Hard Feelings (13 page)

There was a lot I could have said, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

I returned to my cubicle and stayed there for the rest of the morning. At twelve o’clock sharp, I left for lunch, although eating was probably the last thing on my mind. Carrying my briefcase, I took the D train downtown to Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street. I went upstairs to the ninth floor and had a salesman fit me with a ready-to-wear wig. It had straight, dirty blond locks that went over my ears. Looking in a mirror, I barely recognized myself, but the additional hair didn’t look silly on me either. My hairline had been receding lately anyway, and the wig was actually a major improvement in my appearance. It made me look at least five years younger, but more important, it made me look different. The salesman suggested that I might want to try another color, but I told him it was just what I was looking for and I paid for it in cash.

To complete the disguise, I went downstairs to the ground floor and bought a pair of dark, mirrored sunglasses.

I put the sunglasses along with the wig inside my briefcase and went outside. From a pay phone on Thirty-fourth Street, I called Rudnick’s office. I asked if Michael Rudnick was in today, claiming that my name was Joseph Ryan, an old client of his. The receptionist said that yes, he was in today, and I hung up. I headed back toward my office. When I got off the subway at Forty-seventh Street, I stopped at a deli and bought a BLT. I still didn’t have an appetite, but I didn’t want to get hungry later in the afternoon.

I ate part of the sandwich in my cubicle, then I tried to get back to work. But it was even harder to concentrate now than it had been earlier in the day.

In the morning, I’d added a bogus “4:00 meeting” to my schedule so that I’d be able to leave the office early, without any hassle. At 3:45, I clocked out with my swipe card and headed down to the street. I entered the lobby of the GE Building and went directly to a public men’s room. Inside a stall, I put on the wig and the sunglasses. I checked myself out in the mirror above the sink, delighted to see that my disguise looked just as natural and convincing as it had at Macy’s. I exited the building at Rockefeller Center and headed across town toward Madison Avenue.

It was a little after four o’clock and I was standing outside Michael Rudnick’s building, watching the revolving doors. As five o’clock approached, more people began to exit the building. I didn’t see Rudnick, but I knew that attorneys very often stayed late at work, and some didn’t leave their offices until eight or nine at night, or later.

By 5:45, the exodus from the building was diminishing, and I realized that I could be in for the long haul. I also realized that now there was little or no chance that I’d be able to make it to the marriage counselor’s office in time for the six o’clock appointment. I called information on my cell phone and got Dr. Michelle Lewis’s phone number, then I left a message on her voice mail, saying that I couldn’t make the appointment and to please tell my wife how sorry I was. I knew that Paula was going to give me hell later, but I would just have to deal with it.

At a few minutes past six o’clock, I called Rudnick’s office from a pay phone at the corner, looking back over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t miss him. His voice mail answered. I hoped this didn’t mean he had gone home for the day. Maybe he was just in a meeting or away from his desk.

It was nearing dusk. The crowds on the street had thinned and many of the stores on the avenue had closed. I was about to go back to the pay phone, to call his office again, when I saw him.

He had just exited the revolving door and was heading toward the street at a brisk pace. I knew my disguise worked, because he passed by me without even looking in my direction. His smug, self-absorbed attitude and the way he was strutting along the street, like he thought he was a movie star, disgusted me.

I followed him downtown on Madison and then we made a right on Forty-eighth Street. We were heading toward the intersection on Fifth where I had spotted him last week. I was about twenty or so yards behind him, walking at his same, rapid pace. There were several people between us, but he was in full view. No matter what, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight.

We crossed Fifth and Sixth and were heading toward Seventh. On Seventh he made a left, continuing downtown. He was probably heading toward Washington Street in the West Village, where one of the Michael Rudnicks I had found on the Internet lived. It was twilight, meaning that by the time we reached Rudnick’s apartment it would be completely dark.

At Forty-second Street, I expected him to head down to the subway, but he continued downtown instead. It seemed as if he was planning to walk home, which would be kind of strange considering we still had about fifty blocks to go.

We passed Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street, where I had been earlier in the day. Then, at Thirty-third Street, Rudnick crossed the avenue and headed into Penn Station.

At first, I thought he was going to take the subway after all, but he passed the escalator that led to the subway and went toward the area where the New Jersey Transit and Amtrak trains departed. Without stopping, he glanced at the overhanging board that displayed the departure and arrival times, then he began to walk faster toward one of the escalators leading to one of the tracks. I followed him, jogging to keep up.

At the bottom of the escalator, he boarded a New Jersey Transit train and I entered at the other end of the car, making it inside just before the doors closed. I watched Rudnick sit down near the front of the car and I found a seat five or six rows behind him.

Taking a trip to New Jersey definitely hadn’t been part of my plan, but there was no turning back now. I couldn’t stop staring at the back of Rudnick’s head.

As the train approached the Newark station, the conductor came by and asked me for my ticket. I told him that I needed to purchase one and I asked him what the last stop on the train was. “Trenton,” he said, and I said, “One roundtrip to Trenton.”

When the train stopped, a number of people stood up and crowded the aisle. I watched Rudnick closely, but he remained seated, reading a newspaper.

The stations on the New York–Trenton route were about ten minutes apart. At each stop, many more passengers exited the train than entered, and when we reached Metuchen, about forty minutes from Manhattan, there were only about a dozen people left in the car, including Rudnick and myself.

It was much quieter on the train now, making my thoughts seem much louder.

At the Edison and New Brunswick stops, several more people exited. Now there were only a handful of passengers left in our car and I knew there couldn’t be many more stops before Trenton. As the train slowed, approaching the Princeton Junction station, Rudnick stood up and headed toward the exit door nearest to him, at the end of the car. Not wanting to trail him too closely, I stood up and waited near the middle door. When the train stopped and the doors opened I made sure Rudnick had gotten off, and then I followed him toward the exit at the middle of the outdoor platform.

