The Cleaner (44 page)

Sighing, I put a hand on her shoulder and ask her to tell me what’s wrong.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I’m worried that my neighbors will walk by and stare at me. I’m worried they might think this woman is my girlfriend. I can do much better than Sally. In fact, I already have.

“Sally? What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

“Because you live here,” she says, trying to catch her breath. I wonder where she got my address from.

“Okay. What do you want?”

She looks up and down the street, but for what I don’t know. There are only two parked cars. One’s empty. The other has two people in the front seat facing each other and talking animatedly. I figure the passenger is a hooker, and the driver a man short on cash.

“To talk. To ask you something.”

I suck in a mouthful of air and swallow it down. She’s going to cry even more when she asks her question and I have to reject her. One woman in my life is enough. Given the speed at which she pulled up, I figure she’s been busting for a while to get her feelings for me off her chest.

“Okay. What is it you want to ask?”

“I don’t want you lying to me anymore, Joe,” she says, her voice suddenly getting louder.

“What?”

“No more lies,” she says, and she adds anger to her increasing volume.

I’ve no idea where any of this is coming from, and I’m not sure what to say. I can’t figure out what she means by my lies. I didn’t even know people like her were aware when they were being lied to.

“Okay, Sally, just take a deep breath,” I say, and then, just to prove I’m just like her, I add, “Oxygen comes from trees.”

She takes in a deep breath and her face seems to settle, but only a little. I figure she’s preparing herself to ask the big question, but she probably isn’t preparing herself to receive the big rejection. I will have to tell her that it’s not that I’m not interested in having a relationship with her, it’s that I’m not interested in having a relationship with anybody. It’s times like this that I see that having women like me this much can be a curse.

It’s best to get this over with. “Okay, Sally, Joe can’t listen long. I’m on my way out.”

“But you’re just arriving!” she shouts, the frustration back on her face within seconds. “I saw you! I’ve been waiting since Friday night! I had to keep coming back, and back. I wanted to wait inside your apartment, but I couldn’t. I chose different corners to wait around. Sometimes I’d fall asleep. Sometimes I’d go home and rest a few hours. Sometimes I’d drive around the block, looking for you. I didn’t think I’d get a chance. I wouldn’t have, not on Friday night. Not yesterday either. But they don’t think you’re coming back. That’s why hardly anyone is left.”

Her face is red and puffy. It looks like she’s spent much of her waiting in tears. “They? Left? What are you talking about, Sally?” I ask, but of course she probably doesn’t know.
She never does. Her world is full of kittens and puppies and good-natured, God-loving, extra-smiley people. She doesn’t have the ability to really understand anything at all. It’s probably a nice innocent life to be living if you aren’t aware of it.

She wipes a palm across her cheeks, smearing the tears.

“You have to tell me, Joe.”

“Look, Sally, take a deep breath and tell me what’s so important.”

“I want to know about your scars.”

Her comment throws me off balance. “What?”

“I was thinking about them. They didn’t look old enough to be from your childhood.”

I remember coming home Friday and feeling that things in my apartment were slightly out of whack by a few degrees. I’m getting that same feeling now. Only it isn’t my apartment, but the entire street. The entire world. I tighten my grip on the can of cat food. I take my hand off Sally’s shoulder and rest it next to my pocket. The one with the gun in it. The people in the car parked up the road are looking at us. The passenger door has opened slightly. The driver is talking on a cell phone, probably organizing another date. The hooker is getting ready to leave.

“Have I ever told you about Martin?” she asks, changing the subject. She obviously doesn’t care about the scars anymore. She’s probably even forgotten that she asked. She lifts a hand up to her face and takes another wipe at the tears.

“That’s your brother, right?”

“You used to remind me of him. But not anymore.”

“Okay . . .”

“Are you really retarded, Joe?”

“What?”

“It was the parking ticket. That’s why I’m here. The address in your file at work is your mother’s address. The police had no idea where you live. But I . . .”

“The police?” I ask, my stomach suddenly tightening and taking a sudden lurch downward. “What about the police?”

“The police don’t think you’re coming back. They waited, but you never showed. I told them where you lived because I’ve been here. I helped you, Joe. At work. In life. I helped heal you when you were attacked. It’s my fault more people have died since then.”

