19

On Sunday Cary woke early, bunched the pillow under her head, and rolled onto her back. Wind brushed the maple trees outside and leaves did a shadow dance across the ceiling in the translucent light of dawn. Except, with her eyesight, it was always the edge of midnight.

Why didn’t Arlette call? All those things Cary kept telling herself—that Kelby went to see a friend, visit a sick relative, was seized by a sudden need for a vacation—were no longer possible to believe. If Kelby was simply away, why hadn’t she called her sister? Unless she was totally irresponsible. Arlette wasn’t the type to have an irresponsible friend.

Deep in her heart, Cary knew something bad had happened. Maybe an accident, maybe Kelby had gone somewhere and was taken ill, got hit by a bus, had emergency surgery. Amnesia. Ha, sure. How long before someone who knew Kelby would come by looking for her? Cary curled into a ball, arms hugging her knees. Could Mitch have known what she was planning? Know where she was going? Gotten here ahead of her? Could he have done something to Kelby?

Birds twittered outside with all the noise and busyness of starting a new day. She opened the curtain and sunlight slanted in. Grabbing Kelby’s robe, she went to the kitchen and spooned grounds in the coffee maker, poured in water, and waited, watching the coffee drip through. If she told the police who she really was, and that Kelby was missing, she’d just have to face the consequences. But if Mitch found her … She felt like shrieking. Would there ever be a time when she could be herself? When she would be safe? Not a quivering bundle of fear?

With shaky hands she filled a mug with coffee and took it out on the screened porch. She could almost taste the heat and corn and dust. A cat ran along the fence, a small rodent dangling from its mouth. The hunter going home with the kill. Mitch was patient, like the cat, hunting, ready to grab her by the neck and shake her until it broke.

She took a sip of hot coffee. He’d never give up his search. Only upon looking back did she realize how much she had endured. How could she have just stayed, getting beaten, trembling like a scared rabbit? She peered closely at her watch. Still early, not yet six. Eight in California. She’d call again. Arlette had to be home at eight A.M. on Sunday morning.

After a shower, she dressed in blue pants and a white shirt. She was getting used to walking, it wasn’t taking her as long or making her as tired, but people were beginning to recognize her. She could feel them watching. If they smiled or waved, it was lost in the dark around her tunnel of sight. At the public phone outside of Erle’s Market, she thumbed in coins, pleading, be there, be there, be there. The phone rang four times and the answering machine clicked in. No! Damn it! Arlette, where are you?

“Got your paper ready,” the elderly man who ran the magazine store called to her from his doorway.

Startled, she turned with the guilty feeling of having been caught at something. “Oh great,” she said trying to sound like she hadn’t been scared out of what few wits she possessed. “Thank you. And the Hampstead Herald, too, please.”

“Hot enough for you?” He picked up the second paper and slipped both in a bag.

“I could do with a little less.” She paid him with Kelby’s money and took the bag without even looking at headlines. Holding the page at the end of her nose and shifting it around to read was embarrassing. She didn’t want the world to know her weakness.

“Yep. What we need is rain. Break this hot spell.”

She agreed. She must get a tote bag to carry stuff. When would Stephanie pay her? Tomorrow was Monday, maybe that would be payday. On the way back, she stopped at Clancy’s Bakery and bought two glazed doughnuts. By the time she got home, the sun was burning through the blouse on her back and she realized why iced tea seemed such a good idea. Never mind, she wanted coffee. The screened porch off the kitchen was not yet unbearable. With coffee and doughnuts on the small table, she settled in the wicker chair and plumped a cushion behind her back.

With a snap, she unfolded the Chronicle, held it close to her face, and made out the headlines. She sipped and nibbled, brushing at glazed sugar that fell in her lap. She wasn’t the lead headline, but there was an article about her disappearance. After six days with no word or indication what had happened, foul play was suspected. Suspected? The foul play happened long before she left, when Mitch was beating on her.

She folded the page and on the bottom half read BERKELEY WOMAN BEATEN TO DEATH. She brought the paper closer and peered at the small print. Local attorney Arlette—

Mouth open, she tried to draw in air. No. It couldn’t be Arlette. Not Arlette. Oh God, no, please, no. Local attorney Arlette Coleridge … No mistake. Her hands tightened into fists, crumpling the paper. Arlette was dead, beaten to death.

