by Paul Cleave
“Cyris was dead,” I say, to both Luciana and Landry. “So we decided to wait until we could get hold of Kathy’s husband. We would then go in together. We were all too upset and exhausted, and that was a recipe for saying the wrong thing during questioning. We planned to go first thing.”
“Why did you shower?”
“I told you already. I was a mess,” I tell him. “I was covered with Cyris’s blood and I know it’s dumb, but I kept feeling like it was going to seep into the pores of my skin and make me sick.”
“Your playacting alter ego.”
“Think about it,” I say. “Why would I shower before killing two people? Why would I shower if I was going to get covered in blood anyway?”
“Because you showered after you killed them, not before,” Landry says. “Tell me again why you killed Jo.”
“I didn’t kill Jo. She was helping me.” I look at his Kiss the Cook cap and I wonder what state of mind he was in when he bought it. It’s hard to imagine him out shopping, just cruising the mall and walking into a clothes shop and finding that hat on a shelf. Did he make pleasant conversation with the sales girl while she rang up the sale and put the hat in a bag? Did they flirt? Talk about the weather? Did he wear it out of the store? Did he know then that one day he would wear it while taking another man’s life? Or was it a gift? He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but aren’t cops with tough-guy attitudes often divorced? Maybe he has children, maybe the hat is a father’s day present.
Luciana is starting to fade, following Kathy back to the world where they live now. She’s wearing the robe she died in, but the towel she had wrapped around her hair when she woke me is gone. The night was winding down and since we weren’t going to the police it was time to go home. Since they would end up dead in their own houses the first thing I needed to do was separate them. I sat wearily on the arm of the couch-Monday morning was draining me. It was at that moment I learned Kathy was married.
“You were jealous, weren’t you?” Luciana says.
“How many victims?” Landry repeats.
“I wasn’t jealous,” I say, but I was and Luciana knows it. Jealous that Kathy was married. It was stupid. At least she was married to a man who would help us. I had killed a man and I needed representation. I didn’t want to be the next Benjamin Hyatt. I didn’t want to be the next guy the country felt sorry for, then read about in the newspapers having been beaten in jail. In the end we agreed to get together in the morning. I grabbed my bloodstained clothes and I left, taking Kathy with me.
“We should have stayed together,” Luciana says. “But he was dead. You told us he was dead.”
I look away. I can’t face her. She’s right. I told them he was dead and he wasn’t.
“Jealous? Are you on something, Feldman? Is that the problem?”
“Among other things,” I say, and Luciana fades away and life, as it is out here at gunpoint, returns to normal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Landry is confused. It’s like Feldman is having a conversation with somebody who isn’t here. Feldman understands this is a trial-is he trying some sort of insanity defense? Perhaps he’s not trying one-perhaps he really is just that insane. Would it make a difference?
It would. If Feldman wasn’t in control, if there really is something in his brain that isn’t wired up right, then the guy cannot be held accountable. If he had arrested him and not brought him out here instead, then over the following days they would look into his life and see if there was any history of being mentally unstable.
That’s not what is going on here. Feldman is in control of his actions. Of course he is. He’s a psychopath. Only that word doesn’t come close to describing Feldman. He doesn’t know what word does. It would probably take a combination of words. A string of them. Long-lettered terms that only doctors with diplomas would know how to pronounce. Landry has never dealt with anybody so messed up, and in a way this actually helps. It helps that with each sentence that comes out of Feldman’s mouth Landry knows his decision to bring the man out here is the right one. Hell, it’s even cost-effective.
He adjusts the gun across his knees, shrugs his shoulders back to offset the beginning cramp, and shifts further into the chair. Not much longer to go. So far the only thing that Feldman has said that may be remotely true is what he said about his wife. There was something in his words that frightened Landry. Something that suggested perhaps she has been helping. If that’s the case, then she’ll have called the police by now. It means there’s no going back. Not that it matters. He’s a dead man anyway.
“You just said you weren’t jealous. Weren’t jealous of who? Jo?”
“I liked Kathy, that’s all. Is that a crime?”
“The way you liked her it sure as hell was. Why’d you kill Luciana in the bathroom?” he asks, catching himself using the victim’s first name. How long has he been doing that? It means he’s personalized them; it means this has become more than just a case. But why the hell not? If he’s going to kill a man it ought to be over somebody with a first name. They deserve to be personalized. They deserve justice. Revenge? Do they deserve revenge? Of course they do. That’s why he’s out here.
Is it? You’re not out here for yourself?
He decides not to answer that.
“Why not the bedroom? You said she’d already showered, so why take her back in there?”
“I don’t know why,” Feldman says, and Landry has heard that same answer before from dozens of men unable to explain why they killed dozens of women.
“She was still alive, Feldman, when you rammed that stake into her heart.” He leans forward and tightens his grip on the shotgun. “We know that because of the blood splatter. Her heart pumped all that blood out into the bathtub.”
