Cary flipped absently through a magazine as he waited for his tea to brew. Then he noticed the green light flashing on his answering machine. He smiled and pressed the button.
"Good morning, honey," Diana's voice said. Tweetie immediately began chirruping at the sound and flapping her little wings. "It's 7:00 A.M. and I have to get to work. Talk to you soon." Then she made a comical smacking kiss sound and said, "Bye, lover."
Cary's heart fluttered. It sure was nice to have Diana back in his life.
As he sat sipping his hot drink, Cary turned on the television. Jaime was on, interviewing Zena LeVay and other assorted Satanists. Cary couldn't stand the sight of that smug, self-important Jaime Rivers, so he flipped the channel. Marilyn Manson, Eli Roth and Rob Zombie were hanging upside down on a huge cross on MTV. Cary flipped the channel again. The Omen IV was streaming. All of this was just much too depressing to start his day with, so Cary turned off the TV and got up to open the windows. He then stretched out on the couch and turned on the radio, which was already on the classical station. Paganini was on, and before he knew it, Cary drifted off to sleep.
It was noon by the time he woke, drenched in sweat. He'd had a horrible nightmare but could not recall the exact details as he struggled to emerge from the dark depths of the dream. It seemed to Cary that he had been pulled underground by some unseen force, and although he clawed desperately for a hold of anything to keep him from going under, it was like quicksand and the more he struggled, the deeper he was drawn down. It was pitch black in his dream; he could see nothing, but he felt a dizzying fear and a falling sensation in his stomach.
Cary sat up and clutched his nauseous belly. He was really, really sick, but he successfully fought the urge to eject his morning tea. He decided that skipping breakfast hadn't been such a good idea and stood up, ready to go into the kitchen and make himself some toast. He swooned dizzily and had to clutch the arm of the couch to steady himself. He took a deep breath and continued.
The smell of the bread toasting made his stomach churn most unpleasantly, but Cary dutifully ate it. After forcing down the butterless toast, Cary drank a swig of cold black tea right from the glass carafe and went directly to bed.
He figured he must have gotten a flu bug from Diana, but when she called him late that afternoon, she sounded quite well.
"Hello, darling," she said cheerfully in reply to his mumbled "Cary Bouchard" greeting after picking up the phone on the fourth ring. "Were you sleeping?"
"A little," he admitted, as though he had been caught at something he shouldn't have been doing. "I'm not feeling so well."
"Oh, you poor dear!" Diana exclaimed. "What's wrong?"
"I'm sure it's nothing. Just the flu." Cary shouldn't help shivering. He was cold, and beads of clammy sweat broke out on his forehead.
"I'll come right over. I'm closing up now," Diana said, her voice heavy with concern.
"No, no, you don't have to do that. I can take care of myself. Don't worry."
"Well, I am worried and I want to take care of you. How does some nice, hot, homemade chicken soup sound?"
Cary's stomach lurched at the very thought, but he replied, "Sounds wonderful, sweetie. I'll see you soon."
They hung up, and since Cary was up and standing by the phone anyway, he decided to give June Bumstead a call and tell her that he definitely wanted the white and gray penthouse.
He got a terse receptionist first, then was rung through to Ms. Bumstead's private line. He explained to her that he was ill but would definitely be signing the necessary paperwork ASAP. She sounded completely thrilled that he had decided on such a nice big place so soon, and assured him that she would be at his disposal whenever he decided to drop in. Her tune has certainly changed, Cary thought as he replaced the receiver. Money talks, bullshit walks.
The sun was setting and Cary decided he ought to close the windows before he got even sicker. He took Tweetie's cage from the window sill, and when he tapped at the bars and said hello, she skittered silently away from him. It was most odd for Tweetie not to be singing and looking for attention.
Cary put on a warm robe and a pair of slippers and sat at the kitchen table watching the news while he waited for Diana to come over. He had trouble concentrating on the report; his mind vacillated between feeling happy that Diana was so concerned about him and trying to remember the dream he'd had earlier. He felt a desperate compulsion to remember the details, but try as he might, he simply couldn't get more than a glimpse. Cary began to sweat and shiver again, so he forced thoughts of the dream out of his mind with all of his will.
