“So what’s that got to do with tonight?” he asked. And then, sardonically: “Or am I being naive?”
“I—” She felt her face flushing. Was it anger? Confusion? Guilt?
“Is your husband moving back in? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No. It’s just that—”
“Why don’t I take the duty tonight? I’ll get steaks and wine, and we’ll have dinner at your place. Then I’ll protect you. I’ll even make the supreme sacrifice and stay all night. After all, we can’t be too careful.”
“This isn’t a game, Tom. It’s no joke.”
“I agree. If you’ll remember, I was the one who advised you to call the police, remember?”
“I was thinking of Josh. I didn’t want to upset him. I still don’t. And that’s why I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come over tonight.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, I—I’m trying to make it easy for Josh. I mean, a divorce is traumatic, for a child. And I don’t want any—” She hesitated. “Any overnight guests. Any uncles.”
“All right, Joanna.” He pushed himself away from the door frame, flipping a casual hand. “Suit yourself. When you get it all sorted out, let me know.”
Before she could reply, he’d disappeared.
“Let me do a little bit, Daddy.” Josh reached for the screwdriver. “I can do it.”
“All right, give it a try.” Kevin handed over the screwdriver and stepped back. With one more screw in place, the bolt on the basement door would be secure. With bolts on both the kitchen doors and a chain on the front door, Joanna would be safe.
“Ooops.” The screwdriver slipped, scarring the wood of the door.
“Want me to take a turn?”
Nodding, Josh surrendered the screwdriver and stepped back. “We fixed this too, didn’t we, Daddy? We fixed this and the car both.” The thin, piping voice was comically self-important.
“We sure did, Josh.”
“Do you have to go back to work, Daddy?”
“No. I just phoned the station. There’s no sweat.” He gave the screw a final twist, then slid the bolt. It was perfectly aligned—a good job. “Why don’t you get your rubber boat, Josh? I thought that’s why we came home—to get the stuff you need for the beach.”
“I don’t know where the…” Searching for a word, the boy frowned.
“The what?”
“The thing you—the pump thing.”
“I’ll look for it.” He opened the kitchen closet—the catchall closet. Partially concealed, the bellows-type pump lay on the floor.
“Here it is.”
Josh shook his head. “I don’t mean that. I mean the thing you put on it. Mommy put it away, because we already lost three.”
“The needle, you mean.”
Brightening, Josh nodded.
“All right. You get the boat and your swimsuit and whatever else you need. I’ll see if I can find the needle.” He waited until the boy disappeared down the hallway, then turned to the overhead cupboard. Everything not meant for Josh’s eyes was on the highest shelf. Opening the cupboard door, he pushed aside a box of Bisquick and took down a shallow cardboard box—the “spare-key box,” they’d always called it.
A switch-blade knife lay among the miscellaneous jumble. It was, obviously, the prankster’s knife: Joanna’s first hint that something could be wrong. He tested the edge. The blade was razor-sharp. How did the blade retract? He couldn’t decide. There was a second button on the slim, lethally shaped handle. But he couldn’t—
The phone was ringing. Josh was in the hallway, laden with beach gear.
“I’ll get it, Daddy.” Dumping everything in the middle of the hallway, Josh ran for the living room. Hastily Kevin dropped the knife into the box, blade open, and picked up the needle valve.
“It’s Mommy, Daddy. She wants to talk to you.”
“Right.” He replaced the Bisquick, closed the cupboard, and hurried into the living room.
“Hello?”
“Did you get the car fixed?”
“Yes. And I—we—just put a bolt on the basement door.”
“Thank you.” A pause. Then: “Are you going to the beach, you and Josh? He’s looking forward to it, I think.”
“Yes. I, ah, had to stop by work for an hour. And it took another hour or so to get the fuel pump and put it on. But we’re going now.”
Another pause. Should he offer to buy groceries, in exchange for a dinner invitation? Josh had already asked him—begged him to stay.
