Laughing Man (7 page)

"Conceded."

"And she has been reduced to . . . this." He looked at the body. "You know, she looks like . . . her face looks like the face of a girl I took to a dance, once. I think it was a dance. It might have been a movie." He glanced confusedly at Patricia, then at the body again. "I think it was a movie.
Breakheart Pass
, I think. With Charles Bronson." He glanced at Patricia again, held his hand out for the flashlight; she gave it to him. He shone the light on the corpse's face. "Jesus, she's the spitting image of that girl. Her name was Brenda. Pretty little thing." He held the light on the corpse's face for a long while, without speaking.

"And?" Patricia said.

"And not a whole hell of a lot," said McBride. "This isn't Brenda. It couldn't be. Brenda's my age now."

"Of course," said Patricia.

"But she could be Brenda's daughter. I don't think she
is
Brenda's daughter. But she could be." He shone the flashlight down the length of the body. "Jeez, I hate to see this sort of thing. Don't you hate to see this sort of thing? It's so . . . disrespectful."

"At the very least," said Patricia.

"I mean, she could be somebody's
mother
,
for God's sake. Or somebody's sister."

"Yes," Patricia said.

"And now here she is. In a Dumpster! No one deserves to end up in a Dumpster, wouldn't you agree?"

Patricia said nothing. She guessed that his question was rhetorical.

He looked at her. "Well, don't you?"

She nodded quickly. "Yes. I agree. It's a horrible place to end up."

"Damn right. I mean, it's not like she's a transient or something. Good Lord, she could be somebody's
mother
."

T
he man thought,
I am powerful, and I am in control
.

He had photographs. He'd developed them himself in a rented darkroom, and they were spread out in front of him on his kitchen table.

He lived in one room and shared a bathroom with nine other tenants on the second floor of his building. The building was on 123rd Street, and it was rambling, nasty, and decrepit.

The man thought he was a very good photographer. He had used his new flash attachment well; he had illuminated the woman's body without causing harsh reflections, and without making her loom out of the dark background like a phantom. He had many talents, and photography was only one of them.

Murder, he guessed, was another. This first ambitious effort, at any rate, indicated that he had much potential.

And it was unfortunate that the
Post
had referred to him as a "copycat." When a man embarks on a new endeavor, he has to start
somewhere.
Why not on a path that has led another to glory? Later, he could make his own path.

He loved his photographs. They were the best he'd ever done because they were
real.
No poses, no artifice. Just reality—hard, cold, and pungent!

A knock came at his door and he snapped his gaze to it. No one had ever knocked at his door. He paid his rent on time and stayed away from the others who lived in the building, so who could be knocking? Certainly not the police. He was too smart for them. And they wouldn't knock anyway.

Another knock—soft, but insistent.

"Who's there?" he called.

"Who's there, indeed," he heard. It was a woman's voice.

This was wonderful. Fortuitous. Karmic. A woman at his door!

He stood, glanced at his photographs, thought briefly of hiding them, decided that the woman at his door would be impressed with them, went to the door, opened it quickly.

She was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Sky-blue eyes and hip-length auburn hair and a body that was the promise of pleasure. "Do you know me?" she said.

"No," he said, grinning obscenely. "Not the way I'd like to."

"And you are?"

"Roger," he said.

"Well, then, Roger," she said, and moved past him, into his room, "I have something for you."

He watched her move, loved the way she moved, thought she would look good to his lens, and to his weapon, and then to his bawdy instrument.

She was turned away from him. She was perfectly configured, he thought. Perfectly wrought and conceived. He said, "Oh, what?"

And she turned as quickly as a snake and plunged her hand deep into his gut, into his colon, and snarled, "Oblivion!"

Thirty-seven Years Earlier

Early August in the Adirondack Mountains

Near the house on Four Mile Creek

T
his is good here,
the woman thought in so many words. She was inclined to such thoughts. She was a poet, and her work had been published in several university journals and small literary reviews. She had even had a nibble of interest from a New York City book publisher, though she had been giving the whole idea of book publication more than a few second thoughts because she wasn't sure that she was quite ready. She did not believe that her work was yet mannered enough. It tended, as well, toward the darkly romantic, and it was filled with unfortunate angst, worry, and despair. She needed to cultivate a lighter attitude, although poetry, she maintained, should not be about love; it should be about hope, which was so much more than love. It was more than sex, too, of course, which was, itself, so much less than love or hope.

She smiled as these thoughts came to her on this warm and sunlit afternoon. She smiled because she could not remember having had such fanciful thoughts before—perhaps she could work them into a poem before long. She smiled, too, because the birds were gaily chattering at her, and because the squirrels were gamboling playfully among the oaks and tulip trees, and because the honeybees were busily foraging among the wildflowers.

It was surely a poet's day!

She was happy there was no one else about. Happy that Thomas had found this secluded place for them to raise their three young daughters. As a family, they could choose when to engage in social relationships, and they could choose when to employ solitude, which was what she had chosen for herself today. She thought that she would like to lie down in the tall, pale green grass. It was something she had never done before, though she had seen it depicted in paintings. She had always been a little leery of doing it herself because meadows such as this were alive with insects and spiders. But she thought that should be of no consequence to her. Insects and spiders were, after all, a part of the natural and benevolent world to which Thomas had brought her and the children. He might not be a kind and benevolent man himself, but Thomas Erthmun was thoughtful enough to put his wife and daughters in a kind and benevolent place.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in a line of trees not far off, as if someone were running. She turned her head quickly, but saw nothing. She sighed. Who could be here? It was miles to another house, and besides, their land was posted. Perhaps she had seen a deer, or a fox. Yes, of course. There was no doubt of it. She had seen a deer or a fox. It made her glad, and she smiled again.

