Red 1-2-3

16

There are three stages to a killing, the Wolf wrote when he finally got back to his office after his lengthy interview with the police detective and was able to lock the door and revel for a moment in quiet concentration.

Planning. Execution. Aftermath.

Neglect any of these three phases, and failure is inevitable. The key is demanding more of oneself. It’s crucial to recognize that at the conclusion of the second stage, as profoundly emotional and satisfying as that might be, and as much as one has built to that moment, there are still critical steps that need to be taken. Simply put, it’s not over. It’s just begun. I believe it’s a little like the soldier coming home from the war trying to negotiate a fast-food restaurant after months spent in deprivation and fear, or perhaps the astronaut returning from a lengthy stay in space confronting the motor vehicles registry. There is decompression necessary before returning to ordinary life, a stepping-back time, where the killer needs to slide out from beneath the excitement and passion of the hunt and the murder and let it flow into sweetened memory. Creating the emotional context for enjoyment requires as much careful plotting as does the actual killing. It’s where the clumsy amateurs and the unprepared wannabes fail. After they accomplish the death they’ve invented, they then don’t know how to savor that moment. And it’s important to be aware that not anticipating the needs of this final stage engenders frustration and dismay-and leads to mistakes in the first two stages. There is great danger in not fully preparing for post-death enjoyment.

When you’ve accomplished something special, it takes great nerve and focus and strength of character to allow yourself to become outwardly ordinary once again even when you know that the persona others see is a complete lie.

As always the words came in a rush to the Wolf. His fingers seemed to dance above the computer keyboard, his concentration entirely on the entry that was taking shape in front of him. He felt a kind of ease, as if he were an athlete settling into the routine of a workout, where the miles he stamped beneath his feet or the water that flowed underneath him with every overhand stroke were like so many familiar pushes from behind. He paused briefly to steal a thought about each Red and believed that he was fast approaching the time when he would have to begin the hands-on process of each specific death. Red One is special because she has faced death so frequently with consummate professionalism, but now she must confront a death that has no diagnosis. Red Two is unique because she’s so eager to die, and now is confronted by her very secret wishes coming true, just not how she expected them to. And Red Three is exceptional because she has done so much to toss her future away, and now must face someone else stealing from her what little remains of that future. He shook his head and grunted out loud. Appetizer. Main course. Dessert. Each stage of murder had its own tastes.

He wrote down: I want to let each phase run its course. The Wolf was acutely aware that as in any relationship, a murder needed to be fulfilling at every level. Like machine-gun bullets, words leapt at him: Threat. Fear. Process. The moment. The follow-up. Memory. Any slippage at any point would detract from the overall experience.

He hesitated again, this time letting his eyes scan his latest entry on the computer screen. What makes a book really work? he wrote at last. It must take risks. It must suck the reader inside the story. Every character has to be fascinating in his or her own special way. It must make it a paramount necessity for readers to turn each page. This is equally true for a novel of manners or a science fiction thriller. The same rules of murder apply to writing. What good is telling a story that doesn’t resonate long after the final page has been read? Doesn’t the killer face the same question? Both writer and killer are engaged in creating something that will last. The writer wants the reader to remember his words long after the final page. The killer wants the impact of the death to linger. And not just for him, but for all the others the death has touched.

Murder isn’t about a single killing. It’s about a ripple through the lives of many.

He drummed his fingers against the wooden desktop, as if this rapid tapping would accelerate his thoughts into new words that he could write down. For a moment he envied artists who simply drew a line on a blank white canvas and let that small motion define everything that was to follow. Painting, that’s easy, he thought. He understood that the similarity between a killer and an artist was that both already had firmly in their mind a finished portrait of what would emerge when they drew their first stroke. This notion made him grin.

Then he wrote at the top of a new page: Why I Love Each Red.

The Wolf sighed. He told himself, It is not enough to tell readers how you expect to accomplish their deaths. You need to explain why. In the fairy tale, it’s not just a fine meal that the wolf wants as he stalks Little Red Riding Hood through the woods. He could sate that hunger at any point. No, his real starvation is far different and it has to be addressed with intensity. The wolf wants to eat. But he also wants a relationship.

Again, the Wolf hesitated. It was dark outside, the afternoon having given way to night, and he expected Mrs. Big Bad Wolf to arrive home shortly, the way she did every day, just a few minutes before 6 p.m., letting out a cheery “I’m home, dear…” as she passed through the front door. The Wolf never immediately responded. He allowed her a few moments to observe his overcoat hanging on its customary hook, his umbrella in the stand in the vestibule, and his shoes thoughtfully removed by the living room entrance, replaced by slide-on leather slippers. Her pair, which matched his, would be waiting for her. Then she would tiptoe past his closed office door-even if she had grocery bags in her arms and could use a little assistance. He knew she would immediately go to the kitchen to fix their dinner. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt that making certain he was overstuffed was a key element to fueling the writing process. He didn’t disagree with this.

