by Maureen Tan
* * *
I turned my back on Alex, refocused my attention on dressing in a pair of jeans and an oversized white shirt. Then I slipped on a pair of running shoes and concentrated on keeping the tension even as I pulled the laces tight. The bows were easy, and the laces didn’t break. When I’d finished tying them, I straightened, glanced at my feet, and congratulated myself on this proof of growing self-sufficiency.
Small victories.
I walked down the back staircase, stopped at the base of the stairs, and looked into the kitchen.
Not unexpectedly, the table was in the center of the room, just where it belonged. No one was sitting at the chairs. They were neatly tucked in, just as Alex and I had left them the night before.
A shaft of sunlight crept in between the curtains on the back door, slanting across the glossy floor. But the light hadn’t yet reached the table and chairs. The space under the table was in deep shadow. I lingered at the edge of the kitchen with my hand on the light switch, loath to cross the room, afraid of what might be lurking there.
A damned stupid reaction to a kitchen table.
Get over it, Nichols, I told myself.
I left the light off, stalked over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. I put my elbows on the table and my legs beneath it. I waited.
No one hacked off my foot with a big knife.
No one dropped an amputated foot into my lap.
The sound of shattering glass, of metal against metal wrenched me to my feet.
I ran.
Outside.
Out through the back door.
Around to the front of the house.
Alex’s squad car was in the driveway.
Its right front fender was smashed, as was its right headlight.
There was blood on all the windows.
Smeared across the windows.
Dripping down the windows.
I screamed.
I didn’t want to see—
* * *
Blood. It spattered the glass, ran down it in rivulets.
So at first I couldn’t see—
Two crumpled bodies in the backseat. Covered in blood. Gaping flesh where faces had once—
Mama!
Papa!
I screamed.
I didn’t want to see.
I threw myself backward, fighting his grasp, fighting to break free. He caught the back of my dress, spun me around, slammed me against the car. He pulled open the rear door, forced me inside, forced me against the still warm—
I clawed my way out.
* * *
“Jane! Come back!”
Alex was holding on to me. Shaking me. Standing between me and the car. Blocking my view. Alex, wrenched from sleep, wearing only his boxers, holding his service revolver.
“It’s okay, Jane. You’re here. Now. Safe.”
I looked up into his face, refocused on the present, on someone else who would leave me—
“You’ll die, too.”
He put his left arm around me. Pulled me to him.
“No, honey. That won’t happen. Not for a lot of years.”
The scar on his chest reminded me he was lying.
I wanted to run.
But his body was warm. So nice and warm. And safe.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell him—
I caught the inside of my lip between my teeth, bit down hard.
“I know a flashback when I see it,” he was saying. “Tommy and I—”
He took a deep breath, hugged me closer.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I shook my head, straightened, and stepped away.
He let me go.
I walked to the squad car and forced myself to look at it closely.
A large snake. Hacked to pieces. Strewn and smeared on the squad car’s windows.
Inside the carport, the Blazer was unscathed.
I turned on my heel, confronted Alex.
“How long are you going to let this go on?”
He rubbed the scar on his forehead.
“Another day or two. No more. I swear.”
By ten o’clock, the clouds had chased the sun away. The overcast chilled the air. Though it wasn’t raining, dampness crept quickly through the house.
The phone rang.
Alex answered it, and I listened to his half of the conversation.
“No, Pumpkin.”
“Jane’s a bit under the weather. Maybe a touch of flu.”
“Can we have dinner with you in a few days?”
“No, no. No need to come out here.”
“Yes? Okay. I’ll tell her.”
He hung up the phone and raised an eyebrow in my direction.
“Joey says thanks, she owes you.”
Alex wasn’t the only one capable of a blank expression and no response.
I retreated to the library, turned on all the lamps and the gas fireplace, sat at my computer. I thought about Alex’s stalker and decided that the problem needed to be resolved. Soon. I spent some time considering how best to do it.
Alex pulled on a sweatshirt inside out, over a T-shirt and old, soft jeans, and roamed around the house doing odd jobs. He started outside, took a scrub brush and soapy water with him. I heard the brush scrape the front door, knew the squad car was next. I wondered how he’d explain this incident to Tommy.
* * *
The day passed slowly.
Every now and again, Alex would smile or wave in my direction as he passed though the foyer carrying an overflowing wastebasket or a stack of clean towels or a bottle of glass cleaner and a wad of newspaper.
Neither of us seemed in the mood to talk.
We were tired, I thought. Physically and emotionally.
* * *
Andrew Jax was a welcome change from a man I couldn’t control.
The words flowed easily onto the page. I typed several pages, rearranged several paragraphs, read the results, tinkered for a few minutes more, and was vaguely pleased.
The punk deserved to die.
Jax held Marty Morris’s head under the deep water in the bathtub and told himself just that.
Marty struggled, kicked out with his five-hun dred-dollar Gucci shoes. Air bubbles broke the water’s surface.
