Red 1-2-3, page 27
Red Three thought one thing. Jordan Ellis thought another.
She listened hard, and imagined she heard a fading, distant wolf ’s howl—unmistakable . . . impossible. She knew it had to be a hallucination, but it seemed real. It was a little like being trapped in a different era, in a different world, where predators maneuvered freely after the sun set.
She knew she was a part of modern life, with all the lights and energy of progress, but the forlorn cry she heard clearly belonged to a far different time. It both existed and didn’t exist.
Jordan scrambled to her feet. Her jeans were ripped and she could feel sticky blood on her palms and her knee. She urgently searched the shadows around her for another sight of the Big Bad Wolf.
But nothing except shades of black greeted her.
Feeling panic slide away from her, and urgency replace it, Jordan started to run again. Though this run was at a more controlled pace, she knew that she had to get back to somewhere bright as quickly as she could.
When the cell phone rang in her purse, Red One was standing at the top of the stairs leading to her basement carrying a tray with a salad and a ham sandwich and a bottle of water. She had called out to Red Two, who was waiting for her below, out of sight, concealed from any prying eyes.
She set the tray down and tore the phone from the satchel.
“Yes? Jordan?” Karen said.
“He was here, he was right here, he was waiting for me and he chased me—at least, I think he did—but I got away. Or maybe, I don’t know . . .”
Jordan spoke in a rush, her excited words barely understandable. Then the teenager’s voice trailed off into silent confusion.
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The physician of rationality took over. “What exactly did you see?”
“I was at Health Services. They made me go see a shrink because they thought I’d be traumatized after reporting Sarah’s suicide . . .”
“Except you knew—”
“Yes, of course, I knew she was okay, that was the plan, but when I came out, there was a man in the shadows, I saw him, but then he wasn’t there . . .”
“Are you sure?”
Red Three hesitated. Jordan wasn’t at all sure of anything. Fear, she understood, creates confusion. So she wasn’t completely honest.
“Yes. I’m sure. Pretty sure. He spoke to me. I heard him call me Red Three. At least, I think I heard that.”
“How could he have known you were at Health Services?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’d been following me earlier, and I didn’t notice and he just waited outside.”
“Okay,” Karen responded slowly.
“Karen,” Jordan said abruptly.
“Yes?”
“I feel so alone.”
Karen wanted to say something reassuring, but did not know any words that would help. Instead her mind was churning with ideas. “You’re sure as you can be that it was him?”
“Yes. As sure as I can be.”
“You’re not alone. We’re all in this together,” Karen said, although she didn’t completely believe this. “Look, Jordan, hang in there. I’ll call you back later.” She closed the phone and looked at Sarah.
“Grab your things,” she said, with a sea captain’s brisk decisiveness. “We have a couple of free minutes. The Wolf was out stalking Jordan, so we know he’s not outside here right now. We’ve got to move.”
“Is she okay? Should we go see her?”
“She was scared. But she’ll be okay, I think. We have to stick to the plan. He can’t know you’re alive. We have to keep you hidden. It’s the only way.”
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Sarah nodded. All she had was a small duffel bag with some spare clothing that Karen had loaned her, Karen’s comedy-club laptop computer, and some sheets of paper filled with information about a dead woman named Cynthia Harrison. The bag also held her dead husband’s gun. That gun was the only part of Sarah Locksley’s former life that remained intact.
Moving as quickly as they could, each understanding that something had happened that night that should scare them, the two women burst from the house and hurried across the yard to Karen’s car. Karen jammed the key into the ignition and spun the tires in her dirt-and-gravel drive as she accelerated.
“They’re expecting you at any time,” she said. “And he won’t know where to look anymore, even if he does suspect something. At least you’ll be safe while we do what we have to do.”
Neither Red One nor Red Two actually believed that statement in its entirety. Maybe, both thought, there were small parts of their lives that might be safe.
But not the whole.
The front door closed with a thud. She heard a jacket being tossed on a hook and boots being shoved into a closet.
“Hi, dear. Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s okay. Dinner will be ready in a couple of minutes.”
“I just want to take down a few notes, then I’ll be out.”
“How did it go?”
“Totally cool. Just totally cool. She went to the appointment like you said she would. I saw her go inside. It was great. I mean really great. Just the sort of scene that will really help the book. I just wish I’d been able to go into the office with her so I could have listened in. But I can make that part up, no problem. Getting teenage language right on the page is a challenge: hell, it has been since J. D. Salinger sort of defined the entire genre.
But these little details are what make the story come alive when I put it all together. I really owe you one.”
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Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt a surge of pleasure. She had been unsure whether her husband would want to know about the meeting or not when she had called him. Now she felt like she was truly a part of the creative process.
“That’s what I’d hoped. That’s why I called. So, if you owe me a favor, maybe you’ll do the dishes tonight?”
