That night, in spite of the seeming “reconciliation,” Felix had still refused to enter the house. Gregory slept fitfully. In the morning, he and Sharon exchanged only monosyllables. He hadn’t yet decided on what to do about the cat’s attack on Sharon. The thought of having it euthanized repelled him. It would be like murdering an old and trusted friend. Sharon hadn’t relinquished her demand, however. She’d mentioned it again over breakfast. So he went into the garden to find Felix, have a talk with him in their own manner and, finally, to reach a decision.
The cat didn’t answer his whistles or his calls, so he walked around to the front of the house.
From a distance, the mass on top of the fence fronting the road looked like a pile of garbage someone had tried to throw over into the garden. But as he approached the fence, it slowly became obvious to Gregory that it wasn’t garbage. He broke into a trot, and as he grew closer, he realized with mounting horror that it was a cat, and then that it was his cat.
He’d read somewhere that cats always land on their feet, and Felix had evidently tried. One spike had speared the soft underside of his belly, another his chest. Blood had run down the rods, gathering on the crossbar, and then dripped down to the concrete foundation where it formed a red stain.
Gregory stood, unable to move, a lump in his throat. There was no way Felix could have jumped onto the spikes. The fence was six feet high. He must have been thrown by someone, something.
He climbed up onto the concrete ledge and tried to pull the cat off, ignoring the blood as best he could. But the spikes were firmly embedded and it required an effort to pry the body loose. With a final tug, he pulled it off and jumped to the ground, holding the dead animal by the neck.
It must have required considerable force for the spikes to have penetrated this deeply. Gregory shook his head, aghast.
At last, he carried the cat over to the garage and grabbed a spade. Finding a soft patch of garden soil, he laid Felix down beside it, and began to dig. A cold fury gripped him as he drove the spade into the ground with short, powerful strokes. It had been a senseless atrocity and he wished that there was something he could do, some vengeance he could inflict upon the person or thing responsible.
Sweat was pouring down his face and neck by the time the hole was deep enough. He dropped Felix in and shoveled the dirt back without ceremony. He stamped the dirt down with his feet. Then he took the spade back into the garage and went to the house to clean up and change.
He washed the blood and sand off his arms, wiped the perspiration from his face and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked a little mad, he thought. His mouth was a hard, straight line; his eyes wild and determined. If this was intended to cow him, it had not achieved the desired effect, for it had only intensified his desire to strike back. If only there were a tangible enemy to fight.
Sharon came into the bathroom. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Did you find the cat?”
“Yes,” he said curtly. “I just buried it.”
She lifted a hand to her mouth. “You killed it yourself?”
“No. Somebody else did the job for me.”
She was mystified by the expression on his face, the tautness of his voice. The skin on his cheeks was drawn back and he looked ready to explode.
“What do you mean, Greg?” There was trepidation in her voice, as if she was already afraid of the answer.
He swung round and faced her, his voice connecting them like a wire, holding her in place, his eyes boring into her. “I found Felix impaled on the front fence. Somebody threw him down on top of it.”
“What… Oh, my God… Who…?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll get the…”
“Who?” she said. “Get who?”
“I don’t know. Forget it. It’s over, done. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
“But that’s terrible,” she said. “That’s the most vicious thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Well, you wanted the cat dead, didn’t you?” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. It was unfair, but he had to lash out in some direction.
Her face flushed and she glared at him. “Yes, I did. But not like that. And you know it!”
“Of course I do. Please forgive me.”
Sharon looked at him narrowly. “As long as you’re okay,” she said uncertainly. “Someone’s trying to get back at you Greg, I’m telling you.”
That was an odd choice of words, Gregory thought. He searched her face, looking for any hint of Eleanor, any familiar expression, but saw only concern.
Then she did one of those quick-changes that always amazed him. “Listen, I’ve got to go on a call. I’m late already. But I’ll be back for dinner. Then we’re going to Richard’s party, right?”
Gregory wanted to describe the tangled mess of Felix’s guts to her, shock her, “This isn’t a movie, goddammit! This is life! It was my cat!” But there would be no point to it.
“Yes, we’re still going to the party,” he said heavily. He forced a sardonic smile. “You might make some valuable contacts there.”
She tried to read his eyes, but there was nothing there except some deep resolve that made her feel vaguely frightened. She dropped her gaze and kissed him on the cheek. “See you later, Greg,” she said.
He nodded. After she had gone, he leaned on the sink and dropped his head. If only he knew what to do. The waiting was chipping away at his reserves—waiting for the next thing to happen and then not being able to do anything about it except wait for more. It was chipping at him. Chipping.
