Cuts

  He had run down the stairs two at a time and rushed out the front door. His bike was just where he’d left it lying on the next-door neighbor’s lawn. He’d grabbed the handlebars and swung the bike over the curb with such force that it almost flew from his hands. Then, all that pedalling. And all that wind. The wind had made the bloody front of his turtleneck turn cold.

  He should have changed clothes before leaving the Broxton house. Borrowed some from the father or son. If he’d done that, he wouldn’t have needed to hightail it home to change. But the idea of taking clothes from the Broxtons occurred to him too late. By that time, he was already halfway home and couldn’t bring himself to turn back.

  Leaving his bike hidden in bushes near the side of his house, he’d gone into the garage. It was warm and stuffy in the garage, and far darker than the night outside. His breath had trembled as he undressed. Standing only in his socks, he’d rolled his clothes into a tight ball and stuffed them into a duffle bag beside the workbench. The bag was already full of old rags. He’d pulled a few out, used them to cover his stained clothes, then clipped the bag shut.

  The garage was too dark, so he’d opened the side door to let in more light. There still wasn’t much, but enough came through the doorway for him to spot the irregular shading of his chest and belly. Must be blood.

  “Well?” Milton asked, interrupting Albert’s thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you think I better let you out so you can head on back home ’n finish your education?”

  “I’d rather stay with you.”

  “Can’t see why.”

  “I can’t go back home. Ever. Nothing could make me go back there.”

  “Get into some trouble with your folks?”

  “I just live with my father,” Albert said. “He’s a drunk. And nuts. He gets himself chased around the house by the Angel of Death, and he’s always beating up on me.”

  “That don’t sound too good,” Milton allowed.

  “He even locked me up in the tool shed behind the house. I was in there for two weeks and I nearly starved to death, but finally I dug my way out and escaped.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s so,” Albert said.

  “If it is so, I’d say you oughta bring the law down on your old man.”

  “He said he’d kill me if I ever told. I shouldn’t have told you. You won’t tell on me, will you?”

  “Well, I don’t reckon.”

  “Thanks, Milton. You’re a godsend.”

  “I try to do what I can to follow the Lord’s way.”

  “Bless you,” Albert said.

  Milton nodded, leaned a little closer to the steering wheel, and scowled out at the empty road ahead.

  Closing his eyes, Albert returned to his memories of the early morning hours. Where was I? he wondered.

  In the garage.

  He’d just hidden his clothes in the duffle bag.

  I’m naked and bloody.

  He brought up an image of himself leaving the garage and sneaking across his back lawn. The wind was strong. It made the moonlight sifting down through the elm leaves dance wildly on the grass. It mussed his long hair. It swept between his legs and touched him like a woman’s cold fingers and made him stiff again.

  The water that streamed from the hose was cold. It splashed against his chest and ran down his belly. With his spare hand, he rubbed his body everywhere.

  After turning off the hose, he rushed to the warm shelter of the garage and shut the door. He put on his socks and shoes. Then, very slowly and silently, he left the garage again, crept into the house and made his way up to his room. There, he put on a clean shirt and jeans. He took his yellow parka off a hanger and found his folding Buck knife.

  He slid the loop of the knife’s black calfskin case onto his belt. The weight of it felt good at his side. He stuffed a second knife, his switchblade, down a front pocket of his jeans. Then he zipped up his parka and tiptoed downstairs.

  He pedalled southward on his bicycle until the sun came up. The sunlight showed that his hands were faintly stained the color of rust.

  The first two gas stations had no customers, so he wheeled past them and didn’t stop until he came to one where a pickup truck was parked beside the pumps. The attendant was busy talking to its driver.

  In the restroom, Albert washed his hands and forearms clean with grainy soap. He opened his shirt. More ruddy stains. The garden hose had taken care of the worst of the blood, but a subtle red-brown mottling remained.

  It would have to wait. Nobody could see it, anyway, if he kept his shirt buttoned up.

  He climbed onto his bike and headed for the road.

  The bike would soon become a problem, but not for a while. Not until his father got out of bed and discovered it was gone. On Sundays, he never moved before ten. Give him an hour to get worried. Then he might call the cops and report Albert missing. Might or might not, the bastard.

  At eleven o’clock, Albert ditched his bike just to be on the safe side. Once rid of it, he walked for nearly an hour. At an A & W, he had a root beer, a cheeseburger and fries. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon before Milton stopped to give him a lift.

  “Hungry?” Milton broke in, and flicked his cigar out the window. Its red tip trailed sparks through the night.

  “I’m starved,” Albert said.

  “Sign we just passed says Litchfield’s just up ahead. We can stop…”

  “A hitchhiker!” Albert blurted.

  She was only lit for a moment. Before the headlights left her in darkness, Albert saw that she was walking backward, her thumb out. She seemed to be about sixteen, slender and blonde. She wore an Indian headband, a big loose shirt that wasn’t tucked in, and jeans.

  “Give her a lift, Milton.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  “Why not?”

  “One thing you learn, Billy, you never pick up a hitcher of the fair sex.”

  “Come on, go back and get her. This road’s really deserted. She might be standing out there all night.”

