Panic Attack (28 page)

He was glad to be inside the house, and the damn dog’s barking was finally dying down. He turned on the charm so she wouldn’t notice his gloves or that he looked like, well, like someone who was going to kill her. The way she was looking at him, acting all flirty, he knew she wanted him, and he could’ve seduced her. He would’ve loved to have added her to his long list of conquests. Man, would that have been a trip, to screw Adam Bloom’s wife before he killed her? But Johnny wasn’t an idiot. He knew that banging her would get him into all kinds of trouble with DNA, and he wanted to play this thing right.

Still, he wanted to have a little fun with this thing— if he couldn’t actually screw her, at least he could make her think he was going to. Meanwhile, when she went to get him some iced tea, he grabbed a chef ’s knife, one that had about an eight- inch blade, from the knife rack on the counter. This was part of his plan, as he’d seen the knives when he was in the kitchen the other night. When she asked him to sit down he didn’t, but she didn’t seem to notice that he had the knife there behind his back. Then, what the hell, he told her how attracted he was to her, and he could tell she wanted him so badly, even if she was acting like she didn’t. But he didn’t want her to flip out, start screaming, so he decided to just get it over with.

He’d never killed with a knife before, but he’d killed with a switchblade and once with a shank that time at Rikers. He knew that the key to killing with any type of blade was to not be half- assed about it. Anybody could stick a knife a few inches into a body— hell, a weak old lady could probably give you a nice little wound. But to do serious damage you had to go all the way with it. You had to fight through that next inch or two of muscle and maybe bone so you could cut up the major arteries and organs. So when Johnny stabbed her in the middle of the back, he made sure he did it hard enough to get most of the blade in; then he pushed even harder, feeling it cut through something, and it went in easier. When he’d gotten about five or six inches of the blade in and it wouldn’t go any farther, he let go of her.

He backed away, watching her squirm around in her blood on the kitchen floor. He hated watching her suffer. He would’ve loved to yank the knife out of her back and slit her throat or stab her right in the heart, get it over with, but he didn’t want blood to splatter everywhere, especially on him. From what he could tell, he only had a little blood on his gloves and on the edge of the right sleeve of his sweatshirt, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The important thing was that although Dana was still alive and moaning and trying to crawl away, she wasn’t actually screaming in pain, maybe because she was too weak and couldn’t get the air into her lungs. The knife had probably gone into one of her lungs— or maybe there was too much blood coming up out of her mouth. So Johnny just stood back, waiting for her to bleed out, trying to make her feel better by saying things like “Just let it go” and “Stop fighting it.”

It really sucked that it was taking her so long to die. Eventually she stopped moaning, but she was still squirming. The suffering was hard to watch, but there was something about the blood that Johnny found, well, beautiful. Maybe he was starting to take this art shit too seriously, but the, what was that word, contract? No, contrast. Yeah, he loved the contrast of the bright red blood on the white tiled floor. Also, he loved the way the blood was spreading away from the body, the puddles expanding very slowly but keeping their perfect rounded shape. When he got home later he was going to try to re- create this scene, try to get this same shade of red. He’d probably have to mix a little white into the red, and he’d use oils, not acrylics. Maybe he’d do a whole series of paintings, call them his Bloodworks. Oh, man, was he a genius or what? He could see his paintings hanging at the Met— or what was that one across the street, the Prick?— and all the uppity art lovers going on and on about what a genius he was. Yeah, they would all be talking in big words about the “message” of the paintings. He could hear them saying they were a comment on society, on “our times.” They’d probably invite him to all their parties, all the rich people tripping over themselves, wanting to talk to the man who’d painted the Bloodworks.

Finally she stopped moving. He went up to her, getting as close as he could without stepping in the blood puddle, and looked at her face and saw her wideopen eyes and thought,
Yeah, she’s dead. Finally.

He left the knife right where it was, in her back, and then he took another knife from the rack. This one had a bigger blade— maybe closer to ten inches— and he stood back, waiting for Adam to show up.

It was 6:52 according to the clock on the stove. Hopefully Adam had left work at six after his last patient. If he came right home by subway he would be here any minute. When Johnny heard him coming in through the front door, he’d stay off to the side, in the nook between the table and the entrance to the dining room. Adam would see his wife on the floor and be distracted, and then Johnny would attack him. He would try to stab him as few times as possible, though he knew this would be harder with Adam because he’d fight back and it might be hard to get the blade deep enough into the heart or lungs. The key would be to kill him as fast as possible, before he had a chance to scream too much. If Johnny had to stab him three, four, five times or more to get this done, then so be it. The bottom line was he needed Dana and Adam to both be discovered dead, slashed to death, on their kitchen floor. Then police would look to the obvious suspect—“Tony from the gym.” Johnny felt sorry for fucking up the poor sucker’s life, but what could you do?

Although Johnny didn’t think he’d gotten any blood on his shoes, he didn’t want to risk walking around the house. He looked at the body for a while, still loving that shade of red; then he looked over toward the blackboard where someone— probably Adam— had written
I want you to move out
.

