Listen to the Shadows (7 page)

Chapter 9

Aside from his mother’s photograph, the only other item on Jonathan Shea’s desk was Katherine Summer’s chart. Jim had scrawled “for your information” across the top. Jonathan had read it with reluctance. All her tests were negative and that, at least, was good news. He supposed he should have followed up with a second visit as he’d promised, but there seemed little point. His one visit had done little more than upset and exhaust her. He’d been angry with her. Why in hell had he reacted that way? He didn’t even know the woman. She’d been right to accuse him of a lousy bedside manner, which was a gross understatement. He hadn’t wanted to leave. He was the one looking for therapy, for Christ’s sake. He’d wanted to lose himself in the green pools of her eyes. Despite the confusion he’d seen there, even the fear, her eyes were alive, filled with spirit. They challenged him. Maybe he’d hoped some of her passion would rub off on him, for he was, without doubt, feeling more dead and empty in his soul than he had ever felt in his life.

Correct that. Since he was twelve years old.

Since his mother.

Sagging deeper in his chair, Jonathan rubbed a hand over his unshaven face.

Dead and empty. Like Jodie. Jodie lay under the ground now. He hadn’t attended her funeral. He knew he wouldn’t—couldn’t. It was not easy to face one’s failures. Obviously impossible for him.

Thrusting the girl’s memory from him, he let his gaze wander to the photo on his desk, which he’d left until last to pack. His mother smiled wistfully out at him, her raven hair falling softly to her shoulders, framing her small, oval face. She looked so young in the photo. Her eyes seemed almost too large for her face. They were gentle eyes, never accusing, yet he felt their accusation deep inside him like a heavy stone in his heart.

“I couldn’t even help you, could I, Momma?” he whispered.

Only the soft ticking of the wall clock answered him.

***

Jeannie looked up from her typewriter as Dr. Shea strode past her desk, bursting through the swinging double doors and out into the corridor heading straight for the elevator. The door swung shut and he was gone from her vision.

She turned the diamond ring round on her finger. Jeffrey had given it to her on Saturday night. She’d been dying to tell Dr. Shea her exciting news, but the time didn’t seem right. She’d hoped he might notice the ring, even thought it wasn’t very big, but she guessed he just had too much on his mind.

The doors swung open and Constance Sewell was suddenly standing at her desk. “Is Jonathan in his office, Jeannie?”

Jeannie cringed at the familiar, demanding voice, at the sight of the woman in a royal blue cape, her hair piled on her head like a flaming bush, looking as if she’d just stepped out of Vogue.

“He just went out, Miss Sewell,” Jeannie said pleasantly. “You missed him. Would you like some coffee? He should be back any…”

“Page him!”

Jeannie’s face warmed. “Miss Sewell, I don’t think…”

The woman let out a long-suffering sigh. “Please don’t aggravate me, Jeannie. I’m not in the mood. Please do as I ask. Please.” She favored Jeannie with a cool smile.

“Very well.” Without another word, Jeannie obeyed, knowing Dr. Shea wouldn’t be too thrilled. But she didn’t think he would be mad at her. He hadn’t taken his coat, so she knew he was still in the building. As she paged him, Constance Sewell, cape flaring out behind her like a mad bull-fighter’s, flounced into Dr. Shea’s office as though she owned it, and shut the door behind her.

***

Several miles away, the man stood alongside his blue, badly rusting half-ton, leaning on his shovel, his eyes raised to the swollen purple clouds moving swiftly across the gray sky out of the west. A storm was brewing. Damn! He hoped to hell that didn’t mean snow. Snow would make his work a lot harder. It would leave tracks, too.

Naw, he argued with himself, too early for snow. More rain, probably. At the sound of childish giggling, he turned to see two kids coming up the path toward him. Tossing the shovel onto the back of the truck where it thumped and rocked to silence, he straightened his shoulders in the faded army jacket, and waited.

As they came closer, their steps suddenly faltered, and the man grinned to himself. They sensed he was a man to be reckoned with. He liked that. You couldn’t too often fool kids—although there’d been a couple who hadn’t been too sharp, and they’d paid the price. He thought of the boys’ home they’d stuck him in after his mother died, and then the foster homes he’d been in and out of like they’d had revolving doors. Some of the kids in those places thought just because he was an orphan they could lord it over him. Well, they found out different soon enough. No one ever told on him, either. They knew better.

Anyway, they probably wouldn’t have been believed. Most grownups liked him. Most told him what a “ lovely, sweet boy ” he was.

