Be afraid, Martha.
The voice woke her—or had she heard it when she was waking up, floating somewhere in the gauzy transition between sleep and wakefulness? The important thing was that she heard it. Not a dream, but a clear and distinct auditory sensation.
And it had been Lenny’s voice.
Martha lay in the bed, paralyzed, staring up at the plaster ceiling in the gray light of dawn, listening.
Lydia’s house. Her window was open. A distant peal of seabirds, the rumble of a utility truck somewhere blocks away. The bed linens were damp next to her skin, but she didn’t move, terrified that any action on her part would prompt further comment, confirm that Lenny was there, might be sitting in the chair next to the window.
It was the first time she had heard Lenny’s voice in months, except in dreams. It frightened her, but there was also something seductive about it, like a boyfriend she knew was no good for her.
She lay there frozen, not daring to turn her head, watching the room brighten, listening to the chatter of birds multiply outside the window. Finally, she forced her head to turn slightly, just enough to glance at the ceramic clock on the bedside table.
6:05.
That simple action began to break the paralysis. She scanned the left wall, then lifted her head to take in the rest of the room. Satin draperies, antique wardrobe, empty chair by the window. All quiet. Nothing. She moved her arms and legs, flexing tentatively, letting the circulation return.
Martha sat up in the bed, took another look around the room, and began to relax. No Lenny here, just a new day, full of fresh prospects.
And the names. In all her upheaval last night, she had forgotten to tell Lydia about the commissioners’ middle initials, the funny way they almost spelled out the name of the investment group. She had been feeling a little embarrassed about it, especially after the way Sheriff Morris brushed it off. Have a little confidence. You have to tell her.
She climbed out of bed and stretched, wide awake, rested, and starting to feel like herself again. She doubted Lydia would be up this early, but it might be a nice gesture to go downstairs and get a pot of tea started.
At the foot of the stairs, Martha glanced toward the parlor. Clocks ticked their secret language in the dusky room. And sitting in her easy chair, fast asleep—Lydia.
Martha smiled. How often might this happen—the woman losing herself in her quilting project, letting sleep catch up with her rather than face retiring to her bedroom alone?
Martha turned and tiptoed through the dining room, passed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. She eased it closed to avoid making any sound. A teakettle sat on the stove, just where she would expect it to be, already full of water. Martha turned on the gas burner and started looking through cabinets for the tea service.
She took her time with the preparation. She wanted to give Lydia sufficient time to wake up and go upstairs, and to spare the woman the potential embarrassment of being discovered.
Martha sat in a chair at the kitchen table and waited, thinking about the book project, until the kettle began to hiss. She turned off the flame and returned to the foyer. She paused and took another look into the sitting room.
The room was brighter now, the first rays of sunrise penetrating through a window sheer, dust motes dancing. This time, Martha noticed something odd—one of the fuchsia curtains was half-closed, the staying cord undone. And Lydia sat there, motionless.
Now Martha could see that the woman’s hand was lolling to the side of the chair, and her teacup was on the floor, upside down. She took a few steps into the room. Lydia’s hair was burnished in the morning sun, her head tilted against the backrest. Martha reached the side of the chair and felt the carpet squish underfoot. Spilled tea.
“Lydia?”
Martha bent over to pick up the cup, then touched the woman’s hand. It was cold, unresponsive.
Martha felt a chasm of panic opening inside her. She repeated Lydia’s name, shouted it, groped for the switch on the chair-side lamp. The light came on and glinted off the old woman’s eyes—eyes that were wide open. Blue-gray orbs, glazed. Flecked with blood spots.
Don’t panic, Martha. A stroke? A seizure? Is it too late?
Martha yanked the quilt off Lydia, scattering the fabric shapes like confetti. She touched the woman’s neck, feeling for a pulse, any sign of life. Her fingers touched something hard there, something unnatural. She bent down to get a look and saw a deep crease in the flesh, the woman’s throat crimped like the neck of a balloon. Embedded in the crease, the woven fibers of a curtain stay.
Martha stepped backward, knocking over the lamp, hyperventilating. A wildfire was igniting in her mind, feelings of anger, horror, and sadness leaping up like tongues of flame, interweaving, licking at the base of her skull. Hold it together, Martha. Do something. You’ve got to be able to think, you have to do certain things….
