CHAPTER 21
Max planned to go home, but instead he stopped at a small diner for lunch. Red seats inside booths, smell of coffee, burnt oil, and fried meat. Max ordered spaghetti with meatballs and drank cold white wine, waiting for his order and drawing the face of the girl on a napkin. He wasn’t an artist like Anna. His drawing looked like the artistic attempts of a seven-year-old.
“Sunny, Sunny. What a pretty name.”
“Your spaghetti.”
Max looked at the smiling waitress, who was chewing gum, and suddenly felt dizzy. His vision blurred, his ears muffled—one more second and he would pass out.
Angelica.
“Mister? Are you okay?”
A young voice burst into his ears, somebody grabbed his arm, and the pulsing dizziness was gone. Abruptly, like somebody pressed a switch, everything cleared.
“Angelica,” Max mumbled.
“I’m Olive.” The girl watched Max, a worried expression in her eyes. “Can I help you with something?”
Max ran a napkin over his forehead, wiping the sweat.
“I’m fine. I’m hungry, I guess.”
“You should eat.” The girl frowned and put the plate before Max. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
Max waited for the waitress to leave then moved the plate to one side, picked up the napkin from the floor, and wrote the name Angelica to go along with the portrait.
“Angelica. Her name is Angelica, not Sunny. She lives in a red brick house. Her mother’s name …”
Max moved the plate closer again and started to eat, without looking at the plate, but at the letters on the napkin.
The girl dictated the book to him. Fantastic. Maybe he should accept it. What would be her mother’s name? Wilma? No, not Wilma. He couldn’t use real people. How about Gail? Sure Gail. Wonderful name.
Max realized that he was eating a delicious meal and stopped staring at the napkin. He drank more wine and finished his spaghetti. Now he was confident that this book was going to be different. The book was going to be great. He tasted it as he tasted spaghetti. All ingredients selected perfectly. Some spice added, but not enough to overpower the other flavors.
Some of the diner’s patrons watched him and smiled. If there were any of his readers among them, they were about to get a book that would surprise them.
When he returned home, Anna was already back from work, but instead of sitting at the computer, she was on the couch with a paperback book in her hand.
“What are you reading?” Max asked as he sat near her.
Anna closed the book and showed him the cover.
Flowers for Dolly? A chill ran down Max’s spine. “Why?”
“My favorite book and I wanted to reread it. I think it’s your favorite too.”
“I was thinking about it today.”
“I read your mind. Cosmic connection.”
Max nodded and kept looking at the dark green cover showing a field and flowers. The peaceful mood of the photo was destroyed by the maroon letters and blood dropping from some of the flowers, turning them red.
“Why are you home so early?” Max asked, to change the subject.
“Headache.”
“Are you better now?”
“I took Tylenol, so yes. Are you hungry?
“I stopped at a diner.”
“Was it good?”
“The best spaghetti and meatballs I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Better than mine?”
“You don’t make spaghetti and meatballs.”
“That’s true. What else did you do?” Anna lightly pushed Max in the shoulder.
“Nothing much. I decided on my main character’s name.”
“Yeah?” Anna put the book down, but Max didn’t notice any interest in her eyes. There was no indifference either, but he wanted a little more excitement. “You called her Sunny. So I thought…”
“She’s Angelica.”
“Pretty. Will it be Angel for short?”
“Maybe.”
“Or Ann?”
“I have two Anns.” Max winked, trying to look playful.
“And they both survived, which is nice.”
“I don’t kill Anns. The girl’s friends sometimes called her Lica, but her mom called her Angelica or, you’re right, Angel.”
“So, your protagonist will be a little girl?”
“She’s six. Red hair and freckles. Like you.”
“Like me or the one you dreamed about?” Anna tucked her feet under her bottom.
“I think you look alike. Maybe I had a dream about you being a little girl.”
“You’ve seen my childhood photos. You couldn’t not recognize me.”
“Something from you, something from somebody else. Also, I don’t think it’s going to be a supernatural thriller anymore.”
Anna raised her eyebrows.
“Something like a drama thriller,” Max continued.
“Wow. You must want Foxtail to have a heart attack.”
“Well, thriller is close to mystery, and dramas are popular. Take The Help. Then again …”
“I didn’t like it. The Help, I mean. Not my cup of tea.”
“It’s a bestselling book, babe, and critics loved it.”
“I’m weird. But you, of course, will write something better.”
“You know me.”
Anna didn’t laugh as she usually would have done. She stood and put the book on the shelf.
“So, you don’t want to tell me what else you did today.”
Max didn’t. He didn’t understand why, but that was how he felt. He didn’t say anything about the red brick house or the woman who lived there.
When he didn’t answer right away, Anna waved her hand and headed out of the room.
“Ann.” Max stood and dragged after her.
She entered the kitchen, filled the teapot, switched it on, and then opened the drawer where they kept their medicine and found a bottle of Tylenol.
“You still have a headache?” Max stopped by the door.
“Some pulsing in my ears and I feel weird.”
“Maybe you’re getting sick.”
Looking at him, Anna popped out one pill, flung it in her mouth, and drank some water.
