Red 1-2-3

5

At the top of the key, Jordan heard the play called, the point guard’s voice just overcoming the crowd noise filling the gymnasium. She hesitated, unsure why the coach would signal for a play that had never once worked in practice. Then she spun to her right and set a pick for the weak-side forward. The play was designed for an easy layup right down the lane. Jordan loved the architecture of the game, how every small detail became an element in an equation that resulted in success. But every time they’d run this play in training, it had broken down, because the girl who was supposed to drive her defender into Jordan slowed, allowing the opposing player to slide into the small space that indecision created and not be picked off, but to maintain steady defensive pressure. There were variations that they’d attempted, but these, too, would fall apart if the other girl didn’t commit to initially forcing her defender into Jordan’s chest. Things happen quickly on a basketball court. Motion is defined not only by speed, but also by placement. Angles are critical. Body position is crucial. Everything depends on that first thrust and motion.

Jordan hated all these plays, because the failure to pick off the defender was always seen as her fault. She was the only one on the floor aware of the poor angle her teammate invariably took. It was like her teammate was afraid to cause anyone to get hurt-but the result was that the other girls all thought it was Jordan who was being weak and timid, when in reality she liked nothing more than the sensation of bodies clashing.

Small moments of danger and threat of injury-that was what Jordan lived for.

She lowered her arms close to her body so that she was like a pillar on the court. She knew that the point guard was dribbling behind her, perhaps ten feet away. There was a steady cacophony of noise that seemed to hover just above the court, so that the squeak and squeal of basketball shoes against the polished wooden floor rose up and mingled with cheers and exhortations from the people jammed into the bleachers.

Jordan saw her teammate faking along the baseline, and then turning and digging hard for the elbow-the spot where the foul line ends, and where Jordan waited. She could see the defender moving fast to keep pace, and instantly Jordan saw that, as she expected, her teammate hadn’t taken the right angle. She was close but not close enough.

Jordan despised the lack of passion she felt from some of her teammates, when she felt every minute on the court as one of total devotion and release. The game would start and she could forget everything. Or so she thought. She imagined if she were religious, the ecstasy of prayer would be exactly the same as the feeling that overcame her in the game she played.

She imagined: I am a nun on the court.

She bent forward at the waist and tensed her muscles.

But not so innocent.

She knew that was she was about to do was illegal, but she also knew that a great journalist had once written that basketball is a game of subtle felonies, and so, in a split second, she decided this was a good moment to risk one.

Jordan saw that the defender was moving fast into the gap between her teammate and herself-a space that shouldn’t have been there. And so, just as the three of them closed, she slightly dipped her shoulder and moved forward an inch or two at the moment they came together. The girl on the other team took the force of Jordan’s shoulder in her chest. Jordan could hear wind knocked from her body, and a grunt and a small gasp as the two of them locked together. Her own teammate slipped past the instant tangle of players, emerged free on the far side, and took the pass. An easy two, Jordan thought, as she rolled toward the basket, not expecting a rebound, but moving into position as she had both been coached and had learned by instinct.

She fully expected to hear the referee’s whistle. Foul! Number 23!

She could hear the crowd cheering. She could hear the opposing coach from his sideline bench, frantically screaming, “Illegal pick! Illegal pick!”

You’re damn right, coach, she thought.

To her side, the opposing player, having regained her wind, whispered, “Bitch!”

Damn right again, she told herself. She didn’t say this out loud. Instead, she loped back down the floor to take up her defensive position, knowing she should watch out for a stray elbow aimed at her cheek, or a fist shoved into her back where the ref couldn’t see it. Basketball is also a game of hidden paybacks, and she knew she was due at least one.

The noise from the crowd rose in anticipation, filling the gym-there wasn’t much time left and the game was close and Jordan knew that every action on the court in the seconds remaining would define who won and who lost. The dying moments of a basketball game require the greatest focus and most intense concentration. But something quite different popped into her head. The Big Bad Wolf outthinks Little Red Riding Hood. He outmaneuvers her at every point. No one comes to her rescue. No one saves her. She is completely alone in the forest and she can do nothing to stop the inevitable. She dies. No, worse: She is eaten alive.

Jordan tried to shake loose the prior evening’s research. She had spent two hours in the library, reading the Grimms’ fairy tales, then another ninety minutes on the computer examining psychological interpretations of the story of Little Red Riding Hood. Everything she’d learned had terrified her and fascinated her. This was an awful combination of feelings.

She heard one of her teammates yell, “D-Up! D-Up!” And when her opposite number came into position, Jordan set her shoulder against the girl’s back in an I’m right here movement. She could hear voices shouting warnings. “Back pick! Watch the screen!” Organized chaos, Jordan thought. It was the part of the game she most loved.