  “Tough titty. I don ’t stop for gals.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll tell you why not. You get one in your car and you’re at her mercy. At her mercy, Billy. She can do whatever weird shenanigans come into her mind. Why, she might even up and decide to blackmail you.”

  “How can she blackmail anyone?” Albert asked to disguise the sound of his sheath snap popping open.

  “She threatens to say you raped her. Easiest thing in the world. Happens all the time. Her word against yours. And what’s more, she can go to the cops and describe you down to a T, your car too, even give ’em your license plate.”

  The knife was in his lap now, hidden under his crossed hands. “Are you talking from experience?” he asked.

  “You betcha.”

  With a swift pull, the blade hinged open and locked upright.

  Milton’s head snapped sideways. He started to say something, but the point nipped the stubbled flesh beneath his chin. He shut his mouth and tipped his head backward.

  “Stop the car,” Albert said.

  Milton took his foot off the gas pedal. His thin, leathery face was blank. Albert could see only one eye: it glistened with light and kept darting sideways.

  “Pull off the road and stop.”

  Slowly, the car lost speed. Gravel on the road’s shoulder crunched under its tires.

  When the car stopped, Albert took the ignition key.

  “Get out,” he said, lowering the knife.

  “You gonna leave me here?”

  “Open the door and get out.”

  “Aw, come on, Billy. I mean, I do you a good turn and look what you’re giving me back. How’m I gonna get to St. Louis without my car?”

  Not answering, Albert prodded him in the side.

  Milton opened the door. “Okay, okay! You don’t gotta poke me.” He climbed out.

  Albert scooted across the seat and climbe
d out behind him.

  “Last time I do a fella a good turn, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

  “Bet it is,” Albert said.

  Milton in the lead, they walked past the front of the car.

  “It just don’t pay to be nice anymore.”

  “Guess not,” Albert said. “You can stop here.”

  They stopped a few paces past the front of Milton’s car.

  Turning to face Albert, Milton said, “Tell you what, I’ll pick up that gal for you. That hitchhiker gal. Okay? How’s that? I got no problem with that.”

  “You’d be in the way,” Albert told him.

  Then he slashed through the side of Milton’s neck. With a quick jump to the left, he dodged the spurting blood.

  Headlights appeared down the road. Far off. But how far? The road was as straight as a ruled line, so it might be a mile or more.

  Or maybe a lot less.

  Albert looked at Milton. The old man was down on his hands and knees, the white headbeams of his car skimming across his back.

  The cut was in darkness, but Albert could hear the blood splashing on the dirt and gravel.

  He reached inside the car and killed the headlights. Then he hurried to the front. Bending over, he grabbed Milton’s ankles. He tugged them and Milton flopped flat.

  Then he dragged the old man to the edge of the roadside drainage ditch and shoved him with his foot.

  Milton tumbled down the steep slope.

  Being careful not to lose his footing, Albert followed him.

  At the bottom of the ditch, he crouched by Milton’s side.

  The guy was sprawled face down, silent and motionless.

  Dead yet? Albert wondered.

  He pounded his knife into Milton’s back.

  The first couple of times, Milton grunted. After that, he was quiet.

  The stabbing didn’t excite Albert very much, so he stopped after five or six times.

  As he waited for the car to pass, he went through Milton’s pockets. He found a stiff, wadded handkerchief, a comb, a rabbit’s foot, two books of matches, a few coins, a wallet with eighteen dollars and a gasoline credit card, and another wallet. The second wallet, made of flimsy plastic, contained eighty dollars in traveler’s checks.

  Up on the road, the car sped by without slowing.

  Albert waited until its sound was faint with distance, then rushed up the slope to Milton’s car. He did a quick U-turn and headed up the road.

  His heart raced as he thought about the girl.

  She’d looked really cute.

  It had only been a glimpse, of course. Maybe she was a dog if you got a good look at her.

  Nah, I bet she’s cute.

  Find out pretty soon.

  Albert imagined stripping her naked, then plunging his knife into her belly, watching the blood gush out, spreading the gash wide…

  But five miles later, he realized that she was gone.

  Maybe that other car …

  Okay, Albert thought. No big deal. I’ll just have to find someone else.

  The world’s full of women.

  ELEVEN

  RETURN TO DAVE’S

  Janet woke up and stretched, enjoying the smooth warmth of the sheets next to her skin. She felt chilly air on her bare shoulders and neck. Under the covers, though, she was warm and cozy.

  She felt good. This morning, there was no nausea.

  Sleepily, she reached a hand sideways. She expected to find Dave’s bare chest. Instead, her hand found only the edge of the mattress.

  She was in a single bed.

  Opening her eyes, she realized that she was in Meg’s guest room.

  Monday morning? Must be.

  Her second morning without Dave.

  Thinking of him, Janet’s throat constricted. She tried to swallow the tightness away. He’s nothing to cry about, she told herself. Don’t cry. He’s not worth it, not worth a damn…

  Except that she had been in love with him and she had lived in his apartment and slept with him every night for three months and woke up in bed with him every morning. Every morning, she would find him there beside her, naked and warm, and they would snuggle and sometimes—often—they would end up making love.

