The Third Victim Read online

  He heard her sigh, heard the bookend thump down on a nearby table. Now, slowly, he turned to face the drawing board. Her gaze was following him as he moved. They were facing each other. Behind her eyes he could see dark shadows shift, like wings of night birds, lost in a midnight sky.

  Was it danger in her eyes?

  Recognition?

  Should he move forward, or back away? Should he—

  A phone was ringing, at first from a distance, then closer. Her phone. He saw her blink, saw her throat move as she swallowed—once, twice. In slow motion, her arm reached out for the phone. Still she stared at him, eyes wide. Now she was beginning to speak into the phone. Her voice was low and soft. He would wait until…

  Now!

  She was glancing aside, unknowingly releasing him. He was in the hallway, free. Ahead was the stairway. He was on the stairs, quickly clattering down. The whole world was filled with the ring of his shoes on the hard iron steps. The second-floor doors was already past, and still he clattered down, free. With every step, his control was more certain. At the first-floor door he could slow his steps, stop before the heavy fire door, draw a long, deep breath. Yogis said to breathe deeply. God and Yogis. Breathe with the stomach. Grow old. Die with a bladder-filled stomach.

  His hand was reaching for the knob; the first-floor door was opening. Ahead was the storeroom. Safety was ahead. A dozen steps, and he was inside the big, empty, box-crowded room.

  Would he be sick?

  Long ago, he’d been sick. He’d planned it so carefully, but he’d still been sick. Her name had been Susan. He’d stepped across a white path of moonlight, to reach her bed. She’d been sleeping with her mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Her underclothing had been draped over a chair close by. He’d—

  “Leonard.”

  Starting, he quickly turned. Howard Goss stood in the open storeroom door.

  “Mr. Bingham wants to see you, Leonard. Have you been a bad boy?”

  “Bad boy?”

  Howard Goss’s mouth was curving upward in a demon’s smile. “Never mind, Leonard. Just go see Mr. Bingham. Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “Good boy. See you, Leonard.”

  “Yes. Okay.” He watched Howard Goss move lazily into the showroom, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Howard Goss moved like an actor on stage.

  Mr. Bingham.

  The manager.

  Was Mr. Bingham going to fire him? Tell him to take his pay and go? Had someone complained? Found out?

  Looking around, he realized that he was already in the narrow, dark hallway leading to the manager’s office. Ahead was the door—Mr. Bingham’s office door.

  He was knocking. Waiting.

  “Come in.”

  He was pushing the door open slowly. Suddenly his throat was dry. He must swallow. Once. Twice.

  Mr. Bingham was a small, narrow man with graying hair and unfriendly blue eyes. His voice was thin and sharp:

  “This,” Mr. Bingham was saying, “is for you.” He held a letter between two pinch-parted fingers.

  It had come.

  It was there, suspended just above the cluttered desk.

  So soon, it had come.

  As he stepped forward to take the small buff-colored envelope, he heard the disdainful voice saying, “I wish you’d remember, Leonard, that you aren’t supposed to receive personal mail at the store. In fact, it’s specifically against the rules. Will you remember that?”

  “Y-yes. Yes, I will.”

  “All right. Good. See that you do, please.” Mr. Bingham was already turned away, picking up a thick sheaf of invoices.

  He was again in the hallway. Behind him, Mr. Bingham’s door was safely closed. He held the envelope in both hands as he walked. Cautiously, he kept his eyes straight ahead. But with his fingers he could feel the two twin shapes of the keys.

  So soon, so soon.

  Momentarily, the walls of the long oblong hallway-shape tilted toward him. The ceiling lurched down toward the floor.

  He stopped. Blinked. Waited for the walls to right themselves. Then he quickly folded the envelope twice in half, stuffing it deep into his side pocket.

  It was decided, then. The envelope had decided it. The keys were the last sure sign.

  Tuesday Evening

  FRUITLESSLY SCANNING STATE STREET for some sign of a bus, Joanna frowned. The time was five twenty-five; she’d been standing at the bus stop for almost fifteen minutes. She’d wanted to leave the store early, to shop for dinner. Instead, she’d been kept late, trapped since four o’clock in a buyers’ meeting.

