Red 1-2-3 (9 page)

Her next call had been to the alarm company, which had promptly sent out an overly enthusiastic workman to install the system, all the time happily and ominously opining about how
you can’t be safe enough
and
people
don’t understand how much danger is lurking out there
before managing to sell Karen an enhanced security package with a monthly charge deducted from her credit card.

She had subsequently gone through the entirety of the policeman’s rec-ommendations:
Get a dog
. No, she hadn’t done that, but she was considering it.
Get a gun.
No, she hadn’t done that, not yet, but she would consider it.
Call a private
detective
. No, she hadn’t done that, but she was considering it. In fact, she realized, she was considering everything and nothing all at the same time.

How is any of this going to keep me alive? Wouldn’t the Big Bad Wolf have
visited all the same online advice pages, read all the same words, and figured
out all the same things?

Wouldn’t he know precisely what all the experts suggested she do? How
smart is he?

Martin and Lewis had already set off the system twice in the two days it had been functioning. This meant that either she had to get rid of them or figure out some way to make it work in concert with cats. This seemed an insurmountable problem. It dogged her as for the first time in years she ignored the exercise pad and made her way into the shower.

Warm water and suds cascaded over her body.

58

RED 1–2–3

She scrubbed herself vigorously, soaping every spot she could reach once, then twice, and finally a third time, as if soap could erase the lingering sense of exhaustion from her unsettled night. She held out a hand against the tile wall, steadying herself against the flow of water. She felt dizzy.

Her eyes were closed when she heard a sound.

It was not a recognizable noise, nothing clear-cut like a car door slamming, or a radio being switched on. It wasn’t loud—not a
crash!
or a
clang!

It was more like the first second of a hissing kettle, or a stiff breeze rustling through nearby tree branches.

She froze in position. A sudden burst of adrenaline coursed through her body so that she felt like she was abruptly spinning a million miles per hour, though she was immobile. Steam surrounded her like a fog, clouding her comprehension. The noisy flow of water obscured recognition.

What was that? What did you hear?

She was abruptly aware of her nakedness. Dripping. Vulnerable. She sharpened her hearing, trying to determine what the sound was.

It was nothing. Nothing. You’re alone and jumpy.

The house is empty. It always is. Just two cats. Maybe they made the
sound. Maybe they knocked over a lamp, or a stack of books. They’ve done
that before.

The steam curled around her, but she had the sensation the water was no longer warm, that it had turned icy. She took a deep breath, shut off the shower, and stood in the stall, listening. Then, instantly, she thought:
If someone is out there, switching off the shower will tell them I’m about to
get out.
She jammed her finger twisting the shower dial back on, and she jumped as too-hot water spilled over her back.

Conflicting thoughts screamed inside her head.

It was just anxiety. Nothing was there.

Straighten up. Step out. Act your age. Stop behaving like a child.

She turned the shower off a second time. The air seemed cold to her, as if a window was open.

59

JOHN KATZENBACH

This is a cliché. Like a bad horror film. There should be a dark John Williams
Jaws
-like score playing relentlessly in the background.

Then a more complicated thought:
Did you shut down the alarm properly?

She went over in her mind’s eye every step of the procedure, pushing each button of the security code, seeing the LED lights go from red to green.
Did they?
She was stifled by uncertainty. She could hear her own voice echoing within her, shouting advice, insisting, Y
ou’re acting like a
fool. Get out. Get dressed. Get the day going.

But she remained locked in position.

She thought,
The noise came after I shut off the alarm. Was someone waiting for those indicator lights to change color?

It took Karen an immense amount of willpower to step from the shower and grab a towel from the rack by the door. She wrapped herself up and then paused to listen again. She could still hear nothing.

Dry off. Go get your clothes. Dab on a little makeup. Come on, just like
every day. You are hearing things. Hallucinating noises. You’re on edge for no
reason. Or yes, there is a reason, but it’s not a real reason.

The water was pooling beneath her feet and with a terrific effort that made her gasp out loud, she rapidly dried herself off, then dragged a stiff brush through tangled hair so quickly that had she not been so unsettled, she would have shouted at the self-inflicted pain. She stopped.
This is
crazy. Why am I brushing my hair if someone is waiting to kill me?
She gripped the brush handle like a knife and kept it in her hand as if it could be a weapon. Then she hurriedly approached the bathroom door that led into the bedroom. Closed, but not locked. A part of her wanted to simply lock the door and wait, but it was the flimsiest of locks, just a turn-button on the handle, and wouldn’t prevent the weakest, most incompetent intruder from breaking in.

Karen imagined him on the other side of the door, listening for her, just as she was listening for him.

She could not picture a person. All she could imagine were shiny white bared teeth: an image from a children’s story.

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RED 1–2–3

Then, just as swiftly, she told herself that she was being ridiculous.

There’s no one there. You’re just acting nuts.

Still, it took another surge of will to open the door, then step into the bedroom.

It was empty—save for the two cats. They lounged on the bed, already bored.

She listened again.
Nothing.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could, she grabbed at her clothes and pulled them on. Underwear. Bra. Slacks. Sweater. She slammed her feet into her shoes and stood up. Being clothed reassured her.

She went to her bedroom door. Again she paused to listen.
Silence
.

Small noises seemed to surround her: a ticking clock; the scratch of one of the cats shifting position on the bed; the distant sound of the heating system switching on.

Her own labored breathing.

She imagined that
no
noise would be way worse, and then she told herself that this made absolutely no sense.
No fucking sense,
she thought.

It’s my goddamn house
.
I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone . . .

