Jordan pointed at Sarah’s red hair. She remembered how bright Red Two’s hair had looked spread across mourning black.
Sarah thought she should say something, but fell into silence. After an uncomfortable moment, Karen spoke up. “We shouldn’t stay here,” she said. “We need to go to a safe place to talk.” Sarah seemed about to say something, so Karen spoke quickly, stopping her before she spoke. “Look, when Jordan and I first met yesterday, one thing we realized is that if and when the three of us are together, it increases our vulnerability. All of us being in the same spot, at the same time, makes us all into a much simpler target.”
“It’s kinda like us getting together is what he really wants and he throws a hand grenade at us,” Jordan said. “Boom! Red One, Red Two, and Red Three all disappear at once.” Cynicism mingled freely with anxiety in her voice. Karen didn’t bother to expand on the hand grenade concept, although a part of her thought, It makes as much sense as anything. Because none of it makes sense. Or all of it does.
“But we’ve still got to talk, to figure out what we’re going to do…”
“I know what we’re going to do,” Jordan muttered beneath her breath. Karen didn’t turn toward the youngest of the trio. Instead she kept her eyes fixed on Sarah. “So, we need to go someplace where we know we can plan without being watched.” Her eyes flicked over to the large living room window. “We don’t know,” she said, “we can’t be sure he’s not right out there…” Her voice trailed off.
Sarah felt dizzy. She thought there were a hundred things she needed to say, but all of them escaped her tongue. What she managed was, “Let me get my coat.”
“Hey,” Jordan said briskly. “Bring the gun.”
16
There are three stages to a killing, the Wolf wrote when he finally got back to his office after his lengthy interview with the police detective and was able to lock the door and revel for a moment in quiet concentration.
Planning. Execution. Aftermath.
Neglect any of these three phases, and failure is inevitable. The key is demanding more of oneself. It’s crucial to recognize that at the conclusion of the second stage, as profoundly emotional and satisfying as that might be, and as much as one has built to that moment, there are still critical steps that need to be taken. Simply put, it’s not over. It’s just begun. I believe it’s a little like the soldier coming home from the war trying to negotiate a fast-food restaurant after months spent in deprivation and fear, or perhaps the astronaut returning from a lengthy stay in space confronting the motor vehicles registry. There is decompression necessary before returning to ordinary life, a stepping-back time, where the killer needs to slide out from beneath the excitement and passion of the hunt and the murder and let it flow into sweetened memory. Creating the emotional context for enjoyment requires as much careful plotting as does the actual killing. It’s where the clumsy amateurs and the unprepared wannabes fail. After they accomplish the death they’ve invented, they then don’t know how to savor that moment. And it’s important to be aware that not anticipating the needs of this final stage engenders frustration and dismay-and leads to mistakes in the first two stages. There is great danger in not fully preparing for post-death enjoyment.
When you’ve accomplished something special, it takes great nerve and focus and strength of character to allow yourself to become outwardly ordinary once again even when you know that the persona others see is a complete lie.
As always the words came in a rush to the Wolf. His fingers seemed to dance above the computer keyboard, his concentration entirely on the entry that was taking shape in front of him. He felt a kind of ease, as if he were an athlete settling into the routine of a workout, where the miles he stamped beneath his feet or the water that flowed underneath him with every overhand stroke were like so many familiar pushes from behind. He paused briefly to steal a thought about each Red and believed that he was fast approaching the time when he would have to begin the hands-on process of each specific death. Red One is special because she has faced death so frequently with consummate professionalism, but now she must confront a death that has no diagnosis. Red Two is unique because she’s so eager to die, and now is confronted by her very secret wishes coming true, just not how she expected them to. And Red Three is exceptional because she has done so much to toss her future away, and now must face someone else stealing from her what little remains of that future. He shook his head and grunted out loud. Appetizer. Main course. Dessert. Each stage of murder had its own tastes.
He wrote down: I want to let each phase run its course. The Wolf was acutely aware that as in any relationship, a murder needed to be fulfilling at every level. Like machine-gun bullets, words leapt at him: Threat. Fear. Process. The moment. The follow-up. Memory. Any slippage at any point would detract from the overall experience.
He hesitated again, this time letting his eyes scan his latest entry on the computer screen. What makes a book really work? he wrote at last. It must take risks. It must suck the reader inside the story. Every character has to be fascinating in his or her own special way. It must make it a paramount necessity for readers to turn each page. This is equally true for a novel of manners or a science fiction thriller. The same rules of murder apply to writing. What good is telling a story that doesn’t resonate long after the final page has been read? Doesn’t the killer face the same question? Both writer and killer are engaged in creating something that will last. The writer wants the reader to remember his words long after the final page. The killer wants the impact of the death to linger. And not just for him, but for all the others the death has touched.
Murder isn’t about a single killing. It’s about a ripple through the lives of many.
He drummed his fingers against the wooden desktop, as if this rapid tapping would accelerate his thoughts into new words that he could write down. For a moment he envied artists who simply drew a line on a blank white canvas and let that small motion define everything that was to follow. Painting, that’s easy, he thought. He understood that the similarity between a killer and an artist was that both already had firmly in their mind a finished portrait of what would emerge when they drew their first stroke. This notion made him grin.
Then he wrote at the top of a new page: Why I Love Each Red.
The Wolf sighed. He told himself, It is not enough to tell readers how you expect to accomplish their deaths. You need to explain why. In the fairy tale, it’s not just a fine meal that the wolf wants as he stalks Little Red Riding Hood through the woods. He could sate that hunger at any point. No, his real starvation is far different and it has to be addressed with intensity. The wolf wants to eat. But he also wants a relationship.
Again, the Wolf hesitated. It was dark outside, the afternoon having given way to night, and he expected Mrs. Big Bad Wolf to arrive home shortly, the way she did every day, just a few minutes before 6 p.m., letting out a cheery “I’m home, dear…” as she passed through the front door. The Wolf never immediately responded. He allowed her a few moments to observe his overcoat hanging on its customary hook, his umbrella in the stand in the vestibule, and his shoes thoughtfully removed by the living room entrance, replaced by slide-on leather slippers. Her pair, which matched his, would be waiting for her. Then she would tiptoe past his closed office door-even if she had grocery bags in her arms and could use a little assistance. He knew she would immediately go to the kitchen to fix their dinner. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt that making certain he was overstuffed was a key element to fueling the writing process. He didn’t disagree with this.