Dressed to Kill (26 page)

“Hormones, I think.”

He was quiet a moment. “I read about hormones. They’re produced by living cells that circulate through the body fluids—”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right, kid.”

“So what effect would hormones have on a nut like Elliott?”

“Well . . . they make your beard stop growing. Your skin gets softer. After a while you start to develop breasts.”

“Sounds sick.”

“Then the next step is the sex change operation. They slice your penis . . .”

“That makes me feel funny. I feel like I want to cross my legs.”

“You want me to go on?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. After all the male genitalia is surgically removed, an artificial vagina is constructed.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “I thought transsexuals were just like fags.”

“No. It’s not like that. They don’t want to be men going to bed with other men, Peter. They want to be
women
going to bed with men.”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Peter said. “What’s going to happen to Elliott?”

“He’s been committed. I doubt if he’ll ever be considered sane enough to stand trial. Which is a relief, since it means I won’t have to be the star witness.”

“I hope he’s locked away for life,” Peter said.

“Me too.” She paused. She searched for a cigarette and found only a crumpled empty pack. “Say, I’m going to miss having you around. What about getting together next week some time for lunch, huh?”

“I’d like that. I really would.”

“Okay, kid. I’ll give you a call.”

“You promise?”

“I never break a promise.”

She hung up. She sat at the kitchen table, thinking about the kid, thinking how for a short period of time their lives had become interwoven. And then her telephone was ringing.

It was Max.

“I’m not sure what to do with you, Liz. You keep promising to bring me some cash, remember? So far, sweet zero.”

“I’m on my way, Max.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Girl Scout’s honor, sweetheart. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

“Why do I put up with you, huh?”

“Because secretly you have this burning passion for me, right?”

“How did you guess?”

“I see the way you look at me.”

“Ah, Christ, I always knew I wore my goddamn heart on my sleeve.”

“One hour,” she said.

“One hour. It’s going to seem like an eternity.”

She laughed, putting the receiver down.

She walked to the window, staring down into the sunlit street, watching the flow of traffic, thinking of a nightmare past, a bad dream ended. It was as if some black weight had been lifted from her, some terrible pressure alleviated.

Some days, she thought, you can feel good.

3

Darkness. Cold. Like floating in a tank of colorless water. Shivering. Eyes open. A dark room. A pinprick of light someplace. The inside of a camera. And the dreams. The dreams of pain.

That small light.

What was it?

What was that tiny glow of light?

The shoulder ached.

Why did it ache like that?

She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember her name.

Anything.

Try. Try to bring it back somehow.

You shouldn’t wear Cecilia’s clothes
. . .

She stirred, turning her head, concentrating on that light.

A shadow moved. The light was obscured. The shadow moved again.

Cecilia’s clothes . . .

Anne.

I can only put up with this to a small degree, Robert . . . I can’t go on pandering to your tastes . . . This isn’t a marriage any more, this is a travesty . . . Do you know how it makes me feel? Do you know how it demeans me to see you dressed like that?

You’re sick.

Sick and perverted.

Anne, Robert. What did those names mean? Why were there these disconnected echoes?

I knew two people once, Anne and Robert, and somehow they didn’t live happily ever after, something went wrong . . . Something just went wrong.

The light. That light. The outline of somebody’s head moving against the light.

My name.

My name . . .

She sat upright, staring through the dark.

Bobbi!

I am Bobbi.

But . . .

Somebody out there, somebody out there beyond this dark room, doesn’t believe I’m Bobbi.

Drugs. They must have been shooting me with drugs.

Limbs weak. Pain.

You’re not happy here, are you Bobbi?

No, you don’t want to be in this place, do you?

You want to be somewhere else.

Go. Go someplace else.

She watched the shadow move against the light. Then there were footsteps, heels clicking over the hardwood floor. A chemical smell. Something antiseptic. Something like that.

A hospital?

What are you doing in a hospital, Bobbi?

Get away from here. Find a way out.

Click, click, click, click.

Heels.

Somebody moving across the floor.

A dark outline passing the bed. Pausing. The sound of soft breathing, a scent of some kind, a chemical scent.

You are not happy here Bobbi; you are not happy in this place because there is something else you must do, someplace else you must go to.

Try and remember.

A girl.

Pretty.

You are a boy, Robert. Don’t you understand? Boys do the things boys do. Next time you take anything of Cecilia’s I’ll punish you most severely.

The shadow hovered in the dark. Barely visible.

A metallic sound. Like what? Keys?

