16
R. L. STINE
She looked so right on the barstool, as if she belonged there. As if she were born there.
I spotted her long red hair from the doorway. Saw the dip of her shoulders as she picked up her glass. I watched her rattle the ice cube. She took a sip. Her expression didn’t change.
I realized she was eyeing me in the mirror behind the bar.
Artie, don’t get involved, I told myself. I wasn’t in the mood to be nice to anyone, or even pretend.
So why was I still there?
Why do I do anything?
I had that feeling of dread I wake up with every morning. You know. That cold, heavy rock in your chest that makes you pull the pillow over your head and scream into it until you can’t breathe.
Or maybe you don’t know that feeling.
Okay. She saw me watching her. I tried to study her reaction in the mirror. But the neon Sam Adams sign cast a flickering, blue glare over her face.
The drunk on the next stool bumped her arm. But she didn’t spill a drop of her drink. She turned her green eyes on him. Gave him a stare I’ve seen a few times. He raised his shirt collar as if he were suddenly cold and moved away.
Time for more lies.
That’s the way I approach the day.
What’s my favorite film? The Grifters.
Not sure what made me think of it as I stepped on my half-smoked Marlboro and walked toward the bar and its neon glow.
“Hi. Is this seat taken?”
She turned, and her eyes were cold. If I had a collar, I would’ve turned it up. But I was wearing a black turtleneck. Sort of my uniform.
“Is that the best you can do?” Her voice was deep and throaty, a smoker’s voice, but she didn’t turn away.
“I’m a slow starter. But I finish well.”
She lowered her eyelids and flashed a quick half smile.
She wore a designer suit, stylish. A navy-blue pinstripe number. Her legs crossed under the skirt. In the mirror, I saw the white blouse unbuttoned to reveal some skin.
Gave me a pang.
She set the glass down. It had her lip prints on it, a smear of red-brown.
I tried a smile while I studied her. Veronica Lake? Nicole Kidman? She had the looks and the moves, but something was missing.
Maybe I think that about everyone. My problem, right?
I slid down onto the stool next to her. Something about her was familiar, but maybe I think that about every woman I meet. Who knows? I motioned to her empty glass. “Buy you another one?”
She turned the green eyes on me. Green for go?
“You talked me into it,” she said, rattling the cubes.
“Yeah, that’s me. I’ve got a way with words.”
Artie, don’t sound bitter.
I waved to the bartender, a little blond number who looked about twelve.
That half smile again. “What else have you got a way with?”
I just laughed. It sounded strange to me. Guess I hadn’t laughed in a long time.
So, okay, we had a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. I’m a Jameson guy too. Maybe the only classy thing about me.
We were there a couple hours. And what was I thinking? I was thinking maybe I didn’t have enough to cover the tab. I was thinking about excusing myself to the little boys’ room and then cutting out the back door.
So imagine my surprise when she leaned against me and pressed her face to my ear. She smelled like oranges and flowers. “Can we go to your place?”
I didn’t move for a long moment. I wasn’t expecting that. Most women can pick up right away on what a loser I am.
I squinted at her, trying to decide if maybe she was a pro.
She shivered. “Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week, right?”
“But it’s Friday.”
Her lips brushed my neck. “Let’s pretend it’s Saturday.”
I don’t need this, I was thinking. But I’m weak. I’ll be the first to admit it. If a chick presses her face against mine, all soft perfume and whispers, what am I going to do? Say no?
And then we stepped out on Brannan Street and waved at a taxi.
As we climbed the stairs to my apartment, I was feeling a nice buzz, kind of warm and forgetful.
I closed the door behind us, clicked on the table lamp, and reached to take off her jacket. She glanced around. She was still in the shadows by the entryway, but I could see she wasn’t smiling. And I knew the word she was thinking. Shabby.
“Artie, you said you had a condo on the Embarcadero.”
“No lie,” I said, raising my right hand. “It’s being renovated.”
