“I just don’t understand this,” she said. “I mean, I really don’t understand it. You stomp out last night like a—a pissed-off sophomore. Then, an hour or so later, you call to tell me that you’re spending the night with your wife. And then you get me out of bed this morning to explain what you did. Frankly, I’d rather be sleeping.”
“Now, listen.” He pointed to the bedroom. “It just so happens that I’ve got some clothes in there. All my clothes, in fact. Some of which I need.”
“What’d you do, get drunk and fall into a grease pit?”
“No. I finished repairing my wife’s—my—car, Which I started working on yesterday, if you remember.”
“It turned out to be an all-night job,” she said acidly. “Is that it?”
“No, that’s not it. I—” Angered, he broke off. Then: “I didn’t come here to—to grovel, Cathy. I didn’t come here to explain myself, either. No explanations’re necessary. My wife had a prowler. She was scared. My kid was scared, too. So I stayed all night. On the couch. Period. The end.”
She allowed her lip to curl slowly. “I can accept the minor premise. It’s the major premise that bothers me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you haven’t bothered to explain how you happened to be at your wife’s in the first place. Christ, I looked up last night and there you were going out the door. Pouting.”
“Grant Carter is a total asshole. I can’t stand him. Especially when he’s been smoking dope.”
“So you flounced off to your wife.”
“Wrong. I went to a bar. Then, on my way back here, I passed her place.”
“The long way around.”
Hearing her say it, he realized that he was smiling wryly. What was the script title he’d concocted last night? He’d left the bar, and was wandering along the sidewalk. He hadn’t even realized that he was heading toward Joanna’s place. He’d been—
The Long Way Home.
With apologies to Eugene O’Neill.
“So what happens now?” she asked. “After you change your clothes?”
“What happens,” he answered, “is that I’ve got to pick up my kid at his day-care center. You may or not be interested to know that I dropped him off for an hour, so I could come and see you.”
“How touching. Just an hour. What’s supposed to happen in an hour?” Derisively smiling, she recrossed her legs. The movement revealed a provocatively bikinied crotch.
“Listen, Cathy. There’s no point in—”
“You haven’t bothered to ask what I did last night after you left.” As she spoke, her body shifted into a subtly more sensuous position. Her voice was silkily malicious.
He snorted in reply. “That’s not hard to imagine. Grant was nuzzling you all night.”
“Is that why you left?” The derisive smile returned. Again she shifted in the chair. Her breasts lifted to a higher, bolder line. Her hand, resting languidly on her thigh, inched unconsciously up toward her pubis. Was she suggesting a truce—a quick screw, and all forgiven? Or was she responding to erotic memories of last night?
Still standing, he turned sharply away from her. Striding into the bedroom, he yanked open a drawer and found a shirt—clean, but wrinkled. He hurled the shirt across the room and went to the closet. His last work-suitable sport shirt, worn twice, hung on a hook. When he called KBSB, they might want him for an hour or two.
He stripped off his grease-soiled shirt and wiped his hands on its tail. As he drew on a clean sport shirt, he sensed that Cathy had come into the room. Turning, he saw her standing beside the bed, facing him. As they stared at each other, he saw her eyes begin to slowly liquefy. She stood with her legs slightly apart, arms at her side, torso taut.
A quick screw, and all would be forgiven.
“I’ll have to admit,” she said, “that you turn me on when you get mad.” Her small teeth, very white, were nibbling at her lower lip. “You’re really kind of dominant, do you know it? When you forget that you’re a sensitive writer, you really shift gears.”
Josh was waiting for him at the day-care center. He’d told the boy that he must stop by KBSB for an hour. He’d promised to return to the center before noon, so they could have hot dogs together. Then, later, they’d go to the beach. Promise.
Hot dogs…
He turned deliberately to the dresser, burrowed beneath his underwear, found a twenty-dollar bill. Crumpling the bill in his palm, he faced Cathy again.
Would Joanna invite him to dinner?