  Never again, she thought.

  It’s over. All over.

  I don’t want to see him again, much less touch him, much less make love with him.

  Janet used the edge of the sheet to wipe her eyes. Then she took a deep, shaky breath.

  Forget the bastard.

  Watch who you’re calling a bastard.

  Smiling slightly, she touched her belly. It was smooth and warm and flat. “Howdy in there,” she whispered. “Your daddy wants to kill you, but I’m not gonna let him.”

  She suddenly felt guilty for saying such a thing out loud.

  She patted her belly. “Can you hear me in there?”

  Nothing.

  “Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  Janet laughed.

  “That’s from The Count of Monte Cristo, honey. Your mother’s a bookworm. Just for the record.”

  She sat up, letting the blankets and sheet fall across her lap. The bedroom door was open a few inches, but she heard no sounds of activity from the rest of the house.

  Meg had probably already left for work.

  Janet swung the covers away and climbed off the bed. Naked and shivering, she hurried over to the chair where Meg had left a robe for her to wear. A big, pink, quilted robe. She put it on. The fabric felt slick like satin. At first, if was cool against her bare skin. Then it took on her body heat and felt fine.

  In the kitchen, the coffee pot was still plugged in. She poured herself a cup, took it into the living room, and sat down on the couch.

  On today’s agenda was a return to Dave’s apartment for her belongings.

  Not gonna be fun, she thought. But it has to be done.

  Not just now.

  On the coffee table in front of her was the Los Angeles Times. First, she read Peanuts.

  Always good to start the morning with Snoopy.

  Unfortunately, this morning’s strip was about Lucy and Linus. Snoopy made no appearance at all.

  Janet began reading the rest of the paper. By the time she was finished with the first section, her cup was empty. She filled it, returned to the couch, and started reading the second part.

  An article near the bottom of the page was headed, STABBING DEATHS STUN CHICAGO SUBURB. She read the article. When she finished it, she took another sip of coffee and read about a man who was killed when his car stalled on railroad tracks.

  By the time she was done with Section Two, her cup was empty again. “Better get the show on the road,” she muttered.

  Then she sat for a while and stared at the floor.

  God, I don’t want to do this!

  It was eleven o’clock by the time she stopped her Ford at the curb in front of the apartment house. On the radio, Jim Croce was singing, “Time in a Bottle.” It almost made her want to cry. She listened until it ended, then turned off the engine and the radio died.

  For a few moments, she sat without moving.

  She glanced at Dave’s space in the carport. Empty.

  Okay, what am I waiting for?

  She climbed out of her car.

  In the building’s foyer, her eyes turned by habit toward the mail trough and the row of boxes. The mailman hadn’t arrived yet. He was about due, though.

  It all felt so familiar: hurrying up the stairs, walking along the dim hallway with the floor springy under foot, stopping in front of apartment 230 while she fumbled for the key. Often, she had needed to set down bags of groceries while she unlocked the door. But not today. No more of that.

  She opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it silently. Then she fit the guard chain into its slot.

  “Is that in case I drop by?”

  She flinched. Then she rested her forehead against the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I
live here.”

  “You’re supposed to be at work.”

  “I took the day off.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Around the block.” He chuckled.

  “You know what?” Janet said quietly. “It sounds like you set a trap for me.”

  “Sure I did, but you baited it. I noticed how careful you were to tell me you’d be coming here this morning to pick up your things. It was obvious you wanted me to be here.”

  “Obvious to you, maybe. It didn’t enter my mind.”

  “How’s the view?”

  “Just fine,” she muttered, eyes on the door an inch away.

  “I’ve always had a fancy for doorknobs, myself.”

  “Very witty.”

  His tone became serious as he said, “Do you realize, Janet, how foolishly you’ve been behaving?”

  She heard him approach.

  “Don’t touch me,” she warned.

  “A baby is an enormous responsibility. At this time, I don’t feel that I—that either of us—is emotionally equipped to meet that responsibility.” He put his hands on her shoulders. Janet stiffened under their touch. “Do you understand my concern?”

  “I understand. Let go of me.”

  He rubbed her shoulders gently. “In a year or two, per haps, if our relationship has developed to a point where we’re both willing to make that commitment…”

  “Shut up,” Janet said. Shrugging off his hands, she turned around and looked up at his somber face.

  “I’m sure you’ll come to realize…”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve already come to realize,” she said. “I realize you don’t love me. If you loved me, you wouldn’t want to kill our baby. There’s nothing else to know.”

  He frowned, then walked to the dresser and took a pipe off its rack. “And how do you define this ‘love’?”

  “Please, I wish you’d go. I want to get my things and leave.”

  “First tell me what you mean by ‘love.’ ”

  “Please?”

  He smiled nonchalantly and started to fill his pipe. “Do you mean, by ‘love,’ a mutually satisfying relationship? One that fulfills the needs of both parties?”

  “Boy, you’re being suave this morning. I know your Hugh Hefner routine really wows the gals, but I’m in no mood so why don’t you drop it?”