She Loves Me Not (23 page)

And anyway, nothing will happen to me,
Rose reassures herself fiercely, pressing the gas pedal and steering cautiously toward home.
Nothing can possibly happen, because my children need me.

It's that simple.

Yet morbid thoughts persist as she heads out onto the highway. Worse, she finds the anonymous caller's piano music floating through her head, over and over. Every time she thinks she's about to remember what the piece is called, the title darts out of her mind before she can grasp it.

I need music,
she thinks, fumbling for the radio dial.
Regular music. Something to help me get that damn melody out of my head before I go crazy.

She tunes in to WLIR, only to hear the meteorologist in the midst of his weather report.

“ . . . turning colder tomorrow with snow beginning late in the day. This could be a big one, folks. Because this is shaping up to be a coastal storm, those of you on the eastern end of the Island might see up to a foot of accumulation before it blows out of here Thursday morning.”

A foot of snow? Rose grins. The kids will be thrilled. She'll be able to take them sledding at last. But she won't say anything to them. Not yet. The last time snow was predicted, it didn't happen.

This time, the forecaster had better be right, or the kids might have to put away their new sleds unused.

After all, Rose realizes, with March only days away, the promised storm could be the last chance this winter for snow.

N
ow comes the hard part,
he thinks, gazing down at the body lying in the snow.

Unlike Angela, who landed facedown in the gutter after he struck her with the cab, Isabel Van Nuys lies faceup. Unlike Olivia, whose eyes sockets were charred black caverns by the time he finished with her, Isabel's eyes are open, staring in vacant horror at a fixed spot somewhere over his left shoulder.

But like both Angela and Olivia, Isabel lies in a pool of her own blood. Precisely at the moment he felt her go limp beneath his grasp, he slit her throat, a move that will undoubtedly make little sense to whoever examines the body, he thinks smugly. But it makes perfect sense to him.

Oh, how he's craved the intense satisfaction triggered by a glimpse of crimson blood on pure white snow. Twice before, the sight filled him with an exquisite sensation, and the knowledge that he'd won.

This third time is no disappointment. Triumphant power surges through his veins as he watches her blood pool beneath her head. Such a shame he has to move her.

She put up one hell of a fight. He rubs his bruised thigh where she kneed him.

So did Olivia. They fought like caged animals. It was so much more satisfying than it was that first time, with Angela.

I told you that you couldn't escape me,
he silently tells the woman who started all of this. Her lungs may have ceased respiration in Isabel's body, but he still feels her presence, taunting him.

It's because she's still out there. As long as her heart is still beating in Rose Larrabee's rib cage, he'll have no peace.

But it won't be long now. In fact, if it really does snow tomorrow night, it will be all over.

He shivers with giddy anticipation, imagining the beautiful red blood that will stain the snow when he drives a blade through the heart that betrayed him.

But he mustn't get ahead of himself. First things first.

Isabel has to be moved.

With a sigh, he begins to spread the lavender vinyl shower curtain on the snow beside her corpse.

If only there were some way to leave her here, yet still accomplish his objective.

If only . . .

He breaks into a smile, realizing that there is a way, and it's very simple indeed.

Chapter Ten

H
aving lived his entire life in New York City, David has never set foot in the borough of Staten Island, ten miles across the bay from Manhattan.

He's driven through it, yes, on the expressway. And once in a while, he and a couple of his friends used to ride the ferry round trip from the Battery to catch a bay breeze on hot spring days when they were supposed to be in school. But they never got off the boat. Why would they? As far as they were concerned, there was nothing on Staten Island but a bunch of houses.

Tonight, David has actually guided his Land Rover off the expressway, on a mission even he doesn't quite understand. He only knew, after reading about Olivia McGlinchie's disappearance and murder, that he must speak to her parents face-to-face.

That her body was found so close to his cabin might very well be a coincidence. But if there's the slightest chance that it isn't . . .

But how on earth could it not be? Nobody would ever link her to Angela—the donor information is confidential. And even if somebody did figure out the connection—what does that have to do with Olivia's death? And the cabin? Angela was rarely even there.

None of it makes any sense.

Yet David is here on Staten Island nonetheless, propelled by some inner urge he can neither comprehend nor deny.

He drives through a maze of residential streets, some better lit than others, and all of them dotted with old houses in various architectural styles: colonial, Victorian, and a smattering of fifties-style ranches.

Olivia McGlinchie's parents live in a well-preserved Queen Anne on a quiet side street, in the kind of neighborhood David never quite comprehended existed within the boundaries of New York City. Cozy lamplight spills from the windows of the houses on the block; there are station wagons and basketball hoops in the driveways; a woman is out in slippers and a housecoat walking her dog in the chilly evening air; commuters stride briskly home in overcoats with briefcases in hand.

This could be some small New Jersey town, David thinks, as he parks at the curb and presses the remote on his keychain to lock the doors. New Jersey, or Long Island, or upstate.

