Night Freight

Deathlove

I sit hunched forward in the taxi as it rushes through the dark, empty streets. It will not be long now, Judith, my love; a few hours, then a few short weeks until you and I are one. Forever.

And the truck comes out of nowhere

And we come into the quiet residential area six blocks from Lake Industrial Park. I tell the driver to stop at the next corner. A moment later I stand alone in the darkness. The night wind is cold; I turn up the collar on my overcoat as I watch the taxi's taillights fade and disappear. Then I walk rapidly toward the park, my hand touching the gun in my coat pocket.

The industrial development is deserted when I arrive; there is no sign of the night security patrols which make periodic checks of the area. I pause to look at my watch. Just past nine. Then I make my way to the squat stone building that houses McAnally's firm, Ajax Plumbing Supply. A light burns in the office, behind blind-covered windows—the only light in the park. As always on Friday evenings, McAnally is working late and alone.

I move to the rear of the building, to the shadowed parking area. McAnally's car is the only one there. I know it well; I have seen it every day for the past four years, in the driveway of his house across the street from my own, and I have written the insurance policy on it.

I allow myself a small smile as I walk to the base of the high fence that rings the supply yard, blend into the blackness there. All is progressing as I've planned. I'm confident that there will be no problems of any kind.

This isn't right, the truck

As I wait I concentrate on the visual image of Judith that lingers in my mind. Long auburn hair, gentle green eyes, the smooth sensuous lines of her body. Judith smiling, Judith laughing, Judith in all her moods from pensive to gay to kittenish. Every night I dream of her. Every night I long to hold her, touch her, possess her. There is no love greater than mine for Judith; it has become the one and only purpose of my existence.

"Soon now, darling," I whisper in the cold stillness. "Soon . . ."

I do not have long to wait. McAnally, punctual as always, leaves the building at exactly nine-thirty. I tense in anticipation as he crosses the darkened parking area. He reaches the car, but I wait until he unlocks it before I step out and approach him.

He hears my footsteps and glances up, startled. I stop in front of him.

"Hello, Fred," I say.

Recognition smooths his nervous frown. "Why . . . hello, Martin. You gave me a jolt, coming out of the dark like that. What're you doing here, of all places?"

"Waiting for you."

"What on earth for?"

"Because I'm going to kill you."

He stares at me incredulously. "What did you say?"

"I'm going to kill you, Fred."

"Hey, that's not funny. Are you drunk?"

I take out the gun. "Now do you believe me?"

For the first time, his eyes show fear. "Martin, for God's sake. What's the matter with you? Why would you want to kill me?"

"For love," I say.

"For . . . what?"

"Love, pure and simple love. You're in the way, Fred. You stand between Judith and me."

"You and . . . Judith?"

I smile at him.

"No!" McAnally says. He shakes his head in disbelief. "It's not true. My wife loves me, she's devoted to me."

"Is she?"

"Of course she is! She'd never be a party to—"

"To what I'm planning? Are you really so sure?"

Another head shake. He isn't sure, not any longer.

I am enjoying this; I smile again. "Have you ever wondered about the perfect murder? Whether or not it's possible? I have, and I believe it is. Soon now I'm going to prove it."

"This is . . . insane. You're insane, Martin!"

"Not at all. I'm merely in love. Of course I do have my practical side. There's the hundred-thousand-dollar double indemnity policy on your life with my company. Once Judith and I are married, after a decent interval of mourning, it will take care of our needs nicely."

"You can't do this," McAnally says. "I won't let you do it!" And he makes a sudden jump forward, clawing at the gun.

But I've expected this, even anticipated how clumsy his fear makes him. I move aside easily, bring the barrel down on the side of his head. He falls moaning to the pavement. I hit him again, then finish opening the car door and drag him onto the floor in back I slip in under the wheel.

There is something wrong with all this

As I drive out of Lake Industrial I am watchful for one of the night patrols, but I see no one. Observing the speed limit, I follow the route that McAnally habitually takes home—a route that includes a one-mile stretch through Old Mill Canyon. The canyon road is little used since the construction of a bypassing freeway; McAnally takes it because it is the shortest way to the suburban development where we both live.

At the top of the canyon road is a sharp curve, with a bluff wall on the left and a wide shoulder with a guardrail along its outer edge. Beyond the rail is a two-hundred-foot drop into the canyon below. There are no lights behind me as I take McAnally's car to the crest. From there I can see for a quarter mile or so past the curve. That part of the road is also deserted.

I stop the car a hundred feet below the shoulder, take a few deep breaths before I press down hard on the accelerator and twist the wheel until the car is headed straight for the guardrail. While the car is still on the road I brake sharply; the tires burn and shriek on the asphalt, providing the skid marks that will confirm McAnally's death as a tragic accident.

The truck

I manage to fight the car to a halt a dozen feet from the guardrail. I rub sweat from my forehead, reverse to the road again. When I've set the emergency brake, I get out to make certain we're still alone. Then I pull McAnally from the rear floor, prop him behind the wheel, wedge his foot against the accelerator pedal. The engine roars and the car begins to rock. I grasp the release lever for the emergency brake, prepare myself, jerk the brake off, and fling my body out of the way.

The car hurtles forward. An edge of the open driver's door slaps against my hip, knocking me down, but I'm not hurt. McAnally's car crashes into the guardrail, splintering it, and goes through; it seems to hang in space for a long moment, amid a shower of wood fragments, then plunges downward. The darkness is filled with the thunderous rending of metal as the machine bounces and rolls into the canyon.

