Body Language
Page 14
I tear away from my mother's arms and run out of the church.
Before I can catch up to the person, they're sliding into the driver's seat of a black SUV. God damn it, that SUV!
I rush for my car, trying to keep visual track of the guy. The sky has been threatening rain all day, teasing us with drizzle. The pattering of drops turns into a deluge as I throw my car into drive and slam my foot on the gas pedal.
I've got him. I've got him in my sights. I'm going to hunt him down and I'm going to fucking strangle him with my bare hands! I'm seething, driving like a mad man, trying to catch up. He jumps on the freeway and I follow right on his tail. I push my car, harder than it's supposed be pushed. He keeps speeding up. I don't care how fast you drive, I will drive faster! I will run you down. You've been stalking me. You killed Janelle! You killed my sister! Now, it's your turn to die!
The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see, but my foot is planted against the floor. Cars honk as we pass and decrescendo into the sound of crashing thunder and hammering sheets of rain. Suddenly, he spins out. His car goes through the guardrail and flips over the shoulder, rolling downhill. I slam on the brakes, my car does a 180-degree turn and the passenger-side slams against the guardrail. The airbags deploy. My head hits my window, fracturing the glass. I barely take a minute to catch my breath. I slide over into the passenger seat, throw the door open and run back toward where his car hit, about a hundred yards away. I can hear a car-horn blaring from the ditch, but his car is nowhere in sight.
When I reach the break in the guardrail, I look down the embankment. The SUV is lying on its passenger side, the driver's-side door wide open.
“No!” I slide down the hill to the car. I'm soaked to the bone and now muddy. I look around the car, but the driver is nowhere to be found. “NO!” I pound my fists on the SUV's doorjamb. “FUCK!” I stand up, looking around for evidence of where he's gone, but there's nothing but a huge puddle down here. I can't see any tracks. “I'll kill you!” I scream against the thunder. “You hear me!? You'd better run! I'll—I'll kill you!”
I drop to my knees in the mud, glass cutting up my knees. Tears mingle with the water cascading down my face. “I'll kill you,” I whisper.
I sit there for god knows how long, hearing the SUV's windshield wipers still flipping; its horn is still blaring. In the distance, I hear the ambulance and police sirens wailing. A few minutes later, workers rush down the embankment. They gently tug at my shoulder, asking if I'm alright.
No, I'm not alright.
Until he's dead, I won't ever be.
(Carmen)
It's been over a week. Yesterday was session day, but I received an email saying sessions would be canceled until further notice. So, something did happen. I only wish I knew what it was. He hasn't been to the theater or in his office all week. I've been worried whether he's okay, whether his family and friends are okay. I don't even know much about him outside of the doctor's office. All I know is that we came together in a time of need and we shared something. I know he's deeper than he appears and I feel like he cares about me. In the end, I freely care about him, which isn't a crime. If it were, I'd gladly take the penalty for doing so.
“Ready?” Kyle asks, interrupting my reverie. He's been so great in the past week, helping me move to a hotel and get settled in, at least temporarily. I filed a report with the police about the incident at the studio, but I know so little, that they don't have much to go on. Nobody knows why I was locked in there or who did it. Either way, I feel much safer at the hotel than I would at my apartment.
I nod and tug the brim of my sleeves up tight around my elbows. The emcee announces me. Showtime.
I've chosen a song that I discovered in Hilda's Julie London group of records, Nice Girls Don't Stay For Breakfast. I had to kick it up a few keys, mostly because Julie London had an impossibly deep, sultry voice. I envy it. I'm an alto, while she's a contralto.
As soon as I step on stage, I see him. He's at table five again, but this time there's a half-empty bottle of top-shelf whiskey. In his hand is a glass with cubes of stone in the bottom. My note is open on the tabletop, but he doesn't seem to be paying it much attention. Something really serious must have happened to him when he left. While I sing, my attention floats over the crowd, but always settles on him. He never so much as looks up at me. The song ends, and for some reason, my heart is aching so bad that I don't bow to the crowd. I smile, wave, and walk off-stage.
