Red 1-2-3

32

For the next few days, the Big Bad Wolf watched every news show, read every word in the local papers, even tuned in to local radio hoping to hear some stray commentary in an effort to uncover the whereabouts of Red Two. He dutifully made a point of driving past the suicide location frequently, to see if the police had recovered her body. He was annoyed when they apparently gave up the search. It did not mean she wasn’t at the bottom of the river. He just didn’t know for certain. He cursed the cops, and thought they were incompetent. He needed answers and they were supposed to provide them.

Two evenings after he followed Red Three out of the Health Services building-which had been a delicious high point-he spent a frustrating hour walking in Red Two’s neighborhood. The lights were off in her home and had been since the night she allegedly jumped, and he could see no sign of life whatsoever except for a bouquet of white flowers that someone had placed up against the front door. The flowers were already beginning to wilt.

Pausing on the street outside her house, he realized that he no longer had to conceal his presence from her. She was gone, that was clear.

He felt angry and cheated.

The night before, he had stolen from his wife’s side and locked himself in his office. He’d double- and triple-checked his extensive dossier on Red Two. Nothing in his research suggested anyone-distant family or casual friends-who would have taken her in and hidden her from him. He chastised himself, imagining that he’d somehow missed some connection.

But then he remembered the grave site with the two names on it, which was now awaiting a third. Those two names were primary reasons why she had been singled out as Red Two in the first place. She would never, not ever, leave them behind. She couldn’t. There were only two ways for her to join them: me, or that damn bridge over that damn river.

It was painful for the Big Bad Wolf. He’d believed he’d been smart enough to take her just to the brink of wanting to kill herself, so that when he arrived at her side, she would almost appreciatively accept death.

He knew this presented a writing challenge. His readers would want to know every step he’d performed. They’d want to experience the tension and face the same choice that Red Two did. Die one way. Or die another.

Always think of the readers, he reminded himself.

He made his usual checks on Red One. She seemed to be sticking to her routine, just as he’d suspected she would. As scared as she might be by Red Two’s death, Red One seemed to find safety in continuing to maintain a normal front. She was no longer haunting the comedy clubs, or even sneaking a smoke in a parking lot. Too frightened to even indulge an addiction, he thought. She arrived at work early and stayed late, then drove directly home. This pleased him. And he did not think that Red Three would run away. That’s one of the great mysteries of killing, he thought, as he stared in at Red Two’s dark house. The rational part of us thinks we would flee, hide, turn to our friends for help, and somehow take steps to keep ourselves safe. But we never do. As the distance narrows between hunter and hunted, one half of the equation becomes more focused, more skilled, and far more determined, while the other half becomes more crippled and less able to think clearly. Her world grows smaller and smaller

He thought of Discovery Channel videos of lions chasing antelopes, or wolves like him stalking caribou. The hunted race back and forth wildly, panicked, out of control. The hunter remains single-minded in its approach, cutting off all avenues of flight. Determined. Direct. He didn’t think he was any different. He needed to emphasize that point in the book.

He had an odd thought: Male lions let the females do the hunting, but they are the first to eat the kill. He wondered if wolves were the same. Not likely. We’re not lazy.

The Wolf stole a last glance at Red Two’s house. He doubted he would return there again-and then, in the same moment, had the sensation that he could barely tear himself away. He reimagined the pleasure that rolling past Red Two’s house had given him, spying on her over weeks and months. He had a hard time thinking that phase was finished. It was time for him to head home, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that something was incomplete. He hoped that killing Red One and Red Three would give him the satisfaction he craved. But for the first time he was worried. His feet dragged like an old man’s against the sidewalk and the spring in his step felt diminished. He mumbled to himself as he made his way back to his car, “You work so damn hard, and then something comes along and screws it all up.”

He told himself to not be so hard on himself. Everything else was going according to plan. He misquoted the poet out loud, “Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray.”

