John Lutz - Dancing with the Dead

She examined her left wrist, hoping the marks would fade before she left for work. Then she glanced at the clock and hurried to the bathroom, where she showered and dressed quietly. So she wouldn’t disturb Jake.

On the way to work, Mary stopped at a corner lineup of newspaper vending machines and bought a Post-Dispatch and a USA Today. On page six of the Post she found the news item she was searching for, and the photograph of Martha Roundner that had been shown on TV last night. She folded the paper in quarters so the photo showed, then drove the rest of the way to Angie’s apartment to check on her before going to the office.

“The woman looks a little like you, maybe,” Angie said, after prompting. She held the paper at arm’s length and peered blearily at the photo, as if it were something that might cause her trouble. “Around the mouth mostly. She and you ain’t dead ringers, but I can see what you mean.” Her voice was still flat, an instrument badly out of tune.

Mary gave up trying to convince her. “You feeling any better this morning?”

“Sure. Some.”

The apartment smelled stale and musty, and there was dust thick as peach-fuzz over everything. It was getting uncomfortably warm, too, and Angie hadn’t switched on the air-conditioner. The potted plant from her hospital room was on the windowsill and had a parched, brownish look to it, and there was an ashtray on the carpet, littered with the snubbed-out butts that were making the place smell stale. Mary looked at the two glasses on the coffee table. There was an amber residue in each of them, layers of bright color in motionless liquid. Morning-after melted ice made the stillest water in the world.

“That’s Pepsi-Cola,” Angie said defensively, pulling her terry-cloth robe tighter around her thin body.

“Two glasses?”

“Yeah. Fred and me sat around and talked last night. Straightened out some things.”

“Such as?”

“Who and what we are to each other. It was that kinda conversation. You’ve had them, I’m sure.”

“You know more now?”

Angie shrugged. “No, not really, but talking it out till my throat was sore helped somehow.” Her mouth still had that withered look above the upper lip, and the faint tracing of a mustache. Time to apply a depilatory, Angie. Time to push your age back where it isn’t a worry, for either of us.

“Where’s Fred now?” Mary asked.

Her mother gestured weakly with a limp hand that still bore a purple-red bruise from the IV needle. “Other room.”

“Bedroom, you mean?”

Angie sighed. “Don’t interrogate your old mom, Mary. You ain’t the police and you ain’t got the right.”

Mary thought about last night with Jake. She laughed coldly. “Yeah, I guess I see your point. Anyway, I gotta get to work. You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Oh yeah. One day at a time, like the AA people say. I can make it through this. I have before, you know.”

“Yeah, you have.” Mary started toward the door.

“If you’re done with them papers,” Angie said, “leave ’em here. I could use something to read.”

“Sure,” Mary said, surprised and glad her mother was interested enough in the world to want to find out more about it. Age and alcohol hadn’t quite won yet. Angie continued the struggle, probably not in any real hope of victory, but more out of the realization that all there was to life, ultimately, was a losing battle.

“I heard on the news them murdered women was violated after they were dead,” Angie said. “It’s awful, but that’s better’n if they was raped and then killed.”

There was no arguing that. “I guess so,” Mary said.

“There’s a lotta sick and evil people out there in the world, Mary. Best you remember that, what with your own dancing and all.”

“I never forget it, Angie.”

“You been bothered again, after what happened to your door?” Angie asked. Mary still hadn’t told her about the dead bird incident.

“Whoever did it isn’t likely to come back. The police were right, it was just a fluke thing. Kids, maybe.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

Mary tore out the photograph of Martha Roundner and slipped it into her purse. She laid the folded newspaper on the arm of the sofa before walking out.

In the interest of fair play and employee moral, Hal Bauer, Summers Realty sales manager, had given Victor another day of floor time at Suncrest. At least Mary wouldn’t have to cope with Victor today.

It was, in fact, a slow day at Summers Realty. Gordon Summers was still in Chicago. Most of the salespeople were out showing property, and Hal and the administrative help were cubbyholed in the conference room with a CPA. Something about new tax legislation. There were no closings scheduled for the day, so she spent her time readying the paperwork for two residential closings to be made later in the week.

In one of the offices was a cabinet containing telephone directories for most major cities. Mary watched the intermittent traffic roll past, glittering in the sunlight, for a while, then glanced at her watch and saw she had forty-five minutes till lunch time. She stood up, walked into the back office, and found a Seattle directory.

She had nothing important to do at the moment, so why not do this?

She didn’t examine the question too closely.

Back at her desk, she opened the yellow pages to the listings for hotels, then dragged the phone closer. She began with the large chains, calling them one by one and asking if there was a Rene Verlane registered.

It was well past noon, and she hadn’t eaten lunch or even left the phone, when she reached the M’s and was told by a desk clerk at a Seattle Marriott hotel that Rene Verlane had checked in yesterday. The clerk asked if Mary wanted him to ring Mr. Verlane’s room, but Mary said she’d call back, then hung up.

Her face felt flushed and her knees were rubbery. She left her hand resting on the receiver, running her fingertips lightly over the warm plastic. The phone had suddenly become something intimate and dangerous.

“Mary?”

She withdrew the hand and jerked her head around.

Victor was standing in front of the desk, smiling down at her. He was wearing gray slacks, blue blazer, white shirt, red tie. Original. If he were a car he’d be a station wagon.

She said, “I thought you were out at Suncrest.”

“I was.” He tapped his brown vinyl Samsonite attache case with an air of extreme importance, as if it contained the code for nuclear war, and his grin widened. “I need to get a contract okayed, then I’m driving back out.” He peered at her through his round glasses; sunlight shot off the lenses as if they were cubic zirconia. “Listen, you okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You had a funny look on your face when I looked in your office.”

She put on a nonchalant expression and shrugged. “Just daydreaming, I guess.”

“About what?”

Wouldn’t you be surprised? “Personal.” Her voice was clipped and angry, surprising her.

Victor backed up a step, his smile wavering. “All right. Sorry. Sure didn’t mean to pry.”

Mary knew she’d gone too far, for Victor and for herself. Victor was such a wimp, but at times he could elicit a primitive kind of pity. That was the fulcrum of his life, manipulating and surviving by getting others to feel sorry for him. Even though people knew this, it was effective. She made herself smile. “Sorry, Victor. I snapped, didn’t I?”

He immediately appeared reassured. “Well, I understand. What with the problems with your mother and all. By the way, how is she?”

“Much better.”

“That’s good.” He advanced on the desk, and for a moment she thought he was going to lean forward and pat her hand. But he stopped and said, “Well, I better see if I can clear this deal with Hal.” He opened his attache case and straightened some papers. Mary noticed a red-handled pocket knife tucked in a compartment next to his calculator. He saw her staring. “It’s a Swiss Army knife,” he said. “I carry it ’cause it’s got a screwdriver, leather punch, even a scissors on it. Comes in handy for everything from opening packages to fastening ‘sold’ signs.” He quickly closed the case. “Speaking of ‘sold’ signs…”