Just Watch Me

by Jeff Lindsay

  One last thing: From the desk beside the dead asshole, I picked up his cell phone. I took out a small electronic box I’d bought from a guy in Atlanta. A truly handy tool—everybody should have one. I plugged it into the phone and waited. In just a few seconds the phone’s security code ticked into place. I unplugged the little device and started typing a quick text message. I read it through twice to be sure it sounded right. Then I hit SEND, replaced the phone, and stepped back to look over my work.

  It looked right. More than that, it made me smile. I couldn’t help it.

  Like I said, I don’t love killing, and I don’t get off on dead bodies. No, it was the picture that made me smile. Why not? I bet Leonardo smiled when he looked at the finished Mona Lisa.

  My picture, in its own way, was just as good. I’d stabbed Michael with his own letter opener. Like most of his stuff, it was a rare and valuable antique. Turkish, sixteenth-century. The blade was filigreed silver, which was lovely to see, and razor sharp. But the real joy of the piece was the handle. It was ivory, and it was carved to look like a large penis.

  And now, stuck into Michael’s back with my last hearty stab, that handle stuck straight up in the air. It looked exactly like Michael’s spine had somehow sprouted an erection.

  I kept the smile for a minute. It wasn’t just funny by itself. Considering what was on that thumb drive, it was very close to poetic justice. The miserable shit got just what he deserved.

  I looked around a last time, checking for any small item out of place, anything that might contradict the story I wanted to tell, anything I might have dropped. There was nothing, not even a scuff mark from my feet.

  Good. The scene was perfect. It said exactly what I wanted it to say. I turned away and left as quietly as I’d entered, pausing in the hall just long enough to turn the security system back on.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Katrina woke slowly, from a sleep deeper and more deadening than she could ever remember having before. Light showed around the edges of the heavy drapes; it was morning. Katrina closed her eyes again, just for a moment. Her brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, and her whole body was in a state of the most delicious numbness. She thought she could just lie there with her eyes closed forever. She felt good all over—and of course, that made her feel guilty. She was committing adultery. The phrase echoed down at her from her childhood, part of her family’s strict moral tradition, and a very strong and deeply rooted voice told Katrina that adultery was bad. And so it really shouldn’t feel good.

  But it did; it really, really did. It made her feel young again—young and, astonishingly, innocent. That made no sense at all to Katrina, but she couldn’t argue with it. She felt rejuvenated—emotionally, spiritually, and, of course, physically. Not just because the sex was great—and it was—but something more, something that would have filled her with elation even with mediocre sex. It had to be the relationship itself. It seemed right somehow, as if this man was the one she should have been with all along, and not stuck in the cold and empty marriage with her husband, Michael.

  Michael, who never had time for her; Michael, who was always away on business; Michael, who had made love to her perhaps four times in the last six months—each time hurriedly and distantly, as if he were dutifully performing some chore.

  No, this was very, very different. This was fun, fulfilling, and if it was adultery, well, so be it. Because it was also the best anybody had made her feel in a long time. She stretched slowly, reveling in the sensation of feeling good all over, inside and out.

  Beside her, Randall mumbled something in his sleep and then she felt him twitch, take a deep breath, and turn over, and in a few seconds his breathing steadied into the deep and regular pattern of someone still deep asleep. Katrina couldn’t help herself; she opened her eyes and rolled over onto one elbow to look at him. The sight of him made her smile. The affair was still new, still delightfully fresh—and, well, wrong. And she still got a little thrill out of seeing him stretched out beside her, his lean, hard body relaxed in slumber, his beard tousled from their lovemaking, and his lovely sensitive face looking so much younger and more innocent as he slept.

  Katrina sat up. She remembered most of the previous evening. It had seemed like they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and they’d stopped fighting off the urgent need and gone to bed early—very early. But she’d had a little more to drink than usual. A lot more, actually; two cocktails at dinner, and then most of the bottle of wine they’d brought upstairs with them—an excellent Château Margaux—because Randall only sipped at his and kept saying it was a shame to waste it as he refilled her glass. The bottle and the glasses were gone now, and she smiled again. It was so very like him to get out of bed and tidy things up. She was absolutely certain that when she went downstairs she would find the two wineglasses washed and put away, and the bottle tucked neatly into the recycle bin. That was Randall: neat, thoughtful, and absolutely delightful.

  But he’d left the half-empty dish of cocoa-powdered almonds on the bedside table. He’d been very funny about the almonds, insisting she try them. She thought they were a very odd choice, especially with red wine. But he told her that she had supplied the wine, so it was only fair that she let him provide the accompanying snack, and in any case he said chocolate went extremely well with red wine, and he’d practically forced her hand into the bowl. And he’d been right, oddly enough. Chocolate did go with red wine, even the Margaux.

  Katrina shook her head, marveling at how quickly this new relationship had become important. Because suddenly it seemed like one of the most significant things in her life, and that was impossible, foolish, dangerous—because she was committing adultery.