The doorbell rang. He motioned Josh to answer, at the same time saying, “I was wondering whether—”
And she, at the same moment, said, “Would you like to stay for dinner? Again?”
“Well, yes. Fine. Thanks.” Glancing into the front entryway, he saw Josh stepping back, making room for a squat, muscular man with a fullback’s shoulders, a wrestler’s neck, and a pug-featured drill-sergeant’s face.
“Someone’s at the door,” he said into the phone. “Let me get the groceries for dinner.”
“All right. I’ll be home about six.”
“Right. Thanks. Good-bye.”
“’Bye.”
Replacing the phone on the table, he turned to face the burly visitor.
“Mr. Rossiter?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant Matthew Connoly.” A leather billfold containing police identification appeared in the newcomer’s hand. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes?”
Across the street, two teenage boys were throwing a baseball between them. Calling out “strikes” and “balls,” their voices bellowed through the sunny afternoon silence. Too loud, too loud. A white cat was crossing the street, right to left. Five doors away, just beyond her house, a moving van was parked.
Someone was moving out.
TAROT HYSTERIA GRIPS CITY, one headline had read.
So they were leaving—running. All because of words in a newspaper, pictures on TV. All because of a name that had once been only a thought.
His thought.
Tarot’s.
And now the thought was real. Magically, the thought had become a person—someone they all feared. Because they were moving out. So Tarot was real. Walking with no sound, Tarot was closer to her house, two doors away. Everything was ready—aligned. The Yamaha was parked beside the grocery store, where he’d parked it last night. Everything was the same as it had been last night—everything but the sky, and the sun. Only twice had he come here during the day—once on a Sunday, slowly strolling, and once on a Wednesday, when he’d been a meter man.
And now he was a meter man again. But this time, without the jacket and matching trousers, he was an invisible meter man. With his eyes focused straight ahead, he saw nothing on either side. So he was invisible from either side. He could be seen only from the front—only from the same direction in which he could see. It was only fair. Ipso.
Now he was even with the sidewalk leading to her door. The night before last, when he’d left the knife, he’d gone down this sidewalk. But now, today, he was walking nine paces beyond, then turning left. The basement door was straight ahead. The key was in his hand, as it had been last night. The tools were in his pocket. The flashlight was…
…in the tray, in his room.
He’d left the flashlight behind. She’d forced him to forget the flashlight. Once before she’d sunk him in darkness. Now she’d done it again—one last time. She’d died to do it this time. The first time had been dark as death for him. This time death was dark for her. Forever.
Was he still walking?
No.
He was standing motionless, staring at the basement door. He could hear a soft, anxious sound. It was his own voice, protesting. Inside the basement, he couldn’t turn on the lights. When night came, he’d be alone in the dark. Without the flashlight, he’d be alone. Just as he’d been alone before—the first time, terrified. But he couldn’t turn back, couldn’t rev
erse directions. His forward movement was aligned. He couldn’t change it.
And so, slowly, the door was coming closer. The key was in the lock; the lock was snapping open. The door, softly squeaking, swung away from him.
The meter man was at work.
And Tarot, too.
Now, as the door swung shut, it was Tarot who stood in the dim light from the two high, barred windows. It was Tarot who hung the padlock so carefully on the nail—who now stood motionless, allowing his gaze to slowly circle the cellar.
Today, the dimness was different than the darkness last night. Today—now—he could clearly see the shapes around him: boxes piled high on boxes, three cubicles made of rough boards, one for each tenant, three garbage pails, each with a roughly painted number. Three and three and three.
Slowly he was walking down a narrow corridor. Boxes and cartons were piled high on both sides. A jungle of discarded lawn furniture tangled the space beside him. Last night, he’d come this way. He’d come slowly, half stumbling, following a narrow, pale lightbeam. Now he walked easily. Everything was visible. To Tarot, it was all clear. Ahead, straight ahead, three steps rose to the rear door, leading into the backyard. On the outside, the door was padlocked. Already Tarot had seen the padlock. Days, weeks ago. It was a Master lock, like the one in front. Tarot remembered.
