Red 1-2-3

6

Death is the big game and one that everyone plays and everyone loses at the final whistle. But murder is slightly different, because it is far more like that moment within each game when the outcome is decided. We sit in the stands, never knowing when that precise second will arrive. Will it be this goal, or that free throw, or the base hit with the man on second, or the defensive back failing to make a tackle? Perhaps it’s the moment when the referee blows his whistle and points to the penalty spot. Murder is more like sport than anyone knows. Murder has its own clock and its own rules. Like sport, it’s about preparation and determination. It’s about overcoming obstacles. Someone wants to live. Someone wants to kill. That is the playing field.

He looked at the words on the computer screen. Good, he thought, People reading this will start to understand.

Karen awakened exhausted from a night of restless dreams at 6 a.m., her customary time in the morning, a few moments before her alarm clock would have rung. She had always had an inner clock that would wake her up shortly before the hotel wake-up call or her alarm. Her habit was to roll over and punch the off button on the alarm, thrust herself up from beneath a handmade quilt she’d acquired at a local crafts show many years earlier, and make her way to a pink exercise pad set up in a corner of the bedroom, where she would indulge herself with exactly fifteen minutes of yoga stretches and exercises before heading to the shower. In the kitchen, the automatic coffeepot was already percolating. The clothes she had selected for that day’s work were set out the night before, after she checked the weather report. Routine, she insisted, set her free, although there were mornings when it was hard to persuade herself this statement was true.

She sometimes thought her entire world was constructed upside down, or perhaps back to front. She devoted all her organizational energies to her medical work, and thought of her comedy as liberating. Two Karens, she told herself, who might not even recognize each other if they met on the street. Comic Karen was creative, spontaneous, and quick-witted. Internist Karen was dedicated to her work and patients, steady, organized, and always as precise as illness allowed. Her two sides seemed to share little, but had managed to accommodate each other over the years.

This morning, she wondered if perhaps she needed to create a third.

She glanced over toward the alarm system pad that had been installed on the bedroom wall two days after the letter from the Big Bad Wolf had arrived. It blinked red-letting her know that it was on and functioning. She felt an odd discomfort. She had to get up, turn it off so that the motion detectors mounted in corners throughout the house would not catch her instead of the fictional bad guys they were designed to raise alarm about. She needed to get the day started. But she lingered.

Predictability is my enemy, she thought.

Someone unknown sends me a threatening letter, and I do exactly what every book, manual, or website says to protect myself. That was what made sense. A checklist. Call the police. Inform the neighbors to be on the lookout for any strange activity. Her isolation made that difficult, but she had still dutifully called the families that lived closest to her.

Simple, straightforward calls: “Hi, this is Karen Jayson down the block. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve received some anonymous threat. No… No… the police don’t think it means anything much, but I just wanted to ask some of the neighbors to keep an eye out for anything unusual. Like strange cars parked on the road or something. Thanks…”

The responses had been solicitous, concerned. Of course everyone would keep eyes peeled for any suspicious behavior. The families with small children had reacted strongly-wondering whether they should keep the kids indoors until this formless threat had dissipated, as if it were some oil slick on the surface of the ocean. The weather being what it was, which was lousy, Karen thought it unlikely the kids would be outside anyway.

Her next call had been to the alarm company, which had promptly sent out an overly enthusiastic workman to install the system, all the time happily and ominously opining about how you can’t be safe enough and people don’t understand how much danger is lurking out there before managing to sell Karen an enhanced security package with a monthly charge deducted from her credit card.

She had subsequently gone through the entirety of the policeman’s recommendations: Get a dog. No, she hadn’t done that, but she was considering it. Get a gun. No, she hadn’t done that, not yet, but she would consider it. Call a private detective. No, she hadn’t done that, but she was considering it. In fact, she realized, she was considering everything and nothing all at the same time.

How is any of this going to keep me alive? Wouldn’t the Big Bad Wolf have visited all the same online advice pages, read all the same words, and figured out all the same things?

Wouldn’t he know precisely what all the experts suggested she do? How smart is he?

Martin and Lewis had already set off the system twice in the two days it had been functioning. This meant that either she had to get rid of them or figure out some way to make it work in concert with cats. This seemed an insurmountable problem. It dogged her as for the first time in years she ignored the exercise pad and made her way into the shower.

Warm water and suds cascaded over her body.

She scrubbed herself vigorously, soaping every spot she could reach once, then twice, and finally a third time, as if soap could erase the lingering sense of exhaustion from her unsettled night. She held out a hand against the tile wall, steadying herself against the flow of water. She felt dizzy.

Her eyes were closed when she heard a sound.

It was not a recognizable noise, nothing clear-cut like a car door slamming, or a radio being switched on. It wasn’t loud-not a crash! or a clang! It was more like the first second of a hissing kettle, or a stiff breeze rustling through nearby tree branches.

