Chapter Twenty-Four

Helene didn’t wonder anymore why she was alone. It had been so long since she’d had a social life, a boyfriend, a family, that the lack of those things had been reduced to a dull ache, at times not even noticeable. She filled her days with books, television, cigarettes, and Bloody Marys. It was the Bloody Marys, she supposed, that numbed her ache the most. By evening the memories and mistakes were nothing but a blur, no more real than the docudramas on Lifetime.

Helene Bright’s house was spotless, save for the quarter-full and half-empty tumblers of tomato juice and vodka one could find anywhere: living room, kitchen counter, night table in the bedroom, back of the toilet. Spotless save for the often close-to-overflowing ashtrays filled with Dunhill butts that also found a home in every room of her house.

Helene lay asleep on the couch, a Patricia Cornwell mystery open on her chest, David Letterman on the TV. Her mouth was open, and a line of drool ran down her chin. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, giving her an older, pinched look. Slack-jawed and snoring, who would have recognized this once-beautiful, wealthy woman, who could have had her pick of successful admirers? Her black sweater was littered with cigarette ashes and her black slacks on good terms with lint.

Helene eventually roused herself, lifted the remote from where it had been poking her in the ribs, and shut the TV off. She closed her book and set it on the coffee table. Cornwell’s heroine, Dr. Kay Scarpetta, would have to wait until tomorrow to see if the forensic expert made it out of her latest dangerous situation alive. Of course she would. Cornwell needed to keep Scarpetta alive to keep her own bank account thriving. It was only money and held no sway with Helene; she had more money than she would ever dream of. Her father, with his visions of microchips and high-tech ideas, had seen to that. She wondered if her life would have been different if she hadn’t been handed everything on a silver platter from when she was a young girl. Wondered even more if her brother Daniel would still be alive, and if her twin nephews would have had a different life story to tell.

Who knew? Even small changes in one’s life could produce vastly different outcomes, altering paths completely. Right now she could only find respite from the dull throbbing behind her eyes in sleep. She headed out of the den and toward the curving staircase in the foyer. As she started up the stairs, she remembered suddenly when she had first seen the house, how she had conjured up the happy home she would provide for Timothy once they had moved in, the house tastefully and professionally decorated. But a house didn’t bring happiness, nor did money, nor did a man.

Helene wondered, rounding the corner and heading into her bedroom, if happiness was even a possibility. She could have anything she wanted, and yet all she wanted to do was die. It didn’t matter that she could walk into Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus, or Barneys and buy anything she wanted. She wanted nothing.

She shed her clothes and went into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom. She appraised herself in the full-length mirrored wall adjacent to the shower. Her body was bone thin, the ribs protruding, the limbs sticklike. No one would ever want her. Not again. Those days were behind her, thank God. Still, it would have been nice to have someone to say good night to, someone to fall asleep next to in bed at night.

Quit the self pity, she told herself. It’s not an attractive quality. On the sink was a half empty Bloody, the water from the ice separated from the vodka and tomato juice. Helene picked it up and swirled the liquid around until it combined. Opening the medicine cabinet, she shook an Ambien out from the prescription bottle there, popped it in her mouth, and washed it down with the tepid, weak cocktail. “Cheers,” she whispered to her reflection. “To your health.” She laughed, and the laugh sounded hollow, empty, resonating off the marble walls of the bath. She hoped tonight she would sleep through the night. The pills no longer guaranteed anything. Many nights she found herself awake in silence, when it seemed everyone in the world was slumbering save for herself. She would smoke a cigarette and stare out the window at her back lawn, which adjoined a country club golf course. Manicured green for miles, dotted with a lake that was home to Canadian geese in the spring.

She slipped into her nightgown and pulled back the duvet. Sliding in between her Laura Ashley sheets, she closed her eyes and waited. A dull, dreamless slumber would come, overtaking her, stealing her consciousness for another night, or at least part of one, and she would awaken feeling drugged and heavy and arise to begin another day of boredom. She wondered why she hadn’t taken all the Ambiens and just gotten it over with.

Helene managed to sleep until a little after 4:00 a.m. But there was something different about her awakening, a difference that was not immediately apparent. Usually she awakened slowly, her head a groggy soup, feeling almost too heavy to lift.

But today she awoke all at once and felt no effects from the drink and the drug. Helene rolled over and looked at the clock. It was 4:10. She lay in bed for a moment or two, staring at the ceiling, before she realized she hadn’t swum up from an unsatisfying slumber but had been awakened by something.

