Cry Baby Page 9

  But if they do, then that’s okay. As long as it happens after Georgia is out of harm’s reach. After that, I don’t care. They can do what they like to me then.

  But maybe it won’t come to that. I have to cling on to the hope that he’ll make a mistake. He’ll show himself, or unintentionally disclose something about himself.

  I’ll be waiting for that moment. Listening intently. Watching everyone around me. You’ll make a mistake, you sonofabitch.

  And then you’re mine.

  ‘I think it’s dry now, Erin. You want to get a move on? You’ve got people to kill.’

  She drops the knife back into her pocket, then walks out of the bathroom. At the door to the apartment she takes a deep breath, then leaves.

  As soon as she enters the hallway she thinks she catches a small sound. Like a latch gently clicking into place. She looks over at Mr Wiseman’s door, and sees a line of light below it.

  She waits. Listens. No more sounds except the pulsing of her own blood. The building is deathly quiet.

  Solemnly, she descends the stairs in search of a victim.

  3.10 AM

  Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything, nobody has anything useful to say. It’s not an unusual story. This time, however, it’s probably true. The killer or killers are probably miles away by now.

  Doyle and LeBlanc are working the door-to-door in the apartment building. Right now, it’s the only thing they’ve got to go on. They don’t even know who the victim is. Other precinct detectives have been dragged out of their beds to assist with the canvass, but they know it could take hours to talk to everyone in a building this size, especially since half of the residents seem reluctant to open their doors. Because we all open our doors when they’re being pounded on at three in the morning, right? Yeah, right – with a shotgun in our hands we might consider it.

  The hope is that somebody in this building might have heard something happening outside. Or might have come home late and seen something unusual. Or might have some more information about Vern. Or might have seen suspicious characters hanging around the building. Or…

  Yeah, lots of mights. So while we’re at it, why not the biggest ‘might’ of all – that the killer himself might open one of these doors? There he’ll stand, blood all over him and a maniacal glint in his eye. He might even confess on the spot. ‘Remarkable work, detectives,’ he will say. ‘I am astounded at how swiftly you have traced me to my humble abode. Given your undeniably prodigious powers, it would be a mistake on my part to do anything other than surrender myself to your custody forthwith.’

  Or that might not happen.

  A more likely scenario is that they will obtain nothing of value in this building. They will then widen the search to encompass other nearby buildings. They will contact local soup kitchens, charity workers, homeless hangouts. The media will be asked to invite concerned citizens to contact the police with any information they might have.

  And it will all come to naught.

  It will come to naught because, not to be too cynical about this, few will shed tears over the demise of another drain on the city’s resources, especially with the economic climate being how it is. Nobody will give this story prominence, and nobody chancing across the story will give it the attention it deserves.

  That’s what will probably happen.

  But…

  There’s a chance the cops could get lucky. This time they have got something going in their favor, because whoever killed Vern wasn’t satisfied with merely killing Vern. The perp could have just stabbed the victim a couple of times and then disappeared into the night – a lightning strike, with no hanging around even to determine if the wounds were fatal. He – or she, because let’s face it, Doyle, these are modern times, with equal opportunities for all – could have absconded to distant shores after leaving nary a trace.

  But not this killer. This killer chose to make a statement. He chose to leave a mark.

  To somebody, somewhere, that mark means something. Maybe our killer really does believe he’s Zorro. Maybe it’s a gang symbol of some kind. Maybe it’s a tag used by a graffiti artist. Whatever, it wasn’t chosen at random. It has significance. And Doyle’s hope is that its significance is known not only to the killer but to those near to him. And that’s the one thing that makes Doyle’s target bigger and easier to hit

  Clinging to that hope, Doyle continues knocking on doors.

  3.27 AM

  ‘You’re not trying, Erin.’

  She’s heading uptown on First Avenue. About the fifth time she’s traversed this particular block.

  ‘I am trying.’

  ‘Then try harder, for Chrissake. You want this baby back or not?’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Take off my clothes to attract someone? What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘At least that would be showing some initiative. You’ve already passed up several opportunities.’

  ‘They… they weren’t right.’

  ‘You don’t have the luxury of being choosy, Erin. Time’s ticking away. Tick-tock, tick-tock.’

  ‘Shut up. Just shut up, okay? I can’t concentrate.’

