The Traveller (53 page)

cut the shapes of the other cars, and the odd thought struck

him that his brother was out there. He could be anywhere,

he said to himself. He could be anywhere, but I know he’s

here. He could be any one of the sets of lights passing.

That one, or that one or that one, but he’s one of them.

He wanted to call out to him, but was unable. You’re there,

he thought. I know it. Please.

Then he shook his head to clear away the idea, and realized he was silly arid exhausted and probably hallucinating as well, and drove on, not knowing that he was also right.

12 Another trip to New Hampshire

17

He had tied the ropes too tight and the nylon strands cut into her wrists agonizingly. She had given up struggling against the pain, realizing that when she pulled or twisted, the cord rebelled, chafing away her flesh. She tried to shut away the throbbing in her arms and find sleep, but when she closed her eyes she saw only the redness of hurt, which was impossible to avoid. So, despite having passed some undefined limit of physical and mental exhaustion, she remained wide awake. The gag around her mouth was giving her problems, as well. She could only breathe through her nose, which he’d bloodied, each breath drawn past clogged blood and mucus with immense difficulty. When he’d gagged her, he had pulled her head back sharply, tightening the knot on the kerchief behind her neck, not paying care to what he was doing. Then he’d slapped a piece of gray gaffer’s tape over her mouth. The tape stank of glue and she was afraid she would gag. This might kill her, she knew; if she vomited now out of pain and fear and confusion, she might drown. She surprised herself by realizing the danger and despite the cloud created by her restraints was struck by how far she had traveled, how much more she seemed to know. This thought reshaped itself into a fear; she felt a unique vulnerability, having lived so far. She shut her eyes to the idea that he would kill her now.

Anne Hampton did not know why Douglas Jeffers had beaten and tied her this night, but it did not surprise her.

She assumed it had something to do with the failed murder of the two young women earlier in the day. But he

had not been his usual specific self. He had reverted to rage alone.

In a way, she had known it was coming.

He had driven fast from the racetrack, sullen, speechless, his silence scaring her more than his usual speechifying. Darkness had crushed them, still he had not stopped until past New York, at midnight, near Bridgeport, Connecticut. He’d found their usual misbegotten accommodations, checking in with a sleepy, unshaven night clerk with hardly a word, paying for the room, as he always did, in cash, Almost as soon as he’d closed the motel door he was on her, pummeling her with open hands, knocking her about the room. She had held up her hands to ward off the first blows, but then had resigned herself and received what he had wanted to dish out. Her passivity may have disappointed him, but the idea had struck her almost as swiftly as his fists that if she were to fight back, she might take the place of the two women. They had lived and she didn’t want to pay for their good fortune right then and there.

So she slunk down, barely covering herself and let him flail away.

The beating had been like a spasm, brief, terrifying, yet over quickly. Then he’d shoved her disdainfully into a corner, wedged down past the sagging twin beds of the motel room. She had not seen him grab the rope; suddenly he’d thrown her down and she’d felt the bonds looped tightly around her, constricting her like some horrid snake. The rope was followed with the violence of the gag around her mouth. She had looked up, trying to catch his eyes, trying to discern what was happening, but she’d been unable. He’d pushed her away with a final, irritated thrust, and left the motel without explanation other than a cryptic promise: ‘I’ll be back’.

She was, by far, most frightened of the rope. He had not used it since the first day and she feared that it signaled some terrible change in their relationship. She was back to being his possession, as opposed to, in some unusual way that she could not quite discern, his partner. She had lost identity, lost importance. If she lost relevance, she knew,

he would abandon her. Her mind used the word ‘abandon’, but she knew that it was a euphemism for something else. She recognized her position as precarious and intensely dangerous. She did not think he would kill Boswell. But he could easily murder some nameless, faceless, bound-and-gagged woman who bothered him with her presence and who reminded him of a failure. She searched about the motel room as best she could. She saw an old dresser and a mirror and two beds with brown corduroy covers that were faded and cheap, and she thought it was a horrid and squalid place to have to die.