“Did you drive to Watervliet?”
“Yes.” Max nodded unwillingly.
“Why couldn’t you just tell me about it? Max, I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on. Nothing at all.”
Anna planted her right hand on the table and her left on her hip.
“Are you having an affair?”
“What? Af … What? Why would you think something like that?”
“I thought …” Anna pressed her lips tightly then wiped her eyes with a quick gesture. “Forget about it.”
“Ann, what happened, baby?” Max approached his wife, hugged her, and kissed the top of her head. “Are you crazy? What affair? You are too much for me.” He laughed when she smacked his back. “Okay, if you want to go so badly, I’ll take you next time. Only, trust me, there’s nothing interesting for you. I also don’t want to ask the owner to let me in again. He might not like it.”
“Did you see him today?” Anna’s voice was muffled. Her face buried in Max’s chest.
“No, I didn’t. I walked down the street. I wanted to look around.”
Again, he didn’t mention the woman. Of course, he kept his fit of dizziness a secret.
The teapot hissed and Anna moved away from her husband.
“Do you want some tea? Coffee, maybe, my sir.”
“That would be nice,” he said, even though he preferred to sit at the computer and work. Angelica demanded to tell her story, and Max didn’t even know what that story was about. He didn’t know much about the girl either. He thought he knew her well, felt her, but he really didn’t.
They sat at the table. Max held a cup of black tea, and Anna made a cup of chamomile.
“I had a stran
ge dream last night also,” Anna said as she took a sip of her tea.
“Tell me.”
“I heard I shouldn’t if I want it to come true.”
“Since when do you believe in this stuff?”
“Since you found the house.”
Max nodded. “That’s fair. You’re not gonna tell me?”
Anna shrugged, looked into her cup. “A fireball fell from the sky. When it approached, I saw that it actually was a bird. The bird was burning. Then it fell to the ground, in the water, and when the fire died out—I picked it up to take care of it.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.” Anna shook her head and Max thought she was holding something back. Could his wife be hiding something from him? “When are we going there?”
“I don’t need anything there now. Maybe the beginning of next week?”
“Maybe.” Anna drank more tea and put her cup down. “Actually, you know what? Maybe I shouldn’t go. What do I want to see? A house? For me it will be just a house. It’s your dream.”
“Ann, I don’t mind. Sorry, I overreacted yesterday. I was just tired.”
“Yes, yes, sure. But really, why would I go so far to look at some house? Take a picture of it for me, would you?”
“Okay.” Max felt relieved, but at the same time, he felt a strange weight of guilt, as if he’d betrayed his wife. He hadn’t done anything indecorous. No lovers, not him. What was wrong, then?
“I checked your email and you’re invited to two TV shows, one radio program, and one interview for a magazine. All major. By the way, I told you about that magazine and one show. You promised me you’d consider it.”
“I forgot. Can you tell them no?”
“All of them?” Anna raised her eyebrows.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Foxtail will cry. Your new book is coming out in three days.”
“I know.” Max sighed, covered his face with his hands, and looked back at his wife. Her facial expression was suspicious rather than understanding as he’d expected. He didn’t feel like answering repetitive questions, artificial smiles, facing excited fans. Angelica waited for him, and his job was to tell her story, no matter what that story was. “Okay. Which one is the most important?”
“I think The Daily Show.” Anna fished a candy out of the bowl on the table and flung it into her mouth.
“I’ll be there. Can you put it in my planner?”
“Of course.”
“Love you, babe.” He smiled.
She smiled back, and it seemed like a film dissolved from her face. Her eyes sparkled.
“I hope. Because I do.”
Max took his wife’s hands and brought them to his lips. He loved her more than anything, but before his eyes, there was the face of a little girl.
CHAPTER 22
Morris locked the house, tugged at the handle, and headed to the car. Everything was ready for his visitor. All he had to do was invite her. He could do it at the beginning of next week, on Tuesday to be exact, but now he had to shift the date. Actually had to wasn’t right. It wasn’t difficult to do if you thought about the result. The grand prize was worth the wait.
Morris smiled, getting into his car, and smiled as he drove onto the road.
Never in his life, excluding the first time, had he felt such excitement for an upcoming event. There had always been adrenalin, fidgeting, excitement, but it was calculated and expected. Now he didn’t hunt for himself, he played against. Against this snotter of a writer, who tore up the chain of his thoughts and plans. Morris rolled the window down and spat out. The wind had almost blown the cap off his head.
“Was someone murdered in your house?” He twisted his face, rolling the window back up. “Do you have a green dress in your attic? I have, you damn snotter, I do! Someone was murdered. A few someones. Try and prove it, snotter. Try, try. As soon as your wife is gone, you won’t come here, sniffing around. You’ll have other stuff to take care of.”
Morris chuckled and waved to a driver he knew.
He didn’t doubt that the writer would come back, would call him, and ask to see the house. He hadn’t heard from him yet, but how long could he stay away? He wanted to know. He needed to enter the house, to touch everything, to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. He might even ask to get into the attic. Morris wouldn’t let him, nothing outrageous like that, but the writer would ask for sure. He was an obnoxious son of a bitch. Was there a murder in your house? Son of a bitch.
