“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure.”
“I just mean, I don’t do it on credit. If you have a down payment in mind, and small monthly installments…”
“Hardy har. Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ve got the twenty dollars.”
“Okay then. How about eight o’clock?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?” Betty had asked. “What’s the matter with tonight?”
“I’ve got a previous engagement.”
“Previous engagement, huh?” She sounded suspicious. “With whom, may I ask?”
“That’s my business.”
“If it’s Suzy Hayden, forget it. She’s a pig. Besides which, I happen to know she’s got a contagious disease.”
“You’re not very friendly to your competition.”
“Competition? Suzy Hayden? Oh, honey, you’re pulling my leg. She’s not competition, she’s a bargain basement.”
Albert turned onto Jeffers Lane and started pedaling up the slope. At the fourth house from the corner, he climbed off his bike. He lowered it quietly to the grass and ran to the front stoop. The address on the door was 3212. The next house on the left should be the Broxton’s.
It had lights on.
Crouching, Albert dashed across the space between the two houses. He knelt against the wall. Above him was a window. He paused for a few moments, catching his breath and waiting for his heart to slow down. Then he raised himself.
He peered into the window.
The living room. Lamps were on at each end of a long, blue sofa. The television screen was blank green. He saw no people.
Maybe nobody’s home.
He ran along the side of the house and across the backyard to an elevated stoop. At the top of its concrete stairs, he peered into the windows of the door.
The kitchen. Dark.
He hurried down and ran to the garage. Its side door had windows. He pressed his face to the glass. By the dim moonlight, he could see an expanse of emptiness. The two-car garage appeared to be carless.
How convenient.
Albert quickly returned to the kitchen door. He pulled a thick mitten over his right hand. With a quick, sharp blow, he punched through a corner of the glass. Then he reached inside and opened the door.
The soles of his tennis shoes crunched bits of glass and made scratching sounds against the kitchen floor. He thought about taking his shoes off. That might put him in a fix, however, if he had to make a quick run for it.
Keeping them on, he entered the lighted hallway.
The front door of the house was straight ahead.
Walking toward it, a wall on one side and a staircase on the other, he felt as if he were trapped in a narrow canyon. He didn’t like it. But there wasn’t much choice—not if he wanted to go upstairs. He felt like running, but that would mean noise. So he walked slowly and silently forward, staring straight ahead at the door, half expecting it to fly open.
By the time he reached the foot of the stairway, he needed to crouch down to ease the cramps in his bowels.
What’s going on? he wondered.
Maybe that fried chicken I had for supper.
But he figured it was more likely fear. He’d gotten cramps before when he was scared.
Nothing to be scared of, he told himself. Nobody’s here.
Probably.
But this was the first time he had ever broken into someone’s house. Only natural to have a little indigestion at a time like this.
Soon, feeling better, Albert hurried up the stairs.
To his right was a bedroom with model airplanes strung across the ceiling in dogfights. The bed was empty. He started to enter the room, then stopped as he was gripped by more cramps.
He leaned against the door frame and shivered.
Getting worse! What’m I gonna do?
Gonna crap my pants…
Turning around, he saw the doorway of an upstairs bathroom only a few feet away. He hurried over to it, slapped the light switch, rushed to the toilet, jerked his jeans down and dropped onto the seat just in time.
After the explosive diarrhea, he felt much better.
He wiped his rear end. Then he wiped the sweat off his face. Then he stayed on the toilet and wondered whether to flush.
Better wait. If I flush and somebody’s in the house, I’ll be up Shit Creek.
He pulled up his jeans and fastened them. After washing his hands at the sink, he resumed his search of the house.
There were two more bedrooms. One seemed to be a guest room, the other the master bedroom. Albert found nobody in either of them, so he returned to the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and sprayed the area with pine scented air freshener.
Then he went into the boy’s bedroom. Using his penlight, he checked the cluttered top of the dresser. No money. He went through the drawers. He scanned shelves that were loaded with books, model ships, and Indian souvenirs: a tom-tom, a miniature teepee, a headdress full of colorful feathers, a tomahawk with a rubber head.
He picked up the tomahawk.
Too bad it isn’t real.
On its handle was printed, WISCONSIN DELLS—VACATION WONDERLAND.
Albert put down the tomahawk and continued his search.
He found an ashtray filled with foreign coins, but no other money.
On the bedstand, beside an empty drinking glass, was a Boy Scout sheath knife.
All right!
Keeping it, he went to the desk. The pencil holder held pencils, a gum eraser, an old crayon, and two pennies. He gave the top drawer a tug. Locked.
“What have we here?” he whispered.
Using the Boy Scout knife, he pried open the drawer and found a tattered copy of Playboy. He set the knife aside and pulled out the magazine. It was the September, 1973 issue. On its cover, a naked gal was crouching. Her right breast actually showed. Even her nipple.