He was absorbed in a rerun of Breakfast with the Arts on cable when the buzzer sounded. Cary got up, still feeling dizzy, and pressed the intercom button.
"It's me!" Diana said cheerfully.
It would be nice to have some company after all, Cary thought, though he did hate to trouble her. He had wanted everything between them to be perfect, always.
Just two minutes later he was turning his cheek as Diana tried to kiss him. "Don't do that," he admonished. "The last thing we need is both of us sick."
Diana laughed and kissed him anyway, then put her bags of groceries down on the kitchen counter. "Soup will be done in about an hour and a half," she said as she immediately began washing the vegetables and rummaging around for a big pot.
Tweetie was chirping and hopping up and down from her cage in the other room. "Okay, okay," Diana said soothingly as she stepped into the other room for a moment. "Hello, Tweetie!" She turned to Cary. "She's happy today, isn't she?"
"She wasn't earlier today," Cary mumbled. "In fact, I thought I was going to have to take her to the vet." He approached her cage and Tweetie screamed and screeched with either rage or fear and flapped her wings furiously as through warning him not to come any closer. Cary took a few steps back and she quieted down. Cary turned to see what Diana made of the bird's strange behavior, but she had already returned to washing vegetables.
It didn't take Diana very long to get the soup going. She then turned her attention to Cary. "You don't look so good," she said matter-of-factly. Cary was always pale, but tonight his skin was waxy and covered in a sheen of clammy sweat. His sandy hair was plastered in clumps to his forehead and the back of his neck. She could see that he was shivering, too, but he also had a strange air about him. She attributed it to the sudden release of tension now that his novel was complete. "I'll make you a bed on the couch," Diana said lovingly as he took his hand and encouraged him to sit at the small card table in the kitchen while she went and got some blankets and a pillow.
Cary slipped in and out of fitful catnaps on the sofa as Diana tended to the soup and watched TV in the kitchenette. He could see her from where he lay, and he found that very comforting. He was afraid that if he went to sleep alone the nightmare would come again.
The next morning Cary felt much better. Diana had fed him hot soup, then stayed with him until he drifted off to sleep.
Still on the sofa, Cary sat up and looked out the window. It was overcast, which would only turn the heat into unbearable humidity. He yawned and stretched, then got up and took the cover from Tweetie's cage. She greeted him with a tentative chirp, then began to sing whole-heartedly as Cary placed her cage on the windowsill.
"Glad to see we're both feeling better," Cary said, happy to be back in the little canary's good graces.
He then laid out a fresh, gray pin-striped suit, took a shower, and before he could get sick again, left the apartment and hailed a taxi.
First, he went to the real estate office. It took much longer than he had expected, but three hours later he was the proud owner of a gorgeous, upscale condominium. Keys in hand, he hailed another cab and went to Carousel Books. He knew it was impolite to show up without an appointment, but he was dying to know what they thought of The Brandie Killer. Susan kept him waiting the customary twenty minutes, then opened the door to her office and waved him in.
"Have a seat," she said, sitting down in her o
wn chair. "Can Lisa get you some coffee or a soft drink?"
"No, thank you," Cary declined politely, deciding not to tempt nausea again. He scanned Susan's face for any sign of displeasure--if she hated his book, would it show in her eyes? To him, she simply looked as bland and harried as she always did.
Susan seemed to be reading Cary's thoughts. "I have read your manuscript, cover to cover," she said.
What Cary didn't know was that it had been a real hardship for her, holing herself up for a day and a half to go through the entire book all at once. But that was how she worked. It was all or nothing. She could have passed the book on to a reader, which she often did with newly signed writers, but she had a feeling that Cary Bouchard was going to a very hot commodity for Carousel Books and decided to give him her full attention. He had been her coup, and she wanted to see him through to his next bestseller. And a bestseller The Brandie Killer definitely was. She had been disturbed by the shocking violence and, judging by the words he selected and the manners in which he had envisioned the deaths, Cary's obvious, almost palpable animosity toward his fellow human beings. But it really didn't shock her much beyond that; she'd come to believe, after having spent quite a few years in the business, that about ninety percent of writers were crazy as loons. Some simply hid it better than others.
