Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [69]
“You’re fairly sure whoever this is is not heading toward me?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, I mean, then who is he heading for . . . next?”
Kimball looked at his notebook, even though again I was positive he didn’t need to. It was a calculated and empty gesture and I resented him for it.
“The next victim in the book is Paul Owen.”
“And?”
Kimball paused. “There’s a Paul Owen in Clear Lake.”
“Clear Lake is only fifteen miles from here,” I murmured.
“Mr. Owen is now under heavy surveillance and police protection. And what we’re hoping is that if anyone suspicious shows up, we’ll be able to apprehend him.” Pause. “This is also why these connections between the crimes haven’t been leaked to the press. At this point that would only compromise the investigation . . . And of course we hope you won’t say anything either.”
“Why do you think this person isn’t gonna come after me or my family?” I asked again. By now I was rocking back and forth in the swivel chair.
“Well, the author of the book isn’t in the book,” Kimball said, offering a pointlessly reassuring smile that failed utterly. “I mean, Bret Ellis is not a character in the book, and so far the assailant is only interested in finding people with similar identities or names of fictional characters.” Pause. “You’re not a fictional character, are you, Mr. Ellis?” Kimball knew this smile hadn’t reassured me and he did not attempt it again. “Look, I can see why you’re becoming so upset, but we really feel that at this point you’re not in any danger. Still, if you’d rest easier we could offer you police protection that would be extremely unobtrusive. If you want to talk this over with Ms. Dennis—”
“No, I don’t want my wife to know about this, yet. No. I’m not discussing this with my wife. There’s no need to freak her out. Um, but I will let you know as soon as possible about your protection services and all that”—I had gotten up, and my knees were shaking—“and I really don’t feel well so . . . um, I’m sorry, I really don’t feel well.” The room was now filled with despair, torrents of it. I knew even then, half-drunk on vodka, sobering up at a rapid pace, that Kimball would not be able to rescue anyone and that more crime scenes would be darkened with blood. Fear kept bolting me upright. I suddenly realized that I was straining not to defecate. I had to grip the desk for support. Kimball stood uneasily beside me. I was of no use at that point.
A card was handed out with various phone numbers on it. I was instructed to call if anything “suspicious” or “abnormal” (those two words uttered so soothingly that they could have existed in a nursery rhyme) came up, but I couldn’t hear anything. I blindly walked Kimball out to his car while mumbling my thanks. And at that moment Jayne pulled into the driveway in the Porsche. When she saw me with Kimball she sat in the car and watched, pretending to be on her cell phone. Once Kimball drove away she bounded out of the car, smiling, and walked over to me, still beaming from the new beginnings we had promised each other that morning. She asked me who Kimball was and when I told her he was a student she believed me and took my hand and guided me back into our house. I didn’t tell Jayne the truth about Kimball because I didn’t want to scare her, and because I thought that if I did I would be asked to leave, and so I kept silent, adding something else to the list of all the things I had already hidden from her.
The rest of the evening was a daze. During dinner, while sitting at the table, the kids conceded that they’d had a good time at the mall and regaled Jayne with various scenes from the movie we saw, and then there was a long discussion about Victor (who didn’t want to sleep in the house anymore but whose panicked barking outside at night made this demand impossible to meet). The only thing that had any impact—the one thing that broke through my fog—was when Sarah brought the Terby over to me, though I don’t remember where I was at the time. Was I slouched in the armchair