“What's wrong?” Kyle asks, intercepting me before I can get to my dressing room. He has me by the wrist. I shake my head, turning my face away before he can see me shed a tear. I twist my wrist out of his hand and bound up the stairs. I find sanctuary in the dressing room. The tears come, raining out of my body freely. Why does it hurt so much? Do I want his admiration? No...
It's because I'm putting on an act, a front. I so badly want him to see me, but how can he when I'm disguised? I'm someone else. That's what singing is about after all, being someone I'm not? I wish Hilda was here to tell me how to be myself. Who the hell am I? Am I a dancer? Am I a singer? Am I just a songbird without a soul? Am I just a swan with broken wings? If I'm any of those, is that all I am? I so badly want to be more than I have been up until now.
I drop into the vanity seat and mop my eyes, observing myself the mirror. God, I look like Hell. I sigh and clean up my ruined makeup, restoring myself to full glory. I look passably pretty, now that there isn't mascara sliding down my cheeks. I smooth crimson lipstick over my lips again and slide the veil back down over my eyes.
In the bright vanity lights, it is transparent, but on stage it provides just enough shadow to hide my identity, almost like the mask on a superhero. But, I'm anything but super and I sure as hell haven't saved anyone.
Kyle knocks and peaks in, “One minute 'till curtain call. Come on.”
I follow behind him. He doesn't ask questions as to why I was upset. I'm still upset. I guess it's because I know there's a chance he may not look at me during the entire show. I, so badly, wish he would. Maybe my singing might ease his mind a little.
I go back on stage to the usual fanfare. I'm ending the show with a song that's much sexier than I feel right now. I nod to the pianist and he plays lazy and slow. “I want a little sugar in my bowl / I want a little sweetness / down in my soul / I could stand some lovin' / Oh so bad / feel so lonely and I feel so sad / I want a little sssteam on my clothes,” I'm looking at him when I sing it. He looks directly up and looks at me, though he can't see all of my face. My sadness is replaced with excitement as I feel something electric pass between us. “Maybe I can fix things up so they'll go / What's'a matter Daddy? / Come on, save my soul / Drop a little sugar in my bowl / I ain't foolin' / Drop a little sugar in my bowl.” He looks so wounded, so helpless and in need. Whatever sent him out of the theater really destroyed him. It's a good thing he can't see my eyes, otherwise he'd know I'm singing directly to him, “Well, I want a little sugar in my bowl / I want a little sweetness down in my soul / You been a
cting strangely, I've been told / Mooove me Daddy / I want some sugar in my bowl / I wanna loose steam on my clothes / Maybe I can fix things up so they'll go / Whats'a matter Daddy / Come on save my soul / Droppa little sugar in my bowl / I ain't foolin'.” I let my eyes drift closed, feeling the spiritual connection to the song. “Drop some sugaaar in my bowwwl.”
As the applause fills the lounge, I see him crack a small smile, then hail the waiter.
I bow and step behind the curtain. He smiled. I did that. I'm ecstatic. It is such a difference from the break. I grin at Kyle as he tells me how well the show went. I go up to the dressing room and clean off my make-up. I smile at my fresh face in the mirror. I pull out a half-frozen bottle of water from my gym bag.
Knock, knock, knock.
My eyes widen. Could it be...?
I close the bottle and go to the door. I open it a crack. It's one of the waiters.
“Note for you, Miss, from table five.”
It has weight to it, which is strange, because all of his other notes have been light 'till now. I feel like a kid on Christmas, except my thoughts are not exactly ones of an innocent nature. I settle down and unfold the note. In the direct center of the page is a cube of sugar. I can't suppress a laugh. I hold it up, grinning at it, and pop it into my mouth.
I lean my head on my hand and begin reading.
'Dear Roxanne,
I hope this is sweet enough for you. I have something much sweeter for you to suck on, but you'd have to agree to see me first. I'm not much good for saving souls, but I'm sure I could move you. By the end, you'd have better things to worry about than the wrinkles in your clothes. This may be the alcohol speaking, but I want to meet you, and I think you want to meet me, too. I‘m sure we would be able to work something out to our mutual satisfaction.
