The Third Victim (13 page)

Kevin slid the night chain free, turned the night lock, and opened the door. A policeman stood in the deep shadows of the front stoop.

“We had a report of a prowler.” It was a young voice, speaking in flat, unaccented officialese.

“That’s right.” Kevin stepped out on the stoop, pointing to the left. “He was hiding down there. When I saw him, he ran through two hedges, then disappeared. Did you check the alley?”

“Yessir.” With a lighted flashlight clamped under one arm, the policeman held a ballpoint pen poised over a small notebook. Watching the deft manipulation of flashlight, pen, and pad, Kevin nodded privately. It was a good bit of business—a touch that could lend authenticity to a cops-and-robbers script.

“May I have your name, sir?”

“Kevin Rossiter.” He hesitated, then added, “This is my house. My wife was home alone. Just she and our child.”

Nodding noncommittally, the policeman played his light over the front of the house until he found the number. He made another notation, then tucked the notebook and pen away in his pocket, carefully buttoning the flap.

“Can you describe this…” A brief moment of skeptical-seeming hesitation. “This prowler?”

“Not really.”

“Was it a man?”

“I—I suppose so. He wore pants, anyhow. Whatever that means.”

“Young or old?”

“Not old, certainly. He moved like a young man.”

“What weight, would you say?”

Kevin shrugged. “I’d only be guessing.”

“Guess, then.” Now there was a laconic note of faintly contemptuous boredom in the other’s voice.

“A hundred fifty.”

“And you say that—”

From the patrol car parked at the curb came the sound of two short horn-bleats. Immediately the patrolman glanced back over his shoulder, acknowledging the signal. He stepped down off the stoop.

“Thank you, Mr. Rossiter. If you see anything else that’s suspicious, call us. Make sure your doors are locked.” The patrolman touched his hat with a casual finger as he turned away. The patrolman was tall, with broad shoulders. His equipment belt was draped around narrow gunfighter’s hips. Silhouetted in the dim light from the street lamp, the patrolman moved with an easy, predatory confidence. Another emergency awaited him. Plainly, the prospect appealed.

Kevin stood on the stoop and watched as the police car pulled sharply away from the curb, gathering speed. As the car swung hard around the corner, a rotating red light on its roof began winking.

Someone somewhere was in trouble.

He stood motionless for a moment, listening. Were the Fergusons, next door, peering out their darkened windows, awaiting developments? Had Ferguson spilled the beans—told the patrolman that the Rossiters were estranged?

Had anyone else seen the intruder?

At that moment, where was Tarot? Was the madman stalking his third victim? Would tomorrow’s headlines reveal another Tarot murder?

He turned, entered the house, closed the door behind him. He set the lock, but not the night chain. A single lamp in the living room had been left lit. From where he stood, he could see that she’d left her bedroom door slightly ajar. The bedroom behind the door was dark.

Signifying what?

It was a good question—one that only she could answer.

It had been his day for questions—a day for questions, but no answers. For him, it had been a grim Tuesday. The time was twenty minutes after midnight. At Cathy’s house, the party would be winding down. Some couples, contentedly spaced out, would already have gone home to share a lazy, pot-blurred night of love. In another hour, the others would be gone. Cathy never encouraged late parties. By one o’clock, they were always in bed, making love. After-the-party love, they’d always agreed, was the best love.

He was staring at the pitch-black void between Joanna’s bedroom door and the door frame. Was she in bed? Naked?

Did she expect him to come in, make his report? Or was he expected to leave quietly? How many minutes had passed since the gunslinger patrolman had left? How many…

The black void was widening. Prim in her close-gathered robe, she was walking toward him. Now they were standing silently in the center of the living room. They were facing each other as strangers might, waiting for someone to introduce them.

Seven years ago, at the Thompsons’ party, they could have faced each other just as they were doing now. Her eyes, he saw, had softened. Behind the half-opened door, in her darkened bedroom, she’d been thinking about him. Wondering.

She’d been worrying, too. Between her eyebrows, her forehead was drawn into a characteristic pucker of concern. She’d been thinking about the prowler—and Tarot.

“What did the policeman say?” she asked.

He spread his hands. “Nothing, really. He just said to keep the doors locked. I get the impression that the police are having a busy night.” He hesitated. “You
did
check the doors, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Was the night chain on the front door?”

