This morning, Morris opened the padlock with difficulty since he hadn’t touched it for more than a year. He opened the door, letting the odor of dampness and mustiness out. He didn’t like to be inside after everything was over. He was devoured by anguish. Like he’d lost a treasure and couldn’t find it. Anguish called for hunger sooner than he could afford. Stronger than he could control. He saw the empty room and wanted to fill it. Fill it with love, suffering, scents, life. When everything ended, he stashed the body in the fridge, cleaned the shed, and locked it up. He didn’t enter it before spring, when the ground became soft and pliable like an intoxicated virgin. Then he opened the door again to take out the body that had slaked his desire and buried it in his garden. He planted immortelle on their graves, which would cover a bigger part of his garden by this summer. After that, the shed was locked again to come back to life when he was ready.
He smoked a cigarette, standing by the open door, and then stepped into the shed and turned the light on. There was not much dust and it couldn’t come into a hermetically closed structure, but he liked everything to be perfect. Clean and fresh. It wasn’t nice to invite a girl into a messy house. Morris snorted, remembering the redhead.
He knew where she lived, but he hadn’t checked her house and surroundings yet to find the best spot to meet her. He liked complexity, but it shouldn’t be risky. The hunt itself was exciting. Complexity excited him even more. The possibility of winning or losing. Besides, it stretched his game longer.
Morris turned on the heater then went to the house to get hot water to wash the floor. When he did simple work like this, he thought about the past. Nothing disturbed him, his hands worked automatically; his eyes didn’t see a mop or a bucket with dirty water, but faces, bodies, movements.
He wasn’t prepared when it happened the first time. He didn’t have his shed, but only an empty room in the house. His mother died two years before, but he hadn’t gotten used to living alone. At that time, he acted on instinct. He was too young then, too ardent to calculate.
They had been neighbors, they grew up together, and he was four years older. He had seen her almost every day, playing with her friends or walking to school. In the beginning, she was just a cute girl. She and her mother even came to Morris’s house once or twice a week before his father came back. Their mothers talked, the girl played with his toys, and he just watched her from a distance. He didn’t like anyone touching his toys, but he didn’t take them away from her.
Later, she became a knockout. By the time she had turned thirteen and developed breasts, all his dreams were about taking off her clothes. He talked to her in school or by his house when she passed by. He wanted to talk to her about movies, music bands, or books, but she only greeted him and asked how he was doing. She wasn’t interested in him. Once he tried to hug her when they met by his house, but she giggled and removed his hand. Then she started to date her classmate. He walked her home, carried her bag, and they held each other’s hands. Morris’s mother told him that Angelica would get pregnant. His mother and her mother had been friends, but it didn’t bother his mother to gossip behind her neighbor Wilma’s back. Then his mother died. Stroke, three days in a hospital and end of the story. Morris was disconsolate.
His mother raised him alone, if one didn’t count those couple of months when his father came out of prison to live with them. Morris and his mother had a special relationship. A relationship that not everyone could understand. He slept with her in one bed until he turned fifteen. After that, she pushed him away, and made him sleep in the other room when she found a lover.
Morris hated that bald guy with a beer gut, but what could he do? His mother said she was tired of being alone. She smiled when he yelled at her and promised to stay with her forever. She told him he was going to get married and leave her like all kids did. Morris fell silent, even though he had known he wasn’t “like all kids.” He wasn’t, but he did love. Maybe he would leave. He doubted it though, because he loved his mother more than anything in the world. But she had died and left him. Alone.
His neighbors felt bad for him. Including Angelica. Suddenly his grandmother came, his father’s mother, and started making up for her son, helping Morris financially. She wanted her grandson to go to college and become a decent citizen, unlike her son—the criminal. She owned a small restaurant in New York and provided her grandson with gourmet food, and paid the remaining mortgage for the house since he refused to move. She had offered to help Mary in earlier years, but his mother declined and never let her see her grandson. She blamed her for not telling her that her son had been in jail for theft two times before, and letting her marry a violent criminal.
Morris decided to become an architect even though he dreamed of being an artist, but his grandmother didn’t believe being an artist was a good profession to make a living. They talked a lot about it and she paid for his college, so he agreed to choose something he enjoyed to some degree. He loved to draw and architecture gave him an opportunity for creative self-expression. For his grandmother, it was good enough, and even though she saw him as a doctor or a lawyer, she agreed. Anything, but not an artist.
“You’re going to sit in a subway,” she said, “like a bum, drawing Japanese people for a penny.”
Morris didn’t know why he would draw Japanese for a penny, but he let it go. He didn’t pursue his dream because he wasn’t confident to argue with the obnoxious old lady who fed him and paid for the roof over his head.
Two years after his mother’s death, his grandmother became sick and visited him less and less often. Morris, in his turn, started to spend more time outside of his house, waiting for Angelica to walk by, hoping for her to be alone.