—J'
Oh, Mary mother of Jesus... Did my temperature just go up twenty degrees? I take a deep breath. Every part of me is excited. That escalated quickly. It's the songs that are doing it, I think.
I chuckle, my cheeks turning bright red in the mirror. If I didn't know Dr. Weller, I would have a perfectly good reason to freak out and label him a crazy stalker—but he isn't a stranger to me. If anything, I've been encouraging him since this note business began. I've been asking for it.
I should put a stop to it. I know I should. I take a few deep breaths and pull out a sheet of paper. I stack the letters from him at the corner of the desk. Instead of writing, my pen hovers above the page in my hand. I stare at the notes.
What kind of girl would he think I was, if I were to answer in the same spirit? Would he think I was a slut if we...
I clear my throat.
'Dear J,
I appreciate your note, but I'm afraid we should stop doing this, since it will only lead to'
To? Fantasies play out in my head, sexual fantasies of our naked bodies rolling around in a big luxurious bed. I shiver. I crumple the page and toss it in the garbage can. My pen hovers again for a few minutes.
'Dear J,
I can appreciate a man with something sweet to suck on, especially if it's attached to a man who knows how to use his words. I have to confess I'm turned on by what you said. The idea of meeting you entices me and I would be glad to meet you in private some time. Send me a time and a place. We'll get together.'
Wait, he only knows me as Roxanne. Damn. How would he handle knowing that he's been trying to get Carmen to talk and the whole time I've been singing as Roxanne? Then again, just because I sing, does that mean I'm betraying his efforts by not talking? The gears in my head turn, I stare at the ceiling. I ball up that note, too, and throw it away.
'Dear J,
I can appreciate a man with something sweet to suck on, especially if it's attached to a man who knows how to use his words. I have to confess I'm turned on by what you said. The idea of meeting you entices me and I am interested in getting to know you better.
—Roxanne'
Maybe if I can break the news to him gently, he'll understand. I fold the note and take it out to Kyle. The minute it leaves my hands, I'm suddenly tempted to grab him and take it back. He disappears out the stage entrance to the lounge before I can stop him. Oh God, what have I just done?
(Jacob)
My alarm goes off while I'm staring at it. I've been up all night. The alarm clock was unnecessary, but I've been too lazy to turn it off. I reach over and change the setting.
What day is it? Tuesday? Wednesday? Who cares...
I roll over and fix my eyes on the ceiling. Who cares anymore?
My phone rings and I fumble for my sidetable. I don't even check the number.
WHAT?! “Hello?”
“May I speak with Dr. Jacob Weller, please?” I recognize the voice.
“Yes. Speaking.” I sit up in bed and rub my eyes.
“This is Detective Helms.” I knew I recognized his voice. “I was wondering if I could meet with you today, to discuss some details of the case with you.”
“Yeah. Where would you like to meet? I can meet you at my offices, if that's convenient for you.”
“I'll be there in ten minutes,” Helms says before hanging up the phone.
Ten minutes.
I haven't showered in a week. I smell like sweat and liquor.
I manage to get a five minute shower, and driving delays get me to my offices in just under half an hour. When I get off the elevator, Helms is standing at my office door, checking his watch.
“I almost thought you weren't coming,” Helms said.
“Traffic,” I say simply, unlocking the door. My office feels emptier than usual. I haven't been here in almost two weeks. I sniff the air. Ugh. That's rancid coffee grounds. I take off my coat and hang it up, then go immediately to the coffee maker. “Sorry for the smell.”
“It's okay. You should smell the break room at the precinct.” He takes the guest chair by the desk.
“Can I interest you in something?” I ask.
“No, thank you. I'd rather get down to business.”
I throw away the grounds, and turn off the brewer.
“We've come to the conclusion that you have a stalker,” he says, pulling a folder out of his coat and tossing it on the desk. I step around behind and take my seat. “These were found in the vehicle.”
