“Every day for the past fifteen years, loathing myself. Do you know how many times I tried to put a bullet through my head? Dozens. Literally dozens. I came close once, but at the last second I couldn’t do it. I’m too much of a coward.”
“You said that before.”
The words kept running out of him in a hushed, barren voice, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing cardinal sins to a priest. “Cowardice and self-hatred. That’s why I started using cocaine. I thought that if I got high enough, I could pull the trigger or swallow pills or poison… something, anything, to end it. But all the cocaine did was make me hate myself a little less. And after a while it had the opposite effect. It made the sickness worse, the cravings even more intense.”
The taste of bile was in my mouth. I wanted to spit, swallowed instead.
“I’m sorry about Emily,” he said.
“Don’t talk to me about my daughter. Don’t say her name.”
“She found the little box in the school parking lot. I don’t know how I could have lost it; I was always so careful. Maybe I lost it on purpose, subconsciously; I don’t know. I was terrified when she came to me, told me she’d found it and took it home… terrified when you came here last night. But not anymore. Now I’m glad. I’m glad it’s almost over.”
He fell silent. The silence lasted long enough for me to think he’d run out of words, but he hadn’t. Not quite.
“There’s something else I have to say, something I want you to know.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “Save it for the police and your lawyer.”
“I never hurt a child, never touched a child. Never. Never wanted to. It was the looking I needed, that’s all. Looking. Looking.”
“We both know that’s a lie, Ullman. Men like you always want to do more than look, whether you act on the impulses or not. The only thing that stopped you was fear of getting caught.”
“No-”
“Your students, my daughter, every child you taught or came in contact with, you imagined up there on that bedroom wall. And not with some other pervert-with you. Always with you. ”
He stared straight ahead for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand and passed it down over his face, and when it dropped into his lap his eyes were closed-the same gesture you’d use to close the eyes of a corpse.
Zachary Ullman may not have had the guts to shoot or poison himself, but he was dead just the same. And had been for a long time.
Dead man breathing.
26
TAMARA
The funny thing was, she wasn’t afraid.
There she was, sprawled out on the floor against the stairs with her skirt hiked up around her ass, blood leaking out of her nose and pain pulsing through her, and all she felt was rage. Even when Delman took the switch knife out of his pocket and snicked it open, the thin curls of fear that rose in her burned away almost immediately, like paper on a hot fire.
He takes another step, she thought, I’ll kick him in the balls. Squash ’em like grapes until the juice runs out.
But he didn’t take another step. He said, “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” The smile that wasn’t a smile was gone now. His mouth was hard, bent out of shape with a fury that matched hers. Hate radiated off of him; you could almost see the shimmers. “Had to come after me and my mother, lay some hurt on us. Well, now it’s your turn, baby. Now you’re getting the hurt laid on you.”
She sucked air through her mouth, struggled to sit up on the bottom stair riser. Her nose felt swollen, big as a balloon, numb. Blood dribbled into her mouth; she pawed and spat it away. The whole front of her blouse was splattered with it.
“Don’t even think about screaming,” he said. “You do and I’ll stick you like the pig you are.”
Screaming wouldn’t do her any good anyway. Her downstairs neighbors, white couple, the Jastrows, both worked late jobs that didn’t get them home until after eight. She said, in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, thick and nasal, “Murder’s not your thing, Antoine.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Then, “Antoine. Shit.” Then, “Best deal we ever had going, six-figure payoff. Clean, smooth, and you fucked it up. You’re going to pay for that, Tamara.”
“How? Cut me up? Beat me up?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Your mama know you’re here?”
“Shut up about my mother.”
“No, she doesn’t know. Your idea. She won’t like it when she finds out.”
“Get up off the floor.”
“Why don’t you come down here with me?”
“Smart-mouth bitch.” He kicked her ankle, kicked her again above the knee, hard enough to make her grimace and clamp her teeth. “Get up off the goddamn floor!”
Tamara pulled her skirt down, managed to turn onto her hip, then onto her knees facing the side wall. It took a little effort, one hand on the wall and the other on the railing, to get onto her feet. Her breathing still wasn’t right. Air made whistling, wheezing sounds in her nasal passages.
He gestured with the knife. “Upstairs.”
Her legs felt wobbly; she had to hang on to the railing with both hands to make the climb. Didn’t do it fast enough to suit him. Twice he jabbed fingers into her back, the second time on the spot where the riser had cut into her back. She swallowed the pain cry that rose into her throat. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it.
At the top of the stairs he said, “Now into the kitchen. Wipe that blood off your face.”
“Why? So you can mess it up again?”
“Don’t give me any sass. Do what I tell you.”
“You busted my nose.”
“Not yet-not enough blood. Next time I’ll mash it to a pulp.”
He was right about the blood: not as much dribbling out now. But the numbness had worn off and her nose had begun to throb like hell. Not broken, maybe, but some badly bruised cartilage. A few red drops plopped into the kitchen sink, swirled away when she turned on the cold-water tap. She soaked a dish towel, wiped the stickiness off her face and hands. Rinsed the towel and wet it again and held it gingerly against her nose.
“How’d you find out?” she said. “Who told you?”
“Who do you think?”
“Yeah. Doctor Easy.”
“Too bad for you he didn’t believe what the judge told him.”
“Fool.”
“Bedroom,” he said.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why? You gonna rape me?”
He laughed, nasty. “Last thing on my mind. Had all of your chubby body I can stand-I don’t need another lousy lay.”
That made her even more coldly furious. Chubby body! Lousy lay!
“Go on,” he said. “The bedroom.”
“What for?”
“Keep things like scarves in there, don’t you?”
“Scarves? What… tie me up?”
“You’re not stupid; I’ll give you that much.”
“Tie me up and then what? Slice and dice?”
“No. Not here, anyway. We’re going for a ride.”
Those thin curls of fear rose again, and this time they didn’t burn away. “Where?”
“You’ll find out.”
The hell I will, she thought. Not going anywhere with you, asshole. Tied up, helpless… no way!
The knife swayed again, like a snake’s head. “Move.”
She moved, into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Hers, the master bedroom, was on the right. Just before she reached the open doorway, she stopped and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall, loosening the press of her fingers on the wet dish towel.
He came up close beside her, nudged her with an elbow. “Move.”
“Woozy,” she said. “Give me a second…”
He stepped over a little, almost in front of her. As soon as he did that she pivoted off the wall, swung the dish towel in an arc against the side of his face, then slapped it down over the hand holding the knife and let go of it. At the same time she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. He yelled, stumbled, bounced off the opposite wall.
Before he could recover, she was inside the bedroom. Slamming the door, twisting the dead-bolt lock.