“WELL, THIS HITS THE spot, I must say!”
He sat at the kitchen table, hunched forward in a bankerish gray suit, sipping hot coffee. Then he looked reassuringly at her, shook his head for emphasis, and noisily drank more coffee. His straight gray hair was matted down and his scarf still hung around his neck, though he’d dumped his wet overcoat on a chair in the parlor. He caught her staring at him and offered an avuncular smile. How could it be the same man? The hair, the nose, the bulk of the body …
“It’s positively hellish out there,” he said. “Trees knocked over, telephone wires all tangled up and pulled into the street down in the village, fog, snow—damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at her where she stood by the counter. “Is that a loaf of homemade bread behind you?”
“Yes. I found it in the freezer—”
“If you don’t mind, some toast. No, you sit down, I’ll get it myself.” He pulled out a chair for her and went to the wooden block that held the knives. She watched him select one, admire the blade. “You want a slice?” She shook her head and he carefully sliced a thick piece, dropped it in the toaster. “At least the electricity isn’t out,” he said. “If I were you, I’d be ready for anything tonight. I hear there’s a god-awful accident on the Verrazano Bridge, completely blocked it off.”
She tried to smile. “How did you get here?”
“Came out yesterday, not long after I spoke with you on the phone. Decided to drive out and see a friend, he talked me into staying overnight, and today came the storm.” He shrugged, looked into the toaster to see if all was well. “As long as I was here, I figured I’d look you up. The story you told me yesterday worried me. I thought you might welcome a friendly face.” He smiled. The toast popped up and he buttered it. “Where’s your aunt, by the way? Didn’t you say she’d be here?”
“My former husband’s aunt, actually. I don’t know where she is. Atlantic City, I guess. It’s a little confusing.” Watching his face, she felt as if she’d entered a fun house—nothing was what it seemed. She was relaxing again, chatting with him. Yet he was Barry … God, she had to keep it all straight. He was the friendly deliveryman. He was D’Allessandro. He was Dr. Drummond.
“I’ve been wondering about your murderer,” he said, munching the toast. “Eerie story. Is there any news on that front? Have they found him?” He was staring at her, chewing, reassuring. He had cut Bradley Nichols to pieces.
“No, not yet. Still looking.”
“They’ve got a hell of a night for it.” He looked out the window over the sink, shook his head, came back and sat down. “I’ve been going over what you told me yesterday. You really have had a plateful. Lots of stress. Too bad you happened to see the guy with the gun in the first place. Bad luck.” He finished the toast and pulled a pipe from his pocket. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She had a pain in the middle of her chest and trying to force herself to be calm seemed only to make it worse. She watched him light the pipe, shake out the match, drop it on the plate. He puffed, smiling at her. “Very peaceful here, isn’t it? Snug.” He frowned. “I suppose I’m being terribly insensitive, given your present anxieties. But it will all be over soon enough.” Smoke hung in an aromatic cloud between them.
“We sound like characters in a soap opera,” she said. “A dark and stormy night, doctor comes to visit patient, a murderer on the loose—”
“A bit overwrought? Is that what you’re saying?”
She nodded. “The stuff of nightmares.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Well, you seem to be holding up very well. More power to you. Think it sounds like a soap opera, do you? Then that makes me a soap-opera psychiatrist.” He laughed. “We’re all just actors, then.” He laughed again.
They went into the parlor. He knelt before the grate and jabbed the fire back to roaring life. He was so bloody convincing! She kept being lulled.
They sat quietly, listening to the crackle of the flames in the dry logs, the wind whipping along the front porch, the snow rattling at the windows, the house protesting.
Suddenly she sat up straight, cocked her head.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Listen … do you hear that?”
He listened, puffing. “Sounds like a cat—is that what you mean?”
“I noticed it last night. But I can’t find any cats. I’m glad I’m not imagining it.”
“Little fellow sounds like he’s in trouble somewhere. You’re not imagining it. We’d better see if we can find him.” He looked at his watch. “Then I’d better be going. God only knows how long it’ll take to get back to town.”
Natalie stood up and took the poker from the stand beside the fireplace.
“I don’t think we need to go armed,” Drummond said quietly. He reached for the poker.
She drew back, laughed nervously. “I keep thinking that maybe the cat cornered a rat or something. I’d feel better with this.”
“Right. Well, let’s go then.” He set off into the hallway and up the stairs. “A shrink must be ready for anything.” He chuckled.
She watched him go up the stairs ahead of her. A solid, imposing figure, everybody’s idea of an authority figure, always ready to help … He said he’d be going once they found the cat. She had the poker. She couldn’t show him any of her fear, her weakness. She had to hang on. Hang on, Tiger, be a tiger. He turned at the landing and held up his hand for her to be quiet. In the stillness they heard the weak meowing.
“Third floor,” he said. He felt for a light switch and dim, yellow illumination came on at the top of the narrow stairway. She’d never been to the top floor of the house before. He was halfway up the stairs, looked back. “Well, come on, you’ve got the weapons.”
The sound of the cat grew stronger as they climbed, a pained, wounded sound that made her skin crawl. Drummond looked back. “Scary, isn’t it?” he said.
At the top of the stairs she drew even with him, both of them out of breath. She gripped the poker tightly. Barry-as-Drummond is not dangerous. … She gulped air. Barry-as-Barry is a homicidal maniac. …
“Why, you’re shaking, Natalie,” he said. “We’re just looking for a cat.”
The doors opening off the long, narrow hallway were all closed. The light was so dim she didn’t realize at first that there was another door at the far end. Her eyes accustomed themselves to the light and at the same time she heard the cat again.
Then she saw it.
It was crawling toward them, hugging the floor, coming out of the shadows at the far end. It was barely visible, almost a fragment of shadow that had detached itself from the main body of darkness. A tiny, frail creature, moving slowly, moving from side to side as if its gyroscope was out of control. It reminded her of nothing so much as a wind-up animal whose mechanism had just about given up the struggle.
They moved toward it as if it were somehow dangerous. It was making an awful, strangled sound, raw and painful, as it moved, crablike, toward them.
The smell hit her about halfway down the hall.
There was something horribly wrong. …