Unquiet Dreams (22 page)

"Choose your victim" was in large, red, dripping letters. There was space to type in a name or a button to "Choose From List." Eddie clicked on the button. A window popped up with a long list of names; normal looking names, each with their city of residence. Eddie chose Betty Finch of Orlando, Florida and then hit enter. After a few seconds, her profile appeared: Betty was sixty-five, a retired machinist and had lived in Orlando since the death of her husband Bob in 1989.
Why should I care
, Eddie thought, sliding the scroll bar lower. Diagrams came into view of Betty's apartment and neighborhood. Eddie gave them a cursory appraisal, then clicked on the "OK."

"Choose your method" was in black block letters on a grey background. Again there was space to type in a method and a button to "Choose." Eddie grinned to himself and typed "stampede."
Try that, MurderInc
. He cackled as he pressed enter. The screen disappeared, replaced immediately by one that proclaimed in huge letters, "You are a sick individual, Guest!" Eddie smiled in spite of himself. This might just be fun.

"Fax or email reply?" came up next. Eddie toyed with the idea of leaving his computer on for a fax, but decided against it and clicked "Email" and re-entered his address.

"YOU HAVE JUST COMMITTED MURDER!" filled the entire screen in screeching red letters. "Uh huh," thought Eddie and clicked on "Continue." The next screen popped up: "Thank you for playing Murder Incorporated."

Eddie was furious.

"That's it? That's it! Karen, I'm going to kill you. That was the biggest waste of time ever. Damn!" He blinked at the innocuous thank you screen in disbelief. "I have been hosed."

But standing in the 7-11 across from the library the next day, Eddie caught sight of the smallish headline on the Post, "Freak Zoo Incident Claims Four" and something in the back of his mind loosened sickly. He grabbed the top paper and scanned the column.

 

TAMPA, FL. Four people were crushed to death and fifteen others injured when a herd of wildebeest ran wild in a deadly stampede. Zookeepers were at a loss to explain the aberration, citing the zoo's long history of safety—"

 

Eddie's eyes jumped to the final paragraph. Sure enough, there she was among the dead, Mrs. Betty Finch of Orlando. Stampede, indeed.

Oh god! What have I done?
He dropped the paper and ran out the door. His mind was racing but his feet were leaden. It seemed to take several months to cross over to the library and run down to the computer banks. For once, there was actually a terminal free. In his haste, he had to retype his password twice. Eddie scrolled through his email—had to be here, somewhere, there! A message with the sender "MurderInc." He clicked on it.

"You filthy murderer," it began, making Eddie's heart climb up to his uvula, "I hope you can sleep at night with all the blood on your hands. The deed has been done." A few lines of space, then "Thank you for playing Murder Incorporated. We hope to see you again, real soon."

All Eddie could think was
oh god oh god
over and over. Sweat sprang out of his body from every pore and his heart was still beating a furious tattoo. No no no, it just can't be! It can't! And suddenly the words gave him courage. It couldn't be—could it? No, there must be an explanation. An explanation—why! something simple! Something as simple as—as—it had already happened! The stampede had already happened—no wait, he wrote in stampede. Eddie's newly buoyant thoughts sank once more. Then another hopeful thought arrived.

It never happened.

Sure! That was it. A bogus story: it wouldn't be the first time. And the Post after all, god, it's not like it was the Times or the Daily; it had to be fake! It would probably never appear anywhere else because it did not happen. A couple of days later they'd print a retraction—no harm done. Eddie laughed out loud, drawing a few looks from the other pallid terminal jockeys, but he didn't care. There was no Betty Finch of Orlando, Florida, no wildebeest stampede, no blood on his hands.
Oh, you got me, MurderInc, you got me good
. He double-clicked on the web-browser and quickly entered the MurderInc URL. At the familiar screen he typed guest again and his email address.

"You've been here before," said a new screen, "No more guest logins, kiddo. Enter your real name—and a major credit card—or you are history." Eddie tapped the table impatiently. Should he do it? After thirty seconds another screen popped up. "Whatsammatta you, huh? No dough? No go." With a bright flash, he was returned to the initial login screen. Eddie dug his wallet out of his back pocket and removed his student AmEx.
What's the worst
, he thought,
it's only got a $300 limit
. He typed in his full name and email address and hit enter.

