Shiver

by Michael Prescott

  Whatever she did was wrong. If she got good grades she was called a perfectionist, a know-it-all, a smarty-pants; if she let her schoolwork slide, she was accused of being lazy, stupid, undisciplined. When she was quiet, she was told to stop acting so damn sullen; but if she forced a smile and fumbled her way through a joke, she was ordered to pipe down. She tried to please her parents by anticipating their criticism and using it on herself, remarking humbly on her clumsiness and obstinacy. “Show some self-confidence, for God’s sake,” her father would growl. Desperately she complied, fixing her hair and wearing her best dress, then announcing how pretty she looked. “Bragging doesn’t become you, young lady,” her mother would say in a flat scolding tone.

  She couldn’t win. There was no way to satisfy them. If she changed her behavior, they changed their standards.

  At times her parents, perhaps skewered by guilt, actually found something positive to say about her. The rare, unexpected praise only made things worse. She could have learned to accept any amount of criticism, as long as it was consistent; at least then her world would have been predictable. But switching signals were impossible to live with. She felt like a laboratory rat tortured by electrical stimuli that changed without warning from pleasure to pain. She could never adjust to a universe as plastic and shape-shifting as a nightmare.

  And so, gradually, she retreated inside herself, hiding from life. As she grew older, she rarely went out, lost the few friends she’d made, began living vicariously through TV shows and books. She became afraid of people, not just her parents but people in general, all people. They were unpredictable and dangerous. She feared their watchful eyes, their closed faces, their secret judgments.

  Yet at rare moments, impelled by some unstated need, she still had dared to reach out for life, to take risks. Small risks, to be sure, like a toddler’s mincing hesitant steps, but risks nonetheless.

  Moving to Los Angeles had been the biggest chance she’d taken. After four friendless years at a local college, she kissed her folks goodbye, boarded a DC-10, and watched the Ohio River shrink into the haze of spangles frosting the airplane window. She’d never been sure, then or later, quite why she’d chosen L.A. as a place to relocate. Perhaps because it was a place where people went to start over, a big anonymous place without history or tradition, a place where the past didn’t count. Or perhaps merely because L.A. was about as far from Cincinnati as it was possible to get.

  Whatever the reason, she’d chosen to make some kind of stand in this city, to become a new and better person, to leave childhood behind. But making a fresh start was harder than she’d expected; changing her life turned out to be more difficult than changing her address. And childhood, she learned, could not be left behind. Not ever.

  The sudden shrilling of the phone on her desk startled her. She blinked, coming out of her reverie, and picked up the handset.

  “Communications Department,” she said.

  “Communicate with me,” a male voice purred.

  “Hello, Jeffrey,” she said, automatically lowering her voice, even though there was no company rule against taking personal calls.

  “Hello, dollface.”

  Nervously she swiveled around in her chair, away from the doorway of her cubicle. “Don’t ... don’t call me that.”

  “You like it.”

  She didn’t, actually, and she’d told him so, but Jeffrey never listened.

  “You doing anything tonight?” he asked.

  Silly question. Of course she wasn’t doing anything.

  “No,” she answered.

  “How about dinner, then? Six o’clock at the Mandarin House?”

  “Okay.”

  “Remember where it is?”

  “I think so. The dragon place, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I remember.”

  The dragon in question was a large papier-mâché model that hovered over the central part of the restaurant, suspended from the ceiling by what looked like monofilament fishing line. She and Jeffrey had agreed it was the tackiest objet d’art they’d ever seen.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” Jeffrey said suddenly. “I think the key spot is melting the wax fruit. See you.”

  He hung up before Wendy could reply.

  As she cradled the phone, she found that she was smiling. She was glad Jeffrey had called. Even if he never gave her jewelry or ... or much of anything.

  With a shake of her head, she brushed that thought aside, then tossed the remnants of her lunch in the wastebasket, shrugged on her coat, and left for her walk. She took a walk every day on her lunch hour; and she always walked alone.

