The Night of the Murder Patrick Vanderpool
THE NIGHT OF THE MURDER
Patrick Vanderpool
As Patrick lay naked in the bed, he gazed at the ceiling fan rotating slowly and wondered why he felt so uneasy.
His fingers lightly touched the scar tissue on his right shoulder.
A perfect circle of raised, gnarled, red tissue.
When Molly had first seen the scar, she’d asked him if it was from a gunshot.
He said it was an old wound, and left it at that.
Strangely, he had told his wife the truth.
Not all of it, but he’d told her it was a burn.
Even though it had happened a long time ago, the memory of it was still hot in his mind. When he was worried, or anxious, he often found himself rubbing the scar to remind himself that he was a survivor.
No matter what.
His heartbeat was just returning to normal.
The young woman who rented this apartment, Molly Green, had taken a robe and left the bedroom.
He wasn’t a man who usually enjoyed looking into his lover’s eyes as they caught their breath, or held them close, or kissed them afterwards or whispered sweet things to them in a post coital glow.
But Molly was different. He wanted to feel her next to him. Listen to her heartbeat. Lace his fingers through hers. Smell her hair as she nestled her head against his shoulder. Taste her lips.
And tell her how he felt.
The fan burred as it churned the hot air in the bedroom.
To Patrick, feelings were always complicated, but on those rare occasions when he enjoyed them, he wanted to cherish every moment. When he slept with Molly, Patrick felt like he was making love. That was strange and wonderful.
His father often told him that emotions were weakness.
He doubted if his father had ever loved anyone – certainly not any of his wives, and perhaps not even Patrick.
When he was a much younger man, he had worried that he would grow up to be just like his father.
Ruthless and brilliant, yes, those were qualities that he wanted to emulate. But not the distance and the coldness.
And the cruelty.
Life meant more to him with warmth. Not just from a body beside him, but sharing a connection with a woman that he cared for.
A woman he loved.
But Patrick felt strange. There was no peace.
No warmth. Molly wasn’t beside him. She never was.
After they made love, she usually left the bed.
He hadn’t fully realized this before, but perhaps as his feelings had grown for her it had become more apparent.
Now, it stood out. Emotions create vulnerability. His father was right about that.
Now, he had a strong sense that something was wrong.
It wasn’t just his wife Vanessa’s general suspicion of Molly. Vanessa was smart and perceptive. He had hidden his feelings about Molly. He had been careful. Of course, he had dismissed Vanessa’s concerns in order to hide the affair.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Perhaps Vanessa had seen something in Molly that he could not.
A clanking sound reverberated throughout the apartment.
A noise familiar to all New Yorkers who rented one in an old building with plumbing that sometimes sounded like a marching band playing out of tune.
It was the groans of the ancient, cold pipes dealing with a sudden flood of hot water roaring through them.
It wasn’t that annoying sound that made him uneasy – he was sure of that.
And it definitely wasn’t the fact that Molly was much younger than him. That didn’t bother him in the slightest.
Cheating on a spouse had never bothered him before either.
He was a rich man, and his father was one of the richest to ever have lived, and with that kind of wealth comes a compromise on morals.
His father had cheated on every single wife he’d ever had.
When Patrick was a kid, this seemed appalling to him, but now, as an adult, he had inherited much of his old man’s ethical flexibility.
At thirty-five years old, and already on his second marriage, Patrick was zero for two on the faithful husband meter.
For his father, it was sex and the thrill of the hunt.
His father was considering tying the knot for a seventh time.
If he did manage to marry again, even in his advanced age, there was little hope that it would be his last. In fact, it would certainly trigger his father’s interest in another woman almost instantly. It wasn’t love so much as conquest.
Patrick was different. He understood two things.
He was falling in love with Molly.
And he loved his wife.
Perhaps less so now. But he wouldn’t have married her if he didn’t have that connection.
It had only been two years. Not even enough time for a callus to develop on the palm beneath the wedding band he wore.
Yet, there was love. It wasn’t as hot or as vibrant as he felt toward Molly, but he couldn’t discount it.
He still loved Vanessa, and now he also loved Molly.
Those two things could be true at once.
Still, he felt something wasn’t right. Part of his reptilian brain was calling to him.
Trying to warn him. It reminded him of those magic-eye pictures he sometimes saw on Facebook.
An ordinary glance shows a perfectly normal landscape scene, but if you look closely, or narrow your eyes, or hold the phone at just the right distance, there’s something else in the picture that was previously hidden.
Usually, something sinister.
He sat up, put on his underwear and pants, then his shirt, socks and shoes.
And then it hit him.
Molly. The plumbing.
After they made love, Molly got up right away and went to shower. He racked his brains for an occasion when this hadn’t occurred. He couldn’t think of one. She always showered afterwards.
Always.
She knew he was married. She had met his wife, Vanessa, many times.
Molly even worked from his marital home on occasion, when he was planning media strategy for his electoral campaign.
Perhaps it was merely a physical manifestation of guilt – Molly had to go and wash away her sin after she had slept with a married man, but when she returned from the shower she was always just as affectionate.