Would dinner be better tonight? Could they find something to talk about, the three of them? Josh, he knew, wanted him to stay. And the Chevrolet could be the excuse.
Across the bedroom, Cathy watched him silently. Now she moved forward one single step, sliding her bare foot slowly over the deep shag rug. A month ago, they’d made love on that rug.
He surreptitiously tucked the twenty-dollar bill into his pocket, saying shortly: “I’ll be back after dinner. I’ll bring some wine.”
As he turned away, he knew that her body was turning with him.
“Chablis,” she said softly. It was an order, not a request.
“Chablis,” he answered over his shoulder.
He dropped the two coins on the counter, turned to the stack of newspapers, picked up the paper on top. Still turning, he walked toward the door of the shop. It was a small, cramped store that sold souvenirs to the tourists: straw hats, suntan oil, post cards. The newspaper was tucked firmly under his arm. The Yamaha was concealed behind the bushes in a nearby city park. Ahead, through the shop’s open door, he could see the ocean. First came Cabrillo Street, then the wide sand beach, then the ocean. A scattering of tourists dotted the sand like outsized insects. Some of them strutted, some lay still. Their bodies were oiled and brown, with bits of bright-colored cloth wrapped around furry crotches. Animals grew fur, and cavemen, too. So without bathing suits, in a million years, these oiled brown bodies would be fur-covered.
He was crossing Cabrillo. Ahead, in the crosswalk, two girls skipped hand in hand. They were young, barely ten years old. Beneath their bathing suits, no fur grew. So he could smile at them. If they turned and saw him, he could smile.
The girls skipped toward the wading pool, part of the beach complex. Benches, shaded by redwood trellises, surrounded the pool. Young women—mothers—sat on the benches.
Were his mother’s eyes still staring across the kitchen floor, fixed on the far wall?
Had someone closed her eyes?
He was sitting on one of the benches. A bearded young man sat at the other end of the bench. Not a woman. Not a mother. But a man. Bearded.
Did the blood-pulse still throb beneath her ear?
The newspaper was high in front of his face now, blocking out everything but the sky above, the sidewalk below, and the wooden bench on either side. Above him, an airplane grumbled out across the ocean. From beyond the newspaper came the shouting and splashing of children. Some laughed, some screamed. But pleasure was plain in their screaming.
He’d often screamed. But only from pain. Only when he was hit—when he couldn’t escape, could only crawl away. Once, screaming, he’d dragged a broken arm along the floor beside him. The floor had been a hallway. There’d been glass on the floor—broken glass. His father had thrown a bottle at him. Screaming, he’d cut himself as he crawled.
She’d screamed, too. His mother. An hour ago, she’d screamed. And years ago, too. Hours and years—years and hours. Now they were all the same.
She’d wanted him to hit her, an hour ago. So she’d screamed. Because she knew—surely knew—that he must strike out at her. Before it killed him, he must stop the sound of a scream. They all knew it, each one of them.
She’d never screamed before. She’d cried, but never screamed. And so, until now, he’d never hit her. Ipso.
The newspaper’s blurred print blinked back into focus.
NEW THREAT TO MIDDLE EAST PEACE FEARED
a
nd
PRESIDENT DRAFTS JOBS PROGRAM, ASKS HELP FROM INDUSTRY, LABOR.
Again the print blurred. Sounds faded into silence. Even the constant whir of buzzing in his ears was softer now. If he closed his eyes, he could see his own house. He could see the kitchen.
Strangers were in the kitchen, staring down at her. They’d heard her screaming. Because if they hadn’t heard—if he hadn’t known they’d heard—then he wouldn’t have struck her.
Wouldn’t have killed her.
Looking up into the sky, he realized that the airplane was gone. Looking to the right, he saw that the bench was empty. The bearded man had gone. Only the shrieks of the children remained.
COST OF LIVING AT ALL TIME HIGH
And then, in the front page’s lower right-hand corner: PROGRESS REPORTED IN TAROT CASE.
