First Thrills

by Lee Child

  Before I can sink my teeth into the gloriously rich, sticky crumble, Maggie sticks her red head into the room to ask in her thick brogue, “Shall I open the drapes in the front room?”

  “No!” my sister and I say in unison.

  “Don’t open the drapes in any room until we tell you otherwise,” I instruct her. “Do you understand, Maggie?”

  Something flickers in the house keeper’s blue eyes—eyes that seem sharper today, as they focus on me, than ever before. She used to look through me, through all of us, as the help should—and vice versa.

  But now, as we exchange a glance—mine wary, Maggie’s dangerously shrewd—I wonder whether she understands far more than just my orders to shroud the windows from prying eyes.

  She slinks away, and I eat my biscuit in silent contentment. My scalp is soaked beneath my thick auburn hair; it must be ninety-five degrees outside already, and considerably warmer here in the kitchen.

  This, however, is nothing compared to yesterday morning, when the red- hot stove threw off additional heat. My sister wasn’t around to ask me why it was blazing away on the steamiest day of the year. Maggie was here, but of course it wasn’t her place to question anything.

  In the next room, the clock chimes the half hour.

  “It’s almost time.” My sister pushes back her chair. Half past ten.

  Nearly twenty-four hours ago, my father unexpectedly came home from the office. He wasn’t feeling well, he said. Sick to his stomach. He was going to take a nap before heading back to work.

  He didn’t bother to ask where Abby was.

  I didn’t tell him.

  “Aren’t you going to come upstairs?” my sister asks from the doorway.

  “No need, I’m ready,” I tell her, smoothing my full skirt as I stand up.

  My dress is, appropriately, black.

  Earlier, I locked my bedroom door before I removed the dress from its designated hook at the back of the wardrobe in my room. Slipped beneath the dark black silk, snug as a lining, was the blue cotton dress I’d had on yesterday morning.

  It will obviously have to be dealt with—but not today. So I took a plump goose-down pillow from my bed, remembering how many times I had futilely pulled it over my head to smother ghastly sounds in the dead of night.

  Dead.

  Again, the irony.

  Even now, left alone in the kitchen, I don’t smile. I am thinking about how I carefully slit open a pillow seam to create an opening just a few inches. After wadding the blue dress into a tight little ball, I tucked it through the opening, pushing it deep into the feathers. When I had carefully stitched the seam closed again, there was no sign of tampering, no telltale lump, even when I patted the pillow hard, all over.

  I’m confident that no one will ever find the dress before I have a chance to destroy it.

  I eye the cold iron stove.

  Unlike fabric—and, for that matter, wood—metal cannot absorb telltale stains. But wood and fabric are so easily transformed to ashes, and ashes tell no tales.

  I stood over that blazing stove yesterday morning, sweat pouring down my face with salty tears—not tears of grief, but of sheer relief.

  It seemed to take forever to incinerate that wooden handle, its top freshly splintered, and all the while I was aware of father lying there on the sofa in the next room, Abby upstairs, Maggie in her third-floor quarters . . .

  I knew that at any moment all hell could break loose.

  It did—but on my terms: when the wooden handle had been thoroughly cremated.

  I’m certain fabric will incinerate in no time at all.

  I’ll burn the blue dress tomorrow.

  Today, wearing funereal black; I must attend to other things.

  In the cemetery over on Prospect Street, two freshly dug graves wait in the family plot beside the dead mother I don’t remember and the dead sister I never met.

  They’re better off there, I have often thought.

  “When you came along, you healed your mother’s grief,” Uncle John told me once, years ago. “She adored you. So did your father—still does, as far as I can tell,” he’d added.

  Those words made my stomach churn, yet I said nothing. Neither did my sister, who was there. She didn’t even look at me; there were some things we would never dare to discuss, close as we were.

  But she knew. Of course she did. So did Abby, whom my father married not in spite of the fact that she was a fat, dour recluse, but because of it. He correctly assumed she was so grateful to have been spared an old maid’s fate that she’d overlook his miserly flaws; forgive him anything.

