The professional was distracted from his thoughts by two police officers coming out of Margaret’s house and saying something the hit man couldn’t hear before closing the door. They climbed into the squad car and pulled away, the purr of the thudding V8 heavy in the air.
Time for some food, the professional thought. He
unfolded a sheet of paper he removed from the car door pocket. He dialed a number listed at the top of the pizza delivery flyer. He gave his order, a name, and an address.
“When will it be ready?” he asked.
“Thirty minutes, sir,” the disinterested pizza chain employee replied, and said, “Thank you for choosing Supreme Pizza.”
“Perfect,” he said and hung up.
He waited for his food to arrive.
“Like I said, we have a name to go with the number that called here Saturday night, thanks to Pacific Bell,”
the police officer summarized. “It was lucky you only had the one call Saturday. It certainly made our job easier.”
“Can you tell me his name?” Margaret asked.
“Not until we’ve had the chance to speak to him
ourselves.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t called since?” the other officer asked.
Margaret hesitated. There’d been the first call—the one where the caller changed from an insurance agent into a monster hell-bent on her destruction. Since then it had been a series of calls at all hours of the day and night, but he’d hung up before she could answer. She didn’t know if it was him, her monster, but she thought it was. She’d learned to live in fear without ever seeing her intruder. But it hadn’t stopped with just the calls— there’d also been noises. She was sure he’d been outside her home—footsteps on the deck, fingertips drawn down windows and the laughter, that evil laughter. No one without evil on their mind could laugh like that.
She wanted to tell the officers, but she couldn’t. She’d made two allegations to the police last year about trespassers at night and they hadn’t believed her then and
she didn’t think they believed her now. They didn’t need to know more; they had a name. It didn’t matter whether it had been one call or a hundred, as long as they ended his reign of terror.
“Mrs. Macey,” the officer prompted.
“No,” she said, “there haven’t been any other calls.”
The officer looked unconvinced and frowned. “Anyway, we’ll let you know what happens in due course.
But it looks like we’ve got our man. I’m just glad you called. But you shouldn’t have left it so long.”
Three days had gone by before she called them.
Three days of peering through the drapes at the slightest disturbance. Three days of receiving telephone hang ups and the visit to her door. Three days was a long time to live in fear.
How could she venture outside when he could be
there waiting for her, just waiting to pounce? But confined to her home, her supplies ran out, supplies she
needed. Toilet paper ran out on the third day. Lacking the courage to buy more, she forced herself to use torn strips of newspaper. Had it really come down to this, wiping her ass on scraps of paper like a common tramp?
It had been a humiliating experience. Afterward, she’d cried for a long time. That demeaning act had made her mind up for her. Margaret called the police.
She was fully aware of the punishment if she was
caught calling the police. He’d said he would know if she went to the cops. She had little choice. She was dead if she did and dead if she didn’t. Deciding it was better to die trying, Margaret called them.
With no more to be said, the police officers saw
themselves out. Margaret had done it. She’d made a stand against her assailant. And now the police had a name to go with the threatening caller’s voice. It was over. She sighed with relief.
Although she was relieved, explaining herself to the police had overexcited her heart. She felt it pounding like a rock on a piece of elastic forever crashing inside her chest. Her breathing became strained, as if she were breathing through a sock jammed down her throat. Although her exertions were brief, she was sweating and
her wet clothes clung to her old flesh. She staggered into the bathroom to take her medication.
Snatching her pills from the medicine chest, she swallowed down another two capsules with the help of some
water. In an effort to calm her excited heart over the last few days, she no longer adhered to the prescribed dosages of her medication, instead taking the pills as and when she needed them. She surmised it couldn’t be any worse than not taking them. Wiping her mouth on a towel, Margaret returned to the living room.
Instead of her symptoms abating after taking her
drugs, they got worse. Her heart worked harder, her throat constricted and perspiration broke out at every pore like she had been running for a bus. But she wasn’t running. She wasn’t exerting herself. She stood rock solid still. The telephone was ringing.
The phone rang for the third time. Subconsciously, she knew it was him, her evil caller calling again. She could always tell when it was him. Somehow the tone of the phone changed when he called.
Margaret answered the phone.
“Ah, Margaret, you’re there.”
It was him. He sounded so congenial, but he always started out that way. She clutched the phone with both hands—one hand held the handset normally and the other cradled the base of the receiver like it was a baby.
“It’s been such a long time since we spoke.”
“I’ve called the police, you know. They were here a minute ago. They’re on to you. It won’t be long before they pick you up,” Margaret said triumphantly. He wouldn’t be frightening her for very much longer.
“Oh, I know that, but I don’t think they’ll find me.
And what did I say?” He paused. “I said don’t call the police, didn’t I, Margaret?”
“I’m going to put the phone down. I don’t have to listen to you.” She tried to sound strong, but her voice cracked.
“I don’t hear that phone being put down,” the oily voice said, a cruel smile hidden inside it.
“I will.”
“Go on then, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Margaret had been standing, but the warning sapped the last of her energy and she fell into the chair next to the phone. What did he have in store this time? What torture would the caller inflict if she didn’t comply with his demands? Terror became a serpent encircled around her chest and it squeezed. “Why?”
“Well, if I can’t talk to you on the phone …”—he paused for dramatic effect—“then I’ll have to make a personal visit. I know where you live.”
That sent a chill through Margaret’s body that made her shiver, and the sweat cooled on her skin. It felt like his hands touched her throat, not warm like a lover’s, but cold like a killer’s. Margaret mouthed a reply, but the words didn’t come. She didn’t know what to say.
“I could get into your home at any time. It’s poorly maintained with shitty little locks that could be broken with a snap of my fingers.” He snapped his fingers and a sharp crack resounded down the telephone line. “It would be child’s play for a man like me. Christ! It would be child’s play for a child.”
“You’re not a man,” Margaret blurted.
Laughter echoed down the receiver and into Margaret’s ear. She flinched at his mockery.
Someone banged on the door.
Involuntarily, Margaret jumped in her seat and released a short, startled scream lacking volume and
power. Her hands tightened around the receiver until her knuckles glowed white under papery, translucent skin. Margaret stared at the door. Unlike Superman, she couldn’t see through walls, but she knew it was him outside.
“Who’s at the door, Margaret?” he whispered.