He feels a pang for Olivia McGlinchie, who grew up in this comfortable little world, only to be wrenched out of it by an unknown abductor and violendy murdered on a remote mountainside miles from home.

David pauses at the curb to look up at the house, wondering what the hell he's doing here.

You should just go,
he tells himself.
You have no business butting into these people's lives, and you sure as hell don't want them butting into yours.

But it's too late.

A curtain flutters in a downstairs window at the front of the house, and then the porch light clicks on, flooding the spot where he's standing. The front door opens and a lanky, balding man is there, beckoning him.

“Is that you, Mr. Brookman?”

“Yes.” He moves forward, squarely into the light, up the porch steps.

“I'm Ralph McGlinchie. My wife told me you called back around dinnertime to ask if you could come over. I'm glad you did.”

“Thank you.”

David shakes the older man's bony hand and feels it tremble in his grasp as the man says, “No, thank you . . . for what you did. For Olivia.”

There are tears in Ralph McGlinchie's eyes.

David has always been uncomfortable with unabashed emotion, yet he isn't now. There is a connection between him and this stranger that goes beyond the fact that he is the organ donor's next of kin.

It's the grief,
he realizes.
We both know what it is to suffer an unexpected loss, a loss so immense you don't know how you're going to make it through each day.

“I'm so sorry about your daughter, Mr. McGlinchie,” he manages to say, his throat clogged with sorrow.

“It's Ralph. And I'm so sorry about your wife. Joanne and I—we never forgot for a second that a young woman had to die so that our daughter could see. But it wasn't until we lost Olivia that we really understood your sacrifice.”

Sacrifice?

No. It wasn't a sacrifice. The word makes it sound as though David chose to give up Angela. And that is something he never would have done. Ever. He fought to keep her when he discovered her adultery, and he fought to keep her alive in the hospital long past the realization that there was no hope.

“Come in,” Ralph says, holding the door wide open. “My wife wants to meet you. And I know you said you wanted to talk to us about Olivia.”

“I would, if it's not—”

“It's fine. It's been almost a year, Mr. Brookman. We need to talk about her.”

David nods, wondering if he'd feel the same way about Angela . . . if he had anyone with whom he could share the burden of grief. Her family grieved in their own way, but Angela severed her ties with them so long ago, it was as though they had already lost her. And the people she called “friends”—the socialites with whom she shopped and lunched, the gay men she met through her charity work—attended the funeral, sent flowers and platters of food, made charitable donations in her name, and quickly moved on, leaving David to mourn alone.

There is no one on earth who loved Angela the way he did.

No one,
he thinks fiercely, pushing aside the nagging memory of his wife's anonymous lover as he follows Ralph McGlinchie into the house.

“I
guess I should go. Peter's probably wondering where I am,” Leslie says reluctantly, setting down her mug, drained of the herbal tea Rose brewed for both of them after a dinner of take-out pizza, Leslie's treat. Rose, she knows, is flat broke.

“Are you sure you don't want to borrow some money?” she asks Rose, pushing back her chair and looking around for her purse.

“No, Les, it's okay. But thanks anyway. You're sweet. Like I said, my boss is supposed to come over to bring me my paycheck, and I'll deposit it first thing in the morning. It'll be fine.” Rose smiles, but her eyes are worried and rimmed by dark circles, as though she hasn't slept in a week.

“Do you want me to wait until he shows up, just to be sure?” Leslie offers, as they hear a clattering sound from the other room.

Leo's block tower toppling over again. He's trying to build it taller than he is, as Jenna coaches him from the coffee table, where she's coloring with markers. They're actually getting along this evening, for a change.

“No, you should go home before it gets late,” Rose tells her. “I'm sure he'll be here. And if worse comes to worst and he forgets, I'll just get the check in the morning when the store opens and he'll have to let me go back out to the bank then. Anyway, you've already done enough today, Les.”

“I just wish we'd found Cupid. I can't believe that even if he ran away, he wouldn't find his way back.”

“Maybe he still will. That's what I keep telling the kids.” Rose closes her eyes and rubs her temples, as though her head is aching.

“Why don't you let me stay and get them into bed while you go take a long hot bath or something?” Leslie suggests. “I can answer the door if your boss shows up.”

Rose smiles. “Go home, Leslie. You have Peter there waiting for you, and you told him you'd leave right after we ate. That was two hours ago.”

“Yeah, but notice he's not so worried he's calling to see if I've left yet,” Leslie says wryly. “He's probably snoozing in my living room in front of some game, oblivious. Then when I get there and try to get him to come to bed with me, he'll say he's not tired and he'll stay up on the couch with the lights and TV on till all hours.”

“Welcome to being somebody's wife, Les,” Rose says with a grin, carrying both their mugs to the sink and turning on the water. “Sam used to do that all the time. It's a guy thing, just like dropping clothes on the floor in front of the hamper, and—”

She breaks off with a startled cry, her gaze focused on the window above the sink.

