If Margaret had possessed the strength she would
have shattered the phone in her grasp. She wanted the man to be on the other end of the phone. She wanted him there, not outside her door. Gripping the handset tighter was her way of keeping the monster in the phone and out of her living world.
Margaret froze. She saw him. The nondescript body behind the door moved and appeared at the window, his silhouette outlined against the drapes. He peered through the window, but the drapes prevented him
from seeing anything. He wore a baseball cap turned backward on his head and what appeared to be a wind breaker fluttered in the breeze. He carried something bulky in his hands. Fear of what the object could be drove Margaret’s mind into a frenzy. The figure moved back in front of the door.
“Have you guessed who it is?” he whispered once
more.
Margaret jumped in her seat when he banged on the door again.
“Hello,” he said from behind the door and paused.
“Is anybody there?”
“Go away, go away,” Margaret shouted back.
“Hey, it’s pizza delivery,” the man at the door said.
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
“I’ve got a delivery for this address for a medium thin crust pepperoni pizza that was ordered in the name of Macey.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“Well, somebody did, and I need to be paid for it,”
he said.
Margaret started to get out of her chair.
The man at the door mumbled something inaudibly
and the voice whispered on the phone.
“How do you know who is at the door, hmmm? I
could be lying my head off waiting for you to answer.
Think about it, Margaret.”
Margaret fell back into her seat, afraid of the warning the voice had given her. She had no idea who was at the door. It could be him ready and waiting for her to open the door, to blast her with a shotgun or stab her with a knife. Kill her right on her doorstep and laugh as he watched her die. Driven by fear, her heart accelerated another ten beats per minute. The serpent tightened its grip around her chest.
“Go away,” she said.
“Hey, lady. I want to be paid for this pizza. I get stiffed with the bill if you don’t pay.”
“Go away,” she said and burst into tears.
“Okay, okay. Thanks a lot.”
Margaret heard him walking away, cursing her as he went. Relieved, she dropped the phone and wept uncontrollably.
For a moment, she didn’t notice the laughter
coming from the phone. The voice called her from the receiver. She raised it to her ear.
“Gotcha,” he said.
“What?” Tears choked Margaret’s voice.
He waited for the crying to stop. “Margaret, go to your door, you pissed off some poor pizza boy trying to make an honest buck.”
Margaret hesitated, afraid that this was another of his falsehoods to make her come to the door.
“C’mon Margaret. Hurry before he goes. I wouldn’t lie to you. I only did it to you make you realize the error of your ways—letting the cops know about our little chat. Chop, chop. Take a peek.”
Margaret went to the window and pushed the drapes to one side. She saw the figure at the door had indeed been a pizza delivery boy, wearing a Supreme Pizza baseball cap and windbreaker. He was getting into a crappy, battered Honda sedan that was all dents and faded paintwork. A small flag on a small plastic pole was stuck on the roof with Supreme Pizza’s name and logo emblazoned on it. He looked back at Margaret’s house before racing away in a cloud of black smoke and squealing tires.
Relieved that her tormentor wasn’t behind the door threatening to break her into pieces, Margaret’s knees buckled and she collapsed, striking the wooden door.
Slumped, she held herself up against the door and slowly, she slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. It was all a joke. A sick joke to scare, to torture, to put the fear of God inside her and he’d been successful.
Relaxing, she let her bodily systems slow and stabilize themselves. In the distance his voice babbled endlessly.
Margaret ignored him. In the pit of her stomach
a sensation relayed its rebellion. She felt unwell. She was going to be sick. Margaret tottered to her feet and made for the bathroom, where she puked. It was physical release from her mental torture. Dryly, she retched several times before finally vomiting.
“So, can I interest you in that life insurance policy side on the armchair. He laughed, knowing that he was talking to an absent Margaret Macey.
The professional slipped the phone into his pocket. He was pleased with his efforts. He felt he had made real progress this time. He would have to follow up this incident with another very soon to ensure his target
didn’t get a respite. Margaret Macey was being reeled in like a prize marlin. She was tired and beginning to lose her strength. It wouldn’t be long before she was another trophy to go above his fireplace.
But now he had a date to keep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dressed in his sweats, Josh bounded down the stairs with his running shoes in one hand. He ran on the weekends and sometimes a couple of times during the week. A normal run was three to five miles, depending on how much time he had available. Since coming out of the hospital, he hadn’t been running. It was time to get back into the swing of things. He sat down on the bottom stair and pulled on his shoes.
Kate came out from the living room. “Are you going for a run?”
“Yeah. I thought I would.”
“Do you want breakfast now or when you get
back?”
“I’ll eat when I get back.”
“How far do you think you’ll go?”
“I might try a longer one, six miles or so, to make up for slacking, but I’ll see how I go.” Josh looked up as he tied his shoes.
“It’ll do you good to get out and do something.”
He saw Kate was pleased to see him settling back
into old routines. She probably hoped it was a sign their lives were returning to normal.
“I’ll see you later.” Josh gave his wife a kiss and slipped out the front door.
It was after nine and the daily commuters from
Josh’s neighborhood had already left for their jobs. He ran in the relative comfort of being free of thoughtless motorists. It was a good time to run.
Sweat displayed itself on his clothes and face. The morning was cool, but there was warmth from the sun unhindered by sparse clouds. Dark rings stained his gray sweatshirt under the arms and around the neck.
His matching pants showed an unflattering dark line between the buttocks. Perspiration glistened on Josh’s flushed face and hung in beads from his black hair like melting icicles. He hadn’t intended to push himself that hard. His mind had been elsewhere. It had been fixed on Bell. She hadn’t called since she’d turned informer to Channel Three. If she wouldn’t come to him, then he’d go to her.
Instead of running his usual route, a circuit of the horseshoe shaped Pocket neighborhood, he jogged the roads that took him northward toward downtown. His Adidas-shod feet beat a path to Belinda Wong’s new
