Seeing Red, page 26
Naturally, this was the moment that Chloe kicked open the door and commenced fire while Hackamore was still glued to the wall, pulling his prong.
Just as naturally, Hackamore executed the first thought that came to his mind. And Chloe.
It happened so blindingly fast, he automatically thought SMASH CUT TO TWISTED CORPSE.
She bled a lot. It seemed absurd and unfair that she should bleed so much, ruining the floor and splattering everything within range. If he had done her with an electric carving knife, or a straight razor, or a chainsaw, then yes, you'd expect the sweet red stuff to fly by the gallon. But he'd only hit her once with the stein. A semicircular dent embossed her noggin. When the glass bottom of the stein had shattered, it had opened up all her scalp veins and freed the rain of blood.
Chloe was dead dead dead, as Ernie would have burbled.
The spreading blood had soaked her T-shirt logo to unreadability. It was one of Hackamore's shirts, and he knew it said MASTER in big yellow letters. When he stepped over her, a throw rug squished. He saw the cottage cheese of her butt against the taut stretch pants and thought, christ, she must run to two hundred and ten pounds. If he'd killed one of the kids, at least they'd be easier to move.
Two hundred methods for disposing of Chloe's corpse slid through Hackamore's brain, and all of them were from gore movies he'd reviewed. One of his favorites was from Piece by Piece, in which a fitness nut stuffed his wife's flesh down the disposal, her bones in the trash compacter, and her organs into the Cuisinart, to be frappeed into high-protein milkshakes. But Hackamore had no such kitchen toys, and just taking the body anywhere without a car would be a major production.
And why bother? The thought intruded and pushed other considerations aside. Why bother, when the kids were asleep and nobody else knew the poster was hanging there like a big blinking arrow reading THIS WAY our?
Why bother? With such a tasty option, there was no time for Chloe or the kids. Not when he was savoring the thought of giving his overdressed alter ego a healthy shove through the poster in the opposite direction. He could sprawl on top of Chloe and take the rap while Hackamore was busy ripping the poster from the bedroom wall. The guy didn't know how good he had it; why not give him a taste of being real, being normal?
Hackamore stepped over Chloe (squish) and edged up on the poster. The goon still grimaced. The cutie cringed. He poked his nose and eyes through, to reconnoiter. The pastel bedroom was empty. The salmon comforter was still rumpled from where the blonde had been grinding toward ecstasy.
He leaned in a bit further, and listened. No voices. He pulled out and looked again at Chloe. No contest. When he saw her, the only thing he felt was vague dissatisfaction at her caved-in skull. It didn't look real enough.
He clicked off his desk lamp, exhaled his last breath in this unsatisfactory world, and stepped through.
The pain was unexpected, but it was not exactly pain. Passing through the dimensional portal was shivery, uncomfortable, as if a magician had stripped his underwear free while leaving his outer clothing unmolested. His intestinal pipework fluttered.
He pulled his right leg the rest of the way through and stood, apparently intact, in the pastel bedroom. It was cool and dark and the blonde's fragrance still teased the air. On the wall behind him was the poster from Blood Rape of the Lust Ghouls, so out of place in this decor.
A wild blur burst from the goon's mouth right in front of Hackamore's face. He recoiled a few fumbling steps backward. By the time he identified the blur as a human hand, it had grabbed the upper edge of the poster. By the time he realized that it was his hand—with a gold ring on the third finger, attached to an arm wearing a silk shirtsleeve pushed to the elbow in accordance with current fashion—the poster was vanishing. The goon's mouth appeared to gulp down the poster as it imploded into the blank wall.
By the time he jumped to do something about it, the poster was gone. His hands closed on air.
He stood alone in the pastel bedroom, in a parallel world where he'd figured every detail to be a ninety-nine-percent matchup. It was so close that his better-dressed self had stepped through the poster at the same time Hackamore had. Like a rubber glove pulling inside out, Hackamore had climbed right through his alternate self—only the other guy had yanked his doorway in after himself. Right about now he'd be tripping over Chloe's cooling body in the dark.
All Hackamore had to do now was follow the smell that smacked him as soon as he reached the bedroom door. It was not perfume—not even to a seasoned gorehound such as himself.