But she did not lie down in the weeds right away. She kept her eyes on the line of trees where she had seen movement until, at last, a chipmunk appeared on the side of a great oak and she sighed again and thought,
Well, that is what I saw. A chipmunk.
And she lay down in the tall weeds, adjusted herself so her head was comfortably on a clump of earth, spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and let the warm sunlight play on her face.
This was wonderful
, she thought.
This was heaven
. Alone with the works of nature. Alone with what God had wrought. Somewhere in this experience there was a poem.

She heard movement in the weeds nearby. Her eyes popped open. She thought of calling out, "Who's there?" But she kept silence. Who
could
be there? Who would disturb this perfect and poetic moment, these minutes stolen from eternity, this time that she had given to her soul so it could breathe? But still, she turned her head a little and looked in the direction where she had heard movement. She saw the tops of oak and tulip trees, a coagulated mass of pale green grasses, a praying mantis moving on the earth close to her face. She listened. After a minute, she closed her eyes again and let the sunlight play on her skin, and let her soul breathe.

She was dressed well, in a long, flowing, earth-colored skirt and a green cotton long-sleeved blouse that had no pockets, and which billowed nicely around her breasts, and hugged her waist. Her hair was red, and she wore it long. Thomas had told her often that she was an attractive woman, and she knew that it was true, but she did not want to cultivate this attractiveness because that would be superficial.

Sleep had never come with difficulty to her, and it did not come with difficulty now. The sun was warm, a leisurely breeze was stirring the tall, pale green grasses, and she was alone in the meadow, except for her soul, which could soar on the wings of this glorious day.

So she slept.

And dreamed.

And, in her dream, she saw the face of an angel above her. It was a dark and perfect face, and its eyes were sky-blue, and enormous passion was in its mouth.

And then she felt her own passion responding, felt it swelling up from within her, heard the moans that came from her own mouth, and felt, too quickly, too quickly, the inrush of seed and love and man.

And she awoke breathing very hard, and saw that her earth-colored skirt was around her waist, and that her panties were torn, and her legs wide, and that the insides of her thighs were chaffed and wet. And she heard something moving swiftly off through the sunlit weeds.

And when she turned her head to look, she saw flowing dark hair, and a naked back.

And she screamed.

P
atricia David had never visited Erthmun at his apartment in the West Village. She had never needed to—she'd always assumed that their relationship was strictly professional. She had suspected, in fact, that she didn't like him very much. She respected him as a cop, but he was often humorless, distant, off-putting, at times even rude. He was clearly a man who valued his privacy, and she had always been more than happy to give it to him.

So she was a little perplexed as to why she was ringing his buzzer and waiting for some response from him through the building's intercom. She could have telephoned. She had no reason to believe—now that their professional relationship had been put on hold—that he needed to see her any more than she thought she needed to see him.

She rang the buzzer for a third time. Shit, it was obvious that he wasn't home. She reached behind her, found the knob for the outside door.

"Yes?" she heard through the intercom. She hesitated, let go of the knob, pressed the talk button. "Jack?" she said tentatively.

"Yes."

"It's me. Patricia."

Silence.

"Jack?"

"I'm here. What is it?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I was a little . . . concerned."

"Concerned. Do you want to come up?"

"Not if I'm disturbing you. Am I dis—"

The inner door clicked; she grabbed the knob, opened the door, heard, "You know the apartment number?"

She stretched her arm back for the talk button and called, "Yes. It's how I buzzed you in the first place."

"Oh, of course," Erthmun said.

H
e had wrapped himself in a green quilt to answer his door. She thought that he was shivering a little beneath it, and that he did not look rested or happy. He even seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"You were asleep, Jack?" Patricia said from outside the door. "I'm sorry." She glanced at her watch, saw that it was barely 8:00 p.m., gave him a look of concern. "Are you ill?"

He shook his head. "Ill? No, it's all right." His voice was hoarse. "Come in." He backed unsteadily away from the door.

She looked past him, into the apartment, first. It was dark, except for light filtering in from beyond the windows. She said, "Could you turn a light on, Jack?"

He nodded and flipped a switch next to the doorway.

A low-wattage overhead copper fixture bathed the room in a soft, yellowish light. She saw a threadbare, red couch under the windows, a white enamel dining table and two white wooden chairs, a small refrigerator; a black clock radio stood on top of the refrigerator.

Jack took another step back. "Are you coming in?" he said; he sounded peeved.

But she thought she wasn't sure if she was coming in. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Jesus, the man lived like a hermit, and from his tone and demeanor, she was the last person he wanted to see tonight.

"Patricia, please," he coaxed. "I'm glad you're here."

"You are?"

He managed a lopsided smile.

She stepped into the apartment. He closed the door. She stood quietly for a moment, then said, "This is very Spartan, isn't it?"