  I, on the other hand, have never forgiven him. Or her.

  Nor would I pretend to; that isn’t my style.

  Thus, it’s no secret around town that ours is hardly a warm, cozy house hold. My father and Abby and my sister and I went about our daily business, merely co-existing under the same roof.

  Until yesterday morning.

  The night before had been sleepless, as so many are. I lay in my bed, cloaked in a quilt and a high-necked gown despite August heat as oppressive as my own familiar dread. When I was a girl, I would dress in layers and pile on the bedding, in a futile, pathetic attempt to shield myself. I’ve long since realized that was impossible, yet old habits die hard.

  Waiting for the creak on the stairs that last night, I wondered whether he would come to my door this time, or to my sister’s.

  That I fervently wanted it to be her turn is perhaps the most shameful part in all of this. Yet I can make no apology for my feelings; they are what they are. I suppose it simply means that my hatred for him is even stronger than my love for her.

  That night, it was my door he unlocked with the master key he kept in his black overcoat that reeked of sweet tobacco and sour sweat. There he stood, silhouetted in the doorway for a terrifying moment before he crossed the threshold and, as always, locked the door again behind him.

  Even now, the memory of the key turning in the lock makes the biscuit churn with burning bile in my gut.

  Every night . . .

  Every single night, for as long as I can remember: the heavy tread of his boots on the stairs, the key in the lock . . .

  I picture my sister waiting in the dark, praying he wouldn’t come to her—or, more likely, that he would, because she’s the better person and would want to spare me.

  Then again, when faced with such unspeakable horror, is anyone really capable of such noble behavior? Maybe she was relieved to hear him enter my room and know that she was safe for that night.

  I picture her with her head buried beneath her pillow, trying desperately to block out the repulsive sounds that would pierce the thin wall separating our bedrooms and a useless puff of goose down.

  Useless no more, I remind myself, thinking of the blue dress as I leave the kitchen.

  The first-floor rooms are dim, yet slats of golden sunlight fall across the rugs wherever draperies hang slightly parted.

  Outside, wagon wheels rattle along Second Street. Voices rumble faintly from curious bystanders and gleeful ghouls.

  Earlier, I peered through an upstairs window at the throng that’s grown steadily since the news broke. The crowd is held at bay not just by our sturdy wooden fence, but by the police officers stationed around the property.

  “Why do you think they’re here?” I asked my sister last night.

  “ To keep the murderer out, should he reappear, I suppose.”

  Or perhaps, I thought to myself, to keep the murderess in, should she try to escape.

  They must suspect.

  Then again, even if they do . . .

  Even if they were to find the broken-off hatchet head I so carefully wiped clean of any trace of blood, or the stained dress hidden deep in my pillow . . .

  Even knowing what they know about our family, and my open contempt for my miserly father and for Abby, whom I haven’t called “mother” in years . . .

  They will never grasp the truth.

 
; I am, after all, a woman.

  A temperamental, sharp-tongued, spoiled woman trapped in a miserable, miserly house hold . . .

  But a woman nonetheless.

  No matter how damning the circumstantial evidence, should any of it come to light, they’ll be sure to look beyond it. They’ll be certain that things cannot possibly be as they seem. They believe, as my father did, that nothing ever is.

  Fools.

  I wander into the parlor and stop short, seeing a figure silhouetted before the sofa. In this faint light, I can’t see the splotched upholstery and spattered wallpaper, but I know they’re there.

  “Maggie,” I say, and she jumps, startled, whirling to look at me.

  The room is too dim to betray the knowing flash in her eyes, yet it’s palpable as bloodstain.

  Will she hurtle an accusation?

  If so, I’ll deny it—just as I did yesterday, when the house was crawling with police wanting to know where I was when my stepmother and father were hacked to death so viciously that one of his eyeballs was flung from its socket.

  Never again will I see that terrible glint in his brown gaze, betraying his hideous plans for the wee hours.

  Never, never again.

  The nightmare is over; at last, I am in control.

  For a long time, Maggie just looks at me.

