Watch Them Die (2 page)

One

Hannah glanced at the videocassette in the plain plastic box. There wasn’t much tape on the spools, certainly no more than a half hour’s worth of viewing. The mystery video had been sitting in the “Return Tape Limbo” drawer behind the counter at Emerald City Video for over two weeks now. In that bottom drawer they stashed defective tapes and DVDs, lost-and-found items, and cassettes dropped off at the store by mistake.

Hannah Doyle had been working at Emerald City Video for eighteen months. In her opinion, every hour at the place had taken its toll on her appearance. Hannah thought she looked pale and tired most of the time. But the customers who saw the pretty, blond clerk with the trim figure wouldn’t have agreed with her. Though she was thirty-two years old with a toddler son at home, Hannah’s youthful looks had many people assuming she was fresh out of college. A prominent scar on her chin lent some character to her lovely face. People in the store had asked, but Hannah didn’t talk about how she got the scar.

Crouched behind the counter, she stared at the mystery cassette. She was always curious about these “wrong return” videos. Customers often asked if she’d ever found any homemade sex tapes among those mistaken returns. Hannah hadn’t. After a couple of weeks, she’d always take them home and review the tapes before throwing them out or recycling them.

If the store employees wanted to see sex tapes, they had over two thousand adult titles to choose from.

Emerald City Video was a neighborhood video store, and the neighborhood was one of Seattle’s most eclectic. Street urchins who looked as if they’d wandered in to shoplift might be renting an Audrey Hepburn movie on their parents’ account. An old lady might be patiently standing in line with
Upstairs, Downstairs
clutched in her liver-spotted hands, while the man in front of her checked out four adult videos.

The shop was ideally located across the street from a mini-mall that housed an Old Navy, Starbucks, and a dozen smaller stores. Emerald City Video’s storefront was all windows, allowing Hannah and her coworkers a good look at the bustling street scene. People-watching helped pass the time when business was slow. The employees didn’t have to wear uniforms either, and for that, Hannah was grateful.

There were stories painting Emerald City Video’s back room as a hot spot of furtive gay sexual activity. But Hannah had never noticed any funny business in the small alcove where they kept the adult titles. The only real trouble she’d encountered in the adult section was a few months back. A nicely dressed, pale man of forty had ducked into the alcove one afternoon, then spent two hours browsing. He finally emerged from the back room and stomped up to the counter, glaring at Hannah. “I was getting sick to my stomach back there, looking at all that filth,” he hissed.

Hannah fought the urge to roll her eyes at him. She managed to smile. “Well, all you need to start a membership here is a photo ID, credit card, and a ten-dollar downpayment that applies to your first three rentals.”

He’d stormed out of the store, but returned a week later. Now he was one of their regular customers, renting up to ten adult titles a week. He was also one of Emerald City Video’s rudest, most obnoxious customers. There was a note on his account whenever they pulled his name up:
This guy’s a creep. Argues late fees. Don’t take it personally. He’s rude to everyone. Be nice.

He was one of the exceptions. Most customers at Emerald City Video were friendly. Hannah knew many of them by name now. She had a window into their lives too. She’d heard it all:

“I need to take my boyfriend off my account. We broke up….”

“I have a friend who’s going to be renting for me for the next few weeks. I have to go in for surgery on Wednesday; then I’ll be on chemo….”

“Sorry about the late fee. My mom died, and I had to go to back to Nebraska….”

“I believe my husband has an account with you, and I’d like to know if he’s been renting any adult videos, specifically gay videos….”

“We never got a chance to watch it. We both fell asleep. The baby has kept us up so late the last couple of nights….”

Hannah became sympathetic ear, nursemaid, confidante, beard, and cheerleader to scores of people. She’d even learned some sign language to communicate with their deaf customers. But she still hadn’t mastered Korean, Japanese, Chinese, or Spanish.

