“Bind my ankles and hands with this,” Stacy commanded.
Vera worked quickly; the blocks were empty, but she could not help thinking that someone would come along and see them. Once Stacy’s ankles and hands were bound, and she was leaning against the trunk to keep her balance, Stacy commanded, “Rip off a strip and put it over my mouth.”
Vera ripped off the strip, but she faltered. “…Thanks, Stacy. I don’t know what to say.”
“You didn’t kill him, Vera,” Stacy said abruptly, as if seeing into Vera’s soul. “Don’t let any of this bother you.”
Vera again stared at her hopefully.
Stacy repeated: “He died when he fell down that ravine a week and a half ago. The rest of it was just make-believe—a passing dream.”
Vera was desperate to believe. She was desperate for the burden to be lifted. She nodded at last, wanting to bask in her newfound sense of relief. It was like a religious experience: a sudden sense of faith that Stacy would take care of everything. Soon, they would be able to start afresh. She hugged Stacy then. It was awkward, because Stacy’s arms were bound. Stacy laughed at her.
“Okay, let’s get going,” Stacy said at last. “Do you remember where I told you to park the car?”
“Yes,” Vera said, remembering what Stacy had told her on the elevator ride down in her building.
“Good. Take off my gloves. Throw them and yours away once you’ve parked the car.”
Vera nodded, again marveling at Stacy’s attention to detail.
“Okay,” Stacy said at last. “Let’s do it. I’ll see you in the morning.” She winked, before gesturing to the strip of tape in Vera’s hand. Vera took a deep breath and placed the duct tape across Stacy’s mouth. Once that was complete, Vera helped her into the trunk. She stood staring down at Stacy uneasily for a few seconds before she closed the trunk. The sound of the slamming trunk left her with a feeling of urgency. She rushed to the driver’s seat and drove off. Initially, she drove too fast, overcome by fears that Stacy would run out of air, or that the police would reach the intersection before she got there. She took another deep breath.
“Calm down,” she told herself. She eased her foot off the accelerator, realizing that she had to drive casually, in case she drew the attention of a police officer and got pulled over. It was always the little things that got criminals caught….
She drove for about twenty minutes—to a commercial neighborhood in Queens, near the Pulaski Bridge. She parked and looked around. Nobody was near. She got out of the car and walked away as casually as she could. Her heart was beating savagely. She walked half a block before she glanced back. However, when she did, she chastised herself for doing so. It would only draw attention to herself. In her mind, every dark window held a spy, who would be there when the police arrived, to report that a strange woman had stepped away from the car only a few minutes ago (not the old porn couples).
About a block away from the car, there was a dark warehouse; she ducked into the shadows of the doorway, staring down the block at the car. Five minutes passed. She knew not to expect the police for at least another half an hour, but any time she saw a car coming down the street, she expected it to be the police. She would feel her stomach tighten…. She started to bite her fingernails. She had to take a walk to burn off some energy. She walked down another block, then two more. She kept looking at her watch. Eventually, she told herself that she would walk for fifteen minutes, and then she would turn back. She was hungry. After all this was done, she would eat like a hungry animal. …She remembered the boyfriend. Regardless of what Stacy had said, she knew that she was responsible. She had killed a man…. She felt sick again. She looked at her watch. There was another five minutes to walk. She was nearing the 59th Street Bridge. She did not feel well at all. She sat down on a tenement stoop for about half a minute, but then moved on when her restlessness got the better of her. If her stomach were full, she knew that she would throw up. A young man passed her on the street, looking at her curiously—or so it seemed to her. She picked up her pace, until she was practically jogging. She glanced over her shoulder, but the man was long gone. She was a nervous wreck. She knew she could not keep this up for long. She looked at her watch again. Mercifully, the fifteen minutes had passed, and it was now time to head back. She forced herself to walk slowly, so that she could waste some more time. In truth, even though she was restless, she did not have the energy to walk quickly anyway. In time, she again found herself wondering if Stacy might be suffocating in the trunk. It was a hot night: it was probably like a furnace in the trunk. And then something truly horrible occurred to her: what if Stacy died, too? …But could Stacy die? Vera remembered the things Stacy had told her in the apartment—about being some kind of receptacle for souls. Vera remembered the conversation vaguely; she realized that she had not really questioned Stacy about it. She had not asked Stacy when she realized she had this gift or curse, or whatever it was. Vera had been too stunned at the time. All she had been able to do was store the words away. Now, as she walked the last few blocks back to the car, she vowed that if they made it out of this, then she and Stacy would have to talk. She tried to think up some questions, but she soon came to the conclusion that her mind was too frayed. There were too many potential horrors in the present to speculate about what would happen in the coming days.
It was then that a police cruiser rushed past Vera, its emergency lights flashing. The cruiser’s sirens were not on—probably as a courtesy to the people sleeping in the surrounding buildings. Besides, there was little traffic. Vera ducked into the same shadowy warehouse doorway and looked at the scene unfolding a block away. Two more police cruisers entered the block almost simultaneously. One came down the wrong side of the road. Soon, the old people’s jalopy was spotted, and all three cruisers converged on it. Vera sighed. The first step was complete.
