Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

Cyclops by Ruth Francisco

A graduate of Swarthmore College, Ruth Francisco studied voice and drama in New York City before moving to Los Angeles to work in the film industry. Her first novel, Confessions of a Death Maiden (Mysterious), appeared in 2003 to universally strong reviews. It was followed a year later by Good Morning, Darkness (Mysterious), which Publishers Weekly called “one of the year’s best mysteries.”

Celeb sighting, 4:15 P.M., Fifth Avenue, New York City.

At first, she doesn’t notice me. She stops in front of Gucci, window-shopping, leaning forward, tilting her head to one side. I crouch and point the lens. She steps back, squares her shoulders, and continues down the crowded sidewalk.

I glue my eye to the viewfinder, tracking her. I’m loaded with Kodachrome — none of that digital stuff for me — one camera with a 24-millimeter lens, the other with a 150-millimeter.

I jump up and run ahead of her, weaving around pedestrians, stepping on and off the sidewalk, winding the camera strap around my left wrist in case I have to dodge a taxi. I turn, cock the shutter, and fire.

She passes into the shadow of the skyscrapers. I switch to the Nikon. No time to add a filter or change the lens. Shoot! Shoot!

Where’d she go? I lower the camera to look. There she is in front of Saks. I’ve got time for adjustments. I set the lens to f 8. I estimate the depth of field. Shafts of sun break between the buildings. God, she looks great!

Damn, she’s going in.

I follow through the revolving door, careful so that my cameras don’t bang against the glass. She meanders up an aisle. I step behind a mannequin to pull my light meter out of my breast pocket. I check for fluorescent light. A lady shopper who looks like Laura Bush gives me the evil eye: She thinks I’m looking up the mannequin’s dress. I lick its leg. She walks off in a huff.

Step back, adjust, level, check light, shoot. Nothing clumsy. I am as methodical as a surgeon sewing up a bullet wound.

As she left squealing-crashing-honking Fifth Avenue and stepped inside Saks, the gentlest of artificial breezes greeted her.

Dressed in a simple sleeveless smock, hair in a scarf, she pulled off her windshield sunglasses and wandered down an aisle of glistening glass shelves. She stopped to admire the crystal-cut perfume bottles. As if she were a secretary on her lunch hour without intention or means to make a purchase, she guiltily sprayed the tester sample. Lavender filled the air, Provence lavender, lavender warmed from the midday sun. She moved on before memories overwhelmed her.

She passed by blue-and-white porcelains and soft leather purses the colors of exotic hardwoods. She passed by cascading silk scarves — trefoil and fleur-de-lis, posies and primroses, lions and unicorns, blue, gold, and red — artfully arranged so as not to seem cluttered. Her eyes drank in the beauty. With each step into the lair of treasures, she forgot herself, growing lighter, taller, anonymous.

The saleswomen smiled at her pleasantly, their eyes sparkling with recognition, yet saying nothing, careful not to frighten her off. She gave them a nod to show she appreciated their discretion, but moved on, seeking to buy something that stirred her soul.

An experienced shopper, she saw in a nanosecond that there was nothing of interest here, yet her eyes lingered on the money clips. She stood motionless and remembered buying one from Tiffany’s, in silver, her first major purchase for a man, shivering with excitement as her world began to spin faster and faster — Was it the right thing to do? Marrying a politician? — presenting it to him on her wedding day, wanting him to like it, because it was understated and perfect, yet also teasing him, because he refused to carry money.

She also remembered — because bad follows good — placing it in his coffin, clipped over a hundred-dollar bill to pay for his passage across the river Styx, bending the fingers of his left hand around it, amazed how they sprang open like rubber. Even in death, he refused to carry money.

Something lodged in her chest above her sternum, an ice cube, her panic building, crushing her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Give me one day without thinking about him! She shook off the image as she had learned to do — Open your eyes. Look. What do you see now? What do you smell now? — ordering herself to the present. But her discipline failed, her thoughts sliding back into dangerous territory, like how the display cases were nearly the size of coffins, or how jewelry outlived us all.

Was there no escape? Passing back through time was so exhausting. Perhaps, she thought, it was time for another vacation (although she had yet to unpack from her recent trip to Buenos Aires), perhaps to someplace she’d never been, which would be hard because she’d been nearly everywhere that had a decent hotel.

Someplace — anyplace — where I can be anonymous.

