Fury

by John Coyne

  “Margit, I won’t let you talk like that! I won’t let you believe—”

  “Believe it, Jennifer. It might happen to you. Once you’re over forty, they put you out to pasture.” The small woman’s voice rose with anger. “Well, if he leaves me, I’ll make him pay.”

  “Margit, I’m going to cry. Please.”

  “I’m sorry. Please go to sleep. Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’ll take you back to Brooklyn Heights. David said he has to go into the office, or at least that’s the excuse he’s giving me.” She stood up and forced herself to smile. “Sleep tight, dear,” she said, and pulled the door closed, leaving Jennifer alone.

  Jennifer sat very still, holding the glass of water in one hand and the sleeping pill in the other. She forgot about her own problems for a moment and thought of Margit and David: a lifetime together, two children, a long and happy life, and now David had found another woman. She hated him at that moment, even though David was her doctor.

  She felt her hatred pump through her body. It began in her fingers and raged like a forest fire in hot wind. Her breath came quick and hard, and in an effort to try to control herself, she took the pill, washing it down with a gulp of water. Yet still she raged. She stood up, forgetting her pain. She wanted him. She wanted to hurt David.

  She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The lights were out and the apartment was quiet. With her feet silent on the thick carpet, she moved toward the light that seeped out from under their bedroom door.

  Jennifer realized they were sleeping separately when she saw the light under Matthew’s bedroom door. That he had left Margit alone in their bed enraged Jennifer more. At that moment she felt a draft of cold air and shivered. A surge of blood pumped through her veins.

  With a violent push, Jennifer swung the bedroom door open. David was in the bathroom. He was wearing just his pajama bottoms, and his heavy white flesh sagged over the drawstring. He was brushing his teeth and his eyes bulged when he saw her. He looked old and useless.

  “Jenny,” he mumbled, his mouth foamed with the white toothpaste.

  “You!” She came at him with her hands extended, fingers reaching to clutch his throat. She knew how she would kill him—with her fingernails ripping into the flesh of his neck. But suddenly her vision swam; she felt lightheaded and stumbled forward. He caught her before she fell to the floor.

  “It’s all right, Jenny. You’re all right.” He lowered her to the carpet and called for his wife.

  “What happened?” Margit asked, rushing from the other bedroom.

  “She passed out from the medicine. It was too large a dose, I’m afraid. I forgot to ask her if she’d had something to drink earlier. She’ll be all right, though. Give me a hand.”

  “She’s not hurt?” Margit asked.

  “No, but she’s going to have a hell of a headache in the morning.”

  “Damnit, David, why weren’t you more careful?”

  “I was careful. She shouldn’t have had this serious a reaction. Something must be wrong with her metabolism.”

  They had her in the hallway, carrying her between them like a sack of potatoes.

  “What was she doing in there, anyway?” Margit asked as she struggled with Jennifer’s legs.

  “I don’t know. I looked up and saw her in the mirror. She was coming straight for me,” David said, puzzled. “I was brushing my teeth. I didn’t have my glasses on. She looked wild, as if she were out of her head. I couldn’t tell whether she was just wandering, or whether she had—I don’t know —come to get me.”

  “Get you?” Margit looked over at her husband. “What do you mean?”

  “She looked like she wanted to kill me,” David replied, setting Jennifer gently on the bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JENNIFER STOPPED WALKING AND let the other Wednesday morning commuters rush by her. She stood staring at the bold headline of the New York Post:

  APE KILLER MAKES MANHATTAN JUNGLE

  Several people bumped against her in the crowded corridor, and she moved out of the steady stream of pedestrians, then closer to the newsstand to read the smaller print:

  MAN FOUND WITH BONES CRUSHED. DOC SAYS, “ANIMAL DID IT.”

  Jennifer walked over to the newsstand and stealthily purchased the newspaper, as if she thought she might be watched. She took it to a relatively quiet corner and flipped through the pages for the story. There was a photograph of the street and an arrow indicating where the body had been found, wedged between the parked cars.

