The Third Victim (7 page)

If she discovered him now—saw into his wide-open eyes—then she claimed him, took from him the certainty of his secret. She robbed him of himself, saved herself—all with her round witch’s eyes, cast so cleverly into soft, guileless calm. Just to save her unclean self, she would destroy him. Because a look, only a single look, could—

He was released. Her eyes had strayed aside. Quickly he turned to the nearest counter. It was a table-setting display. Stainless steel. Assorted place mats. Glassware. But suddenly the shapes were awkward in his hands. The knives and forks changed as he touched them; the place mats wilted. It was another threat. When she watched, even steel could change. And straw, too. Straw and steel.

Her power, then, was swelling somewhere deep inside him, secretly. She was stronger, he was weaker. Time was against him. As it always was. As it always would be.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised his eyes. She was turning away, again approaching the elevator. The doors opened. She stepped quickly inside. Disappeared.

Gone.

Free.

Incredibly, she’d gone. Another moment—one more knowing witch’s smile—and she could have walked up to him and touched him. Taken it all from him—everything. Because, touching him, she could end it. Only he could touch her. The energy must go from him to her. Reversed, the energy could destroy him.

But she hadn’t known. She was unclean—diseased—putrefying deep inside. So she hadn’t known. Always, she would never know. Not until the last moment, soon to come.

He’d touched her only once, two weeks ago. Only once had his energy contacted her, flowing from him to her. He’d been working at Gorlick’s only three days. He’d never met her, didn’t realize she worked at Gorlick’s. He’d been unpacking cartons near the front entrance. He’d been kneeling down, working with the carton cutter. He’d seen her harlot’s roll of hips and thighs and buttocks-bunched. She’d been walking toward the front door, going to lunch. Her back had been to him. But, seeing her, he’d known. As if he’d been waiting for her, and she for him, he’d known. So, when he’d moved in front of her, she’d sought his eyes, and smiled. And in that moment—in the split second before looking away—he’d realized that, again, he’d found one more. So, that first time, he’d followed her, realizing that he was helpless to remain behind. Incredibly, no one had seen him leave. Mr. Bingham, the stock manager, had been out to lunch—a long, late lunch. It had been the first sure sign: the first realization of the true, final judgment. Everything was aligned, spontaneously. Therefore, she was the one—the one next time. So he’d followed her. First they’d walked along the sidewalk, fast. But she hadn’t looked behind. She’d been too smart for that. Because she
was
smart: too-goody-smart, pretending, faking. Foxy. Bitch-bushed foxy. She’d moved as if she were merely hurrying to lunch, therefore not trying to outrun his slow, sure judgment. She’d looked only ahead, straight ahead. Innocence, perfectly pretended. The worst ones could do that—only the worst. The sidewalks had been crowded, and as he fell in behind her he’d realized that he was walking closer, closer. Too close. Suddenly he’d felt suffocated—helpless, nerveless. And, too late, he’d realized that he was standing directly behind her as she waited for a traffic light. In that instant, incredibly, he’d felt himself drained of his own volition. His consciousness had suddenly pinwheeled wildly away, tilting the nearby buildings, choking the passing voices into a muttering, meaningless silence. He’d been aware of only one single, searing sensation: the willful, wanton brushing of her buttocks against the knuckles of his hands, clasped before him. As if he’d been wounded by the unclean contact, he’d shied away, clasping himself, probing the instant’s injury. And then he’d felt it: the hideous wetness behind his clasped hands. It had been—

“Leonard!”

He knew the voice. Florence Klein.

Slowly, cautiously, he turned.

“You’d better get those bookends up to Advertising. Never mind this. What’re you
doing
here, anyhow?”

“There was—” He licked at his lips. “There was a—a little girl. With an ice-cream cone.”

“Oh. Well, take the bookends upstairs, please.”

