The Deep End (42 page)

“What are you talking about?” Eve repeats.

“It all makes sense. Where he got his information, how he knew everything. He was there the whole time listening to me pouring my guts out every Saturday afternoon. My God, Eve, I know who it is!”

“Joanne, you’re scaring me.”

“I have to use your phone.” Joanne begins moving toward the desk. “Where’s the goddamned phone?” she
asks, finally locating it, on its side and disconnected on the floor.

“You can’t use it!” Eve shrieks suddenly.

“Eve, I have to call the police.”

“No! I know what you really want to do. You want to call the hospital. You think I’m crazy. You want them to come for me. Brian put you up to this.”

“No, Eve, I swear …”

“I want you to get out of here.”

“Eve, I know who’s been calling me, threatening to kill me. It’s that boy from the nursing home. He might even be the Suburban Strangler. I have to call the police.”

“No!”

Eve is at Joanne’s side, her hands flailing wildly, ripping the phone from Joanne’s hands and hurling it across the room, crying triumphantly as it crashes against the far wall, chipping the paint and leaving a large blood-colored stain.

“Get out of here,” Eve is shouting. “Get out of here before I kill you myself!”

“Eve, please …”

“Get out of here.”

“Call Brian,” Joanne begs, fleeing Eve’s fists and rushing to the bedroom door. “Please, tell him I know who’s been phoning me, that I know who the killer is. Tell him to call me …”

“Get out!”

Eve bends over and scoops up a book from the floor. Joanne sees it hurtling toward her, but is unable to duck out of its way in time to fully escape the impact of its blow as it crashes painfully into her back. Tears stinging her eyes, she races down the stairs, Eve still screaming behind
her. She reaches the front door, opens it, and escapes into the night.

Seconds later, she is at her front door, hearing Eve’s door slam closed behind her, fumbling inside the pockets of her jeans for her keys. She hears something at her shoulder and spins quickly around. There is nothing there. “Calm down,” she says to herself. “Just take things slowly. Don’t panic. Your keys are here somewhere. You put them in your pocket,” she reminds herself, silently praying that they didn’t drop out during the melee at Eve’s. “They have to be here,” she cries, finally locating them in her back pocket, hidden underneath an old tissue. “Thank God,” she mutters, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open, shutting it swiftly behind her, moving in one fluid motion to the alarm.

The alarm light is not on.

“Oh no, not again,” she moans. “How could I be so stupid? What is the point of having an alarm system if I’m going to keep forgetting to turn the damn thing on?” She reaches over angrily and presses the button that activates the system. Then she takes a deep breath and heads toward the phone. She dials emergency—911.

After three rings, the phone is answered. “Hello,” Joanne starts, “I’d like a policeman …”

“This is police emergency,” a voice begins.

“Yes, I’d like a …”

“This is a recording. All our lines are busy at present …”

“Oh, God.”

“If you need police assistance, please hold on; someone will take your call as soon as possible. If you wish a police
car to come to your house, leave your name and address after the tone …”

Joanne hangs up, rubbing the palms of her hands against her forehead. What is the point in leaving her name and address? Immediately she picks up the phone again and redials emergency. The point is survival, she tells herself, listening as the recorded message drones on, once again instructing her to leave her name and address after the tone. “Joanne Hunter,” she says clearly, then enunciates carefully her full address. “Please hurry,” she adds, deciding to stay on the line in case someone human answers her cry for help.

It is exactly thirty minutes later that Joanne hears a car pull up in front of the house. She waits for the familiar sound of footsteps on the outside stairs, for a loud knocking at the door, but she hears nothing except the unending stream of recorded music coming from the telephone receiver in her hand.

She transfers the phone from one hand to the other, feeling her joints stiff from the strain of holding the receiver against her ear. She stretches her head back against the nape of her neck, hearing the crack, aware of a cramping in her shoulder muscles. Slowly, carefully, she raises her head, her eyes falling absently across the sliding back door.

She sees him standing in the darkness, his face pressed against the glass, peering inside. Before she has time to think, to recognize the uniform, she is screaming wildly.

“Police officer,” the figure announces, displaying something in his right hand. Joanne understands that it is a badge.

