The Third Victim (11 page)

Sipping the drink, he allowed his gaze to slowly circle the bar, briefly assessing each face in turn. Not one was his intellectual equal. This was a working-man’s bar, catering to the invisible underside of Santa Barbara—to those who served the free-spending tourists and the affluent citizens for whom the Santa Barbara lifestyle was fashioned.

Why had he chosen this bar, then?

The answer was obvious. He’d come here because this bar lay on a direct line between his present home and his former home—between Cathy on the north and Joanna on the south.

He’d gone three blocks before he’d realized that he was walking headlong toward home. Joanna’s home. And the realization had brought him up short. He’d stood alone on the sidewalk, blinking, hearing the wine buzzing in his head. He’d been momentarily immobilized, defeated. Finally, though, he’d made a strategic withdrawal to his present position: seated on a red plastic bar stool, staring into a pink-tinted mirror. But here he was stuck. He couldn’t advance, couldn’t retreat.

Except that, for years, he’d been retreating.

For six years, his course had been one long, zigzag retreat.

How long would it take before the retreat became a rout—a disaster? How long did it take for defeat to become chronic? How long would it be before despair showed in the uncertain movements of his eyes and hands, and in the falseness of his laughter? Were there years allotted for winning, and others allotted for losing? If that were so, then these years would have a meaning—a purpose. Someday, he could write a tragedy.

But who made the allotments?

Who decided when the time for losing had ended and the time for winning would begin? Would Mephistopheles, disguised as a greasy-fingered laborer, sit down beside him, on a companion red plastic bar stool, and outline the proposition—

“Got a match, by any chance?”

Blinking, he glanced up into the rose-colored mirror. A blowzy, bleary-eyed blonde sat beside him, smiling grotesquely.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t smoke.” Without looking at her, he finished the bourbon and water.

“Did you quit, or just never start?” She still held the unlit cigarette poised between her stubby, nicotine-stained fingers.

“I quit. Three years ago.” Unconsciously, he’d taken a dollar bill out of his pocket—his last dollar. Beside him, the blowzy blonde shifted expectantly. Plainly, she hoped he’d offer her a drink. Then, perhaps, another drink. And then—who could tell—perhaps they’d share a night of love.

It was something he’d never done. He’d never picked up a woman at a bar. It had never been necessary. Girls—jobs—favorable reviews for his play—he’d had them all.

Until now. Here. Tonight.

At this improbable place, with a flat-faced blonde sitting where moments before he’d imagined Mephistopheles toying with his beer and contemplating some Faustian bargain that would trade success for a small piece of his soul, he’d finally come face to face with himself. The wine, doubtless, had helped—and the pot. And the three bourbons. And the pink mirror, and the fat bartender. And the blonde, still with the cigarette clamped in her pudgy fingers.

“Here…” He dropped the last dollar on the bar as he turned to the blonde. “Buy yourself a drink. I’d join you, except that I’ve got an appointment.” He turned his back on her exclamations of virtuously surprised protest and walked out into the night.

For as far as he could see, the sidewalks were deserted. The bar was part of a modest mom-and-pop shopping community that served a quiet residential neighborhood: small houses built under large trees. In this neighborhood, most citizens sat before their TVs, watching a late movie or the eleven-o’clock news. Soon they would go to bed. Twenty-five percent, perhaps, would make love.

Would he make love that night? Would Cathy accept him tonight—literally accept him? Would apologies be necessary—an elaborately orchestrated recital of contrition? What price would Cathy exact in exchange for forgiveness and acceptance? Cathy was a smart girl with an instinct for life’s constantly changing ledger of emotional debits and credits. What Cathy wanted, Cathy got. For her, it had always been that way. Perhaps it would never change. Constantly, Cathy ran a credit balance.

But not Joanna.

Joanna ran a debit balance. Once, before they’d gotten married, she’d told him that, from the moment her parents had told her that they were getting a divorce, when she was seven, she’d never really been happy. So Joanna’s weapons in the battle of the sexes were dismay and reproach. Joanna’s coups were delivered in utter silence. But Cathy, the indulged child of affluence, fought like a fishwife.

He was slowly walking, listening to the uneven sounds of his own footsteps. He’d turned to his right, toward Joanna’s house—his house, really. For reasons unknown, he’d decided to walk past Joanna’s. He was taking the long way home.

