Mine

Part V – The Killer Awoke

1: Damaged Goods

"I think we were followed," Mary said for the third time as she stood at the window of Edward Fordyce's one-bedroom apartment and looked down on Cooper Avenue. Snow flurries rushed past, shoved by the wind. A pile of trash bags on the street had burst open, and garbage and old papers fluttered along the sidewalk. Mary was feeding Drummer from a bottle of formula, the baby staring up at her with his blue eyes as he suckled on the nipple. She looked left and right along the dismal avenue. "It was a brown compact car. A Ford, I think."

"Your imagination," Edward answered from the kitchen, where he was fixing them canned chili. The building's radiators moaned and knocked. "Lots of cars in this city, so don't get paranoid."

"The driver had a chance to pass us a few times. He slowed down." The nipple popped out of Drummer's mouth, and Mary guided it back in. "I don't like it," she said, mostly to herself.

"Forget about it." Edward came into the front room, leaving the chili to bubble on the stove. He had taken off his overcoat and the jacket of his suit. He was wearing red suspenders – "braces," as he called them. "You want a drink? I've got Miller Lite and some wine."

"Wine," she said, still watching out the window for a brown compact Ford. She hadn't been able to get a good look at the driver. She remembered the Knicks fan: he'd come across on the boat with them, and so had the blond-haired girl in the leather jacket. A lot of people had come across too: a dozen Japanese tourists, an elderly couple, and about twenty others as well. Had one or more of them been a pig on her trail? There was another possibility: that someone had been following not her, but Edward. It wouldn't be the first time, would it?

He brought her a glass of red wine and set it on a table while she finished feeding Drummer. "So," Edward said, "you want to tell me why you took the baby?"

"No."

"Our conversation isn't going to get very far if you don't want to talk."

"I want to listen," she said. "I want you to tell me why you put the message in the papers."

Edward walked to another window and peered out. No brown compact Ford in sight, but Mary's insistence that they had been followed gave him the creeps. "I don't know. I guess I was curious."

"About what?"

"Oh… just to see if anybody would show up. Kind of like a class reunion, maybe." He turned away from the window and looked at her in the dank winter light. "It seems like a hundred years ago we went through all that."

"No, it was only yesterday," she said. Drummer had finished the formula, and she rested him against her shoulder and burped him, as her mother had demonstrated. Mary had already taken stock of Edward's apartment; he had some nice pieces of furniture that didn't go with the place, and he was dressed better than he lived. Her impression was that he'd had a lot of money at one time, but his money had run out. His Toyota puffed blue smoke from its tailpipe and it had a bashed left rear fender. His shined shoes, though, said he had once walked on expensive floors. "You're an accountant?" she asked. "How long?"

"Going on three years. It's an okay job. I can do it with my eyes closed." He shrugged, almost apologetically. "I got a business degree from NYU after I went underground."

"A business degree," she repeated. A faint smile stole across her face. "I knew it when I saw you. The Mindfuckers got you, didn't they?"

That familiar scowl creased his face again. "We were kids then. Naive and dumb in a lot of ways. We weren't living in reality."

"And now you are?"

"The reality," Edward said, "is that everybody has to work to live. There are no free tickets in this world. Don't you know that yet?"

"Has my brother turned into Big Brother?"

"No!" he answered, too loudly. "Hell, no! I'm just saying we thought everything was black and white back then! We thought we were right and everybody else was wrong. Well, we were fucked up. We didn't see the gray in the world." He grunted. "We didn't think we'd ever have to grow up. But you can't fight time, Mary. That's the one thing you can't put a bullet into or blow apart with a bomb. Things change, and you have to change with them. If you don't… well, look what happened to Abbie Hoffman."

"Abbie Hoffman was always true to a cause," Mary said. "He just got tired, that's all."

"Hoffman got busted selling cocaine!" he reminded her. "He went from being a revolutionary to being a drug salesman! What cause was he true to? Jesus, nobody cares who Abbie Hoffman was! You know what the true power of this world is? Money. Cash. If you've got it, you're somebody, and if you don't, you get swept away with the garbage!"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Mary said, rocking Drummer in her arms. "Sweet baby, such a sweet sweet baby."