At the same moment there is a loud banging at the front door. Joanne drops the phone, which she has been
screaming into, and listens to it knock against the side of the counter, echoing the banging from outside the front of the house.

She runs to the door. “Who is it?” she yells, staring through the peephole at the uniformed officer.

“Police,” the voice curtly informs her. “We received a report of an emergency at this address.”

“Yes, I phoned,” Joanne exclaims, about to open the door, remembering that the alarm is on, pressing the button to turn it off, pulling open the door. The young, slender policeman, who seems barely older than Robin, looks nervously around.

“What’s the problem?” he asks, moving into the kitchen. “May I?” he asks, indicating his partner positioned outside the sliding door.

Joanne watches him unlatch the side lock. “There’s one at the bottom, too,” she informs him. In the next second, his partner, perhaps an inch taller and maybe a few years older, is standing beside him.

“I’m Officer Whitaker,” the first policeman introduces himself, “and this is Officer Statler. What exactly is the problem?”

Joanne is about to answer when she hears a small voice. The officers become aware of it at the same time, and all three turn toward the phone, which is still dangling off the hook against the counter. Joanne runs over and picks it up. “Hello,” she says.

“Police emergency,” a human voice answers. “Can we help you?”

“Police emergency,” Joanne explains to the two officers. “I’ve been holding on.”

Officer Statler takes the phone from her hand. “Officer
Statler here. We’re on the scene now. Yes. Thank you.” He returns the phone to its receiver. “Just what
is
the problem?” he asks, his eyes searching the room. “Did you see a prowler? Are you hurt?”

“No.” Joanne shakes her head, catching the look of surprise in each man’s face. “I know who the Suburban Strangler is,” she announces, trying not to recognize the look of impatient scepticism which passes between the two men.

“This is police emergency, ma’am,” Officer Whitaker reminds her.

“And this
is
a police emergency,” Joanne states vehemently.

“I see. Is this person here with you now?”

Joanne shakes her head. “No … But he called earlier. He said that he was coming.”

“Nice of him to let you know,” Officer Statler remarks, suppressing a grin.

“Listen, I am not some crackpot,” Joanne tells them, knowing this is exactly how she sounds. “Sergeant Brian Stanley lives next door. He knows me. He’ll tell you that I’m not some crackpot.”

“Okay, okay, Mrs. Hunter,” Officer Whitaker says, checking his notes for her name. “You called and reported a police emergency. You requested a police car to come to your home. We’re here now. Why don’t you tell us whatever you think you know and we’ll do our best to follow up on it as soon as we can.”

“As soon as you can? What does that mean?”

“Tell us what you think you know,” he states again, and Joanne tries not to bridle at the implicit condescension of his words. Tell us what you
think
you know! As if she knows
nothing, only
thinks
she does. Why did she bother to call? What did she hope to accomplish? What did she
think
would happen? “He’s been calling me for months,” Joanne tells them anyway, “telling me that I’m next …”

“You’ve reported these calls to the police?”

Joanne nods. “I didn’t know who it was. The voice sounded familiar, but it was a very strange voice, hard to pinpoint. Now I realize that he was mimicking his grandfather’s voice, not exactly of course, but that rasp that old people sometimes get …”

“I’m not following …”

“You see, every Saturday I visit my grandfather, or I did until he died about ten days ago, and every Saturday this boy was there at the same time visiting his grandfather. He was always with his mother, but his mother couldn’t be the killer because she wasn’t always in the room when I’d be talking to my grandfather. Sometimes she’d go out for a cigarette, and it would look like the boy was sleeping, but I guess he was only pretending to be asleep. He was really listening. Listening to everything that I was telling my grandfather. That’s how he knew that the girls would be away at camp, that my husband had left me …”

“You’re divorced?” Officer Statler interrupts.

“Separated,” Joanne tells him. Does this make her less relevant? she wonders, again catching the look on his face as he jots down this new information. “Anyway, it was only after Sam Hensley was transferred to my grandfather’s room that I started getting the phone calls. Eve asked me once when I started getting these calls and I couldn’t remember exactly …”

“Sam Hensley? Eve?” Officer Whitaker asks.

