Tease

By Glenn Fain

Mystery writer Roger McDermitt believes he has finally found love in the mysterious Tess Galloway. Tess is in stark contrast to his other obsession, the local serial killer, a woman he calls "Tease." As Roger sleeps next to Tess, he begins to have violent dreams, becoming convinced he's channeling the dreams of the serial killer. Is Roger really falling in love with Tease, or is he losing his mind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Fain
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781632632616

Glenn Fain

Glenn Fain lives in Seattle with his two cats.

Book preview

Part One:

Unintended Romance

1

Roger sat on a bar stool finishing his first pint of Guinness, gazing into the scenery of liquor bottles stacked three high behind the bar, the collage of colors and shadow always fascinating him. James Taylor’s Fire and Rain played loud on the jukebox, and he smiled to himself, remembering all the times this song had saved him from his incessant brooding. It was still early, only around eight - the college kids wouldn’t start arriving until much later. The bar was nearly empty and Roger could breathe freely. The game hadn’t even begun.

The Blackhawk tavern was his Friday night ritual, to come here, to drink way too much. If he was lucky, and he usually was, he would go home with a woman, or preferably a girl, who meant nothing to him. That was the necessary part, that the girl mean nothing to him. He had just finished (well, two years ago) with a serious relationship and wanted to keep real intimacy as far away as possible. Simple, mindless sex was at the top of the agenda on nights like these.

Hey Frank, Roger called out to the other side of the bar, holding up his empty pint glass. If you can find the time. Frank was on the other side of the bar, flirting with one of his young men who, this time at least, did appear to be on the legal side of twenty-one, which was a great relief.

Roger started coming to this bar when he moved to Iowa City as a visiting professor eight years ago. He taught sporadically at the university ever since. When he met Frank for the first time, most likely on a Friday night like this one, Frank was studying mathematics and philosophy at the university, only working nights on the weekends. When Frank graduated he moved to full-time, telling himself and everyone else it was only temporary, until he figured out what to do with his life.

That was six years ago.

Except for the slow onslaught of alcoholism, bartending suited Frank perfectly. It was a profession that allowed him to dazzle the patrons with his intellect and good cheer. Although Frank had a serious lover at home no one ever saw (male, of course), he seemed to need young men to affirm his attractiveness. That was Roger’s theory. Frank swore he never did anything sexual with any of them, but Roger could never be truly sure, not that he really cared.

Frank lumbered over, smiling his professional I’m-so-fucking-cool smile, picked up Roger’s pint glass, filled it with Guinness, and then set it in front of him. Frank stared at Roger for too long, his smile fading, as if he had a disturbing thought. Although Frank, with his bald head and red face could usually be described accurately as jolly, he now looked disturbed, like a Santa Claus who had just got stuck in the chimney.

What? Roger said, staring right back, feeling more worried and uncomfortable every second, his eyes drifting upwards from Frank’s eyes to his shiny skull, which looked even more red than usual.

Frank said, finally, You know what I’m going to ask.

Oh man. As Roger’s mood sank, the dim lighting in the bar grew even dimmer. Although Roger was obsessed, for months barely thinking of anything else, tonight he had told himself he was going to forget all about it. No more senseless deaths. Not tonight. Tonight he was going to be happy, merry and bright. Light! That kind of temporary, conscious amnesia was ridiculously naïve, he knew. But Roger said anyway, knowing it was stupid, Can’t we forget about this for awhile?

Forget about it! Frank slammed the bar with his fist, causing everyone to stare at him. Frank was always much cooler than this. But now anger was pouring off of him, his usual deep voice high-pitched and loud. "I knew the last one for fuck’s sake! I knew him! Mel. He used to come in here sometimes. He wasn’t a regular, but he was damn close. He’d have a beer or two before going home after work. For all I know, this is where the evil bitch met him. It’s on everyone’s mind, and will be, believe me, until that cunt is caught." After this speech, Frank glared at everyone sitting at the bar, making eye contract and holding it with each and every one for a minimum of two seconds, leaving Roger for last. This gaze he held.

