Текст книги "Haunted"

Автор книги: Charles Michael «Chuck» Palahniuk

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

They kicked her out.

“My point is,” Mandy Somebody says, “I could've prevented all this.”

The girl's feeding frenzy. The crashed jetliner. The FBI only a few days from arriving here. Then the concentration camps. The ethnic cleansing.

Since then, she's hung out at the community college, trying to date a Chewlah guy. Asking questions and waiting. But not waiting for an answer. She's waiting for the applause. Waiting to be right.

That word she said before, varulf, it's Swedish for “werewolf.” Loup-garou is French. That man, Gil Trudeau, the guide to General Lafayette, he was the first werewolf mentioned in American history.

“Tell me I'm right,” she says, “and I'll try to help you.”

If the FBI gets here, she says, this story will never see the light of day. All the people with the suspected gene will just disappear into government custody. For the public welfare. Or there will be some official accident to resolve the situation. Not genocide, not officially. But there's a good reason why the government went so hard on some tribes, wiping them out with smallpox blankets, or sticking them away on distant reservations. True, not all tribes carried the Bigfoot gene, but a century ago, how could you identify the ones at risk?

“Tell me I'm right,” Mandy Somebody says, “and I can get you on the Today show in the morning.”

Maybe even the A Block . . .

She'll break the story. Create public sympathy. Maybe get Amnesty International involved. This can be the next big civil-rights battle. But global. She's already identified the other communities, tribes, groups around the world most likely to carry her theoretical monster gene. Her breath, the smell of beer, saying “monster” loud enough so the orange road-crew guys look over.

She's got guys all over the world she could be flirting with. Even if this date is a bust, she'll find somebody who'll tell her what she wants to hear.

That werewolves and Bigfoot exist. And that he's both.

Guys have listened to worse shit, trying to get a piece of ass.

Even Chewlah guys with their dicks on their face.

Even me. But I tell her, “That thirteen-year-old, her name was Lisa.” I say, “She was my little sister.”

“Oral sex,” Mandy Somebody says, “is not out of the question . . .”

Any guy would be an idiot not to take her home to the reservation. Maybe introduce her to the folks. The whole fam-damnly.

And, standing, I tell her, “You can see the reservation—tonight—but I really need to make a phone call first.”

18

In Miss America's dressing room, in the gray concrete and bare pipes, kneeling beside the one twin bed, Mrs. Clark is saying how having a child isn't always the dream you might imagine.

The rest of us, we're in the hallway to spy. We're all afraid we'll miss some key event and be forced to take another person's word.

Miss America curled on her bed, curled on her side with her face to the gray concrete wall, she doesn't have any lines in this scene.

And, kneeling beside her, Mrs. Clark's huge, dry breasts shelved on the edge of the bed, she says, “You remember my daughter, Cassandra?”

The girl who looked into the Nightmare Box.

Who cut off her eyelashes and then disappeared.

“When she disappeared is the first time I noticed Mr. Whittier's advertisement,” she says. Tucked in a book, in the bedroom she'd left behind, Cassandra had written on a sheet of blank paper: Writers' Retreat. Abandon Your Life for Three Months.

Mrs. Clark says, “I know Mr. Whittier has done this before.”

And Cassandra was here—trapped in this place—the last time.

Kids, she says. When they're little, they believe everything you tell them about the world. As a mother, you're the world almanac and the encyclopedia and the dictionary and the Bible, all rolled up together. But after they hit some magic age, it's just the opposite. After that, you're either a liar or a fool or a villain.

With the rest of us scribbling, you can almost not hear for the noise of our pens on paper. We're all writing: either a liar or a fool.

From the Earl of Slander's tape recorder, we hear, “. . . or a villain.”

All Mrs. Clark really knows is, after Cassandra was gone for three months, they found her. The police found Cassandra.

Kneeling beside Miss America's bed, she says, “I agreed to help Whittier because I wanted to know what happened to my child . . .” Mrs. Clark says, “I wanted to know, and she would never tell me . . .”

Poster Child

A Story by Mrs. Clark

Three months after Cassandra Clark disappeared, she walked back. A morning commuter driving inbound on the state highway saw a girl limping, almost naked, along the gravel shoulder. The girl seemed to be wearing a dark loincloth and dark gloves and shoes. She had on some kind of bib or a black kerchief tied around her neck and hanging down to cover her chest. By the time the driver had turned his car around and phoned for the police, by then the sun was bright enough to see the girl was actually naked.

