Obsessed

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Anne MacAree took off the black sable coat and handed it to the photographer’s assistant. She glanced back at Louise, the photographer, who called after her, “Thanks so much, Anne. These are going to be terrific.”

Anne had just finished shooting several ads for Evans Furs. They were having an end-of-winter sale, and the ads would be appearing in the Tribune toward the end of March.

The weariness overcame her as she sat in the cramped studio dressing room. As she tissued off her makeup she noticed how tired she looked, not a good sign for a professional. There were dark rings around her eyes that the makeup had buried. Her shoulder-length blunt-cut black hair didn’t have the oriental sheen it usually did. Her eyes lacked something—vivacity.

She ran a brush through her hair and put all of her things into a worn leather satchel, slung it over her shoulder, and left the studio. Outside she hailed a taxi and took it to Harry’s on Rush Street. Maybe an afternoon Tanqueray would be just the thing to help her sleep. She had gone without the past two nights.

The bar was filling up with the afternoon happy-hour crowd. She got a small table to herself near the wall. Giving her drink order, she stared at the business-suited men and women, feeling only slightly out of place in her jeans, boots, and white cotton sweater.

The drink came and Anne, in her exhaustion, toned down the voices, filtered out the smoke, and sipped her drink, trying to quell the thoughts in her head.

For three months Anne had considered leaving Joe. It was not because she was being unfaithful, or wanted to, not because he was (as far as she knew), and not because he was neglectful or she was bored. Her reasons were more insubstantial. Things would have been much easier if there were another woman or man.

But the Joe MacAree she had married was not the Joe MacAree she lived with today. The change had been gradual; Anne could never pinpoint a time when the change had occurred.

Anne knew, though, that the change in her husband had gone beyond a tolerable point. And she could pinpoint when he had passed the point of tolerability. Last night Joe had come home seeming filled with an inexplicable joy, so happy he was just about quivering with it. But when Anne, smiling, pressed him for an explanation, so she “could be happy too,” he could do no better than reply he was just feeling good, “no special reason, Annie, darling.” She had not known where he had spent the afternoon, since the desk in his office was clean and their answering service had given her a whole list of calls to be returned. When she asked him about this, he replied he had spent the entire day at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Anne had to laugh at that, but it was not a comfortable laugh.

Later, things turned dark. Joe’s passion that night was unmatched by anything in their five years together. At first Anne had been flattered by his lust. But soon things shifted out of her control, away from anything she would have desired. He took her roughly again and again, until she cried out in pain. But her fists beating on his back and her cries went unheard or unacknowledged. Anne had been used the entire night.

She had decided the next morning she would leave him. He had gone for the day, this time on real business…seeing several of the clients he wrote ads for. Anne had seated herself in his office to write him a letter, not a good-bye letter but just one to let him know she was leaving for a while and she would be getting in touch soon.

As she looked through his desk for paper she found the shoebox. On top was a clipping from that morning’s Tribune. It described the murder of a Berwyn woman. Anne was puzzled.

Below that were other clippings, all about murders of women in different areas in and around Chicago. A chill swept over her then: Who was this man she was living with?

Anne stuffed the clippings back in a drawer. She tried to ebb her fear: It’s nothing. Your husband, like the men who read those detective magazines, has a rather unusual preoccupation with murder. It’s nothing. Even if it is unpleasant, it’s probably completely normal. Primitive aggression in the urban male, something like that.

She turned off the light in Joe’s office and left quickly. She would ask him about the clippings later. Maybe she shouldn’t leave him just yet. He might need her help. Maybe last night was an isolated incident. Surely every marriage has at least one episode like that.

Surely.

And where was he all day yesterday?

* * * *

Anne drained the drink. She had spent the last night unable to sleep, unable to keep the clippings out of her mind. Joe slept soundly beside her, his presence an unwelcome warmth.

She had read until dawn.

Anne put a dollar down on the table and left the bar. Outside, a wet gray snow had begun to fall. Joe said he would have dinner waiting.

* * * *

Joe had gone all day without missing the lighter. He had spent the morning with the Nature Snack people—owners of a chain of health food stores who would have worn gas masks if Joe had lit up a cigarette.

Now at home, Joe put his portfolio and briefcase away in the closet of his office. He switched on the green and brass desk lamp and sat back in his leather desk chair, allowing himself a few minutes to relax before starting to plan the newspaper ads that Nature Snack wanted him to do. He reached into his pocket for the box of Marlboros that had been burning against his chest all morning, shook one out of the pack, and dug deep in his sport coat pocket for the silver lighter Anne had just given him the previous Christmas. With a mildly bothered expression Joe pulled his hand from his right pocket and reached into his left. No lighter. Joe checked his pants pockets. Both of them. Empty.

Beginning to feel a slight panic he would not acknowledge, Joe rose and went to the office closet where his Burberry overcoat hung. All pockets were empty. Faster now, Joe began going through each desk drawer with empty-handed results.