The Wolf kissed his wife on the cheek, then pinched her rear end, making her squeal a little with pleasure and slap at his hand with mock indig-nation. “Yes. Absolutely.” Both of them laughed. “I’ll just jot down some ideas for the next chapter, wash up, and I’ll be ready to eat. I’m completely starved.”
The Wolf was surprised at just how hungry he was. Coming that close to Red Three—even if only for a few seconds—had made him ravenous.
He felt a parallel sense of desire; it was all he could do not to grab his wife and rip her clothing off. He marveled at the intensity of his feelings. Passion and death go hand in hand, he realized.
“Will you let me read some more soon?”
He grinned. “Soon. When I get a little closer to the end.”
He turned to leave, but paused momentarily before going to his office.
He looked back at Mrs. Big Bad Wolf standing in front of the stove, stirring rice that was simmering in a pot. She was humming something, and he tried to pick out the tune. It seemed familiar, and he was on the preci-pice of recognition; he only needed to hear a few more notes. For an instant he glanced around. He could see the table fixed with two place settings, and he could smell chicken baking in the oven. He reveled in the almost overwhelming ordinariness of it all. This is what makes killing special, he realized. One minute you are seated in the cockpit just going through your routine, totally mundane, done-them-a-million-times preflight checks, and the next you are hurtling down the runway, picking up speed and momentum, and taking off, into something utterly different every time. You set yourself free of all earthly bounds.
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf tapped the edge of the simmering pot with the large wooden spoon in her hand. Like a drummer trying to capture an elusive beat, she realized that the rhythm of her life had changed in a mysterious 258
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and quite pleasant way. Writing, killing, and love, she thought. They are all in their own way the exact same thing, just different stitches in the same fabric. She slapped the edge of the pot with the spoon handle in a familiar sequence: boom, pa boom, pa boom boom, the famous bass line to Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away.”
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For the next few days, the Big Bad Wolf watched every news show, read every word in the local papers, even tuned in to local radio hoping to hear some stray commentary in an effort to uncover the whereabouts of Red Two. He dutifully made a point of driving past the suicide location frequently, to see if the police had recovered her body. He was annoyed when they apparently gave up the search. It did not mean she wasn’t at the bottom of the river. He just didn’t know for certain. He cursed the cops, and thought they were incompetent. He needed answers and they were supposed to provide them.
Two evenings after he followed Red Three out of the Health Services building—which had been a delicious high point—he spent a frustrating hour walking in Red Two’s neighborhood. The lights were off in her home and had been since the night she allegedly jumped, and he could see no sign of life whatsoever except for a bouquet of white flowers that someone had placed up against the front door. The flowers were already beginning to wilt.
Pausing on the street outside her house, he realized that he no longer had to conceal his presence from her. She was gone, that was clear.
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He felt angry and cheated.
The night before, he had stolen from his wife’s side and locked himself in his office. He’d double- and triple-checked his extensive dossier on Red Two. Nothing in his research suggested anyone—distant family or casual friends—who would have taken her in and hidden her from him. He chastised himself, imagining that he’d somehow missed some connection.
But then he remembered the grave site with the two names on it, which was now awaiting a third. Those two names were primary reasons why she had been singled out as Red Two in the first place. She would never, not ever, leave them behind. She couldn’t. There were only two ways for her to join them: me, or that damn bridge over that damn river.
It was painful for the Big Bad Wolf. He’d believed he’d been smart enough to take her just to the brink of wanting to kill herself, so that when he arrived at her side, she would almost appreciatively accept death.
He knew this presented a writing challenge. His readers would want to know every step he’d performed. They’d want to experience the tension and face the same choice that Red Two did. Die one way. Or die another.
Always think of the readers, he reminded himself.
He made his usual checks on Red One. She seemed to be sticking to her routine, just as he’d suspected she would. As scared as she might be by Red Two’s death, Red One seemed to find safety in continuing to maintain a normal front. She was no longer haunting the comedy clubs, or even sneaking a smoke in a parking lot. Too frightened to even indulge an addiction, he thought. She arrived at work early and stayed late, then drove directly home. This pleased him. And he did not think that Red Three would run away. That’s one of the great mysteries of killing, he thought, as he stared in at Red Two’s dark house. The rational part of us thinks we would flee, hide, turn to our friends for help, and somehow take steps to keep ourselves safe. But we never do. As the distance narrows between hunter and hunted, one half of the equation becomes more focused, more skilled, and far more determined, while the other half becomes more crippled and less able to think clearly. Her world grows smaller and smaller
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He thought of Discovery Channel videos of lions chasing antelopes, or wolves like him stalking caribou. The hunted race back and forth wildly, panicked, out of control. The hunter remains single-minded in its approach, cutting off all avenues of flight. Determined. Direct. He didn’t think he was any different. He needed to emphasize that point in the book.
He had an odd thought: Male lions let the females do the hunting, but they are the first to eat the kill. He wondered if wolves were the same. Not likely. We’re not lazy.
