When he was done, he took the scalpel, which he’d laid on the grass, and dashed into the house. He put a pot of water on the stove, added Clorox, and when it came to the boil, turned off the stove, put in the scalpel and left it there for a half hour. Then he put it back-under the heating grate and finally took a hot shower, soaping carefully, shampooing his hair, then just letting hot water sluice over him.
He dried off, put on clean pajamas that smelled of fabric softener, turned out the lights, and climbed into bed.
He put his arms behind his head, looked at the streaks of light the waning moon made on the ceiling, and thought about tonight.
He’d done everything exactly as he had the last four times, but tonight’s disappointment had been the greatest because he’d been sure this time would be different. He liked her more than the others, even liked the sound of her voice, and most women’s voices set his teeth on edge.
He’d thought she’d know a good place, a clearing in the trees with pine needles and enough moonlight to see each other by. And she did. She must’ve been there before on one of her monthly forays to Frank’s to make contact and drive away the dark. It was three or four miles from the roadhouse, up an overgrown path in a stand of ancient pines, with an old stone foundation and a log shed at the edge of the clearing that had looked elfin in the moonlight. The ground was covered with pine needles, flattened by the weight of last winter’s snow, and they didn’t need the blanket he’d brought in the trunk of the car along with the lawn and leaf bags. The needles were slick as silk and smelled sweet, sharp, clear. The cleanest smell there was.
It was starting to chill down and they’d undressed partially and quickly. He’d pulled off the wig and she hadn’t looked askance as the other women had, but smiled and said, “I thought that was a rug. You’re worried about being recognized?”
He had nodded.
“Running for Congress?” she asked lightly.
“I’m a doctor. I don’t want one of my patients to see me...” He’d faltered, and she’d laughed and said, “Pussy-hunting in Raven Lake.”
Why couldn’t he laugh too, he’d wondered for the billionth time in his life. It was funny, his wearing a wig. Hilarious. So why couldn’t he just laugh lightly and easily the way she did? He’d managed a stiff smile, then, to cover his lack of ease and humor, he’d kissed her. The sex part worked wonderfully, then he’d rolled away from her, leaving her lying on her back, legs bent, eyes closed. The moonlight and lovemaking smoothed out the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and she’d looked young and almost beautiful. He’d lucked out this time. This time it would happen.
She’d opened her eyes, looked affectionately at him, and saw the scars. They must look strange and terrible in the moonlight, and the other women had looked at them, then averted their eyes as if they were shameful. But she looked at them, cried softly, “God, what happened to you?” Then she reached out and ran her fingertips down his belly, across the ridges they made. The sensation was exquisite and he got an instant erection and made love to her again, then again, and they were both shaking when they got done.
“It’s getting cold,” she said softly. “We better cover up.”
He heard the words with regret because he had to get it done before she put her clothes on; their time was up.
He’d grabbed his jacket, neatly folded on top of his other clothes, and reached into the pocket for the gloves and scalpel. He pulled on the gloves with his back to her and palmed the scalpel so she wouldn’t catch the flash of metal in the moonlight, then he rolled back half on top of her and said, “Just one more kiss...”
“Greedy,” she said fondly and let him kiss her. He moved his hand holding the palmed scalpel (so she wouldn’t feel the cold metal) down her body. She thought he wanted more lovemaking, and she whispered, “My, you are something, aren’t you?” He found the ridge of pubic bone he was feeling for, shifted to bare the front of her, and used the scalpel.
It was so sharp, he’d gotten so sure and fast with it, she didn’t know what had happened at first. Her body jerked, she looked surprised, cried, “What was that?” then snapped her head up to see. He let her look past his shoulder at her own body, then leaned on her chest to hold her down so she wouldn’t leap up and run into the woods streaming blood and guts and causing herself more agony. She screamed as all the others had, and thrashed wildly under him. But she was small—about 110, he guessed—and was already going into shock and he held her down easily and watched her face in the moonlight.
It ran the gamut of expressions as all the others had. Shock, pain, anguish, and anger, then horror, terror, self-pity, and finally, as she was dying in earnest, that bewilderment... and the question in her eyes: Why did you do this to me?
To heal myself, he’d have answered if he thought she (or any of them) would understand or give a shit what his motives were. So he kept quiet and watched her, waiting for it to happen.
He liked her, had made love to her and liked doing it, wanted to do it again, then did. Then again. He liked the look of her face and the sound of her voice, even when she screamed at him to help her as if she’d gotten confused about who’d done this to her.
He liked everything about her: the kind of clothes she wore, the smell of her hair and body, her finding that stupid wig he wore funny. Liked her enormously, and must—absolutely must—feel as much for this dying woman as those two interns this morning had felt for the dying, cancer-ridden Thomas S. Dorchester, whom they’d never seen before. He absolutely must feel as much for this woman as other people felt for friends and lovers... for their goddamn dogs, for shit’s sake.
He must.
But nothing happened. He waited a long time, watching her face, but it was no use. And he’d finally rolled off of her so she could die without his weight on her and started to get dressed. Then he did feel something, but it had nothing to do with the woman dying on the bed of pine needles. It was a prickling feeling that made his hair stir and his skin pimple more than it would under the freezing spray of the hose. He felt someone watching him! He darted his eyes around the clearing, trying to see into the trees. The moonlight was bright enough to show up the hulk of a human figure, or even a deer, or fox, or coyote watching from the ring of trees. He didn’t see or hear anything, but the feeling wouldn’t go away and he’d rushed into his clothes, made sure she was dead, then put on the gloves and closed her eyes decently (the least he could do) and got the hell out of there.
Now he wondered what engendered that feeling of being watched since no one had been there.
He wished he could ask Bunny, but he’d probably say it was guilt. And Adam knew he had not felt guilt any more than he had love or pity.
He was hunting love, sorrow, pity, all the mysterious emotions he’d seen in people’s eyes and body language, practically smelled coming off of them, and...
All he got for all his trouble was a hatful of rain.
That was from a movie that he didn’t remember much about except that single line... all he got for all his trouble... his eyes slid closed; he started to fall asleep. He’d left footprints on the pine needles, and other clues. But they were useless unless they found him first. He had not left semen, had worn a condom... three condoms, now in his trouser pocket. But shoes and condoms and everything else that could link him to the woman in the woods would cease to exist a few hours from now.
He slept.
3
“Mel Wright at the bowling alley in Raven Lake could’ve told her about Allison and Jo,” Latovsky said. “Could have told her that my mother bakes bread for the neighbors, Bunny. She could’ve figured out the great detective part from the arrogant numb-nuts way I was acting. But she couldn’t—couldn’t—know or find out that I caught a six-pound trout last night on five-pound test line.”