“Answer me this,” Feldman says. “The phone call to the police. How did the phone get outside if I burst into her house when they arrived home?”
“Because Luciana made it outside. You took the phone off her and broke it before dragging her back inside.”
“Yeah? She made it all the way out there and didn’t scream for help?”
“You got to her before she could.”
“Why would I snap the keys off in the ignition of the van?”
“You broke the keys because the van was stolen and you had use of the victim’s car.”
“Come on, that doesn’t even make sense. What would be the point? Even if I was using the victim’s car, what reason would I have to break off the key?”
“Because it was an accident.”
“An accident? Do you know anybody who’s ever accidently done that?” Feldman shakes his head. “You have all the answers, don’t you. Doesn’t matter that they don’t make sense. The craziest thing of all is that you think I’m the crazy one.”
Landry jumps to his feet, frustrated that a man like this can label him anything, let alone crazy. He moves quickly across the room, wanting to strike him hard with the shotgun, but when he takes aim and Feldman twists away he realizes this sick son of a bitch probably isn’t that far off in his assessment. Of course he’s crazy. No sane police detective would have brought a suspect out here with the pretense of a trial. He lowers the gun and steps back. Feldman turns toward him and opens his eyes, his body relaxing with relief.
“The cars don’t make sense,” Feldman says. “How can my car have been there, Luciana’s disappear, and me also having used the van? How can I have stolen Luciana’s car, and driven mine away at the same time?”
“Because your car wasn’t there.”
“It was. I was driving it.”
“No. You left your car near your wife’s house. You then stole a van. You drove to Luciana’s house and for some reason you snapped the keys in the ignition. You then stole her car. You drove to Kathy’s house and killed her. Then you drove back to your car and swapped them back over. Then you abducted your wife.” He sucks in another breath of cigarette smoke. Good, sweet smoke. Help me get through this. “Why did you keep her
breast?”
“I’m innocent,” Feldman says.
The pieces all fit together nicely without worrying about Feldman being innocent. The stake in Feldman’s home. The severed breast. The bloody clothes. The letter he wrote. The cuts and bruises on his skin. His ramblings during their interview. His lying at the start of the evening. The bloodstained notepad with his name on it. Kidnapping his wife. What more does he need?
Nothing. He already has more than any jury would need to convict.
Are you sure? Are you really that sure? Or are the pills fucking with you?
He flicks his cigarette butt toward the fireplace, only managing to get half the distance required. He pulls out the packet and lights another. He’s sick of this. He wants to go home. Wants to retire. Wants never to have heard of Charlie Feldman. “I want to hear it in your own words.”
“Hear what?”
He sucks in a deep breath. The air is cold and tastes of mildew and cigarette smoke. “Just tell me the truth. Things’ll be easier on both of us. We can get this over with.”
“I’ve been telling you the truth.”
“Which one of them did it to you, Feldman? Which woman was the lucky one to give you that nice bruise on your forehead?”
“Look, Detective, what you’re doing is crazy. Think about it. You’ve brought me-”
“Shut up, Feldman,” he says.
“Just think about what-”
“Are you deaf? The comic deaf man? Is that it?”
Jesus, why is he even bothering looking for a confession? He ought to just do what he came out here to do. Go home. Get drunk. Sleep it off. Get drunk again in the morning. Get drunk every morning between now and the end. Staying drunk might turn all of this into a very bad dream.
“What about the door to my house?” Feldman asks. “You know somebody broke in. You know somebody trashed my room. Why would I cut her breast off and leave it on my bed? Why would I let you inside knowing that? If I was going to kill somebody I’d hide all the evidence.”
“I’m the one who broke into your house, Feldman.”
Feldman cocks his head and pulls back a little. “What? You did all that?”
“I broke in last night. Your house was fine. You must have come back after then and done all that damage. And you wanted a souvenir, Feldman. Your type always does. And your type is always so Goddamn cocky you never think we’re going to show up.”
“Why would I trash my own house?”
“Because you knew we would find you. You trashed it in an effort to draw attention away from yourself. You think by saying all this nonsense it diverts suspicion away from you. That’s what you were counting on if you ever got caught. Come on, Feldman, I’m getting sick and tired of your bullshit.”
“You’re saying-”
“Here’s what I know, Feldman. I know you’ve lied to me. You told me you didn’t know these two women when you did. You told me you weren’t at their homes when you were. You have a stake similar to the kind used on them. You have a body part in your house. Your clothes were covered in blood. You admitted that you kidnapped your wife. Your name and phone number was found on a notepad next to one of the victims. Only they weren’t victims, were they, Feldman? They deserved it. They mocked you or rejected you or looked at you funny. Or did they simply forget to smile when you stood in line behind them at the supermarket?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“What?”
“You keep saying you’ll hear me out, but you won’t. You have your mind made up.”
“I said I’d hear you out, and I have. I didn’t say I was going to believe whatever bullshit you came up with.”
