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  Good move.

  You make sure your dick’s out of sight, but you run all over town with a knife in your fucking mouth!

  He hadn’t seen anyone, though. Maybe no one had seen him, either.

  His jaw ached from biting at the knife.

  He took the knife out of his mouth, unlocked the blade and folded it into the handle. Then he slipped the knife into the right-hand pocket of the robe.

  After double-checking to make sure his robe was shut, he pounded on the door. “Help!” he shouted. “Fire!”

  He waited a few seconds, then pounded some more.

  “Fire!” he yelled.

  The door swung open. On the other side of the threshold stood a gaunt woman in hair curlers and a pink robe. Her eyes looked urgent behind their wire-rimmed glasses.

  Before she could speak, Albert lunged forward and took her down. He landed hard on top of her and slapped a hand across her mouth. “Don’t scream,” he gasped.

  Behind her round glasses, her eyes bulged with fright.

  “Promise?”

  She nodded, her mouth shoving at his hand.

  “Okay then.” Albert let go of her mouth.

  She screamed.

  “Stop!”

  The scream grated on Albert.

  What if someone else is home?

  “Shut up!” he warned.

  She didn’t, so he drove the heel of his hand into her chin. Her mouth slammed shut, teeth crashing together. The scream stopped.

  “Thank you,” Albert said.

  But she started gasping and choking.

  Albert climbed off her.

  She rolled over, pushed herself up to her hands and knees, then began spitting blood and bits of teeth onto her beige carpet.

  “Don’t give me any more shit,” Albert warned.

  She stopped spitting long enough to say, “Creep.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “You’re a bum.”

  “Any more shit and I’ll kill you.” Thinking of Charlene, he muttered, “Fucking bitch.”

  “Asswipe!”

  He swatted the back of her head. A pink curler flew off and rolled across the foyer.

  “From now on, do everything I say or I’ll kill you. I’ll cut the life right out of you. Now, get up.”

  She didn’t make a move to get up. She only turned her head and stared at him.

  But not at his face.

  The belt of his robe had worked loose and the robe hung open. “Take a good look,” he said. “This might be the last one you ever see. Now, get up.”

  She slowly stood, a hand cupped across her bleeding mouth.

  “Let’s see the kitchen,” Albert said.

  She walked ahead of him.

  Slowly. Too slowly. Albert shoved her and said, “Get it in gear.”

  As they entered the kithen, he noticed a wooden rack hanging near the sink. It held five knives of various shapes and sizes. He selected a long, slim-bladed carving knife. “Beautiful,” he said.

  Much better than the knife in his pocket. The blade of this one was at least twice as long.

  He could almost feel it sliding in.

  Into her?

  “Oh m’god,” she said into her muffling hand.

  “Take it easy,” Albert s aid.

  She shook her head. Then she glanced from the knife to his penis and back to the knife, regarding them both with equal horror.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said. “Or fuck you. Who’d want to, you ugly hag.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “What’s behind there?” Albert asked, pointing the knife at the door behind him. “The garage?”

  She nodded.

  Not taking his eyes off her, he backed up, reached behind himself and opened the door. Below the hem of his robe, a cool draft blew against his bare calves.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  A two-car garage, half-empty. The bay door was shut.

  The car was an olive green Pontiac, brand new and shiny.

  “Keys?” he asked.

  She pointed at the kitchen table.

  Albert didn’t see the keys. He saw a toaster, a coffee pot, a newspaper, a cup with some coffee still in it…

  Lipstick on the rim of the cup.

  Lipstick?

  This scrawny old hag didn’t seem to be wearing any.

  Her forefinger jabbed the air.

  Albert followed its aim and saw a key ring partly hidden beneath a corner of the morning newspaper.

  He rushed to the table and snatched it up.

  And heard distant sirens.

  “Let’s go. Come on, let’s go.”

  She shook her head, staring down at his penis. “No, please!”

