A Fatal Obsession

by James Hayman

  Next job: clean up the blood. Tyler found a bunch of towels in the bathroom, ran them under hot water, wrung them out, grabbed a bottle of Lysol All-Purpose Cleaner, went out onto the landing and washed up all the blood spatters he could find. At least he hoped it was all of them. He looked down critically. He couldn’t see any more blood anywhere. Not even in the cracks along the wall. He just hoped he got it all. Or at least enough so it wouldn’t be easily noticed. But that didn’t matter. If cops came and took the trouble to use luminol, they’d see the blood glowing blue in the dark, go into the apartment and find the body in a nanosecond anyway.

  He then went back inside. He rinsed all the blood out of the towels. Wrung them out as best he could and then washed the entryway, the kitchen and the bedroom floors. Then he tossed the blood-soaked towels in the sink. Added liquid detergent and washed the towels till no more red came out. He wrung them out again and watched the bloody water swirl in a circular motion as it went down the drain. Mused about the fact that if he’d killed Annie Nakamura in the Southern Hemisphere, the water would have swirled the other way down the drain. He’d always found that particular fact kind of interesting. Never understood why it’d do that. If and when he had the time, Tyler told himself he ought to look it up. Anyway, he had too much to do to worry about that now. He found a big black trash bag under the bathroom sink and stuffed the wet towels into the bag along with his bloody latex gloves. Pulled a fresh pair from his backpack and put them on. He knew without looking it was 2:26 in the morning. He’d wasted forty-seven minutes screwing around with Annie Nakamura and, to be honest about it, he was kind of exhausted. He needed a break. And given what he had to put up with, what with killing Annie and stuffing her in the closet, he figured he owed himself one. Besides, he’d seen a bottle of Jim Beam sitting on a chest in the living room. Zoe didn’t know enough to keep bourbon in the house for guests but Nakamura did. Weird. He thought Japs only drank beer and sake. Goes to show.

  He took a glass from the kitchen cupboard and poured himself three fingers’ worth of the Beam. Not the best bourbon in the world but hey . . . beggars can’t be choosers. He added some ice cubes and sat down cross-legged on the living room floor and leaned his back against the wall. He took one long slug. And then another. The burn of the whiskey felt good tracing its way down his throat. Within seconds he could feel some of the tension easing its way out of his body. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded just sitting there and finishing the whole damned bottle. Sadly, there was no way he could do that. He could feel the buzz of the bourbon now, and the last thing he needed was to be picked up for drunk driving. He poured the last half inch of bourbon down his throat and tossed the glass into the garbage bag. DNA and all that. Okay, now what? First check on Zoe. Make sure she was still totally out, which it turned out she was. Okay. It was now 2:47. The whole bullshit episode with neighbor Annie had cost him too goddamned much time. Not counting the twenty-one minutes he’d semi-wasted drinking the bourbon, though he could excuse that because the booze had been majorly therapeutic. He grabbed the garbage bag and took it with him as he left the apartment. He used Nakamura’s key to double lock the door and then threw the key in the garbage bag and tied it up tight.

  Then, taking Zoe’s duffel bag and the garbage bag with him, he left the building and headed toward his car. He passed the same homeless guy Zoe had given the five bucks to. He was still lying on the sidewalk next to the steps. Guy didn’t look up. Probably dead to the world. Probably no one to worry about. Still, you never knew. He’d check the guy when Zoe was safely stashed in the car. He clicked his clicker, unlocking the car doors from twenty feet away. Opened the rear driver’s side door. He’d already lowered the rear seats and he stuffed the two bags inside, making sure to leave enough room for the Navajo rug with his dark-haired Desdemona inside. He looked around for any prying eyes or CCTV cameras. Seeing none, he got in the car and drove the short distance to Zoe’s building. Of course, there was still no available parking place right in front. Which was expected. Finding the perfect parking place in Manhattan was like winning the fucking lottery. Never happen. He double-parked the 4Runner directly in front of the building, put the blinkers on, which would hopefully signal to any passing cop that the car would be there for only a minute.

  He went back in the building and took the elevator to five. Sniffed to see if he could smell anything from 5R. He couldn’t. Took a quick look around for blood. Couldn’t see any of that either. He unlocked the door to 5F. Went in and lifted Zoe’s rug-encased body over his shoulder fireman-style and left. He locked the door and, figuring he couldn’t squeeze the two of them into the elevator with Zoe in that position, carried her down the five flights of stairs.

