… With Envy

1.

One drop.

Two.

He tipped the vial back on the third.

"Done."

He stood by the lake edge, smiled, got in his Ford Fairlane, and flipped on the radio.

He laughed when it began to blast "Who's Sorry Now?"

2.

Sarah leaned over the bathroom sink and began to heave.

"Jesus," Frank stood at the door.

She barely straightened herself when another wave struck.

This time Frank came over and put his hand on her back, stroking it gently while Sarah wretched. After five minutes there was nothing left, but she couldn't stop. She tried to stand again. She made eye contact with him in the mirror.

Then fell to the floor too quickly for Frank to catch her.

Face up.

Her eyes oozing.

Green.

3.

He tore down Route 78.

The song ended just as he entered town.

At the local General Store he got a sandwich and a Coke—"Bologna and Caffeine," adding with a flourish: "Faster than Silver, Hi-yo, away!" The clerk (a local high school girl, he imagined) laughed—and he drove on.

Too bad. She was cute. But he smiled all the same.

There was a nearby lake he wanted to reach before supper.

4.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"I don't know." She showed her Mom her hand.

A slight green tinge had begun to creep up the fingers towards her wrist.

"When did this start?"

Both had panic in their eyes.

"This afternoon at the store. I was working the register. A little after 4, this started."

Her right hand.

The hand she'd taken the dollar with.

From the guy who looked like a magazine model.

The guy wearing gloves in September.

And, yeah, that's right—the guy with the green eyes.

5.

That's what all the gals—and quite a few guys—liked about Kevin, those eyes of his. Then you matched it with his pitch black hair and squared off face, and you had a genuine silver screen idol in front of you. A regular Rock Hudson type.

"Damn, you're terrific." The kid—19, maybe, which made Kevin smile—started pulling off his clothes.

Kevin was already naked on the motel bed. Pointing to himself, he said almost gleefully: "There's only one Johnny Rocco," imitating Edward G. Robinson's voice from Key Largo.

The kid he'd picked up along the highway laughed nervously, but Kevin doubted if he got the reference—kids didn't watch old films on TV, assuming they even had one. Upstate New York in '58 ain't Manhattan in '58.

"What's your name?"

"Steve."

Kevin patted the bed, "Welcome aboard, Steverino."

There was something about Kevin's look at that second that made him shiver, but it didn't stop him from diving next to Kevin.

You know how frisky 19-year-olds can get.

6.

They found the body along the road near the lake.

Yes, it was murder. No doubt about that. He'd been strangled.

The kid was wearing only his black chinos.

After the initial round of forensic photos was shot, one of the cops had the decency to cover him with a blanket. There are limits, proprieties.

But the fact that he was bare-chested, probably a teenager (the wallet was missing so no one could tell for sure), dumped along the side of the road with jumper cables around his neck wasn't what jarred the cops.

That might've been the killer's M.O.

No, what got them were his eyes.

They oozed green—the color of radiator coolant.

7.

By Tuesday, the lake and the mysterious deaths were in the local papers. By Wednesday, some television stations were covering the story. By the end of the week, everyone along the East Coast was talking about it.

The shorelines of small lakes littered with dead fish.

And people in nearby towns showing up in emergency rooms, many dying. Tearing or "bleeding" green eyes were the trademark.

It was "the enemy," absolutely, and the President—who felt obliged to say something for his Northeast constituency in his weekly radio address—tried to assure everyone that the government was on top of it.

Everyone thought: Yes, it was the F.B.I. versus the Commies—because that's who was doing this, right? The Commies. The Sputnik crowd. Who else could it be?

8.

"We're clueless."

"We can't say that to the public."

"Of course not, but it's the truth. Now it's a matter of picking the lie that'll work best."

Simon leaned back in his chair.

"What's wrong?" Jack walked over.

Simon looked out the window. Washington rush hour was always a circus. "I don't know, Jack. I just don't know." He turned to his friend. Twenty years in the Bureau together. They'd been through a lot. "I guess I can't figure out what's the real horror here. What this guy's doing—or that we can actually talk about lying to the public like it was nothing at all."

"We do it all the time."