Sorry. Roger sighed loudly and closed his eyes, trying hard not to let the sadness overtake him. It wasn’t the sadness of the murders - not really - but of everything. It’s just that...you know...I’m as obsessed with this as anyone, maybe more so. I’m even thinking of writing my next novel about her. Something more serious this time. But I thought tonight I’d try to forget about it for a few hours. Put it to one side, have some fun. Know what I mean?

Frank, who had begun washing glasses furiously behind the bar, shook his head, but he wasn’t really saying no. He moved back to face Roger, holding a pint glass in each hand, a few drops of water dripping onto the counter. He didn’t seem to notice. Death is your métier, I know. At least one death in every book of yours. Usually five or six. You’re a regular serial killer in them yourself, aren’t you? Frank laughed, then stopped himself midway, as if a bad thought had caught up to him again. Fuck, man. It’s all well and fine to think of her in the abstract, as if she doesn’t really exist, or only exists inside a work of fiction. Then you can look at her as if through a microscope, dissect, analyze, observe her neutrally, and more importantly observe her victims neutrally. But when you know one of her victims, it becomes personal, and whatever fiction of her that existed before is wiped out. Frank put down the pint glass he was still holding in his right hand and darted his hand through the air horizontally as if chopping something. She’s real to me now. And I’m pissed! For all I know, she’s right here right now picking out a new one! To me, that’s as personal as it gets.

Roger nodded and took a sip of his Guinness. I know what you mean, Frank. But for me, she’s still pure fiction. And I hope she stays that way. A voice in the back of Roger’s head said But do I really want her to stay fiction? I want to to write about her, right? At least I think I do. I want to write something real. The more real the better. Something as gruesome and sick as this world we live in....

A young voice pleaded from far away. Come on, Frank. I’m getting bored here.

My fans call, Frank said, before walking away with a wink.

Enjoy your affirmation! Roger hollered to Frank’s fading back. Of your raging masculinity and stunning good looks! Not turning around, Frank replied with a good-natured fuck you, his middle finger raised proudly.

2

The first victim was Michael Thomas, an architect, found by his wife on Tuesday, January 13th, after she came home from her job as a dental assistant. She found him on their bed on his back totally naked with his throat slit, covered in blood. Her next-door neighbor heard the wife’s wild, terrible screams and rushed into the house, to her intense regret becoming an unwilling witness to the scene of the slaughter. Both women, suffering from acute shock, were taken to the nearest hospital in an ambulance.

Forty-eight days later, on Monday, March 2nd, James McEver was found in his home by his research assistant, Adele Johnson, murdered in exactly the same way, his throat slit with apparently the same knife, lying on his back completely naked. Adele Johnson was absolutely mystified at the thought of anyone wanting to kill Mr. McEver. He was the most harmless of men! she said over and over again. Docile even! Who would want to kill him?

There followed Zachary Taylor, a real estate agent, killed on Saturday, April 4th. He was found by another real estate agent in one of the deserted houses he was selling, in the master bedroom, sprawled on the king size bed, another bloody corpse. Unfortunately, he was showing the house to a newly married couple at the time, who reacted to seeing the body by puking up their breakfast in the hallway bathroom. Next was George Jones, a used-car salesman, on Thursday, April 30th. Adam Cartwright, an executive for some financial company, was found dead on Monday, May 25th. The last victim, Melvin Summers, a computer programmer, was found on Wednesday, June 10th, by his wife Ellen. All of the six victims were naked, all lying on their backs, all with their throats slit. There were two common physical characteristic of the victims: they were all males around thirty-five years of age, and they all had light blonde hair.

Although murders in the small college town of Iowa City were virtually nonexistent, the town wasn’t terribly worried after the first murder, because it was only a one-time thing, a freak display of vicious cruelty. People who didn’t know the victims and their families could put it out of their minds. What did it have to do with them? Sure, they cared, slightly, and it shocked and bothered them, but it happened to someone else, and the murder would have been eventually forgotten if it didn’t happen again. After the second murder occurred in exactly the same way, everything was different. By all accounts, the two men had nothing to do with each other. The newspapers had large headlines about a serial killer loose, with the police clueless as to the killer’s identity. Although serial killers are usually men, they had evidence to suggest this was a woman. They had unimaginatively nicknamed her The Black Widow. That’s when people started worrying. Every woman was a natural suspect, every man a potential victim. People were scared.