Why have they locked you here Bobbi?

Are you a prisoner?

A pencil-thin flashlight.

She closed her eyes. She heard the faint
whish
of liquid being ejected from a hypodermic. A hand fell on her arm. A hand raised her arm upwards.

But you aren’t happy here Bobbi.

The touch of a needle. Soft breathing. A baby’s breathing.

Quickly now.

It has to be done quickly.

Before the chance goes. Before the opportunity evaporates.

The throat is soft. Very soft. The throat yields under the tips of fingers. Yields, gives.

You hear something soft fall to the floor.

Something drop.

A slight moan, a slight gasping sound.

And then silence and the sight of the thin lamplight somewhere in the distance.

Rise up. Rise up Bobbi.

Forget the pain and rise.

Forget how much it hurts.

4

The nurse in the white uniform and white headdress climbed the subway steps to the street. The night air was cold, but she seemed not to feel it. She paused to exchange a word with a news vendor outside the station, glancing as she did so at the headline of a paper. It had something to do with a crisis in the Middle East. She barely noticed it. A little way down the page there was a photograph of a man—it seemed familiar to her in some way, but she knew it couldn’t be. She read a part of the headline, seeing only the first few words PSYCHIATRIST ARRES—and then, shrugging, shaking her head as if the state of the world appalled her, she crossed the street.

She went inside an apartment building.

She pressed the button for the elevator.

When the car came she stepped inside. The car rose, shuddering, slowly. She closed her eyes. It was strange, she thought, how she felt a curious sense of peace. The elevator came to a stop. She got out, walking along the corridor. It was the sixth floor. For a moment, a passing fragment of time, she forgot why she was here, forgot what she’d come here for, forgot the number of the apartment she wanted.

She paused. It would come back to her.

Apartment . . . what?

Ah, she remembered. Sixty-three.

She continued along the corridor, stopped outside the door of sixty-three, and gazed a moment at the small peephole set in the wood. She hesitated, raised her hand, then knocked very lightly on the panel.

She waited.

From inside she could hear a movement, the sound of someone coming.

Liz put her tube of lipstick down on the dressing table, picked up her watch, checked the time. She had an appointment at nine; unless she hurried, she was going to be late. When she heard the door she stared at herself in the mirror, puckered her lips, and then went across the living room. In the distance somewhere she could hear the sound of a siren slashing through the night.

At the front door she paused, pressing her eye to the peephole.

A nurse, she thought. What the hell was a nurse doing out there?

Without opening the door, she said, “Yeah? What is it?”

“I don’t like to trouble you,” the woman said. “I’m simply collecting for a good cause . . .”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

Liz opened the door, sliding the chain.

The nurse stepped inside.

Liz smiled, turned to find her purse, and then glanced around to look at the nurse.

“I think I’ve got a couple of dollars somewhere—will that be enough?” she asked. She picked up the purse, saw the nurse’s reflection in the mirror in front of her, saw the headdress being thrown back, saw the shaved skull and the empty grin, saw the white-smocked figure advance towards her.

A dream, Liz thought.

A bad dream.

In a moment she would wake.

Any moment now, she would open her eyes and the dream would be over.

But it hadn’t yet begun.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

B
RIAN
D
E
P
ALMA
, world-renowned thriller director, has been dubbed “The Prince of Terror” by the press. Raised in Philadelphia, he studied Physics at Columbia University. While taking an M.A. at Sarah Lawrence College, Mr. De Palma shot his first successful film, an award-winning short. He supported himself by making documentaries for the Treasury Department and the NAACP and then made his first feature film,
The Wedding Party
, starring two unknowns, Robert De Niro and Jill Clayburgh. Mr. De Palma’s first major success with a mass audience came with
Obsession
, followed by the back-to-back box office hits,
Carrie
and
The Fury
. His newest release,
Dressed to Kill
, promises to continue this pattern. Brian De Palma is married to actress Nancy Allen, whom he met when she read for a part in
Carrie
. Though they are frequently on the West Coast, the De Palmas maintain their permanent residence in New York City where they enjoy quiet evenings at home, dinner with friends and, of course, movies of all kinds—but very rarely thrillers.

C
AMPBELL
B
LACK
was born in Glasgow, Scotland and educated at the University of Sussex, where he received an Honours Degree in Philosophy. His novel,
The Punctual Rape
, won the Scottish Arts Council Award in 1970. He has written many other novels, including
Brainfire
. Mr. Black is presently living in Tempe, Arizona with his wife and three sons.