John Lutz - The Ex

The driver reached up and adjusted the mirror, and his eyes met Molly’s.

The cab picked up speed.

Ten minutes later it came to a rocking halt in front of a tall apartment building on East Fifty-fourth near Second Avenue.

David and Molly piled out of the cab, David still clutching her arm. He dug a wad of bills from his pocket and tossed them in through the driver-side window. The driver retrieved them from his lap, quickly examined them, then stared after his two fares, who were hurrying to the building entrance.

David heard the cab pull away as he tried to remember the number code Deirdre had used to gain entry. He was good with numbers, and he thought he had it. He deftly pressed the buttons on a security keypad.

There was no result.

He gripped the handles of the thick glass doors and yanked on them, but the doors wouldn’t open.

Then through the glass he saw the lobby elevator door open, and a man and woman dressed up to go out emerged and crossed the tile floor toward the street doors. The man was wearing a white dinner jacket. The woman had on a long violet dress and was carrying a small white purse on a gold chain.

David stood to the side as a shrill beeper sounded, and the man pushed open one of the heavy doors and held it for the woman. The man nodded to him, smiling, then rested a hand on the small of the woman’s back as they walked on.

David grabbed the edge of the door as it started to swing closed.

Inside the lobby, he knew where they had to go. He guided Molly into the small, mirrored elevator and pressed the button for the thirty-fourth floor.

Molly leaned back against the reflecting wall and stood perfectly still.

David throbbed with rage and hope as the elevator ascended like a rocket.

On the thirty-fourth floor, the elevator door opened and Molly and David stepped out. An elderly man carrying a white poodle edged past them to enter the elevator, staring at them curiously as the door slid shut.

Practically dragging Molly, David made his way down the corridor.

She seemed to have figured out where they were now. She knew she was going to enter the place she’d seen on the videotape. Her step faltered, and for the first time since they’d gotten in the cab, she began to display deep fear and hesitancy.

But before she could summon up any resistance, they were at the door to apartment 34F.

David tried the knob. It rotated freely, but the door was locked.

“Okay,” he said softly, “I’m getting good at kicking in doors.”

He backed up a few steps, turned slightly sideways, and raised his right foot.

As he was about to kick, the knob turned and the door swung slowly inward about six inches.

Molly and David looked at each other.

David stepped in front of her, trying to control his fear, and reached out and nudged the door with his hand.

It made no sound as it swung open wide.

Molly’s eyes bulged. David drew in his breath with a gasp almost like a scream.

A very tall, redheaded man was standing a few feet inside the doorway.

He was covered with blood and there was a knife protruding from his shoulder.

The redheaded man groaned and staggered out into David’s arms.

David and Molly slowed his fall as he slid to the hall floor and sat slumped with his back against the wall.

David stared down at the injured man. “Is he the one who was following you?”

Molly nodded silently. She didn’t seem to notice the blood on her hands and arms.

“He must have thought you might lead him to Deirdre,” David said. He bent down to speak to the man. “You’re Grocci! Stan Grocci!”

“That’s right,” the man managed to say. His voice was feeble but desperate. His eyes rolled toward the open apartment door. “Don’t go in there! She’s got the boy! She’s done murder! She’s crazy!”

Across the hall a door opened. A middle-aged woman wearing a pink satin housecoat peered out with curious dark eyes beneath long, artificial lashes.

The eyes blinked twice. Quickly she slammed the door, and the deadbolt audibly clicked into its shaft.

“She’s sick,” Grocci continued weakly. “Dangerous. She was in an institution, where she belonged. Then she got out, killed Chrissy…”

“Christine Mathews?” David asked.

Grocci bowed his head in what might have been a nod. Blood glistened on the right side of his face and neck. David saw a slash just above his hairline, like a dark worm beneath the strands of red hair, still trickling blood.

“It was partly my fault,” he said, “but what was I supposed to do? The doctors said Deirdre would be in that place for years. I’d known Chrissy from my old neighborhood, so…things…they happened. Deirdre found out, she was jealous…Insanely jealous…”

David straightened up and took a step toward the open door.

“Don’t go in there!” Grocci pleaded, raising a bloody arm. “She did this to me. I think she’s killed me…”

David hesitated only a moment, then ignored Grocci and charged into the apartment. Molly was a few feet behind him. They dashed through the living room and into the bedroom where David and Deirdre had made love.

They stopped abruptly just inside the door.

Deirdre was cowering in a corner near the wide window where she’d enticed David as he’d gazed at the view. The window’s white sheer curtains were open to reveal the jagged, brightly lighted Manhattan skyline. The night was clear and the city glittered like a galaxy that had fallen.

Deirdre’s hair was blond and styled like Molly’s, and she was wearing Molly’s green dress and clutching Michael tightly to her. He appeared frightened, dazed, staring at his parents with dulled recognition and hope.

Molly and David stood where they’d stopped cold, fearing she might harm Michael.

Deirdre regarded them with calm green eyes that nonetheless held brilliant pinpoints of insanity that scared David.

“I came here to test you, David.” Her voice was a sad monotone. “I knew you’d think of this place, but I hoped you might act to protect me. Instead you betrayed me.” She glared at Molly. “You brought her.” When she spoke of Molly, the hate in her voice echoed in madness.

David was aware of the abyss they all faced. He was gentle, coaxing. “I do want to protect you, Deirdre. That’s why I came. Why don’t you give Michael to me? I’ll show you. I promise.”

She continued glaring at Molly with eyes that blazed her hatred. “We don’t need her, David. You never needed her. I came to New York to claim what I’d lost in life. I had no idea you were married. But it doesn’t matter. You’re rightfully mine! So is Michael, the child we should have had!” She loosened her grip on Michael to point a finger at Molly and took a few steps toward them. “Her life is rightfully mine!”

“That’s in-That doesn’t make sense, Deirdre. You know it doesn’t make sense. Give me Michael. Please! Then we can talk, straighten all this out. I know you. You’re not an evil person.”

She held Michael tighter. “Of course I’m not evil. It isn’t evil, and it isn’t crazy, to take back what’s mine and keep it. To keep it this time.”

David involuntarily started forward, but Deirdre raised her forearm to a choking position on Michael’s neck, and he stopped and stood motionless, fearful. Death was on the prowl here; ask Stan Grocci out in the corridor. Molly, who hadn’t moved since entering the room, continued to stare vacantly at Deirdre.

Deirdre tightened her grip, and fear glowed in Michael’s eyes. She widened her stance, as if tensing for action. “Don’t come a step closer! Either of you!”

Sirens began to wail outside. Shrill loops of sound in the distance, but drawing nearer. David wondered if the woman across the hall, the one with the false eyelashes, had phoned the police.