  As she rode from Brooklyn to Manhattan, she scanned the story for details that might link her to the death. No one had seen the murder. A neighbor had found the victim on Monday while walking his dog. It had snowed hard all weekend, and by then the body had been buried beneath twelve inches of snow, but the dog had sniffed out the blood. One foot of the murder victim had been sticking out, like a raised flag, the neighbor explained. And so he had called the cops. There was a close-up photo of the man’s battered old shoe.

  “Inhuman,” the neighbor with the dog was quoted as telling the Post. “The killer must have been some kind of King Kong. What’s this city coming to?”

  There was a description of how the man’s neck was broken, and the article speculated on the size of the assailant. “Two hundred and fifty plus pounds,” estimated Detective Coles Phinizy, “and maybe six feet six or seven. We’re looking for a man the size of a defensive back, someone who’d give Hulk Hogan a match.” The victim’s identity was being withheld until his nearest relatives were located, but anyone with information about the murder was asked to call the Twentieth Precinct.

  She glanced around carefully and then tore out the article and tossed away the newspaper. Her fear had returned—not that it had really left her, but she had been able to suppress it.

  She had taken Tuesday off from work and, with the help of another sleeping pill, had slept most of the night. When she did wake, she remembered the attack but had begun to believe that she had simply overreacted. It hadn’t been as brutal as she remembered. She hadn’t killed anyone, she finally convinced herself.

  Taking a shower that morning, she had studied herself in the mirror, searching for some telltale signs, a new growth of hair, a change in the size of her muscles, but there were no marks on her body, no signs that her body had changed on her.

  Now her fear flooded her body. It wasn’t fear of being arrested for murder. The police would not be looking for a blond white woman, five foot seven and 126 pounds.

  Her fear was much more terrifying and secret. She had killed someone with the strength of her own hands, and she had no idea where it had come from.

  She rushed through Penn Station, up to the street, and out into the cold New York morning. She was on her way to a meeting with the members of a nearby Catholic church that wanted funds for a homeless shelter. But as she hurried to the street, Jennifer knew she couldn’t sit through any meeting. Instead of going to the church, she’d take a taxi to her office and have Joan telephone and reschedule.

  The snow had been cleared from the streets and pushed into the gutter to form a high ridge, already blackened with soot and broken down at places where pedestrians had beaten an icy path into the street. A taxi stopped ahead of her and a man with a suitcase jumped out, over the ridge of snow, and went toward Penn Station. Jennifer bolted immediately for the cab. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that another man had spotted the taxi and begun to run. Jennifer picked up her pace, found an opening in the ridge of snow, and ran into the street. She came at the taxi from behind, from the blind side.

  She had it, she told herself, breathing hard as she raced through the slush. She had forgotten about her situation, the murdered man, forgotten her own fear. She needed that cab.

  The other man, sprinting down the street, had reached the front of the cab. When he saw her, he began to shout. “Hey, lady, this is mine!”

  Jennifer opened the back door, slid inside, and slammed the door.

  “Broadw
ay and Fifty-eighth,” she told the driver, leaning forward so she’d be heard through the glass. She heard the man shouting at her through the side window. She reached out and locked the door, then sank back into the seat with relief as the taxi pulled into traffic. She never looked at the man as he slammed his fist on the side of the departing taxi.

  The driver swore, glancing around.

  “Don’t stop!” Jennifer asked. She was trembling.

  “Animals!” the driver shouted. “Goddamn animals!” He accelerated his taxi, still swearing, complaining now about the traffic.

  Jennifer glanced at the name and picture on his hack license. It was unpronounceable, full of consonants. Now she stared out the side window, as if by looking away she could avoid any more confrontations.

  “Animals!” the driver exclaimed again.

  “Yes,” Jennifer whispered. “I think I am.”

