Abattoir (10 page)

Janice crossed her legs, sipping her scotch and water, and leisurely lit herself a cigarette. She was smiling.

Across the table sat her husband. He was sprawled back in his chair, hands clutching his chest, open eyes staring at the ceiling. A large carving knife protruded from the left side of his chest. A stream of blood dripped from the wound, down his white shirt to the floor.

On the kitchen counter, a red light—strangely reminiscent of an ambulance—suddenly stopped flashing. The device began, once again, to tell time.

=§=§=§=

Everything was red.

The shapes below screamed in fear. It surrounded them, engulfed them; clouds of shrieking, searing red.

First the vibrations were soft and then grew in force. They grew until they hurt, until shapes flew through the air and became smaller shapes. They grew until one form struck another. Then the vibrations climaxed, as if everything that surrounded the forms were focused on one point. And that point was red.

At that moment, on the shiny surface of a shape that flashed across the vague light, there was a reflection. A reflection of the self.

Beyond terrifying.

After this, the vibrations slowed. The forms came to a stop.

All came to a stop, except for the knowledge that this had been seen before. It was not at all understood, but it was known—all this had been before.

The terror of that knowledge was deep. It was necessary to be away from this place. Surfaces and barriers were passed through, unknown distances traversed.

A corner was found, in which to cower.

=§=§=§=

9

Laura Bostick, in Apartment 108, was awakened early Saturday morning by the cries of her infant son. The disturbance was unusual; little Matthew usually slept well past seven in the morning. She nudged her husband Greg. Characteristically, he declined to respond, simply grunting and rolling over.

She stumbled toward Matthew’s nursery, just off the dining room, and turned on the light. She comforted the baby and soon he was back asleep.

Laura stepped into the dining room, turning on the light. Everything looked normal.

Until she looked up.

She wasn’t sure at first what she was seeing. The otherwise pristine crystals were dark. Looking closer, she saw that something had seeped through the ceiling from the apartment above; an expanding patch that had dripped down over the chandelier.

She ran a finger through the film coating one of the lower crystals. It came away sticky. And red. She sniffed it.

Then she screamed.

§

It was deja vu for Detective Maudlin.

“Long time no see,” he quipped to Cantrell at the front door of the Exeter.

Cantrell did not have a quick one-liner in response. He merely exhaled and stood clear of the door, making way for the small army of police technicians who followed in Maudlin’s wake.

Parked in the circular drive before the building was a host of police cruisers, a sinister black van marked “Coroner,” and a trailer marked “Crime Scene Investigation.”

After curt commands to key members of his crew, Maudlin took Cantrell aside. He was all business. Cantrell was clearly upset.

“Who found the body?”

“Technically, I did,” Cantrell replied.

“Technically?”

“I heard her scream. Laura Bostick, the tenant in 108. Her chandelier was covered with blood.”

“Really?”

“Her flat is immediately below the Sloanes’. It must have dripped through the floor.”

The old cop rubbed the back of his ear. “Don’t see that one every day. Okay, what then?”

“Well, I ran up to the Sloanes, knocked on the door. There was no answer. I let myself in with the master key, then . . . ”

Cantrell was running out of breath. He ran a hand over bloodshot eyes.

“Take it easy. Tell me what you saw.”

The architect exhaled.

“The body. I’ve never seen a dead body before, believe it or not. He was . . . he was . . . ”

“Never mind. Where was she?”

“It scared the hell out of me. She was just sitting across from him—from it—at the dining room table.”

“Go on.”

“At first, I thought she was dead too. She was just sitting there, like a statue, not making a move. Her husband is sitting across from her, a knife sticking out of his chest . . . it was something out of a horror movie.”

“So what did you do?”

“I said her name. Just once. That seemed to snap her out of it. She looked at me, blinked, and then stared at her husband.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked me, `Who killed my husband?’ Over and over and over. I told her I didn’t know. Finally, she went to the couch and started crying. Sobbing, really. That’s when I called you.”

