“Sure,” she said, and it was all happening too fast—it would have been so much easier to put him off over the phone, to stall for time, so she could think through this madness. But here, under the bright lights of the store, with his beautiful face looking at her, she could only offer compliance.
Everything was complicated in her head, yet she uttered simple, monosyllable responses.
Maybe I can just get him to dump me. I could probably do that without even trying.
After securing the dinner commitment, Charles began talking about books. He brought her into his favorite section of the store. He told her about his favorite authors of thrillers and mysteries, shared his favorite series characters, and lamented classics that had gone out of print. He loaded his arms with books that had titles like Killer’s Game, Bloody Mary, Abducted and Vengeance.
“There’s one more book I’m after,” he said, leaving the mystery-thriller aisle. She followed him to the reference section, where he studied the spines of various books on writing.
He chose a fiction-writing handbook. Ellen felt a rush of relief. He’s a fiction writer. That crazy notebook, it must be fiction. A character. A creative writing exercise. Nothing more.
She wanted to hug him right then and there. Her mood perked up.
He bought his books, and then she accompanied him into the enclosed area just inside the front entrance, between two sets of doors. Ellen could see Peg watching them from inside the store.
Charles gave Ellen a gentle kiss on the lips.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he said.
“Yes,” she responded. “In just a few hours.”
“I can’t wait,” he said, smiling.
She returned inside the store, feeling lighter and renewed.
Peg ambushed her. “Oh my God. He is so adorable. I am so happy for you. I’ve noticed him since the first time he set foot in the store. He’s quiet, but really intelligent, really cool. Where are you guys going for dinner? Where are you going after? Now you’re going to have to share details!”
Ellen spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding Peg. At four o’clock, the next shift arrived, including a woman named Molly. Molly was an older woman, divorced and humorless, who usually didn’t talk much to Ellen or Peg, aside from grunts of hello and goodbye, as if their separate shifts made interaction irrelevant.
Today, however, she approached Ellen with an eager look in her eyes. She asked Ellen if she would consider exchanging shifts.
“You could sleep in, do whatever you want for most of the day,” she said.
Ellen politely declined.
Peg came up after Molly had left. “Did she try to get you to switch shifts, too?”
“Yeah,” said Ellen.
“I told her there was no way you’d do it, you need your evenings free. You’ve got a boyfriend now.”
“Why is she so bent on working the day shift all of a sudden?”
“Because of what’s been going on in the neighborhood.”
“What’s that?”
Peg looked incredulous. “Haven’t you been following the news?”
Ellen shrugged. “A little. Not everything.”
Peg lowered her voice as a customer browsed nearby. “Molly doesn’t want to go back to her apartment late at night because of those murders. In the past three months, two girls have been stabbed to death. One of them was just around the block from her place, so she’s totally freaked out. I told her to buy some mace. Or a gun.” Peg broke out laughing. “Can you imagine Molly with a .38 special?”
All of the relief Ellen had felt when Charles picked up the fiction-writing handbook suddenly dissipated, replaced by a heavy renewed fear.
“Do they know who killed these girls?” Ellen asked. “Are there any clues?”
“Nothing,” said Peg. “Just some maniac. Probably a crackhead. He killed one woman in a parking lot and another in her apartment. It’s fucked up, but what can you do? It’s part of living in the big city. You just gotta watch your back…”
Chapter Fifteen
Stepping into solid darkness, Ellen felt along the wall until she found the light switch. She snapped it on. A single light bulb, poking through cobwebs in the ceiling beams, exposed the utility room of her apartment building. The bulb’s limited reach left huge patches of the room lost to shadows. She stepped forward cautiously, preparing herself for any scampering mice.
On her left, a succession of storage lockers belonging to tenants, held everything from bicycles to old furniture to somebody’s collection of empty jelly jars. On her right, the hulking boiler hummed valiantly to keep up with warming the winter chill.
Ellen advanced past the boiler to an ancient workbench against the wall. The surface was crowded with debris, presumably belonging to the building’s maintenance man, Jerry, but probably predating him by decades.
On the counter, between cans of paint and a large vice, she found what she was looking for and remembered seeing here: a large hammer.
She picked it up by the handle—sticky, ick—and felt the weight of the head pull on her arm.
She couldn’t imagine striking anybody with this hammer. Then again, she couldn’t imagine Charles attacking her. But bringing this hammer into her apartment and hiding it within easy reach would make her feel a little safer for tonight’s date.
It was insurance. She had gone online and researched, and what Peg said was true: two young women had been stabbed to death in the Lakeview neighborhood in the past eight weeks. While the thought of soft-spoken Charles actually harming anyone created a jarring picture in her mind, she just didn’t know anything for sure. He had written about committing murder in a notebook. But why would a real killer write out a confession and leave it in a coffee shop? It didn’t make sense.
She returned to her apartment. Just inside the door, she had several pairs of shoes lined up on a square mat: gym shoes, simple flats and a pair of knee-high black boots for snowy days. Ellen dropped the hammer into her left boot, where it disappeared from view. A convenient hiding place…unless it snowed.
