The Third Victim (17 page)

The ballpoint pen, the tablet, the envelopes and the stamps were still in their plastic envelopes—still in the tray, still at home. And—still—his mother was sprawled on the blood-puddled floor. He couldn’t go home.

But if he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t get the pen and paper. He couldn’t write—couldn’t strike back. All over the city—the state—the country—they were reading these words.

It was wrong to tell a lie.

He’d written to explain. To warn them. All of them. And because he’d written, they’d come after him, all together. They’d tracked him with cars and radios and guns—even with dogs. He’d told them—written to them with his ballpoint pen—that only he could discover the putrefying truth, unclean. Only he could hear it and see it and smell it. So, therefore, only he could judge them. But finally they always judged themselves. They knew that their screams condemned them. They knew, and he knew. They were guilty. So they screamed.

So they must die. Them, or him. Instantly.

In seconds, therefore, he must decide. Because sound traveled fast, and danger traveled faster. Only the knife, ready, had saved him—the knife the last time, his fingers the first time. Except that, the first time, he hadn’t known that he’d done it—finally done it. He’d tried to run away, escape. But his fingers had wrenched him back to the bed. He’d looked down to see his fingers crooked around her throat, locked fast. With the echo of her screams still ear-ringing, with the sound of her child crying in the next room, he’d been trapped by his own fingers, frozen to her flesh, unclean. He’d been helpless. Terrified, and helpless. With both hands locked, he couldn’t use one hand to tear the other loose. She’d trapped him. Dead, she’d trapped him—fastened herself to him, forever. He’d felt the sound of fury and fear rising in his throat. If he’d cried out—surrendered—nothing could have saved him.

But then, at the last moment, he’d saved himself. He’d bent down and used his teeth to pull the fingers loose, one by one. His fingers had bled, but he’d finally freed himself.

He’d been surprised, the next day, to find her watch in his pocket—surprised to find the watch’s crystal blood-crusted. Because, that time, there’d been no blood. No blood but his.

PROGRESS REPORTED IN TAROT CASE…

He was reading it again, more slowly this time. And, this time, he was smiling.

Loonies…

Reading the word now, he could smile. Because, plainly, the news story was a trick. Unable to find him, they hoped to anger him—to trap him into answering, just as he’d almost done.

He lowered the paper, folded it, placed it beside him on the bench. On the grass before him, two women were spreading out a blanket. A wicker basket was on the blanket. One of the women began unpacking the basket, spreading out plastic dishes filled with food.

The time, then, was noon.

At Gorlick’s, they’d know he was missing—that he hadn’t reported for work. Mr. Bingham, angry, would phone his home. He’d done it before. Twice before. There’d be no answer at home. So, immediately, Mr. Bingham would be suspicious. And the neighbors with their darting eyes would be suspicious too. The police might be called. They might come for him, as they’d done in St. Louis. They’d arrived in a black car with a red light on top. They’d take him away, handcuffed. They’d put him in a cell, where demons howled all night.

All over Santa Barbara, they were looking for him. The black cars with their red lights were crisscrossing the city. And if they entered the small house where his mother lay sprawled on the floor, and if they entered his room, then they’d know his name. In minutes, they’d know his name.

Because the tray lay on the bed. And in the tray, plastic envelopes still remained. One envelope contained the pen, the stationery, the envelopes, and the stamps.

Another envelope contained a watch and a silk stocking. Marie Strauss’s watch. Grace Hawley’s stocking.

It was necessary, then, to remain very still.

His breathing must be shallow. His eyes must remain fixed straight ahead. Knees together, hands motionless in his lap, he must summon the power necessary to surround himself with an invisible field of energy. He must create force waves that could turn aside their hostile stares. He must fade from their sight.

Then, while the energy field was still strong, he must cautiously rise. He must walk slowly to the Yamaha, a block and a half away. As he walked, he would keep his right hand in his pocket, touching the key. Because now, without the key, he could lose everything.

Without the key—without the knife—he was lost.

Without the key, there was no hiding place.

Without the knife, there was no escape.