Cary sat on pins and needles. He was unable to gauge any sort of emotion from her simple statement. "And..." he prompted, smiling weakly.
Susan's face suddenly beamed. "You are going to be a very rich man! Look out, Steve Prince!"
Me rich, indeed, Cary thought. This company is going to benefit more than I am, and you are going to get a nice, fat raise. Cary pictured her as a female version of King Midas, hoarding her gold. Of course, Cary was delighted that she believed in the book, but his pessimistic streak wouldn't allow him to be completely satisfied. But he laughed and added, "Eat your heart out, William Peter Blatty!"
Susan gave him a "let's not get carried away" look. "It has movie potential, but the nipple thing, well..." she trailed off, leaving her thought unfinished. "We always like to try for the YA audience even if we don't say so, you know. But at any rate, I want to publish it right away," she said to Cary, who only nodded. "These things usually take time, but I want to get The Brandie Killer out while Vengeful Ghost is still fresh in the minds of the public. The book-buying audience is very fickle."
"I hope I'm not a one-hit wonder," Cary said worriedly. What would he do then? He'd never be able to afford his payments on the condo.
"With the publicity and exposure Carousel has planned for you, it can't go wrong," Susan said reassuringly. Damn insecure writers. You have to hold their hands every step of the way. "Well," she said getting up, "I apologize, but I do have a very busy day."
"Of course, of course," Cary said, flustered at having been dismissed so abruptly. He had half expected a luncheon invitation, or perhaps even the suggestion of a party to celebrate the next blockbuster for Carousel Books. "When will I hear from you?"
"We'll send you the galleys in a few weeks."
Almost before he realized it, Cary was out of Susan's air-conditioned office and back on the sidewalk, sweating in the humidity along with everyone else. He felt angry for a moment, then jingled the keys to his new condo in his trouser pocket and allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. I've done it, Joshua B. Ryan, he thought. I've arrived and you're dead.
Life was good.
After a harrowing forty-minute taxi ride, Cary was deposited at the front steps on his new building. It wasn't a high-rise and it wasn't in the ritziest part of town, but it was definitely a giant leap up from his old digs.
The deco building was ultra-retro-modern, and Cary saw some very expensive cars parked outside. A red Maserati. A black BMW. A beautiful silver Mercedes. Now that was a car. Cary lingered by it for a moment, toying with the idea of buying a car himself. It was totally impractical in New York, and he didn't really have enough money left from his advance, but he knew another check would be sent to him just prior to the publishing of The Brandie Killer. And then there would be royalties. Yes, a Mercedes Benz would be very nice, he decided.
Cary walked up the steps and entered the building using the card-key Mrs. Bumstead had given him earlier that morning. A uniformed security guard nodded as Cary passed his station and got into the waiting elevator car. He punched the button to the top floor, 13, and the lift went up smooth as butter and stopped just as softly. The chrome doors opened and Cary exited.
Each floor of the building held a complete apartment, as Cary knew, but still he was taken aback when he got his first look at the spaciousness of his new place. It was a mansion! Well, not a mansion exactly, Cary corrected himself, but damn near.
The foyer opened up to a huge living room. On the white floor and between three stark white walls and one huge paneless window stood a life-sized white plaster sculpture of a nude, Rubenesque woman. She faced the door and her arms were outstretched in the semblance of welcome. Behind her was a white satin couch and an irregularly shaped glass coffee table with chunky glass brick legs. Two ivory-colored Queen Anne reproduction chairs completed the picture.
Cary stepped inside, and the sliding double door slid silently closed and automatically locked itself. He checked the soles of his shoes before going any further. He would definitely be needing a doormat. To hell with the doormat, he thought jubilantly as he swept through the living room and into the office, I'm going to get a maid!
