Red 1-2-3 (40 page)

“I’d like to thank you all for coming. This is a great turnout, and my dear friend Sarah would have been pleased to see so many people.”

She wanted to make eye contact with every person in the room, on the off chance that she could recognize the Big Bad Wolf just by the glint in his eyes. But instead, she kept her head down, as if moved by the emotion of the fake service, hoping that Jordan’s camera was doing the job for her.

She read words that meant nothing, trying to sound deeply respectful when what she wanted was to scream.

It was all a gamble, she understood.
Maybe he’s smart enough to stay away
and this is all for nothing.

But maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s drawn here, because the scent he’s been pursuing is just too strong and he’s not able to stop himself.
That was what the three Reds were counting on.

She thought of the old saying:
Curiosity killed the cat.

Maybe it can kill a wolf, too.

290

36

The funny thing,
he thought,
is that with all the killing I’ve done, I just don’t
much like attending funerals. They make me really uncomfortable. They are
too filled with excessive emotion and phony sentiments.

He found himself whistling a series of disconnected notes, not a recognizable tune.
Real people like the Reds. Made-up characters in my books. Lots
of different types of dying at my hands. But whether it’s on a page in prose or
laid out on a slab in a morgue waiting for the hearse and a trip to the cremato-rium or a berth six feet under, you are still stone cold. Whether you were killed
by old age, illness, or sudden death, by a knife or a gun or even by an author’s
whim, in the end it’s all the same.

He snorted and thought he sounded like a preacher giving himself a sermon. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” he said in a mock, deeply sonorous tone.

The Big Bad Wolf believed that he had perfectly blended his fictional worlds with reality. He was a killer in both. He considered himself equally a master of the real and the make-believe. To be so adept in both arenas fueled his excitement.

291

JOHN KATZENBACH

“Tick-tock, tick-tock. Clock is running, ladies,” he said to himself. He laughed a little, and wondered which would be ultimately more tantaliz-ing: killing or writing about it. They were both wildly attractive.

His only lingering concern was exactly how to express Red Two’s death.

This was the sort of challenging knot that all writers liked to undo, he thought.
James Ellroy.
L.A Confidential.
He likes to tightly wind things into
complicated scenarios, and then dance his way out with compelling language.

And violence. Lots of violence. Can’t forget all that savagery he brings to the
ending.
The Wolf knew he had to make her final moments on the edge of the bridge seem as alive as the ones he was about to deliver to Red One and Red Three. His problem was he hadn’t been there. “Goddammit.” He had to make sure that readers knew that when Red Two threw herself into the dark waters below, it was his push that sent her.

“You know enough. You have the details. It’s just a matter of the right description,” he said. It was always reassuring to speak to himself in the second person.

He made a mental list:
Panic: You know that. Doubt: You understand it.

Fear: Well, who has a better handle on that than you? Bring them all together
in Red Two’s mind, and there you have it.

He made a mental note to draw a bath when he returned home, immerse his head completely beneath the water, and try to duplicate the sensation of drowning.
It won’t be the same. No black water and fierce currents pulling
me under. But I’ll get just enough of a little piece of comprehension to make it
work on the page.

Hold your breath. When you start to black out, you will know.
That should
do the trick.

Know about what you’re writing. Hemingway knew war. Dickens knew
the British class system. Faulkner knew the South. All good fiction writers have
a little journalist inside them.

