by Art Bourgeau
* * *
Missy watched Laura, saw with pleasure the fear. She could feel the wet beginning to seep into the crotch of her briefs. She could scarcely wait to get her hands on her. Revenge, inflicting pain were the objects, but she would be giving a special pleasure even through all the pain. Pleasure for both of them. She said nothing, let Laura wait. She was establishing her control, her superiority. Laura would need to understand that. Laura finally allowed herself a "who-are-you?" A ridge of uncertainty, fear was in her voice, and it infuriated her to hear it.
* * *
For Missy it was like a lover's sigh. She let it hang there for a moment. Laura's fear was fine-tuning every nerve in her body, drawing each one increasingly taut . . . Enough. For now. She moved a half-step closer to give Laura a better opportunity to see. "I'm Peter."
* * *
Laura backed away. No denying the obvious now. Carl was not here. No one was here. She was alone. Missy had set it up for Peter.
* * *
Missy took a step forward. She needed to see more fear. It made Laura so attractive . . .
* * *
Laura took a step backward, trying to keep the same distance between them. Death was staring at her, and it was worse, much worse, than when the doctor had told her about her breast cancer. Both cases were the same—death. But something had changed between then and now. Then, she had been alone, if she died it would have been almost a relief. Being alone did that. Now she wasn't alone. There was Felix. A most powerful reason to live. She wasn't about to roll over and die for this bastard. He could rape little girls and get away with it, but before they were finished tonight . . . She looked around for a weapon, anything to defend herself with. More important, to inflict damage with.
* * *
Outside around the corner on Second Street at Lagniappe, Tem opened the door for a weary Felix and his attorney, Coleman Green.
"Gentlemen, it's good to see you here tonight. Especially you, Mr. Felix. Everything is all right?" he asked, taking Coleman's coat and ignoring Felix's battered leather jacket.
"Everything is fine. Thanks to Laura," Felix said, managing a smile.
"Good. We were all worried . . . Lois and Justin are back there at their table."
As soon as Lois spotted him crossing the bar area she was on her feet, pushing waiters out of the way as she hurried toward him, Justin on her heels.
"Are you okay? Is it straightened out?"
Other customers at the bar turned to stare.
Felix was smiling broadly now. "Yes, everything's straightened out."
"But how? Tell us everything," Lois was saying.
"How about a drink first? We both could use one."
"You get it," said Justin. "Champagne for—"
"Jack Daniels on the rocks and a beer," Felix told him quickly. Linking her arm in his, Lois said, "A two-fisted drinker; I like that. Wish more of the customers would think of it. A little sobriety can go a long way. I don't want to be reduced to hustling Shirley Temples."
"Heaven forfend," said Felix.
"Scotch on the rocks for me," said Coleman.
At the table Lois said, "Goddammit, I'm not waiting another minute. Last I heard they had an open-and-shut case. What happened?"
"Okay," Felix said. "You know the divine Missy accused me of raping her. I guess it's tied in to that pregnancy thing of hers, but what made it even worse was that whoever did do it had to be the one who killed the South Philly kids Laura has been writing about"—He turned to Coleman, "Laura . . . where is she? I thought you said she'd meet us here."
"That's what she said."
"Have you seen her?" Felix had turned to Lois.
"She was here, Felix. I'm sure she'll be back . . . But come on, I'm still waiting to hear what happened."
"Well, like I said, whoever raped Missy killed those kids . . .and Cynthia . . . Anyway, you can imagine how that looked for me—one woman says I raped her, and one of the other victims is my ex-wife I'm supposed to have argued with. To make matters worse, my blood type matched the killer's——"
"How did they know the killer's blood type?" interrupted Lois.
"From his sperm—"
"l didn't know you could tell blood type from sperm . . ." Justin said.
