by Merry Jones
The right hand released the handle; the left surrendered, wounded and bloodied. I watched, but no longer from above.
Charlie turned to me, dying. Asked, “Why?”
I tried to answer, to tell him that it wasn’t me. That I hadn’t killed him. But words wouldn’t come out—I could make no sound at all, so I stood there, speechless, bleeding, watching him die.
I woke up suddenly, still trying to speak. My throat was dry, and I was breathless, clutching my bandaged hand. Oh God. I grabbed the comforter, pulled it up to my chin.
What the hell was that dream? I looked around, orienting myself. Trying to shake off the details. The smell of blood. The pain of the knife. The clock said it was almost six. I blinked. Sat up, fluffed the pillows. Lay back down.
My fingers hurt, ached from clutching.
Had the dream been telling me what had actually happened? If so, was my memory coming back? Dr. Schroeder’s pills, the hypnosis—were they working? I closed my eyes, saw the hand rising, holding the long thin knife. Saw it tighten its grip, poised to swing. Wearing a wedding ring.
And opened my eyes. I’d recognized the ring, knew it well. Had worn it for over a decade. The right hand in the dream, no question, had been mine. I looked at the bandage on my left palm, wondering again if I’d cut my hand while stabbing Charlie.
Of course not. The dream wasn’t to be taken literally. The battling hands were probably symbolic of my conflicted feelings for Charlie—love and hate. And of my feelings of impotence about not being able to prevent his death. The dream was my mind trying to work out irrational unresolved emotions, nothing more.
Almost six. Susan would be coming by in two hours. I needed to sleep. To be rested for the meeting with Stiles. But I didn’t dare let myself drift off. The dream was too fresh. I could still feel the slash of the knife. Hear it whooshing through air. Almost taste the blood.
So, no. I wasn’t going back to sleep. Instead, I got out of bed, went downstairs to make coffee. Opened the door to look for the newspaper. And found a long white box there.
It looked like flowers.
How sweet. How amazing. They had to be from Joel. But how had he sent them so early? Who delivered flowers before six a.m.? Before the newspaper came? Well, never mind; Joel was a magician. Could simply have made them appear, like the chiffon scarf that was still in my bag.
I stepped outside, looked around. Nothing moved. Not a single car. Not one jogger or dog walker. Soon, the street would burst to action. But for that moment, I was alone. Had the street to myself. The city slept, blanketed by early morning light. Completely still.
The box was long and white, wrapped in red ribbon. I picked it up, looked for a card. Couldn’t find one. Maybe it was inside? I took it into the kitchen, laid it on the counter by the sink. Got a vase out of the china cabinet. Remembered the last time someone had sent me flowers. Charlie, of course. Last Valentine’s Day, even though it was an empty gesture, as we were about to separate. Charlie had been big on flowers. Gave me a dozen roses for every occasion: birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas. And a single rose to apologize, to flirt. To cover a lie. Best of all, roses were a way for him to avoid having to shop. They were easy, didn’t take time or thought, and no one, not even I, could complain about getting them. Toward the end, though, they’d annoyed me. I saw them as just another of Charlie’s smooth manipulations. But now, looking at the box, I misted up. Wished that they were from him. Missed him. Missed his stupid roses. His quick twisted thinking. His scheming. And I felt disloyal, getting flowers from another man.
Still, flowers deserved water. I wiped my eyes, sniffed. Untied the ribbon, opened the box. Thought, as I lifted the lid: Please be snapdragons or lilies or anything else; just don’t be roses.
I got my wish. They weren’t roses.
A hoarse bark burst from my throat, piercing the morning stillness, and I recoiled, shoving the box off the counter, spilling two tiny charred bodies onto the floor beside it. One hand on my mouth, the other on my belly, I raced to the door to look for whoever had left them. But, of course, the culprit wasn’t there. No one was. Just the newspaper. A man walking a black Lab. Trees with orange and yellow leaves. And the white noise of morning.
Half gagging, half wailing, I ran back to the kitchen, knelt beside the tiny corpses. Stiff little paws. Fur all gone. Skin seared. I wrapped them tenderly in a dish towel. Who could have done this? Who would traumatize second graders by killing their pets? Who would torture hamsters?
