say such things,” cried her husband.
“Well, it’s the truth. Pure evil, that’s what it is. Pure evil.”
Balint interjected to explain the logistics of his arrangement with Amanda. In explaining why he’d moved out, he didn’t mention any of the practical issues. “By all rights, I should have made her leave,” he said. “But what kind of man throws his wife out of the house? I just didn’t have it in me. It’s better this way.”
“Such a mensch isn’t born once a century,” said his mother. “You’ll forgive me for saying this in front of you, Henry, but he takes after his father. The man, rest his soul, had only one flaw: he was always putting other people ahead of himself.”
DESPITE THE late hour and intermittent flurries, Balint drove directly from Hager Estates into the Onaswego Hills. He’d been riding a streak of luck—first with Delilah, then with his parents—and he was determined to get the final two killings over with. During the hour-long trip, his radio station played the Project Cain ad twice. I’m Dr. Jeremy Balint and saving lives is my job . . .
At first, the cabin appeared as he’d left it. He once again bound cloth around his shoes to avoid leaving footprints. Only as he approached the entrance did he notice a second set of prints in the ice; they appeared to have been partially eroded by successive freezes and thaws. When he turned the knob, the cabin door opened easily. Someone had unlocked the latch from inside. He glanced at the window: sure enough, this same someone had bashed in enough panes to create a makeshift entrance.
Balint flipped on the overhead light, but the bulb had burned out. Luckily the lamps in the kitchen and bedroom remained functional.
A brief investigation revealed that a squatter had been living in the cabin. Mud stains scarred the throw rugs in the vestibule. The remains of a small animal, possibly a weasel or badger, decomposed on a plate beside the kitchen sink. In the bedroom, Balint discovered that the squatter had dragged the mattress off its frame. He prided himself on his foresight: a lesser criminal would have concealed the spare ribbons among the box springs—and would now be awaiting trial in the county lockup. Once again, Balint reflected, he’d handily outsmarted fate.
Although the squatter had rummaged through the boxes in the closet—and Balint suspected some of the fishing tackle was missing—he’d shown little interest in the steamer trunk of women’s undergarments. He’d broken the lock, but left the contents largely unscathed. Balint retrieved the remaining green ribbon from the bottom of the trunk and pared it into twenty-four-inch strands. A total of thirteen. He coiled up the first eleven strands and secured them inside his wallet. Then he carried the final two strands outside, tied them to the broken metal handle of a wagon, and threw the handle as far as he could into the water.
One step closer to victory, he assured himself. He was almost there.
The next time he visited Lake Shearwater, it would be to go fishing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He spent the weekend with Delilah touring houses. They had decided to rent—at least until the divorce was settled and his financial situation became clearer—and this substantially narrowed their options. The Hager Heights-Laurendale-Pontefract triangle simply wasn’t the sort of place where starter couples leased first homes. By the time you had enough capital and children to reside in these communities, you were ready to commit for life, or to a thirty-year mortgage, which often felt like the same thing.
They explored a split-level in Hager Park owned by the Ecuadorian consulate, but Balint was reluctant to have a landlord with diplomatic immunity. They also considered a luxury apartment complex in Rolleston; the thirty-minute commute to the hospital proved the major sticking point. All other matters being equal, he would have preferred a house to a condo, so the girls might have a yard in which to play, but he reminded himself that these were minor concerns, because whatever property they ultimately settled upon would only be temporary. Delilah, for her part, proved as flexible in residential tastes as in everything else. “I got to choose the husband,” she said. “I’ll leave the rest of the decisions to you.” Yet unlike with Amanda, he felt confident that his second wife wouldn’t later hold his preferences against him.
On Sunday morning, he found the house he wanted. One glimpse at the listing on a real estate website had him sold—he didn’t even need to tour the place. Of course, he already knew the building well from the outside. It stood only two doors away from his former home, on the corner with Bonaventure Lane. That meant he’d be living close to his daughters, so close they could come over after school at a moment’s notice. But the real reason he wanted this house was to revenge himself on Amanda for abandoning their marriage. He recognized that she’d find his decision humiliating, although he could think of no rational reasons for avoiding the property. Only sentimental ones. The modest colonial with the brick façade and black shutters belonged to Sally Goldhammer. (Her husband, he’d learned, remained in a vegetative state.) Balint imagined that the woman’s decision to rent, rather than to sell, reflected some complex process of denial. That wasn’t his problem. All that mattered was that he required a house and she had one to let.
Although Balint didn’t harbor the slightest modicum of guilt, either over Abby’s drowning or his decision to rent the property, he was nevertheless glad that Sally had chosen to lease the house through an agency. Seeing the grieving mother in person offered no upside. How much easier it was to sign a handful of forms in a real estate office. By noon on Sunday, they’d put down a security deposit and two months’ rent. Three hours later, he’d checked out of the motor inn. When a truck with Delilah’s furniture arrived at the address midweek, the reality of their new life together finally sank in. Less than nine days had elapsed since his break with Amanda, only twelve since he’d strangled Warren Sugarman. Maybe he didn’t deserve an award in medical ethics, Balint thought, but he’d certainly earned himself a prize for resilience.
