Bedbugs (21 page)

But there was the gun! Right there in my desk drawer!

I hadn’t thrown the damned thing away!

If you had asked me then, I suppose I would have said the gun was worthless. What difference would it make if I kept it or tossed it? That wasn’t the gun that had killed Sally. I had to accept that I hadn’t summoned the Devil that night. I had fallen asleep and, worn out by exhaustion and stress, I’d had a vivid nightmare. I hadn’t really summoned the Devil. Stuff like that just didn’t happen!

I gave the cops my alibi, and it was solid. When the shots rang out, I was in class on the Portland campus, lecturing on Shakespeare’s use of horse imagery in
Richard II
, more than twenty miles from my house. You can’t go against the testimony of a roomful of graduate students.

About then, one of the policemen came around behind the desk and noticed the Colt in the desk drawer. Eyeing me suspiciously, he asked if he could take a look at the gun. Sure, I said. There was no denying now that I owned a gun like the one used to kill my wife. After he inspected it for a moment, he put it back on my desk.

“Look,” I said, a bit nervously as I hefted the gun. “This sucker doesn’t even work. It’s a model or something.” I opened the chamber, showed them that the gun was loaded, clicked it shut, and then with a flourish, pressed the barrel to my temple.

“See?” I said, and before either of them could react, I pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. “Nothing happens. It’s a fake.”

They were unnerved by this display, but it seemed to satisfy them. After thanking me for my cooperation, they left, saying that they’d wait in the hallway until I felt ready to come with them to the morgue to make a positive identification of my wife.

But they had no more than swung the office door shut behind them when shots rang out in my office! I was just turning to pick up my coat when the center of the Dartmouth Christmas Revels poster blew away. I turned and stared, horrified, as the top row of books on my bookcase suddenly jumped. I saw a large, black, smoking hole in the spine of my dissertation. Then the pencil sharpener by the door exploded into a twisted mess of metal. Three more shots removed pieces of wallboard and wood from my office wall.

With the sound of the six shots still ringing in my ears, I saw the two policemen burst back into the room, their revolvers drawn and ready.

“I thought that gun didn’t work!” one of them shouted as he stood braced in the doorway, his revolver aiming right at me. His expression shifted to one of confusion when he saw that the Colt wasn’t in my hand. It was lying on the desk, exactly where I had put it before they left.

“Man, I don’t know what the hell’s going on here,” the other cop said, “but you’d better come down to the station until we can check out the ballistics to make sure.”

I was in a state of near shock. I’m positive my face had turned chalk white: I could feel an icy numbness, rushing across my cheeks and down the back of my neck as a terrible realization began to sink in.

It had been almost—no! It had been
exactly
twenty-four hours ago that I had aimed and shot the Colt in my office! Six times!

And nothing had happened . . . until now!

And this bit about the ballistics test had cracked my nerve. I mean, at this point I was already convinced that it hadn’t been coincidence. The shots I had banged off twenty-four hours earlier must have been what did in Sally. I knew, if the cops checked it out, the ballistics would be a match.

And what about good ole’ Walter Altschuler? Was he dead, too? With a sickening rush, I remembered what the Devil had said the night he gave me this gun . . . He said it was a Colt .
24!
A special, modified Colt .45!

I tried to force myself to remain calm, but damn my soul to hell! I had pointed the gun to my head as a
beau geste
and pulled the trigger three times! I remembered—now—that when I had done that, I had smelled a trace of spent gunpowder . . . as I had yesterday morning at my house when I had targeted Sally and Walter, and then again in my office.

Just then Joan Oliver, the department secretary, poked her head into my office—cautiously, I might add—to inform the policemen that they had a phone call. I started to lose it, knowing exactly what it would be. I lost control entirely when, seconds later, one of them came back and informed me that Walter Altschuler, my wife’s attorney, had been found shot to death in his car in the Casco Bank parking lot in downtown Portland. He had three .45 caliber bullet wounds in his head.

I’d been had!

I’d signed the damned contract—in blood! I had the damned gun. It had worked! And the Devil had cheated me but good in the bargain.

So while I’ve been sitting here in the jail cell, after coming to my senses this morning, I asked for some paper and a pen. If I’m wrong, I don’t want to tell my story and be committed to the psycho ward. I still might be able to get away with this.

But if I’m right . . . if I’m right, it’s been just about twenty-four hours, and I want to have all of this written down to leave a permanent record before those bullets from Hell blow my hea—

—for Charles Waugh

Marty Greenberg

and Isaac Asimov

O
hh, it’s so nice of you to bring me lunch today. You can probably imagine how trying the last few weeks have been. Terrible, simply terrible! But I thank the Good Lord, our troubles are finally over. That is, I suppose, except for my own. But I have to tell you, I was more than willing to risk what I did. And I—I’m prepared to suffer the consequences, you can be sure of that.

Yes, I’d like some iced tea. It looks like you brewed it just this morning. Why, it’s the perfect thing to go with a tuna fish sandwich, don’t you think? Mmmm, that looks good. Thank you very much.

Now, where was I? How shall I begin?

I suppose you’ll want me to tell you everything. How it all came about. Fine. I can do that. I just need a moment to compose myself.

There. . . . Well. . . . As you can probably imagine, losing my only daughter the way I did was horrible, absolutely horrible!

I—I’m sorry. . . I still—It pains me so to speak of it.

Oh, no . . . no. I’ve been holding up quite well, thank you. I think I’d do even better if Elizabeth would come to visit me. But I have to be strong, just as I have to talk about it all to someone. I suppose it’s the only way I’ll ever truly begin to put it all behind me. Don’t you agree?