  He hoped nobody would notice him carrying her out. The last thing he needed was to have to kill another possible witness and waste time getting rid of yet another goddamned body.

  As far as he could tell, nobody was on the street except the homeless guy. Of course this was New York, the city that never sleeps, so you couldn’t tell for sure. Any of the windows on the street could have a pair of prying eyes behind them. Still, as far as any watchers or cameras could tell, he was just a big guy in an Aussie bush hat carrying a rug. Weird time of night to be carrying one, but what the fuck? He opened the Toyota’s back hatch, wedged the rug in as best he could so it wouldn’t slide around. Closed the hatch.

  Looked around. Took out his knife, opened it. He went back to where the homeless guy was lying. He could cut his throat and leave him to bleed to death in three seconds flat. Kicked him in the side. No reaction. Knelt down. Slid the edge of the knife blade against the guy’s throat. Looked into his face to see if he was feigning it. The guy stunk. Tyler felt bile rising in his gorge and spat it out in disgust right on the guy’s chest. Then finally with the knife against his neck the guy opened a pair of terrified eyes. Tyler stared at him for a moment.

  Should he put the poor bastard out of his misery? Screw it. No need to leave a bleeding body in the middle of the sidewalk. Just get blood and stink on his hands and clothes and no doubt alert the cops that much sooner. He started back to the car. Stopped. Turned around. Looked at the old man staring at him with round, bloodshot eyes. Took a-dollar bill from his pocket and slipped it under the blanket just where Zoe had put the five. This guy needed it more than he did.

  Ten minutes later Tyler and the woman he loved were heading north on the FDR Drive. This time, he told himself, things would be different. This time. With this woman. Zoe would love him back. She wasn’t like the others he’d loved. With her it wouldn’t be just pretend. He was sure of it. And no one would ever take her away from him. One way or another, she was his. To have and to hold. To love and to cherish. In sickness and in health. Till death do them part. Which could be tonight, tomorrow or next week if she started giving him too hard a time. But he sure as hell hoped it wouldn’t be. He’d much prefer it if they could spend a happy lifetime together. That’s what he really wanted. But he supposed that was up to her. He’d killed before and knew that if she forced the issue, he could and would kill again.

  Chapter 8

  At six-thirty a.m. McCabe and Maggie, each clutching a large cup of Starbucks’s darkest blend, walked through the doors of the main entrance of Montefiore Hospital on 210th Street in the Bronx. Though it was only a few miles from the house where McCabe had grown up, it was the first time he’d been in the place for over fifteen years. Not since his alcoholic father had died there from cirrhosis of the liver.

  “I’m Michael McCabe,” he said to the silver-haired woman manning the reception desk. “We’re here to see my mother. Rose McCabe. She was brought in yesterday.”

  The receptionist pecked away at her computer. “McCabe, Rose. Here she is. Intensive Care. Room 437. I’m afraid only immediate family are allowed up.”

  “We are immediate family. Rose is my mother. This is my wife, Rose’s daughter-in-law.”

  The receptionist glanced at Maggie’s ringless finger, and
then at McCabe’s. She sighed and shrugged. “Fine. Whatever you say. Take the elevator to your left at the end of that hall. Fourth floor. When you get out, follow the signs to the ICU. The nurse there can direct you to the room.”

  They headed toward the elevator. “The next time you tell people I’m your wife, you might want to include a ring,” said Maggie.

  “Y’mean, people are still doing that ring stuff?”

  “I do believe they are.”

  They entered an empty elevator big enough to carry the entire starting defense of the New York Giants plus a gurney. McCabe pressed 4. When the door opened they followed signs to the ICU and then a duty nurse’s directions to room 437. The door was partially open. Pushing it all the way, McCabe saw Bobby snoring away on one of those ugly lime-green vinyl chairs that never seem to turn up anywhere other than hospital rooms. Since it was a Monday morning, McCabe’s older brother was still dressed in casual weekend garb. Jeans, a crewneck sweater and Topsiders. A Barbour rain jacket hung from the back of his chair. McCabe didn’t wake him. Just walked to the side of the bed where his mother lay attached to a variety of tubes, wires and monitors. Maggie came in but waited just inside the door to give McCabe a chance for a private moment alone with the woman who’d given him life.