  Had Kevin phoned while she was in the meeting? Would he stay for dinner? She didn’t know—couldn’t find out. There’d been no messages. But the switchboard operator said someone had called—a man, who wouldn’t leave his name.

  Would Kevin hesitate to leave his name?

  Or had he forgotten that she’d invited him? He could easily have forgotten, caught up in the fantasies that Dick Wagner would so cruelly help him spin. Did Kevin realize that Wagner was a shark—a plump, pompous opportunist with no loyalty, no integrity, no real talent?

  In the world of the arts, people like Wagner used people like Kevin. It was the age of the promoter. Painters scraped for pennies while gallery owners got rich. Actors drew unemployment checks while producers prospered. Serious writers enviously watched the hacks become famous.

  And Kevin, meanwhile, wrote local sustaining TV commercials part time while his talent was probably sputtering out. Kevin was a fast starter, but a slow finisher. He—

  “Joanna.”

  Turning, she saw Tom Southern seated behind the wheel of his top-down Alfa. Smiling confidently beneath dark driving glasses, Tom reached across the leather seats to flip open the door.

  “Get in.”

  “Thank you.” She dropped her purse into the well behind the seat and swung her legs into the cramped space beneath the dash.

  “Is something wrong with your car?” He glanced over his shoulder, gunned the engine, and pulled out into the traffic stream. As the car gathered momentum, Tom’s blond hair rippled picturesquely in the wind.

  “Yes.”

  “How about a drink? At the Trident, for instance.”

  “I—I’d better not, Tom. Josh is home, waiting for me.”

  “Well—” He turned to smile at her. It was the same patronizing, negligently possessive smile he’d flashed as he’d left her office, earlier in the day. “Well, it’s not like we don’t have tomorrow night together. Right?”

  She’d almost forgotten. Incredibly, she’d forgotten. With Kevin waiting at home for her, she’d forgotten that, tomorrow night, she and Tom were eating at his place. Tomorrow night, according to Tom’s calculations, they would have dinner and drinks and then go to bed. No maidenly tears. No coquetry. No—

  “Will your car be working by tomorrow?” He expertly swung the Alfa into a smooth, sharp corner.

  “I hope so.”

  “If it isn’t, I’ll come by for you. Or, better yet, why don’t we leave from work—make a long, slow night of it?” The possessive smile had returned, accented now with a hint of urbane lechery.

  “I’ll have to get Josh at day care, then get him settled at home.” Deliberately, she spoke crisply. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I know about the car.”

  “Suit yourself.” He turned another corner, more sharply this time. When she’d mentioned Josh, she’d seen Tom’s smile tighten, then fade. Bracing herself against another petulant lurch of the car, she turned to face the front.

  “I saw Sally Mathewson in the parking lot,” Tom said. “She told me that you had a prowler last night.”

  “Not really a prowler,” she answered, somehow unwilling to tell him of the incident. “A prankster, more like it.”

  “Sally said someone dropped a switch-blade knife through your mail slot.”

  “That’s right. But I—”

  “If I were you,” he interrupted, “I’d call t
he police. This Tarot thing brings the other nuts out of the woodwork, you know.” His voice was brusque, as if he expected her to obey him.

  For a moment she didn’t reply. Then, speaking above the sound of the engine and the rush of the wind as they gathered speed, she said, “I don’t want to upset Josh, though.”

  “How do you know it’d upset him? He might get his kicks, seeing a couple of policemen sitting in the living room.”

  “He might also have nightmares,” she answered. And, immediately, remembering Josh’s nightmare-frightened cry on the night Tom had taken her home, she regretted saying it.

  Tom remembered, too. “Yeah,” he said drily. “I see what you mean.” He glanced over his shoulder, then swung the sportscar abruptly into the right lane. In two blocks he’d turn off the busy boulevard. Another three blocks and she’d be home.

  Should she ask him to drop her at the corner grocery store? If Kevin were staying for dinner, she must shop. But if he couldn’t stay—wouldn’t stay—then she’d have shopped for nothing. For Josh and herself, she’d planned creamed tuna over toast and a salad. So it was better, really, to go home first. If Kevin were staying, she could walk to the store. All afternoon, off and on, she’d considered the dinner menu. It shouldn’t be too elaborate—too obviously an effort at entrapment. But it shouldn’t be too casual, either. She shouldn’t—

  “This is the corner. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Be sure and let me know about tomorrow night.” Again, it was more a command than a request.

