The Third Victim

by Collin Wilcox

  The saw was free; the door was swinging away from him, revealing the pale square shapes of refrigerator, a stove, cupboards. He was in the kitchen, standing motionless. Behind him, the door was softly closing. The knife was in his hand, to lead the way. In the hallway now, he could hear the nearby sound of heavy, sleep-spaced breathing. It was the child, in the first room on the left. The knife was angling toward the small bedroom. Inside, a boy’s head lay on a square white pillow. A baseball glove lay on the covers; a bat and a ball were on the floor beside the bed. The head was motionless.

  Now the silver knife gleam was turning again, leading down the hallway. The bathroom door, second on the left, was closed. Through the archway to the right, the furniture shapes in the living room were dark and quiet. The tiny night light revealed it all, glowing with a pale, compelling luminescence.

  At the end of the hallway, her door was open.

  Inside, she waited.

  Outside, they were searching the city for Tarot. Men in cars and women at windows—they all searched, waited, wondered. But, inside, Tarot was stepping through the tall, narrow rectangle of her doorway. The darkened room was cloyed with the musk of her sleeping scent. The shades were drawn; the shadows were deep and dangerous, lying thick on the room’s far side. Only one bar of outside light fell across the bed. The dark tangle of her hair and the pale oval of her, face were centered in the path of the light. Her naked shoulders and breasts, unclean, were in shadow. The disembodied gleam of the knife was suspended in the same shadow. Now the knife was slowly, delicately moving into the light, positioning itself directly above her head. Her face was turned to the right, away from him. Beneath her ear, the exposed flesh of her throat was slowly, rhythmically throbbing. She was—

  Her eyelids fluttered; her lips twitched. In the silent room, a sound was beginning: the soft breath of her small, restless sigh.

  The slim silver gleam of the knife blade was coming alive.

  Another block and he would be in sight of the house. If a light was burning, he’d soon see it. The play’s last act was beginning. In mere minutes, the final curtain could come crashing down, to end this farce—this tragedy without purpose, featuring a slightly tipsy protagonist stumbling as he mounted the curb. The Long Way Home would soon be ended. There would be no applause.

  He was passing the darkened dry-cleaning shop, where once he’d helped the one-armed proprietor move a counter. The liquor store was next. Last Christmas, together, they’d bought six bottles of champagne in this store. It was the only party they’d given in Santa Barbara—the only party they could afford. Now he was abreast of the next store, Coombs’s Grocery and Delicatessen. The week before Easter, a gang of teenage sneak thieves had broken into Coombs’s. They’d backed their twenty-three-year-old pickup truck into the short alleyway next to the store, the alley just ahead. They’d cut through a fire door and cleaned out the cash register, the safe, and the storeroom.

  In the deep shadows of the alleyway he saw the outline of a motorcycle parked close beside the wall, partially concealed by shrubbery. It was a small motorcycle with no gas tank—a motorcycle built like a girl’s bike.

  He was slowly, deliberately pivoting as he reached the darkness. Nothing stirred on the quiet street. The time was after eleven. In this neighborhood, most of the lights were already off; most householders and their tenants were in bed. Tonight no one walked the ominously silent sidewalks. The menacing specter of Tarot was everywhere.

  Could the indistinct, innocuous outline of this ordinary-looking motorbike be the prize that Connoly sought?

  Could the missing rider be last night’s prowler—Tarot, crouched beneath Joanna’s window?

  It was impossible. Because violent death happened to someone else—because ordinary people lived ordinary lives—it was impossible. Yet the motorcycle squatted like some huge, deadly metallic insect, purposely concealed.

  He was turning, trotting toward her home—his home, too.

  Slowly her eyes were opening. She was staring into the dark, deep shadows across the room.

  Had Josh awakened? Had someone whispered her name—some formless stranger, fugitive from another place? Had something happened nearby—some pulsating, sinister thickening of the night, intruding into this quiet room? Had—

  A sharp, tiny jolt rocked at the bed.

