Trip Wire

by Charlotte Carter

“Excuse me?”

  “I don’t mean to insult you. But, are you, Owen? Annabeth thought I’d already slept with you, and when I told her we never did it, she said maybe it’s because you’re—well, gay.”

  “I’m not homosexual. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m sexual. I kind of decided my uncle Jude was right about the wisdom of keeping to yourself.”

  “What does that mean? He never had sex?”

  “Not as far as anyone knows.”

  “And that’s what you want to be like? Are you nuts?”

  He laughed.

  “Was Uncle Jude a drunk, too?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You know what I think? I think you’re full of shit, Owen. I bet if Jane Hayer threw herself at you the way I did, you’d go to bed with her.”

  At the mention of his long-legged, curly-haired colleague, the Romantic Poets lecturer who always managed to seat herself near him at faculty teas, he looked away from me.

  Dead giveaway.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “How stupid could I be? You fucked her, didn’t you?”

  “Stop that.”

  “Oh, yeah, you did.”

  “Stop it. Listen, Cassandra, maybe you’ve been moving a bit too fast. Your transition from studious country mouse to foul-mouthed hippie chick might have happened just a little too fast.”

  And it isn’t at all becoming, as my aunt Ivy would say. Too fast. I couldn’t deny there was something in what Owen said. Where I had been shy and insular—what seemed like just yesterday—I was now brash and aggressive. And even I had to admit it didn’t always feel right. It didn’t always feel like me proudly rolling joints and setting up the communal bong like a pro, throwing around the four-letter words. The old Cassandra had to go. I knew that much. But sometimes I lost control of who I was replacing her with.

  And now I’d made a clumsy pass at my beloved friend. He’d rejected me and I’d turned ugly. What unspeakable thing would I do next? Chase him around the room like an old lech in a Dagwood cartoon? He was right to put me in my place. Oh, God, I was mortified.

  Owen tried to make me stay, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I hurried down the stairs without a backward glance. I’d never felt more lumbering and unlovely in my whole life.

  I had gone there seeking refuge, a way to stop thinking about the murders and everything else that was weighing on me, even if just for an hour. But apparently there was to be no rest.

  No rest.

  7

  Unhinged by the scene with Owen, I stopped at the coffee shop on Lincoln Avenue and ordered a cheeseburger with onion rings and extra fries. No way to get slinky. But I forgave myself for the orgy of grease. I was ravenous. Before going to see Jack Klaus that morning, I had tried to eat a bowl of Mia’s hand-mixed granola, but it stuck in my throat.

  It had turned bitter cold again, and I’d lost my muffler somewhere. The powdery snow sifting down the back of my collar was like freezing ground glass. I pressed on along the darkened streets. The closer to home I got, the more watchful I became. I was afraid Nat might be waiting to ambush me again. Not only was I checking out the face of every man I passed on the sidewalk, I even began to look with suspicion at the cars moving slowly on the slippery road. Once or twice it seemed that a dark-colored sedan was keeping pace with me. I was being paranoid again. Stupid. Nat didn’t own a car.

  Chicagoans can’t afford to be sissies about frigid weather. The shoppers going in and out of the neighborhood boutiques were bundled in hooded parkas and six-foot-long scarves, going on with their holiday errands despite the weather. I counted that as a blessing—plenty of people about.

  Last year, about fifteen minutes after the release of Sgt. Pepper, head shops started springing up on every other corner of the North Side. In this neighborhood, if you run out of rolling papers or feel the urgent need at midnight for penny candy or a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, help is never far away.

  The head shop is also a place to pick up the newest Kurt Vonnegut and sign up for a macrobiotic cooking class, buy a tarot deck or a framed photo of Chairman Mao. The geniuses behind the concept had a perfect read on the youth market. They’d hit on a brilliant way to merchandise to the anticonsumer sector.