Oh, yes. It was the grownups who were easy. You just had to tell them what they wanted to hear, that was all.

The dirt path leading up to the house was fairly long, maybe two hundred feet, and he watched, unmoving, as they drew nearer. The taller of the two kids was peering uneasily at him through holes in the sheet he wore, while the little one, a girl, he figured, of about six or seven, adjusted her black witch’s nose. Fine, blonde curls escaped the pointed hat. They stopped a few feet from where he stood.

“Trick or treat?” came the thin, timid voice from behind the sheet. A boy’s voice.

The man made no reply, only continued to look down at the two children, enjoying his effect on them. Instinctively, the boy reached out to take the girl’s hand. His feet shifted in dirty, scuffed Nikes. “Is—Is Mrs. Nickerson home?”

“No. No one’s home.” The man’s voice was barely audible, yet filled with menace. His lips stretched in a slow, cruel smile. “Only me. Now you two move to hell out of here, or I’ll give you a treat you won’t like.”

For a moment the two stood frozen, caught like a pair of rabbits in the man’s pale, icy stare. Then, as he took a threatening step toward them, they were suddenly off and running, feet flying over the dirt path, back the way they had come.

He was still chuckling low in his throat long after the two had disappeared from sight. They’d probably squawk to their parents, he thought, but to hell with them. To hell with all of them. He would be moving on in a few days anyway, once he took care of business. Taking the knife from his pocket, he tested its sharpness against his thumb. Just a slight touch of the blade and a bead of blood leapt to the surface.

The knife felt good in his hand, better than the butcher knife. More authority. He didn’t really want to use it, though; that would spoil things. Unless, of course, she gave him too much trouble.

Thoughts of her, as they always did, began the blood throbbing hotly through his veins. Slowly, he turned the knife over in his hand, observing how, even in the last light of day, it gleamed like polished silver. Head bent in admiration, it shot up at the sound of a car coming up the road, and he quickly returned the knife to the front pocket of his army jacket and patted down the flap. Fear coiled and stretched and coiled again, cool as a serpent in his bowels, as the full implication of what had just happened struck him. What he had said to those kids was stupid, he now knew. Careless. People knew him around here. They could mess things up. In spite of the cool temperatures, sweat trickled down his sides.

He was getting impatient, that was all. But he mustn’t. Had to keep it together. He’d waited too long to blow it now, and November fifth was only five days away. Then he would be rewarded for his patience, for his careful attention to detail.

A frown worked itself between his brows as again the voice reminded him that he had put the plan in jeopardy—had in fact nearly caused the entire plan to backfire.

But “nearly” was the key word here. It hadn’t backfired. What happened had actually allowed him to complete much of the work without fear of discovery. What happened was, in fact, an improvement on the plan, so it didn’t matter. He figured it was an omen—a kind of sign that the plan was taking on a force of its own. The thought calmed him.

As did the sight of the brown Chevy moving on down the road, now slowing, the driver taking no notice of him.

But he must be careful from now on. Very, very careful.

Taking the coil of rope from his pocket, he tossed it into the truck’s cab. He locked the doors, then turned and headed for the house, only vaguely aware of the low rumble of distant thunder. He would sit awhile and look at Katie’s picture. That always helped to bring the moment closer.

That sweet moment when he would be with her.

She would be so beautiful.

Trapped there beneath him, soft and naked and helpless, writhing and moaning in pain and ecstasy—for there could be no real ecstasy without pain. He could feel her body against him now, moist and slippery, feel himself thrusting hard into her, again and again. He heard her cries inside his head, and his legs trembled as he climbed the stairs to his room.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him and sagged against it.

Shutting his eyes, he let his mind savor what would be the best part of all.

Her death. An exquisitely slow death—one chosen with great care.

Just for her.

Chapter 10

Rachael and Billy Martin ran the half-mile home like the breath of the devil was at their backs. Now they bounded up the porch steps of their house, raced past the two jack-o-lanterns propped up on either side of the railing, and burst through the door. Their costumes were gone, their treat bags dropped somewhere along the way.

Their mother was in the kitchen, a sweet-faced woman in a flowered dress, up to her elbows in sudsy dishwater. At the sight of her, Rachael began to cry.

Alarmed, Mrs. Martin quickly dried her hands and came forward. “Billy, honey, what happened?” She smoothed his hair, then knelt to put her arms around her little girl. Both children were trembling and out of breath.