The Big Bad Wolf snorted and laughed. Flexibility, he believed. He needed to write some pages on the necessity of flexibility. Be prepared for the unexpected. No matter how things are falling into place, always be ready for sudden changes. Like a jump from a bridge.

When he got to his car, he slumped behind the wheel as if exhausted. “We are down to days now,” he said out loud. He liked the forcefulness in his voice. As he put the car in gear, he began to consider weapons and locations. He thought that he should divide his manuscript into two sections: The Hunt and The Kill.

Karen sat primly across from the funeral director.

“This is an unusual request,” he said haltingly, “but not impossible.”

The office had an appropriately somber tone, with lots of dark wood and shaded windows that prevented too much light from slipping in. The funeral director was a bald-headed, stocky man with pudgy fingers, and seemed like a friendly sort even with his somber black suit. A firm handshake, a warm smile, and an enthusiastic voice when death is the subject, she realized. She had expected a cliché, a tall and cadaverous, deep-voiced Uriah Heep of a man.

“Just a small gathering,” Karen said. “I’m afraid since the accident that left her widowed, Sarah really let almost all her relationships drop. She was very isolated and alone. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t some of her friends left who want to pay their respects. Maybe some of the teachers where she worked, or some of her late husband’s coworkers in the fire department.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” the funeral director said. “And family?”

“Unfortunately, very spread out. She was an only child and her parents have passed away,” Karen lied. “And her cousins are unwilling to accept the reality of her death. Or maybe they just don’t care.”

Karen avoided the word suicide, as she knew the funeral director would.

“That is most unfortunate,” he said, but his tone suggested the opposite, that it made matters much easier.

“I thought of doing this at my house-you know,” Karen continued, “just a little private gathering to speak our affection for the deceased-but that seemed too informal.” She knew he wouldn’t like this suggestion.

“No, no, either a church or in one of our smaller venues is much better. I have found that often people whose friendships seemed to have been dropped would be surprised by the strength of the turnout.”

That is, they would be surprised if they weren’t dead, Karen thought. She nodded. “So true,” she said. And at my house there would be no fee. “So can you show me the rooms you have available?”

“Of course,” the director said with a smile. “And let me just bring my schedule book as well.”

He led Karen down a narrow, thickly carpeted hallway painted in somber off-whites. Outside a set of double doors with a plaque that read the eternal peace room, he paused. “No casket?”

“No,” Karen said. “The police have yet to recover her body-if they ever will. I thought just flower arrangements around a montage of photographs.”

He nodded. “Ah, that would be lovely.”

Karen had the impression she could have said, “I want to show homemade pornographic films,” and he would have replied, “That would be lovely.”

The director held the door open for her.

It was a small room, with seats for about fifty. There were speakers mounted into the walls softly playing funereal organ music. In the corners there were vases for flowers. It seemed distinctly artificial and soulless. Karen thought it looked ideal. “Oh, this is nice,” she said, while secretly thinking that if the Wolf managed to kill her, she could imagine no worse place to lie in state. Christ, I hope if he wins, someone takes my dead body and puts it up on a stage and gets every comic in the county to come by and make the worst, most outrageous, most offensive jokes they possibly can over me so that everyone can have a good laugh at my expense. “Those are nice curtains,” she said, pointing at the back of the room. They were fake silk.

“Yes,” the director said. “They lead to a small room. Sometimes family, you know, need some extra privacy.”

“Of course,” Karen said. She thought they would be perfect for what she had in mind.

Just like the Big Bad Wolf, Red Three was thinking about weapons as the van from her school pulled into the parking lot at the mall.

“All right, just two hours. Check your watches now,” the junior faculty member announced as he opened the door for the dozen students packed into the vehicle. “And stay together. Buddy up. And no one get into any trouble.”

The school routinely ferried students over to the mall on shopping trips. Jordan had very rarely signed up for any of these excursions. She did not particularly like the bright lights and canned music that filled the place, nor did she enjoy window-shopping or trying on what passed for cheap teenage fashion.