As she wondered where such a place might be — a remote island, Bali, Antarctica — she jumped with inspiration. She did need something, a case for her oversized sunglasses, because she had begun to realize that the only way to overcome her anxiety was to take off her glasses and look at the world with naked eyes.

She moved to a case filled with sunglasses from Paris, Milan, and London, lenses from amber to turquoise, frames of tortoiseshell and titanium, displayed naughtily, earpieces spread wide. The salesgirl pulled out a tray of cases, her manicured fingers trembling as she snapped open one in black crocodile skin. In her confusion as to how to address the woman, the salesgirl trembled with excitement, her words barely audible — “These are just in from Milan, designed by Bartolomeo Vivarini” — her voice sticking in her throat as she explained the handmade dyes the designer used, the Indian thread of spun gold, the gossamer feathers of Tibetan parakeets. “These are very chic, very classy,” she said, immediately overcome with embarrassment: Who was she to tell Her what was chic and classy?

Suddenly the woman saw a quick furtive movement out of the corner of her eye. Pop, pop, pop! Bolts of lightning exploded off the mirrors, blinding her, burning her optic nerve. Oh my God, no!

In an instant, she was back at the rally, the hot sun shooting off windshields and office windows like broken glass, deafening rifle blasts bouncing off buildings. No!

She turned and saw the Cyclops crouching near the escalator, mouth open, drooling, his lens pointed at her, his round black eye, silver-lidded, unblinking. He fired.

She panicked. She crammed on her sunglasses and rushed to the revolving door. Suddenly everyone seemed to recognize her, pointing, as if spotting a comet. “Look! Look!” — “There she is!” — “Over there!”

She smelled his sweat and his whiskey breath, heard his sneakers squeaking behind her on the marble floors — Don’t go! Wait! — heard the camera lens and extra film rattling in his pockets.

She twirled out the revolving door into the chaos of Fifth Avenue and sprinted across the street, fleeing blindly, her eyes throbbing from his flash. She heard him following, puffing, calling her name. She ran for her life, all the way up the avenue until she reached Central Park and dashed into it like a gazelle across the savanna, her hair flying, her athletic arms swinging: chop, chop, chop.

Always the Cyclops followed her, pursuing her like a guilty conscience, beckoning her, his legs akimbo, pelvis tucked as he steadied his lens — “Look here! Look at me!”

Fleeing the past, evading the present, frightened of the future, could she ever run fast enough?

We have a history, she and I. She’s been mine from the very beginning.

From the time I first saw her at her coming-out party, sweeping down the front staircase like Scarlett O’Hara, pinching her cheeks to make them pink, fluffing her skirts, pirouetting, her arms lifted like a ballet dancer taking a curtain call.

Then at her wedding, looking around with this plastic smile on her face, eyes dazed as if she didn’t know what she was signing on for — didn’t know the deal.

You marry a rich politician, I own you, baby.

I followed her down to Barbados. Got some of those happy honeymoon pictures to sell to the tabloids, but the real gems I kept for myself. Pulling on her bathing suit under a towel. She gave me this haughty look like she’s got a right to some privacy. Ha! Not on your life, sweetheart. It’s open season and you’re fair game.

During the campaign, she hired two bodyguards, turned ‘em loose on us. They were pretty nice — they knew we had a job to do. They never broke our cameras, though sometimes they asked for our film. Mostly, they stood in front of us so we couldn’t shoot nothing and told us to go away ‘cause we were “disturbing” the lady.

Honestly! She looks at me sometimes like she’s afraid I’m going to gun her down. But I protect her. I’m not like those paparazzi. I never sell pictures that would hurt her precious reputation. I have shots of her kissing guys — just in greeting, but that’s not the way it looks in the photos. And pictures of her without a top. Her skirt riding up her leg getting out of a cab. Falling off a bike. Giving the finger to a heckler. I could’ve sold nude photos for big money to Playboy or Hustler, but did I? And when the senator was shot, did I sell pictures of her covered in blood, her face all stretched out like a laugh, only it wasn’t? Hell, no. I got too much class for that.

I just want her to come down to our level. If she’s gonna be that stinking rich and famous, she’s gotta share a bit, you know what I mean? Hell, we live in a democracy.

I’d never hurt her, like chasing her in front of a truck. I wouldn’t do that to a dog. Have I ever broken the speed limit going after her? Never! Besides, if she got hurt, there goes my meal ticket.

