“Done. Dudley is whining to go out with Rex.”
Peter drove back to the village and met Marty on the trail. Dudley sniffed around for Rex. Marty looked for Rex. Marty looked at Peter and asked, “Where’s Rex, eating another groundhog in the ditch?”
Peter didn’t have the heart to tell Marty the whole truth. “Rex had cancer and I had to put him down. It was quick and we were sure of the diagnosis. It was the right thing to do.”
Marty’s wounded look wounded Peter in turn. His face showed a whole world of hurt — two tours of duty in Afghanistan hurt. Marty’s shoulders slumped. He quickly turned his head away from Peter when Peter said, “I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”
Marty’s voice cracked when he replied, “No, of course not. We can still walk, okay? We’ll pretend Rex is with us like always.” Marty did not make eye contact when he said this.
“Sure, Marty, Rex will always be on this path when we’re here.”
“Yeah, Peter, I know, but I wonder who’ll be with our dogs when we’re gone.”
“We usually outlive our dogs, Marty.”
“Not always.”
The two men, accompanied by one real dog and one “memory dog,” walked the old rail bed all the way to the next road crossing. Peter didn’t ask Marty if he believed in witches, but Peter was sure Marty believed in evil. He had seen it in Marty’s eyes when he talked about the war. They didn’t speak. They didn’t make eye contact. They didn’t cry.
Peter didn’t want to stir the ugly soup in Marty’s mind, so he remained silent.
Chapter 24
Peter went home and took up the task of poisoning his wife in writing. His knowledge of and interest in poison didn’t match Agatha Christie’s, but his imagination was alive with poison plots and the agonies he could serve up to Kathryn. He considered substituting dried mushroom for whatever was in one of her daily herbal remedies or supplements. This seemed a sure thing. But his mind also skipped briefly to grinding dried Amanita bisporigera to a dust-like powder and placing it on the filter of her furnace. Since Peter had no idea if powdered “Destroying Angel” would kill effectively by inhalation, he discarded this idea pretty quickly.
All in all, Peter felt safe and good to be back on the killing trail again. He hoped Lisa would like this newest nasty piece of work, no matter which method he decided to use. He only had about a week to write his murderous art before he saw her again, so he kept working until very late. He fell asleep on the sofa with his laptop on his chest. Peter’s laptop crashed to the floor just before dawn and woke him from a dream.
I see her having dinner with a man. They are at Sam’s Steakhouse. The lights are dim. He is wearing a tailored suit and is at least 10 years younger than Kathryn, although Kathryn looks younger than her suitor thanks to needles and knives skillfully applied. Lover Boy has gleamy white teeth, a gold Rolex and flashes the cuffs of his custom-made shirt every few minutes to emphasize his point. He is being very attentive to her, almost never breaking eye contact and always smiling a small confident smile. Kathryn is wallowing like a drunken hog in his attention and hardly touching her food. She is drinking wine. She’ll need to guzzle a lot of it to fuck him. She does not, after all, like to think of herself as “easy.”
She is disappointed to learn that he has an early meeting the next day and will not be fucking her. They leave the restaurant, and they kiss a long gooey goodbye in the parking lot. He tells her he would like to plan a weekend getaway with her. She giggles like a schoolgirl. I almost giggle along with her, knowing that she won’t be spending another weekend on this earth.
When she arrives home, Kathryn goes through her 55-minute nightly ritual, which includes taking four large capsules of herbal fiber laxative. She is always constipated. The capsules don’t contain herbs tonight. Not knowing which ones she’d choose from the bottle, I filled all of them with enough powdered Destroying Angel to kill ten people.
I see her wake up in the night with what she thinks is just a bad hangover. It soon progresses to feeling like a very bad case of food poisoning, with cramps and such bad abdominal pain that it becomes unbearable.