There was a phone in the room, on the end table next to the couch. Porcelain phone, brass dial. Martha took a step toward the phone, stopped. She knew she couldn’t use the phone, not that one. She couldn’t make the call in the presence of the body, the woman’s dead eyes watching….
Another phone? Where? Think. In the hall…
Martha backed out of the room, her limbs working like rubber. She touched the furniture, the walls, feeling her way toward the foyer.
Blue-gray orbs. Dead. Oh God—how—
Around the corner, she found the phone. Occasional table. Lace doily. Antique phone, brass and ceramic, rotary dial.
She willed herself to pick up the receiver, her hand feeling numb, and twirled the dial. Just three digits. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click. The dial took forever….Click-click.
“Nine-one-one,” a female dispatcher’s voice answered after the first ring. “What’s your emergency?”
“I—” Martha’s voice caught in her throat, the words coming out toneless, breath only. Neck creased, like a balloon. “There’s been a—” Spilled tea, eyes open—
“Could you speak up, please?”
“There’s been a murder.” Martha blurted the words into the mouthpiece, her chest heaving. “She’s dead—oh my God, she’s dead—”
“Ma’am, please try to remain calm. You’re at—four-thirty-three Worthington Lane, correct?” Martha nodded her head, then remembered to speak aloud. “Yes—”
“Ma’am—did you say a murder?”
“I think—yes—I think—”
“Are you in any immediate danger?”
Martha glanced around the hallway. “I don’t think—I don’t know—”
“Emergency Services is on the way, ma’am. The address has been transmitted and they will be there very shortly. We’ve also got a sheriff’s unit already patrolling in the area. I’m going to patch you directly through, okay?”
Martha nodded, again forgetting to speak. There was a click, a pause, and then a humming sound. A male voice came in over the rushing sound.
“Sheriff Morris here.”
Martha gripped the ceramic handset, head flushing hot. The handset. Brass mouthpiece, glazed flowers. Knotted drapery cord.
“Hello?” Morris said. “Hello, are you there? I got a message. I’m just about three blocks away. To whom am I speaking?”
Martha could hear his siren come on through the receiver.
“Hello?”
Don’t speak, Lovie. The voice of Lenny hissed in her head like a ruptured radiator hose. No use having kittens, innit? That’s how they’ll catch you. Don’t let him hear your voice.
“Listen—” Morris continued. “You don’t have to talk, just don’t hang up the phone, just wait where you are. I’m very close, I’m at the corner of Pearl and Worthington.”
Martha heard another siren, this one outside of the phone, someplace nearby. Two sirens. The same siren.
“Hello? Are you there? Martha? It’s you, isn’t it, Martha?”
See, he knows, Lovie, he knows. He knows. Don’t speak, Martha. Don’t speak.
Martha held the handset away from her ear, staring at it. Oh God…the eyes, cold hands…Think. What was it her father had said? In the dream? The bait, the fish, the barb, what they don’t see…
Who’s the O in Heron? Lenny said. You already know, don’t you? You’re in denial. Denial ain’t no gully in Egypt.
The police siren was getting louder, and Martha glanced around the dim foyer, looking for some sign of what to do next. Stairway, sunny patches, morning light, balustrades, antique coatrack—and the shapes were beginning to move. They rotated, darkened and contracted and rotated, and then drew down into a funnel, and other images began to intrude, visions from the past several days in Amberleen—orange lights, the strange creature in the tree, her father in the boat, Lady Albertha, Morris—the images spun around and around her, like scenes glimpsed from the car of a herky-jerky carnival ride.
Then the car jerked to a stop and she was left with just one image—the sallow, smirking face of Lenny, standing alone at the center of a dark and wasted landscape, a cigarette dangling from his scaly lips.
We know what to do, Lovie. We’ve always known.
The siren wailed, getting very close. The sound jolted Martha, brought her back into the foyer. Morris’s voice continued to yammer through the receiver, but distant now, like a broken toy.
Run, Martha, Lenny whispered in her ear. Run like hellfire.