As if the musical tempo had been quickened, now the action would begin.
“O.K., Big Mack, strip.”
“Huh?”
“Strip.”
Running her tight-gloved fingers through the man’s disheveled hair and, when he lunged for her, leaping back agile as a dancer or a gymnast. “Hey! Whew!” He’d exploded in laughter, spilling whiskey on his trousers.
She, too, was panting. And perspiring. But loved the feeling, like a cocaine high. Commanding, “‘Starr Bright’ says strip, fella.”
Laughing, eager, Dwyer stumbled to his feet. She danced away, keeping him at arm’s length. She was snapping her fingers and moving her eel-like body in tight, erotic contortions, laughing at his dazed expression, commanding, “Strip! It’s time—strip for ‘Starr Bright’!” and Dwyer said, blinking, “Who’s ‘Starr Bright’?” and she was pivoting away, keeping the room’s sole chair between them, singing, “—‘gonna be with you soon! Gonna be with you so-oon!’” and he tried to fall in with her mood, swaying-drunk, saying, “If I strip—you, too, sweetheart? You’re gonna strip, too?” and she said, “Right! Just turn your back, honey,” and he said, with babyish inflection, “Don’t wanna turn my back, wanna watch,” and she darted at him to run a quick-caressing hand down the front of his thick body to his bulging groin and he shuddered as if struck by a current of electricity, his eyes lost focus, and she laughed saying, “‘Starr Bright’ will teach you tricks she learned in New York—L.A.—Acapulco—Paris—Tangier—Hong Kong!—but Big Mack’s got to turn his back first,” and she was dancing, shaking shoulders, hips, pelvis, “—then there’s gonna be a nice surprise.”
So Mack Dwyer trustingly turned his back on her, muttering and laughing to himself; panting as if he’d run up a flight of stairs; fumbling to remove his white cotton dress shirt that was sweated through under the arms and across the back, tossing his tie into the air, undoing his belt, his trousers. Nor slackening the beat though regarding him now with a look of loathing, she reached for the blue-sequined purse and removed the knife; her protection; pearl-handled stainless steel carving knife remarkably light in the hand with a five-inch blade honed to razor-sharpness that afternoon; the knife that fitted her right hand perfectly; the knife that steadied her hand so it ceased to tremble; the knife that thrilled her like a baptism, it felt so right.
Every time, so right.
Dwyer clumsily stripped to his shorts, cotton boxer shorts, she noted with disdain the flaccid fat at his waist, the pocked thighs, pallid legs. The boy Mack was gone, a stranger had taken his place yet must be punished. She hid the knife behind her back as he turned to face her expectantly.
His heated face sagged in disappointment.
“Eh, Sharon honey? What’s wrong?”
She was smiling at him, shining. An upright flame, a woman clothed in the sun and upon her proud head a crown of twelve blazing stars. And in her sexy high-heeled shoes, her supple legs as far apart as the tight sheath dress would allow, a dancer’s or an athlete’s pose, poised in readiness.
The wild music pounding between them faster and faster had ceased now, abruptly. Whatever mood, rudely shattered.
Dwyer’s bloodshot eyes lowered, to his own body. He said, mumbling in chagrin, “Guess I—I’m changed some, eh? Not like eighteen.”
Still she said nothing, smiling; poised in readiness. At a short distance a car door slammed, a car was driven noisily away. The man was abashed and apologetic but beginning to be annoyed, a sullen droop to his mouth. “Sharon, you’re not changing your mind, are you? Because if you are this is a helluva time to—”
Now bringing the glittering knife around so he could see it, moving deft and unhesitating and bent slightly at the knees, feinting the blade toward him as he stared, astonished, backing off, eyes widened as in a caricature of incredulity and alarm. He was gasping for breath, “—wait, no, what—is this?—what the hell—oh my God, wait, Sharon—” as astounded as if the very earth had opened up before him about to suck him down to oblivion. He backed clumsily away, aside, shaking his head murmuring no, no, no and she discerned in his dazed eyes how he would make a desperate swipe at her, hoping to send the knife flying from her fingers, imagining her fingers weak, imagining her a weak woman easily intimidated by a man’s superior strength; and so seeming to invite him, taunting him; and he did move, but so clumsily, stiffly, his athlete’s reflexes long since blunted, she had no difficulty leaping to one side like a cat, and swinging the blade in a swift powerful arc even as the man’s arm was moving in an arc of its own so the blade caught him in the palm of his hand slicing the skin in a deep four-inch laceration from which bright blood at once erupted, and as he whimpered in pain clutching the wrist of that arm she drew the blade swiftly along his forearm, this time in a deep six-inch laceration, beautiful to her eye—“There, pig! Now you know ‘Starr Bright.’”