And who would deliver their dead bodies to me?
Only one person. She must have gone back to the school, gotten past security, and kidnapped them. Killed them as part of her obsessive hatred of me. Really? Oh God. She’d killed the hamsters? And the worst part was she’d get away with it. After all, what could I do? Call the police? 911? Report some murdered rodents? I stood in my kitchen staring at them, shaking with anger. Tears streaming down my face. This was a crime, wasn’t it? An act of sadistic murder and cruelty to animals. And a terrorist threat. Wasn’t her whole point to terrorize me?
I wiped my eyes, had to calm down. To think. Was I even sure that these were our hamsters, not just random ones from some pet shop? In a way, it didn’t matter. Murder was murder. But in another way, it mattered a lot because, if they were Romeo and Juliet, the killer had invaded my classroom. Had stolen pets from the children. Her aggression was escalating. Small animals were already dead. Who knew what she’d do next? The woman needed to be sent away. Locked up. I pictured her in an orange jumpsuit, sharing my jail cell. Oh God.
My hands were fists; my nails penetrated the scab on my palm. No, this time, the bitch had gone too far. It was one thing to confront me at a wake or run me down with her bicycle. But messing with my kids? Killing their hamsters? That, I wouldn’t tolerate. And I wouldn’t hide behind the cops or the courts or restraining orders. It was personal, and I would end it personally.
Gently, swaddling Romeo and Juliet in the towel, I put the tiny bodies back into the box. And pulled on some clothes.
I opened my laptop, Googled the phone directory. Found her address. She lived on 20th Street, near the Franklin Institute. A couple of miles away. I put on sneakers and sweats. Put a note on the door for Becky. Left the house about six thirty.
It was easier, less painful to jog than to walk fast. So I jogged. Blended in with the early morning urban athletes. Lord, who’d known how many people were up and running that early? The street was loaded with them. Traffic was beginning to flow. The city was stirring.
And I was thinking about what I’d do when I got there. I ought to set fire to her, let her find out what it was like to have her flesh melt away, to sizzle and flame the way Romeo and Juliet had. First, I ought to run her down with a bike. Knock her into the river. Punch the living crap out of her. I ran, breathing in rhythm with my pulsing rage, picturing the aftermath. Imagined her flattened, bloodied, fingers broken, eyes blackened, gasping for mercy. Mercy? I had the corpses of Romeo and Juliet. A dead husband. Fury blazing in my belly. But mercy? No, I didn’t have any of that, not a milligram.
I ran down 20th, crossed the tree-lined parkway, headed toward Arch. Saw the street numbers getting close. Kept going. Breathing. Planning. Saw myself ringing her buzzer, calling her out, grabbing her by the hair when she came outside, twisting it tight. Heard myself hiss into her ear: Coward. Worm. You messed up when you tried to ram me with your bicycle. You don’t have the nerve to take me on face-to-face, so now you’re going after my kids? Second graders? Killing their pets? Really? Tell you what. How about I settle this and tear your fucking head off?
And there it was. Sherry McBride’s building. Her last name and first initial on the buzzer. She lived on the second floor. Panting, sweating, pumped with adrenalin, I pressed the button. Waited. Cars passed. Pedestrians. Dog walkers. Joggers.
No one answered. I hopped from foot to foot, unable to stand still, about to press the buzzer again when the front door opened and a man in a business suit cam
e out, nodded a greeting.
“Thank goodness. I forgot my key.” The lie popped from my mouth as I reached to grab the door, but he smiled and held it open. Without hesitation, I thanked him and stepped inside.
She hadn’t answered the buzzer. Maybe she was out on her bike, riding past my house, stalking me. Fine. I’d wait for her, confront her when she came in. Climbing the stairs to her apartment, I pictured her seeing me at her door. Panicking. Trying to run. I’d tackle her. Sit on her and twist her arms until she caved and cried, begging me to let go.
Her door was open. Cracked just a bit.
“Hello?” I knocked, but she didn’t answer. Cautiously, I stepped inside. “Anyone home?”
Silence.