The junior faculty member-a young man in his early thirties who taught geography-would get himself an overpriced cup of coffee and find a spot in the food court where he could read while waiting for the two hours to be up. He was there primarily to make sure heads were counted and no school or mall rules were broken.

Jordan fully intended to break a major rule.

She had in her pocket one of Red One’s credit cards, and specific instructions about what to purchase. She was pressed for time-not only because the junior faculty member had put a deadline on the mall visit, but because Jordan knew that later that evening Karen would call credit card security, tell them the card had been lost or stolen, and cancel the account.

Her first stop was an electronics store. The video recorder that the salesman was eager to sell her was slightly larger than a cell phone and could be operated with one hand. It had a wide-angle-lens attachment, which Jordan believed would be helpful. Red One’s credit card was rapidly accepted.

Jordan’s next task was something that she had not discussed with Karen. She felt a little guilty as she stepped into the clothing store. It was a higher-end type of place, catering to young professionals. She went directly to shelves of overpriced cashmere sweaters and selected a black turtleneck that she liked in her own size. She took this to the checkout counter, where a girl hardly older than she was behind the register.

“It’s a gift for my mother,” Jordan said with a fake smile.

The register girl ran the credit card and asked, “Would you like a box to put it in?”

“Yes,” Jordan replied. She had been counting on this small detail, that stores in the mall didn’t box items up themselves any longer. Now they just put a folded cardboard box and the sweater in a paper bag adorned with the shop’s logo.

Jordan signed the receipt with a scrawl that imitated Karen’s name. She glanced at her watch. She needed to hurry.

At a paper goods store, she purchased a birthday card, some gaudy silver wrapping paper, and tape. Then she marched to a large chain store that specialized in sporting goods. Surrounded by Nike, Adidas, Under Armour T-shirts, sweat clothes, and manikins modeling the latest in running gear, Jordan went directly to the section marked Hunting and Fishing. A middle-aged salesman was lurking amidst camouflage clothing, fishing rods, lures, life jackets, and paddling helmets.

“Hi,” Jordan said briskly. “Can you help me?”

The salesman looked up from putting the price tags on bows and arrows, and Jordan could tell that he immediately dismissed her. Teenagers were usually over in the section with running shoes or looking for headphones for an iPod.

“My dad is a big hunter and fisher person,” Jordan said with a laugh. “I want to get him something for his birthday.”

“Well, what sort of gift?” the salesman asked.

“He really likes to bring fresh fish home for dinner,” she replied. “He has a boat that he takes out.”

Jordan’s father was an executive at a Wall Street investment firm. As far as she could tell, he had never spent a night outdoors, and he avoided leaving his office for anything more rustic than a two-martini business lunch at a French restaurant. She pointed at a display. “What about something like that? Do you think he’d use one of those?”

The salesman followed her eyes. “Well,” he said, “no fisherman who likes to bring his catch home would be caught without one. These are really good. Top of the line. A little pricey, but I bet he’d enjoy it.”

Jordan nodded. “That’s what I’ll get, then.”

The salesman took the eight-inch filleting knife down from the display. “These are Swedish and come with a lifetime sharpness guarantee.”

Jordan admired the narrow curved blade and black grip. Like a razor, she thought.

She did not have much time left before the junior faculty member would start collecting all the students for the ride back to the school, so she hurried to the second-floor ladies’ room, which she guessed would be more private than the larger toilets near the food stations. She burst in, and to her relief, she was alone.

She took the filleting knife out of its plastic packaging and removed the blade from its leather sheath. She took a single sheet of tissue and sliced it easily. Then she brandished the knife in the air, like a swordsman. That will do, she thought. Then she carefully slid it within the folds of the black turtleneck. This she placed in the box they had given her at the store. Working as quickly as she could, Jordan then took some of the brightly colored paper and ribbon and wrapped the package up, taping every crease shut. She took the birthday greetings card and wrote “Happy Birthday Mom! Hope it fits! Love Jordan” inside the card. She put this in an envelope and taped it all to the package.