Without answering, he turned away, walking directly to the storeroom. As he walked, reality was returning. The walls, the ceiling, everything was righting itself. Because he’d already imagined the next few minutes. This morning, in his mind, he’d done it all before. He knew every step, every gesture, every word. And this new order—Florence Klein’s order—had been a sign. Coming now, only minutes after the elevator door had closed, it was a sure, certain sign. The meaning was clear. After so close an escape, he now would reverse the energy waves. The danger would pass. If he willed it, the danger would pass. Again energy would flow from him to her. She’d tried. She’d almost succeeded, catching him with his wide-open eyes as he’d stood at the display counter, unprotected, helpless. But, mere minutes from now, he would be speaking to her, using words he’d already imagined—already formed in his mind, this morning. The energy would…

The bookends

He would trick her into touching them.
Compel
her to touch them. Thus, the energy flow would be reversed. The bookends would act as conductors.

Conductors

It was a new, exciting, blinding-bright idea.

He was in the storeroom now, carefully lifting the bookends down from the shelf. Immediately he turned, walking to the freight elevator. Balancing one bookend on the other, he pressed the “up” button. The elevator was coming, clank-rattling. He was inside, pulling the rope, slowly ascending. At the second floor, another stockboy waited with a loaded dolly. Alone in the huge elevator, he held the cord, sending himself upward. The indignant voice faded away below. The third floor was next. The elevator was stopping. End of the line.

End of the line

A policeman had once spoken these same words. The first time they’d come for him, the policeman had said it was the end of the line. Ipso. Ergo and ipso. Like a bug, a policeman could stomp you.

He was in. the back corridor. Ahead, on the pale green wall, was a sign:
ADVERTISING
. And an arrow—a fat red arrow. The arrow was flower-festooned, someone’s joke. The first door was marked
ADVERTISING MANAGER
. Closed. The second was marked
COPY DEP’T
. Closed. The third was
ART DEP’T
.

Closed.

He was again balancing one bookend carefully on top of the other. He was knocking. Softly. Very softly. No one must know.

“Come in.”

She sat behind the big square drawing board. She was looking up, smiling.

“Hi, Leonard.” She pointed with a slim black drawing pen. “Put them there, will you? If you can find space.”

Instead, he stepped toward her. Behind him, the door was closed. Softly, he’d closed the thin wooden door. In his hand he held one of the heavy metal bookends, extended toward her.

How thick were the bones of her skull? How thin? Eggshell thin? Pigskull thick?

He was speaking to her:

“Is—is this the right one?”

She shrugged, smiling. “I suppose so. Are these the ones Miss Klein wants in the ad?”

For a moment, he couldn’t answer. Then he heard himself saying, “Miss Klein wants you to—to look at them.
Feel
them.” Then, in a rush: “Bookends have to be heavy, you know.”

As he’d been speaking, her smile had faded. Her eyes had narrowed. She was frowning now. But, at his last words, the smile suddenly returned. She was extending her hand. Accepting the bookend. Hefting it, using both hands.

She was still smiling.

“It’s
good
and heavy. I like it.” She was extending the bookend out to him. But he’d already turned away, pretending not to see. Because he’d known she’d try it—try to reverse the flow, as she’d tried downstairs. Beaten, in danger, she was trying again to trick him.

He heard her sigh, heard the bookend thump down on a nearby table. Now, slowly, he turned to face the drawing board. Her gaze was following him as he moved. They were facing each other. Behind her eyes he could see dark shadows shift, like wings of night birds, lost in a midnight sky.

Was it danger in her eyes?

Recognition?

Should he move forward, or back away? Should he—

A phone was ringing, at first from a distance, then closer. Her phone. He saw her blink, saw her throat move as she swallowed—once, twice. In slow motion, her arm reached out for the phone. Still she stared at him, eyes wide. Now she was beginning to speak into the phone. Her voice was low and soft. He would wait until…

Now!

She was glancing aside, unknowingly releasing him. He was in the hallway, free. Ahead was the stairway. He was on the stairs, quickly clattering down. The whole world was filled with the ring of his shoes on the hard iron steps. The second-floor doors was already past, and still he clattered down, free. With every step, his control was more certain. At the first-floor door he could slow his steps, stop before the heavy fire door, draw a long, deep breath. Yogis said to breathe deeply. God and Yogis. Breathe with the stomach. Grow old. Die with a bladder-filled stomach.

His hand was reaching for the knob; the first-floor door was opening. Ahead was the storeroom. Safety was ahead. A dozen steps, and he was inside the big, empty, box-crowded room.

Would he be sick?