Hands trembling, Albert flipped through the magazine. Miss September was a great-looking blonde.
Wow!
He searched the small print for her name:Geri Glass.
He started to grow hard, staring at Geri’s photos.
I’ll take this with me, he thought. The little Boy Scout shouldn’t have a nasty magazine like this, anyway. I’ll be doing him a favor.
Chuckling softly, Albert left Geri behind and searched the magazine for more treasures.
Near the back, he found an article about a movie called The Naked Ape. It had a photo of Johnny Crawford stark naked.
The kid from The Rifleman?
Holy shit, that’s him, all right! And you can see his peter!
Not interested in any guy’s peter, Albert moved on and found that the article had a pretty good layout on the movie’s other star, a brunette named Victoria Principal.
Not bad, he thought.
But he liked Miss September better. Something about Miss September really got to him.
He flipped back to the center section and gazed at her, then shut the magazine and slipped it under his arm.
He resumed his search by trying another desk drawer. This one wasn’t locked. Inside, he found flat tubes of model airplane glue, bottles of paint, a few instruction sheets and an assortment of spare airplane parts.
The third drawer was a catchall: it had caught just about everything except money. But in the bottom drawer, Albert came upon a tobacco tin. He shook it and grinned.
Inside were eight dollars.
That’ll do it! That’ll put me over the top for Betty!
“Thank you, kid,” he whispered. “Wherever you are.”
With eight dollar bills in his pocket, the sheathed knife in his hand and the Playboy under one arm, he stepped into the hallway and headed for the master bedroom.
That’s when he heard a thump and rumble.
Familiar sounds, but he couldn’t quite…
The garage door was opening!
His heart jumped
with fright.
He rushed to the guest room and knelt beside one of the twin beds.
A door thudded. Then another.
The bed was too low. Just as well. They made great hiding places because adults never looked under them, but he always felt trapped under beds. Flat on his belly. The box springs pressing against his back. No room to turn. No way to get out fast. Under beds, he had to fight off panic. Especially after the night his mother was killed just above him and the blood kept dripping onto the toe of her slipper just inches from his face. It had been exciting but awful, and he had rarely hidden under beds after that.
From downstairs came quiet sounds of voices.
And footsteps.
Albert got up. He tiptoed to the closet. Then he pushed back the sliding door, stepped inside the closet and slid the door shut.
Wire hangers pinged together when he hit them with his head. To free a hand, he pushed the blade of the boy’s sheath knife under his belt. Then he reached out to the side. His fingers pushed against flimsy plastic. He edged his foot sideways. It stopped against a box.
Better not try burrowing in, he thought. Too much other stuff.
Even if he could manage to hide himself more deeply in the closet, it would only make getting out more difficult.
And he might have to get out fast.
More sounds of footsteps. Voices.
One was a woman’s voice. He supposed it probably belonged to Mrs. Broxton, but he couldn’t be sure. After all, he’d only heard her speak a few words at the Safeway that morning. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, either.
The man’s voice was smooth. He laughed at something.
From the sounds, Albert supposed the man and woman were climbing the stairs.
He knelt down to keep his head from knocking against empty hangers.
Now they seemed to be coming up the hall. In a few more seconds, they would be entering the master bedroom.
Wait till they’re in there, Albert thought, then get the hell outta this place.
Or stay and try to watch them?
That wouldn’t be very smart, he told himself.
Might be worth the risk.
He’d never actually watched anything like that. But he’d always wanted to.
The bottom edge of his closet door lit up.
What? This is the guest room! What’re they doing in here?
On the other side of the closet door, there was a long silence. Then came a moan from the woman. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.
“No, it’s fine,” said the man. “Who needs all that room, anyway?”
“This might not be as comfortable, but I’ll feel so much better. I just wouldn’t feel quite right in there.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t care which bed, I only care which woman.”
There was another long silence. Albert wondered if they were kissing.
“You’re my first Boy Scout widow,” the man said. They both laughed. “I always knew there was a lot to be said for campouts.”
“Shush.”
More silence.
“I’ll be right back,” the woman said.
“Going to get into something more comfortable, I presume?”
She laughed softly. “How did you know?”
“I’m psychic.”
“I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Albert heard her leave the room. Then he heard the man walking on the carpeted floor.
Coming closer.
He slid the knife out of its leather sheath.
Closer.
What’s he gonna do, hang up his clothes?
The door slid open, flooding the closet with light.
Albert crouched in the shadow of the man, who was holding a blue sports coat in one hand. As he reached for a hanger with his other hand, he let out a quiet gasp.
He stared down at Albert with shocked eyes.
Albert slashed.
The man sucked in a quick breath and stumbled backward, grabbing his gashed thigh. Blood pumped through the cracks between his fingers. He dropped to the floor. Gasping and squirming, he clutched his wound with both hands.
Keeping the Playboy clamped tight against his left side, Albert crouched over him and slit his throat.