At the moment, only a handful of customers were in the store. Hannah’s pick,
Strictly Ballroom
, played on the three strategically located TVs. Her coworker, Scott, stood at his register, staring down at her. “Hannah, for God’s sake, take the damn tape home and look at it. You know you’re dying to, which, by the way, is kind of pathetic. You really need a life.”

The phone rang, and he answered it. Twenty-six, tall, and thin, Scott Eckland was almost too handsome. He had spiky, gelled black hair, deep-set blue eyes, a male model’s cheekbones, and a strong jawline. With his video store salary, he dressed in Salvation Army finds that never quite came together. Today he wore a pair of green plaid slacks and a yellow shirt that was missing all its buttons. So he’d stapled up the front. The look was a cross between cutting-edge trendsetter and total nerd.

“God help us all,” he muttered, hanging up the phone. “If I have to reserve one more of the new-season
Sopranos
, I’ll kill someone.” He logged the reservation into his register, then glanced at Hannah again.

Shutting the drawer, she started to slip the tape into her purse, but hesitated.

“So take it home already,” Scott groaned. “The stupid video has been here—what—two weeks? You’re not violating anyone’s privacy. And if there’s a cute naked guy on the tape, you’re giving it to me.”

Hannah dropped the cassette in her purse.

Suddenly, and in steady succession, one person after another began filing into the store, many of them dropping tapes in the return bin. “Oh, crap,” Hannah whispered. “It’s going to get crazy.”

She was right. It got crazy. The phones started ringing, too. About a dozen customers descended on the front counter at the same time. Hannah and Scott were swamped, but they managed to handle the rush without a problem—for a while at least.

Only two people were waiting in line behind the smartly dressed brunette who stepped up to Hannah’s register. With her hair pulled back in a tight bun, the thirty-something woman’s tanned face had a pinched look. She set her video on the counter. “Finkelston is the account,” she mumbled, reaching into her purse.

“Did you say ‘Hinkleston’?” Hannah asked. “H-I-N-K-L—”

“There’s no ‘H’ in Finkelston.” She spoke in a loud, patronizing tone. “There’s never been an ‘H’ in Finkelston. F-I-N-K-E-L-S-T-O-N.”

“Cindy Finkelston?” Hannah said.

Nodding, the brunette woman pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

Hannah decided she didn’t like Cindy Finkelston very much. Now that she pulled up the account, she disliked her even more. She remembered writing the note on her account:
REWIND!!! And tell this slob that she returned
Office Space
with ketchup all over the cassette. Took forever to clean it off—Erase when done—Hannah.

Hannah started to delete the note. “Well, there’s a couple of things here,” she said gently. “Um, it says ‘please rewind.’ And you returned
Office Space
to us with ketchup on the tape and the box.”

“Okay, whatever.” The woman rolled her eyes. “I happen to be in a hurry.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to take up your time,” Hannah muttered. “You also have a late fee of twelve dollars.”

“I can’t pay that now,” she replied. “I don’t have the money.”

Hannah stared at the twenty-dollar bill in Cindy Finkelston’s hand. “I’m sorry, but we have to settle late charges before we can rent to you.”

“You know, I can just walk down the street to Blockbuster,” she retorted, her voice growing louder. “I don’t have to take this crap. What’s the late charge for anyway? It can’t be right.”

Hannah pulled the date from her account.
“Panic Room
came back—”

“I returned that the very next day,” Cindy Finkelston interrupted.

Hannah saw the line of people behind Cindy getting longer. “Actually, it was rented on August eighth, due back the ninth, and returned on August twelfth. Three days late at four dollars a day, that makes twelve dollars.”

“I thought that was a three-day rental.”

Hannah stared at her. “Which is it? Did you return it ‘the very next day,’ as you just said, or did you think it was a three-day rental?”

Cindy seemed stumped for a moment; then she became indignant. “What’s your name?” she demanded. “I want to talk to your supervisor.”

“My name’s Hannah. And the manager went home at five. She’ll be back in tomorrow when the store opens at ten.”

“Well, you just lost me as a customer,” Cindy announced—for half the store to hear. “You can close my account.”

