The Man Who Cheated Death

Chapter 13 News at Noon

It was eleven o”clock in the morning when Myrtle Jones banged on Eugene Osbourne’s front door for the second time in as many days. He appeared in a bathrobe, his eyes heavy with sleep. Inside the house a radio newscaster droned on, sounding like an old movie newsreel.

“Guess what I’ve got baking in the oven,” she said, winking mischievously. “That’s right: my heavenly chocolate cake.”

On the sidewalk sat Mr. Kozlowski in a wheelchair, bundled up like a mummy. She handed Eugene a brown paper bag, the smell of warm tollhouse cookies jump-starting his senses. Eugene took one from the bag and bit into it, tasting chocolaty sweet perfection.

“I was hoping you would join us for lunch. Mr. Kozlowski is so looking forward to you coming.”

Eugene hesitated, his attention diverted by a special news flash on the radio. A school bus had overturned, children hurt.

“Can we watch television?”

Myrtle Jones was taken aback. “Well, I suppose we could.”

“All right,” he said, closing the door in her face.

Lunch was served in the musty living room on TV trays. Myrtle had outdone herself; lobster bisque, chicken pot pies made from scratch, miniature vegetables, and a bottle of wine. Eugene, wearing a fresh shirt and cologne, sat directly across from the TV, his eyes glued to the flickering screen.

“Eugene, do you have any family?” Myrtle asked while spoon feeding Mr. Kozlowski.

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Oh. Well, I’m sure you have lots of friends.”

“Just one.”

“Does he ever visit? I’d be happy to invite him—”

“He’s in prison,” Eugene said.

“Mr. Kozlowski says you remind him of a steam fitter he once employed years ago.”

Eugene looked suspiciously at her, then Mr. Kozlowski. “I didn’t hear him say anything.”

“Mr. Kozlowski talks with his fingers,” she said, showing him the tiny computer taped to the arm of the wheelchair. “He types in what he wants to say, and I read the screen.”

Eugene lifted his head to stare at the tiny screen. Printed across it were the words NICE TO MEET YOU.

“Same here,” Eugene said.

THANKS FOR HELPING YESTERDAY

“No problem.”

Myrtle stacked up their dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

YOU’RE VERY STRONG

“Uh-huh.”

BET THE GIRLS LOVE IT

“Not all of them.”

I SEE YOU BRING THEM HOME. REAL LADY KILLER

“Maybe I should invite you over sometime,” Eugene said.

TO DO WHAT? I’M EIGHTY FOUR.

“You can watch.”

The dessert was better than promised, and Eugene licked his fork after each scrumptious bite. He watched Mr. Kozlowski grow animated with his over-sized portion, his toothless mouth working vigorously. They both said yes to seconds.

Over decaf they watched the last half of a sitcom called Hugo. Hugo was an overgrown alien rodent who had been adopted by the average family next door. Orange, hairy, and shaped like a pear, Hugo was a cheap-looking puppet. No one in their right minds would have thought that he came from anywhere but a toy store, except for the people on the show with him. On today’s episode the Tanners, Hugo’s adopted family, helped Hugo deal with a cold.

OH BOY. ALIEN SNOT JOKES

“Mr. Kozlowski has a rather caustic sense of humor,” Myrtle explained, feeding him more cake.

“What would you do with Hugo?” Eugene asked him.

DROWN HIM IN A GARBAGE CAN

Embarrassed, Myrtle said, “Mister Kozlowski!”

OR FEED HIM RAT POISON

“That’s the ticket,” Eugene said.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

“I think a minute in the microwave would do the trick.”

ALIEN CASSEROLE

“Sure. They could serve him to the neighbors.”

STAY TUNED

A commercial filled the screen, and Myrtle lowered the volume with the remote. “Eugene, what happened to your dog?”

Staring at his plate, Eugene said, “He died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you getting another?”

Eugene had gone to the Humane Society that morning but been unable to find the kind of dog he wanted. “Eventually.”

“Are you looking for a particular breed?”

How did he describe the dog he wanted? It had to be ugly and fierce and beautiful all at the same time. A dog that no one else wanted; a dog that hated life as much as he did.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Eugene said.

