Lilith: a novel

by Edward Trimnell

  But Mark wanted to go out with her again.

  A little voice inside her head told her to beg off, to make up some excuse that would seem patently false. Pride would then prevent him from calling her again; Mark Quinn didn't seem the type to play the doormat suitor.

  But Jessica—somewhat to her own surprise—found herself saying yes to his invitation.

  “Tomorrow night? Yeah, that would be great. No—you don’t have to pick me up. How about if we meet someplace, just like last time?”

  After the phone call, she told Travis what she planned to do.

  “All right,” Travis said, “but do you think we’ll be able to get any money out of him? I thought you said that he was too smart.”

  “He called me back, didn't he?”

  “Yes, he did. But I’m worried that this Mark Quinn may be a little too cautious for us. Keep in mind: I’m the one who has to sneak in with the pistol after you’ve left the door unlocked. The more street-smart they are, the harder that becomes. What? You’ve got something on your mind, something you don’t want to tell me. Out with it.”

  Jessica stammered a bit before saying: “Why don't we just get the men to hand the cash over? Then I can disappear, and they’ll be none the wiser.”

  They had had this same argument multiple times since the shooting of Harold Markey. It occurred whenever Jessica became seriously conflicted about the wisdom—and the necessity—of killing their targets.

  Although they had thus far killed three men and would probably kill more, killing had never been their main objective, per se. Their objective had been to take the men’s money. So why not simply take it? Then both sides would be spared the unpleasantness of the killing.

  On the surface at least, that seemed like a good idea. While Jessica had become resigned to the killings, she certainly hadn’t relished them.

  “Wouldn't work,” Travis had said before. “When you didn't call them back, they would know they’d been scammed. Then they’d report you to the dating sites.”

  Travis was, of course, echoing a portion of her own thoughts back to her when he made this case. Nevertheless, this was serious business, this thing they were doing. It wouldn't hurt to think about it. You had to think about it, really, when you considered the possible consequences. It seemed to be a hopeless dilemma.

  “They couldn't catch us. We’ve used untraceable devices from public WiFis.”

  “Yeah, but you can bet they’d be on the lookout for you. These companies that run those dating sites, they aren’t stupid, Jessie. They know how to scan thousands of profiles for keywords. No, it wouldn't work, doing it like that. It has to be this way.”

  And now, Travis seemed to be reading her mind—yet again.

  “Baby, didn't we hash all this out already, a long time ago?”

  Jessica supposed, perhaps for the final time, that Travis was right. The plan depended on the silence of the victims. And if the victims were able to talk, then it would be only a matter of time before one of them (and it might only take one) started talking—and pretty soon the plan would be ruined.

  There was another problem, too—one that Travis had failed to mention: Now that they had started killing, they couldn't revert to merely scamming. That would leave witnesses behind; and those living witnesses would be able to connect them to the three dead men.

  26.

  Jessica, known to Mark Quinn as “Lisa”, met the latter for dinner at Rick Tan’s, a Chinese restaurant on the east side of Cincinnati. Jessica arrived fifteen minutes early so that Mark would not see her Jeep.

  When Mark arrived, he greeted her at the entrance of the restaurant in a basically friendly manner. There was no outward sign of the awkwardness that had characterized their previous meeting. She knew that this might be deceiving. Jessica believed that Mark Quinn, unlike so many other men of similar station, was guarded. On the surface, he was very average-looking and almost shy. But he kept his cards hidden more like a player would—maybe a man like Travis, or a more intellectual version of Travis.

  “I think you’ll like this place,” Mark said. He had suggested the restaurant.

  “Have you eaten here before?”

  “That’s why I think you’ll like it.”

  The hostess, an Asian woman who spoke halting English, seated them in a private location a fair distance from the restaurant’s foyer. The interior of the restaurant was dimly lit, and included the standard Chinese restaurant motifs: There were imitation jade statues of Buddhas and dragons. Their table was decorated with a candle inside a frosted glass casing, which bore a series of Chinese ideograms.

  She ordered the moo goo gai pan. He ordered the same—just like the last time.

  As they talked through the meal, she avoided potentially dangerous questions by allowing him to talk about himself. All men, she had found, enjoyed talking about themselves.

  As he was asking for the check he said, “Would it be all right if I showed you my place?”

  Of course he would ask that, wouldn't he? He wanted to be alone with her, the same as all the other men. Well, that was a necessary step, and she believed that she could handle him. While he was smarter than most, Mark did not seem to be one of the dangerous types. He would respect her boundaries.

  “Okay,” she said, showing a slight bit of hesitation, as would be natural under the circumstances.

  “How about if we leave from here together? I—I’ll drive you back to your car. It isn’t far.”

  “How about if I follow you?”

  “That’s going to be tough at night.”

  “Not if you give me directions and draw me a map. Plus, I’ve got a GPS app on my cell phone.”

  She could tell that he was frustrated, but it was also clear that he wanted to be agreeable. He didn't want to ruin what might be a precarious moment.

  Twenty minutes later she arrived at Mark Quinn’s townhouse. He had been telling the truth: it wasn't far from the restaurant. She made sure, as always, to park far enough away so that he could not casually see her Jeep, much less its license plate.