She paused to switch on the TV. Network evening news in too-vivid color.
Dwyer stumbled backward in panic, against the edge of the double bed, nearly falling; blood flowed in two streams down his uplifted arm, dripping to the carpet. She did not give him time to recover from the shock of the assault nor even to breathe but advanced upon him, smiling, “No, I haven’t changed my mind, Mack, ‘Starr Bright’ never changes her mind,” and he was begging, pleading, “Wait, no—Sharon, please you don’t mean—can’t mean—help me I’m bleeding, my arm—I swear to God I’m so sorry—” and a thought came to her, it was perhaps not a thought of her own but one sent to her from God for in these days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and death shall flee from them so she circled the trembling man urging “On your knees! Pray to God to save you!” and Dwyer sank to his knees on the bloodied carpet staring at her, trembling with terror staring like a transfixed animal, and she was speaking calmly to be heard over the animated TV voices, “Yes, pray! Pig-rapist, pray! ‘Our Father who art—’ Pray! ‘Starr Bright’ didn’t do this for Stan Reigel but she will do it for you, Big Mack, remember Stan-the-Man your team buddy?” and Dwyer failed to comprehend so she repeated her words and this time a sick comprehension dawned in his eyes, his body stricken with grief for its own mortality, so she commanded him again, pointing the bloodied tip of the knife at his throat, “Pray, pig! If God has mercy, ‘Starr Bright’ has mercy, if God has no mercy, how can ‘Starr Bright’ have mercy? ‘Our Father who art—’”
At once the terrified man began, “‘Our F-Father who art—in H-Heaven’—”
So Mack Dwyer, forty years old, naked except for sweat-dampened boxer shorts, knelt on the soiled carpet of room 48 of the Starlite Motel, Route 209, Yewville, New York, in the early evening of a Thursday in April, praying for his life. As “Starr Bright” looked on, an empty vessel to be filled with God’s will.
12
Rose of Sharon, Lily of the Valley
There is evil that takes hold of people, that isn’t born in them; the way a thistle seed takes hold in soil. There is evil that is allowed into the heart, invited in.
In a suspension of dread Lily awaited Sharon’s return. In the pretty lavender-and-cream bedroom that had been Sharon’s. She sat on the edge of the bed, she stood, paced about, gazed worriedly out the window into darkness; sat again, weak, sick with anticipation of what was to come. Spread out on the floral-print comforter were a dozen or more newspaper clippings and pages, a Newsweek feature with the lurid title “First ‘Big League’ Female Serial Killer Strikes in Southwest, California,” at which she couldn’t bring herself to look; and the wallets, the wristwatches, the leather belt with the brass buckle, the Nebraska sheriff’s deputy badge. Wes had opened both windows to dilute the stale odor of strong perfumes, cigarette smoke. Lily wondered whether the odor would ever entirely fade from the room.
She’d been crying, and there was a choked, constricting sensation in her chest. In her fist she held a damp, shredded tissue. In another part of the house Wes was pacing, smoking. From time to time she heard his footsteps approach—he re
turned to stand in the doorway, looking at her. He’d wanted to call the police immediately but Lily had pleaded with him, “Wes, no. Please. Let me speak with Sharon first. Just the two of us.”
Wes had said, almost angrily, “Lily, your sister is insane! She’s a homicidal maniac.”
Lily had pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. Her head swam. Wanting to protest I can’t believe that. There must be some explanation. It can’t be as it seems! But she said nothing.
At least, Deedee wasn’t home for this. She was staying overnight with a girlfriend—fortunately.