A girl on the opposing team took an ill-advised, hurried three-pointer. The combination of cheering, the clock winding down, the closeness of the score, and the girl’s overconfidence all conspired to push the ball away from the rim. Jordan jumped, reaching for the rebound, snatching it from the air, swinging her elbows wildly to clear away anyone who might try to steal it from her. For a second she felt as if she were alone, soaring angel-like above the court. Then she thudded back to the hardwood floor. She could feel the rough surface of the synthetic leather beneath her sweaty palms. She wanted to hit someone, just foul her savagely, but she did not. Instead she flipped the ball to a guard and thought, Now we’ll win, but understanding that the point of the fairy tale was that death of innocence was unavoidable and that the Big Bad Wolf and everything he symbolized about the inexorable force of evil would ultimately win out. No wonder they changed the story around, she thought. The original version was a nightmare.

The whistle blew. One of her teammates had been fouled. The other team was resorting to hacking its way back into the game. Just pathetic hope, Jordan imagined. They believe we’ll miss our free throws. Not goddamn very likely.

But she did not believe that she had won anything that evening. The game perhaps. But nothing else.

In the stands, in the seconds following the final whistle, especially in a close contest, there is a surge of relief crashing against waves of disappointment. Elation and disappointment are like conflicted currents in a tight channel as the tide begins to change. The Big Bad Wolf basked in the palpable ebb and flow surrounding him. Winners and losers.

He was incredibly proud of Red Three. He loved the way she fought on every single play and the way she had taken advantage of every mistake her opposing number had made. He thought he could taste the sweat that matted her hair and glistened on her forehead. She’s a real competitor, he thought. Affection and admiration only made his desire to kill her increase. He felt drawn to her, as if she exuded some magnetic force that only he could feel.

He let out a loud, “Yeah! Way to go!” like any parent or spectator rooting in the stands.

He closed up his notebook and stuffed his mechanical pencil into a jacket pocket. Later, in the privacy of his writing room, he would go over his scribbled observations. Like a journalist’s, the Big Bad Wolf’s rapid notations tended toward the cryptic: Single words, like lithe, nasty, tough, and fierce mixed with larger descriptions, such as seems possessed by the game and never appears to talk to anyone else on the court, either on her team or the other. No trash-talking and no encouragement. No high-fives for teammates. No “In your face” or shouts of “And One!” directed at the opposition. No self-satisfied, chest-pounding, preening for the people watching. Just singular intensity that every minute exceeds that of the other nine players on the floor.

And one other delicious observation: Red Three’s hair makes her seem on fire.

The Big Bad Wolf could hardly rip his eyes away from watching Red Three, but he knew that he should think of himself as on stage, so he forced himself to avert his gaze and watch some of the other players. This was almost painful for him. Although he knew no one was watching him, he liked to imagine that everyone was watching him, every second. There were marks that had to be hit, and lines that had to be uttered at just the precise moment, so that he seemed no different from anyone else crammed into the wooden bleacher rows.

Around him, people were standing, stretching, gathering coats as they readied to leave, or, if they were students, looking for book bags or backpacks. He stole one look back over his shoulder as he pulled on his jacket, and watched the team-with Red Three bringing up the rear-as they jogged off the court. The boys’ varsity game was scheduled to start in twenty minutes, and there was a press of people moving out of seats and newcomers working their way in. He tugged on his baseball hat, emblazoned with the school’s name. He believed deeply that he looked like any parent, friend, school official, or townie who just enjoyed high school basketball. And he doubted that anyone noticed his note taking; there were too many college scouts and local sports reporters who watched the games with notebooks in hand to draw any real attention to his interest.

This was something the Big Bad Wolf loved: looking ordinary when he was far from it. He could feel his pulse accelerate. He looked at the people pressing around him. Can any of you imagine who I truly am? he wondered. He took a final glance toward the door to the locker room and caught a glimpse of Red Three’s hair, disappearing. Do you know how close I was today? He wanted to whisper this in her ear.

He thought, She does not know it, but we are more intimate than lovers.

The Big Bad Wolf began to make his way out of the gym, caught up in the throng of moving people. He had much to do, both planning and writing, and he was eager to get back to his office. He wondered if he’d acquired enough knowledge in what he’d seen to start a new chapter of his book, and his mind suddenly went to beginnings. He wrote in his head: Red Three wore a look of utter determination and total devotion when she snatched the rebound from the air. I don’t think she could even hear the cheers that rained down on her. Even knowing she was scheduled to die did not distract her.

Yes. He liked that.

He suddenly heard a quiet, cheery voice coming from right beside him. “Are you absolutely sure we shouldn’t stay for the boys’ game?”

He hesitated as he turned to Mrs. Big Bad Wolf. She, too, had pulled on a well-worn baseball cap with the school’s name on it.

