John Philpin - Tunnel of Night

HER HAIR WAS LIGHTER THAN I REMEMBERED , and looked as if she hadnt combed it.

I watched, absorbed every detail, as she came through the kitchen door, walked to the table, put on her glasses to read the morning paper. She was heavy, dressed in baggy black Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt. The once regal lines of her profile and her slender neck were gone, buried beneath puffy flesh.

Hello, I said.

The coffee cup clattered to the floor as her head spun around. Her mouth opened, and she made a noiseperhaps she said my name.

She turned in her chair and stared at me as I stepped between her and the kitchen door. Then she stood, leaned against the table, and forced it backward.

Oh, my God. Why did you come here? What do you want?

Her body shook. Her eyes were wide, filled with terror.

All those years, I began, thinking for a moment that I might answer her, that I might tell her what I had become and why.

You betrayed me, I said, slipping my hands behind my back and removing the knife from my pocket.

She gripped the shaky table. No, she said, but it sounded more like a question.

She never had time to lift her arms. As I stepped toward her, her head snapped up and her throat accommodated my blade.

For the first time in our lives, she was totally compliant.

She never made a sound.

I OPENED THE REFRIGERATOR. THE LIGHT DIDNT work, so I jiggled it and tightened the bulb in its socket. It went on. People dont take care of things, not even the simplest adjustments requiring the least amount of effort.

I found some lettuce, cold cuts, a jar of mustard, and a loaf of whole wheat bread. Then I opened the cupboard above the sink to get a glass and a plate. I noticed the impressionistic figurine of a bird, and remembered the beautiful young woman I had sent it to so many years agothe woman who now rested on the kitchen floor. I placed the figurine on the table, a centerpiece.

The sunlight from the window refracted as it passed through the glass bird, cascading bands of primary color across the table. I sat with the chair facing the window so that I didnt block the light, and so that I could enjoy my own private display of all the colors of the sun.

Mine was a private celebration. I was completing old projects, and beginning new ones. No one who had touched my life was safe.

I grabbed my knifea heavy, folding Buck with a single four-inch blade. It was sticky with blood, so I wiped it with a paper towel. I sliced the bread, then placed the knife on the table to my right. In many ways the preparation of a meal is more important than the eating of it.

I glanced to my left. If it were not for the blood, she would have looked as if she were sleeping.

I took a bite from my sandwich, then pushed the food away and moved the short distance to her side. This complete possession, this ownership of another, carried with it certain responsibilities. With both hands, as if I were cradling something fragile, I adjusted one of her arms so that it was parallel to her side, like the other one.

Symmetry.

THOMAS WOLFE WAS WRONG .

You can always find your way back homeso long as you know how much garlic to put in the marinara. That is the secret. Garlic. And, of course, the olive oil Filippo Berio extra virgin. But even when you get the recipe right, people want to give you directions. They want to barge into your home and take over your kitchen. Miscreants. Philistines.

If Thomas Wolfe had studied marinara, if he had labored over a hot stove more than he did over a typewriter, he would have changed the title of his book and probably his life. For one thing, he would have gotten drunk more often. Oh, yes, one cup of ale for the pot, and one for the maw. You seldom have trouble finding your way home because you hardly ever leave.

I was getting buzzed. A morning on the lake in the warm sun trying to outwit an elusive bass, followed by a stint in the kitchen starting the sauce (it has to simmer all afternoon), and I was ready for the shower. Life is grand.

I was expecting companya rare visit from my daughter, Lane, a detective with the New York City Police Department. She had sent a fax four days earlier. Lane was concerned that she hadnt heard from me, and sounded as if she were having a crisis of conscience. Her note said, in part:

We wrapped up the Wolf case nearly a year ago, but Im still not able to put it behind me. I need to talk to you about that day in Vermont. Ive told the sanitized version of the story a dozen times, but you and I have never sorted out what really happened. Sometimes I think it was murder. Other times Im sure that it was justice. I just need to know why you did what you did.

I answered the fax, assured my daughter that I was fine, and told her that I would love to see her.

Intuition had been nudging Lane with the truth that I had murdered the killer, John Wolf. It didnt seem that long ago, but my daughter was right. It was nearly a year ago. Lane had been the lead investigator in her partners ex-wifes murder. What began as a straightforward homicide case became a hunt for a serial killer. I had provided armchair advice to Lane and her lieutenant until it was clear that Wolfs next intended victim was my daughter. So I went after the bastard, tracked him to his lair in Vermont, and used his own bomb to blow him to pieces. Enormously rewarding justice, that.

The six-week bout with demons in the night that erupted when I returned home had nothing to do with my having dispatched a predator to the netherworld. The problem had been that even though he was dead, Wolf continued to live inside my head. In order to track him, to anticipate his moves, I had to invite him into my mind, to learn to see the world as he saw it, to think as he thought. When it was over, the task of evicting Wolf from my dreams took more time than bringing down the beast.

Killing him had caused me no confusion. I had not hesitated, and I had not lost a wink of sleep over it. But it was different for my daughter.

When she was young, Lane was always sticking bars of flowery-smelling soap in the shower. She would dump my Ivory in the wastebasket, and I would have to haul ass out of the shower, dripping wet, to retrieve it.