According to the newspapers, the killer seduced the men, going to their homes with them for sex. Right before the act of penetration, she made one quick stab of a sharp, thin knife to their throats, killing them nearly instantly, penetrating them instead. The medical examiner’s detailed examination of the men’s bodies indicated that no sex actually occurred. Although the newspapers referred to the serial killer as The Black Widow, Roger thought she was worse than that, much worse. The black widow’s mate at least had the pleasure of making love to her first, having a sense of completion and satisfaction as he ejaculated inside her, potentially prolonging the spider species. Here these poor, sorry sods didn’t even get that, their last thoughts one of great, pleasurable anticipation at the thought of sex with a beautiful woman, probably a microsecond of fear at the realization they were with a ruthless murderess, and then death. Roger thought she had to be beautiful and sexy on the outside to make these by all accounts usually faithful men - the married ones - cheat on their wives. Beautiful though she may be, she was definitely evil on the inside - evil and ugly and a psychopath. She fascinated Roger.

Roger dutifully cut out the article about the first death and pasted it in his scrapbook of violent deaths. As a murder mystery writer, all murders interested him, especially the more bizarre kind. After the second death in exactly the same way, Roger took out the clippings he had pasted in his violent death scrap book and put them all in a folder of their own, labeling it Serial Killer: Tease. Roger had named her Tease, preferring that over The Black Widow, because it seemed to be a more accurate nickname than The Black Widow. Although when he named her she wasn’t technically a serial killer yet, he agreed with the newspapers, knew unless she was caught she was going to keep on killing. He also printed out and pasted in everything new he could find from the Internet, That was slim, because the police and the FBI, who were definitely involved, had nothing on the identity of the killer.

3

The Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer played on the jukebox, jagged and twisted, and Roger cursed the joker who chose it. Too appropriate. Too paranoid. He felt an uncomfortable pressure in his bladder and made his way to the bathroom, as he walked looking around the bar to see who he had missed, wondering if there were any men with light blonde hair hanging around. But the bar was so dark he couldn’t really make out the color of anyone’s hair. He pushed open the door of the bathroom, blinded by the one bright bulb in the ceiling making everything glow a painful bright white. He stood there for a few seconds hypnotized, his eyes barely open, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. The large bathroom smelled vaguely of piss and shit and stale beer. He glanced under the one stall, saw he was alone, and felt himself relax. What the hell? Do I think she’s going to jump out of one of the stalls and stab me to death? She wouldn’t be hiding in here anyway. And god knows I don’t fit her profile. This isn’t her MO, killing some strange man in the men’s rest room! But it’s the thought of death, isn’t it, the thought of someone brutally killing, who is out there and active and getting ready to strike again, that can give anyone the jitters.

Roger moved to the urinal closest to one of the stalls, unzipped, took out his flaccid penis and glanced at it, wondering again at all the many troubles this ugly, inoffensive, helpless little organ causes throughout all the world. Behave, he told it. Be reasonable tonight. He pissed into the urinal, the urine flowing free and easy like it always did after a beer or two. Afterwards, he tucked himself in and zipped, ready for more beer. He washed his hands in the dirty sink and looked in the cracked mirror above it, staring at himself, especially his hair. He thanked his genes his hair was a dark brown, nearly black even, rather than that light blonde of all the six victims. Would I stay at home if my hair was that shade of blonde? Or would I go out, but stay away from strange women in general, take up masturbation again on a more frequent basis? A fine, candlelit dinner, a movie on the couch, making love to myself during another viewing of Un Coeur en Hiver? Pathetic! I’d probably take my chances like all the rest. And maybe get my throat slit for my foolishness. Roger unconsciously put his index finger to his throat and pretended to slice it.