“No, dear,” he replied, smiling. He reached out like a teenager in love for the first time and took his wife’s hand. “I think I’ve seen more than enough for one day.”

Walk out the door. Just turn the handle and walk out the door. You know you can do it.

Sarah Locksley twitched with tension as she stood in the small vestibule of her house. She was dressed in brown leather boots, tight jeans, and a long tan winter overcoat. She had showered and brushed her hair and even applied a small amount of makeup to her cheeks and eyes. She had her large multicolored pocketbook slung over her shoulder and she could feel the bricklike weight of the loaded.357 Magnum pulling it down.

She knew she appeared completely presentable and totally put together and that any stranger walking by would think that she was just another woman in her early thirties on her way out for groceries or on some other errand. Maybe a trip to the mall or to meet with some girlfriends for a ladies’ night out of shared appetizers and calorie-conscious salads followed by some inane romantic comedy at the multiplex.

That Sarah was crippled by despair was effectively hidden. All she had to do was open the door to her house, step outside into the wan afternoon light, make her way to her car, start the engine, put it into gear, and off she would go, just like any normal person with something to do on a weekend evening.

But she knew that she was not a normal person. She shivered as if she were cold. Not normal in the slightest way whatsoever. Not anymore.

Strange, conflicted thoughts crashed into Sarah’s mind: He’s right outside. He will kill me before I have a chance to pull out Ted’s gun. But at least I look nice. If I die in the next minute, at least the EMTs who arrive at my murder and the medical examiner who inspects my dead body will think I’m clean and organized and not like I really am. Why does that make a difference?

She wasn’t sure, but it did.

He’s not out there. Not yet. The Big Bad Wolf didn’t act swiftly. He stalked Little Red Riding Hood.

There was a part of her that wanted to wall herself into her home, build barricades and protect herself, waiting for the Big Bad Wolf to show up and try to blow her house down. Except, Sarah shook her head as she reminded herself, that’s the wrong damn fairy tale. I’m not one of the three little pigs. My house may be made of straw, but that’s the wrong story completely.

Again she hesitated, reaching her hand around the door handle. It was not as if she was scared-a significant part of her welcomed death. It was more the uncertainty of everything. She felt caught up in a vortex, like there was a maelstrom spinning her around, threatening to pull her under dark waves. She could hear her breathing coming in raspy, fast gasps-but she could not feel the shortness of breath. It was almost as if the sounds were coming from someone else.

She shut her eyes. Okay. If this is it, at least it will be fast. Just like Ted and Brittany. They never saw the truck. Just one minute they were alive and laughing and having a fine time, and then they were dead. Maybe it will be like that for me, too. So okay, Big Bad Wolf. Just shoot me right now!

She pulled the door open savagely and stood framed in the space. Take your damn shot!

She closed her eyes. Waited.

Nothing.

She could feel the evening’s chill descending. It cooled her, and she realized that she was sweating, hot, as if she’d been exercising.

She blinked. Her street was as it always was. Quiet. Empty. She took a deep breath and stepped out. Maybe there’s a bomb attached to my car and when I start it up, it will explode just like in some Hollywood gangster movie.

She slid behind the wheel and, without hesitating, turned the key over. The engine fired up and hummed like a cat being stroked.

Well, maybe the Big Bad Wolf will slam some truck into me, and I can die like Ted and Brittany did.

She steered the car into the street and stopped. Again she closed her eyes. Broadside. Forty, maybe fifty miles an hour. Just like the oil truck. Come on. I’m waiting. I’m ready.

Sarah’s eyes again were squeezed tight. Any second now, she thought.

The car horn seemed to blast inches away from her left ear. The sound sliced the air like an explosion. She gasped and involuntarily held up her arm, as if to shield herself from impact. Her eyes flew open and she cried out some half-scream, half-sob.

The horn beeped again. Only this time, it seemed childlike, like a toy noise.

She half-turned in her seat, and saw that she was obstructing a couple in a small Japanese compact car. The man behind the wheel, who looked to be in his early sixties, and his wife, who was still dark-haired and appeared a little younger, were waving at her, but not in an impatient, unfriendly fashion. It was more like they were concerned and confused. Sarah stared at the couple, and then haphazardly pieced things together in her head. I’m blocking the road. They want to get past me.

The woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window. From perhaps ten feet away, she called out in a questioning tone, “Is everything okay?”

Yes. No. Yes. No. Sarah didn’t respond other than to wave her hand as if to say Sorry without an explanation. She fumbled to get the car into forward gear. Then she quickly thrust her foot down on the accelerator and without looking back drove rapidly down the street. She did not know exactly where she was going, but wherever it was, she went in a hurry, breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, like a swimmer preparing for a dive into uncertain waters or waiting for the starter’s gun to sound the start of a race.