Long ago, he’d been sick. He’d planned it so carefully, but he’d still been sick. Her name had been Susan. He’d stepped across a white path of moonlight, to reach her bed. She’d been sleeping with her mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Her underclothing had been draped over a chair close by. He’d—

“Leonard.”

Starting, he quickly turned. Howard Goss stood in the open storeroom door.

“Mr. Bingham wants to see you, Leonard. Have you been a bad boy?”

“Bad boy?”

Howard Goss’s mouth was curving upward in a demon’s smile. “Never mind, Leonard. Just go see Mr. Bingham. Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Good boy. See you, Leonard.”

“Yes. Okay.” He watched Howard Goss move lazily into the showroom, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Howard Goss moved like an actor on stage.

Mr. Bingham.

The manager.

Was Mr. Bingham going to fire him? Tell him to take his pay and go? Had someone complained? Found out?

Looking around, he realized that he was already in the narrow, dark hallway leading to the manager’s office. Ahead was the door—Mr. Bingham’s office door.

He was knocking. Waiting.

“Come in.”

He was pushing the door open slowly. Suddenly his throat was dry. He must swallow. Once. Twice.

Mr. Bingham was a small, narrow man with graying hair and unfriendly blue eyes. His voice was thin and sharp:

“This,” Mr. Bingham was saying, “is for you.” He held a letter between two pinch-parted fingers.

It had come.

It was there, suspended just above the cluttered desk.

So soon, it had come.

As he stepped forward to take the small buff-colored envelope, he heard the disdainful voice saying, “I wish you’d remember, Leonard, that you aren’t supposed to receive personal mail at the store. In fact, it’s specifically against the rules. Will you remember that?”

“Y-yes. Yes, I will.”

“All right. Good. See that you do, please.” Mr. Bingham was already turned away, picking up a thick sheaf of invoices.

He was again in the hallway. Behind him, Mr. Bingham’s door was safely closed. He held the envelope in both hands as he walked. Cautiously, he kept his eyes straight ahead. But with his fingers he could feel the two twin shapes of the keys.

So soon, so soon.

Momentarily, the walls of the long oblong hallway-shape tilted toward him. The ceiling lurched down toward the floor.

He stopped. Blinked. Waited for the walls to right themselves. Then he quickly folded the envelope twice in half, stuffing it deep into his side pocket.

It was decided, then. The envelope had decided it. The keys were the last sure sign.

F
RUITLESSLY SCANNING STATE STREET
for some sign of a bus, Joanna frowned. The time was five twenty-five; she’d been standing at the bus stop for almost fifteen minutes. She’d wanted to leave the store early, to shop for dinner. Instead, she’d been kept late, trapped since four o’clock in a buyers’ meeting.

Had Kevin phoned while she was in the meeting? Would he stay for dinner? She didn’t know—couldn’t find out. There’d been no messages. But the switchboard operator said someone had called—a man, who wouldn’t leave his name.

Would Kevin hesitate to leave his name?

Or had he forgotten that she’d invited him? He could easily have forgotten, caught up in the fantasies that Dick Wagner would so cruelly help him spin. Did Kevin realize that Wagner was a shark—a plump, pompous opportunist with no loyalty, no integrity, no real talent?

In the world of the arts, people like Wagner used people like Kevin. It was the age of the promoter. Painters scraped for pennies while gallery owners got rich. Actors drew unemployment checks while producers prospered. Serious writers enviously watched the hacks become famous.

And Kevin, meanwhile, wrote local sustaining TV commercials part time while his talent was probably sputtering out. Kevin was a fast starter, but a slow finisher. He—

“Joanna.”

Turning, she saw Tom Southern seated behind the wheel of his top-down Alfa. Smiling confidently beneath dark driving glasses, Tom reached across the leather seats to flip open the door.

“Get in.”

“Thank you.” She dropped her purse into the well behind the seat and swung her legs into the cramped space beneath the dash.

“Is something wrong with your car?” He glanced over his shoulder, gunned the engine, and pulled out into the traffic stream. As the car gathered momentum, Tom’s blond hair rippled picturesquely in the wind.

“Yes.”

“How about a drink? At the Trident, for instance.”

“I—I’d better not, Tom. Josh is home, waiting for me.”