“Got a problem?”
I straighten with a jerk, dropping my set of keys. Turning quickly, I see the handyman, carrying his ladder horizontally under one arm. He’s a rawboned man, his face sallow and gaunt.
“Something the matter?” he says. He has a thick, black mustache that droops dolorously over the edges of his lips, hiding his mouth completely. The words seem to come out of nowhere.
I laugh nervously, stooping to pick up my keys. “No,” I reply. “I’m just stalling. It’s such a nice day, I hate to go inside.”
“I know what you mean,” he says, the mustache going up and down with the sound of his words, “but it’s a tad hot for my tastes. Wouldn’t mind working inside on days like this.”
“Yes,” I say. “Well …” The man stands there, not moving, and I wonder if I appear suspicious. “I have to do some work myself,” I say. “I thought I’d work at home today. It’s quieter here than at the office.”
He shifts the ladder from one arm to the other.
“I can get more done here,” I add, then slip inside the condo. Through the glass panels adjacent to the door, I watch as he walks down the sidewalk and sets up his ladder on the side of the building. I turn around, lean against the door, and sigh with relief. I look at my watch, two-fifteen, and decide to begin.
Walking down the hallway, I notice how cool the condo is. The living room, with walls as white as calcimine, would seem antiseptic if it weren’t for the clutter of wood and knives and miniature carvings in disarray on the coffee table. I go immediately to the bedroom, slip on my gloves, and begin a perfunctory search of the dresser drawers. I really don’t expect to find anything in such an obvious place, but I check nonetheless. I am correct—just socks, underwear, folded T-shirts and sweaters and jeans. As I’m rummaging through the last drawer, I am reminded of how, only five months ago, I’d searched M.’s house, thinking him the murderer and Ian my savior. The irony is not lost on me.
I search the closet, shoving aside his clothes, checking the top shelves, looking into the corners. Still, I find nothing. In the bathroom, I open all the cabinet doors, then look underneath the sink. Nothing. I walk back into the bedroom. I thought this room would be the most logical place to hide something—not the kitchen or living room. Disappointed, I gaze around the room, studying it. I’ve checked all the drawers, the nightstands, the closet. I look at the bed. No, I think, it would never be there; much too obvious. Still, I go over and get on my hands and knees, pull up the bedspread, look under the bed.
A nervous flutter thrums inside me. There, way in the back, out of reach, is a cardboard shoebox. I lie on my stomach and crawl forward until I reach the box with my hand. I pull it out and take off the lid. The first objects I notice are the duct tape, a partially used roll, and Billy’s old medical bracelet. I stare at the tape and bracelet, unable, momentarily, to move. Relief, fear, anguish—all these emotions, in a matter of seconds, touch my heart. I pick up the bracelet and turn it over. The words DIALYSIS PATIENT are etched on the back. Franny kept this with her always. She would never give it away, especially not to someone with whom she supposedly only had a one-night stand.
I set it on the carpet and look again in the box. There is a small straight-edged knife with a wooden handle. The one used to carve Franny’s torso? A haunting unease passes through me, embedding itself in my palm as I hold the knife. I set it aside hastily. I remove the duct tape and find a stack of photographs, six of them. Four are of Franny—obscene pictures, close-ups of her naked body in various lurid positions. Did he take these the night she was killed? Her face is not visible in three of the photos, and I would not be positive it was Franny if it wasn’t for the finger missing off her hand. In the fourth photograph, static tears distress her face, and her mouth is skewed in pain.
The last two photos are of me—picking up the newspaper off the driveway early in the morning, still in my bathrobe and slippers, and another as I’m driving down Pole Line Road in my Honda. I stare at the pictures of Franny again, and my spirit plunges downward, lost in her infinite pain.
Click. Click.
A fuzzy warning goes off in my mind. Suddenly, I freeze.
I heard a noise from the other room; a click, I think, from the front door as it was unlocked. I am motionless, praying it was my imagination. But, no—I hear noises again, the sound of the doorknob turning, the door swinging open, and then banging shut.
Quickly, I replace the photos and duct tape and knife and Billy’s medical bracelet. I shove the box under the bed, hearing footsteps in the front hallway. I get up, peel off the gloves, shove them in my pants pocket. More noises sound from the living room—shoes shuffling, a soft thud, each noise more ominous than the one before. The only place I can hide is in the closet. Or should I tell Ian I just came by to drop off his key? The radio goes on, music blares. I open the closet door, slowly so he won’t hear it, and am halfway in when a startled scream stops me. I turn and see Pat, the cleaning woman.