The office had allowed a little bit of leeway with the stark white decor. The empty book shelves were white, but the Lucite computer hutch was clear and there was a short, plush gray carpet on the floor to help absorb some of the noise Cary would inevitably be making with his typing. Steel file cabinets stood against one wall, one empty drawer standing open as though inviting Cary to fill it with his research material and publishing contracts. There was a light gray satin-upholstered fainting couch in one corner and a small pedestal with a pearly white vase next to it. Cary could almost picture the beautiful white roses he would be placing in that vase every week. It was a wonderful office and he couldn't wait to get his computer set up.
He then strolled into the adjoining bathroom, which was almost as big as the living room in his old apartment. He blinked in surprise. Even the bathroom, which had not been revealed completely on the video, was a show place. The white linoleum floor and sunken porcelain tub gleamed fiercely, as though daring mold or mildew to even try and claim residence there. There was a separate shower stall in the right corner, and the toilet and bidet were just inside the door to the left. The sink and mirror stood opposite. Big white towels and a fluffy matching bath mat were the only soft things in the austere room.
Cary flicked the light switch off and went into the master bedroom, which was at the end of the hall. It was truly magnificent. He could not believe this home was really his at the price he had paid. June Bumstead had said something about the awful state of the economy and balloon payments, but Cary really hadn't realized just how lucky he was. The bedroom was worthy of King Farouk and his harem. It, like the rest of the house, was in the white and gray color scheme, but a few dashes of pink and red had been allowed in the abstract paintings that adorned the walls. The immense king-sized bed was canopied with a gauzy white netting, and the grand, immaculately clean fireplace was just across from it. Cary wondered how the prior occupant had possibly managed to keep soot from the pearly gray carpeting. There was a walk-in closet on one side of the room, and one whole wall, as in the living room, was a plate window of sliding glass doors that led to a small balcony.
Cary gave the unfurnished guest bedroom/nursery a perfunctory look-see, then headed for the kitchen. It had a glossy white linoleum floor, white counters and even the appliances had been carefully selected to match in shades of white and ivory. There was a butcher's block and sink in the middle of the room, which struck Cary as odd, but he liked the looks of it. It was a very avant-garde kitchen. There was no dining room in the house
, but the breakfast nook in the kitchen would serve Cary's purposes quite well, as he really had no intention of ever entertaining anyone other than Diana and perhaps the occasional business associate. He would certainly never be giving dinner parties, much as he imagined his old cronies back at JBR Art Associates hoped he would.
By Saturday morning Cary had packed up all of his belongings and hired two cabs to move the boxes, computer, and Tweetie to his new place. Diana had arrived and was waiting on the front steps for him when got there.
When Cary opened the door to the new place Diana gasped and exclaimed, "My gosh! What an incredible living room. It looked wonderful, of course, but you really couldn't tell how big it was. And look at all of the space!"
Tweetie's cage was placed in the office, and Cary and Diana set about unpacking his things. There were only six boxes, but it took them the better part of the day to find just the places for the contents. When Cary opened the bathroom cabinet to put away some of his toiletries, he was almost knocked back by the stench of rotting flesh. He took a couple of steps back, then peered into the dim cabinet.
There in the far corner lay a decomposing rat crawling with white, slimy maggots. Cary's stomach lurched and he went weak in the knees. "Diana," he called out thinly. "Diana, would you come here, please?" Cary felt like a terrible wimp, but he simply could not bring himself to remove the rotting rodent.
Diana appeared in the doorway. "What is it?"
How could she not smell it? He simply pointed to the half-open cabinet.
Diana stepped into the bathroom and opened the cabinet door. She looked at Cary blandly. "Yeah?"
"I can't touch it," Cary whined. "If I get you some paper towels, will you please take it out of there?"
Diana gave him a very strange sidelong stare and reached her bare hand into the cabinet. "What's all the fuss?" she asked, groping around blindly for the offending object. "It's only a moldy old wash rag, for heaven's sake!"
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 8