The Third Victim (21 page)

But, that night, she hadn’t awakened—hadn’t screamed. She’d shifted once on the bed, sighed, sniffled, then began breathing deeply again. Beneath the covers, her legs and torso had moved sensuously, obscenely. Still with the clock in his hands, he’d moved to touch the bed with his leg. And the touch had released him—caught him, held him writhing, then released him, crotch-wet, exhausted.

Three days later, he’d returned. It had been necessary to begin where he’d ended, with his legs touching the bed. Standing with his hands empty at his sides, waiting, he’d finally seen her stir. Suddenly her eyes had come open. In the dim light, her wide eyes had stared directly up into his. In slow motion, her lips had parted. Her first words had been a whisper—a soft, puzzled question, sleep-muddled. Then, an instant later, the scream had started. He’d thrown himself on her, felt her body bucking against his—a wild, savage animal, fighting him. With his fingers imbedded deep in the flesh of her throat, they’d rolled from the bed to the floor. But he hadn’t felt the shock of falling, hadn’t heard the noise. His eyes had been closed, his body locked with hers as they struggled. He hadn’t seen the door come open, hadn’t felt the blows. But, when he tried to open his eyes, blood had blinded him—his own blood. They’d used books and ball bats and broken bits of furniture to attack him. Four of them—four men—had pinned him to the floor, one for each arm and leg. The others had passed in and out of his vision like visitors to a zoo. Sometimes their images had faded as his eyes lost focus. When the police arrived, they were laughing at him. With the first sound of their laughter, he’d felt his arms and legs go limp. Because the power of their laughter was too strong for him. He’d even cried, hearing them laugh.

There’d been no arrest. No trial. But they’d locked him up—first in a barred cell, then in a small white room. They’d opened the door and come in and talked to him—detectives, doctors, lawyers from the State. In the small white room, so much like the other one, long ago, he’d first realized that they meant to harm him—that, together, they could garble what he heard, change what he saw, twist what he thought. With their equipment—their scientific instruments—their power was limitless, even stronger than laughter. And then they’d used their equipment to mind-warp his mother, so that she did as they said, thought as they thought—hated as they hated.

But finally he’d been released. And then they’d moved—escaped from St. Louis. An uncle’s letter had come from Santa Barbara—a letter and a check. It was their last chance, his mother had said. She’d cried when she’d said it. And she’d cried when her brother had died, killed on the highway.

And this morning, she’d cried again.

Would she cry forever?

Judy Gray had cried, but not forever. Alive, she wasn’t crying. Only his mother was crying. Only his mother and Marie Strauss and Grace Hawley. They’d cry forever. And all the while, Tarot would—

Upstairs a phone was ringing. Immediately, feet thudded on the floor. Her bed was above the garbage pails, across the basement. But the phone was above him—almost directly above. And now the sound of footsteps was coming closer. Her feet were bare-naked. From the sound, he knew that her feet were naked.

As she lifted the phone she raised her wrist, catching her watch dial in the dim light from the street. The time was almost ten thirty.

“Hello?” Lowering her wrist, she gathered the robe close around her.

“It’s Tom, Joanna. Were you in bed?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

A short, significant pause. Then, with meaningful emphasis: “I thought I should give you another chance.”

“Another chance to do what?”

“To be…” A second pause—longer, more explicitly suggestive. “To be protected. From Tarot, that is.”

“Tom, I was almost asleep. Don’t worry, Tarot won’t get me.”

“I have a bottle of brandy. Hennessy. I thought I’d bring it along.” His voice was almost imperceptibly slurred. Had he been drinking? How many other girls had he tried, earlier in the evening?

“It’s ten thirty, Tom. You—”

The doorbell was ringing.

Was it Kevin? When he’d left, sad-eyed and shaken, he’d promised Josh to return, then told her that he wouldn’t—provided they agreed on a white lie to tell the boy.

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

“It’s the doorbell.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Tom, please.” The doorbell rang again, longer. “Josh’ll wake up in a minute. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right, ducks. There’ll be another chance. One more chance. Fair?”

She laughed softly. “Fair. Good night.” She cradled the phone and moved into the hallway. Peering through a small side window, she saw a uniformed policeman standing on the stoop. A police car waited at the curb.

