Glass Houses (37 page)

These were the guys, Bennie thought. These were the guys no serial killer ever thought to kill, and yet they were the perfect targets, the perfect—something. Bennie's passive vocabulary was better than his active one. He understood words on the page that he then couldn't remember on his own to save his life. Still, these were the guys. If anyone deserved to die, they did. If you wanted to strike a blow against mediocrity and hypocrisy and smug, self-satisfied, stuck-upness, this was where you had to do it. If he had had a knife on him right this minute or a gun—Why was it that the great serial killers never used guns? Maybe it was too easy. Maybe it lacked symbolism. Maybe it was like in that book,
The Stranger.
If the point was to live at the peak of experience, to get out beyond the ordinary emotions of ordinary people, then you'd want to make it last as long as possible. And you'd want to watch your victim bleed.

“Hey.”

Bennie came to. He'd been off in a trance somewhere. He'd had one of those visions where he was able to see the blood on his hands. He looked down at the man who had come up next to him. He was just one of those men, wearing a jacket that seemed to have been soaked through with grease and then dried. He was in his fifties somewhere. He smelled of cigarette smoke.

“Sorry,” Bennie said. “I drifted off there. I haven't had much sleep.”

“There something I can do for you?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I think I'm lost. I wanted to find a decent exit I could use to go west.”

“Where west?”

“Ohio. My mother's in Ohio. She moved out there to live with my aunt.”

“Gonna hitchhike?”

“That's the idea.”

The middle-aged man turned to look at the street. Bennie knew he wasn't really looking at anything in particular. He was just trying to seem knowledgeable, to make himself different from Bennie himself. Bennie leaned back and took the man's wallet out of his back pocket and slipped it into his own. It was over in a second. If Bennie had any luck, it would be hours before the man bothered to try to take his wallet out for anything at all.

“You've got to go up there,” the man said, pointing in the direction Bennie had been walking anyway. “It's a long walk though. You've got a mile and a half to go before you start seeing the access signs.”

“That's okay,” Bennie said. “Is there a place to eat somewhere on the way? A diner? A McDonald's?”

“There's a Taco Bell a couple of blocks up. I think it's open twenty-four seven.”

“Right,” Bennie said. “Thanks a lot.”

He went back out to the sidewalk. He did not run. He did not walk quickly. He just walked, and in no time at all he was past the point where he could see the body shop behind him. He could see the Taco Bell up ahead. He looked around but couldn't find a clock. The
DON'T WALK
sign was up at the intersection, and he stopped there in a crowd of people to wait. There was a man just in front of him with his wallet bulging out of his back pocket. He took it just as the light changed and the crowd began to move.

In the Taco Bell, Bennie went into one of the stalls in the men's room and took out the two wallets. The one he'd picked up at the body shop had a $142 in it, mostly in twenties. The one he'd picked up at the intersection had nearly $500. He put the bills in his own wallet, and then took out his driver's license. The last thing he needed now was that driver's license. He looked at the other two driver's licenses and took the one from the guy at the intersection. Then
he thought better of it. One of these guys was going to report his wallet stolen. Or maybe not. One of them might think the wallet hadn't been stolen so much as lost, and then . . . what?

Bennie didn't know what. It was safer to get rid of the two stolen wallets, and all three of the driver's licenses, but in the end he kept the licenses. He threw the wallets in the trash next to the sink. Then he came out into the main area of the Taco Bell and started thinking about something to eat.

If a serial killer had really wanted to do the world a favor, he thought—but, of course, a serial killer would not want to do that. A serial killer would know better than to care about the world.

Bennie Durban didn't know what he knew at all.

M
argaret Beaufort knew that
her sister, Elizabeth, was trying to avoid her. Her sister, Elizabeth, was always trying to avoid her. Even years ago when they were both debutantes and could have gained so much from being willing to be photographed together, Elizabeth had been trying to avoid her and had managed it by going away to California for college.

Margaret had been in California only four times in her life, all of them on business trips with her late husband, who had something important to do at a bank. She had been to Texas only once, also on a business trip, although that time she had combined business with social obligation and attended the wedding of a friend of hers from boarding school. It was as much traveling as she wanted to do west of Philadelphia, because there was nothing west of Philadelphia except dinky little towns that called themselves cities and local “societies” that thought recycling
Madame Butterfly
exhibited a commitment to Art. Margaret was committed to Art, but not to Artists, because Artists were Bohemian and tacky. She was committed to Science but not Scientists, because Scientists were grubby and boring and didn't know how to hold a conversation with anybody who couldn't understand equations. Most of all, she was committed to understanding herself, and other people, not by the people they knew, but by the people they didn't.

She was thinking about that—about the fact that it was so difficult these days only to know those people it was good for you to know—when the phone call came from Henry. When the phone started to ring, she let it go on for a very long time. She expected Elizabeth or the maid to pick it up. They nearly always did. When nobody picked it up, she finally got it herself, and for the first few seconds she had no idea what she was listening to. Police officers were some of the people Margaret did not know. Even with all the trouble Henry had been in, she didn't know them, because Elizabeth could usually be counted on to see to that.

This police officer was very polite, but he had a flat, nasal accent that reminded her of that silly old television show about hillbillies in California. Margaret was not surprised to think that the Pennsylvania criminal justice system might be stocked with hillbillies. She couldn't imagine who else would want to join the police force.

“He was having trouble dialing the phone himself,” the police officer said. “He is drug and alcohol free at the moment, but he seems to be having a little trouble adjusting to sobriety.”