"That's my point."

9.

Ronald watched the reports on his new Philco TV—even with rabbit ears, the reception stank. But he saw and heard enough through the snow and static, and the feeling swept over him again.

"Idiot," he said aloud as if the anchor could actually respond.

He got up and slammed through the back screen door into his overgrown yard.

Dandelions bloomed everywhere.

He looked up through the trees towards the bright sky. Cumulus flotillas swept by in the stiff northwest wind.

Ronald loved this kind of weather—the first vestige of September cool after enduring summer.

Watching the clouds rake through the tree crowns, he had the idea.

It wasn't formed at once. Just a glimmer of thought that began to vine its way across his mind, like ivy digging into the cement between bricks.

10.

Simon watched Jack get the award. All the hurly-burly about the Green Monster Killer—some local station in upstate New York came up with the name; it stuck—had kept the ceremony out of the spotlight, but people showed up. About 50. They applauded.

Even Simon did. After all they'd been partners for two decades. Why shouldn't he applaud his best friend? Why wouldn't he?

Then why was he feeling such rage at that moment? The kind that could rip a head off.

11.

Ronald studied the maps. He saw the pattern.

Very clever.

Everything in threes.

Addresses with threes.

Names with three in them.

So if he was right, the next hit would be soon.

And fairly close.

"Don't have to travel far. Saves me gas now that it's hit 20 cents a gallon."

12.

Ronald looked at the map again—and laughed.

"Of course. State Route 33. Makes sense."

He looked at the towns along the highway.

Then he remembered.

He went to the bookcase, pulling out some old brochures from his last vacation. He found it. A little pamphlet with restaurant listings.

There. North Chili. Three Brother's Restaurant. Fine Italian Cuisine.

He got in his Fairlane and headed West along the highway.

13.

It had to be the place. The pattern was everywhere.

Ronald waited in the parking lot of the restaurant.

His last attack had been three days before about 30 miles away from this spot according to his trusty Esso road map.

It just made sense.

But what if he goes south or back east? One voice said.

That's not the pattern.

Maybe he'll break the pattern once in a while just to throw smart-alecks like you off his scent.

No. He's weaving his way back and forth across the Northeast in fairly straight lines.

But this is still a guess, isn't it? Educated, but still a guess.

Ronald just hated when his inner critic tried to mess with his head.

14.

Which is why Simon didn't say anything about his idea to Jack after the ceremony was over.

They were back in their office. Someone had left a plant on his desk with a little sign sticking out: CONGRATULATIONS!

Simon stared at the leaves shifting slightly in the currents from the oscillating wall fan.

"Glad you could be there." Jack smiled.

"Me, too." Simon forced sincerity.

He was even more glad when Jack's phone rang.

Why should I tell him about this? He watched Jack speak animatedly—his wife? Another agent? Who the hell cares?

That burst of anger again.

15.

"WZNT has obtained this drawing from local police. It was created from a survivor, a 16 year-old clerk. . ."

The camera zoomed in for a close-up.

"Police artists came up with this image after a conversation with the distraught young lady."

Impressive, Kevin thought. They even got the mustache right.

He looked closer at the screen in his motel room.

Shame they miss the green eyes in black in white. My best feature.

He laughed.

16.

"So that's what you look like, huh?" Ronald stared at the photo in the Batavia Herald.

Makes the search easier, he thought.

17.

"At least this'll help."

Simon packed the manila envelope containing a copy of the police sketch in his overnight bag.

Of course, his wife knew better than to ask. That's part of the deal," she'd say. Married to an agent, she'd joke in her Texan drawl, is being married to a fly buzzin' round a room. Ya never know when it'll come, where it'll land, when it'll leave.

All the same, Sarah would stand by the bedroom door and watch him pack, everything neatly folded, meticulously organized. The Army was good for something after all, and she'd turn away, go to the kitchen, pour some coffee.

At least he always gave her the courtesy of a goodbye if she were up and about. "See you," he'd say,

"See ya, babe," she'd reply and look up from her cup, thinking: Will this be the last time?

But it was still better than when she came home to an empty house and he didn't show up for days at a time. Today, she got the goodbye. She got to see him walk out the door. Somehow it made things less terrifying.