This was almost too perfect. It was like the Blooms were helping, not only to get themselves killed but to give Johnny the perfect alibi. Their marriage was such a mess that the cops would go right to that Tony guy and arrest his ass. Johnny wanted to stay cool and in control, but it was hard not to feel excited. He was so close to the big prize, to getting everything he’d ever wanted, that he didn’t feel like he was in the Blooms’ house anymore. It was
his
house, and he couldn’t wait to get rid of all the Blooms’ stuff and then go on a spending spree, spend fifty grand— hell, why not a hundred or two hundred?— and fill it up with everything he’d ever wanted.

The only problem was that Johnny needed Adam dead and Adam wasn’t showing up. Johnny figured Adam must’ve left his office at about six, and even if he walked very slowly to the subway, the trip to Forest Hills wouldn’t take him more than an hour. He hoped nothing was wrong with the subways and that Adam didn’t have other plans this evening. Johnny had done everything he could to make this plan go as smoothly as possible, but some things were beyond his control.

At seven o’clock, about fifteen minutes since Dana had died, there was still no sign of Adam. To keep his alibi, Johnny had to meet Marissa at seven thirty. He could be a few minutes late, but he didn’t want to arrive any later than seven forty, seven forty- five the absolute latest. If he was too late, it could be something Marissa would wonder about, and he didn’t want any complications.

Johnny was staring at his watch, telling himself that he’d give it another ten minutes, till ten after seven, and then he’d take off, when the phone rang. The noise startled him, and for a second he even thought that the house’s alarm had gone off. After four rings, either the caller hung up or the answering machine answered. Johnny waited till seven ten, then gave it another five minutes, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He decided to look at the bright side— the day hadn’t been a total bust; at least he’d gotten rid of one of the Blooms. One down, two to go.

Johnny had brought a full change of clothes in his backpack, including another pair of shoes, his leather jacket, and another pair of leather gloves. But since he didn’t think he’d gotten any blood anywhere except on his sweatshirt, all he needed was the jacket.

He put the unused knife back in the rack. As he took off his sweatshirt, pulling it up over his head, he thought about hairs and fibers from his hat and DNA evidence. He tried to be as careful as possible, but even if a piece of hair fell out onto the floor he didn’t see why this would be any big deal. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been in the house before. Why couldn’t the hair have fallen out the other day?

Just in case, when he had the sweatshirt off he crouched down and looked around. Nope, no hairs.
He put on his leather jacket and leather gloves and then put the sweatshirt away in the backpack. Walking around the body and the blood, he left the kitchen and went through the house toward the front entrance. It sucked that he couldn’t leave through the back, where he was much less likely to be noticed, but he didn’t want to risk the dog making a racket again.
Outside it had gotten totally dark. He opened the front door cautiously. If Bloom was there, Johnny would have to do something to get rid of him. He’d have to strangle him, crack his head open, something like that. He had his gun with him, but he didn’t want to shoot him. If the cops found Dana with a knife in her back and Adam with a bullet in his head, they might not focus on Tony as the suspect. Johnny needed the cops to think that Tony had taken the knife and impulsively stabbed Dana. But if Adam got shot the cops might think,
Why didn’t Tony use the gun on Dana?
See, Johnny was always thinking, he was always one step ahead.
When Johnny looked out toward the street, Adam wasn’t in sight. The coast seemed clear in both directions, and he didn’t hear any cars coming, so he calmly left the house and then turned right and headed down the block to the Saturn. He pulled out and turned onto the main street and, son of a bitch, there was Adam, walking along the sidewalk, holding two bags of groceries.
Johnny hoped the asshole knew how lucky he was.

On his way to work Adam made an emergency appointment with Carol. Reaching her on her cell— she was on a Metro North train, en route from her home in New Rochelle— he told her that he was in the midst of a “major crisis” and had to meet with her immediately.

“My schedule’s full today,” she said.
“I have to see you,” he said desperately. “My life’s falling apart.” She called him back a few minutes later, saying that she’d postponed her ten