  Quickly she made her way through the suite of offices to the reception area, then out into the long gray corridor. The elevator dropped her eight stories to the lobby, a mausoleum in brick and marble, enlivened by a few trees in large planters. She passed by the security guard at the front desk, pulled open the glass door, and stepped outside, blinking at the brightness of the day.

  Within a short walk of the high rise was the Century City Shopping Center, an outdoor mall crowded with art galleries, clothing stores, a multiplex movie theater, and three department stores. Bullock’s, Crane’s, and the Broadway. She entered the mall and strolled down the main concourse, passing carts stocked with popcorn, hot pretzels, and cappuccino. A man selling flowers was serenading potential customers with a rendition of “On the Street Where You Live” in a loud, pleasant voice. Pausing to listen to the song, Wendy considered buying herself a flower; she decided against it. Too expensive.

  As she reached the section of the mall devoted to restaurants, she encountered crowds of office workers from the nearby high rises. She disliked crowds. On impulse she entered Crane’s, hoping the store would be emptier.

  It was. She wandered among the racks of women’s fashions, picking idly at dresses she knew she would never wear. Nearby was a glass display case crowded with wristwatches, cufflinks, rings, bracelets, and necklaces. Necklaces …

  She stopped, staring at a necklace of gold squares strung together on invisible thread. It was exactly the sort of thing she’d been wanting for so long. The sort of thing she would have bought for herself in Santa Barbara, if she’d had the courage to go there.

  “Oh, God, it’s gorgeous,” she whispered to herself, then glanced anxiously over her shoulder, afraid someone might have heard.

  She took a step toward the display case, imagining how it would feel to have that necklace—so beautiful, so luxurious—touching the bare skin of her neck. Her hand rose, trembling, to her throat.

  A thought ran through her mind, a crazy thought: How much does it cost?

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Whatever the price, it was more than she could afford, even if she did pull down thirty grand a year and even if she did have a great deal of it squirreled away in a savings account—such a nice, safe, federally insured place to put your money, a place with no risks, no challenges, no excitement ... like the lifestyle of a certain someone she could name.

  I’ll think about it, she told herself.

  She almost walked out of the store, then stopped, knowing that if she left, she would never come back.

  Her gaze returned to the necklace. She touched her purse, silently reminding herself that inside it she would find a Crane’s charge card.

  “No,” she whispered. This time she did not look around to see if anyone could hear. “You can’t. It’s crazy. It’s too ... too impulsive.”

  But that was the whole problem with her life, wasn’t it? She was never impulsive. Here at last was a chance to go a little wild, to buy a costly present for herself on the spur of the moment, for the sheer hell of it—a chance to blow a small chunk of her savings on something utterly impractical, something she didn’t really need, something she just wanted, yes, wanted, in the simple, uncomplicated way an animal or an infant wants food.

  She had to have that necklace, dammit, simply had to. She ached to clasp it on her neck and feel its sinful
weight against her breastbone.

  “No,” she said again, but she barely heard herself; she was already walking up to the counter near the display case, where the male sales clerk was installing new batteries in an elderly man’s wristwatch.

  She waited restlessly till the watch was ticking and the customer was satisfied. Then the clerk turned inquiringly to her. She asked in a voice that trembled only slightly, “How much is that necklace?”

  He smiled. “Two hundred forty-nine dollars. It’s on sale.”

  Oh, that was far too much. She couldn’t possibly. Just couldn’t. There was no way.

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to try it on first?”

  “No. It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.” He reached inside the display case and removed the necklace. It glittered magically. “Will that be cash, check, or charge?”

  “Charge.”

  The card was already in her hand. She gave it to the clerk, who ran a scanner over the bar code. Information on her charge account came up on the display screen of his computer terminal. The amber light glinted on his glasses as he briefly checked the file to see if her account was in good standing. It was, of course. She always paid on time.

