= Teaching Adam
  by Peter Johnson

It had been a long day, two hours of driving to cap off an unproductive meeting. Adam waited impatiently as the gates of the estate slid slowly open. It was early evening, and the entrance lighting highlighted the estate's orderly gardens. A light rain started to fall as the gates opened enough for Adam to squeeze the BMW through. He was hungry and annoyed. It was Wednesday -- Margarite's day off; that meant a TV dinner. He pulled his car into the garage next to My Lady. As he headed for the door, he ran his hand along her sleek hull. At twenty-two feet she was a squeeze to fit in the garage, but he liked to keep her close. She was the one indulgence he had been allowed when the old man was alive. He could afford better now that he was in charge, but she was special, and he would keep her a little longer. He stopped a moment to admire the ski boat's sleek lines -- and to adjust her cover. Don't I pay people enough to do the job right? he thought as he secured the wayward corner.

Adam selected a pasta meal -- always a safe choice -- and placed it in the microwave. Armed with a hot meal and a bottle of good red, he sat down in front of the television to catch the late news. Really, he only wanted a market report, but he might as well know how the world was faring. Wars and death occupied the first five minutes; to him this was merely noise, and he lowered the volume. As he poured his second glass of red he stopped suddenly. A name. He reached for the remote control, almost dropping the plate off his lap in the rush.

"The police are warning that Ms. Gould should not be approached as she may be dangerous." This was the last the anchor had to say on the matter before he switched -- with an appropriate smile -- to the story of a new arrival at the zoo.

Karen? Did he say Karen Gould? It couldn't be his Karen; she was secure.

They would have let me know, he thought.

"Damn." He rose quickly and strode to the kitchen where he had left his cell phone. He'd turned it off in the meeting and had forgotten about it. He dialed quickly. Five messages: first message Anne -- she can wait; second message Brian -- don't care; third message Brian again -- still don't care; fourth message. Adam stood very still and listened. He wrote down a name and number, and then played the message again -- and again.

"Bitch; you do complicate my life."

Adam walked back into the living room; he had thought this was all behind him. She'd been put away. It was a very respectable institution for very respectable lunatics; with good security -- he'd been assured of that.

Adam considered the situation: was this good news or bad news? This should confirm that she was truly mad, and maybe dangerous. What was that warning -- should not be approached -- all about? All right, this could be OK. It will prove to those uncles and aunts of hers that she really is mad -- they might stop causing trouble, seeking reviews and second opinions. All right, back to the act, time to call the detective who'd left the message -- a Detective Sanderson. Back in the kitchen he realised he hadn't taken that last message; message five -- "Adam. Missing you, Adam. With you soon, Adam." He stood still, eyes wide. Karen! What on earth? He played it again. Crazy woman, what's she playing at?

Adam returned to the living room in search of the wine bottle. He stopped at the fireplace and took a photo from the mantle. He looked intently at the smiling, but rather plain, face. His gaze switched to the mirror. How could she? How could she have believed that a man like him could really be in love with a face like that? He replaced the picture and longed for the day he could take it down for good -- when he didn't need to pretend to pine for his troubled wife.

She had been so easy to fool. Poor little rich girl. A rather plump chemistry major -- insecure and fragile, always playing the clown. How he'd hated her little jokes, those pathetic attempts to fit in. He had nothing to do with her until their third year, when his father invested heavily in the dot coms. The fool. There was barely enough left to pay his college fees. She'd looked more attractive after that. Her father though, never liked him; and marrying him had been the only time she'd gone against his wishes. The old man had put him to work in the business: chemical suppliers to the mining industry -- explosives mainly. He'd struggled of course, the old guy made it hard for him, what did he know about chemistry. But he knew he could run the business better than that old fool. Management, that was his major, not chemistry.