  Perhaps she, too, suffered sleepless nights. Perhaps she, too, lay awake, listening in dread for the creak of a heavy masculine step on the stairs. Perhaps she, too, fantasized about making it stop.

  “My name,” she tells me in her soft brogue, “is not Maggie.”

  No, it isn’t. But it’s the only thing my sister Emma and I have ever called her. It was easier that way; the maid before her had been Maggie.

  I look her in the eye. “I’m sorry . . . Bridget.”

  She nods, clearly satisfied.

  No fool, Bridget Sullivan. She grasps what so many do not: that things are often exactly as they seem.

  “I accept your apology, Miss Borden. Old habits die hard, I know.”

  At long last, I smile.

  “Please,” I tell her, “call me Lizzie.”

  *

  The bestselling author of more than seventy novels, WENDY CORSI STAUB has penned multiple New York Times bestselling adult thrillers under her own name and more than two dozen young adult titles, including the current paranormal suspense series Lily Dale, which has been optioned for television. Her latest thriller, Live to Tell, received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and launches a suspense trilogy that will include sequels Scared to Death and Hell to Pay. Under the pseudonym Wendy Markham, she’s a USA Today bestselling author of chick lit and romance.

  Industry awards include a Romance Writers of America Rita, three Westchester Library Association Washington Irving Awards for Fiction, the 2007 RWA-NYC Golden Apple for Lifetime Achievement and the 2008 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award in Suspense. Readers can join her online at www.WendyCorsiStaubcommunity.com.

  CYNTHIA ROBINSON

  The worst part about dying alone in front of your TV is that you can’t get to the remote control. Victor Secco learned this soon after he died in his Barcalounger. His TV was on. In fact, it was blaring. That’s what the headlines said: Mummified corpse found in front of blaring TV.

  It’s hard to say when, exactly, Vic’s pharmacological catatonia crossed over into the big sleep. He was up to six or seven Ativans a day, and a couple of Ambiens at night, and then Marina would give him a Ritalin when she wanted him to transfer funds or sign checks. It was all kind of like being dead already. Only you watch a lot of TV.

  The first couple of girls who came over—the girls from the service—they would say things like, “Let’s get you outside, Mr. Secco.” Or, “How about some fresh air, Victor?” He’d tell them, “Fuck you. Get out of the way of the TV.”

  They didn’t get it. They thought Victor watched so much TV because of the stroke. They didn’t get it when he said he wanted a happy ending, either. They thought he was talking about the TV show. Like he gave shit whether or not Crystal got back together with Jack.

  Marina got it, though. She was the third or fourth girl the service had sent over. He waited until she was giving him his sponge bath. Then he said he’d like a happy ending. She smiled, slack-jawed and lupine, and she put a towel over him down there and worked her fist up and down until he was very happy.

  “You are bad boy, Victor,” she said in that crazy Russian accent. The accent made it better. He liked to pretend he was James Bond and she was a KGB operative trying to seduce government secrets out of him.

  Sometimes he wished that had actually happened. If an operative had approached him when he was at TRW, he would have sold everything he could have copied onto a floppy disk. But no spies ever came forward. No windfall. No house in the Balearic Islands, no bank account in the Caymans.

  Instead, Victor had to slog it out, stacking up commissions, one contract at a time. Ballistic-missile systems. Smart bombs. Nerve gas. You work like an asshole. Lots of overtime. Taking clients out for lunch, drinks, dinner, drinks.

  And now, for what? So he could sit in front of the TV, goofed up on meds, with nothing to look forward to but his daily hand job.

  Marina wasn’t supposed to come over every day. But she said it was obvious to her that Victor needed her there. The people at the agency didn’t understand. She said she’d work for him freelance. Off the books. Cash. She brought groceries, and meds, and she’d turn on the soft- porn station when he was ready for his happy ending. That made it go faster. And she started doing more things for him, extra things. Running his errands. Picking up around the house. Selling his car. Putting his golf clubs and stereo and the furniture he didn’t need onto eBay.

  “You’re so alone, Victor,” she’d say.

  He’d point the remote at the TV and change the channel.

  One day he looked down at his watch.