I open the folder and inside are pictures of me coming and going from my apartment and the office. There are also pictures of my sister going in and out of her offices. On the bottom of the pile are pictures of Janelle. My heart stings when I see her face coming out of a pharmacy and out of a bakery with a fresh baguette in a brown paper bag.
“The vehicle was stolen, so we don't have any idea who the driver was,” he continues. “We pulled some partial prints off the steering wheel, but nothing showed up when we ran them through the database. The rain did a number on any biological evidence we could have picked up.” He rubs his head. “There was one other thing. I'm not sure it has to do with anything else, but we found gardening tools. Do you belong to a gardening club, or know anyone who is an active gardener?”
I don't know many people, at all. “Not that I can think of.”
“We're kind of at our wits' end. We're going to keep investigating, obviously, but the lack of evidence makes it hard to pinpoint any one person. Is there anyone in your past who shares a connection to Ms. Weller and Ms. Stewart?”
“A few friends, but they're scattered all over the country, for the most part. A few of them live in Portland, but I haven't spoken to any of them in years.”
“If you would be so kind, could you give me a list of any people you remember? It would help the investigation to see if there's a connection.”
“Of course,” I say, moving the stack of resumes so I can get to my legal pad. I see the top resume. “Actually, I have something that might help,” I say, sifting through the pile and finding the Shakespeare quote I'd received weeks earlier. I hold it out for his inspection.
“That's interesting,” he says, eyeballing it. “When did you receive this?”
“A few weeks ago. It was in my stack of resumes.” I shudder. “That means he probably got in here somehow, and left it there. God, that's terrifying.”
“Yeah. We've had a man out here watching your offices for a few days now, but there hasn't been any activity.” Helms heaves a sigh. “Whoever this is, he's hiding himself well.” He pulls out a set of tweezers and slides it into a fresh evidence bag before sealing it up. He holds the bag up to get a closer look at the page in the light. “This guy is obviously off his rocker,” he says.
“Why do you say that?”
“Think about it: why Shakespeare? What does that mean?” he says.
“I have no idea.” I honestly don't. None of the dots connect.
“I almost forgot to mention, we found a camera in the car, but it was smashed.
We're assuming it happened during the accident. They're working to see if they can pull pictures off of it, but it was pretty destroyed.” He shakes his heavy head and tucks the bag into his coat's inner pocket. “Please, let me know if you hear or see anything strange.” He stands and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out his wallet, sliding a business card from its folds. “Call me at this number.”
I take it. “Thanks.” I stand and we shake hands. “Thanks for your hard work on this case.”
He collects the folder of pictures and tucks it into his coat. “Don't thank me. It's my job.” He nods cordially.
As he lets himself out, I lean back in my chair and stare into the rafters.
'Why Shakespeare? What does that mean?' Helms asks in my head. I really wish I knew.
I feel like I should be out doing something besides sitting on my ass, wondering. So I get up and put my coat back on, lock the office door, and go back out in the cold rain. I can't begin to get into the mind of a killer. I'm used to thinking like a medical man.
Whoever it is killed Janelle first. Lisa and I met her in school. She lived with her grandmother in the country and stayed with us in the summers. Wow, I haven't spoken to her grandmother in years. Is Ellen even still alive?
I thumb through my phone and do a search for her in the white pages. The address and name still come up. She must still be there. Maybe Janelle's mom lives there now? Of course, Janelle's mom never stayed in one place. She always lived on the road when we were growing up. I don't see her as being the type to be changed by time, even if it has been seventeen years. It occurs to me that, if she still lives on the road, she may not even know Janelle was murdered.
I should go by, I decide.
It's a long drive out to Colcott house, which is what Janelle's great-grandfather named the family's ancestral, seven-bedroom, three-and-a-half-story mansion. It sits in a patch of woods just outside the borders of Forest Grove District State Forest, which is the long, convoluted name for the closest state park to Portland. I always liked it out there. There was a lake nearby, and the mysterious woods provided as much adventure as we could hope for. One could easily get lost in the trees, and I mean that in all seriousness—out of experience. I don't know how many times we would all go out there and pretend we saw a Sasquatch.