Joe sat for a moment. His breathing was fast; his blood pounded in his ears. Even though the office was a sunroom conversion and even though all that glass kept the room especially cool throughout the winter, Joe felt beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. Calm down, he told himself, you could have lost the lighter anywhere, anywhere at all. It could have fallen out of your coat pocket when you were at the Nature Snack offices. You might have dropped it somewhere right here in the apartment…

Joe was on his knees, scanning every nap of their champagne-colored carpeting, praying for a glint of silver. He checked the nightstand next to their bed. Nothing. He opened and closed every drawer and cupboard in their high-tech black, red, and chrome kitchen. Nothing. Anne’s pockets, purses. Nothing. In the bathroom. Nothing.

Joe returned to his office and sat down, trying to calm his pounding heart. He told himself it fell out on the street; the lighter lay at this very moment underneath the coat rack in the Nature Snack offices.

In spite of all his assurances he knew where the lighter was. It was in Berwyn, in the apartment of Maggie Mazursky, the late Maggie Mazursky. His lighter…with his initials. Damn! He slammed his fist down on the green blotter. He had always been so careful never to leave a clue to his identity. And now the police would find a one-hundred-fifty-dollar sterling silver lighter that could easily be traced to the Michigan Avenue store where Anne had purchased it two months before and had made sure to have his initials plainly engraved on the face.

Joe went to the window and stared out at the traffic on Lake Shore Drive. Beyond the orderly lines of cars lay the lake. Today its waters were gray and churning, pounding against the beach with fury. Anguished and uselessly eroding, the waves rose higher against the pearl gray sky. Joe forced himself to concentrate on the water. Forced himself to trace the rise of a wave from far out on the dark water and follow its progress to the shore.

The mental calming would not work. Joe looked down at his sweat-slicked palms, his shaking hands. What would Anne think when she came home? How could he explain such anxiety?

Joe crossed to the tiny bathroom he had off his office. Inside the medicine cabinet Joe found an old bottle of Valium, prescribed to Anne years ago when she had lost their first and only child to labor complications. He gulped down the small yellow pill without water or thought and returned to his office. Sitting down at his desk, Joe forced himself to close his eyes and wait for the drug to take effect.

After a while the sweating stopped and Joe regained control over his shaking hands. He walked once more to the window, stared out.

“I’ve got to get that lighter back…and soon.”

* * * *

Joe had just put the fettuccine in the boiling water when he heard Anne’s key in the lock. He decided he had better work on the cream sauce for the Alfredo rather than run to greet her at the door. Things had not gone well with them since he had let himself get out of hand in bed the previous night. Joe thought he would have to keep the sustenance he got from his victims in check or Anne would grow suspicious.

“Something smells good,” Anne said without much enthusiasm.

Joe turned from the stove and smiled at her. She did not meet his eyes. Sitting down at the small red lacquered table, she began leafing through the stack of mail that had come that day, all the while wondering how she would confront him with her questions on the clippings she had found in his drawer. Maybe now isn’t the right time, she thought, maybe never. It would only embarrass him. Perhaps it’s nothing.

“How’d it go today?”

She finally looked up and met his eyes. He was smiling, with an eager-to-please expression. His brown eyes seemed so alert, his smile so genuine that Anne was unable to believe there was anything wrong between them.

Her first impulse had been to reply that things could have gone better had she had a little sleep the past two nights. But why chafe against him? Surely things weren’t going to get better if she resisted his efforts at friendliness.

“Things went…very well. They always do with Louise. She makes me feel more comfortable, less afraid to experiment.”

Joe waved his hand. “Ah…with your looks it really doesn’t matter who’s behind the camera.”

“Please.” Anne laughed and got up from the table. “How soon till dinner? I’d like to take a quick shower. Do I have time?”

“Go ahead.” Joe went over to the red sink, straining the noodles, his face obscured by clouds of steam.

As Anne walked by Joe’s office she noticed the door ajar. Glancing in, she was stunned to see the usually orderly room looking as if it had been ransacked. The desk drawers were pulled open, Joe’s overcoat was in a heap on the floor, and his sport coat was flung across his leather chair.

Anne’s fragile sense of well-being disappeared as quickly as it had come. What was he up to?

As she headed toward the shower she heard him in the kitchen, humming. Things weren’t fitting together. How many people was she living with?

She knew she should find out, just come out and ask him. Wasn’t that what they were always saying, “keep the lines of communication open”?

As the hot water hit her Anne thought, let’s wait. There can be no harm in giving things a little time. A little time to restore equilibrium. No, there could be no harm in that at all.

Anne hoped.

* * * *

The fettuccine Alfredo was wonderful. And Joe prepared the veal simply, cooked in butter with a light flour coating. Joe even went out before dinner and bought a bottle of Liebfraumilch, Anne’s favorite wine.

Shoveling the last forkful of fettuccine into her mouth, Anne thought to herself, boy, the way to my heart is no secret. She sat back in her chair, the glass of wine in her hand, and looked across the table at Joe.

In the light from the burning-down candles his face had a radiance, a glow of innocence. The candle’s flame brought out a tinge of color in his cheeks, and his eyes reflected the light. Anne wondered how she could have ever imagined leaving this beautiful man.