Progress?
He was cautiously folding the newspaper in half, exposing himself only to the ocean. Even the wading pool—the whole wading pool—was blocked out by the half-folded paper. It was safe. He could drop his eyes and read:
Police reported late last night that they have been successful in developing “several significant leads” in the Tarot case. Although Sergeant Matthew Connoly, head of the Tarot Squad, declined to offer specific comment, the Bulletin has learned that Connoly and his staff have gathered information that has given them a pattern of behavior—an M.O.—that fits Tarot “like a glove.”
“A killer like Tarot,” Connoly explained, “is trapped by his own hangups. He’s locked into certain patterns that he must follow, no matter what. These letters he’s written are a perfect example. He’s got to keep writing those letters. We’ve been working closely with Dr. Herman Sternberg, at U.C.S.B., on this case. Dr. Sternberg is a psychologist specializing in the criminal mind. Between us, we think we’ve got Tarot figured out. We think we can predict what he’s going to do, and how he’s going to do it. If we’re right—if he can’t break out of his behavior patterns—then we’ll get him. Loonies make it hard on us in one sense, because there’s no motive for what they do—no rational reason. On the other hand, though, they’re victims of their own lunacy.
Loonies…
The ballpoint pen, the tablet, the envelopes and the stamps were still in their plastic envelopes—still in the tray, still at home. And—still—his mother was sprawled on the blood-puddled floor. He couldn’t go home.
But if he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t get the pen and paper. He couldn’t write—couldn’t strike back. All over the city—the state—the country—they were reading these words.
It was wrong to tell a lie.
He’d written to explain. To warn them. All of them. And because he’d written, they’d come after him, all together. They’d tracked him with cars and radios and guns—even with dogs. He’d told them—written to them with his ballpoint pen—that only he could discover the putrefying truth, unclean. Only he could hear it and see it and smell it. So, therefore, only he could judge them. But finally they always judged themselves. They knew that their screams condemned them. They knew, and he knew. They were guilty. So they screamed.
So they must die. Them, or him. Instantly.
In seconds, therefore, he must decide. Because sound traveled fast, and danger traveled faster. Only the knife, ready, had saved him—the knife the last time, his fingers the first time. Except that, the first time, he hadn’t known that he’d done it—finally done it. He’d tried to run away, escape. But his fingers had wrenched him back to the bed. He’d looked down to see his fingers crooked around her throat, locked fast. With the echo of her screams still ear-ringing, with the sound of her child crying in the next room, he’d been trapped by his own fingers, frozen to her flesh, unclean. He’d been helpless. Terrified, and helpless. With both hands locked, he couldn’t use one hand to tear the other loose. She’d trapped him. Dead, she’d trapped him—fastened herself to him, forever. He’d felt the sound of fury and fear rising in his throat. If he’d cried out—surrendered—nothing could have saved him.
But then, at the last moment, he’d saved himself. He’d bent down and used his teeth to pull the fingers loose, one by one. His fingers had bled, but he’d finally freed himself.
He’d been surprised, the next day, to find her watch in his pocket—surprised to find the watch’s crystal blood-crusted. Because, that time, there’d been no blood. No blood but his.
PROGRESS REPORTED IN TAROT CASE…
He was reading it again, more slowly this time. And, this time, he was smiling.
Loonies…
Reading the word now, he could smile. Because, plainly, the news story was a trick. Unable to find him, they hoped to anger him—to trap him into answering, just as he’d almost done.
He lowered the paper, folded it, placed it beside him on the bench. On the grass before him, two women were spreading out a blanket. A wicker basket was on the blanket. One of the women began unpacking the basket, spreading out plastic dishes filled with food.
The time, then, was noon.
At Gorlick’s, they’d know he was missing—that he hadn’t reported for work. Mr. Bingham, angry, would phone his home. He’d done it before. Twice before. There’d be no answer at home. So, immediately, Mr. Bingham would be suspicious. And the neighbors with their darting eyes would be suspicious too. The police might be called. They might come for him, as they’d done in St. Louis. They’d arrived in a black car with a red light on top. They’d take him away, handcuffed. They’d put him in a cell, where demons howled all night.
