“Mary!” she called again.
A hand reached out from behind a tree and closed off her mouth.
Angela silently shrieked.
“Don't tell her where we are!” a voice hissed in her ear.
It was Jim. Angela relaxed as he slowly eased his hand off her face. He raised a finger to his lips. She got the picture.
“Is she near?” she whispered.
“I think so,” he whispered back. He was breathing hard, she could smell the sweat pouring off him. He glanced nervously around. “Christ,” he muttered.
“The police should be here in a few minutes,” Angela said softly.
He nodded vigorously. “Good.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“I wish I knew. Who did she get downstairs?”
“Todd and Kathy,” she said.
“They're dead?”
Angela shivered. “They're real dead.”
“God.”
“She must have a reason for this.”
Jim snorted quietly. “She's lost it. It's as simple as that.”
“Did you see it coming?”
“No,” he said.
Angela thought she heard something, but could see nothing in the dark. “You know, maybe we shouldn't wait for the police. My car isn't far from here.”
“Why didn't you say so? Let's get out of here.”
They crept back the way she had come. She hoped she was going the right way. The woods looked much different at night. They came to a clearing she couldn't remember crossing and hesitated at the edge of it.
“Maybe we should stick to the trees,” Angela said.
“Where's your car?” Jim demanded.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” Angela muttered.
Dried grass cracked nearby. Angela froze. Jim turned round anxiously. Yet they could see nothing. He raised a finger to his lips again, and Angela nodded slightly. It could have been the wind.
Except the wind didn't manually pump a shotgun. They heard the distinctive snap.
“Don't move,” Mary ordered.
Angela was surprised Mary hadn't fired without announcing her presence. But when Mary did not immediately appear, Angela realized her friend had been too far away to get off a clean shot. She must have figured she wouldn't be able to creep any closer without their hearing her. Angela remembered the plain-clothes man's comment about having to reload. Mary might have been down to her last shell.
Angela glanced at Jim. She kept expecting him to bolt, but understood his dilemma – he didn't know which way to run. Mary had spoken little, and the trees did funny things with sound; it was impossible to tell exactly where she was approaching from. Still, Angela thought, there was no point in waiting for Mary – she had made her intentions clear at the party. Angela realized that Jim might have simply frozen with fear.
“Go,” Angela hissed at him.
“No,” Mary said from behind them.
Angela turned in time to see Mary raise the shotgun to her shoulder. She was approximately thirty feet away had a few low-hanging branches in her path to them. She took a step closer.
“Stay,” Mary said.
“Wait,” Angela cried, jumping in front of Jim, who was taking the short, rapid breaths of a man on the verge of collapsing. Mary took another step towards them.
“Get out of the way, Angie,” Mary said, her voice cold.
“I’m not going to let you kill him!” Angela yelled. She spoke as loud as she could, hoping to alert the police to their whereabouts. Mary continued to approach.
“I have to kill him,” Mary said.
“Why?” Angela pleaded.
“Because he's not human,” Mary said.
“Talk sense,” Angela said. “Think what you're doing.”
“I know exactly what I'm doing,” Mary said. She motioned her friend to move to the side with the barrel of the gun. “Get out of my way, Angie. I mean it.”
“No,” she said.
Mary was angry. “You don't understand. I have to do this. This is your last chance. I'll kill you if I have to – to get to him.”
Angela glanced over her shoulder at Jim. He wasn’t holding on to her, but he was cowering behind her, using her as a human shield. She didn't blame him one bit. He had the meadow at his back, but it was too late to run now. Mary would cut him down before he got ten feet.
Angela was surprised he wasn't begging Mary for mercy.
Angela turned back to Mary and stared her straight in the eye. Mary couldn't have been more than fifteen feet away. There were no more branches between them.
“You're my friend,” Angela said. “I don't believe you’d kill me.”
Mary thought for a moment. It seemed she was on the verge of listening to reason. Angela even began to relax slightly, but then Mary's grip on the weapon tightened.
“I'm sorry, Angle,” she said with genuine sorrow in her voice. “There are things in this world that are more important than friendship.”
She’s going to shoot. I'm going to die.
Angela couldn't believe it was really happening.
She closed her eyes.
And said goodbye to the world Mary said she didn't understand.
But the fatal blast never came.
“Hold it!” a male voice ordered. “Don't move an inch.”
Angela opened her eyes. Mary was still in the same spot, her head motionless, but her eyes were darting left and right. Angela recognised the voice as belonging to the plain-clothes cop she had spoken to at Jim's house. But the woods could have been enchanted, because once more she couldn't tell which direction the voice was coming from. The man appeared to understand that and made no effort to come into view.
“Set the shotgun down on the ground,” he ordered. “Slowly.”
Mary continued to scan the area, not moving.
“Do it,” the officer said firmly.
Mary took a deep breath. She had guts, even if she did have a screw loose. “I can't see you,” she said. “I don't know if you can see me.”
“I can see you very well,” the officer said matter-of-factly.
Man's head tilted slightly to the right. Angela had finally located where he must be standing – behind a clump of bushes near the edge of the meadow.