Three sets of police officers went to the car and began examining it with their flashlights. Eventually, one knocked on the trunk and listened closely. He called the others over, and they listened. There seemed to be a consensus that someone was in there, because they became more animated. Vera figured that they would break the window and release the trunk lever, but they waited, probably fearing a bomb or some other unpleasant surprise. Another five minutes passed. Two more police cruisers arrived. The officers began to talk. A news van rolled up and began filming. Seven minutes later, what looked like a bomb squad pulled up; the other officers backed away as the squad went to work. There was a tense moment when the trunk was opened; but once it was, about ten police officers surrounded the trunk. Vera had to crane her neck to see. She held her breath, waiting and hoping; but then she saw Stacy, and smiled, feeling relieved. Step two was complete. Soon, Stacy was shepherded into the back of a police cruiser. When that cruiser drove off, most of the other cruisers left. Two officers stayed behind to secure the old people’s jalopy. Vera sighed in relief again.
However, that was when it occurred to her that she had no way to get home. She had not taken any money with her, so she could not take a cab. It probably would not be a good idea to take a cab now anyway, as the driver would be able to place her at the scene. She began to walk. Now that all she had to do was wait and hope that Stacy’s plan worked, she felt even more restless. Maybe walking was the best thing for her.
Vera did not want to think about it. She remembered that the latex gloves were in her pocket. She had not thrown them away yet. She tossed them into a trash can now, feeling good that she had at least followed Stacy’s instructions. The rest was up to fate….
Vera walked slowly, but it was good to walk. The sun was coming over the horizon when she arrived back at the condominium. Just as she was about to turn into the walkway to her building, a car stopped on the curb. The detective got out and called to her. She stared back at him, stunned and wary.
When he was close, she said, “What are you doing here?”
“I called you about ten times tonight. When I didn’t get you…
” He did not finish the sentence.
“You were worried about me?” she said with a wary smile.
“Yeah,” he said with a sarcastic smile, “—the members of your social circle are dropping like flies. I had to check up on you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Did something happen with Stacy?”
“We found her. That’s what I was calling you about.”
“Is she okay?”
“Sure. Apparently some old freaks killed her boyfriend. It’s a long story, but we found Stacy tied up in the trunk of their car.”
Vera stared at him, unable to move or think. She found herself saying, “Why’d they do it?”
“I guess they snapped or something after shooting one of their pornos.” He could not help laughing here, even though he immediately realized that it was in bad taste. “Anyway, they stabbed the boyfriend, kidnapped Stacy and tied her in their trunk. We found them running down the street, naked. They are already being shipped to an insane asylum.”
“So, Stacy’s okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He looked at her closely now. “What are you doing outside?”
“I couldn’t sleep after you called. I went out for a walk…to burn off some energy.”
He nodded, then looked at his watch. “Well, I just wanted to know that you were okay.”
Seeing that he intended to leave, she hugged him. The hug lingered, until they were standing there for over half a minute. Vera suddenly felt safe and at peace. She looked up at him: “Do you have to go back to work?”
“Yeah—my desk is piled high with paperwork.”
“Can it wait for later?” And then, caressing his chest, “—I need you, Holmes.”
He stared down at her, and then smiled when he divined her intention. “I think I can spare some time for you.”
They walked up to her door, arm in arm.
Vera fell asleep after they were finished making love. She fell asleep with the sense of relief that came from knowing you were loved. However, the dream seized her the moment she was unconscious. At first, she thought the dream was about the boyfriend. She was out in the woods somewhere—deep in the middle of nowhere. She had a shovel in her hand. When she looked down, she saw the half-covered corpse of a man. In the dream, or whatever it was, she was filling the grave. She thought it was the boyfriend’s grave she was filling, but the last uncovered part of the man’s body was his hand; and when she looked closer, she realized that it was the hand from her previous vision—the bloody, menacing hand!
She woke up terrified and confused. The dream had only seemed to last a few seconds; but looking at the clock, she realized that she had been asleep for three hours. She remembered the detective. She knew he had left, but she called to him, terrified and hopeful. When there was no reply—except for the lonely echo of her own voice—she wanted to bury her face in the pillow and sob. That was when she realized that the intercom was ringing. She glanced at the clock again. It was about eight-twenty. Her legs felt numb and stiff as she walked over to the intercom. She remembered all her walking—everything that had happened last night….
She answered the intercom by pressing the button.
It was Stacy. “Hey, Vera. It’s me.”
“Stacy,” Vera whispered, still dazed. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Then, with a laugh, “Are you going to let me up?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She pressed the button to let Stacy up. She wished that the detective were here. However, it occurred to her that if he knew what she had done he would put her in jail. They were on opposite sides of the law now. This had never really occurred to her before….
Stacy entered the apartment, beaming. Vera was in the living room, waiting for her.
“Didn’t I tell you that everything would work out?” Stacy rejoiced.
Vera stared at her anxiously. “…Don’t you miss your boyfriend?”