Hannah shrugged. “I’m sorry. I can’t close your account until your late charges are paid off.”

One of the store regulars was in line behind Cindy. “Lady, just pay the stupid fee and stop giving her a hard time!”

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” Cindy growled, shooting him a look. She turned her glare at Hannah. “I don’t have to take this shit from some nobody clerk.” She shoved the cassette across the counter, and it fell on the floor by Hannah’s feet. “I’ll be talking with your superior. If I want to close my account here, I certainly can. Do you want a lawsuit? I’m a paralegal for a very prestigious firm. I’ll take legal action.”

Cindy flounced toward the door.

“See you in
People’s Court
!” Scott called.

“I can help the next potential witness,” Hannah announced. She still had Cindy’s account on the computer screen, and quickly typed in a note:
Accept no substitutes or imitations. This woman is a genuine asshole.

She hated letting people like Cindy Finkelston bother her. She could go for days with one nice customer after another; then someone like Cindy Finkelston could bring her down in a minute. The truth be told, she was indeed “some nobody clerk,” stuck in a go-nowhere job and barely making ends meet for herself and her four-year-old son. Free video rentals were poor compensation for the time she had to spend away from her little boy.

Hannah had to remind herself that, despite everything, she and her son were far better off than they’d been two years ago. They were safe now. No one knew where they were. All things considered, she was lucky to have this go-nowhere job and her little two-bedroom apartment. Maybe she didn’t get to spend much time with her son, but at least they were together. These were precious days. She was indeed lucky.

The past hadn’t caught up with her yet.

Her name was Cindy Finkelston. Anyone who had been in Emerald City Video forty-five minutes before certainly knew that. She’d even spelled out the name for all to hear, loudly enunciating each letter. Her grand exit had been quite an attention-getter as well.

She probably had no idea that someone was videotaping her.

It was no stroke of fate that he’d had his camera with him. He always carried it around. Today his video camera was concealed in a shoulder-strap carryall that looked like a laptop computer bag. He often filmed people on the sly that way. It just so happened he’d been keeping surveillance of the video store when Hannah Doyle had her run-in with Ms. Finkelston. He hadn’t expected to find someone like Cindy today. It was almost as if Cindy had chosen him rather than the other way around.

Now he was following her, videotaping her every move. After leaving Emerald City Video, Cindy walked two blocks to the Thriftway. On tape, he caught her slipping an expensive bottle of shampoo into her coat pocket.

Her BMW was parked in a three-minute loading and unloading zone in front of an apartment building. She’d been in that space for at least an hour now. It had grown dark, and the streetlights were on.

Obviously, Cindy Finkelston lived her life getting away with as much as she could, not caring about anyone else. If she ever became the victim of some freak accident, no one would really miss her.

He was on foot, and thought he’d lose her once she drove off. But three stop signs—and one particularly irate pedestrian whom Cindy almost mowed down at a crosswalk—helped him keep a tail on her for six blocks. Still, he was winded by the time he filmed her pulling into a gated lot beside the sterile, slate-colored, five-story apartment building. He wondered about the picture quality for this impromptu night shoot, but decided to take his chances and keep filming.

Cindy climbed out of her BMW, took the stolen shampoo from her pocket, and transferred it to the bag of groceries. Once she stepped inside the lobby, he zoomed in with the camera, catching her in close-up through the glass doors as she rang for the elevator.

The camera panned and scanned across the ugly building for a couple of minutes. Then a light went on in one of the fifth-floor windows. He zoomed in again, and taped Cindy as she came to the window and opened it a crack. She stepped away, out of camera range.

He turned off the video camera. He’d taped enough of Cindy Finkelston—for now. She wasn’t really that important. He didn’t want to waste any more time with a supporting player.

His new leading lady required some looking after.

Two

Hannah had walked this way home from work hundreds of nights. It was only six blocks from the store to the front door of her building. The route she took was well traveled and well lit. Not a bad night for a walk, either. Trees swayed and leaves rustled in the chilly October breeze. The stars were out, too.