He had pulled his car into a small dirt parking area adjacent to a wild-life preserve not far from Red One’s home. The preserve abutted the back end of her property. There was a hiking trail favored by local granola-and-boots types that led back into the forest and up a steep but manageable 292

RED 1–2–3

path to a hill that afforded fine views of the valley that he and all three Reds lived in. It was a popular spot. On a nice Sunday morning it was likely to be jammed with a dozen or more cars, and you could hear laughter penetrating the trees and scrub brush as people cheerfully made their way up and down the trail. But on weekdays, it was almost always empty, as few people wanted to take a hike, even a something-less-than-grueling one, after a long day at a boring job. This afternoon, there were only three cars in the lot, even though it was the weekend. The gray, overcast skies threatened rain soon, and the air was chilled deep enough that he could see his breath when he rolled down his window; higher elevations might see snow flurries. This concerned him. He did not want to leave tracks in frozen ground. Slick, damp mud would obscure his footprints. Mud that froze as the temperature plummeted would encase the patterns on his shoe soles almost as well as a plaster of Paris mold. He had read of more than one killer identified by a distinctive shoe print, and he was aware that even the most rural police force knew how to identify shoe prints and tire tracks.

He glanced around. He wanted to be certain that none of the few hik-ers saw him as he awkwardly changed from a cheap blue suit into jeans, fleece top, and waterproof shell, rapidly going from funeral attire to outdoors gear. He had to contort his body in the front seat of his car as he slid out of his pants, and he was reminded that he wasn’t getting any younger.

His knees creaked and his back tightened, but it couldn’t be helped. He shucked off his wing-tip shoes and slid his feet into thick woolen socks and sturdy waterproof boots.

After changing, he double-checked his fake mustache and goatee in the rearview mirror, to make certain that it was still fixed to his face and hadn’t become ridiculously skewed when he’d slid into his turtleneck sweater.

He had once read—back in the days before security cameras and video monitoring systems—of a bank robber who never wore a mask to obscure his identity, but who routinely used some Hollywood makeup to place a savage fake scar on his face, extending from above the eyebrow and across the cheek to below the chin.
Someone who truly understands the psychology
293

JOHN KATZENBACH

of crime,
the Wolf thought. Every time the police had asked the bank tellers and other witnesses for a description of the robber, they had all uniformly responded: “You can’t miss him because he’s got this damn big scar,” which they then described in great colorful detail. The fake scar was all they saw. Not his eyes or hair color, and not the shape of his cheek-bones or the curve of his nose or the square of his chin. He had always liked that.
People only see the obvious. Not the subtle,
he told himself.

But
subtle
was the religion he worshiped.

Out of the trunk of his car, he took a common bright pink backpack purchased in a chain drugstore. Decorated with a prancing white unicorn, it was the sort favored by kindergarten girls. He also removed a knotty wooden hiking staff, around which he’d placed a rainbow-hued scarf that was a staple dress item for the local gay and lesbian community. He pulled a navy-blue knit cap emblazoned with the logo of the New England Patriots football team onto his head.

The Big Bad Wolf knew that all of these items taken together created an eccentric, incongruous package, one that, like the bank robber’s scar, would make him invisible to anyone he might happen upon in the forest.

They will remember all the wrong things,
he told himself.

In the pink backpack he had placed six items: a sandwich, a small flashlight, a thermos with coffee, a pair of night-vision binoculars just in case he decided to stay until after the sun set, a folding spyglass, and a copy of
Audubon’s Birds of North America.

The book—which he’d never opened or bothered to read—was for anyone curious enough to stop him, such as a park ranger, although he doubted any would be up on the trails this afternoon. But it wasn’t a bald eagle or a white-tufted owl he actually intended to spy upon.

He started whistling again. A carefree happy tune. He glanced at his wristwatch.
Timing is important,
he reminded himself. He waited until the sweep hand hit 12, and then the Wolf started rapidly up the path toward the preserve, looking for the small notch in a trailside tree that he’d made in the trunk to mark a route down through the woods that stretched behind Red One’s home.

294

RED 1–2–3

Trial run,
he thought. Next time it wouldn’t be a child’s pink backpack and gay pride walking staff. The next time he would bring only his hunting knife.

He considered all that he had planned:
Tuesday. An ordinary, run-of-the-mill day. The dull middle of the workweek. Nothing ever really special about
Tuesdays.

Except, this Tuesday will be different.

