When the man bumped into Lois, she grasped the knife inside her jacket pocket more firmly and cursed under her breath.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he walked away.

Her fingers relaxed on the blade's handle, and she sighed. Muttering to herself, she climbed the rest of the subway stairs and came out from underground to bright winter sunlight. People brushed by her without a second glance. In her dirty jacket and ragged jeans, her coarse, growing-out bleached hair hanging listlessly about her face, why would anyone bother? She knew how she looked. And it no longer mattered.

Mandy's dead, Mandy's dead, sang the voice in her head. Her eyes misted as she pushed through the crowd towards home. Walking up the grungy concrete steps to her apartment, the voice continued. Mandy's dead, Mandy's dead. No one cares but you. Then it screamed at her, Find him! Kill him! And it muttered, Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

No, mine, she thought suddenly, somehow a more rational thought. Or was it?

She unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped over the mail the mailman had pushed through the slot. Making her way down the hallway to her bedroom, she passed Mandy's room without looking inside. In her own bedroom, she walked around the sewing machine and the ironing board and put the knife carefully on the nightstand. She removed her coat and threw it onto the double bed, half of which was already loaded down with clothing.

Picking up the knife, she made her way to the kitchen, gathering up the mail and taking it with her. She fixed herself a cup of tea and sat down to look through the flyers and other junk. When she came to an envelope with no stamp addressed in block letters, her hands stilled over the pile.

Another one. All her breath seemed to leave her body in one whoosh. As she sighed deeply, her trembling fingers opened the envelope, and she pulled out the single sheet of paper.

HEARD YOU'RE STILL LOOKING FOR ME. GIVE IT UP. NOW!!

She got up slowly and went to the drawer where she'd put the other letters. When she had them clenched in her hand, sobbing, she brushed everything off the table with her arm. Salt and pepper, sugar bowl, old mail, a fork, and her tea went flying.

Still weeping quietly, she stood at the table and dealt the letters out like cards, putting the first one she'd received the farthest away from her, and the rest in rows until she had all six of them laid out.

The first one said, DIDN'T MEAN TO KILL HER.

The next two were the same, except the third one added, FORGIVE ME.

The fourth one said, STOP LOOKING FOR ME.

The fifth: I MEAN IT.

And now this sixth one. Lois ran her finger along the edge, smoothing, smoothing.

After awhile, she stood up and walked to the sink, crushing sugar, papers, and the salt shaker under her athletic shoes. She washed her hands, trying to wash away the despair she felt.

Mandy's dead. Mandy's dead. Find him. Kill him.

She sat down and put her head in her hands. Maybe she should go back to the police. But she'd already been once today. Nothing new, they told her. They had been of no help when it first happened over two months ago, and they took things and didn't give them back. Like that picture of Mandy. She didn't want them to have the letters. Somehow she'd find the man who had taken her daughter, her beautiful Mandy, and hurt her so bad, then killed her. Mandy who had turned sixteen the day before, and they'd had cake and ice cream, and Lois had bought her a teddy bear and a new coat.

Mandy, the only living person she had to love. Her life taken, and he might as well have taken Lois, too. But he hadn't, and there had to be a reason for that. Revenge is the reason.

Lois carefully put the letters in the drawer, the latest one on top. Mandy's dead. Find him. Don't let him get away.

She picked up the knife, shambled to the bedroom to get her coat, and went out again.

Walking down the cracked sidewalk to the small grocery on the opposite corner, she entered the store to the sound of the bell overhead. Mr. Stein looked up from a magazine, his face turning mournful when he saw her. His fifteen-year old daughter, a friend of Mandy's, disappeared behind the door to the back. It was too painful for both of them to see each other.

"I know nothing, Miz Thompson," Mr. Stein said before she could ask. His beaklike nose gave him the look of a predator, but Lois knew he was a nice man. His blue eyes looked at her kindly, and before Mandy was murdered, he had always smiled at her. Now she knew vaguely she made him uncomfortable. She made everyone uneasy now.

She'd have to find the killer, then move away--start a new life.

"It's all right, Mr. Stein. I came in for some groceries."

He nodded at her. "Anything I can do to help, let me know.” Then went back to his magazine. Utne Reader, she saw.

She picked up some salt, sugar, coffee, two cans of Ravioli, and a small loaf of bread. While she counted out her change, the mailman came in and handed Mr. Stein his mail wrapped in an elastic band.

