Mary, Mary

from Mary Smith had arrived—written to the man she had just killed.

Chapter 73
    To: [email protected]
    From: Mary Smith
    To: Arnold Griner:
    Guess what? I followed you home to your new apartment, after you had dinner with friends at that Asia de Cuba place on Sunset.
    You parked under the building and took the stairs up the back. Huffing up a single flight? I could see that you’re out of shape, Arnold. And out of time, I’m afraid.
    I waited outside until your apartment lights came on, and then I followed. I wasn’t as afraid anymore, not like I used to be. The gun used to feel strange and unwieldy in my hand. Now it’s like I barely know it’s there.
    You haven’t installed a dead bolt on your back door. Maybe you’ve been meaning to but you’ve been too busy with the move; or maybe you just felt a little safer in the new place so it didn’t seem to matter. You’d be right about that last part. It doesn’t matter—not anymore.
    It was dark in the kitchen when I came in, but you had the lights and TV on in the living room. There was also a carving knife on the counter next to the sink, but I left it where it was.
    I had my own, which is something you probably already knew about me—
if
you read my other e-mails.
    I waited for as long as I could bear to in the kitchen, listening to you and your companion. I couldn’t hear exactly what you were saying to each other, but I liked the sound of your voices. I even liked knowing that I’d be the last person to ever hear them.
    Then the nervousness started to come back. It was just a little at first, but I knew it would get worse if I waited much longer.
    I could have left the condo right then if I wanted to, and you’d never even have known I was there.
    That’s one way you’re like the others. No one seems to know I’m around until their time comes. The Invisible Woman, that’s me. That’s a lot of us, actually.
    When I waltzed into the living room, you both jumped up at the same time. I made sure you saw the gun, and you stayed still after that. I wanted to ask if you knew why I came for you, why you
deserved
to die, but I was afraid I wouldn’t finish if I didn’t do it right away.
    I pulled the trigger, and you fell flat on your back. Your roommate screeched; then he tried to run. I couldn’t imagine where he thought he was going to escape to.
    I shot him, and I think he may have died immediately. You both seemed to just die. Not much fight in you, especially considering what a snippy, nasty little man you are.
    Good-bye, Arnold. You’re gone, and know what else? You’re already forgotten.

Chapter 74
    THE STORYTELLER HAD TO STOP the stream of murders now. He knew that; it was part of the plan, and the plan was a good one. What a pity, though, what a shame. He was just getting good at this, and he hadn’t been good at anything for a long time.
    Anyway, congratulations were in order. Praise for him was all over the TV, and in the newspapers, of course. Especially the
L.A. Times,
which had made that piece-of-shit Arnold Griner into such a saint and martyr. Everyone recognized the Storyteller’s masterpiece—only it was so much better than they knew.
    And he did want to celebrate, only there was still no one he could tell. He’d tried that in Vancouver and look what had happened. He’d had to kill a friend, well, an acquaintance, an old humpty-dump of his.
    So how would he celebrate? Arnold Griner was dead, and that made him laugh out loud sometimes. The ironies were building up now, including some subtle ones, like Griner getting his e-mails, then being his messenger to the police, then getting it himself. In real life—as opposed to what had been written in the latest e-mail—the little prick had begged for his life when he saw who it was, when he finally understood, which made his murder even more satisfying. Hell, he hadn’t killed Griner and his companion right away. It had taken close to an hour, and he’d loved every minute of the melodrama.
    So what would he do now?
    He wanted to party, but there really was no one he could talk to about this. Boohoo, he had no one.
    Then he knew exactly what he wanted to do, and it was so simple. He was in Westwood anyway, so he parked in a lot and walked over to the wonderfully tacky Bruin Theater, where
Collateral
was playing.
Tom Cruise, oh, good
.
    He wanted to go to the movies.
    He wanted to sit with
his
people and watch Tom Cruise pretend he was a big, bad killer without any conscience