“And so you took this walk-up dump on Mission? It looks pretty lived-in to me.”
I forced a laugh. “Did we come up here to talk real estate?”
I tried to clear my head. I didn’t like the way this was going. I shouldn’t have had those drinks. I couldn’t think straight. I took a few steps back. You know. To assess.
She took off her own jacket and folded it neatly over the back of my ragged armchair. “Is your name really Artie?” Her silver bracelets rattled. She had like six or seven of them. Her hands clasped and unclasped at her sides.
“Yeah. My name’s Artie. Want me to show you my driver’s license?”
She actually said yes.
So I did.
She studied my license like she was gonna be quizzed on it, said, “Arthur Ruby. It’s got a ring to it.”
I shrugged.
She shivered again. Not from the cold, I guess. She took a step, snuggled against me.
That’s a little better, I thought. I wrapped my arms around her. She sighed as I raised my hands to her tits. And then… she started asking me questions!
And it’s weird ’cause I heard myself answering even though I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop and the room was spinning.
Then we were in bed and we were having sex, but the whole time she was still quizzing me and the damn room wouldn’t stop whirling.
So how was the sex? Not bad. I guess. I mean, sex with a total stranger is always good—right? Okay. Maybe I was a little distracted or even worse, but my head didn’t feel right. But I was pretty sure she didn’t notice.
It’d been so long since something good happened to me, I kept thinking about what it takes for luck to change. For something to fall your way.
Next thing I knew she was all dressed and brushing back her hair and putting on her jacket. And I was up, though shaky, moving to open the door, ready to offer a few tender good-byes. “I’ll call you tomorrow” and all that.
But then her face changed and she didn’t follow me to the door. She crossed her arms in front of her. Even in the dim light, I could see her face was flushed. Was that a shadow or a lipstick stain on her chin?
She stuck out her hand. “I want the bracelet back,” she said softly.
I blinked a few times. “Bracelet?”
She rattled them on her arm. Like she was showing me what a bracelet is. “I was wearing six,” she said. “I put them on your bed table when I got undressed. Did you think I can’t count?”
I shrugged and wrinkled my forehead and did my innocent act. Like I couldn’t follow what she was saying.
“Did you hide it while we were in bed? Just give it to me.” And she turned the cold, green stare on me.
I squinted at her. “You think I’m a thief?”
I had that feeling I get, that sharp pain in my chest, my throat all tight. The first time, I thought I was having a heart attack. After that, I knew what it was. And I knew it was something I had to deal with.
“It’s fucking Cartier. It’s an antique Cartier bracelet. I’m not leaving without it.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t have any bracelet.” My heart pumped up a little. I pictured the bracelet where I slid it, between the mattress and the bed frame.
“Stop the bullshit,” she said, and she sighed like a bad actress. “Do you think I won’t call
the police?”
I didn’t think she would but I said, “Police?” An angry cry escaped my throat. The pain in my chest grew sharper, and I really felt my heartbeat race. “I’m not a thief.”
She took two quick steps toward me. Her fists were tight at her sides. “I think you are. Give me the bracelet. Give it to me—thief.”
She didn’t make a sound when I slapped her face. Just blinked her eyes and worked her jaw up and down.
I was surprised how soft and warm her skin felt against the back of my hand.
I could breathe again, but I was instantly sorry. My hand throbbed with pain, but that wasn’t the worst of it. I knew I’d screwed up.
She rubbed her cheek, the green eyes accusing me. She still hadn’t made a sound.
I kept hearing the slap.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to do that. Really. No lie.”
“Are you fucking crazy?” she whispered.
“Know what? Here. I’ll get your bracelet. I’ll give it back to you, and that’ll be that. Everyone happy. No problem—okay?”
My hand shook as I pulled the bracelet from its hiding place. I gave it back to her.
She stared at it in her hand. Just stood there gawking at it. Like she never thought she’d see it again.
“No hard feelings,” I said.
How dumb is that?