Once, in the early fall, she went to the store in the evening, as she often did, to get bread and milk. The convenience store was five minutes away. She walked there, swinging an empty bag. Morris waited for her return and came out of the house to meet her. It was getting dark; the girl was startled and even jumped when he called her.
“Listen, can you stop for a second?” he asked. He was out of breath, his eyes wide.
“Ah … I have to get home. It’s getting cold. Are you all right?” Angelica looked around. The street was empty. The houses stood apart from each other. Heavy curtains covered the windows in the house across the road from his. They didn’t want anyone to see what was going on behind those walls. The windows to Angelica’s house were dark at the front, but muted light was coming from some room in the back.
“My grandma …” Inhale. “She fell, I can’t get her up! I think she’s having a heart attack or something.”
“Oh! Do you want me to get my mom?”
“I need to call an ambulance! I don’t have a phone! Can you stay with her for a second? I’m afraid to leave her alone.”
“Ah. Sure.” She was a good girl.
He watched her hurrying to his house, and was glad she didn’t notice him shivering. Now even his teeth chattered. He knew Angelica would never agree to be with him, but he couldn’t get her out of his head. The thoughts of her poisoned his life. He already studied architecture instead of art. What other dreams would he have to kill?
He checked the quiet street one more time before following her. She stood in the middle of his living room when he entered; the bag clutched in both of her hands.
“Where’s your grandma? Why are you …?” She stopped and moved her gaze from him to the door. He walked to her and she pushed him away.
“I’m gonna tell my mom!”
He grabbed her, and pressed his hand against her mouth. Her eyes widened, and the bag fell on the floor releasing her purchases. Bread and two glass bottles. One with milk and one with cola. The cola bottle fell, spraying the drink around. She tried to kick him, to get away, but she was so skinny and weak. He pushed her into his mother’s room and down onto her bed where the ropes and rugs were ready.
“Don’t yell or I’ll kill you,” he whispered.
“Morris,” she mana
ged to say, before he stuck a piece of towel in her mouth. Then he tied her.
“I love you, okay? I love you so much. I love you more than anything.” Besides his mother, but he didn’t mention that.
She’d been with him for three days. He wanted to keep her longer, but was afraid that someone might find her. When three days had passed, the police started to question people, including him. Before them, her mother knocked on his door, crying. By the time the police visited him, Angelica was in the ground behind his house and no one suspected him. Not him—a quiet young man with good manners, who lived in house number five. When his grandmother came for a visit, she asked about a strange smell, but he said he didn’t smell anything. He did. It was the smell of urine, fear, and death.
He kept his second and third girls in the same room, thinking how nice it would be to have a basement. There was no basement in this house, so he decided to build an outhouse. A shed. A temple of love.
It was a long time ago, but his temple was just the same.
Morris finished with the floor and the room now smelled like soap and burning wood. Later, he would bring clean sheets and a boom box. He used the same one he bought twenty years ago. Everything was going to be wonderful. As always.
CHAPTER 9
Anna took her hazelnut latte and chose the table by the window so she could watch people outside. She didn’t find pleasure in one of her favorite hobbies today though. The weather was cloudy. Wind tore the rest of the brown leaves from the trees and tossed them on the sidewalk along with garbage. People didn’t walk, but rushed, so they could hide inside a warm, dry room.
Still, Anna was in a great mood in spite of the weather. She took a sip of hot coffee and smiled, enjoying the taste. Warmth smoothed down her stomach, relaxed her muscles. She had a reason to smile. She sent her second cover yesterday and received an answer this morning. Her editor, as well as the book author, was happy with the result. The author even said that it was the first time he’d seen what he wanted on the cover. Who wouldn’t want to hear something like this about her work? Anna’s favorite part taking the author’s concept and creating a visual version of it. She felt like an artist, not just a designer as it was with her regular work.
Max had suggested that she quit a long time ago, and even offered for her to be his publicist full time since she had already been doing it anyway, and if she didn’t want to feel like a housewife. Anna considered it, but she preferred to keep things the way they had been before Max. She liked the company she worked for, and enjoyed her independence. She wanted to make her own money and didn’t want to be dependent on Max. Besides, she would stay home when a baby came, which would be enough. If she had a baby.
Melancholy darkened her happy thoughts. They had been married for four years, and a year ago, Anna decided it was time for their family to grow, but she hadn’t gotten pregnant as fast as she’d hoped. Her mother suggested that she go to the doctor, her friends suggested reproductive therapy, but Anna waited. She didn’t want any help. She liked doing everything herself. She hadn’t dismissed the possibility of professional help, but she didn’t want to capitulate too fast. So, she gave herself a deadline, six months. If nothing happened during this period, she would contact a specialist, but it would mean nothing else could be done.
Anna tried to digress from the sad thoughts, and turned back to the window. To watch and drink her coffee, now warm, but still good.
