WIREMAN (13 page)

It was midnight. In a few strokes of the clock, Sunday, dead Sunday, would recede to the past. The only people awake were misfits, police, and insomniacs.

The man had watched from a long alley when the young couple dropped Marjorie Sider off at her apartment. He did not go in immediately. He saw her shut the door and then, agitated, he left the alley and began walking, arguing with himself. Too soon. It’s too soon.

By midnight he was back at her apartment. He moved softly. He entered the courtyard and started up the stairs to the second-floor balcony door. A deathly stillness crept over his mind. He heard a television droning somewhere. It was not nearby. A breeze ruffled his hair. He caught his breath and held it.

He reached her door. He thought he could hear a clock ticking inside. Cautiously he turned the doorknob and felt it catch. A grin spread across his face. Stepping back, he knocked firmly on the door the way someone in authority might knock in an emergency. Then it came to him what to say. He had not known until that very moment.

He waited. He knocked louder, more insistently. A sleepy voice called from behind the closed door, "What is it?"

"Gotta get out! There’s a fire!" he said loudly enough for her to understand the urgency, but not loud enough to wake her neighbors.

"What?" Marjorie opened the door in alarm. It caught on the safety chain and bounced shut, startling her.

She pressed her face close to the opening, sniffing for smoke.

He began his act. He jiggled up and down on his toes as if about to run. His eyes were wild, panicky. "Get out! Fire!" Then he pointed down the landing and vanished.

But he did not go far. Four feet away from her door he stopped and pressed up against the wall. He inched back.

She took the chain off the door, then one step outside. He grabbed her.

Inside he closed and locked the door with one hand , while holding Marjorie Sider’s mouth with the other.

She kicked and jerked, but he had her fast. A light spilled across the carpet from the bedroom. Again he decided on the spur of the moment what he wanted to do. He dragged her across the room to the stereo. He leaned over and grabbed the wire dangling from the wall plug. With one great lunge he tore the stereo wire free from the socket and the wood cabinet. The plug end whipped behind him and struck Marjorie’s thigh.

Murmuring softly to her, he lifted her and carried her to the bedroom. As he spun her onto the bed, he cuffed her once on the chin. It was enough. She fell onto the mattress unconscious.

It took less than three minutes to bind her with the wire and to stuff the end of a sheet into her mouth.

Marjorie came to as he was pulling her gown from her shoulders and slipping it down over her tied ankles.

She struggled. She looked at his face and her eyes grew large. She flung her head back and forth, trying to dislodge the gag. Her tongue was flattened to her teeth, and as she fought she felt the flesh tearing and blood oozing into the cloth. Sensing she was wasting precious energy in a useless struggle, she stopped.

Suddenly she saw what he meant to do to her. It was not what she expected. She thought she was to be a victim of rape. But when she saw the man take the garrote from his shirt, she knew it was a weapon, his weapon. She also knew her empty, paltry life was going to end. This was not a movie and not a nightmare. This was life slamming her in the face with the fact of her impending death. She spit at the gag and choked. She wanted to tell him, she wanted to say--but the wire was going around her throat--she wanted to beg him please, please, not this way, not this way, not...

Marjorie Sider’s last thoughts were of the boy who had died before her.

#

Things had to be correctly placed. The body, the pillow, the covers. The head was secure in a green plastic trash bag.

One last look at the woman. She was perfect. Her skin was still pinkish white. The blood seeping from beneath the pillow was the color of roses, blood-red roses. The bed looked like a whole bushel of them.

He let himself out the door after checking the landing and stairs and parking lot. He was as quiet as death come calling.

#

Sherry Northumberland was running late because once home from the movie, she had trouble sleeping. She had to pick up Marjorie and that would make them both late.

Finding no empty parking space in front of Marjorie’s building, Sherry left her car running and raced up the stairs. When Marjorie did not answer the door, Sherry went inside, wondering why it was unlocked when Marge never left it unlocked. Unperturbed at not finding her friend up, Sherry went to the bedroom with a good scolding ready on the tip of her tongue. How were they going to get out of the secretarial pool if they started running late?

At the doorway of the bedroom she paused. She smelled something strange. The shades were drawn and the room dark. Something was not quite right. Not at all.