“There is a reason I must kill this guy,” Mary said.
“Fine,” the officer said patiently. “You can tell me about it once you've put down the shotgun.”
“And if I don't?” Mary asked. She was definitely honing in on the bushes. Angela was worried she'd try to get a shot off into them. She was tempted to speak, to warn the cop, but surely he had to be aware of the danger.
“I'll shoot you in the head,” the cop replied. “I'm an excellent shot and won't miss. Put the shotgun down now.”
“I don't believe you,” Mary said.
“I will give you five seconds,” the man said calmly. “One. Two. Three. Four.”
“Wait,” Mary said. “I’ll put it down.”
“Good,” he said. “No sudden movements.”
Mary slowly crouched down, extending the shotgun out from her body. Angela was a mass of nerves. She just kept waiting for Mary to try to shoot the cop. But then all at once Mary let go of the shotgun, and it landed on the soft leaves.
“Now stand up,” the officer said. “Put your hands on top of your head and keep them there.”
Mary did as she was told.
The cop stepped into view, revolver in his right hand. He had been behind the bushes.
“Thank God,” Jim whispered. He moved up beside Angela.
“No one move!” the cop shouted.
He was too late. Mary had dived behind a tree. Yet she hadn't gone for the shotgun. She didn't need it, because she had come to the party well equipped. Her right hand whipped behind her, and in the blink of an eye she was holding a pistol. Angela hadn't seen the second gun at the party. Mary must have had it tucked in her belt under her shirt.
The cop immediately hit th
e ground even though Mary didn't turn in his direction. She wanted Jim dead – only Jim. She wanted it even though it might cost her a bullet in the brain. A spark of orange fire spat in Jim's direction. Every muscle in Angela's body spasmed as Jim cried and fell to the ground.
Then there came a second shot – a second cry. Mary’s right hand whipped halfway around her body. Incredibly, the cop had shot the pistol out of Mary's hand. He had hit her in the hand, from the sound of it. Mary was in pain. And she wasn't alone. Jim was howling on the ground at Angela's feet, clutching his left leg near the knee. At least he was still alive. Out the comer of her eye Angela saw the cop climb slowly to his feet.
Mary still refused to give up. Regaining her balance, she dived for her fallen pistol. She squirmed through the leaves like a rabid animal. Her determination was almost supernatural. The cop rushed to her instead of shooting again, which no court of law would have blamed him for doing.
“I have to,” Mary cried, and she found the gun in the dark. She picked it up with her right hand, which was definitely not working properly, and then transferred it into her left hand. Even though the cop was closer and an easier target, she climbed to her knees and pointed the gun at Jim.
But that was as far as she got. The officer moved like a cat. He belted Mary on the top of the head with his revolver – hard. Angela heard a cracking sound. Mary dropped her gun and stared up at the officer for a moment, puzzled. But she was probably already out because a moment later she toppled to the ground. The cop looked over at Angela and Jim.
“Are you all right?” he asked Jim.
“My leg isn't,” Jim complained.
The man tucked his pistol in a holster inside his coat and knelt by Mary's side, checking her head. “You'll recover,” he said – perhaps to all of them. “It's over.”
Yet the words didn't ring true to Angela. Deep down, she had a feeling of dread. It seemed to speak aloud inside her mind with a cruel voice:
“My dear, it's only just begun.”
TWO
Angela arrived at the police station the next day close to ten. Lieutenant Nguyen – the plain-clothes cop who had saved her life the previous night – had called her an hour earlier and asked her to come in. The station was in the neighbouring town of Balton, a city five times larger than Point and one tenth as beautiful. As Angela drove into town she noted a cluster of reporters gathered on the front steps of the station. Two teenagers butchered at a high school party – it was getting national play. Nguyen had warned her to drive round and come in the back way. He had told her that under no circumstances was she to talk to the media until she had spoken to him. That suited her fine. She had no desire to think about what had happened, never mind sell her story to People magazine.
A uniformed officer let her in the back door, and a minute later she was sitting in Nguyen's office. She had to wait a minute and took that time to study the pictures on his wall. It didn't take her long to realize Nguyen had been a captain in the South Vietnamese Army. From the photos it looked as if he had been decorated a number of times. That made sense. Her contact with him had been brief, but he had struck her as brave. She was standing, studying the pictures more closely, when he came in behind her.
“My wife made me hang them up,” he said.
Angela turned. Nguyen was a short, wiry man with a head of thick black hair, large, soft brown eyes, and a distinctive right list to his body. He had dashed into the field the previous night with good speed, but she could see now that his right leg had been injured at some time in the past. The leg might even have been shorter than his left. He noted her attention but didn't say anything. Angela blushed and spoke quickly.
“She must be very proud of you,” she said.
“She is a proud lady,” Nguyen agreed. He stepped further into his office and offered his hand. “I'm happy that you were able to come down, Angela.” They shook briefly; he had warm hands. “Please have a seat.”
“I’m happy still to be alive,” she remarked, settling herself in a chair at the front of his desk. He sat across from her. He appeared relaxed but very much in control. She remembered again how he had shot the pistol out of Mary's hand. He was no lightweight, this guy. She added, “I have you to thank for it.”