“Odd,” said Mrs. Big Bad Wolf.

“Maybe the young lady got a cell phone call, or remembered that she’d forgotten something. But you shouldn’t just stop in the middle of the road,” the Big Bad Wolf replied. “That’s really dangerous.”

“It’s a good thing you were paying attention,” his wife said. “People just certainly are strange.”

“Indeed they are,” he answered as he drove slowly forward. “Don’t want to be late.” He smiled. “Shall we listen to the radio?” he asked, pleasantly enough, fiddling with the dial until he found the classical music station. He hated classical music, although he had always told his wife he loved it. Little dishonesties, he thought, were good practice for the necessary larger ones.

Karen Jayson sat at her desk, an electronic medical notebook on the flat wooden surface in front of her, her head in her hands. The day was crawling toward an end. It had been long, but not crazily so, and she should not have felt as exhausted as she did.

She was a woman accustomed to being if not exactly certain about matters, at least confident, and the letter from the Big Bad Wolf had scoured her emotions. After speaking with Detective Clark, she had set the letter aside and told herself, Forget it. Then she had picked it up again and told herself, You need to act. But precisely how eluded her. She had the sensation that she needed to be actively doing something but had very little idea what that something was. She had done everything Detective Clark had told her. She had called a security company-they were scheduled to install an alarm system in her house the next day. She had gone over patient files, looking for some error that might have led to a threat. She had racked her memory for any slight, real or imagined, that might translate into “You have been selected to die.” She had even checked out the website of the local animal shelter to see if they had some big mean dog for adoption. She had looked up the numbers of some private detectives, checked with various consumer ratings programs to see who received the best reviews, and written down the telephone numbers of two different men. She had half-dialed one number only to stop and hang up her telephone.

Above all, Karen despised panic. Or even the appearance of panic.

In medical school, doing her internship rotations, she had seriously considered a career as an emergency room physician, because even with blood spurting, cries of agony, and the need to move quickly to save a life she had always found herself preternaturally calm. The more things were disintegrating around her, the more her own pulse would slow. She thought that her response to the threatening letter should have been precisely the same as when some accident victim arrived in front of her, ravaged and in imminent danger of dying.

She liked to think of herself as a completely rational person, even with her comedy half occasionally surfacing. But since she’d opened the letter, she had been unable to even consider a comedy routine. Not a single joke, no sarcasm, no play on words or clever political observation-nothing that was the usual stuff of her routines had leapt into her thoughts. Her nighttime dreams had been tortured, which made her tired and angry.

She leaned back and rocked in her desk chair. She was shaking her head back and forth, as if disagreeing with something she’d told herself, when the door to her office opened.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t want to disturb you…”

“No, no, it’s okay. I was just a little lost in thought.”

Karen looked over at her nurse. Only two other people worked in her small practice: a young nurse two years out of a college program who had only recently, and hesitantly, asked Karen how to have the tattoo of a sun rising on the back of her neck removed, and her longtime receptionist, an older woman who knew many of the patients and their ailments far better than Karen did.

“Last patient of the day,” the nurse said. “She’s been waiting in exam room 2 for a couple of minutes and…”

She let her voice trail off before any sort of rebuke passed her lips. Karen understood two things: The nurse wanted to get home to her EMT boyfriend and Karen shouldn’t keep the last patient of the day waiting no matter how unsettled she felt. She took a deep breath and jumped out of her chair, launching herself into her attentive doctor mode.

“It’s just a routine follow-up exam,” the nurse said, “She’s already been checked by her cardiologist. His report is in her file. She’s doing fine. This is just a follow-up physical. Nothing too important.”

She handed Karen a clipboard with a file folder attached. Karen didn’t even look at it, feeling suddenly a bit guilty for making a patient wait unnecessarily. She adjusted her white lab coat and hurried down the hallway into the exam room.

The patient was seated on the exam table, wearing a johnny-gown and a smile. “Hello, Doctor,” she said.

“Hello, Mrs…” Karen glanced quickly at the folder to grab the woman’s name. She hurriedly said it, trying to cover up her failure to greet her as she did all her patients: with a familiarity that implied that she had spent the entire day studying whatever medical issues the patient had. Ordinarily she had no trouble remembering the names of her patients, and inwardly she berated herself for the lapse. She knew that stress sometimes caused blanks in the memory. That an anonymous threat could intrude on her day-to-day life seemed horribly wrong.

She had absolutely no idea that her greeting that day actually should have been: “Hello, Mrs. Big Bad Wolf…”

Nor had she any inkling that sitting patiently in her small waiting room, reading an out-of-date copy of the New Yorker, was the man who secretly longed to catch a glimpse of the doctor whom he’d dubbed Red One.