J
OANNA REACHED FOR A
Bulletin
copy envelope, printed “Gorlick’s 4-col.x16 Saturday” on the flap, and slipped the sketch inside. She slid the envelope into the
Bulletin
’s pickup rack and got to her feet. Rising to tiptoe, she stretched her arms high overhead, breathing deeply.

Another day, another deadline.

Another thirty-two dollars. Thirty-two going on forty, she’d been promised. Yearly salary, eighty-three hundred.

In San Francisco, she’d be making twelve thousand, at least. In New York, she’d be making fifteen.

As she lowered her arms, slowly exhaling, the phone rang.

“Advertising.”

“It’s Sally, Joanna. What’d he
want,
anyhow? I can’t
stand
the suspense.”

“He was just checking, that’s all.”

“Does he think there’s any chance that Tarot could be involved?”

Tarot?

Or Kevin?

Ever since Connoly had left, she’d been trying to block out the interrogation from her mind—trying to forget that, really, many of Connoly’s suspicions matched her own last night.

“Well,” Sally demanded. “Does he?”

“No. I told you—he’s just checking everything that comes along. It’s like you said this morning. He’s—”

A knock sounded; the door was opening. Tom Southern stood in the doorway, arms folded, leaning gracefully against the door frame. One eyebrow arched, he was staring at her quizzically.

“Did someone come in?” Sally was asking.

“Yes. Tom.”

“Oh.
Well.
” It was a bated-breath burlesque. “In
that
case, I’ll hang up. Call me back, deadlines permitting.”

“I will. ’Bye.” As she hung up, Tom said, “I hear the fuzz was by. Was it about that switch-blade knife? Did you call them?”

“I’m afraid not. The neighbors called them.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “I guess the police’ll put it in the computer.”

Still with his arms folded, posed in the doorway, he sardonically smiled. “I doubt very much that the S.B.P.D. has a computer.”

About to answer his smile, she suddenly blinked.
Their date.
She’d forgotten their date tonight. All day, she’d thought of nothing but Kevin—wondering whether he’d fixed the car, wondering what he and Josh were doing. And, most of all, she’d wondered whether Kevin would stay for dinner tonight. For Josh’s sake, at least.

And for her sake, too.

Because, whatever might have been missing last night, however uncomfortable breakfast might have been this morning, they’d nevertheless been a family again. They’d—

“What’s the matter?” Tom was asking.

“I—” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, Tom.”

His smile twisted unpleasantly. “You’re talking about tonight. Right?”

“I—Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“What’s the problem?”

She drew a deep breath, then told of the prowler last night, and of Kevin’s all-night visit, to protect them.

“So what’s that got to do with tonight?” he asked. And then, sardonically: “Or am I being naive?”

“I—” She felt her face flushing. Was it anger? Confusion? Guilt?

“Is your husband moving back in? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No. It’s just that—”

“Why don’t I take the duty tonight? I’ll get steaks and wine, and we’ll have dinner at your place. Then I’ll protect you. I’ll even make the supreme sacrifice and stay all night. After all, we can’t be too careful.”

“This isn’t a game, Tom. It’s no joke.”

“I agree. If you’ll remember, I was the one who advised you to call the police, remember?”

“I was thinking of Josh. I didn’t want to upset him. I still don’t. And that’s why I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come over tonight.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, I—I’m trying to make it easy for Josh. I mean, a divorce is traumatic, for a child. And I don’t want any—” She hesitated. “Any overnight guests. Any uncles.”

“All right, Joanna.” He pushed himself away from the door frame, flipping a casual hand. “Suit yourself. When you get it all sorted out, let me know.”

Before she could reply, he’d disappeared.

“Let me do a little bit, Daddy.” Josh reached for the screwdriver. “I can do it.”

“All right, give it a try.” Kevin handed over the screwdriver and stepped back. With one more screw in place, the bolt on the basement door would be secure. With bolts on both the kitchen doors and a chain on the front door, Joanna would be safe.

“Ooops.” The screwdriver slipped, scarring the wood of the door.

“Want me to take a turn?”

Nodding, Josh surrendered the screwdriver and stepped back. “We fixed this too, didn’t we, Daddy? We fixed this and the car both.” The thin, piping voice was comically self-important.

“We sure did, Josh.”

“Do you have to go back to work, Daddy?”

