Evan Hunter: Candyland

"And no more about my daughter," he says, "you hear me?"

"Let go of me!"

"Keep my daughter out of your filthy mouth! Not another word about her!"

"Fine, just let go of me!"

"You hear me?"

"I hear you, goddamn it! You want to fuck your daughter, go fuck her. Just leave me…"

He smacks her again, harder this time. She begins screaming again as he drags her up the street and pulls her into a narrow alleyway between a sushi joint and a shoe repair shop. He hits her again, harder this time, his fist bunched, and she reels away from him, almost fainting. He grabs her again, by the hair this time, holding her up by the hair, punching her. She falls to her knees on the pavement. He unzips his fly. He grabs her by the hair again, meaning to pull her into his cock, onto his cock, but a clump of hair comes loose in his fist, and she screams again.

He grabs her by the throat.

"Be still," he says.

He does not want to kill her.

He tightens his hands on her neck.

"Be still."

He does not mean to kill her.

The scream in her throat tapers.

He lets her drop to the alleyway floor.

The fog sweeps in around them.

He falls to his knees beside her. He lifts her skirt and rips open her panties. Breathing harshly, sobbing, he throws himself upon her and sinks his teeth into her cheek and buries himself deep inside her.

The loft is utterly still.

Morgan sits staring at his hands on the kitchen table.

"Jimmy?" Emma says.

He looks up at her.

"Let's go now, okay? We have to go now."

"What about my daughter?" he says.

"What?"

"I'm supposed to get her again this weekend," he says.

It is twenty minutes to eleven when she gets back to Chelsea. The fog hasn't yet lifted. She walks home from the subway station through thick layers of mist yellowed by automobile headlights. There are shadows in the mist. Muffled voices. As she lets herself into the house, she feels she is surrounded by restless ghosts.

It seems so still, the house.

These days, it seems so still.

She goes into the kitchen, grinds coffee, measures it into the coffee maker, pours in water enough for three cups. When Andrew used to live here, they made six cups of coffee every morning. She hits a button. A red light comes on..

It is seven minutes to eleven when the coffee is ready. She pours herself a cup. Sits by the kitchen windows, looking out at her shrouded garden. Sipping at her coffee, she thinks about Morgan again, remembers what he said about people like himself.

They think about sex every minute of the day, they can't stop thinking about it. Right now, right this minute, he's thinking about sex, I'll bet a million dollars on it. Running girls through his mind, memories of every girl he ever knew or hoped to know, turning them over in his mind. I know these creeps, believe me, I've been with Vice for almost a hundred years now. We better catch this guy soon, before he—

Before he what? she wonders.

She sips at her coffee, takes from her tote the list of phone numbers Thorpe called from his hotel room. Stares at the list for a long time. Listen, the hell with it, she thinks. He's in L. A., let their mothers worry. But she keeps staring at the list.

She goes to the counter, pours herself another cup of coffee, picks up the list again. Looks at her watch. Too early to call, anyway, she thinks. Well, she thinks, and sighs, and lifts the receiver, and dials the number in Topanga Canyon. The phone rings half a dozen times. She almost hangs up.

"Hello?" a man's voice says.

"Mr Thorpe?" she says.

"Yes?"

"Benjamin Thorpe?"

"Yes."

"We've been trying to reach you."

"Who's this?" he asks.

"Detective Boyle," she says. "N.Y.P.D. Where have you been, Mr Thorpe?"

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing's wrong. Where have you been?"

"At the hospital," he says. "My mother-in-law had a heart attack."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Emma says.

"We just got home a few minutes ago." His voice breaks. "She passed away," he says.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes," he says.

She visualizes him nodding. She has heard him described so many times that she feels she actually knows him.

"Mr Thorpe," she says, "I'm calling as a friend."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Boyle. Emma Boyle. Detective/Second Grade Emma Boyle. Special Victims Squad. N.Y.P.D. You were the topic of some concern here in New York," she says.

"I'm not sure I…"

"Your Thursday morning comings and goings were under close scrutiny here," she says.

There is another silence on the line.

"You came close," she says. "Very close, Mr Thorpe."

"I don't know what you mean," he says.

"I think you know what I mean, Mr Thorpe."

There is another silence.

"Get some help," she says.

The silence lengthens.

"Mr Thorpe?"

"Yes?"

"Get some help. Do you hear me?"

He does not answer. She thinks for a moment she's lost him.

"Do you hear me, Mr Thorpe?" she says.

"I hear you," he says at last.

"Good," she says. "I'm sorry to have bothered you so early in the morning."

"No bother," he says, and hangs up.

She puts the receiver back on its cradle, nods, pours the last cup of coffee from the pot. Sipping it, savoring it, she wonders if she really should go up to Connecticut this weekend, shoot her mother-in-law, kidnap her own daughter. Shaking her head, smiling, she looks out at her garden. A fiery red azalea blossom seems to pop out of the mist.

She looks at her watch.

It is exactly eight a.m. in Los Angeles.

The fog is lifting.