Adam found the missing bottle of wine. His glass filled and emptied quickly while he tried to make sense of the situation. He went back to the mantle to stare at his wife. How she had crumbled when the old man died; how he had celebrated. She'd inherited the company of course, but couldn't run it. That had been his chance. He'd promised to help her, but he simply made sure she was given everything. Every piece of information, every decision, every detail was given to her. But he hid from her every success, and reminded her of every failure. At home he pushed her too: little reminders about her weight, about her hair, about her clothes. Adam smiled remembering; and yes, his masterstroke.

"But Karen, you're the head of the company now. Those little jokes, they have to stop. You need to set the example." Without that defense she was lost. Awkward situations could not be defused with one of her little wisecracks. The pressure mounted and she retreated into herself. Little by little he took over running the company -- but he kept feeding her bad news, day after day; and finally, victory. Late one evening he came home to find her in a little pool of blood. Wrists not quite slashed as he'd first hoped, more grazed. He'd thought of waiting to see if she might be successful, but the silly girl hadn't cut deep enough, and he couldn't be sure she would die before Margarite arrived in the morning. It hadn't been hard to get her committed; it was as if she had wanted it.

He visited of course. Frequently to start -- plenty of bad news to give her. With each visit she retreated further, until she was just this plain dull lump. She'd hardly recognized him the last visit. That was nearly a year ago.

Then it came to him. Master stroke number two. She may be dangerous -- With you soon Adam.

Could he be so lucky? He was so excited he couldn't think straight. I could be rid of her for good, he thought. Careful; must be careful. Can't be sloppy.

Adam headed upstairs to his bedroom; quickly locating the spare key, he raced downstairs and hid it in the garden -- just where it had always been hidden when Karen lived there.

Right, he thought. That gets her in -- if she has any sanity left at all she should remember. Now -- what next; he paced the living room.

Motive. I need motive. Can't just shoot her for no reason.

Back in the kitchen Adam selected the largest knife, wrapped the handle in a cloth, carried it upstairs, and laid it upon the bedside table. He smiled and slid open the table drawer. "Motive and means," he said, picking up the revolver. It was cold and felt strange in his hands. Just holding it excited him; it made him feel clever, wickedly clever. He replaced it reluctantly, but carefully.

Back downstairs he made the long-delayed call to the police. He assured Detective Sanderson that he had no need of protection.

"She's my wife. I have nothing to fear from her." But the detective was insistent.

"It's probably been six months since I've seen her. Yes, I heard the warning; but I'll say it again: she is my wife. I am in no danger. My only concern is for her welfare, and I would appreciate your devoting your time to finding her before she comes to any harm. Thank you. Good night."

As the call ended, Adam was struck by the one flaw in his plan: the gates. Estate security. How could she get past it? His excitement diminished. He returned to the living room and snatched up the nearly empty wine bottle. She'll never get in. She'd be lucky to get as far as the gates anyway, he though. Clutching the bottle he headed upstairs, cursing the end of his perfect plan.

Aided by the wine, Adam slept heavily, dreamlessly.

Clump.

Adam stirred, rolled onto his side, but stayed asleep.

Brrrrr ... Brrrrr.

"What the...? Who the hell?"

Adam flung his hand at the phone and clumsily gathered the receiver.

"YES."

"Adam. So good to hear you, Adam."

Adam sat bolt upright. "Karen. What ... what?" He tried to gather his thoughts but the wine was in the way. "Karen, what do you want? No. I mean, where are you? Are you OK?"

"Do you miss me, Adam? I miss you, Adam."

"Miss you?" Adam fought the urge to tell her the truth -- to unleash his disgust. Perhaps the plan could be saved.

"Yes, Karen, of course, you know I do."

"Do you want to see me, Adam? I want to see you. So much to teach."

To teach? -- What the hell was she talking about? But he didn't need to understand her; the plan, he must keep the plan alive.

"Yes, of course, dear. Where are you?"

"Close your eyes and you'll see me soon -- must keep the dust from your eyes."

Adam took a deep breath, tried to stay calm.

"Karen -- dear -- where ...."

Something shifted in the attic. Adam looked up.