"Doing okay today, Mr. Stein?" he asked.

"Fine, Jerry. Just fine. And you?"

"Can't complain," Jerry said. "How are you, Ms. Thompson?"

"Fine," she said shortly, gathering up her bags so she could leave. What a stupid question for people to ask her. She'd never be fine again. That was the answer they expected, though. She followed Jerry out. He held the jangling door for her, and she saw his gold wedding band. Of average height, he had an open, friendly face. A large gap showed between his two front teeth when he smiled. His sandy hair had begun to recede, and little lines showed at the corners of his eyes. But he had one of those faces that would always look young.

Lois felt old as she walked back to her apartment. Thirty-seven wasn't that old, though. She stepped into her kitchen and staggered back a step. Someone had been there. Stuff all over the floor. Then she remembered. She’d done it. She closed her eyes for an instant, then walked carefully around the mess and put away the groceries. In a fury, she swept and washed the floor, wiped down the counters and moved to the living room where she dusted and vacuumed. Then she went to her bedroom and began to put away the clothes piled on the bed. She folded up the ironing board and stashed it in the closet and closed the sewing machine.

He'd ruined her life. Look at how she was living. She had to find him, kill him, and move somewhere else. Anywhere else. Start over.

She made a cup of coffee, drank quickly, then retrieved the knife and her jacket and once again left the apartment.

She walked to the thrift store in the middle of the block. The old woman who stood behind the counter smiled a greeting. With all but about four teeth missing, the smile lost some of its brightness, but Lois tried to smile back. It felt forced, and she looked away.

"Anything new come in, Mrs. Blossom?" she asked.

"Sandy's putting stuff out now along the back wall. Some new books and doodads."

"I'll go look.”

She used to read all the time, but now she couldn't concentrate. He'd taken that pleasure away from her, too.

Sandy was slowly putting the books in order by author's name. Lois could hear him saying the alphabet under his breath. He loomed over her as she got closer, and a familiar feeling of unease overcame her. He smelled musty, as if he wore the clothes sold here without washing them first. Which he probably did. He had a strange oval face, vacant eyes, and his lips never quite closed over his large teeth.

Her heart drumming in her chest, she stood as far away from him as she could and studied the bright covers of the paperback books lining the shelves. Her hand went involuntarily to the knife in her jacket pocket. Suddenly she wondered if Sandy could write. How could she find out?

Mandy's dead! Mandy's dead! Find him! Kill him!

"Could you write this title down for me, Sandy?" Lois asked. "I want to see if I have it at home already before I buy it."

He nodded and went in back. He came out with a stubby pencil and a torn sheet of paper.

"Which one, Mrs. Thompson?"

She held out the book, and watched him slowly write the title in small block letters on the paper. The letters slanted in the opposite direction and were much smaller than the ones on the letters she had at home. Of course the killer wouldn't use his regular handwriting. But was Sandy smart enough to change his? She looked up at his smiling, guileless face when he handed her the slip of paper. Something told her it wasn't him.

She took the paper and said, "Thank you, Sandy."

He nodded and turned back to shelving the books.

Shoulders slumping, she left the shop without buying anything.

She stood outside a moment, and the liquor store across the street caught her eye. She swallowed, suddenly thirsty. Mandy's dead. Mandy's dead, thrummed in her head. She put the heels of her hands to her forehead and swayed back and forth.

Stop it! Leave me alone. I'm doing all I can. How can I find him?

Mandy's dead. Find him. Kill him.

There are too many people here. It could be anyone. It was hopeless. She made her way across the street.

In the liquor store, two young men were jazzing with the clerk. They stopped and watched her as she walked down the aisles looking for the cheap gin.

The silence made her look at them. Could be them.

Could be ANYONE!

The voice quieted, she found the gin and walked slowly to the counter. No one spoke as she pulled a twenty from her jacket pocket, her other hand holding onto the knife as if it were a lifeline.

Maybe it was.

The clerk gave her change and didn't even say, "Have a nice day," which she wouldn't, anyway. Maybe he knew that. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her. Knew what had happened to Mandy. She clutched the bottle in her left hand, her right tight on the knife.

The two young men followed her out. One put a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, turned quickly, the knife out, glinting in the late afternoon sunlight.

"Hey!" the taller one said. The one who'd touched her. "Mrs. Thompson. Look. My friend and me here, we just wanted to say if there's anything we can do to help you find that scuzzball . . ." He held his hands out, arms bent at the elbow, palms towards her. Half of a "put your hands up!"

