Red 1-2-3 (12 page)

the dean asked.

Jordan realized that she was hunched over slightly in her seat, arms tight to her stomach as if she was in pain. She slowly rearranged herself so she wouldn’t appear so crippled. “I’ll work harder,” she said.

The dean hesitated. “I don’t know that it’s about hard work, Jordan. It’s about trying to regain your focus.”

“I’ll focus harder,” she said.

He shook his head, but only slightly. “You have to try to put some of these distractions aside and concentrate on what is important to you.”

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JOHN KATZENBACH

“I’ll try,” she answered. She did not blurt out,
Don’t you goddamn think
that staying alive is what’s important to me?

“We all want to help you, Jordan, because getting through this difficult time is crucial for your future.”

I might just not have a future.

She took a deep breath and composed herself. The dean, she thought, wasn’t a bad guy. He really did mean well. She had a tinge of envy. She didn’t think her parents had any pictures on any wall of anything she had ever done, or anything they had all done together in happier times, although she couldn’t recall any
happier times
at all, or when they’d ever done something together.

She thought for a moment about her response. She understood that if there was a moment where she should bring up the Big Bad Wolf, this was it.

You think it’s just my parents’ ugly divorce that’s fucking me up? Hell no.

Screw them. It’s really that there’s some crazy guy out there who thinks I’m
Little Red Riding Hood and he wants to eat me. Not really eat me. He’s just
going to kill me. It’s the same thing.

But she didn’t say this. It sounded too wild.

A part of her was shouting inside her head:
You all want to help me?

Well, get a gun. Hire a bodyguard. Call the damn Marines. Maybe they can
protect me!

None of these angry thoughts tumbled out of her mouth. Instead, she quietly replied, “I’ll do the best I can.” She kept her voice low, almost as if speaking in a confessional, except she had never been to a confessional and wasn’t about to start anytime soon.

It wasn’t really the right thing to say. And she could see disappointment in the dean’s eyes. She liked that. At least he wasn’t being phony.

She started to open her mouth again, to let loose some great stew of pain over her parents, over her failures, over her isolation, and finally over her fear that she was being stalked and on a list to die and there was nothing she could do about it. She was halfway to letting it all tumble out, when she stopped.

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RED 1–2–3

She nearly gasped out loud.

If I tell him about the Wolf, maybe the Wolf will come for him, first.

She glanced around. Happy family pictures. She couldn’t put them in danger.

She saw the dean lean forward. Most people would have seen the motion as concerned. She saw it as predatory.

Maybe
he’s
the Wolf
, she thought suddenly. She felt her stomach tighten.

She clamped down, lip to lip, keeping her secrets to herself.

The dean hesitated, letting uncomfortable silence fill the room like pungent smoke. After what seemed like a very long time, he said, “Okay, Jordan. You know you can come talk to me anytime you want to. And you know I think you should return to seeing the school therapist. I can make the appointments, if you’re willing and you think it will help . . .”

A therapist with a big goddamn gun,
she told herself.
That might help.
Or
maybe a therapist who can double as the sturdy woodsman who saves Little
Red Riding Hood with his stout axe. Except that’s not the ending that the Big
Bad Wolf intends in this retelling, is it?
She didn’t answer her question.

Instead, Jordan pushed herself out of her chair and nodded, but the nod quickly turned into a shake of the head
no
. Then she left, moving rapidly past the dean’s secretary, who half-smiled, half-scowled in her direction, and down a wide flight of stairs and through the doors leading to the school grounds.

The air was raw, but fresh, and she felt like she could bite off pieces of cold and chew them. What she wanted to do was head to the gym, get to practice early, and run harder than any of the other girls on the team. She wanted to sweat. She wanted to smash into other bodies. If she took an elbow to the lip and started to bleed, that would be okay with her. If she did that to a teammate, well, that would be okay, too. She took a couple of strides toward her dormitory, planning on tossing her book bag onto her bed and exiting for the practice courts, when she was suddenly overcome with a single, discouraging thought:
The mail will be delivered by the time I get there.

She did not know there would be another letter from the Wolf. But the electric panic that raced around unchecked within her insisted that would 81

JOHN KATZENBACH

be the case. She hated the sensation of knowing something that couldn’t possibly be true, but nevertheless
was
. It made her stop in her tracks, letting the cool air surround her.
There will be another letter,
she thought.
I
don’t know how I know it, but I know it.

She was partially correct.

There was an envelope waiting for Red One, Red Two, and Red Three.

But this time there was no letter.

Each envelope contained a single line of type specific for each Red.

Karen Jayson received:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wsxty1xl.Red1.

Sarah Locksley received:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wftgh1xl:Red2.

And waiting for Jordan Ellis was:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgtsv1xl:
Red3.

Each was signed with the initials BBW.

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10

The killer’s largest dilemma,
the Big Bad Wolf eagerly wrote,
is precisely
assessing the right sort of proximity. You need to be close—but not too close.

The danger lies in the old cliché: Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn toward
your intended victim. Don’t burn yourself. But interaction is an integral element to the whole death dance. The desire to hear, to touch, to smell is overwhelming. Screams of pain are like music. The sensation of closeness as murder
is delivered is intoxicating. Think of all the elements of a gourmet meal, how
each spice, each foodstuff, blends its flavor with the others in a single unique
experience. Conjuring up a five-star dinner is no different from sculpting a
proper killing.

In the fairy tale, the Wolf doesn’t merely stalk Little Red Riding Hood
through the forest. That’s far too simple an interpretation. He is at home there.