Gregory spent the rest of the day working. He’d decided to continue the book in spite of everything. It was the ideal palliative. Brooke could be lost in eternity, the devils could be tearing his walls down or torturing him with spite, but he knew that as long as he could work, he could maintain some control over his life.
By night, he felt more able to face the party. The work had gone well and cheered him considerably. He even surprised Sharon with a show of tenderness. It wasn’t hard for him to do; she looked ravishing in a light purple dress, her black hair plaited and twisted into a heavy bun, her smile bright and excited. The sleeves of her dress covered the marks on her arms. It was as if nothing had happened.
Gregory felt both admiration and affection toward her for her resilience. If all it took was a party to get her out of a slump, it was perhaps nothing but self-indulgence that allowed him to wallow in the depression and doubt that had been seizing him recently. That realization, together with his new-found resolve to somehow give back as good as he was getting, combined to elevate his mood, not to a point that equaled Sharon’s, but at least to where her high spirits did not irritate him.
Richard Willmer lived in Pacific Palisades on a hill overlooking the ocean, and during the long drive down Sunset, Gregory managed to sustain an amusing conversation, delighting Sharon and surprising himself.
Their host greeted them at the door, hugging Gregory warmly and kissing Sharon while complimenting her on her appearance. When he inspected Gregory, however, he grimaced, and told him he looked as if he had been working too hard.
“Don’t complain,” Gregory said. “I do it just so you can keep up payments on this house.”
Willmer laughed, showing teeth that looked as if they had never been used before. He wore fashionable jeans and a designer striped shirt, and looked as fit as a marathon runner.
“I won’t talk shop again tonight, but how’s the book coming?” he said to Gregory in a low voice.
“I’m a little behind—did more research than I’d expected,” Gregory said blandly. “But it’s coming along fine now.”
“Good! Good!” Willmer said, rubbing his hands together energetically. He led them to the bar. “This barman can mix everything you’ve ever heard of,” he said.
Gregory ordered a margarita, Sharon a screwdriver. The party was already well under way. There were about forty people so far, most of them in the living room, although a large group had swirled out to the patio for a view of the ocean and to sit around the lighted pool.
Willmer dragged Sharon across the room to “meet some people you should know.” Gregory found himself talking to Willmer’s girlfriend of the moment, a young blonde actress named Grace with a beautifully bounteous body that oozed sex. “I hear you’ve been working hard,” Gregory said.
“Ooh, yes,” she said breathily. “I hardly have any time to play with Richard these days. I just did The Return of the Ant Men with Blake Connors. It was such a demanding part, I was just exhausted afterward and had to go to Acapulco for a week to recover.”
She gushed on, gathering steam, jumping from one subject to the next, now touching his hand, now his elbow, never missing a moment of the action in the room around her, yet trying to give the impression that she was entranced by his sparkling company.
After running through her Acapulco trip, her list of credits, her tastes in music, food, drink, and men, she asked him to remind her what films he had produced recently.
“I’m a writer,” he said.
Grace turned blank eyes on him. “A writer?” She gave the word a connotation that ranked it with waiters, caterers, film editors, union cameramen and other occupations that couldn’t possibly assist her career.
He began to tell her what he did, but he could see he’d lost her. Her eyes drifted off as she calculated her next move with the finesse of a dancing bear. It came when she saw somebody across the room. She waved enthusiastically, throwing her head back in what was intended to be a joyous smile of recognition and welcome. She put her hand on his arm one last time. “There’s Billy and Dee, such nice people. You do know them, don’t you? I must go over and greet them,” she said, wriggling her fingers at him and darting across the room, all flash and glitter.
Gregory wandered back to the bar. He ordered another margarita and sauntered out to the patio. He leaned on the railing and looked out at the blackness of the ocean, filled with that longing the sea always gave him. There was no fog, and an ocean liner traveling north along the horizon looked like a Chinese lantern with its winking crystalline lights.
There was a soft footfall behind him, a hint of familiar perfume, an amused voice.
“Have you been following me?”
He half-turned and saw Jenny Royal. “No, I suspect you’re following me,” he said.
She leaned on the rail beside him and looked out into the darkness. Dressed in tight slacks and a casual white sweater, she looked trim and athletic, her tanned face glowing under the patio lights.
“How’ve you been?” he asked her profile.
“Fine. And you?” she said self-consciously.
“Let’s not pretend,” he said. “I guess you expected me to call.”
She bit her lower lip and half-smiled. “Not expected. I hoped.”
“I’m sorry, I should have. But there’s no future in it,” he said. “I told you I was tied up with Sharon.” He realized he sounded defensive.