  The busy shop where Annabeth and Clea worked was called the Glass Bead, so named because the owner was an avid Hermann Hesse reader. But the Glass Bead had expanded way beyond the standard inventory of sandalwood incense and Top rolling papers. It now carried secondhand fur coats, Guatemalan ponchos, coffee beans from Africa, Dylan’s last LP, or for that matter Dylan Thomas’s last, India print bedspreads, straw tote bags from Mexico, hammered copper earrings, turquoise belt buckles. When good little hippies died they didn’t go to heaven, they landed here on Lincoln Avenue.

  A poster of the guys in Buffalo Springfield hung behind the counter where Annabeth, recently promoted to manager, stood sorting sheer cotton blouses into small, medium, and large piles. She was biting down on her bottom lip as she worked, her movements jerky and robotic.

  That wasn’t Buffalo Springfield on the sound system. It was Ravi Shankar. Annabeth seemed to lean into the music. It took a while for her to notice me.

  “Sandy. I didn’t see you.”

  “I know. You look—” I began.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Not so hot. You, too.”

  “I just wanted to get warm for a minute.”

  She laid her delicate fingers on my cheek, and then picked up my hand and began to chafe it. “Wow. You’re frozen solid.”

  Annabeth was a classic slinky. Men had flocked to Mia’s side, attracted by that willowy Mother Earth essence. But Annabeth, in her mini-minis and dangling earrings, was the kind of girl men flat-out lusted after. In fact, it didn’t even seem right to call her a girl. Slinkies were women, not girls.

  We stood there in silence for a minute.

  Finally she asked, “You still freaking?”

  “I barely know where I am.”

  “Yeah. Right on to that.”

  I stamped hard a few times, trying to shake out the numbness in my feet.

  “Where’s Clea?” I asked.

  “She quit. She’s so messed up behind what happened, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near the commune now, or even on this side of town. I don’t blame her.”

  I waited while she helped a customer.

  “I didn’t want to come to work today, either,” she said. “I just wanted to stay inside the apartment.”

  I snorted. “Yeah. Safe inside our building. Where nothing bad ever happens.”

  She made a face. “You’re just like him, Sandy. Even when something terrible happens, you can make a joke.”

  Just like him. She meant Wilton, of course. Time was, I’d be bursting with pride to be told that. Now it just hurt.

  “But I guess you’re right,” Beth said. “It is spooky in the apartment now. What are we supposed to do?”

  “1 don’t know. It’s shit either way.”

  She picked up one of the scratchy wool ponchos and wrapped it around her. “Speaking of shit . . .”

  “What?” I said.

  Detective Norris, red in the face, was walking toward us. “Cold enough for you girls?”

  Neither of us answered.

  “How’s business?” he asked Annabeth.

  “Pretty much like it was the last time you swung by here,” she said. “I’m very busy. And, no, I haven’t heard a word from Dan Zuni.”

  Norris turned to me then. “What about you?”

  It was almost as if he was reading my thoughts. The second I saw him striding toward us, I flashed on Barry in the Volvo and my speculation that he might know exactly where Dan was. I hadn’t even decided whether I should tell Annabeth about it, let alone the cops.

  Another customer interrupted just then. Beth left me alone with Norris, damn it, whose eyes I couldn’t meet.

  “Did you hear me?” he demanded.

  “Yeah, yeah, I did. Like she said, we don’t know where he is. We’re not hi
ding him in the basement or anything. Look. Wouldn’t you be better off conducting a real investigation—trying to find out who killed Wilton and Mia—instead of hounding us like this?”

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” He took out his cigarettes, lit one, and let his gaze roam the store. “So this is where all the cute hippie chicks hang out.”

  “Hey, I’m serious, okay? You’re treating Dan like he’s public enemy number one, when he didn’t have anything to do with those killings. But I’m telling you—don’t hurt him when you find him. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

  That got his back up. “Threat? You think your family’s got that much pull with the PD in this city?”

  “I’m not threatening you, Detective. I’m asking you to think.”

