Don't Say a Word

  Well, I said … I told him, “I don’t drink.” I didn’t want to tell him, you see, that I was on medication. So I said, “I could have a soda, though.”

  And he said, “Well—I don’t know. It is Thursday and the rules on these things are pretty strict. But hell, if it’s just this once. The Central Committee will never find out.”

  “The Central Committee?” I said.

  He laughed. He said, “Come on, spacegirl.”

  He took me to a little café called The Alamo on Sixth Avenue. We had Cokes together and one of those—what do you call it?—a guacamole dip. It was very good. And he told me then—he told me his name was Terry Somerset. He was an actor, he said. He said he was in a play at the MacDougal Street Playhouse. I knew that theater too. I walked by it every day on my way to the subway. I’d always wanted to go in. He said he worked there and then sometimes did word-processing work for money. I told him I worked at a day-care center. I guess I made it sound like I was one of the children’s caretakers, you know. I guess I was trying to impress him.

  Well, he said, “You’re working kind of late tonight, aren’t you?”

  And I said, “Yes.” I said. “Yes. I work late a lot.”

  And he said, “You came out of that lane like there was someone chasing after you …”

  And I said, “Well …” I said very quickly, “Well, it was dark.” I said, “And there was someone there. I guess I got frightened, that’s all.”

  Terry said you couldn’t be too careful in New York. Then we talked about other things.

  When we were finished at the café, it was very late. Terry put me in a cab and paid the driver for me. I was happy driving home. I’d never met a man like Terry before. I mean, I’d never even had a date or anything really. It was fun. I had a good time.

  I didn’t hear from Terry for a few days, but he called me on Monday. He invited me out to dinner. I lied and said I had to work late again. I didn’t want to tell him that I worked late every night; I mean, that I was just the cleaning lady at Liberty. Anyway, Terry said he would meet me at The Alamo after work.

  All that day, I was worried. Dr. Holbein had told me that the Secret Friend showed up whenever I got anxious about … you know, like, sex things. Whatever you want to call them. But I kept telling myself, you know, this was just a soda. I mean, Terry didn’t try to do anything to me. Why should the Secret Friend be angry? But all the same, I was worried.

  I left work a little early that night—around ten forty-five. I stepped out the door into the lane—and the red-haired man grabbed me.

  He caught me by the arm. I tried to pull away. But he leaned his face into mine. And his voice was everywhere, inside my head, all around me.

  “Keep away from him, Elizabeth,” he said. “He just wants to take your mother out. You have to understand that. He’s just trying to take your mother out. Keep away from him.”

  I cried out, “No!” But he kept saying things, terrible things about Terry, about my mother. He kept saying them. I cried out again and pulled away from him. I ran—I ran down the lane as fast as I could.

  I went to the cafe, I went to see Terry, but I was very upset. Terry kept asking me what was wrong. I just said it was nothing. I changed the subject. I told him how I’d always wanted to go to the MacDougal Street Playhouse. And he said, you know, well, why don’t we? So after we had a soda, he took me over there. The place was locked up by then, but he had a key. We went inside and he showed me where his picture was on the wall. There was a sign for a play called Shadows, and there were pictures of the cast tacked to a bulletin board in the lobby. Terry’s picture was right in the center of them. He was the most handsome, I thought.

  Then he took me inside and we stood on the stage together. It was very exciting. It was all set up to look like a living room, except the furniture was covered with sheets. Terry read some of his lines to me as if I were in the play. He made me laugh a lot.

  But then he said, he asked me, “What is the matter, Elizabeth? What’s been bothering you all night?”

  Well, I had to say something, so I said, “Oh, you know, it’s that man again. That one who was in the alley before. He’s been bothering me, saying nasty things.”

  Terry looked really angry. He said he would meet me right at the door of the center from now on. He said he better not catch that man bothering me. I was sorry I’d told him, but it was nice to have Terry talk that way, about protecting me and everything. Then he took hold of my shoulders and he kissed me. Right there on the dark stage. It was very romantic. As if we were lovers in the play.

