A Self Made Monster (30 page)

Each time a car passed his house, Alex woke. Where in hell was the tow truck? He glanced at the clock—9:40 a.m.—and again called the garage. The manager explained that the truck’s towing cable was being repaired, but he assured Alex that the truck would tow his car by the afternoon at the latest.

Alex turned on the radio, reached for a cigarette. He remembered that he had sixteen cigarettes left. Last night, he forgot to bring his Dunhills to the party and had to suffer those Arctic Blasts. Now he remembered how many Dunhills remained. A useless fact for most, but a triumph for Alex: his memory was better already. He relished his memory as a paraplegic savors the sudden use of his limbs.

He put the Dunhill in his mouth and struck a match.

The cigarette remained unlit. His eyes narrowed. The cigarettes…the party.

The murder investigation would be thorough, though Jimmy Stubbs was the obvious suspect: an established dislike of the victim and lots of drinking. Jimmy had remarked that his frat house was empty except for him. He had no alibi. And tonight, Alex would smear a bit of Edward’s blood on the dashboard of Jimmy’s car. The cotton gloves—blood on the fingertips—in Jimmy’s car would make the herring most red indeed.

Everything pointed to Jimmy…everything except the Dunhills. This morning, Alex had smoked during and after bleeding Edward Head, and the four Dunhill butts were in the living room. The guests might recall that Alex had borrowed cigarettes all night—so where did the Dunhills come from?

“Well, bucko,” Alex muttered to himself. “This is a problem that just can’t wait until nightfall.”

Alex was relieved that the morning had turned darkly overcast: no sunlight to contend with. He put on a fake beard and ponytail, then a hat, sunglasses, and high-collared jacket. He squeezed on a new pair of rubber gloves and stuck his hands in his pockets. For the second time this morning, he hurried through the cornfield with preternatural speed to Edward’s apartment.

“Edward? Dammit Edward let me in! I have to talk with you.”

Holly banged on the door again. Edward did not respond, and she swore under her breath. After more knocks and calls, she walked down the stairs. The door was locked, and she yelled at Edward to open the fucking door. Her volatile emotional state erupted, and she kicked the door repeatedly, but to no avail. When her right foot got sore from the kicking, she used her left, rearing back and assaulting the door like an enraged Karate master.

“Lemme in Edward!” Holly demanded, pausing to catch her breath. She resumed kicking and the doorjamb split, allowing her to walk in.

“Thanks a lot Edward!” Holly called, stepping inside. “Just make me stand out there like that. Let me apologize! I thought we were—well, I didn’t think we were enemies!”

She guessed Edward was asleep, so she tiptoed inside to turn on a table lamp. Halfway to the lamp, she tripped and fell. For a moment, she thought she had tripped over a pile of clothes.

The corpse did not resemble a corpse. In the poor light, it resembled laundry twisted into bloody lumps. The purple face looked artificial, like a horror movie mask. The slash in the throat looked like a toothless horror movie shriek.

Holly wobbled to the phone and stared at the handset. Fleetingly, she forgot why she needed a phone.

The handset trembled. Holly had to grip it with both hands.

“Holly?”

She shrieked.

“It’s all right,” Alex said, standing in the dark doorway.

“God I didn’t recognize you!” Holly ran to Alex and embraced him.

Alex kept Holly’s face pressed to his chest as he scanned the room for the Dunhill butts. He saw them in the ashtray on the coffee table.

“He’s so, he’s so pretzeled,” Holly stammered.

Alex had to work fast. He would cut Holly’s throat and drop her body atop Edward’s. Perhaps little Jimmy would serve two life terms.

“Who could, could do that?”

“Jimmy?” Alex asked mournfully.

“Oh God! God, they had a fight last night and, and—when did you grow the beard?”

“I don’t like to shave on weekends.”

Holly’s stomach cartwheeled. “And you grew a pony tail, too?”

Alex grinned stupidly.

“But the, the gloves—?”

He pulled off the beard and fake ponytail. “Goddammit.”

