They hadn’t lived right in the city itself, but in a little green place just outside, where a sweet brook ran behind the house. Clara said it was all different now, that she wouldn’t know the place, but Edie didn’t like thinking about that.
Edie dipped her cloth into the bucket of hot, sudsy water, wrung it lightly, then, smiling to herself, fantasized how lovely it would be to be reunited with the sister she hadn’t seen in years, to chat with old school chums, to meet with the cheery cousins Clara talked about in her letters. She reached with her cloth into the tight space behind the toilet bowl. Maybe she’d rent a little place with a backyard, she thought, where they could all sit outside at one of those round garden tables with a pretty, striped parasol to shade them from the sun.
The fantasy set aside, she stared at the pretty blue and silver bow that her cloth had pushed into view.
Edie’s smile faded.
It was the bow that had been on the present Edie had seen standing against the photocopier, the one Cindy had told her she bought for her mom’s birthday—a painting, she had said.
"What’s it doing here?" Edie muttered to herself, but she was getting a bad feeling. She’d tried to tell the others that Cindy didn’t run away with no fellow, but no one wanted to listen to a cleaning lady.
Especially that Alice Fisher, who had a royal fit just because Cindy left a dirty ashtray behind. Of course, she was always complaining about something. Lately, it was about "that ghastly smell" in the elevator.
Twenty-six
Debby Fuller Allan had slipped quietly out of bed after her husband was asleep and made the call on the downstairs phone. Her mother was gone now, taken by cancer two years earlier, carrying her daughter’s secret to her grave. But lying in bed, Debby had heard her voice clearly: You have to tell, Debby. You don’t have to call the police. You could call the sister. You don’t have to give your name. But you have to tell, Debby. If he’s out there killing women, you have to tell someone.
Well, she’d tried. But her mother was wrong. The Harris woman had insisted on knowing her name. Still, that didn’t mean she had to give it, did she? She could just have given his name and hung up.
After Dwight left for work, and Kevin for school, Debby went to the phone again. Once, she got so far as to partly dialing the number. But she hung up quickly, too afraid that they’d somehow find out who she was. What if they could trace the call? Maybe Ellen Harris even had one of those phone setups that recorded the numbers of incoming calls.
Or maybe he’d find out she’d called and come after her.
Most importantly, she thought of the love she saw in Dwight’s eyes when he looked at her.
What would she see there if he knew?
Twenty-seven
Lloyd Anderson of Anderson Insurance arrived back from a business trip mid-morning of the next day, which was Tuesday, January 26th. Mr. Anderson had been in Vietnam, and recognized "that ghastly smell" the others had been complaining about the instant he stepped into the elevator. It was one he’d hoped never to smell again.
The police came and sprayed with something that spread a sweetness to cover the odor, and pushed up the emergency door in the ceiling. Something weighed against it, but at last it gave, and a pale, slender arm dropped down. The two policemen lifted the body down, laid it gently on the floor. Mr. Anderson, whose face had gone as white as his hair, identified the dead woman as one Cindy Miller, the employee who had been reported missing.
The news traveled throughout the building as though with a life of its own, and soon the corridor outside the elevator was crowded with shaken and weeping people who had to be gently persuaded back to their own offices. Many went on home, to be questioned later.
Noticing the horseshoe earring on the dead woman’s ear, and the other ear dotted with dried blood where an earring had been torn out, one of the policemen commented dryly, "Didn’t bring her much luck, did they?"
~ * ~
Ellen generally preferred showers, but with the shower scene from Psycho taunting her, she opted instead for a bath. She wouldn’t hear an intruder with the water running, and she had no intention of being taken by surprise.
The gun was on the floor beside the tub, within easy reach.
After dressing in a soft blue lambswool sweater, cream-colored slacks and her parka, she dropped the gun in her bag. Don’t leave home without it. She slipped the folded sheets of yellow legal paper filled with her scribbling’s in an envelope and put it in a zippered compartment on the outside of her bag.
She was just pulling out of the driveway when the phone in the house began to ring. It rang ten times before falling silent.
~ * ~
Replacing the receiver, Debby Fuller Allan thought, There, I called! It’s not my fault no one answered. She was standing in a pay phone in a downtown shopping mall in East Dedham. In a way, she was relieved Ellen Harris wasn’t home. In fact, she took it as a clear sign from God that he meant her to stay out of it.
~ * ~
It was still dark outside when Alvin slipped out of bed. He went out to the kitchen and got a beer out of the fridge. He snapped the tab open. It had unnerved him a little seeing the composite of himself on TV, though not enough to panic him. As far as he was concerned, the drawing looked nothing like him. Still, he didn’t like it that the doorman had gotten that good a look at him.
It wasn’t the only thing bothering him these past couple of days. Slapping his now empty beer can down on the table, Alvin shrugged grimly into his red plaid jacket and went out the door.
Reaching his van, he slid the door open.
The ruined painting lay on the floor. The Miller bitch had put her foot through it in the struggle. He shouldn’t have taken it, though. That had been a mistake. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he knew it was. He should have put the painting with her just like he had her purse.