  “Yes.” Ahead, she could see her house. Her Chevrolet was parked in the driveway with its hood raised. On tiptoe, Josh was peering into the engine compartment. On the opposite side of the car, she saw two blue-jeaned legs, braced wide. A bright orange Volkswagen was parked at the curb.

  It was her car—Cathy’s.

  Somehow it seemed an intrusion—an arrogant reminder. Had it been calculated? Had Kevin—

  “Who’s that working on your car?” Tom asked, swinging the Alfa close behind the Volkswagen.

  She pushed open the door. “It’s my—my husband,” she muttered. “Josh’s father.”

  “Ah…” Tom nodded, slipping the Alfa into gear as he shot a narrow, male-to-male look at Kevin, now wiping his hands as he straightened beside the Chevrolet.

  “Well—” Tom flipped a casual hand as he gunned the Alfa’s powerful engine. “Well, see you tomorrow, ducks.”

  Suddenly conscious of an empty sense of lonely despair, she could only nod.

  Kevin put the pliers on the air cleaner and wiped his greasy hands on a pair of Josh’s discarded pajama bottoms. The pajamas were patterned in a gay circus motif. Years ago, his mother had made the pajamas for her grandson and sent them along in a Christmas box. It had been Josh’s third Christmas. They’d been living in San Francisco, happy together in a huge, rundown flat in North Beach. Working in educational films during the day and writing screenplays at night, he’d felt a strong, sure sense of purpose—a certainty that his big break was close at hand. To himself, he’d always thought of it that way: his big break. Italicized. It was an out-of-date, hackneyed phrase. But somehow the words seemed to fit his expectations, evoking a certain show-biz aura. A stand-in, after all, could still be discovered. Playwrights could still pick up the phone to hear the magic promise of success at the other end. It still happened. Every day, somewhere, it happened to someone. Someday, it could happen to him.

  But next Christmas would be Josh’s seventh—and his thirty-first.

  And it had been a long time since he’d thought about his big break. Imperceptibly, the slogan had disappeared from his interior monologues. And when hope was gone, what remained? A few free lunches? Or, more like it, the offer of a cup of coffee?

  At the memory of Dick Wagner and his glossy girl friend with the cool green eyes, he felt his face and neck growing warm with embarrassment. It was, Joanna had once said, one of his endearing young charms. He could still blush.

  “What’s wrong with it, Daddy?” On the other side of the car, Josh was staring solemnly down at the engine. The boy’s grime-streaked chin just cleared the fender.

  “It’s the fuel pump. We have to get a new one.”

  “Can we get one now, Daddy?”

  “No, not now, Josh. It’s five thirty. The stores will be closed.”

  “Oh.” The boy continued to stare at the engine. Then: “Is Mommy coming home pretty soon?”

  Still wiping his hands, he nodded slowly. “Pretty soon, Josh.”

  “Oh.” Momentarily, the boy’s eyes were shadowed with disappointment. The message was clear. They’d shared an hour or two alone, driving home from the day-care center, stopping for ice cream, then working on the car. Josh was reluctant for their time together to end—reluctant to give up this man’s work they were doing together.

  Now the solemn eyes brightened. “Are you going to eat dinner with us, Daddy?”

  “I—I guess so, Josh. I—”

  A sportscar was rakishly rounding the corner, angling to the curb behind Cathy’s car. The driver was improbably handsome: a leading-man type, square-jawed, mod-barbered, sunglass-shielded. Still standing behind the Chevrolet’s raised hood, Kevin watched Joanna bid the driver a brief good-bye, then turn and stride up the driveway. Watching her come closer, he lowered the hood and stepped away from the car. She was wearing a summer dress. As she walked, the lightweight fabric molded the curve of her breasts and the long, slim line of her thigh. She was smiling down at Josh, who still stood close beside him.

