68
“Uncle Dave? What are you doing here? You scared me to death.”
My uncle Dave, the meticulous dresser who always wore the "correct" gear appropriate to the activity at hand; like topsiders for sailing, après ski boots after skiing, high top Converse for basketball, cleats for baseball––even REI hiking boots for climbing around the countryside when disposing of bodies.
Dave didn’t answer. He grinned at me, the scariest goddamn grin. In his hand was the biggest, longest, scariest goddamn knife you ever saw. He didn’t move.
I backed away, but I was afraid to turn my back to him. I tripped over the ottoman, and plopped onto the floor.
My cell phone flew out of my pocket, landed under the armchair.
The rest of the pieces of the puzzle swirled through my mind and fell into place.
Dave. He was never really an accepted member of the inner circle of the farm. Dave, who always insinuated that he was left out because he grew up poor without the social connections, the advantages of the others. Who was extraordinarily driven by ambition. Dave, who couldn’t afford a gap year, or law school, instead went straight to work after graduation. Who, all of a sudden, shortly after Lexi was murdered, found investors for his fledgling waterbed business with enough capital that he was able to quit his day job and concentrate on booming his business. Dave who used his private plane to fly all over the world, especially to southeast Asia where he dealt with factories and suppliers for his furniture lines.
Dave was the knife wielding Zodiac who was happy to let the Zodiac, the original one, take credit for Dave’s killings as well as his own. Who learned everything he needed to know the day he helped the Zodiac move Jennifer’s body.
And whenever he needed an influx of capital, well, he had four wealthy benefactors, always happy to help out.
Dave, the dandy of the group, always perfectly correct in his dress in the way that those who are worried about fitting in, about being good enough are so careful.
The irony, the dichotomy of his meticulous cleanliness wasn’t lost on me. It made some strange kind of sense: it was the very contrast, the release from the constraints of correctness that motivated the messy killing with a knife.
It also required a constant supply of new clothes. Bloody old clothes had to be destroyed. I remembered his housekeeper’s comments that he got new suits when he traveled. He never brought home the old ones. Most of his associates wrote that one off to the fact that he traveled to places where new suits were cheap and fast to get tailored. Convenient if you ruined––bloodied––a set of clothes every time you went abroad.
I imagined blood all over the Peter Marino designed white interior of his gulf stream.
All this raced through my mind when I should’ve been figuring out how to get out of this danger, how to get away from him.
Flat on my back on the floor, the phrase frozen with fear flashed through my mind.
I propped myself on my elbows, slowly pulled my knees up, posed to jump up.
Dave sat in the chair and cleaned his nails with the very sharp, curved tip of the knife. His face twisted ugly with a jack-o-lantern grin. Cold eyes studied his fingers.
Finally he spoke, “That shot to your head did something to your senses, cutie pie. You’ve been getting some very funny ideas. You gotta cut that out,” he chuckled, “or I should say, I gotta cut that out.” He cackled at his clever play on words.
“You see, I got a very funny phone call tonight, from my pilot. Someone’s tracking my movements abroad for the last forty years. Then I learned that you and that snotty brother of yours have not only spent the last couple of weeks stirring up trouble by going around asking lots of questions, you spent the day at the SFPD headquarters.”
Could I reach my cell?
It was less than four feet away, but if I made a move for it, would he pounce on me?
Would I be stabbed, sliced, cut before I got a call out?
“Now, I could threaten to decorate the pretty face of yours if you don’t just go back to class and mind your own damn business. Or I could just fix one side, one beautiful cheek, to serve as a reminder, to mind your own god damn business. I think a Z would do it.”
Roll it
Pat it
Mark it with Z
And throw it in the oven
For Baby and me
He sang, then he sighed. “But then, I don’t think that’s gonna work. You’re too stubborn for that, too independent, too self-reliant. Reminds me of some one. Can’t think who.” A scowl replaced the grin.
“You,” I whispered. “It was you. You poisoned Carol. You tripped her, wrecked the brakes in the car.”
Dave looked startled. “I always hated that cold, beautiful,” he spit the words, “arrogant bitch. I enjoyed seeing her suffer when Lexi died. I saw Tom buying drinks for that guy. I was curious what they were up to so I followed that guy, that Zodiac from the Monk and saw him shoot her. Even gave him a hand with drugging that guy she was with.” He watched my face for a reaction.
I fought back my revulsion determined not to give him the satisfaction of affecting me.
“I guess I’m not surprised she told you about her, quote, ‘accidents.’ She has an extraordinary love for you. Has from the day you were born. She’s gonna suffer even more this time.” He stood up, took a step toward me.
I jumped to my feet.
I ran.
I ran up the curved stairs.
He was only as far as the bottom of the stairs, in no apparent hurry. He must have figured he had me trapped. He’d probably looked around long enough to see there was no way out from the upper floors.
But if I could get to a bathroom, I could lock myself in.
And him out.
At the top of the stairs, I realized what would happen when my housemates came home. He’d stab and carve them.
I couldn’t hide in a locked bathroom.
I had to deal with this lunatic.
He grinned at me from the foot of the staircase, that horrid, twisted grin.
He swung the knife in an arc, and cackled, getting off on my fear.