Part 19 (1/2)
She sits perfectly still.
They can't record you when you're perfectly still. But I can't be still forever. Not yet, anyway.
Back up, on her feet, she churns around the apartment. And everywhere might be another camera or another place where they can see inside and watch and wait and they'll get you Sara they'll get you and you won't know who they are and you'll never see them coming.
She stands, flipping the radio dial. Music. Music might confuse them. The words are there, white on black: ... If the illusion is real, let them give you a ride ... She turns it back off.
She makes precise, calculated movements. Everything she does will be recorded forever, a.n.a.lyzed, scrutinized. No use collapsing into a gelatinous ma.s.s in the center of the room and screaming for them to stop, to go away, to leave her alone. Because they don't go and they don't ever leave her alone, and collapsing and screaming has never worked before.
She s.n.a.t.c.hes a bottle of vodka from the freezer, her lips sticking to the frosty gla.s.s as she takes a swig. Her breathing is still too fast.
She flips on the television. A music video. Men holding newspapers all step back behind columns, disappearing.
She pushes a couple of random channel numbers. News.
”...but the President is standing behind his ”Star Wars” Strategic Defense Initiative. In Chicago news, police are investigating a murder that appears to be the work of the infamous ”Baby Doll Killer” in California. Few details have been released regarding the body found here, but it is known that the killer bound the victim with handcuffs and bled her dry before leaving her in an alley with a doll in a fairy-tale-themed dress...”
She hits the power b.u.t.ton. The room goes dark, except for the heat lamp's red glow.
Clicks. Whirs. Silence. A ring.
She paced the kitchen. Another ring.
”Come on, come on.”
Another. He answered.
”Hi, Miguel. It's Sara.” She took a long drag from her cigarette.
”How are you, Sara?”
”I'm ...” She sighed. ”I'm a little stressed out. My lizard died, Miguel. He died, and now it's just like everyone else. They leave, they die, and I'm alone. I'm just alone again-”
”Sara! It's okay. All right? It's okay. But you gotta talk slower because I'm not so good with the English to listen so fast on the phone, all right?”
”Yeah, okay. Sorry.”
”You never tell me you have a lizard.”
”Yeah. Renfield. I sort of inherited him.”
”I know how that feels, to lose a pet, lose a friend. I got a lot of friends, they move away. Or they die. And then I am alone. It is always very sad.”
”Yeah, yeah. Sad. And alone. That's it.”
The words were there in front of her, white on red this time.
Killer! Murderer!
”But, you know,” he said. ”Pets. They die. It is very natural.”
She cried a little. ”Uh, no. I don't think it's so natural. I killed him. I killed my lizard, Miguel.” Silence. ”I didn't mean to. But I did.” She sniffed. ”I'm just, you know, I'm busy. And I didn't have time to pick out those worms for him, so I just dumped the jar in there, and there were all these bugs crawling around and I thought he'd be all right like that. But then yesterday I looked again and found he was dead. He was dead in his water dish, Miguel. I didn't give him water and I made him die. I made him die of thirst and he never did anything bad to anyone and I made him die of thirst.” She took another drag. ”And I did other bad stuff, too. I'm a killer, Miguel. And I don't have any friends any more because everyone can see what I really am-”
A real murderer. And not just of some pathetic animal. One who shoots a running kid in the back to save her drugs.
”Sara. Calm down. You gonna be okay.”
Calm down. Calm. Down.
A candle was nestled among the countless gram and eight-ball baggies on the counter. Not countless. Five ounces worth of grams and eights. She lit the candle. ”Talk to me, Miguel. Help me forget this s.h.i.+t. Please?”
”What should I talk about?”
”Just ... how about you? Tell me about your life.”
Next to the candle was a piece of foil folded over a few times. And a baggie of heroin she'd gotten from a new guy- ”Weasel”- at the club. It looked like brown cocaine. ”Where are you from, Miguel?”
”Juarez. It's a border town in Mexico.”
She'd never inject heroin, of course. But smoking it made coming down from c.o.ke totally bearable. And it was cheaper than Benny's downers.
”How did you get here, then?”
She had a little gla.s.s tube to chase the smoke. She could do it right now. Calm. Down. It would help the paranoia. It always helped with the paranoia. That was all this was: paranoia from too much c.o.ke too fast.
Miguel gave her a quiet laugh under his breath. ”My father, he used to smuggle people across the border for money. When I grow up, I help him do it. Then one day, I decide to smuggle myself here. I got some family in Chicago, and they help me get a green card.”
”Really? That's really cool. I like to think of you crossing the border in the middle of the night, starting a new life and all that.”
The c.o.ke bugs were out in force, doing military maneuvers, all jazzed up on their Bolivian marching powder. A little smoke might calm them right back down ...
But it was hard to do on the phone.
”Yeah. The green card was the hardest part. But-”
She moaned. She opened her mouth to speak but the pain in her chest was suddenly stronger, as if someone were standing on it. She gasped for air like a freshly caught fish.
”Sara? What's that? What's wrong?”
”My ... my chest hurts, Miguel.” Her voice was shaky and punctuated with gasps. ”It must be a cramp or something. I'm sorry, but I can't really talk right now.”
”What's your address there? Sara? Sara! What's your address there?”