“Did you see him come in today?” Dierdre asked, disappointed but unable to conceal her suspicions.
“No, but he might be in. I’ll tell him you were looking for him when I see him. Is it police business?”
“Do I look like a cop?” Dierdre asked, sounding offended, and Benek was sure that she had noticed that Carla had said when not if I see him. He should have been harder on Carla when he last spoke to her. He should have insulted her enough to keep her away from his door, to make her think of him more as an if not a when..
“Well, I don’t know what a cop looks like these days, you know,” Carla said, making it worse for herself.
He looked away from the peephole, afraid to see her collapse. If he had not gone to Dierdre like a sleepwalker the first time, Carla would now be at his door alone, and he would be welcoming her inside, free of this nightmare that had swallowed his life. He might have been in love with her by now. He might have been happy...
Slowly, he again peered out through the lens.
“I’ll leave a note,” Dierdre said, taking a pad from her purse.
“Well, so long,” Carla said, moving out of view.
Benek was relieved to hear Carla’s door close, then waited for the note to slide under the door, but there was nothing. Carefully, he looked out through the peephole. The hallway was empty within the view of the fish-eye lens. Now he should rush out and hurry back to Dierdre’s house; with any luck, he might arrive first and surprise her when she returned. He saw the back of her head taking the bullet. That would be the end of her. Hope surged through him.
But no—she was waiting for him at the end of the hall, or in the elevator. In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, he told himself in a sweat, his brains would be soaking the hall carpet, blind and unable to see his body fall over. He staggered back from the door. Was she there, working to touch him with her mind, probing through the steel fire door? Could she visualize him in her mind and strike? After all, he still had no hard evidence that she had to see her victim. Maybe all she had to do was see her victim once. Maybe emptying someone she had seen only once was something she had recently learned to do. Could she work from memory? The only certainty he had was that she did not have the strength to knock down his door.
He sat down on the sofa and tried to think. Nothing was worth the risk of going out the door. Nothing was worth the risk of opening it even a crack. He had to be sure that she had gone away convinced that he wasn’t home.
He got up, went to the window, and peered down into the street. She might have already gone. He waited, hoping to glimpse her walking away. Distance was safety. But she might be sitting by his door out in the hall, waiting for him to feel safe. She might wait all night.
He went to the door again, and listened, then went back to the window, opened it carefully and looked down just in time to see a woman in walking shoes and a long black raincoat turn the corner. Yes, it had been Dierdre.
But he doubted as he went to the door again, still afraid to open it. The phone chirped again, and rumbled in the bedroom. She was calling to check whether he was still here.
It stopped in mid-ring. He let out a deep breath. Rushing into the bedroom, he put on his pants, shirt, grabbed a sweater from the closet and put it on as he slipped into his ankle boots, then got the gun and shoulder holster out of the closet and grabbed his old gray raincoat.
At the door, he stopped suddenly, doubting himself yet again, then opened it quickly, stepped out, and saw a Post-it note stuck just below the peephole. He grabbed the yellow square of paper and hurried toward the elevator.
He pushed the button repeatedly, afraid that she would be inside when the door opened. He was playing Russian roulette with his life, he realized, convinced more than ever that he had to kill her tonight.
As he waited for the elevator, he looked at the note and read:
SO YOU’VE GOT A
BIMBO NEXT DOOR!
The elevator door opened in its usual lumbering way and he stumbled inside. DeSapio, his complaining neighbor, sat in the right hand corner, smelling of rye. As the door closed Benek saw the bloodstain on the inside panel, and turned at once to examine DeSapio. There was blood in the man’s ears, but his eyes were shut. Dierdre, already angry about Carla, had not needed much to set her off. DeSapio might have made a crude joke, and she had emptied him on the spot. He looked around for his brain, but the only sign of it was the bloodstain on the control panel; she had taken the evidence with her.
Benek took a deep breath and pressed the lobby button on the bloody panel, then took out his gun. She might be waiting for him when the door opened. Her shoulder bag could easily hold another brain.
He tensed when the elevator reached the lobby, and cried out as the door opened, his voice echoing in the empty lobby. He staggered out onto the tiles and slipped, coughing, then caught his breath as he stopped, realizing that Dierdre might now strike at anyone with a connection to him. She had to be killed as quickly as possible. It was like losing his gun and worrying about who might get killed with it. Any delay would only give her more time to act.
He glanced back at the body in the elevator as the slow doors lurched shut, slipped his gun back into his shoulder holster, then rushed toward the front doors. He pushed through the inners and the outers and turned left, fleeing away from the corner Dierdre had turned.
He looked back as he hurried, and glimpsed her peering around the corner of the building at the end of the block. She had been waiting for him to come outside, he realized. He stepped off the curb and started toward Central Park.
Halfway across the street, he broke into a run, reached the other side and jumped the short stone wall, then sprinted across the grass toward a patch of trees. After what seemed an endless effort, he glanced back and saw her dark shape climb over the wall and come across the grass after him. He turned, hurried through the trees, and emerged into another open area of grass.