She froze in position. A sudden burst of adrenaline coursed through her body so that she felt like she was abruptly spinning a million miles per hour, though she was immobile. Steam surrounded her like a fog, clouding her comprehension. The noisy flow of water obscured recognition.

What was that? What did you hear?

She was abruptly aware of her nakedness. Dripping. Vulnerable. She sharpened her hearing, trying to determine what the sound was.

It was nothing. Nothing. You’re alone and jumpy.

The house is empty. It always is. Just two cats. Maybe they made the sound. Maybe they knocked over a lamp, or a stack of books. They’ve done that before.

The steam curled around her, but she had the sensation the water was no longer warm, that it had turned icy. She took a deep breath, shut off the shower, and stood in the stall, listening. Then, instantly, she thought: If someone is out there, switching off the shower will tell them I’m about to get out. She jammed her finger twisting the shower dial back on, and she jumped as too-hot water spilled over her back.

Conflicting thoughts screamed inside her head.

It was just anxiety. Nothing was there.

Straighten up. Step out. Act your age. Stop behaving like a child.

She turned the shower off a second time. The air seemed cold to her, as if a window was open.

This is a cliché. Like a bad horror film. There should be a dark John Williams Jaws-like score playing relentlessly in the background.

Then a more complicated thought: Did you shut down the alarm properly?

She went over in her mind’s eye every step of the procedure, pushing each button of the security code, seeing the LED lights go from red to green. Did they? She was stifled by uncertainty. She could hear her own voice echoing within her, shouting advice, insisting, You’re acting like a fool. Get out. Get dressed. Get the day going.

But she remained locked in position.

She thought, The noise came after I shut off the alarm. Was someone waiting for those indicator lights to change color?

It took Karen an immense amount of willpower to step from the shower and grab a towel from the rack by the door. She wrapped herself up and then paused to listen again. She could still hear nothing.

Dry off. Go get your clothes. Dab on a little makeup. Come on, just like every day. You are hearing things. Hallucinating noises. You’re on edge for no reason. Or yes, there is a reason, but it’s not a real reason.

The water was pooling beneath her feet and with a terrific effort that made her gasp out loud, she rapidly dried herself off, then dragged a stiff brush through tangled hair so quickly that had she not been so unsettled, she would have shouted at the self-inflicted pain. She stopped. This is crazy. Why am I brushing my hair if someone is waiting to kill me? She gripped the brush handle like a knife and kept it in her hand as if it could be a weapon. Then she hurriedly approached the bathroom door that led into the bedroom. Closed, but not locked. A part of her wanted to simply lock the door and wait, but it was the flimsiest of locks, just a turn-button on the handle, and wouldn’t prevent the weakest, most incompetent intruder from breaking in.

Karen imagined him on the other side of the door, listening for her, just as she was listening for him.

She could not picture a person. All she could imagine were shiny white bared teeth: an image from a children’s story.

Then, just as swiftly, she told herself that she was being ridiculous. There’s no one there. You’re just acting nuts.

Still, it took another surge of will to open the door, then step into the bedroom.

It was empty-save for the two cats. They lounged on the bed, already bored.

She listened again. Nothing.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could, she grabbed at her clothes and pulled them on. Underwear. Bra. Slacks. Sweater. She slammed her feet into her shoes and stood up. Being clothed reassured her.

She went to her bedroom door. Again she paused to listen. Silence.

Small noises seemed to surround her: a ticking clock; the scratch of one of the cats shifting position on the bed; the distant sound of the heating system switching on.

Her own labored breathing.

She imagined that no noise would be way worse, and then she told herself that this made absolutely no sense. No fucking sense, she thought.

It’s my goddamn house. I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone…

She stopped. She picked up her cell phone from her bureau, flipped it open, dialed 911, and then poised her thumb over the call button.

This made her feel armed, and she began to slowly walk through the house, holding the cell phone like it was a weapon. Kitchen empty. Front foyer empty. Living room empty. Television room empty. She went from room to room, each quiet space both reassuring her and making her more nervous. At first she couldn’t bring herself to throw open a closet door; a part of her expected someone to jump out. The rational part of her warred with this sensation, and with another large effort she tugged open each closet, only to be greeted by clothes or coats or piles of stray papers.

She was hunting for a noise. Or evidence of a noise. Something that would make the fear that surged through her make some rational sense. She could find nothing.

When she was finally half-persuaded that she was alone, she went back to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot coffee. Her hand shook slightly. What did you hear?

Nothing. Everything. She let the coffee fill her, let the adrenaline rushing through her ears settle. She wondered, Can a letter make a noise? Can an anonymous threat make a sound?

In an erratic mix of tensions, Karen grabbed her coat and headed out to her car to go to work. In her confusion and anxiety, for the first time in years she neglected to put out the cat food.