Her shoes and gloves, her loincloth and bib were just dried blood, dried thick and black and swarming, buzzing, busy with black flies. The flies crawling on her, thick as black fur.

The girl's head was scraped and scabbed. Ragged tufts of hair sprouted behind her ears and around the crown of her bare head.

She limped because the two small toes had been amputated from her right foot.

The bib, that layer of blood on her chest, that fur of flies, at the hospital emergency room the doctors swabbed it with alcohol and found a game of tic-tac-toe carved in the skin above her breasts. The X player had won.

When they swabbed her hands, they found the smallest finger missing from both. On the rest of her fingers, the nails had been pried up and torn away, leaving the fingertips swollen and purple.

Under the dried blood, her skin was blue-white. The girl's face was the bony knobs of her chin, her cheekbones, and the ridge of her nose. At the temples and above her jawline, the skin sagged into shadowed holes.

Inside the curtained walls of the emergency room, Mrs. Clark leaned over the chrome rails of her daughter's bed and said, “Baby, oh, my sweet baby . . . who did this to you?”

Cassandra laughed and looked at the needles stuck in her arms, the clear plastic tubes stuffed into her veins, and she said, “The doctors.”

No, Mrs. Clark said, who cut off her fingers?

And Cassandra looked at her mother and said, “You think I'd let someone else do this to me?” Her laughter stopped, and she said, “I did this to myself.” And that was the last time Cassandra ever laughed.

The police, Mrs. Clark said, they found evidence. They found slivers of wood, thin as needles, embedded in the walls of her vagina. And her anus. The police forensics people dug slivers of glass out of the cuts on her chest and arms. Mrs. Clark told her daughter that not talking wasn't an option.

They needed to know every detail Cassandra could remember.

The police said that whoever had done this would kidnap another victim. Unless Cassandra could face her fear and help them, her attacker would never be found.

In bed, in the sunlight from a window, Cassandra lay propped up on pillows and watched birds soar back and forth in the blue sky.

Her fingers wrapped big in white bandages, her chest padded with bandages, her pencil-hand only moved to draw the birds, flying back and forth. A sketch pad propped against her knees.

Mrs. Clark said, “Cassandra, honey? You need to tell the police everything.”

If it would help, a hypnotist would come to the hospital. The caseworkers would bring anatomically detailed dolls to use in the interview.

And Cassandra still watched the birds. Sketching them.

Mrs. Clark said, “Cassandra?” and put her hand over one of Cassandra's white-wrapped hands.

And Cassandra looked at her mother and said, “It won't happen again.” Looking back at the birds, Cassandra said, “At least not to me . . .”

She said, “I was a victim of myself.”

Outside, in the parking lot, the television news crews were setting up their satellite feeds, each van aligning the broadcast dish on its roof. Ready for the toss from the studio anchor. The on-location talent, holding a microphone and inserting an IFD in her ear.

For three months, the town where they lived had stapled posters to telephone poles. Each poster showing a photo of Cassandra Clark in her head-cheerleader uniform, smiling and shaking her blond hair. For three months, the police had questioned kids at the high school. Detectives had interviewed people who worked at the bus station, the train station, the airport. The local television and radio stations ran public-service announcements that gave her weight as 110 pounds, height five foot six, green eyes, and shoulder-length hair.

Search-and-rescue dogs sniffed her cheerleading skirt and followed a scent trail as far as a bus-stop bench.

State troopers in powerboats dragged every pond and lake and river within a day's drive.

Psychics phoned to say the girl was safe. She had eloped and gotten married. Or she was dead and buried. Or she was sold into white slavery and smuggled out of the country to live in the harem of some oil magnate. Or she'd had a sex change and would be coming home as a boy, soon. Or the girl was trapped in a castle or some kind of palace, locked inside with a group of strangers, all of them cutting themselves. That psychic wrote two words on a sheet of paper and sent them to Mrs. Clark. Folded inside the paper, the shaky pencil lines said:

Writers' Retreat

After three months, all the yellow ribbons that people had tied to their car antennas were faded to almost white. Flags of surrender.

Nobody paid much attention to the psychics, there were so many of them.

For every Jane Doe the police found, burned or rotted or mutilated beyond identification, Mrs. Clark held her breath until dental records or DNA testing showed she wasn't Cassandra.