18.

Kevin pulled in.

"Jesus, a dirt parking lot. Times are tough." He thought his chortle was becoming a trade mark—even if he was the only one to hear it.

There were only a few cars in the lot.

Small job this time. He pulled the vial out of his pocket, checked the stopper—Good to go—and shoved it back it.

There was no movement in the lot. Everyone must have been inside.

Good.

He opened the door, began to step out, and felt the blow dart hit his neck.

He remembered saying "Crap" under his breath before he hit the ground.

19.

Simon bolted upright.

What the hell?

Green Monster started to get out of his car—then slid down to the ground in a fluid movement, a deflating balloon.

Then someone—male, 6 feet, slender, Army jacket, jeans, 30-something, rusty hair, crew cut, clean shaven—emerged from the trees next to the lot and moved quickly towards the car.

Every instinct told Simon to act immediately.

But he wanted to see what would happen.

Curiosity killed the cat, he quipped, knowing full-well the dangerous turn he'd just taken.

The rage was gone.

Just satisfaction, like a tingle in the groin.

20.

Jack walked out of the Supervisor's office.

Personal time? That's a first.

What actually hurt was Simon's silence about the matter. If there'd been a problem, he should have said something.

Was there an obligation?

Technically, no.

So why was Jack hurt?

Because twenty years must mean something, right?

21.

Ronald quickly lifted Kevin's slouched body back in the car, making sure no one else saw him.

The other cars in the lot seemed empty and no one sat in the window seats inside. Good. This is easier than I thought.

(Simon was crouched low in his Bel Air. Getting slipshod, mister.)

He reached over Kevin and unlocked the door.

Again checking, he went around and settled into the passenger's seat, thinking things over, keeping his eyes on Kevin. Handsome son of a bitch.

He looked around one last time. With some difficulty—wanting to make sure neither of them accidentally knocked into the car's horn—he shimmied Kevin's body across the bench seat over to the passenger's side while Ronald maneuvered over Kevin and assumed the driver's position.

Didn't I see this in the movies? Didn't I laugh?

So he did.

And drove off.

He passed his own car down the road, parked in a vacant lot. I'll get it tomorrow.

Now he more important things to do.

22.

The needle penetrated Kevin's arm. He winced.

"There, there. You'll relax now."

Ronald had tied him to a chair in his basement and wrapped the putty-green Duck Tape around his head and mouth several times.

Kevin made no sound, no attempt to scream, nothing. Not even a squirm in the chair. He tried to look at Ronald, but it was getting more and more difficult to focus.

"It's like you expected this, didn't you?" He stuck his head close to Kevin's, examining the eyes. The pupils were dilating. The morphine was taking hold—a little something he'd slipped out of the hospital on his last shift there.

"What's in those eyes, I wonder? You're not scared, but you're not angry either. I can't read you."

That's when Kevin let out his muffled chortle.

"Oh, so that's it? You like it that I don't know exactly what you're thinking. But you just gave it away, didn't you? You think it's funny. You laughed. That tells me something about. . ." he moved back and slapped him hard enough to send the chair tipping to the damp cement floor ". . . your attitude."

23.

He'd parked along the highway and moved cautiously towards the house.

What was that?

Something falling?

Where? The basement?

Simon snuck around the back of the house—a well-kept ranch with freshly painted clapboard and shuttered windows—surrounded on all sides with various kinds of shrubbery. The property was at the end of a long driveway that led to one of those country roads a person might see on a calendar. Beautiful and serene in its remoteness. Part of the profile, huh? Fastidious. Simon thought as a he crouched low behind an enormous azalea.

24.

"Oh, you don't like that, huh?" He kicked Kevin squarely in the gut. "Well neither do I."

Another kick.

"You get all the attention, don't you?"

Kick face.

"You get to be famous."

Kick gut.

"You get away with it."

Kick face. Kick legs.

"Until someone like me figures out the secret."

He kneels down. Blood drips from Kevin's face.

"And if I've figured it out, asshole, someone else will, too."

He ripped the tape from Kevin's head, who let out a scream.

