When I Kill You (5 page)

I unfolded myself and stood up. That little movement was enough to blow the roof off and me with it. The lights went on, an ear-splitting shrilling filled the air. I'd triggered the motion detector alarm.

I didn't wait. I sprinted for the Womens washroom, jumped up on the toilet. The window was just big enough for me to squeeze through, but it was sealed shut. I smashed the glass out with my hammer, cleared away the ragged shards with the hammer claw and squirmed up, over and out. I landed in a dumpster full of cardboard. I hoisted myself out of it and hit the ground face-first. I lay there for a moment, stunned. My hands and arms were cut, my nose was bleeding. Then I was up and limping off as fast as I could go, leaving the wail of approaching sirens behind me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
was ready for Marcia's call the next morning.

“Have you read the paper?” she demanded.

I said truthfully, “No.”

“The police said it was a break-in. Was that you?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said. “Does Stanley suspect anything?”

“I don't think so. But the police do. Because a window was broken, but the glass fell
out
, not in.”

“That's weird,” I said.

“You have five days left.”

“It's no good reminding me.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

I was ready for this too. I'd spent all night thinking about it. “I'll do it when he takes his walk.”

“Tonight,” she snapped. “Make it tonight. It's supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“All right, all right. What time does he go?”

“Ten thirty, eleven.”

“Does he take the same route every night?”

She took a moment to answer. “He usually goes around the park, down Green to Maitland, left on Boswell, left again on Crawford and back to Green. It takes him about half an hour.”

I thought fast. “So he doesn't have to cross any streets?”

“He does if he wants cigarettes. He has to cross at Maitland and go two blocks up to Main to the Shortstop.” She paused. I could hear the gears turning in her head. “I could ask him to pick up something for me.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Do that. And call me the minute he leaves the house.”

“Fine,” she said. I'd given her the when and where. She didn't bother with the how. Like she said, she didn't want to know.

Out of curiosity, I asked, “So what's your alibi?”

She said coolly, “I have a cousin in British Columbia. Their time's three hours behind ours, so it won't be too late to ring her after he goes. We talk for hours. If you're quick about it, I might still be on the phone with her when the police come with the bad news.”

* * *

That afternoon I got to know the geography of Green Park. It was a big rectangle of trees and grass running between four streets, just as Marcia had described. I parked my car a few blocks away and walked back. Maitland was a quiet road with houses set back from it with lots of shrubbery. That was good because it meant no one had a clear view of the road. Traffic was light even during the day—the occasional car, the odd dog walker, a few teenagers on bikes, moms with strollers. There'd be even less activity late at night.

The Maitland end of the park had lots of bushes and a floral clock. There was no stoplight at Green and Maitland, but there was a streetlamp. I picked out a spot on Maitland on the park side, about half a block west of where it crossed Green. I paced out the distance from there to the intersection.

Then I turned up Green and walked south as far as the Beekland's house. When I was even with it, I turned around. I checked my watch and timed the walk from their house back up to Maitland. I went slowly to match what I thought would be Stanley's pace. I made it in thirteen minutes.

As I walked, I tried to think of what I was doing as prep for a wrestling match. I tried to make myself focus on the moves. Only this time it wasn't arm or leg locks, it was keeping the car idling with the lights out, judging the distance, imagining Stanley stepping off the curb, letting out the clutch and stamping on the gas. I thought I'd need to be going at least sixty to kill him, and I figured I'd hit him just as he was a third of the way into the road. I could almost feel the impact, see his body flying, all arms and legs, as I kept going.

I groped my way to a bench and sat down. It was a hot, muggy day, but that wasn't the reason I was soaked with sweat. I still couldn't believe I was actually going to murder someone.

* * *

Nightfall brought no relief from the heat and humidity, only mosquitoes. You could feel things building up to a summer storm. Rain was not predicted until tomorrow, but the way things were going, I figured it would move in early just to thwart me. I didn't park at the spot I had chosen on Maitland but instead chose a position on Boswell, north of Maitland. I got there at ten. I didn't know how long I'd have to wait for Marcia's call, and I saw no point in being too obvious.