He carefully counted the minutes it took him to wend his way through the thick tangle of woods. Later, he would count the hours until Tuesday evening.

Out the side door. Past the deli and the pizza shop. Duck through the walkway
behind the parking lot. Keep your head down and walk fast.

Red Two hurried through the fading light of the late afternoon. It had started to drizzle again, and she hunched her shoulders forward and tucked her chin into her chest against the cold. She wore an old black baseball cap that was tattered and did little to conceal her mop of hair, but it was better than nothing. Some droplets formed on the bill.

The local Episcopal church had seemed like a good place for them to gather. It was four blocks from the women’s center where Sarah was hiding, just off the bus line that served Jordan’s school, and a quick walk across the town’s main shopping area from the parking garage, where Karen could leave her car and make certain she wasn’t followed by riding an elevator up and down a few times.

“The pastor has an office in the basement he says we can use,” Red One had said on the phone. “I told him we were trying to help out a friend—

that’s you, Sarah—at Safe Space and needed a place to meet in private, and he was most understanding. He said he frequently sermonizes on family violence, so I made it seem like we were worried about an abusive husband.”

She had not said,
“No Wolf will follow us into a church,
” which was what Sarah was thinking as she crossed a black macadam parking lot that glistened with rain. Some crazy thought about sacred or consecrated ground 295

JOHN KATZENBACH

reverberated within her, but she told herself that was for vampires, not wolves.

Red One had told her not to use the main church entrance, so she made her way around to the rear. There was a small basement entry that had a sign next to the door that stated: no admittance during sunday services. aa group meets 7–9 pm monday, wednesday, friday.

She stepped in a puddle, cursed, and hurried forward. She felt almost ghostlike, as if she were suddenly invisible. She wondered if this was because of the memorial service.
A lot of
people think I’m dead. I can’t let
anyone who knew the old Sarah see the new Cynthia.

She pulled the door open and entered the church’s basement. A radiator was hissing and steam was clanking in some hidden pipes. Sarah pushed down a narrow corridor lit with uncovered bulbs that made the white-washed walls shine harshly. At the end, the corridor opened into a larger space that had a low soundproofed ceiling and a linoleum floor, a stage at one end, and several rows of gray steel folding chairs arranged in front of an empty podium. It was a dingy, cheerless space, and she guessed this was where the AA meetings took place.

Off in a corner, there was a door open to another room, and she heard voices. She moved that way, and saw Karen standing inside next to a sturdy oaken desk. On the walls were some pictures of a silver-haired man in robes performing ceremonies and a pair of divinity school diplomas, but there was no sign of the priest. Jordan was beside Karen, fiddling with a camera, some wires, and a laptop computer.

Jordan looked up, smiled, and jokingly said, “Hey, dead woman walking. How’re you doing?”

“Not bad. Adjusting,” Sarah said.

“Cool.”

Karen came over and gave Sarah a hug, which surprised the younger woman. But she could feel a type of warmth flowing through the embrace: not exactly a friend’s embrace, but a
we’re-in-this-together
touch.

“How’d it go?” Sarah asked. She thought it was the most curious question, asking someone how her memorial service had been received.

296

RED 1–2–3

Karen shrugged and smiled wryly. “It was good. A little weird—but actually good. You had many more friends than you said would come.

People were genuinely sad . . .” She stopped before finishing the sentence, but Jordan jumped in.

“. . . Because you killed yourself.” The teenager grinned and laughed.

Sarah smiled weakly. She thought there was nothing in the least humor-ous in their situation, and what they’d done and what they planned on doing, and in saying farewell to her former life. But at the same time, Jordan’s response was precisely right: It was all hilarious, an immense practical joke.

The three Reds were silent for a moment.

“Was he there?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know,” Karen replied. “There were a lot of men, and families, but I couldn’t be sure about any one specific man. He wouldn’t wear a sign that said ‘Hi, I’m the Wolf ’ or try to stand out in any way. I was trying to make eye contact, but it was hard—”