She calls her friend Shannon. “Shannon, I’m sorry to be phoning in the middle of the night, but I need to go to the hospital. I can’t drive … I think I’m dying.” Kathryn is wrong; she is not dying just yet. That is just the Destroying Angel playing the overture to its deadly symphony.
Kathryn sits in the emergency room with Shannon. She is doubled over and moaning. She throws up on the floor, and that gets her moved to the top of the triage list. The nurses rush her into a treatment room. They question her about her general health habits and her recent food consumption. They start standard supportive therapy while they take blood, urine and vomit samples.
Some time later, Kathryn starts responding well to the antispasmodics, anticonvulsants, muscle relaxants and pain medication. The IV fluid replacement seems to be working. She falls asleep.
I see her the next morning when she wakes up. She is weak and exhausted, but feeling much better and asking to go home. They tell her to wait until the doctor sees her and all the test results come in. She waits until the afternoon, feeling better and better. They release her and tell her she had an acute case of viral food poisoning. They warn her that she must come back immediately if she feels unwell. Shannon picks her up and drives her home.
The next evening, I see her getting ready for the pretty boy from dinner two nights ago. She becomes agitated as she sips some wine. She is feeling ill again. She calls the pretty boy and cancels dinner. She gets in the car and drives to the hospital while she still can. Her pain is increasing, and she now has tremors in her hands and legs.
Doctors from the triage team see her almost immediately. They consult the chart from her recent visit, and put her on supportive therapy in the ER. She begins convulsing and experiencing severe pain. They draw blood and take urine. They check her vitals and wheel her into intensive care. I hear the nurse in the hall whisper, “My God, she seems to be shutting down.” And she is shutting down. Her liver is necrotic. Her kidneys have all but stopped functioning. Her own bodily toxins are building up and poisoning her. She is mere hours away from multiple organ failure. The medications she is administered only slow down the convulsions and lessen them slightly. The mushroom has been so effective that only a multiple organ transplant in the next few hours could save her. That is not going to happen.
When she is conscious, she is moaning in pain. The morphine drip is barely taking the edge off, even though she is receiving a dose that is close to lethal. Any more morphine would depress her respiratory system and kill her.
They have called me in because she still has me listed as her next of kin. She was always bad at keeping current with paperwork. I will get to watch her die, up close and personal.
She is on a ventilator now so the huge dose of morphine doesn’t kill her. She looks chalky and is covered in a film of sweat. Slight tremors run down her limbs. Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes stare at the window at random intervals. She looks lost, and terrified. She moans more frequently and with more urgency. I can feel all of her terror and her pain in my own body. I feel a pressure in my skull that is building like a slow explosion. I have never been so close to another person before and wanted to be so far away, but I am glued to a spot on the floor next to her bed and cannot run. I want her to stop causing me this intractable pain. I want her dead.
Then it all stops.
“Are you happy with your work? You will get away with it. There’s no way they’re going to look for this toxin in her. She gave the nurse a list of everything she ate in the last three days, and wild mushrooms were not on the list. They’re not even in season now.”
I didn’t know the hospital would call me in. I didn’t know I would have to watch, with the dream gluing my feet to the floor. I didn’t know she’d be able to reach out and grab me and transfer all her pain and her terror to me.
“This is your work.
Be proud of it.”
I’m ashamed.
Chapter 25
The next day, Peter called Marty to see if he wanted to go for a walk. Peter needed to be with someone to get the dream out of his head. He had no dog to talk to any more and needed a friend. There was no answer, so he left a message.
Later that day, Peter drove by Marty’s house and saw his car in the driveway. It was parked slightly off to one side with one front wheel on the grass. Peter knew Marty was a neat freak and did everything by the book, so he found it strange that one wheel was touching the perfectly manicured lawn - even if was only encroaching on the grass a mere two inches. He called Marty from his cellphone. There was no answer. Marty didn’t have a cellphone, so Peter thought he must just be out walking the dog. Peter planned to call later or stop back.