Wump, wump, CRACK.

"What the hell?" Adam dived for the pillows as dust filled the bedroom. He reached for the light.

Click. Nothing. He tried again, but the room stayed dark. What's going on?

Adam's confidence began to fade; but he found it again in the bedside drawer. She's in the attic -- what the hell was she up to?

Drawing strength from the gun, he felt a spark of triumph. She was in the house. She was his now.

"Karen," the calmness of his voice pleased him. "What are you doing, dear? Please, Karen -- I want to see you."

No response. He listened for movement overhead. Nothing.

"Karen?"

Could he shoot her through the ceiling? He thought about it. No. It would be too hard to explain how he was in danger when she was up there. He could move the body, but holes in the ceiling would be noticed. Must get her down. Adam moved along the bed, trying to locate her in the attic. From the hole in the ceiling a powerful beam of light shone onto the foot of the bed. Adam was startled, his patience failing.

"Karen. What are you doing, Karen?"

"Do you miss me?"

Adam laughed. It didn't matter; he had her now. "Do I miss you? Well of course I do, darling. I miss the sight of your pretty face. Those lovely clothes you bought that cost so much and did so little."

Adam sat back in bed and took aim at the ceiling.

"What are you playing at, Karen? Do you think you're scaring me? Did you play these sorts of games when you were a little girl? Shine the big light in the dark. Oh, so scary." He laughed again. "You are pathetic."

"I have something for you, Adam."

"Ah, my little fat Angel -- my little voice from above -- what do you have that I could possibly want?"

From the ceiling a small object dropped and landed softly on the bed. Adam looked for it with little interest -- it had sunk into the soft bedcover.

"Throwing away your wedding ring." He laughed as loudly as he could -- throwing his disdain at the ceiling. "I threw mine away long ago, Karen. Like you, it only weighed me down."

Another little object -- then another -- fell to the bed. Then a fourth. Tink. The sound made Adam curious. He pulled the bedcover, and the little cluster came into view. A coldness swept over him. He opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say, and closed it again. Another fell to the bed, and then another -- neither making a sound.

The six bullets lay there, just out of reach. He looked at the revolver in his hand. It had felt strange, unbalanced. He looked into the chambers -- in the light from the flashlight he couldn't be sure. But his fingers probed. Empty.

She may be dangerous -- With you soon, Adam.

She'd been in the house the whole time. The lifted boat cover. The flashlight -- it's the one from the boat. What else was in the boat? Why was she giving him the bullets? What the hell was she playing at?

"For you, Adam; they are for you. You'll be needing them."

The light left the bedroom, and Adam could see it retreating in the attic as Karen scrambled across the joists. What to do? The stairs from the attic came down in the hall -- not far from the bedroom door. What else was in the boat? He searched his memory. So long since he'd taken her out. The knife -- the image of the eight-inch blade came quickly to mind and sobered his thoughts. He heard Karen descend the attic stairs and he dived for the bullets. His hands clutched, missed, clutched, found two. He stuffed them greedily into empty chambers. He reached again, scattered them in his haste. Silence outside. Reaching, groping, he found all of Karen's little gifts and reloaded.

She may be dangerous -- With you soon Adam.

The plan -- what now? He rallied his courage. This was Karen; that pathetic little girl he'd driven to insanity. Now he had the chance to be rid of her for good. He tried the bedroom lights again, all dead. She'd cut the power. It made him uneasy; but, if I can't see her, she can't see me, he reasoned. Still, he didn't like it.

He dressed quickly, feeling for the clothes he had so casually discarded earlier. He didn't know why, but the thought of chasing a crazy woman in his underwear made him feel vulnerable. It was the knife, of course. Cold steel and his bare flesh just didn't go. It was as if his cotton shirt would protect him from the eight-inch blade.

He opened the bedroom door carefully, and peered into the darkness. He made his way carefully to the top of the stairs, and waited, listening.

"Adam. Are you coming for me, Adam?"

