Forty Words for Sorrow

The side-door lock had presented no problem: twenty-seven seconds- not a record, but not bad, either. Woody had proceeded directly to the top floor, his usual practice; he had a superstition that you were working with nature, then, letting gravity assist you on the way down. He moved now in his quietest Reeboks toward the back bedroom; reason and observation had told him this had to be where the happy couple slept.

It was not what he expected. This was a single girl's room, not a couple's. The walls were pink, the bed was white wood, and the dresser was littered with pots of cream, mostly medicinal. The wallpaper- ancient and peeling in more than one corner- had at one time been pale yellow with a motif of little parasols. A stuffed tiger on top of the dresser caught his eye- Dumptruck might like that- but on closer inspection it proved to be a mangy, dog-eared tiger, clearly clutched and drooled on through many an illness. He could hardly take that home. "What were you thinking of?" Martha would say. "It's completely unhygienic."

He paused for a moment, alert for any sounds. No, the old lady wasn't stirring. Probably deaf, too. Poor old girl hadn't been trundled out for at least three days.

The headboard of the bed had an interesting feature: built-in bookshelves with little sliding panels- exactly the sort of cubbyhole people like to stash their jewelry in. Woody, an inveterate optimist as all of his trade must be, slid back the little panel full of expectation.

And met up with his second surprise. He had expected a couple of Danielle Steel novels, Martha read them all the time, or maybe a Barbara Taylor Whatshername. But this was a grim little library, indeed: History of Torture, Japanese Atrocities of World War II, Justine, and Juliette- both by the Marquis de Sade. He'd heard of that guy.

Woody always allowed himself one lingering moment on a job, a moment when, holding some treasured or peculiar object, he would indulge his imagination and picture the life he was invading. This was that moment. He pulled out Juliette. Wasn't the marquis that guy who liked to prance around in whips and chains and things? Woody flipped through to a page that had the corner turned down and read a passage that had been marked in the margin: I grasp those breasts, lift them, and cut them off close to the chest; then stringing those hunks of flesh upon a cord…

Woody flipped through a few more pages and saw that things only got worse. The flyleaf bore an inscription in cheap ballpoint: to Edie from Eric. "Jesus, Eric," he said under his breath. "This is not a book you give a woman. This is one sick book, and you are one sick puppy." Woody vowed strict professional deportment for the rest of the job.

Martha would have shivered with revulsion at the bathroom: the sink was rust-stained, the tiles scummy. You could smell the towels from the hallway. The cabinet was chock-full of Pharma-City sleeping pills and tranquilizers, just the sort of happy accident that could make a man's day. Unfortunately, Woody was not into drugs. Didn't use 'em, didn't sell 'em, thanks to Martha. But oh, he thought wistfully, there was a time…

A noise from somewhere. Voices. He froze in front of the cracked mirror, head cocked to one side. Just the old lady's TV. Lonely damn business watching soap operas all day. She had the front bedroom, he knew from his vigil, and there wouldn't be anything worth taking in there, some horrible old black-and-white TV with a terrible picture.

He went downstairs and took a quick, disappointing inventory of the kitchen. The handful of old appliances would net him nothing. Even the dark little living room was a bust. Just a lot of overstuffed furniture that looked like one too many dogs had died on it. Woody ignored the funny old clock on the mantel, not into antiques. To his disgust, there wasn't even a VCR: Now, that was truly an anomaly in this day and age.

He was batting zero, and the place was nearly done. He'd totally misread the situation. The music-store guy didn't even live here. Guy worked at the fucking music store, for Christ's sake, he had to have some great equipment stashed away somewhere- Woody had seen him with that Sony carton, just the other day, pulled it out of the back of that spiffy old Windstar he drove.

"Truly fucked up," Woody murmured. "A TV table and no TV." The dust pattern showed that there had been a TV in the spot until a day or two ago. And the small stack of videotapes beside the table sang to him of a VCR. Either both items were in for repair- big coincidence there- or they'd been shifted to another part of the house, maybe Granny Goodwitch's room.