“Oh, I know!” she said, swinging her head to face him. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had any commitment to me. It’s just… we had fun, and I…”
“I like you a lot too, Jenny,” he said, finishing the thought for her. “It sounds corny, but I like you too much to treat you to a series of one-night stands.” He smiled. “Besides, I’m a terrible liar. I guess I’m not cut out for infidelity. I get guilty and into a bad scene with myself.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Not that it was you.”
“And you regret what happened?” she asked, her voice heavy.
He looked away from her and inspected his glass. The least he could do was to give her an honest answer. He thought back to the night they had spent together. He lifted his head and grinned.
“No, not a bit,” he said. “I loved it.”
She clinked her glass against his in a silent toast, her sparkling eyes laughing above its rim.
“Well, I’d better split,” she said. “If your girlfriend spots me with you, she might jump to some nasty conclusions.”
“I’ll see you later, Jenny,” he said.
“Is that just a figure of speech?”
“Let’s see how time treats us, okay?”
She nodded, then turned quickly and walked back inside.
A few seconds later Sharon came up to him. She must have been sitting out on the patio, and he wondered uneasily how long she had been watching him. But he was relieved that she still sounded cheerful.
“Hey, you party-pooper! Don’t stand there by yourself. Come and meet some people.”
He allowed her to drag him away, stumbled once, and realized that the margaritas had begun to go to his head. Tequila was a sneaky, treacherous drink. She took him over to a large table where Richard Willmer was sitting with two couples.
“I was wondering where you’d disappeared to,” Willmer said. He stood up and introduced Gregory to the others at the table. It was still fairly early in the evening, but a few minutes later, Gregory found an opportunity to draw Sharon aside and suggest to her that they leave. To his pleasant surprise, she agreed instantly.
Gregory discovered soon enough that Sharon’s amiability was nothing more than party manners. She had taken the car keys from him rather abruptly. “You’re drunk,” she had said in a disapproving tone.
At first, she hardly spoke as she drove, but he could see she was seething. Then came a quick, lashing outburst.
“You creep!” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked innocently, armored by his margaritas and their cozy glow.
“You know what I mean. I saw you with Jenny Royal.”
“Yes,” he said. “I suspected that you did.”
“She’s the girl you spent the night with, isn’t she?”
He ignored the stridency that crept into her voice. “Tut-tut, Sharon. I’m a gentleman. A gentleman never tells.”
She didn’t speak again. By the time he’d brushed his teeth she was in bed, turned away from him.
It was a dream like the others, and yet it was different.
The woman was there, but he was unable to see her. There was just the voice, that same harsh, malicious voice, grating at him with jagged edges.
“You were never good enough for Brooke, never good enough, never good enough, never good enough, never…”
The chant hammered remorselessly at him, its power and rhythm echoing through his being, bearing down on him and pushing him further and further into some deep abyss.
Then he became aware of more than the voice. A woman was standing over him beside the bed. Her hands were raised above her head and they were gripping the handle of a long, silver-bladed knife.
Soon, he thought fatalistically, it would descend in a flashing arc, and everything would be over. If only he could wake up. But he had never been able to awaken during these dreams.
And then he realized that the dream was over. He wasn’t sleeping.
His eyes were open. The woman holding the knife above him was Sharon. The voice, although it wasn’t hers, was coming from her mouth. The knife was real, and if it entered his body, it would be thrust by the force of Sharon’s arms. He lay paralyzed as the blade swung down.
But I’m not dreaming!
He rolled frantically to the other side of the bed. Heard the knife slash into the sheet. Felt his feet hit the floor. Watched Sharon move with slow purpose around the side of the bed toward him, the knife now held firmly in her right hand.
“Sharon! What the hell are you doing?”
But Sharon didn’t respond. “Never good enough, never good enough,” she continued in that low, rhythmic tone.
Her eyes were wide, empty, the eyes of a blind person. His horror increased when he saw that her face was smooth, peaceful, unaffected by the hate tumbling from her mouth.
She lunged.
The blade slashed at him again. He sucked in his stomach, backed up.
She began to swing it level with his belly, like a machete.
“Sharon!” he screamed again. But it was useless. She could not hear him.
There was only one thing to do. He let her close in, backing up slowly, praying that he was judging the distance accurately.
She made one more sweep with the knife and he felt the wind on his torso, saw her body twist to one side with the force of the motion.
He lifted his fist and hit her as hard as he could on the point of the jaw. There was a dull sound and her eyes turned glassy. The knife fell from her hand and her knees began to buckle. Slowly she toppled backward and fell.
He meant to take a step toward her to check if she was all right, but wasn’t able to. His legs had turned to jelly and could no longer support him. Instead he leaned back against the wall and sank to the floor beside her. Two rag dolls: one unconscious, the other petrified.