  She feels stupid, speaking to thin air like this. She also feels like a hooker, parading up and down the streets as if she’s touting for business. Earlier on she did encounter a woman she thought might have been a hooker. Despite the cold, the girl was wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass, and her dead eyes appraised Erin as she passed her on the street corner. Erin got the impression that the girl was checking her out as possible competition – someone who might be prepared to snatch away the money she needed for her crack habit. But as the distance between them closed, the girl just sneered, as if passing judgment that Erin presented no threat to her livelihood.

  Erin thought about killing her.

  She didn’t do it because she didn’t hate her enough. After her experience with the homeless man, she has decided that the next one can’t be like that. Not someone who has done her no harm – someone towards whom she harbors no ill feelings. A sneer doesn’t count. That’s not worth a life.

  The same went for the other possible victims she encountered on her current travels. Another wino, sleeping it off on a bench, covered in flattened cardboard boxes. He would have been so easy. No need to wake him up. Walk over to him, put the knife in, walk away. Job done. Another box ticked.

  But no. She couldn’t bring herself even to pause in her walk when she saw him. It would have been history repeating itself in all its profound sadness.

  And then there was the drunk guy who meandered towards her along the sidewalk. She desperately wanted him to make her hate him. She stopped as he came level with her. She willed him to make crude suggestions to her, to make a grab for her. An excuse, she thought. Just give me a fucking excuse. Please.

  But no, again. The young man beamed idiotically at her and said, ‘I’m in love. The world is a beautiful place. You’re beautiful too.’ And then he continued on his way.

  What was she supposed to do with that? How did that merit a blade in his love-filled heart?

  She has the uneasy suspicion that this could go on some time. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Maybe I can’t do this again. Where are all the dangerous people when you want them? Where are the vultures, the parasites, the leeches? Why are the shadows so empty of demons tonight?

  ‘Miss?’

  She jumps, startled at the voice suddenly at her side. She turns. Sees the car that has pulled up alongside her. Sees the face looking out at her from the open passenger window.

  Cops.

  She has dreaded this, but felt it had to come. A lone woman, wandering the streets at three in the morning. No purse, no friends, and seemingly no purpose. Why wouldn’t they stop and ask questions?

  ‘Oh. Hi, officer.’

  She flashes them a big smile. Like this is so ordinary. Why shouldn’t I be doing this? What’s the big deal?

  But inside she’s shaking. Her ha
nds are buried in her pockets and one of them is grasping the knife and she’s scared witless. She’s scared they will become suspicious and they will want to frisk her and they will find the knife and it will all be over. Goodbye, Georgia.

  ‘Oh, shit. Don’t fuck this up, Erin. Stay cool. Nice and easy.’

  For the first time, she can sense fear in his voice. It surprises her, but also comforts her. He’s not as in control as he wants her to believe. He is not so supreme.

  ‘You all right?’ the cop asks.

  She notices how he looks her up and down as he puts his question. Checking her out.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, still breezy. ‘Getting cold though, huh?’ She brings her shoulders up to her ears, emphasizing this fact. Also letting the cop know that this is the reason her hands are in her pockets. Nothing to do with a weapon. No, siree.

  ‘On your way somewhere?’

  ‘Careful, Erin. Watch what you say. I’ve got the baby here, don’t you forget that.’

  He’s trying to scare her, but it’s not working, because for once she has the upper hand. He’s crapping himself, and they both know it.

  ‘Just a stroll. I do it most nights. I’m an insomniac.’ She sees the blank look and hastily adds, ‘I don’t sleep so good. Sometimes a good walk helps me to chill out.’ She speaks clearly and with confidence. Letting him know she’s not drunk, not doped up.

  ‘You want my advice,’ says the cop, ‘you should stick to walking around your apartment. I don’t wanna scare you or nothing, but being on the streets at this time of night, that ain’t such a good idea.’

  Yeah, she thinks. I could be attacked. I could get stabbed by someone with a knife in her pocket.

  ‘Thank you, officer. I’m sure you’re right. I’m on my way home now anyway.’

  He studies her some more, then says, ‘Okay. Be safe now.’

  She nods. Starts to walk away. She hears the radio car’s engine rev up and then she glances at the vehicle as it glides past her. The cop isn’t even looking her way.