Delilah proved far more effective at running a household than Balint had anticipated. She lacked Amanda’s sophistication, but she set lower goals and generally made do with less. Why broil a chicken, she asked, when the Gourmet Factory sold ready-to-eat poultry dinners for $7.99 each? Yet the most striking difference between living with Amanda and with Delilah was the freedom. No longer did he have to attend anniversary parties and benefit gatherings to satisfy people whom he hardly knew. Not once did Delilah command his presence at a wedding or a funeral.
On the following Saturday, he strolled up the street to retrieve his daughters. That was when he revealed to Amanda that he’d rented the Goldhammers’ property. In order to avoid a fight, he’d asked Delilah to join him on the visit. Amanda was too concerned with appearances to lose her temper in front of the nursing student.
“We’ve actually rented down the bl
ock,” he announced. “I figured that would be easiest on the girls.”
“You don’t mean . . . ?”
“Why does it matter?” asked Balint. “If anything, I’m doing that woman a favor. She’d have a hell of a time finding anyone else to rent the house at that price.”
Amanda looked from Balint to his mistress. “You’re something else, Jeremy. You really don’t see how insensitive this is, do you?”
“It will be convenient,” he replied—refusing to take her bait. “This way, the girls can drop by whenever they wish. Besides, it’s only short term.”
His wife glowered at him. “I shudder to think what your long-term plans are. If you’re thinking of buying Warren’s house—and I wouldn’t put it past you—I’d advise you against it. I swear I’d burn the place out from beneath your feet.”
Balint smiled. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
Delilah hardly spoke during the encounter. To Balint’s delight, she proved a sensation with his daughters. He’d feared the girls might resent her or shut her out: instead they peppered her with questions about being a nurse. She asked them to call her by her first name, a novelty that caused them considerable joy. “They’re absolutely adorable,” she told him that evening. “Just like you.”
As splendidly as his daughters had hit it off with Delilah, Balint refused to leave anything to chance. One morning he ducked out of the hospital and strolled over to the pet shop opposite the discount pharmacy. An aroma of fecundity and bodily fluids assailed his nostrils. He strode quickly toward the feline cages, intending to buy his girls a kitten. In his experience, female human beings of a certain age were highly susceptible to the charms of baby cats. Personally, Balint had never desired a house pet—they struck him as far more effort than reward, and he hated the stench—but he was willing to sacrifice fresh air if that meant impressing his children. He’d almost settled upon a calico tabby, and was returning to the counter to negotiate the price, when he suddenly caught sight of a brindled dachshund puppy. The hound yapped at him cheerily, a spitting image of the creature he’d run over on Meadow Drive. In an instant, he realized he had to have it—extra work be damned. So much to Delilah’s surprise, and his own, he returned home from the hospital that evening with a three-month-old canine. In one final swipe at Amanda, he named the animal “Sugardog.”
The girls fell in love with the puppy immediately. Balint was slower to adjust to the duty of walking the animal at six each morning. It didn’t help that several of his neighbors, whom he often encountered during these walks, had grown less than friendly—likely under Amanda’s influence. Matilda Rothschild and Ellen Arcaya offered him only terse good mornings. Vicki Robustelli felt compelled to make small talk while her beagle sniffed the dachshund’s behind, but the woman kept glancing up the street uncomfortably. The truth of the matter was that Balint didn’t give a rat’s ass if these women took his soon-to-be ex-wife’s side. He hardly remembered their names.
Only one encounter left a mark on him.
About a week after he’d purchased Sugardog, he ran into Bonnie Kluger in front of her garage. The peculiar woman was calling after one of her cats; she held a saucer of milk in one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other. Bonnie sported a bizarre outfit of solid-colored patchwork that might have belonged to a medieval jester.
Balint hurried past rapidly without even acknowledging the woman—and he thought he’d escaped safely, when she called after him. “You can run, Balint, but you can’t hide!”
He ought to have continued on his way without acknowledging her. Instead, he made the mistake of turning around.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I said that you can scurry about like a common thief,” said Bonnie. “But you can’t hide from the sight of God.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Everyone else on this street does. You murdered that little girl—let her drown as though her life was worth less than nothing—and now you’ve had the gall to move into her home. For shame, Jeremy Balint. For shame!”
“Good morning to you too, Bonnie,” replied Balint. “Have a pleasant day.”
As much as he felt he’d gotten the better of her during this exchange, Balint found himself replaying the conversation in his head for weeks. Somehow that woman always managed to make him feel worthless. On several occasions, he dreamed about strangling her. He must have talked during his sleep, because when he woke up one morning, Delilah asked him who Bonnie Kluger was.
