Late afternoon, thick fog rolled across the nearly desolate playground. From the trees he watched Robyn trot right by the carousel in her platform tennis shoes and wild big-checked bell-bottoms. She wasn’t stopping to watch the merry-go-round today.
He swore under his breath.
The merry-go-round sat idle and empty in its elegant circular rotunda, the varnished, painted creatures stone still, frozen on their brass poles. No riders today. Fog almost like rain. He should have known. Known she wouldn’t be stopping to watch today. Bulbs of light shone fuzzy in the vapor.
It had been a risk to follow her and he had miscalculated. He gripped the bottle of ghetto chloroform in the pocket of his black warehouseman’s jacket, his annoyance boiling into anger. In the other pocket he had a handkerchief ready. The top half of a plastic dry-cleaning bag was neatly folded in the breast pocket. Now he let both bottle and handkerchief go, removed his hands from his pockets, pulled the black watch cap down tight over the sides of his glasses, securing them firmly over his ears. That repeated motion reminded him of what he had done all those years ago. Not far from here. He rubbed his bushy mustache in frustration.
He was ready now. Ready to punish his father. Once again. The man never seemed to learn his lesson.
Then he saw Robyn, her blond ponytail bouncing as she hoisted her Charlie’s Angels backpack up on her shoulder, turned, picked up the pace, dashing across the playground, moving quickly. It was chilly and she wanted to get home.
Then he realized.
She was taking the short cut up to Kezar Drive, up through the trees on the hill.
Not a bad spot to take her down. Maybe this wasn’t a dry run after all.
Maybe he hadn’t miscalculated. There was an element of magic about the act of hunting a quarry. It wasn’t all black and white. It was a dance.
It wasn’t for everybody.
He darted along the path flanking the playground, following her but staying close to the trees. The lack of people would make him obvious if she were to turn around and see him.
He was puffing with the effort, with the adrenaline.
With the excitement.
She would be sorry. Her mother would be sorry.
Oh, Father, you will be sorry.
He got to the rise in the path as he saw a white platform sneaker disappear into the trees fringing the last of the hill. Up she went. He wouldn’t have thought she’d risk dirtying her nice clothes. But what did she care? She’d let her bitch of a mother clean them for her.
She was half his age and quick. But he was quick, too, when he wanted to be.
And he was driven. Driven by a passion few could grasp.
Steam from his face and fog misted up his glasses as he climbed into the trees, the mud of the path smearing wet under his shoes. He slipped, landed on a knee against the gnarled root. Buzzed with pain. Damn it!
He got up, panting, one knee muddy and throbbing, grabbed his handkerchief, gave his glasses a quick wipe, secured them back on his face back under the watch cap. He saw her checked bell-bottoms climb over the cement retaining wall onto Kezar Drive. Oh, but he was angry now. He was livid now. There was no stopping a man on a mission. He’d get her. He’d find a way. He was ready. He clambered up after her.
He made quick time. Yes, he had missed a prime spot, but there were still opportunities along Kezar Drive. Traffic, but still places to pull her in. One had to be flexible in this kind of endeavor. It existed on another level, had its own rules. Rules he understood. She didn’t.
“Hey, Robyn! Watcha doing, girl!”
What?
On Kezar Drive, he scrambled out onto the sidewalk, staying close to the trees, peering out.
With irritation he saw Robyn, not fifty yards away, talking excitedly with her friend, the black girl from school with her hair in puffs either side of her head. She had seen Robyn, called out to her. Now the two were chatting, happy, hands gesturing. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
His heart pounded. He had been on the cusp.
He sank back into the bushes, watched the two girls cross Kezar Drive against the blare of a car horn, to the other side of the street, where the apartment buildings began. Laughing and joking.
Damn her. Damn her whore of a mother. Damn his father. The situation had turned on him. Well, if they thought he was going to be made a fool of, stopped by a little thing like this, if the world thought he would be stopped, if his father thought he would be stopped, they had another thing coming. He would take her down. And she would pay. Her mother would pay when she found out what had been done. And his father, oh, he would pay.