As he walked ahead of me, down the staircase, I started to feel disoriented, the way I sometimes felt after a few drinks. It was hard to see clearly in my sunglasses, but I left them on anyway. Rudnick went through a tunnel, passing under the tracks, and there was the noise above us of the train pulling out. I was about to do it right there, in the tunnel, but then I heard echoing high-heeled footsteps. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a woman following about ten yards behind me.

Rudnick emerged from the tunnel and headed toward the dark parking lot. There were several cars with their motors running, waiting to pick up passengers from the train. For a moment, I feared that Rudnick would get into one of the cars, but then he veered left toward the darkest part of the lot.

The lot was half-filled with parked cars, but there didn’t seem to be any people close by. I walked faster to keep up, trying not to make any noise. Rudnick turned to the right, between a row of cars. He must have heard me, because he stopped suddenly and turned around.

Except for some light from a nearby lamppost that cast a faint orange glow on Rudnick’s face, the parking lot was dark. There was some noise of traffic in the distance. I saw Rudnick squinting, as if trying to figure out who I was. I was still walking toward him and then I stopped a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, still straining to see. “Can I help you?”

Then his eyes widened and the puzzled expression disappeared.

Now he looked terrified.

“What the hell are
you
doing here?”

He was smiling with his caterpillar eyebrows and his faceful of acne, yelling, “You’re gonna feel it! You’re gonna feel it!”

I had taken the butcher knife out of my briefcase and I was lunging forward. Most of the blade entered Rudnick’s chest and his terrified expression returned. I kept attacking, pushing him against a car and yanking the blade free, then sticking it in again. His shocked, wide-open eyes were looking right at me now. I stabbed him again, higher in his chest, closer to his neck. He tried to speak, but blood choked his words. I worked the blade free, noticing that his eyes had shut. I let go, letting his limp body fall onto the concrete between two cars.

A train was speeding by, probably an Amtrak on the express track, and there was a sudden thunderous
whoosh
. I kneeled down and gave Rudnick one final stab, in the groin. After wiping the blade clean on his pants legs, I put the knife away in my briefcase and headed back toward the train station.

10

I KEELED OVER between two parked cars and gagged. I remained in the same position for about a minute—the sick, sour taste of a partially digested BLT in my mouth—but I didn’t throw up.

Finally, I felt better. I took off my bloodstained suit jacket and put it away in my briefcase, figuring I’d get rid of it later. There was still blood on my hands and on the bottoms of my shirtsleeves. I took off my shoes and socks. I spat on the socks, making them moist, then I wiped my face and neck, just in case there was blood there. I wiped my hands on the socks, removing as much blood as possible. Finally, I put the stained socks inside my briefcase. Then I folded each shirt-sleeve several times, hiding the stains. In the poor light, it was hard to see if I had any blood on my pants; I was sure there was some there, but my pants were dark navy and I hoped the color camouflaged it.

I checked myself carefully. As far as I could tell, I looked fine. My hands, especially the palms, were still pink, but that would be easy enough to hide. I straightened my wig and adjusted my sunglasses, then I continued toward the light of the train station.

Much calmer now, feeling almost normal, I went up the stairs that led to the New York–bound track. As I was nearing the top, a man in a business suit headed down, passing to my right. I looked away as soon as I saw him, making sure he didn’t get a good look at me.

I walked along the platform, past the ticket office and a bench where a few people were seated. I would have gone in the other direction, but I wanted to board the last car of the next train, where there were likely to be fewer passengers than on the other cars. As I passed the people, I kept my head turned toward the tracks, enough so that my face was out of view.

The end of the platform was empty. I leaned over the edge and saw a train’s headlights in the distance. It was hard to tell how far away the train was because this area of New Jersey was almost flat to the horizon. I paced back and forth, whispering, “Come on, come on, come on.” Then I decided that I ought to stand still—if I looked nervous it could raise suspicion later. I couldn’t hear traffic noise anymore and the silence was ominous. At any moment, I expected to hear screaming and commotion.

The platform was better lit than the parking lot and I noticed a big blotch of blood that I’d missed on my briefcase. I looked toward the ticket office to make sure no one was coming, then I crouched near the back of the platform. I took one of the socks out of the briefcase and wiped away as much blood as I could. Then there was a screeching of brakes—a train was arriving on the Trenton-bound track. I put the sock back into the briefcase and stood up, trying to act as natural and unassuming as possible. I could see the profiles of several people in the windows of the train, but no one was looking in my direction.

As the train left the station, I leaned over the tracks to see if the New York–bound train was any closer. The bright lights in the distance looked the same as before. I was going to have to brace myself now because I knew that some of the people who had just arrived at Princeton Junction would be going to their cars and there was a chance Rudnick would be discovered at any moment.

Then I had something else to worry about. I looked toward the opposite platform and saw a young woman standing there, searching for something in her pocketbook. This wouldn’t have been a big deal except that she sensed me staring at her and looked in my direction. Reflexively, I smiled and she smiled back at me. I looked away immediately, cursing to myself for being so stupid, but when I looked again the woman was still there, smiling.

My heart skipped at least a beat. Casually, I walked about ten yards, toward the middle of the platform. I looked to my left, surprised to see that the woman had also walked about ten yards in the same direction. I stopped and watched the woman continue along the platform and exit down the stairs.

The noise of the train to New York, pulling in to the station, was a big relief. I just wanted to get on the train and get away as fast as possible and worry about everything else later.