Maudlin was taking everything down, word for word, in a notepad.

“Do you think she killed him, Cantrell?”

“I don’t know. There was nobody else in the apartment. The door was locked. There was still food on the table. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You didn’t, unless you touched something.”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right. I’m going to need your help. I’m putting a man at the front door. Nobody gets in or out without I.D.’s. Make sure he has a list of every tenant’s name. I’m cordoning off the entire apartment. Only cops get in until I say so. Clear?”

“No problem. How much time will you need?”

“At least 24 hours, maybe longer.”

The cop looked at his watch. “Couple more questions, if I may.”

Cantrell exhaled again.

Maudlin wanted to know if Cantrell had noticed any suspicious activity between the Sloanes: Was there noticeable tension between them? Did neighbors ever complain about loud noises or arguments? Did either of them speak ill of the other in his presence?

To all of these questions, Cantrell responded no.

Maudlin also asked for all the documentation Cantrell had on the couple—credit reports, lease, legal papers, application, everything. He readily agreed.

“What do you think?” Cantrell asked, when Maudlin finally grew silent.

“I’ll tell you what I think when I know what I think. Meanwhile, maybe you can tell me something. This is the second time in two months that I’ve been to your building, Cantrell. That’s pushing the odds.”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying . . . ”

“Coincidence. Unfortunate timing. Bad luck. I don’t know.”

Maudlin chuckled quietly.

“I don’t believe in any of those.”

Without another word, the detective ascended the staircase to the second floor crime scene to see the carnage for himself.

The door to the flat was open. The crew was already at work—photographers, fingerprint team, forensics, uniforms. Maudlin entered without a word while Cantrell paused at the door.

Bill Sloane still sat at the dining room table, oblivious to the flurry of activity around him. His head was arched back, eyes wide open, seeming to peer at the ceiling above. The rosewood handle of a large knife protruded from the left side of his chest. Both of the dead man’s hands were clasped around the wound, crisscrossed around the stock of the murder weapon.

“That’s an odd position, don’t you think, Smitty?” Maudlin asked his second-in-command. “It almost looks as if he had a heart attack or something, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” the other detective replied, obviously preoccupied with something else.

“Where was Mrs. Sloane when you got here?”

“Sitting on the couch, crying her eyes out. She was in total shock. The husband, meanwhile, was dead as a doornail, just where you see him now.”

Maudlin looked at Mrs. Sloane, still sitting on the davenport, nervously smoking a cigarette and regarding the investigation with horrified eyes.

“Has she said anything?”

“Not a peep.”

Maudlin approached the sofa and crouched down before her. Up close, he could see that her trembling hands and forearms were covered in dried blood. He introduced himself and quietly read her the Miranda.

“What happened here, Mrs. Sloane?”

She regarded him with a look like a rabbit trapped in the headlights, mascara running down her pale cheeks, and shook her head.

He repeated the question, more firmly.

She spoke at last:

“I knew I was right . . . he didn’t leave me any choice, the son of a bitch. He threw it in my face, gloating all the while!”

“What did he throw in your face?”

“His infidelity, detective. You see, my husband had a problem: He couldn’t keep his zipper up. He was unfaithful; fucking around, if you prefer. He’d been doing it for years.”

“So what happened last night?”

“I finally caught him, that’s what happened. Right here, in this seedy, piece of shit hotel.”

She pointed toward the bedroom.

“Right in there, plain as day. Bill and his latest slut—a blonde with big tits, of course, the way he liked them. Cheap and whorish—you must know the type. They were laughing at me . . . ”

She stopped speaking and looked somewhere over Maudlin’s shoulder. “You say this happened in a hotel room, Mrs. Sloane?”

“Yes. Right here.”

“But we’re in your apartment at the Exeter. You’re at home, Mrs. Sloane.”

She looked at him blankly. “No, you’re wrong.”

