Chill Waters (27 page)

“If Iris says you’re ready, my dear,” Mrs. Neilson of the Arts Council said, “then you are. You mustn’t hide your light under a bushel, Rachael. When one has been given a gift, there is a duty.” Her tone was at once warm and mildly chastising.

“Yes,” Peter said, as he refilled those wineglasses nearest him, her own included. “My aunt is a fine judge of talent and I learned long ago that it does no good to argue with her once she gets that determined look in her eye.” His smile included both Rachael and Iris.

Rachael graciously thanked them for their vote of confidence, then subtly brought the attention back to Iris, where it belonged. Nonetheless, the seed had taken root. Was it possible that someone would actually pay her for her work? Work that had begun as therapy, and was now a passion? It seemed like a dream, too good to be true.

And probably, despite all the good hearts here, it was. Still, what harm to fantasize? A least for a few hours. Who would have thought that at her age, she could become someone’s protege? Especially someone as well respected in her craft as Iris was.
Dream on.

She sipped the wine. Neither too sweet nor too dry. Perfect. Everything was perfect. She felt Peter watching her, was acutely aware of his physical presence beside her. Easy, Rachael, she told herself, feeling just a tad light-headed, and pretty sure it was not all due to the wine.

Deep Purple
had glided smoothly into another old standard
September Song,
music chosen especially for Iris, but that were among Rachael’s own favorites. Swaying inwardly to the music, she hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes until Peter spoke to her.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Ms. Warren?”

He was smiling down at her, his hand outstretched in invitation. Looking past him, satisfying herself that a few couples were already up dancing, she slipped her hand into his and let herself be led onto the dancefloor.

At first, she felt awkward, like she was made out of wood. It had been so long since she’d danced with anyone. But then, with the warm pressure of his hand on her back, guiding her about the floor, she began to relax. Soon, she was following his rhythm until their bodies were moving as one. As if they had always danced together.

“Enjoying yourself?” he said into her hair, drawing her closer to him.

“Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful evening.”

Her senses were intoxicated with the touch and smell of himthe velvety feel of the fabric of his jacket against her cheek. The strong beat of his heart against her own. The way his arms felt around her, the warmth and strength that flowed from them, into her, into every fiber of her being. Like being submerged in a warm bath. Like coming home. Yes, that was what she felt. That she had come home.

“Careful,” the warning voice said again, pricking at the lovely bubble she was moving inside. Absolutely, she thought vaguely. But she did not open her eyes.

“The food was heavenly,” Mrs. Neilson was saying when they returned to the table. “I’ll have to fast for the next two weeks to make up for tonight.”

Peter held out Rachael’s chair for her and she was grateful to sit down. Her breathing was feathery in her chest. Her head still in the dance.

“Oh, listen,” Iris cried, clapping her hands in child-like delight, “they’re playing
La Vie en Rose.
I haven’t danced to that since I was a girl.”

The words had barely left her lips when Peter whirled his aunt onto the dancefloor. Rachael smiled after them, sipped more wine, chatted with Mrs. Neilson who wanted to know more about her. So hard to believe that only a few months ago she had found herself wandering among the ruins of her life. Dazed. Detached from all but her pain.

But it was more than that. Always before she had felt like an alien in social gatherings. But tonighttonight she belongedshe was with friends.

All at once Rachael was gripped by a certainty that just beyond the periphery of laughter and good spirits, something hovered. Something dark. Like a black, malignant cloud.

Waiting to descend.

The room faded from her, voices growing fainter. She became aware of a faraway buzzing in her head. Her hand was shaking. Realizing she was still holding her glass of wine, she set it down. What was wrong with her? Why was she thinking like this? Couldn’t she let herself enjoy one pleasant evening without…?

She looked up to see Iris watching her.

When had the dance ended?

Thirty-Four

Captain Elton Sorrel was in his den, nursing a beer and watching some rookie trying to snap the puck past the goalie and pull one out of the fire for the Rangers, when the phone rang. A collective groan went up in the stadium. Close, but no cigar. Where was Gretsky when you needed him. The Great One would be missed.

His eyes riveted on the game, he picked up the receiver. “Sorrel.”

“Captain Sorrel?”

“One and the same.”

“I’m Doctor Alan Whittaker.” Without waiting for a reply, he went on explain that he was the retired head of the state mental hospital. Listening to that deep, hypnotic voice, Sorrel wasn’t all surprised to find himself talking to a shrink.

“Yes, Doctor.” He turned down the volume on the TV. “What can I do for you?”
Whittaker.
Where had he heard that name before? Recently too.

“Perhaps it’s more what I can do for you, Captain. I just minutes ago opened a package from a woman name Iris Brandt. She lives…”

“In my neck of the woods,” Sorrel finished. “I know Ms. Brandt.” He’d read the article in the local paper about her receiving some artsy honor tonight over at the hotel.” Sorrel didn’t know or care much about art.

“I see. Well, as I said, I’m in possession of this package. Came by courier. There are copies of several articles here, written some years ago. One recent. My name appears in one of the later articles. She circled it in red pen or I might not have noticed. At any rate, Captain, Ms. Brandt seems very concerned about a friend of hersa woman, who, by the photograph I’m looking at right now, looks uncannily like Marie Morley. Or how she might look if she were alive today. Not that that would make an appreciable difference. Morley will project onto his victims whatever qualities he needs them to have for his dark purpose. A curve of cheek, a tapered back, a walk, even a smile could be enough to trigger the psychosis. But that Rachael Warren actually does look like his sister certainly adds another dimension.”

What the hell was he talking about?

“As I say, it’s an old case. He was a boy then.”

“Who, Doctor Whittaker? Who was a boy?”