On his way back from his walk, Peter stopped off again at Marty’s house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Dudley-dog didn’t bark a warning/greeting. The car was still in the driveway.
Peter went home and did some work on a logo for the duct-cleaning company. The work was proving a challenge because the dream of the night before kept playing over and over in his head. Added to that, it had been a long time since Peter had any real interest in advertising. He had lost his will to survive in the advertising jungle, as evidenced by his meager income. But the agency work paid most of the bills, most of the time, and allowed him to make the minimum payments on his credit cards. It didn’t shut out the ugly noises in his mind, though, the way writing about killing did. Peter was beginning to need the writing the way an addict needs a fix. Maybe it wasn’t the same kind of high but it kept the pain away.
Bored by working on the logo, Peter tried Marty one more time. Nothing.
The next day, Marty’s car hadn’t moved so much as an inch. This worried Peter, but he was late getting into the city and didn’t have time to stop. The library was about to close. He planned to stop on the way home later in the morning.
Peter did stop, rang the bell and knocked, but there was no answer. Peter peered through the cracks in the tall privacy fence around the backyard and saw nothing. He knocked again, to no avail. Peter saw a neighbor in the yard directly adjoining Marty’s property and walked over to her and asked after his friend. The neighbor hadn’t seen Marty or his dog for several days.
Peter went to his car for paper and a pen. He left a note on the windshield of Marty’s car and another one on the front door of the house, which was the only door Marty ever used. If there was no one inside, and Dudley always barked at the door, then logic dictated that they had gone out on foot or possibly in another person’s car. But that didn’t explain why Marty hadn’t returned Peter’s calls.
One day later, seeing that his notes were still stuck to Marty’s car and front door, Peter decided to act. He called the army base. After a chase up, down and sideways through the chain of command, Peter finally reached someone who would talk to him. Peter told his story and received this reply from a military police sergeant. “Sir, we can’t confirm or deny that the person concerned is stationed at this base or even that he’s a member of the Armed Forces. If any action needs to be taken regarding what you have told us, we’ll certainly take it. Thank you for your interest in the Armed Forces. If that is all, sir, I’ll say goodbye.”
“That’s all, Sergeant. Thanks for listening.”
Chapter 26
The next day, Peter jogged the three blocks to Marty’s house and saw the car parked in the same position and the notes still on the door and the car. Peter decided to go inside and see what was up. He knew where the key was hidden. Marty and Peter had shared information about where they hid their keys. That way, they could walk and water and feed each other’s dog, in case one of them was away from the house for an extended period of time. Peter had often called Marty to help him with Rex, but Marty had never asked the same of him.
Peter knocked loud and long, but Dudley didn’t bark and no one yelled, “Come in!” Peter looked around. He felt hesitant and sheepish entering someone else’s house. Seeing no neighbors were looking, he let himself in with the key. He was hit by a stench and knew right away what it was. Peter had smelled dead and rotting cows and deer and coyotes when he was out hunting; it was the same smell. Peter closed the door, called the police and sat down on the porch to wait. He did not want to see any more death. There had been enough of it lately in his visions and dreams.
Two marked cruisers arrived almost simultaneously. One male and one female cop walked up to Peter and asked if he had made a call about a possible cadaver in the house. Peter nodded yes and held out the key. Peter felt guilty as hell. He was ready to confess. He was ready to finger Kathryn for the murder. Peter felt like running. He did none of these things.
“Please stay here, sir, and answer a few questions while my colleague looks in the house,” said the female cop. She asked for Peter’s identification.
The male cop banged on the door several times. Trying the handle, he opened the unlocked door and called out: “Police! Anyone home?” He got one whiff of the death smell and closed the door, taking a cleansing breath.
After a short whispered conversation with the female cop, he said to Peter, “Sir, we would like you to get in the back of this cruiser and wait there. The two of us are going to take a look around.”