What was happening to Max? First, he had a strange dream and then he had found the house he had dreamed about. It was too strange. You read about such things in books without thinking it could actually happen. To you. Also his lightheadedness. Anna told Nadia about it, and she was surprised. She even thought that Max had been joking. Anna was sure he wasn’t. It was a bad joke and so unlike her husband.
“Maybe I should talk to a therapist.”
Anna finished her coffee, but stayed at the table for a few more minutes, turning the empty cup. No, no therapist. At least, not now. She needed a serious reason to do that. She decided to scour the Internet instead, on the subject of repetitive dreams.
It was a good idea.
Buttoning her jacket, Anna headed to the door. She didn’t want to go outside, she didn’t want to melt into the crowd, but she couldn’t wait in the coffee shop for winter to be over. Unfortunately.
CHAPTER 10
Morris smiled. He smiled almost all the time the last few days. People would think he was an idiot and maybe happy people were a little stupid. He was happy. He was happy as a puppy that was let out to play in an open field. The girl named Jane was beautiful and she was an artist, who decorated cakes in a bakery. She made whole architectural structures out of batter. She could be his colleague.
His second one was also almost a colleague. Redhead Ramona, who attended his college and didn’t pay attention to him, like all the other girls. Maybe he would never have become what he had become if they had noticed him. Maybe love pushed him the first time, and then it was desire that ruled his life and his soul. Maybe he was born with this desire inside, where it lay dormant, to awaken one day, showing him the other side of existence. The better side. Something that was worth living for.
Morris started the engine to head home. He spent the whole morning, starting at six, by the Goldy’s house, waiting for her. Of course, there was no guarantee she lived there. Her driver’s license could be outdated. He’d had a few time wasters like this, but it was the only way to determine if he had made a mistake or not.
It was an old apartment building with a camera over the main entrance and a concierge. Morris didn’t like that. The girl didn’t look like she had money for a rental like this. When he saw her the first time, she was wearing a simple jacket and boots. It could be a mistake. This building was old, but not cheap, he was sure of it. Morris hid behind a tree, away from the camera’s view. He watched people going in and out of the building.
Twenty years ago, everything was simple. No cameras, fewer cars. His town still had the feel of that era, but he didn’t like to work there. New York swallowed him. He also met his clients here, so he had a reason to visit often. He wasn’t worried about Goldy though. Maybe just a little. He could find someone else even though he wanted only her now.
Morris remembered the year when he couldn’t reach the girl he had chosen because she had never shown up alone. He became so pissed that he went to an old park, where he tracked down a woman, dragged her into the bushes, hit her on the head, and carried her to his car. Fortunately for him, she was pretty and became a pretty statuette on his dresser. Morris hoped nothing like that would happen this time and his hunt would become successful, but one could not be too confident. He knew where she lived and the hunt had started. Usually he gave himself a week, sometimes two, so he could find a suitable place and time. He usually appointed a deadline. It was easier to set a trap for his prey than it had been in his younger years. He was now a senior—glasses and streaks of gray hair. He easily gave the impression of a harmless and helpless old man.
Waiting for Goldy, he remembered the last time. He put on an old jacket and frayed hat, picked up a cane, glued a gray beard in place, and stopped by the house of a girl with a rare name, July. She always came home from work late and it was convenient. She walked slowly from the bus stop, looking around, dreaming probably of meeting a prince. The parking lot near her apartment was empty and she had to cross it to get to the building. When he saw her, he turned to his car, took a step, and then pretended that his leg twisted. He fell right before the opened door of his van. The bag “accidentally” dropped from his hand to the ground and apples “accidentally” scattered around. He gasped, moaned, and swore to God. There was no guarantee that the girl would rush to help him, but he usually made the right choice. The girl appeared to be tenderhearted. She adjusted a bag on her shoulder and ran to him, getting tangled in the hem of her long coat. She gave him her hand—covered in a leather glove— and helped him to stand, and he grabbed it.
“Thank
you,” he croaked. “Look at the apples. All dirty now.”
Without a word, she grabbed the bag and started picking up the green fruit from the frozen ground. When she reached for the apple by the van, he shoved a syringe needle into the naïve beauty’s neck. She didn’t even gasp, just turned her head to him with her eyes wide, and then went limp in his arms. The apple fell from her opened hand to the ground and rolled under the van. Morris pushed her onto the seat and slammed the door shut.
Not a soul around.
He collected the rest of the apples—careful not to draw attention—sat in the van, and drove to someplace where he could tie up his prey without hurry or fear of being noticed. As always, it went smoothly. For the few days after the event, Morris watched the news, but didn’t see any mention of July’s disappearance. And why would they mention her? She was a treasure to him, but to the rest of the world, she was a regular office worker. How many people like her went missing every day? They went to work and never returned. He was sure the police would be looking for her, had her photo somewhere on the Internet, but no one would suspect an old architect from Watervliet. No one and never.
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 5