Sylvia stepped out of the shower and began to dry her hair. The smell of coconut-scented conditioner and a brisk massage of her scalp helped calm her. She tilted her head from side to side to release tension from the muscles of her neck and shoulders, stopping abruptly when she noticed the reflection of her naked body in the mirror. She smiled, pleased with the trim, supple woman looking back at her. Sylvia dropped the bath towel to the floor, drew in a deep breath, expanding her chest, and ran her hands along the smooth skin on her flat belly and narrow waist. She turned slightly sideways to admire the shape of her buttocks in profile. Forty is only a state of mind, she thought. Sylvia wrapped her hair in a white towel, tucked in the ends to form a turban, and slipped into her terrycloth bathrobe, never taking her eyes off the woman in the mirror.
A sound from her bedroom interrupted her narcissism. At first she thought a gust of wind had closed the bedroom closet door, but it was a cold evening, and all the windows were closed.
“Is someone there?” she called. No response. Perhaps it had been a falling tree limb or a passing truck, she thought. She remembered not long ago being startled by the sound of a golf ball striking the side of the house, dimpling the siding. It was one of the hazards of living in a golfing community, but even the local zealots wouldn’t be out playing this late in freezing weather.
Sylvia opened the bathroom door only a few inches and peeked out. The closet was still open; that wasn’t it. Everything seemed to be as she’d left it. The noise must have come from outside the house. Nothing to cause concern.
There was a loud creak on the stairs, and her heartbeat quickened. She closed the bathroom door, pushed the button on the handle to lock it, and stepped back. Sylvia wrapped her robe tightly around her body and knotted the belt. She paced across the bathroom floor, not yet fully believing that someone was in her house, but sufficiently convinced to keep the door locked until she was positive. For more than a year, at her direction, Mort had been breaking into houses at least once a month, roaming through the homes at will, and taking anything he desired. She now began to feel the violation those homeowners must have experienced, knowing that the security of their belongings—or more importantly, their personal safety—could not be guaranteed by a locked door.
Sylvia leaned out the bathroom window and looked left and right. The streetlamp at the curb illuminated the sidewalk twenty feet below—there were no passersby. Doesn’t anyone walk their dog anymore? She thought about jumping from the window, but at that height, she probably risked more injury from the fall to the concrete walkway than from confronting the prowler.
Sylvia pressed her ear to the door and listened for any sounds of movement in the bedroom. The silence was encouraging.
Maybe this was all just her imagination. Sylvia carefully turned the doorknob to unlock the door while holding the button in so that it wouldn’t make a click as it popped out. She peeked around the partially open door into a dark bedroom. The room hadn’t been dark when she had looked through the doorway just a few minutes ago. She guessed that a light bulb could have burned out, but it was too much of a coincidence to believe.
Sylvia opened the bathroom door just wide enough to slip through. The bedroom appeared empty.
She moved along the wall to the dresser and leaned against it while she studied the room, considering every corner as a potential hiding place. The room was quiet and still. Things seemed normal enough, other than the darkness, of course. Her courage began to return. Barefoot, she crept to the nightstand and picked up the telephone receiver. She waited for the dial tone that never sounded. Her hands explored the bed, groping through the rumpled covers for her handbag with her cell phone inside. The bag was gone.
Her breathing was now extremely rapid and shallow; she began to feel faint. Sylvia concentrated on breathing deeply to retake control of her racing heart.
Maybe he’s gone, she thought. He has my bag, and God knows what else. Maybe he’s taken all he wants, and he’s gone. Sylvia reached for the thin brass lamp that sat on her nightstand next to the phone. She turned the switch on the lamp. Nothing. She gently pulled on the lamp cord and found it loose from the wall. Plugging it back into the outlet behind the bed would be difficult and would put her in a vulnerable position during the attempt. She could use more light, but right now she had a better use for the lamp. She unscrewed the cap to remove the lamp shade, unscrewed the bulb, and held the metal lamp in her fist. If she couldn’t use it to light her way, she could use it as a club. Sylvia wrapped the lamp cord around her hand to secure her grip. She gave it a few shakes and swung it in the air a few times. The feel and the weight of the metal lamp swishing through the air gave her confidence. “Where are you, you bastard?” she whispered.
With a weapon now in her hand, she moved to the door leading to the hallway and reached for the wall switch. She paused. If she couldn’t see him, he probably couldn’t see her either. Since he was most likely stronger, she would have a better chance in the dark.
Sylvia crouched at the top of the stairs. She held the lamp over her head and listened for the slightest sound, ready to pummel whoever had been arrogant enough to break into her house. From the middle of the stairs, she could see into the living room and part of the kitchen. With her eyes now accustomed to the dark, and with the small amount of light from the lamppost on the street filtering in through the windows, she saw that the rooms were empty. However, a light was shining into the hallway just off the kitchen. The light was coming from the garage.
Sylvia entered the kitchen walking on the balls of her bare feet, ready to run at a moment’s notice. With a shaking hand, she pulled an eight-inch chef’s knife from the kitchen rack. Now armed with two weapons, Sylvia approached the door to the garage. The exterior door leading from the garage to the street was open as well. Sylvia let out a long sigh of relief. She laughed and mumbled, “Now I know how it feels to be robbed.”
