This meant little to the three Reds. They were each alert to any possibility -although none of them knew exactly what to look for. I can spot a disease that might kill, Karen thought. I can see it in a blood test or on an X ray. I don’t know if I can spot a killer.
Jordan’s look burrowed into each of the four men in the audience. She was more confident. If you’re here, I’m going to know it, she said to the Wolf that she had created in her mind’s eye. She was too young to ask herself the crippling question How? She kept trying to fix each of the men with a fierce eye-to-eye, but even in their discomfort they all seemed more interested in the speaker.
Sarah, conversely, kept her gaze sliding between the men. She had no belief that she would know the Big Bad Wolf even if he were standing right next to her, a bloody knife in his hand and a large sign hanging around his neck. She smiled. This made no difference to her any longer.
Each kept their eyes sweeping over the gathering like sentries on duty even as the bookstore owner gushed her introduction of the author, who stepped to the platform amidst enthusiastic applause.
“My books are all about female empowerment,” the writer began with expected emphasis.
That was the point at which each of the Reds stopped paying the slightest bit of attention to what they heard.
The speech lasted just shy of an hour and there was a predictable series of questions afterward, ranging from the specifics of one warrior-maiden’s murderous foibles to the more general complaints about the lack of mainstream publishing energy that went into books with “women’s themes.” The session was generally humorless.
Karen in particular wanted it all to end. She shifted about on the steel chair, desperate to turn to Red Two and ask her, “What’s so urgent that we had to meet tonight? What’s happened?”
Other than the phone call, she thought. That had happened to all of them. A part of Karen was angry. She was exhausted both by the torture of worry and the pain of uncertainty, and she wanted it all to stop. But she wasn’t willing to acknowledge to herself that one way of its all coming to a halt was the Big Bad Wolf’s success.
The writer finished and basked in applause. There was a flurry of bookstore-worker activity as the author sat down behind a nearby desk, flourished a large pen, and started to sign books. On another table chocolate brownies, hummus and chips, and small plastic glasses of very cheap white and red wine were being served to those in the audience not gathering in line to fawn over the writer.
Sarah motioned toward the table. She got a stale brownie and gestured for Karen and Jordan to accompany her away from the signing and the cash register and the food table. In the midst of all the people, the three Reds were alone.
They stood in front of a wall of books on subjects ranging from abortion to voting rights. Their eyes were on the books-but the conversation was exclusively on something else.
Sarah started with a small, coy laugh. “Well, if the damn Wolf could sit through all that crap…” she said, letting her voice trail off. Even Jordan, who always seemed so intense, forced a smile.
Sarah shook her head. “Anyone have any doubt who that was on the phone last night?”
Again there was silence.
“Do you both feel like he’s getting closer and closer?” Sarah asked.
There was no need to respond to this question.
“He could go on doing what he’s doing forever,” Jordan said. “Maybe that’s what he likes.”
“I don’t think so,” Sarah replied. “I mean, sure, he has to love what he’s doing. But I think he loves something bigger more.” They all knew what bigger meant.
All three women kept their eyes straight ahead, as if the titles and book jackets on the shelves in front of them might have an answer.
Sarah continued, “The more I think about it, the more it’s like being in a classroom. We’re all learning about murder, aren’t we? You know, I spent a lot of time in classes teaching. And one thing I know: When something happens that interrupts the class, it ruins every lesson plan you’ve made. Every bit of design you had for that day’s teaching just disappears.
Her voice, as eager as it was, seemed to trail off into some memory. Jordan imagined that Sarah had suddenly remembered what that “interruption” had been.
“A disruption that’s small-well, you deal with that quickly and effectively. Send an unruly student to the principal’s office; a little firmness restores order in the class. Get back to teaching.”
Jordan knew exactly what she was talking about. She had, after all, been that unruly student earlier in the day.
“But sometimes there are disruptions that you can’t handle easily. Where everything just explodes all at once.”
“What happens then?” Karen asked.
“All your planning just goes straight to hell.”
“So,” Jordan said. “What are you saying?”
“We’re in his classroom. We have to disrupt that chain of plans he has for us. Break his system. Throw the goddamn proverbial monkey wrench into whatever the hell it is he’s designed to happen to each of us.”
Karen nodded, but whispered, “Sounds nice. But far easier said than done.”
“No,” Sarah said. She reached out and grabbed Karen’s wrist, pulling her a little closer. “I know how to screw it all up for him. Fuck up the Big Bad Wolf and what he has in mind for us totally and completely.” The obscenity felt honeylike rolling off her tongue.
“How?” Jordan blurted out. She was both confused and suddenly hopeful. Just the thought of doing something rather than waiting for something to be done to her was encouraging.
Sarah’s eyes abruptly started to glisten with tears at the same time that her mouth widened into a grin. She reached up and stroked Jordan’s cheek, a surprising act of affection toward someone barely more than a stranger. “One of us has to die,” she said.
The others looked shocked. Karen gasped and tried to take a step back, only to be stopped by Sarah’s grip, tightening around her arm and pulling her close. Sarah shook her head.
“No,” she replied to the unasked question. “It’s me.”
26
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf discovered rapidly that there is only so much one can find out about specific crimes sitting at a desk and traveling through the Internet. She received even less electronic help unraveling the mystery of the man she loved.
Being an administrative secretary and devoted to routine and order, she made a spreadsheet to keep her inquiries organized. Four books. Four murders. Then marriage. She placed publication and homicide dates at the top of the page. She made subcategories of scenes and characters from the books and contrasted these with actual victims and homicide locations. She listed murder weapons used in real life versus what she had read on the pages of her husband’s novels. She collected every small detail she could glean from the diverse newspaper articles that came up on her computer screen and reexamined it like some sort of extremely anxious literary critic. The printer by her desk whirred as she searched doggedly for patterns, for similarities or any shared aspect between books and murders that would lead her down the route to understanding.
It was hard work.
She chewed pencil eraser ends and sucked on hard-candy mints, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one could see what she was doing, even though she knew no one else was in the office. The dean had fortunately chosen that week to go to an academic conference in New York City. He had left behind precious few tasks for her to finish, so she was able to drive herself with a feverishness that paralleled her racing emotions.