“Sweet Jesus!” she says. “You scared me half to death.” She sets a green bucket on the floor by her feet. “I didn’t think anyone was here. Nora, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, thankful that her nervousness camouflages mine. She seems larger than I remember, chunkier, her arms thick and pale. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I should’ve called out when I heard you come in.”
She gets a dust cloth out of the bucket and wipes off the dresser. “Ian didn’t tell me you’d be here today,” she says.
I close the closet door, stalling for time, thinking of an excuse. “He didn’t know I was coming over,” I say, hoping he hadn’t mentioned that we’d split up. “I picked up his laundry. I just wanted to drop it off.”
Pat finishes dusting the dresser and walks over to the nightstand. Apparently, she finds the explanation for my presence plausible. “I guess I better leave,” I say. “I have to go back to work.”
She flashes me a brief, preoccupied smile, no doubt relieved I won’t be getting in her way while she cleans Ian’s condo. “Bye,” she says, and I walk out of the room.
All afternoon I call Joe, but he isn’t at the police station. That evening I try him at home, but neither he nor his wife answer the phone. I’m supposed to see M. this evening, but I want to speak to Joe first, to tell him what I found in Ian’s condo. Perhaps now, finally, Franny’s murderer will be apprehended. When Joe still isn’t home by nine o’clock, I give up. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to call him. I grab my keys and decide to walk the several blocks to M.’s house. The night air is cool, refreshing after today’s heat, and I’m glad I didn’t drive. Stars glitter up above, and the sky is magnificent, as black and shiny as obsidian. I walk west on Montgomery, thinking of Franny and the photos in Ian’s condo. I’m relieved, immensely, that it’s finally over, that her killer won’t go free.
A twig snaps. I turn around but see no one. Immediately, I think of Ian, wondering if Pat told him I was in his bedroom today. I pull my keys out of my pocket, then take the safety cap off the canister of Mace. I walk faster, looking over my shoulder. No one is there. I feel spooked, the darkness suddenly threatening, and decide to jog, the can of Mace firmly in my hand. I think I hear shuffling behind me, then the sound of loose gravel on asphalt, and I break out in a full-speed run.
I’m coming for you.
When I reach the older section of Willowbank, I turn onto Meadowbrook Drive. There are no streetlamps here, and I run faster, my chest aching, then turn left on Almond. When I get to M.’s house, I am panting and sweaty, tendrils of hair sticking to the sides of my face and the back of my neck. I bend over, catching my breath, not taking my eyes off the street. M. sees me from the front window and comes outside.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, walking toward me.
I point up the street, still panting. “Someone followed me,” I say, choking out the words. “Chased me.”
He looks up the street but doesn’t see anyone. “Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod, still breathing heavily, then put the safety cap back on the Mace. M. wraps his arms around me, holding me. A few minutes later, a young boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, saunters by, wearing headphones as he listens to a Walkman.
“There’s your stalker,” M. says, laughing. “You see? Just a teenager. You’re letting your imagination get away from you. He’s only a boy.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “There was someone else. I’m sure. It was Ian. I know it was him,” and I tell M. what happened today, and what I found under Ian’s bed.
M. releases me and backs away, frowning, his face dark in the shadows from the porch light. “God, Nora. That was a dangerous thing to do. Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve gone over with you. Better yet, why couldn’t you let the police handle it?” I hear the anger in his voice, see it in his face.
“I had to find out,” I say. “I had to be sure.” Abruptly, he walks into the house, still angry. I follow. “You’re sounding like Joe,” I accuse him. “Telling me to stay out of it.”
“Maybe you should listen to him.” He is silent for a minute, shakes his head, then touches my hand lightly. “Nora, sometimes you can be so exasperating. What if Ian had walked in on you?”
“He didn’t.”
“No, but he could have. And he might have hurt you.” He puts his arms around me, holds me close. “Don’t you know how much you mean to me?”