The school did not allow students to own weapons of any type, but Jordan knew she needed one. She had no intention of sending the sweater to her mother, whose birthday was many months distant anyway. But no junior faculty member would ask her to unwrap such a package, and even if he did, he would just glance at the sweater inside and not feel within its folds for anything else.

Jordan wondered whether the Wolf was as good a smuggler as she was.

She tried to create the sensation of driving the filleting knife between his ribs into his heart. Drive it up under his chest bone, she thought. Be relentless. Get all your weight behind it and every bit of strength you can summon and don’t hesitate. Kill him before he kills you. The idea of surprising the Big Bad Wolf with a weapon as deadly as the filleting knife gave her a sense of safety, although the Wolf was always ill-prepared and at her mercy when she pictured the confrontation in her head. And the Wolf never had a gun or a knife or any other weapon of his own when she envisioned their face-to-face meeting.

Jordan couldn’t quite piece together how she’d gain the upper hand. She just knew she had to find a way.

One of the first things Sarah noticed about Safe Space was that some of the laws that people commonly took for granted were wildly ignored there. She liked this. She fully expected to ignore some other laws in the days to come.

For example, when she hunched over the laptop computer and started to construct a new identity out of the Cynthia Harrison information that Red One had provided, she thought she would have to keep what she was doing secret-only to find out that the staff at the women’s center were experts at creating an entirely new person out of electronic vapors.

It was not the first time, the center’s director told her, that the easiest course of action for an abused and beaten woman was to simply become someone different. The local police knew about this sideline at the center, and did nothing to stop it. There was an agreement that as long as a woman was trying to avoid becoming a victim, the cops would look the other way.

Hiding was the center’s primary purpose.

Protection was the second.

In short order, they had helped her get a copy of the dead woman’s birth certificate from the small town where Cynthia Harrison was born, which they subsequently managed to get illegally notarized, making it wonderfully and magically official. A new social security card was applied for and a replacement driver’s license was put in process through a dizzying bit of computer legerdemain. A bank account at a large national bank-nothing local that might be traced-was established with some cash that Karen had given her.

Sarah was disappearing. In her place a new Cynthia was taking shape.

When Karen dropped her off, Sarah had been welcomed with hugs and encouragement. Before she was shown to a small, functional, and sunlit room on the third floor of the old Victorian house, the director asked her some pointed questions about how dangerous her husband might be.

Sarah said nothing about Red One, Red Two, and Red Three. She made no mention of the Big Bad Wolf. She stuck to the outline of the story that Karen had invented: beaten and stalked. The director asked, “Are you armed?”

Her first instinct had been to lie about the gun in her bag. But she was lying about so many other things that this additional falsehood seemed distinctly wrong, and so she answered, “I stole a handgun.”

“Let me see it,” the director said.

Sarah had produced the weapon, handing it over butt-first. The director cracked the cylinder expertly and removed the bullets. She held these in her hand, caressing the burnished bronze of the shells before reloading the revolver, sighting once down the barrel, saying “Bang!” under her breath, and handing it back to Sarah.

“That’s quite a weapon, she said.

“I’ve never fired it,” Sarah responded.

“Well, we can do something about that,” the director continued. “But we’re always concerned about the children staying here with their mothers. Don’t want an accident. And the kids, the older ones-you know: eight, nine, ten-they might be tempted because they’re so scared of the men that might show up.”

Then she reached into her desk, removed a trigger lock, and gave this to Sarah. “The combination is seven-six-seven,” she told Sarah. “It’s easy to remember: It’s the numeric equivalent to SOS on a telephone.”

The director had smiled. “I’m going to teach you how to use that,” she said. “Far better to know what to do and not have to than to not know what to do when you absolutely need to.”

Sarah thought at that moment that for all the time she had remaining as Red Two, she would keep exactly that thought in mind.