“Why did you go after them when I told you to wait?” he asked, his question not demanding, just curious.
“Mary's my friend.” She shrugged. “I didn't know what was going to happen.”
“You were afraid she'd be killed?”
“Yes.”
Nguyen nodded. “She almost was.” He thought for a moment. “What you did was brave. How close are you two?”
“I only met her in June, when I moved here. But I've seen her several times a week since then. I'd say we're pretty close. How is she? I mean, how's her head and hand?”
“She spent the night in the hospital, but she's here now in a cell. The doctors say she has a mild concussion, and they bandaged her hand.” Nguyen paused again and sighed. “But I know there's something wrong with her. Can you shed any light on why she did this?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
Angela gestured helplessly. She had a lump in her throat the size of an orange that wouldn't go away when she swallowed. She hadn't slept well the night before – actually she doubted she had slept at all. Guns and blood and guts – the memories were etched in her soul. She'd be eighty years old and still remember them.
“I don't know what to say,” Angela replied. “Mary has been quiet the last few days, but she didn't confide in me that anything was wrong.”
“The boy she was chasing – Jim Kline. He's her boyfriend, isn't he?”
“Yes. Have you talked to him this morning?”
“Yes,” Nguyen did not elaborate. Perhaps he wanted to compare their stories – see if they matched.
“How's his leg?” she asked.
“He's up and around. He'll be all right. How were Jim and Mary getting along before last night?”
“OK, I thought. I mean, I had noticed that Mary had begun to separate herself somewhat from him. But she never came right out and said she was upset with him.”
“What was her relationship to the two she killed: Kathy Baker and Todd Green?” Nguyen asked.
“As far as I know, she hardly knew either of them.”
“But she went for those two. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Definitely. Then she went after Jim.”
“Did you get the impression there was anybody else she was going to kill?” Nguyen asked.
“No.”
“What do Jim and Kathy and Todd have in common?”
“I asked myself the same question last night,” Angela said. “Jim and Todd are both on the football team. Kathy's a cheerleader. All three are popular.” Angela had to catch herself. She was talking as if they were all still alive. She lowered her head and took a deep breath. Nguyen was sympathetic.
“It's not easy to see people die,” he said.
She raised her eyes – they were damp. “Things like this happened to you in the war?”
He took a moment to answer. “You expect it in war.” He shrugged. “But it doesn't make it any easier.” He looked out the window for a moment. They had a view of the back of a warehouse. “Do you want to talk to her?” he asked.
“Mary?”
“Yes.”
She felt weak to her stomach. “She won't talk to you?”
“No. She says she has the right to remain silent. She won’t even talk to her parents. She's clammed up.”
“Will she be let out on bail?”
“I doubt it, but that's for her lawyer to arrange. I understand her family has money.”
“Lots,” Angela said.
Nguyen shook his head. “The families of her victims are crushed. Mary might be safer in jail than out. You might want to tell her that.”
“You're saying they might come after her?”
“You never know.”
“What else do
you want me to talk to her about?” Angela asked.
“Why she did it. If she'd just tell us that, it would help.”
Angela glanced down at her shoes. They were different from the ones she had worn to the party the night before. She had already thrown those away. She knew she couldn't wash away the bloodstains.
“Who will it help?” she asked softly.
“You never know,” Nguyen said.
Nguyen led her to a small, grey box-like room with painful fluorescent lights on the ceiling. He told her he'd get Mary and left her alone for a few minutes. Angela passed the time remembering when they had first met. Those had been happy days.
Angela had been in town a week. Or outside of town would have been more correct. Her grandfather's house, located on the far side of the lake from Point proper, had the body of water to keep the world away. Her grandfather was not reclusive, however. Although seventy-two years old, he had a flourishing social life. He loved women, and since there were few men his age who were capable of doing more than talking, the women relished him. He was in excellent health. Right from the start he let Angela go her own way, which suited her just fine. She had been walking alone in the woods on the south side of the lake when she stumbled across Mary.
Mary was dancing. She had on a skin-tight green leotard and tights and was playing her boom box at maximum volume. Angela stood and stared at Mary for several minutes before announcing her presence, but there was no rudeness in the delay. She was awestruck – Mary danced like a pro. But she wasn't an MTV clone. The way she moved between the trees – it was as if she were a Greek nymph descended to earth for an afternoon frolic. Mary was fully alive when she danced, filled with energy. Her dance was an art, and the interesting thing was that she did it to ordinary rock blasting out of the boom box.
When Angela finally did speak up, Mary stopped and stared at her. She immediately turned off the music, but she wasn't embarrassed or angry. She just said, “You're new here, aren't you? My name's Mary.”
Want to be friends?
Mary hadn't said the latter, but she could have. She has taken Angela under her wing that very day. Angela had never met anyone with such incredible self-confidence – too cool to care about being cool. Besides being an incredible dancer, Mary could paint, sing, play the flute, and make – so she said – incredible love. Jim, she said, was the best.
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