Watch Them Die

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

“Hi, honey. How are you? How are your chicken pox?”

“The chicken pox are fine,” he answered. “Joyce put pink stuff on them. It looks like Pencil Bismal.”

“Pepto-Bismol. That’s calamine lotion. It’ll stop the itching. Are you being a good boy?”

“Yes. Here’s Joyce.”

“Well, bye—” Hannah barely got the words out before Joyce was back on the line.

“Not one for long conversations, is he?” Joyce said. “Listen, you got a call a while ago. I let the machine take it. Ben Somebody. He left a number.”

“Do you have that number handy?”

“It’s right in front of me. Ready? 555-3649.”

Hannah scribbled down the number. “Got it. There haven’t been any other calls or hang-ups?”

“He’s the only one.”

“Listen, Joyce, have you noticed anyone hanging around outside or anything?”

“No, honey.”

“You’re on the cordless, right? Could you check outside for a second? And be careful. I just need you to see if there’s anyone out on the balcony—or down in the parking lot.”

“Sure, Hannah. But what the heck is all this about?”

In the background, Hannah could hear the door opening. She bit her lip and waited. Some static came on the line. “Joyce? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, honey. No one on the balcony, and nobody down in the lot either.”

“Okay, don’t forget to lock the door when you step back inside. And that front window needs to be closed and locked.”

“Hannah, what is going on?”

“Um, I’m—still worried about that break-in from a couple of weeks ago. Plus—well, did you notice anyone following you around the store this morning? Did someone bump into you or brush against you by accident?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you have my purse with you in the store?”

“No, I took your wallet and left the purse in my car. But I put a sweater over it and locked the car doors. Why? Was something missing from your bag?”

Hannah cracked an ironic smile. “No, nothing was missing, Joyce.” She sighed. “Anyway, thanks. Listen, give me a call if anything—”

“Call you if anything happens, yeah, honey, I’ll call,” Joyce cut in. “We’re fine. What’s that expression? Take a chill pill? Relax. We’re all locked up, and I have the pepper spray in my bag. We’ll be fine. First sign of trouble, you’ll hear from me.”

“Thanks, Joyce.”

Hannah hung up the phone. She glanced at Scott, who met her gaze, then eyed the Casino tape on the back counter. “Are you going to look at it?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I pulled up the last rental record,” he said. “It was checked out and returned three days ago. So he must have ripped it off within the last couple of days.”

For all she knew, Hannah might have been in the store when her “secret admirer” stole the tape.

She took the cassette and went into the break room. Scott followed her. She switched on the TV and inserted the cassette.

Scott stood behind her, at the break room door.

The sound and picture came up on the little TV screen. “The House of the Rising Sun” churned over the soundtrack while a drugged, zombie-like Sharon Stone stumbled down the hallway of some seedy motel. Every few steps, she stopped and rested her blond head against the wall. Hannah recognized Robert De Niro in the grim voice-over, explaining that Stone’s character, Ginger, had been given a “hot dose.” He said they never found out who gave Ginger the drugs that killed her.

“So explain to me again,” she heard Scott say. He sounded a bit scared. “Why would this guy want you to see this particular scene?”

“He’s telling me that he’s ready to kill again.” Hannah nodded at the screen, at the dazed, depleted Sharon Stone, staggering though that barren corridor. “And this is how the next one will die.”

“Hannah, can I call you right back?” Britt asked, on the other end of the line. “I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call in two minutes, I promise.”

“All right,” Hannah said.

“Okay, bye.” Britt replied; then she hung up.

Sitting at the desk in the break room, Hannah replaced the receiver on its cradle.

Scott was behind the counter, minding the store. He and Hannah had tried to figure out whose death the Casino scene forecast. If the pattern stayed consistent, the next victim would be a woman—like the victim in the video.

“It sounds crazy,” Scott had said. “But I keep thinking of Britt. She’s a sweetie pie, and I love her dearly. But Britt has a drug problem, and she’s just dumb enough to end up dead from an overdose in some fleabag hotel.”

Hannah could almost picture Britt repeating Sharon Stone’s Casino death scene in a hotel corridor. She suddenly realized how her stalker worked.

He had to be watching her constantly. No doubt, he saw or heard those confrontations with Cindy Finkelston and Lester Hall. As much as he stalked her, he must have kept surveillance on his intended victims, too. He must have decided to push Cindy Finkelston out of that fifth-floor window when he saw she lived in a tall apartment building. The killer was a film buff. He sent Hannah a sneak preview of Cindy’s murder with the Rosemary’s Baby tape cued on the scene with the fallen corpse splattered on the pavement. He had to know about Lester Hall’s massages before he furnished her with that murder-on-the- massage-table scene from The Godfather. And how long had he been following around Ronald Craig before deciding to mow him down with a stolen car in the fashion of that scene in Wait Until Dark?

His next victim would be a woman with a drug habit, most likely someone from the store, someone just dumb enough to end up dead from an overdose in some fleabag hotel.

When the phone rang, Hannah grabbed it. “Hello?” Then she realized it could be a customer. “Um, Emerald City Video. Thanks for calling.”

“Hannah? It’s me, Britt. Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. I was in the middle of something. What’s going on?”

“Well, remember I told you how someone was giving me these videos?” Hannah said. “They were cued to just the spot when a murder takes place.”

“Oh, yeah. Did you ever find out who was doing that?”

“No,” Hannah said. “But the thing is, after I got each video, someone was killed a couple of days later in the same way the characters in each of the movies died.”

“I don’t get it,” Britt admitted.

Hannah tried to explain it again, but she could tell Britt wasn’t grasping the seriousness of the situation. She sounded a bit foggy in her responses. Hannah figured Britt must have been getting high when she’d called her a few minutes ago.

“Anyway, the video I just got was Casino,” Hannah continued, a bit exasperated. “It was set to a scene with Sharon Stone in this crummy hotel, and she’s dying of a drug overdose, or a ‘hot dose.’”

“Oh, Sharon Stone was so good in that movie,” Britt said.

“That’s not the point, Britt,” Hannah replied, an edge creeping into her tone. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’ll end up dead from a bad dose of some drug. It might not be your fault. You might not know.”

“Oh, Hannah,” Britt said with a little laugh. “You act like I’m this major addict or something. I just get high once in a while. God, stop worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m great. I have the next two days off. I’ll be with