The Killer Inside Me

by Jim Thompson

  “Lou,” he said, “why in hell don’t you get out of this town?”

  “Get out?” I was startled. We’d just been sitting there quietly, smoking and passing a word now and then. And suddenly he comes out with this. “Why should I get out?”

  “Why’ve you ever stayed here this long?” he said. “Why’d you ever want to wear a badge? Why didn’t you be a doctor like your dad; try to make something of yourself?”

  I shook my head, staring down at the bedclothes. “I don’t know, Bob. Reckon I’m kind of lazy.”

  “You got awful funny ways of showin’ it, Lou. You ain’t never too lazy to take on some extra job. You put in more hours than any man I got. An’ if I know anything about you, you don’t like the work. You never have liked it.”

  He wasn’t exactly right about that, but I knew what he meant. There was other work I’d have liked a lot better. “I don’t know, Bob,” I said, “there’s a couple of kinds of laziness. The don’t-want-to-do-nothin’ and the stick-in-the-rut brand. You take a job, figuring you’ll just keep it a little while, and that while keeps stretchin’ on and on and on. You need a little more money before you can make a jump. You can’t quite make up your mind about what you want to jump to. And then maybe you make a stab at it, you send off a few letters, and the people want to know what experience you’ve had—what you’ve been doin’. And probably they don’t even want to bother with you, and if they do you’ve got to start right at the bottom, because you don’t know anything. So you stay where you are, you just about got to, and you work pretty hard because you know it. You ain’t young anymore and it’s all you’ve got.”

  Bob nodded slowly. “Yeah…I kinda know how that is. But it didn’t need to be that way with you, Lou! Your dad could’ve sent you off to school. You could’ve been a practicin’ doctor by this time.”

  “Well,” I hesitated, “there’d been that trouble with Mike, and Dad would’ve been all alone, and…well, I guess my mind just didn’t run to medicine, Bob. It takes an awful lot of study, you know.”

  “There’s other things you could do, and you lack a lot of bein’ broke, son. You could get you a little fortune for this property.”

  “Yeah, but…” I broke off. “Well, to tell the truth, Bob, I have kind of thought about pulling up stakes, but—”

  “Amy don’t want to?”

  “I haven’t asked her. The subject never came up. But I don’t reckon she would.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “that’s sure too bad. I don’t suppose you’d…No, you wouldn’t do that. I don’t expect no man in his right mind would give up Amy.”

  I nodded a little, like I was acknowledging a compliment; agreeing that I couldn’t give her up. And even with the way I felt about her, the nod came easy. On the surface, Amy had everything plus. She was smart and she came from a good family—which was a mighty important consideration with our people. But that was only the beginning. When Amy went down the street with that round little behind twitching, with her chin tucked in and her breasts stuck out, every man under eighty kind of drooled. They’d get sort of red in the face and forget to breathe, and you could hear whispers, “Man, if I could just have some of that.”

  Hating her didn’t keep me from being proud of her.

  “You trying to get rid of me, Bob?” I said.

  “Kind of looks as though, don’t it?” he grinned. “Guess I did too much thinkin’ while I was laying around the house. Wondering about things that ain’t none of my business. I got to thinkin’ about how riled I get sometimes, having to give in to things I don’t like, and hell, I ain’t really fit to do much but what I am doin’; and I thought how much harder it must be on a man like you.” He chuckled, wryly. “Fact is, I reckon, you started me thinking that way, Lou. You kind of brought it on yourself.”

  I looked blank, and then I grinned. “I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just a way of joking.”

  “Sure,” he said, easily. “We all got our little pe-cul-ye-arities. I just thought maybe you was gettin’ kind of saddle-galled, and—”

  “Bob,” I said, “what did Conway say to you there in Fort Worth?”

  “Oh, hell”—he stood up, slapping his hat against his pants—“can’t even recollect what it was now. Well, I guess I better be—”

  “He said something. He said or did something that you didn’t like a little bit.”