By the third month, Cassandra Clark was smiling and shaking her hair on the side of milk cartons. By then, the candlelight prayer vigils had stopped. The reward fund at the local bank branch was the only part of the case still drawing any interest.

Then—a miracle—and she was limping naked along the highway.

In her hospital bed, her skin looked purple with bruises. Her head was shaved bald. The plastic band around her wrist, it said: C. Clark.

The county medical examiner swabbed her for penis cells—which he said are long-shaped, unlike the round-shaped vaginal cells. They swabbed her for semen. The team of detectives vacuumed her scalp and hands and feet for foreign skin cells. They found fibers of blue velvet, red silk, black mohair. They swabbed the inside of her mouth and cultured the DNA in petri dishes.

Police counselors came and sat at her bedside, saying how important it was that Cassandra talk out all her pain. That she speak her bitterness.

The television and radio crews, the newspaper and magazine reporters sat in the parking lot, shooting their stories with her hospital window in the background. Some stepping back to film crews filming crews filming crews filming her window. To show what a circus this had become, as if that was the final truth.

When the nurse brought sleeping pills, Cassandra shook her head no. Just by shutting her eyes, she fell asleep.

After Cassandra wouldn't talk, the police fell on Mrs. Clark, telling her about the total cost to the taxpayer for their investigation. The detectives shook their heads and said how angry and betrayed they felt, working this hard, caring this much about a girl who didn't give a rat's ass about the pain and hardship she was causing her family, her community, and her government. She had everyone weeping and praying. Everyone hated the monster who'd tortured her, and they all wanted to see him caught and put on trial. After all their searching and effort, they deserved that much. They deserved to see her on the stand, weeping while she described how the monster had cut off her fingers. Carved her chest. Shoved a wood stake up her starving ass.

And Cassandra Clark just looked at the detectives lined up alongside her bed. All their faces, all their hate and rage focused on her because she wouldn't hand over another target. A bona-fide real demon. The devil they needed so bad.

The district attorney threatened to sue Cassandra for obstruction of justice.

Her mother, Mrs. Clark, among those glaring faces.

Cassandra smiled and told them, “Can't you see, you're addicted to conflict.” She says, “This is my happy ending.” Looking back to the window, to the birds flying past, she says, “I feel terrific.”

Still in the hospital, she asked for a goldfish in a bowl. After that, she lay propped up in bed, watching it swim around and around, sketching it. The same way her mother watched program after television program every night.

The last time Mrs. Clark went to visit, Cassandra looked away from the fish only long enough to say, “I'm not like you anymore.” She said, “I don't need to brag about my pain . . .”

And after that, Tess Clark didn't visit.

19

In her dressing room, Miss America is screaming.

In bed, her skirts pulled up and her stockings down, Miss America screams, “Don't let that witch take my baby . . .”

Kneeling next to the bed, toweling the sweat from America's forehead, the Countess Foresight says, “It's not a baby. Not yet.”

And Miss America screams, again, but not in words.

In the hallway outside the dressing-room doorway, you can smell blood and shit. It's the first bowel movement any of us has had in days, maybe weeks.

It's Cora Reynolds. A cat reduced to a flavor. To crap.

“She's there, waiting,” Miss America says, panting, biting her fist. Pain pulling her knees up to her chest. Cramps turning her onto her side, curled in the mess of sheets and blankets.

“She's waiting for the baby,” Miss America says. Tears turning her pillow dark gray.

“It's not a baby,” the Countess Foresight says. She wrings water from a rag and leans over to wipe away sweat. She says, “Let me tell you a story.”

Wiping Miss America's face with water, she says, “Did you know? Marilyn Monroe had two miscarriages?”

And for a moment, Miss America is quiet, listening.

From our own rooms, putting pen to paper, we're all listening. Our ears and tape recorders tilted toward the heating ducts.

From the hallway outside the door, in her Red Cross nurse uniform, Director Denial shouts, “Should we start boiling water?”

And, kneeling beside the bed, the Countess Foresight says, “Please.”

Again from the hallway, Director Denial's head and white nurse-hat leans in through the open doorway, and she says, “Chef Assassin wants to know . . . how soon should he put in the carrots?”

Miss America screams.

And the Countless Foresight shouts, “If that's a joke, it's not funny . . .”

The invisible carrot, the story left over from Saint Gut-Free.

And from the hallway, Chef Assassin shouts, “Calm down. Of course it's a joke.” He says, “We don't have any potatoes or carrots . . .”