“No. I just phoned the station. There’s no sweat.” He gave the screw a final twist, then slid the bolt. It was perfectly aligned—a good job. “Why don’t you get your rubber boat, Josh? I thought that’s why we came home—to get the stuff you need for the beach.”

“I don’t know where the…” Searching for a word, the boy frowned.

“The what?”

“The thing you—the
pump
thing.”

“I’ll look for it.” He opened the kitchen closet—the catchall closet. Partially concealed, the bellows-type pump lay on the floor.

“Here it is.”

Josh shook his head. “I don’t mean that. I mean the thing you put on it. Mommy put it away, because we already lost three.”

“The needle, you mean.”

Brightening, Josh nodded.

“All right. You get the boat and your swimsuit and whatever else you need. I’ll see if I can find the needle.” He waited until the boy disappeared down the hallway, then turned to the overhead cupboard. Everything not meant for Josh’s eyes was on the highest shelf. Opening the cupboard door, he pushed aside a box of Bisquick and took down a shallow cardboard box—the “spare-key box,” they’d always called it.

A switch-blade knife lay among the miscellaneous jumble. It was, obviously, the prankster’s knife: Joanna’s first hint that something could be wrong. He tested the edge. The blade was razor-sharp. How did the blade retract? He couldn’t decide. There was a second button on the slim, lethally shaped handle. But he couldn’t—

The phone was ringing. Josh was in the hallway, laden with beach gear.

“I’ll get it, Daddy.” Dumping everything in the middle of the hallway, Josh ran for the living room. Hastily Kevin dropped the knife into the box, blade open, and picked up the needle valve.

“It’s Mommy, Daddy. She wants to talk to you.”

“Right.” He replaced the Bisquick, closed the cupboard, and hurried into the living room.

“Hello?”

“Did you get the car fixed?”

“Yes. And I—we—just put a bolt on the basement door.”

“Thank you.” A pause. Then: “Are you going to the beach, you and Josh? He’s looking forward to it, I think.”

“Yes. I, ah, had to stop by work for an hour. And it took another hour or so to get the fuel pump and put it on. But we’re going now.”

Another pause. Should he offer to buy groceries, in exchange for a dinner invitation? Josh had already asked him—begged him to stay.

The doorbell rang. He motioned Josh to answer, at the same time saying, “I was wondering whether—”

And she, at the same moment, said, “Would you like to stay for dinner? Again?”

“Well, yes. Fine. Thanks.” Glancing into the front entryway, he saw Josh stepping back, making room for a squat, muscular man with a fullback’s shoulders, a wrestler’s neck, and a pug-featured drill-sergeant’s face.

“Someone’s at the door,” he said into the phone. “Let me get the groceries for dinner.”

“All right. I’ll be home about six.”

“Right. Thanks. Good-bye.”

“’Bye.”

Replacing the phone on the table, he turned to face the burly visitor.

“Mr. Rossiter?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sergeant Matthew Connoly.” A leather billfold containing police identification appeared in the newcomer’s hand. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes?”

Across the street, two teenage boys were throwing a baseball between them. Calling out “strikes” and “balls,” their voices bellowed through the sunny afternoon silence. Too loud, too loud. A white cat was crossing the street, right to left. Five doors away, just beyond her house, a moving van was parked.

Someone was moving out.

TAROT HYSTERIA GRIPS CITY
, one headline had read.

So they were leaving—running. All because of words in a newspaper, pictures on TV. All because of a name that had once been only a thought.

His thought.

Tarot’s.

And now the thought was real. Magically, the thought had become a person—someone they all feared. Because they were moving out. So Tarot was real. Walking with no sound, Tarot was closer to her house, two doors away. Everything was ready—aligned. The Yamaha was parked beside the grocery store, where he’d parked it last night. Everything was the same as it had been last night—everything but the sky, and the sun. Only twice had he come here during the day—once on a Sunday, slowly strolling, and once on a Wednesday, when he’d been a meter man.

And now he was a meter man again. But this time, without the jacket and matching trousers, he was an invisible meter man. With his eyes focused straight ahead, he saw nothing on either side. So he was invisible from either side. He could be seen only from the front—only from the same direction in which he could see. It was only fair. Ipso.