  With her decorator, for God’s sake. A man she hardly knew. Granted, he was a very good-looking man, and his taste was exquisite. And she felt like she knew him—they laughed at the same things, and often. And he was so good at what he did; somehow, he managed to locate some absolutely amazing pieces, and at reasonable prices. But not even the gorgeous new furniture and artwork could possibly explain or excuse sleeping with the man. She was married, and she’d never before even thought of cheating on Michael. She was well aware that many in her social circle had affairs—perhaps even most of them. But she did not, nor did anyone in her family. It was just unthinkable for an Eberhardt, part of the Victorian code of behavior instilled in all Eberhardts as they grew up. But here she was, sunk into the quicksand of infidelity and, worse, absolutely loving it. And although the details of how it had started were a little fuzzy, she was quite sure Randall Miller had not forced himself on her.

  Since the night she met him, Katrina had found Randall attractive. Physically he was lean and very fit, and his shaved head and neat beard gave him a dashing look. But more than that, he had a sense of humor that matched her own perfectly. He made her laugh, and that is far more important to a woman than any bulging biceps. Lord knows Michael didn’t give her many laughs—or anything else, except an open checkbook. And since Katrina had inherited a great deal of money of her own, that was one thing she did not need from her husband. What she needed was a little attention, some affection, a few smiles—and yes, damn it! A little bit of sex now and then! Katrina was a young and healthy woman, with normal healthy appetites, and Michael was not feeding them.

  And Randall was.

  Katrina didn’t really remember how it had started. Michael was away on business, of course. Katrina and Randall had been sitting together on the old couch in the main living room, comparing pictures of designer furniture for the room. She had her heart set on Perry, which Randall thought was too stodgy. He was pushing a three-piece Vetrina sofa. They’d been sitting there arguing happily, heads together over the photos, and then suddenly . . .

  It was Randall who pushed away from her. “Katrina,” he’d said, his voice shaking. “We can’t—this is wrong. It’s, it’s— You’re married.”


  “Married in name only,” she said bitterly. And then she had to stifle a giggle because she couldn’t believe she had really said that. What hackneyed old movie had that line come from? “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s wrong, Randall. I just . . .” She shrugged. “I’ve been married to Michael for five years, and—I mean, he’s never home. Even when he is, it’s . . . What. Maybe once a year we have sex.” She felt herself blushing, but she went on anyway. “I need more than that, Randall.”

  “I won’t be your sex toy, Katrina,” he said

  “I didn’t mean that, Randall, really,” she said. She took his hand. “I really like you, you know that. We have fun together, we like the same things, we laugh at the same things. And if there’s sex, too—is that so bad?”

  Randall sighed and turned away from her, looking deeply troubled. “I just—I mean, the way it looks is so”—he shook his head—“‘gold-digging designer preys on heiress,’ you know?” He looked up, and there was a little anger in his eyes. “I don’t want to be anybody’s pet, Katrina.”

  “I don’t want a pet, Randall,” she said, taking his hand. “I want a friend.”

  “A friend with benefits?” he said.

  She saw a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth and felt an answering one growing on her own lips. “Why not?” she said.

  “It’s just—I mean, it’s still just wrong,” he said. “You’re married.” He looked down, then up at her again. “And you know, there is the money thing, which is a very big—I mean, it’s just impossible to ignore.”

  “How about if I promise not to give you any money?” she said.

  His lips twitched again. “Wow,” he said. “You would do that for me?” And he looked at her, a long, straight-faced look, and then suddenly they were both laughing, and somehow that led to more kissing, and then—

  And then here she was, a month later, lying in bed with him, naked, and feeling absolutely wonderful about the whole thing. Randall was everything she hadn’t known she wanted and more—a fantastic lover, sure, but so sweet and thoughtful, too, in so many ways, like with washing the wineglasses. Of course, he remained very prickly about the money issue. He refused to allow her to spend anything on him, not even for little things. And to her surprise, she kind of wanted to buy him things. Nothing ostentatious or ridiculous. Just impulse buys, like a ring, or a nice Italian sports coat. Just something to say she cared.

  But Randall refused everything. He said it was insulting and silly to spend it on him. She told him that was the point, but he was very stubborn about it. He really didn’t understand that her kind of money was supposed to be spent on silly, impulsive things—and she wanted to spend it on him. And seriously, she could buy him a Ferrari in every primary color, and it wouldn’t put a noticeable dent in her bank account.

  Still, if that was Randall’s only fault, it was one she could live with. Other than that, he was as close to perfect as a man could be. He didn’t even snore. Not very much, anyway.

  Katrina stretched once more, enjoying the glow, and the movement must have been enough to wake Randall. “What time is it?” he croaked in a voice that was still more than half asleep.

  “I don’t know,” she said, flopping over to rest her head on his chest. “You threw away my old clock—”

  “It was hideous,” Randall muttered.

  “And you made me turn off my phone so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “I hate phones,” he grumbled. “And you need to pick a decent clock for this room.”

  “I don’t like digital,” she said, running a hand over his chest. “And I like that Waterford.”

  “Nineteenth-century crap,” he said. “Won’t go at all with the rest of the room.”

  Katrina chortled, a low throaty laugh she hadn’t heard from herself in years. “Now you sound like such a designer.”