  The clerk smiled, apparently arriving at the same conclusion. “Here you are, Miss Alden,” he said, handing the card back.

  A moment later the necklace was in a box, and the box was in a shopping bag, and the bag was in her hand.

  “Thank you for shopping at Crane’s,” the clerk said as she walked away.

  She nodded in reply, afraid to say anything, afraid to slow down, afraid she might change her mind, ask for her money back, do some crazy thing. And then she was out the door, free of the department store, having made her purchase, and she felt fine.

  I did it, she thought proudly. I didn’t chicken out this time. I really for-God’s-sake did it.

  When she went back to work, the words came easily. She tapped her foot as she wrote, keeping time to some melody playing in her head, a high, sweet, wonderfully secret melody only she could hear.

  5

  After a moment’s hesitation, Delgado selected the copy of the first audiocassette he’d received. He loaded it in the tape recorder. His finger pressed the button marked Play. Tape hiss rose in his ears like the phantom ocean caught in a conch shell. An anonymous official identified the tape as a duplicate before reciting the case number and other details.

  Then a louder hiss sizzled through the headphones, signaling the start of the dubbed portion of the tape.

  Julia Stern’s voice faded in. She’d stepped out of the bathroom, fresh from her morning shower, and the killer had grabbed her from behind. He must have told her not to scream for help, that the first sound she made above a whisper would mean death. Delgado could picture the young pregnant woman standing just outside the bathroom doorway in her blue terry-cloth towel, drawing shallow scared breaths as the Gryphon hissed in her ear and held the knife—if it was a knife—close to her throat.

  Perhaps Julia had tried to reason with him, tried to find out what he wanted. The killer had told her. He wanted her to beg. To plead for her life.

  Delgado doubted that the Gryphon had mentioned the tape recorder. But he’d been carrying one, all right—probably a small portable unit, either tucked in his coat pocket or snugged to his belt. It was unlikely that he’d used a handheld microphone; he would have needed one hand to grab Julia and the other hand for his weapon. But a built-in omnidirectional mike, standard in portables, would have worked just fine.

  For about five minutes, the killer had recorded Julia’s voice as she asked him to please let her go. Five minutes was not a long time, but it must have stretched to hours for Julia Stern and her pounding heart.

  Excerpts from that recording now crackled and hissed in Delgado’s ears.

  “… didn’t see your face. So I can’t identify you. We’ve got a lot of nice things here. You can have any of it. There’s silverware in the kitchen. A color TV, a stereo. In the closet I’ve got some birthday presents for my husband: a camera, a watch, a new coat. Oh, God ... Please, take anything you want and just go”—her voice cracked on that word—“and you’ll never get caught. I swear. I won’t even tell the police. I won’t tell anybody. Only, don’t hurt me ... and my baby ...”

  Slowly Delgado fisted his hand, then raised his fist to his mouth. He chewed on his knuckles and finger joints. He wanted to turn off the tape, turn it off and throw the goddamned obscene thing in the garbage can and set fire to it, but he couldn’t. He listened. He had to hear it.

  The killer’s words had been excised from the tape. The cuts and transitions were neatly done, indicating the use of a mixing board. There were too many audiophiles in L.A. to make it possible to track down the equipment.

  Julia was begging now. There was a theatrical quality to her voice, even though her fear was unquestionably genuine. It was obvious that the Gryphon had explained the exact words he wanted Julia to say, words she’d haltingly recited.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Julia Stern was saying. “I don’t ... want to die. I’ll do whatever you say. I know you’re much more powerful than ... than I am. You’re so strong. You frighten me. You’re the strongest and most terrifying person I’ve ever ... encountered in my life.”

  A momentary drop-off in volume indicated another edit. In the excised segment, the killer must have delivered new instructions. Based on what followed, Delgado assumed Julia had been told to say something personal about herself, her aspirations, her reasons to go on living. That was a particularly cruel aspect of the psychological torture the Gryphon inflicted. He let his victim remember and express, clearly and in detail, all the values life had to offer; then he ended that life.