A new screen: "Welcome Edward. It's good to see you again. Now enter your card number, type and expiration date—if you know what's good for you." The cheap patter was getting tiresome but Eddie entered the information anyway. One click and he was taken to another screen which offered a variety of choices:

 

•Add Fresh Meat to the Hit List

•Invent a new Method

•Change Your Profile

•Pay for Protection

•Find Out More about Murder Incorporated

•Complain (But It's Gonna Cost Ya)

 

Eddie considered for a minute, then clicked on "Find Out More." A new screen loaded, highlighted by a huge yellow smiley face with a bleeding bullet-hole in its forehead. He scrolled down.

"What? You thought we'd tell you who we are? Don't make me laugh! Beat it, 'fore I call the cops." Very funny, Eddie thought, smiling grimly. He clicked on "Change Your Profile" and waited for the image to load.

There was a picture of him. It was of poor quality, grainy and seemed to be taken from a strange angle. All the breath seemed to leave Eddie's body as he realized the sketchy background was his room, the picture had been taken—
no, that's not possible, it can't be, it can't be done
. Eddie didn't even know he was shaking his head. No one had the technology to take pictures through the web without your say so. No one. No one could have taken that picture. No, it just wasn't possible, he refused to believe…

There was a scroll bar. Therefore, there was more, his suddenly slow brain told him. His hand crept slowly back to the mouse, hesitating before he clicked on the bar. A flicker and then he saw "Edward Bodenheim – Springfield, MA, [email protected]" and below that three buttons. One said "Friends of Edward," another "Enemies of Edward," and the third said "Kill File." Eddie hit the first and felt his spirits sank when it said "none." He hit the back arrow, then clicked on "Enemies."

The box came up with three names.

Hal Bixby of Anchorage, AK; Gwendolyn Banks of Cardiff, Wales; and Isadore Ducasse of Montevideo, Spain all appeared to be "Enemies of Eddie." He wiped his damp brow with his sleeve. It got worse; each name had a method beside it. Hal had chosen drowning, Gwen, garroting and Isadore—obviously seeking reknown—had chosen "ripped apart by a rabid dog." Eddie stared at the screen. It was just a game, after all. He had nothing to worry about. But his hand shook as he tried to hit the back arrow, and then the Kill File. That box opened and lonely Betty Finch was there by herself and the cold word "stampede" and Eddie felt a sob sneak out between his lips. He told himself it was only curiosity that made him go back to the "Pay For Protection" button.

"Five Hundred Bucks and You're Safe. Otherwise you're Meat for The Beast!" Eddie clicked on OK. The little hourglass wavered on screen for a minute, maybe two. Another screen loaded. It was black.

"You Dirty Rat! Your credit is insufficient for the charge. Please try again."

"I can't!" Eddie screamed. "I don't have another."

From all sides people leaned over. "You okay, man?" one timid soul asked taking in Eddie's panicked face. Eddie felt himself beginning to hyperventilate and got up to run to the bathroom. He splashed cold water all over, managing to get his shirt and trousers soaked, but he could breathe again. He stood up and gazed at his reflection; he looked pathetic, he looked like a clown. His face was all white except for two blotches of red on his cheeks and his damp t-shirt clung to his less-than-buff body. He started to laugh. "You goober!" he barked at his own dazed expression. "It's a scam and YOU bought it, loser."

Chuckling, Eddie twisted the cold water tap back to the left but it spun loosely on its base. Great, thought Eddie, screw it, not my problem. He grabbed handfuls of paper towels and tried, unsuccessfully to dry his clothes. "I look like an idiot," he concluded, "and it's just too damn bad."

He tossed the wad of towels into the trash barrel. He looked down at the sink that was rapidly filling. Something was causing it to back up. Eddie's smile faltered, but he dismissed the thought trying to work its way into his mind and turned on his heel, slamming the flat of his hand on the door, and immediately smashing his nose into the same.

"Ow!"
Stupid door!
He pushed harder. It wouldn't budge. His heart picked up the pace again. Eddie licked his lips. He was in a crowded library. There was nothing to worry about. He swallowed and cleared his throat to yell for help.

Then the alarms went off.

And right after that, the ceiling sprinkler system came on, the little metal heads spinning out sheets of water. In less than a minute there was an inch of water on the floor, then two. Eddie banged with both fists on the door and screamed with all the furious anger he could muster and yet no one came, no one heard, and he started to hiccough—and then he started to laugh, although it sounded a lot like screams when he could hear it between the alarm blasts. But he couldn't help it. "Well, folks," Eddie rasped as he sank to the flooded tiles, "It looks like Hal Bixby of Anchorage, Alaska is our big winner today. Thank you for playing Murder Incorporated."