  ‘You did good, Erin. I knew you could do it. That’s what will keep you and Georgia safe. That’s what will make sure you come out on the other side of all this.’

  The patronizing bastard. He’s trying to cover up. Trying to make it sound as though he knew what he was doing back there. But she knows. She felt his fear. And that gives her hope.

  She turns right at the end of the block. Onto East Tenth Street. Across the street is a large mural painted onto the wall. After that, a couple of shuttered storefronts. Then mostly apartment buildings and dark empty sidewalks.

  ‘Where the fuck are you going, Erin? There’s nothing down here. Haven’t you figured it out yet? You need people.’

  ‘I need you to shut the fuck up, is what I need. I’m doing my best, okay? If those cops see me again, they’ll get suspicious. Is that what you want? Do you really want me to—’

  She stops because she hears something. A car approaching from behind, slowing to a crawl. She doesn’t turn, but slows her own pace. Please don’t let this be the cops again.

  ‘Erin, you need to step up your game. You need to—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘What? What did you—’

  ‘Shut up. There’s somebody coming.’

  The car draws level with her. She risks a glance to her left. It’s a large dark sedan, but she doesn’t know anything about makes. She can’t see inside. She looks straight ahead again and keeps on walking.

  The car drifts past. A few yards ahead it pulls into the curb. The passenger side window yawns open.

  ‘Ah. Now that’s more like it. Go check it out, Erin.’

  Yeah, sure. Because we all go and check out suspicious cars in the middle of the night, right?

  She keeps walking, but now her heart is pounding furiously – at least a dozen beats to every heel-click. Who’s in that car? Someone with a gun? A gang of youths, ready to burst out of there and drag her to the ground and rape her? What good will her pathetic little knife be then? Of what use to her Georgia will she be if she ends up in a hospital, or even the morgue?

  She wants to turn and run. All her instincts tell her to get back into the light of the Avenue. To flag down a taxi or any damn car and plead for them to take her away from there.

  But she doesn’t, because of her baby.

  She gets to the car. Acts as though she’s not aware its occupants are waiting for her.

  ‘Hey! You want a ride somewhere?’

  She bends at the knee. Peers inside. Just the one guy, it seems. Pale shirt, open at the collar. A gold necklace. He has a widow’s peak. Hard to tell from here, but his skin looks badly pock-marked. His mouth is a weird shape too – like he once had a hare lip and it was fixed by a back street surgeon for twenty bucks.

  ‘He’s a looker, Erin. Don’t let your heart rule your head on this beefcake.’

  She hears a laugh in her ear. Go ahead, she thinks. Laugh while you can. Laugh until I get a chance to gut you like a fish.

  ‘Maybe,’ she says to the driver. ‘You going my way?’

  ‘Baby, whatever way that is, I’m going there. Hop in.’

  She hesitates. Her fingers close more tightly around the handle of the knife.

  ‘Invitation’s all there, Erin. What are you waiting for?’

  She looks up and down the street. She doesn’t want to get in this man’s car, where he may try to do God knows what to her. She wants to go home. She wants to see her baby. She shouldn’t be out here on this cold night, contemplating death and mutilation.

  She opens the car door. Climbs in. There’s a smell of alcohol here, mixed with stale smoke. The man smiles at her, showing her nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘Where to?’

  She’s not about to tell him where she lives, and has no idea where to tell him to drive. She just points straight ahead and says, ‘That way.’

  He seems to like that. He nods and drives off.

  ‘What you doing out here, anyhow?’

  ‘Just killing time,’ she says. ‘I don’t sleep much.’

  ‘Uh-huh. So what do you do to kill time?’

  ‘Tell him you murder people, Erin.’

  ‘I walk. Sometimes I find people to talk to.’

  ‘Yeah? Is that it? Just talk?’

  ‘Sure. What else?’

  ‘Well, maybe nothing. Talking’s okay. How much action did your mouth get tonight?’

  ‘Not so much. It’s been quiet. You’re the first.’

  ‘The first, huh?’ He looks across at her. ‘You know, you don’t look like a typical…’

  ‘Talker?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m not typical. Maybe I’m not like others you might have met before. Maybe I just really enjoy a good… conversation.’

  ‘That would be different. Real unusual, in fact. You do know that a good speaker can earn a lot of money, don’t you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not interested in money. I’m interested in sparkling wit and repartee.’