  Had Josh come to stand beside her?

  Had Kevin returned, to let himself soundlessly into the house? Was he standing beside her bed, waiting for her to turn her head and discover him?

  Was it Josh?

  Was it Kevin?

  Or was it some third presence—some silent, sinister stranger? Her gaze was traveling up the wall, and now unwillingly traversing the shadow-streaked ceiling. Was someone breathing? Was—

  A knife was suspended directly above her—a hand and a knife.

  Was it her voice, gasping in protest?

  Was it her voice, fear-choked, whispering: “W—who are you?”

  Towering far above the bed, his face was in shadow, invisible. He was breathing rapidly, noisily inhaling, exhaling with a mad, teeth-clenched sibilance.

  “Please. My—my little boy. He—he’s only five years old.”

  What did it mean?

  Why had she said it?

  Could Josh hear her speaking, sleeping so close? If he heard her and came into her room, he would be killed—slashed to death.

  Above her, the harsh obscenity of his breathing continued, corrupting the silence. How long could she stand it? How long could she lie motionless, staring up at the slim, cruel shape of the knife blade? Could she escape—throw herself to the far side of the bed, fall to the floor?

  Could she scream?

  She’d read—often read—that a piercing scream was a woman’s best defense. At the thought, she felt the muscles of her stomach contracting. Her throat was taut, straining. Her lips were parting; her jaw was moving as her mouth came open.

  A woman’s best defense…

  When she screamed, the knife would surely falter. She would leap off the bed, run for the—

  —the front door?

  For safety?

  And leave him inside the house—the towering, faceless stranger with his knife?

  With Josh?

  At the first sound, Josh would awaken. Josh would come out into the hallway, rubbing his sleepy eyes with two small fists.

  Above her, the knife remained exactly as before, motionless—incredibly, superhumanly motionless, hovering inexorably above her eyes, waiting.

  Waiting?

  For what?

  For her to move—to try to escape? Was it her, not him, that held back the knife? Was that his madman’s logic—to wait until she moved, then strike at the movement, like a snake?

  “My—my purse is on the dresser. The wallet’s inside.” Her voice was hardly audible. Could he hear her speaking? Could Josh hear?

  As motionless as a predator inexorably eyeing its prey, the figure remained as before—voiceless, waiting for the moment when the knife could strike, and set him free.

  Somehow she must soothe him—reassure him, save herself. Somehow she must trick him into realizing that he menaced a person, not a thing. She must find the words that would make the knife hesitate, falter, then finally fall away.

  Very carefully, very quietly, she must talk to him. She must begin talking, and never stop.

  In the silence, the thudding of his feet on the sidewalk echoed too loudly. He was on the grass—the Carters’ grass, one house from Joanna’s. Her windows were dark—all dark. On the other side of her house, the Fergusons’ windows were alight. Was Ferguson peering out into the street, once more prepared to call the police?

  At the Carters’ hedge he slowed, stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, then once more onto the grass—his grass, ragged and brown-patched, where he’d so often played with Josh. As he strode diagonally toward the front door, he reached into his pocket to touch his keys.

  Why hadn’t he told Connoly, sternly, t
hat he had his own key—that, if he’d wanted to get inside last night, he could have simply opened the door?

  “Not with the night chain on,” Connoly could have replied. And so, tonight, he must ring the bell. He must awaken her.

  Awaken her?

  To tell her what?

  That he’d seen a suspicious-looking motorcycle as he’d stumbled past Coombs’s, struggling to walk a straight line after too many drinks?

  He moved into the shadow of the huge sycamore that dominated the front yard—the tree that Josh had so often tried to climb, unsuccessfully.

  Could it have been Tarot last night, crouched in the shadow of the azalea?

  Could it be Tarot’s motorcycle parked in the shadows nearby?

  Had it been Tarot last night, just emerging from the basement door? Tonight—now—no one crouched in the dappled shadow of the azalea. The basement door was closed.