“Bad man, Mommy,” Rachael sobbed between gasps of air. “The man scared us.”

“It was that man up at the Nickerson’s house, Momma,” the boy said, panting for breath. “He told us he was going to do something bad to us if we didn’t get the hell out of there.”

“Don’t swear, Billy.”

“Mom, I didn’t say it. He did. He said he was going to give us a treat we wouldn’t like. Rachael’s not kidding, Mom. He really was scary—just like—like—Freddy Kruger.”

“Must have been someone dressed up in a costume,” his mother reasoned.

“Someone teasing.”

Billy made a move with his knees that looked like he was going to jump up and down. “No, it wasn’t, Mom,” he yelled in frustration. “I told you, it was the man at the Nickerson’s. It was.”

“Okay, honey, okay. Calm down.” She’d seen the man up at the Nickerson’s, and he certainly bore no resemblance to the infamous Freddy Kruger. Kids had such lively imaginations. Then again, you never knew what was out there. Halloween wasn’t like it used to be when she was a kid—soaping windows, being invited inside the houses of warm, friendly neighbors, while they pretended to try to guess who you were beneath the mask. Halloween had been fun, exciting. Now it was poison and razor blades. Even though she didn’t think there was anything like that around here, she thought maybe this was going to be Billy and Rachael’s last year for trick or treating. Next year she would suggest a little party, invite some of their school friends.

Maybe tomorrow, she thought, putting the last of the dishes in the cupboard, she would just take a little walk up there and have a friendly chat with Rose Nickerson.

Chapter 11

Katie was perched on the side of the bed anxiously waiting for Linda Ring, who was to escort her downstairs in a wheelchair. Then Katie would take a cab home. She knew Drake would be hurt she hadn’t let him know she was being discharged today, but she felt an almost urgent need to be alone on her first day home. Drake would have insisted on coming to get her. She glanced down at the overnight case at her feet and sighed. It, like the proverbial bed penny, was still with her. Well, she had tried to give it back. Katie stood to check her appearance in the mirror. Her legs were shaky now that she’d exchanged slippers for heels. Her navy and white dress hung on her. She tilted her head in the mirror, lifted her hair to examine the fresh bandage above her eye. At least the bruise on her cheek had faded and was now scarcely noticeable under makeup.

“So you’re leaving us, Miss Summer.”

Katie turned at the remembered voice. The sight of Dr. Jonathan Shea standing in her doorway brought an unexpected rush of pleasure shot with alarm. She realized with some surprise she’d been half hoping she would see him again before she went home, though she hadn’t expected to see him looking as if he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were rumpled, and he was badly in need of a shave. She tried not to let these observations show in her face as she said hello.

“Not exactly the Ritz in here, is it?”

“It’s not so bad,” Katie replied. “But I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving. It’ll be good to get home.”

“Is someone coming to pick you up?”

She hesitated, afraid he might give her an argument, but she was ready for him. She would sign herself out if she had to. Anyway, he didn’t look like he would be much of a match for her today. “I’m waiting for the nurse to take me downstairs. Then I’ll take a cab home.”

His dark brows brew together. “But surely there’ll be someone there to meet you when you arrive.”

Katie laughed. Clearly, he had a little fight left in him. “I sincerely hope not. Really, Dr. Shea, I’m perfectly fine. Though I do appreciate your concern.” She could see he was about to pursue the matter, then, defeat clouding his face, he appeared to change his mind. Katie felt a slight disappointment to have won so easily and found herself growing more and more curious about this man standing before her.

“Well, I’ll just bid you goodbye then,” he said, “which is all I really came to do. Take care of yourself, Miss Summers.”

“I will. And thank you.” Gathering up her all-weather coat from the bed, Katie turned to see Dr. Shea still in her doorway. Neither said a word. Then, seemingly on impulse, he whipped a pen and notepad from his breast pocket and proceeded to scribble something down. He tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to her, saying, “My home number. Just in case…in case you need…to talk. I’m not sure how effective I’d be in dealing with any real problems, but I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving Katie feeling pleased yet bewildered. Why had he spoken in such self-deprecating terms? And why hadn’t he suggested she call him at the hospital?

She folded the piece of paper and was putting it in her purse when Linda Ring entered the room, pushing a wheelchair. “Your limo awaits, m’lady,” she announced brightly.