He ran across, straining to make the next clump of trees before she spotted him. She would not be able to break down a door, but she might catch him in a run. The cool air was icy in his lungs. Away from the street lights, the moonlight was quicksilver on the grass. It got in his eyes, dizzying him for a moment. He staggered ahead, breathing deeply as his eyes adjusted.
It was a long way across the park, but a good place to lose her, he told himself as his lungs began to hurt. He was sweating as he scrambled in among the trees. They shaded the moonlight, but the afterimages of cold silver stayed with him, flashing and slowly fading into gray, then into black-green blotches.
He hoped, as he made his way between the trees, that she would not expect him to go to her place. So he would go there and wait for her to give up the chase and come home to face his gun. He glanced back but saw nothing, then wondered if she was reaching out to him now, trying to sever him from himself at a distance she had not yet attempted. He felt a tingle on the back of his neck, and imagined her reaching into his head with cold fingers. He quickened his pace, willing himself toward the distant lights.
Nearly out of breath, he stumbled out of the park and stopped on the sidewalk. He was out in the open again, where she could see him. He caught his breath, watching the cars running like wild beasts on the avenue, until he spotted a cab and waved it down. It stopped short with the high-pitched squeal of something being killed. He stepped off the curb, pulled open the door, and threw himself into the back seat. The cab pulled away as he slammed the door shut, then lurched to a halt at a red light.
He slipped down in his seat and peered out the window in time to see her come walking quickly out of the park, and saw now that she was wearing sports shoes. They were a sign of her dedication to his death. She meant to catch him.
“Where?” asked the driver in a high-pitched voice.
Benek managed to croak out her address through his dry throat as he watched her standing only a hundred yards behind the cab.
Mercifully, the light turned green, and the city began to rush
by, and he saw himself killing her in any way possible. His gun was only one way. He would be there ahead of her, grab her from behind, break her neck, and leave. But he had to get there first. She was probably in a cab right now, and might get there ahead of him.
“Faster!” he shouted.
“Aw-kay, we get there. Relax.”
“I’m a cop!”
“Sure, sure.”
The cab came roaring down Second Avenue, turned into Tenth Street, and crept up to the address. The lights in her apartment were off. He was in time!
He threw ten bucks into the driver’s receiving tray and scrambled out while the cab was still moving.
“You crazy!” the cabby called after him as Benek stumbled forward and sprawled onto the asphalt.
He got up and waved for the cab to keep going as he looked up at the old house. Could she have gotten here and left the lights off to trap him? They weren’t making seven-league sports shoes yet, he told himself.
Both shops to the left of the stairs were closed. He peered under the stairs and saw that the door she had used was ajar, moving gently in a draft.
He went down the three steps and pushed through the door. It led into a dimly lit corridor. He started through and felt a sudden tingling on the back of his neck, as if she were behind him ready to strike. How would it feel, when the coring started? Would it tingle, then hurt, and then the darkness? He came to the end and found another slightly open door.
Pushing through, he came out into the backyard and stood surrounded by the wooden fences that imprisoned the small, slate covered area.
He looked up. Dierdre’s lights were still out. He decided not to go up the short steps to her back door. Stepping forward, he grasped the fire escape ladder and climbed slowly up to the first floor window. He hesitated for a moment, afraid that he was quickly running out of time, then broke the glass with his elbow and reached in to open the old sash lock. It had been painted over, but he wiggled it until the paint cracked and the window came up.
He listened for a moment, then stepped inside and let his eyes adjust. She was not here, he told himself, expecting the lights to go on with a shout of surprise.
She was not here yet.
Now where to wait? Just inside the front door. Grab her from behind and break her neck, then bury the body in the grave she had dug for him. No one would look there a second time.
He moved across the sitting room toward the hallway that led to the front door, where he stopped and listened, still hoping that he would not have to use his gun. He stood against the door and listened for sounds from the hall, but there was nothing. Pressing himself against the wall to the left of the door, he waited, repeating to himself that he would kill her with his hands. He had never felt such a need; he had never killed anyone with his gun; but there was no doubt in his mind that he would kill Dierdre with his hands, and be satisfied when she went limp in his grasp.
He accepted it and knew why. He could not simply disappear and start a new life somewhere else, leaving her to core anyone who got in her way, hatch schemes for the use of her ability, get herself pregnant with a foolish new Adam. He could not live somewhere safely, knowing that people were dying because he had stayed his hand, because he had left a weapon free to make its own lethal decisions. His cop’s training and ideals had gone deeper into him than he realized. That was why he accepted what he had to do.
Of course, once she was dead, his career as a public knight would be over. He would be an obvious suspect—if her body were ever discovered; even her disappearance would put him under a cloud. He would have to make sure that no trace of her was ever found, which meant he could not bury her in the house. Too bad. He would have to make her body disappear completely. That meant taking it apart, bit by bit, and destroying every last piece. Then they could suspect him as much as they wished. He would pull himself together, and come to work as if nothing had happened. He would brazen it out in a good cause, knowing that he had done the right thing, even if he was the only one who knew it.