  He shoved the handle of the carving knife between his teeth. His right hand free, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the garage.

  At the trunk of the Pontiac, he fumbled with the keys and found one that looked as if it might be the one.

  “Just come with me,” he told the woman. “If anyone drops by here they’ll think you went for a drive.” He shoved the key into the trunk’s lock and gave it a twist. The lid of the trunk sprang up.

  “No,” the woman said, blood spilling down her chin.

  “Yes.”

  “Please. I don’t wanna…”

  With both hands, Albert jammed the knife into her belly and knocked her backward into the trunk. The whole car shook when she landed.

  She lay on her back, legs dangling over the edge. They were skinny and white and veiny. He lifted them, swung them sideways and dropped them into the trunk. Then he slammed down the top.

  The shutting trunk blew a quick gust of air against his bare skin.

  He looked down at his erection.

  Gimme a break, he thought.

  Then he realized it wasn’t because of her. It couldn’t possibly have been because of her.

  It was the stabbing.

  Albert smiled with relief, then tied his robe shut and rushed back into the house.

  Purse on the kitchen counter.

  Maybe grab it on the way out.

  He raced upstairs.

  Sirens everywhere, hell breaking loose.

  Would the cops do a house-to-house search?

  Sure. All they’ve gotta do is hear what Charlene’s got to say, they’ll be tearing up everything in sight trying to find me.

  But that’ll take a while, he told himself. Not long, but a while.

  At the entrance to the master bedroom, he stopped and gazed in. A huge mirror was fixed to the ceiling over the king-sized bed.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered.

  He stepped into the bedroom. Glimpsing a woman’s head, he lurched sideways.

  Jesus!

  Only a wig form, a plastic head capped with a blond wig.

  He slumped and tried to catch his breath.

  His stomach lurched at the sudden, tinny sound of an amplified voice.

  The fire chief, he realized. Just the goddamn fire chief half a block away, directing his men. Calm down. Calm down and grab some clothes and get out of here.

  He rushed to one of the closets and rolled open its door.

  Women’s clothes.

  Wrong closet.

  He ran to the other and opened it. More women’s clothes.

  “Shit!”

  Where’s the husband’s stuff?

  On the dresser were two jewelry cases. One was nearly two feet high, fashioned like a miniature highboy. The bracelets, rings, broaches and earrings inside it were light and elegant. Plenty of diamonds and pearls. Classy stuff.

  He sidestepped to the other end of the dresser and opened the plain wooden jewelry box. No diamonds, no pearls. Lots of brass and silver, lots of wood, lots of turquoise. Rustic, Navaho-type stuff.

  He opened a drawer. Couched on a stack of bright panties was a cylinder of white plastic nearly a foot long and rounded at one end. He picked it up like a flashlight and flicked the switch. With a quiet buzz, it
began to tingle.

  He remembered the lipstick on the coffee cup.

  Was the “husband” a woman?

  Who’s got time to worry about it? he thought.

  Get outta here! Charlene’s probably spilling her story to the cops right now! Telling the whole deal. Describing me!

  Male Caucasian, age seventeen, five foot nine…

  “Whoo!”

  It was hard to keep from leaping with joy.

  Male? Shit no!

  Dropping his robe, Albert rushed across the bedroom toward the blond wig.

  NINETEEN

  LESTER TRIES HIS LUCK

  Each day, Lester had toyed with the idea of returning to the Willow Inn. Each day, when he came to the left-hand turn that would take him there, he kept on driving straight and returned home wondering if Emily Jean Bonner had been there waiting for him.

  Today would be different, he told himself as he approached the intersection. Today, he would make that turn.

  When he saw the traffic light, he flipped down the arm of his turn signal. He slowed. The light changed to yellow, then to red. He stopped at the crosswalk.

  My God, I’m really going to do it!

  What if Emily Jean isn’t there?

  Maybe I’ll drink with someone else. Were other women there last time?