All over Santa Barbara, they were looking for him. The black cars with their red lights were crisscrossing the city. And if they entered the small house where his mother lay sprawled on the floor, and if they entered his room, then they’d know his name. In minutes, they’d know his name.
Because the tray lay on the bed. And in the tray, plastic envelopes still remained. One envelope contained the pen, the stationery, the envelopes, and the stamps.
Another envelope contained a watch and a silk stocking. Marie Strauss’s watch. Grace Hawley’s stocking.
It was necessary, then, to remain very still.
His breathing must be shallow. His eyes must remain fixed straight ahead. Knees together, hands motionless in his lap, he must summon the power necessary to surround himself with an invisible field of energy. He must create force waves that could turn aside their hostile stares. He must fade from their sight.
Then, while the energy field was still strong, he must cautiously rise. He must walk slowly to the Yamaha, a block and a half away. As he walked, he would keep his right hand in his pocket, touching the key. Because now, without the key, he could lose everything.
Without the key—without the knife—he was lost.
Without the key, there was no hiding place.
Without the knife, there was no escape.
Wednesday Afternoon
JOANNA REACHED FOR A Bulletin copy envelope, printed “Gorlick’s 4-col.x16 Saturday” on the flap, and slipped the sketch inside. She slid the envelope into the Bulletin’s pickup rack and got to her feet. Rising to tiptoe, she stretched her arms high overhead, breathing deeply.
Another day, another deadline.
Another thirty-two dollars. Thirty-two going on forty, she’d been promised. Yearly salary, eighty-three hundred.
In San Francisco, she’d be making twelve thousand, at least. In New York, she’d be making fifteen.
As she lowered her arms, slowly exhaling, the phone rang.
“Advertising.”
“It’s Sally, Joanna. What’d he want, anyhow? I can’t stand the suspense.”
“He was just checking, that’s all.”
“Does he think there’s any chance that Tarot could be involved?”
Tarot?
Or Kevin?
Ever since Connoly had left, she’d been trying to block out the interrogation from her mind—trying to forget that, really, many of Connoly’s suspicions matched her own last night.
&nbs
p; “Well,” Sally demanded. “Does he?”
“No. I told you—he’s just checking everything that comes along. It’s like you said this morning. He’s—”
A knock sounded; the door was opening. Tom Southern stood in the doorway, arms folded, leaning gracefully against the door frame. One eyebrow arched, he was staring at her quizzically.
“Did someone come in?” Sally was asking.
“Yes. Tom.”
“Oh. Well.” It was a bated-breath burlesque. “In that case, I’ll hang up. Call me back, deadlines permitting.”
“I will. ’Bye.” As she hung up, Tom said, “I hear the fuzz was by. Was it about that switch-blade knife? Did you call them?”
“I’m afraid not. The neighbors called them.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “I guess the police’ll put it in the computer.”
Still with his arms folded, posed in the doorway, he sardonically smiled. “I doubt very much that the S.B.P.D. has a computer.”
About to answer his smile, she suddenly blinked. Their date. She’d forgotten their date tonight. All day, she’d thought of nothing but Kevin—wondering whether he’d fixed the car, wondering what he and Josh were doing. And, most of all, she’d wondered whether Kevin would stay for dinner tonight. For Josh’s sake, at least.
And for her sake, too.
Because, whatever might have been missing last night, however uncomfortable breakfast might have been this morning, they’d nevertheless been a family again. They’d—
“What’s the matter?” Tom was asking.
“I—” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, Tom.”
His smile twisted unpleasantly. “You’re talking about tonight. Right?”
“I—Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“What’s the problem?”
She drew a deep breath, then told of the prowler last night, and of Kevin’s all-night visit, to protect them.
The Third Victim Page 13