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.