“What?”

“Why did you have to show up here, at this—” Alex rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Pick up those Dunhill cigarette butts.”

“You—?”

“Just pick them up.” Alex pointed at the ashtray.

Holly backed to the coffee table. The ashtray was old fashioned: heavy glass, octagonal, with sharp corners.

“Quit stalling.”

Holly stepped forward like a pitcher and threw the ashtray at Alex’s face. The ashtray struck his nose.

“Now the butts are all over the carpet.” Alex picked them up and ate them. “Which reminds me.” Alex broke into a bleating laugh. “Get it? ‘Which reminds me.’”

“Which reminds me,” Holly repeated mechanically. She glanced at Edward’s corpse and wondered how much it hurt to be murdered.

“Yes, which reminds me that I’ve got sixteen Dunhills left.” Alex tossed one to Holly. It struck her shoulder, and fell to the floor. Alex lit his and waited for Holly to join him.

“Be a sport. Smoke with me.”

Holly picked up the cigarette. “Trendy brand.”

“How so?”

“That, that woman who was here last night—”

“Yes, I remember. Claire. She’s quite lovely.”

“—she started smoking these after she met you.”

“Then why didn’t she offer me some last night?” Alex asked, feigning offense.

“She forgot she had them. She got them out of her car after the party broke up. We must’ve smoked half the pack.”

“Where are they?” Alex demanded.

“In Edward’s bedroom.”

“His bedroom?” Alex raised his eyebrows.

“Things got a little out of hand.” Keep talking, she thought. “We had too much to drink, and then Claire asked me to rub her shoulders—”

Alex chortled. He had come over here for nothing! The cops would not have distinguished between the Dunhills in the bedroom and the Dunhills in the living room.

“—and then she slipped her hands inside my tee shirt. And then—”

Alex waved away her explanation. “I won’t tell a soul,” he smiled. “Sapho looks upon you with approval and gratitude from above.”

“—What?”

“Sapho, the lesbian poetess and libertine.” Alex guffawed. His rising sense of invincibility made him whimsical.

“Lesbian poet…” Holly faltered, wondering what to say next. Keep him talking, she again told herself, keep him…

“Now light up that cigarette, you shameless bohemian. We can dedicate your final cigarette to your final lover, Claire Sweet. And you’ll die as an unknown martyr to the love that dares only to whisper its name.” He grinned. “That’s quite a romantic death, isn’t it?”

“Can I have a drink with my cigarette?”

“Of course.”

She opened the refrigerator, removed a carton of milk. “Want some?” She felt absurd serving her murderer, but she could think of nothing else to do or say.

“Hell yes.” Alex snapped his fingers. “Which reminds me! My brother always told me to drink milk. Thought it was good for bone growth, but we now know there’s lots of fat in even part-skim milk.” He bleated.

She filled two glasses with milk.

“Don’t waste time trying to hit me with the glass. It doesn’t hurt.” To prove his point, he picked up an empty beer bottle and broke it across his forehead. “Ha!” Alex roared, patting his forehead. “No blood! Good trick huh?”

Holly dropped her glass. She squatted in the puddle of milk and broken glass. Fear numbed her, and she could not concentrate on an escape plan.

Alex looked at Holly as a doctor looks at a patient.

“How’s your health?”

“Good,” Holly whispered. “I’ve been working out for, for several years.”

“I’ve spent the last few years trying to improve my health, too.”

“Quit mocking me.”

“I’m not. I try to ask all my victims about their health.”

“Victims…” She nodded, glanced at Edward’s corpse.

“The woman in
Chicago
—you know, the one I murdered during our field trip?—she was healthy, though I should’ve checked her out more. Her boyfriend or husband or whatever was healthy too, I think. So was the weight-lifter that they might find one day.”

“And Lori Lesterson?” Holly ventured.

“Very. Young ones usually are.” He paused to drink his milk. “I cut off her hand. Did you know that?”

“Why’d you do that?”