Now he gathered it up and took it inside. When he had a fire going in the monstrous woodstove, he lifted the lid and stuffed in the painting, along with its broken frame. Standing with the lid off the stove, he watched as the flames caught, as the canvas curled and browned, and the paint melted and ran together.
His eyes glittering in the fire’s glow, his face growing hot, he thought of Ellen Harris. It was all her fault. She had cast some kind of curse on him, making him do things wrong, getting his mind confused. Once he took care of her, everything would be fine again.
Soon, the heat from the flames together with the beer he’d consumed began to relax him. When the painting was reduced to ashes, he settled the lid back on the stove, threw on some dark clothes and drove the van into town.
~ * ~
Each time the woman in the upstairs bedroom heard the van leave the drive she would silently curse her nephew. The van, which had once belonged to her weak-kneed, sniveling husband, Henry Bishop, was now hers. But that evil boy had taken it over, just as he’d taken over her checkbook and everything else he could lay his filthy hands on.
But now Matilda was beyond hearing anything at all—had been since exactly 3:11 that morning when her soul departed her ravaged, skeletal body.
Alvin had extracted his own revenge against the despised woman.
She had not gone quietly into that good night, however, but in a rage, vowing vengeance against the nephew she’d taken in when even his own mother had abandoned him.
Alvin would yet feel her wrath.
~ * ~
Last night’s rain had made the road slippery and Ellen was forced to crawl along. As she drove, she found herself looking again for the unmarked car, and this time was rewarded by the glint of dark green metal just off to her left, in the brush.
Satisfied, even impressed, she drove on. Strange that today the road seemed narrower somehow—a gray, lonely corridor with deep woods hemming her in, now and then a branch reaching out for her, brushing against the car.
Seeing Myra’s little Honda Civic in the drive gave her a heavy feeling. She’d ruined their Christmas and now their va
cation. She must be very popular with Carl. Somehow, she’d make it up to them.
Once Ellen reached the main road, the driving improved considerably and ten minutes later she pulled up in front of the police station.
"Sorry, Ma’am," the heavily mustached officer at the desk said. "The lieutenant was called out a while ago. I can get him to give you a call when he gets back if you like."
"No, that won’t be necessary."
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Actually, there is. Thank you." Retrieving the envelope from her bag, she scribbled Mike’s name on the front and handed it to him. "Just tell him Ellen—"
"Harris," he finished. "I-uh, recognized you from the television. No problem. How are things going with you, Mrs. Harris?"
"As well as you might expect, Officer..."
"Branscombe. Sergeant Branscombe." He smiled sympathetically. "Tough break about your sister."
"Yes. I’m hoping you people can find her killer."
"We’re trying. In the meantime, you ought to get yourself a damn good watchdog living way out there on Cutter’s Road where you do—maybe a Shepherd or a Doberman."
"I’ll give it some thought," she said. Ellen sensed rather than actually noticed a flurry of activity around her. Hearing someone say "missing woman," she turned around in time to see two policemen, heads bent in animated discussion, walking past, and immediately she remembered reading in the paper about a missing woman when she was in McDonald’s with Myra. "Did they find her?" she asked, turning back to Sergeant Branscombe. "The woman who was missing? Miller, wasn’t that her name?"
He nodded grimly. "Oh, yeah, they found her all right."
It was clear to Ellen by his tone they hadn’t found her under very pleasant circumstances. Knowing he wasn’t likely to be more specific, Ellen didn’t press him for further answers.
As she neared the car, she saw what appeared to be a parking ticket under her wiper, and felt a surge of annoyance. I put more than enough money in that damn meter for the little time I was in there. I know I did. The phrase "rubbing salt in the wound" came to mind. But as Ellen drew closer, she realized it was not a parking ticket at all rattling under her windshield, but an ordinary sheet of white paper, the sort that might have been torn from a writing tablet. It was folded in two.
Her steps slowed. Her heart racing as if it already knew something she did not, Ellen slid the note from under the wiper. Hesitated. Opened it. Written in neat, block letters in red ink, it said simply, YOU’RE IT! Nothing else. Just, YOU’RE IT!
It was from him. She had stirred the monster in his lair.
Twenty-eight
As she stood on the sidewalk holding the note in her hand, alternate waves of triumph and sheer terror washed over her. Her eyes darted around, but no passersby, except for one old man who nodded politely as he limped past with his cane, looked at her. A woman toting a sleeping child in a backpack hurried on past him.
Across the street, a young boy, his arms weighted down with books, came out of the library. He waited for a white bread truck to speed by before crossing over.
Ellen looked back at the note. I can’t be "it," she thought foolishly, as if this were a child’s game they were playing. You haven’t tagged me yet.
She knew, of course, she should take the note directly into the police station and leave it for Mike, yet she made no move in that direction. Instead she put the note in her bag and drove on home.
She’d barely got her coat off when the phone rang. "Hello."
No answer.