“Marge? Why aren’t you up?" she called hesitantly.

Sherry saw the dried blood first. Creeping closer, she caught her breath. The smell grew stronger.

Sherry had mental flashes from old horror movies. They were pale in comparison to what she was seeing. Life was so much more intense than film, life was a sledgehammer where a movie was no more than a tiny ringing bell in the distance.

An intuitive voice warned her against touching the pillow. It was placed just so, resting partially on Marjorie’s chest and covering her head. It was spotted with blood stains.

But Sherry’s hand reached out for the pillow anyway.

Marjorie Sider was headless. The sheet around her neck was soaked with black splashes of blood. The room suddenly tilted. Screams boomeranged off the walls.

Sherry Northumberland fled the apartment in a mindless stagger and crumpled to a heap in warm morning sunshine outside, still screaming--still mindlessly clutching the bloody pillow from her friend’s bed.

INSIDE THE OLD two-story red-brick town house, Nick dreamed. He lay on the newly upholstered Victorian sofa, his head on a pillow, his stockinged feet dangling over the wooden scroll armrest.

Outside a storm was brewing in the Gulf, and occasional drops of rain chinked against the windowpanes.

In Nick’s dream eyes were everywhere. Black Asian eyes staring into the night. Nick’s pulse quickened with alarm. He shuddered. The eyes were all around. He felt them on him, on his brother, and the other soldiers.

The moon was hidden behind thick smoky clouds, and the Vietnamese jungle was still as midnight. The Americans were trapped. They could not call out or signal. The Cong waited, hoping for a stupid move from the GIs. Nick and his platoon went right, slogging, tearing, their palms swelling with red welts. They doubled back cautiously, but not far. Finally they gave up and moved stealthily, padding across the forest floor with animal furtiveness into the limbo of the lost, the separated, the alone...

Nick sat up straight on the sofa, his eyes wide, unseeing. "I hate this fucking place!" he shouted, meaning the war, meaning Vietnam.

Daley had been reading an assignment for his literature course, and he nearly jumped from his chair. "Nick, what is it?" he asked.

Nick woke up.
I’m not in Nam,
he thought.
I’m okay, I’m not gonna die.

"Nothing," he said, noticing he had frightened his brother. "Just a stupid dream."

Daley looked at Nick in concern. "They seem more frequent lately. Maybe you need more than Valium for your nerves."

Nick touched his forehead and found he was sweating. He rubbed his shirtsleeve across his face. "If I need something else, I’ll get it," he said defensively. "Like a lobotomy maybe."

"You and that smart mouth of yours. I don’t know why I bother."` Daley went back to his reading.

"All right, I’ll tell you,” Nick said, beginning to pace the living room. "I was dreaming we were back in Nam that night we were ambushed and lost our way."

Daley lowered the book and watched his big brother carefully. The memory of that horrible experience bloomed in Daley’s mind. No wonder Nick had awakened screaming that he hated the place. It had been the depths of hell, and it did not seem they were out of it yet, not completely.

"I could smell Charlie and I got that sinking in the pit of my belly like when I knew he was behind us," Nick continued. "The dream was a rerun of that night. Everything was the same, and I thought I was back there, trapped, lost. I wish to hell I could forget it. Just when I think I can forget it all, it comes back in my sleep."

"Did you tell the doctor about it when he prescribed the tranquilizers?" Daley asked.

"What the fuck’s a doctor know about Vietnam?" Nick erupted. "Doctors know shit about nothing but pills and padded cells."

"If you’d trust one enough to tell him what you’re dealing with, Nick--"

"What could he do about it?" Nick circled faster and faster, his arms moving erratically in front of him. "Is he going to wipe it out? Is he? Can he get inside my brain and tell me what to dream about? I can see it now. Crawling through my ear on his hands and knees, stirring up the gray matter, taking a mop to the shit inside."

Daley knew a good therapist might know how to deal with his brother’s problems. Surely someone could do something. Besides Nick’s being irritable and unreasonable, his nightmares were getting worse. It had become unusual to pass one night without being awakened by a scream from downstairs. Daley was not sure if they were living with a lunatic or if he was blowing everything out of proportion because he knew things about Nick that would frighten anyone.