Shortsighted

A Poem About the Countess Foresight

“An electronic tracking sensor,” says the Countess Foresight, shaking her plastic bracelet.

A condition included in the terms of her recent parole from prison.

The Countess Foresight onstage, she's folded inside the webs of a black lace shawl.

A turban of blue velvet wrapped around her head.

A ring with different-colored stones on every finger.

Her turban, pinned in front with a polished black stone,

onyx or jet or sardonyx,

some stone that absorbs everything. Reflects nothing.

Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment:

The shadows of dead movie stars, the residue of electrons bounced off them

a hundred years ago.

Those electrons passed through a film of cellulose,

to change the chemical nature of silver oxide

and re-create chariot races, Robin Hood, Greta Garbo.

“Radar,” says the Countess. “Global positioning systems. X-ray imaging . . .”

Two hundred years ago, these would get you burned as a witch.

A century ago, at least laughed at. Called a fool or a liar.

Even today, if you predict the future or read the past from indicators

not everyone can recognize . . .

it's the prison or the asylum you'll eventually call home.

The world will always punish the few people with special talents

the rest of us don't recognize as real.

A psychologist at her parole hearing called her crime “acute stress-induced psychosis.”

An “isolated, atypical episode.”

A crime of passion.

That would never, ever, ever happen again.

Knock wood.

At that point, she'd served four years of a twenty-year sentence.

Her husband was gone with her kids in tow.

Two hundred years from today, when what she saw, and read, and knew,

when it all makes sense.

By then, the Countess will be nothing but a prisoner number.

A case file.

The ash of a witch.

Something's Got to Give

A Story by the Countess Foresight

Claire Upton phones from a bathroom stall in the back of an antique store. From behind a locked door, her voice echoes off the walls and floor. She asks her husband: How tough is it to get into a video surveillance camera? To steal a security videotape? she says, and starts to cry.

This is the third or fourth time Claire's been to this shop in the past week. It's one of those shops where you have to leave your purse with the cashier to get inside. You have to check your coat, too, if it has deep, roomy pockets. And your umbrella, because some people might drop small items, combs, jewelry, knickknacks, inside the folds. A sign next to the old-man cashier, written with black felt-tipped pen on gray cardboard, it says: “We don't like you stealing from us!”

Taking her coat off, Claire said, “I'm not a thief.”

The old-man cashier looked her up and down. He clicked his tongue and said, “What makes you the exception?”

He gave Claire half a playing card for each item she left behind. For her purse, the ace of hearts. For her coat, the nine of clubs. Her umbrella, the three of spades.

The cashier eyed Claire's hands, the lines of her breast pockets and pantyhose, for bulges that might be something stolen. Behind the front counter, all over the store, hung little signs telling you not to shoplift. Video cameras watched every aisle and corner, showing it on a little screen, stacked with other screens, a bank of little television monitors where the old-man cashier could sit behind the cash register and watch them all.

He could watch her every move, in black and white. He'd know where Claire was at any moment. He'd know everything she touched.

The shop was one of those antique-selling cooperatives where a lot of small dealers band together under one roof. The old-man cashier was the only person working that day, and Claire was his only customer. The store was big as a supermarket, but broken up into small stalls. Clocks everywhere made a wallpaper of sound, a din of tick, tick, ticking. Everywhere were brass trophies tarnished dark orange. Cracked and curled leather shoes. Cut-glass candy dishes. Books fuzzy with gray mold. Wicker rocking chairs and picnic hampers. Woven straw hats.

A cardboard sign, taped to the edge of a shelf, said: “Lovely to Look At, Delightful to Hold, But If You Should Break It, Consider It SOLD!”

Another sign said: “See it. Try it. Break it. BUY IT!”

Another sign says, “You break it here . . . YOU TAKE IT HOME!”

Even with the security cameras watching her, Claire treats an antique shop as a psychic petting zoo. A museum where you can touch each exhibit.

According to Claire, everything ever seen in a mirror is still there. Layered. Everything ever reflected in a Christmas ornament or a silver tray, she says she can still see it. Everything shiny is a psychic photo album or a home movie of the images that occurred around it. In an antique store, Claire can fondle objects all afternoon, reading them the way people read books. Looking for the past still reflected there.

“It's a science,” the Countess Foresight says. “It's called psychometry.”