o’clock appointment so that she could meet with him.
It was the most difficult session Adam had had in years. As he described to
Carol everything that had happened yesterday after he returned from his golf
game, he broke down crying several times, especially when he described how
“enraged” and “out of control” he’d felt. Naturally Carol was very detached and
supportive. When patients were in the midst of a crisis it was important to let
them express themselves, and it was no time for a therapist to intrude with “solutions.” Carol mainly listened, maintaining the constant highly concerned expression that all therapists mastered, as he went on, except during the times he
was most upset, when she gave him generic tidbits of support, telling him that it
was “natural” to act the way he did and that he didn’t have to “apologize for his
feelings.” When he was through with his venting she challenged him a bit more, but still remained very supportive, telling him that he’d felt hurt and betrayed
and assuring him that he’d acted the best he could under the circumstances. As the session continued, Adam became increasingly agitated, frustrated,
and annoyed. This was one of those situations where Adam was hyperaware of
the therapeutic pro cess, so much so that he felt it was impossible to make any
true inroads. He didn’t want to be coddled and manipulated by his analyst. He
didn’t want to buy into the idea that his behavior had been justified, that he’d
done the right thing. He knew he’d acted like a total schmuck yesterday. He’d
been out of control, in a reactive state, and had expressed his anger extremely
poorly. Picking the fight with Tony had been bad enough, but then he’d made
another extremely poor decision by revealing his affair with Sharon. There had
been no reason to drag her into it, possibly damaging her marriage and compounding the hurt for Dana and even Marissa.
“This isn’t working,” Adam announced.
Carol, completely unfazed, giving her patient the room to express himself,
asked, “What isn’t working?”
“This,” Adam said. “What you’re doing right now. I know what you’re doing,
because I’d be doing exactly the same thing. You’re trying to treat me, and I
don’t want to be treated.”
“What do you want?”
“I want solutions, I want answers, but I’m never going to get them this way.” “How can you get them?”
“See? You can’t stop analyzing me, not even for a second. Analysis won’t
work on me. I can help other people, I
know
I’ve helped other people, but I need
to be told what to do, I need to be fixed. I’m screwing up my whole life right
now, and I feel like I can’t stop myself. I feel like I’m addicted to very negative
behavior.”
“You know I can’t tell you what to do, Adam.”
“Can’t you just talk to me like a normal human being?”
“If you wanted to talk to a normal human being you wouldn’t’ve called me
this morning.”
There was a long pause; then they both laughed, a nice icebreaker. “Fine, you want me to help you. You don’t need my help. How’s that for help?” “I’m not a victim, right? I’m in control of my life, it’s not controlling me.” “See? You have all the answers.”
“But knowing this doesn’t help me.”
“That’s a decision you’re making. Do you really want your marriage to
end?”
“No,” he said without hesitation, and at that moment he felt he’d made a
breakthrough. True breakthroughs were rare in the therapeutic pro cess, but in
his experiences with his own patients he’d seen them come at the least expected
times. In his case, by confronting Carol about his lack of progress he’d ironically
made more progress than he had in years.
Adam desperately needed a day off to pro cess his feelings, but he couldn’t
go home. Although he’d gotten more cancellations and no- shows, he still had
several patients scheduled. In his current mindset, it was difficult to take on the
role of therapist and counsel other people, but he did his best to be attentive,
and he managed to get through the day.
After his last patient, he did some insurance paperwork, then left his office
at about six fifteen. When he left the subway station in Forest Hills he called
home. He wanted to apologize to Dana for giving her the silent treatment and
for leaving that note on the blackboard, but the machine answered. He wondered if she was home but was screening his calls. He was going to leave a message or say something like “If you’re there, pick up, I need to speak to you,” but
he ended the call, figuring he’d see her in a few minutes anyway. He stopped at a grocery store and did some shopping for the house. There
was a long line at the checkout counter, and then the woman ahead of him disputed the price of a canister of coffee, so the cashier— who seemed new— had
to do a price check. She paged the manager, but it took several minutes for him
to come over and then several more minutes for him to find the actual price
and remove the overcharge. Finally Adam checked out and headed home. He couldn’t wait to see Dana, to start communicating with her again. He’d
had enough of the childish behavior of the past couple of days and it was time to
act like an adult and confront this situation head- on. He knew it wouldn’t be
easy. He planned to apologize to her for his inappropriate behavior— while not
blaming her for hers— and suggest that they go into counseling. He still felt angry and betrayed, but he felt like he was ready to reach out to Dana and make a
recommitment to the marriage. If it turned out they couldn’t resolve their differences, then so be it, but he felt it was important to at least make a serious attempt. He entered the house, noticing that the lights were on upstairs and in the
kitchen but the rest of the house was dark.
“Dana!”
No answer.
He called out, “Dana!” a little louder, but there was still no response. He figured she probably heard him loud and clear and was just giving him the silent treatment to get back at him for the way he’d treated her last night and this morning. She often played childish revenge games, though in this situation he
couldn’t blame her.
But then, as he was hanging up his coat in the hall closet, he thought,
What
if she’s with Tony
? It certainly wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that they’d
decided to continue their affair. People in full- blown affairs often found it extremely difficult to break up with their lovers. A patient had once told Adam
that having to end an affair was one of the most painful experiences of his life,
on par with the deaths of his parents.
“Dana!” he called upstairs. “Dana, are you there?”
The house was almost completely silent; the only noise was the wind rattling the dining room windows.
He tried not to get too upset. After all, nothing had actually happened. He’d
simply made up a scenario in his head and was reacting to it. He had to be
aware of his anger and monitor its effect. As he often reminded his patients,
feelings were fleeting. No one stayed angry forever, and no one stayed happy
forever, so if you became too attached to your emotions you were setting yourself up for disappointment.
Feeling in control, in what he sometimes referred to as an even- keel state, he
entered the kitchen.
At first, he didn’t know what he was looking at. He just knew it that it was
something strange, something he’d never seen before. He registered the bright
red liquid and the body— a woman’s body— and the knife in her back. It took at least another ten seconds before it hit him that he was staring at
his dead wife.