She turned the lock, slipped the night chain free, and opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Is everything all right, ma’am? We’ve got orders to check. Did I wake you up?”

“I—I wasn’t asleep, thanks. Everything’s all right.”

He nodded, touched the visor of his cap, and turned away. “We’ll be driving by every twenty minutes or so. All night.”

“Good. Thank you.” She relocked the door, slipped the night chain into its slot, and stood watching the tall, slim patrolman stride back to his patrol car. His questions had been polite, but his manner had clearly implied that he considered the call a waste of time. How many hysterical women would he call on that night? How many times would—

“Mommy?”

Startled, she turned sharply and walked quickly through the living room to Josh’s bedroom.

“Was that Daddy?” the sleepy voice asked.

“No, darling. It was—” She hesitated. “It was just someone asking directions.”

“Has Daddy come yet?”

“Not yet, but he will. Now you go to sleep, Josh. It’s late. Have you been awake all this time?”

“I don’t think so.”

In the darkness, she smiled. “All right. Go back to sleep, then.”

“Did you work that bolt that we put on the kitchen door?”

Standing close to his bed now, she reached down to lightly caress her son’s cheek. “Yes, I worked it. You did a beautiful job, honey, and everything’s all right. Thanks to you and—” Her voice caught. “And Dad.”

“You’re welcome.” Already, his eyes were closing. As she bent low over the bed to kiss him lightly on the forehead, she whispered, “Good night, darling. Sweet dreams.”

Across the room, Kevin watched her throw the pen to the floor, then stare moodily at the notebook open on the desk before her. Cathy was writing in her journal. It was a nightly ritual, party nights excepted. Usually the entries covered less than a half page, and took less than a half-hour. Tonight, though, the entry was going badly. In twenty minutes, the pen had twice been thrown to the floor. This time, she made no move to retrieve it, but simply sat motionless, still staring down at the notebook. In profile, backlit by the desk lamp and surrounded by the finespun cloud of her long, loose hair, her face was as innocent and as delicately modeled as a child’s.

Since he’d returned, they’d hardly spoken. The dutifully purchased bottle of Chablis was on the coffee table, uncorked but still almost full. The bottle, unenjoyed, was symbolic of the mood between them. It was a mood of opposites, suspended in delicate equilibrium—a formal truce in the battle between the sexes. Sexual tension crackled between them whenever they moved within reach of each other. It was a tension that could heighten the excitement of love-making, once pride and pique had been resolved.

He watched her suddenly bend forward to snatch up the pen. Beneath a loose-fitting fisherman’s sweater, her breasts swung freely with the quick movement of her torso. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Was it part of her pre-game strategy, not to wear a bra?

He realized that he was ruefully, wearily smiling.

Had he ever played these exhausting little games with Joanna? They’d lived together for three months before they’d gotten married—just a little longer than he’d lived with Cathy. But, seven years ago, there’d been a difference. At the end of their second month together, Joanna had announced that she was pregnant. It had been a raw, windy night in the Village. They’d been sitting in Nick’s, drinking beer and listening to Cal Tjader. There’d been no preliminaries. With downcast eyes she’d simply said, very softly, that she was pregnant.

His first reaction had been dismay. “Oh, Jesus,” he’d muttered, flapping his hand down flat on the table and staring off toward the bandstand. Then, bitterly: “You goofed.”

She’d made no response, simply sitting motionless, head bowed, staring down at the table between them. It had been a penitent’s posture. He’d seen her throat move as she swallowed. Then he’d seen a single tear slowly streaking her cheek—just one tear. He’d seen her lips move as she answered him, but the words were lost in the nightclub noise. It was then that he’d first felt guilt. Her eyes had pleaded with him—pleaded for the baby. He’d—

Across the room, the notebook snapped shut decisively. The desk drawer came open to receive the journal, then, sharply, slid shut. The drawer was never locked. Cathy had never invited him to read the journal, but she never locked the drawer. He’d never peeked.

He watched her switch off the lamp and get to her feet. She was wearing white ducks, tight-cut. The waistband of the outsize fisherman’s sweater hung down almost to mid-thigh, covering her buttocks and crotch. Her feet were bare. He watched her turn to face him fully—watched her breasts rise as she drew a long, deep breath. Was this part of her game strategy too—this sensuous, sinuous lifting of firm, round breasts beneath the soft folds of the sweater? In response, his genitals were tightening. To whose advantage—his or hers?