On the left, four steps rose to meet the kitchen door—her kitchen door. Slowly, soundlessly, Tarot was climbing the stairs. Tarot’s hand was reaching forward. The knob was slowly turning, releasing the latch—revealing that, yes, the door was locked. Since last night, nothing had changed.
Except Tarot.
For Tarot, everything had changed. Today, death lay behind him—death, and danger. So he could only move forward. Leaving his house, blood-puddled now, he couldn’t go back. Leaving the bench at the beach, he could never return. And tonight, when he—
Upstairs, a phone was ringing. Footsteps followed the sound—quick, light footsteps. The boy was running above him. Somehow the boy was—
A man’s voice called out; the boy’s voice answered. Heavy, slow-moving steps creaked close overhead, going toward the front of the house. The boy was in the living room, answering the phone. The man was following.
Who? What man?
Cautiously, he was following the trail of their sounds. First the boy, then the man. And finally Tarot, moving beneath them. The Devil moved beneath the ground—the Devil, and worms. And Tarot, too. Because they were invisible, all three. In hell, black-burned flesh split and crackled. In the grave, worms wriggled through eyeless sockets. In—
Another bell. Was it the doorbell?
Was it her?
The light, scurrying footsteps followed this bell too. But boxes and crates blocked the path to the place beneath the front door. So he must stand motionless again, listening. The phone was dropping into its cradle. But now there was a new voice. It was a deep voice—a man’s. Two men and the boy.
Two men?
Who?
Policemen?
Had policemen come here last night? Had they returned today?
The door he’d entered was unlocked. Closed, but not locked. But the other two basement doors were locked. If they came through the unlocked door, they would trap him—surely, certainly trap him. Even with the knife, now in his hand, they could trap Tarot. Handcuff him. Take Tarot away, to kill him.
He was slowly, cautiously edging between a packing box and a broken-legged picnic table, upended. If worms and the Devil moved in silence, invisible, so could Tarot. Cardboard could be rock, dust could be dirt. The garbage was flesh, rotting in graves. Above, the two heavy male voices still rumbled. He was wedged beside a teetering cardboard wardrobe, struggling through. Behind the wardrobe, hidden, he could see a huge wooden box, almost empty. A cleated wooden top leaned against the box. First one leg went cautiously over the side, then the other. Between his feet, paper crackled in the box’s bottom. Crouching, he pulled the top of the box up to rest on his shoulders. As he lowered himself, the box slowly closed.
In this box—in this small, dark space—Tarot was safe. Here, they would never find him.
Except for the darkness, and the monsters remembered, Tarot was safe.
This policeman too had a notebook. Kevin watched Connoly’s frown deepen as the detective stared down at the small blue notebook, spiral-bound. For almost a half-hour, Connoly had been questioning him. First Connoly had politely suggested that Josh be sent to his room. Then, just as politely—but just as firmly—Connoly began the interrogation. At first, the questions had been deceptively casual. Pretending merely a mild puzzlement, Connoly had “wanted to get it straight.” How was it, again, that Kevin happened to be out so late last night, walking? How did it happen that his wife, estranged, hadn’t been expecting him—that, in fact, she’d been in bed, with all the lights out?
His answers, he knew, sounded unconvincing. Even to his own ears, his explanations were lame. It was as if he were drawing a picture of himself, but Connoly was guiding his hand. Involuntarily, he’d described an unfaithful husband who’d deserted his wife and son for another woman.
Then, while he was still struggling to correct the picture, Connoly had shifted his ground. How long had it been since his marriage had gone wrong? Two months? Three? Somewhere between the two, he’d answered. Three months ago, the real problems had started. He’d moved out a little more than two months ago.
Just about the time, Connoly had observed mildly, that the first of Tarot’s victims had been found. Marie Strauss, strangled in her bed.
Indignantly, he’d protested. He’d heard himself make all the standard disclaimers: that Connoly was falsely accusing him, that he’d get a lawyer, that he paid taxes. And, besides, he was an intellectual, not a murderer.
