By mid-afternoon, Andrew could feel there was another fainting fit in the offing. He was sweating and shivering, tingles ran up and down his arms and legs, and a dull ache—stronger than last time—had reappeared at the base of his spine. A shrill whistling sound pierced his eardrums.
Andrew went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. He found Freddy Olson bent over the sink, his nose in a line of powder.
Olson jumped.
“I was sure I’d locked it.”
“Well, you didn’t. But if it makes you feel better, I’m not at all surprised.”
“Fuck, Stilman. If you breathe a word about this, I’m done for. I can’t lose my job. Please, don’t be a bastard.”
Being a bastard was the last thing on Andrew’s mind as he felt his legs give way beneath him.
“I don’t feel so good,” he groaned, leaning on the sink.
Olson helped him sit down on the floor.
“Are you ill?”
“I’m in great shape, as you can see. Lock the door? It’d look pretty bad if someone came in right now.”
Olson hurried to bolt the door.
“What’s up, Stilman? This isn’t the first time you’ve fainted like this. Maybe you should go see a doctor.”
“Your nose looks like you dunked it in a vat of flour. You’re the one who needs to get treatment. You’re a cokehead, Freddy. You’ll end up frying your neurons with that shit. How long have you been doing it?”
“What the hell do you care about my health? Tell me straight, Stilman: are you trying to get me thrown out? I’m begging you, please. I know we’ve had our differences, you and me, but you know better than anyone else that I’m no threat to your career. What would you stand to gain if I got fired?”
Andrew’s dizzy spell began to pass. He was getting the feeling back in his limbs and his vision was clearing. A gentle warmth flooded through him.
Something Pilguez had said suddenly popped into his mind: if you have your criminal but haven’t understood his motives, your job is only half done. He concentrated as hard as he could. Had he already caught Olson with his nose in a line of coke in his previous life? Was Olson threatened by him? It was possible that someone else had let the cat out of the bag, and Olson—convinced the snitch was Andrew—had decided to get his revenge. Andrew contemplated how to uncover Olson’s motives. What had prompted him to buy a collection of elevators from a hunting store? What were they for?
“Can you help me up?” Andrew asked.
Olson looked at him threateningly. He slipped his hand into his pocket. Andrew thought he could make out the tip of a screwdriver or an awl.
“First, swear you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Don’t be a jerk, Olson. You said so yourself: what would I gain apart from a guilty conscience? What you do with your free time is no concern of mine.”
Olson held out his hand to Andrew.
“Maybe you’re not such a bad guy, Stilman.”
“It’s all right, Freddy. Spare me the ass-kissing. I won’t say anything—you have my word.”
Andrew splashed water on his face. The paper towel roll was jammed, as usual. He left the bathroom with Olson close on his heels, and they bumped straight into their editor, who was waiting in the corridor.
“Were you plotting something, or is there something you two want to tell me?” Olivia Stern inquired, looking first one then the other of them in the eye.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Andrew retorted.
“You’ve been shut up alone together in a small bathroom for a quarter of an hour. What do you want me to think?”
“Andrew had a dizzy spell. I went to see if everything was okay and found him lying on the floor. I stayed with him until he started feeling better. But everything’s back to normal now, right, Stilman?”
“You fainted again?” Olivia asked in an anxious voice.
“Nothing serious, don’t worry. Those damn back pains of mine are so strong sometimes, they literally have me flat on the floor.”
“Go see a doctor, Andrew. This is the second time it’s happened at the newspaper, and I presume it’s happened elsewhere too. That’s an order. I don’t want to have to bring you home from Argentina because of a stupid case of lumbago. Got it?”
“Yes, boss,” Andrew replied in a deliberately impertinent tone.
Back at his desk, Andrew turned to Olson and said, “You’ve got a nerve, making me the scapegoat.”
“What did you want me to tell her? That we were smooching in the bathroom?” Freddy replied.
“Come take a walk with me before I punch you in the face. I need to talk to you, but not here.”
“What the hell were you doing buying hunting knives?” Andrew asked as they entered the cafeteria.
“I had a roast to carve. What’s it got to do with you? You’re spying on me now?”
Andrew tried to think of a way to respond without making him suspicious.
“You sniff coke all day long and you buy specialist knives. If you’ve got debts, I’d rather know about it before your dealers show up at the paper.”
“Chill out, Stilman. Me going to that shop has nothing to do with that. I went there for a story.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate.”
Olson hesitated for a moment, then gave up and decided to confide in Andrew.
“Okay. I told you I was investigating three knifings. Well, I have my contacts too. I went to see a cop buddy of mine who’d got hold of the forensic scientist’s reports. Turns out the three victims weren’t stabbed with a knife, but a pointed object, sort of like a needle, that leaves behind a series of asymmetrical incisions.”
“An ice pick?”
“No, because each time it was pulled out, the weapon caused much more damage than a simple needle, however long. The forensic scientist thought it might be some kind of hook. The problem is that with a hook, the victims would have had to be stabbed in the side for the internal wounds to reach the belly.
