“You and me. And Mom. He killed us all.”
“Anyone else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Richard, please trust me. I’m on your side.”
“Lying
“You saved me in San Francisco.” She gripped her left arm, feeling the scar. “Remember that? Now I’m trying to save you.”
“Save yourself.”
“I’m not the one in trouble.”
“Yes, you are, big sister. Yes, you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re part of this family. You can’t escape.” He sucked in a breath. “I’ll be going now. Got places to be.”
“Richard!” Her voice broke. “Don’t hang up, please don’t-”
Click, and he was gone.
She sank to the floor, her head down, her body numb. She’d lost him. He might never call again.
twenty-two
In a corner of the darkness he lay curled in a fetal ball, rocking slowly back and forth, hugging his knees.
Like a fetus in the womb, awaiting birth.
Or rebirth, possibly.
At times he thought-was almost sure-that he had been born once before, as old Jack. And now, though he was a new man, he was still the old one.
At other times he thought this was a snare and a delusion, that old Jack was dead and he was only who and what he was.
But what he was-that was the true miracle. His calling, his destiny was unique in the world.
For years he’d fought against it, waging a lonely, secret battle.
At last he had yielded, and by yielding, he had won.
Now he was free. He contended against himself no longer.
It was illness that liberated him. His weakness was his strength.
People looked at him as a sad freak, a ruined shell. They pointed and mocked. But he was stronger than they knew.
Take what he had done tonight, for instance. Following little Jennifer to the gymnasium, watching her from the bleachers, in plain view of everyone, but unseen, because he
And afterward, while she lingered over supper with that whore Sandra Price, he had returned to the house, slipping in so easily through the window.
He’d thought for sure he could find the diary. Take it from her, away from her unworthy eyes.
But it was nowhere.
She was a clever bitch. She’d hidden the treasure. Hidden it so craftily he could not find it.
He could have waited for her to return. Could have made her show it to him. But then he would have had to kill her. And he wasn't sure he was prepared to do that.
Not quite yet.
Soon, perhaps. His patience was great, but not inexhaustible. And he would weary of their telephone games eventually.
When he was ready, he would do it.
And he would make old Red Jack proud.
1902
It was springtime in Denver, and Edward Hare was getting married.
He stood before the dark and wavy mirror over his dresser, adjusting the knot of his tie. He had been barbered and bathed and beautified, and he was pleased with the reflection in the glass.
Though he was in middle age now, forty-two years old, he had the bearing of a younger man. Hard living had kept him fit, and the mountain air had cleaned the soot from his lungs. He had even forsaken smoking, convinced that cigarettes left him winded.
Nothing must abbreviate his life. There was yet much work to do.
Satisfied with his necktie, he checked his pocket watch and found himself with an hour to spare before he was needed at the chapel. He poured a whiskey and reclined in his favorite armchair with yesterday’s
A wire-service story datelined Albany, New York, reported that Governor Benjamin B. Odell had commuted the sentence of Ameer Ben Ali, now believed to have been wrongly convicted in the murder of Carrie Brown.
Certain industrious journalists had pursued the matter for years, insisting that the telltale trail of blood to Ali’s hotel room had not been present when they first visited the scene. One of them had sworn out an affidavit to this effect.
And then there was the farmer’s tale. A Mr. George Damon of Cranford, New Jersey, had come forward to claim that a Danish immigrant in his employ was out of the house on the night of the whore’s murder. A few days later the Dane vanished for good, allegedly leaving behind a bloody shirt and a key from the East River Hotel, its label reading
“Danish,” Hare muttered. “I
He had no doubt that this Cranford hireling was the blond foreigner who should have been framed for the crime. It was sheer bad luck the man had gotten away, though this misfortune had been offset by the apprehension and speedy conviction of the Algerian, Ali.
Now Ali was in the clear-en route back to Algeria, the story said. The case was once again officially unsolved, but the authorities would never concern themselves with it. They had more pressing business. Besides, he could not be tracked down here, or tied to an event of eleven years ago. He had a new name, a new life. He was a prosperous and respected businessman, a pillar of the community.
He checked his watch again. It was nearly time to go. He decided to leave early, if only to escape the sudden closeness of his room.
At the doorway he paused, key in hand. When next he saw these quarters, he would be a married man, the last brick in the edifice of his respectability set firmly in place.
And he would have a woman-the thought prickled him with disquiet and strange anticipation-a woman all his own.
***
The ceremony was brief and solemn, the minister first asking Hare if he would love, cherish, and protect his wife, then asking her if she would love, honor, and obey her husband. Each affirmed, “I will.”
Smiling fiercely, Hare kissed the bride.
He did love her, which was to say, he loved possessing her. He enjoyed dangling her before other men like an expensive bauble on a chain. He relished their envy, thrived on their salacious jokes. With the approach of his wedding day-and more particularly his wedding night-such jests had been increasingly frequent. What the jesters did not know was that the prospect of conjugal relations repulsed him. Though he had known women with his knife, he had never explored their questionable charms with a lover’s hand. He supposed he must simply shut his eyes and do his duty. The bedroom would be dark, and he could make it quick.
