just to hold onto it.
The whole city was, of course, abuzz over the murders. Some whackout who assaulted women in their homes, bound them with vinyl tape so they couldn’t flee, taped over their mouths so they couldn’t scream … then taped over their noses so they couldn’t breathe. He raped them as they convulsed into suffocation, then left them for someone else to come home to.
After victim number three, when a police captain was quoted as saying, “We’ll catch this worm,” media pundits were quick to christen the killer the Tapeworm, for a populace preferring its more murderous aberrations to be packaged with readily-identifiable labels. Sandra hated the name, had no choice but to use it. Over drinks, the more battle-hardened reporters even hoped that the Tapeworm would send the police taunting notes. Given the vinyl and the rape, the notes could then, in a morbid nod to C.S. Lewis, be called “The Screwtape Letters.”
A little requisite tube-time before bed. Sandra reached for the remote control for the TV and VCR, always stationed on the coffee table, and only then realized something was wrong.
It wasn’t there.
When the TV winked on as if by telepathy, she whirled in sudden panic. Saw him strolling out of hallway shadows, remote in one hand and cutlery in the other. There was never any doubt as to who he was. The roll of tape braceleted over one wrist was mere confirmation.
Sandra scrambled for the door but he was quicker, lithe as a gymnast, and blocked her way.
“I’m not here for that,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”
She poised on the sofa like high-tension wire while he took the nearest chair. She looked for weapons, escapes. Nothing in this room, at least, looked as formidable as the blade. In the bedroom, however…
He pointed at the TV and its outboard gear. “You record the competition’s newscasts to watch later, don’t you.” He appeared pleased with this deduction.
She nodded, studying him, fighting for self-control. He was remarkable only for his look of being so totally ordinary. The Tapeworm’s identity and appearance had been matters of great speculation, since he hadn’t left anyone behind to provide a description. He was young, mid-twenties, with limp blond hair and the pale pallor of someone who holed up with too much late-night TV. His eyes were devoid of feverish madness, touched instead by an intelligent gaze of intense curiosity.
Stronger than he looks, though, she had to reason. He could not have broken in through her front door. Which meant this bland lunatic had scaled sixteen floors of balconies to meet her.
“That’s smart, taping the others’ news. I’m sorry, I had to take your tape out, but I rewound it for you. It’ll be okay. You have to know your competition.” He nodded, toyed with the knife.
“What do you want, then?” Her voice, so tight, so wired, was not at all what she heard when reviewing her own newscasts.
“I brought my own tape. I edited it myself. It’s called
She watched a moment of snow, then
Snow, and white noise.
“What
“Don’t you get it?” He looked at her in earnest. “It’s my resume.”
Sandra Riley, numb and blank. A media first.
“Don’t you see?” he asked. “I want to
She staggered inside, trying to convince herself,
“Work together,” she repeated, now steady. “How so?”
“There’s so much information I could feed you. So everyone could know me. They’ve barely scratched the surface. It’s like admiring the painting without knowing the artist.” He rose, grew more animated, gesturing with the knife. “I mean, look what I’ve done for your career already. Look what you’ve done for me.”
She met him eye to eye. “I’m not the only one, by any means. Everyone’s covered you.”
He dismissed the rest with an irritated flip of the blade. “Hacks, they’re all doing hackwork, assembly line journalism.” He lowered to one knee, imploring her as if proposing marriage. “You’re the best. I watch my coverage every night —
A moment’s flash:
“
“So, this work arrangement.” Keep him talking, keep him on his own twisted agenda. “What’s in it for me?”
He wet his lips like a child at Christmas. “I can call you, tell you where I’ve just been. You’ll get the jump on everyone else. You understand, you know what it takes.”
She kept him talking about particulars: timetables she kept, ethics of cooperation, randomly touching on anything she could think of to make him believe he was being taken seriously. At last, when fantasies of lasting stardom had gotten the better of him, she sunk the vital hook:
“Why don’t we do a background piece. Right now.” Shaking inside her shell, Sandra pointed to her camcorder in a jumble of electronics beside the TV. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“Okay. Yeah. Good idea.” He grew rigid, as if scenting an ulterior motive. “But keep me in shadow. I can’t have anyone else knowing what I look like. You’ll have to backlight me. That’s how they do it on TV.”
She crossed the room and knelt beside her camcorder, went through the motions of loading a cartridge and checking the battery pack. She breathed a quick prayer, then stood and hurled the camera at the Tapeworm’s head. Plastic cracked, and he roared in surprise and rage.
She was running then, full-tilt toward the bedroom, thanking the gods of aching feet for her L.A. Gear shoes, then falling to the bedroom floor by the nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out the .32-caliber Colt, aiming back down the hallway as he bled and raged a slashing path after her.
Aiming for his head…
Not believing herself when the professional shell refused to submit to the personal core. Kill him now and here’s where the story ends. Let him live, and the arrest, trial, sentencing, the publicity … these would go on and on. Play it right, parlay it into a weeknight anchor slot, then a ticket out of bush league local into a network correspondent’s position. She saw it all.
And aimed for his leg.
