Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  Scott grabbed his 8mm camcorder and propped it atop a pile of books. He pressed the record button and the tape’s sprockets began turning, creating video documentation of what he was about to do.

  He set the bowl inside the box and watched, the camera pointed roughly in the direction of the rat. He didn’t want to have his face behind a lens. He wanted to witness it firsthand.

  Peter sniffed, his tiny nose wrinkling and then twitching left and right. He poked tentatively at the food and began eating.

  Seconds later, Peter stopped and stood up on his hind legs. He began convulsing. Coughing?

  Yeah. Coughing.

  A moment later, his legs buckled. He fell to the bottom of the box and then rolled on his side. Rock still.

  Scott stuck his index finger in, carefully, slowly, and poked at Peter’s exposed abdomen. It was taut and concave.

  He withdrew his hand and stood there observing.

  Nothing. A minute passed. The rat did not move.

  “Well shit. Maybe I gave you too much. Shoulda started with less.”

  Scott sighed, then turned off the camcorder. He rewound the tape and watched it.

  “Hmm. It did work,” he said, his right eye pressed into the ocular cup as he viewed his handiwork. “Guess I’m just too hard on myself.”

  He sat down at the table and nodded. “I did it. It worked. That’s all that matters. Now I just have to try it on a real target.”

  Mary. I have to try it on Mary.

  45

  Having decided to go forward with the next step in his plan—to make sure it worked—he took a part-time job as a waiter at Nevada’s Diner. A guy he knew from a local bar, Terrence, had bought his fictional tale of being in financial difficulty and needing a second job. A month later, Terrence hooked Scott up with the boss at Nevada’s, where a weekend shift had come open.

  Scott had done some restaurant work years ago—busing tables mostly, but he filled in here and there as a server—and a little embellishment never hurt anyone.

  After acing the interview, Scott spent a few weeks learning the routine, the menu, and what would be the best way to strategically place the aconite in a patron’s food.

  Five weeks passed. He was wearing down, working five days a week at his real job and two at the diner. No time off.

  He hoped it was worth it.

  As January came to a close, he decided he had done all he could to prepare. Today was the day. It was dinnertime on Saturday, so the place was busy.

  Two hours passed without the right target anywhere near Scott’s station. He patted his left pocket, which contained the small, round plastic container.

  With the night wearing on—and ironically none of his customers matching his requirements, he saw a couple in their late fifties being seated at a booth by the window in Terrence’s assigned area. It was about twenty feet from Scott’s tables, but he would still be able to observe what happened without too much difficulty.

  It would likely cause a commotion, anyway, as someone would immediately call for an ambulance.

  If it worked. If he did it right.

  That was a huge unknown since he really did not have any guide as to how much to use other than a few notes he had found on the web and his small sample size—literally—with Peter.

  He stood by the counter under the row of heat lamps, where the cooks set the plates to stay warm until they were served. Scott made sure to watch when Terrence took the order, and fortunately he walked right over to the kitchen and handed in the mint-colored slip. Scott caught a glance at the ticket and was fairly certain he knew which food was going to be his chosen target.

  He preferred to be sure, but he had grown tired of waiting. What if no one else matched his desired mark? No. He had to do this now. It was right.

  Scott kept an eye on Terrence’s orders, a challenge because Scott had his own customers and food to manage.

  Twenty minutes later, the cook slid the plate onto the counter, where it was instantly bathed in red-orange warmth.

  That’s it. Has to be.

  Scott made his way over and removed the film canister from his pocket, pulled back a piece of tape he had placed over the holes, then sprinkled the powder onto her New York steak. It immediately disappeared into the fatty grease atop the meat.

  He turned on his heels and headed to his right as he slipped the container back in his pocket.

  He glanced at the order slips, found the one he was looking for, and scooped up the hot plate to deliver it to his table.

  A moment later he set the trout in front of his customer and told her husband he would be right back with the rest of their food. But by the time he returned to the counter to check if it was ready, there was shouting from the back of the diner.

  Scott’s head snapped left where he saw a woman grabbing her throat. She was coughing violently and pushing against her friend, trying to get out of the booth. Her face was red and she was trying to suck in air.

  “Cindy!” screamed her companion. “You okay?”

  But Cindy did not reply.

  She collapsed and hit the floor with a thud. People crowded in around her. Yelling, shouting. Someone was calling for an ambulance.

  Scott pushed his way through and made it to the circle that had formed around Cindy’s still body.

  Cindy was a lot younger than what he was looking for. And she didn’t even look remotely like his mother. Scott had screwed up the order and sprinkled the poison on the wrong food.

  Goddam, he said under his breath.

  Still, he could not take his eyes off the corpse.

  “What happened?” someone asked, the voice off in the distance.

  “I—I dunno. She was eating her steak and all of a sudden she started coughing.”

  “She choked?”

  “Shoulda done the Heimlich thing.”