DURING HIS first month living with Delilah, Balint conjured up ample excuses to put off his final two killings. Many of these excuses were highly implausible, such as the worry that Amanda had hired a private detective to trail him in the hope of acquiring evidence that might improve her divorce settlement. The underlying cause of his reluctance to act was far simpler: he wanted to savor his triumph. Deep down, he recognized that his victory wouldn’t be truly complete until he’d exhausted his remaining strands of ribbon—but with Sugarman gone forever, the entire enterprise seemed far less pressing. Only when he heard Chief Putnam, in his daily news briefing, describe the Emerald Choker as “mystifyingly inactive of late,” did he recognize that he couldn’t delay the last pair of murders forever. Killing again involved risk, but in the long run, not killing again entailed far more risk.
The diversity among his first five victims—both in terms of geography and demographics—afforded him far more latitude in selecting his final targets. He could drive north of New York City, even into Connecticut, and pick off another middle-class suburbanite, but he might just as easily trek into downtown Newark or Camden and strangle a homeless junkie. At the end of the day, Balint decided that—all other factors being equal—he’d try to cause as little collateral damage as possible. If he’d needed to murder a police officer or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, he’d have done so, but in the absence of a compelling reason, he saw no point in not choosing a target of far less social worth. That was how the following Wednesday night, while Delilah was working a double shift at the Rolleston Maternity Clinic, he ended up on a deserted backstreet in Jersey City, trawling for prostitutes. Once again, he’d cloaked the license plates of the Mercedes in burlap.
Balint had very limited experience with sex workers—largely confined to one raucous bachelor party he’d attended in New Orleans as a first-year medical student. He was genuinely stunned at how openly the hookers along Garfield Avenue flaunted their wares. Scantily clad women and statuesque transvestites knocked on his car windows at nearly every intersection. Unfortunately, despite the subfreezing temperatures, the streets swarmed with assorted agents of vice and their clientele. Moreover, many of these women appeared to be working in teams of two or three, so even if he lured one away, others would remain behind to identify him to the authorities. As Balint cruised the Red Light District, his foremost thought was that, as a taxpayer and a father, he couldn’t understand why the police didn’t clear these derelicts from the streets.
Around midnight, on the verge of quitting for the evening, Balint passed a blue arrow directing drivers toward the public bus station—and a novel idea suddenly dawned upon him. Ten minutes later, he was circling the streets several blocks away from the terminal; he dared not approach any closer, because he feared that cameras might record the entrances. On television, he’d once watched a news magazine that exposed how pimps congregated outside transportation centers, recruiting stray teenagers who’d run away from homes in the heartland. So why not him? After all, given the choice between his companionship and the protection of local hoodlums, what middle-class adolescent wouldn’t feel more comfortable with a clean-cut, thirty-something white guy driving a Mercedes sedan? Once the plan dawned on him, Balint felt like a fool for not having thought of it earlier.
The night was overcast and damp. Only a block away from the bus station, the neighborhood consisted largely of warehouses and storage facilities, with an occasional residential building tucked into the mix
. That minimized the risk of running into late-night partygoers or dog walkers. Balint drove past three men sporting hooded sweatshirts who appeared as though they might be casing parked cars. He also spotted a homeless person sleeping in an alcove, but he dismissed this potential target: he couldn’t get a good sense of the person’s size or strength from the road—and, more important, he couldn’t be certain that the man or woman would actually be missed. The last thing Balint wanted was to murder a stranger in cold blood and then have the victim’s body go undiscovered for weeks or months. That made as little sense as hunting ducks for sport. Yet, at the same time, he dared not transport a corpse into a more visible location. So he kept driving . . .
A solitary streetlamp illuminated the corner of Fox Place and Bontea Slip. Beneath it stood the most promising target Balint had seen all night: a scrawny teenage white girl carrying a knapsack. The girl looked to be sixteen or seventeen—and lost. He pulled the Mercedes to the curbside.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The girl shook her head. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a lift. There’s a youth hostel downtown, if you’re looking for a place to stay,” he said. “I’m Dr. Balint with Laurendale Hospital’s Adolescence Outreach Program. I can show you my ID card . . .”
The girl eyed him warily. He held his ID badge out the window.
A siren rose and fell several blocks in the distance. All of the buildings around the intersection remained dark.
Balint’s target approached the vehicle slowly, took the ID badge from his hand, and examined it. Then she handed it back. “How do I get to that hostel?”
“Stay on Fox until you reach Garfield Avenue,” he lied. “You’ll go about three miles down Garfield and then turn left on Arthur. You shouldn’t be able to miss it.”
The girl shivered. “Three miles?”
“You can walk or I can drive you,” said Balint—striving to sound indifferent. “The decision is entirely up to you.”
The Mask of Sanity Page 20