Once settled in the wheelchair, the basket of fruit sent by the staff from The Coffee Shop, the overnight case, and Jason’s beautiful arrangement of dried flowers on her lap, Katie’s fear of being held here against her will began to disappear. Irrational fears brought her thoughts back to Jason. He had dropped the flowers off at the desk, which was as far as he’d let himself come. She understood. He had an aversion to hospitals and funeral parlors.

“I just saw Dr. Shea coming out of your room,” Linda said, releasing the brake and carefully maneuvering the wheelchair. “How did he seem to you?”

“Pleasant,” Katie said, glancing over her shoulder at the nurse. “He dropped in to say goodbye. Why?”

She shrugged. “Just wondered.” They stopped to allow a little fair-haired boy on crutches wearing a full-leg cast, to hobble past. He stared at Katie. She winked at him. He grinned. Nurse Ring went on, her voice dropping a notch as a clutch of doctors in animated discussion hurried past. “He’s been taking everyone’s head off around here the past few days,” Linda said while, over the intercom, a female voice paged Dr. Jonathan Shea.

An orderly wheeled a noisy gurney past them, on which lay on old woman either asleep or unconscious, the sheet drawn up to her neck. Katie could see pink, freckled scalp through the gray, thin hair. Soft whistling noises emitted from the woman’s nose. Katie looked away.

“He lost a patient last week,” Linda said. “Suicide. Tragic. She was just a kid.”

They went down in the service elevator. As the elevator came to a stop, the wheelchair rolled smoothly out through the open doors, down the wide corridor, turning onto a cement ramp, and finally out into the bleak, gray day where several cabs waited at the curb for fares.

Linda Ring kept up a steady stream of monologue, mostly centered around Dr. Jonathan Shea. How he kept to himself, rarely attending any of the social functions, though rumor had it he was seriously dating some society woman—a woman of “means.” A couple of the nurses had seen her, and reported back that she was a knockout.

Katie felt a little uncomfortable being privy to such personal information about the doctor, who was obviously a favorite topic of conversation among the nurses. God, how women loved to solve the mystery of a man. And wasn’t she just a little curious herself?

The patient’s suicide explained a lot. It saddened her to think of a young girl who found life so painful that death was preferable.

As the cab wheeled around the circular drive where fallen leaves skittered along the gutters and sidewalks, Katie waved goodbye to the slim, white-clad figure.

Soon they were speeding along the highway, and a wave of weakness washed over Katie. She sank back against the maroon cushiony upholstery, hoping she hadn’t been reckless in insisting to Dr. Miller, against his arguments that she be allowed to go home. She would rest better there, she said. In truth, she had her job to think about. She couldn’t afford to be out of work indefinitely. She hoped she still had a job to go to.

Through the car window, the sky hung low and threatening.

Soon the highway ended, and they were on the narrowing road, where tall trees blew darkly in the rising wind. Katie shivered inwardly, knowing a cold house would greet her, and dreading it. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Charlie Black to lay fires in the fireplaces? Well, it was too late to think of that now.

The cabbie was a much faster driver than Katie, and after a long stretch of bumpy, winding road, they were there. The driver got out and came around to open the door for her. “Better have hubby batten down the old hatches tonight,” he said cheerfully, holding onto his cap. His nylon windbreaker billowed in the wind. His pants flapped around his legs.

“Yes, yes, I will,” Katie said, counting out the money to pay him. Thank god, there was just enough in her purse. Maybe Jason wouldn’t mind picking up her last paycheck from work.

“Hubby know you’re comin’ home today?” the driver said, staring up at the darkened windows in the house.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “He should be home from work in another fifteen minutes or so.” Katie wasn’t afraid of living alone, but neither was she fool enough to advertise the fact. The man looked harmless enough, but you couldn’t stake your life on appearances, as her aunt used to say.

“You want some help carrying these things up to the house?”

Katie was about to accept the offer gratefully, then realized it wasn’t gratitude he was interested in. He expected a tip, and right that he should. But unfortunately, she had no more money.

“I can manage. Thanks, anyway.”

He shrugged, clearly miffed, climbed back into his cab, gunned the motor and sped off, spraying gravel in his wake.

Alone now, Katie gazed up at the old farmhouse that stood like a sentinel on a slight rise in the land. Despite its being badly in need of repairs and a paint job, the house was a welcome sight. Even the surrounding trees rustled their leaves as if in greeting.