The place smelled of air freshener and unwashed laundry. And vaguely of something I couldn’t define. The curtains were closed, the entranceway dark. I stumbled over what felt like shoes. Reached around for a light switch, snapped it on.
And came face-to-face with Charlie his arm around Sherry McBride, almost big as life. Poster-sized. She was holding carnations. He was in a business suit, handsome and dapper on the hallway wall.
He startled me, being there. Large and alive. Grinning broadly. In color.
What was my husband—okay, almost-ex-husband, doing with his arm around Sherry McBride? And hanging on her wall? Over their heads was the edge of a banner: “—ppy Secre—” So, it had been Secretary’s Day. Even so, she had no business with Charlie’s arm around her. Furious, I ripped the poster down. Rolled it up, held it like a club.
Realized I was making a lot of noise.
But she didn’t come running into the foyer to see what the commotion was. Didn’t tiptoe out with a baseball bat to see who was there. Of course she didn’t. She wasn’t home. Must have left the door open by mistake. Even so, I stood by the front door, holding the poster, listening, hearing nothing. I called out her name again, just to be sure. Got no answer. So I plowed ahead, not sure what I was looking for. Not sure anymore what I hoped to accomplish. Blinking at the confused jumble that Sherry McBride called home.
The place was a wreck. Total havoc. Sofa cushions tossed on the floor. Lamps overturned. Clutter all over the living room: clothing, magazines, bottles, plastic bags. I waded through the mess into the kitchen, which was small, just a row of appliances covered with towels, and empty microwaveable dishes. The cabinets were open. As was the oven. I kept moving. The door to the bedroom was half closed. I opened it slowly, cautiously. Her bed was unmade, mattress crooked, covers and pillows all over the floor. Biking clothes, a sports bra, a chiffon scarf tossed on top of the rumpled comforter. A musty smell hung heavy, complicated by something else, primal. Not sweat, but something like it. I breathed through my mouth, tasting something metallic, pivoting, scanning the upheaval.
It wasn’t normal. Not even a slob would create this kind of disorder. Someone else had been there. Had ransacked the place, left the door open. I stood in the room Sherry the stalker/bicycle attacker/hamster murderer slept, holding the rolled-up poster. What was I doing there? Somehow, I’d lost it, had crossed a line. Had become as bad as she was, trespassing, stalking the stalker. And for what? I couldn’t confront her. She wasn’t even home. I needed to leave—couldn’t afford to get blamed for ransacking the place. But turning to go, I glimpsed her open closet door. The inside was papered with photos.
There had to be a hundred of them. Tacked or taped or pasted up in clusters. Charlie smiling. Charlie drinking coffee. Charlie talking. Charlie walking. Charlie conferring with Derek. Charlie close up and Charlie far away. Charlie alone and Charlie with others. Some photos had been cut, removing anyone who wasn’t Charlie. Others showed Charlie taped to photos of Sherry. As if they’d been together.
I stared, imagined her putting the montage together. Gathering the pictures, cutting and pasting. Lord, what had Charlie done to attract this level of obsession? I wondered if he’d even noticed it. Decided, no. He’d had no clue. Would have been oblivious. Would have complimented and charmed Sherry just as he complimented and charmed everyone. “You look gorgeous this morning, Sherry.” And, “Sherry, your smile always makes my day.” Or, “Sherry, great job! I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Charlie made everyone feel special. Unique. Needed. Valued.
But Sherry must have taken his words to heart. Believed that he alone appreciated her, understood her. Cared deeply about her.
If anyone understood how that worked, I did. I’d taken his words to heart, too. You’re the love of my life, Elle.
The clock on her nightstand said ten after seven. I’d have to get going if I wanted to be on time for the meeting. But I wasn’t ready to go. Even if she wasn’t home, I still wanted to make a statement to Sherry McBride. And, looking at her closet door, I realized what that statement would be. I wasn’t there only to avenge the hamsters, but to rescue Charlie, as well. One by one, I peeled his photos off the closet door, collecting them. Stuffing them into one of Sherry’s empty plastic bags. Feeling a pathetic sense of satisfaction as I strutted out of her bedroom. Smiling smugly as I passed the cracked bathroom door to be sure no more pictures were in there.