  “You reckon he did, huh?” His eyebrows went up. Then they came down and he chuckled, and put on his hat. “Forget it, Lou. It wasn’t nothing important, and it don’t matter no more, anyways.”

  He left; and, like I said, I was kind of worried for a while. But after I’d had time to think, it looked to me like I’d fretted about nothing. It looked like things were working out pretty good.

  I was willing to leave Central City; I’d been thinking about leaving. But I thought too much of Amy to go against her wishes. I sure wouldn’t do anything that Amy didn’t like.

  If something should happen to her, though—and something was going to happen—why, of course, I wouldn’t want to hang around the old familiar scenes anymore. It would be more than a softhearted guy like me could stand, and there wouldn’t be any reason to. So I’d leave, and it’d all seem perfectly natural. No one would think anything of it.

  Amy came to see me every day—in the morning for a few minutes on her way to school, and again at night. She always brought some cake or pie or something, stuff I reckon their dog wouldn’t eat (and that hound wasn’t high-toned—he’d snatch horse turds on the fly), and she hardly nagged about anything, that I remember. She didn’t give me any trouble at all. She was all sort of blushy and shy and shamed like. And she had to take it kind of easy when she sat down.

  Two or three nights she drew the bathtub full of warm water and sat in it and soaked; and I’d sit and watch her and think how much she looked like her. And afterwards she’d lie in my arms—just lie there because that was about all either of us was up to. And I could almost fool myself into thinking it was her.

  But it wasn’t her, and, for that matter, it wouldn’t have made any difference if it had been. I’d just been right back where I started. I’d have had to do it all over again.

  I’d have had to kill her the second time.…

  I was glad Amy didn’t bring up the subject of marriage; she was afraid of starting a quarrel, I guess. I’d already been right in the middle of three deaths, and a fourth coming right on top of ’em might look kind of funny. It was too soon for it. Anyway, I hadn’t figured out a good safe way of killing her.

  You see why I had to kill her, I reckon. Or do you? It was like this:

  There wasn’t any evidence against me. And even if there was some, quite a bit, I’d be a mighty hard man to stick. I just wasn’t that kind of guy, you see. No one would believe I was. Why, hell, they’d been seeing Lou Ford around for years and no one could tell them that good ol’ Lou would—

  But Lou could do it; Lou could convict himself. All he had to do was skip out on a girl who knew just about everything about him there was to know—who, even without that one wild night, could probably have pieced some plenty-ugly stuff together—and that would be the end of Lou. Everything would fall into place, right back to the time when Mike and I were kids.

  As things stood now, she wouldn’t let herself think things through. She wouldn’t even let herself start to think. She’d cut up some pretty cute skylarks herself, and that had put a check on her thinking. And I was going to be her husband, so everything was all right. Everything had to be all right.…But if I ran out on her—well, I knew Amy. That mental block she’d set up would disappear. She’d have the answer that quick—and she wouldn’t keep it to herself. Because if she couldn’t have me, no one else would.

  Yeah, I guess I mentioned that. She and Joyce seemed pretty much alike.

  Well, anyway…

  Anyway, it had to be done, as soon as it safely could be done. And knowing that, there was just no other way out, kind of made things
easier. I stopped worrying, thinking about it, I should say. I tried to be extra pleasant to her. She was getting on my nerves, hanging around so much. But she wouldn’t be hanging around long, so I thought I ought to be as nice as I could.

  I’d taken sick on a Wednesday. By the next Wednesday I was up, so I took Amy to prayer meeting. Being a school teacher, she kind of had to put in an appearance at those things, now and then, and I sort of enjoy ’em. I pick up lots of good lines at prayer meetings. I asked Amy, I whispered to her, how she’d like to have a little manna on her honey. And she turned red, and kicked me on the ankle. I whispered to her again, asked her if I could Mose-y into her Burning Bush. I told her I was going to take her to my bosom and cleave unto her, and anoint her with precious oils.