"Neither did I, but you can, and more. Laura was the one who researched it. She found this so-called Lewis Test. It's a saliva test, like the first one they gave me, but with a difference I don't pretend to understand. The police don't usually give it to rape suspects because it identifies such a small percent of people. Five, I think. But Laura and Coleman convinced them to make an exception in this case. Anyway I took it and I passed. It showed scientifically that the killer and I weren't the same person because our Lewis samples didn't match. There was no way I could have done it—not to Missy, not to Cynthia, not to the kids—"
"What about Missy's accusation?" Lois said.
"The police are on their way to her now. I'm afraid she has a lot of explaining to do," Coleman said.
"That bitch, she's flagged from here for life," Lois snapped. Violet brought their drinks.
"Now, where's Laura?" demanded Felix.
"She's at Carl's," Lois said. "When she left she said something about meeting someone there. It was awfully noisy then, the cocktail hour . . ."
"You must not have heard that right . . . about Carl's, I mean," said Violet, setting Justin's drink in front of him.
"Why's that?"
"Because he was in earlier. You guys weren't here but he had a drink and said he was going to the Spectrum tonight for the Flyers game."
Felix felt his heart skip a beat. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, he said he'd stop in for a nightcap afterwards and tell me who won."
"I don't like the sound of this," Felix said, face tightening. "Justin, you know where Carl lives, don't you?"
"Sure, it's just around the corner."
"Take me there," Felix said, getting to his feet.
"I'm coming, too," said Coleman, but Felix was already at the door, trying not to think. It was time to act.
* * *
Missy as Peter thought she saw panic in Laura's eyes, a panicked searching for an escape route.
"Don't,' she said. "There's no way out of here. There's no one here but you and me. Real cozy."
Laura began to move away from Carl's door. If there was a weapon anywhere it would be in Klaus Knopfler's work area near the elevator. Moving slowly, carefully in that direction she tried to make mindless small talk, stall until she could get her hands on something . . .
Missy shook her head slightly. It was so cute the way Laura was trying to keep her talking until she thought she was in a position to make a mad dash for the elevator. Of course it wouldn't do her any good. Even though the car was still on their floor, the doors were so heavy that she'd never be able to open and close them in time.
Toying with her, Missy said, "First, we're going into's Carl's and make love. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" No answer. "Admit it, lovey, that's all you've thought about since you started writing about me. You're in love with me, you want to feel me inside you; you want to milk me dry, don't you?"
Laura had reached the nearest piece of sculpture, positioned herself so that it was between them. She would try to use the shadowy darkness and the other pieces the same way as she searched for a weapon . . . To keep Peter talking she said, "What happens afterward? Do you kill me like you did Terri and Marie and Cynthia?" She was amazed at the calm in her voice. Inside was near-hysteria. "And what about the other little girls, the missing ones? You killed them, too, didn't you?"
Missy took a step or two on the diagonal to intercept Laura. As she did, the gnawing pain returned. Once again she forced herself to ignore it. She would deal with it later . . . Concentrating on Laura now. "Ever the little reporter, aren't we .... Anything for a story. Well you can have it. Yes, I killed, but not all of them. Everything I touch doesn't die. If you're a good girl maybe I'll let you live—like Miss
y. But you'll have to be a very good girl. Do exactly as I tell you . . ."
The recurrent pain loosened voice control, it was no longer low, soft and smooth but subject to higher octaves as she said, "After you've been with me once, love, you'll never be satisfied with being dear Felix's whore again . .
Laura moved, noting without comprehending the change in tone as she continued to keep at least one sculpture between Peter and herself. The words seemed to . . . "Dear Felix's whore"? She had heard those words before, who had used them? Her mind flashed over the day's events—and then she remembered . . . Missy Wakefield had used those words, hadn't she? But why would Peter use them? Coincidence . . . ?
Missy moved with her, continuing on the diagonal, closing the distance between them though the pain kept her from moving as nimbly as she would have liked. This was not the time for foreplay. It was time to get it over with.
Wishing she had her usual set of handcuffs to make it easier, she closed the gap, step by step, readying herself to reach for the knife.
"I'll treat you like a queen, you won't go around looking like you shopped at Lad 'n Dad anymore . . ."
