The Third Victim Read Free Page B

expertly beginning a slow, erotic caress.
    “Maybe.” Inexorably aroused, he turned toward her, to draw her close. With the length of his body, he could feel her body answering his.
    It would be another morning of omelettes and last night’s wine.
    He felt her breasts grow taut against his chest. Now her body’s center was moving with his, beginning the first deep, urgent rhythms of love. Her breathing had quickened, matching his own. Their eyes were closed.
    Last night’s wine…
    The phrase had an evocative lilt. It could be a film title.
    Leonard Talbot impatiently turned to the back of the newspaper, fighting the flapping confusion, finally batting the pages flat. Across the table, his mother stirred, momentarily roused by the rattling. But now she frowned, squinted, and once more dropped her eyes to her bowl, scraping up the last of her milk-sogged cereal.
    He scanned the back-section page. Was it the right number? Had it said page twelve?
    Yes. On the right side, halfway down on the last column? Tarot, Con’t.
    Tarot…
    The newsprint blurred as his eyes lost their focus. At that moment—right now—thousands were reading the same words he was reading. They’d already seen the front-page letter. They knew of the three letters before. And they knew, too, about the women—the other two.
    Everybody knew. It was all before them, printed. As much as he wanted them to know, they knew. The rest they’d never know.
    Until he wanted them to know—until he willed it—they would know no more.
    Know no more…
    The phrase had a hollow, ghostly sound—like a bell tolling in empty night. Like mists rising in darkness over the tangled branch-shapes of silent, steaming swamps.
    Know no more…
    If someone died, they knew no more.
    The logic, therefore, was proven. Ipso, a fact. Full circle. A thought— his thought—created the whole. Because circles were perfect, it was perfection. Ipso.
    Therefore, himself. Perfection.
    He was staring at his mother, watching her wipe at her chin with coarse, thick-knuckled fingers. The fingers moved with awkward, simian stiffness. She’d finished the cereal, milk-slurping. The coffee would be next. Slurping.
    Tarot…
    It was a joke. Because, first, he’d imagined it all. He’d created it first deep inside his brain—secretly, like a story. Or a fairy tale. Or a lie. A long, lingering lie. He’d imagined it all—everything. Nothing could surprise him, or frighten him, or threaten him. Everything was perfection: a round, perfect circle.
    Was it a piston ring?
    Yes. Perfect Circle Piston Rings. He’d seen their ads in magazines.
    His eyes were once more on the newspaper.
    Tarot, Con’t.
    What would happen if the police came? Would that, too, be perfection?
    Yes. He could imagine it. Often he’d secretly pictured the scene: the two blue-uniformed policemen knocking at the door. Therefore, ipso, it would happen as he imagined it. They would ask their questions, and frown, and finally go away. Like a story—a bedtime story, told to others.
    Always to others. For him, there had never been a bedtime story. Never. Only a dark, wild shrieking in the night. Like the cry of someone dying.
    Tarot…
    He tore a piece of dough from a sweet roll and began rolling it into a small round ball—a soft, doughy peaball, rotating between his fingers. He could flatten it, or shape it into a worm—or eat it. He realized that he was smiling—secretly, slightly smiling.
    Was he smiling at the thought of eating a dirt-crusted worm wriggling down his throat?
    No.
    It was the first joke—the Tarot joke.
    But they didn’t know it was a joke. Therefore, they couldn’t laugh.
    He felt the first sudden shift of a sharp, secret snickering. He was blinking, sitting up straighter, frowning against the stomach-tugging spasm. If he laughed, they would know. The danger would begin. The ever-danger. Nothing could…
    The giggle-bubble was growing— growing. Laughter-bursting. Across the table, her eyes