Cassandra's Plan Ch. 08

Cassandra's Plan (Chapter 8)

Kathryn M. Burke

David Phillips / June 6, 1996, 8:39 p.m.

I reach down into my pants pocket and give a reassuring pat to the surprisingly heavy object there. I don't know why I should feel nervous, but I'm trembling a little. Everything is going to work out tonight; nothing will—or can—go wrong. I feel rather quaint: hero comes to rescue damsel in distress. But it's no joke: Lauren's in a mess and I have to get her out. And

I will.

I casually say goodbye to Cassandra, saying I'm going for another walk. Just like last time, and unlike the several times before, she doesn't seem to care much. Probably she doesn't give a damn about me any more.

This time I'll probably take the subway. Don't even know why I walked the time before. Jud is exactly the asshole I remembered from college—didn't even want to see me until I implied it might be worth his while.

Well, let's get this show on the road.

Justin Federlein / June 6, 1996, 8:42 p.m.

The taxi is careering up Lexington Avenue as if possessed.

That hiss over the phone is still ricocheting through my skull: "Quick! He's heading east on 68th Street! Probably the subway! Get there, and don't blow it this time!"

How the hell am I supposed to catch him on the subway? He only has to walk three long blocks, and this cab has to go about three miles. But the driver seems about as frantic as I am—probably thinks it's a game of some kind.

I leap out of the car before it comes to a full stop, throwing twenty bucks at the guy—about three times the amount of the fare. Can't even stop to look at his reaction. I hurl myself down the steps of the subway entrance. I have to assume David is heading south. Where else could he possibly go?

This goddamn weight in my pocket is making me walk like a cripple. I almost get stuck in the turnstyle because of it. I don't see the guy anywhere— Oh, Jesus! Just as I step out on to the platform I see him at the other end. Thank God he's looking in the other direction. I turn around myself so that he can only see my backside; and just as I do so I'm overwhelmed by the subway train roaring through the station, lights flashing and horn blaring.

Sounds like an ambulance. Or a police car.

I get in the car behind the one he's in. I can see him through the windows. He has that stiff, robotic posture I saw three days ago, but there's a kind of grim, determined smirk on his face. What the hell is he doing? And where's he going?

At the Grand Central stop he gets out. I follow him. He is momentarily confused at the size and complexity of the labyrinthine station—can't find the line he's looking for amid all the stairs leading down and the signs pointing in every direction of the compass. As he looks around in my direction I hide behind a pillar. I peek out just in time to see him heading for the Times Square shuttle.

Christ, he would pick that train! It's only two cars, and concealment is going to be hard. There aren't very many people waiting—it'll be minutes before the train will come—and I have to hang back so he doesn't see me. Other people jostle me and glare at me, thinking me some useless and stupid obstruction. There's one guy in a three-piece suit whose face I want to blow off. I tighten my hand around the thing in my pocket.

Finally the train comes and I get into the car he didn't go in. Only one stop: Times Square.

Can he possibly be going back to that dump in the porno district he went to before? Why the hell would he be doing that? And how am I supposed to—do the job—there? Jesus, what a mess!

Fuck you, Cassandra. Fuck you.

Cassandra Phillips / June 6, 1996, 8:49 p.m.

"Is this Cassandra Phillips?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Um . . . um, it's Lauren Oxley. Do you remember me?"

I can't believe my ears. I must be dreaming. Oh, you bitch, I certainly remember you.

For a moment I'm stunned at her sheer gall. Where the fuck does she get off calling me up like this? What do you want to do, girl—gloat? Gloat over how many times you've laid my husband in the past few days or weeks or months? Years, for all I fucking know.

My silence allows her to keep on yapping. "I just wanted to thank you . . . to thank both you and David."

"You want to . . ." I can't even go on.

"Oh, David didn't want me to call you. In fact, he made me promise I wouldn't." I bet he did, you cunt. "But I just had to. He probably hasn't told you anything about what's been going on, has he?"

I'm still so choked with rage that I can't utter.

"Well," she goes on in a breathless rush, "you see I got into a real jam and he's been helping me. He says it will be over tonight. I don't really know what he's going to do, but I know he'll do it. That's the way he is. He's such a sweetheart."

The room is starting to spin.