She pictured Vicki and Sandi, who’d seemed so reluctant to put on their clothes. She had been confused; Jeffers had emerged from the woods smiling, joking, playful - as if nothing were wrong - yet she knew something had disrupted the plan, which had frightened her even more. He had teased the two about their good looks and promised that they would get a real shot at the mythical photo spread.

She remembered hearing all that as if from a great distance. She had remained rigid with expectation; looking up and seeing the gun in his hands a dozen times, only to blink and realize that it was the camera.

After a few more shots he’d hustled them all back through the woods and into the car. He’d driven to the racetrack, still bantering away with the two giggling women, who had kept saying, ‘I can’t believe how lucky we are’.

She would have laughed, had she not been so terrified.

She thought that the absence of murder was twice as frightening as the act itself. She did not know what had happened, what accident or stroke of luck had saved the two women’s lives. She knew only that he’d dropped them back at the grandstand, given the pair a gay little wave and laugh, then accelerated hard, back to the highway. That false laugh had been the last sign of anything from Douglas Jeffers save building rage.

Anne Hampton relaxed against the rope’s pain and considered what had happened.

She determined that when he returned, she would make him free her. She focused on this, saying to herself: Nothing else matters. Nothing else is important. You must make him acknowledge who you are. And he will not do that until he removes the bonds.

She swallowed hard and felt her stomach pitch like a boat in a storm.

She bit back the nausea of fear.

I am closer now to death than anytime since the first minutes.

Make him need you.

Make him.

Make him.

Force him.

She waited for him to return, repeating the words over ‘ and over to herself, like some nightmarish lullaby.

Douglas Jeffers drove aimlessly through the dark streets, searching for an outlet for his frustration. For a moment he considered the idea of driving into the inner city and simply assassinating some hard-luck person on the street. He thought of finding a prostitute; they were the easiest of targets, almost accommodating in the creation of their death. The idea of driving into an all-night gas station and simply blowing away the attendant appealed to him as well. That was the occupational hazard associated with taking money for gasoline at night. Every so often, somebody else wanted the money and was quite willing to kill for it. Douglas Jeffers thought all the possibilities had a certain common charm; they were the stuff of every-night police blotters. They would get no more than a couple of paragraphs in the morning paper. They were the urban blighted norm, moments of diminished importance, almost routine. That a life ended was of little consequence, an afterthought of night that faded in the light of morning.

They were not the types of crimes that an expert like himself needed to study for more than a couple of seconds.

He shook his head. Another time, he thought, I’d simply do it. Perhaps a liquor store that stayed open a bit too late.

Get a ski mask and a big handgun. A truly American moment.

He let out his breath in a long, slow whistle.

Not now. Not this close to the end.

Don’t screw up.

He alternately wished he’d killed the young ranger, then the two women, but mostly he was angry with himself for not having anticipated all the problems that were associated with the crime. He went back over the details in his head, bitterly castigating himself: I have always properly prepared for every eventuality; I have always foreseen every dilemma. I should have discovered a better hiding place. He berated himself for choosing the glen in the woods. I liked the damn light and background. I thought like a damn photograher. Not like a killer. So all that work was worthless, worthless, damn, damn, damn!

He tried to defuse his anger with the thought that the ranger’s arrival had been random, unexpected. But this seemed to him to be the stuff of excuse, which was distasteful. I always get the shot, he said to himself. I always get it.

He pounded his hands against the steering wheel and thrashed about sharply in his seat, barely maintaining control over the car, even at a slow speed. He wanted to scream, but was unable. Then he remembered Anne Hampton tied in the motel room. Let her wait, he told himself angrily. Let her worry. Let her suffer.

Let her die.

He inhaled sharply and held his breath for a moment.

He was surprised that these harsh thoughts left him slightly uncomfortable.

He pulled the car to the side of a deserted street in a warehouse district. He put his head back and suddenly felt tired.

