18
When they returned from the Plaza to the apartment, Mick Stranahan said to Christina Marks: “Sure you want a killer sleeping on the sectional?”
“Do you snore?”
“I’m serious.”
“Me, too.” From a closet she got a flannel sheet, a blanket, and two pillows. “I’ve got a space heater that works, sometimes,” she said.
“No, this is fine.” Stranahan pulled off his shoes, turned on Letterman and stretched out on the sofa, which he had rearranged to contain his legs. He heard the shower running in the bathroom. After a few minutes Christina came out in a cloud of steam and sat down at the kitchen table. Her cheeks were flushed from the hot water. She wore a short blue robe, and her hair was wet. Stranahan could tell she’d brushed it out.
“We’ll try again first thing in the morning,” he said.
“What?”
“Maggie’s room at the hotel.”
“Oh, right.” She looked distracted.
He sat up and said, “Come sit here.”
“I don’t think so,” Christina said.
Stranahan could tell she had the radar up. He said, “I must’ve scared you on the plane.”
“No, you didn’t.” She wanted to ask about everything, his life; he was trying to make it easier and not doing so well.
“You didn’t scare me,” Christina said again. “If you did, I wouldn’t let you stay.” But he had, and she did. That worried her even more.
Stranahan picked up the remote control and turned off the television. He heard sirens passing on the street outside and wished he were home, asleep on the bay.
When Christina spoke again, she didn’t sound like a seasoned professional interviewer. She said, “Five men?”
Stranahan was glad she’d started with the killings. The marriages would be harder to justify.
“Are we off the record?”
She hesitated, then said yes.
“The men I killed,” he began, “would have killed me first. You’ll just have to take my word.” Deep down, he wasn’t sure about Thomas Henry Thomas, the fried-chicken robber. That one was a toss-up.
“What was it like?” Christina asked.
“Horrible.”
She waited for the details; often men like Stranahan wanted to tell about it. Or needed to.
But all he said was: “Horrible, really. No fun at all.”
She said, “You regret any of them?”
“Nope.”
She had one elbow propped on the table, knuckles pressed to her cheek. The only sound was the hissing of the radiator pipes, warming up. Stranahan peeled off his T-shirt and put it in a neat pile with his other clothes.
“I’ll get a hotel room tomorrow.”
“No, you won’t,” she said. “I’m not frightened.”
“You haven’t heard about my wives.”
She laughed softly. “Five already at your age. You must be going for the record.”
Stranahan lay back, hands locked behind his head. “I fall in love with waitresses. I can’t help it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Don’t be a snob. They were all smarter than I was. Even Chloe.”
Christina said, “If you don’t mind me saying so, she seemed like a very cold woman.”
He groaned at the memory.
“What about the others, what were they like?”
“I loved them all, for a time. Then one day I didn’t.”
Christina said, “Doesn’t sound like love.”
“Boy, are you wrong.” He smiled to himself.
“Mick, you regret any of them?”
“Nope.”
The radiator popped. The warmth of it made Stranahan sleepy, and he yawned.
“What about lovers?” Christina asked—a question sure to jolt him awake. “All waitresses, no exceptions?”
“Oh, I’ve made some exceptions.” He scratched his head and pretended there were so many he had to add them up. “Let’s see, there was a lady probate lawyer. And an architect … make that two architects. Separately, of course. And an engineer for Pratt Whitney up in West Palm. An honest-to-God rocket scientist.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. And they were all dumber than I was.” Stranahan pulled the blanket up to his neck and closed his eyes. “Good night, Christina.”
“Good night, Mick.” She turned off the lights, returned to the kitchen table, and sat in the gray darkness for an hour, watching him sleep.
When Maggie Gonzalez heard the knocking again, she got out of bed and weaved toward the noise. With outstretched arms she staved off menacing walls, doorknobs, and lampshades, but barely. She navigated through a wet gauze, her vision fuzzed by painkillers. When she opened the door, she found herself staring at the breast of a pea-green woolen overcoat. She tilted her throbbing head, one notch at a time, until she found the man’s face.