  McCabe looked down at Rose’s arms and face. She seemed frail, frightfully thin and badly bruised. Her head was swathed in what looked like a white skullcap. Her eyes were closed and she might have been dead save for the gentle rising and lowering of her chest. McCabe lowered the safety bars and leaned down to kiss his mother softly on the forehead. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at him, uncertain and confused. After a few seconds, she closed them again.

  “She’s got a lot of morphine in her,” Bobby said, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if he didn’t want the woman in the bed to hear. He came up behind his younger brother. “Between the morphine and the dementia, she’s basically in la-la land. Won’t have any idea you’re here. Wouldn’t know you if she did.”

  McCabe responded in the same quiet tones. “I understand. Have you given them a DNR?”

  “Let’s go out in the hall,” said Bobby. “I can’t escape the feeling that some part of her is still listening to everything we say.”

  The two brothers joined Maggie in the hall. McCabe made introductions.

  Maggie held out her hand. Bobby ignored the proffered hand, put his arms around Maggie and gave her a hug. “Margaret Savage. Maggie. Been hearing about you for years. Lot more so lately. Glad I’m finally getting to meet you.”

  “Me too,” said Maggie.

  Bobby turned back to McCabe. “No, I didn’t sign a DNR. Frannie was dead set against it on religious grounds and she convinced me Mam would be against it as well. Not sure it really matters. She’s dying anyway. Basically, they’re just trying to keep her comfortable till she passes. Which will likely be soon. From what the doc says cause of death will probably be pneumonia, which she has now also developed, and not the injuries.”

  “They giving her antibiotics?”

  “No. I asked them not to. Please don’t mention that to Frannie.”

  McCabe frowned at his brother.

  “They’d only prolong the agony,” said Bobby. “I was the only one here at the time so I made the decision. I hope you agree.”

  McCabe nodded. He wasn’t sure if he did agree but there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

  McCabe simply nodded. “Okay. Your call. I understand Sister Mary Frances’s feelings given her religious convictions, and I’m not even sure I totally agree with you. But what with the injuries on top of the Alzheimer’s, let’s just say I understand and I’m not going to fight you on it.”

  “I suppose in one sense there wasn’t much point dragging you down here just to watch her fade away. On the other hand I was pretty sure you’d want to be here if only to say good-bye.”

  “Of course.”

  “And she would have wanted you to be. You were her favorite child, y’know. Her baby.”

  “No. Her firstborn was her favorite. When she heard how Tommy died, you remember how it broke her heart.”

  “I remember. It broke all our hearts,” said Bobby. “You just happened to be the one who decided to do something about it. She was so happy you did what you did, you inherited the hero’s mantle.”

  McCabe didn’t respond. He just stood there looking down at his mother, his mind flashing back to a night ten years earlier standing on a filthy stairwell in an abandoned building in the South Bronx where he’d tracked down the drug dealer. The guy named Two-Times. The guy who’d killed his brother. “Yeah, I killed your crooked brother,” Two-Times said when McCabe called him on it. “And now I’m gonna kill you.”

  Two-Times fired his gun first. A dinky little .22. The round whizzed by McCabe’s ear. McCabe fired back. His aim was better.

  “I didn’t go there intending to kill him,” McCabe said to his brother. “It really was self-defense.”

  “Still, you got payback,” said Bobby. “Not just for yourself but for Rose as well. Which is what made you her favorite from that moment on.”

  McCabe shrugged as if he didn’t see much point in arguing. “I guess. If you say so.”

  McCabe led Maggie back into the room and to his mother’s bedside. “Mam, I’d like you to meet Margaret Savage. We call her Maggie. She’s going to be your new daughter-in-law. At least she is if she hasn’t changed her mind about accepting my proposal.”

  Maggie touched Rose’s hand and gently squeezed. “I’m so sorry we won’t have a chance to get to know each other. I hope you don’t mind that there’s going to be another cop in the family.”

  “Congratulations,” said Bobby with a wide smile, joining them at Rose’s bedside. He put his arms around both their shoulders. “And when did this momentous decision get momentously decided?”

