by John Lutz
“I never heard that one before,” Lisa said. “Is it copyrighted?”
The fussy little guy did what she should have done—ignored the remark.
She let him pass and stride out ahead of her as they crossed the street.
Beyond him Lisa could see Petit Poisson’s sign.
And was that woman in the blue dress Abby? The pudgy one hurrying into the restaurant?
If so, she’s put on weight. Lots of weight.
Lisa forgot all about the yellow roses as she quickened her pace. She didn’t want to be the last to arrive at the restaurant.
A person could get talked about.
39
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
Luther watched them sleep. Milford had drunk more than his share of scotch after dinner and seemed almost unconscious, too deep in his slumber even to snore. His breathing was as persistent and rhythmic as the sea. Cara slept more lightly beside him.
Luther, moving closer, could see the delicate flesh of her closed eyelids responding as her pupils shifted beneath them.
She’s dreaming. Maybe about me.
He might wake her and they could go downstairs, or up to his attic nest. Or—and this they had never dared—they could have sex right there in bed beside Milford, to the regular beat of Milford’s own breathing and ignorance. Luther considered it; Milford hadn’t budged since he’d entered the bedroom, and probably since long before that. His hair wasn’t even mussed. Luther could wake Cara with a kiss, place a palm over her mouth to quiet her if necessary, and then…
Don’t be an idiot!
Realizing he was breathing hard enough to hear, Luther backed away from the bed. As if sensing his presence, Cara raised a hand lightly to her forehead, then lowered it. Her eyes remained closed.
Let the Sands sleep for now. Luther would prowl his secret domain.
He left the bedroom and closed, but didn’t latch, its door behind him. After only a few steps he felt safe. Sound wouldn’t carry through the thick walls. Not bothering to be quiet, he descended the creaking stairs to the first floor.
This was his time, his own dim world where he could indulge himself with whatever he needed at the moment—food, drink, shelter, woman….
At the moment he was hungry. Maybe because of the benzene he’d been inhaling in the attic; it did that sometimes, made him want sex or food later. It could also affect his judgment, something he realized only in retrospect.
Luther made his way into the kitchen, which was illuminated by the night-light on the stove and moonlight filtering through the curtained window. He remembered the scent of dinner a few hours before when he was lying on his cot reading in the attic, almost the taste itself, rising all the way through the vents and cracks and air spaces of the old house to its highest regions. The Sands were having turkey, one of Milford’s favorites that Cara prepared regularly. Thanksgiving at least once a week. There were always leftovers, and she would make sure there was plenty of white meat for Luther.
He smelled something else when he entered the kitchen. Roses. There was a clear glass vase in the center of the table containing half a dozen yellow roses Cara had brought in from the garden. She loved roses, especially the yellow ones. The scent of roses reminded Luther of Cara, and he knew it always would.
He opened the refrigerator and there was a large remaining portion of the bird on a platter and covered with aluminum foil. He removed the platter and placed it on the Formica table.
When he pulled back the foil, he was pleased to find more than half of a good-size turkey, baked to a perfect golden brown. Even one of the drumsticks remained, but Luther knew he couldn’t chance eating it. Milford liked drumsticks and would wonder. Luther would satisfy himself with a few thick slices of white meat for a sandwich, washed down with milk from the carton. Afterward, he’d rinse off the knife he’d used to carve the meat and replace it in its drawer. Then he’d return the turkey, milk, and condiments to the refrigerator, making sure there were no telltale crumbs, and creep back to his cot in his secret space above.
He found half a loaf of bread in the metal box with the yellow rose decal on it, and laid it next to the turkey and milk on the table. Back to the refrigerator for the milk carton, a jar of mustard, and another of pickles. On impulse he took a jar of olives, too, to eat on the side.
Before sitting down to his feast he glanced at the stove clock. It was three A.M. The time of deepest sleep. Or so he’d read in a recent copy of Psychology Today.
Luther had finished all but a few bites of his sandwich and was considering another when he heard something off to the side and behind him. He knew what it was immediately—someone’s sharp intake of breath.
He stopped chewing and turned his head slowly, not really wanting to look, to find out who’d made the sound, praying it was Cara so his heart could start to beat again.
Cara! Please, Cara!
His prayer was only half answered.
Milford stood in the doorway, Cara behind him and peering around his shoulder. Milford appeared stunned. Cara looked horrified. Time itself paused. Luther knew they were all like figures in a painting, no one moving.
He wished it could stay a painting forever.
Milford moved first, lurching toward Luther, only to stop short, as if he hadn’t quite gotten over his surprise enough to change direction and go around the table. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
His hesitancy gave Luther courage. “I live here.”
Milford appeared more puzzled than enraged. “You what?”
Luther looked past him at Cara, who still hadn’t moved or changed expression. She obviously wanted nothing so much as to whirl and run, only there was no place to go.
“I live here,” Luther repeated, wondering himself where he was finding the courage. Love. It must be love for Cara.
