Dave Zeltserman - Killer

I got myself to my feet and decided to walk the four miles to the bus stop. It wasn’t as if I had any place to be, and I figured the walk could help clear my head and maybe loosen some of the stiffness I was feeling in my shoulder. I thought about Michael’s comment about me being “emotionally distant”. I certainly wasn’t when my kids were young. Maybe later there was some truth to that, especially when I started becoming paranoid that they’d be able to smell the stench of death on me. Or maybe it happened later after they became teenagers – maybe that was when I felt like I couldn’t relate to them any longer. I don’t know.

I glanced upwards for a brief moment towards the sun before looking away. Christ, I wished I had worn my baseball cap and sunglasses, especially with the way the sunlight made my skull feel like a vise was being tightened around it. I thought about seeing if anyone inside the coffee shop could spare some aspirin, but decided against doing that, thinking that someone there might’ve overheard part of my conservation with Michael and not feeling up to facing any of those people right then. Instead, I took off on foot to retrace the path that the cab driver had taken.

I waited over an hour for the first bus, then close to another hour for the second one. The day so far had worn me down, and at some point while riding back to Waltham I dozed off. The next thing I was aware of was a presence taking the seat next to me. A familiar voice then asked me for my autograph. I opened my eyes a crack and saw Sophie Duval, a brightness in her eyes and her lips curved into a thin smile while she studied me. Once I realized who she was I turned away quickly to wipe off some drool that I felt running down the side of my mouth, then I told her that I charged more than she could afford.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” she said. “Especially after your heroics from yesterday. That was quite a video they showed on TV.”

“I haven’t had a chance to see it yet,” I lied.

“You should. It’s impressive. Vintage Chuck Norris-type stuff. And best of all, you left the talking heads on TV baffled. They don’t know what to make of you any more.”

Any other beautiful young woman sitting next to me would’ve sat tensed and compact in their seat, making sure there would be no bodily contact with me. Sophie, on the other hand, sat relaxed with her arm and leg lightly touching mine. As I mentioned before, part of her con required her to hint at a vague promise of sex, or at least intimacy.

“It’s a pleasant surprise seeing you on this bus,” I said.

“An even bigger one for me,” she said. “I thought I was seeing things when I walked onboard and saw you back here snoozing away. I would’ve thought reporters would be all over you for interviews.”

“They probably would be if they knew where to find me.” I glanced out the window trying to get some sense of bearing but was unable to recognize where we were. It wasn’t rural like Medfield, but we weren’t in Waltham either, at least not so I could tell. “What are you doing out here?” I asked.

“A job prospect,” she said.

“Did it go well?”

“We’ll see.” She leaned in close to me and rested her hand lightly on mine. The feel of her skin was electric. With her brow furrowed and her voice low, she whispered to me, “Leonard, you should be more careful about falling asleep in public. I’m sure that car was following you a few days ago. And I’m sure you have more than your share of enemies.”

I nodded, acknowledging her concern. She relaxed back in her seat, still keeping her arm and leg touching mine. Even though there was fabric separating our skin, the touch of her made me lightheaded. We sat making small talk, mostly her joking about how I should get a set of action figures marketed for myself; that with enough publicity I could be the next Rambo. After we entered Waltham, I caught a glimpse of a calculating shine in her eyes, and I waited for what I knew was coming. We were maybe two blocks from our stop when she mentioned about how when we first met I had asked her if she was a writer.

I nodded slowly.

She said, “I don’t have any training as one, but your story is amazing, especially after what you did yesterday. Leonard, with the two of us working together I’m sure we could still write a kickass book, one that we could get paid a lot of money for. I mean, how hard could it be? And who knows, maybe we’d even be able to get a movie deal for it. So what do you say?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said, my voice catching on me.

“Please do.” She placed her hand again on top of mine. “I’ve been going though a rough patch, to put it lightly, and this could really bail me out. And it would be so much fun. Think of it, Leonard, the two of us getting to work hard through all those nights together.”

I should’ve turned her down. But the thing was, even though she was just playing me, and had only been playing me ever since we met, I knew something that she didn’t. That there was a genuine connection between us. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but I could feel it just as much as I could feel the electricity of her touch. No matter how good a con artist she was, and she was damn good, she couldn’t have felt as comfortable with me as she did without that connection existing, and I knew that part of it wasn’t an act. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

“Can we meet tomorrow and talk about it?” she asked, a faint pleading in her voice. “Maybe you can give it some thought tonight?”

“Sure,” I said.

A hint of a sly smile showed on her face then. We agreed on where and when to meet, and after the bus rolled into our stop we walked together with her arm hooked through mine until it was time for us to go our separate ways. I stood still and watched as she walked down a side street, a lump forming in my throat. I should’ve turned her down since I knew there was no way I was ever going to let a book be written about me, at least with my help. I couldn’t do it, though. Just as she was playing me I was going to have to play her as long as I could. If I could buy another week or two of her needing to meet with me, maybe by then she’d understand the connection between us too.

I found myself already looking forward to when I’d see her the next day.

I was near dead on my feet by the time six o’clock came around, and decided to treat myself to a steak dinner. The restaurant I went to wasn’t fancy or anything, but it was several cuts above the places I had been eating. My waiter clearly recognized me from how nervous he acted. He didn’t say anything to me, though, not even to take my order, just stood sweating and looking like he was about to keel over. Before too long other diners were shooting furtive glances my way, and I heard their hushed whispers, but none of them said anything directly to me either. I didn’t care. I ignored them all, and after a sirloin steak, baked potato, piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream, and half a dozen cups of black coffee, I felt mostly rejuvenated and up to working my job.

That night the kid working security avoided eye contact when I checked out the office keys, his mouth forming a sullen, hurt look. I decided I preferred it this way than to listening to any of his smartass cracks. My shoulder was still sore and I couldn’t lift it any higher than I could that morning, but it didn’t slow me down and I was able to keep my usual pace. The talk shows were still talking about what I did the other day, and the calls were still all over the place about my motive, with some callers suggesting I had some nefarious reason for avoiding the reporters who’ve been wanting to interview me about the incident. I listened to them for the first hour, then switched over to music.