She stopped. She picked up her cell phone from her bureau, flipped it open, dialed 911, and then poised her thumb over the
call
button.

This made her feel armed, and she began to slowly walk through the house, holding the cell phone like it was a weapon. Kitchen
empty
. Front foyer
empty.
Living room
empty.
Television room
empty.
She went from room to room, each quiet space both reassuring her and making her more nervous. At first she couldn’t bring herself to throw open a closet door; a part of her expected someone to jump out. The rational part of her warred with this sensation, and with another large effort she tugged open each closet, only to be greeted by clothes or coats or piles of stray papers.

She was hunting for a noise. Or evidence of a noise. Something that would make the fear that surged through her make some rational sense.

She could find nothing.

61

JOHN KATZENBACH

When she was finally half-persuaded that she was alone, she went back to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot coffee. Her hand shook slightly.
What did you hear
?

Nothing. Everything.
She let the coffee fill her, let the adrenaline rushing through her ears settle. She wondered,
Can a letter make a noise? Can an
anonymous threat make a sound?

In an erratic mix of tensions, Karen grabbed her coat and headed out to her car to go to work. In her confusion and anxiety, for the first time in years she neglected to put out the cat food.

62

7

Jordan walked across the campus in the early evening gloom, going back to the library, a distant redbrick building with bright light flowing from large plate glass windows that threw odd cones of illumination across the grassy lawn. The cold breeze seemed to predict a change in the weather—but it was impossible for her to tell whether it would worsen or improve.

Like most students out after the night started to tumble around them, she had been pacing quickly, slightly hunched over, bent to the task of getting from one brightly lit spot to the next, as if time spent on the dark pathways was unsettling or dangerous. She thought,
It probably is,
but found herself slowing nonetheless, like an engine running out of fuel, until she finally stopped dead in her tracks and pivoted around, surveying the world around her.

It was all familiar, all alien, at the same moment.

She had spent nearly four years on the prep school campus, yet it did not seem like home.

63

JOHN KATZENBACH

She could see inside dormitories—she could name each one. Behind the windows, she saw students bent over textbooks, or sitting around in conversation. She recognized faces. Shapes. An occasional loud voice that seemed to come from nowhere, but which she knew emanated from some dorm, pierced the night, and it seemed to her that she knew who was speaking but just couldn’t quite connect a face to the elusive sounds. From adjacent walkways, she could hear footsteps, and she could make out the darkened forms of other students. Some of the shrubbery and the trees seemed to catch the light that came from the student center or the art building in their swaying branches and toss it haphazardly across the lawn, as if taunting her with shadows.

She thought,
In the real fairy tale, the Big Bad Wolf tracks Little Red
Riding Hood through the forest. Nothing stops him. Nothing gets in his way.

He’s like relentless. He fucking knows everything she’s going to do before she
does it. It’s like he’s at home and she’s just a stranger in the woods. She’s got
no damn chance at all. Not even when she thinks she’s safe because she gets to
Grandmother’s house, because the wolf is already there and pretending to be
the person she thinks can protect her.

What does that tell you?

She imagined that the man who had designated her for death could be in any shadow. He could be hiding behind any tree. He could be watching from any dark space or from behind any closed window.

Jordan took a quick stride forward, angling a few steps toward the lights of the library, feeling an electric surge of fear coursing within her.

Then, abruptly, she stopped.

Again she slowly looked around. A part of her still wanted to believe that the letter and the threat it contained were all part of an elaborate practical joke.
If so many people hate you,
she thought,
it makes sense.
Students like to pick on the most vulnerable. Despite all the well-meaning bans on hazing and emphasis on friendliness at the school, there was always an undercurrent of tension. Jealousy, anger, sexual predation, illicit drug or alcohol use—all the things that caused frightened parents to send their children away to avoid what existed in the shadow school.

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RED 1–2–3

Why wouldn’t murder?

Jordan remained frozen in place. Her eyes drifted to the dark edges that surrounded her. She tried to identify shapes, but the night made them seem like hundreds of pieces of several jigsaw puzzles all mixed together.

Each belonged to a single answer, each could be joined with others to make a single clear picture, but all tossed together, they formed an impossible and incomprehensible mess.

For a second, the fear-wave within her made her unsteady. The breeze seemed to swirl around her, threatening to pick her up and shake her. She felt cold and sweaty all at once.

She lifted her head, like an animal seeking a strange scent.

Alone is good,
she thought. It might have been a contradiction to all good sense, but she clung to it, speaking to herself, as if the Jordan walking through the darkness could have a conversation with the Jordan filled with doubt and worry.

If you told someone, if you shared the threat with anyone, all they would do
is tell you what they imagine you should do. They won’t have any damn idea
whether it’s right or wrong. That’s what the Wolf will want. He wants you to
listen to others—a friend, although you don’t have any; a teacher, although
there are none you trust; an administrator, who will be more worried about
the school’s image than your life; or your parents, who have no time for anything but themselves and who probably would find it better if the Wolf suc-ceeded and you were no longer out there creating a problem for them to fight
over.

Jordan actually managed a wry grin. She cast her eyes about, searching every odd shape and dark corner.
Alone in the woods,
she thought.
Well,
you’re goddamn right about that.

She started to move forward slowly, only one thought ricocheting around within her:

Alone is the only way to win.

Not knowing for an instant whether to believe herself, Jordan hurried out of the darkness toward the lights of the library. She intended to read much more that evening. Not history or science or foreign languages, like 65

JOHN KATZENBACH

all the other students at the school. Jordan had decided to study murder.