As he was about to open the door to leave, he glanced down at the area of his crotch and shook his head. Just then the door suddenly opened, almost hitting Roger on the forehead. He stepped aside, letting a man he hadn’t seen before pass. He looked at him for a second, registering the hair color: light brown. Close enough? Maybe. Probably not though. Age: twenty-two. Too young. Safe? Probably. Roger stepped back into the bar but had to stop because his eyes needed time to adjust to the darkness. Thankfully, Psycho Killer was over, and a Replacements song had taken its place, Bastards of Young. Roger always liked The Replacements, especially when he was drinking with a buzz on. Their energy usually agreed with him. As Roger stood there listening to the song, he felt his mood begin to elevate slightly.

The forms around the room began to take shape: the brown paneled wall, the near-red carpet, a line of bar stools ahead with human forms in them. He walked straight ahead. As he passed the first two stools, the music stopped and Roger heard a sharp clicking noise, like ice hitting glass, but in a rhythmic motion, click-click-click. He felt a weird sense that the noise was calling out to him. He peered far into the back of the bar as best he could, and saw the profile of a woman sitting at one of the small tables in front of the booths that lined the back wall. She held a glass outstretched in both her hands, and moved it around in a circular motion. Although he couldn’t make out her features, she seemed to be hypnotized. As he watched her, an image in his mind registered perfectly, a memory he couldn’t remember having, of a woman in her mid to late twenties with straight dark hair. All the features of her face were clear to him: her slanting nose, her pale cheeks, her opened lips. She was lying on a bed on her side, one hand on the bed, the other on her hip, staring up at him with a contented smile on her soft, relaxed face, glowing slightly as if she were very recently sexually satisfied. The woman in his mind was this stranger in the back of the bar, he somehow knew, and this bothered him - anything unexplainable like this bothered him. Roger preferred to turn it off, but if he was going to be at all true to himself, he’d have to accept it, act upon it, act upon this intuition, this extra sense. When he didn’t, he inevitably regretted it.

Sometimes Roger thought these crazy physicists were right, time really was mixed up in one glass, the past, present and future all poured into one glass and shaken, life’s past, present and future all happening at once but in different realities. Roger in the Blackhawk tonight at this very moment watching this strange woman in the back of the bar was only one reality. In another reality, at this very same moment, Roger is in a bed looking down at her after making love. Time wasn’t linear, was how he thought of it, but circular, with no starting point to it at all. No fixed point. Nothing was fixed or solid in this world. People who believe in reincarnation would say we knew them in a past life, while a theoretical physicist might say we know them now because we know them in the future. Roger thought the world was so whacked, they were probably both right.

He sat back down on his bar stool watching Frank in action as he mixed drinks and poured beers at a now much faster pace. The bar had picked up slowly during the last hour. At nine Frank would have some extra help, but for now he was all alone and needed to concentrate. Roger took a long sip of his beer and called him over anyway, although his glass was still half full.

You see that woman in the back? he asked Frank, who appeared slightly annoyed at the interruption. Roger turned around and looked at her again. Although he could barely see her, she took form in his mind, and he saw she was still holding out her ice-filled empty glass in her hands like an offering, her head turned in his direction, staring directly at him, with a serious expression on her face, as if thinking deeply and intently. A pleasurable, tingling feeling ran through his whole body, down into his skin and under, into his bones. He knew this was most definitely a sign of something important - good or bad, he didn’t know. And didn’t care.

Frank gazed intently in her direction, squinting his eyes. I see her. Never saw her before tonight though. That’s what you wanted to know?

Of course, Roger nodded. You know me too well Frank.

She’s drinking a Stoli and cranberry juice. You want one?

Roger, still staring at her, imagining he was making eye contact, said loudly, hoping she could somehow hear, Yes.

4

Roger set down the Stoli and cranberry glass on the woman’s table and stared at her intently, attempting to gauge her thoughts. Although she was sitting down at her table, her back was erect, and Roger guessed she was tall, almost as tall as he was, and he was 5’11". She stared up at him with a thoughtful expression. He was only mildly surprised that she indeed looked exactly like the image he had of the woman lying on his bed. Her face was small and round, with large, dark eyes jutting out slightly. She wasn’t wearing any makeup except lipstick, which highlighted the red of her lips. She reminded him of pictures of the flappers he liked to look at from the jazz age, Dorothy Parker and heroines from F. Scott Fitzgerald novels. Her face was pale, a contrast to the pitch black of her straight hair which fell down to her shoulders and curled up in a small wave. She wore a necklace around her neck with a tiny silver cross at the end of it that reached right above her breasts. Roger thought of yin and yang when he looked at her, the union of opposites, not only in the contrast of her pale face and dark hair, but of something there he couldn’t see beneath her skin. He felt contradiction and paradox inside her. The union of dualities had always appealed to Roger.

