The Third Victim (4 page)

“Over the weekend,” Sally said, “I got taken out to dinner three times. Budgetwise, I’m way ahead. So it’s my treat. When you acquire a similar proficiency, you can buy the pastry.” She deftly divided the bearclaw, at the same time gesturing toward the chafing dish. “Go ahead. Draw. Are you going to have it finished in time?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I saw Tom Southern taking his ever-loving leave. Or should I say self-loving? Are you giving him reason to hope, as the saying goes?”

She smiled down at her drawing board. “You’ve got it reversed, Sally. I think that Tom feels he’s giving
me
reason to hope.”

“Well, are you hoping?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.” She’d tried to make the remark sound light, matching Sally’s effervescence. But it had been a poor effort, she knew. Looking up, she saw Sally frowning, nibbling thoughtfully at her lower lip. Joanna knew that expression: Sally was about to jump off the high board.

“I don’t really know Kevin all that well,” Sally began, choosing her words. “What I know about him I like. He seems to be a straight, honest guy who’s maybe coming up on thirty the hard way. Kevin got a fast start, I guess, and sometimes that can be a problem—like a girl who’s born too pretty. But, anyhow, I like him. And if you two get back together, I’d personally applaud. It’s strictly none of my business, of course. Divorce is a very private affair, who should know better than me? However—” She took time to finish her half of the bearclaw. The pause served as emphasis, Joanna knew, separating the introduction from the real message.

“However, while I don’t really know Kevin, like I said, I
do
know Tom. I mean, I’ve been working here for three years. For two years I’ve been divorced. So, like lots of other girls, before me and after me, I had my chance with Tom. And I took it. And—” Sally finished her coffee, pausing one last time. “And, as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t a real good deal. Taking my chance, I mean. See, I—ah—I guess I was more vulnerable than I thought, after my divorce. I mean, I’d never seen a man I couldn’t handle. Or at least that’s the way I remember my adventures in premarital sex. But with Tom I really got racked up. And I wouldn’t want that to happen to you, Joanna. I mean, my marriage wasn’t blessed with children, as the saying goes. So in the long run, it didn’t matter much. Tom inflicted a few lacerations, which eventually healed. Later I got in a few licks myself. But then, I’m a scuffler. You, on the other hand…” She let it go unfinished.

Joanna swallowed the last of her bearclaw, then drained the coffee cup. She tossed the cup into the wastebasket. Then she said quietly, “Thanks, Sally. Thanks very much.”

“You’re very welcome, I’m sure.” Sally tossed her own cup decisively into the basket. “Well,” she said briskly, “what’re you doing about the Tarot menace?”

“Locking the doors. What else?”

“You should buy some Mace,” came the prompt reply. “I can get you some, if you like. They don’t call it Mace, because the stuff’s illegal. But it’s the same thing. You get a purse-size aerosol for a dollar ninety-eight. If I lived on the ground floor, like you do, I’d get some. Believe it.”

Joanna slowly shook her head. “I couldn’t get my car started this morning. That comes before Mace. But thanks anyhow.” She hesitated, then decided to tell Sally about the switch-blade knife. Telling of the incident, listening to her own words, her misgivings sounded silly.

“If I were you,” Sally answered, “I’d call the cops. I mean, among other things, it’s your civic duty. Sure, the statistical chances are that it wasn’t Tarot. And, sure, the police are being deluged with calls from hysterical females—which makes
you
feel like a hysterical female, calling. I know. I had a prowler myself, back East. And there just happened to be a sex fiend loose then, too. However, there’s the simple fact that switch-blade knives are illegal. Which brings us back to your civic duty.”

“I know. I agree. But the first thing the police would do is search the house. And I don’t want to put Josh through that. I just don’t. He’s just too—too vulnerable right now. And he’s already worried about Tarot.”

“Well…” Sally shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. You probably
are
right, as a matter of fact. Something like this Tarot brings the loonies out of the woodwork. And one of them is bound to have a switch-blade, I suppose. By the way, how’d you get Josh to day care this morning, if your car’s broken?”

“A neighbor took him.”

“Do you want to borrow my car? I don’t use it, you know. I mean, I take the bus to work.”

“Oh, no. Thanks, Sally, but no. Actually, I thought I might call up Kevin. He picks up Josh once in a while, just so they—” She swallowed. “So they can see each other. Maybe he can do it.”