"I need a beer." Edward went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Mary kissed Drummer's forehead. He had an air about him; his diaper needed changing. She took him into the bedroom, laid him down on the bed next to her shoulder bag, and began the task. There was only one more diaper. She was going to have to go out and buy another box of Pampers. As she changed Drummer, she noticed a typewriter on a little desk in the room. The wastebasket had crumpled-up paper in it, squeezed like white fists. She took a wad of paper out and opened it. There were three lines on the paper; My name is Edward Fordyce, and I am a killer. My killing was done in the name of freedom, a long time ago. I was a member of the Storm Front, and on the night of July first, 1972, I was reborn.

Drummer began to cry, uncomfortable and sleepy.

Behind Mary, Edward said, "The publisher tells me I need a snappy opening paragraph. Something to hook a reader with real quick."

She looked up at him from the wrinkled paper. Drummer kept crying, the sound hurting her head.

Edward sipped his beer. His eyes seemed darker, his face tight with pressure. "They say they want a lot of blood in it. A lot of action. They say it could be a best seller."

Mary crumpled the paper again, into a hard little ball. Her fist clenched around it as Drummer cried on.

"Can't you get him quiet?" Edward asked.

The killer awoke. She felt it stir within her, like a heavy shadow. Edward was writing a book about the Storm Front. Writing a book to tell everything to the Mindfuck State. Going to spread the Front's blood, sweat, and tears out on the woodpulp pages to be licked by dumb jackals. A reunion, he'd said. I guess I was curious.

No, that wasn't why Edward Fordyce had put the message in the papers and magazines. "You wanted to find the others," she said, "so we could help you write your book."

"Background material. I want the book to be a history of the Storm Front, and there's a lot I don't know."

Mary's hand went into her bag. It came out with the Magnum, and she trained the gun on him, a stranger in enemy colors.

"Put that down, Mary. You don't want to shoot me."

"I'll blow your fucking head off!" she shouted. "No way are you making us whores! No way!"

"We were always whores. For the militant press and the rabble-rousers. We did what they dreamed of doing, and what did we get for it? You've turned into an animal, and I'm a forty-three-year-old failure." He swigged from the beer again, but his gaze stayed on her gun. "I was a stockbroker a few years ago," he said with a bitter smile. "Making a hundred K a year, living on the Upper East Side. A fast-tracker. Had a Mercedes, a wife, and a son. Then the bottom fell out of the market, and I watched everything go to pieces. It was like that night in Linden, but even worse because it was a house I'd built getting blown apart. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't. I spiraled down to where I am right now. So where do I go from here? Do I figure the books for Sea King the rest of my life and retire to an old folks' home in Jersey? Or do I take a gamble that a publisher might be interested in the Storm Front's story? It's past history, Mary. It's ancient and dusty… but blood and guts sells books, and you know we waded through the blood and guts together. So what's so wrong about it, Mary? You tell me."

She couldn't think. Drummer's crying was louder, more needful. Her brain was full of machinery that had lost its purpose. One squeeze of the trigger and he would be dusted. Everything was a lie; Lord Jack was not here, and he couldn't receive his son. This thing standing before her in Mindfuck State clothing vomited out bile and brimstone, but one fact remained: he had saved her life on a long-ago night of pain and fire.

That alone kept her from killing him.

"I've got an agent," Edward went on. "Big knocker in the business. He got me a contract on an outline. The manuscript's due at the end of August."

Mary kept the gun aimed at him as Drummer wailed.

"I don't want it to be just my story. I want it to be about all of us. Everybody who died and everybody who got away. Do you see?"

"I see a traitor," Mary said, "who deserves execution."

"Oh, crap! Forget the drama, Mary! This is the real dollars-and-cents world!" He slammed his bottle down atop a bureau, and beer sloshed out. "If we can make money off the hell we went through, why shouldn't we? I'd be willing to share the profits with you, no problem."

"Profits," she said, as if tasting something vile.

"Jesus! Can't you shut that kid up?" Edward walked toward Drummer. Mary stopped him by putting the Magnum against the side of his head and grabbing his red power tie at the knot. She wrenched at his tie, and Edward's face reddened. "… Choke…" he gasped. "Choking… me…"

Brrrring.

Telephone, Mary thought. Again: Brrrring.

"Door… buzzer," Edward managed to get out. "Downstairs. Somebody… wants in."

"Who're you expecting?"

"No-nobody. Mary, listen… you're choking me. Come on… stop it… okay?"

