"Hello, Clifton,” she said evenly. “How lovely to see you again."
The lazy smile faded, and he glanced past her, looking quickly around the room behind her. “How did you—"
"How did I get in here?” she asked. “Easy. You still have that Hide-a-Key rock next to the kitchen door. I'm surprised at you, Cliff—everybody can spot those things from a mile away. Why, anyone could just walk right in here!” She noticed that he was still looking around the room. “You needn't worry. I'm quite alone. We're alone together, you and I, just like old times. Isn't that strange?"
He was staring at her again. “'As strange as the thing I know not,'” he murmured. Then, dropping his favorite playwright, he said, “They must be out looking for you."
"Oh, I don't think so,” she said, trying desperately to make her voice sound light and carefree as she moved away from him, carefully putting the big oak desk between them. “You see, darling, they don't even know I'm gone."
He came farther into the room, still eyeing her warily. “How did you get out of the hospital?"
She shrugged, deciding not to tell him lest he inform the people there. She might want to use the strategy in the future. “Never mind. The point is that I'm here. Don't worry, I'm going back there as soon as we're finished here. You needn't call anyone."
"As soon as we're—finished here?” he said. “And what, pray tell, are we going to do?"
She faced him across the length of his desk. “We're going to talk, Cliff. And by the time I leave, you're going to promise me that you'll tell Dr. Granville the truth. I'm not insane, and you know it. You only said I was to get me out of your life. I'm out of your life now, and I won't ever bother you again. But you must give me my freedom. Please, Cliff. I'll go mad if I stay there."
His sudden burst of laughter chilled her. He said, “Well, you're in the perfect place for it, aren't you!"
She shut her eyes tightly. Even the voices were laughing at that one.
"Very funny,” she admitted, opening her eyes again. “But I'm serious. Mother's gone now, and I'm all alone in the world. I just want to be out of there, to—to finish college and—and...” She trailed off, fighting the sudden urge to weep.
"And be a novelist,” he finished for her. “Yes, I know.” He was watching her carefully from the other side of the desk, and his smile had faded. He seemed almost sad. “But you don't seem to understand something, Jessica. The court decided to send you to Northern State Hospital for a reason. A very good reason."
Despite her best efforts at control, the tears were sliding down her cheeks.
"Because you told them to send me there,” she whispered, gulping back a sob. The rain beyond the window seemed louder now, and the eyes watching her were all but piercing her hot skin.
Clifton Taggart III slowly shook his head, and he leaned forward across the surface of the desk. “No, Jessica. You were sent there because you're ill. You're very seriously ill. And now, I'm afraid you're going to have to go back there."
In a sudden, swift move, he reached down to the telephone on the desk and lifted the receiver.
"No!” she shouted, and before she knew what she was doing she had pulled the revolver from her coat pocket and aimed it squarely at his heart.
His gasp and the clatter of the receiver as it fell to the desk were nearly drowned out by a deafening clap of thunder, and she screamed. Even her voices screamed. She recovered quickly from the shock and moved carefully around the desk toward him. He took several steps back, away from her. She stopped a few feet away from him, just beyond his reach, still aiming the gun at him.
"Jessica!” he cried. “For God's sake—"
"Be quiet!” she commanded. “Just listen. I don't want to use this, but I will if I have to. Now, you are going to take paper and a pen from the desk and write a letter to the hospital."
He stood there, frozen, staring incredulously at her, into her eyes.
"You're mad,” he croaked. “You really are mad!"
Jessica Loman continued to aim the gun at him, and a slow smile came to her lips. Suddenly, it seemed to her that she wasn't afraid anymore. She knew what to do. The voices were telling her what to do.
"I thought you already knew that,” she murmured, her smile widening. “Isn't that what you told the court three years ago? I wasn't crazy then, but perhaps I'm really crazy now. You're so fond of quoting your precious Shakespeare, Cliff. Well, I can quote him, too. ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.’ You're going to write that letter now, and then I'll leave. I'll go back to the hospital, and you can go back to your pleasant little existence, living off the good graces of your rich wife."
Even with a gun pointed at him, his vanity flared at that.
"I earned everything I have!” he roared, his voice trembling more with indignation than fear.
Her laugh was harsh and cruel; she even surprised herself with the sound. “Dolores is the one with the money, not you!"
"I am America's leading authority on—"
"Yes, yes, I know all about that,” she said, cutting him off. She took a step toward him, unaware that she was slowly lowering the gun as she spoke. “And how much do they pay you for your expertise in the works of Shakespeare? What sort of fortune have you made from it? Your arcane knowledge may dazzle a few tweedy professors, it might even be useful to a small handful of theatrical producers, but it would hardly keep you in beer and skittles, to say nothing of red satin smoking jackets! No, Dolores provides all that for you. You're always taking things from people, Clifton, especially women. Have you ever noticed that? You used me as a temporary distraction, and you use her as a checkbook."
"Oh, please—” he began, taking a step toward her.