  “Yeah. Okay. You say he didn’t do it, it must be so.” I noticed that he was grinning now. “I’ll tell ya. Your roommate’s got a great little shape to her.” The big creep was staring at Annabeth as she walked back toward us.

  “I’m going home,” I told Beth, and then turned to Norris, “unless you’ve got something else to say to us.”

  He took in a huge gulp of the dope- and incense-infused air. “Nope. Long as you understand you don’t leave town until I say you can. You girls can finish your tea party now.”

  “Ha ha,” Beth said when he’d walked off.

  “I’m tired as hell, Beth,” I said. “I’m gonna go.”

  “You okay walking home alone?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Besides, there still seem to be uniformed cops everywhere. I guess they’d help out if somebody tried to snatch me.”

  “Are you sure? Taylor’s picking me up tonight. I don’t feel so great about closing up by myself. You could hang out until he gets here.”

  It just kind of burst out of me then. “Listen, Beth. I couldn’t say anything while Norris was here, but . . . I mean, I don’t even know if I should say anything, period.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing. Just come home with Taylor. We can talk about it then.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Be cool. I’ll see you in a bit. I’m going to get out of here now. I’m beat.”

  She let me walk a few feet before calling to me. “I forgot. You know who else was here? Asking about you?”

  “Nat.”

  “Right. Did you have a bad scene with him?”

  I just shook my head.

  “You’re acting so weird. What’s going on with you, Sandy?”

  “Nothing. Everything. Like I said, it’s all shit.”

  8

  I made it home without encountering Nat. And by that time, the shame response was taking hold; I knew I should call him and apologize for the way I treated him.

  Just the same, I took a cautionary look around before I opened the lobby door. And I kept looking back while I climbed the stairs.

  But with all that, I let my guard down a few seconds too soon. When I reached our landing I took off one of my mittens and stuffed it into my coat pocket, which must have given the guy just enough time to fly at me like a hungry bird.

  As soon as I had the apartment door open, he struck from behind. He shoved me inside and slammed the door shut after us. Before I could scream, a woolen gag was shoved into my mouth by a gloved hand. I tried to twist out of his grip but soon stopped, knowing my arm would break like old spaghetti. In a second my hands were tied behind my back. He executed it perfectly. When my legs gave way, he snatched me back up to full height. His garment was slick against me, and I could smell the snow on it. As he jerked my head about, my face brushed against the jagged metal teeth of the zipper on his jacket.

  I had the craziest thought then: If I have to die, at least I’ll know who killed Wilton. Because surely the same bastard who had murdered Mia and Wilt was about to slaughter me, too. Maybe I’d get a look at his face just before he did it. Be quick, you bastard. Just make it quick.

  I was pushed onto the floor of the hall closet then. “Be quiet,” he said. The way he whispered, those two words seemed to be the most horrible ones in the world. He locked me in.

  I shivered and twisted as I sensed him roaming through the apartment.

  After I’m dead, I told myself, Jack Klaus and the rest of them will be forced to get off their asses and find the murderer. Woody will make them find him. And it sure as hell won’t be Dan Zuni with his bony frame and wrists like a girl’s. No way. I was getting killed by a big strong man, thank you.

  Then I heard the clang of metal in the kitchen, drawers opened and slammed closed again. Knives. The worst. Oh, Lord, he was going to cut my throat. I began to weep and pray and beg for my life, all that eloquence dying inside the spittle-soaked gag.

  There came a ripping noise on the other side of the door. Close. He was so close now. The lock sprung. Doorknob turning ever so slightly. Sliver of light. The son of a bitch was good. He was downright theatrical. Maximum terror.

  Pee began to soak my leggings. So undignified to leave this world pissing on yourself. But it couldn’t be helped. I’d talked about so many things with Owen, with Wilton, with other people whose heads I respected. But not about how to die well. Get ready. People, get ready. The words to that Curtis Mayfield song made all the sense in the world now.

  Then it all changed. And the change was beautiful. Now there was silence. Just silence. Oh my God, he was gone.