Lily began to cry again, Wes knelt beside her and held her and in a gentler voice said, “The woman might be dangerous, Lily. She is dangerous,” and Lily said, “Not to us, Wes,” and Wes said, “To anyone! She’s insane.” But Wes relented, and agreed to let Lily speak with her sister alone, for a short while. Assuming Sharon returned at all.
He would remain, he said, downstairs, in his office with the lights out. Never far from a telephone.
How she loved him, Wes Merrick, her husband! Foreseeing that, when this nightmare ended, when Sharon was gone from them, and their happiness restored, she would never tell him who Deedee’s mother was, she would never confess she had no idea who Deedee’s father was. For such “truth,” though factual, was not the truth of the heart. Such “truth” was not worth a moment’s pain suffered by another.
To live with a secret, secrets—and to live happily.
What is this but the human condition?
So Lily told herself, tears like acid scalding her cheeks.
It was at 8:40 P.M. that Lily saw a car’s headlights turn into the drive.
Sharon returning home from—wherever she’d been.
Lily steeled herself. Rising to stand beside the bed, clasping her hands together in an unconscious attitude of prayer, then dropping them at her sides. She knew that, in his darkened office, Wes stood rigid as well, waiting.
Sharon must have seen the lighted windows of her room, must have seen Lily inside, hesitated for a moment before opening the door and stepping into the room. And in that instant seeing Lily’s expression, and the items spread out onto the bed; her eyes locking with Lily’s in the full force of recognition.
“So, Lily. You know.”
“I—don’t, Sharon. I don’t understand.”
“Yes. You do.”
Lily would recall afterward the flatness of her sister’s voice. The look almost of relief in her blood-veined eyes.
Sharon came into the room, breathless, stumbling in her high-heeled shoes as if she were drunk, or dazed by a drug; the tote bag slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor, and Lily could see inside what appeared to be, among other things, a curly red glamor wig and a blue-sequined purse. Sharon was wearing Lily’s old trench coat, unbuttoned; beneath, slacks and a sweater; the flawless cosmetic mask looked like crust on her strained face, her crimson lipstick was eaten partly away and her mascara was smeared. Her hair, visibly thin in the direct overhead light, was damp, as if she’d only recently showered. She moved slowly as if her joints ached.
Lily said, faltering, “But—what? What should I know, Sharon?”
Sharon said, shrugging, “It’s true. What the papers say. I’m the one. I killed those men.”
“Sharon, no! My God …”
“Who broke the lock on my suitcase? Wes? Good. I’m glad. I’m tired of running, I’m run to earth.” Sharon glanced around, squinting, as if seeking Wes out; but Wes was not visible; she laughed, and raised her voice, “Wes! Good! Call the police! I’m so tired.”
Lily would have gone to Sharon to take hold of her hands but Sharon brought her hands up close to her body in an odd shrinking gesture, shutting them into fists; as one might do not wanting to be touched; not wanting another to be contaminated by one’s touch; as if her hands were soiled. It was an unmistakable gesture and though Lily could see that her sister’s hands were clean, perhaps scrubbed clean, the thought came to her She has killed someone, tonight. She has just killed.
Lily was crying, “Sharon, my God, why?” and Sharon said, as if confused, “You didn’t know, Lily? Didn’t guess?” and Lily said, “How could I guess—such a horror! It can’t be true, can it?” and Sharon said, flatly, “Eleven men. Pigs, not men. God guided my hand, Lily. And another,” drawing from the trench-coat pocket a man’s digital wristwatch to toss onto the bed amid the others. Lily stared at first uncomprehending. “Sharon, who?”
“Guess, Lily of the Valley.”
“Mack Dwyer—?”
“A pig who used to be ‘Mack Dwyer.’”
Sharon tried to smile, wanly. Lily was appalled, even at such a time disbelieving. “No! Sharon, I can’t—”
“Where’s Wes? Has he called the police?”
“No!”
“No?”
Sharon was peering toward the doorway, the darkened hall. She seemed confused. Her bloodshot eyes were shiny yet unfocused. Her damp pale blond hair had been expertly fastened at the back of her head in an elegant French twist from which a few tendrils had escaped. In the high-heeled shoes she stood swaying, shivering.