Stacy sighed before she shrugged. “…Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad he’s gone. I’m relieved.”
Vera groaned and shook her head. She sat down on the couch, as if she had lost her strength.
“You don’t understand how it was,” Stacy tried to explain. “He was inside of me—twenty-four hours a day. The first time he died, I felt all his thoughts—all his memories…his deepest fears. He was like a disease inside of me. I didn’t know what was happening at first. I thought I was losing my mind. Maybe I was. …And when I fell asleep, I would dream his dreams—his nightmares, his deepest desires…all his casual, everyday thoughts—like what he liked for dinner and which movie actress he would fantasize about while he was having sex with me. Every time I killed him, it only got worse.”
Vera remembered the old porn couples that Stacy had killed. She began, “Those old people you killed—aren’t they inside of you now as well?”
“Yeah, but I can handle it.”
“If you couldn’t handle twenty-two years of your boyfriend’s memories, then how are you going to deal with the memories of four seventy-year-olds?”
“I can handle it,” she said flatly.
Vera looked at her skeptically: “How many people can you hold inside of yourself at one time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eleanor,” Vera blurted out, suddenly realizing something.
“What?”
“Eleanor—the porn star who broke her neck when she tumbled down your staircase—you could have saved her if you wanted.”
Stacy groaned. “Why are you bringing up that nonsense?”
“You could have saved her.”
“I could have, but I didn’t, okay? I can’t save everyone. And I feel no obligation to save people who try to kill me.”
“Okay,” Vera said weakly. She remembered what she had vowed to ask Stacy the night before:
“How long have you had this…this power?”
“I don’t know. I think I’ve always had it, but I was never around a dying person before my boyfriend. If he hadn’t slipped off that cliff, I’d probably never know.”
Vera was staring at her suspiciously now. “Are you telling me everything, Stacy?”
“What do you mean?”
“You lied to me before, Stacy. You told me your boyfriend was immortal.”
“I thought he was at first. I didn’t know what was happening.”
“When did you figure out that you were doing everything?”
“I don’t know. Most of the last two weeks is a blur to me; even now, I’m realizing new things all the time. …It’s like years passed between when my boyfriend first slipped off that cliff and today. …Remember how, when you were a kid, you believed in Santa Claus, and then, years later, when you knew better, you looked back on it, amazed that you had believed? That’s how I am now. I don’t think I was being dishonest with you, Vera. I just didn’t know what was going on. Half the things I would have sworn to last week are silly to me now. Now that my boyfriend’s gone and I don’t have him inside of me, I can see everything clearly.”
Vera sighed. “…What am I supposed to believe, Stacy? How can I trust you if your entire frame of reference can change in a few hours?”
“You can believe in what I’m saying now, Vera,” Stacy said with a hopeful smile. “The only thing that matters is the present. The past is always a fantasy, Vera. The past is just our present hopes and fears projected backwards. The future is our present hopes and fears projected forwards. All that there is, is the present. The present is the only moment when we can ever really see things as they are; and even then, half the time, we lie to ourselves.”
Vera stared at her for a few moments before she sighed again. She had forgotten how Stacy talked—the way the words could overwhelm you.
Stacy continued, “Trust me now, Vera—you’re all I have left. When all this happened, and I realized what had happened with my boyfriend, you were the only one I knew I could turn to. Since the beginning, you were always the only one. Since I he
ard your voice on the radio, I knew that I could count on you—that I needed you.”
Vera nodded, but still looked pensive.
Stacy ventured, “How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know yet. …I had a nightmare just now…maybe not a nightmare, but a vision. I thought it was about your boyfriend, but someone else was in it.” She shook her head now, realizing that she had no definite proof of this. “…I don’t know. Everything’s a mess. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over what I did.”
“Like I said, the past is just a fantasy—a nightmare in your case. …And I told you before that you didn’t kill him. Technically, he was already dead before you even met him.”
Vera shook her head. “My conscience doesn’t care about technicalities, Stacy. I’ll never be able to forget it. If I were my own patient, I’d tell myself to turn myself in. …But who’d believe all the things that happened—all the things we did?”
Stacy was looking at her with concern. “No good can come of those thoughts, Vera. You have to get them out of your head. Forget what happened, or it’ll destroy you.”
Vera was again going to tell Stacy that she would never forget, but she faltered. Eventually, she nodded noncommittally. She suddenly wanted to be alone.
“Maybe I need to get some sleep,” she said as a hint to Stacy. Stacy understood, and rose to leave.
“We’ll talk later,” Stacy said.
“Yeah,” Vera said, getting up. They hugged before Vera saw her to the door.
The days passed in a slow, torturous manner. Vera tried to return to work and lose herself in the entire “Claim back your pussy!” phenomenon. She sleepwalked through the shows and interviews and book signings, but she did so in a demonstrative, high-energy manner that was unnoticeable to her fans. It was as if a wise-cracking demon took over her as soon as she got on air. All the phone lines were now jammed on her show; every other fan seemed to greet her with “Claim back your pussy!” Vera was both grateful for it and disillusioned by it.
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 25