"You're so lucky to be married to him, Cassandra. He's really devoted to you. He told me so. He should have told you about this business, but he was afraid you wouldn't understand. But really, he's just trying to help a friend. He's like that."

She stops. I feel sick to my stomach. I can't speak.

She's a little confused at my silence. "Cassandra, are you there?"

I still don't answer for a moment, but finally I manage to croak: "Yes. I'm here."

"Will you just tell David how grateful I am to him? You'll tell him that, won't you?"

"Yes. I'll tell him that." It's a whisper.

"Well . . . then, goodbye."

I hang up.

Oh God. Oh God.

I know Lauren Oxley. She's too naive and innocent to make up something like this. She's telling the truth. I hear it in her voice.

I pick up the phone again and frantically dial a number. Even before the second ring I know it's useless.

Justin doesn't even have an answering machine—too poor or too cheap. Not that that would have done much good now.

God, what have I done? What have I done?

I feel tears welling up in my eyes. Oh, Jesus, what's the use of that? But then, what's the use of anything now?

I have some crazy desire to run all around the city to look for David. I almost start for the door before I stop in my tracks. Don't be a fool. It's pointless.

My only hope is that Justin will be too clumsy or stupid or scared to do what I've told him to do.

David Phillips / June 6, 1996, 8:52 p.m.

Well, I'm going to be a little early.

I don't suppose Jud will mind. He doesn't seem to spend much time outside that little room. I pat my pocket one more time for reassurance. It's there.

The Times Square station is huge—bigger, I think, than Grand Central. But I know where I'm going this time. All the turnstyles are jammed with people either entering or leaving, and you have force yourself out before someone can force their way in. This city is not for the faint of heart.

The bright lights of the street stun me momentarily. I'm also just a little confused, for I have come out at an entrance I don't immediately recognize. But I orient myself quickly, heading for the north side of 42nd Street near Eighth Avenue.

The door is ajar as before, and little Tony—probably Jud's catamite—is on his stool as before. He nods to me as if he's the one who's expecting me instead of Jud; but as I reach for the doorknob of Jud's office he suddenly grabs my wrist:

"Knock, why don't you?"

I can't believe what I'm hearing. So even two-bit porno producers are deserving of courtesy now? Sure, why not? I knock.

"Yeah?" I hear from inside.

"David Phillips."

"Yeah, okay."

I open the door. As before, he's sitting behind his little desk. No other furniture in the room except some file cabinets behind him. What a life he must lead.

He continues—or pretends to continue—working on some paperwork in front of him. The dutiful businessman, putting in long hours to feed wife and baby. How touching.

Finally he looks up at me. "You got what you said you'd bring?"

"Oh, yeah," I say, wondering what sort of smirk is on my face. "I got it."

"Let's see it."

"Not so fast, Wynn. Show me your stuff first."

He looks at me as if I've committed some sort of faux pas, then shrugs. Reaching behind him while not turning his eyes from me, he pulls open a drawer of a file cabinet and pulls out a folder. He places it on the desk, not far from his fingers.

"Let me see it," I say.

"You come here and look at it."

I expel a breath heavily in irritation and approach the desk. I open the folder. It contains many negatives along with three or four 8 x 10 prints. One glance tells me all I need to know. Or almost all.

"This is all of them?"

"Yeah, that's all." He looks weary and disgusted.

"You better not be shitting me, Wynn. You'll be worth shit if you are."

"Keep your pants on, Phillips. You give me what I want and I'll leave your precious Lauren alone."

He pauses, expecting me to do or say something. Then he loses patience:

"So give it to me, asshole! Stop wasting my time."

Without a word I take the thing out of my pocket.

I throw the fat envelope derisively on the desk. It hasn't been sealed, so some of the bills fall halfway out of it. For a moment Wynn is stunned at the sight. He picks up the envelope gingerly, as if it's made of crystal.

"Don't bother to count it," I say. "It's what we agreed."

He flips through the bills, then places them carefully back in the envelope. He slides the folder toward me.

"I didn't think you'd do it, Phillips," Wynn says. "I didn't think you could get the money so fast. And I didn't think you'd really go so far to help your little friend. I hope she's suitably grateful."

I'm so tired all of a sudden that I don't even want to say anything to him. I just want to get out and go—

Justin Federlein / June 6, 1996, 8:56 p.m.