"Does that hurt?"

Slap.

He righted the chair. Kevin's lithe body was nearly dead weight.

He was able to mutter: "What do you want?"

"To play your game." Ronald smiled.

Kevin registered surprise in his bloodied eyes.

"You heard me."

Ronald moved in closer and sat on Kevin's lap, facing him, resting his chin on Kevin's head, embracing him as a parent might a child. He could feel warm breath against his chest.

"I'm taking over your operation, starting today."

He pulled away slightly, grabbing Kevin's hair and pulling back his head.

"Look at me."

It was hard for Kevin to focus.

He screeched: "I said look at me."

Kevin used all his strength to spit at Ronald. All that happened was drool down his chin.

That was the tipping point.

"Show me respect, fucker."

With little more effort than breaking a twig, he snapped Kevin's neck.

Suddenly there was utter silence in the basement, the air damp and still.

"Well, that was easy enough."

"Perhaps too easy?" Simon said.

Ronald jumped off Kevin's lap, the chair flipped over, the dead man's skull cracking on the floor.

"What the hell."

Simon emerged from the corner shadows.

"Who the fuck are you?" Ronald straightened himself and moved back towards the stairs.

"Someone one who understands."

". . . and how the hell did you get in?"

"Twenty years of training."

"How long . . ."

"Long enough."

"What do you want?"

"Aren't we jumping the gun here? Shouldn't we be talking about what you've just done here?"

Simon moved over towards the body, still tied to the chair, an aura of blood expanding around the head.

Ronald didn't move.

Simon lifted his service revolver and aimed at Ronald's chest.

"So what's up? Why kill the guy?"

"Who are you?" He was aware of his own gun pressing into his spine. Could he move quickly enough?

"Special agent Simon Luca."

"Agent?"

"F.B.I."

He fired before Ronald had a chance to draw.

Ronald slumped to the floor, gasping.

Simon stood over him. "Just wanted you to know who brought you down, that's all."

Ronald's eyes rolled back in his head; he exhaled deeply.

Then the silence settled in again.

Simon looked at the two bodies, barely a meter apart. "Busy day. Busy day," he muttered.

25.

He wrapped the bodies in drop cloths—he'd found a stack in Kevin's garage by a few buckets of paint—loaded them into his trunk after dark, and drove down the road to a deep place in the woods.

Burying them—about twenty feet apart—was fairly easy and with autumn at full tilt, leaves and twigs would cover his tracks and the weight of winter snow would complete the job.

As he stood over Kevin's grave, Simon reached into his trench coat pocket and pulled out the two wallets. After studying them—as he had several times since the afternoon—he stuffed them back in his pocket.

"Rest in peace Kevin and Ronald."

Now what?

That was the pressing question, wasn't it?

Where do I go from here? What adventure do I take now that I've decided?

He stood there in the woods for a long time, musing on the choice he'd made, any rage long since replaced with satisfaction—the satisfaction of one who wins.

26.

"Were you planning on telling me?"

"When I got back."

"You've never done that."

"Am I detecting bruised feelings?"

"We've been together twenty years, Simon. . ."

". . . which means I owe you an explanation of everything I do?"

Jack was genuinely shocked by the tone. "What's wrong, Simon? You've never talked like that to me before. Have I done something . . ."

Simon looked at Jack for a moment and then seemed to soften. "Sorry, Jack. It was something really personal."

"Your health? Sarah?"

"Sarah," he lied, more annoyed than anything else, hoping he was convincing.

"Is everything OK?"

"Better." He moved closer—the intimacy of old friends. "I'm really sorry."

"So am I."

Simon wasn't sure how Jack meant that, but he let it ride.

They shook hands.

"See you tomorrow night?"

"Sure," Simon said, watching Jack close the door behind him.

Done.

He walked over to the window and broke into a subdued laugh. "Well, well, well."

Now it's time to do this thing right.

27.

"So you've figured out the formula?"

"It took some doing, but we got it. It's ingenious actually." Phil had schoolboy satisfaction spread from ear to ear.

"And obviously effective." Simon looked at the molecular model on Phil's chalkboard.

"Very."