  The place had been fairly empty.

  Emily Jean’ll be there. She has to be.

  After buying a margarita at the bar, Lester wandered through the dimly lighted room. The place had more customers than the last time he’d been here. He glanced around, checking the faces at every table.

  Emily Jean’s wasn’t among them.

  But he found three possibilities.

  Two of the women sat together and the thirds at alone.

  Lester took a table near the lone woman.

  She looked sleek and cool. Her blond hair was cut short. Her chiffon blouse, open wide at the throat, lightly draped her breasts and showed the shapes of her erect nipples.

  Nice, Lester thought. Real nice.

  Too nice. She’ll never have anything to do with a guy like me.

  He turned his attention to the other two women.

  They sat across from each other, both sipping drinks that looked like whiskey sours. From where he sat, he could only see the back of the brunette. Her light-haired friend had a good face, but something annoyed him about it. He watched her talk, watched her listen and respond. Finally, he recognized the problem: she wore a constant sneer.

  Forget her. Forget about her friend, too. They’re probably both a couple of creeps.

  He returned his attention to the lone woman.

  She seemed so completely alone—alone with her martini, which she held lightly in her hand even when it rested on the table. Not once while Lester watched did she raise her eyes from the glass.

  He wondered if he should try her.

  No wedding ring.

  But a woman with her looks couldn’t possibly be on the make. There had to be a man in the picture, probably a lawyer or doctor or Hollywood producer.

  Unless…unless a lot of things. She might be recently divorced or widowed. She might be a housewife who likes to dress in her best and grab a quickie from a stranger in the afternoon before her hubby gets home from work. She might be a lesbian. Or a high-priced hooker.

  Why not give her a try? Lester thought. The worst she can do is turn me down.

  Her glass was empty. She was turning her head, looking for the cocktail waitress.

  Heart thundering, Lester stood up and went to her. At the last moment before her eyes met him, he remembered his wedding ring. He quickly pulled it off.

  “May I buy you a drink?” he asked.

  Her questioning eyes sparkled in the candlelight and she smiled at him. “I’m afraid I’m waiting for a friend to join me. Otherwise, I’d be delighted.”

  “Well, I just thought I’d ask.”

  “I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

  “Well…be seeing you.”

  He backed away, disgusted by the way he’d handled her rejection.

  Just thought I’d ask.

  Spectacular.

  She must think I’m a total loser.

  So what? he told himself. Doesn’t really matter what she thinks of me. I’ll probably never see her again, anyway.

  Not returning to his table, he left the Willow Inn.

  As he drove toward home, he relived the scene with the woman again and again, each time feeling his skin grow hot with embarrassment.

  I shouldn’t have tried her, he thought.

  He’d known it would be a disaster.

  Nothing wrong with asking. At least I didn’t wimp out.

  He suddenly wondered if she really had been waiting for a friend to join her. Maybe she’d just said that to get rid of Lester.

  I didn’t measure up. She said it to blow me off.

  It seemed like a strong possibility.

  Lester burned with embarrassment.

  Then he told himself, If she’s a woman who would pull that sort of stunt, I don’t want to know her.

  “Wouldn’t mind screwing her, though,” he said aloud, and laughed softly.

  By the time he reached home, he no longer considered his attempt a failure. Instead, he saw it as a first step, uncertain and awkward, toward a new life.

  A life with a woman who might care about him.

  He would find one sooner or later.

  A real woman, not a cold bitch like Helen.

  He found Helen napping in the bedroom. She was lying facedown under the sheet. Her shoulders were bare. He could see the shape of her body underneath the sheet.

  She’s naked under there, he realized.

  I could pull the sheet down and roll her over and spread her legs and…

  Except she’s Helen.

  TWENTY

  ALICIA

  Albert liked the woman’s Pontiac. It had power and lots of class. Best of all, it had air-conditioning. As far as he could see, its only drawback was the red needle on its gas gauge that kept creeping to the left. Before long, it would point to E.