Jax laughed, jammed his toe into the back of Mor ris’s knee, and shoved him in deeper.
More bubbles. Larger this time.
“Die, motherfucker. Die.”
“Andy, stop it!”
Millie stormed into the bathroom, grabbed his arm, yanked upward. Morris’s head broke the sur face. He took a deep, wheezing breath in the time it took Jax to shake Millicent off.
“Get out of here, Millie. Get out now!”
She stomped her foot, her spike heel against the tile floor snapping out her defiance.
“Screw you, Andrew Jax. I’m not leaving. You kill him, you’ll have to do it in front of me.”
Jax lifted Morris by the collar. He hung limp, like a drowned cat. Gulped air. Enjoy it, Jax thought as he turned toward Millicent, ’cause it’s the last air you’re going to get. Unless they serve oxygen in hell.
“This creep beat you up. Tried to rape you. Why the fuck do you care what happens to him?”
“Because we’re friends.”
“You and him?”
That was something Jax hadn’t figured on.
“No, you jerk. Me and you.”
Jax blinked once, twice, genuinely surprised.
Millicent frowned.
“Or at least, I think we’re friends. We’ve been through a lot together— Andy, do you trust me?”
Jax didn’t answer.
Millicent leaned against the doorjamb, crossed her arms over her ample breasts.
“Decide. If you trust me, call the cops. Let them lock him up.”
Jax looked at Millicent for a long time. For a change, Marty Morris had nothing to say. That made deciding easier. Jax dropped him. Kicked him in the balls just to make a point
.
“Move, fucker,” he said, “and I’ll drown you in the toilet.”
* * *
I saved the file, dragged it to a folder entitled “Jax Too.” Before long, I hoped, I would come up with a more creative title for book number five. I spent a few minutes considering the problem, came up with Cracker Jax and a subtitle: Crazy After All These Years. I decided it probably wouldn’t do.
I got up and wandered into the kitchen, where I fixed ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches on rye for two. Alex ate his at the kitchen table while he read a week’s accumulation of newspapers. I ate in front of the computer.
After that, Alex spent several hours in the first-floor bathroom, repairing a leak beneath the sink. I wrote a dozen letters—short, handwritten notes to readers who had written to me care of the publisher. My arm ached. Between letters, I stretched, listened to Alex work, and jotted down a few of his expletives, intending to eventually work them into Andrew Jax’s dialogue.
We ate shrimp pie, salad, and warm, crusty French bread for dinner.
That night, we made love.
I snuggled in beside Alex, lingered in bed until his breathing was deep and regular, then slipped from his relaxed embrace. I dressed in jeans, a dark shirt, and boots, then detoured to the library to retrieve the drover’s coat. With the Colt Cobra tucked into one of the deep pockets, I crept out the back door.
It was cool and dry and the wind was still.
A good night for hunting.
I hugged the shadows, crept around the house, and spent a few minutes surveying the grounds and the carport for wayward reptiles and a violent stalker. Nothing turned up, so I settled down in the deepest shadows beside the front steps and waited.
The chances were good that Alex’s stalker would be back tonight. Unless he’d struck while we were making love, he hadn’t yet left today’s token of his growing hatred, his escalating violence. I’d been watching. So, I could tell, had Alex.
I didn’t smoke.
By two in the morning, my desire for nicotine was eclipsed by my need for caffeine. Five minutes after that, I heard a noise. Adrenaline brought wakefulness and a return of energy.
I pulled the gun from my pocket, peered out into the darkness, in the direction of the sound.
Someone was in the carport, I thought.
I waited.
A shadowy figure made its way across the yard.
I waited until he crept past me, then followed him noiselessly as he moved up the stairs. He carried an ax. One that was large enough to chop logs. Or snakes. Or a police chief.
When we reached the verandah, I stood behind one of the huge columns supporting the balcony and leveled my gun at his back.
Then he surprised me.
He marched to the front door, banged against it with the ax handle, and yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Chief! Please! Hurry! I need your help.”
I hesitated, recognizing the voice.
The porch light switched on, and I saw the face that belonged to the voice. It was an old man’s face. The face of the grizzled black man who drove me from the airport, who worried about his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who told me about Willie’s ghost.
Perhaps he was in trouble.
Perhaps his cab was stranded nearby.
He lifted the ax above his head, ready to strike when the door opened.
I aimed carefully, using my left hand to support my right.
Alex didn’t come to the front door.
He stepped through the French doors from the living room. He emerged from the shadows fully dressed.
Apparently he’d been watching and waiting, too.
“Jane!” he said urgently. “Leave him be!”
I relaxed my grip, but kept my weapon ready.
Alex stood warily, out of ax range, watching the old man.
The cabby’s eyes were fixed on him. As if no other threat existed. As if no other person existed.
The ax remained poised.
“What can I do for you, Sam?”
“My boy died in prison. Your fault.”
Alex’s hands were at his sides and surprisingly empty. Where the hell was his gun? He turned his hands palms out. Shrugged his shoulders. Kept his tone low and soothing.
