Five Months Before the Accident
OCTOBER 1982
“You’re Tragedy,” Kat said. “Obviously.”
Jude took the mask and it felt alive in her hand, scheming and ghoulish, eager for its debut. The masks were her own idea: Comedy and Tragedy, associated with Janus—the Roman god of transitions who connected beginnings and endings, life and death, war and peace, innocence and guilt. He is the bridge between all those things, she explained to Kat, and was often depicted as one body with two heads connected at the rear of the skulls—one looking toward the future, the other taking notes on the past. Janus didn’t have a mask of his own, at least not at the costume supply shop in Center City, Philadelphia, so Comedy and Tragedy would have to suffice.
They dressed in black and, along with the masks, packed a woman’s scarf, a man’s bathrobe, and two Saturday night specials.
At eight p.m. they left their apartment, Kat behind the wheel and Jude navigating the route. Jude estimated it would take about forty-five minutes for them to arrive at the Main Line home where Ronald Lester, the Ronald half of the RonDon, now lived alone. He would still be awake, but it would be dark enough to escape the notice of any neighbor taking a walk. One week earlier, Jude took a trip alone to case the house, checking for evidence of an attack dog or an alarm system and, as expected, found neither. Mr. Ronald had always seemed to be unblemished by fear or worry. He did not look over his shoulder. He did not ponder the resentments of old acquaintances or new strangers. He would not feel a prick of fear when the knock came at his door.
The moon was a long way from full, just a shy smile of light, and as they moved farther from the city the streetlamps dwindled and the sky claimed another layer of darkness. They drove deeper and deeper into a place where the air smelled apple-crisp and Halloween decorations bedecked the homes and nothing bad ever happened, at least not the kind of bad that made the evening news.
They parked a block away and walked slowly down Ivywood Road, just two pretty girls who looked like they belonged in the neighborhood, nothing noteworthy to see here, folks, nothing at all. A dog barked, a television screen flickered from a window, a basketball bounced on a distant court during the final moments of a game. Jude touched her nameplate necklace, her only good luck charm.
They walked up the stone drive of his limestone colonial, past a chain of dehydrated bushes, past a fountain clogged with mold. With the three city row homes empty, and the Island once again a shuttered amusement park, and The Plan finally disbanded, Mr. Ronald now lived at this home full time. Jude knew he lived alone. His wife had divorced him. His children were now grown and far away from all of it, among the lucky few. Behind this heavy paneled door, Mr. Ronald had no one who would arrive in the morning expecting to see him alive.
Just out of view of the front windows, Jude tied Kat’s mask and Kat tied Jude’s.
“You talk, I move,” Jude said.
Kat rang the bell.
A soft light filled the front room. Jude heard a grunt, the thud of heavy steps. She had determined the safest and most untraceable plan. Any bruises or marks had to appear as though they were made by Mr. Ronald himself, which eliminated Kat’s idea of a groin kick to start things off. There could be vomit but no blood. She wanted it to be fast but not without pain.
One final, heavy step and there he stood, his robe dangling open, his feet bare, a bunion sending one big toe on a sharp right turn. Not a speck of alarm in his eyes.
“Excuse us, sir,” Kat said. “We’re terribly sorry to bother you, but we’re on our way to a Halloween party, as you might have guessed”—she pointed to her grinning mask—“and our car broke down. Could we borrow your phone for a moment to call the hostess?”
“Of course, come on in,” he said, stepping aside, and as Kat closed the door Jude whipped her handgun from behind her back and pointed it at Mr. Ronald’s face.
As he raised his hands in surrender Jude could see the wild spin of his thoughts. Could he move fast enough to disarm her? Could he take on these two women at once?
“Take whatever you want,” he said. “But there is no need for anyone to get hurt here.”
Jude had heard this tone before. Smooth, calm, eminently reasonable, a deflector of unsavory intentions. She hated this voice, its unwavering certainty, its presumption of success and power. She deplored what it said about its owner’s place in the world. Perform or Perish. Defeat Begets Domination. What You Think, Is.
Mr. Ronald lowered his arms one centimeter, two. Jude could see he was mistaking her silence for doubt. A clicking noise at the back of his head set him straight: Kat had drawn her own gun and aimed it at the base of his skull. His hands returned to their original position.
“Please,” he said in a new voice, one that wasn’t smooth or calm at all.
She and Kat had agreed not to speak a word more than necessary, on the chance he might survive and recognize them. Inside her mind her voice screamed without restraint: Are you experiencing fear, Mr. Ronald? What color is it?
Jude kept her gun fixed at Mr. Ronald’s forehead while Kat reached in her bag for the scarf, made of leopard-print velvet and neon trim. She used it as handcuffs, tying them around his wrists, tight enough to prevent escape but loose enough to evade marks or burns. Jude kept her gun steady as Kat maneuvered him toward the closed door and pushed him to his knees. She crept behind him and made a circle with her arms, lowering them around Mr. Ronald’s neck, trapping him in a chokehold.
What shape is your fear? Jude thought, watching her sister work. Is it changing direction? Can you catch and hold it in your mind?
His wrists twisted against the scarf; his fingers clawed at Kat’s hands. Kat tightened her grip, his chin fitted in the crook of her elbow, her right hand pressing against his head. For fifteen long seconds he gasped and gargled before falling still in her arms and then to the floor, dead weight that now had to be posed.
Jude checked his wrists and was pleased that the velvet had left no marks. Kat pointed to Mr. Ronald’s bathrobe belt and quirked an eyebrow at Jude, a silent suggestion that they use his own belt instead of the one they’d brought along. Jude nodded her agreement.
He could regain consciousness in a matter of seconds. They had to move fast.
Kat pulled the belt from Mr. Ronald’s robe and tied a knot around his neck, positioning it just beneath his left lower jaw, hugging the carotid artery. Together they heaved Mr. Ronald up under the armpits and opened the front door, just far enough to slip the other end of the belt through the crack before shutting it again. When they let his body go it fell slack, and the noose began to do its work.
That woke him up, all right. He writhed, a fish on a line.
Mr. Ronald, is your fear still there?
He danced his terrible dance, torso bucking, legs swiveling, toes tapping, shuffle, flail, silence, spasm, rattle, stillness.
One down, two to go.