Jesus, he's going back to the place he was at before! What the fuck am I to do? That little dark boy is sitting up there on his stool. Oh, God—someone please tell me what to do!

No. I'm not going to blow it this time. I can't face Cassandra's wrath again. I gotta do it now! I gotta do it!

David Phillips / June 6, 1996, 8:57 p.m.

The door bursts open.

A crazy man, hair streaming behind him and sweat drenching him, is standing there, huffing as if he's just run a hundred-yard dash. There's a gun in his hand.

"What the fuck?" Wynn says, more outraged than frightened. "Who the fuck are you?"

The guy doesn't respond. He's just looking back and forth between Wynn and me. The hand with the gun is shaking—almost quivering.

Oh, Jesus God. Justin Federlein? Can that be him? God, he looks awful. What the bloody hell is he doing here?

"Justin, is that you? What is this—?"

Justin shouts back: "Shut up, David Phillips. This is the end for you!" The words ring through the room; but, loud as they are, they come out with a weird kind of hesitancy, as if he's saying things he's expected to say.

Wynn turns to me: "Who the hell is this guy, Phillips? What's he doing here?"

Without tearing my eyes from Justin or the gun I say: "I don't know, man. I don't know."

"You'll know in a minute!" Justin screams.

The gun is aimed right at my stomach. I'm frozen, stunned by what's happened. This seems like some dream-fantasy of a drug-crazed horror writer. Justin's finger is on the trigger, but he can't seem to pull it.

"Jesus fuck!" Wynn cries, pulling open a drawer. "I've never seen such stupid shit!"

He scrabbles around in the drawer for something. He pulls out a Saturday night special. He aims it at Justin.

Justin's eyes grow huge, but he's still looking at me. Then he wheels and fires the gun at Wynn. A bullet drills into Wynn's forehead and blows the back of his head off.

Wynn's gun, still clutched in his hand, goes off spasmodically an instant later. But the bullet flies over Justin's head and embeds itself in the wall.

Justin turns to look at me. There seem to be tears in his eyes. His hand goes slack, and the gun falls to the ground. Its impact on the floor is very loud.

Justin turns to the wall and begins to cry.

Justin Federlein / June 6, 1996, 9:01 p.m.

Oh God, what have I done? I've killed a man. I've killed a man I don't even know. There's so much red spattered on that wall.

David Phillips comes up to me. He kicks my gun away. He puts his arm on my shoulder.

"Justin, what got into you? What are you doing here?"

I'm crying so hard that I can't even speak. "I . . . you . . ." I can't tell him about Cassandra's plan. "You were . . . you were fooling around with Lauren, weren't you?" It comes out like a whiny plea.

He seems startled for a moment; then he says: "No, Justin. I wasn't. What made you think that?"

I'm totally confused. He doesn't sound as if he's lying. But I still can't tell him. "I just thought so . . . But you weren't?"

"No, I wasn't. I wasn't."

I want to claw my way through the wall. Maybe I should just grab that gun and blow my own head off with it.

David shakes me a little. "Justin, we gotta get out of here. Now. God knows who heard those shots." I don't hear any sirens, though.

I nod to him. I turn like a zombie to the door of the room. David is behind me, having grabbed a folder and a fat envelope from the desk.

I open the door. The little boy on the stool isn't there—he ran off after I waved the gun at him. I can't see anyone at the foot of the stairs.

Out on the street there's just the usual crowd. It's as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing has. Maybe this has been just a dream. Maybe I'm a dream.

David is hailing a taxi. It slows down in front of us. He pulls open the door and almost shoves me in. "Justin, just go home and forget about it. Don't say anything to anyone. Okay?"

I stumble into the taxi like an automaton. When I don't reply to him he says again, sharply: "Okay?"

I look up at him. "Okay." Who am I going to tell anyway?

He closes the door of the cab. It roars off.

In the rearview mirror I see him hail another one for himself.

I'm not even aware of telling the driver where to go. I just lean back in the cab and close my eyes. Wake me up when it's over.

Or maybe I shouldn't wake up. Being in this dream is so much better.

David Phillips / June 8, 1996, 5:27 p.m.

"It's over, Lauren. It's all over."

She looks at me as if she wants to believe me but can't quite manage it. She sounded the same when I phoned her two nights ago. But what can I possibly tell her?