Dancing on the screen was a giant chicken selling used cars, then a teaser for a noon news show. Reaching across Mr. Kozlowski’s tray, Eugene picked up the remote control and hit the volume. “If you don’t mind.”

“Why no, of course not,” Myrtle said.

Rising from his chair, Eugene planted himself in front of the TV, his face a foot from the screen. The commercial ended, and the face of an attractive red-haired newscaster filled the screen.

“This is Jayne Hunter,” the newscaster said. “On today’s News at Noon, learn if the water you’re drinking is contaminated, why the Lakers are underdogs for the upcoming playoffs, and how a famous magician is helping police track down L.A.’s worst serial killer. These stories and more, coming up.”

Another commercial danced across the screen. Eugene balled his fists in rage. This was all wrong. The hooker he’d murdered last night should have been one of the stories, not a piece about Hardare, the Vegas lounge lizard.

“How about more cake?” Myrtle asked.

“No,” Eugene replied, staring straight ahead.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m full,” he snapped.

The news came on. Hardare was the lead story, and was standing behind the Las Palmas hotel where he’d dumped Tawny Starr. A reporter shoved a mike into the magician’s face.

“Tell us what you’re about to do,” the reporter said.

“A woman was murdered here last night,” Hardare explained. “A residue of that violent act still lingers. I’m going to try to capture that residue, and help the police catch the killer.”

“Baloney,” Eugene shouted at the screen.

A clipboard was placed into the magician’s hands. Hardare showed the top page to the camera. It was blank. Handing the clipboard to the reporter, he removed a cigarette lighter and a piece of tissue from his pocket. He lit the tissue by its end, and let it burn in the palm of his hand. When it was no more than ash, he smeared it across the face of the clipboard.

“Our killer was dressed like a student,” Hardare said. “. He even had schoolbooks in his car. His face is square, and not particularly handsome. If he has a prominent feature, I would say it’s his nose. And he’s wearing a baseball cap. He’s a Dodger’s fan. Here is what he looks like.”

Hardare spun the clipboard spun around in his palms. A drawing of a man wearing a Dodger’s cap had appeared on the blank page. The man bore a striking resemblance to himself, and Eugene felt his entire body shudder.

“Would you look at that,” Myrtle said.

Eugene rose from the floor. “I need to go.”

“Sure you don’t want some more cake?”

Eugene shook his head. Mr. Kozlowski’s fingers were typing on his tiny computer. Eugene strained to read what he’d written.

HAVE A NICE DAY

“You, too,” he said.

Eugene stood in his backyard, destroying the evidence of last night’s killing. He squeezed the can of lighter fluid onto the burning dungarees, shirt, Nike Airs and baseball cap he’d stuffed inside the rusted oil drum, the fluid feeding the flame.

Within minutes only ashes remained. Opening a newspaper on the ground, he tilted the drum on its side, and poured the remaining evidence onto the sports page. Stomping out the ashes, he gathered the paper, went inside and flushed them down the toilet.

Then he took a shower. He alternated the temperature between scalding hot and teeth-chattering cold, still amazed at how similar the sensations felt the moment the water first hit his body. He started out cold, and slapped the wall in agony.

Hardare had shown the police what he looked like. It was not a good resemblance, nothing that would hold up in court, but that didn’t matter. They could find him now, track him down. And they would have no problem linking him to his crimes. The police had convicted Ted Bundy by matching his bridge to the bite marks on one of his victim’s arms, and their forensic technology would convict him as well. Then his reign would be over, the rest of his life spent in prison, playing checkers on Death Row.

He twisted off the cold water while simultaneously releasing the hot. The water burned his chest like tiny darts of flame. He bit his tongue savagely, halting the scream that boiled out of control within him. What was he going to do, burn all the clothes in his closet, sell the car, torch the house, and while he was at it, concrete the backyard?

He got out of the shower and stood before the vanity. A red sun the size of a pancake formed on his chest, the skin turning hot pink before his eyes. Without a disguise, he looked like a freak with his pop eyes and hairless body. The tears of his tortured childhood marched in steady progression down his face.

Going to his bedroom, Eugene drew the curtains and switched off the lights. Lying naked on the icy floor, he wrestled with his demons, his eyes fixed on the bedroom walls, watching their rough texture mold and shape itself in a thousand free-form patterns, while he waited for an answer to come.