Moving as quickly as they could, each understanding that something had happened that night that should scare them, the two women burst from the house and hurried across the yard to Karen’s car. Karen jammed the key into the ignition and spun the tires in her dirt-and-gravel drive as she accelerated.
“They’re expecting you at any time,” she said. “And he won’t know where to look anymore, even if he does suspect something. At least you’ll be safe while we do what we have to do.”
Neither Red One nor Red Two actually believed that statement in its entirety. Maybe, both thought, there were small parts of their lives that might be safe.
But not the whole.
The front door closed with a thud. She heard a jacket being tossed on a hook and boots being shoved into a closet.
“Hi, dear. Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s okay. Dinner will be ready in a couple of minutes.”
“I just want to take down a few notes, then I’ll be out.”
“How did it go?”
“Totally cool. Just totally cool. She went to the appointment like you said she would. I saw her go inside. It was great. I mean really great. Just the sort of scene that will really help the book. I just wish I’d been able to go into the office with her so I could have listened in. But I can make that part up, no problem. Getting teenage language right on the page is a challenge: hell, it has been since J. D. Salinger sort of defined the entire genre. But these little details are what make the story come alive when I put it all together. I really owe you one.”
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt a surge of pleasure. She had been unsure whether her husband would want to know about the meeting or not when she had called him. Now she felt like she was truly a part of the creative process.
“That’s what I’d hoped. That’s why I called. So, if you owe me a favor, maybe you’ll do the dishes tonight?”
The Wolf kissed his wife on the cheek, then pinched her rear end, making her squeal a little with pleasure and slap at his hand with mock indignation. “Yes. Absolutely.” Both of them laughed. “I’ll just jot down some ideas for the next chapter, wash up, and I’ll be ready to eat. I’m completely starved.”
The Wolf was surprised at just how hungry he was. Coming that close to Red Three-even if only for a few seconds-had made him ravenous. He felt a parallel sense of desire; it was all he could do not to grab his wife and rip her clothing off. He marveled at the intensity of his feelings. Passion and death go hand in hand, he realized.
“Will you let me read some more soon?”
He grinned. “Soon. When I get a little closer to the end.”
He turned to leave, but paused momentarily before going to his office. He looked back at Mrs. Big Bad Wolf standing in front of the stove, stirring rice that was simmering in a pot. She was humming something, and he tried to pick out the tune. It seemed familiar, and he was on the precipice of recognition; he only needed to hear a few more notes. For an instant he glanced around. He could see the table fixed with two place settings, and he could smell chicken baking in the oven. He reveled in the almost overwhelming ordinariness of it all. This is what makes killing special, he realized. One minute you are seated in the cockpit just going through your routine, totally mundane, done-them-a-million-times preflight checks, and the next you are hurtling down the runway, picking up speed and momentum, and taking off, into something utterly different every time. You set yourself free of all earthly bounds.
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf tapped the edge of the simmering pot with the large wooden spoon in her hand. Like a drummer trying to capture an elusive beat, she realized that the rhythm of her life had changed in a mysterious and quite pleasant way. Writing, killing, and love, she thought. They are all in their own way the exact same thing, just different stitches in the same fabric. She slapped the edge of the pot with the spoon handle in a familiar sequence: boom, pa boom, pa boom boom, the famous bass line to Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away.”
32
For the next few days, the Big Bad Wolf watched every news show, read every word in the local papers, even tuned in to local radio hoping to hear some stray commentary in an effort to uncover the whereabouts of Red Two. He dutifully made a point of driving past the suicide location frequently, to see if the police had recovered her body. He was annoyed when they apparently gave up the search. It did not mean she wasn’t at the bottom of the river. He just didn’t know for certain. He cursed the cops, and thought they were incompetent. He needed answers and they were supposed to provide them.
Two evenings after he followed Red Three out of the Health Services building-which had been a delicious high point-he spent a frustrating hour walking in Red Two’s neighborhood. The lights were off in her home and had been since the night she allegedly jumped, and he could see no sign of life whatsoever except for a bouquet of white flowers that someone had placed up against the front door. The flowers were already beginning to wilt.
Pausing on the street outside her house, he realized that he no longer had to conceal his presence from her. She was gone, that was clear.
He felt angry and cheated.
The night before, he had stolen from his wife’s side and locked himself in his office. He’d double- and triple-checked his extensive dossier on Red Two. Nothing in his research suggested anyone-distant family or casual friends-who would have taken her in and hidden her from him. He chastised himself, imagining that he’d somehow missed some connection.
But then he remembered the grave site with the two names on it, which was now awaiting a third. Those two names were primary reasons why she had been singled out as Red Two in the first place. She would never, not ever, leave them behind. She couldn’t. There were only two ways for her to join them: me, or that damn bridge over that damn river.
It was painful for the Big Bad Wolf. He’d believed he’d been smart enough to take her just to the brink of wanting to kill herself, so that when he arrived at her side, she would almost appreciatively accept death.
He knew this presented a writing challenge. His readers would want to know every step he’d performed. They’d want to experience the tension and face the same choice that Red Two did. Die one way. Or die another.
Always think of the readers, he reminded himself.
He made his usual checks on Red One. She seemed to be sticking to her routine, just as he’d suspected she would. As scared as she might be by Red Two’s death, Red One seemed to find safety in continuing to maintain a normal front. She was no longer haunting the comedy clubs, or even sneaking a smoke in a parking lot. Too frightened to even indulge an addiction, he thought. She arrived at work early and stayed late, then drove directly home. This pleased him. And he did not think that Red Three would run away. That’s one of the great mysteries of killing, he thought, as he stared in at Red Two’s dark house. The rational part of us thinks we would flee, hide, turn to our friends for help, and somehow take steps to keep ourselves safe. But we never do. As the distance narrows between hunter and hunted, one half of the equation becomes more focused, more skilled, and far more determined, while the other half becomes more crippled and less able to think clearly. Her world grows smaller and smaller
He thought of Discovery Channel videos of lions chasing antelopes, or wolves like him stalking caribou. The hunted race back and forth wildly, panicked, out of control. The hunter remains single-minded in its approach, cutting off all avenues of flight. Determined. Direct. He didn’t think he was any different. He needed to emphasize that point in the book.