Now Lily took her sister’s hands, gently pried open the fists; held her hands tightly in both her own; Sharon’s hands were icy-cold, tremulous. There was only a faint fragrance of perfume about Sharon, a smell rather of soap, shampoo. She has showered off his blood. She has washed herself clean. Lily pleaded, “Sharon, tell me there’s some—mistake?”
“No. No mistake.”
“But—why?”
Sharon said, with sudden passion, “Why? You know why, Lily! They were pigs who didn’t deserve to live! ‘Starr Bright’—her revenge.”
“‘Starr Bright’—?”
“God guided my hand, Lily. Now God is done with me. This”—indicating the things on the bed—“you—and Wes—it’s a sign, God is done. It’s over.”
“But, Sharon—”
Moving still in that slow, arthritic way, blinking rapidly as if to get her vision into sharper focus, Sharon went to the tote bag and took from it the blue-sequined purse and opened it and held out for Lily’s horrified examination a knife, a kitchen carving knife with a gleaming blade, and Lily recoiled, and Sharon laughed saying, “No, no, it’s washed clean, the pig’s blood is gone.” This, too, she dropped onto the bed with the other items.
Going then like a sleepwalker to the telephone on the bedside table, to Lily’s amazement fumblingly dialing a number and saying in a husky, hoarse voice, “H-hello? Police—?” and Lily cried, “Sharon, no!” and snatched the receiver from her, and put it back.
“Why did you do that, Lily?”
“Sharon, not yet! Not yet! It’s too soon.”
“No, it’s time, Lily. God has abandoned me and I’m so tired, it’s time.”
Lily pleaded, “No, no, no,” pulling Sharon into her arms, sinking onto the edge of the bed, and Sharon swayed, stumbled, sank to her knees beside her, limp and unresisting and beginning at last to sob, as she’d done when they were girls, in the identical posture years ago in the farmhouse in Shaheen in their shared bedroom on the second floor beneath the wind-ravaged eaves, begging forgiveness of Lily of the Valley, for she was Rose of Sharon who’d wronged her, or had wronged someone, or had been wronged by someone, insulted, injured, cut to the heart, trembling with rage, indignation, sheer unnameable passion. Lily was stroking her sister’s head, her sister’s thin shoulders, Lily whispering, “Thank you for coming to me, Sharon, for coming back to me,” and Sharon said, “Help me, Lily? Don’t stop loving me?” and Lily said, “I’ll never stop loving you, Sharon,” and Sharon began to pray, “‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …’” and Lily joined her, “‘… I will fear no evil: for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …’” and that was how Wes discovered them, a few minutes later.
13
“Deirdre”
It wasn’t at Ali’s house they had supper but at the mall where Ali’s mothe
r let them off. They ate at Pepe’s Pizzeria or rather Ali ate and Deirdre drank two large diet Cokes saying that’s all she wanted, she wasn’t hungry. And at Pepe’s there were three guys eyeing them, older guys from another high school who followed them into the movies sitting in the row behind them and cracking jokes, laughing and when the movie ended they asked the girls if they’d like something to eat, the girls said O.K. but they couldn’t leave the mall because Ali’s mother was picking them up at nine, and Ali and Deirdre went to the women’s room whispering and giggling together, and Deirdre was feeling just a little lightheaded, nothing serious but that weird thing with her eyes like she was seeing double and needed to blink hard to clear her vision, but Ali gave her another diet pill and that helped, actually she felt terrific, both of them felt terrific giggling about the guys whose last names they didn’t know but they’d seen them around the mall, sure. The girls lit up a single cigarette for a quick smoke to share and Deirdre’s gaze kept drifting to the mirror, not knowing if she liked what she saw there, or whether it scared her, her hair in the new way, the face that was hers yet not exactly, the slimmer cheeks, large startled-looking eyes outlined in black like eyes in a drawing. She was excited, maybe nervous a little, her fingers trembling as she approached the mirror gravely to smear Plum Moon maroon lipstick on her mouth, her wound of a mouth, raw and hungry.