  Mark’s home was neat, bordering on Spartan. The furniture wasn't luxurious, but it was reasonably new, and impeccably clean. The white carpet was also spotless.

  Mark turned on only a minimal amount of lighting. She knew why.

  He wasted no time in maneuvering to kiss her. He immediately told her to have a seat on the sofa. Then he made a beeline for the kitchen and asked her, over his shoulder, if she would like some wine. Sure, she replied. He returned a few minutes later with two wine glasses filled with red wine. He sat beside her on the couch, too close, really. He took a quick, pro forma sip from his wine glass. As soon as she had had a drink and set her glass down on one of the coasters atop the clear glass coffee table, he leaned into her and kissed her.

  She let him kiss her once. As Jessica had explained to Travis many times, a token amount of physical contact was essential to gain these men’s trust.

  When he reached for her breast she gently pushed him away and sat back on the couch, scooting herself away from him.

  “What’s wrong, Lisa?”

  “I—just, well—”

  “I hope I’m not moving too fast for you. It is our second date, right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not it. It’s just that—”

  “What?”

  Was it too early to make the pitch? She wasn't sure. Right now Mark was eying her with a barely concealed mixture of bewilderment and annoyance. As she had recognized earlier, this one was much less pliable than Robert Billings and the other two men. She wouldn't be able to keep him dangling for multiple dates.

  Maybe it would be better, then, to get to the point immediately.

  “The problem is that I’m nervous, Mark. Something’s weighing on my mind.”

  “You’re worried that I’m just trying to have a good time with you…That I won’t call you again. Well, let me assure, you Lisa, that is definitely not the case. Because I like you a lot. And I don't say th
at to many women.”

  Jessica figured that Mark probably said as much to every woman he dated, or at least every woman whom he wanted to sleep with. But she took his hand in hers and said, “Oh, I know that you like me, Mark. And I like you, too.”

  “Great,” he said, obviously pleased. “Then why don’t we--” He leaned forward to kiss her again.

  “What’s bothering, me, Mark, is that I have a problem. It doesn't have anything to do with you. But it—it’s affecting my mood, if you know what I mean. Women are funny that way. Maybe it would help if I told you about it.”

  “Okay.” Mark sat back, clearly disappointed but also willing to listen.

  She launched into her spiel. “You remember the ex-boyfriend I told you about?”

  “Sure—the nutso.”

  “Yeah, him. Well…” As she laid out the scenario for him, his expression gradually changed from grudging patience to outright skepticism. By this point in the tale, Robert Billings had been practically reaching for his checkbook. (Jessica had then told Robert that a check would do her no good, as her abusive ex-boyfriend had no bank account and required cash.)

  Mark Quinn revealed no such willingness to play the hero.

  “So let me get this straight,” he said. “What you want is for me to give you ten thousand dollars to pay this guy off, and then you’ll feel better about being with me. Is that it?”

  Jessica made a show of being hurt. “That’s not how I’d put it. I’m in a jam and you’ve indicated that you like me—that you want to be with me.” When Mark failed to see the logic in this, either, Jessica ventured, “I would pay you back, too. You could think of this as a loan.”

  “Okay, so how about I just write you a check this evening?”

  Even as she responded, Jessica sensed that Mark had not spoken in sincerity. Having been through this routine with three men, though, she was on autopilot.

  “Well, you see, my ex-boyfriend doesn't have a bank account. He would need the money in cash.”

  “I see,” Mark said. He did not try to mask the irony in either his smile or his voice. “What I think I should do, Lisa, is call the police for you. Because this guy is obviously bad news, and it’s apparent to me that he’s threatening you.”

  Jessica faltered as she debated how she should respond next. Did Mark realize that he was being scammed? Or did he believe her story? She wasn't sure.

  “There’s no need to call the police,” she said finally. “There’s nothing they can do. It—it’s a legitimate debt.”

  “Lisa,” he replied slowly. “I don’t think this relationship is going to work out. I’m not comfortable with what I’m hearing here. In fact, I think you should leave.”

  To accentuate his point, Mark stood up, as if to usher her toward the door. Jessica offered no protest. The best thing to do now, she decided, was to leave this man’s house, and hope that he would forget all about the strange woman named Lisa who talked about the insane ex-boyfriend and the ten-thousand-dollar debt.

  When she arrived home and told Travis, the latter was furious—definitely at Mark Quinn, and possibly at her, as well.

  Travis pulled his pistol from its haphazard hiding place—under a cushion of their rented short-term apartment’s couch. This was the same pistol that Travis had already used to kill three men. Lately he had developed a habit of waving it around when talking. This affectation made her nervous. She didn't believe that Travis would ever hurt her—not really—but accidents were prone to happen, when someone plays with guns like that.

  “I’ll go do him right now,” Travis said. This was in response to Jessica’s anxiety that Mark had suspected a scam was afoot.

  “You can’t just go shoot him,” she said.

  “Why not?” Travis lowered his voice. “I’ve already done it three times.”

