Privacy fences blocked off the view into the backyards of most of the houses. Grandma Lives Here had a fence made of wide vertical cedar planks that had been allowed to weather to a silvery gray.
Karl slipped between that fence and the neighbor’s, testing for loose boards as he worked his way to the back of the one-car garage. There were none. There was, however, a window on the side of the house, at the back, which was blocked from view from the street by a big lilac bush.
In the garage, a car started. Karl watched through the lilac bush as a late-model Volvo backed down the driveway. He couldn’t make out the driver’s face. A woman, he thought, based on her cautious maneuvering as she backed the car out into the street.
Grandma was leaving. Karl wondered if there was a Grandpa still inside. He looked in the side window of the garage and, judging from the absence of power tools, concluded there probably was no man of the house.
The window at the back side of the house had been left open partway to let in the fresh air this lovely fall morning. Winter was coming, and once it hit, no one would open a window for the next five months.
Several large, heavy plant pots with dead plants in them had been parked alongside the garage, between the garage and the privacy fence. Waiting to be cleaned out and put away for the winter. Karl rolled the largest across the narrow space, tipped it upside down, and used it for a step stool.
A little work with the ragman’s steak knife, and Karl was able to peel the screen away enough for him to crawl inside. When he was in, he carefully pulled the screen back down and into place.
He had expected the house to be littered with Grandma stuff-porcelain poodles and old china and fussy furniture with flowered fabric and lace doilies. Instead, the space looked like something from a decorating magazine, with sage-colored walls and dark, modern furnishings.
In the kitchen Karl found the story of Grandma Lives Here. Her refrigerator was covered with photos of her with other people-friends, family, grandchildren. So many smiling, happy faces.
According to unopened mail on the counter, Grandma’s name was Christine Neal.
Christine Neal was in her late fifties, trim and athletic. She ran in marathons. Went on vacations to exotic places. In several photographs, she was as bald as Karl was. A banner at one of her races called for support for a local breast cancer survivors group.
Karl pulled the refrigerator open and helped himself to an orange. It was cold and juicy and refreshing. When he had finished and thrown the peel in the trash, he wiped the handle of the refrigerator with a towel and went in search of a bathroom.
There was only one downstairs, adjacent to what must be Christine Neal’s bedroom. White and immaculate, it smelled of lavender.
In the medicine cabinet, he found mint-flavored dental floss, tore a string off for himself, and set to cleaning all the bits out from between his teeth-the orange he had just eaten, the piece of pork chop he had found in the garbage earlier. He took the toothbrush from the holder, helped himself to toothpaste, and brushed his teeth with vigor. He pulled his bridge out of his mouth, brushed it, and re-placed it.
Karl undressed and threw the ragman’s filthy clothes down the laundry chute, happy to be rid of them. Carefully, he removed the money taped to his scrotum. Naked, he sat down on the toilet and settled in to have his first bowel movement as a free man. What a pleasant, quiet, private experience.
He picked up a copy of People and leafed through it. He took very little interest in the entertainment world. He rarely looked at television, only knew about movies from the posters at the theaters.
He didn’t recognize many stars. The girls all looked young and too skinny, and they dressed like whores. They shouldn’t be surprised to be raped and killed, going around like that. The men were unremarkable. Half of them looked like they had dressed at the Goodwill and didn’t have sense enough to tuck in their shirts. Most of them needed a haircut and a shave.
So did he, he reminded himself.
The shower was hot and had good water pressure. Karl lathered himself with Olay soap and rinsed off the top layer of grime. Then he lathered himself again, picked Christine Neal’s pink razor off the shelf, and began to shave. He started with his head and worked his way down-his face, his chest, his belly. He considered himself lucky not to have a hairy back like a lot of men did, else he would have needed help.
From his belly, he skipped down to his legs, as careful not to nick himself as any woman would be. Then he helped himself to a fresh razor blade and began the very delicate task of shaving his privates. Karl couldn’t stand the feeling of hair prickling out of him. It made him feel unclean.
He stroked his penis and made himself hard, making the shaving of his scrotum easier.
A woman’s scream broke his concentration.
Christine Neal stood in the bathroom doorway, frozen in shock. Her eyes locked with Karl’s for the briefest moment; then she bolted.
Karl leapt out of the shower, slipped on the wet tile, but managed not to fall. He sprinted down the hall and tackled Christine Neal from behind as she reached for the phone on the kitchen counter. The handset tumbled to the floor.
She was a strong, athletic woman, and she twisted, and arched her back, and kicked and scratched at him. They struggled on the floor, Christine Neal grunting and trying to scream and choking on her own breath. Her hand swung wildly along the floor and managed to grab the phone again.
Karl lunged to get the thing away from her, rolling partly off her to get it. Christine Neal scrambled desperately to get her feet under her. Before she could take a step, Karl grabbed her by the ankle, and she fell once more. She was sobbing now, hysterical, trying to call out for help.
She twisted onto her side and tried to drag herself out of his reach, tried once more to pull a knee up under herself.
Karl reached out and grabbed her by the hair, but the hair came off in his hand, a wig. He chucked it aside and straddled her waist.
She was on her back now. His hands were around her throat, squeezing. She hit at him with her fists, tried to arch her body up beneath him to get him off. She tried to scream. The scream died under his thumbs.
Karl squeezed harder. Christine Neal was beginning to turn blue from lack of oxygen. Her tongue came out of her mouth, swollen and purple. Her eyes were bulging.
Karl fixed on her eyes, on the emotion in them. Sheer animal terror. He thought it must be horrible to die this way, looking into the face of your killer and finding no compassion, no sympathy. In his case, he imagined she didn’t see anything at all.
This wasn’t personal. He had no anger toward this woman, no real desire to kill her. But he couldn’t have her calling the police. He was flying below the radar now. No one had any idea where he was. He was free to move about the city as he wanted. And he had plans. He couldn’t let Christine Neal have an opportunity to ruin those plans. It simply wasn’t practical to let her live.
The swinging of her arms became weaker and weaker, until she was doing nothing but slapping her hands against the floor… then just twitching… then nothing.
Karl did not take his hands away from her throat, didn’t stop choking her. He didn’t want Christine Neal reviving and having a second chance to get away or call for help. He kept squeezing until his hands began to cramp.
When he finally did let go, Karl remained sitting on top of her. Her head fell to one side, mouth hanging open, nothing in her eyes but tiny pinpoint hemorrhages. Christine Neal was gone.
Karl sighed. He rested for a moment, stretched his hands and fingers, rubbed at the aching muscles of his forearms. After a while he got up and dragged her body down the hall and into the bedroom. He removed her clothes and threw them down the laundry chute where he had thrown the ragman’s clothes, then went back into the bedroom and shoved Christine Neal’s body under her bed, careful to adjust the dust ruffle after.