“It looked like a rugged entry.”

“It was.” She remained as before, standing motionless. Her arms were loose at her sides, relaxed. Her legs were braced at a wide, self-confident angle. Only the bare feet betrayed tension. Her toes were tightly gripping the carpet. In the dimly lit room, her face was shadowed, invisible.

“I was writing about you,” she said finally. “Or, rather, about us.”

Unable to find a suitable-sounding answer, he said only, “It figures.” Then, gesturing to the sofa beside him and speaking lightly: “Sit down.”

In response, she was moving deliberately toward him—reluctantly, almost. Was she unwilling to give up her dominant position, standing with feet braced like a buccaneer’s, staring down at him with eyes he couldn’t see?

“Are you curious?” She sat on the far end of the sofa, facing him. Her legs were drawn up; her back was arched. She was posing for him—provocatively, petulantly posing.

“Does that mean that you want to tell me what you wrote? You never have before.” As he twisted on the sofa to face her, he felt a sudden sense of exasperation. What precisely was he doing in this dimly lit room, playing pre-sex games with someone who didn’t really like him? Two hours ago he’d left his son’s room with tears in his eyes. For the last half-hour, waiting for Cathy to finish her journal entry, he’d been staring at the opened bottle of Chablis, his peace offering, apparently unacceptable.

“It means,” she said, “that I’m puzzled. I have enough trouble, you know, figuring myself out. Let alone figuring
you
out.”

“What’s to figure? If you’re talking about what I did today, it’s simple. I fixed my wife’s car in the morning, and went to the beach with my kid in the afternoon. I ate dinner with them. Then I—”

“I’d like to meet them sometime.” Her voice was expressionless; her eyes revealed nothing. “I never have, you know. Not really.”

“Maybe I can get you a dinner invitation. How about tomorrow night?”

“If that’s supposed to be funny,” she answered, “it doesn’t make it.”

“Sorry.”

For a long, silent moment they stared at each other. Finally, breaking off the contest, he gestured to the Chablis. “Want some?”

“All right.” Sitting perched on her heels, leaning back away from him, she waited for the glass to be put into her hand. Then, speaking in the same low, impersonal voice, she said: “Don’t lay your hangups on me, Kevin. That’s all I ask. That’s all I’ve ever asked.”

“What hangups are those, exactly?” Drinking, he gazed at her over the rim of his glass. His voice, he knew, was mocking. Suddenly he was ready for a fight, superciliously goading her. For the second night, he was ready for a fight.

“For openers,” she answered, “I was thinking of your family problems. Not that you don’t have other problems.”

His invitation to combat had been accepted.

“Suddenly you’re an authority on my hangups.”

“Suddenly you’re laying them on me.”

“Oh, Christ!” He banged down the glass. “You’re the one who’s—”

“Ever since yesterday, you’ve been pouting. And you’ve been taking it out on me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. It so happens, though, that I’ve been hurting lately. That happens sometimes, you know. That’s what divorce is all about. It hurts.”

“It’s not your divorce that’s hurting. It’s your ego. You were doing fine until your producer friend took you over the high hurdles.”

“I don’t believe,” he answered slowly, “that you know what’s hurting me. That’s the trouble with—” He broke off, futilely searching for the word. “With our relationship. Or rather, that’s
one
of the troubles.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward, deftly deposited her glass beside his, then returned to her end of the couch. But now she no longer posed for him with back arched, breasts upthrust. Now she was crouched forward, her weight resting on stiffened arms. Her fists were clenched, her eyes narrowed, her lips drawn taut. It was a fighting posture. “What’re the other troubles?”

“Oh, Jesus!” He was on his feet, pacing to the far corner of the room, then turning to face her. “Look, Cathy—get off my goddamn back. If you want me to apologize for leaving the party last night, then I apologize. It was a silly thing to do, and I realize that it made you look silly—not to mention me. So I’m sorry—for you, and for me, too. So now let’s drop it. Christ, I’ve got a wife and a son who’re scared. And I—”

“And you promised to go back tonight and protect them.” Suddenly her voice was venomous. This, then, was the crux of it: his wife, his son.