I could see part of the sink from the hallway, but not the walls, so I pushed the door. It bumped into something, wouldn’t budge. So I leaned in, peeked around.
And saw Sherry McBride’s nude body splayed against the shower stall, covered with a blood-soaked bath towel. Dead.
I couldn’t move. I stood frozen, gaping at her, not breathing. Trying to interpret what I was seeing. Her eyes were wide open, staring past me at the sink. Her face was bruised, nose bloodied as if she’d been beaten. An ice pick—at least, I thought it was an ice pick went in one side of her neck and out the other.
I blinked. Tried to think. Couldn’t. Sherry McBride was dead. Murdered. Who’d killed her? Oh, and wait—when? Because it had to have just happened. She’d been at my house, leaving the hamsters, not an hour ago. Hadn’t I seen her there, riding her bike? I knelt beside her, touching her forehead. Her thigh. Her arm. She was still warm. Oh God—she must have died just moments ago. Must have been lying there, bleeding to death, choking on her blood as I’d been going through her house, ripping down photographs. Had she heard me? Had she tried to call out for help? Oh God.
Okay. Okay. I had to collect my thoughts. Call for help. 911. The police. But I didn’t have my phone with me, hadn’t brought my bag. So I’d have to find Sherry’s. I backed away from her, out of the bathroom, across the hall, into her bedroom. Where was her phone? How was I supposed to find it in this mess?
I scanned the bed, the nightstand, the dresser, hurried out to the kitchen, found her phone on the counter there. Picked it up, began to punch. 911. I stopped breathing. My fingers—they were bloody from touching her body. They left blood on the numbers of her phone.
Alarms clanged in my head, telling me to run, to get out of there fast. To pretend I’d never been there or seen her. Sherry was the third dead person I’d either found or killed in a little more than a week. How would I explain that? Or my presence in her apartment? And her blood was on my skin, my hands. The police would find out about Romeo and Juliet, and Sherry’s stalking me. And they’d see her photos of Charlie—all of that would look like motive. And I had no alibi.
Quickly, without thinking, I grabbed a dish towel and retraced my steps, wiping and washing everything I’d touched. Erasing my presence. Trembling, trying to remember where I’d been, where my fingers had been, even on Sherry’s body. Again, I pictured her lying there, dying. Listening to me rifle through her things. Hoping someone had come to rescue her.
But I needed to stop that. To focus on clearing up all signs of my presence. I rubbed the closet door, the knob. My mind spun. Whirled. Wait. I was destroying evidence—wiping away my fingerprints only made me look more guilty. And I might be destroying the real killer’s prints, too. Oh God. The real killer—he must have been in the apartment just minutes, maybe seconds, before I got there. I might have walked in on
him—might have bumped into him as he left. A shudder passed through me. Had I seen him? That man who’d let me into the building. The one in the business suit who’d held the door open for me. Was he the killer? I pictured him. Fortyish, something familiar about his face. Graying hair, long nose, thin lips. His gums showed when he smiled.
But it made no difference what he looked like. If the police arrested me for Charlie’s murder, they wouldn’t believe what I had to say. Might not consider any other suspects if they learned I’d been here. I’d had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Sherry, and that, as it had been with Charlie, would be enough. I needed to get out. Hurried back into the kitchen, tossed the dish towel into the sink. Started for the door. Stopped myself.
Before I left, I needed to think. Collect myself. Make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.
Relax.
I took a moment, repeated Dr. Schroeder’s mantra, letting the tension out of my body, my back, shoulders, and neck. Looked around. Double-checked that I’d picked up every piece of evidence, erased every sign that I’d been there.
Finally, carrying the bag of pictures and the rolled-up poster, I dashed out of the apartment and hurried home, stopping only to wipe the prints off the doorknob.
Susan arrived early. I’d just gotten out of the shower. My hair was wet, and I was still shaking when I let her in. I ached to tell her what had happened, needed her to assure me it was all right. But I couldn’t. I’d destroyed my fingerprints, messed with a crime scene. And, even though she was my lawyer, I wasn’t sure how much she’d feel comfortable hiding from the police.
And I didn’t know how much she’d believe.