Stitches In Time (19 page)

"It
happened almost twenty years ago" Pat said.
"I
had
just met Ruth, through one of my students—Ruth's niece Sara, who is Kara's older sister. Sara was the first of us to feel the influence that haunted that old house in Georgetown. It was a classic case of possession; the girl who had come to a tragic end in the same house two centuries earlier occupied Sara's body and spoke through her. I happened to match the—well, call them the emotional patterns—of another individual who had been involved in the same tragedy. On at least three occasions he took over control of my mind and my actions. Sara's lover, who is now her husband, was also affected, though not to the same extent she and
I
were. We came horribly close to repeating the old pattern, with its grisly ending, before we found out what had happened and how to resolve it."

"You resolved it?" Adam repeated skeptically.

Pat nodded. "So successfully that the house, which was the focus of the influence, is harmless. It's the same one Kara and Mark own now. Ruth sold it to them after my mother died and we inherited this place."

"If
I
had heard a story like that from anybody but
you ..." For once Adam's extensive vocabulary failed him. He flapped his hands helplessly.

They had returned to the living room. Rachel sat on the couch, with a MacDougal on either side. It was their way of indicating support and sympathy, she supposed, but she felt hemmed in, and the afghan Ruth had tucked around her was tight as a cocoon or a baby's bunting. Bolt upright in his chair, Adam faced the three. His pose was confrontational, but his eyes were as miserable as those of a child who has just been told there is no Santa Claus.

"I can't say I blame you," Pat said calmly. "The first time I ran into a situation like this, I was the skeptic. It took personal experience to convince me. After I tried to rape Ruth and kill a man who was as close as a son to me, I became a convert."

He had chosen the words deliberately for their shock value. Adam's breath went out in a harsh gasp. "You'd never—"

"Not if I was in my right mind. I wasn't. Something else was. I call it overshadowing because that's what it felt like—the submergence of my own will, my very identity, by an alien personality. I think the same thing has happened to Rachel. I didn't sense anything wrong when I met her at the Christmas party, so it must have begun later that night—possibly when she and Tony enjoyed their first passionate embrace. It was the first time, wasn't it, Rachel?"

"Adam had no right to tell you about that," Rachel said furiously. "It wasn't ... it wasn't the way he made it sound."

"Don't blame Adam. The incident obviously bothered him—he's easily shocked, poor innocent kid—but he would never have mentioned it to me or anyone else if we hadn't caught you red-handed just now. Excuse the pun."

Adam's nose was crimson with embarrassment and
fury. "Goddammit, Pat, how can you joke about this?
I
wasn't shocked. Surprised, maybe—"

"So surprised that you still can't see the significance of that incident." Pat leaned forward. "Tony's moral code is as tediously rigid as any Calvinist's. He wouldn't make love to another woman in his own house, with his wife sleeping only a few feet away. If you don't know him well enough to be sure of that, you'll have to take my word for it."

"There's always a first time," Adam said stubbornly. His eyes avoided Rachel's.

"Especially when the temptation is, as in this case, so uniquely irresistible." The amusement in Pat's voice made Adam go even redder. "What was that about a canopy being tampered with?"

Adam told him. "It was deliberate," he finished. "Had to be. And nobody else had the opportunity."

"Not necessarily true," Pat said calmly. "Oh,
I
agree Rachel is the most obvious suspect. But even if it was her hands that loosened the screws, her mind wasn't directing those hands.
I
can't prove my theory, Adam. The one incontrovertible piece of evidence is one you can't admit— my personal experience. You're like a man who has lost his hearing, watching an orchestra at a concert. I can tell you they're playing Beethoven but if you don't trust me—"

‘I
trust your integrity. I'm sure you believe what you're telling me."

"That's good enough to start with." He gave Ruth a companionable grin. "This is a tough one, isn't it? The first case was simple, by comparison. We stumbled, apparently by accident, into an unfinished, unresolved pattern. Three of the four of us who were involved happened to fit the personality types of three people who had lived in the house before. The pattern had to be worked out to its conclusion, the old tragedy resolved."

"It wasn't an accident," Ruth murmured. "It didn't just happen. It wasn't coincidence."

"Let's not start talking about the meaning of life," Pat said. Ruth smiled faintly; this was obviously an ongoing, and generally amiable, argument. "The best our limited senses can produce are analogies. I find it easier to think in terms of patterns. It's a concept with which Rachel should be familiar, since it fits her thesis topic—the Fates, spinning the web of a man's life. All lives are interwoven, and sometimes the immortal weavers get careless, so that the web is tangled or cut prematurely."

"Very poetic," Adam muttered.

"I said it was only an analogy. To continue in the same vein, our best hope of dealing with something like this is to trace the pattern and tie off the broken threads."

He looked at Adam, eyebrows raised in inquiry. The younger man raised his eyebrows. "Are you implying that this is the same sort of thing you ran into before? Even admitting your basic premise, which is insane, seems to me you're jumping to conclusions."

"Very good," Pat said approvingly. "I don't know whether this is the same sort of thing. I propose to find out. You do remember the rudiments of the scientific method, I hope? Form a hypothesis, run tests—"

"What kind of tests, for God's sake?"

Pat had his answer ready. "Rachel is our best source; she has to be aware, on some level, of what's happening. If she'll cooperate, answer questions—"

"Of course I'll cooperate." Rachel freed her arms from the folds of the afghan. "Don't you think I'd like to believe I didn't do those things deliberately? I'd give anything to find a scapegoat. Almost anything. I agree with Adam, what you've suggested is insane. I'm insane!"

Adam hadn't expected that response. He started to speak, but Pat beat him to it.

