acquired enough knowledge in what he’d seen to start a new chapter of his book, and his mind suddenly went to beginnings. He wrote in his head: Red Three wore a look of utter determination and total devotion when she snatched the rebound from the air. I don’t think she could even hear the cheers that rained down on her. Even knowing she was scheduled to die did not distract her.
Yes. He liked that.
He suddenly heard a quiet, cheery voice coming from right beside him.
“Are you absolutely sure we shouldn’t stay for the boys’ game?”
He hesitated as he turned to Mrs. Big Bad Wolf. She, too, had pulled on a well-worn baseball cap with the school’s name on it.
“No, dear,” he replied, smiling. He reached out like a teenager in love for the first time and took his wife’s hand. “I think I’ve seen more than enough for one day.”
49
JOHN KATZENBACH
* * *
Walk out the door. Just turn the handle and walk out the door. You know you can do it.
Sarah Locksley twitched with tension as she stood in the small vestibule of her house. She was dressed in brown leather boots, tight jeans, and a long tan winter overcoat. She had showered and brushed her hair and even applied a small amount of makeup to her cheeks and eyes. She had her large multicolored pocketbook slung over her shoulder and she could feel the bricklike weight of the loaded .357 Magnum pulling it down.
She knew she appeared completely presentable and totally put together and that any stranger walking by would think that she was just another woman in her early thirties on her way out for groceries or on some other errand. Maybe a trip to the mall or to meet with some girlfriends for a ladies’ night out of shared appetizers and calorie-conscious salads followed by some inane romantic comedy at the multiplex.
That Sarah was crippled by despair was effectively hidden. All she had to do was open the door to her house, step outside into the wan afternoon light, make her way to her car, start the engine, put it into gear, and off she would go, just like any normal person with something to do on a weekend evening.
But she knew that she was not a normal person. She shivered as if she were cold. Not normal in the slightest way whatsoever. Not anymore.
Strange, conflicted thoughts crashed into Sarah’s mind: He’s right outside. He will kill me before I have a chance to pull out Ted’s gun. But at least I look nice. If I die in the next minute, at least the EMTs who arrive at my murder and the medical examiner who inspects my dead body will think I’m clean and organized and not like I really am. Why does that make a difference?
She wasn’t sure, but it did.
He’s not out there. Not yet. The Big Bad Wolf didn’t act swiftly. He stalked Little Red Riding Hood.
There was a part of her that wanted to wall herself into her home, build barricades and protect herself, waiting for the Big Bad Wolf to show 50
RED 1–2–3
up and try to blow her house down. Except, Sarah shook her head as she reminded herself, that’s the wrong damn fairy tale. I’m not one of the three little pigs. My house may be made of straw, but that’s the wrong story completely.
Again she hesitated, reaching her hand around the door handle. It was not as if she was scared—a significant part of her welcomed death. It was more the uncertainty of everything. She felt caught up in a vortex, like there was a maelstrom spinning her around, threatening to pull her under dark waves. She could hear her breathing coming in raspy, fast gasps—but she could not feel the shortness of breath. It was almost as if the sounds were coming from someone else.
She shut her eyes. Okay. If this is it, at least it will be fast. Just like Ted and Brittany. They never saw the truck. Just one minute they were alive and laughing and having a fine time, and then they were dead. Maybe it will be like that for me, too. So okay, Big Bad Wolf. Just shoot me right now!
She pulled the door open
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