I thought you might want another drink. Roger showed her the drink, a dull red in the dim light, feeling only mildly awkward. So I brought you one. No strings. I promise.

I couldn’t make up my mind. She put down her empty glass on the edge of the table and exchanged it for the new one. She held it in both her hands, lightly caressing the outside of the glass. She looked up at him. I’ve been sitting here for a while now. Trying to make up my mind. Roger thought a woman’s prerogative, but wasn’t that about change? Sit down, please. I’m Tess.

Roger sat down across from her on an uncomfortable chair that felt as if it would collapse any second. He adjusted himself in it awkwardly, not sure where his legs should go. The booths lining the wall to Roger’s left were almost all full of people now. He tried to pretend they weren’t there. I’m Roger, he said. I heard you over here playing with your ice and thought...well, you know. So I decided to be brave.

Tess looked him over carefully. I wouldn’t think being brave is a problem for you.

Roger smiled at her. Thanks. I think. He felt flattered at these words, although he knew they were idiotic and meant absolutely nothing, polite more than anything real. Was she trying to flatter him? But it is. Really. It’s all an act. Roger leaned back trying to appear relaxed, hoping the fragile chair wouldn’t break. For most men, with women, their supposed confidence is nothing more than show. The more confident the man acts, the more insecure he usually is. You scare us. Rejection scares us. It’s natural. Roger shrugged and drank out of his beer, wondering what she thought of him. They both knew these lines were an act, but from the look on her face, she didn’t care. Playing the game, Roger thought. Rules clearly delineated. Lies and/or misrepresentations not only encouraged, but required. Honesty would be way too direct and terrifying.

Are men’s egos so fragile that if a woman they don’t even know rejects them, their world is shattered?

Her directness surprised him. He liked her more and more. And she really did look like a flapper. Just give her one of those funny hats, a black, sleeveless cocktail dress, and a cigarette in a cigarette holder. She would be perfect. Maybe not that extreme. Roger smiled coolly, feeling his palms sweating slightly, hoping his nervousness didn’t show. He knew the more he liked her, the more nervous he would get. But if a beautiful woman like you rejects us, yes, the night just isn’t the same. She was certainly beautiful, in an old-fashioned way, and Roger thought how uncertain the future always is, even if one of the pathways has already been determined, even if one of the future realities is the two of them lying in bed together. With one awkward phrase, with one misplaced word, like calling her beautiful, he could ruin everything. But that kind of uncertainty helped make it more exciting. A certain future is always a dull one.

Don’t I scare you in other ways, too? Tess moved her head closer to his, her voice harder, dropping in volume slightly. Roger had to move closer to catch her words. Don’t I scare you.

Roger stared as if hypnotized at her hand moving slowly towards his face. Roger wanted to flinch, jump back in his seat, get the hell out of there and far away, back to his bar stool, alone and anonymous in a semi-crowd. But he remained frozen, a scared rabbit who couldn’t move, a deer in headlights about to get run over by a truck. Her hand lightly touched his throat, caressing it gently, letting her fingers linger there for a second too long. He imagined a knife was at his throat. In a more immediate, dangerous way?

Jesus, Roger said, taken aback. Don’t do that.

You’re scared! Tess was jubilant. I can see it all over you. Your body’s rigid, your pupils slightly dilated, your hands want to push me away. But you don’t. You still want to pretend to be confident. Tess laughed, finally removing her hand. She stared at him, smiling in a devilish, teasing way, and the bad energy in the air suddenly lifted.