The warmth of his body presses against mine. I feel him shudder, just a slight tremble, and I’m instantly chastised, touched by the depth of his feeling. I didn’t know he cared so much; a month ago, I would’ve thought him incapable of such an intensity of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess it was foolish to go over there alone. I wasn’t thinking. After I got another letter, I just wanted to take some action so I wouldn’t feel like such a victim.”
M. takes me into the living room and we sit on the couch. For minutes, he just holds me, hugging me tenderly. I feel the soughing of his breath, feathery and warm, against my neck. Finally, very quietly, he says, “You’ve affected me, Nora, as no one else has. I’m not even sure I know why; I just know that you have. I love you, and I want to tell you everything about me, everything about my life. I want to share myself with you, and that’s a new feeling for me.”
He speaks the words into my neck, our bodies still crushed tightly together. I cannot see his face, but I hear the soft beating in his chest, reaching out to me. He cups my chin in his hand, lifts my head, and says, “You’re changing me, Nora.” He smiles sweetly—an expression I’ve rarely seen from him—and adds, “I think it’s a good change.”
I lay my head back on his chest, snuggling closer. We breathe together, the rise and fall of my chest coinciding with his. After a while, he whispers sadly, “You never say my name. Never.”
I am silent for several minutes, thinking, feeling very confused. What does this mean? He is asking me to share his life, unthinkable a few months ago. But now I feel something softening inside me, a warm sensation at the center of my heart. I thought Ian was the man for whom I was destined, but could it have been M. all along? Can my feelings for him be more than sexual? It is possible, I think, and very softly I say, “Michael.”
“I like the sound of that,” he says, and I smile, feeling suddenly aroused at the prospect of our union—not of the love but of the sex, his continual domination and control. I kneel before him, the first time I’ve done this without his command, and say, “I want …” But I hesitate, not finishing the thought, bowing my head.
“Say it,” he says, and he holds my head between his hands, forcing me to look him in the eye. “Tell me what you want. Say it.”
I know what I want, what I need, but am reluctant to say it out loud. I try to look away, but he holds my head firmly. “I want you to spank me,” I say, barely a whisper.
He releases me, strokes my cheek.
“I want you to whip me,” I tell him, louder this time, more urgent. “Please,” I add, and I take off my clothes and lie, willingly, across his lap, waiting for the sweet release that comforts me, for the erotic adjunct that comes with the pain.
The police have not yet arrested Ian, but it is forthcoming. They searched his condo and found the shoebox under his bed. His fingerprints were on everything—the duct tape, the photos, Billy’s bracelet, the knife, the box itself. Ian admits the knife belongs to him—one of his wood-carving knives, which he claims has been missing for several weeks—but everything else he swears he’s never seen. The investigation continues anew, Ian now the prime suspect.
He has left many phone calls on my answering machine, urging me to return his calls, asking for my help. I don’t phone him back. I have nothing to say to Ian, and I certainly won’t help him in any way. My sense of betrayal is acute. I feel foolish for trusting him for so long. Like most people, I thought myself a good judge of character. Put two men side by side, and I could certainly descry a murderer amongst the two. Not so. No longer do I trust my sense of perception. Ian had me fooled completely. Even now, with all the evidence pointed clearly at him, even now I have trouble imagining him poised over Franny’s bound body, a knife in hand. So much for gut instinct.
I’m backing my Honda out of the garage, looking in the rearview mirror, when Ian’s blue Bronco suddenly careens in the driveway. I slam on the brakes, barely avoiding a collision, and put the car in park, leaving the ignition on. In the mirror, I see Ian jump out of his car, stalk purposefully toward mine. He’s burly, and would look like a gangster in his gray pinstripe suit if it weren’t for his youngish face and flaxen hair. Normally smooth-skinned and pleasant, his face now is scrunched up in a scowl, dark and ugly. I press the button that locks all the doors just as he reaches my car.
“Goddammit, Nora!” he says when he hears the click of the lock. He pulls the handle, but the door doesn’t open.
“Why are you doing this?” He leans down, his angry face and broad shoulders filling the window. The tip of his nose touches the glass, flattens to the diameter of a dime. “Why?!” he shouts, and I pull back, away from the window, but the seat belt and bucket seat halt my progress. He slaps the top of my car with the palm of his hand, making a loud tinny noise, then walks a few feet away, shaking his head. He stops and looks around, hands planted firmly on hips, his chest heaving from breathing hard, trying to contain his anger.