Страница 33 из 84
“That’s free-range bison,” I said. “I wonder where in the U.S. the buffalo roam.”
“Like me, not far from home,” he said, kissing me on the nose.
“Now I really do have to get back to work.”
“I have to get home,” I said. “Sarah’s rehearsing for the school musical. She should be back any moment.”
It was so cold my car didn’t warm up on the short drive home. I passed Smart Women and saw the lights were off. I hoped Angela was enjoying her last night on earth. She only had four hours left, if Grandma was right. Of course, Grandma had been wrong about my husband, Jack. Maybe she was wrong about Angela, too. Maybe she was turning as strange as her brother Oswald, who lived in the state mental institution and talked to imaginary people.
Our house was dark when I parked in front of it. I killed the lights and went in the front door. Sarah wasn’t home yet, unless she’d fallen asleep.
I heard a noise upstairs. “Hello?” I called. No answer. I armed myself with the fireplace poker. I took out my cell phone and pressed 911, but didn’t hit the call button. I slipped it in my pocket and tiptoed upstairs.
More noise, thumping and moaning. The sounds were coming from our bedroom. A burglar was hurting Sarah. I raced down the hall, flipped on the bedroom light, and saw Angela in my bed. Naked.
With my daughter.
Their clothes were scattered all over the floor.
“You slut,” I shrieked. “That’s my i
I struck out with the poker and hit Angela on the head. I heard Sarah scream, “No, Mom, you don’t understand!” She tried to grab my arm, but I shook her away.
I kept hitting Angela until I realized that brilliant red was not her hair, but her blood. By then Angela was dead, and my sobbing daughter had called the police.
When my husband got home at midnight, I was being led away in handcuffs.
My daughter still won’t speak to me. Sarah told the police and the reporters that she loved Angela and they were pla
Will I be convicted of murder?
My lawyer says it depends on the jury. The law is tricky in Missouri. Seventeen is the age of consent, but if Angela believed Sarah was older and my daughter had given her consent, then Angela would not have been guilty of sex with a minor.
But Angela knew Sarah was only fifteen. She went to our daughter’s birthday di
Jack sold our house to help pay for the best criminal lawyer in the city. He and Sarah rent a small apartment near his office. Grandma sleeps on a pullout sofa in the living room. She’s moved in with them. She sold her house to pay for my legal bills. My grandmother wants to testify on my behalf. My lawyer says she’ll help prove a family history of mental illness.
The last time Grandma visited me in jail, I asked if she saw my future. Grandma said she saw nothing. The dead no longer visit her in the new apartment. She’s glad her so-called gift is gone.
Her tiny house has been leveled, and an upscale subdivision is being built on the site. These grand houses will have two baths, marble fireplaces, three bedrooms, and walk-in closets.
I wonder if one will have a walk-in bedroom doorway.
The Conqueror Worm by Barbara D’Amato
Neal Hofstra had been home from work just three minutes-time enough to throw his coat on the sofa, stop in the bathroom, get a bottle of water from the fridge, and sit down at his computer and click up his e-mail. Although he complained about e-mail to his girlfriend, Sandy, claiming that because of it he never got away from his job, in fact he loved it. Neal was aware he wasn’t the most assertive man on the planet. Telephone conversations made him uneasy. He never quite knew how to end one and was left saying, “Well, okay-” or “Um, that’ll be fine, then,” and hoping the person on the other end would firmly say “Good-bye.” But with e-mail he could get the wording exactly right. Plus he could send off a note to a friend or even an order to a supplier-his job was supply manager for a chain of office supply stores-at any time of the day or night and not have to worry about disturbing the addressee. When he was forced to actually telephone somebody, he was sure he was interrupting. After all, if the person was at work, she was busy and shouldn’t be bothered. And if she was at home, she was resting and shouldn’t be bothered.
He sat down in his swivel chair and opened nkHofstra. He clicked on in-box. Three new messages in the in-box. It was like opening surprise packages.
From subject received
Sandy Hossler di
JDPutnam Brant erasable pens order 11/5/2008 5:01 PM
Earl Think reminder 11/5/2008 5:17 PM
The one from his girlfriend Sandy was a nice thing. He’d like to do di
Well, screw him. Neal would get the stupid pens order in tonight. Brant’s took orders 24/7.
The mystery e-mailer was interesting. No attachment, so he opened it.
The message read:
Hello, Inky.
Neal shoved himself away from the desk so hard his chair caught its wheels on an electric cable, and he tipped over onto the floor. Grabbing the chair by the back, he slammed it down in front of the desk and dropped into it.
The rest of the message read “Just asking how you are after all this time.” It was signed “l. Amoco.”
Neal hit reply and typed “Who are you?” Then he hit send. He got up and walked around the room a couple of times until he realized he was holding his breath. The message was a joke. A stupid joke. He ought to be angry. No, he was angry. He sat back down and, furious, he deleted the original message with a hard thumb on the delete key.
But now there was an incoming message. This one from Moca Hooy, which had to be something different. Neal opened it.
You know who I am. Your old friend Berko.
Although Neal was trembling now, he managed to type a reply.
But you’re dead.
A ten-second pause and another message. This one from acc most.
Nope. Can’t get out of it that way, Inky.
Neal punched Delete. Went to the second message and deleted it. Then, thinking he was going to vomit, he ran to the bathroom. But as soon as he got there, the anger took over instead. He washed his hot face with cold water. Then washed it again.
All right. He was furious with whoever it was. But this was not the time to get crazy. Who else knew him by the name Inky? Berko had invented the nickname from his initials, N. K. Hofstra. He was always making up mildly insulting nicknames, like calling Henry Caringella Zorro because he got a zero on his first differential equations test. It wasn’t quite insulting, because it wasn’t Zero. Berko never used these names except in one-on-one conversations, as if it were some sort of intimate endearment. Neal had only heard about the Zorro name because Henry told him. Neal had certainly not told anybody about the Inky name.