“Oh, sorry. Charlie. Charlie Morley, the brother. There’s a certain irony that he would use my name in connectionbut, perhaps not so strange if you think about it. The bottom line is, Captain, I think you have a murderer in your midst.”

He knew that much. Sorrel switched off the game. “I’m listening.” It hit him now Whittaker. The phantom doctor.

“Divulging a patient’s confidence is not something I do lightly, sir, but in this case I believe it’s warranted. From what I’ve been reading in the papers, coupled with this correspondence from Ms. Brandt, I believe it’s highly possible Charlie Morley is the man you’re looking for in connection with the murder of Heather Myers. And possibly other young women whose untimely deaths have gone unsolved.”

“So how come he’s out, Doctor? Why is this animal still walking the streets if you know he’s a killer? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He heard the quick intake of breath, followed by a sigh. “Sometimes terrible mistakes are made.”

“Yeah,” the captain conceded, thinking of Tommy Prichard. “I’ve been known to make a mistake or two myself.” Detective Mason recovered Iris Brandt’s radio in a pawn shop today. The owner identified Derek Chesley and two of his toadys as the ones who’d brought it in. The stolen radio had netted them all of three bucks. “You mentioned, Doctor, that the killer and the victim had the same last nameMorley?”

“Well, I don’t know for a fact that he’s your killer. I’m suggesting it’s possible. But that was observant of you, Captain. Yes. She was his sister, though not his blood-sister. Charlie was adopted, you see. You’ve heard of the love/hate syndrome I’m sure, pop psychiatry being what it is. “Well, this relationship was far more complex then simply perversion.”

“How so?”

“It’s a long, sad story, Captain.”

“His momma didn’t like him, right?”

“Something like that.”

He huddled on the closet floor in the darkness, surrounded by her scent, breathing it in like life-sustaining air. A different perfume from that which she’d worn on the night of the prom. That perfume had come from a blue bottle that always sat on Ruth’s dresser. Ruth had dabbed it on Marie’s inner wrists and behind her ears, the two of them laughing, close, loving, shutting him out like always. The door was open a crack and he could see them.

A lighter scent, this perfume. Like shampoo. If he turned his head just so, her clothes would brush against his face. Soft as a caress, making his head swim.

Waiting there for her return, Charlie’s eyes began to grow heavy, as if weights were attached to his eyelids. In a little while, his eyes closed and he was soon asleep.

The old dream that was not a dream at all, came rushing in, an old enemy skilled at catching him off-guard.

His father standing in the doorway holding the pink bundle in his arms, smiling, bending low so that Charlie could better see his new little sister. “Her name is Marie,” he said. A tiny hand emerged from the pink cocoon. He glimpsed a thatch of black hair, a doll-like face, and something like joy and wonder rose in his chest like a balloon lifting into the sky.

His own thin arms reached out to her. Suddenly, his mother’s hand came out of nowhere, striking him across the face, snapping his head back. He staggered backwards and fell, cracking his head against the edge of baseboard. “Don’t you ever touch her,” she shrieked at him. “Don’t you ever let me catch you touching her again.”

He woke with a start, hands covering his face as though to ward off the next blow. He was sweating, his eyes wet with tears.

Suddenly, Charlie’s head jerked up at a sound. His body tensed with animal alertness. The dream faded, as it always did.

Someone was out there. Not part of the dream, Charlie. He rose awkwardly to his feet, legs stiff and cramped from sitting so long, and listened. What had he heard? Had she come home? What time was it? He couldn’t have slept all that time, could he?

The sound came again—like sleet pelting against a window. Charlie opened the closet door. When he was satisfied he was alone, he crossed the room. He reached the window just as the rattling came again.

Not sleet at all. Someone was throwing handfuls of pebbles up at the window.

Keeping back so as not to be seen, he observed a man in a dark overcoat standing down below. Collar upturned, he was stomping his feet on the ground for warmth. His breath was visible in the cold, night air. Charlie felt confused at first. Surely not a salesman at this time of night. Then, he saw that the stranger had come bearing flowers. Another rival? Someone else come to court his fair lady, who, as it turned out, was not so fair after all? Unknowingly, he cradled his throbbing hand against his chest. Earlier, in a rage, he’d struck his fist against a tree; blood still seeped from his wounded knuckles.

Charlie watched the man walk up the porch steps and disappear onto the porch. His eye moved to the Mustang parked behind Rachael’s car. Then the doorbell rang, echoed throughout the house, jangling his nerves. Getting no answer, the stranger came back into view. He was looking up at the window again. Then searching on the ground for more stones. Straightening, he tossed these too up at the window.

Charlie settled into an icy calm. He watched the man stomp around for another five minutes or so before getting back into his car. He didn’t appear to he leaving though. After a pause, a cigarette winked at Charlie from behind the windshield.

He’s decided to wait for her.

The darkness was all around him now, and in him. He turned from the window.

Her nightgown lay folded at the foot of the bed. He gathered it in his hands, pressed the silky fabric to his face, breathing in her essence, understanding at some level that this was a kind of ritual he was performing. At last he let the nightie fall away and stood up. The void of aloneness opened inside him like a huge maw that threatened to consume him. As he had always done before, he filled it now with the comfort of his hatred, and descended the stairs.

In the kitchen, he retrieved the butcher’s knifethe one he’d used to impale the seagull on her cutting board, from the back of the drawer; he’d put it there himself after washing the blood off.

Quietly, he slipped the bolt on the back door and went outside.

Why doesn’t she answer the door? Greg wondered. I know she’s home. Her car is here. Then Greg remembered that that old Cavalier had been falling apart for years. Probably broke down, and she probably took a cab wherever she went. He'd buy her a new car. Even let her pick it out herself.