That twerp Justin isn't going to say a word—he's scared out of his skin. I wish I knew what had gotten into him. Imagine stalking and trying to kill me just because he thought I was having an affair with Lauren! I know he doted on Cassandra in college, and probably still does; but isn't this carrying the knight-in-shining-armor bit a little too far? How did he even know I was seeing Lauren, anyway? The little snoop. Well, he'll not utter a peep now.

Strange that there hasn't been anything in the papers about Wynn's death. I guess a murder in New York has to be particularly heinous for it to be reported. Or maybe the newspapers care as little as the police do when lowlife gets offed. Just as well.

Lauren looks at me as if she wants me to say more—but what does she want? "You don't have to worry about Wynn any more," I say as reassuringly as I can. "He's out of the picture."

"But can't you tell me what happened? Was it as simple as that?"

"Sure it was. I just gave him the money and he gave me the negatives and some prints. I burned them immediately." I add hastily: "Without looking."

She turns away. I'm not going to question her about that. It was so long ago, and she was so young. God only knows, though, what was going through her mind when she did it.

Over her shoulder she says: "Do you want some coffee?"

"Sure."

I sit down on the couch, fidgeting a little as if I'm on a first date. There's no reason why I should feel uncomfortable in her presence, but I do. Maybe it has something to do with the way Cassandra has been behaving lately—really lovey-dovey. Can't imagine what's got into her.

I watch Lauren as she pours water into the coffee maker. Her hands are still so sleek and thin—almost fragile, like china. She's already changed from her formal work clothes and is dressed comfortably in jeans and a halter top. She looks good. Better than good.

She hands me the coffee and sits down next to me. I give her what feels like a crooked little smile, and she smiles back warmly. We've known each other such a long time; maybe that's why I always feel young with her. I think of all the things we've been through from the eighth grade onward . . . Suddenly I get choked up; I look away from her and take a big gulp of coffee.

Maybe she's thinking the same thing. She's just sitting there, sipping coffee, nestling just a little against my shoulder. I don't want to move; I don't want her to move. I'm very comfortable.

But then she does get up, a little abruptly. Looking down at me, she says: "Would you like to listen to some music?"

I shrug. "Sure. Whatever you want."

Her stereo—with the smallest speakers I've ever seen—is in her tiny bedroom, so she goes there. I hear her putting on an LP—she doesn't have a CD player. The music starts.

This can't be by accident. And it isn't: she comes back into the room with a big smile—a little naughty at the corners—on her face.

She's put on "Summer Breeze."

It's the most natural thing in the world for me to take her in my arms and just rock her there on the couch. Her arms slip around my neck, her head rests on my shoulder. We don't do anything but hold each other until the song is over.

She sighs heavily after it's finished. I find there are tears in my eyes. She looks up at me; there are tears in her eyes too.

"Oh, David . . ." she starts.

"No. Don't say anything."

To bring the point home, I place my lips on hers. I don't kiss her hard, but we remain like this for a long time. Our faces are wet.

I pull her halter off. She has no bra underneath. She's scrabbling at my clothes, trying to take my shirt and trousers off at the same time. I push her away a little, stand up, and finish the job myself. She whisks her jeans off in an instant.

There's nothing to do but go to the bed.

Afterward, I lie back in exhaustion. She's resting her head on my chest; each breath tickles my chest hairs. Her hand is gently playing with my genitals; she wants more, and I'll give it to her.

But I have to do some thinking first. There's no use kicking myself for the mistakes I've made over the past fifteen years. That's all over. But there's always time to start again.

Cassandra will be the problem, though. I can't divorce her: she's been too shrewd to let any of her money fall under my control, and I don't imagine there's much employment value in a mediocre writer who's never held a job. So it'll have to be on the sly. I think Lauren can deal with that; what choice does she have? I want her, and she wants me. She'll understand. And especially now that Cassandra seems to have become so meek and affectionate, deception will be easy.

I have a good feeling about this. Things will be all right.

Not just all right. Great. Things will be great.

Cassandra Phillips / June 9, 1996, 9:18 p.m.

I wish David would speak to me.

He's said almost nothing since he came home three nights ago. Not that that's much different from before—we haven't talked much, or done much, for years. He can't possibly know what happened—what almost happened. Justin called me and said he simply couldn't find David—spent the night wandering around the city, both by subway and on foot, until he finally just went home. I told him that was okay, that the plan was off.