The two did not speak. The corners of Joe’s mouth turned up in a smile as he raised his wineglass to her, and she returned the gesture. Anne thought one thing that was comfortable about their marriage was the silence.

Anne finished her glass of wine. After a time of sitting and looking at each other, Joe rose and blew out the candles. Now the room was lit only by the bright moon outside their floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was silvery. Joe crossed to Anne and, taking her hand, led her to the windows. He faced her toward the glass and draped his arm over her shoulders. Both stared out at the shimmering waters of Lake Michigan below them.

Slowly, Joe slid to his knees and encircled Anne’s legs with his arms. He unfastened the buttons of her jeans and worked them down over her hips and further. She did not move except to lift her legs to get out of the jeans. Joe began kissing her ankles and worked upward until he was slowly licking the insides of her thighs.

Anne murmured and reached down to bury her fingers in his curly hair. His tongue went to the outside of her panties and he pressed his lips against the outline of her vulva. Soon her panties (pale blue) were wet enough from herself and Joe’s actions that he could see the outline of her pubic hair through the satin. With one finger he pulled her panties aside and thrust his tongue deep inside her as she moaned, unsure of her ability to stand much longer. She hurried to get out of the panties to allow him to move more freely. Joe’s tongue moved up and down her vulva with alternating soft and hard strokes, stopping every so often to press and swirl against her c******s. Joe forced his tongue deep inside, tasting her.

When she came, she practically winced, one hand against the cold glass of the window, the other pulling at his curls.

“Please,” she whispered, reaching down and placing her hands under his arms to pull him up. Once she saw that he was standing Anne pulled the white sweater over her head. Joe’s hands immediately covered her breasts. Gently, she took them away, saying, “Wait; it’s your turn.”

She unbuttoned his shirt, kissing him after each button. When the shirt was off she removed his pants and underwear. She giggled, “Take off your socks.” Then she slid down him, her body never losing contact.

In one swift movement she swallowed him and he cried out, his hands holding her head while he thrust into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around his c**k, trying to meet his thrusts with her lips, her tongue.

All too soon, she could tell by the rapidness of his breathing, he was ready to come. She pulled quickly away from him, squeezing tight on his p***s. “Not yet,” she whispered and lay back on the carpeting.

He knelt between her raised knees, positioning himself. Then, supporting his weight with his arms, he entered her swiftly, burying his c**k deep, then pulling out almost to the point where he was out of her, then plunging back in again.

It was over in minutes. They came together, each crying out into the silver darkness of the room, Anne digging her nails into his ass, contracted to shoot his come deep inside.

He lay on top of her for only a few moments, then he lifted her and carried her into the bedroom. Once under the maroon comforter they rested in each other’s arms for no more than twenty minutes, then she climbed on top of him and they took their time.

After, nestled in the crook between his arm and chest, feeling the easy rise and fall of his breathing, Anne whispered, “What about the clippings?”

Because she was so near, she felt him tense, his breathing suspended for a moment. No, she thought, please, I didn’t want to ruin this moment.

“What clippings?” he asked in a voice that showed his anxiety more clearly than if he hadn’t tried to be casual.

Anne tried to laugh, make it seem as if they meant nothing to her as well, but already she was worried. “The ones in your desk. All those murders. Planning on writing a book?”

His breathing became easy once more. He laughed. “How did you know? That gory stuff fascinates me no end. I’m kind of embarrassed, but I think it would make great best-seller material. Don’t you?”

And because she was a much better actor than he, she was able to look at him, smile and say, “Yes.”

Soon she felt the regular breathing of his sleep. Her anger ebbed. Perhaps he was just using the murders as source material for a novel. Why else have the clippings?

Because she wanted to believe so much, she did.

* * * *

When Joe was certain Anne was asleep he got up from the bed and went to his office. As soundlessly as possible, he closed the door behind him. He went to his chair, placed his face in his hands, and wept.

Why? he asked himself over and over. Why would he kill all those women? How could he and feel nothing? Now he was faced with Anne’s knowing and he could not, would not, lose her love.

Nothing meant more to him.

After the sobbing subsided and he had blown his nose, Joe went to his desk and removed the shoebox he had put the clippings in. Stupid, he thought, stupid to leave these lying around. And as he began shredding them into his wastebasket, he swore to himself he would never be so stupid again.

Staring out the window, he swore he would never kill again. He could never replace the lives he had taken, but he would take no more. And he would not be caught. His mind flashed on the lighter. Stupid to have lost it, but he must get it back. How he would get it back was still open to a plan, but when was clear: tomorrow at the latest. He could not risk discovery. He would get his lighter back and that would be the end of it, never again.

He pulled the calendar on his desk over and circled the date he had killed Maggie Mazursky in red. The red would serve as a reminder. A hot touch to his pain…he must never forget. The pain would keep him away from the sickness and he would keep Anne. But the pain, yes, the pain, must always be kept fresh in his memory. This last one was pregnant.

Tomorrow Joe would pay his second visit to Berwyn. He prayed he would think of a clever way to retrieve what was his. A clever way to save himself from the loss of all he held dear.