“A red herring. Police and the press love it when they think they have a case of devil worship. The public can’t get enough of it.” He finished his milk. “My latest red herring will involve Edward’s blood in Jimmy’s car.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey! Your blood too! Little Jimmy Stubbs better luck out with his court-appointed lawyer.”

Holly tried to rouse herself from her inertia, but shock had rendered her passive. She simply stared at the floor, waiting for something to happen. Will he break the glass against my face? she wondered.

Alex’s suddenly labored breathing made Holly look at him. Alex’s eyes had turned glassy, and he suffered a thick coughing jag.

Animal instinct replaced human fatalism. Holly counted to three, her muscles contracted, and she scrambled to her right. She was instantly half way across the living room, her limbs weightless with adrenaline.

Alex took two steps in pursuit and vomited a stream that turned from white to pink to red.

Holly squealed.

“That idiot!” Alex bellowed. He vomited again, the red darkening to black. Bloody foam erupted from his ears and nostrils. He stumbled forward and pushed Holly against a wall. He was about to twist her head from her torso, but he vomited again—it seemed every orifice was violently voiding. Holly saw her chance and ran past Alex outside to her car.

As Holly opened her car door, Alex scrambled after her. Bloody snot spilled from his nose. As he gripped her by the neck, he tried to blink away the fluid from his suddenly runny eyes.

“He was allergic to milk!” Alex roared, spraying Holly with phlegm and blood. She futilely tried to spin away, feeling like a child restrained by an adult. “Of all the fucking things that’ve happened to me!”

“Let go of me!”

Alex punched at Holly, but he could not see well, and Holly ducked. The blow shattered her car door window. He reared back for another punch.

She jabbed at Alex’s failing eyes with her fingers.

He gripped Holly’s jaw and twisted her face toward his. With his free hand, he wiped at his eyes. His vision cleared enough to see Holly’s tear-filled eyes shine a brilliant blue in the sunlight that escaped the morning’s charcoal clouds.

Alex’s neck sizzled like frying bacon. He turned and bellowed curses at the sun. Smoke rolled off his face. He shielded his eyes and waited for the searing white spots to fade from his vision.

When he could see again, Holly was gone.

The rubber gloves had melted into Alex’s hands, and his shoes smoked.

He could think only of getting to his car, where he could recover with Edward’s blood and escape to…somewhere.

Elsewhere.

The Village parking lot was wet from the morning’s mist, and the sun’s reflections in the many puddles pained his eyes. He ran recklessly, arms outstretched. The car would be in the corner of the lot, he knew, the blood still safe in the trunk.

His car was gone.

He turned in a circle several times, searching for his car as if it were a run-away dog. Then he saw it—a tow truck was pulling it away. Alex tried to shout at the tow truck driver, but the sun had seared his lips together.

The sun was intolerable. He felt trapped inside a furnace, and the roar of blood in his head was the roar of the furnace.

As Alex ran toward the tow truck, a car turned into the lot. The car radio was at maximum volume, and the driver was screaming along with The Knot’s “Ugly Girls.” He saw Alex too late.

The impact catapulted Alex backward, and he landed on his head. His head left a path of blood on the cement as squealing tires leave a path of rubber on the road. Alex flipped over three times and skidded several feet into the apartment’s swimming pool.

The water churned and steamed.

As Alex settled to the pool’s bottom, the water became cool and quiet. It’s better down here, Alex thought. I’ll stay here until the sun sets because it’s, it’s, because the sun’s so goddamned hot that I’m hallucinating and I swear I just saw my ear lobes float away.

David’s voice reverberated through the pool: “You’re losing the center.”

Alex wanted to tell David to shut up, but his lips were still sealed. He could not tear them apart because his fingers had melted together into a fleshy paddle.

The driver dove in. He kept trying to grab Alex, but Alex thought the driver was David. Alex flailed and growled, furious that David could see him in such a state, and he struggled to reach the pool’s cool bottom, to a pale blue elsewhere.