"Stay where you are!” she cried, extending the gun straight out before her again, aimed at his heart.
He froze, watching her.
"We know how you got rid of me,” she continued. “The question is, how are you planning to get rid of Dolores when her time comes? When she no longer amuses you, when she's no longer useful to you. I suppose she'll have the bed next to mine in the nuthouse!"
This last, derisive cry was punctuated by yet another sudden flash of light and a crashing rumble that made her glance over at the big window.
And in that loud, wild moment, he sprang.
She opened her mouth to scream, staring in horror as the man she had once loved came flying through the air toward her, his long arms stretched out before him, reaching for the gun. His fingers had nearly grasped it when she fired.
The gunshot was louder than the thunder, louder than her scream, louder than the screams of all her voices. It filled the room, resounding through her body, ripping through the last gossamer threads that had attached her so tenuously to sanity. Even as it crested, Clifton came crashing into her, sending her flying back across the desk as the gun flew from her hand. He fell with her, and for a long, awful moment he was actually lying on top of her, the heavy weight of him pressed against her in a grim parody of the lovemaking they had once enjoyed, his face between her breasts. Then, as she lay there, screaming, the body of Clifton Taggart III slid slowly down, away from her. He crumpled to the carpet, rolled over onto his back, and lay still.
When she could will herself to move again, she pushed herself awkwardly up from the desk to a standing position, staring down at the body that now lay at her feet. She swayed and nearly fell, but then she shut her eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. In that moment she became aware of the change that had occurred inside her. She was no longer frightened, no longer surprised by what she had just done. Another deep breath. In fact, she was amazed at how calm she felt, how clearheaded. He had attacked her, and she had shot him, and now he was dead. She felt unaccountably good, almost ... exhilarated. Yes, that was the word. She was actually happy.
She prodded him with her bare foot, and then she began to giggle, but she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. She didn't need the doctors from Northern Stat
e Hospital to tell her that this was the first stage of shock. She shook her head to clear it, to rid herself of the voices that continued to whisper and the eyes that continued to watch her.
She was in the act of reaching down in front of the desk to retrieve the fallen gun when she heard the distinct sound above the rain from outside. A car engine. An automobile had pulled into the driveway outside, and now it was approaching the house.
Dolores Taggart, home from her bridge club.
Leaving the gun where it lay on the carpet, she turned her attention to the body sprawled a few feet away. Her mind seemed oddly clear to her: she didn't even have to think about what she was going to do. But she knew she must act quickly and get out of here, back to the hospital. She bent down over him, grabbing him firmly under each arm, and dragged him across the carpet and the wooden floor to the window. She propped the body against the wall there while she raised the lid of the window seat, then she pulled him up and over the side. He was heavy, but she managed to lower his head and torso gently into the seat's interior. Then she picked up his legs and folded them in as well. She straightened up, gazing down at him. He lay there, eyes wide open, and as she stared down she fancied that he grinned up at her and winked. But of course he didn't really do that, she admonished herself. He's dead.
Another flash of lightning, another peal of thunder, and through this and the sound of the rain she distinctly heard the sound of a car door slamming. She turned immediately toward the door to the kitchen. She would go out the way she had come in, and then it was a quick run through the fields beside the road, back to the hospital. The rain would drench her, and it was a long way to run, but she felt a sense of energy and purpose that she knew would see her through. She could get past the old man with the newspaper at the security desk—by now he was probably dozing—and she'd be in her bed and asleep before anyone noticed. Yes, she told herself as she ran across the room, I can do this.
She was nearly to the door when Mother spoke to her. She heard her mother's voice as clearly as she could hear the incessant rain outside, as clearly as she now heard the sounds of the front door opening and slamming shut when Dolores Taggart entered the house. It was definitely Mother's voice, along with the sibilant whispers of the other voices, but Mother's two words were the words she heard most clearly.
Mother said, “The gun!"
She stopped, staring at the door in front of her, and then she turned around.
The gun!
Yes, there it was, lying in plain sight on the carpet, right in front of the desk. She was across the space in a flash, bending down to scoop up the weapon in one hand and reaching with her other hand for the hem of her nightgown under the black trench coat. She quickly wiped the weapon on the cotton material as best she could, ran around the desk, and replaced it in the drawer. She glanced around the room as she ran back over to the kitchen door. Yes, everything seemed to be as it had been before she arrived. It might be hours, even days, before Cliff's body was discovered....
She yanked open the door and slipped out of the room just as she heard the light knock on the opposite door and a woman's voice calling, “Cliff? Cliff, darling, I'm home.” She reached back to close the kitchen door as the opposite door began to open. Just as she pulled her door silently shut, she heard the voices whispering again. One voice in particular: Mother.
Mother whispered, “The window seat!"
She froze in the darkness outside the room, leaning back against the heavy door through which she'd just made her escape. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture the scene inside the room. When she realized, she felt a brief stab of pure panic. Mother was right, of course. She'd left the lid of the window seat wide open, resting against the window.