When Arlette hadn’t turned up for work for three days, a coworker went to check on her and found the body. Because there was no evidence the house had been broken into, police speculated she had let her attacker in. Whoever it was had beaten her severely. She died from the injuries. Mouth filling up with saliva, Cary dashed to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, and vomited a vile brown mix of grief and fear. When her stomach stopped heaving, she leaned against the tub, weak and sweaty.

Staggering to the bedroom, she fell on the bed and wrapped herself in the sheets. She wept, bitter guilty tears. Arlette—smart, brave, funny Arlette, who made her laugh, and made her see truths, and helped her escape. Arlette was dead. Not possible. How could somebody with so much energy and intelligence and beauty be dead? Gone.

No. No. No. Oh God, not Arlette. Cary cried and yelled and beat on the pillow. Morning turned into afternoon and afternoon into evening and she lay in the sheets, shivering in ninety-degree heat. Why? Why was Arlette killed? Why beaten? Because whoever killed her wanted something? Like the whereabouts of Cary Black? Was Arlette beaten and beaten until she gave him that information?

It wasn’t some stranger who just happened along. It was someone she knew, someone she let into her house. Cary had warned her that Mitch was dangerous.

The crying continued late into the night. When Cary finally slept she dreamed, terrifying nightmares of Mitch chasing Arlette through the cornfield with an upraised ax. He hacked off a hand, then an arm at the elbow, then the upper part of the arm. She woke up screaming. Monday morning, she moved like a zombie, showered, dressed, and walked to work. Stephanie was, as usual, in a hurry, but she paused long enough to throw a questioning glance at Cary.

Cary knew she looked terrible, dark circles under red-rimmed eyes. She bathed Elizabeth, fed her, turned her, rubbed lotion on her back, and read to her, all the while preoccupied and wondering what to do.

When she lost her place in the book the second time, Elizabeth grabbed her wrist and shook it. “Haay.”

Cary watched her struggle to retrieve a word buried somewhere behind the stroke-injured brain.

Elizabeth hit the mattress with her fist. “Shit!”

Cary stroked the back of Elizabeth’s hand. “It’ll come. You just have to keep trying.”

“Sss—sssaa—ssad?”

Cary nodded. “Yes. Not very good company today. Sorry.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Wh-wh…?”

“Why? A friend died.”

“Kkkk—”

“Kelby? No, not Kelby.”

By the time Stephanie breezed back, bringing in a swirl of hot air, Cary had made up her mind. Instead of going home, she went to the bus station and bought a ticket to Topeka. On the bus, she sat with a damp tissue in hand, thinking about Arlette. In Topeka she left the depot, climbed on a city bus and rode until she spotted a phone booth next to a drugstore. She got off, fumbled coins from her pocket, and punched in a number.

“Berkeley Police Department.”

She knew the call was being recorded. The shorter, the better. “Ask Officer Mitch Black about Arlette Coleridge’s murder.”

“Ma’am, what’s your name?”

She hung up. They would know the call came from Topeka, and could probably find the phone if they wanted, but they couldn’t know who made the call.

*   *   *

Ducking her head, Cary walked under a low branch that brushed her temple as she went past. A memory hit her like a slap, the strong odor of beer, the smell of it on his breath, the taste of it on his mouth. His gun against her temple when she talked of leaving. Gripped by cold terror, she stood behind a tree looking at the house. He was inside, waiting for her.

Stop! You’re making up nonsense and scaring yourself. She forced herself to walk to the house, up the steps, inside the porch, open the front door. She peered into the living room. Empty. Kitchen empty. She didn’t want to open the basement door. She could see him hiding back in the dim recesses under the house. Pushing herself, she started down the stairs. Her knees threatened to give way and dump her on the cement floor. The basement was empty.

Upstairs? The old house creaked and groaned. Nerves skittered along the back of her neck. She climbed the stairs, expecting a bullet to pierce her back, her blood to splatter all over Kelby’s white walls. She eased into the little room that was used as an office. Empty. No one was in Kelby’s bedroom. The bedroom Cary was using, also empty. Shaky, she smoothed the sheets and pulled up the bedspread.

What about Elizabeth? Had Cary put her in danger? Helpless, lying in bed, unable to talk, unable to walk. And Stephanie? Was she in danger? For helping, giving Cary a job? Leave. Take Kelby’s car and all the money you can get your hands on and run. Oh yeah, that’s smart. With her eyesight? Get in an accident and kill somebody. That’ll help.

She could feel him out there somewhere. He would watch, from the cornfield, from the barn, from one of the other outbuildings. She was alone, with no way to get help.