Nick stopped walking and turned to Daley, a puzzled look on his face. "Something else has been bothering me," he said. "Did you see in the paper about a couple of murders that happened last weekend?"

"Everyone on campus is talking about it," Daley said cautiously. He did not like the dark light that had suddenly appeared in his brother’s eyes.

"They’re saying that some kind of wire was used." Nick was standing very still.

"I know." Daley sounded perfectly calm, but his thoughts were racing.

"Like maybe they were garroted," Nick suggested.

Before Daley could say anything, Madra appeared at the doorway of the living room carrying two suitcases. She was fully dressed although it was after ten in the evening and Daley had thought she had gone to bed earlier. She wore a long blue patterned skirt, high-topped boots, and the cape around her shoulders. For several seconds both men stared at her in amazement.

Nick recovered first. "Sorry to see you go, but if you’re bound and determined...” He put out his hands in a mocking gesture of helplessness.

"Daley, may I please speak to you alone?" Madra asked. Daley put down the book and stood slowly.

"What’s going on, Madra? What are you doing?" He walked to her, his hands out.

"I didn’t want it to end this way, Daley, but I didn’t have the courage to talk to you about it. I’m moving out. An old girl friend offered me her place in Montrose.”

Daley touched her arms and stared into her eyes, her strange faraway eyes. She was not seeing him. He shook her gently, his heart heavy. He knew she had been unhappy ever since the first day, but he had never thought she would leave without discussing it with him.

Her eyes rolled back into her head a bit and she swayed, still holding the suitcases.

Daley grabbed her and tried to mentally will her out of the seizure. "Madra, don’t leave me," he begged.

"Well, I think I’ll spare myself this little domestic scene," Nick said, going into the kitchen.

Madra came out of the trance and at once bit her lower lip. Tears welled in her eyes, and she stared at the center button on Daley’s shirt. "I’m sorry, Daley, really I am. I’ve tried hard with you. Harder than with anyone else in my life, but it’s not working. We’ve drifted apart…" She paused, and glanced away guiltily.

They both heard Nick making noises in the kitchen. "I can’t go on here. I’m between you and Nick all the time. You’re constantly defending me. I only make trouble for you.” She was trying to free herself from his arms, but not in any serious way. Daley was impotent to refute her reasoning, and something sagged within him. "Madra, listen to me. We can work this out. I know my brother’s a problem but..."

She shook her head sharply and pulled from his grasp. "Don’t, Daley. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I have to leave. I have to go tonight."

She hefted the suitcases and turned to the front door. She looked back, her eyes pleading with him to not prolong the misery. "Can you get the door for me, please?" she asked timidly. "You can always call me. I’ll be at Dina’s. You know her from Gilvert’s lit. class."

Daley straightened his shoulders in resignation and walked to her. He took the doorknob in his hand, then turned and drew her to him. His kiss was long and tender, and he felt her lips tremble. Then he released her and opened the door. "I don’t want you to go," he said softly, desperately. "I need you, Madra. You don’t know how I much I need you."

Madra smiled sadly and walked into the night without looking back.

Nick’s voice surprised Daley. "What’s up with our little Russian looking fashion model? Running out on you, is she?"

"I don’t want to talk about it." Daley shut the door sadly and locked it. He slowly walked to the living room and slumped into his chair.

"Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. She’s ‘Twilight Zone’ material, take my word for it. You’re better off without her." Nick's chatter was light and he appeared to be in high spirit.

"I said I didn’t want to discuss it, Nick."

"It’s just you and me, Daley," Nick persisted, standing over his brother. "Like always. We don’t need women like her. We don’t need woman at all. Except for special purposes, of course. But with her out of the way we can be ourselves, don’t you see that? She knew she didn’t fit in here. We can talk like we used to. We can--"

"Shut up, Nick! Just shut up!" The explosion hung in the room like a dark aftermath of a nuclear explosion.

Nick sat down on the sofa, and his face hardened. The jaw muscles tensed and in his eyes there was a banked fire. When he spoke again, his voice was frighteningly intense yet quiet. "I am not ready to shut up. You wasted months on the bitch and now you want sympathy. Don’t ask for it from me, Daley. I told you all along what a mistake it was. For you. For us. We didn't need her and you know it. You’ve always known we didn’t need them."