  She got redder and redder and her eyes watered, but somehow it made her look cute. And it seemed like I’d never seen her with her chin stuck out and her eyes narrowed. Then, she doubled over, burying her face in her songbook; and she shivered and shook and choked, and the minister stood on tiptoe, frowning, trying to figure out where the racket was coming from.

  It was one of the best prayer meetings I ever went to.

  I stopped and bought some ice cream on the way home, and she was giggling and breaking into snickers all the way. While I made coffee, she dished up the ice cream; and I took part of a spoonful and chased her around and around the kitchen with it. I finally caught her and put it in her mouth, instead of down her neck like I’d threatened. A little speck of it got on her nose and I kissed it away.

  Suddenly, she threw her arms around my neck and began to cry.

  “Honey,” I said, “don’t do that, honey. I was just playing. I was just trying to give you a good time.”

  “Y-you—big—”

  “I know,” I said, “but don’t say it. Let’s don’t have any more trouble between us.”

  “D-don’t”—her arms tightened around me, and she looked up through the tears, smiling—“don’t you understand? I’m j-just so happy, Lou. So h-happy I c-can’t s-s-stand it!” And she burst into tears again.

  We left the ice cream and coffee unfinished. I picked her up and carried her into Dad’s office, and sat down in Dad’s big old chair. We sat there in the dark, her on my lap—sat there until she had to go home. And it was all we wanted; it seemed to be enough. It was enough.

  It was a good evening, even if we did have one small spat.

  She asked me if I’d seen Chester Conway, and I said I hadn’t. She said she thought it was darned funny that he didn’t so much as come by and say hello, after what I’d done, and that if she were me she’d tell him so.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Well, I don’t care, darling! He thought you’d done quite a bit at the time—couldn’t wait to call you up long distance! Now, he’s been back in town for almost a week, and he’s too busy to—I don’t care for my own sake, Lou. It certainly means nothing to me. But—”

  “That makes two of us, then.”

  “You’re too easy-going, that’s the trouble with you. You let people run over you. You’re always—”

  “I know,” I said. “I think I know it all, Amy. I’ve got it memorized. The whole trouble is that I won’t listen to you—and it seems to me like that’s about all I ever get done. I’ve been listening to you almost since you learned how to talk, and I reckon I can do it a while longer. If it’ll make you happy. But I don’t think it’ll change me much.”

  She sat up very stiff and straight. Then, she settled back again, still holding herself kind of rigid. She was silent for about the time it takes to count to ten.

  “Well, just the same, I—I—”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Oh, be quiet,” she said. “Keep still. Don’t say anything.” And she laughed. And it was a good evening after all.

  But it was kind of funny about Conway.

  15

  How long should I wait? That was the question. How long could I wait? How long was it safe?

  Amy wasn’t crowding me any. She was still pretty shy and skittish, trying to keep that barbed-wire tongue of hers in her mouth—though she wasn’t always successful. I figured I could stall her off on marriage indefinitely, but Amy…well, it wasn’t just Amy. There wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, but I had the feeling that things were closing in on me. And I couldn’t talk myself out of it.

  Every day that passed, the feeling grew stronger.

  Conway hadn’t come to see me or spoken to me, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It didn’t mean anything that I could see. He was busy. He’d never given a whoop in hell for anyone but himself and Elmer. He was the kind of a guy that would drop you when he got a favor, then pick you up again when he needed another one.

  He’d gone back to Fort Worth, and he hadn’t returned. But that was all right, too. Conway Construction had big offices in Fort Worth. He’d always spent a lot of time there.

  Bob Maples? Well, I couldn’t see that he was much different than ever. I’d study him as the days drifted by, and I couldn’t see anything to fret about. He looked pretty old and sick, but he was old and he had been sick. He didn’t have too much to say to me, but what he did have was polite and friendly—he seemed hell-bent on being polite and friendly. And he’d never been what you’d call real talky. He’d always had spells when you could hardly get a word out of him.

  Howard Hendricks? Well…Well, something was sure enough eating on Howard.