  Randall grunted. “I am,” he said. Without getting up or dislodging her, he reached over to the bedside table and fumbled for her phone. A moment later he handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Clock. Phone. GPS, weather station, music player, web surfer—”

  “And a whole lot more. So why do you hate them?”

  “I need foibles,” he said. “A real artist has to have foibles.”

  This time Katrina giggled. “You make ‘foible’ sound like a sex act.” And putting on her deepest voice, she leered at him and said, “Come here, little girl, I’m going to foible you.”

  “To you everything is a sex act. So what time is it?”

  Katrina turned on her phone, and in a moment her wallpaper blinked into life—a Hans Hofmann painting, in memory of the one she didn’t get. The time was plastered across the picture in big white numerals. “It’s 7:17,” she said.

  “A.M. or P.M.?” Randall asked. He put a hand on her back and rubbed gently. “I guess I should go soon.”

  “Well, I don’t see—oh, shit!” Katrina stared at her phone in horror as it began to ding and display calls and texts she had missed while it was turned off. And the second one—“Oh my fucking God,” she moaned. She lurched upright in bed.

  “What is it?” Randall asked anxiously.

  “Oh God. Oh God,” she repeated numbly, and handed the phone to Randall.

  The first message on the screen read, “Michael. Missed call. 3:49.” But the second . . . “Holy shit,” Randall said, handing the phone back.

  Katrina took the phone and, hoping she’d made some kind of weird mistake, looked at the screen again. And there was the text message, exactly the same as the first time she’d read it.

  Hey Kat—home around 5. C U 4 brkfst—Michael

  And just to give her terror one more little boost, the clock ticked over: It was now 7:19. “Randall, he could come in here any second! Ohmygod, he’s home already!”

  For half a second, Randall stared at her without moving, his mouth hanging open. And then he leapt out of bed and lunged for his clothing, and a moment later Katrina did the same. He was completely dressed in an amazingly short time, while Katrina was still fumbling with her blouse. Of course, women’s clothing tends to be more complicated, but even so, Randall was quick as he pulled on his shoes and jumped to his feet. “I better go,” he said. “I can only—” He hesitated and gave her a strange look—part pleading, part scared. “Katrina,” he said. “What if he . . . hurts you?”

  “I’ll fucking kill him!” she said.

  “But he could—I mean, maybe I should stay and—”

  “Go,” she said, tugging the blouse over her head. “I’ll take care of Michael, if he dares to— Go, Randall. I’ll call you later. If there is a later.” Her head popped out the top of the blouse in time to see him nod, spin away, and hurry out the door.

  She heard his rapid footsteps on the stairs as she pulled on her socks. One of them snagged on her toenail, and she yanked, ripping both the nail and the sock, and she flung it away, snarling. In spite of her brave words about “taking care of” her husband, she was close to panic. She didn’t fear any physical violence, not from Michael. But all her guilt about adultery came at her, nearly overwhelming her. What would her family say? Her older brother, Erik, had very old-fashioned ideas about marriage and the family name. She tried to calm down, reminding herself that Michael usually went right into his home office when he got home. The office was soundproofed, and with the door closed her husband wouldn’t know if a bomb went off in the hall. So relax, Katrina, she told herself. So far, so good . . .

  And then—

  Voices.

  One of them Michael’s.

  “Oh God, oh no . . .” Katrina froze, straining to hear what was being said. Randall spoke, hesitatingly, and Michael answered. By the overtones in their voices she could tell they were in the large high-ceilinged hallway near Michael’s home office, but she could not make out the words. Randall spoke again, defensive now, and then Michael cut in, y
elling, “Get out! Out! Get out!” A moment later the front door slammed. The alarm system beeped to announce that it had been turned back on and armed—that had to be Michael, locking up. Only Katrina and her husband knew the code.

  And then, silence.

  Katrina sat, unmoving, until she tasted blood. She’d bitten through her lower lip. She unclenched her jaw and sat there, waiting, half expecting Michael to come thundering into the room to confront her. And what would she say? Yes, she was guilty. She had slept with Randall—and liked it! It was incomparably better than anything Michael had ever done, and she would do it again!

  Katrina bit her lip again, felt more pain. That was probably not the smartest thing to say. She needed to keep her cool, whatever Michael might say. But that was much harder than it sounded, mostly because she had no idea what he would say. She was not even sure he really loved her, not from the way he’d behaved ever since they got married. So he might not even show anger. Would he be cold and distant? But he was always cold and distant! That’s why she had wanted—had needed—what Randall gave her. So not coldness, not anger—then what?

  The longer she waited, the more her uncertainty grew, until it occurred to her that this was Michael’s response. He would ignore her. Wait for her to make the first move, make her come crawling to him, trembling and ashamed. It was an extra piece of humiliation, to force her to come to him, humbly and penitently, and beg him for forgiveness.

  Well, forget it! She would do no such thing. She was perfectly content just to sit here and do nothing. Let Michael stew in whatever emotions he might be feeling, if any; she was fine where she was. Katrina crossed her arms and remained seated on the edge of the bed, thinking, Fuck you, Michael. Come and get me!