Claire will tell you not to pick up a silver-handled carving knife because she can still see the reflection of a murder victim screaming in its blade. She can see the blood on the policeman's glove as he pulls it out of someone's dead chest. Claire can see the darkness of the evidence room. Then a wood-paneled courtroom. A judge in black robes. A long wash in warm, soapy water. Then the police auction. This is all still reflected in the blade. The next reflection is right now, you standing here in an antique store ready to pick up the knife and take it home. You just thinking it's pretty. Not knowing its past.

“Anything pretty,” Claire will tell you, “it's only for sale because no one wants it.”

And if no one wants something pretty and polished and old, there's a terrible reason why.

With all the shoplifting video cameras watching her, Claire could tell you all about surveillance.

When she went back to get her coat, she gave the old-man cashier his three playing cards cut in half. The ace of hearts. The nine of clubs. The three of spades.

From behind his cash register, the old man said, “Were you looking to buy something?” He hands her purse across the counter, nodding his head toward the bank of little televisions. The proof he'd been watching her touch everything.

It's then she sees it, in a glass case behind the old man, in a curio cabinet crowded with salt and pepper shakers and porcelain thimbles, surrounded by junk jewelry, there's a jar full of murky white liquid. Inside the haze, a tiny fist, lined with four perfect fingers, was just touching the glass.

Claire points past the old man, looking from him to the curio case, and she says, “What's that?”

The man turns to look. He takes a ring of keys from a hook behind the counter and goes back to open the cabinet. Reaching in, past the jewelry and thimbles, he says, “What would you say it is?”

Claire couldn't say. All she knows is, it gives off an incredible energy.

As the old man carries the jar toward her, the dirty white liquid sloshes inside. The top is white plastic, screwed down and sealed with a band of tape striped red and white. The old man sets one elbow on the counter in front of Claire, holding the jar near her face. With a twist of his wrist, he turns the jar until she can see a small dark eye looking out. An eye and the outline of a small nose.

A moment later, the eye is gone, sunk back into the murk.

“Guess,” the old man says. He says, “You'll never guess.” He lifts the jar to show the glass underside, and pressed there are a tiny pair of gray buttocks.

The old man says, “You give up?”

He sets the jar on the counter, and on top of the white plastic lid is a peeling label. Printed in black ink, it says: “Cedars–Sinai Hospital.” Below that, handwritten in red ink, the rest is smeared. Some words. A date, maybe. Too smudged to read.

Looking at it, Claire shakes her head.

Reflected in the side of the glass jar, she can see years back, decades back: A room lined with green tile. A woman with both bare feet hooked to either side, draped in blue cloth. The woman's legs hooked in stirrups. Above an oxygen mask, Claire can see the woman's white-blond hair, growing out, already a little brown at the roots.

“It's the real deal,” the old man says. “We tested the DNA against some certified hair. Markers all matched.”

You can still buy her hair on the Internet, the man says. The bleached-blond scraps and trimmings.

“According to you bra-burners,” the old man says, “it ain't a baby—just tissue. Could be her appendix.”

Reading the glass, the layers of picture there, Claire can see: A lamp on a bedside table. A telephone. Prescription pill bottles.

“Whose hair?” Claire says.

And the old man says, “Marilyn Monroe's.” He says, “If you're interested, it's not cheap.”

This is a movie relic, the old man says. A sacred relic. The Holy Grail of movie memorabilia. Better than the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz or the sled named “Rosebud.” Here's the baby Monroe lost while shooting Some Like It Hot, when Billy Wilder made her run down the train-station platform, take after take, wearing high heels.

The man shrugs. “Got it from a guy—told me the real story how she died.”

And Claire Upton just stared, watching the movie of old reflections in the jar's curved side.

Here's a souvenir, a relic like the hand of a saint, mummified and adored in the rock-crystal case of some Italian cathedral. Or a lock of hair. Or this is another person, dead. The little boy or girl that might've saved Monroe's life.

The old man says, “Everything has a cash value on the Internet.”

According to the man who sold it to him, Monroe got herself murdered. The summer of 1962, she'd been fired from the production of Something's Got to Give. George Cukor was bad-mouthing her, and the studio execs were pissed about how she'd jumped ship from the production to go sing at Kennedy's birthday bash. Her thirty-sixth birthday had just come and gone. The Kennedys were shutting her out. She was getting old with nobody, nothing. Her career over, and Liz Taylor eating up the public's attention.

“So she tries to get smart,” the old man says.