“You didn’t help me, Melissa did,” I snap, but of course she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Look, Sally,” I say, trying to sound calm, but the problem is I’m not calm. My voice is wavering; I feel like the world is crashing down on me. “What do you mean about the police?”

“You phoned me. I came around. I helped you, Joe.”

I look up and down the street. Cars are pulling into it from both ends. Vans too. Both doors on the parked car are open now. Neither of the occupants is a hooker. Both of them start toward us. The guy is tucking his cell phone into his pocket and reaching into his jacket for something else. Sally looks around at the noise of the sudden traffic. She looks surprised to see so many vehicles in such a crappy street. Her mention of the parking ticket and the police not knowing my address is setting off a lot of warning bells. It’s shifting the world off its axis. I unzip my jacket pocket and slip my hand inside. I look at the approaching cars and vans. I look at the couple walking toward us.

“I thought you were special,” she says, and she sounds disappointed.

“I . . . I am special.”

“I can’t believe you killed them.”

I take a step back. Slow Sally has figured out something the police haven’t been able to.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.

“You’re him. You’re the Christchurch Carver.”

I tighten my grip on the gun. I can’t use it out here because
it’s too loud. But I can use it to force Sally up to my apartment, where I have other tools. Or to go for a drive in her car. Maybe somewhere scenic, like a trip into the bush. Anything. I just need to get the hell off this street.

“You’re wrong, and you can’t go around saying things like that. Look, come upstairs and . . .”

“I gave them your address. I had to. What choice did I have? The house you went to on Friday, why did you burn it down?”

She glances over her shoulder in the direction I’m looking. Suddenly all the traffic comes to the same kind of screeching halt that Sally’s car came to a minute ago. The two people walking toward me start to run. The warning bells get louder. The world shifts even further, things are spiraling out of control.

“Jesus, what are you talking about?” I ask, watching the doors on the vans and cars opening. People in black clothing are starting to emerge. They start toward me. A wall of people wearing body armor. I recognize most of them.

“I’m sorry, Joe.”

“What have you done? What have you done?”

“Step away from him, Sally,” somebody yells. It’s Detective Schroder’s voice. No, this is impossible.

“Impossible.”

Sally shakes her head. She’s probably wondering how she could have got things so wrong over the last few months. I’m thinking the same thing. I drop the cat food, pull the gun from my pocket, and pull Sally toward me, my fingers looping over her crucifix and shirt. I point the gun at the side of her head. She cries out, but says nothing.

“You’ve got the wrong man,” I say, talking in my Slow Joe accent.

I push the weapon hard against Sally’s skull. Somebody screams at me to put it down, to put it down, but they’re still too far away to stop me. Unless they shoot. And they won’t
shoot, will they? I’m Joe. Everybody likes Joe. And I figure some of them probably like Sally too. I tighten my grip. I can’t face spending the rest of my life in prison. I can’t face that at all. Because that’s what’ll happen. They’ll see the gun I’m holding belonged to Calhoun. They’ll search my apartment. They’ll find my knives. They’ll find the videotape I made with Melissa. There’s no way I can Slow Joe my way out of that one. No way at all.

“Put the gun down,” Schroder says. I’ve never seen him look so mad. So . . . cheated.

“You put your guns down,” I respond. “Or I’m going to shoot her.”

“We’re not putting them down. You know that, Joe,” he says, trying to sound calm, but being betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice. “You know we can’t risk letting you go. Just put the gun down and nobody here has to be hurt.”

Schroder’s a moron if he thinks I’m going to put the gun down. I wish Melissa were here. She would know what to do. Or Mom.

“I’m Slow Joe,” I say, but nobody answers. “I’m Joe!” I shout.

They can’t do this to Joe. I’m one of them.

But they are doing it. They’re in control here, and that’s the last thing I want. Why are they so confident I’m their man? The answer suddenly hits me. My fear of what they’ll find if they search my apartment has already come true. Sally said they were here on Friday night. They’ve already found the tape. Found the knives. Found the folders and the audio tapes.