So, as soon as he heard pots and pans clatter in the kitchen as the meal began to get under way, he would call out an answer, as if he hadn’t heard her entry. “Hiya, honey! I’ll be out in a sec!”

He knew his wife enjoyed the bellow from behind the office door, so he shouted out his greeting regardless of his mood or the moment happening on the page in front of him. He could be writing about something as mundane as the weather or something as electric as how he intended to kill. It made no difference. He still raised his voice so she could hear him. They played the same lively tunes daily:

“How was your day?”

“What’s going on at school?”

“Were you able to work hard?”

“Did you get around to paying the electric bill?”

“There are some odd jobs around the yard we need to get to.”

“Would you like to have Chinese for dinner tomorrow?”

“Shall we watch a movie on the TV tonight, or are you too tired?”

“Maybe we should take a cruise this year. There are some great sales on Caribbean trips. We haven’t had a real vacation in months. What do you think; shall we make a reservation and start saving our money?”

The Wolf heard a distant rattle. It had to be the front door. He waited, and then he heard the expected greeting. This signaled him to start the electronic process of closing up everything he was working on and encrypting it. All this was actually unnecessary. The wall of photographs was incriminating enough-a factoid he knew from his discussion with the detective. “Killers-the type who like to plan, not the thug robbing a convenience store or doing in some competitor in the drug business with a whole lot of automatic weapons fire-like to keep souvenirs,” the policeman had told him in a smug, self-satisfied tone of voice. As if he really knew what he was talking about, the Wolf said to himself. The cop had been very helpful, and had answered all his questions, although sometimes the policeman had sounded like a teacher trying to explain things to a distracted elementary school class.

But securing the files made the Wolf feel his privacy remained intact when he shut down his computer. It was a little like turning off a machine but switching on his imagination, because each Red would glow in his thoughts right through the remainder of the humdrum evening that awaited him.

If you are a plumber, make sure you wear your utility belt and carry your tools. If you are a salesman, make sure you maintain that glib, quick, handshaking demeanor at all times. And if you are a writer, make sure you ask questions like you’re looking for information to put on a page.

“I’ll be out in a sec!” he called, just as he did every night and precisely as he knew she expected him to. “Just finishing up in here!”

Meat loaf, he thought. That would be great tonight. With gravy and mashed potatoes.

And then, if his wife wasn’t too tired, after they’d finished clearing the table and doing the dishes, a movie. They rarely went out to the cinema anymore, preferring to hunker down in front of their wide-screen television. The Wolf was very sensitive to the fact that Mrs. Big Bad Wolf worked hard at a job critically important for their lives-it paid the creditors and allowed him to be who he was-and with her past heart problems, even with the recent clean bill of health, he didn’t like to create stress in the household. He rewarded her with loyalty, which helped provide a nice quiet, private life for the two of them.

It was the least he could do. If he thought she needed something special, he would surprise her with the occasional night out to a nice restaurant or front-row tickets to a local acting company’s rendition of Macbeth. These outings helped cover up the inevitable disappointment he could see in her eyes when from time to time he announced he had to go out alone “on research.”

This night he thought he’d check the on-demand television listings and attempt to find something funny and romantic that wasn’t too modern. He didn’t like the latest crop of films, which substituted gross-out for slapstick. He preferred classics. The Marx Brothers and Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, right up through Steve Martin and Elaine May. He knew about Judd Apatow, but couldn’t really understand what the kids saw in his brand of cinematic comedy. He and his wife would agree on one of the old-time channels, and he would sit in his reclining chair, and she would plop down in the adjacent love seat. She would fix them each a bowl of vanilla ice cream with some chocolate sprinkles on top right before the movie started.

They would laugh together and then head up to bed.

To sleep.

He suspected that he actually did love his wife. He still enjoyed making love to her from time to time-although in recent months he’d pictured one of the three Reds beneath him as he covered his wife. He didn’t think she had ever noticed this distraction. Perhaps, he thought, it makes me more intense. But he was also aware that since her illness, the moments of coupling had diminished. Frequency was down to maybe once or twice a month, if that.

His desire was still intact, however. And he took some pride in the fact that even as he was closing in on getting truly old, he didn’t need the little blue pill to help him perform. But the idea that he might look for sex outside of his marriage had never occurred to the Wolf.

He strayed-but only in his imagination.

The Wolf looked at the computer screen and the page in front of him with his new chapter heading. He read it out loud, but quietly: “Why I Love Each Red.”

Then, still speaking softly, he answered the question.

“Because of what they give me.”

True passion, he thought. He needed to capture that intensity on the pages of his book.

He imagined that stalking them and planning their deaths was a little like having an affair. He didn’t think of it as cheating, however.

Certainly, they were like lovers waiting patiently for him. But, each in her own way, they were also like faithful wives.