  But was the door locked?

  Could the intruder be inside the basement, perhaps trying to force the lock on the kitchen door—the lock and the bolt that they’d put on together, he and Josh?

  He was cautiously giving up the shadow of the sycamore, moving across the lawn toward the service door. He was on a direct line with the Fergusons’ windows now. If Ferguson were looking, he’d call the police. Ferguson would…

  The basement door was locked—padlocked, from the outside. The rear basement door, too, was kept padlocked. Also from the outside.

  He was standing in the shadow of the azalea bush, staring at the locked door. It was the same spot where he’d seen the prowler standing, last night. He was—

  Had someone spoken?

  From inside Joanna’s bedroom?

  He turned toward the window, open two inches from the bottom, safety-stopped. The window shade covered the two-inch opening.

  Was Joanna murmuring in her sleep, as she often did?

  Was she with someone—making love to the leading-man type with the Alfa Romeo?

  With another glance toward the Fergusons’, he stepped away from the shadows. Crouching, he moved beneath the bedroom window.

  The knife point dropped closer. Yet it seemed an uncertain movement, revealing an almost imperceptible wavering. Was his murderous resolve faltering? Was the hand holding the knife beginning to shake? Did the shaking mean remorse—a reprieve? Would he lower the knife, turn away, silently leave?

  Why didn’t he speak?

  “I don’t know who you are,” she was whispering. “But I—I won’t harm you. I won’t tell them about you. I won’t, really. And I—I’m home all alone. M—my husband has gone. He left me, almost three months ago. And I—I can’t see your face. So—” A sob choked off the rest. From the effort of lying immobile, her legs were cramping. Her hands were numbed, clutching the bedclothing so tightly. Her breasts, she knew, were bare. But she dared not—could not—cover herself.

  She was speaking again—saying something she could hardly hear, couldn’t understand, would never remember. Even if she lived, she would never remember.

  Kevin was creeping toward the small front stoop. Was there a light in one of the upstairs apartments? He couldn’t remember—hadn’t looked. He couldn’t risk stepping away from the building to look now. The stoop creaked. Until now—this moment—the rickety creaking had never concerned him—had never registered on his consciousness. But now he must move with slow, maddening caution. Because a single squeaking board could kill them—his wife and his son. Trapped at a madman’s mercy, a single sound could kill them.

  One foot was on the stoop, then the other. The front-door key was already in his hand, slipping slowly into the lock. With his left hand, he rotated the knob—slowly, slowly. The latch was free, the door was…

  …striking the night chain.

  It was the basement door, then. Like last night, it was the basement door. No one had believed him. Yet, last night, a killer had crouched in the nearby shadows.

  Tarot?

  Was it Tarot in the bedroom?

  Was there really a Tarot?

  He was skirting the azalea bush to finally face the basement door. He was fumbling with the padlock, clumsily inserting his key. The lock snapped open—a loud, dangerous noise. The door was swinging away from him. He was inside, reaching blindly beside the door for the cord that switched on the basement’s two bare-bulbed lights. As the lights came on, he crouched in a fighting posture. But the bad-smelling basement was safe, unchanged: tumbled stacks of broken furniture, a cluster of dented garbage cans. Her bedroom was above him, almost directly above. Had the sound of the door opening carried up through the floor? Would Tarot hear? Had Joanna heard?

  Was Joanna still talking desperately—still incoherently pleading for her life? The first victim had been strangled, the second knife-slashed. What weapon did Joanna face in the small, darkened bedroom upstairs?

  Tiptoeing, he edged past a tangled pile of discarded aluminum lawn furniture. In the shadows ahead he could see the short flight of four stairs that led up to their kitchen.

  The door was ajar—two, three inches ajar.

  Somehow the murderer had gotten into the basement, then forced the kitchen door. Last night could have been a trial. Tonight the intruder had come to kill.

