Watch Them Die

Not long after we broke up, I found two photos of Angela on my desk at the college. A couple of days later, someone slipped an envelope under my office door. It had a series of snapshots taken off a television….”

Hannah didn’t interrupt him as he described the photos of Marilyn Monroe’s death scene from Niagara.

“The day after I got those pictures, Angela was strangled. Her body was found near one of the entrances to the Convention Center, beneath three big bells….”

Paul then told her about Rae Palmer, and the next group of candid portraits he’d received. If he was the killer, he was giving away an awful lot.

“The day after I found the pictures of Rae in the pocket of my jacket—hell, I still don’t know how they got in there—another envelope was slid under my office door. Seth was with me at the time. I remember having to wait until he left. In the envelope was this horrible murder sequence from Looking for Mr. Goodbar.”

“What happened to Rae Palmer?” Hannah asked, though she already knew the answer.

Paul frowned. “I have no idea. She disappeared without a trace. But I’m pretty convinced she died like Diane Keaton’s character in Goodbar. God knows what happened to the body.”

“Why haven’t you called the police?”

He sighed. “Hannah, I’m a married man. I’m also a professor. I have a newspaper column. I’ve had books published. I’m a respected man….”

That’s not entirely true, Hannah wanted to say. I don’t respect you. But she kept her mouth shut and continued to study him. She wanted to see if he was lying.

“When I found those photos of you this morning, it scared the hell out of me. I’m worried about you, Hannah. I’ve been running around like a crazy man today. I tried to get ahold of you earlier. I stopped by here—and the store. I’m pretty sure someone was following me.”

Hannah said nothing. Apparently, Paul had felt Ben’s presence.

“Listen,” he said. “Do whatever you have to do; buy a gun, or leave town, or get police protection. I’d go to the police myself, but I can’t get involved in this. I have a marriage and a reputation to protect.”

Hannah bit her lip. She couldn’t very well criticize his reluctance to go to the police. “You don’t have any idea who might be behind these murders?” she asked finally. “None at all?”

Paul shrugged.

“Well, what about Seth?” Hannah asked. “He knew both victims. He knows me. And he knows movies. He’d have access to your office, too.”

“But he was in my office when the Goodbar photos were slipped under the door.”

“So? His roommate probably delivered the pictures. They’re probably working together on this.”

“What roommate? Seth doesn’t have a roommate.”

“Yes, he does,” Hannah argued. “I’ve met him.”

Paul frowned. “That’s news to me. I was sure Seth lived alone.”

Hannah glanced at her wristwatch, then tucked the photos in her back pocket. She felt the knife there. “You’ll be late for class,” she said. “Could you do me a favor? Can you get me a copy of that book you helped write, Darkness, Light, and Shadow? I want to read your essay. Seth claims he wrote it.”

Paul put on an indignant look and started to shake his head. “Seth merely contributed a few notes,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. “That’s my essay. I wrote it.”

Hannah studied him. For the first time tonight, she could see he was lying. Did that mean all the rest of it was the truth?

“Could you just get me a copy of that book as soon as possible?” she heard herself say.

“Is there anything else you want?” he asked. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Yes, let me know when you get the next series of photos,” Hannah steadily replied. “I’d like to know how I’m supposed to die.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ben asked.

The man with the goatee took another sip of his martini. “We know it’s you out there, watching her every move—and watching us. And when you’re not doing that, you’re doing her. You’re fucking her, aren’t you? Don’t you ever sleep? She’s got you jumping through hoops, doesn’t she, buddy?”

Ben shook his head. “Listen, you’re way off base.” He glanced around at the other people in the bar, then lowered his voice. “I’m no murderer. Hell, I contacted you and set up this meeting to warn you. I’m trying to prevent another murder from happening.”

“Seems more like a threat than a warning,” the man retorted.

“Have you actually seen this guy?” Ben asked. “You said you have surveillance photos of him. Well, let’s see them. Show me some pictures of me stalking her.”

The man with the goatee just shook his head.

“He still hasn’t denied that he’s fucking her.”

Ben turned in his chair to stare at the man seated behind him. With his thin face, prominent nose, and receding wavy hair, the man’s looks were borderline ugly. He wore a sweater that looked expensive and imported. He gave Ben a cocky grin.

“You’re Kenneth Woodley,” Ben murmured.

Kenneth got up and brought his chair to their table. He dropped a few photographs in front of Ben, then took his martini and sat down. “Well, you’re not quite as stupid as you look,” he told Ben. “Though you misspelled rendezvous in your last e-mail, doofus.”

Ben looked at the photos. They were all taken at night. In each one, there was a phantomlike figure that couldn’t be identified. The pictures reminded him of those photos Kennedy assassination experts showed of the grassy knoll, with blurred objects that could be killers lurking in the bushes.

“This isn’t me in these pictures,” Ben muttered. He reached into his pocket, then pulled out the Polaroid of Seth—along with Paul’s photo from his review column. “Here. Do either of these guys look familiar?”

Kenneth glanced at the photos for a moment, then shoved them across the table to his private detective friend.

“The younger guy just started working with her at the video store,” Kirkabee explained. “The other one I don’t know about.”

“So tell me the truth,” Ben said. “Have you ever gotten a good look at this stalker?”

Kenneth smirked. “No, you’ve managed to elude us until now.”

“Goddamn it,” Ben hissed. “I’m not the guy.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Kenneth went on. “The only reason I responded to your threatening e-mails was mere curiosity—”

“That wasn’t a threat,” Ben cut in. “It was a warning that—”

“I wanted to meet you and see just how far that sorry bitch has sunk,” Kenneth continued. “Nice arrangement, huh? She spreads her legs for you, and you do her talking for her. I was going to say you do her killing for her, but now that I’ve met you, I don’t think you have the balls or the smarts to pull off a good hit. She probably hired someone else to mow down Ron Craig, didn’t she?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ben muttered. “You’re delusional. Haven’t you listened to a word I’m saying?”

Kenneth nodded to his private detective, then got to his feet. Kirkabee gathered up the photographs.

“You’re the one who’s going to listen to me,” Kenneth whispered, leaning over the table. “Next time you fuck that bitch, it’ll be a conjugal visit in a federal penitentiary. So long, doofus.”

The two men headed for the front door. Ben threw a few dollars on the table, then hurried out after them. A gust of cold night air hit him. The restaurant was right on the water. Kenneth and the private investigator were walking ahead, winding toward the parking garage on the land side.

“Are you actually going to press charges against her?” Ben called out. He caught up with them. “Do you want it coming out in court that you beat the hell out of that woman? She ran away to protect herself—and her son.”

Kenneth whispered something to Kirkabee. They stopped and turned to look at him in front of the garage