Fade to Black (11 page)

If magic were a real thing, he would be able to make a wish, snap his fingers, and, poof! Elizabeth would be his mom. She would find him a nice daddy, and they would take him away somewhere, to some beautiful tropical island, where they would kiss him all the time and tell him how much they love him, and give him lots of brothers and sisters—but only after he’s had them, his parents, all to himself for a while.

Manny sighs.

Too bad he doesn’t believe in magic.

He’s almost in front of his house, but instead of continuing on along the sidewalk, he turns and scoots down a dark alley lined with garbage cans and rusty car parts. He pops out at the edge of the vacant lot and scrambles over a crumbling stone wall, dropping to the dusty, weed-choked ground on the other side.

A huge rat scurries out of his path as he heads for the prettiest patch of wildflowers.

Manny doesn’t mind rats as long as they’re not in the house, and they haven’t been, except for once, before the exterminator came, a few summers ago. But they’re common in the rubble from the factory, and along the rocky waterfront beyond Center Street, where he and his friends used to play pirate.

Manny picks some purple flowers with yellow centers, then some feathery white things on long stems. He’s making his way toward a low-growing patch of deep pink blossoms, when he hears a noise behind him.

He turns and sees
her
.

His mother.

“Hi, Manny,” she says, coming a little closer, then stopping a few feet away.

She’s wearing a grimy-looking tank top, rubber sandals, and cutoff black shorts. Her bony white arms and legs are covered with red marks. Her face is all discolored and sunken, especially beneath her eyes, and her dark hair hangs in limp clumps around her shoulders.

He says nothing, just stares at her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, taking another step toward him. She smiles, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

“Picking flowers,” he mumbles.

“For who? Grammy?”

He shakes his head.

His mother walks closer, her face less friendly. Her dark pupils are oddly big and round.

“Who are they for?”

He shrugs.

“They’re for that lady, right? Elizabeth?”

“How did you know her name?”

“I heard you talking to her at the playground.”

“You were spying on me?”

“You’re my son, Manny. It’s not spying. I’m keeping an eye on you. Somebody has to.”

He takes a step backward, still clutching the flowers.

“You know, Manny, I’m still your mother. I feel real bad that I haven’t been around much for you …”

You’ve never been around for me
.

“… and I’m working real hard to get myself together so that I can come and get you.”

Come and get you
.

The words sound ominous, and he forces back a shudder.

“Pretty soon you and me are going to be together, Manny. Won’t that be nice? I’ll get us a place to live, someplace nice. Would you like that?”

“No,” he says, taking another step backward. “I don’t want to live with you.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What are you talking about? I’m your mother. You’re my son. You belong with me.”

“No.” He shakes his head stubbornly and kicks his toe against the dusty ground.

“Who are those flowers for?”

Something keeps him from telling her the truth. He bites down hard on his upper lip with his lower teeth to keep from blurting it out.

“They’re for Elizabeth, aren’t they.” It isn’t a question.

“No.”

“Yes, they are. You’re giving her flowers. You never gave me flowers, Manny. And I’m your mother.”

Oh, yeah? Well, I’m your son. You never gave me anything
.

He just looks at her, unwilling to let his angry thoughts escape aloud.

She stands there, watching him, for a long time.

Then she says, “I’m coming to get you, Manny. As soon as I can.”

“Grammy and Gramps won’t let you take me away.”

“So? You’re my son. I can take you if I want to.”

“They won’t let you,” he repeats.

And neither will Elizabeth
.

“Who says I’m going to ask them for their permission?”

“You have to. You can’t just take me. Grammy and Gramps are my guardians.”

“They won’t be for long. Your grandfather’s pretty sick, Manny. He can’t work anymore, and neither can your grandmother, with her hands all mangled from that arthritis. They’re going to lose their house. And you’re not going to have a place to live, except with me.”

“I don’t want to live with you.”

“Too bad.”

He glares at her.

She glares back.

With a sudden, impulsive movement, he reaches out and flings the wildflower bouquet squarely in her face, so that the stems hit her and then scatter on the ground.

“There!” he yells, hating her. “There! I gave you flowers. Are you happy now?”

And he turns and runs toward home as fast as he can.

“D
o you have any idea who would have done this?”

Elizabeth shakes her head mutely, sitting on the couch with her head buried in her hands. She can’t bear to look at the living room, with the open drawers and toppled lamps and cushions tossed haphazardly on the floor.

It’s no better than the rest of the house. Every inch of it has been disturbed by the intruder, who got in by breaking a basement window, then kicking in the door leading up into the house, which she has always kept locked.

Frank Minelli’s footsteps come closer, and she feels him sitting beside her.

“Don’t worry, Elizabeth,” he says, his voice calm. “You already said nothing has been stolen. You’re lucky. Some people come home to a break-in and every valuable thing they own has vanished.”

She nods, unable to stop the trembling that has seized her whole body.

“There’s been a rash of break-ins like this in Windmere Cove lately,” Frank goes on. “It’s probably kids.”

She lifts her head, looks at him. “You mean people’s houses are being ransacked without anything being stolen?”

“Well, most of the time, something is missing,” he admits. “Jewelry, or spare cash … you’re sure everything is here?”

She nods. She has no jewelry. She left all her diamonds and rubies and emeralds behind in Malibu.