There, happy? she asked herself. At the end of the date, if he tries to invite himself in to kill you, just clobber him in the skull with the hammer, call the police and hand over the notebook. Ellen Gordon solves the case!
She laughed inside, but also felt an overwhelming sadness. Over the course of the past couple of hours, she had prepared herself for breaking up with Charles. As much as she longed for him, the tone in his writing, truthful or not, had become too sinister and disturbing. They had connected on a level of pain and despair, but then he kept going, further than she could follow or accept.
Why does everything in my life end in disappointment and loss?
She prepared lines of dialogue that could bring their short relationship to a swift conclusion. But even as she rehearsed the words, she prepared herself to look her best, anxious to look beautiful in his eyes. She tried on five different outfits before finding the one that complemented her figure the best.
Her mind circled a variety of moods and she realized she hadn’t felt this emotional—good or bad—in a long time, having successfully deadened her feelings in the wake of her childhood trauma and broken engagement.
If only I had the guts to confront Charles head on about the notebook, I could probably get a reasonable explanation. Maybe it’s not even his work. Different people can have similar handwriting…
She gave herself a final look in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her bedroom door. Was she dressy enough without overdoing it? Did the shoes match?
Ellen couldn’t stop evaluating herself through his eyes.
He was punctual and greeted her with a kiss; right after hello, he leaned forward and met her lips with his, a sensation both firm and soft, delivering shudders under her skin. Before she could fully react, kissing him back as an active participant, he retreated with a big grin on his face. She felt breathless, as if she had just run ten laps.
He held out a w
rapped gift.
“For you,” he said.
“A present?” She stared at it, hands remaining at her sides. “Oh…that’s not fair. I don’t have a present for you.”
“No, no. I know,” he said. “It was spur-of-the-moment. I just saw it…and thought of you. Open it.”
She accepted the gift and began tearing the blue wrapping paper.
He told her, “During dinner the other night, when we were talking about books and writing, you said you wanted to write poems and short stories. I just wanted to help that along. I think it’s a wonderful ambition.”
She unwrapped a handsome, cloth-bound notebook. Her own journal. It was so beautiful, she couldn’t imagine marring it with her scribbly penmanship and uncertain prose.
“Thank you,” she said, skimming a landscape of blank lined pages that awaited her profound thoughts.
“The best way to become a good, confident writer is to just write a lot,” Charles said. “Keep it spontaneous and fresh. Don’t worry about other people seeing it; just write for you. Write whatever comes to mind. You don’t have to show it to anyone.”
She studied his face and asked, “What I write in here…does it have to be true? Or can I make it up?”
He cocked his head. “Make it up?”
She felt a moment of fear and hated herself for blurting the question. But she had to search for clues in his response. He looked uncertain about her remark.
She said, “What I mean is, should I write about me, like a diary, or can I…invent things?”
Charles laughed then, which relieved her, because his face relaxed and lost any trace of suspicion. “Sure! Invent things. Tell secrets. Whatever you want, it’s your journal.”
“Maybe I’ll write the great American novel,” she said.
“Just don’t use it for shopping lists and phone numbers. It’s not that kind of notebook.”
All this talk about notebooks and journals was making her dizzy. Or was she dizzy from hunger? She put the gift aside on a chair. “We should probably go,” she said. “What time are the dinner reservations?”
He glanced at his watch. “Seven thirty. We have just enough time to grab a cab.” He turned toward the door, and in doing so, accidentally kicked over one of her boots.
The boot toppled and the handle of a hammer slid out.
In a shot of panic, Ellen jumped in front of Charles to keep his attention off the floor. She touched his arm. “You go ahead. I’ll grab my coat and be right with you.”
“All right. You kicking me out?”
“Of course not.” She gave him a quick kiss and pointed him to the door.
“I’ll go start looking for a cab,” he said.
After he left, Ellen put the hammer back in the boot. She grabbed her long winter coat out of the closet.
How am I going to enjoy this dinner if I’m a nervous wreck?
She drank two glasses of Zinfandel before her entrée arrived, and that helped settle her down. It also increased her longing for Charles, setting free her feelings of passion and excitement all over again.
Louie’s was a classic steak house, more formal and romantic than their first-date restaurant, with chamber music playing in overhead speakers and older, dignified waiters in white shirts with black vests.
Charles ordered his steak rare and then joked to the waiter, “But not too bloody.”
Ellen forced a smile and took a long sip of wine.
For dinner conversation, she had three topics that would help her determine if Charles could be linked to the murders. The trick was finding ways to integrate the topics without sounding probing.
Item number one: where did Charles live? He had mentioned a high-rise condominium, but not pinpointed a location. For both dates, he had taken a cab to her building, so she knew he didn’t live within walking distance.
Immediately after work, Ellen had spent an hour on her home PC researching the two murders in the Lakeview neighborhood. She knew the precise locations where the killings had taken place. Did Charles live anywhere near where the victims were discovered?