Milford put his fists on his hips. He was wearing only his Jockey shorts and his musculature was evident. He was thin, even skinny, except for a small pad of flesh that hung over his elastic waistband, but there was a reedy look of strength about him. “Well, now, you little jack-off, if you live here, how come I haven’t noticed you around?”
“Maybe you haven’t looked close enough.”
“And maybe you better explain what’s going on here with the one chance I’m gonna give you before tearing you apart so you look something like that turkey. You can start by telling me how the hell you got in here.”
“I’ve been in here.” Luther noticed his heart rate had decreased, but he was still frightened. In control, though. Claiming what was his. Or what he wanted so badly that it should be his. “I come and go through the door, just like you do.”
“Without a key?”
“I have a key.”
Milford peered up at the ceiling, as if for some message written there, then back down at Luther. “You’re doing a piss-poor job.”
“Of what?”
“Explaining.”
Luther glanced at Cara. Her eyes were wide and disbelieving, dark and deep in their shadowed sockets. This was the time they knew would come—both of them—though they’d never spoken of it. He had to be strong.
He faced Milford. “I’m…Cara and I love each other.” In the corner of his vision he saw Cara bend forward with the force of his words, as if she’d suffered a blow to the stomach.
Milford was stupefied. His eyes widened like Cara’s and he looked at her, then back at Luther. There was a click, then a low humming. The refrigerator coming on. Its soft, steady sound only served to intensify the silence.
“I’ve been living in the attic for over a month,” Luther said. “Cara’s been taking care of me. She loves me, not you.”
Milford laughed, but it was an ugly sound, more like a bark. “In the attic, huh?” He placed both palms on the table and leaned forward. “Listen, Luther, you are one stupid kid. I ask you for the truth and you hand me this fantastic bullshit nobody’d believe. You shoulda made up something better than that, something that could be tak
en seriously, because—”
“Ask Cara.”
“I don’t have to.”
“You don’t want to.”
That stopped Milford. He stood up straight and looked over at Cara.
She bowed her head and stared at the floor. “It’s true.”
Milford actually staggered back a step. “What?”
“It’s true about the affair.”
“You’ve been fucking this…this kid?”
She nodded, afraid to look at him.
“A pattern of lies,” he said softly. “A lie in every look you gave me, in every word you spoke….”
“I guess that’s so.”
“You are a cheating, deceiving whore!”
“Maybe I am, Milford. Yes. Yes, I am.”
Milford roared and slammed his fist down on the table. Luther’s body jerked. The carving knife clattered off the platter. “You two have been making a fool of me for a month?”
“I didn’t say we were making a fool of you.”
“Now we’ll see what kind of fool you are,” Milford said, glaring at Cara. “Look at me, goddamn you!”
She managed to do that, her lower lip trembling.
“Don’t hurt her,” Luther warned. “Don’t you hurt her.”
Milford ignored him. He and his wife might as well have been in the kitchen alone. “You have a choice to make, Cara, and by God it’ll be final! You understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded. Now that she’d managed to meet Milford’s eyes, she couldn’t turn away from their pain and accusation.
Luther stared at Cara, but she wouldn’t look at him. He knew this was the balance point—the beginning or the end. Cara held everyone’s future in her hands.
Tell him, Cara! Tell him! If only you’re not too afraid! Don’t be afraid, please!
But she was too afraid.
“It only happened twice, Milford, and I’m sorry. I do beg your forgiveness. If Luther’s been living in the attic, I swear to you I don’t know anything about it.”
Luther felt the floor drop out from beneath him.
Black air rushed past him, roaring in his ears. He was betrayed, crushed inside, and unbelieving at least for a few seconds.
Then the reality of what Cara had said exploded in him.
It was his only reality.
He was floating, standing up but floating, the carving knife gripped tightly in his right hand, feeling a hot rage rising within him like a red rush of hatred, a red flood of vengeance, a red tide of blood that rose and crashed like an ocean….
When he awoke, he was perspiring heavily and thought he’d been dreaming, that he was on his cot in the attic and he’d had a nightmare.
Whew! Awake! Everything’s okay, okay….
Only it hadn’t been a dream and it wasn’t okay.
Luther wasn’t lying on his cot. He was on the kitchen floor, slumped awkwardly with his back against the wall. There was something in his mind, a dark dread he couldn’t name.
He was terrified of looking to his left, but he looked.
Milford was sprawled in a scarlet pool of blood near the table. Cara was on the floor just inside the door, lying on her stomach with her head turned so Luther could see one open eye. The other eye was beneath the level of the thick blood that had collected and crusted where the side of her face was pressed against the floor. Red, so red…. Her nightgown was torn, slashed. She was slashed!
Oh, God, God, God!
Luther made himself look again at Milford. Plenty of blood, but not like with Cara. Milford had simply been stabbed. Her flesh was sliced, in tatters.
Cara! Cara!
Suddenly Luther thought about the turkey above him on the table, the turkey he’d carved and had been eating, the white bones, the white meat sliced, the white flesh, and the shreds of skin dangling.
He slid all the way to the floor, propping himself on his elbows, and began to vomit.
It was a long time before he stopped.
40
New York, 2004.