Katie gathered her belongings from the ground where the cab driver had set them. With the wind cutting through her thin coat and her hair blowing wildly, she trudged up the path and on up the stairs where she deposited her burden on the tiny landing. Fumbling in her purse for the key, she grimaced as one of Jason’s dried flowers was carried off by a gust of wind.

At last her fingers closed around the key. She opened the door and slipped into the familiar hallway with its hardwood floor and dark paneled walls. Her gaze fell for a moment to the leaves littering the hall floor, as if someone had stood here with the door open.

Jason. Of course. When he came to get her clothes. Odd, though. Jason usually came in through the back way.

Shrugging, Katie closed the door behind her, hurried on through the rarely used high-ceilinged parlor and dining room, her feet soundless on the carpets. She entered through the French doors to her studio. As she’d expected, the house was damp and cold and smelled musty. She lit a kerosene lamp, and set about making a fire in the fireplace. Katie had the flames crackling and leaping to life in no time, sending shadows to dance on the pale, papered wall.

Hugging her coat to her, she crossed to the sliding glass doors that led out onto the small balcony overlooking the lake. Her favorite spot in nice weather, it now offered little but the cold, and the darkly churning waters below. She drew the heavy drapes closed to keep in the heat.

Placing another log on the fire, Katie left the room to return shortly with a steaming mug of tea. The room had warmed, and Katie slipped out of her coat and settled down in the large stuffed chair in front of the fire.

In the dim, amber light, she looked around at her surroundings, smelled the familiar, soothing smell of paints and turpentine mingling with the scent of the wood-fire. Though everything was as she remembered, she had the feeling of having returned after many years’ absence.

The old Remington typewriter, on which had Aunt Katherine’s own dreams and fantasies had found voice in children’s stories, was on the floor beside the wall bookcase, covered now to keep off the dust. How often Katie had sat in this room putting paint to canvas, listening to the tap-tapping of the typewriter in the background.

She could almost picture her aunt at her desk now, her strong, lovely face softened by lamplight, the wisps of gray hair escaping the bun she always wore at the nape of her neck.

Aunt Katherine had completed only four slim volumes and a few short stories over her lifetime, but the books had gone into reprint many times, and allowed her to live modestly on the royalties. She’d found an equal joy in her gardening, bird-watching and reading, especially Agatha Christie, as she had in writing. She’d lived as she wanted, never marrying, and died quietly in her sleep three years ago at the age of eighty-four. And Katie had never stopped missing her.

Once Katie had asked her why she wrote for children since she never had any of her own, and her aunt had answered simply that her readers were her children. And when Katie asked if she ever got lonely, her eyes had shone with mystery and secrets. “Now and then,” she’d said. And then she’d shared one of those secrets with Katie.

There had been a man—a Matthew Kingsley, an English teacher. He died of tuberculosis in the forties. “I suspect, Katie, dear,” she said, “that I’m one of those impossible women who can truly love only once. I had my love, and no one could ever quite come up to Matthew.” Her twinkling eyes hinted mischief as she added, “And that would hardly be fair to another, now would it?”

Smiling at the memory, and suspecting she was of the same romantic bent as her aunt, and not particularly pleased about it, Katie checked her watch. It was six-fifteen. Darkness came early now. The domed antique clock on the mantle read eleven twenty-five. Katie rose to unwind and set it properly, not only for the correct time, but because she took pleasure in the sound of the chimes. As she did, she heard a car door slam down below. It had to be Jason. He was the only one she knew who drove around the back. A brief unease passed through her, remembering the leaves littering the front hall floor.

She parted the drapes eagerly just in time to see her friend scurrying from his red Volkswagen, the wind whipping his fair, longish hair about his face. Then, he was bounding up the back stairs. She opened the door to greet him. “Oh, Jason,” she cried, “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Please, come in before you blow away.”

Inside, they hugged, and Katie reveled in the good, comfortable feel of his cuddly, teddy bear frame. “I’ve made a pot of tea, and there’s a warm fire.”

“Sounds marvelous,” he said breathlessly, unbuttoning his coat. He shrugged out of it and tossed it with Katie’s on the cot. He was smiling at her, his square teeth showing the slight overbite of which he was self conscious, but that Katie found appealing. His figure was, in Jason’s own words, “pleasantly plump.” He wore a roomy, fishnet, turtle-necked sweater and blue jeans.

“I called the hospital,” he said, rubbing his hands together and holding them over the fire. “They said you’d gone. How are you, darling?” He rushed on before she could answer. “You look a little peaked, but not too much the worse for wear. Is there anything serious under that bandage?”