Sylvia was glad that her relationship with Mort had finally ended. They’d had a good run of luck. Getting out now was the right thing to do. The robberies she and Mort had committed had amassed a small fortune in jewelry and cash. Mort had sold most of the loot through contacts he had made while in prison or during his early years. She knew their luck couldn’t last. Sooner or later Mort would slip up and get caught. Then, if the police offered him a deal, he might sell her out.
Sylvia smiled. Her plan that caused Mort to believe he had killed Michelle in a fit of blind rage was a stroke of genius. Mort knew that Sylvia could put him at the scene on the night of the murder. No, he wouldn’t want her implicated at all. An arrest for burglary was bad enough, but a murder…As long as she could hold the murder over his head, he wouldn’t dare implicate her in the burglaries.
Sylvia had already established a second identity using her birth name, Laura Carpenter, and most of her money was now stored in a safe place. All that was left to do was cover her departure so that no one would look for her. She chastised herself for having started the affair with Hyrum. Had they not gotten involved, she would have already planned her exit. Now there was an additional complication.
Sylvia closed and locked both doors, and placed the knife back in the rack. As she walked back up the stairs to her bedroom, she laughed out loud at the thought of being considered a criminal. It was Mort who robbed houses and stole jewelry. All she did was make information available to him, and split the profits, of course. The thought suddenly crossed her mind that Mort might not be satisfied with his share of the loot. After all, he did take most of the risk, and if he found out that she had fooled him into thinking that he killed Michelle…No, she dismissed the thought and continued up the stairs to her bedroom.
It had been a daunting evening. Sylvia collapsed on the bed, unwinding the tight lamp cord from her hand. She tossed the lamp off the other side of the bed and began to massage her aching palm. Seven thirty. She didn’t plan to leave the house for at least another two hours; she had just enough time for a short nap.
The tune “You’re So Vain,” by Carly Simon, began to echo through Sylvia’s bedroom. For a moment, half-awake, she was confused, wondering who could be playing the music. Then she realized that it must be coming from the cell phone in her purse. One evening last month, while consumed with boredom, Sylvia had assigned a different ringtone for each of the people on her cell phone contact list. This song “You’re So Vain,” she remembered, was selected for her sister, Emily. She had chosen “Honky Tonk Women,” by the Rolling Stones, for her mother, and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” by Jim Croce, for Mort Banks.
Sylvia sat up so quickly that she became dizzy. Shocked out of a light sleep by the sound of the missing cell phone, she felt disoriented, and frightened. She heard a rattle of plastic against the bathroom tile floor, then a cracking sound and the splintering of plastic put an end to the ringing phone. He’s still here, she thought. He’s in the bathroom.
Suddenly a man appeared at the bathroom door. He was wearing a ski mask pulled down over his face under a hooded sweatshirt. He stood in the doorway for a moment, holding a large pair of stainless steel scissors.
Without saying a word he came toward her, the scissors held high. Sylvia rolled across the bed to the far side and scrambled to her feet. The man leaped across the bed and grabbed at her hair but only came away with the towel and a few strands.
Sylvia found her voice and screamed as she ran to the bedroom door. The man rolled off the bed and was on her in a second. He caught the belt from her robe at the middle of her back and tried to yank her back into the room. The belt cut into her stomach. Sylvia tried to untie it, but she had knotted it too tight, and her long fingernails bent as she picked at the knot. The man wrestled her to the ground, rolled her onto her back, and straddled her, his left hand on her throat and the scissors held high in his right.
She couldn’t breathe. His fingers squeezed her windpipe and the weight of his body on her chest forced the breath from her lungs. Sylvia kicked her feet and tried to punch him. It was no use; he was too strong. As her arm fell helplessly back to the floor, her knuckles touched something. From the corner of her eye, she could see the brass lamp. She wrapped her fingers around its thin shaft and swung at his head as hard as she could.
There was a loud ringing sound in her ears from the lack of oxygen. Sylvia was afraid she might pass out. She gasped for breath and tried to get to her feet. The man lay on his back, his hands holding his head. Sylvia wanted to lift his mask, and kick him; she didn’t know which to do first.
Just then he started to move, and she stepped over him in order to run down the stairs and out to the street. As she reached the top step, running as fast as she could, he stretched out his arm and grabbed at her ankle. His grip was not secure, and her leg slipped out of his hand, but he delayed her foot just long enough to throw her off balance. Her body was launched into a headfirst flight down the stairs, ending in a crash at the bottom step.
***
The man picked himself up from the floor, turned on the hall light, and walked unsteadily down the stairs. He clung to the banister, still dazed from the parting gift Sylvia had bestowed on the side of his head. Her body lay in an inelegant pose, limbs carelessly splayed. A quick check of her pulse satisfied him that her battle was over. He stood before her, removing his ski mask and stuffing it into his pocket. The lump on the side of his head was painful, but the hood from his sweatshirt had somewhat cushioned the blow. He took measure of the bump in the hall mirror. It was above the hairline. A cold compress later tonight and a comb-over tomorrow morning and no one would know the difference, he thought.