She didn’t know immediately what had awakened her, but gradually she remembered. There had been a crash somewhere in the house. Once she grasped this, she realized it had been the sound of breaking glass, and it had come from somewhere below her. Everything in her tightened. Muscles became like steel and her heart pounded. She lived in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in one of the richest suburbs in the country and yet had never experienced a break-in. Amazingly, she had never had an alarm system installed.

Suddenly, Helene was afraid. Her desire to die was a lie. She didn’t want anyone to harm her, let alone kill her. She sat up in bed when she heard movement below, a heavy footstep on the floorboards in the kitchen. She squeezed the pillow beneath her, clutching it so tight the muscles in her fingers threatened to cramp.

With as much stealth as she could muster, she slid from her bed and went into the bathroom. She didn’t turn the light on but dressed silently, breathlessly, in the dark. She found her shoes under the bed and slid into them.

There was no gun in the house, and the only protection she could think of for herself, a knife, would be in the kitchen. And from what she could make out, that’s exactly where the sounds were coming from.

She sat down on the bed and lifted the receiver of the telephone on the nightstand. She shuddered when she heard a dead line, no dial tone, no nothing.

Oh my God, they’ve cut the line. She had no way to cry for help. She cursed herself for resisting buying a cell phone.

Another sound from below caused her to jump and give out a small cry. Perhaps, she thought, just perhaps, I could slip out the front door undetected. Moving to her closet, she grabbed a coat. Her hands were trembling. She wished more than ever that she was not alone.

Helene moved down the stairs, praying a creak would not give her away. When she got to the curve in the staircase that would give her a view toward the kitchen, she saw the room was flooded with light. There was no doubt now that there was someone in her house. At four o’clock in the morning…

Let them have everything, she thought as she stepped off the bottom stair. The doorway was in front of her. Beyond it lay freedom: freedom from harm, from the kind of death she had only read about in newspapers.

She scurried across the parquet and had her hand on the doorknob when she heard a footstep behind her. Close. She sucked in some breath. Her hand, which was aloft, dropped. She froze, heart pounding so hard she feared it would explode.

She didn’t dare turn and look. She didn’t want to see who had come to her home, who had invaded her sanctuary. She shut her eyes tight, preparing herself for the sudden blow to the back of her head, the jab of a knife, the report of gunfire…

Another footstep. Closer. She bit her lip to hold in the scream that burned in her throat. Another footstep. Helene could feel the presence of the intruder, standing silently behind her. She swore to herself she could almost feel his breath; certainly she could hear it.

Her muscles unclenched, and she felt free to move. Perspiration made her body slick under her clothes. Think, she told herself, think.

To her right was the living room. On every wall were banks of floor-to-ceiling windows. It would be a simple matter to raise one of those windows, jump out, and head down the brick driveway. One of her neighbors would help her. Of course they would.

But the intruder was standing close enough to prevent her from doing this, especially when she’d have to pause to unlock the window and raise it. She imagined how a knife would feel sliding between her ribs as she fumbled with the windows. Imagined what the report of a gun would sound like in the silence of the night, wondered what it would feel like as the bullet entered her. Would it burn?

Finally, feeling more helpless than she ever had, she screamed.

The light from the chandelier hurt her eyes with its sudden brilliance.

“Don’t scream,” a male voice from somewhere behind her said. A voice that was agonizingly familiar. Where had she heard that voice before? Where had she at least heard one like it?

Helene couldn’t move for a few seconds. She was disoriented by the light, and her fear paralyzed her. Lately, her opinion of herself hadn’t been high, but she was ashamed now for being so helpless.

There was but one course open to her. She realized she didn’t have much of a chance, but it was her only option. She steeled herself, breathing deep, and dashed for the living room.

She struggled to unlock the window nearest to her, the one next to the fireplace. When she opened the window, cold air rushed in. Odd, her intruder hadn’t pursued her. She heard no footsteps echoing her own when she ran. She put one foot out the window and had raised her leg to follow with the other foot when she heard the voice again.

“Don’t go. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Oh God!” Helene screamed. No, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. This was a nightmare, and soon she would awaken, dull gray light seeping in through her bedroom windows.

She whirled and saw him standing there in the foyer, looking as small and helpless as he had always looked. Had looked in life. Timothy.

“You’re dead,” she whispered, still poised with one foot out the living room window. She pulled her leg back in.

Timothy grinned. “One could say dead and buried. But that wouldn’t be quite true, now would it?” He laughed.

Helene righted herself on the living room floor. “Timothy,” she gasped. She reached out to him and, with the effort of lifting her arms, saw his image go blurry before her.

She collapsed.