The naked blonde was in the bathtub. In this world, Hackamore found, he did own a razor. And a disposal, a trash compacter, a carving knife, a chainsaw, and a Cuisinart. It looked like all of them had been used on her. She was in the bathtub. Her head was stopping up the toilet. One hand lay palm-up in the sink. The rest of her, freshly butchered, was strewn around the floor and hanging from the robe hooks and towel rods. There were organs that even Hackamore's experienced eye could not name.
At the sound of sirens, Hackamore fled.
When he smashed through the exit door of the fire stairs, he saw the flashhars of several metro police units bouncing red and blue light off the front of the apartment building. The evil fucker that was his other self had alerted the cops before ducking out. That was a nasty plot twist Hackamore had missed.
It was raining lightly outside, a pattering, hissing sound that obscured the commotion of his panic. He felt his way past the trash dumpsters, toward the rear alley. The streetlamps were blown. Here it was safer, darker.
He relaxed. Here it was
He jerked around. Somewhere behind him, at the mouth of the alley, beyond the veil of rain-mist, was a dorlc sitting in the World Theatre, picking his nose in the dark. Scribbling vitriolic notes, and aceing him out, and ripping Blood Rape of the Lust Ghouls a brand-new chute.
The burp-start noise brought him full around, widdershins. It was showtime, and he knew it. Lights, camera, etcetera ... and not even the word cut could save him here. There was not even time for a long, long, cinematic scream in smash close-up. There was only time to wish he'd loved the stupid fucking movie, instead.
Then the ripsawing blade rammed in hard, razzing and chewing and spraying chunks, and Hackamore faded to black.
Without billing.
NOT FROM AROUND HERE
This morning I saw an alley cat busily disemboweling a rail lizard. I watched much longer than I had to in order to get the point.
Townies call little hamlets like Point Pitt "bedroom communities." Look west from San Francisco, and you'll see the Pacific Ocean. Twenty minutes by car to any other compass point will bring you to the population-signless borders of a bedroom community. El Granada. Dos Piedras. Half Moon Bay. Summit. Pumpkin Valley (no kidding).
Point Pitt rated a dot on the roadmaps only because of a NASA tracking dish, fenced off on a stone jetty, anchored rock-solid against gales, its microwave ear turned toward the universe. Gatewood was four and three-quarter miles to the north. To drive from Point Pitt to Gate-wood you passed a sprawling, loamy smelling acreage of flat fields and greenhouses, where itinerant Mexicans picked mushrooms for about a buck an hour. I saw them working every morning. They were visible through my right passenger window as I took the coast road up to San Francisco, and to my left every evening when I drove home. On the opposite side of the road, the ocean marked time. The pickers never gazed out toward the sea; they lacked the leisure. My first week of commuting eroded my notice of them. The panorama of incoming surf proved more useful for drive-time meditation. I no longer lacked the leisure.
You had to lean out a bit, but you could also see the Pacific from the balcony rail of our new upstairs bedroom, framed between two gargantuan California pines at least eighty years old. Suzanne fell for the house as soon as we toured it under the wing of the realtor. Our three-year-old, July, squealed "Cave!" and jumped up and down in place, in hyperactive circles of little kid astonishment. Hard to believe, that this cavernous place was ours, that we weren't visiting a higher social class and would soon have to go home. This was home, and we were in love ... goofy as that may sound.
I did not fall in love with the idea that all the decent movies, restaurants, and other urban diversions were still up in San Francisco. Gatewood boasted a single grease-griddle coffee shop that opened two hours before my morning alarm razzed and went dark promptly at five—up here, dinner was obviously a meal eaten at home, with family. Nearby was a mom-and-pop grocery that locked up at 9:00 P.M. Several miles away, in Dos Piedras, was an all-nighter where you could get chips and beer and bread and milk.
It sure wasn't the city. As a town, it wasn't vast enough to merit a stoplight. Point Pitt was no more than a rustic clot of well-built older homes tucked into a mountainside, with an ocean view. Voilà—bedroom community. Any encapsulation made it sound like a travel-folder wet dream, or an ideal environment in which to raise a child. I suspect my shrink knew this. He fomented this conspiracy, with my doctor, to get me away from my beloved city for the sake of my not-sobeloved ulcers.
I became a commuter. The drive was usually soothing, contemplative. I calmed my gut by chugging a lot of milk from the all-night market. We popped for cable TV—sixty channels. We adjusted fast.