The Long Way Home…

It could be a title—a good title, owing just a little to O’Neill. At the thought, he smiled. Perhaps someday he would write a script about this day. The events, of course, must be rearranged. Characters would be reshaped. The part of the blonde, for instance, could be enlarged. Drunk, he’d let her take him to her place. She would, of course, be beautiful—hard, but beautiful. But he’d be unresponsive to her charms. Drunk, he’d be reliving this whole disastrous day, a microcosm of his whole disastrous life. The disasters, of course, would be dramatically sharpened. Both Joanna and Cathy would have thrown him out, after four-star traumas. Dick Wagner would have ridiculed him. Enraged, he would have knocked Wagner down.

But, worst of all, Josh would have turned his back and walked away from him—walked alone into his bedroom, and the TV’s cynical embrace.

He realized that he was blinking. He’d been walking for blocks. Now he was turning into Joanna’s block.

The Long Way Home…

The blonde would be a complex character. Her surface hardness would conceal an appealing, well-protected vulnerability. At first, she hadn’t taken him home to lay him. Instead, she’d responded to his air of dark, mysterious melancholy. She’d—

A figure stood near the door to Joanna’s basement entryway. The figure had taken a single step aside, seeking the shelter of the huge azalea bush that grew close to the house, a few feet from Joanna’s bedroom window.
Their
bedroom window.

Aware that the beat of his heart had suddenly accelerated, he was forcing himself to walk naturally, eyes front, arms swinging freely. The house was still three doors away. The dark figure could be an upstairs tenant, throwing out his garbage. It was essential, then, to remain uncommitted, all options open. Tonight, during the Tarot hysteria, countless citizens were seeing countless suspicious figures lurking in the shadows.

Two doors remained. And still the figure stood as before, motionless—plainly hoping to remain undiscovered.

Had Tarot used a gun? He couldn’t remember.

Abreast of their lot line, with the entry sidewalk twenty feet away and the small access sidewalk another ten feet beyond, he cleared his throat. Perhaps the sound might tip the balance—resolve this impasse. Yet the figure remained as before—silently, ominously motionless. The distance between them was closing. Was the crouching figure aware of his presence?

At the entry sidewalk he turned, as if to make for Joanna’s front door. It was, after all, a turn he’d made many times. He was playing a role he knew well. He was a tenant in this house. Now, a few feet along, he stopped short, pretending to see the crouched figure for the first time. He’d decided on a name—the name of an upstairs tenant.

“Is that you, Steve?” His voice, in the darkness, was unexpectedly loud. “What’re you—”

Suddenly the figure was running, leaping the ragged privet hedge into the next yard. Gone.

“Hey!”
For a moment he stood rooted, immobilized by shocked surprise. But now he was running. His feet were pounding the sidewalk as he rounded the hedge. Already the figure was breaking through another hedge. Kevin heard a voice shouting—his voice. Ahead, the second hedge concealed the fugitive. But there was no sound of running feet. Had he gone between the houses—found an open gate? Had something momentarily gleamed in the figure’s hand—something slim and dangerous?

Across the street, a door opened. Still on the sidewalk, trotting, Kevin was drawing even with the second hedge. But ahead, he could see no movement, could hear no fugitive sounds. He slowed, stopped, stood listening. His quarry had leaped one hedge, broken through another, then disappeared. The third barrier was a high redwood fence, impossible to climb.

Somewhere close by the shadowy figure was hiding. The front yards were fenced, offering no escape between the houses. And in this yard trees and bushes grew thick. In this yard a dozen men could hide, waiting to strike.

Another door opened; a shaft of light fell across a lawn, touching the sidewalk where Kevin stood.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” It was Ferguson, the next-door neighbor.

“It’s—” Momentarily, his throat closed. Then: “It’s me. Kevin Rossiter.” As he spoke, he was aware that his voice was thick, blurred by the wine and the pot and the bourbon.

“Oh.” Ferguson was a small, truculent man, standing bandy-legged in the backlit rectangle of his own front door. The Fergusons occupied a ground-floor apartment that duplicated Joanna’s. “Well, what’s
happening,
anyhow? What’s all the noise?” But as he asked the question, Ferguson’s voice became less suspicious, more subtly contemptuous. Ferguson’s suspicions were clear: It was a domestic problem—probably a drunken domestic problem.