The Night Prowler read the quote again, feeling his anger build, and perhaps his fear. It was right there for the world to see on the front page of the Times, and attributed to the bastard Quinn:
He has some way of knowing whether his victims are married, even if the wife is using her maiden name. Which means he either has access to and knows how to use public records, or he and the victims had previous contact, possibly knew each other well.
The Night Prowler wadded the front section of the paper and hurled it toward a wastebasket. It missed. It didn’t matter. He didn’t believe in omens; he believed in destiny.
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out into the night that belonged to him. The city was darkness and scattered points of light, each a false promise. There was little color in the night, but there was security.
According to all the literature, he was at the point in his “career” where he should be feeling intense pressure to kill more and more often, while he secretly yearned to be caught. He laughed out loud and didn’t like the way it sounded, almost like a cawing, and clamped his lips together.
The literature was only half-right. He didn’t at all wish to be caught. He’d anticipated the natural reactions within his mind and body, and the tricks of the mind the hunters tried to get you to play on yourself. Oh, he knew how to deal with them!
He was always mindful of the hunters, of Quinn. But he had to be. That was logical. It was caution, not stress.
He observed his reflection in the glass between himself and the night and a world that was mad. He smiled. After a pause his reflection smiled back. Everything was under control.
He turned away from the window and his gaze fell on the wadded newspaper on the floor near the wastebasket.
The media had their story line: Quinn, the hunter, versus the Night Prowler, the prey. And the prey should be feeling the pressure. Quinn had figured out something, so he must be closing in. Since he must be closing in, he must ultimately be successful. It worked out that way in movies, on TV, and in books.
But that was a scripted, different sort of destiny.
The Night Prowler smiled. Real life wasn’t that simple.
Neither was real death.
Death from a distance.
He’d figured out where to get a gun.
Lisa had put the yellow roses in a better vase and set them on the buffet in the dining room. She rearranged them carefully, until they were just right.
When Leon came home from the shop, where he’d worked later than she had, he glanced at them and smiled. “Beautiful,” he said. He took a more careful look at the Post folded beneath his arm, then tossed the paper on the coffee table. “So how was lunch with your old college pals?”
“Fine. Everyone still looks good. Janet is still beautiful, but Abby’s put on lots of weight.”
“She’s fat?”
“Some people might think so.”
“You always liked Janet better than Abby, didn’t you? I mean, from what you told me about them.”
“Janet was my roommate. She’s only in town visiting. She and her husband John live someplace called Morristown.”
“Sure. In New Jersey.”
“No. This one’s in Tennessee. She’s acquired this funny accent.”
Leon smiled. “I bet you sounded funny to her. She here on business?”
“Partly. She’s leaving in a few days.”
“Too bad.” Leon absently picked up the paper he’d tossed on the table. “Night Prowler. That’s all you read about or see on TV. Nothing but gossip that turns out next day or week not to be true. Where the hell is Walter Cronkite?”
“Somewhere on his sailboat, I imagine. And good for him.”
“The news is all sensationalism.” Back on the table went the paper.
“All about money.”
“Yeah, isn’t everything?” Leon didn’t sound unhappy about it. “You three girls talk about your love lives?”
“L
eon! Of course we did.”
“So what’d you say about me?”
“Everything.” Lisa managed to get it out without laughing.
“Know what that means?”
“We have dinner out at the restaurant of my choice?”
“You got it,” Leon said. But he sat back on the sofa and worked his loafers off, using only his feet. Lisa wished he wouldn’t do that. It was hard on his shoes. One of them, anyway. “Before we leave, let’s have a drink.”
“I don’t want one,” Lisa said, “but I’ll get you one. There are martinis mixed in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” Leon said. “Straight up.”
So that was it for the roses. He didn’t ask about them, so he probably did buy them for me and secretly had the super let himself in and place them on the table. Well, if he doesn’t want to discuss them, neither do I. We can play this game forever. There are worse kinds of husbands than the sort who leave gifts lying around. Janet and Abby can eat their hearts out. Though Janet’s husband in that photograph is a nice-looking guy, some kind of war hero and engineer. He looks like a winner. The guy Abby’s living with is a geek who looks like he lost most of his hair to the mange.
Lisa decided to join Leon in a before-dinner cocktail, so she got two stemmed martini glasses down from the cabinet near the stove.
As soon as she opened the refrigerator door to get out the half-full mixer, she saw the decorative box of Godiva light chocolates, her favorite candy. There was a small red bow on the box, but no card.
She smiled and shook her head.
Oh, Leon…
Anna had been reading in bed, Bradlee’s unauthorized biography of Yehudi Menuhin, but she’d become restless and put down the book. Then she’d gotten up, paced awhile, and gone to the closet to get down her father’s gun that she’d sneaked from the house in Queens.
Back in bed, she lay again propped on her pillow, but instead of a book, it was the gun that rested heavily in her lap.
Anna had read the day’s papers, all of them. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. His photo, his words, his lies, were everywhere. They were starting to make him a hero again. And his victim, whom they barely mentioned if at all…. Well, that was a long time ago.