She looked from one to the other. And relaxed. They weren't going to molest her here in broad daylight on a busy street. So what he said must be sincere. Carefully, she put the knife back inside her jacket.

Find him. Kill him.

"If you hear anything," she said, her eyes burning into theirs, "tell me first. Not the cops. They aren't doing anything."

The shorter one bobbed his head, looking sideways at his friend.

"I'm sure the cops . . . " began the tall one. He had thin brown hair, brown eyes in a narrow face. "Well, maybe not. They have a lot to do." His eyes slid away from her intense stare.

"Tell me first," she insisted, then turned and walked towards her apartment. They didn't try to follow.

At home, she poured herself some of the gin, adding two cubes of ice, and flopped down onto the couch in her now-clean living room. The liquor tasted sweet, almost like perfume. She really didn't like it, but she drank the first glassful like medicine.

After the third glass, she fell into a fitful sleep, the knife on the coffee table next to her. She dozed off and on until morning.

Sunlight hit her face around seven, and she got up groggily. She staggered into the coffee table, sending the knife clattering across the bare floor, the gin glass shattering.

She swore, picked up the knife, and took it with her to the bathroom.

Never take a step without it. Mandy's dead! Her head throbbed. She found aspirin in the medicine cabinet and gulped two down with some water.

Find him. Kill him! The litany didn't stop as she made her way carefully to the kitchen. She filled the coffee pot with water, measured out coffee, and moved the button to start.

Where to go today? The bank. She needed money. How much longer would her savings last? She'd quit her job at the insurance company after Mandy was murdered. She couldn't concentrate on filling in claim forms after that. Her expenses were small though. She hardly ate. In the last month she'd lost fifteen pounds. Rent was the biggest expense, and she might have to move, eventually. But not yet. She had to find him first, had to stay in this neighborhood long enough for that. Then she'd move. Far away. Maybe to the country. The big city which had once excited her, called to her to leave the small town where she was raised, no longer appealed.

After drinking two cups of coffee, she headed for the bank. Her favorite teller was free, and she walked over to the tall counter.

Find him. Kill him!

Shut up! I have to think.

She tried to smile at the teller. "I need to make a withdrawal."

"Of course, Mrs. Thompson. How much?"

Lois slid the slip across the counter. "One hundred," she said. "Can you tell me my balance?"

The teller nodded and began keying in information on her computer.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lois saw the bank manager approaching.

"Good morning, Mrs. Thompson," he said. Rotund, bald, he looked like everyone's idea of a bank manager. His belly preceded him like the bow of a ship. His feet looked tiny in their shinny black shoes.

Could be him.

Don't be ridiculous.

She tried to smile. Failed.

"I wanted you to know the bank started a fund for you. We now have $2,000, and we've deposited it into your account."

"What?" Lois stared at him stupidly, her mouth slightly agape.

"I said--"

"I'm sorry. I did hear you. I'm just surprised. Overwhelmed." She felt lightheaded. The money bought her time. This was the first good news she'd had in weeks. "Thank you," she said simply.

He beamed at her and turned away. "There'll be more, I'm sure," he said.

The teller gave her her new balance, and Lois left the bank in a daze.

She walked down the block to the drugstore. She needed more aspirin. The almost overpowering scent of perfume greeted her when she stepped in the door.

"Someone spill a bottle of cologne in here?" she asked when she saw Freda.

"Yeah, me," Freda said sheepishly. "Isn't it awful?"

"Pretty bad," agreed Lois, noticing the headache again, pounding behind her eyes.

Lois stared at her friend as if for the first time. She realized she hadn't looked at her closely in weeks. Freda had done something to her hair. It looked lighter, and curlier. She wore some bright purplish eyeshadow, a hazard, she'd once told Lois, of working among all those cosmetics. Her generous lips were a muddy color emphasized with a darker line around them. Her nails boasted the same color as her lips without the dark outline.

"So," Freda said, "whatcha been doing?"

"Looking."

Freda turned away, but not before Lois saw the pity in her eyes.

"The bank raised $2,000 for me, and I'm going to find him, Freda," Lois said.

"You still carrying that knife?" her friend asked, eyes wide.

Lois nodded and patted her pocket. "I have to find him."

Find him. Kill him.

"I know," Freda said softly.