She was downstairs, in the living room, somewhere.

"Having fun, are we, Karen?"

"Oh, Adam. I'm helping you, Adam. Teaching you what it's like to be Karen."

As she spoke he moved gradually -- easily -- down the steps. Must keep her talking. Then he'd find her; just one shot.

"One thing I don't understand, Karen. You've been very clever. How did you do it? Get into the estate; into the house?" Another step, easing down.

"She helped me, Adam." She had moved -- so quiet; where was she now?

"Who, Karen? Who helped you?" Nearly half way, keep her talking.

"She never liked me. Always you, Adam." She had moved again. She was farther away, maybe in the den.

"Who, Karen? Who liked me?"

"Margarite. She never helped me. In the bad times she never helped me. But she helped me today, Adam. Yes, she did. I took her keys. I took more than her keys, Adam. She won't be in tomorrow. She won't be in the next day. She'll never be back, Adam."

Adam stopped half way down the stairs, frozen. She'd killed her. Karen had killed Margarite. His courage failed again. Where was she? He waved the gun in the direction of her voice. He looked for her, willing his eyes to open wider. But nothing -- no sight, no sound.

What to do? The plan? Screw the plan. Survive. He had to get out. The bitch was going to kill him. He grasped the gun tighter, but in the dark it didn't reassure him. At the bottom of the stairs he could make a straight line for the kitchen. His keys were there, he'd get out, call the police; let them handle her. Slowly he moved down the stairs; all was silent. He didn't feel like talking. He paused at the last step. His eyes ached, searching for silhouettes in the dark. Silence and stillness.

He hit the floor running, reached the kitchen in seconds, bursting through the door. One more door -- the garage -- the car. He grasped the handle, locked. Keys, have to find the keys. His breathing was loud -- too loud -- like he had run a mile, like he had been chased a mile. He groped his way to the bench; must find the keys. Please God, the keys. Nothing, the bench was clear. This is where he'd left them; she had them now. He stood trembling, sweat dripping from his face. What now? From beyond the door the silent living room threatened. For the first time since childhood, Adam wanted to cry.

Adam stood still, trying to calm his breathing. How to get out? Smash a window and crawl out. No good. The noise -- she would know, she'd stick him with that knife as he tried to escape. No choice now, must call for help. He picked up the kitchen phone: no tone. His slid his hand along the chord: cut. Now what? He groped the bench again, searching for his cell phone. Again, nothing.

What was she doing? Why was she doing this? This wasn't like her. Not like his Karen. What had they done to her in that institution?

Gradually, his breathing steadied. What now? Wait till morning? No. He couldn't just sit here in the dark. If only he had light, then it would be different. Another flashlight? Did he keep one in the kitchen? No. Just the one in the boat. The darkness seemed to be closing in, its fingers running down his spine. Instinctively, he reached for the kitchen light, tried it (even though he knew it was hopeless) and when it didn't work, he clicked it off again. How had she done it? he wondered. How had she cut the power? The basement, the circuit breakers. Karen must have used the circuit breakers to cut the power. If he could reach the breaker box he would have light, and then, she would be the one sweating.

Adam traced the route in his mind -- through the door, veer left after the sofa, straight through the den, right, then left to the basement door. Feeling his way, Adam located the kitchen door and waited -- for what he didn't know. The path he had to take played over in his mind, and he listened. Nothing. Go. Again through the living room at break-neck speed, he veered left -- too early -- his hip rammed into the corner of the sofa, he stumbled, didn't fall. Through the den, turned right just in time, brushing the wall with his shoulder, left, the door, in.

Adam stood behind the basement door, gasping and listening. He waited, but she wasn't following. That had been too easy. Maybe she'd left the living room. But where was she? Forget that; the box, must find the box. He reached for the light switch, and turned it on. At least when the power was on, he'd have light.

He moved carefully down, aware of every creak of the timber stairs. Feeling the darkness close around him, he wondered again: Where is she? And he answered himself with another question. What if she's here, in the basement?