  The next day, I was supposed to go to the clinic to get my medication. The doctor there asked me if everything was all right, if I was hearing voices, if I was seeing things.

  I wanted to tell him the truth. But I was afraid. I was afraid he would put me back in the hospital and I wouldn’t see Terry anymore. I told him everything was fine. He gave me the medication and let me go.

  Then, that Saturday, Terry and I had a date for dinner. He took me to a steak house in Chelsea. We went to see a movie and then had coffee at a cafe and talked about it. Terry talked about all the different actors and whether they were good or not. After that, we went for a walk.

  It was pretty late by then, I guess. Around eleven or so. And we walked into a neighborhood that wasn’t very nice. There were big empty buildings—warehouses—ev- erywhere. And there were men gathered together in the shadows of doorways. And there were homeless men standing around trash-can fires. It was late September and it had gotten chilly, especially where we were, over by the river.

  Finally, we stopped in front of an old brownstone just a block before the Hudson on a little street called Houses Street. It was very dark there. I could just see the shadows of a big warehouse and the brownstone and a vacant lot. There were no streetlamps and the house we were in front of, the brownstone, was the only place with a light on.

  Terry said, “This is me. I live here. Would you like to come in?”

  He looked at me, waiting to see what I would say. I was nervous. I was scared. I was scared something bad might happen. But I wanted everything to be nice. Like it is for normal people, you know? So I said all right. I said I’d go inside.

  We went inside. The light was out in the hallway and I was very nervous. But then—once we got upstairs—once we got into Terry’s apartment, I thought: It’s going to be all right. I thought: Everything is going to be just fine.

  The apartment was on the second floor. It was a small studio and it wasn’t nice. It was … I don’t know: seedy. But … it was manly, sort of. You know what I mean? I mean, there was this tatty old sofa and a couple of worn-out armchairs. Magazines about sports and electronics lying around all over the place. And there was one of those little Hollywood beds against one wall.

  Terry said, “One day, when I’m a big star on Broadway, I’ll look back at this and weep uncontrollably.”

  But I liked it. I liked being there.

  There was no kitchen, just a little half-sized refrigerator and a hot plate. But Terry found a can of Coke in the fridge. We sat on the sofa and passed the can back and forth. Then, Terry put the can aside and moved close to me. We began to kiss again. Hard, a lot. He put his tongue in my mouth. He put his hands on me, on my breasts, whatever. But I didn’t mind. Really. It felt good. I was feeling all right about it. After a while, he even put his hand inside my skirt. He put his fingers inside my underpants.

  That’s when I opened my eyes and saw him.

  He was at the window—the red-haired man. He was staring in the second-story window at us. His eyes were wide, crazy. His face—all white, all freckled—it was wild and mad.

  I screamed and jumped up, away from Terry.

  “What?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  “We have to go! We have to get out of here!” I screamed the words. “Please! I have to leave!”

  “Leave? Elizabeth, what’s the matter?” Terry got up. He took me by the shoulders. ?
??Elizabeth, for God’s sake, you have to tell me what’s wrong!”

  “You don’t understand. You’re in danger. You’re in terrible danger …”

  “Danger? What are you talking—”

  “The red-haired man. It’s him. It’s him.”

  I pointed to the window. Terry turned and looked. “Who? There’s no one there.”

  “Please.” I had started crying. I couldn’t stop. “Please, you have to take me home. You have to get away from me right now.”

  “Damn it, Elizabeth, you have to tell me what’s the matter.”

  “I can’t,” I screamed. I cried harder. “I can’t.”

  And then I ran away. I was so afraid. I was so afraid the Secret Friend would hurt him. I ran out of the apartment. Down the stairs. I pushed out the door. I stumbled down the stoop to the sidewalk.

  I heard Terry call out behind me, “Elizabeth!” But I didn’t stop. I ran. Through the dark, past the dark men. I don’t even know how I got home. I guess I just kept running until I found a subway. I remember riding on a subway and then … Then the next thing I remember is being inside, being home. I turned the light on, locked my door. I lay down on the bed. I lay there trembling, crying.