  The mere thought of stopping at a gas station made his insides cramp.

  No way could he stop for gas. Not with a corpse in the trunk.

  The needle touched E as he drove into Wichita, Kansas. Expecting the engine to die at any moment, he swung into the parking lot behind a Sambo’s restaurant and took a space close to the building.

  He aimed the rearview mirror at his face.

  Not bad, but something looked wrong.

  He applied fresh lipstick.

  He still looked strange. Then he recognized the trouble: the wig. At close range, anyone could see it was phony. It just didn’t fit right.

  He pulled it off. His long blond hair was matted flat. He took a brush from the purse and worked at his hair for several minutes, parting it slightly off center and bringing it down his forehead so feathery bangs swept across his right eye.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  He picked up the purse, climbed out of the car and locked its door. As he walked past Sambo’s, the aromas made his stomach churn with hunger. But he kept walking.

  He went for blocks. The soles of the sandals burnt his feet. His bra, too tight, pinched his sides.

  The bra gave him the look he needed, though. He watched his wavering reflection in store windows. Hard to believe he was actually seeing himself. The girl in the window was slim and long-legged in her turtleneck and skirt. Her short hair gave her a tomboy look.

  I wouldn’t mind getting her myself, he thought.

  Get her alone and…

  As he imagined slicing her clothes off, the front of her skirt began to bulge.

  He walked the next block holding his purse in front.

  Don’t think about that stuff, he told himself. Think of bad stuff.

  Like the cops getting me.

  That isn’t gonna happen, he told himself. Long as I keep on the move, they’ll never lay their h
ands on me. They’ll never even figure out all this stuff was done by the same guy, much less who.

  By the time Albert reached the corner, the bulge was gone. He sighed heavily and crossed the street.

  Just ahead, a movie marquee announced Fangs of the Wolf and Zombie Queen. Albert stopped beneath it. He stepped in front of the posters: both had photos of screaming, half-naked women.

  He went to the ticket window. The chunky, white-haired woman inside busied herself with a crossword puzzle while Albert read the show times. Zombie Queen would be starting in twenty minutes.

  Speaking with feminine tones he had practiced in the car, he bought a ticket. He stepped into the lobby.

  “I’ll take yer ticket, honey,” called a pimpled man behind the snack counter. He reached out a hand as Albert approached. “Intermission’s in ten minutes. Plenty of time to buy yerself a nice snack.”

  “Maybe later,” Albert said.

  The air was rich with aromas of perfume and food. Popcorn was popping like softly muffled strings of firecrackers, the white puffs spilling out over the top of the machine’s metal basket. Half a dozen hot dogs rotated slowly on spikes, their brown skins dotted with sweat.

  Saliva flooded Albert’s mouth.

  First things first.

  Aware of the man’s eyes following him, he took short steps and kept his arms close to his sides, imitating the way he’d seen women walk. He gently pushed open the door marked Ladies and stepped into the restroom.

  Nobody at the sinks.

  Bending, he peered under the stall doors. No feet.

  He quickly locked himself inside the stall at the end. After checking the toilet seat to make sure it was clean, he pulled up his skirt and lowered his panties and sat down.

  The toilet seat was cold.

  Somebody had chipped “FUCK YOU” into the green paint of the stall door. The only other markings Albert could find were “Angel luvs Blueboy” and “EAT ME” both written in ink above the toilet paper dispenser.

  He opened his purse. He took out his knife, thumbed the button to make its blade spring out, then pressed its point to the metal partition and began to scratch letters.

  Green paint came off in slim curls.

  He wrote, “Albert is a real cut-up.”

  Grinning, he put the knife away. Then he glanced inside a bin marked Napkin Disposal. Empty.

  He flushed the toilet and left the stall. Standing at a sink, he checked himself in a mirror and ran the brush through his hair. Then he returned to the theater lobby.