“Yes.” With her arms folded, she seemed to shiver slightly. “Do you think he was trying to get inside? Into the basement, maybe?”

Unwilling to watch her concern deepen, he shook his head decisively. “No, I don’t.”

As if accepting his authority, she nodded. Still they stood facing each other, but now they were awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. At the Thompsons’ party they’d been more at ease. They’d always been able to talk to each other. Right up until the end, they’d been able to talk.

“Why…” She paused. “Why were you outside? You didn’t tell me.”

“I—I was just out for a walk.”

“At midnight?”

He’d known the question would come. But he hadn’t prepared an answer. Because there was no answer. No explanation.

Yet he was answering: “I was worried about you. And Josh, too. Everyone’s worried, you know, about Tarot. So I just thought I’d walk by.”

“Oh.” Again she was nodding. Her eyes were mild. Did she believe him?

Should he offer to go? Offer to stay?

“I”—she moved her head back toward the bedroom—“I should get to sleep. Tomorrow’s a work day.”

“Do you—” He was forced to clear his throat. “Do you want me to check the kitchen doors?”

“All right.” She turned away quickly, walking into the hallway. Beneath the floor-length robe he saw her long legs moving with graceful assurance. She’d always moved easily, economically. Her hips and buttocks were provocatively modeled, trim and firm. He used to pinch her playfully, telling her that she had a bareback rider’s backside. She’d always laughed—and returned the pinch.

She clicked on the kitchen light, then stood aside, leaning against the sink, arms folded, robe taut across her breasts. Why couldn’t he meet her gaze? Why were his eyes lowered like a teenager’s, looking her over on the sly?

He rattled both doors, checked both locks.

“They’re all right.” He was standing with his back to the refrigerator, facing her across the narrow kitchen. “Except that”—he gestured to the door leading down to the cellar—“except that you—we—should really put a bolt on that door. If you want me to try and fix that fuel pump tomorrow, I could put on a bolt then.”

She nodded—still with that same short, submissive bob of her head. “All right, if you want to.” A pause. She was lifting her chin and swallowing—something she did when she was ill at ease. The movement was a graceful one—feminine, proud. Now she glanced toward the cupboard. “Would—would you like something to eat?”

“No. No, thanks.”

Another long, painful silence was finally broken when she ventured, “You’re going to be late getting—” Breaking off, she bit her lip. She couldn’t finish it—couldn’t say “home.”

And she was right. She shouldn’t have to say it.

With his eyes fixed on her folded forearms, he abruptly said, “Do you want me to stay? Stick around? It—it might be a good idea.”

Her reaction was a quick, involuntary frown. Then, plainly about to shake her head, she caught herself narrowly. Finally, by force of will, she shrugged slightly.

“All right, if you want to. I’ve still got the sleeping bags.”

“I—I’ve got to make a phone call.”

Hearing him say it, she suddenly pushed herself away from the sink, turned, and walked into the hallway. She spoke abruptly over her shoulder: “The sleeping bags are in the hall closet. And the phone’s in the living room, if you remember. Right behind the couch.” She spoke haughtily—an impressive exit line.

He watched her bedroom door close decisively—then open.

“Don’t forget the night chain on the front door.”

The door closed again, even more decisively.

Engine switched off, Leonard let the Yamaha coast noiselessly past the small, darkened house. There was no driveway, only two dirt tracks, overgrown with weeds. There was no garage, only a sagging, lopsided wooden shed with a roof that leaked and a door that screamed. Many times he’d oiled the hinges, but nothing helped. So now, when he went out at night, he left the door propped open.

The motorbike was slowing, finally stopping short of the shed. His feet were on the ground; he was slowly, silently pushing the Yamaha into the dark, smelly shed.

It was the same smell he’d just come from, beneath the floor of her apartment. It was garbage rotting. And rats, maybe, lying dead and decaying in dark corners. Because everywhere, every moment, something died. Something and someone—everyone, all the time. Dirt covered it all; dirt first, then cement. They all walked on rotting corpses. And drove on them, too. Coming home that night, he’d driven over their dead, decaying bodies.