  “Not choking. Coughing.”

  “Looked like she had a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, she grabbed her chest, then fell over …”

  The voices sounded off in the distance as Scott stood there, mesmerized by what he had accomplished.

  But someone yelling snapped him out of his trance. He realized he had to get away from there. This was not his table. There was no reason for him to remain. The woman was dead.

  He turned and made his way back to the counter, where Terrence was looking hard at him.

  “Holy shit. You see that?” Scott managed to blurt.

  Terrence leaned in close to Scott’s right ear. “The fuck you do?”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw you, man. You put something on her food.”

  Scott swallowed deeply—but his throat was dry and he nearly started coughing himself.

  In the distance, the scream of a siren.

  Scott gathered up the other plates for his order and delivered them to his table. Doing his job, avoiding unwanted attention.

  “What happened back there?” the husband said.

  Scott avoided eye contact as he set the food in front of his customers. “Woman up and died. Heart attack, someone said.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. So young, too.”

  Too young. Not what he was aiming for, but it was arousing nonetheless.

  Scott excused himself and went to the restroom, entered a stall, and pulled out his erection. A moment later, he felt the release. He stood there, leaning against the metal wall, trying to get his breathing under control.

  This was exactly what he needed.

  Denials aside, Terrence was right. Next time he would be more careful, find a better way of selecting his mark. And a more discreet way of using the aconite.

  He washed and headed back into the restaurant, then saw Terrence, who grabbed his arm and led him into the alley by the garbage bins.

  “What th
e fuck, Scott?”

  Terrence was angry, that was pretty damn clear. Scott had the good sense to take a second to think. Slow his pounding heart. He had to keep his cool.

  And deny, deny, deny.

  He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Terrence. Stalling. “Smoke?”

  Terrence grabbed it and Scott lit it up, then stuck the match against his own, the end instantly catching fire.

  “You put something on her food,” Terrence said again.

  Scott tried masking a grin but could not. It was involuntary; he could not help it.

  “She stiff you, too?”

  Scott puffed. Shrugged.

  “I didn’t like her neither,” Terrence said. “Nasty bitch. Usually sits at one of my tables. Been stiffin’ me on tips for long as I can ’member.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He took a drag, then faced Scott. Lowered his voice. “But whatever you did to her food, that was some pretty stupid shit, man. I ain’t gonna say nothing to the cops ’cause you’re my friend and all. And she deserved it ten times over, but …” He took another long pull, the smoke puffing out as he spoke. “You just lucky was me who saw you or you’d be doing twenty-five to life.”

  Scott tossed the butt to the ground and crushed it under a heel. He did not say anything but gave Terrence’s shoulder a pat.

  He thinks I’m his friend?

  As he walked back through the kitchen, Scott smiled.

  I have a friend?

  The night was shaping up to be better than he ever could’ve planned.

  46

  Scott quit the diner job two weeks later. He told Terrence he had found a full-time job and he could not work seven days a week. The two promised to keep in touch. That would be tough, Scott knew, because their schedules conflicted.

  But that was fine, because it was better if Terrence did not know about his future adventures involving Mary. It was dangerous enough that he knew he was involved in the death of Cindy, the diner woman. If he dropped out of Terrence’s life, perhaps he would forget about him.

  Was Terrence a threat? If the police ever figured out Cindy’s heart attack was induced and not natural, would they question all the employees? Would Terrence cave under pressure? Give away some detail accidentally?

  Hard to be sure. If that became an issue, he would deal with it somehow. There seemed to always be ways around problems. Sometimes they were not good solutions, but options usually existed.

  One thing he was sure of was that he liked what he’d done with Cindy. She was not the intended target, but he could fix that going forward. He just had to give it some thought.

  Scott walked through Bryant Park, stopping by the bocce court and absentmindedly watching while he worked through a modification of his MO. He leaned against a tree near the prominent sign explaining how the game was played. He learned it was actually Pétanque, a French game played with steel balls.

  He knew what he needed to get out of his aconite exploits and he knew how he was going to carry them out. The questions to be answered were how he was going to find these women without arousing suspicion or attracting attention to himself; and how he was going to deliver the toxin so that he was not in close proximity to the target. One fatal heart attack in his presence was a coincidence. More than that would put him in danger of being discovered by the cops.

  Someone off to his right yelled. Scott figured the guy had rolled a winning ball and was celebrating.

  Scott turned his attention back to his planning. Once he addressed those unknowns, he could be ready to begin.

  47

  March 11, 2004

  Scott had thought long and hard about how to deploy his poison without getting caught. He did additional research on the plant and bought more books on the basic principles of chemistry—applied concepts that had more relevance to everyday life than a typical college course. Or at least more relevance to him.

  He decided to take his time and dot all the i’s. His father had once told him to measure twice and cut once. At the time, Scott did not understand what he meant, but in thinking back on that it made perfect sense: plan and get it right … because once you make that cut, you can’t put it back together. He was sure his dad did not mean for Scott to apply the concept to murder, but if he knew that Mary had killed him, then perhaps he would approve of his son taking revenge and returning the favor.