  “Hi, honey.” Her small, serious mouth curved up into a warm smile of greeting. Beneath the graceful arch of dark brown eyebrows, her blue eyes were alight with a young mother’s pleasure.

  Did she pluck her eyebrows?

  He couldn’t remember—probably had never known.

  She was tousling Josh’s hair. “How’d it go today?”

  “Okay.” Now—belatedly—the boy moved against her, hugging his cheek to her thigh. As she returned the hug, she raised her eyes. Her voice was coolly neutral as she asked:

  “Could you fix it?”

  “No, but…” Kevin watched his hand make a choppy, ineffectual gesture toward the Chevrolet. “But I think I know what’s wrong. It’s the fuel pump, I think.”

  “How much will it cost?” As she asked the question, Josh moved away from her. Now the boy stood midway between them, looking from one to the other as they spoke to each other:

  “I’m not sure. Twenty dollars, maybe.”

  She frowned, but made no direct reply. Instead, still speaking impersonally, she said, “Are you staying for dinner? You didn’t let me know.”

  As she said it, the set of her mouth hardened. It was the prelude to accusation—the old, old problem between them. He wasn’t responsible enough—steady enough—adult enough, really. He should have phoned, shouldn’t have left her hanging. From bitter memory, he could recite it all, even though most of it would remain unsaid: silent, somber indictments. The worst kind.

  “I called you. But you were in a meeting.”

  “Well…” Momentarily her eyes held his, still with lingering accusation. But now she glanced down at Josh, plainly so vulnerable as he still stood midway between them.

  “Well,” she repeated, “it’s no problem. Can you stay?”

  “Yes. Fine. Thanks. But I—” He hesitated. “I’d have to leave about nine.”

  Her response was a quick, impersonal shrug, self-defensive. “That’s fine. I have to go to bed early tonight, as a matter of fact.”

  To rest up for an upcoming date, was the clear implication—or else to recover from last night. Were they sleeping together, she and the leading-man type with the aviator sunglasses? Would Josh know?

  “I’ve got to go to the store,” she said, turning away. “I didn’t shop. I didn’t know whether you were coming, so…” She let it go unfinished. This time, she’d settle for just a small twist of the knife.

  “Let me drive
you.”

  With evident distaste, she glanced at the orange Volkswagen. “No, thanks,” she answered, already walking away from him. “You and Josh can stay here. I’ll just go to the corner. I won’t be long.”

  Silent, he watched her go.

  How had she meant it, telling him to stay behind with Josh? Was she rubbing his nose in his role as an absent father, sorely missed by his son?

  Was she making it plain that she didn’t expect him to pay for the groceries—that she somehow divined that his wallet was empty?

  Or was she simply telling him that she needed a baby-sitter for a few minutes—that, really, his employment classification, his earning power, was closer to a baby-sitter’s pay scale than hers?

  Leonard popped open the can of Seven-Up and dropped the small aluminum tab in a brown paper sack overflowing with garbage. With the can uptilted, he leaned against the wall of the kitchen, allowing the Seven-Up to trickle into his mouth. When his mouth was almost entirely full, he opened his throat, swallowing slowly.

  Across the kitchen, his mother was stooped over a chipped Formica counter. Her thick-knuckled fingers were patiently kneading chopped onions into a small red mound of hamburger. With her back to him, her torso was block-broad. She could be an animal—an ape, bent over a dung pile.

  Dung pile?

  No.

  Animals wouldn’t turn red hamburger into brown, fly-buzzing dung. Because apes were like men—just like men. Apes ate bananas and walked on their feet and picked lice from their babies.

  With his right hand still gripping the Seven-Up can, he allowed his left hand to drop to his side, then creep into his pocket. Because if apes could search for lice, he could search his pocket—could pretend to find pennies, or cookie crumbs. Or a toy, when he was younger.

  But he wasn’t feeling for pennies or lice. Or even a toy.

  It was the envelope—the secret brown envelope. The envelope had been folded and refolded, but it hadn’t been opened. He’d wanted to open it. In the storeroom at Gorlick’s, on the bus coming home, he’d wanted to open it. When he got home, he’d wanted to go to his room and lock the door and open the envelope. He’d wanted to see the two metal keys slide slowly out of the envelope and into his palm.