Approaching a narrow alleyway between two apartment buildings, Hannah suddenly stopped in her tracks. A passing car’s headlights swept across the dark alcove, briefly illuminating a man who stood by the dumpsters. He wore a bulky jacket and a hunter’s hat.

A chill ran through Hannah. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. Picking up her pace, she hurried past the alley and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He stood in the shadows. Hannah thought he was drinking something from a bottle. But then she realized that he was holding a video camera.

Just a minute ago, she’d been thinking about her tired feet, and getting home in time to tuck in her son before he fell asleep. She’d been thinking about a shower and the leftover pasta for dinner. But now, none of that mattered. She just needed to get away from this strange man in the hunting cap who was videotaping her.

Hannah started to run. Her apartment building was another three blocks away. She glanced over her shoulder.

He hadn’t emerged from the alley yet. Was he really recording her? Maybe he’d just found a broken video camera in the dumpster. Maybe it wasn’t even a video camera. Her eyes were tired; she could have been mistaken. After staring at the register’s computer screen all day at work, it was a wonder she could focus on anything.

Hannah slowed down for the last block. She kept peeking over her shoulder. No one was following her. She felt silly, frightened by a harmless dumpster-diver lurking in an alley. What did she expect, living in the city?

Hannah was still chiding herself and catching her breath as she stepped into the lobby. Her apartment building was called the Del Vista, one of many former hotels built for the Seattle World’s Fair in 1962. A three-story, tan-brick structure, it offered Space Needle views in many of the units, including Hannah’s two-bedroom apartment. Hannah had gotten it cheap because the previous tenant had committed suicide in the living room. Seattle housing regulations required that landlords pass along such information to potential renters. Hannah didn’t know how the poor guy did himself in. Revealing those details wasn’t part of the housing rule’s requirements. All she knew was that word of the suicide drove away prospective tenants and drove down the unit’s rental price. She never could have afforded the place otherwise.

She had nothing but junk mail.
“Why be Single?”
was written on one envelope. As Hannah tucked the letters in her bag, she saw the mystery video in there. She’d almost forgotten about it. Probably some customer taped a Seahawks game—or an episode of
ER
. Maybe it was somebody’s wedding or a baby’s first steps. If she recognized anyone in the video, she could return it to them, do a good deed.

She climbed three flights in the cinderblock stairwell that lead to an outside balcony. Approaching her door, Hannah noticed the flickering light from the TV set in the living-room window. She passed the window and waved at her baby-sitter, Joyce. A husky woman in her early sixties, Joyce sat on the sofa with a bag of Chips Ahoy at her side. She had dyed-red hair and cat-eye glasses. Joyce waved back to Hannah and started to pull herself off the couch.

Hannah beat her to the door. Joyce waddled around the coffee table. “You’re going to hate me,” she announced. “I polished off the chocolate-chip cookies. If you want dessert tonight, all I left you was Melba toast.”

“No sweat,” Hannah said. She set her purse and coat on a straight-back chair by the front door. “How’s Guy?” she asked. “Is he asleep?”

Joyce switched off the TV. “He’s waiting up for you. At least, when I checked on him a couple of minutes ago he was still hanging in there.”

Joyce retreated to the kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter. Three tall barstools were lined up by that counter, the closest thing Hannah had to a dining-room table. Her apartment had been furnished entirely with finds from Ikea and secondhand stores. It all blended together nicely. An Edward Hopper print hung on the wall—along with framed movie posters of
The Philadelphia Story
and
Double Indemnity
.

Family photos were also on display: her deceased parents; her favorite aunt, with whom she’d lost touch since moving to Seattle; and, of course, several pictures of Guy.

But there were no pictures of Guy’s father.

Hannah didn’t talk about him.
He died in a car accident before Guy was born.
That was the story she gave whenever anybody asked; it was the story she’d given Joyce.