She glared at me one more time. Brushed her hair off her forehead. Pulled her jacket tighter around her and disappeared out the door.
I was breathing hard. Wheezing a little. I stared at the door as if I expected her to come back.
I rubbed my fist.
That was an example of how I lose it. It only took a second and there I went. But the whole thing was messed up. I knew I wasn’t angry at her.
I knew who I’m really angry at. It’s anger that’s been in my chest for ten years. I can’t get that Christopher Thomas job out of my head. It’s there with me every morning. It’s the dread. It’s the cold dread.
I helped, did my job. And I expected to be paid fairly. Maybe I was naïve, but I thought those guys would spread it around like they said.
Naturally, they didn’t. Not enough anyway.
When was I born? Yesterday? And here I was, twelve years later, stealing a bracelet from a woman in my bed. How low can you go? Finding yourself desperate like that can make a guy angry.
So, now I’m going to do something about it. That’s what I decided, standing there looking at my bruised knuckles. That’s what I decided. I’m going to get what is mine.
Then I started feeling shaky again like maybe I was gonna pass out, and I realized that bitch slipped me a roofie. Jesus. I’ve slipped a girl or two a roofie in my time, so it’s, like, only fair, but, hell, why’d she do it?
I started remembering her asking me all those questions, but for the life of me I can’t recall a single one or what I answered. Shit.
What’d I tell her? What the fuck did I tell her?
17
MARCIA TALLEY
Sarah Ballard plumped up her pillow and stared at the clock on her bedside table, watching the digital display quietly snick-snick-snick through the minutes as she relived the previous evening’s events. She didn’t need to turn over to know that her husband’s side of the bed was empty. Eight twenty-three a.m. If Stan had returned home after walking out on her following yesterday’s argument, CNN would already be blaring from the living room TV and the smell of fresh coffee would be teasing her nostrils. The house was silent. Rosemary Thomas’s ghost was wrecking yet another of her marriages.
But whom was she fooling? Her marriage to Stan had been foundering for some time. An unlikely pairing—he, an up-and-coming estate lawyer, and she, a cop’s wife. She thought about how they’d come together. It was the case, of course. The case she’d pushed Jon on—even when he’d told her he had a hunch the evidence was skewed. The case that ruined so many lives, but brought her and Stan together. He’d entered her life when she was vulnerable, showered her with love and attention, while Jon was disintegrating. Stan was ambitious, exciting, while Jon had always been a bit of a dreamer. But now she’d come to see those very qualities that had attracted her to Stan as nothing more than an example of his unmitigated selfishness.
She slipped out of bed. If Stan didn’t want to go to Rosemary’s memorial, she would. She owed it to herself, to Jon, to her previous life, the one she’d lost the day Rosemary Thomas was put to death.
It was noon. Jon Nunn usually got up around this time—he couldn’t face the morning gloom. He got out of bed, headed to the kitchen and straight for the coffeemaker.
The doorbell sounded. He yawned as he made his way to the door and opened it. Sarah, his ex-wife, stood on his doorstep, stylish heels planted firmly on the mat that said GO AWAY. Sarah. Looking as beautiful as the day they were married. Before he fucked it all up. But he could tell from the swelling around her eyes that she’d been crying.
He massaged the sleep out of his eyes, half convinced that when he removed his fingers, she would have disappeared.
But Sarah was still there, smiling apologetically, and saying, “May I come in?”
Jon shrugged, stepping aside as she walked into his living room, suddenly embarrassingly shabby and small. “Coffee? I was just putting some on.”
She raised a bag, holding it by its brown, string like handles. “Coffee. Two percent, three sugars, right?”
She’d remembered.
Jon took the coffee, thanked her, then pointed to the love seat, glad that he’d picked up his dirty laundry the night before. “I can’t say I’m not happy to see you. But why are you here, Sarah?”
He took a sip of his coffee, waiting for the answer.
“A certain invitation.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “You got one too?”
“Not me, exactly. Stan.”