The Wolf stole a last glance at Red Two’s house. He doubted he would return there again—and then, in the same moment, had the sensation that he could barely tear himself away. He reimagined the pleasure that rolling past Red Two’s house had given him, spying on her over weeks and months. He had a hard time thinking that phase was finished. It was time for him to head home, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that something was incomplete. He hoped that killing Red One and Red Three would give him the satisfaction he craved. But for the first time he was worried.
His feet dragged like an old man’s against the sidewalk and the spring in his step felt diminished. He mumbled to himself as he made his way back to his car, “You work so damn hard, and then something comes along and screws it all up.”
He told himself to not be so hard on himself. Everything else was going according to plan. He misquoted the poet out loud, “Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray.”
The Big Bad Wolf snorted and laughed. Flexibility, he believed. He needed to write some pages on the necessity of flexibility. Be prepared for the unexpected. No matter how things are falling into place, always be ready for sudden changes. Like a jump from a bridge.
When he got to his car, he slumped behind the wheel as if exhausted.
“We are down to days now,” he said out loud. He liked the forcefulness in his voice. As he put the car in gear, he began to consider weapons and locations. He thought that he should divide his manuscript into two sections: The Hunt and The Kill.
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* * *
Karen sat primly across from the funeral director.
“This is an unusual request,” he said haltingly, “but not impossible.”
The office had an appropriately somber tone, with lots of dark wood and shaded windows that prevented too much light from slipping in. The funeral director was a bald-headed, stocky man with pudgy fingers, and seemed like a friendly sort even with his somber black suit. A firm handshake, a warm smile, and an enthusiastic voice when death is the subject, she realized. She had expected a cliché, a tall and cadaverous, deep-voiced Uriah Heep of a man.
“Just a small gathering,” Karen said. “I’m afraid since the accident that left her widowed, Sarah really let almost all her relationships drop. She was very isolated and alone. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t some of her friends left who want to pay their respects. Maybe some of the teachers where she worked, or some of her late husband’s coworkers in the fire department.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” the funeral director said. “And family?”
“Unfortunately, very spread out. She was an only child and her parents have passed away,” Karen lied. “And her cousins are unwilling to accept the reality of her death. Or maybe they just don’t care.”
Karen avoided the word suicide, as she knew the funeral director would.
“That is most unfortunate,” he said, but his tone suggested the opposite, that it made matters much easier.
“I thought of doing this at my house—you know,” Karen continued,
“just a little private gathering to speak our affection for the deceased—but that seemed too informal.” She knew he wouldn’t like this suggestion.
“No, no, either a church or in one of our smaller venues is much better. I have found that often people whose friendships seemed to have been dropped would be surprised by the strength of the turnout.”
That is, they would be surprised if they weren’t dead, Karen thought. She nodded. “So true,” she said. And at my house there would be no fee. “So can you show me the rooms you have available?”
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“Of course,” the director said with a smile. “And let me just bring my schedule book as well.”
He led Karen down a narrow, thickly carpeted hallway painted in somber off-whites. Outside a set of double doors with a plaque that read the eternal peace room, he paused. “No casket?”
“No,” Karen said. “The police have yet to recover her body—if they ever will. I thought just flower arrangements around a montage of photographs.”
He nodded. “Ah, that would be lovely.”
Karen had the impression she could have said, “I want to show homemade pornographic films,” and he would have replied, “That would be lovely.”
The director held the door open for her.
It was a small room, with seats for about fifty. There were speakers mounted into the walls softly playing funereal organ music. In the corners there were vases for flowers. It seemed distinctly artificial and soulless. Karen thought it looked ideal. “Oh, this is nice,” she said, while secretly thinking that if the Wolf managed to kill her, she could imagine no worse place to lie in state. Christ, I hope if he wins, someone takes my dead body and puts it up on a stage and gets every comic in the county to come by and make the worst, most outrageous, most offensive jokes they possibly can over me so that everyone can have a good laugh at my expense.
“Those are nice curtains,” she said, pointing at the back of the room.
They were fake silk.
“Yes,” the director said. “They lead to a small room. Sometimes family, you know, need some extra privacy.”
“Of course,” Karen said. She thought they would be perfect for what she had in mind.
Just like the Big Bad Wolf, Red Three was thinking about weapons as the van from her school pulled into the parking lot at the mall.
“All right, just two hours. Check your watches now,” the junior faculty member announced as he opened the door for the dozen students packed 264
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into the vehicle. “And stay together. Buddy up. And no one get into any trouble.”
The school routinely ferried students over to the mall on shopping trips. Jordan had very rarely signed up for any of these excursions. She did not particularly like the bright lights and canned music that filled the place, nor did she enjoy window-shopping or trying on what passed for cheap teenage fashion.
The junior faculty member—a young man in his early thirties who taught geography—would get himself an overpriced cup of coffee and find a spot in the food court where he could read while waiting for the two hours to be up. He was there primarily to make sure heads were counted and no school or mall rules were broken.