I go to the edge and look over. There is no fire, but I can make out the shape of the wreckage far below. I say aloud, "I'm sorry, Fred. It's not that I hated you, or even disliked you. It's just that you were in the way."

Then I turn, keeping to shadow along the side of the road, and begin the long, three-mile walk home.

What is it that's so wrong

And late the following morning I stand on the porch of the home that now belongs only to Judith, my Judith. I ring the bell, my chest constricted with excitement as I wait for her to answer.

The door opens at last, and my love looks out at me.

My ardor swells inside me until it is almost like physical pain.

"Hello, Judith," I say gravely. "I just heard about Fred, and of course I came right over."

Her grief-swollen mouth trembles. "Thank you, Martin. It was such a terrible accident, so . . . so sudden. I guess you know how much Fred and I cared for each other. I feel lost and alone without him."

"You're not alone," I tell her, and silently add the words my love. "It's true we've never been any more than casual neighbors, but I want you to know that there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you. Not anything I wouldn't do . . ."

The truck!

I know what it is now. I know what's wrong.

None of this happened.

It was planned to happen just this way, a thousand times I envisioned it, it was like a Technicolor film in my mind as I rode in the taxi. But something else took place, something interfered. The truck, the taxi—

An accident.

I remember it now. The taxi rushing through the dark, empty streets, and the truck coming out of nowhere, barreling through the red light at the intersection, and the impact, and the spinning, and the pain. And then . . . nothing.

Where am I?

Utter blackness. No pain now, no feeling at all.

Vague bodiless sensation of floating, drifting. Coma? Hospital? No, something else, somewhere else. Thoughts, the sudden remembering, the drifting

and I am beginning to understand, to realize

that I was killed in that accident.

I'm dead.

Fred McAnally is alive and it is Martin Hammond who is dead.

. . . and the door opens at last, and my love looks out at me. My ardor swells inside me until it is almost like physical pain . . .

No, not dead. Not as I've always understood death to be.

Even though I was killed in that accident, part of me remains alive.

Increasing awareness now. I think, I comprehend, therefore I am. The essence, the intellect, of Martin Hammond has somehow survived.

Why?

And the answer comes: My love for Judith, the depth and power of my love for her. Too strong even for death. Transcending death. My love lives, therefore I live.

And where I am must be

the netherworld.

Yes. Drifting—spirit drifting. I am spirit.

The blackness is beginning to lighten, to become a soft gray; and as it does

my awareness increases and I realize with sudden joy that soon I will be capable of vision, corporeality, mobility through time and space. I will be able to return to the mortal world, to Judith. I will be able to

bring my love to my love in the warm silent hours of a night when she is alone . . .

. . . and all at once—there is no temporality where I exist—I find myself standing in her bedroom, that place where I longed so often and so desperately to be. She is there wearing a pale blue dressing gown sitting before her vanity mirror while she brushes her hair. Her face is radiant, smiling, and I know it is a Friday night and she is waiting for McAnally. I accept this, it does not disturb me. Nothing can disturb me now that I am in the presence of my love.

Her voice whispers in the quiet, counting each brush stroke. "Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one . . ." But she might be counting the minutes until we are together at last, and that is how I choose to hear her words. "Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred . . ."

Reflected in the mirror, her beauty is so flawless that it is as if I am looking at a priceless painting that must not be seen by anyone else, must belong to no one else but me. I no longer have a heart, but if I did it would be hammering like the beat of drums. I no longer have loins, but if I did they would be aflame with the purity of my desire.

"One hundred nineteen, one hundred twenty . . ."

The need to go to her, touch her, is exquisite. But how will she react when she sees me? I mustn't frighten her.

Slowly I cross the room. Yet as I draw near, the image of myself that I expect to see behind hers does not materialize. Then I am standing close to her, closer than ever before—and still she is alone in the glass.

"One hundred forty-eight, one hundred forty—"

Abruptly she stops counting, holding the brush against the silkiness of her hair. Her smile fades; small ridge lines appear on her forehead.

"Judith," I whisper. "Judith, my love."

She frowns at the mirror, puts down the brush.

"I'm here, darling."

And I reach out with trembling fingers, touch the softness of her shoulder.

She shivers, as though it were not I but a sudden chill draft that caressed her. She turns, looks around the bedroom—and it is then I accept the truth. She can't see me, or hear me, or feel the gentle pressure of my hand. Perhaps it is because I am not strong enough yet. And perhaps

it is McAnally.

I know then that this is so. He is still alive, he still stands between us—now like a wall between our two worlds.

Always, always, that bastard McAnally!

Judith rises from her chair, crosses to the window, secures the lock. Then she sheds her dressing gown, and the silhouette of her body beneath her thin nightdress fills me with rapture. I watch her put out the lights, get into bed, and lie with the coverlet drawn up to her chin.

After a time, the rhythm of her breathing grows regular. When I am certain she is asleep I walk to the bed and sit down beside her.

She stirs but does not open her eyes.

With great care I lift the coverlet. This is the moment I have ached for most of all, the moment that makes even my death inconsequential.

I take her in my arms.

She moans softly, shivers, tries to turn away in her sleep. I continue to hold her in a tender embrace. "Judith," I whisper in her ear, "it's all right. I'm growing stronger, and when I'm strong enough I'll find another way to kill Fred. A push down the basement steps, a falling object from the platform in the garage—I'll find a way."

More moans come from her, but I hear them now as murmurs of love. I kiss the warm hollow of her throat, and my hand finds her breast, and in ecstasy I lie there with her, waiting.

Waiting.

First, for McAnally.

But most of all for that time when my love will come awake and see and hear and feel me at last, lying beside her in the warm silent hours of the night . . .