It was required that I buy a barn-shaped rural mailbox. Suzanne jazzed it up with our name in stick-on weatherproof lettering: TASKE. The first Sunday after we moved in, I bolted it to the gang post by the feeder road, next to the boxes of our nearest neighbors. The hillside lots were widely separated by distance and altitude, fences and weald. There was much privacy to be had here. The good life, I guessed.
When a long shadow fell across the gang post from behind, I looked up at Creighton Dunwoody for the first time. His box read MR. & MRS. C. DUNWOODY. He had the sun behind him; I was on my knees, wrestling with a screwdriver. It just wouldn't have played for me to say, You have me at a disadvantage, sir, so I gave him something else sparkling, like, "Uh ... hello?"
He squinted at my shiny white mailbox, next to his rusty steel one. It had a large, ancient dent in the top. "You're Taske?" He pronounced it like passkey; it was a mistake I'd endured since the first grade.
I gently corrected him. "Carl Taske, right." I stood and shifted, footto-foot, the essence of nervous schmuckdom, and finally stuck out my hand. Carl Taske, alien being, here.
I almost thought he was going to ignore it when he leaned forward and clasped it emotionlessly. "Dunwoody. You're in Meyer Olson's old house. Good house." He was taller than me, a gaunt farmer type. His skin was stretched over his bones in that brownly weathered way that makes thirty look like fifty, and fifty like a hundred and ten. Like a good neighbor coasting through meaningless chat, I was about to inquire as to the fate of Meyer Olson when Dunwoody cut in, pointblank, "You got any kids?"
"My daughter Jill's the only one so far." And lilly had been well-planned. I couldn't help thinking of farm families with fourteen kids, like litters.
He chewed on that a bit. His attention seemed to stray. This was country speed, not city rush, but I felt like jumping in and filling the dead space. It wouldn't do to appear pushy. I might have to do this a lot with the hayseed set from now on.
"Any pets?" he said.
"Not today." A partial lie. Suzanne had found an orphaned Alsatian at the animal shelter and was making the drive to collect it the next day. "Any guns in your house?"
"Don't believe in guns." I shook my head and kept my eyes on his. The languid, directional focus of his questions made my guard pop up automatically This was starting to sound like more than the standard greenhorn feel-up.
"That's good. That you don't." We traded idiotic, uncomfortable smiles.
In my new master bedroom there were his and hers closets. A zippered case in the back of mine held a twelve-gauge Remington pumpgun loaded with live three-inch Nitro Mag shells. My father had taught me that this was the only way to avoid killing yourself accidentally with an "unloaded" gun, and Suzanne was giving me hell about it now that July was walking around by herself. It was none of Dunwoody's business, anyway.
"How old's your girl?"
"Three, this past May."
"She's not a baby anymore, then."
"Well, technically, no." I smiled again and it hurt my face. The sun was waning and the sky had gone mauve. Everything seemed to glow in the brief starkness of twilight gray.
Dunwoody nodded as though I'd given the correct answers on a geography test. "That's good. That you have your little girl." He was about to add something else when his gaze tilted past my shoulder.
I turned around and saw nothing. Then I caught a wink of reflected gold light. Looking more intently, I could see what looked to be a pretty large cat, cradled in the crotch of a towering eucalyptus tree uphill in the distance. Its eyes tossed back the sunset as it watched us.
Dunwoody was off, walking quickly tip the slope without further comment. Maybe he had to feed the cat. "I guess I'll see ... you later," I said to his back. I doubt if he heard me. His house stood in shadow off a sharp switchback in the road. A wandering, deeply-etched dirt path wound up to the front porch.
Not exactly rudeness. Not the city brand, at least.
The moon emerged to hang full and orange on the horizon, like an ebbing sun. High in its arc it shrank to a hard silver coin, its white brilliance filtering down through the treetops and shimmering on the sea-ripple. Suzanne hopped from bed and strode naked to the balcony, moving out through the French doors. Moonbeams made foliage patterns on her skin; the cool nighttime breeze buffeted her hair, in a gentle contest.
Her thin summer nightgown was tangled up in my feet, beneath the sheets. We'd dispensed with it about midnight. The one advantage to becoming a homeowner I'd never anticipated was the nude perfection of Suzanne on the balcony. She was a blue silhouette, weight on one foot and shoulders tilted in an unconsciously classical pose. After bearing Jilly and dropping the surplus weight of pregnancy, her ass and pelvis had resolved into a lascivious fullness that I could not keep my hands away from for long.