“Charles, what’s going…?” Mrs. Broxton came in from the hall. As she stopped in the doorway, her eyes leaped from the crumpled body to Albert. “You!” she gasped. Then her back hunched. She spun around and ran.
Albert dropped the magazine and raced after her.
Halfway down the hall, he got close enough to drag the knife down her back. The blade split her slip open to her waist—her slip and the skin beneath it. Crying out, she fell.
Albert clenched the knife between his teeth. Grabbing her ankles, he twisted until she flipped over onto her back.
When he tore away her underpants, she moaned and covered herself.
“Move your hands.”
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Please.”
“Move ’em or I’ll kill you.”
She shook her head and didn’t move her hands.
Albert took the knife from his mouth. “Think I’m kidding?” he asked.
Before she could answer or take her hands away, Albert pounded the knife deep into her belly.
She grunted, sat halfway up, and fell back.
Albert slipped the blade out and shoved it in again, sliding it into the same slit, shoving it deep.
Convulsions jerked her body.
He pulled out the knife.
She had a raw, vertical split just below her naval. It was three inches long and pumping blood.
She no longer struggled, just lay there sprawled out, sobbing and groaning.
Albert crouched down and slit open the front of her slip. He spread it, exposing her breasts. They were smaller than Betty’s.
More like Miss September’s.
“Nice tits, Mrs. Broxton,” he said.
He watched them rise and fall as she sobbed.
Cupping one of her breasts with a bloody hand, he felt its nipple push against his palm. He squeezed the breast. The blood made it slippery.
His penis was stout and aching in his jeans.
Holding the knife in his teeth, he pulled his zipper down and freed himself.
EIGHT
THE REQUEST
The roar of his Jaguar still rang in Ian’s ears after he was inside his dark house. He stepped cautiously through the kitchen. Once in the living room with its glassed-in side facing the backyard and pool, he could see well enough to avoid collisions.
For a moment, he considered going outside and sitting quietly in the fog.
Enough time for that later.
He went into his study and turned on a light. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sharp brightness. Then he moved them slowly over the desk, the file cabinets, the card table, the two television trays, and the chair and lamp table in the corner. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” he said.
A simple matter of spending the rest of the night searching through clutter.
What he should do is spend a while thinking.
He went to the easy chair, cleared its seat of three thick file folders, and sat down.
Now, reconstruct it. When was the last time you talked to him? Monday, from the faculty lounge. No, he called me. Wednesday? I phoned him Wednesday from here. From where exactly? The desk.
Ian walked to the desk. The telephone didn’t seem to be on it. He stepped behind the desk and rolled the swivel chair back to the wall. There, on the floor, was the telephone. But not flat on the floor.
A frayed, black corner of his address book protruded from beneath it.
The phone bumped the floor and jingled once as he pulled out the book.
The index card with Arnie Barrington’s phone number jutted like a bookmark from the top of the address book.
Ian glanced at his wristwatch. One-fifteen. That made it four-fifteen i
n New York.
Much too late.
Or too early.
He propped up the card on the carriage of his typewriter and headed for bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay there looking at the darkness, thinking of Emily Jean who felt she had wasted her life and of Laura who never got the chance.
Laura.
My God, was it really seven years? Had he actually survived so long without her?
He told himself to change the subject.
He thought about his work and became calm and sleep finally came.
When Ian woke up Sunday morning, he folded his hands behind his head and took a deep breath. The cool air smelled of autumn. How does autumn air smell? Of burning leaves. But there was no aroma of burning leaves, so what made him think of autumn air?
Simply because he knew it was October? Or because he planned to see a football game at City College after lunch?
It had to be more than that.
The air had a silence to it. And a sadness. It had a quiet, mildly disturbing quality of loss. But of excitement, too.
Laura would have smiled and said, “You’re loony. California’s got no seasons.”
She didn’t last long enough to find out about them.
Ian glanced at the empty side of his bed. Then he got up fast and put on his old flannel robe. On the dresser, he found the notepad that he’d taken with him to last night’s social committee meeting. He carried it into the study.
8:45. In New York, it would almost be noon.
Arnie oughta be up by now.
Ian picked the index card off the carriage of his typewriter and dialed Arnie’s suite.
He let the phone ring ten times.
Nobody answered.
Come on, Arnie, where are you? It’s Sunday morning, you oughta be lounging around in your suite.
After swimming, Ian dressed and sat down at his desk with a cup of coffee. He wrote three pages of his novel. Then he fixed himself a Bloody Mary and dialed Arnie’s suite again.
The phone rang twice before it was picked up.
A nasal, male voice recited, “Arnold Barrington Associates.” This obviously wasn’t Arnie’s secretary, Bernice.
Of course not, Ian thought. It’s Sunday. This must be Arnie’s current boyfriend.
“I’d like to speak with Arnie.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
“Ian Collins.”
“Oh, Ian! Evan Chandler, I presume?”