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hoping
nothing bad would happen to them; one of the dogs was pregnant, I think, I’m not
sure—there’d been some talk about it. Anyway, just at that moment, while I
was still running around, I heard one of the women say, Jesus, the dog, the dog,
and I thought of telepathy, I thought of happiness, and I was afraid that the
woman who had spoken, whichever one it was, would go out to look for the dog. Luckily, neither of them made any move to leave the house. Just as well. Just as
well, I thought. And then (I’ll never forget this) I went into a room on the
first floor where I’d never been before. It was long, narrow and dark,
illuminated only by the moon and by a faint glow coming from the porch lights. And at that moment I knew, with a terror-driven certitude, that destiny (or
misfortune—the same thing in this case) had brought me to that room. At the
far end, outside a window, I saw the storekeeper’s silhouette. I crouched down,
barely able to contain my shaking (my whole body was shaking, the sweat was
pouring off me) and waited. The killer opened the window with bewildering ease
and slipped quietly into the room. There were three narrow wooden beds each with
a bedside table. On the wall, inches above the beds I could see three framed
prints. The killer stopped for a moment. I felt him breathe; the air made a
healthy sound as it went into his lungs. Then he groped his way forward, between
the wall and the feet of the beds, directly toward where I was crouched, waiting
for him. Although it was hard to believe, I knew he hadn’t seen me: I thanked my
lucky stars, and, when he got close enough, I grabbed him by the feet and pulled
him down. Once he was on the floor I started kicking him with the aim of doing
as much damage as possible. He’s here, he’s here, I shouted, but the women
didn’t respond (I couldn’t hear them running around either), and the unfamiliar
room was like a projection of my brain, the only home, the only shelter. I don’t
know how long I was in there, kicking that fallen body, I only remember someone
opening the door behind me, words I couldn’t understand, a hand on my shoulder. Then I was alone again and I stopped kicking him. For a few moments I didn’t
know what to do; I felt dazed and tired. Eventually, I snapped out of it and
dragged the body to the living room. There I found the women, sitting very close
together on the sofa, almost hugging each other. I don’t know why, but something
about the scene made me think of a birthday party. I could see the anxiety in
their eyes, and a fading trace of the fear caused not by the episode as a whole
but by the sight of Bedloe’s body after the beating I’d given him. And it was
the look in their eyes that made me lose my grip and let his body drop onto the
carpet. Bedloe’s face was a blood-spattered mask, garish in the light of
the living room. Where his nose had been there was just a bleeding pulp. I
checked to see if his heart was beating. The women were watching me without
making the slightest movement. He’s dead, I said. Before I went out onto the
porch, I heard one of them sigh. I smoked a cigarette looking at the stars,
thinking about how I’d explain it to the authorities in town. When I went back
inside, the women were down on all fours stripping the body and I couldn’t
stifle a cry. They didn’t even look at me. I think I drank a glass of whiskey
and then went out again, taking the bottle, I think. I don’t know how long I was
out there, smoking and drinking, giving the women time to finish their task. I
went back over the events, piecing them together. I remembered the man looking
in through the window, I remembered the look in his eyes, and now I recognized
the fear, I remembered when he lost his dog, and finally I remembered him
reading a newspaper at the back of the store. I also remembered the light the
previous day, the light inside the store and the porch light seen from the room
where I’d killed him. Then I