A customer entered, and Lois looked at him carefully. Could he be the one? Since he was little, skinny and middle-aged, she didn't think so. She turned away to find the aspirin.

Her head still throbbed slightly as she left the drugstore, so she decided to go home.

The mail had been pushed into the slot on the front door, and Lois was careful not to trip over it. After taking off her jacket and dosing herself with more aspirin, she stooped to pick up the bunch which, because it included a couple of catalogs, was bound with a fat elastic band.

Lois took the stack to the kitchen, hoping there wouldn't be another letter. Her hands trembling, she slid the elastic band off the mail and flipped through it quickly. A sigh of relief escaped her when she didn't see one. Then her hands stilled over the pile, and she stared off into space.

You've found him! Kill him! Now!

Shaking all over, her eyes glazed, Lois retrieved her jacket, the knife, and left her apartment. Where would he be now? Had he already made his way down this side of the street and crossed over? She squinted and stood watching a moment. There he was, going into Mr. Stein's grocery.

Lois moved cautiously across the street towards the mailman. She saw the alley next to Mr. Stein's. She'd take him in there and . . .

KILL HIM!

Her fingers ached as they clutched the knife handle in her pocket. Jerry exited Mrs. Stein's store, and Lois met him at the mouth of the alley.

"Hello, Jerry."

KILL HIM NOW! DO IT!

"Mrs. Thompson," Jerry said. He looked at her warily.

"I need to talk to you. In here." She gestured towards the alley.

"Sorry, Mrs. Thompson, I'm kinda late. Need to hurry to finish my deliveries."

The knife came out of her pocket before she could even think, as if her hand worked of its own volition.

"In the alley," she said through clenched teeth.

"Hey. Hey! What are you doing?" He put his hands up a little, like the guy outside the liquor store.

"You killed her. You killed my Mandy," she said, her voice flat, despair making her shoulders slump. Determined, she raised them. "Bastard," she spat out. "Get in the alley!"

Jerry inched towards the alley, looking around frantically.

"Move," Lois said, raising the knife menacingly.

Jerry moved. "What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice high like a girl's.

Like Mandy's. Lois’s Mandy.

"Why'd you have to kill her?" Lois asked. "Why, why, why?"

"I didn't!" His voice sounded even louder, echoing in the alley.

"Yes, you did. And sent those letters. Two were wrapped up in an elastic band with the rest of the mail. How else could they get there if you didn't put them there?"

He was shaking now, and he eased his mailbag off his shoulder. "Please, Mrs. Thompson. Don't kill me. I didn't mean to hurt her. She just struggled so . . . "

Lois wanted to put her hands over her ears, but she forced herself to stand still. She had to do it.

NOW!

She lunged towards him, and he screamed, a long, shattering scream. Slashing at him blindly with the knife, she felt his fist hitting her face. A loud crack warned her that something broke. Ignoring the pain, she pulled her arm back as far as it would go and plunged the knife into his chest. With a whoosh, Jerry fell to his knees. She pulled the knife out with a jerk, and stabbed him again.

With a final gurgle, he slumped to the ground. Lois became vaguely aware of people behind her, people shouting.

A siren sounded in the distance, its wail mournful. Another joined in, and Lois backed up against the brick wall just before her knees gave way. She sank to the ground, the bloody knife still in her hand.

Her friends and neighbors stood there, surrounding her, when the cops arrived.

"Are you badly hurt, Miz Thompson?" Mr. Stein asked. "My daughter heard him admit he killed Mandy."

"Was he the one?" Freda asked, her eyes wide. "Lois? He hurt you. You've got a nasty bruise on your forehead, and it’s swelling badly." She bent down and took the hand that wasn't holding the knife.

"He killed Mandy," Lois whispered to Freda. Then she closed her eyes.

When she came to, the police were pushing everyone out of the alley.

Lois could hear the people shouting at them. "He attacked her. She was just defending herself. We saw it all. You can't arrest her. Self-defense. Self-defense."

You killed him. You did it, the voice exulted.

As they wheeled her into an ambulance, a blur of faces floated by, all smiling at her. Mr. Stein gave her a thumbs up sign. Freda patted her arm. Her head throbbed, and she realized she couldn’t feel anything from the neck down. Couldn’t wiggle so much as a toe. She was dying.

But, I found him, she whispered incredulously as the ambulance doors slammed shut. I found him. Now I’m going to find Mandy.

Copyright(c) 2003 by Jan Christenesen