  After a long time, I guess I went to sleep.

  Elizabeth paused here for a moment. Conrad looked down at his watch. It was eight oh four now. He had to stop her soon. He couldn’t let the story go on much longer.

  But he kept thinking—listening and thinking: maybe there’s something. Something here. About the number. About my daughter. About a man named Sport. Maybe there’s something that will help. Something that I’ll need.

  What is the number, Elizabeth? Why me?

  He lifted his eyes to her. He smiled gently. He nodded his encouragement.

  Elizabeth went on.

  I sat up, suddenly, my heart pounding. There had been a noise. It sounded again. The buzzer to the downstairs intercom. It was loud as a fire alarm.

  I looked around, blinking, confused. The room was dark. I wasn’t even sure where I was.

  And then the buzzer sounded again. I got out of bed. The clock on my bedside table showed it was after two A.M. I couldn’t think. I stumbled to the intercom. Pressed the talk button.

  “Yes? What?”

  “Elizabeth. Elizabeth, it’s me.” It was Terry. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m … fine. I was sleeping. What are you … ?”

  “Let me in. Let me come up. I have to see you.”

  I was about to answer him—when a hand wrapped itself around my mouth.

  I was pulled back from the intercom. I saw a pale white hand reach out in front of me. I grabbed for it. I tried to stop it. But he was too strong. He pressed the button that opened the downstairs door.

  I struggled. I tried to scream. But he grabbed me around the waist and dragged me backward. I heard his voice, hoarse and breathless in my ear.

  “It’s all right, Elizabeth. I’ll protect you from him. I’ll take care of you. I’m your friend.”

  I scratched at his hand. I tried to shout, “No! Please! Let me go!” But the hand around my mouth muffled my screams. The hand around my waist held me tight. I was dragged toward the bathroom.

  Now there was knocking at the door. I heard Terry’s voice outside: “Elizabeth? Open up, it’s me. Are you all right?”

  “Terry! Run!” I tried to shout it. I did. But he muffled me. His hand muffled me.

  And then I was thrown into the bathroom. I fell to the hard floor. The door was closed. I scrambled to my feet. I rushed at the door again. I tried to open it. It was stuck. Something had been shoved against it. I pounded on the door with my fists.

  “Terry! Oh, Terry! Please, God, no! Don’t hurt him! Jesus Christ, Terry, run!”

  I clutched my face in my hands. I tore at my forehead with my nails. I wanted to rip the madness out of me. I had to stop it, stop it before Terry got hurt. The blood ran down into my eyes. I kept screaming, “Terry! Don’t come in! Run!”

  And then—it was like it came from another world—from some other country or something, far away, through a fog—I heard a man shriek: “No!” And there was a terrible noise. A terrible—I don’t know—strangling noise. And I looked down. I looked down and there was blood on my hands. Blood. Blood all over. And I wasn’t in the bathroom anymore. I was out, I was out in the darkness. And I was crying, and the blood and the tears were running down my cheeks. And then suddenly … suddenly I could feel him there. I was lying on the floor somehow and I could feel him under me. And I felt the blood. The blood all over. Oh, blood. Oh, it was everywhere. And there were people screaming. There were people screaming my name. And then the lights came on. I was blinded. Lights in my eyes. And people were screaming. And I was covered, I was covered with blood all over.

  I looked down. He was there. He was lying under me. He was cut, all over … His eyes. Jesus Christ. His eyes. He was dead, I knew he was dead. And I knew what had happened. Finally. I knew everything now. You see?

  Because it wasn’t Terry. It wasn’t Terry lying there dead, Dr. Conrad.

  It was him. It was the red-haired man. It was Robert Rostoff.

  Terry had killed him. Terry was the Secret Friend.

  What Is the Number?

  Conrad looked up from his watch. “What?”

  Elizabeth sat before him, crying quietly. Her head was bowed. The tears fell onto her lap, onto her clasped hands.