  ‘Repar-what?’

  ‘Repartee. From the French.’

  ‘Oh, so you do French too, huh?’

  ‘I do a lot of things. I’m very versatile.’

  ‘You certainly are, Erin. Good job. You’ve got him hooked.’

  The driver laughs. A dirty, lascivious laugh. She knows what he’s thinking, and she knows that she’s encouraging him. But it’s still his call, she tells herself. He can still walk away from this if he so chooses.

  The man reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a small bottle of scotch.

  ‘You want some? Wet your whistle? Help you loosen up a little?’

  ‘I’m plenty loose already,’ she says. ‘And my whistle couldn’t be any wetter.’

  Jesus, Erin, she thinks. Where is this coming from? Where did you learn to act this way?

  She watches him take both hands off the wheel as he unscrews the cap from the bottle and takes a swig of the amber liquid. He sma
cks his misshapen rubbery lips and says, ‘Ah, that’s good. Sure you won’t join me?’

  She shakes her head, and wonders what to say next. But then she realizes that he’s pulling the car over. Her nervousness returns. She starts to think maybe she should have swallowed some of that scotch after all. Downed the whole bottle, in fact, just to take away her jitters. This is it, she thinks. This is the moment where he decides whether to live or die.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’

  It’s a stupid question, but she has to ask it. Has to give him an opportunity to redeem himself.

  He chugs some more scotch, then screws the cap back on and slips the bottle into his pocket.

  ‘Makes it easier to talk. You said you like talking, didn’t you?’

  Her mouth is drying up. It’s hard to say anything right now. ‘Yes, that’s what I said. What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘You. What’s your name?’

  ‘Erin.’

  ‘Hey, Erin. My name’s Ed. I like you, Erin.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah. A lot. I’d like to show you how much I like you. Is that okay with you, Erin? If I show you, I mean? You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?’

  She doesn’t answer. She feels like she’s on a scary carnival ride and she wants to get off. But it’s too late. It’s already in motion. They’ve crested the rise and have started the almost vertical descent. She can see the emptiness below her and she knows they’re about to plunge into it. There’s no going back now. He’s decided he wants to go there, and he’s dragging her down with him.

  ‘Look, Erin. Are you ready?’

  He’s unzipping his fly now. Digging around inside and pulling himself out. Showing her how excited he is.

  ‘Ha! Well, will you look at that!’

  God no, she thinks, and her stomach lurches, and the rollercoaster is gathering speed, thundering down the track now.

  ‘I think…’ she says. ‘I think maybe I should go now.’ And she takes her hand out of her pocket, the pocket that has the knife in it, and searches for the door handle on this unfamiliar car, the type of which she has never been in before and has no idea how to open. She runs her hand over the door’s surface, searching for the right latch or button to get her the hell out of here, while all the time trying not to take her eyes off this man for fear of what he might do next. And when she decides that she has no option but to tear her gaze away so that she can escape, she realizes what a dreadful mistake she’s made. Because what she hears then is a fierce ‘No!’ from the man, who then grabs her by the hair, grabs it with both hands and yanks her head down toward his lap, toward his pathetic excuse for manhood, yelling at her to talk to him, to use her mouth and fucking talk to me, you bitch, you fucking whore. And her hand searches again, not for the door handle this time but for her pocket, which no longer seems to be there, where the hell is it, where is my damn pocket, where is my knife? And she feels his heat and his wetness and his stench on her face while her fingers search frantically. And finally, yes finally, God be praised, it’s there, she finds the pocket, her fingers plunging into its warmth, touching its offering, its secret contents. She takes it, grasps it with relief, she’s never felt such relief, and she brings it out, and she has no hesitation now, she begins to stab, to poke to thrust, to damage. And she hears his grunts of pleasure turn to shrieks of pain, and even after he releases his grasp on her hair she continues to stab, working her way up his body, up his abdomen and his chest and to his throat, yes his throat, where she opens him up from ear to ear and feels not his semen now but his hot blood pumping onto her face, and she sees the surprise in his eyes, the shock of it all as he loses his life force and dies right in front of her, right there in his own car with his tongue hanging out and his dick hanging out, and the voice of her persecutor baying for blood in her ear. And gradually her train ride slows and stops and it’s all over. It’s all over.