We fancied ourselves progressive parents, and lilly had been installed in our living room from the first. We kept our single bedroom to ourselves. On hair triggers for the vaguest noise of infant distress, Mommy and Daddy were then besieged with the usual wee-hour fire drills and some spectacular demonstrations of eliminatory functions. Marital spats over the baby came and went like paper cuts; that was normal, too. Pain that might spoil a whole day, but was not permanent. lilly's crib was swapped for a loveseat that opened into a single bed. And now she did not require constant surveillance, and was happily ensconced in her first private, real-life room.
Recently, Suzanne had shed all self-consciousness about sex, becoming adventurous again. There was no birth control to fret over. That was a hitch we still didn't discuss too often, because of the quiet pain involved—the permanent kind.
"Carl, come here and look." She spoke in a rapid hush, having spied something odd. "Hurry up!"
I padded out to embrace her from behind, nuzzling into the bouquet of her hair, then looking past her shoulder.
A big man was meandering slowly up the road. The nearest street-lamp was more than a block away, and we saw him as he passed through its pool of light, down by the junction with the coast highway. He was large and fleshy and fat and as naked as we were.
I pulled Suzanne back two paces, into the darkness of the bedroom. The balcony was amply private. Neither of us wanted to be caught peeking.
He seemed to grow as he got closer, until he was enormous. He was bald, with sloping mountain shoulders and vast pizza-dough pilings of flesh pulled into pendant bags by gravity. His knotted boxer's brow hid his eyes in shadow, as his pale belly hung to obscure his sex, except for a faint smudge of pubic hair. The load had bowed his knees inward, and his lumpen thighs jiggled as he ponderously hauled up one leg to drop in front of the other. We heard his bare feet slapping the pavement. His tits swam to and fro.
"There's something wrong with him," I whispered. Before Suzanne could give me a shot in the ribs for being a smartass, I added, "No—something else. Look at him. Closely."
We hurried across to the bedroom's south window so we could follow his progress past the mailboxes in front of the house. He was staring up into the sky as he walked, and his chin was wet. He was drooling. His arms hung dead dumb at his sides as he gazed upward, turning his head slowly one way, then another, as though trying to record distant stars through faulty receiving equipment.
"He's like a great big baby?" Suzanne was aghast.
"That's what I was thinking." I recalled Jilly, when she was only a month out of the womb. The slack, stunned expression of the man below reminded me of the way a baby stares at a crib trinket—one that glitters, or revolves, or otherwise captures the eye of a being who is seeing this world for the first time.
"Maybe he's retarded?"
A shudder wormed its way up my backbone but I successfully hid it. "Maybe he's a local boy they let run loose at night, y'know, like putting out the cat?"
"Yeeugh, don't say that." She backed against me and my hands enfolded her, crossing to cup her breasts. Her body was alive with goosebunips; her nipples condensed to solid little nubs. She relaxed her head into the hollow of my shoulder and locked her arms behind me. Thus entangled, we watched the naked pilgrim drift up the street and beyond the light. My hands did their bit and she purred, closing her eyes. Her gorgeous rump settled in. "Hm. I seem to be riding the rail again," she said, and chuckled.
She loved having her breasts kneaded, and we didn't lapse into the dialogue I'd expected. The one about how her bosom could be a little bit larger, didn't I think so? (What I thought was that every woman I'd ever known had memorized this routine like a mantra. Suzanne played it back every six weeks or so.) Nor did she lapse into the post-sex melancholy she sometimes suffered when she thought of the other thing, the painful one.
Eighteen months after Jilly was born, Suzanne's doctor discovered ovarian cysts. Three, medium-sized, successfully removed. The consensus was that Jilly would be our only child, and Suzanne believed only children were maladjusted. While there was regret that our power of choice had been excised, we still held out hope for a happy accident someday. I was more pragmatic, or maybe more selfish. I wasn't sure I wanted more than one child, and in a sense this metabolic happenstance had neatly relieved me of the responsibility of vasectomy I'd been contemplating. I was hung up on getting my virility surgically removed in an operation that was, a one-way gamble with no guarantees. Frightening. I prefer guarantees—hard-line, black-and-white, duly notarized. A hot tip from a realtor on a sheer steal of a house had more to do with reality than the caprices of a body that turns traitor and hampers your emotional life.