And her cash … it’s in the safe deposit box at the bank.

There’s nothing of value in the house.

And, fortunately, nothing that reveals her true identity. So if it really was just a random break-in, she’s safe.

But it wasn’t.

She knows it wasn’t.

It was her stalker, making himself known. He’s come back to torment her before he kills her.

Her teeth are chattering and she clenches them together so Frank won’t hear.

He’s still talking. “It’s a good thing I was home and heard you scream, Elizabeth. Otherwise, you’d be here all upset and alone until a patrol car could get here. Are you sure you don’t want me to call them and have someone come over and file a report?”

“I’m positive,” she says emphatically. “Nothing is missing, so—”

“You really should file—”

“I said no. I appreciate that you came running over, but I didn’t call you here officially. You’re my neighbor, Frank, and you’re not on duty. You happen to be a cop, but that doesn’t mean you—”

“I know, I know. Look, Elizabeth, this is your business. I just want to make sure you feel safe. A woman living all alone …”

“I’m fine. I feel safe.”

Does she sound unconvincing?

She must.

He’s looking dubiously at her, rubbing his lip beneath his mustache between his thumb and forefinger, as though he’s trying to think of something he can say that will help to make her feel better.

“If you want me to stay here tonight, I’d be glad to” is what he comes up with.

She blurts out, “No!”

Looking only slightly taken aback, he goes on. “I meant so you wouldn’t have to be alone here tonight, after what happened. After all, I am a cop. I have a gun. And I’m sure Pamela wouldn’t mind....”

“No,” she says again less vehemently, “it’s okay. I don’t need you to do that. I’ll be fine.”

“Elizabeth—”

“Frank?”

It’s Pamela’s voice, coming faintly from outside, in the direction of the Minellis’ yard.

“she’s back,” he says.

“she’s looking for you,” Elizabeth tells him. “Go ahead.”

He stands. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.” She can’t help being irritated with his persistence, though she knows he’s only trying to help.

Can’t he understand she just needs to be left alone, as soon as possible?

“Frank? Where are you?” Pamela’s voice is growing louder.

“Okay,” he says, heading for the door. “As long as you’re okay, I’ll go. But if you need anything, or if you notice anything unusual, I’m right next door. And I’m off tonight, so I’ll be around. If you want me to fix that basement window, I—”

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.” Then, realizing she’s bordering on rude, she forces herself to add politely, “But thank you. I appreciate it.”

Finally, he’s gone.

She’s alone.

She gets up and locks the door behind him, then begins to move through the rooms, surveying the damage.

Mostly, things are just moved around on tables and countertops, with drawers and doors and cupboards left open as though someone went through everything, looking for something.

Her bedding is tossed on the floor in the bedroom, and the contents of the bathroom hamper have been dumped into the tub. She checks all the windows to ensure that the intruder didn’t unlock one for easy entry later, after dark.

They’re fine.

And the plain white envelope in the drawer of her desk in the spare bedroom—the envelope containing the expired Illinois license for Elizabeth Baxter—is still there.

Still sealed.

Thank God
.

The only thing is …

Is it her imagination, or does the flap seem slightly damp, as though it were recently sealed?

Is this the same envelope she sealed herself so long ago?

Or did someone rip that one open, steal the license, and replace the envelope with a new one from the supply in the bottom drawer?

Is someone out there somewhere, looking into the real Elizabeth Baxter?

Is someone going to connect her to …

You’re just paranoid
, she tells herself, inhaling deeply, then exhaling, trying to calm down.
The flap feels damp because it’s August, and it’s humid. Everything in the house feels damp
.

She runs her fingers over the rectangular bump inside the envelope.
Anyway, here’s the license, right here
.

But she rips the envelope open just to be sure it isn’t just a dupe, a square of plain old cardboard the thief left in a dummy envelope to fool her....

No, the license is there.

Elizabeth Baxter’s face stares back at her.

She hasn’t seen it in a while, that face. It’s eerie how much it looks like her own. Eerie, in a way, that so many of the vital statistics match her own.

Hair: Brown
.

Eyes: Brown
.

Height: 5’9”
.

Only the weight is different.

Elizabeth Baxter had been a scrawny hundred and fifteen pounds.

And, of course, a few years younger, though her expression in the picture reveals a woman who has seen a lifetime’s worth of trouble.

So the license is still here.

She takes another plain white envelope from the bottom drawer of the desk and seals the license into it, thinking she really should destroy it. It expired years ago; it’s dangerous keeping it around for anyone to find. It’s the only thing in the house that, if stolen, would be a serious problem.

She puts it back into the drawer, telling herself she’ll deal with it later.

Then, suddenly, she remembers.

There’s one other thing that would be dangerous if someone got their hands on them.

Her keys.

The spare set, to the house and the car and the safe deposit box.

She keeps the ring on a nail high inside the kitchen cupboard where she keeps her cups and plates.

Frowning, she hurries back to the kitchen and opens the cupboard door, which had been left ajar and which she had closed on her last pass through the room.

She stands on tiptoe and reaches up to feel for the key ring.

For a second she can’t find the nail.

Then her hand brushes across the tip of it, and she moves her fingers along it, knowing, with chilling certainty before she reaches the spot where it meets the cupboard wall, that it’s empty.