He lowered the kickstand, turned off the gas. He stepped away from the motorbike to stand motionless. There was no sound inside the shed. There was no light, no shadow. But through the roof, starlight outlined the broken shapes of missing shingles.

It was necessary that he stand like this, without moving, in the center of this shabby shed. With the motorbike safely out of sight, he must stand silently, slowly allowing himself to turn as he stared around this secret circle of darkness. Because now the energy was returning. Finally safe, he could close his eyes. Then, slowly, he could reach out wide with his hands to touch the invisible fire that pulsed through this dark, silent place.

Eyes still closed, he waited with hands outstretched, fingers wide. The vortex was whirling close, finally making contact. He could feel the flow touching his fingertips, charging his arms, his torso, his genitals.

Eyes open now, he was complete. Restored. Ready. Even the noise of the door closing couldn’t touch him. Even the—

Through the open door of the shed he saw a light come on in his mother’s room. In the same instant, he heard an angry exclamation. It was his voice—his small, surprised gasp of surprise and fury. She shouldn’t be awake. Something could be wrong. Anything.

Entering the house through the back door, he set the lock and returned the keys to his pocket. The house keys and the penlight were in his right-hand pocket. The knife and the brown envelope were in the other pocket. His tools and his gloves were in his back pocket. Everything was invisible.

He stepped directly into the kitchen. His mother’s door opened into the kitchen. Light shown beneath his mother’s door, seeping a few inches across the scarred linoleum of the kitchen floor. Behind the door, he could hear her moving. Two shadows broke the line of light—her feet, coming closer. The doorknob was turning; the door was opening.

She stood shapeless in her flowered chenille robe. With the light behind, her neck was as wide as her head. Her waist was as wide as her shoulders. Her feet and her ankles were stubs, supporting it all.

“It’s twelve thirty, Leonard.” The voice came from a face shadowed, invisible. But he knew that face. He could picture the broad cheeks, the flattened nose, the wide, shapeless lips that couldn’t smile.

“It was the same last night, too.” Her voice was toneless.

“I’m going to bed. Go to sleep.” He’d said it just as he should have—roughly, to command her.

“I’m worried, Leonard. It’s all happening like before. I’m worried about you.”

In the hallway now, he stopped and turned to face her. She stood filling the doorway, with the light from her room yellow behind her. Cat’s eyes were yellow too. Cat’s eyes and pimples, ready to pop.

“Go to sleep. I’ve been to a movie. I went to a movie last night. Now go to bed. Shut up.”

“But”—her head was slowly, stubbornly shaking—“but I—”

“I’ve been to a movie, I told you. Goddammit.”

Slowly she was turning, on command. The door was closing behind her, and her feet were shuffling across the bare floor of the bedroom.

He went to his own room, entered, and locked the door behind him. He never locked the door when he was gone, only when he was inside. When he was gone, and they couldn’t see him, he didn’t fear them. But inside, he must have a warning: footsteps in the hallway, the rattle of a locked door. Even with the energy patterns intact, he needed a warning.

He moved to his desk and slid out the center drawer. The drawer had been cut down, supporting his secret tray. Slowly, carefully, he slid out the slim plywood tray and placed it on the desk top, exactly in the center.

Everything was enclosed in transparent bags, carefully arranged. In one corner of the tray, neatly folded and rubber-banded, he kept the empty plastic bags. He slipped off the rubber band and spread out the empty bags. Into the first bag went the knife and the brown envelope. At first, he’d considered keeping them separately, but finally decided against it. Somehow the keys and the knife belonged together. His tools slid into a second bag—the flexible probe, the stiff steel blade, the diamond-crusted steel wire with its one removable steel ring. The wire could curl through a door crack, then cut through the thickest bolt. Momentarily he caressed the wire. It was his secret weapon. They bought the bolts from the dime store and screwed them to the door and went happily to sleep. But the bolts were made of butter-soft steel. Only the chains could stop the wire. He couldn’t hold a chain steady, to cut it.

The penlight went into another bag, along with other lights, other batteries. The paper and pen and envelopes were flat on the bottom. The surgical gloves slipped into the last bag. Finally, everything was in place, properly arranged. A final push, a last adjustment, and everything was aligned. Because it was important that everything be aligned. Energy traveled in patterns. Disorder destroyed the force lines. Ipso.