Monroe gets Life magazine on her side, reeling them in to do a big feature on her. She talks Dean Martin into quitting Something's Got to Give when the studio replaces her with Lee Remick. And she calls a little meeting. At her place in Brentwood, a very little meeting with just the tip of every movie-studio iceberg. Every studio that owns a movie she's been in.

“Smart girl like her,” the man says, “and you'd think she'd keep a gun on hand. Something to defend herself with.”

With all the studio top brass sitting around her Mexican table, Monroe drinks champagne and tells them she plans to kill herself. Unless they give her back the last movie, and sign her to a new million-dollar contract, she'll overdose. Simple as that.

“Studio people,” he says, “they don't scare that easy.”

Those sharks, they got the best of her already in the can. Monroe's just getting older, and the public is bored with her looks. Killing herself would gold-plate every movie of hers they had in their vaults. They told her: Go ahead, lady.

“The guy who sells me the jar, here,” the old man says, “he heard that direct from a big shot at the meeting.”

Monroe getting high on champagne. The studio dragons in their chairs. She had their blessing. It must've broke her heart.

“Then,” the old man says, “she gets smart with them.”

She's changing her will, she says. True, she's got terrible profit-sharing deals, but she pulls a little from any re-release of her old stuff. Those films in the vaults, someday they'll sell to television. And they'll keep selling, especially if she's done suicide. She knows that. So do they.

Dead, she'll be sexy forever. People will love that studio-owned image of her forever. Those old films are money in the bank, unless . . .

The old man says, “Here's where her last will and testament comes in.”

She'll set up a foundation: The Marilyn Monroe Foundation. And all income from her estate will feed into it. And that foundation will distribute every penny to the causes she'll name. The Ku Klux Klan. The American Nazi Party. The North American Man/Boy Love Association.

“Maybe some of those didn't exist back then,” the old man says, “but you get the general idea.”

When the American public knows that a few cents of every ticket to one of her shows, maybe even a nickel, goes to Nazis . . . No box office. No television sponsors. Those films will be worth—nothing. No naked picture of her will be worth anything. Marilyn Monroe will become America's Lady Hitler.

“She'd made her image, she told the studio heads. And she could damn well break it,” the old man said.

The jar sitting on the counter between them, Claire looked up from watching it and said, “How much?”

The old man looked at his wristwatch. He said he'd never sell it except he's getting old. He'd like to retire and not sit here all day getting robbed blind.

“How much?” Claire said, her purse on the counter, open, and her gloved hands digging out her wallet.

And the man said, “Twenty thousand dollars . . .”

It's five-thirty, and the store closes at six.

“Chloral hydrate,” the old man told her. Knockout drops, is how the guy killed her. That August night he found her half asleep on pills, he just tipped a bottle down her throat. Of course, a Mickey Finn shows up in the liver during autopsy, but everybody said she'd got the stuff in Mexico. Even her doctor who'd wrote the script for her pills, he said Mexico. Even he said suicide.

Twenty thousand dollars.

And Claire said, “Let me think.” Still watching the white murk inside the jar, she pushed back from the counter, saying, “I need to . . .”

The old man snapped his fingers for her purse and coat and umbrella. If she was going to wander the store, he'd hang on to them.

Without even taking the playing cards, Claire handed her things over the counter.

Claire Upton, she could look at a polished trophy and see a young man still reflected there, smiling and beaded with sweat, holding a tennis racquet or a golf club. She can watch him getting fat, married, with kids. After that, the trophy shows nothing but the inside of a brown cardboard box. Then the trophy comes out, held by another young man. This one, the son of the first.

But that jar, it felt like a bomb waiting to go off. A murder weapon trying to confess. Just putting your finger on it, you'd feel a jolt. An electric shock. Some kind of warning.

While she wandered through the shop, he was watching her in the video monitors.

In the dark lenses of old sunglasses for sale, she watches a man wrestle a woman to the ground and kick her feet apart.

In the gold-tone tube of an old lipstick, she can see a face crushed inside a nylon stocking, two hands around the neck of someone in bed, then the same hands scooping the spare change, the wallet, and keys off the dresser beside the lipstick. The witness.

Claire Upton and the old-man cashier, they're alone in the shadowy store with pillows of yellowed lace. Needlepoint dishtowels. Counted cross-stitch pot holders. Silver-plate brush sets tarnished dark brown. Mounted deer heads holding wide racks of antlers.