A light went on inside Margaret's head. It was Henry the man was talking about. Henry was trying to make this phone call. Margaret said, “Excuse me just a moment” and went out into the hall. Somebody had to be around. Elizabeth. The maid. Anyone. When she was growing up, this house was always full of people. There were always servants coming out of the woodwork. And there was a lawyer, Margaret was sure of it. There was this new lawyer they had hired to do the work now that Henry had been arrested for something serious. Where was the lawyer?

She went back into the living room. Obviously, the lawyer was not here. The lawyer wouldn't be here. Nobody was here. She didn't like the idea of it, herself in this house all alone. She wondered where everybody had gone.

“All right,” she said, picking up the phone. “I'm here. Is it me Henry wants to talk to?”

“I think he wants to talk to anybody,” the police officer said, “except his lawyer. I suggested his lawyer. He wasn't having any.”

Margaret sat on the couch, waiting patiently. The phone seemed to be handed around and banged on things. There was noise in the background: metal clanging, people talking, someone shouting in the distance. Margaret tried to imagine what it was like, but she couldn't. She'd never had the least interest in what a jail would be like. She didn't even watch detective shows on television.

“Margaret?” Henry said. “Isn't Liz there? Are you really all by yourself?”

“If you want to talk to Elizabeth, you'll have to call back later,” Margaret said. “She's gone out. People do go out, Henry. They can't just wait around here until you get it into your head to call.”

“Don't hang up,” Henry said.

Margaret looked down at her free hand. In spite of what the policeman had said, Henry sounded very alert and aware, more alert and aware than she remembered him being for years. She bit her lip. There was something wrong with this.

“Don't hang up,” Henry said again. “I've been watching television. Have you been watching television?”

“You know I don't watch television,” Margaret said. “I don't know why you do, Henry. It can't be helping your brain function. The doctor said—”

“They found bodies in a cellar last night,” Henry said, and now Margaret was sure of it. He was like an entirely different person. He was showing not the least sign of years of alcohol abuse. “Lots of bodies. There were pictures on the news this morning. They took out bag after bag after bag.”

“So? It's not the kind of thing that's pleasant to think about, is it? And especially not this early in the day. Why should I care that they found a lot of bodies in a basement? Except it wasn't bodies, actually. Elizabeth talked to somebody this morning. It was only one body. And I still don't see why I should care.”

“You should care about the house. It was on Curzon Street.”

Margaret felt her forehead. It was a little hot. She was sure of it. She was coming down with something. She was starting menopause all over again. Henry never made any sense. Even when he was clean and sober and talking like a human being, he never made any sense.

“I don't understand,” she said. “Is this Curtain Street somewhere near here? Is it someone we know?”

“Curzon Street,” Henry said, “and you make an even less convincing mental defective than I do. Give it up, Margaret. Then come down here and get me. I have to get out of here.”

Margaret took a deep breath. “You can't just get out of there, can you? You have to be released on bond, or something. We tried to get you out of there, and you wouldn't come. Or you behaved like an idiot and—”

“Come down here. Bring me something. A book. Something that will pass muster at the desk. Then say you have to talk to me.”

“I can't talk to you any time at all,” Margaret said. “There are visiting hours.”

“This is a jail, not a prison,” Henry said patiently. “I'm being held; I haven't been convicted. Come down here. I need to get out of my cell and into the visitor's room. Come down. Say you have to see me. Do it now.”

“I don't see,” Margaret started.

“Now, Margaret,” Henry said.

The phone went to dial tone. Margaret looked at it. It hadn't been hung up in the way people usually meant when they said that a caller had “hung up on them.” It hadn't been slammed. Henry had just stopped speaking to her. Margaret put the receiver back in the cradle and tried to think. She was so angry with Elizabeth, she could barely stand it. Elizabeth was always like this. She got you into something, and then when it had to be taken care of, she disappeared. Margaret hated going down to the jail to see Henry. She hated it even more than she hated going to court, and that had damned near killed her.

She got up and went back out into the hall. The house was still quiet. There was still nobody home. She went back into the study, just in case Elizabeth was
hiding out. She wasn't. She was just gone. Margaret went back to the front hall and tried to think. The only thing she could do was what Henry wanted her to do, go down to that jail and ask to see him. She couldn't see what trouble that would cause or why she shouldn't do it. It was a jail. Even in a visitor's room, he wouldn't be able to hurt her. There would be policemen everywhere, and there would be those little booths with the bulletproof glass that kept the prisoners away from the real people. Wouldn't there be? Maybe that was only in prison. She didn't understand why Henry couldn't have just gone on doing what he was doing. Eventually, he would have drunk himself to death and that would have been the last she would have had to think about him.

“It's all your fault,” she said, out loud, as she got her coat from the front closet.

She had no idea who she was talking to.

G
regor Demarkian found the
two clerks waiting for him when he got to Police Headquarters, standing right up against the split door to their inner office as if they were waiting to see a parade go by. Maybe that was what they were waiting for. They weren't the only ones who seemed to have nothing to do but hang around watching the corridor. Gregor made his way down the corridor feeling as if he'd just committed the crime of the century and was being brought in to court. The perp walk. That's what they called it now. His head was swimming. He really hadn't had enough sleep the night before. All the caffeine since then hadn't helped.

He went through the outer office and up to the split door, where the women were waiting.

“I'm Gregor Demarkian,” he said. “I assume you're Mrs. Venecki and Mrs. Gelhorn.”

“Ms.,” one of them said.

“Oh, Betty,” the other one said, “don't get started on all that at a time like this.”

Gregor sorted them out in his head. Martha, who had to be the one who called the other one “Betty,” was a short, trim woman in flat shoes, an A-line polyester skirt, and a twinset. Betty, who wanted to be called Ms., was a tall, heavy-set woman in a jumper and crisp white blouse. They were both middle-aged and doing nothing to hide it. Neither of them dyed her hair.