Maudlin knew better than to press the point. He recognized delusion when he saw it.

“So why did you have to kill him? Did he threaten you? Attack you?”

She smiled. “No, he didn’t threaten me. Not in the way you’re thinking. You have to understand that he made me do this. He wasn’t only asking for it, detective. He was begging for it. He was throwing it in my face. His whore was laughing right along with him. I’m telling you—I had no choice. Any woman, any loving wife, would have done exactly the same thing.”

“So you’re admitting to me that you did kill your husband?”

“Fuck yes!” She broke into a chilling laugh, then lapsed into silence. Her face took on an almost childish look of desperation.

“Can I go home now?”

§

Anna sat in her customary perch, on the side of her neatly made bed, tiny legs swinging in the air, dark eyes staring at nothing.

Dr. Sharon Knaster began the visit with the usual medical routine—a quick check of the child’s blood pressure, respiration, heartbeat and eye contact. As she went through the motions, Knaster hoped that Anna did not sense her fear.

Like all the other residents in the Exeter, she was unnerved by recent events. The murder of Bill Sloane was horrifying in its own right. That the police believed that his wife did it only made it worse. Knaster had met Mrs. Sloane several times. She seemed like a pleasant enough woman. What it in the world had possessed her?

She banished the dark thoughts from her mind, in the not entirely scientific belief that Anna might pick up on them. The child had fascinated her from the start, but for reasons she couldn’t identify. There was something about her, something in the nature of her mental trauma, that seemed odd. Something that wasn’t clinically normal; that went well beyond her own training and experience.

She closed her eyes, dispelling such unprofessional thoughts. She finished the preliminary and began to ask Anna a few basic questions:

“It’s a beautiful day, Anna. Don’t you think?”

Impassive silence.

“It’s going to be a lovely, warm day. The trees are very green today, aren’t they?” She turned toward the window, as if to encourage the child to follow her glance.

Silence, not a flicker of motion.

“What have you been doing today, Anna?”

The girl continued to swing her legs, nothing else.

“Do you hear the birds singing outside your window? In the morning? When you wake up?”

Anna’s eyes didn’t even blink.

Knaster followed with a series of similarly banal questions, all of which received no response. Exactly as expected.

She was about to rise and close the session when the girl’s breathing suddenly grew more rapid. It almost sounded to Knaster as if Anna had become excited about something.

She jumped when Anna’s arms began to flail, her fingers outstretched, as if seeking something. The psychiatrist tried to respond to the non-verbal gestures. She reached for a teddy bear and presented it to her. The girl ignored it. She tried several picture books. These too were ignored.

Finally, Knaster spotted the child’s writing tablet on the bookshelf. Anna grabbed it hungrily and began to move her hand, almost violently, over the blank paper. Knaster found a pencil and placed it in the child’s quivering fingers.

Anna began to draw.

Although her expression and posture did not change, her hand moved rapidly across the page and her breathing continued to heighten. Knaster paid close attention to what was appearing on the paper. She had seen the child’s artwork before, but had never witnessed it in action.

Just scribbling; pointless scrawling . . .
but still, there was
something
there; some sort of pattern in the erratic motions of Anna’s hand.

After many minutes, the pencil and tablet fell out of her grasp. She resumed her vacant stare, swinging her legs.

Knaster picked up the tablet. The entire page had been covered in pencil. She had no idea what the child had tried to represent.

Was Anna trying to communicate? What triggered this?

She studied the scribbling more closely: there was a certain form to some of it, though nothing Knaster could clearly discern: clusters of grass or weeds? Impossible to be certain . . .

In reality, she thought, the drawing could have been anything. Or nothing. It was impossible to tell.

She would note the entire event later, and give serious thought to it.

Knaster closed the door behind her and joined Anna’s mother in the living room. She recapped the session, telling Su Ling that she found Anna’s drawing to be intriguing, albeit mysterious.