Joyce Bremner lived in an apartment building two doors down the block. While walking with Guy, Hannah always used to see her in front of the building, working on the garden. A widow, Joyce had three children and seven grandchildren, none of whom lived in Seattle. She’d made it clear that if Hannah ever needed a baby-sitter, she was available.

Four nights a week Joyce picked up Guy from Alphabet Soup Day Care; then she took him home, cooked dinner, and got him ready for bed. Guy was crazy about her, and so was Hannah.

After being pleasant to people all day, Hannah had very little social energy on tap at night. All she wanted to do was see her son and spend a few minutes with him before he fell asleep. Joyce always seemed to understand that. Once Hannah plodded through the front door, Joyce stayed just long enough to welcome her home and give her an update on Guy. She also told Hannah what they’d had for dinner—usually something canned or processed; Joyce wasn’t much of a cook.

As she threw on her raincoat, Joyce revealed that SpaghettiOs had been tonight’s fare. Also, they were running low on milk, Parmesan cheese, and, of course, Chips Ahoy.

She opened the door, but hesitated and turned to Hannah. Behind her, the Space Needle was illuminated in the distance. “Before I forget, honey,” she said, her brow furrowed, “you had two more hang-ups tonight. I think it’s the same person who kept calling and hanging up yesterday. I tried star-six-nine, but both times, it told me the number was blocked.”

Hannah sighed. “Like I said last night, I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably some telemarketer.”

Joyce grimaced a bit. “Well, I thought there was someone on the other end of the line, listening to me. But—I don’t know, I’ve been wrong before, once or twice in my life.” She shrugged and blew Hannah a kiss. “Oh, well. Take care, hon. See you tomorrow.”

Hannah nodded. “G’night, Joyce.” She watched the older woman retreat along the walkway to the stairwell. The night wind kicked up.

A chill passed through Hannah. She stepped back inside and closed the door. Her son was waiting up for her. The thought of him made her smile. How did he know that she really needed to spend some time with him tonight?

Hannah padded down the hallway to his room. Guy’s nightstand lamp was still on, but he’d fallen asleep. A picture book of trucks was slipping from his grasp. Studying him, Hannah ached inside. She hadn’t gotten a chance to say good night to her little guy.

He was a handsome kid: straight blond hair, beautiful green eyes, and impossibly long lashes. Last week, she’d had him in the cart seat at the supermarket when another woman approached her, asking if she’d ever considered having her son model. “A couple of commercials, and it’ll pay for his college education,” the woman had said. She’d given Hannah a business card. She’d seemed on the level.

Hannah knew she didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell at putting Guy through college on her video-store salary. Yet she’d thrown out that business card. No matter how much money they offered her, Hannah wouldn’t let them put Guy on TV or in a magazine—not the briefest appearance, not the tiniest ad. After all, what if someone recognized him?

She gingerly pulled the book out from under his hand, then set it on the bookcase. Trucks were his latest thing. Just a few months ago, he’d been crazy about rockets and outer space. He still had a mobile of the planets hanging from the ceiling, but Hannah knew that was old hat to him by now. Various Tinkertoy trucks occupied the bookcase where model rockets, star charts, and plastic replicas of the planets had once resided.

Hannah switched off his bed-table lamp. A Bugs Bunny night-light glowed in the corner of the room. Tucking the blanket under Guy’s chin, she kissed his forehead. She’d missed him tonight, but they’d have tomorrow morning together.

Hannah’s feet started aching again as she retreated to her bedroom. She peeled off her outer clothes, then wandered into the bathroom.

Under the shower’s warm, wet current, she began to relax. She let the gushing water wash away all the stress and bitterness.

Once she’d dried off, Hannah changed into a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms. She poured a glass of wine, then set some leftover pasta on the stove.

While dinner cooked, Hannah fished the mystery video from her bag and turned on the TV. She ejected a tape from the VCR: her daily recording of
The Young and the Restless.
All those free videos to choose from, and here she was taping silly soap operas and sneaking a peek at someone’s home video.

Hannah popped the cassette into her machine, then sat on the sofa arm and sipped her wine. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, suddenly mesmerized.