Leslie rushes over to her. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, I . . . I thought I saw something, but . . .”

“Outside?”

Rose nods.

It's difficult to see out with the kitchen light casting a glare on the glass. Leslie hurriedly reaches for the nearby wall switch and flicks off the overhead fixture.

Now the yard is more visible, albeit dark. There's no moon tonight.

“Maybe it was Cupid,” Leslie suggests, going toward the door. “I'll go see if he's out there.”

Rose trails her to the door. “Be careful, Les.”

“Cupid?” she calls as she steps outside, her breath frosty in the crisp night air. “Cupid, puppy, are you out here?”

No answer.

Nothing.

Leslie walks out into the yard, gazing at the dark, silent clumps of shrubs that border the property.

“Cupid?”

Her voice is slightly hoarse after an entire afternoon spent doing just this. She listens carefully for scampering in the bushes, or any sign that the puppy is lurking close by. There is nothing.

Leslie stands there for a few minutes, watching, listening.

She can't help but think about Sam. Her brother died a few yards from where she's standing, in the side yard, beneath the electric cables stretching to the street.

She shudders.

Convinced the yard is empty, she gives up and retreats to the house, where her sister-in-law is waiting anxiously in the back doorway.

“What did you think you saw?” she asks Rose as she closes and locks the door behind her. “Because there's definitely nothing there.”
Unless the bogeyman is hiding in the bushes,
she almost adds, but catches her tongue. She doesn't even want to joke around about something like that. Rose is stressed out enough.

“I don't know . . . I thought I saw someone standing out there, looking in at me.” Rose presses a hand against her chest. “It almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Don't even kid about that, Rose.” Leslie puts an arm around her sister-in-law and pulls her close. “I'm not going home. I'll stay. With the puppy missing and everything . . . you just shouldn't be alone tonight.”

“Oh, Les, you don't have to—”

“I know. I want to.”

Rose bows her head for a moment. When she raises it, her eyes are shiny with tears and gratitude. “Thank you. That would be . . . you have no idea how great that would be.”

“Good. I'll call Peter and tell him.” Leslie is already walking toward the phone. As she dials her own number, she tells Rose, “Why don't you go take that bath now? I'll get the kids into their pajamas and put them to bed.”

“You know what? I'm going to take you up on that. If my boss comes, just tell him I'm . . . I don't know. Just say I went out.”

“Why?” Leslie asks as the phone rings on the other end of the line. “Don't you want him to picture you lounging naked in a tub full of bubbles?”

Rose doesn't return her suggestive smile. “Actually . . . no, I don't. He's been a little . . .”

Intrigued, Leslie asks, “A little what?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's just my imagination. It just seemed to me like maybe he might be . . .”

She trails off, but Leslie has read between the lines. “He's interested in you, Rose?”

“No! Not really. Just—”

“Flirting?” The phone rings again.

“God, no. He's not the type to flirt. It's just that he's been really nice to me lately, and now he's bringing my check over here. I guess I'm glad you're staying so that I don't have to—”

“Be alone with him?” The phone rings again. Where the hell is Peter?

“Everything sounds so much more sordid coming from you, Leslie,” Rose says, shaking her head. “But yeah. I guess that's what I meant. Anyway . . . like I said, it's probably just me reading things into it that aren't there, so . . .”

Leslie hears a click in her ear, but it isn't Peter's voice that comes on the line. It's her own, on the answering machine's recording.

Frowning, she waits for the beep, then says, “Peter, if you're there, pick up. I'm going to stay at Rose's tonight, so . . . can you pick up? Come on, it's me. Peter?”

No answer.

“Peter? Are you there?”

Apparently, he's not.

“Maybe he didn't hear the phone if he's sleeping,” Rose suggests as Leslie hangs up.

“It's right next to the couch.”

“Maybe he's in bed.”

“He wouldn't go to bed this early. I guess he went out.” She throws up her hands to make light of it. “Maybe I'm out of coffee grounds and he had to run to the store. Who knows? I'm sure he'll call when he gets back and realizes I'm not home yet.”

“I'm sure he will. But if you want to go home and—”

“Are you kidding? This is girls' night. I'm putting the kids to bed. Go take your bath and when you come back down we'll find something to watch on TV. Anything but a basketball game.”

Left alone in the kitchen, Leslie finishes washing the mugs, then turns out the lights. Before leaving the room, she crosses again to the window above the sink and peers out.

Nothing but an empty yard.

But she can't help feeling unsettled this time—as though there might be some unseen threat lurking in the shadows.

It's just because stupid Peter didn't answer the stupid phone,
she thinks, turning away from the window.
Where could he possibly have gone at this hour on a week night
—
and why didn't he at least call to tell me he had to go out?

P
eering out from behind the trunk of an ancient maple tree, he notes that the kitchen window has gone dark once again.

He glimpses the figure of a woman standing there, and then she's gone, and he's alone again in the silent depths of the yard.