He heard the outer door open and swing back slowly, and finally click shut; but there was no sound of footsteps in the hall.
He looked out through the peephole.
Dierdre smiled at him.
Her shoes cried out inside him. They had made no sound.
21
“I see your eye, Bill,” she said loudly.
His eye stared back at her, blinking nervously.
She added, “Move and your brains come out.”
His eye gazed at her, and she realized that he might shoot through the door. She brought her face closer, to cover his field of view, took out her key, slipped it in and turned it. The door swung open, catching him in the glare of the hall lights as he moved back, pointing the gun. She stepped inside and kicked his shaking hand before he could see more clearly. He grunted, the gun went flying over his head, and he retreated, stumbled, fell on his back, shielding his face from her gaze.
She turned on the lights and stood over him. He was breathing quickly, and she pitied his fear.
“Oh, calm down, Bill,” she said.
He might still be useful to her, she told herself, enjoying her control of him. It had been easier to achieve than she had thought. Fear had made him brainless without removing the organ.
He lowered his arm, and tried to pull himself together, and she saw the failed pride in his timidity when he tried to stand up, as if he might lose his balance. She checked his pants to see if he had wet himself, but they were dry.
“Can’t stand up straight?” she asked, annoyed by his posture.
He did not look at her.
“Sit on the sofa,” she said, moving past him to the facing chair.
She watched as he staggered to the sofa; he was shaking as he fell into it and sat back, looking up at the ceiling.
“Get it over with,” he said softly.
She stood up, took off her raincoat and dropped it on the floor. Her jeans felt tight, so she pulled open the snap.
He was in shock, she realized as he stared past her, bandaging his dismay. Finally, he looked at her with a resigned expression.
“Maybe you wanted me to catch you,” she said, smiling. “Did you ever think of that? If true, then why worry? You’re home free. Relax.”
She watched him clench his jaw. He was up against a stone wall that shouldn’t have been where he had found it. She stepped closer to him and said, “Why don’t you imagine I was out jogging and you, handsome Mr. Policeman, just picked me up and brought me home.”
He glanced up at her, then looked away and searched the floor, breathing more deeply.
“Don’t even think about your gun,” she said sternly.
He laughed loudly, surprising her.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I was only going to hurl,” he said.
“If you do, you’ll clean it up.”
She looked around for the gun and spotted it under the side table by her chair. Squatting down, she grabbed it and pointed it at him.
He looked away from her again. She took one step back and sat down in her chair, still pointing the gun at him.
“What do you need that for?” he asked.
“So I won’t have to exert myself,” she said.
“But it’ll leave more evidence for you to clean up.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ll manage.”
“You’ve ruined my life,” he said bitterly. “My boss thinks I’m nuts. They’ll never trust me again. Go ahead, shoot. I’m sick of worrying about your one note sidewalk act catching up with me.”
“You haven’t lost much,” she said. “Most of them get away from you. Haven’t you read the crime statistics?”
“I had some pride in my job.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“Just get it over with.”
“Why should I?”
“You have to, or lose everything. You’re not all that bright, but smart enough to know you�
�re not.”
“Oh, I see you’ve thought about it,” she said. Her finger tightened on the trigger. Then she took the gun with her left hand and held it by the handle with her finger off the trigger.
“You should never have revealed yourself to anyone,” he said, “if you wanted to do anything with your... talent. You can’t have anyone know.”
He was right, of course. “I can fix your so-called life, you know,” she said, surprising herself with the offer.
He looked away and did not answer.
“I can call your Captain Reddy and say a few words to him,” she said.
“Not that easy,” he muttered, still looking away.
“No? We’ve had our spat, but it’s over now and we’re together at last, deeply in love. You’ll take a long leave, to get married maybe, go on a honeymoon, and you’ll be back good as new as soon as you can. You can stay here for a while. He’ll believe it.”
“Why would he?” Benek asked.
“Who was it said that a married man is easier to control? Some sea captain somewhere, in a book.”
“Married?” Benek asked.
“Well, with a stable home life.” The gun trembled in her left hand, annoying her, but she would not put her finger on the trigger, telling herself that she did not need to.
“And then what?” he asked.
“We’ll see,” she said, smiling.
But having revealed so much to him, letting him live would make him a constant danger. She might be able to use him. But how to get him on her side? He was probably too far gone for her to try. She lowered the gun into her lap and tried to look at him sympathetically.
“Maybe we could work together,” she said. “What have you to lose if you believe that your life is ruined? What am I to do? Forget what I am? Give it all up and live a life of... restraint?”
“What?” he asked, swallowing hard and squinting at her. “You’re insane!”
She raised the gun. “Watch what you say to an insane person.”
“What do you want me to say? Sure, we’ll get together. To do what? What would be our business?”
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