Yes, Roger sighed, finally relaxing and leaning again back in his chair. He watched his hand as it grabbed the pint glass, thinking it was shaking slightly. He took a long sip and put it back down, forcing his hand to be as still as possible. I want to appear confident at all times. It’s man’s frailty, isn’t it, especially with attractive women he has just met. So shoot me. Roger certainly didn’t expect to be challenged like this. Usually he was the one who did the challenging, keeping the woman on her toes, because she never knew what to expect from him. But this woman had turned his entire game around on him in only a few minutes. Although he was disturbed by this, he had to admit to himself it was a pleasant change from his previous Friday nights here, where it was all too safe and easy and, yes, even boring. God, he thought, maybe I can really like this woman. This is not good. Not good at all. But, yes, it is very welcome. Very welcome indeed....

Don’t get angry. Tess’s voice soft again. I was just...curious.

I’m not angry. Roger shook the nervousness out of his head, thinking she did seem proud of her display, but she also felt bad about freaking him out. That was something, at least. Curious about what?

If you were scared talking to a woman you had never met and knew nothing about. Tess stared at Roger, the picture of innocence now.

Oh. Roger shrunk down and leaned back even farther in his seat, letting all the previous adrenaline wash over and out of him. He suddenly felt very tired and old. Her.

Tess nodded. Our serial killer.

Our?

Of course. Tess nodded her head firmly. Our. She’s mine. She’s yours. And from how the bartender glared at me when I ordered my drink, she’s most definitely his too.

Roger watched her sip her drink, which he then imitated, taking a large gulp of his. It helped him calm down even more. He was almost back to normal. I see what you mean. That’s Frank. He’s a good guy, really. I’ve known him for years now, and he is normally much more welcoming to the fairer sex, even though not personally interested.

Not personally interested?

Frank’s gay. Although he has the great bartender quality of making everyone feel special and wanted, he only hits on men.

I get it.

Everyone who comes here is family to Frank. Remember Melvin Summers? The last victim? Tess nodded. He used to come in here after work sometimes. Frank doesn’t feel personally responsible for his death, but he’s sure as hell taking it personally. She could have met him here for all he knows. And if it happens again, well, you can imagine what he’ll feel like! Like if I were murdered for instance. It wouldn’t do good things for him at all.

Nor for you!

Roger laughed. No, definitely not for me either. But, thankfully, I don’t fit the profile. Although I’m the right age, as you can see - Roger bent his head towards her and ruffled his hair, which Tess touched for a split second then drew back just as quickly. I don’t have light blonde hair, so I’m safe. All her victims have had light blonde hair.

Hmmm, Tess mumbled, then took a long sip of her drink, while Roger watched her intently, fascinated and attracted by her concentration as she sipped from the straw. The Beatles’ Norwegian Wood blasted through the speakers. How appropriate, he thought. Roger had a theory that jukebox music was always appropriate, no matter the song, no matter the situation. They were like inkblots, our minds twisting and turning them to fit any situation perfectly. Roger unselfconsciously sang a few lines out loud with the music, caressing the words.

You a Beatles fan? Tess asked.

Not really. Not anymore. Ah, but once in awhile, on a jukebox or the radio, some of those classic songs like Norwegian Wood" or Pennylane or Dear Prudence are perfect, immaculate, only getting better with time. But normally? Mozart is the man for me. He’s who I listen to the most."

They listened silently until the song ended, both fiddling with their drinks but not taking a sip. Roger could see people smoking right outside, but didn’t feel an urge to join them. Not yet. Tess said Ahhh. The divine Mozart, the man the angels blessed? Lucinda Williams’ "Drunken Angel" came on. Roger had an image of Mozart sitting at a desk composing, drinking wine directly out of the bottle, drying his red-soaked lips with the back of his hand.

"People have a misconception of Mozart. Yes, he was a genius, yes he was blessed with great musical gifts, but he worked at it obsessively from the time he was a baby, taught by his father and sister who were both musicians, right from the womb. Hell, he was taught in the womb. He loved music. It was probably the only thing he did love. But the character of him portrayed in Milos Forman’s film is totally ridiculous. He was a bit of a prude, God-fearing, and a political conservative. He was even in the Freemasonry for chrissakes, the old boys club of Vienna. He was just a man with a great gift who loved music. He even said the most important thing next to