"Hello. Who is this, please?" Maybe it was the girl who called before. Her hopes soared. Maybe she had a change of—
Before Ellen could complete the thought, came a chilling whisper in her ear, "Do you know me?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her legs turned to rubber. It was him. Ellen tried to speak, to challenge him, but her terror betrayed her, and she could only listen helplessly as a low chuckle traveled to her ear, a laugh so evil, so insane, it seemed to reach inside her very soul.
"Not so brave now, are you, witch?" he whispered again. "See you soon."
There was a click and the line went dead.
For several minutes Ellen stood holding the receiver in her hand, listening to the dial tone, like someone under hypnosis. Finally, she hung up. Her hand was still on the receiver when the phone rang again, vibrating against her palm. She inadvertently knocked it out of its cradle. It clattered to the floor. Ellen jumped back, stared at it.
"Ellen? Ellen, are you there?" came Mike’s anxious voice by her feet. "Are you all right, Ellen?"
She picked up the receiver off the floor. Closing her eyes, she held it momentarily to her heart, then to her ear. "Mike, hello," she said brightly. "Sorry about that. I dropped the phone."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I’m fine," she lied.
"Good," he said, sounding relieved. "I got the profile you left. I’m sorry I missed you."
"No problem. I doubt it will be of much help, though. Serial killers aren’t exactly my specialty."
"I’m not sure they’re anyone’s," he said, with a trace of anger, and Ellen remembered the missing woman who was now found.
"Was she murdered?" Ellen asked quietly. "The Miller girl?"
There was a pause, then, "Yes, I’m afraid so."
"Do you think it’s the same man who...?"
"Ellen, we really can’t be certain of anything at this point. But, of course, it’s possible. Anything’s possible."
"Will you tell me if it is the—"
"Of course I will," he said, before she could finish. "You know that. Listen, Ellen, there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t want to alarm you, but the two detectives who were watching your house have been pulled off the case. With this new case, we can’t spare the manpower. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my decision to make."
"You don’t have to explain. I understand."
"Damned if I do. We’ll still get a squad car out there, though, as often as possible."
"Good."
"Look, I-uh, can get away from here in an hour or so. My daughter, Angela is attending a pajama party tonight. I was wondering—well, could you use the company?"
Oh, God could I. She wondered idly when they had gotten on a first name basis. She couldn’t seem to remember. Tell him about the note, about the phone call, a small inner voice urged her. She denied the voice. Police cars would swarm the area—maybe even helicopters. Even if they used the utmost discretion, he would know.
He’d slip away into the night, and then he would be lost to them forever. Gail’s murder would go unsolved.
And when the time was right, the killing would begin again. Other women, in other places. As frightened as she was, there was no way on earth she was going to let that happen.
"Ellen, are you still there?"
"Yes, I’m here. Thanks for the offer, Mike, but I think I’ll make it an early night tonight. I’m a little tired."
"I’m not surprised. Well, you try to get a good night’s sleep, then. I’ll call you."
Ellen thought she detected a note of hurt in his voice. It took all her willpower not to call him back.
~ * ~
When Alvin left Papa Bear’s, he was still wearing the white wig, still limping along with the cane. Sliding behind the wheel of the van, he smiled to himself. It amused him that no one in the tavern had recognized him. Even Jake, the bartender, who certainly saw him often enough, had said, "What’ll it be, Pop?"
Twenty-nine
The silence of the house pressed in on her. She went through the rooms checking the locks on door and windows. She watched television with the sound turned low. Then she checked the locks again.
The next three days and nights brought more of the same. Ellen didn’t leave the house.
The media was now flooded with the news of Cindy Miller’s murder, and though her heart went out to Cindy’s mother and her little boy, she couldn’t help feeling resentful that Gai
l’s murder had been pushed aside. Old news, yesterday’s news.
She had a constant feeling of being watched, and took to wandering the house at night, going from window to window, peering out at the shadows for the one that moved, the one that did not belong. She jumped at the slightest sound, her eyes darting at imaginary shapes in her peripheral vision. Every creak and groan of the house, the wind, even the hum of the refrigerator all took on ominous meaning.
Why doesn’t he come? She thought for the millionth time as she consumed one more of the endless cups of coffee, chain-smoked and eyed the liquor cabinet with weakening resolve. But she knew it was part of the plan to wear her down. He would come for her when she least expected it.
The gun was never far from her hand.
Several times in the night when she finally did manage to doze off on the sofa, the phone would jar her awake, whoever it was hanging up as soon as she picked up the receiver. Probably crank calls, she tried to tell herself. She’d had more than a few. But she didn’t for a minute believe that.
On the fourth day, Mike came and insisted on taking her out to lunch. He looked startled when she opened the door to him, and she knew she must look the total wreck she was.
"I’m not hungry."
"Nevertheless, you have to eat."
It didn’t take too much persuasion to get her to go.
They drove to a small restaurant in town, found a table at the back. He ordered for both of them. No one had done that since Ed. It felt comforting to have someone make even that small decision for her. She hoped no radical feminists were within hearing distance, but she found she really didn’t care.
"Are you okay?" he asked when the waitress left them. His deep-set sherry-colored eyes were intent on hers. It wasn’t an idle question. He really wanted to know.
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