"Lad 'n Dad". . . Missy had said those words as an insult earlier . . . one coincidence too many . . . She stared across the narrowing distance at Peter, not yet able to accept the thought . . . But as she was nearer the front of the room with the windows, and the faint light reflected up from the cars and streetlights below, she could see more clearly through the disguise of the tinted glasses and the beard . . . She could see those fine, high-fashion features . . . She could see that Peter was, unmistakably, Missy Wakefield . . .
The shock brought forth an "Oh, my God, Missy," followed by an instant realization that it was the worst provocation possible. Missy, uncovered, felt an enormous relief. And then a new kind of excitement. She could now perform as double—as Peter and as Missy. And maybe a third person, a combination of the two. It was delicious.
"Well, it had to happen sooner or later. You're the first, but don't celebrate too soon, or give yourself too much credit. Seeing my car was just a lucky—unlucky really—break for you. You're not going to leave here to tell anyone. After I'm finished with you, and the police find you in Carl's bed with sperm that has his blood type he's going to be the one they arrest . . . Well, aren't you even curious about how I've managed it? Of course you are. Remember that my—"
"But how—" started Laura.
"—sainted father, whatever else he was, was one of this city's best urologists. And that I worked in his lab. I just took the sperm from the supply there."
Laura could hardly speak . . . "And that's what you did with the others, with yourself. That's the sickest thing I've ever heard—"
"Sticks and stones may break my bones . . ." Missy started the nursery rhyme in a child's singsong voice as her hand reached into her jacket and returned with the knife.
Laura backed away, hands groping for anything like a weapon.
Missy, knife in hand, took two steps and moved on Laura, who just managed to dodge away and duck behind one of the sculptures.
"Missy, for God's sake, you need help—"
"Not Missy, Peter, and you're the one who needs help because . .
As Laura tried to maneuver out of there she found herself bumped up against a partially finished sculpture of welded metal. She turned to face Missy, and as she did her hand brushed against something . . . She risked diverting her attention just long enough to see it was a hammer.
She grabbed it and swung. And missed. Missy now stepped back into a fighter's crouch. From Carl's came the sounds of Todd Rundgren doing "Call from the Grave" from The Threepenny Opera. Too damned appropriate, but Laura was in no position to dwell on it.
"They're playing our song, sweetie."
Nothing left for it but to brazen it out, provoke her out of her feeling superior and secure. "It's for you, Missy, not me. I could almost feel sorry for you. Poor Missy, a real loser . . . Felix is out of jail and waiting for me. You lose, all the way—"
It worked . . . Missy came to her now in a rage, slashing and stabbing air. Laura sidestepped, swung the hammer again, claw-end forward.
But Missy still had her superior reflexes . . . Out of her peripheral vision she saw, sensed, the blow coming, dropped her head and rolled her shoulder. The hammer whistled over her head, and the movement brought her inside Laura's guard. She brought the knife up . . .
Laura saw the blade flash, could do nothing to defend herself. lt seemed almost in slow motion as she watched the knife snake between the folds of her coat as she instinctively sucked in her stomach.
And then she felt the blade.
Missy, wanting to disfigure, slashed. Another clean stab was too easy . . .
Laura felt the blade rip across her stomach. lt felt like a gigantic paper cut followed by a stinging and wetness.
Missy stepped back now to admire her work, prolong the pleasure. "When I'm finished with you the only way Felix is going to see you is in a box. You'll both be lucky if they get the pieces together right. Who's the loser . . . ?"
Laura's head was on her stomach. She could tell she was bleeding but had no idea how much or what the damage was. That last slash had, she hoped, been cushioned some by tummy fat, which up to now she had always hated . . . She tested the heft of the hammer in hand, tried to steady herself. "Come on, I'm waiting——"
Missy smiled. "But not for long. It's over—"
The sound of the elevator startled them. Laura, grabbing the opportunity to stall, said, "That's Felix. I left word for him to meet me here—"
"Good, because all he's going to find are body parts." And she came forward on the balls of her feet, slashing, driving Laura back.