He stoped, listened, and went on. Step, stop, listen, breathe. His held the gun as tightly as his sweating hands would allow. Stop, listen ... breathe, take another step. Last step, solid ground. With his heart beating rapidly Adam moved cautiously, but his first step echoed in the empty space. "God help me." He mouthed the words but made no sound. Dropping to the floor he crawled the short distance to the wall; replacing the sound of footfalls with a faint scraping he hoped would confuse Karen -- if she were there. Reaching the wall alive he stood and felt his way. The box. His fingers traveled the switches, found the main isolation. Yes, it was off. Eagerly he switched it, and the darkness dissolved. Adam scanned the basement. No Karen. Finding an old rag on the floor, Adam dried his hands. Now, time to find her.

Once again, Adam stood tense behind the basement door, but this time he burst out, reached for the light switch, and shouted with triumph when the den burst into light.

"I'm coming for you, Karen. Better run, bitch." He scanned the den, nothing. Next light. Living room. He checked up the stairs, nothing, behind the sofa, nothing. Halfway to the kitchen he heard the faintest noise, turned back, and there she was, cowering in the corner next to the TV.

"Well, it's so good to see you, Karen." Adam moved to his right to get a clear view, raised the gun, pointing it at her face. "Get up," he said.

Karen stood. In her hands she held the boat knife and his cell phone.

"So that's where it went. Of course, the call from the attic." Adam permitted himself a coarse laugh while surveying the room. "Move," he pointed with the gun. He could see the end of the barrel shaking -- not from fear, but anger.

"There, in front of the stairs. No, forward, closer to the table. Stop."

Adam examined her with some interest. She looked like she had lost some weight; although it was hard to tell in the dress she wore. It was obviously one of Margarite's. Large and floral, it hung comically from her shoulders.

"Do you understand now, Adam?" she said.

Adam moved a step closer, ten feet, yes, that's close enough. Mad woman with a knife, from this close he'd have to fire. Yes, close enough.

Karen stood in front of him. Quiet, with a blank expression.

"I must thank you, Karen, you've made this very easy in the end."

Karen looked confused. "How, Adam?" she asked in her dull voice.

"When I kill you, dear, all your little games tonight are going to help me convince the police I had no choice. Thank you, Karen."

Karen looked at him quietly, and then placed the knife and the phone on the coffee table. "Look, Adam, I've put the knife down now. I won't hurt you. Never meant to hurt you, Adam. I just wanted...." she let her voice trail away.

"Wanted what, Karen?"

She looked at him, a little life coming into her eyes.

"I just wanted to teach you, Adam. Show you what it's like to be Karen. To be afraid, confused."

Adam smiled. "So that's what this was all about. Teaching me. Teaching Adam his lesson." He laughed, and the light faded from her eyes; she let her head slowly fall to her chest.

"And what about Margarite. What lesson did you teach her?"

She didn't answer.

"Well, my dear wife, it's too late for lessons. Your fingerprints are all over that knife; one clear shot, you die; I put the knife down next to you, and guess what? I'm free. Free of you forever."

Karen stayed very still. "Please, Adam. Wasn't it enough, to hurt me before? To make me so sad. I wanted to die."

"No, dear, it wasn't; but I must say, it was fun. Crushing your little spirit like that. But don't feel bad, it was never really about you. It was about the money. It was always about the money."

"Oh," she said. "I guess I always knew. In my heart I always knew."

She raised her head and looked into his eyes, and her expression changed. No, more than that: she changed. Her eyes focused, her back straightened, and she stood tall. She looked sharp, focused, and oddly, in control.

Karen stepped back to the coffee table and picked up the knife.

"What are you doing?" he asked. He took his eyes off her for a moment and focused on the gun. It was still there; it was still pointed at Karen. The end of the barrel no longer shook: he was in control, not her.

"What do you think you're doing, Karen?" he asked again.

She smiled -- at least, her mouth made the shape, but her eyes, they were something else.