  “I’m only twenty-four,” Julia whispered. “I’ve got a husband, and we love each other; we really do. We got married two years ago this April, and we promised it would be forever, and it will be. And ... and I’ve got a baby coming. A boy. We’re going to name him Robert. That’s my husband’s name ... If you don’t care about me, at least think about my baby. You wouldn’t hurt a baby, would you? Would you?”

  Desperation spiked her voice. Tears were audible, thickening the words to paste. Her breathing was faster, huskier. Perhaps the knife had been pressed closer, the blade drawing blood.

  Another edit in the source material. Next came the bad part, the unbearable part. The killer must have let Julia in on his little secret, must have informed her that, despite her compliance with his demands, she was going to die. When she spoke again, Delgado heard her hopeless, helpless terror.

  “No ...” Less a word than a moan. “It’s not fair. I did what you wanted. I said all those things. You promised ...” A sobbing little-girl voice. A whimper. The beginning of a scream: “Please—”

  The scream tightened into a gargle. Wet. Rasping. Then faded out. Gone.

  In the silence, a new voice, a man’s voice. The voice of the Gryphon.

  He had not recorded his commentary at the crime scene. Analysis of the tape had shown a measurable difference in room tone as the recording segued from Julia’s murder to the Gryphon’s remarks.

  The killer spoke in a whisper, his mouth apparently pressed close to the microphone, and nothing about his normal speaking voice could be determined except that he had no obvious accent or speech impairment. Occasionally the breathless words were interrupted by sloppy smacking sounds as the Gryphon licked his lips.

  “I hope you enjoyed that performance. Detective Delgado. I found it exquisite. Mrs. Julia Stern conveyed real emotion, don’t you think?

  “Oh, but forgive me; how terribly inconsiderate. I haven’t introduced myself. Call me the Gryphon. I suppose the objet d’art I left with Mrs. Stern is sufficient to make the reference clear.

  “You may wonder what I’m up to. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m playing a game. A wonderful game I invented. The object of t
he game is to take living women and turn them into dead ones.

  “Have you ever killed anybody. Detective? In the line of duty, I mean. If so, you may understand what I’ve learned from the game I play, the transcendent truth I’ve discovered.

  “Other men, lesser men, measure power in terms of money or political influence or sexual conquests. But I have seen what true power is, and it is not found in checkbooks, voting booths, or bedrooms. No, true power is the power of life and death. Now, consider Mrs. Julia Stern. She wasn’t important, merely one anonymous soul among millions, never to be missed. But when I ended her life, I ended a universe. Yes, a whole universe. The private cosmos that had been Mrs. Stern’s world. The earth, sun, and stars, human history, culture, and art ... all of it had existed, for her, only in her own mind. Now Mrs. Stern is dead, and, for her, those things exist no more.

  “That is the secret I have learned. To wield power, ultimate power—the power to erase existence, void reality, blot out stars and galaxies with one stroke—it is not necessary to bring on Armageddon. It is necessary only to take a life.

  “The God of the Old Testament is said to have created the world in six days. But I can wipe out a world in less than a minute, and I can do it whenever I please. Who, then, is the more powerful? Who is the greater god? The creator of one world—or the destroyer of many?

  “Well, enough of this philosophizing. We’re practical men. Detective; you have your work to do, and I have mine. Let’s both get on with it. I know I will. You’ll be seeing more art objects, many more. I hope you’ll take the time to admire their beauty. Art adds so much to our enjoyment of life, doesn’t it? Art and myth and ritual—see how neatly I’ve blended all three. Or perhaps you don’t share my taste in aesthetic matters? Then try to stop me. Do your best.

  “Catch me before I kill again.”

  The tape faded out.

  Delgado switched off the tape recorder, then tugged off the headphones, grateful to escape them. Quickly he returned the cassette and the headphones to the drawer, slamming it shut.