  “Oh my God, what happened to you?” Joan exclaimed, seeing Jennifer’s bruised face.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay,” Jennifer assured her secretary. “Joan, follow me. I need you to cancel an appointment.” Jennifer walked through the foundation’s outer rooms and into her own small office that looked north. The sun reflected brilliantly on the hard-packed frozen snow.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Joan asked, as she followed after her.

  “Yes!” Jennifer called back, shedding her wool coat and dropping it on her office sofa. “And get Dale Forster on the phone. I’m going to have to break our squash date.” Jennifer slid into her chair. She didn’t look up, but she knew her secretary had followed her into the room with coffee. “I want you to call Father Merrill and tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t make this morning’s meeting. Also, I want you to clear my schedule for this afternoon.” She pulled her calendar across the wide desk and glanced down at Wednesday. “What do we have?”

  “You have the eleven o’clock meeting with David Meyer on his film project. That’s set up in the conference room. He wants to show you his film on Sun Valley. And he’s already here. Then you have lunch with Evan Konechy upstairs in the dining room. Unless you want to have me make reservations elsewhere. This afternoon, there’s a slide presentation for the St. Louis project, remember?” The secretary carefully set down the coffee cup, then perched on the edge of a chair at the corner of the desk. She had her pad out, ready to take notes.

  “Damnit! I forgot about St. Louis.” Jennifer fell back into her high-backed leather chair, the one David and Margit had bought for her when she started to work for the foundation.

  “Jennifer, are you all right?” Joan asked. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Yes, I’m all right now.” When she’d called in sick the day before, she’d said nothing about the assault. Now she was trying to make light of the incident. “I got mugged outside my apartment, that’s all.”

  “Oh, you poor thing! You didn’t tell me! Are you okay? Did you have to go to the hospital?”

  “No, I just have to go see the

  police,” she lied, avoiding Joan’s eyes.

  “And look at mug shots?” Joan asked. “Janet Chan— you know, the one who just took over the Woman’s World Foundation—was robbed last fall, and she had to look at mugshots. That was in Scarsdale.”

  “Well, I don’t know about mugshots. I never saw the man.” Jennifer reached for the cup of coffee, thankful that her hands had stopped trembling.

  “Was he a black person?” Joan whispered, still leaning across the desk.

  “I don’t know. I told you, I never saw him.” Jennifer opened her leather briefcase and took out her files in an attempt to stave off other questions. “Any calls?”

  “Yes, several

  Tom called

  twice.” Joan did not look up as she glanced through the yellow phone messages. “And the president’s office phoned. Dr. Handingham wants to speak with you about the talk he’s to give at the Silbersack luncheon on Monday.”

  Jennifer suddenly felt overwhelmed by her work. On her desk were several bulky files, projects that needed attention. And there were all her meetings today. But she couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t take her mind off what had happened.

  “Jennifer, are you all right?” Joan asked again.

  “Yes, I’m just tired, that’s all.” She gestured at the stack of files. “I’ve got to get some work done. Can you keep everyone away from me for a little while?” She smiled across at Joan, blinking away tears.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, dear.” Joan Corboy stood.

  “Drink your coffee, and I’ll close the door and let you have some peace and quiet.”

  “Thank you, Joan, for taking care of me.” She smiled after her secretary, and when her office door closed, Jennifer reached for the telephone and dialed Tom at work.

  “Is Tom Oliver available?” she asked his secretary.

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Ms. Winters.” Jennifer fingered the telephone cord as she waited, and spun her leather chair around to look out the window. She could see a long thin slice of the park from her windows and up Central Park West as far north as the museum. She focused on the massive Romanesque museum as she waited for Tom to come to the phone. She could not see Columbus Avenue, where she had killed the man.

  It hadn’t happened, she told herself. It couldn’t have happened. But she knew now that was not true. She had gone over the murder a thousand times. In her mind, she had killed him a thousand times.

  “Jennifer!”