“I didn’t have anything to do with that, Sam. That was in Florida. Remember?”
Sam began shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth.
The head of the ax moved, too, catching the light on a newly honed edge.
Sam’s voice was shrill, the cords on his neck bulging with tension.
“No! Your fault. He jus’ wanted to scare you. He didn’t aim at you. He tol’ me that. You stepped right into that bullet. Then all those police came ’round asking questions. You made him run away.”
The old man lunged forward, swung the ax in a wide arch.
Alex dove past him, rolled, came back up on his feet.
Sam whipped around him, screeching.
“You chased him away. Away from his family. Away from his daddy.”
Each sentence was punctuated by another swing of the heavy ax.
Alex crouched, kept his center of gravity low, and kept moving. He backed down the length of the verandah. Buying time.
He must have phoned for help, I thought.
The relentless swings continued, the old man’s appalling strength borne of insanity.
If Alex miscalculated, if one of the blows connected . . .
It was foolish to wait.
I had a clear shot at Sam’s back.
I raised my gun again.
Alex saw me over Sam’s shoulder. He shouted as he dodged the blade.
“Jane! No!”
A stubborn man.
It had to be his way.
I put the gun into my pocket and launched myself at Sam, driving my shoulder into the back of his knees.
I brought him down.
* * *
Later, rotating Mars lights swept the scene, blue strobes reflecting off the ax in a young policewoman’s hands, off the sadness in Alex’s face, off the tears rolling down an old man’s cheeks.
“My job to protect him,” Sam kept sobbing. “My job. My job. My job.”
John phoned before the last squad car left.
Alex called me to the phone, then went back out to the driveway. As usual, he asked no questions.
“Your stalker?” John said.
“Yes.”
“Your cop has good technique. I’ll lay you ten-to-one he could have managed without you.”
“That wasn’t something I wanted to risk. You saw the whole thing?”
“Uh-huh. The old fellow parked his cab right on the bridge. The police are looking at it now, and the tow truck has just arrived. Anyway, the old man got out and opened the trunk. At first, I thought he was doing some night fishing. Then he pulled out the ax and a burlap sack. He went to the path by the river without hesitating. As if he’d walked it every day. I thought I’d do well to follow him.
Then I saw you and stopped worrying.”
“Thank you, ever so.”
He chuckled and hung up.
24
I fell asleep on the sofa.
Fully dressed.
Alex woke me before dawn. He pulled me awake with a voice that held no urgency and kept me awake by stroking my cheek.
“Jane. Come on, honey. Open your eyes.”
I pushed his hand away. I didn’t want to wake up.
That didn’t seem to matter to Alex.
“Come on, sleepyhead.”
Why did he persist in sounding so obnoxiously cheerful?
I struggled into an upright position, pulling the afghan with me, half-opened my eyes. I noticed that it was still very dark outside and glanced at the clock.
Two hours.
I’d been asleep for only two hours.
Alex pushed a mug of coffee into my right hand and held it there long enough to make sure I had hold of it. Before I could shov
e it back at him, he moved to stand by the far end of the sofa.
Out of range. Clever man.
“Have your coffee. Then get up.”
“Why?”
“We’re going fishing.”
I considered several retorts, contented myself with waving in the direction of the bedroom door, and using an appropriate Americanism.
“Go for it.”
He tugged the afghan away from me.
I glared at him, saw that he was clean shaven, his dark hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed. A flannel shirt the color of mustard powder topped a pair of black jeans. Sexy. If I’d been in the mood.
He didn’t go away.
“I said, ‘We’re going fishing.’ Everything’s packed up, ready to go. Except for you and the night crawlers. Figured you could help me dig a few dozen from the compost heap.”
“Fuck. You.”
He laughed, stepped closer, ran a finger along the rise of my breasts.
“Later. Maybe. In the meantime, you have five minutes. Then I’m coming back with a container full of worms. If you’re not up and moving . . .”
He left the threat hanging, smiled again—cheerfully, of course—and walked from the room. Then he poked his head back around the corner.
“Pull on a jacket. The temperature’s dropped to about forty. And it’s windy.”
“Okay,” I muttered.
Then I remembered that I’d heard Sam in the carport and that John had mentioned he carried a burlap sack.
“Please, Alex! Check for snakes!”
His smile wasn’t quite so cheerful as the last one. Definitely forced.
“I already have. Apparently, he wasn’t sure he’d get me with the ax. He left two pygmy rattlers inside the Blazer. I guess that lock was easy to open. I dumped ’em out back, off the path.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting beside Alex in the front seat of the Blazer dressed in yesterday’s jeans, a clean black-and-white-plaid shirt, a jacket, and a pair of boots. On the floor beside my feet was my purse. Inside, the Colt Cobra was loaded.
As I’d retrieved my purse from the study, I’d asked Alex where we were going. Whether John was listening or, more likely, would review the tapes at a more civilized hour, he would have the information he needed. And I saw no risk in a fishing trip.