28.

It was fairly easy to get into Phil's office—hopefully even easier to exit without a trace.

The formula was still on the chalkboard.

That's slipshod, he thought. Why doesn't he just post it in the hallway?

But that's our arrogance, right? We assume no one would ever penetrate our castle, shivering for a moment at the thought that he, too, might become careless.

He quickly wrote down what he needed and— after checking—re-entered the corridor.

No one will know, he re-assured himself.

29.

Phil stood there, wondering.

Had he really forgotten to turn the lights out when he left?

Probably the cleaning crew.

Or was it?

Jack followed him in. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing. Thought I'd turned out the lights last night."

"Probably the cleaning crew."

"That's what I was thinking." He went to his desk. "Anyway, here's the new budget report."

"Thanks."

"Enjoy."

He rolled his eyes: "Yeah, can't wait."

He could see Phil remained puzzled by the lights, so he said: "If you need me just shout."

"Sure," Phil sat down, still distracted.

And Jack left, making a mental note to himself.

30.

He handed over a dollar bill.

"Cold outside?"

"A little."

Frankie thought it odd someone would be wearing gloves in October. December maybe, but not October. O well, takes all kinds.

He handed back the change—85 cents—and the take-out coffee.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Have a good one."

"You, too." With a smile.

31.

The countertop radio was on softly: "Well, after nearly a month, the so-called Green Monster seems to be back. . . ."

Sarah shook her head and continued to chop carrots for the dinner salad.

Simon walked into the kitchen and pecked her on the cheek. "Can I help?"

"Do you mind slicing and dicing?"

"Not at all." With a smile.

32.

Jack walked into the kitchen.

Meatloaf. Again. O well.

"Your favorite, honey."

"Absolutely," he lied. "That's why I love you," and kissed Marion squarely on the lips.

Better than meatloaf.

Over her shoulder he saw into the den: George Tyler on WRGB.

He only heard the last sentence: "So after a month off, the Green Monster appears to be up to his old tricks . . ."

He let go of Marion.

"Something up?"

"Nothing, babe. Nothing. Let me go wash up."

"We'll eat in five minutes. OK?"

"Great."

He walked into the den, but plastic-haired George was on, talking about the upcoming gubernatorial elections again—Did Harriman have enough punch to win over the favorite, Nelson Rockefeller?

Jack thought: I wonder what's really going on with Simon?

33.

Watching her squirm with fear was more of a turn-on than he ever imagined.

More fun.

More of a thrill.

More.

He drove the hypo into her arm again and pushed so hard that the entire glass syringe broke through.

She screamed.

No one would hear her.

Not out here in the woods.

That was the real excitement, right? The power of it. The authority he felt, the absolute control. He didn't have to gag her, didn't even have to tie her up. The tranquilizer had taken care of that.

A minute later, she was out, the green trickling out of her eyes.

Finally.

Some recognition.

Thinking of how he should display the body, how it would look tomorrow in the papers.

34.

He rolled up his overalls and gloves, placed them in a pile, tossed on the lighter fluid he kept in his glove compartment, lit the match, and watched them burn.

The sound of the brook was soothing, but he had to get back home.

He and Sarah were playing bridge tonight.

35.

When Jack emerged from the bathroom, she quipped: "Best thing he's held in his hand all night."

Sarah feigned shock: "Marion!"

"Just kidding." But added, "Sort of."

Jack sat back down. "OK, OK, I admit it. I goofed there a couple of times."

"A couple?" Simon guffawed.

"OK, more than a couple."

"But we still love you," Sarah said and blew a kiss.

Marion and Jack looked at each other and said together—"Sort of"—and leaned in to kiss each other with an exaggerated "Mwaah."

Simon dealt the next round.

"Besides," Jack said, picking up his cards, "you're just jealous."

"Of what?" Sarah asked.

"Of my promotion."

"What?" Marion said, "When."

"I just found out this afternoon."

"God, on top of the award last month."

"Damn, I'm good."

The two women laughed.

But I'm better, Simon thought, and arranged his cards carefully in his hand.

Then he laughed, too.

Back to: Vol 1, Issue 2