  “Last night,” said McCabe. “Right after you called.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Maggie said, “it was all decided nine years ago when your brother moved to Maine and we started working together. You know? Love at first sight and all that jazz. Course it took a lot of doing getting from there to here.”

  “And Mam,” said McCabe, “with your permission, since neither Bobby or Frannie will have any use for them, I’d like to give Maggie the engagement and wedding rings Dad gave you.”

  McCabe could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile cross his mother’s face, as if she indeed had understood what her son had said. And that she agreed.

  “Truth is,” said Bobby, “I’m thrilled. For both of you. But especially for you, baby brother. I know how you’ve felt about this woman for a long time. And you need a second chance so you can learn that marriage can be a way better deal than it was for you the first time around.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, why don’t we take a brief time out and go down to the cafeteria and celebrate your engagement with a crappy breakfast,” Bobby said. He bent down and kissed his mother. “You don’t mind if we run downstairs for a bit, do you, Mam?”

  “You and Maggie go,” said McCabe. “I’d like to be alone with her for a while.”

  “That’s fine. I’m pretty wiped so I may head home after we eat. Like I said, you two can stay at our place as long as you want.”

  “Have you told Zoe yet?”

  “No. I tried calling her last night. Just before I called you. Hasn’t gotten back to me yet. And I guess she hasn’t checked her messages. Probably dead to the world. The play closed last night and my guess is she was up late partying.”

  Chapter 9

  Zoe found herself floating twenty feet above a small group of mourners surrounding an open grave at St. Raymond’s Cemetery. St. Ray’s was the only cemetery she’d ever been to. As a child, she’d attended the funeral of her grandfather here. Then, five years later, that of her uncle Tommy, her father’s older brother.

  The mourners . . . perhaps twenty in all . . . were looking aw
ay from the neatly dug rectangular pit. Their eyes focused instead on a wooden coffin that lay just inside the open rear of a black Cadillac hearse, where six tall men in identical black suits stood waiting. At what must have been some kind of silent signal, they simultaneously reached into the vehicle and pulled out a coffin and lifted it up onto their shoulders. It wasn’t one of those ornate coffins. There were no golden handles or fancy filigree. Just a plain wooden box constructed from rough pine planks that had been crudely nailed together. The thing seemed more suitable for transporting freight than the mortal remains of someone who had died. She wondered who was being buried here today. Her grandmother? That seemed most likely. But wouldn’t she have been told if Granny Rose had died? And if not Granny Rose, then who?

  The men carried the coffin to the open grave and, holding it by black cords on either side, lowered it carefully into the ground. As it went down, Zoe noticed black block letters stamped on the top of the box identifying the contents. The letters were upside down and it took a minute for her to decipher them, but when she did, what she read was Zoe Catherine McCabe. 1991–2015

  Zoe Catherine McCabe? How was that possible? It sounded as though she was the one who was dead and about to be buried. How weird. Especially since, if she was dead and in the box, how could she also be flying around up here, among the trees, watching her own funeral instead of down there imprisoned in the cold blackness of a pine coffin.

  Could it be that Aunt Frannie . . . Sister Mary Frances . . . was right after all? That she really did have an eternal soul that survived after death and lived forever in the arms of Jesus? But if she was supposed to be in the arms of Jesus, what was she doing up here flying around among the trees like Wendy, whom she’d once played in a ninth-grade production of Peter Pan back at the Dalton School.

  Zoe Catherine McCabe. 1991–2015. Only twenty-four years old. It wasn’t fair, she thought. Not fair at all being lowered into the ground like this before she got to do all the things or, for that matter, very many of the things she’d worked so hard to achieve. The other night when she was lying in bed . . . lying there alone because she’d caught Alex cheating on her just days before in their own frigging bed and had kicked him and the woman he was screwing the hell out of the apartment. Anyway, as she lay there alone, she’d practiced an Oscar acceptance speech. She had no idea what as-yet unproduced film she was going to be honored for so she couldn’t be very specific in terms of who to thank. Still, her lines had been graceful. To the point. With just the right touch of humility. No, Zoe’s speech wouldn’t go on forever like so many others did, thanking half the people they’d ever known or met, including in some cases, their third-grade teachers. But now, since dead people so rarely win Oscars and never have the opportunity of accepting them in person, that dream, that fantasy had become nothing but ashes.