Brrrring.

She stared into his too-blue eyes and his mottled face. He was small, she decided. A small person who had given up and been seduced by the Mindfuck State. He was to be pitied. She didn't want to kill him, not yet. Drummer was crying and someone wanted in. She released Edward's tie, and he gasped in a shuddering breath followed by a coughing fit.

Mary pressed the pacifier into Drummer's mouth. His eyes were angry, and big wet tears had rolled down his cheeks. He looked the way she felt. She finished changing his diaper, the gun beside him on the bed.

In the front room, Edward gave a last ragged cough and pressed the intercom button. "Yeah?"

There was no answer.

"Anybody down there?"

Nothing.

He released the button. Neighborhood kids screwing around, he figured. About three seconds later Brrrring.

He hit the button again. "Hey, listen up! You want to play, go play in the middle of the stre -"

"Edward Lambert?"

A woman's voice. Sounded nervous. "Yeah. Who is it?"

"Come downstairs."

"I don't have time for this, lady. What're you selling?"

"Damaged goods," she said. "Come downstairs." She clicked off.

"Who was that?" Mary stood in the bedroom's doorway, freshly diapered Drummer in her arms and the Magnum automatic in her right hand.

"Nobody." He shrugged. "Bag lady, probably. They're all over the place trying to get handouts."

Mary went to the window and looked out. The air was hazed with falling snow. And then she saw the figure standing down on the sidewalk, staring up at the apartment building. The wind had picked up, whipping at the figure's gray overcoat. There was a black cap on the person's head, and a long woolen muffler the same color around the neck.

Mary's eyes narrowed. She recognized the outfit. She'd seen this person before. Yes, she was sure of it. On the boat coming back from Liberty Island. This person had been standing at the stern, hands in pockets, next to the blond-haired girl in the leather jacket. As Mary watched, the figure began to walk slowly away from the building, bent against the wind. A few more steps, and a crosscurrent of winds snatched the cap and lifted it off the person's head.

A mane of red hair spilled down. A woman, Mary realized. The woman caught the cap before it could spin away, pushed her tresses up under it, and mashed it down again. Then she kept walking, shoulders slumped as if under a terrible burden.

Red hair, Mary thought. Red as a battle flag.

She had known another woman with hair that color.

"Oh my God," Mary whispered.

The red-haired woman turned a corner and went out of sight, snowflakes whirling behind her.

"Hold my baby," Mary told Edward, and she put Drummer in his arms before he could say no. She jammed the pistol down into the waistband of her jeans, under her baggy brown sweater, and she headed for the door.

"Where're you going? Mary! Where the hell are -"

She was already out the door and racing down the second-floor stairway. She ran out onto the street, into the cutting cold and snow. Then on to the corner where the red-haired woman had turned off Cooper Avenue, and Mary could see her about a block away. She was opening the driver's door of a brown compact Ford.

"Wait!" Mary shouted, but the wind was in her face and the woman couldn't hear. The Ford pulled out of its parking place and started coming toward Mary, who stepped into the street and walked forward to meet it. Flurries of snow swirled between them. Mary lifted her right hand and made a peace sign, and she strode toward the car as it came on.

She saw the woman's face through the windshield. Like Edward's, it was not a face she knew. And then the woman's eyes widened, her mouth opened in a cry Mary couldn't hear, and the Ford skidded to a stop on the gleaming pavement.

The woman got out, and the wind took her black cap, and the red tresses danced around her shoulders. Mary lowered her peace hand. Was this or was this not someone she knew? The hair was the same, yes, but the face was different. Bedelia Morse had been as lovely as a model, her nose small and graceful, her mouth and chin set with firm purpose. This woman had a crooked nose that looked as if it had been brutally broken and never properly set, her jowls were thick, and her chin had receded above a padding of flab. Deep lines flared out from the corners of her eyes and cut across her forehead. Mary could tell that the woman, who stood about five six, was heavy around the stomach and waist, a once-fine figure gone to seed. But the woman had green eyes: green as Irish moss. They were Didi's eyes, in a face that was almost toadish.

"Mary?" she said in Bedelia's voice grown husky and older. "Mary?"

"It's me," Mary answered, and Bedelia tried to speak again, but only a sob came out and it was tattered by the wind. Bedelia Morse rushed forward into Mary's arms, and they hugged each other with the pistol between them.