“When I was a kid, I used to go hunting with my dad. He worked the traditional way, like a trapper. I won’t bore you with the details, but I remembered something my old man would use to dismember stags. I wondered whether that kind of tool could still be bought today, and went to check somewhere they sold hunting equipment. Has that satisfied your curiosity, Stilman?”
“Do you really believe a serial killer is loose on the streets of Manhattan?”
“I’m totally convinced of it.”
“And the paper put you on this half-baked story?”
“Olivia wants us to be the first to publish the scoop.”
“If we were second, it wouldn’t really be a scoop, would it? Why all these lies, Olson? Olivia hasn’t asked you to investigate any serial killer.”
Freddy shot Andrew a dark look and sent his cup of coffee flying.
“Your arrogance really pisses me off, Stilman. Are you a cop or a journalist? I know you don’t like me, but I won’t let you ruin my career. I’ll defend myself—by any means.”
“Chill out, Olson. For someone who’s trying to play it cool, hurling your cup across the cafeteria wasn’t very smart. Everyone’s looking at you.”
“To hell with them. I’m just trying to protect myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What planet are you living on, Stilman? Can’t you see what’s brewing at the paper? They’re going to fire half the staff. Are you the only person who doesn’t get it? Of course you don’t feel threatened. When you’re the editor’s pet, you don’t fear for your job. I, on the other hand, am not in her good graces, so I’m fighting as best I can.”
“You’ve lost me, Freddy.”
“Fine, play dumb. Your piece on the Chinese orphanage hit it big. Right after, you get an investigative report in Argentina. You
’re in solid with the bosses. As for me, I haven’t published anything significant for months. I work the night shift, praying for something out of the ordinary to happen. Do you think I like sleeping under my desk and spending my weekends here to try and save my job? If I lose my job, I lose everything. It’s all I’ve got.
“Do you ever have nightmares? Of course not—why would you? But I do. I often wake up in a sweat from a nightmare where I’m in a seedy office in some godforsaken provincial town, working for the local rag. In this nightmare I’m looking up at a yellowed copy of The New York Times hanging on the wall of my grimy office, dreaming of better days. And then the phone rings, and I’m told I have to rush to the grocery store because a dog’s been run over. I have that goddam nightmare every night.
“So you’re right, Stilman: Olivia didn’t ask me to do that investigation. She hasn’t put me on anything since you became her golden boy. This is all me. If there’s any chance I could be the first to identify a serial killer—the slightest chance I’m onto a scoop—I’ll visit all the hunting shops in the tri-state area so I don’t miss it. Whether you like it or not.”
Andrew stared at his colleague. Freddy’s hands were shaking and his breathing was erratic.
“I’m sorry. If I can help you with your investigations, I’d really like to.”
“Of course! Looking down his nose, Mr. Stilman offers sympathy. Fuck you!”
Olson got up and left the cafeteria without looking back.
* * *
The conversation with Olson occupied Andrew’s mind for the rest of the day. Knowing his colleague’s situation made him feel less alone. That evening, at dinner with Valerie, he described Freddy’s misery.
“You should help him,” Valerie said. “Work alongside him instead of turning your back.”
“That’s just how the cubicles crumble.”
“Don’t be dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”
“My life’s been disrupted enough by my own investigation. If I have to start following an imaginary killer, I won’t be able to hold it together.”
“I wasn’t talking about that. I meant you should help him with his cocaine addiction.”
“That nutcase went to buy some elevators so he could play at being a forensic scientist. He thinks that’s the weapon his serial killer’s using.”
“I have to admit that’s pretty extreme.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
“They’re used as surgical instruments. I can bring one home from the office tomorrow night, if you want,” Valerie replied with a slight smile.
These words left Andrew pensive. He was still reflecting on them when he fell asleep that night.
* * *
Andrew woke up as dawn was breaking. He missed his morning runs along the Hudson River. He had good reason for not going back there since his “resurrection” but as he thought about it, July 9 was still a long way off. Valerie was fast asleep. He got out of bed without a sound, slipped on his running gear and left the apartment. All was quiet in the West Village. Andrew jogged down Charles Street. He sped up at the bottom of the road and managed, for the first time in his life, to cross the West Side Highway’s eight lanes before the second traffic light turned green. Thrilled with his achievement and with resuming his morning exercise, he turned onto the Hudson River Park footpath.
He broke off from his run for a moment to watch the lights of Hoboken go out as the sun rose. He loved that sight; it reminded him of his childhood. When he lived in Poughkeepsie, his father used to come to his room early on Saturday mornings and wake him. They would have breakfast together in the kitchen, and then his dad would sit him in front of the steering wheel and push the Datsun out into the lane so they didn’t wake his mother. God, I miss my parents, he thought. Once they were in the street, Andrew would carry out the maneuver he’d learned: pull down into second, release the clutch, wait for the engine to start sputtering then give a quick press on the accelerator. When teaching him to drive, his father would make him cross the Hudson Bridge, then turn off into Oaks Road and park along the river. From their observation point, they’d sit waiting for the lights of Poughkeepsie to be switched off. Every time he watched it happen, Andrew’s father would clap as if a fireworks display had come to an end.