His resources are double, maybe triple, hers. His eyesight is sharper. His sense
of smell is immensely better. He can outrun her. He can outthink her. He is
deep in his element, familiar with every tree and every moss-covered rock. She
is only a frightened interloper, alone and way out of her depth. She is young
and naïve. He is older, wiser, and far more sophisticated. In reality, the Wolf
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JOHN KATZENBACH

could kill her at any point as she stumbles helplessly through the thick thorns,
brambles, and dark shadows. But that would be far too easy. It would make
the kill too routine. Mundane. He has to move closer. He has to communicate
directly before death. It’s those moments that make the killing experience come
alive. Ears. Eyes. Nose. Teeth. He wants to hear the tremble of uncertainty in
her voice and sense the rapid beat of her heart. He wants to see panic grow
on her brow as she slowly comes to the realization of what is going to occur.

He wants to smell her fear. And ultimately what he wants is to hold all the
intimacies of murder in his paw . . . before he tastes what he has dreamed of
and bares his teeth.

Just like an author, the Wolf needs to write her death.

He had been typing quickly, but as he wrote the word
death
he suddenly pushed back in his office chair, bending over slightly. He rubbed his open palms hard against his old corduroy jeans, feeling the fading ridges of the soft material, and creating heat in the same way that rubbing sticks together can create flame. He wished he could stand next to each Red, just to see the impact of his second letter. This was a desire so intense that it abruptly drove him to his feet, where he punched the empty air in front of him with a series of quick, short jabs, like a boxer who has just injured his opponent and closes in on him as he senses weakness and opportunity at the same instant, oblivious to the rising noise from the crowd and the imminent ring of the bell. The Wolf turned away from the computer and his desk and exited quickly. He locked his office and then hurried through the house. He remembered to grab an overcoat from the rack by the front door, although he thought he wouldn’t need it. He was warm enough already.

He drove hard, maybe a little too fast, cutting corners and running through yellow lights, until he reached the school. He parked on an adjacent street, where he had a distant view of the main campus walkways through black iron fence bars.

“Where are you, Red Three?” he whispered. He took a quick glance at his watch. He inwardly counted down:
five, four, three . . .
knowing that a bell would peal and fourth-period classes would shift to fifth period.

American history to English comp,
he told himself.

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RED 1–2–3

He scrunched down in his seat. “Come on, ring, damn it,” he said.

Obligingly, the bell sounded, just as he knew it would.

There was a brief moment of hesitancy, as if the entire campus landscape had shrugged and then doors started to open and squads of teenagers filled the quadrangle, moving from one obligation to the next. It was a sea of blue jeans and parkas. He bent forward, wiping the moisture off the interior glass of his car window.

“Where are you, Red Three?” he repeated.

He caught a glimpse of strawberry red, stuffed beneath a woolen cap.

He spotted a hesitant stride a few paces behind a clutch of students. He wanted to see her stumble, maybe even collapse in fear, lying in a heap on the black macadam path.

He smiled.

“I’m here,” he spoke softly. “And you know it, don’t you?”

The real answer to this question was
no.
But the better answer was
yes.

The Wolf watched as the far-off image of Red Three disappeared into another classroom building. For an instant he glanced around. He was alone, in his car, on an empty street. He thought that he was camouflaged, just like any forest predator: an ordinary man, behind the wheel of an ordinary car, on an ordinary day, seemingly doing nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

He started the car up.
Two more stops,
he told himself.
Maybe just a lucky
drive-by. And we shall see what we shall see.

He inhaled sharply. He could smell uncertainty. Doubt. Subtle scents that shortly would be replaced by the stronger odor of terror.

None of the three Reds had immediately searched out the YouTube address that had arrived in the daily mail. Each stared first at the envelope, and then when indecision grew like a shriek within them and they tore open the gummed paper, they each stared at the letter-and-number hieroglyph centered on each page. One minute became two. Two became ten.

Each Red felt as if she was sliding recklessly out of control.

* * *

JOHN KATZENBACH

Karen Jayson dropped the sheet of paper into her lap. She had climbed back behind the wheel of her car, locked the doors, and then froze in place until she got up the courage to open it up and read the single line contained within. She then gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles whitened as she lost time to fear. It was a little like passing out, or going into a fugue state. She was staring through the windshield up the driveway to her home, but she no longer could see the trees, the twisting gravel trail, or the outline of her house just beyond. She had plummeted into some different place, where she teetered on panic. When she finally, painfully drew herself back into the world in front of her, she realized that in a short time whatever the Wolf wanted her to see would likely twist her further.

Lost in a type of daze, she felt a sudden shaft of fear when a car passed behind her on the country road that led to her driveway. She pivoted about, imagining that the car had slowed, inspecting her—but by the time she turned, the car was gone.

If there even was a car.

She was no longer sure.

She could not organize her thoughts or her feelings. For a woman who prided herself on knowledge and the steady application of facts to any situation, it was this that frightened her as much as anything. She realized she had a death-grip on her steering wheel and thought she would break it off in her hands. She slammed into gear and crushed the accelerator beneath her right foot, spitting stones and dirt from beneath the car, swerving madly as she fruitlessly tried to flee from her emotions.

Sarah Locksley hid in the bathroom.

She locked the door behind her, then pushed herself toward the sink, ran cold water into the basin, and dashed it on her face, where the droplets mixed freely with her tears.

Her breath came in short gasps ripped from her chest. Her hands felt clammy against the porcelain. She could feel her grip weakening and she felt dizzy.
It has to be all the booze and all the drugs,
she told herself, insisting on a falsehood when she knew that the truth was that it was fear.

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RED 1–2–3

She could feel her balance fleeing, as if whatever held her upright was draining out of her like blood from a wound. She glanced down at the sheet of paper. She wanted to crumple it up and toss it into the toilet and flush it away like so much waste. But as strong as this desire was, she knew she wouldn’t do it.