I tried to keep my mind free, my body loose. That's hard to do when you're crouched low, white-knuckling a steering wheel.

“Oh, Chico,” I moaned. “Why? I wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't wanted a quick way to some cash. Sure, we fought over your gambling, your playing around, but life together had its good times. In the end, did I really mean so little to you?” I started crying.

The tweeting of my mobile nearly sent me through the roof.

“Yeah?” I realized I was shouting. My hands were shaking.

“He just walked out the door. He's going to the Shortstop. Get him this time.” Marcia hung up.

My heart was thumping in my throat. I felt the familiar nausea. I could barely focus on my watch as I began the count. One minute. Two. Three. Four. I pictured Stanley pausing to light a cigarette. At minute seven I keyed up the ignition and moved down Boswell, turning left onto Maitland.

At minute nine I slid into place and killed the lights but kept the engine running. Ten. I thought of all the things I should have done. Like gas up. I saw myself running out of gas as I tried to make my getaway. Eleven. For the first time I seriously wondered if my 1981 car had the oomph to hit sixty in half a block. Twelve. I nearly wet myself when I saw headlights coming toward me far down Maitland to the east. They moved slowly, like a cop car on the cruise. Twelve minutes thirty seconds. Stanley should be nearly at the intersection. He'd cross and I'd slam into his body in full view of that damned oncoming motorist.

Yes, Officer, I saw the whole thing. The driver
went right at him, as if she meant to run him
down. Yes, I'm pretty sure it was a woman even
though it was dark. And I know it was a Honda
Civic, blue. I even got the last three digits of the
license plate if that helps
.

Thirteen. The car swept past in a quiet rush of air. Fourteen. Fifteen. At minute sixteen I heard myself screaming, “Where the hell are you?”

And there he was, moving slowly into view. I recognized his stiff-legged gait. The streetlamp gleamed on his bald head. I gunned the motor just as he stepped off the curb.

That was when I saw the dog. It was more a blur with a tail, low to the ground. Damn Marcia! She didn't tell me they had a dog. Instinctively I swerved. I expected to hear the screaming of a squashed dachshund. My momentum carried me up on the sidewalk. I swung the steering wheel to miss the streetlamp. I overcorrected and shot across the pavement. I knew I had to get out of there, so I didn't brake. Instead I accelerated.

That was my first mistake. My second was to check my rearview mirror, where I caught a glimpse of Stanley standing in the middle of the road. Then I saw the mailbox rushing at me. I swerved again and clipped wing mirrors with a parked car. I kept going, zigzagging wildly from side to side down Maitland, bouncing off the curbs on both sides, whanging garbage cans that had been left out for pickup, dodging more streetlamps and finally, crunching my right fender on a guardrail.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he tweeting of my phone woke me up on Thursday morning.

“Go 'way,” I groaned. I was hungover from all the scotch I'd drunk to calm my nerves and groggy from the sleeping pill I'd taken to knock me out. I didn't want to greet the world. I didn't want to explain to my angry boss why I wasn't going to be in again that day. Most of all I didn't want to talk to Marcia.

My phone went on chirping at me. I stumbled out of bed and groped around. I found it under a pile of clothes.

“How're we doing, Mrs. Lopez?”

It wasn't Marcia. It was the broken-nosed gorilla Bernie, doing his weekly follow-up. Things were still at the polite stage.

“Nothing yet,” I said.

“It's been a month. My people don't like being kept waiting for their money.”

“Look, back off, will you?” I tried a weak threat. “I can take this to the cops, you know. I'm sure they'd like to know about people like you.”

“Not a good idea.” He didn't sound so friendly now. “Besides, it's a legit business loan. I got the paperwork and all. A wife's responsible for her husband's debts, ain't she?”

“I'll call you when I have something,” I said and hung up.

I'd hardly put the phone down when it rang again.

I snatched it up and yelled, “I said back off!”