It’s not like I’m some kind of crazed stalker. I’m just trying to earn a living. You know what I mean?

She collapsed inside the door of her Park Avenue condo. Her back slid down the wall until her butt thumped on the floor. She hugged her legs to her chest, sobs ripping up her esophagus.

What did they want from her? The crowds who hovered outside her building, teenagers and housewives fawning over her as if she were the Virgin of Guadalupe, reaching across the police barricade, fingertips stretched, on fire. Holding out photos of her to sign, babies to kiss. And the Cyclopes, blinding her with their flashes, squatting, jumping around the fans, their cameras whirring — pop, pop, pop — oblivious to the traffic and the busy sidewalk.

When would it end? When would they leave her alone? They took her husband! What more did they want?

She felt weak, persecuted, violated. Like a fox chased through the woods by a pack of beagles and men on horseback. A fox without a chance.

She huddled in the corner of her hallway, panicked and shivering. Like a roach, she sought a dark crevice where she could hide. She wished she could disappear.

Her heart fluttered, beating too fast, and her skin burned all over. The hallway floor tilted, the ceiling pressed down. Whimpering as she sobbed, she gasped for breath.

This is it, she thought. I’m losing my mind. They have driven me crazy. But even as these and other unspoken words zipped between her temples — insanity, paranoia, psychosis — even as she dashed into her bedroom, yanked a pistol from her bedstand drawer, and shoved it into her mouth, a pea-sized knot of reason held fast.

The barrel felt cool against her lips and tongue. It tasted and smelled like motor oil, making her gag. She took the gun out of her mouth.

As tears poured down her face, she sat on her bed and looked at the pistol. It was silver and not much larger than her hand, a gift from a lobbyist for the NRA after her husband spoke in favor of banning the sale of handguns. Before he was gunned down.

She felt its weight in her hand. No, she would not let them drive her insane. She was stronger than that.

Mental anguish my foot! Bloody bitch thinks she’s gonna sue me? What about my First Amendment rights! She’s got all the money in the world and she wants to prevent me from making a living? There are a million photographers out there. How come she’s got to harass me?

She has these fancy New York lawyers. Fine. We’ll fight in court, baby. A big trial ain’t gonna embarrass me none. Hell, it’ll be good for business. Free publicity.

So there she is on the witness stand all weepy, looking straight at the jury, in her whispery I’m-just-a-poor-defenseless-woman voice: “I feel like a prisoner... all I want is a small measure of privacy... I feel terrified of what he might do next, especially to my children.” Boohoo! Her voice cracks. She dabs her eyes. The jury looks at me like I’m some kind of child molester. One lady bares her teeth at me. Christ! I got kids, too!

Then, after the jury goes out, one of her employees trots in with a big picnic basket, and she and the judge have lunch in his chambers. Is that even legal? What a sham!

Sure she wins. How’s a working schlub like me gonna compete with all that money? Against a mother protecting her children? No way. Everyone on that jury acts like she’s some kind of princess. But what the hell has she ever done? Nothing but snag a famous husband. Yet she gets respect and I get kicked in the teeth.

Sure, I’m mad at her — she doesn’t have to be that way. But I don’t hate her. Hell, I make my living off her — I oughta love her. I’ll tell you what I really love. I love that moment she sees me, her eyes filled with terror. Like a wild animal. That’s real. She can be as phony as she wants to the rest of the world, but when she sees me, I get her soul. Sure, I get off on it. It’s power. Then she takes off until next time.

It’s like we have a relationship.

You’re thinking I’m a psychopath. No way. I’m good for her. I let her know WE exist out here. I let her know she’s human. I let her know she’s got responsibilities to us. She should be grateful to me.

I hear she’s got a big blowup of one of my photos hanging in her dining room. You know, the one where she’s looking over her shoulder at me in jeans and braless in a tight jersey, her hair flying in the wind, with this ferocious look in her eye like she’s about to bite.

So you see, she knows I’m good at my job. I guess that makes me kind of happy.

I see him as soon as I cross Fifth Avenue and turn the corner by the museum steps. He follows, keeping his distance. His Cyclops eye zooms in on me, scoping me out like a sniper’s rifle. He shuffles with his camera pressed to his face, bumping into tourists, darting between cars, flipping a finger to honking taxis, Screw you, sweetheart! skipping around businessmen, ducking for a moment behind a hot-dog stand, then sliding between gray-haired matrons and their middle-aged daughters.