"Another skeptic? Good. If you were one of those suggestible sentimentalists who believes in reincarnation and angelic guides, we wouldn't have a prayer."

Coming from a man who had just asserted his belief in demonic possession, this statement struck Rachel as unduly critical. But when he turned to her she saw him brace himself, as if in anticipation of physical attack, before he held out his hands; and when she placed her hands in his, she felt him recoil before his fingers closed over hers. He drew a long breath. "Okay, kid, let's get at it. What happened that night?"

"Pat," Ruth said uneasily. "I don't think you should do this. You're pushing. It isn't going to be that easy."

"I'm not pushing," Pat insisted. "It's up to Rachel. Would you feel more comfortable talking about it if Adam left the room?"

"What would be the point of that?" Rachel said drearily. "He knows about it already, and I don't blame him for despising me. But I never intended ..."

"Tell me."

"It was that same night, the night of the Christmas party. I thought ... I thought I heard something. Outside.
I
couldn't sleep, I was nervous—we all were, about the burglar. So I went downstairs."

"You're a gutsy lady," Pat said. "Gutsy but stupid. You didn't wake the others?"

"I didn't want to scare Cheryl or the kids. And he— Tony—was downstairs alone, encumbered by that cast, possibly drugged; sometimes he took painkillers to help him sleep."

"But he wasn't asleep?"

He was leading her gently, like an attorney for the defense. "No," Rachel said. "He heard me in the shop. At least that's what he said. He didn't know who it was, he thought someone had broken in. He scared me half to
death when he appeared. He apologized, told me to sit down ..."

Her throat started to close up. She swallowed noisily, and Pat said, "You're doing fine, kid. If it's any consolation, I'm not enjoying this either. Up to that time had Tony ever made a pass at you—any kind of pass, verbal, physical, even a meaningful look?"

"No, never. And 1 never said or did anything to let him know..."

"That you were in love with him?"

"Stop it," Ruth ordered angrily. "You can't ask the girl to strip herself naked in front of us."

"It could be important," Pat said.

"It's not important," Rachel whispered. "But it's true.
I
didn't mean to. It just happened. He didn't know. Nobody knew except..."

"Who? Cheryl?"

"No! At least I hope she didn't. But I think Kara suspected."

"Interesting," Pat said thoughtfully.

"Get on with it," Ruth snapped. "If you're determined to do this."

Pat's fingers tightened. "Okay, Rachel. You're sitting in a chair, he's apologizing. Standing?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

Her throat felt constricted, as if she were coming down with a cold. It hurt to swallow. She had to force the words out. "He said, "You're . . . '"

"Hang on, kid, we're almost there. 'You're . . .' what?"

"'...shivering. It's freezing in here.' And then he reached for—"

No effort of will could shape the next word or pronounce it. She felt her lips stretch wide in a painful rictus, heard the rattling sound of air trying to pass the obstruction that blocked her throat, felt the muscles of limbs and body contract in a spasm that would have thrown her from the couch if Pat had not caught hold of her.

When her senses came back to her she was lying on the couch. Ruth was tucking the afghan around her and talking, in a soft, venomous monologue.

"Talk about rushing in where angels fear to tread! I told you it wasn't going to be that easy, but no, you knew better, you never listen."

"Now, honey." Rachel had never heard Pat MacDougal sound so meek. "I'm sorry. Is she all right?"

Rachel opened her eyes. They were all hovering, Ruth kneeling on the floor beside her, the two men bending over the couch.

"Of course she's not all right," Ruth snapped. "Leave her alone, you—you big bully! First you drive her into a convulsion, then you squeeze the breath out of her, and now you want her to relieve your guilty conscience by telling you no damage was done."

"
I
had to grab her, she would have hurt herself," Pat protested. "Rachel—"

"I'm fine." It was true. Except for slightly sore muscles, from Pat's bear hug, she felt quite normal. The painful constriction of her throat was gone. She sat up. "Really."

Not for the first time, Rachel wished Adam's face wasn't so veiled by hair. The only part of it she could see clearly was his nose, and noses are not particularly expressive features. His voice sounded peculiar, though. "It looked like an epileptic seizure."

"It wasn't," Pat said. "I think I know what happened. Rachel, can you tell me—"

"Patrick MacDougal!" Ruth turned on her husband, her eyes blazing. "Not one more word, do you hear? I'm
putting this child to bed, right this minute. Adam, you'd better spend the night too."

"The animals have to be fed and the dogs let out," Adam said. When Ruth would have objected he interrupted her, with uncharacteristic rudeness. "I don't want to leave the house empty, even for one night. You seem to have forgotten that there's a murderer wandering around loose."

"Oh, yeah." Pat scratched his chin. "I wonder how he fits into this. Okay, Adam, you go back to Leesburg. I'll bring Rachel—"

"No!" Rachel exclaimed. "Don't let him go."

"Do you think 1 can't handle your burglar?" Adam demanded. "I hope the little bastard does turn up."

"Oh, for God's sake, stop showing off!" Rachel shouted. They glared at one another. He was still leaning over the couch, so close she could see his dilated pupils and the circles of bright hazel around them. "I'm not worried about burglars. If I did that to the bed canopy—and I must have, no one else could have done it—what else may
I
have done? There could be booby traps in every room."

"I'll be careful," Adam said.

"Do." Pat's voice was dry. "I'd go with you, but I don't want to leave the girls alone."

"You've been a great help so far," Ruth said sarcastically. "And the epitome of tact. 'Girls!'"

"He is being tactful," Rachel said. "What he really means is he doesn't want to leave me alone with Ruth. He doesn't trust me, and he's absolutely right. I don't trust myself."

"No,
I
didn't mean that," Pat said. "It has no reason to harm Ruth. Or me."