Even then, in that moment, she didn't despair. The surge of panic immediately evaporated and that odd feeling of confidence came back to her, the same emotion she'd experienced when she looked down and saw her tormentor lying dead at her feet. She stayed there for a moment, silent, leaning back against the door, listening to the sounds from the room beyond it.
In her mind's eye, she saw an elegant, dark-haired woman, about forty, probably wearing fancy evening clothes. She would have removed her raincoat already, and it would be hanging in the front hall closet with her wet umbrella. The woman came into the room, shutting the door behind her.
"Cliff? Darling, are you—"
Silence. Dolores would be looking around the empty room now, wondering why the lights were still on, wondering why the lid to the window seat was...
Footsteps. The woman had seen, and she was going over to the window to investigate. She kept her eyes tightly shut, not daring even to breathe, seeing the action unfolding in her mind. The rain continued. The voices were silent now, but the eyes watched intently. From where she was outside the room, she couldn't see the flash of lightning at the window, but she heard the loud thunderclap that followed it. Dolores would be at that window now, leaning over, peering down...
The sudden scream from the woman in the study seemed to rock the entire house. She could feel the vibration of it in the wood of the door pressing into her back. She opened her eyes in the darkness now, smiling in triumph. The bloodcurdling shriek was followed almost immediately by another one. And another. The screaming went on and on, drowning out the rain. She listened to Dolores Taggart's cries, and she began to laugh softly to herself. From somewhere far away, she could hear Mother and all the others applauding her. They approved of what she'd done.
Time to move—the police would be here in a matter of minutes. Now for my getaway, she thought. Still laughing, she stepped forward into the darkness.
She didn't get far.
She'd only taken a couple of steps away from the door when three figures suddenly materialized out of the shadows to stand before her, their bodies forming a solid wall. Two large men dressed in black, and between them a smaller figure, a severe-looking middle-aged woman in a white jacket and skirt, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. She froze, staring at them, wondering if they could possibly be real. Was this yet another hallucination?
No. These people were real. They were very real. This must be a nurse from Northern State Hospital, she thought, and these men are security guards. They must have been aware of her escape earlier tonight, and they followed her here—which meant they had probably seen what she'd done. The three of them stood there, watching her, barring her escape. She gasped and took a step backward.
"No!” she cried.
The three figures continued to stare silently at her, into her eyes, frowning. She looked wildly about her, finally turning around to face the door through which she'd just come. It was her only possible chance. She threw herself at it, but as she reached down to clutch the knob, the door flew open and two more people came out toward her. The first was an attractive, fortyish woman in a silver lamé evening gown.
The second was the man she'd just killed.
She gasped again and brought her hands up to her mouth, staring at them. As they loomed up before her in the darkness, the bloody ghost of Clifton Taggart III, her dead lover, leaned down and pecked her lightly on the cheek. “You're wonderful, darling!” he whispered in her ear. “I just love you!” Then he took his smiling wife's hand and led her off into the shadows.
She watched them floating away from her, thinking, I really am mad, after all! She whirled around again, away from the dreadful vision, and she immediately collided with the middle-aged woman who waited behind her. The nurse from the hospital! She'd forgotten all about her. The two men in black had not moved, either, and all three were watching her intently. Gasping again, she brought her arms up in automatic self-defense. She didn't want to go back to that awful place, and now they'd never let her out. Not ever. Oh, God! she thought. Oh, dear God...
"That was great, honey, just great!” the nurse said, grabbing her firmly by the elbow. “But you can drop that Method stuff now. We have to get you changed for the second act!"
She blinked
at the woman, focusing on her, and then the words registered. She blinked some more as the real world came rushing in at her. The panic and confusion ebbed away, replaced by a sense of numbness that slowly filled her body. She lowered her arms to her sides, taking in another long, deep breath. After a moment she smiled, and she nodded.
The sound of applause continued in the background, from beyond the fallen curtain. Mother was out there, in the third row, applauding with the others, and all the voices were shouting their approval. Later, at the opening night party, Mother would tell her how marvelous it was.
By Reason of Insanity was going to be a hit.
Still smiling, transforming herself as she moved, she allowed the wardrobe mistress to lead her away, past the two admiring stagehands and up the stairs to her dressing room.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by Tom Savage.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Death of an Aztec Princess by Martin Limón
A cold wind swept in from the Pacific, slapping raindrops around like a drunk battering his wife. At El Cinco de Mayo Park, an ambulance straddled the curb and paramedics bustled about, snapping on longsleeved plastic gloves. Beneath shimmering street lamps, a gathering crowd of civilians was being held back by policemen behind a string of taut yellow tape.
My name is Gonzo Gonzales, private heat. I do security work and car repossessions mostly, earning my daily masa by venturing into neighborhoods where gringos fear to tread. I work the area of town which includes the districts known collectively as East L.A. An area which—outside of Mexico City—is the most heavily populated Mexican barrio in the world.
AHMM, June 2005 Page 5