  I waited another minute, nothing but my heartbeat for company, and then I began to buck and thrash for all I was worth. I fell out of the closet and used the knob to try to work out the knot in the rope around my wrist. I could see my knapsack on the floor of the living room. It was slit open, top to bottom, all my things scattered—notepad, Life Savers, lipstick, coin purse.

  I sweated with the effort to free myself for a good ten minutes before I heard voices in the corridor. I stopped struggling, sat there waiting, mouth full of yarn.

  The boy Jordan, usually so incurious, stared down at me in confusion. A second later Cliff appeared, face red, dripping snow, a Coca-Cola in one hand.

  Apparently the two of them were going to stand there gaping at me all night. So I had to wake them the fuck up. I kicked out like a mule and barely missed shattering Cliff’s ankle.

  9

  It was all over now. Cliff’s complexion was like a raw biscuit. He was scared out of his wits, but as the only man in the apartment, he took charge. The reluctant knight had a urine-soaked maiden and an underfed, semiautistic boy to look after.

  First thing he did after untying me was to barricade the front door with a chair. Then he put Jordan and his bag of Jays potato chips into the living room. He came into my room, not even knocking first, caught me half-dressed, stuttered out his frightened question: “Sandy, were you raped?”

  I shook my head.

  “What did he do to you?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it. “Nothing,” I said at last.

  “What?”

  “He turned me into a sniveling, pathetic animal. But he didn’t do anything to me,” I shouted.

  “Oh, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you never saw him?”

  “A fucking animal,” I cried out. “No, I didn’t see him.”

  It was queer. The softer his voice grew, the louder mine became. I screamed at poor Cliff, “What did he take?”

  “Take?”

  I peeled away from him, ran into the living room, the kitchen, Annabeth’s room, the sunporch. Everything in place: the stereos, the half-dozen clock radios in the apartment, Taylor’s watch, Barry’s electric razor, household money in the flowerpot. He hadn’t even stolen my wallet, which I found beneath the coffee table.

  With Cliff at my heels, I opened the door to what had been Wilton and Mia’s room. It was chaos inside. Drawers turned out, books swept from the shelves, throw rug turned over.

  The scene terrified me all over again. But at least now it made some kind of sense. Now I understood. I saw that I had been in no real
danger. Whoever that was, he needed to get inside the apartment and then neutralize me while he searched for something—literally, some thing. I had no clue what that could be. But it had something to do with Wilton and Mia. The guy even knew which room had been theirs. He had taken something we never knew we had. It had belonged to Wilton, or maybe to Mia, or, just possibly, to the thief himself.

  I thought about the noiseless way the intruder had left, just crept away, how he’d unlocked the closet door and cracked it so that I could get air and get out. Almost like he was apologizing. It meant he’d found what he came for. Sorry for the inconvenience.

  I was back in my body now. Fingers, toes, all there. Breathing free again. The relief came from knowing there had been some object to the guy’s terrorizing me. I was also relieved, not to mention ashamed for even entertaining the idea, that it could not have been Nat Joffrey who’d done those things to me. Yes, for an instant there, at the very beginning of the assault, I had actually thought Nat, the professional pacifist, was mad enough to rape or even kill me.

  Cliff got the kid into his pajamas and settled in his room.

  “What’s he doing here, anyway?” I asked. “I thought the county welfare people took him.”

  “They did. But Crash got him out last night. He told Jordan he was just going to the store this morning, but he’s not back yet. Who knows when Bev’s coming home. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Is he flipping over what happened to me?”

  “Ten years with those assholes, Jordan doesn’t flip over anything. He just needs some sleep.”

  “There’s something else, Cliff. Did Barry mention where he was heading when he left the house today?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “He’s up to something. It’s either a good thing—something brave—or something that stinks.”

  I started with the exchange I’d had with Jack Klaus and told Cliff everything that had happened during this singular day. I omitted my humiliation at Owen’s place. But otherwise, I came clean.

  “Did you call that cop Norris? Or the one you went to this morning?”