  “Hey, Marina,” he said. “What the fuck. This isn’t my Rolex. This is some Mickey Mouse watch.”

  “Is yours, Vic,” she said.

  “Look at the second hand,” Victor yelled. “The second hand of a Rolex sweeps. This is not a sweeping motion. This is ticking. It ticks. Like a fucking Timex! That’s not sweeping. This is some cheap shit from Bangkok.”

  “Time for your meds, Vic.”

  “Some piece of shit knockoff,” Victor said.

  She popped a couple of Valiums in his mouth and tipped the Dixie Cup to his lips. Didn’t I just take my pills, Victor wondered.

  “Drink your Ensure,” Marina said.

  “It tastes funny,” Victor protested.

  Marina stuck the bendy straw in Victor’s mouth and rubbed the crotch of his tracksuit until all the Ensure was gone.

  “God damn it!” Victor said. “That shit tastes so bitter.”

  “Your detective show is on, Victor,” she said, handling the remote control.

  Victor loved that show. It was about a renegade cop who uses psychic powers to find murder victims. The cop’s powers led him to a 7-Eleven. He was convinced there was a corpse in the back of the standup freezer. Vic felt a touch of indigestion. They exhumed the body from behind the frozen Salisbury steaks. Vic felt prickling up and down his legs. It spread up his torso.

  He heard a man’s voice. A Mexican accent. Where’s the Mexican? There’s no Mexican on this show.

  Then he recognized the voice. It was Pedro, the pool guy. He was talking to Marina. They were in the room, behind him. Victor heard the glass patio door sliding shut. Giggling. Marina and Pedro. He was whispering. She shushed him.

  Next, they were standing in front of him. Marina was biting a hangnail on her thumb. Pedro bent down and peered into Victor’s face.

  “Why are his eyes open like that?” Pedro asked. He waved his hand in front of Victor’s face. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Get the laptop,” Marina said. “And take those gold chains off of him. They could be worth something.”

&nbs
p; Pedro went to turn the TV off. Marina stopped him. She said they should leave it on, loud, like normal, so it looks like he’s home, just watching TV.

  “Should I turn off the AC?” Pedro asked.

  “No,” Marina said. “Leave it on. Or else he’ll stink up the place and the neighbors will call police.”

  They left.

  Baretta came on the TV. In the old days, back when he and Joanne still lived in Laguna Beach, Victor would come home from work and watch Baretta. Or Kojak. Those two were his favorites. Although, he also liked Rock Hudson in McMillan & Wife. That was before McMillan was a fag. That reminded him: he used to watch Rockford, with that guy who was Maverick. And, speaking of fags, Victor liked Ironside because Raymond Burr was a cripple and could still solve crimes without getting up. Victor thought he’d heard that Ironside was a fag, too.

  And he liked Cannon because the show always got personal—Cannon was always solving a crime for some dame who was a former girlfriend.

  “He sure gets a lot of action for a fat guy,” Victor would call out to Joanne who was in the kitchen.

  Plus, when it came time for Cannon to nail the perp, the crim would take off running and then they’d show Cannon start to run and cut right to Cannon grabbing the guy by the collar and tossing him on the ground. Every time that happened Victor would laugh and holler for Joanne to come in and see it.

  “They never show the fat guy running,” Victor would bray.

  But Joanne didn’t give a shit about Cannon. She wouldn’t even look at the show.

  All Joanne ever did was complain. Not shrill, but plaintive. Like a martyr. Saint Joanne, our lady of neglected sorrows. Victor couldn’t even recall the sound of his ex-wife’s voice. It had been muffled, always coming from over his right shoulder. Joanne always stood in the blind spot of Vic’s recliner.

  Joanne would pepper Victor with questions and demands. Did you get the car smogged? You need to talk to Ronny about his allowance. Look at what the girl did to my hair!

  She never asked about Heidi. Victor wasn’t even sure if Joanne knew her name. She always referred to her as “your secretary.” “They call them ‘administrative assistants’ now,” Vic would tell her. “What-ever,” Joanne would say, “she’s curt with me on the phone.”