“Ah…” Sally nodded. “That’s good. I withdraw the offer, in that case. In favor of Kevin. Well…” She hopped off the stool. “Well, back to the typewriter. If you need a car, though, let me know.”

“Thanks, Sally. And thanks for the bearclaw.”

“You’re welcome.”

Kevin wiped away the lather, rinsed his face, and studied the result in the mirror. Should he trim his moustache? He brushed at the moustache with a light, tentative finger. Perhaps, really, he should shave it off. As a statement of individuality, facial hair had become a cliché. Every postadolescent who thought he was doing his own thing grew a moustache. Every—

“How soon’ll you be ready, Kevin?” Cathy’s voice came from the kitchen, counterpointed by the clink of pans and the closing of cupboard doors.

“How’s ten minutes?”

“Fine. I’m going to make omelettes.”

He decided not to reply. Instead: “Where’s the haircutting scissors, anyhow?” He opened the door of the medicine cabinet, frowning at the jumble of bottles and tubes.

“I think I put them in—”

“Never mind. I found them.” He closed the cabinet, then adjusted the folding side mirrors, studying his profile. From the next room came the sound of the radio, a newscaster. He half opened the bathroom door. “Turn it up, will you?”

As he began snipping at his moustache, the newscaster’s voice swelled:

“Police, it was learned, have had a special Tarot Squad in operation since the second Tarot letter was received—the one in which Tarot warned that he’d already selected his second victim. This special squad, composed of four detectives and headed by Detective Sergeant Matthew Connoly, is working closely with state and federal law-enforcement officers in an effort to uncover some clue to Tarot’s identity. Interviewed at his office in Santa Barbara police headquarters an hour ago, Sergeant Connoly stressed that the police are taking this fourth Tarot letter very seriously. Without going into specifics, Connoly stated that certain internal evidence indicates beyond reasonable doubt that all four letters were sent by the same person. In any case, Connoly stated, the police are proceeding on the theory that Tarot wrote all four letters. Without doubt, then, there is a maniac loose. However, Connoly urged Santa Barbara residents—especially women—not to panic. At the same time, citizens are urged to exercise ordinary good sense. Women living alone should…”

The phone was ringing. Cathy’s footsteps hurried into the living room. The radio’s volume faded as she turned it down. The phone rang a second time.

Was it Dick Wagner, the producer? Was Wagner ready to—

“Kevin, it’s for you.”

Wagner.
It
had
to be Wagner.

But in Cathy’s face he saw the icy truth.

“It’s Joanna, I think.” She turned away abruptly, walking toward the kitchen.

He sighed. “Hello?”

“It’s Joanna, Kevin.”

He turned his back on the sudden obstreperous clatter of cooking utensils. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” came her businesslike rejoinder. “But something’s wrong with the car. I couldn’t get it started this morning, and Mrs. Ferguson had to take Josh to day care. So I was wondering…” She let it go unfinished.

“Sure, I can get him. At least—” He hesitated. What if Wagner wanted to talk all afternoon? What if lightning finally struck? “At least, I
should
be able to get him. I—”

“If you can’t,” she interrupted quickly, “I can borrow Sally Mathewson’s car. I can’t take the bus, though. I’d never make it by six, unless I left Gorlick’s early. But I thought you’d have…” Again, she allowed her voice to trail off.

But he could finish it for her:
I thought you’d have time to take the bus. Since you probably aren’t working.

He could visualize her as she said it: eyes averted, head demurely angled away, movements carefully controlled. All calculated not to offend. But in sparing him so ostentatiously, she indicted him. And she knew it. She
must
know it.

“I’ll get Josh,” he said shortly. “Don’t worry about it.” Then, seeking to return the conversation to neutral ground: “What’s wrong with the car, anyhow?”

As he listened to the car’s symptoms, he saw Cathy framed in the kitchen doorway. She was holding up two eggs inquiringly. Impatiently he shook his head. Finally he turned away, still listening carefully.

“If I have time,” he said finally, “I’ll take a look at the car—if you want me to.”

“Yes. Thank you.” The reply was noncommittal: perfectly polite, completely uninfected. Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “You—if you want to—you can have dinner with us. Josh would—” She cleared her throat. “Josh would like to have you.”

“Well, I…” He frowned down at the phone. “Well, I’m not sure. Not right now. I mean, there’s someone in town. Dick Wagner. Do you remember Dick Wagner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s got a deal going with N.E.T., I understand. They’re going to do an ecology series. And he’s supposed to be in town, getting it together, as I understand it. But—” He hesitated. “But could I call you later? Is that all right?”