“And what does Ballard say?” Jon asked, although he told himself he didn’t give a shit what Ballard thought or said about anything.
She shrugged. “We don’t see eye to eye on attending the memorial. He says we’re too busy and that we should just send flowers.” She stopped and, looking down at the floor, said, “But she was innocent, you know.”
Jon laughed out loud. “That’s ironic. Didn’t you say I was obsessed? That I should be locked up in a rubber room, along with my goddamn briefcase and a gallon of Jim Beam?”
“I know what I said,” she said quietly. “But I’ve had a long time to think about it.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
They stood there a long moment, looking at one another, Nunn not sure of what he should say or do.
“Since Tony Olsen’s invitation came, I’ve been thinking about it even more, and…”
Nunn raised an eyebrow.
“Well, the invitation was for Stan and I don’t care if he doesn’t want to go. I was hoping I could go, that you would take me.”
Another long moment, then Jon Nunn did what he’d wanted to do, had thought about doing for a long time. He took his ex-wife in his arms and tugged her toward him.
“Jon, no.” She pressed her hand to his chest. “That’s not why I came.”
Nunn didn’t say anything, just dropped his arms and turned away.
Later they had dinner at a nearby café, where brick-oven-baked pizzas were served on proper white tablecloths, and copper pots and sailboats dangled from the ceiling. Talking. Laughing. Like old times. Only this time it didn’t take booze to grease the wheels.
They were in bed by eleven. Separate beds. Sarah curled up on the double, hair spread out on the pillow, smudges of blue under her eyes, a bolster at her back and the duvet tucked under her chin. Nunn claimed the sofa and the remote control and fell asleep in the middle of Leno.
Seven a.m. now, and she’d hardly moved. Nunn got up, fetched his briefcase, then closed and locked the bathroom door. He perched on the toilet seat, balancing the briefcase on his knees. He eased open the catch
, soundlessly, and began pawing through the contents, as familiar to him now as the deepening lines on his face when he studied himself in the mirror every morning.
A newspaper clipping, yellow with age, detailing Rosemary’s trip to Mexico, where she told friends she knew that Chris would never be coming home. Stupid-ass thing to say, Nunn thought, like that crazy nurse in Maryland who’d offed her husband with succinylcholine chloride—on Valentine’s Day no less—after telling colleagues exactly how she’d do it.
Nunn studied the black-and-white photos of the Thomas children, Leila and Ben, that accompanied the article. The same brown hair and inquisitive eyes as their mother, but where Rosemary’s hair had been long, Leila’s was cropped and curly, almost the same length as her older brother’s. He wondered if they’d show up at their mother’s memorial.
He exchanged the article for crime scene photos and a transcript of the trial, where he had testified for over two hours, the evidence he’d found in the back of Rosemary’s closet—the blouse stained with Christopher’s blood and the missing button that had been inside the iron maiden; the strands of Rosemary’s hair in Christopher’s fist.
Damn.
Nunn slid an issue of Vanity Fair out of its protective plastic sleeve, the one he’d saved for over a decade, the one containing the pre-execution interview from death row at California’s Valley State Prison for Women.
Nunn flipped to a picture of Rosemary wearing an orange jumpsuit and white sneakers. He skimmed the piece and reread a line here and there, Rosemary telling the world her story: how Christopher had asked her for a divorce; how they had fought at the museum; how she’d stormed out and how sad and desperate she’d felt. But that she had not killed him.
“So, your husband was a… whoremonger?” the interviewer had suggested.
And Rosemary, ever dignified, had refused to answer.
“So, how,” the interviewer had asked, “did your husband’s body end up in the Eiserne Jungfrau, the iron maiden that was on loan to the McFall?”
Rosemary claimed she had no idea.
“And all the evidence against you?”
Again, Rosemary could not supply the answer to a world waiting to hear a confession from one of the few women who was slated to die by lethal injection in the state of California.
No Rest for the Dead Page 15