  “Yeah. But this would be different. Mark isn’t like the others. He’s more cautious than them. To begin with, you’d never get inside his house. No way he’d open the door for you.”

  “I’ll take him down on the outside then. He doesn't stay in his house twenty-four-seven. The guy goes to work.”

  “Travis: think about what you’re saying for a minute. This guy lives in a suburb. That means lots of people around. Lots of witnesses. And he works at a big company.”

  “Damn!” Travis said. He finally saw the logic, apparently.

  “We’ll never get him alone again, like I had him tonight. And we can’t shoot him on the street—someone will see.”

  “What if he tells, though, baby? What if he reports you to the police? We could be risking just as much by not doing anything.”

  Jessica considered this for a moment—as she had been considering it for the past hour—then said, “No. He has absolutely no proof of anything. All he can really report is that a woman he barely knows—a woman he can’t realistically trace—asked him for money. When he said no and asked me to leave, I left. I didn't argue with him.”

  Travis sighed. Still seated beside her on the couch, he was holding the gun in his lap now.

  “Yeah, but if he tells anybody, and the police have connected the other three— Do you get what I’m saying?”

  Jessica had considered that possibility, too. “It hasn't been in the news, has it? We’ve been checking the news sites for Columbus, Dayton, and Cincinnati, and we haven’t read anything about the police looking for some ‘dating site killer’. The police haven’t made any connection among the three—” she swallowed, “the three men we killed. So that means we’re still in the clear.”

  Travis shook his head, stared down at the gun.

  “I don’t know, baby,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

  Jessica put her hand on his, on the hand that was holding the gun. “We can never be sure. Not really. But we’re ninety-nine percent sure, I think. Travis, we need to just let this go.”

  27.

  For a while Jessica and Travis debated: Should they return to Dayton or Columbus, or perhaps try their luck in another part of Ohio?

  Then they decided that no, if the police were on to them, then little evasive advantage could be achieved simply by going to another city in the area. After all, they had already killed in multiple locations.

  But they did not believe that the police were on to them. So they decided to stay in Cincinnati.

  They did not have many personal possessions. Even so, the possessions that they did have made their rented one-bedroom place all the more cramped and inhospitable. The Sunday after Jessica’s second date with Mark, they drove to nearby Iron Mills, where they deposited some of their things with Jessica’s mother. Jessica’s mother did not seem enthusiastic about the prospect of her home being used as a makeshift storage facility, but she acquiesced—partly because she rarely saw her daughter anymore, and partly because she was the only one living in the old house. The house, after all, had been purchased when Jessica’s father was still living with the family, and Jessica had been but a little girl. A little more than twenty-five years had passed, and Jessica’s mother was the only one left.

  Jessica’s mother was only in her mid-fifties, but she looked like a very worn and disappointed woman of seventy or seventy-five. She was still working, of course. Her high-paying factory job was now performed by a low-wage worker somewhere in China. She was working for a bit more than minimum wage in a local retail establishment.

  As Travis carried the boxes and bundles in from the Jeep, Jessica’s mother eyed the younger man with suspicion. Jessica could not help being reminded of that day when Floyd had stopped by to remove his things. When her mother gave Travis an unfriendly look, Jessica thought, Momma, you should talk. You chose wrongly twice—once with my father, and then again with Floyd. To the best of Jessica’s knowledge, there were no men in her mother’s life now.

  Thoughts of Floyd naturally prompted Jessica to think about Mr. Frogge. She had heard from one of her old Iron Mills friends—one of the three or four members of the old crowd whom she still talked to on
occasion—that Mr. Frogge was still teaching at the high school.

  Well, of course he would be. Mr. Frogge wouldn't even be all that old yet. And it wasn't at all uncommon for a teacher to finish out his career at a single institution. Teachers weren’t known to be job-hoppers.

  During the drive back to Cincinnati, Travis made a pointed remark about their funds inevitably dwindling again—even though they still had most of the money they’d gotten from Robert Billings, and the two men in Dayton and Columbus.

  “If you want to get to that beach, baby, we need to get some more cash. We need to start socking it away,” Travis said. “That’s why we’re living so low-key and penny-pinching right now, so we can live like kings later on. That’s what I want for you, baby. That’s what I want for both of us.”

  Travis was right: It was time to get back to work. It was time to get back on the dating sites.

  The next day Jessica logged back on to their most frequently used site, using her “Lisa” profile. This was the one that she had used to meet Mark Quinn. Her login ID and password were still valid, and there was no email from the site’s administrators informing her that there had been allegations of suspicious activity. So Mark had not turned her in or reported her to anyone. And if he had, then no one had believed him.

  Then she thought: If Mark had complained to anyone, his story probably would have been written off as the vindictive shenanigans of a spurned suitor. It wouldn't be the first time that a rejected lover told damning stories about the object of his or her affections, after all. The site’s administrators probably heard wild tales of flagrant misconduct from members all the time.

  Nevertheless, Jessica decided that it would be wise to err on the side of caution. She asked Travis to delete her “Lisa” profile, and then go to the local library and create a new one.

  This time she would be “Lilith” again. Lilith had been lucky for her, whereas Lisa had been not quite as lucky.