 

 

It should be so romantic. All the roses with their fanciful names:
Pretty Polly, Fragrant Cloud, Reconciliation
. The great concentric circles of blooms form a riot of colors, hues these buds were never meant to bloom. Perhaps it is the slight repugnance at all the human meddling that made you choose to sit here behind the classic red and white blossoms.

A hopeful pigeon struts before the bench, wandering away when it becomes clear you have no food to share. She laughs and says "Have you never noticed that pigeons are duck-footed and ducks pigeon-toed?" You laugh and think how lucky you are. Wonder at it. Women don't usually like you. Yet here was one by your side, your arm snaked around her shoulders. Not just any woman, either. Her seeming perfection still makes you gasp anew each time she comes through a door. You fear losing that. You fear losing her. One day she will wake up and rub her eyes and see you and laugh. And leave.

But now she's looking over your shoulder toward the pond. Two black swans honk at some Danish tourists who chortle and throw cheese at them. Her perfect green eyes take in the scene, unblinking, like rolling cameras. Then she smiles and meets your own flawed eyes, and once more you feel hopelessly, helplessly lost. So this is love.

A movement draws her gaze from yours. A squirrel roots around between the stalks of
Elira
roses. You know the name because she read the tag out loud and her perfect vowels made your knees feel funny and you persuaded her to sit for a while in this bench under the grappling vines. As the softer tones of the afternoon light strike the petals, you see that the roses are not white, but pale yellow, deepening to a glow at their source. The squirrel stares at the two of you on the bench, its tiny nose twitching mechanically. But when no offer of food seems imminent, it turns, flicks its tail twice and disappears into the tangle of stems.

Your too-rough hand slides up the soft lamb's wool to her silken neck. The touch still feels like stealing, her skin a tender luxury of hard-won purchase. Your heart thrums a fast tattoo as a quick glance reveals once more the depths of the plunging neckline, the soft valley where shadows seem to thieve the oxygen straight from your lungs. You wonder for the thousandth time why she is here, letting you rest your uncouth hand upon her nape, why she does not scream, but only laughs at an eager toddler ambushing the suddenly frantic squirrel. She is so perfect, so perfect—

Yet even as you chant the word in your heart, your fingertips brush an imperfection, just below the collar of her cloud-soft sweater. A scar! A howl, enraged, wants to leap from your chest. Who would have dared hurt this gorgeous bloom? What man, woman or force of nature could have harmed so sweet, so perfect—she looks up at you, a question in her innocent eyes. Of course, you try to release your frozen posture, smile awkwardly, then impulsively bury your face in her neck. Her slight tarnish, her imperfection, has doubled your love for her. But even as her fingers burrow through your hair, a nagging little thought eases to the front of your consciousness.

Scars don't indent.

Scars are bumps, not crevices, that Iago thought whispers. What did you feel? A furrow—a line—straight. Unusual; unnatural even. And if not natural, then—man-made? Man? The sudden humiliation crushes you. How clever they are. They knew your weakness, your drooling simplicity. Oh, so clever, so diabolical. How easy it was for them. Perfect! You jerk back up and she stares at you in surprise, ingeniously manufactured surprise. That's why her skin, her eyes, her—her all, she is so perfect. How carefully, utterly perfect—and you drank it in, poor lamb, as willingly as any slaughter-bound innocent. So close! But you're on to them now. Of course no one could be that perfect—no human, anyway.

Your lips curl into a smile, one that fails to reassure her. The fear in her eyes looks so real—good job, you have to admit, they have done well. But it should have been a dead giveaway, like her passion for philately, her skill at steganography. You would be willing to applaud their chutzpah—if it didn't mean your life. She was perfect, and perfectly deadly. What had they been waiting for? No matter. They were too late. Good thing you were always ready for trouble. The blade is in your palm before you complete the thought. She scrabbles away from your lethal grip, but her construction did not include the requisite strength. The steel slides easily behind her sternum and you prepare yourself for the shock that never comes. Slowly she runs down, her lifeless shell slumping against you in an ironic parody of tenderness. Your hand comes away covered in an amazing simulacrum of human blood.
Nice touch
, you tell yourself,
nice touch
.