There was a lot of work to do and not much time to do it. First he hoisted the body over his shoulder, carried her back up to the bedroom, and plopped her down on the bed. He pulled out several of the dresser drawers and dumped the contents on an area rug in the middle of the room. The light cast from the hall and the bathroom was dim but adequate to find what he needed.
Sifting through the pile of clothes on the floor, he chose a nightgown, something light in color and fairly translucent. Next he attempted to remove Sylvia’s robe, and he learned that dead bodies can be very uncooperative.
He struggled to pull the robe from her dead weight, but her arms were hopelessly stuck in the sleeves. He rolled her onto her back and pulled each arm free. As he did he cupped her breast with his hand. It was warm and firm, and he sighed. “What a waste.”
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and stared at it, studying the writing. He needed to ensure that every detail was exact—nothing left out, nothing added.
He then attempted to slide the nightgown up onto her body from her feet. He wished she had been dressed for bed before he killed her. It would have saved so much energy. When he was finished, he tore the top off the nightgown, again exposing her breasts.
Now it was time for the difficult part. He picked up the steel scissors from the floor and held them over the body. He raised his arm but then stopped. She looked as if she were sleeping. Not comfortably—her face was contorted, and large purple patches were growing across her forehead. He knew he needed to finish this, but not while he could see her face.
He closed his eyes and raised the scissors high over his head. “Sorry, but I’ve come this far; I must make it look like his dream.” He held his breath and drove the scissors down toward her abdomen with all his strength. Just before the scissors found their mark, his arm was struck from the side. It was a glancing blow that caused him to miss the body and stab the bed. A scream pierced his aching head, and fists began to pound his arms and shoulders. She was alive.
He straddled her body, pressing her shoulders down with his knees.
Her screams—would someone hear her screams? He left the scissors embedded in the mattress and wrapped both hands around her throat. He squeezed with all his strength. She kept trying to punch him but her arms were flailing wildly, having no effect, and her leg was kicking at the footboard of the bed. Suddenly he heard a loud crack, and the wooden footboard gave way. He turned his head just in time to see Sylvia’s hand close around the handle of the scissors. She was trying to pull them from the mattress. They were coming loose. Her shoulder was pinned by his knee, but her hand holding the scissors was free. Free to stab him.
He released his right hand from her neck, still squeezing her throat with his left, and slid off her chest to avoid her thrust. She gasped as he changed his grip, finding part of a breath, and raised the scissors to follow his dodge. Leaning all his weight on his left arm and hand and pressing her neck to the bed, he reached out with his right hand, caught her wrist, and forced her arm down, thrusting the scissors deep into her rib cage. Her head tossed violently from side to side as he wrestled the scissors from her hand and stabbed her deep in her belly. Blood spurted from the wound hitting his face, filling his eyes, blinding him. Sightless and panic-stricken, he thrust the scissors again and again, harder and harder, until she finally stopped struggling and lay silent.
Out of breath, he fell onto his back on the bed next to her body and dropped the scissors to the floor. This time it was over. She lay still on the bed.
He stood and took several deep breaths to calm himself. He took the paper from his pocket and reread it. He looked at the scene on the bed and around the room and then at the paper again. Although he had planned to match the condition of the room and the body to the description of Franklin’s dream, there was no need. The murder had played out in real life just as it had in the dream. The blood on the bedclothes, the wounds on the body, the broken footboard, even the position of the scissors on the floor—it all matched the paper.
He was unnerved, fearful that some unseen power was at work here. Was he the perpetrator of this crime or simply an instrument of fate? Was he copying Franklin’s dream or was the dream controlling the events, guiding his moves to this very outcome, an outcome that had been determined in a dream weeks ago?
He couldn’t think about that now. There was still work to be done. He wiped the blood from his face on a bedsheet and attended to the finishing touches. He filled the bathtub with water and bubble bath, pulled out the vanity drawers, and placed drops of blood on the vanity counter. Then he wrapped the body in the robe and scattered the bloody bedclothes around the room. Last, he took a small piece of blue fabric from his pocket, wedged it in the joint of the scissors, and placed them back on the floor.
The silver midsized sedan was in the driveway. He checked to see that no one was around and placed the body in the plastic-lined trunk. A small amount of blood from the body had rubbed off on the doorframe of the garage as he squeezed through. He was ready for the most dangerous part of his plan. He took a nylon stocking from his pocket and pulled it over his head. Then he drove around the late-night neighborhood, looking for a witness. Not just any witness—it had to be a person walking a dog.
He had to drive around several blocks several times, always on the lookout for a security patrol car, before he finally found a dog walker. To ensure that he was noticed, he swerved the car and almost ran over the dog.
With that piece of theater out of the way, all that was left to do was to drive to the county road, find a stone bridge, and throw the body into the water. The rest of the cleanup was easy. He disposed of the robe, rubber gloves, and plastic lining from the trunk, changed his bloody clothes, and returned the car. It had been a difficult task, but a job well done.