“I’m not going to confess to something I didn’t do,” Feldman says, “and that’s what you want to hear, isn’t it, so you don’t have to feel so guilty about shooting me. It’s not going to happen. I didn’t hurt those women. My wife is safe. If you’re waiting for me to tell you what you want to hear, then you’re wasting your time. I’m not playing your game anymore. You may as well go ahead and do whatever it is you came out here to do.”
“Fair enough,” he says. He stands up and points the shotgun at Feldman. Think, Goddamn it, think. You’re a police officer, your job is to uphold the law. Is that what you’re doing? It is? Well, why don’t you take a look at yourself?
Keeping the shotgun level he moves to the door and slides it open. The cold wind sweeps into the cabin, chilling Landry to the bone. It chills his mind too, and in these few frozen seconds he hates himself for what he’s going to do before the night is over.
No. No, no, no. He’s gone through this already, he’s gone through this and justified it.
Sure you’ve justified it. But you’re hiding something too, aren’t you? The change of clothes. The Bible. You knew where tonight was always going to go. It’s not that you came out here with no plan. You came out here with a bad one.
He looks over at Feldman. The anger is starting to return, but not all of it is directed at this murderer, yet to direct some of it at himself is detrimental. He hates Feldman. He hates Feldman because all of this is his fault. He hates Feldman for forcing him to do this.
Worst of all, he hates himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There’s no blood on my chair or on any of the walls or on the pine-needle stained glass door, so maybe Landry was telling the truth when he said he hasn’t been out here since finding the dead girl in the bathtub. Or maybe he’s lying and isn’t in the habit of shooting people indoors. Things would be easier for him if he took me for a walk in the woods.
“You’re going to feel empty when Cyris is found,” I say, looking up at him. “You’ll never be able to forgive yourself for killing an innocent man. Will you turn yourself in when that happens?”
He doesn’t answer me, just stands next to the door with both hands on the shotgun. The look on his face suggests he doesn’t want to be out here either. The gun reminds me that I’m just a homicide in progress, tomorrow’s statistic, I’ll be a story in the news. Read all about me. My heart is pumping so loudly I can barely hear the rain. My stomach is so weak the fluids inside have created a cesspool of fear that makes me want to throw up and soil myself at the same time.
I’m going to die.
It’s the worst knowledge anybody can ever have, even though we know it all our lives. We just don’t know when-but when you do know when it’s a lot worse. Especially when that time is only a few minutes away.
“Come on, Feldman. It’s time to go,” he says, and he’s the one who sounds as if he’s been defeated.
I try to get to my feet, but the angle of the chair and the way I’m buried in it makes things difficult, as do the handcuffs. The springs in the chair cut into me as I wiggle forward. I fall back into the chair on the first attempt, and I look up at Landry expecting him to either be laughing, or be mad, but he’s neither. He’s just staring at me the way people stare at movie credits they’re not really reading. When I finally get to my feet I’m puffing, but it’s too cold in here to sweat. He gestures me toward the door where I pause looking out at what Mother Nature has to offer me on my final night, which isn’t much. The wind is racing in and gripping us both tightly. My legs are shaking from fear and cold and my teeth are starting to chatter.
“No jacket?” I ask.
“I’m sure you can survive without one.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the funny one.”
He thinks about what he’s just said, then shakes his head. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“Can I at least make an appeal?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want to say-”
“Appeal denied,” he says. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. He offers me one.
I didn’t say it before, but I say it now. “Those things will kill you.”
He smirks at my comment, then slowly shakes his head. “Goddamn it, Feldman, don’t you ever shut up?”
“I can’t help it
,” I hear myself saying, and I really can’t. “But I guess now’s as good a time as any to try one.”
He tosses me a cigarette and I hurt my wrists plucking it from the air. I’ll smoke the whole lot if it will buy me some time. “Light?”
He throws the lighter. This guy is taking no chances. He’s not going to get anywhere near me. Early in the evening I was intimidated by his authority. Now it’s the gun that demands my respect. I hold the cigarette tightly between my lips, raise the blue lighter, fumble with the catch, then light the end. The flame works, but the cigarette doesn’t.
“You need to breathe in,” he says, and he almost sounds compassionate, as if teaching a five-year-old how to ride a bike. Or a five-year-old how to smoke.
I don’t know exactly what to expect, but my mouth is quickly filled with thick smoke. It catches in my throat as if I’ve just swallowed a wad of tissues. I start gagging. Smoke is drawn into my lungs where it burns them, and smoke and snot gush from my nose. The cigarette falls from my mouth, but clings to my lower lip. I brush it onto the ground. A small tentacle of smoke whispers from the end.
Landry is motionless, watching me with that same credit-rolling emptiness in his eyes that suggests nobody is home. Nothing here, it seems, amuses or angers him. He looks lost.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him.
“I’m almost sorry I have to kill you.”
“You’re sorry?”
Suddenly he seems to snap out of whatever daze he’s in. “I was right about you, Feldman. You’re a real smart-ass.” He waves the gun at me. “Now tidy up that mess.”