After the main course had arrived and Ellen had taken several bites of her filet, she said, “This is really good. Good choice. Do you come here a lot?”
“Only on special occasions.”
“Do you live near here?”
“No. Not really. Sort of.”
“Are you closer to downtown?”
“You could say that.” His eyes glanced around the room, as if searching out a distraction.
“So where do you live, anyway?”
“The Gold Coast.”
“Really? Where?” The Gold Coast was an exclusive, upscale community near the lakefront, close to downtown. She was impressed.
“On LaSalle Street.”
“I have a friend who lives in that area,” Ellen lied. “Which building are you in?”
“It’s the big one.”
“Which big one?”
“On the corner of Lincoln and LaSalle.”
“Lincoln and LaSalle?”
“Yes, the big one right on the corner.”
Based on his response, Ellen felt satisfied that Charles lived a good distance from the murders. She was confident enough to advance to her next round of fact or fiction: the murder of Charles’s mother at the hands of his father.
“My mom called me today,” Ellen said, lie number two. Her mother never called anymore, but Ellen was carefully crafting a segue. “She wants me to come out and visit, like I can just leave work and everything at the drop of a hat. She lives downstate, near Springfield. I’m glad she doesn’t live so close that she could just drop by whenever she wanted, because she would if she could. How about you? Do your parents live around here?”
“No, they’re in Arizona,” said Charles, matter-of-fact, biting into a pink chunk of meat.
“Both of them?”
“Yeah. My dad retired about eight years ago. He hated the Chicago winters. He has arthritis—the dampness and everything really bothered him.” He spoke in a bland tone.
Two for two, thought Ellen. Of course, he could be making it up…but it really doesn’t sound like it. He didn’t even hesitate when I mentioned his parents. If his father really hacked his mother to death with a butcher knife, wouldn’t there be some faint reaction? A cringe? An awkward pause?
The notebook was seeming more like melodramatic fiction all the time.
“What did your dad do before he retired?” she asked.
“He worked as a salesman for a drug company.”
Ellen nodded, chewing her food, satisfied with the response until she realized that Charles had just contradicted himself.
During their previous date, hadn’t he told her that his father worked in insurance?
Maybe he had worked both jobs over the course of his career? Or was Charles spinning fiction?
Ellen jumped to question number three. She meant to ask, “Do you have any sisters or brothers?”
She got as far as “Do—“
Charles interrupted her. “Have you ever been to the Cave?”
“The Cave?”
“It’s a new club.”
“No. I haven’t…” She hadn’t been out to many clubs, even though her neighborhood was filled with them. Her dating dry spell had effectively grounded her. Sometimes she heard Peg talking about various night spots, but she couldn’t remember Peg ever talking about the Cave.
“Good. Then it’ll be a new experience,” said Charles. “I’d like to take you there after dinner, for drinks, if you don’t mind. It’s a pretty cool hangout. It’s designed like an underground cave, with fake stone walls and passageways that take you all over, into different rooms. It’s a labyrinth. I know all the secret ways to get around. Sometimes people get so drunk they can’t find their way out.”
“Oh, great,” said Ellen. “That’ll be me.”
“I’ll be your guide,” said Charles, reaching across the table for her hand. She felt his touch and wanted badly
to pull him close. He said, “With me, you won’t have anything to worry about.”
Chapter Sixteen
Charles took Ellen’s hand and held it firmly as they navigated the busy sidewalks and street intersections. They crossed five blocks and the nightlife activity diminished with each new curb. Restaurants and storefronts vanished, replaced with silent manufacturers and bland office buildings. The traffic became sparse and their path lost its streetlamp shine.
“Where is this place?” asked Ellen, huddling closer to Charles to block the cold gusts of air.
Charles stopped walking. She bumped into him. He faced a long, dark alley.
“Here,” he said.
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s at the end of the alley.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Of course not. It would be totally uncool if it drew attention to itself. It’s not a frat bar.”
“I don’t even see a sign.”
“People know where to find it. That’s what gives it an ‘insider’ feel. C’mon.”
Charles kept their hands locked, tugging on her arm. He advanced into the darkness. She followed, feeling a rush of fear. If he tried anything, could she scream loud enough to alert somebody? Could she break his grasp and run into the street?
“Charles, I don’t know…”
He didn’t respond.
The alley had potholes and cracked concrete. She fought to keep up with him and avoid stumbling.
Once they were about fifty feet into the alley, out of view from the street, Charles stopped. Wordlessly, he reached for something with his free hand, digging into his coat…
Is he getting his knife?
Ellen yanked her hand free, throwing Charles off balance.
He stared back at her in surprise. He held his wallet.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “I need my ID. You’ll need your ID, too.”
“Right,” she said. At that moment a large steel door swung open next to them, unleashing the loud, crashing beats of industrial music. Two skinny, pale young men emerged, wearing black trench coats. One of them glanced at Ellen. He wore eyeliner.
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