“Sam Hensley is the boy’s grandfather. Eve is my
friend. She’s Brian Stanley’s wife, Sergeant Stanley’s wife,” she emphasizes. “You see, everything falls into place. How he got my phone number, how he knew when I changed it. I mean, it’s very easy for anybody to check the records. They’re kept at the nursing station.”

“The boy’s name is Hensley?” Officer Statler asks, the laughter in his eyes belying the seriousness of his tone. “Could you spell that?”

“The old man’s name is Hensley,” Joanne corrects. “The boy’s name is something different.” She searches her memory for the name. “God, what is it?” She sees the image of the young man before her, but his features are indistinct, blurred. She never really noticed what he looked like. He was just always there, blending into the furniture. Nice-looking, she thinks, but not memorable.

The image of his mother pushes the boy roughly out of the way. She is the easier of the two to describe. She has substance, weight, a voice that carries, that sticks in the memory. Alan, Joanne hears the woman call, summoning the reluctant boy away from the small black-and-white television in the nursing home’s waiting room. “Alan,” Joanne repeats aloud. “God, what was his last name? Alan … Alan something … Alan Crosby!” she exclaims triumphantly. “That’s it. Alan Crosby. He’s about nineteen or twenty. That’s all I can remember about him. I never really took any notice of him.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hunter. We’ll check this out,” Officer Statler tells her, snapping his notebook closed.

“When?” Joanne demands.

“We’ll get started on it right away,” Officer Whitaker says before his partner can answer. “It’s Saturday night, but we’ll do what we can.” He studies the phone. “Is this
still your number?” he asks, reopening his notepad and copying the numbers from the face of the phone.

Joanne nods.

“Try not to worry, Mrs. Hunter,” Officer Statler says, opening the front door. “We picked up some guy last night we’re pretty sure is our strangler. We’re just running a few final checks on him before we make a public announcement. Keep this locked anyway,” he advises, stepping outside. “There’s a lot of screws loose out there. If this Alan Crosby has been threatening you, we’ll put a stop to it soon enough. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but if it’ll help you sleep any easier, we’ll drive by the house as much as we can tonight.”

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” Joanne shuts the door after him, double locks it, and reactivates the alarm system in one continuing gesture. “So,” she says aloud, “it appears I’m safe after all.” She flips off the hall light and makes her way up the stairs to her bedroom.

J
oanne is exhausted. It has been a long day and a longer night. But the nightmare is over, and as Joanne stares across the room at her empty king-size bed, she thinks only of how good it will feel when her head hits the pillow. She is even getting used to sleeping alone. It is like any other space, she thinks as she undresses, tossing her clothes across the blue chair at the foot of her bed. You grow into it.

Sliding her bare feet across the thick carpet, hearing her mother’s voice tell her, pick your feet up when you walk, she enters her bathroom and begins filling the tub. Her body is sore; her muscles ache; she needs the help of a soothing tub of hot water to ensure a good night’s sleep.

Thoughts of Eve, of the police, of Alan Crosby, crowd into her head. She doesn’t want to think, she decides, pushing the thoughts rudely back out.

Catching sight of her naked body in the full-length mirror, she does not turn away. Rather, she walks steadily toward her image, allowing her eyes all the time they require to take the necessary stock.

“I’m over forty,” she says aloud. “I’m middle-aged.” She
looks deep into her own eyes. “I’m a grown-up.” Her eyes fall to her breasts, then continue down past her rounded belly to the thatch of pubic hair below. “I am woman.”

On impulse, she suddenly sits down on the small, rectangular mat in front of the mirror, arranging her body in the pose she remembers seeing in Paul’s magazine months ago. Shoulders back, knees up and well apart, she silently challenges her reflection. “You still look ridiculous,” she laughs, watching her image laugh with her. “Maybe we should pose for one of those magazines,” she tells it, laughing louder. Show the world some real tits and ass, not these inflated imitations they’re trying to pass off as the real thing, perfectly round aberrations that never move or age. Remind people what women looked like before silicone and surgery tried to fool them into thinking that they could be young forever.