There’s nothing I can do here. No way for me to gain the upper hand, unless . . .

The idea doesn’t jump out of nowhere, because it’s always been there, a plan B always hiding in the depths, just waiting for the opportunity to jump out and kick me in the ass. Jesus, it’s still possible to regain control, but it’s the worst fucking way imaginable. Still, it’s either that or spend the rest of my life in prison. It’s a decision I need more time to consider, but
I don’t have more time. I don’t have anything. Other than a gun.

The men are only a few yards away now, all their guns pointing at me. I decide to take away their control. I decide to make this all about Joe. I shift the gun from Sally’s head to my own. I dig it under my chin so the barrel points upward. Sally gasps when she sees what I’m doing. Nobody else does. I think of Melissa. I’m going to miss her. I would have thought having control would make me feel stronger for these few seconds, but it doesn’t.

“Put down the gun,” somebody else screams, but I don’t.

“Please, Joe. Please, we can help you,” Sally says, but if she had any clue at all she would know that nobody can help me now.

I’m Joe. Slow Joe. I’m the Christchurch Carver. I’m the one who calls the shots. I’m the one in control. I’m the one who decides who lives and dies.

My legs feel weak. I feel like I want to be sick.

Well, live and learn.

I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes, and squeeze all the way on the trigger.

EPILOGUE

Police Confirm “Melissa” Link to New Murder

Police have confirmed that the officer found dead in a central city park four days ago is a likely victim of Christchurch’s Uniform Killer.

“We have evidence to believe that this new murder, of Officer William Sikes, is related to the three others that are already linked with the woman calling herself ‘Melissa,’ ” said Detective Inspector Carl Schroder, who is leading the investigation.

In all four cases, the victims were law-enforcement figures. Two of them were security guards whose bodies were naked when discovered by members of the public, and their uniforms were missing from the scene. The body of Melissa’s first alleged victim, Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun, has never been found, but a video of a woman killing him was found at the home of cleaner Joe Middleton, whose trial
for the Christchurch Carver murders is set for next month.

The trial date depends on Middleton’s continuing recovery from wounds sustained during his arrest. Witnesses told the Christchurch press that he was holding a gun to his head when an unnamed woman knocked it and he fired into his face, resulting in injuries that were serious but not life threatening.

Police have interviewed Middleton, but gained few leads in their hunt for Melissa, whose name is believed to be a pseudonym. The woman had been helping with their investigation days before Middleton’s arrest for the Christchurch Carver killings. Detective Inspector Schroder will not comment further, other than to say that she was a key witness.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Here’s a bit of number crunching for you.
The Cleaner
is my fourth book to be released in the United States, but it’s actually the first book I had published in my part of the world (New Zealand), and the second book I ever wrote. I wrote it back in 1999, it got signed in 2005, it’s 2012 now, and my biggest thought is, where did those years (and my hairline) go? I remember the excitement of getting the publishing contract, and the fear there was a mistake somewhere and the contract would be taken away from me. I remember learning the publishing date would be fifteen months later and how that time was never going to pass.

In the original acknowledgments for
The Cleaner,
I started out by saying that writing is a lonely thing, and yet so many people are involved in the process. It’s not as lonely these days. Since
The Cleaner
was first published I’ve met some truly wonderful people, made a lot of friends, been to a bunch of countries I never thought I’d see (have thrown my Frisbee in 22 of them), and have hung out with authors I truly admire.

Between 1999 and 2005,
The Cleaner
was read by many of my friends who, between them, offered enough support and encouragement to keep me going. Paul and Tina Waterhouse, who would return the manuscript with hundreds of corrected errors. Daniel Williams read the manuscript with enthusiasm and then left the country. Aaron Fowler, Philip Hughes, David Mee, Kim McCarthy, Nathan and Samantha Cook—all of you really helped. And David Batterbury—in late 2004, I confessed to Dave that I was a writer, and he asked to see something. Just when I was thinking being a writer wasn’t going to work out for me, he read
The Cleaner
and loved it. We’d fire up the Xbox on Friday nights, him and Paul Waterhouse and me, and we’d talk about the book. They made me promise to keep on submitting it. Which I did. And the rest is history.