Laura was more cautious now, giving ground, not provoking. She could hear the steady whine of the elevator. A sweet sound, but it stopped somewhere below . . .
Missy saw, sensed Laura's momentary diversion, she stepped across Laura's path and slashed again.
Laura was just able to grab Missy's arm as she felt the blade cut her a second time.
Missy pulled her arm free, scrambled to her feet as the elevator doors were opening.
"I'll be back, you can count on it, you bitch." And then as the light from the elevator doors began to widen she turned and ran into Carl's loft.
* * *
Felix was the first out the elevator. He stopped abruptly, seeing Laura bleeding on the floor and holding her arm. He tried to take her in his arms, but she backed away. "Peter . . . it was Missy dressed as a man . . . she tried to kill me . . . she's in Carl's loft . . ."
Coleman Green and Justin, who had joined him now, both told him to stay with Laura, that they'd go after Missy.
"Be careful . . . she has a knife . . ." Laura said.
Felix slipped out of his jacket and covered her. "Lie still, honey; you're bleeding. We'll get you to the hospital and stitched up; you'll be fine, but meanwhile just rest."
Justin and Coleman had gone to Carl's door, but it was bolted from the inside.
"Get something to break it down," Coleman said. Justin got one of Klaus Knopfler's tools, a sledgehammer, and with the third blow the door gave way.
But the loft was empty, and the open window to the fire escape told why.
Looking out they could see nothing and quickly reported back to Felix.
"Never mind/' he said, "what's important right now is Laura. We need to get her to the hospital fast."
After a call to emergency, he turned to Coleman. "The police shouldn't have any trouble picking up Missy, should they?"
Coleman shook his head. "It's not going to be that easy. There's still no substantive evidence to connect her with the crimes. All we have is Laura's word. The police won't go for it. After what happened between Laura and Missy they'll figure Laura was the one trying to make a frame. No, I'm afraid she's going to get away with it," he said, looking out the window at the fire escape and into the night.
Inside the loft the Kurt Weill tape
was still playing, and Sting was now singing "Mac the Knife."
CHAPTER 30
THE DARKNESS of the alley covered Missy's escape as she scampered down the fire escape from Carl's loft and headed for Third Street. Move, she told herself, knowing that whoever was on the elevator would be looking for her. She hoped she was far enough away so that the darkness would keep them from seeing her.
As she came out of the alley the lights of the Society Hill Hotel startled her after the thick darkness. Momentarily she froze, like a jack-lighted deer. Coming so close to being caught had shaken her. For a moment she felt disoriented, not quite sure who she was or where she was—and then she saw the knife in her hand and snapped back. "Get to the car," she muttered as she shoved the knife under her jacket.
No one paid any attention to her, she heard no alarm, but her heartbeat was tripled by the time she made it up Third Street to her parked car.
The sight of it didn't comfort her as she realized she didn't have her purse with her. Where had she left it? It had her money, credit cards, drugs, keys—her identification. She felt panicky. Did she leave it at Carl's? She tried the door, maybe she'd left it unlocked. No luck. Get a cab. If she could make it home before the police arrived it was still her word against Laura's and then she saw her face reflected in the window of the car. Of course . . . it wasn't Missy she saw, it was Peter. And Peter didn't carry a purse. She put her hand in her . . . his . . . trouser pocket. The keys were there.
She fumbled with the lock. "Steady now. Control." Finally she got the key in and the door came open. She got in, closed and locked the door.
"All right, you're fine. Settle down and get to business, but don't waste a minute doing it."
Hand unsteady, she started the engine, and the tape player came on with it—the sudden sound of Bob Seger's raspy voice singing "Turn the Page" made her jump. She reached to turn it down, heart pounding now, put the car in gear and out of habit glanced at herself in the mirror. The hardness of Peter's face in the dim light shocked her. Damn it, she didn't want to be Peter now. She wanted to be Missy again, the old Missy before . . . the Missy who dressed in her soft and pretty things, lounged in front of the fire and welcomed proper gentlemen callers with champagne. Most of all she wanted her father. With him she would be loved, safe . . .