“This morning,” Marcia hissed like a viper in my ear, “he was down for breakfast. I want to know why he was eating an
egg
this morning when he
should have been dead!
”

I sank down on the edge of the bed, reliving my nightmare escape down Maitland. I remembered the air dancing with garbage cans, my car dragging metal, sparks flying. There was no way I could claim the damage on insurance.

“Why didn't you tell me about the damned dog?” I croaked. My head was pounding.

“What dog?” she screeched.

“The one he takes for walks!” I found the strength to yell back. “A little thing. Short legs. Long body—”

“You fool! That's the neighbor's dog. He wanders loose a lot. He follows everyone.”

“Look,” I said. “Call me back in thirty. I can't deal with this now.”

I disconnected and staggered to the bathroom. I stood under a shower so cold it made my butt ache. I dried off and stared at my face in the mirror. My skin was pasty. My eyes had dark pouches like beanbags under them.
I
was the one who looked like roadkill.

I was still staring at myself when she called back.

“You now have four days,” she said.

“Listen, what's your hurry anyway?” I demanded.

“That's none of your business,” she snarled. “If you'd done your job right, it would be over by now. Just get on with it.”

I said, “I need more information. About Stanley. He can't just go to work and take a walk at bedtime and wash his car on weekends. What else does he do?”

“He watches television.”

“That's
it
?” Maybe she wanted him dead because he was so boring. “Well, what are his likes and dislikes? His weaknesses? You gotta give me something I can use.”

“He's”—she lowered her voice— “he's attracted to big women.” She made it sound disgusting.

“So?”

She said stiffly, “You haven't seen his magazine collection. He hides it under his bed. His favorite is
Big Fat Mamas
. He likes them oversized with big breasts. He circles their boobs with a red marker. The centerfolds, I mean.”

I almost laughed. Well, well, well. Who would have thought it of Mr. Duck Walk, with his bald head and necktie and little lunch bag? An idea was forming in my mind.

“You said he stops off at Benny's on Friday nights. How long does he stay?”

“Depends. A few hours. He's usually home by ten.”

I wondered if Stanley went to Benny's to pick up big fat mamas. If he did, he must have been a quick worker to be home by ten.

“Who does he drink with? People from work? Friends?”

“He has no friends. As far as I know, he drinks alone. But he never gets drunk. He doesn't hold his liquor well, so he's very careful. Are you thinking of doing it then? I need to know because—”

I cut her off. “Yeah, yeah. You need to set up your precious alibi. Let's just say he may be a long time coming home.”

Before I hung up, I asked, “Did he mention anything about last night?”

“Not a word,” said Marcia.

* * *

After I hung up with Marcia, I called Jimmy. He wasn't pleased to be rung out of bed at such an early hour.

“Jimbo,” I said. “You know that horse syringe you mentioned? I need one. Don't ask why.”

I heard him groan off-phone. He mumbled, “Hang on a minute.” He put down the phone. After a while I heard a toilet flush in the background. When he was back, he said grimly, “You on drugs, kid?” He disapproved strongly of drugs now that he was clean. He knew firsthand what they could do to you.

“For cripes' sake, with a
horse
syringe?” I kept it lighthearted. “Can you ask your vet friend? I really need that needle and I need it pronto, Jimbo. It's—it's for a joke on Wanda.” I hated lying to him. “Nothing bad. Just something to take her down a slot.”

That put him in a better humor. “Oh, well, in that case. I'll see what I can do.”

“This afternoon? Thanks. Love ya.” I switched off.

I didn't bother calling Roz with more lame excuses. I banged my right front fender back in place and headed out of town. I drove to London. It was a long way to go shopping, but I knew better than to do anything locally.

My first stop was a corner store. In the magazine section I found the latest copy of
Big Fat Mamas
. Marcia was right. The feature babes were
large
. I tried to imagine Stanley with one of them and nearly choked. I drove to the east side of town to a specialty boutique called HERZ. Before I went in I put on my headscarf and sunglasses. The woman there wanted to be helpful, but I said I was just browsing. When I found what I wanted, she said, “Might I interest you in another style, ma'am? These aren't very—ah—
durable
.” I just smiled.