“Yes. Certainly. And thanks for picking Josh up.”

“You’re welcome.”

Strangers, they said good-bye.

He’d gotten halfway to the kitchen when the phone rang again. What now? Another problem? Had she remembered a malfunctioning toaster perhaps?

Fighting a sudden urge of irrational anger, he quickly retraced his steps.

“Yes. Hello?”

“Kevin? Kevin Rossiter?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Dick Wagner. How’ve you been?”

“Oh. Hi. How are you? I—” He was forced to swallow. “I’m fine, thanks. I—was just on the phone. I mean, I—” Again he was forced to swallow.

Goddamn her, Joanna had done it to him again. Screwed him. With her goddamn meek, mild troubles, she’d screwed him again. Maybe for good, this time. Maybe, this time, she’d finally—

“…wonder if you could come by the Golden Calf about, say, one thirty. Can you make it?”

“Y—yes. Certainly. I—that’s fine. One thirty?”

“Right. I’m on a bitch of a schedule. I just got in this morning, about two hours ago, and I’ve got to leave this evening. But I got your letter, Kevin, and I’d like to talk to you, even if it’s only for a little while.”

The Golden Calf…

Dinners from twenty dollars. Lunches from ten.

“Yes. Th—that’s fine, Dick. One thirty will be just fine.”

“Great. I’ll see you then, Kevin. Looking forward to it. ’Bye.”

“Yes. Good-bye.” But the phone was already dead.

The Golden Calf…

“Who was that?” Cathy was calling.

“Dick Wagner. He’s—we’re going to have lunch. At the Golden Calf.” He’d wandered into the kitchen. He was standing near the table, staring out at the mid-morning sunshine. It was a warm, wonderful summer day. Somehow he wanted to keep the sensation just for himself.

“Well,” Cathy said, “you’d better have an omelette anyhow. It’s still three hours till one thirty.” Her voice was low, pitched to a slow, impersonal cadence. She was still thinking of Joanna’s call, he knew.

He turned to face her. She was staring impassively down into the omelette pan. The eggs were burbling, almost ready to flip. She’d already added the scallions and shredded cheese. Her face was closed, her eyes slightly narrowed.

“Get the glasses and the wine, will you?” she said shortly. “It’s the Chablis, in the refrigerator. From last night.” She was frowning now, setting her jaw. About to flip the omelette, she gripped the pan more firmly. The omelette-makers’ moment of truth was upon her.

Without moving—without obeying her—he waited until she’d flipped the omelette, expertly. Then:

“What’s wrong, Cathy?”

She glanced at him briefly. She wore a T-shirt and close-fitting blue jeans. She wore no underclothing. Wherever his hands wandered, his touch would find flesh.

“Are you going to get the wine?” Her voice was sharp. “Or shall I?”

Not replying, he turned to the cupboard. He took down a single wineglass. Hers. He opened the refrigerator. He found the Chablis behind a half-gallon carton of milk—last night’s wine.

He extended the knife blade, locked it in place, then cut a slow, steady line across the cardboard box. The cardboard parted behind the blade in a neat, crisp line, exposing raw corrugated edges.

Did flesh part so neatly, slashed by a razor-sharp blade? If cardboard could bleed, and flesh were bloodless, would the result be the same?

If a man were made of cardboard, and packing boxes made of flesh, could doctors use paste, and stock clerks catgut, putting the boxes together again? If they could, then stock clerks would be surgeons—riding in expensive cars, living in glass-walled penthouses.

He would be famous.

Famous.

But not as a surgeon. He was more-famous-yet. Movie stars and magicians, mumblers and fakes—none could catch him now. Everyone knew his name, but no one could catch him. It was a magic name—himself, concealing himself. When they dithered and dothered and died, he could laugh.

Laugh, Tarot.

Was he laughing—secretly laughing?

His stomach was knotted—the sure, sudden sign of danger. Another moment, and laughter would betray him. Quickly his glance traversed the storeroom. No one saw him. No one would know.

Momentarily closing his eyes, he drew a long, deep breath. He explored the inside of his mouth with a careful tongue tip, searching for the warm, salty-sharp taste of blood. There was no blood-taste. Therefore, there was no danger. Ipso. Surgeons merely smiled. Movie stars mumbled. But Tarot always knew. Magically, Tarot always knew. But Tarot never laughed.