It wasn’t her damn fault. It was yours. She did what you asked of her.

He closed his eyes.

Damn. The plan was faulty.

He sighed. Well, it just goes to show: nobody’s perfect.

His anger fled him suddenly and he rolled down the window, letting the stale air of the car mingle with the dark cool of the night.

He laughed out loud. The laughter turned to a childish giggle. Nobody’s perfect, he thought. Right.

But you’re pretty damn close.

He thought of the two women cavorting about in the nude. You didn’t have to kill them, he realized. They will probably die quickly from boredom and stupidity and routine lives that promise nothing and deliver less. What was truly hilarious, he imagined at that second, was that they had just experienced the most unique, exciting, and dangerous moment that they would ever have, regardless of how long they lived. For one sublime afternoon they had come into contact with genius and managed to live through it. And the sows didn’t know it.

He laughed again. Exhaustion crept inside him and he realized that it was important to get some sleep. Well, he thought, everything is still on track. A nice easy drive to New Hampshire in the morning. He thought of taking her to Mount Monadnock or Lake Winnipesaukee or some other nice spot before settling in for the evening. Something quiet and relaxing. He considered a town he knew in Vermont. Out of the way, but beautiful — and still a quick drive to the appointment in New Hampshire. Then a little bit of business before the drive down to the Cape.

His mind filled suddenly with rolling, thick, swelling electronically synthesized music and a picture of the grinning actor wearing the white jumpsuit, black bowler, parachute boots, and fake proboscis. A little bit of the old ultraviolence, he said to himself. Real horror show.

And then freedom.

He thought of Anne Hampton again. Boswell is probably scared out of her wits. He shrugged. That wasn’t terrible; it was wise to keep her off-balance.

But he still felt a twinge of guilt.

Let her up to breathe, he thought. She remains necessary.

That gave him a sense of purpose, and he searched about himself briefly, getting his bearings, ready to head directly

back to the motel. He started to consider how he would apologize to her. As he was about to put the car “in gear and leave, he spotted the van parked two hundred yards down the street. He knew instantly what it was: Warehouse. Outside of regular police patrol areas. After midnight. Van. It was a simple equation, the sum of which added into breaking and entering. An idea struck him and he smiled.

No, he said to himself.

Then: Why not?

He wanted to burst out laughing, but he cautioned himself: Be careful.

He did not turn the lights on, rolling the car as quietly as possible down toward the van. It was light-colored and suitably battered and nondescript. He could see no movement from the truck, but he kept his pistol in his hand just in case. When he was next to the van, a distant streetlight threw just enough illumination so he was able to make out the license plate number. He paused, noting the doorjamb on the warehouse door that seemed sprung, though it was difficult for him to tell without getting out of the car. This he was wise enough not to do. Not that he feared the man or men inside, but then he would lose the element of surprise. He rolled past, not turning on his headlights until he reached a spot a couple of blocks away.

He stopped at the first gas station with a pay phone and dialed 911.

‘Bridgeport police, fire and rescue,’ came the flat voice with its studied indifference to emergency.

‘I want to report a breakin in progress,’ replied Douglas Jeffers.

‘Is it happening right now?’

‘That’s what I said,’ Jeffers insisted, with just the right amount of indignation. ‘Right now.’ He gave the policeman the address and a description of the van and license plate number.

‘Thank you. We’re rolling. Can I have your name for our files?’

‘No,’ said Douglas Jeffers. ‘Just consider me a concerned citizen.’ He hung up the phone. A concerned citizen: he

liked that a lot. If they only knew, he thought. He envisioned a pair of robbers, dressed in dark clothes, surprised suddenly by the lights from a police cruiser. He imagined them cursing their luck, rattling their handcuffs in frustration as the police officers passed on those small moments of congratulation and success that accompany a good arrest. If they had any idea who it was that tipped them. Either the good guys or the bad guys. Imagine the looks on their faces.