She’d gotten someone’s homemade sex tape. On the screen, a woman Hannah didn’t recognize squirmed beneath a man in bed. The picture quality was very professional, even with the dim lighting. But the shirtless man was out of focus. He seemed like a mere shadow hovering over the attractive, slim, thirtyish blonde. Hannah couldn’t tell if the woman was in ecstasy—or just uncomfortable. While writhing beneath her partner, she winced and rolled her eyes. He opened her blouse and began kissing her breasts.

Hannah watched with fascination as they kissed and fondled each other on the bed. Somehow, the man seemed to elude the camera the entire time. Hannah could see his actions, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t even make out his hair color. He was Caucasian; that was the only thing she could tell about him. Otherwise, he was just a blur in the foreground. The woman was the star of this little movie. And Hannah got the impression that she didn’t know she was being videotaped.

The movie must have been shot with two steady, mounted cameras, then edited, because the angles changed at different times, yet all the movements matched. Whoever made this video certainly knew what he was doing.

For a moment, the woman’s face was obscured by the man as he reached toward the nightstand. He must have switched on a strobe lamp, because the scene became illuminated by pulsating flashes of light. The woman seemed disoriented.

Hannah thought she saw him pull a knife out from under the mattress. She wanted to stop the video; play it back and see if she was mistaken. She glanced around for the remote, but didn’t see it. Her living room was bathed in the stark, flickering light from the TV screen.

On the video, the man’s lovemaking had now become frenzied. Almost in sync with the frantic, pulsating strobe, he pounded against her with his pelvis. The woman seemed to be pleading with him to stop. Hannah saw him raise the knife. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “What is this?”

She watched in horror as he plunged the knife down into the woman’s chest. He did it again, and again. The pretty blonde started to scream, but then she appeared to go into shock. She stopped struggling.

He kept stabbing her. Yet the wide-eyed, dazed expression on her face didn’t change. Her body took each savage, bloodletting blow without so much as a twitch. The woman was dead.

Numbly, Hannah stared at the TV screen—and at that poor woman. The blurry form of a man finally pulled away from his victim. The blonde lay amid the bloody bed sheets, naked and perfectly still, illuminated by the staccato light flashes. Her eyes were open, unblinking.

“Jesus,” Hannah whispered. “This looks real.”

From the sidewalk, he had a view of the third-floor balcony walkway—and her living-room window. She was watching the tape, he could tell. He could see the rapid, flickering light from her TV, like a lightning storm going on inside her apartment. It was the strobe lamp in the video.

Hannah was watching the murder right now.

He wished he could see her reaction. Was she terrified? If only he were watching the movie with her: That would have been something. Like a great director, he manipulated his audience. He pulled the strings, and Hannah Doyle responded.

He wanted to be there while she responded.

Soon enough, he told himself. He would get closer to her—much, much closer.

The video was rewinding in Hannah’s VCR.

She took her dinner off the stove and threw it away. The videotape had made her sick. She couldn’t stop shaking. She kept telling herself that it couldn’t have been real.

In fact, the home video seemed eerily familiar. That death scene had already been played out by Tom Berenger and Diane Keaton at the end of
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
. It was the climax of Richard Brooks’s 1977 film: the strobe light, the couple in the throes of violent sex, him pulling out a knife, then repeatedly stabbing her in the chest. The video’s blond victim even had the same death stare as Diane Keaton in the original movie.

Hannah refilled her wineglass and stared at her blank TV screen. She needed to prove to herself that the tape was just a reenactment, a fake.

She took another gulp of wine, then edged up close to her TV screen. She pressed “Play.” With a hand over her mouth, she forced herself to watch.

Hannah thought she’d catch a false note. But the more she saw, the sicker she felt. It was like studying the Zapruder film. Every frame was real. Wincing, she played the stabbing in slow motion, and it didn’t look fake. She studied the dead woman, and didn’t see her draw a breath or blink.

At the end of the video, Hannah was shaking again.