He put Peter into his cruiser and slammed the door. The door had no handles on the inside. The car smelled strongly of old vomit and new disinfectant.
In less than a minute, the cops came out, the big male in the lead. He bent over the front porch railing and threw up several times, while the female cop headed to the cruiser. She got in the front seat and used the radio to call for an ambulance and a police supervisor.
“You won’t mind staying here until my supervisor arrives, will you?” she asked Peter.
“Is he dead?”
“Who?”
“Martin Kolowski, the man who lives there with his dog … Is he dead?”
“I’m not at liberty to give you any information at this time. My supervisor and possibly some detectives will be along soon. I hope you’re okay here, Mr. Broviak.”
The cop closed the cruiser door again and returned to her fellow officer. Peter put his ear to the car window and caught snatches of their conversation. “A few days … looked peaceful … the dog, too … so tidy …” The female cop gently punched the big male cop on the shoulder. The male cop looked embarrassed and kept his eyes on the ground.
When their supervisor arrived, he talked to the two officers and then went into the house. When he came out after a few minutes, he thanked Peter for his cooperation and told him he could leave. The supervisor asked Peter to stay close to home until the investigation was complete.
Detectives arrived at Peter’s house after several hours. They were a couple of tough-looking guys, but acted friendly enough. Peter thought they were probably not out to get him. The younger of the two asked the same questions the uniformed cops had asked and seemed satisfied with the answers. But the older detective pressed Peter for more detail about his neighbor.
“When did you last see Mr. Kolowski?”
“A few days ago. We sometimes walk our dogs together.” Peter didn’t see the need to mention that only one dog had been present.
“Did Mr. Kolowski seem depressed to you lately?”
“I never knew him when he wasn’t depressed. He’s been on two tours in Afghanistan, and it fucked with his head. He went to five therapy sessions a week and was on a lot of pills.”
“Sir, I’m asking you whether Mr. Kolowski seemed particularly depressed recently. Did he express these depressed thoughts to you?”
“Is he dead or not?”
“Mr. Broviak, we’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind. Were you aware that Mr. Kolowski’s mother died last month, and that apart from his stepfather, she was his only living relative?”
“He never mentioned any of that to me. C’mon, can’t you even tell me if he’s d
ead or not?”
“We can tell you we found a body in the house.”
“What about the dog?”
“We can tell you we found the body of a dog.”
“Did someone murder them?”
“Why do you ask that, Mr. Broviak? Do you know something we should know? There are severe penalties for misleading police during an official investigation. Are you hiding information?”
“I’m just curious.” Peter wondered if they suspected him. He certainly felt guilty. Maybe it was a natural extension of having committed two murders on paper recently.
“Why are you curious, Peter?”
“He’s my neighbor; we walked our dogs together regularly for over a year.”
“That seems pretty normal to me,” the smaller and younger detective piped in. “We have no reason suspect you of any wrongdoing at this time, Mr. Broviak. We just need your co-operation, okay? Do you know any reason your friend would have wanted to harm himself?”
“He was lonely. He was messed up from combat operations. Everyone at the base hated or shunned him because they thought he was a coward. What happened to the dog?”
The younger cop spoke again, “The dog looked like it fell asleep on the bed and never woke up.”
“What about Marty?”
“I’m sorry, we can only tell you we found a body in the house, and thank you for calling us. We may be able to tell you more in a week or so, maybe sooner, after we do some tests. Here’s a card with my direct number. We might be in touch again. You’re not planning any holidays soon, are you?”
“No, no holidays …”
Peter put it all together from the bits and pieces he had heard and overheard from the cops. Marty had poisoned himself and Dudley. Marty had poisoned himself the same night Peter had “poisoned” Kathryn. Peter had shot Rex right after he had “shot” Kathryn. Somehow Kathryn was doing this. He still didn’t know how, but Kathryn had to be behind it all. She was a witch.
How to Kill Your Wife Page 9