Now, over the hedge, he saw Joanna’s living-room light come on. Her bedroom was still dark. Was she entertaining? Had her leading man with the Alfa Romeo returned to stay the night? At the thought, he involuntarily turned his head to search the street. No Alfa Romeo.

“What’re you
yelling
about?” Ferguson demanded.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, moving to his left, toward Joanna’s. “It’s—just that I thought I saw a peeping Tom, that’s all.”

“Where?” As Ferguson stepped onto his porch, Joanna’s front door opened. She was wearing her blue robe, pulled close around her. Beneath the robe, Kevin knew, she was naked. At the wayward thought, his genitals stirred.

“Where’d he go?” Ferguson called out. “I’ll phone for the cops. You can’t be too careful, you know, these days.”

“Kevin? Is that you?” It was Joanna’s voice, still sleep-slurred.

And from behind Ferguson came his wife’s voice, querulously questioning her husband.

“Oh, Jesus,” Kevin muttered, moving away from the Ferguson’s and toward his wife. “Oh shit.”

The small white cone of light moved unsteadily across the boxes, the crates, the garbage-reeking trash cans. From above him came the sound of floorboards creaking, footsteps shuffling. He was standing motionless, listening. The penlight had gone off. Without thinking, he’d clicked off the light. Yet he could still see the gleam of the knife blade, even in darkness. Was it possible? There were only two small windows, both high, barred. Yet the knife blade, trembling in his hand, glowed in the darkness. It was the energy. The energy had passed into the blade. From himself—his genitals—the energy had traveled up his body to his shoulder, down the arm until finally it was concentrated in the slim sliver of steel, glowing.

Above him, the footsteps were quiet. There was no voice—no clicking of a dialed phone—no anxious mother’s mewling. It was a sign. A contact. She’d heard, and accepted his presence—his command. It was why he’d left the knife, last night, for her to find. The knife was a contact. A command. A warning, and a command. And, close above him, her whispering footsteps were responding, accepting. He could almost touch the floorboards above. It was another sign—another contact. He could touch the wood that she touched.

Again the light cone swept through the darkness, seeking the outside door, still latched. As he moved toward the door, she was moving toward the back, the kitchen. He must hurry. So that he could get away, she’d moved toward the back of the flat. But only for a moment. Only for the time it would take him. Beyond that, his power failed. As he got farther from her, his power weakened. It was mathematical. Geometry.

He lifted the lock from its nail, turned the doorknob, slowly drew open the door. The door opened toward him, so that no one would see him standing in the basement darkness. Outside, the night was quiet—safe. He stepped through the door, slipped the flashlight into his pocket, turned to padlock the door. The padlock was stiff, stubborn. Suddenly his hands were trembling. Because soon her footsteps would return, bringing her toward the front of the house—to her bedroom, directly above. By then, he must have left. Basement door locked, he must be gone.

He stopped, placed the knife on the ground, rose to grasp the lock more firmly. He’d seen them snap the lock. Many times, he’d—

The lock clicked.

He stooped again, to take up the knife. But now a sound of footsteps was coming—slow, uncertain footsteps, hidden from view. Glancing up at the bedroom window, he moved to his right, standing close beside a head-high shrub, deeply shadowed. Here he was invisible. From the window, from the street, he was invisible. If he willed it, they couldn’t see him. Even with his eyes open, he was invisible.

The footsteps were closer now, coming from his right—from behind the ragged, children-torn hedge. It was her hedge, her child, chewing at the hedge. She was—

A man’s figure broke the line of the hedge. He was a young man, tall, casually dressed. The young man’s arms swung loosely at his sides. The easy tempo of his steps revealed no purpose, no alarm. There was, therefore, no danger. Invisible still, he would—

The steps faltered; the arms locked in mid-arc, then awkwardly caught the rhythm again, but raggedly, imperfectly. The man’s head turned toward the house—toward him. Now, faltering, the head turned again to face front.

Suddenly the sound of sudden danger shrieked through the quiet tapping of the shoes on the sidewalk. The head so rigid, the arms so mechanical now, the steps suddenly so careful—they all were signals. But the knife was ready. It would—