  His father was a practical man.

  Or he liked to think he was. Scott did not remember much about him, at least the way adults think of people. He had good feelings about him. Looked up to him. Liked spending time with him. Felt secure around him.

  He had none of those feelings about Mary.

  He used what he had learned about chemistry to perfect his delivery mechanism for the poison. That was not the most difficult part. More problematic was how to deploy the aconite in a way that he was nowhere near the victim when it took hold.

  He had already discounted the concept of directly confronting the Mary he was targeting because he did not want to be caught off guard like the first time.

  That was traumatic. He would never do that again.

  Well, perhaps once more. But it would be done in a way that would not place him in any danger.

  Now, after three years of planning, he was ready to proceed.

  Scott knocked on the door. The buzzer still had their names listed, so he knew they had not moved. Still, it had been a very long time since he had talked with them. How would she take to him suddenly showing up?

  Shuffling footsteps, heavy, slow. He smiled. He knew that gait. The door swung open.

  “Scott?”

  “Hi, Ma.”

  “What the hell you doin’ here? Haven’t heard from you in years.”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to find my own way. Didn’t want to rely on anyone.” He was impressed by how easy it was to lie to her. He felt no guilt whatsoever. “Nick home?”

  “At work.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I’m kinda busy.”

  “Just for ten minutes.” He waited a second, allowed her to think. “Jesus, Ma, we haven’t talked in forever. You can’t spare ten minutes for your son?”

  She groaned, then stepped aside and Scott walked in. He glanced around, comparing the present to the past … rather, to his memories. The place looked pretty much the same. Furniture, wall hangings, carpet … nothing had changed.

  They walked into the kitchen. Scott looked to the windowsill where the Monkshood—Aconitum napellus—plant used to reside, soaking up the sun. It was not there. But a cockroach was. Those damn bugs. An involuntary shiver shook his torso.

  “Ain’t gonna bite. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  I’m not afraid, he said to himself.

  “You may be livin’ away from home, but you’re the same old Scott.”

  We’ll see about that.

  “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

  “Me?” Mary shrugged her thick shoulders. “Working. Part-time. Nothin’ important. Nothin’ interesting.”

  Scott waited a moment for her to ask him what he had been doing. She did not, so he volunteered the information. “I’m a computer coder. Completely taught myself how to do it. In the city. That’s where I live, too. Bought my own apartment.”

  “Bought it. Really.”

  “Yep. Real proud of that.”

  “Must be doing good.”

  “I am. I am. And—oh, I brought you a gift.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes. “A gift. For me? For what?”

  He shrugged. “I need an excuse to bring my mother a gift?” He pulled a small item from his satchel.

  She took it and looked at it. “What is it?”

  “A bar of handmade soap. All natural. Smells incredible, too.”

  “Like my Dial?�
��

  He inwardly laughed. Dial. No, this is much, much better. “Commercial soap’s fine. But this is … special.”

  “Yeah?” She turned it over in her pudgy hands. Hands that used to punch him, slap his face, pull his hair, shove him to the ground. He did not think she would dare try that now.

  She looked older, her hair graying. He did a quick calculation. She was about sixty-two.

  “Open it, Ma. Smell it. I made it myself. And I put a special scent in it, just for you. I bet it’ll remind you of someone.”

  She put the bar to her nose and sniffed. “Lilac.”

  Scott forced himself to grin. “Yes, Lilac’s right! Very good. But that’s not what I was referring to.”

  “Then what?”

  “You have to open it. You can’t smell it through the wrapper.”

  “If you wanted me to smell it, why’d you wrap it in the first place?”

  “If you like it, I was thinking of making more, selling them. I think they’re a great product and people—women in particular—would like them.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Let me know what you think. You’re the best judge. Go on, open it.”

  She rolled her eyes, slipped a fingernail under the fold and ripped the paper, then unrolled the soap and held it to her nose.

  “Still getting lilac. And—” She coughed, cleared her throat, then looked at her fingers, then coughed harder. Her shoulders lurched forward and upward. “I—I can’t—breathe.”

  “I learned a lot from you, Mary. Didn’t think I had, but I really did. You taught me good.”

  Mary tried to stand but began hacking uncontrollably and fell to the floor.

  Scott got down on his hands and knees. “The scent you should’ve smelled was aconite. You know what aconite is, don’t you? It’s what you used to kill Dad. Brilliant, Mary. Really brilliant.” He paused, watching her struggle, crawling along the floor, trying to breathe. “But in the end, you’re pretty fucking dumb.”

  She was moving slower and slower. Struggling.

  Scott laughed. “You passed the test, Mary. I can’t tell you what this has meant to me. Finally. I mean, it only took twenty-nine years for me to see the good in you.