Since then, local papers and television newscasters had reported the unknown intruder’s fondness for feet, announcing that police wanted him for eight to ten such escapades. The notoriety made it a more risky business. Couldn’t they see how harmless it was? Nobody hurt. And no matter how many valuables, jewelry, cash, even drugs that he found scattered across dresser tops, all he ever took was footwear. He had his pride. Actually, he was doing them a favor, demonstrating their lack of security before some truly dangerous stranger paid a visit. This might be out of the norm, but it was certainly safer than driving drunk or ruining his liver. And it was so much more stimulating — and satisfying. Nobody could deny that.
Excited now, he heard her breathing, or was that his own? This one slept naked, sprawled on her back, her feet apart at the foot of the bed. His heart thudded as he stepped closer, hoping she hadn’t showered. The polish on her bloodred toenails gleamed in the eerie green light from her bedside clock as he focused on the seductively plump curve of her big toe. He licked his lips in anticipation, the pleasure centers of his midbrain slipping into overdrive as he touched her, stroking her feet gently with his thumbs and index fingers, then leaned forward. The toes were cool beneath his warm lips. He could almost feel them stiffening.
The scream came as expected, but it was his own, as the moon broke free from clouds and he saw her clearly in the light spilling between the blinds. Eyes wide open and protruding, the twisted stocking grotesquely embedded in an impossibly deep groove around her throat. He gasped, stumbled back in horror, and tried not to gag. Instinctively he fled, then hesitated in the dining room and turned back, wasting precious moments.
He snatched the red stiletto heels off the floor near the closet, shoved them under his shirt without looking at the bed, and scrambled for the exit. The bulge beneath his shirt forced him to push the sliding glass door open even farther to escape. What if someone had heard his cry? The door shrieked unexpectedly, metal rasping on metal, resounding through the night. In his haste, he stumbled against a plastic recycling bin outside her neighbor’s door. It tipped over, spilling aluminum cans that clattered everywhere. He righted the receptacle with both hands and stood quietly for a moment, breathing deeply, his pulse pounding like a racehorse at the gate. A few feet away someone opened a window.
“Who’s out there?” a deep voice demanded.
Harvey fled blindly, in panic, descending two and three steps at a time. Another window cranked open.
“What’s going on?”
“There he goes!” someone else shouted.
He plunged headlong from the landing, stumbled, scrambled painfully to his feet, and hobbled across the parking lot, right ankle throbbing.
Lights bloomed, a concert of light behind him, as he glanced over his shoulder. Miamians are notoriously well armed and primed to shoot. He could not chance an encounter with some trigger-happy crime stopper. The cold metal of the dead woman’s stiletto heel jabbed him in the belly as he flung himself into his Geo Metro. He winced at the pain as it broke the skin, fumbling frantically to fit the key into the ignition. His hands shook so uncontrollably that it seemed to take forever. Finally the engine caught. He tore out of the parking lot, burning rubber, lights out.
He took deep breaths, the car all over the road, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. No one in pursuit. He forced himself to slow down, assume control, and switch on his lights, just in time. He saw the blue flasher of an approaching patrol car. It roared past at a high rate of speed, westbound, no siren, probably responding to the prowler call. Harvey whimpered, turned onto US 1, and merged with other late-night traffic. How could that vibrant young girl be dead? Murdered. Her killer had to be that bastard, the man he saw leave, the man in the yellow sweatshirt. But the police wouldn’t know that, they’d think he did it. His prize, the coveted strappy red sandals now resting uneasily against his heart, could send him to the electric chair.
Fear iced his blood and he shuddered involuntarily as he wrenched them from beneath his shirt, tearing it as a heel caught the fabric. He rolled down the window to hurl the incriminating evidence out by the side of the road, but could not bring himself to do it. It was not only because another motorist or some late-night jogger might see. He felt suddenly emotional about the final mementos of that lovely woman, so vivacious and full of life. The sort of lovely, lively woman who never would have given him a second look. He tried to think.
How could he explain? What would he say if they arrested him? “I’m not a murderer, I’m only a pervert.” He said it out loud and didn’t like the way it sounded.
How good a defense was that? Nobody would believe him. His favorite fantasies occasionally involved handcuffs, but their image now horrified him. Yet he could not bring himself to throw away her shoes like so much garbage, like someone had left her lifeless body, naked and exposed. He needed a drink, really needed a drink. Mouth dry, his tongue parched, he eased into the parking lot of the Last Chance Bar, but changed his mind before he cut the engine. Drinking was no answer, backsliding wouldn’t help his situation. He needed to think clearly. He drove back out onto the street, toward Garden Avenue. The AA meetings there were attended in large part by restaurant workers and airport employees whose shifts ended at midnight or later.
The big room radiated light, fellowship, and the smell of fresh coffee. He was glad to see Phil, his sponsor, in the crowd.
Harvey sat and listened, sweating despite the cool evening and the laboring air conditioner. He wondered why nobody ever bothers to turn them off in Florida, even when the weather is comfortable. He sailed through the preliminaries when his turn came, then began, “You don’t know how close I just came.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, already thinning at twenty-six. “Something happened tonight.” The shrewd eyes of a member named Ira lingered speculatively on Harvey’s torn shirt.
“Old bad habits almost got me in big trouble.” Harvey licked his lips. His mouth felt dry again despite the coffee he’d had. “You know how they always tend to come back and cause you problems.” He looked around. Several people he didn’t know were present. “Tonight, I was only trying...” Harvey’s eyes continued to roam to the back of the room, to the coffee urn, where the man in the yellow sweatshirt stood watching him.
Harvey nearly strangled on his own words. “I have to go,” he mumbled. His sponsor called his name, but he was out the door.
The Dew Drop Inn was quiet, a few regulars at the knotty-pine bar, an old martial arts movie on TV, and some guys and girls playing pool in the back room. Harvey swallowed his first drink in a single scalding gulp, quickly followed by another, then sat nursing the third, trying to focus on the taste, avoiding all other thoughts. The double doors opened, admitting fresh air and street sounds along with a new arrival. A dozen empty stools stood at the bar, but the newcomer chose the one next to his. Harvey knew who it was before he looked up.
“Fancy seeing you here.” The man in the yellow sweatshirt grinned.
Harvey squirmed, trying to look casual, his stomach churning. “Just testing the waters again.”
“Me too.” The man paused and lit a cigarette. “I can only take so much culture before I have to roll in the shit.” He looked at Harvey. “They say it’s the first drink that gets you drunk.”