As the lights of Jersey City went out too, Andrew left his memories behind and continued on his run.
Looking behind him as he rejoined the flow of joggers, he suddenly recognized a familiar figure in the distance behind him. He squinted and saw Freddy Olson running towards him with his right hand inside the pocket of the sweatshirt he had on. Andrew immediately sensed danger. He could have confronted Freddy, tried to reason with him, but he knew already that Freddy would mortally wound him before he would have the chance to dodge his attack. Andrew started running as fast as he could. Panic-stricken, he turned around again to estimate the distance separating him from Olson. He was gaining ground. Try as he might, Andrew wasn’t fast enough to shake him off. Olson must be high as a kite. How could he fight off someone who did coke morning, noon and night? Andrew noticed a small group of joggers in front of him. If he caught up with them, he’d be safe; Freddy couldn’t attack him then. They were only a hundred or so feet ahead—he had to catch up with them, no matter how out of breath he was. He prayed to God to give him the strength he needed. It wasn’t July 9 yet, and he still had an assignment to carry out in Argentina, and so many things to say to Valerie. He didn’t want to die today—not yet, not again. The joggers were only some forty feet ahead of him now, but he could sense Freddy closing in on him.
Try harder, he groaned to himself. Faster, dammit, faster!
He wanted to shout for help, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs.
Suddenly Andrew felt a terrible pain rip into the base of his spine. He screamed in pain. One of the joggers ahead of him heard his cry and turned around. Andrew’s heart stopped beating when he saw Valerie’s face smiling calmly at him, watching him die. He collapsed onto the tarmac and everything went dark.
* * *
When Andrew opened his eyes again, he was lying shivering on a cold, hard plastic bed. A voice was addressing him through a speaker: he was in the midst of a scan; it wouldn’t take long and he should remain as still as possible.
How could he move when his wrists and ankles were bound? Andrew tried to control the beating of his heart; he could hear it echoing around the white room. Before he had time to look around to see where he was, the bed began sliding into a large cylinder. He felt as if he were being imprisoned inside a modern-day sarcophagus. He heard a muffled sound followed by a series of loud hammering noises. The voice coming out of the speaker was trying to sound soothing: it said everything would be fine, he had nothing to fear, it was a painless exam and would soon be over.
After several minutes the noises stopped, and the bed slid slowly out again, bringing Andrew back into the light of the room. A nurse came right away and transferred him onto a bed with wheels. He knew that face—he’d already seen it someplace. He was almost certain it was Sam, Valerie’s assistant at the veterinary office. No doubt he was delirious from the drugs he’d been administered.
Andrew wanted to put the question to the nurse all the same. But the man just smiled and left him in the room to which he’d wheeled him.
What hospital am I in? he wondered. But it didn’t really matter. He’d survived his attack and identified the perpetrator. Once he’d recovered from his injuries, he’d be able to live a normal life again. That bastard Freddy Olson would spend the next ten years behind bars. That had to be the minimum for attempted murder.
Andrew would always be angry for letting himself be duped by his story. Olson must have guessed that Andrew suspected something and decided to act earlier than planned. It occurred to Andrew that he’d have to postpone his trip to Argentina, but since he’d managed to save his skin this time, he now
had proof that the course of things could be changed.
There was a knock at the door. Inspector Pilguez came in, accompanied by a ravishing woman in a white doctor’s coat.
“I’m sorry, Stilman. I failed, and that guy pulled it off. I’d backed the wrong horse. I’m getting old and my instincts aren’t what they used to be.” Andrew wanted to reassure the detective, but hadn’t recovered enough to speak.
“When I found out what had happened to you, I jumped on the first plane with my neurosurgeon friend I’ve told you so much about. May I introduce you to Dr. Kline.”
“Lauren,” said the doctor, holding out her hand.
Andrew recalled her name, Pilguez had mentioned it once over dinner. He was surprised he did, because every time he’d hesitated about getting himself examined, he’d tried in vain to remember it.
The doctor took his pulse, inspected his pupils and got what looked like a pen out of her coat pocket, except it had a tiny lightbulb instead of a nib.
“Follow this light with your eyes, Mr. Stilman,” she said, moving her pen back and forth from left to right.
She replaced it in her pocket and took a few steps back.
“Olson,” Andrew uttered with difficulty.
“I know,” Pilguez sighed. “We questioned him at the office. He tried to deny the facts, but your friend Simon told us about the hunting knives and when we threw that at him, he ended up admitting to it. I wasn’t completely off-base, unfortunately: your wife was his accomplice. I’m sorry—I’d have preferred to be wrong about that.”
“Valerie . . . But why?” Andrew stammered.
“I told you there are only really two types of crime? In ninety percent of cases, the killer is a close relation. Your colleague let on to her that you were in love with someone else and were about to call off the wedding. She couldn’t bear the humiliation. We arrested her at her office. Given the number of police officers around her, she didn’t put up any resistance.”