  His right foot found the first step, his left foot the second step. Standing on the third step, he raised his hand to the doorknob. Slowly the door swung silently open—one foot, two feet. When they’d first moved in, the door had squeaked. He’d bought a small can of oil at Coombs’s, and oiled the hinges. He might have saved them—all of them.

  He was mounting the last step, slipping into the darkened kitchen, closing the door behind him. If he moved a single pace to his right, he could look through the open kitchen doorway and down the short hall to see her bedroom door.

  He could see—and be seen. The hallway was lit by a night light, for Josh. Intended to comfort the boy, the night light now menaced them all: himself, Joanna, Josh. A single step could expose him to a madman’s gaze.

  But there was no choice. Unless he turned back the way he’d come, seeking help, there was no choice.

  He was stepping in line with the doorway. His knees were trembling. His stomach was churning. The bitterness of bile stung his throat. Would he be sick? Would he vomit, and transform the menacing silence into a nightmare of murder?

  The hallway was empty. Through the open door of their bedroom he could hear the low, desperate cadence of Joanna’s voice.

  Was this murder to be done with a gun?

  If the first murder was strangulation and the second a slashing, would the third be a shooting? Was the murderer crouched in her darkened bedroom, pistol raised, aiming out into the hallway?

  In the closet of their bedroom, in the back corner, he kept a .22 rifle, given to him by his father. The .22 cartridges were locked in a metal tackle box, on the top shelf of the closet.

  The gun was useless, then. Even if he could get to it, the gun was useless except as a club. The gun was…

  A club

  Leaving Josh’s room, he’d propped the boy’s baseball bat beside the bed. It was the only possible weapon. Except for the kitchen knives, stored in noisy drawers, the bat was his only chance.

  He was in the hallway, inching toward Josh’s room. Could he be seen from beyond the dark, menacing void of Joanna’s bedroom door? Were eyes watching? If Joanna was in bed, against the room’s south wall, and if the killer stood over her, then the killer couldn’t see the length of the hallway. He couldn’t—

  From Josh’s room came the sound of creaking bed-springs, then a soft, restless sigh. Josh was stirring in his sleep. In three long, quick strides, he reached Josh’s door, stepping quickly inside the tiny, toy-cluttered room. The bat had fallen to the floor, lying close beside the bed. Between the door and the bed, the floor was strewn with toys. He was picking his way through the dangerous clutter, holding his breath. On the pillow, Josh’s head moved from side to side. Close beside the bed now, stooping, he fastened the finge
rs of his right hand around the bat’s handle. He could—

  “Daddy?” It was a soft, sleepy whisper.

  On a level with his, Josh’s eyes were open wide. Josh’s lips were parting, to say something more.

  Still clutching the bat in his right hand, Kevin clapped his left hand across the boy’s mouth. Bending over the bed to bring his own mouth close to Josh’s ear, he hissed:

  “Don’t say anything, Josh. Don’t make a sound. We—we’re in danger. I want you to lie where you are—right where you are. I don’t want you to move. I don’t want you to make a sound. Not one sound.”

  Above his harshly clamped hand, he could see the boy’s eyes grow wide.

  “Even if you’re—frightened, I don’t want you to make a sound. And remember—don’t move.” Cautiously, he removed his hand. Crouched over his son’s bed, he waited a moment, silently enforcing what he’d just said. Then, quickly, he turned toward the door.

  “I haven’t hurt you,” she was whispering. “I know I couldn’t’ve hurt you. I—I don’t know you. I can’t see your face. But I know I haven’t hurt you. We—we’re strangers. So if you leave—just leave—I’ll never know who you are. So if I—I can’t identify you, then I can’t hurt you. And I promise that—”

  The knife quivered, registering his reaction to her pleas like the needle of some diabolical dial that indicated her moment-to-moment chance for life. How long had she been pleading with this silent, faceless figure? How many times in the last minutes had she seemed to see indecision—even compassion—translated into a faltering of the gleaming steel blade, only to finally see the hand once more tense and the blade become steady, more menacing than before?