  Conrad shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to focus. It was so late, he kept thinking. It was all he could think about. Eight-twelve now. Eighteen minutes left. He had to question her. He had to get the number. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else, think of anything else.

  Still, when she finished, he blinked at her. “What did you say?”

  Elizabeth spoke through her tears. “I said, it was the red-haired man. Not Terry.”

  “But how is that possible? I thought …”

  “They told me … the police, I mean … they told me he was some kind of clerk, a token clerk, in the subways. They said he’d taken me for a date and that I’d …” Her tears were slowing. She raised her head. She held him with her damp eyes. “I tried to tell them about Terry. I took them to the MacDougal Street Playhouse. I tried to show them his picture … on the wall, you know?” She swallowed, shook her head. “But there was no picture of him. And the other people, the rest of the cast … they’d never heard of him.”

  “Oh … Elizabeth.” Conrad stopped himself from saying more.

  She bowed her head again. “Then … I told them I’d been to his house. I told them the address. They just looked at me. They said the houses on that block were all abandoned. They even drove me there. They showed me. There’s the brownstone, they said. Number two twenty-two. And the house was—empty … nothing in it but trash.”

  Conrad looked at the young woman, shook his head again.

  “He’s always different,” she said miserably. “The Secret Friend. He’s never the same.”

  For a few seconds more, he watched her. Her eyes were turned down. Her red-gold hair spilled over her cheeks, almost to her lap. The tears fell more slowly now. Conrad watched her, and his throat went dry. He heard his pulse hammering at his temples. He knew he had no more time.

  “Elizabeth,” he said gently. He pushed off his chair. Swung his leg around it and stood over her. Without looking up, she brought one hand to her eyes and swiped at her cheek. He heard her sob quietly. He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth,” he repeated, “I have to ask you a question.”

  Slowly, she raised her face to him. Even through tears, her big eyes seemed to go down into the heart of her. He saw the appeal in them. He looked away.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered. He took a breath. Faced her again. “Listen to me. I can help you. Okay?”

  “Oh … can you?” Her hands went out to him. She took hold of his. “Can you?”

  “Yes. And I’m going to help you, Elizabeth.”

  “Because I know t
hat bad things have happened. But there could be good things too,” she said. “I was all right for a while. After the state hospital. At the Liberty Center. I was better. I was. I tried to tell Dr. Holbein: He’s always different. He can come back because he keeps changing. You see? He wouldn’t believe me. You believe me. Don’t you?”

  Conrad held her hands tightly. He moved closer to her. “Listen to me. Please.”

  “You’ll keep him away. I know you will. I could do good things too. I know it …”

  “Elizabeth.”

  He spoke sharply. His patient stopped babbling. She continued to gaze up at him expectantly. He went on, as gently now as he could.

  “Elizabeth …” He kept holding her hands. “I can help you. I will help you. All right?” She nodded eagerly. “But today,” he went on, “today I have to ask you to help me. I have to ask you a question, Elizabeth. And it’s very important that you try to answer it as best you can. Do you understand? I need … for you to answer it carefully, all right?”

  Again, she nodded. “What?” she said. “What is it?”

  Conrad took another deep breath. It wasn’t easy with his heart going the way it was. “Elizabeth,” he said finally, “what is the number?”

  The appeal in the depths of her eyes held him. He saw the tears roll quietly down her white cheeks. A faint smile of hope played at the corner of her lips.

  And then the words struck her.

  “What is the number?” he said. And her face went ashen. She recoiled against the back of her chair. Her eyes grew turbulent, dark, and flat. Her mouth opened. He could hear the breath whistle in and out of her.

  “Elizabeth?” he said.

  “My God,” she whispered. She yanked her hands away from him. “My God.”

  Oh … boy, Conrad thought. “Elizabeth, listen …”

  She brought her fingers to her mouth. She shook her head. “Oh, no. Oh, my God, no.” And suddenly, she cried out, “No!” She jumped back. Her chair fell over. It struck the edge of the bed and clattered to the floor.