  I’d run into Howard the first day I was up after my sick spell; he’d been coming up the steps of the courthouse, just as I was heading down them to lunch. He nodded, not quite looking at me, and mumbled out a, “H’are you, Lou?” I stopped and said I was feeling a lot better—still felt pretty weak, but couldn’t really complain any.

  “You know how it is, Howard,” I said. “It isn’t the flu so much as the aftereffects.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said.

  “It’s kind of like I always say about auty-mobiles. It’s not the original cost so much as the upkeep. But I reckon—”

  “Got to run,” he mumbled. “See you.”

  But I wasn’t letting him off that easy. I was really in the clear, now, and I could afford to open up a little on him. “As I was sayin’,” I said, “I reckon I can’t tell you much about sickness, can I, Howard? Not with that shrapnel you got in you. I got an idea about that shrapnel, Howard—what you could do with it. You could get you some X-rays taken and print ’em on the back of your campaign cards. Then on the other side you could have a flag with your name spelled out in thermometers, and maybe a upside-down—what do you call them hospital pisspots? Oh, yeah—urinal for an exclamation mark. Where’d you say that shrapnel was anyway, Howard? Seems like I just can’t keep track of it, no matter how hard I try. One time it’s in—”

  “My ass”—he was looking at me now, all right—“it’s in my ass.”

  I’d been holding him by the lapel to keep him from running off. He took my hand by the wrist, still staring at me, and he pulled it away and let it drop. Then, he turned and went up the steps, his shoulders sagging a little but his feet moving firm and steady. And we hadn’t passed a word between us since then. He kept out of my way when he saw me coming, and I did him the same kind of favor.

  So there was something wrong there; but what else could I expect? What was there to worry about? I’d given him the works, and it had probably dawned on him that I’d needled him plenty in the past. And that wasn’t the only reason he had to act stiff and cold. Elections were coming up in the fall, and he’d be running as usual. Breaking the Conway case would be a big help to him, and he’d want to talk it up. But he’d feel awkward about doing it. He’d have to cut me out of the credit, and he figured I’d be sore. So he was jumping the gun on me.

  There was nothing really out of the way, then. Nothing with him or Sheriff Bob or Chester Conway. There wasn’t a thing…but the feeling kept growing. It got stronger and
stronger.

  I’d been keeping away from the Greek’s. I’d even stayed off the street where his restaurant was. But one day I went there. Something just seemed to pull the wheels of my car in that direction, and I found myself stopping in front of it.

  The windows were all soaped over. The doors were closed. But it seemed like I could hear people inside; I heard some banging and clattering.

  I got out of my car and stood by the side of it a minute or two. Then, I stepped up on the curb and crossed the walk.

  There was a place on one of the double doors where the soap had been scraped away. I sheltered my eyes with my hand and peered through it; rather I started to peer through it. For the door opened suddenly, and the Greek stepped out.

  “I am sorry, Officer Ford,” he said. “I cannot serve you. We are not open for business.”

  I stammered that I didn’t want anything. “Just thought I’d drop by to—to—”

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to see you,” I said. “I wanted to see you the night it happened, and it hasn’t been off my mind since. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t face you. I knew how you’d feel, how you’d be bound to feel, and there wasn’t anything I could say. Nothing. Nothing I could say or do. Because if there’d been anything…well, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

  It was the truth, and God—God!—what a wonderful thing truth is. He looked at me in a way I didn’t like to name; and then he looked kind of baffled; and then he suddenly caught his lip under his teeth and stared down at the sidewalk.

  He was a swarthy middle-aged guy in a high-crowned black hat, and a shirt with black sateen protectors pulled over the sleeves; and he stared down at the sidewalk and looked back up again.

  “I am glad you did come by, Lou,” he said, quietly. “It is fitting. I have felt, at times, that he regarded you as his one true friend.”

  “I aimed to be his friend,” I said. “There weren’t many things I wanted much more. Somehow, I slipped up; I couldn’t help him right when he needed help worst. But I want you to know one thing, Max. I—I didn’t hurt—”