On he comes, never ceasing. His feet splayed in a duck walk, his heels hitting hard, his polished leather coat flapping against his thighs. On he comes, unerring, undeflected, a missile to its enemy, a predator after its prey. On he comes. On target.

By Conservatory Water, the children in red-and-white sailor maillots prod toy sailboats with sticks. Dried leaves twirl in spiraling gusts. The oak trees and crape myrtle bend lightly in the wind. Weary Park Avenue au pairs chat in foreign tongues as their toddlers take tentative steps toward one another. Old men eat peanuts from small paper bags, and tourists take off their shoes to rub their feet.

He lurks on the other side of the pond, his black proboscis probing the shadows until he finds me.

I turn and flee back up the path toward the museum and into the tunnel that leads to the Great Lawn. I stop and wait. He charges into the underpass, lenses rattling. He pulls up abruptly when he sees a dark figure leaning against the wall. The tunnel is dank and narrow, smelling of pee and moss, the kind of place bad things happen, the kind of place New Yorkers run through holding their breath. He hesitates, not knowing if it’s me or someone who will stab him, grab his cameras, and kick him in the face.

He takes a step toward me. I’m sure he can’t make out my face. He wheezes; his breath is shallow. Does he have asthma or emphysema? Is my stalker ill? I smell his body sweating in leather, frowsty like an old man. My stalker is ageing with me.

I hear the tinny clank of his light meter knocking against his second camera. “Smile, sweetheart,” he taunts. The tunnel explodes in white light. His camera whirrs.

I spin on my foot and dash out into the gray-yellow light, through the piles of dead leaves, my ankles twisting on horse chestnuts underfoot.

I glance behind and see him laboring, his brow beaded with sweat. On he comes.

Is today the day I succumb? I can’t run forever. One day my legs will give out.

I dash across the Great Lawn, through the wild Rambles, down to the lake, my feet slipping where the grass has worn to mud. I pause on Hernshead Rock under the London plane trees and look out. Fall colors edge the lake in yellow and brown like a cuff of leopard fur. The sun breaks from behind a cloud and makes an amoeba-shaped patch on the still water. A single rowboat in the middle drifts as a man and a woman look at one another from opposite ends of the boat.

The Cyclops runs out of the woods; when he sees me he stops and raises his camera.

As soon as you are born, you begin to die. HE is there, every moment of your life, stalking, waiting... ready. No one escapes.

I could run west toward Columbus Circle, or east into the zoo. But I have come as far as I want. I will run no more.

I turn and face him.

What’s she doing? She’s walking toward me. Well, make my day, honey.

I finish a roll of film and she’s still headed toward me. Like taking candy from a baby! Defiant, head-on shots. Sultry and furious. God, she’s gorgeous.

It’s like she wants me to take pictures. Hot dog! That’s it, honey, look hard. Make me sweat.

She puts her hand into her purse, fumbling around without looking, walking slowly. She pulls out something silver. What the hell?

I turn fast, bolting back toward the woods. I look over my shoulder. She’s coming at me, jogging fast. I gotta make it back to Fifth Avenue.

I aim for the tunnel ahead. My left arm is getting numb and my chest feels like someone is kicking me with boots. Damn! I’m not in shape for this. I pause in the tunnel, just for a second. I lean my right hand against the wall. It’s wet and cool, but my chest! Stop kicking! I can’t get my breath.

I hear her footsteps enter the tunnel. She wouldn’t shoot a guy who’s having a heart attack, would she? I turn and lift my arm, trying to tell her that I need help, but the words don’t come out. I take two steps toward her.

Something crashes, like a truck smashing into an overpass. My chest explodes and I think it’s my heart. My knees buckle and I’m on my back on the cold wet pavement, but I feel warm all over. I taste blood in my mouth. I see her beautiful face above me, like an angel, warm and relaxed, her hair falling around her shoulders, smiling.

What a fabulous shot.

I reach for my camera. “I’ll take that for you,” she says, her voice like music playing. She points it at me, and all I see is the black lens like a big black tunnel, and I’m falling down into it, and I hear the flash, and a bright white light blasts at the end of the tunnel, pulling me away.

Copyright © 2005 by Ruth Francisco.