At the last protest, Connoly’s stiff, humorless mouth seemed almost tempted to smile. Some authorities, it seemed, thought Tarot was an intellectual, judging by the style and content of his letters.
Slowly, incredulously, Kevin shook his head. “I can’t believe this. I really can’t. I know it’s your job to suspect everyone. I accept that. But, Jesus, this Tarot’s a nut.”
“True,” came the dispassionate answer. “But in my business one of the first things you learn is that a lot of nuts look a lot like ordinary people.”
“I realize that. But, Jesus, it—it’s so illogical. Like, why would I have been under her window, anyhow?”
The detective’s only response was a silent, impassive stare. Then: “Do you have a car, Mr. Rossiter?”
“No, not really. I mean, my wife has the car. It’s that Chevrolet, out in front.”
“Do you have a motorcycle?”
“A motorcycle?”
Connoly’s bullet head inclined, stoically nodding in reply.
“No, I don’t.”
“Have you ever had a motorcycle?”
“In San Francisco, I had one.”
“What kind was it, Mr. Rossiter?”
“A Honda.”
“How many cc’s, do you know?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t very big. I forget. A hundred fifty, maybe.”
“Was it a step-through design?”
Frowning, he asked, “You mean where there’s no crossbar? Like a woman’s bicycle?”
Again Connoly was nodding slowly, almost indifferently. As the interview went on, Connoly appeared progressively more bored, his manner suggesting that he already knew the answers, before he’d asked the questions. Yet always the other man’s eyes were covertly watchful.
“No, it wasn’t that kind. It had a regular gas tank.”
“I see.” A short, reflective pause. Then: “You didn’t happen to notice a motorcycle like that—a motorbike, really—in the neighborhood last night, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. Why?”
“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Another pause, longer this time. And now, faithful to the interrogation’s unpredictable
pattern, Connoly again shifted his attack: “Did your wife mention anything to you about a switch-blade knife she found on the premises yesterday, Mr. Rossiter?”
“Yes, she did. Briefly. Do you want it?”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
Eyes narrowing, Connoly momentarily hesitated. Then, still speaking casually: “I wasn’t aware that Mrs. Rossiter told you where she’d hidden the knife.”
“She didn’t tell me. I just happened to find it.”
“You were looking for it, you mean.”
“No. I just—just found it. Accidentally.”
“Did you handle the knife, when you found it?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “Why?”
Not replying, Connoly got to his feet, at the same time drawing a large clear plastic envelope from his pocket. “I’ll get the knife, and then I’ll be going. Which way is the kitchen?”
Also on his feet, Kevin gestured to the hallway. “That way. I’ll get it for you, if you like.”
“We can go together.” Already moving toward the hallway, Connoly raised the clear plastic envelope. “We have to be very careful about fingerprints, you know.”
Sitting with knees drawn up, back braced against the box, he could see the rough wooden floor above. It was her floor—the bottom of her floor. But it was the basement ceiling—his ceiling. Following the floor to the cement walls, he could see one of the small barred windows. He’d drawn the top of the box six inches back, so he could see the window. He could no longer hear the rumble of voices, but he could see the window light. It wasn’t a grave, then. If they came for him, he could cover himself over, not with earth, but with wood. All but an inch. The top must be back an inch, to let in the light. Because without the light—without the air—the box would be a grave, pitch black. So his mother would have won. Even lying with empty eyes staring off across the kitchen, she would have dropped him back into darkness—back where he’d first been lost, so long ago.
He’d opened his eyes to hear them shouting. Lying in his small, sweat-stinking bed, he’d heard the heavy sound of his father’s voice, shouting out threats. His mother’s voice, answering, was pitched higher. Her voice had first been angry, then frightened. As the sound of the blows began, she’d screamed, whimpered, finally begged. Always, when the blows began, he’d burrowed down among the blankets, hands tight to his ears.
The Third Victim Page 14