So she’d gotten out of bed and unlocked the door.
Two small metallic clicks, when she was eleven years old.
Transformed, now, into the almost inaudible whir of the video camera.
11:15 P.M. As he placed his hands on her shoulders he saw her eyes close. It was an aberration, utterly out of phase, an impermissible liberty. She knew the importance of precise replication. She was aware that her eyes must remain open until her knees touched the floor. Therefore, discipline was mandatory. But the flays were beyond his reach—and time was passing. His contract with Charles was self-limiting, inherently irreversible.
Slowly, therefore, he exerted pressure, forcing her to her knees beside the bed. The floor was oaken; the small Persian rug marked the camera’s field. Her knees were touching the rug, centered. Thus the circle was closed.
Unless she opened her eyes.
At the thought, he felt the first flicker of fear, the first telltale tremor. It was expected, already factored in, therefore discounted. His breath was coming quicker. That, too, had been anticipated, combining arousal and apprehension. The word, after all, cause and effect, was “murder.”
Her breathing, too, had quickened. This was the sign, the signal. As he moved his body closer, his flesh upon hers, precisely as he’d instructed her, his last command, he was aware that his hands were moving. Without conscious volition, his hands were moving in unison, moving from the firm flesh of her shoulders to the softer, more yielding flesh of her throat.
Without volition, therefore without guilt.
11:18 P.M. She felt his hands move slowly from her shoulders to her throat. His touch was delicate, incredibly knowing, a master’s touch: artist’s fingers, probing, shaping, exploring. Sometimes he whispered: strange, fragmented phrases. Sometimes he was silent, as he was tonight. She realized that her body was arching, moving closer to his. His fingers caressed the back of her neck, under the hair. His thumbs rested against her throat, one thumb on either side. The music was swelling; the crescendo was approaching. Rachmaninoff had become her fate. Where the music went, she must follow. Until death—The Isle of the Dead. Had he intended it to be a joke, one of his little jokes? She would never know.
Never know …
Was this room—this chamber—soundproofed? She’d never thought to ask. Had she ever heard a sound from outside? She couldn’t remember.
In the mailbox at the corner of her block the letter to Frank awaited collection, her salvation.
At her throat, the pressure was increasing. The music was swelling. Her eyes came open. His eyes were wild: stranger’s eyes, a madman’s eyes. Struggling to rise, she struck at him, felt fingernails sink into flesh. But the music was fading; her legs were failing. With consciousness caught in her throat, bursting, clogging, the center was falling away, a confusion of lights dancing against darkness. Her arms were growing heavy; her legs had gone slack. Only memories remained. Random images: the patent-leather dancing shoes she’d loved, the pink-colored conch shell Grandma Ferguson kept on her coffee table—
—and, forever, the skeleton key, turning in the lock.
11:22 P.M. Sensitized so acutely to the sound, Charles heard the lock snap, heard the doorknob turn. With his eyes on the door, he saw it begin to open. Containing the plastic dropcloth, the roll of tape, the rubber gloves, and the revolver, the airline bag had been placed close beside him, ready to his hand.
As the door of the chamber opened to its full width and the familiar figure materialized in the darkened hallway, Charles drew a deep breath and picked up the airline bag. The bag was heavy. Unreasonably heavy, considering its contents.
11:25 P.M. Charles could feel the shift: substance gone, sensation both consumed and consuming, each running wild, a manic kaleidoscope, time and space locked together, convulsed, the essence of it all.
In the chamber’s dim light she was pale and still, the ultimate aesthetic verity, everything and nothing, the second resolution, his first and final statement: death serving art. From this moment of liberation would flow fame incarnate. His name would be repeated: Charles, Charles, Charles.
She had been arranged in the classic pose, principal to the composition. The plastic sheeting had been spread beside the bed, on the far side. Her purse was there, too, and her clothing, everything in readiness, checklist complete. There were, after all, temporal necessities. Even a sculpture required filaments.
As he bent over her, he heard the camera’s soft whir.
Charles. Charles. Charles.
11:40 P.M. According to plan, so carefully calculated, Charles had first taken her keys from her purse. Leaving her in the chamber, he’d gone downstairs, gotten her car, driven it into the garage, closed the garage door. They’d wrapped her in the plastic, carried her down to the garage, laid her on the floor beside the car. The light inside the garage was dim, so that her face beneath the plastic was only suggested, not defined. With great difficulty, he’d removed the bulb from the trunk’s interior light. So that now, effortlessly, he could lift his plastic-wrapped burden, balance it on his right hip, lever it into the trunk. The only light came from small, high windows set into the garage door. Beneath the plastic, her face would be invisible.
12:10 A.M. This was the spot, earlier in the day, that he’d encountered the tramp and the dog, two derelicts. And just beyond, around the next curve, was the place he’d chosen: a thick, higher-than-head-height tangle of undergrowth and low-growing shrubs and trees.
With headlights switched off, the Mercedes was moving slowly ahead, lurching on the uneven, rutted road. The night was heavily overcast, without starlight or moonlight. The rain had stopped, but the cold, raw wind was—
The rain.
Mud.
The instant he got out of the car, the instant his feet touched the ground, mud would cling to his shoes: thick, incriminating mud. At the police lab, scientists could match the mud on his shoes to this particular soil.
Ahead, he saw the spot, the low-growing tangle only dimly defined against the geometric shapes of the stables.
He could continue, drive past, then switch on the headlights when he reached the park’s main drive. He could drive out to the ocean. He could turn left, drive down the coast. Between Pacifica and Half Moon Bay he remembered small, unsupervised beaches where surfers gathered, where couples with picnic baskets clambered down steep footpaths from the narrow, winding two-lane road to the beaches below. There were small turnouts beside the road. He could park in one of the turnouts, check the angle of the cliffside. A moment to stop the car, lights out, brake set, engine switched off. Carefully, calmly, he would—
No.
A passing motorist’s headlights could impale him, a lone clifftop figure against the night sky. If they couldn’t identify him, they would certainly remember the car.
He braked, switched off the engine, took the keys from the ignition, swung open the door. Shoes could be cleaned. Shoes could be thrown away.
He was at the trunk, fitting the key into the trunk lock. The rubber gloves—surgical gloves—were causing difficulty. But now, suddenly, the trunk deck flew up. In the stillness, the thunk of the deck against its stop was thunderous. His heart was hammering, blood pounding in his ears. From the close-by underbrush came the sharp, sudden sound of scurrying: an animal, frightened, running away. Was its heart hammering, too?
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4722-6
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The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 30