There were no other signs of guilt, such as asking him to leave right away, or not being able to meet his eyes.
Something else was off with Molly.
He stared at the window. The drapes were drawn closed.
Below them, Molly’s shoes were arranged in a neat row.
Two pairs of sneakers, some pumps, some heels of differing heights and a pair of leather Chelsea boots.
Something for all weather and most occasions.
He opened her wardrobe to reveal her work clothes, mostly blouses and black pants, a few skirts, assorted sweaters and jeans, some sweatpants and leggings.
Her nightstand just had a radio clock on top, and in the single drawer were her contraceptive pills and a bottle of Tylenol. Her phone charger and laptop charger hung from the wall plugs.
There was no personality in this bedroom. No knick-knacks. No photographs. Nothing personal to her life.
He got dressed, listening to the ceiling fan. The constant beat sounded like a clock. A countdown to something.
In the kitchen, he continued to open drawers. Nothing unusual.
Geoff, his campaign manager, probably hired her because she could read and spell, and Geoff wanted to sleep with her.
Maybe he should have had her vetted. Patrick wasn’t that interested in politics, really.
His father had hired Geoff, and funneled money and donors to him, but Patrick knew none of it was really for his benefit.
It was all for his father’s vision of his son.
In the living space, there was a TV and a couch, and a bookshelf filled with paperbacks, their spines hidden so that only a shelf full of yellow and white paper edges faced into the room.
What a stupid filing system, thought Patrick.
How could you know what books you had, what you wanted to read or even find a book that you knew you already owned?
It was for decoration’s sake, and nothing else.
He began to pull the books off the shelf, one by one, checking their covers.
He stopped.
The noise from the plumbing was beginning its death spiral. The water had been shut off. He could hear the drip from the shower head leaking into the tub.
He looked at the book in his hand.
It wasn’t a novel.
It was a journal.
As he opened the journal, he noticed a gym bag tucked behind the bookcase. It was black with a white Nike swoosh on the side.
He began to read the first entry, his heartbeat rising in time with every line he read.
The pages of the journal creased as he gripped it tighter and tighter.
His chest rose and fell.
His heart rate echoed the speed of the bedroom fan, beating quicker and quicker.
His vision blurred and a teardrop spattered the page.
He had only read the first two pages. He knew then he couldn’t read any more.
Too painful.
Patrick moaned softly and wiped his eyes.
Vanessa was right.
The click of the lock on the bathroom door snicked open.
Patrick quickly closed and folded the journal, tucked it into the back of his pants, then rolled his shirt down over it.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Molly.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t want to risk fumbling for a clumsy lie.
‘Is everything alright?’ asked Molly.
She stood in front of him, just a few feet away, toweling her soaking wet hair. Her robe cinched tight at her belly, droplets of water running down her shins and over her toes and into the carpet. A pool rapidly developing around her feet.
‘Everything is just fine,’ said Patrick, his lips drawing into that practiced, winning smile that few women could resist.
He hid the lie behind his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t hear the crackle of pain in his voice.
He gazed at her wily, crooked mouth, her bright thick lips, white teeth, the dimple on her chin when she smiled at him, and her brown eyes, flecked with tiny golden sparkles.
Her dark, wet hair dripped onto her shoulders, rivulets of water running down her neck, collecting in the well of her throat, and then tumbling over her chest and down to the floor.
She looked so good. So innocent.
But it was only a look. It was only what she wanted Patrick to see.
Now her lips, her eyes, her beauty, her soft words – it was all a lie.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked.
Patrick said nothing. He merely nodded.
He was definitely not okay.
His tongue was hard against the back of his clenched teeth. He suddenly realized his whole body was as tense as a compressed spring, his breath trapped in his chest, fists clenched. An electric heat spread over him, from his belly up over his neck and down across his back.
In a curious moment, Patrick was suddenly very aware of how he must look. His control was slipping. He had seen the same look on the face of his father, Julian, many times. Usually right before Patrick was beaten, or that one occasion . . .
When his father had slowly put out his cigar on Patrick’s shoulder. The smell, the pain, and the look of satisfaction in his father’s eyes had never left him.
The memory of that scar still burned him, even today. The same scar Molly thought had been a gunshot.
Molly’s gaze never left his as she took a step back, as if she had suddenly found herself face to face with a growling guard dog.
He could see the alarm in her beautiful brown eyes.
She moved slowly, carefully. Maybe it was instinct, but her hands reached out in front of her as if to placate him.
Her chest began to swell and quickly deflate as her breath quickened.
A metallic taste flooded his mouth. His vision seemed to zoom in on Molly, everything else around him blurred.
Something deep and dark inside Patrick had snapped.
Patrick’s life was all about control. That’s what money bought, ultimately. The ability to determine his life in any way that he chose.
He took a step toward her.
In that moment, he knew he no longer had control.
No control over Molly.
No control over his life.
No control of his broken heart.
No control of himself.
Emotions are weakness. And they had overwhelmed him.
Now, there was only pain and anger.
The perfect mix for murder.