"I needed to hear it from you. I couldn't do this without hearing it from you first." She stepped closer to him. She was still eight feet away, and he had the gun. But it took all his self-control to not take a step back.

"What are you talking about? You couldn't do what?"

She stopped for a moment. She looked at him like he was a complete fool.

"You know, Adam. You know what I have to do. One more lesson to teach." She took another step towards him.

"Stay where you are."

"Why?" she answered coolly. "Or else you'll shoot me?" She took another small step. "But Adam, isn't that the plan?"

Adam couldn't help it, he took a step backwards.

"Yes," he shouted. "That's right." He waved the gun at her. "You seem to forget that I have this."

This time she did smile. From her lips to her eyes to her very soul, she smiled; and as she smiled she took another step and raised the knife. The lights of the living room reflected of the long blade as she held it up, as if to show it to him.

"No, Adam, I haven't forgotten you have the gun. But you seem to have forgotten something, Adam. You've forgotten who gave you the bullets."

With that she charged. Her speed surprised him, but his finger was poised on the trigger, and he squeezed it twice before she crashed into him. Each time his finger squeezed there was a hollow clicking sound. No explosion, no recoil. A hollow click click was all he got for his efforts.

As her body crashed into his he felt a sharp pain beneath his ribs; he released the gun and clutched at his stomach as he fell backwards onto the carpet. Karen fell with him and landed on top. He lay on his back and looked up at her. Her hair cascaded over her face; she was breathing heavily -- it reminded him of the times they made love. Those awful times he felt compelled "to do his duty" and keep the bitch happy. He pulled one hand away from his aching stomach; he would strike her, gouge her if necessary; he had to get her off him. But once his hand came into view he stopped. His hand was soaked in blood: his blood. He looked at his hand, he looked at Karen. She was fascinated and mercifully still.

Adam looked down at his stomach; needing to, not wanting to. The billowing dress Karen wore fell mercifully over his ripped gut. He could see no detail, but the dress was soaked red.

He forced his eyes from the reddening dress and looked into Karen's eyes. They were no longer dreamy, no longer far away; they were sharp, focused and bright. They frightened him, she frightened him. But the spreading patch of red on her dress frightened him more.

"Help me ... Karen .... Please, Karen." It was a whisper.

Karen stayed where she was: on top of him. But she smiled and straightened. She used to do that, during sex, sit on top looking smug and satisfied, perched up straight. She had that same look of satisfaction now.

"Please, Karen."

Karen lifted her right hand, and in it she held the knife. The blade no longer caught the light; its adventures in his stomach had left it dull and stained. Carefully, slowly, Karen wiped it clean on her sleeve. One side, then the other. Then she found another clean patch of sleeve and cleaned it again. 

"Of course, Adam," she whispered in a bedroom voice. "Of course I'll help you."

With her left hand she reached over to his shoulder and picked up the gun -- the useless gun -- as it lay there. She transferred it to her right hand, and lay the knife on the carpet, next to her knee. As she let go of the knife, Adam heard it make a tiny splash in the blood pooling around him. He did not move. 

The hand he had raised to strike her hung in space, its errand forgotten.

"Do you know, Adam, that you always had a chance?"

Adam said nothing. His mouth was too dry to speak, and he felt so cold.

"Yes, Adam, it wouldn't have been fair if you'd never had a chance."

He didn't understand her -- he didn't care. "Help me. Please," he said in a voice that was barely a whisper. She continued as if he had not spoken.

"You see, Adam, I left the gunpowder in one of the bullets. Just one. But that was enough to give you a chance."

The barrel swung around to point at his forehead.

"Shall we see which one it is?"

As it turned out, it was the very next one.

PETER JOHNSON is an engineer, an economist or a student -- it all depends on which day you catch him. In his spare time -- actually it's the time he should be spending on his PhD -- he writes. When the student days are over he intends to spend more time writing; in the meantime, he fits it in when he can.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Peter Johnson

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