Then again, sometimes I wonder if I ever will be able to forget what happened. The loss of a child . . . your own child is—is. . . . Well, the good Lord knows, no parent should ever survive their own children. It’s not the natural order of things. The fact that Nancy was the only child Edward—God rest his soul—and I ever had only makes it all the more painful, all the more bitter.

But as you know, I still have my granddaughter, Elizabeth, thank the Good Lord. Whenever I think about my little granddaughter’s face, I recall how it reflects her mother’s beauty so much. I know that my daughter’s earthly beauty will live on in her daughter. Elizabeth is my treasure now.

Oh, no—no! She’s staying with friends until I get better. I don’t think her father will want her to move in with him. He’s too busy now with his own life. Got a whole new family out there in California. No, she’ll stay close to me as long as there’s breath left in this body, I’ll see to that.

Oh, how nice. Sweet-and-sour pickles. Could you please open the jar for me? You can see that I wouldn’t be able to do it. God, you’d think they’d make these jars so someone my age could open them, wouldn’t you? Umm, thank you.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was going to tell you how it all started. I remember that it was the third day of June. I wrote it down on my calendar because I knew, even at the time, that it was a significant day. Nancy and I had just finished washing the supper dishes when we heard Elizabeth start screaming in the living room. We rushed in and saw immediately what the problem was.

A tiny sparrow had gotten into the house somehow. The poor, frightened creature was fluttering frantically around the room, beating itself against the picture window. Just a pitiful sight!

Yes, I’m afraid Nancy might have hurt one of its wings when she caught it and threw it out the front door.

If only I had been quick enough to catch it, then perhaps things would have happened in a more natural way, the way they’re supposed to happen, with me dying before my only child. But I’m not nearly as spry as I used to be.

No . . . no—I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.

There, that’s better. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes—about the bird in the house. Well, from that day on, I lived in constant dread for my Nancy. A bird in the house is always an omen of imminent death, don’t you know. My mother told me that years ago, and I have yet to see or hear of an instance where it didn’t prove true.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be no exception because, well, less than a week later, my dear daughter Nancy died . . . of a cerebral hemorrhage, the doctor told me, from banging her head when she fell down the stairs.

Just think of it!

A young, healthy woman . . . taken away just like that! Look at that. An old lady like me, and I can’t even snap my fingers.

Surely, the Good Lord works in mysterious ways, but I knew from that very day when we caught that bird in our house, one of us was living on borrowed time here on earth. Because Nancy had been the one to catch the poor creature, I naturally assumed it was she. What I didn’t realize was how much jeopardy it would also present to Elizabeth. I thank the Good Lord that I did what I did to protect her.

The days immediately before and following my daughter’s funeral were horrible, absolutely horrible! I had a lot of friends who helped me through that difficult time. I certainly wouldn’t have made it without them. As it was, I was almost too preoccupied with my own grief to realize the serious danger Elizabeth was in.

I think it was—well, it must have been her curiosity that got the better of her. What youngster isn’t curious, right? You see, just as my mother taught me, and my grandmother before taught her, I did all of the appropriate things around the house during the days right after Nancy died. I made sure they carried her out of the house headfirst. I kept the cat outside for a week. I covered all the mirrors with white cloth and turned all the paintings toward the wall. I even placed the kitchen chair Nancy used to sit in upside down so her spirit wouldn’t appear in its accustomed place. I did everything that is appropriate.

But you know how it is. Leave it to the young ones who haven’t got a lick of the respect they should have in the face of Death to be curious. And just like they say about curiosity and the cat, Elizabeth’s curiosity almost killed her.

Oh, dear! Now look. You’ve spilled my iced tea. Be a dear and wipe that up with a napkin, will you?

There. Oh, thank you for pouring me some more. Now where was I?

Oh, yes—I was telling you about the mirror, wasn’t I? You see, I remember that day as clearly as I remember the day that poor bird flew into our living room. I was in the front hallway, standing up on a chair to drape a piece of white cloth over the mirror when Elizabeth came in and asked me what I was doing.

“Well,” says I, “You can see that I’m covering the mirror.”

She then asked me why and, realizing that she might not be aware of the proper things to do in a situation such as this, I explained it to her. Of course, being only nine years old, I’m sure she didn’t fully understand; but I told her how mirrors aren’t what they appear to be. I explained how what people call their “reflection” is, in fact, something much more than that. It’s actually the physical embodiment of your eternal soul.

You don’t believe me? Well, you certainly don’t sleep in a room with a mirror in it, do you?

My goodness, you do? Aren’t you afraid that your soul, drifting around while you’re asleep, will be trapped inside the glass?

Well, in any event, I explained to my granddaughter the dangers of looking into a mirror in a house where someone has recently passed on. I know I certainly would never chance it. I didn’t look into one for at least two weeks after Edward died. My hair must have been a fright. I suppose I looked as terrible then as I must look now.

Oh, thank you. You’re too kind.

But no—I’d never dared to look into a mirror in a house where somebody has died recently. Why, I’d be terrified of who I might see, standing there, looking over my left shoulder!

And so, you see, I explained to Elizabeth the dangers of catching even a glimpse of the soul of the departed, which could be trapped in the glass and—well, as I said, what child isn’t curious, hmm? I’m sure she took the very next opportunity when I wasn’t looking to uncover the glass and look into it.

Why?

Well, I suspect because she probably wanted to see if her mother was in there, don’t you?

This was the day after her mother died, for Lord’s sake! You can imagine how distraught my granddaughter was at the time. We both were! Even now, I hear that she spends most of her time in her bedroom, not seeing or talking to anybody.

Of course, wounds like this take time to heal . . . if they ever do. The Good Lord knows I still miss my Edward. Why, sometimes late at night, even here, I could swear he’s lying there beside me in bed. Sometimes, you know, I can even hear him
breathing!