  “Tom, yes,” she whispered into the phone.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I need to see you.”

  “I need to see you, darling.” He sighed into the phone. “God, I’ve been calling you. But your machine—”

  “Tom,” she interrupted, “I have to talk to you.” She had cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “What? Honey, I can’t hear you.”

  “I need to talk to you!”

  “Okay! Okay! When? Where?”

  “Can you meet me for lunch?”

  “Sweetheart, I can’t. I’ve got to be downtown.”

  “All right!” She spun around and studied her calendar. “Are you free later, after four?”

  “I will be. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Come to Brooklyn, please.”

  There was silence for a moment, as he decided. “Okay, but don’t be late. I don’t want to have to hang around on the street.”

  “You have a key.”

  “Not with me.”

  “I’ll be home early. Tom, I need your help. Something has happened.” She was crying, and she reached over to pluck a tissue from the box on her desk.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not what you think. I’m okay.” She knew he was constantly worried that she’d get pregnant. “Don’t say anything. I mean, don’t tell anyone in the office you’re meeting me.”

  “I never do, honey, you know that.”

  “I’m serious, Tom, this is important!”

  “So’s my case.”

  “What I need to talk to you about involves just me. Me alone.”

  “Honey, I just don’t get you.”

  “Did you see the Post this morning?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Take a look at the headline.”

  “Come on, what gives? I’ve got a hearing in fifteen minutes.”

  “The headline says, ‘Ape Killer Makes Manhattan Jungle.’”

  “Yeah

  so?”

  “I need to talk to you about this ‘ape killer.’ I know who it is!” Then, unable to say more, she slammed down the phone. What had happened to her? She stood and came around the desk as her office door opened. Joan was holding a bright red file.

  “It’s for your eleven o’clock with Meyer,” she said, handing the thick file to Jennifer.

  “Call this number for me, please,” Jennifer said as she strode from the office. “Eileen Gorman. See if sh
e can have lunch with me today in the city. Tell her it’s very important. And call Evan Konechy and tell her I have to cancel.”

  Joan followed Jennifer out of the suite of offices and stood with her in front of the bank of elevators. “Jennifer, are you sure you’re all right?” She peered over her glasses at her boss.

  Jennifer stared at her reflection in the polished bronze doors of the elevators. In the contours of the metal, she looked gross and deformed, and she turned away from the image.

  “I’m not sure,” she whispered. And then the doors opened and she stepped into an empty elevator. Turning, she pressed the button for the conference room floor, then glanced at Joan, who was still watching her, her face knit with concern.

  “You can tell me,” Joan offered.

  Jennifer managed to fake a smile. “I wish to God I could,” she whispered to herself as the doors slid smoothly closed, locking her briefly in the safety of the descending car.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JENNIFER COULD NOT EAT lunch. Instead, she sat across from Eileen Gorman and listened to the woman talk. Jennifer had wanted to see Eileen as soon as possible, once she realized that everything about her had started to go wrong after she met Eileen in Washington. She and Kathy Dart had exchanged a strange look, and then she had run thirteen miles. All of it, she guessed, was somehow connected to Eileen Gorman.

  She had also wanted to tell Eileen what she had done, how she had killed the man who attacked her, but now she couldn’t tell her high school friend. In her heart, Jennifer still believed that she wasn’t capable of doing such a horrendous act.

  So she spent lunch listening to Eileen tell her about the New Age philosophy, channeling, psychic auras, all of the metaphysical beliefs that Eileen followed. Something told Jennifer that she had to learn more about this new form of spiritualism if she was going to find out what was wrong with her body.

  “I didn’t believe in meditation or est, or anything having to do with pyramids and quartz crystals, either,” Eileen went on, “not at first, certainly. But then I began to notice how my life—what was happening in my life—had a pattern. I started to read, to investigate everything, you know, the unexplained. And that is what finally led me to the teachings of Kathy Dart and Habasha.”