Full Dark, No Stars

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tess asked.

“That you shouldn’t eliminate anyone based on their public affiliations. The Knitting Society ladies would never do that. But by al means check her out online.” Tom spoke in a be-my-guest tone that

Tess hadn’t quite expected. It was mildly irritating.

“How kind of you to give me permission, Thomas,” she said.

- 28 -

But when she was in her office with her computer booted up, she only stared at the Apple welcome screen for the first five minutes, wondering if she was real y thinking of finding the giant and using

her gun, or if that was just the sort of fantasy to which liars-for-profit such as herself were prone. A revenge fantasy, in this case. She avoided those kinds of movies, too, but she knew they were out there; you couldn’t avoid the vibe of your culture unless you were a total recluse, and Tess wasn’t. In the revenge movies, admirably muscular fel ows like Charles Bronson and Sylvester Stal one didn’t bother with the police, they got the baddies on their own. Frontier justice. Do you feel lucky, punk. She believed that even Jodie Foster, one of Yale’s more famous graduates, had made a movie of this type. Tess

couldn’t quite remember the title. The Courageous Woman, maybe? It was something like that, anyway.

Her computer flipped to the word-of-the-day screen-saver. Today’s word was cormorant, which just happened to be a bird.

“When you send your goodies by Cormorant Trucking, you’l think you’re flying,” Tess said in her deep pretending-to-be-Tom voice. Then she tapped a key and the screen-saver disappeared. She

went online, but not to one of the search engines, at least not to begin with. First she went to YouTube and typed in RICHARD WIDMARK, with no idea at al why she was doing it. No conscious one,

anyway.

Maybe I want to find out if the guy’s really worthy of fanship, she thought. Ramona certainly thinks so.

There were lots of clips. The top-rated one was a six-minute compilation titled HE’S BAD, HE’S REALLY BAD. Several hundred thousand people had viewed it. There were scenes from three

movies, but the one that transfixed her was the first. It was black-and-white, it looked on the cheap side… but it was definitely one of those movies. Even the title told you so: Kiss of Death.

Tess watched the entire video, then returned to the Kiss of Death segment twice. Widmark played a giggling hood menacing an old lady in a wheelchair. He wanted information: “Where’s that squealin’ son of yours?” And when the old lady wouldn’t tel him: “You know what I do to squealers? I let em have it in the bel y, so they can rol around for a long time, thinkin’ it over.”

He didn’t shoot the old lady in the bel y, though. He tied her into her wheelchair with a lamp cord and pushed her down the stairs.

Tess exited YouTube, Binged Richard Widmark, and found what she expected, given the power of that brief clip. Although he had played in many subsequent movies, more and more often as the

hero, he was best known for Kiss of Death, and the giggling, psychotic Tommy Udo.

“Big deal,” Tess said. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“Meaning what?” Fritzy asked from the windowsil where he was sunning himself.

“Meaning Ramona probably fel in love with him after seeing him play a heroic sheriff or a courageous battleship commander, or something like that.”

“She must have,” Fritzy agreed, “because if you’re right about her sexual orientation, she probably doesn’t idolize men who murder old ladies in wheelchairs.”

Of course that was true. Good thinking, Fritzy .

The cat regarded Tess with a skeptical eye and said, “But maybe you’re not right about that.”

“Even if I’m not,” Tess said, “nobody roots for psycho bad guys.”

She recognized this for the stupidity it was as soon as it was out of her mouth. If people didn’t root for psychos, they wouldn’t stil be making movies about the nut in the hockey mask and the burn

victim with scissors for fingers. But Fritzy did her the courtesy of not laughing.

“You better not,” Tess said. “If you’re tempted, remember who fil s your food dish.”

She googled Ramona Norville, got forty-four thousand hits, added Chicopee, and got a more manageable twelve hundred (although even most of those, she knew, would be coincidental dreck). The first relevant one was from the Chicopee Weekly Reminder, and concerned Tess herself: LIBRARIAN RAMONA NORVILLE ANNOUNCES “WILLOW GROVE FRIDAY.”

“There I am, the starring attraction,” Tess murmured. “Hooray for Tessa Jean. Now let’s see my supporting actress.” But when she pul ed up the clipping, the only photo Tess saw was her own. It was