With the thoughts about the writer, grinding his visit again and again, Morris didn’t notice when he reached his destination. He didn’t have a problem finding the right address—the secretary explained everything in detail. He didn’t park in the lot belonging to the old brick office building; instead, he left the car at a nearby shop and walked to the main entrance to wait. He had about half an hour to spare before the end of the workday, but Morris was happy to have extra time. What if she decided to leave earlier? He also hoped she didn’t forget her driver’s license at home and that her pocket book didn’t have a complicated lock.
Morris thought about his father. The old man knew life, no matter what they said about him. Morris remembered one warm evening with him like it was yesterday. It was about two weeks after his father had been let out of jail. They sat on the porch of their house and watched the road. They didn’t have a fence yet; it was built six years later. His father drank warm beer out of a big mug, smoked a cigarette without a filter, and spat with satisfaction on the ground from time to time. Young Morris looked at his splendid profile in awe, at the black tattoos on his hands, and at his bare feet with yellow toenails. His father became a role model for him. An example of a real man.
“I’m gonna tell you something, Morris.” His father gulped beer, wiped his mouth, and continued talking, not looking at his son. “I’m gonna tell how it goes, son. With life. Some people got everything and some got nothin’. Life don’t treat people the same way. My philosophy is simple. They don’t give it to you—you take it yourself. That’s how it goes for me. Take what you want. If you want it, it means you need it. Some people, Morris, are cowards. They’re afraid to fart in the dark when no one’s around. You laughin’ but it’s true. I know some. Everything is good for them. They got it good. If they don’t, that’s fine too. You and me, son, us, we are different. You hear me? Understand what I’m talking about?
Morris nodded passionately, catching his philosopher father’s every word.
“You took after me.” Father stuck a smoking cigarette between his teeth and tousled his son’s hair. “This damn snotter don’t get me.”
Morris hoped very much that his father meant anyone but his mother. Because his mother was anyone, but not a damn snotter. Only Morris heard their fights way too often and knew that his mother didn’t share his father’s simple philosophy.
Morris had enough time to start loving his father during those two months, but he had forgotten him just as fast when the man disappeared. His mother repeated many times that there was nothing worse than stealing, and Morris hadn’t ever stolen. When he grew up, he understood how detractive stealing was, and he was glad that his father had been out of the picture once again and forever. He could have made a thief out of his son with his simple philosophy. Morris still used his father’s tricks shamelessly. His phrase, if they don’t give it to you, you take it yourself, became his slogan. Because when they didn’t give something to you that you wanted and you took it yourself, it was different from stealing. Because in this case, the treasure belonged to you. In other words, they stole from you. That was his simple philosophy.
At four forty-five, people started to leave the building, and Morris pretended that he was walking too, but stopped to tie his shoe or looked at the window of the bakery next door. At five after five, the woman named Anna hadn’t appeared, and Morris started to worry that he’d missed her. What if she had changed her hair color? What if a photographer used Photoshop to change her features? Maybe s
he didn’t work today. That also could be true. It wasn’t important; he would find her anyway, but it wasted his time.
By five thirty, the flow from the building ceased and Morris was about to leave, when the door opened and she came out. His new muse. Redheaded and even more beautiful than in the pictures he’d seen of her. She held a folder in her hands; her bag weighed down her left shoulder. She replaced her hood the wind tore off, hiding locks of hair under it. She went in the direction away from Morris, without as much as a glance at him. That was what he needed. He dashed after her, over her, and knocked her down a little too hard. The woman fell to one knee and gasped. The folder dropped from her hands, opened, and sheets of white paper rained down, immediately caught by the wind.
The woman ran after them. Morris did the same.
“I’m sorry!” he yelled, as he collected the flying papers.
“Damn!” The scream came from behind him. “Didn’t you see?”
“She cursed.” Morris noticed with pleasure as he caught a bright sheet of paper. There was a dragon, blowing fire, and a woman in torn clothes.
He turned around and saw the redhead, Anna, collecting her drawings. Morris approached her, hiding his face, squatted, and gave her a piece of paper.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, changing his voice, lowering it, and coughing for effect. “I’m in a hurry.”
The woman grabbed her drawing from his hand and put it inside her folder.
“It’s fine,” she said angrily. “It happens. At least it isn’t raining, otherwise everything would be ruined.”
Beautiful voice with barely noticeable huskiness. He liked voices like that. Voices like hers delivered the best moans. Her bones were fragile, graceful hands, long fingers. She could be a musician or an artist.
“I’m sorry.” He adjusted the bag on her shoulder, and helped her to stand up. “Are you hurt?”
“I didn’t break my legs, but I’ll have a bruise on my knee, yes. You have to watch out. Next time it might be an old lady and you’ll kill her.”
“Sorry.” Morris plunged his hands into his pockets and went to the car, throwing glances at the woman, watching her getting into a white Lexus Hybrid. Nice car, and the writer had a Mercedes. He must have make tons of money to live in Manhattan and drive a luxury car. He wrote his shitty books for stupid people, who were willing to waste their money on that crap when they could get something good. Stupid snotters.
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 11