The Night Visitor (12 page)

“I’m sensitive to light, but it’s not bad. I have a little trouble concentrating, but it’s getting better.”

Rory tried to steer the conversation away from her. “Vic, don’t you have new pictures of your latest addition?”

“You bet.” Victoria got up from the bed, took a smartphone from her purse, and began swiping through photos.

“She had her third baby a month ago and look at the shape she’s in.” Hannah ran her hands down her own slender waist. “It took me four months to get my figure back after Luke. And I worked out faithfully six days a week. Look at these exquisite roses. Could you just die?”

“They’re from my mom’s garden,” Rory said. “Her Jack Frosts and her Powder Puffs.”

“Ro, have you thought about letting your mom make your bridal bouquet? She has the best roses in town and she has such an eye for floral design.” Hannah turned and looked with concern at her friend. “Ro…?”

Rory’s exiting the elevator into Junior’s loft. A hot summer wind is blowing through the open windows. The doves are loose, circling crazily. She smells something musky and burnt and sickly sweet. She’s afraid. She senses she’s not alone. The doves are flying wild. She shuts off the lights. Darkness now. Moonlight shines through the arched windows as she moves around the loft, closing them. Behind the orange couch, she slips and stumbles. Anya’s blood. Anya’s body. She tries to get away. She’s falling into darkness.

“Rory, are you okay?” Victoria grabbed her hand.

Rory gasped and sat upright in bed. She blinked and looked around as if she didn’t know where she was.

“Should we get a nurse?” Hannah started for the door.

“No. I’m…I’m fine.” Rory had been dreaming again, dreaming with her eyes open. The visions came without warning, taking over, blotting out reality. They were fragmented, surreal, lacking continuity, like a movie spliced out of sequence. Some were horrifying, but some were wonderful. What was happening to her?

“We should leave,” Victoria said.

“No, stay.” Rory didn’t want to be alone. “How about those baby pictures, Vic?”

Victoria and Hannah exchanged a glance. “Sure.” Victoria leaned against the bed and held her phone screen so Rory could see it. She swiped the screen. “This was at his cousin’s birthday party.”

“Vic, he’s adorable,” Rory said. “Trevor must be thrilled to have a boy.”

“He loves his two girls, but he’s already bought a baby football uniform at the USC student store.”

“Rory, do you remember anything from when you were in a coma?”

“Hannah,”
Victoria scolded her friend.

Might as well get it over with,
Rory thought. “It’s all right. I remember some things, but they’re kind of dreamy, like when you hear somebody talking when you’re just dropping off to sleep. I was sort of aware of the nurses and the doctors. I remember my mother telling me to wake up and her crying and Tom telling me he loved me.”

Both girlfriends said, “Aww…”

“Do you remember anything about what happened?” Hannah asked.

“What happened when?” Rory frowned. “The night of the ball?”

“Hannah, we’re keeping the conversation upbeat,” Victoria said. “Remember?”

“I know,” Hannah said. “Forget I said anything.”

“I don’t mind,” Rory said. “Truth is, I don’t remember anything about the ball. I vaguely remember having dinner with Tom the night before but nothing after that until I woke up in the hospital. That’s normal after a brain injury. It’ll come back to me.”

“It’s good you don’t remember,” Victoria said. “It was horrible.”

“I’m glad I don’t,” Rory said. “Although that detective, Henry Auburn, wishes I did. He was here this morning, bugging me about it.”

“Why is he bothering you?” Hannah started picking up the tissue paper from the gifts. “Isn’t there video of the whole thing?”

“They can’t hear what Danny and I were saying above the screaming and confusion. I guess Danny and I were talking and he started to cry. That’s when he moved the gun away from me and Richard…” Rory raised an eyebrow.

“You’re lucky you’re alive.” Victoria scowled. “The police should leave you alone.”

Rory felt exhausted. “Let’s go back to talking about cheerful things.”

“Hello, hello.” Rory’s Aunt Donna came in carrying a basket of ferns and blooming plants with a small metallic balloon that said Get Well Soon.

“Aunt Donna.” Rory stretched out her arms. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Victoria took the basket from Donna, who set her large purse on the end of the bed and leaned over to hug her niece with both arms.

“It does me a world of good to see you looking so well, Ro. I hated seeing you in the ICU with all the tubes and machines. It just tore my heart out.”

“My mom told me you stopped by. That was sweet of you.”

“Stopped by? Honey, I was on the graveyard shift. I relieved Tom at ten at night and stayed until your mom got there at eight in the morning. Is that what she said, that I just stopped by?”

Rory looked sheepish.

“Typical Evelyn. I wouldn’t abandon my girl.” Donna stroked Rory’s hair. “Your Uncle Dave came to see you too. He’s coming with me tomorrow. He’s been really busy at the shop.”

“I’m happy the shop is doing well. I’m looking forward to seeing him. Let me introduce you. This is my aunt, Donna Knight. These are two of my closest friends and sorority sisters, Hannah Vorst and Victoria Newell.”

“I’m happy to finally meet you,” Victoria said. “Rory has always spoken fondly of you.”

Donna pulled Rory’s hand to her lips. “I raised this girl and her sister too, from when they were just little ones. My sister was busy with her acting career. Oh, I almost forgot.” Donna went to her purse on the bed and started digging inside it. She took out a bundle wrapped in aluminum foil and handed it to Rory. “I made muffins. There’s banana nut and chocolate chip.”

“Yum.” Rory opened the foil and offered the muffins to her friends, who both declined.

“You enjoy them,” Hannah said.

“My weight is one thing I don’t have to worry about after being on a liquid diet.” Rory bit into a muffin. “Mmm…Best muffins ever, Aunt Donna. Thanks.”

“Look what I found when I was cleaning out a closet.” From her purse, Donna pulled out a purple feather boa.

Rory leaned forward so her aunt could drape it around her neck. “Oh my gosh. You still have this. It was in Anya’s and my dress-up trunk.”

“You and Anya were always up to something when you were kids, playing dress-up in my old clothes. Putting on plays. Dancing and singing. You were like two peas in a pod. Your Uncle Dave used to call you Frick and Frack, remember?”

Rory smiled as she twirled an end of the boa. “We were best friends.”

“Really?” Hannah said. “I had the impression that you and Anya weren’t close.”

“We were when we were little.” Rory’s eyes grew dark. “Then we weren’t.” The unasked follow-up question lingered in the air, but the girlfriends remained silent and Donna didn’t offer an explanation.

Rory wrinkled her nose. “What’s that horrible smell?”

The women sniffed the air, looking at one another.

“It’s like ammonia being used to cover up something putrid,” Rory said.

“I think it smells fresh in here, as hospitals go,” Victoria said.

“And that noise,” Rory said. “Are there kids on this floor?”

“I didn’t see any patients that are kids,” Hannah said. “Maybe some are visiting.”

“What noise, sweetheart?” Donna asked.

“You don’t hear that? Like a high-pitched, electronic singing.”

Rory stopped talking. Of course they didn’t smell or hear anything. It was in her head, a waking dream. A face loomed before her. The eyes and forehead belonged to an African American woman, but the area beneath her nose was swathed in yellow.

Rory couldn’t breathe. Panic surged through her. She gasped. Her eyes bulged and she clutched her throat.

Hannah frowned. “Ro, are you all right?”

28

Rory’s face grew red. She pressed her hand over a searing pain in her chest. Behind her trauma, she was aware of the African American woman’s partially shrouded face above her and the tinny music that grew louder and louder.

“She can’t breathe.” Hannah looked at the others.

“I’m getting a nurse.” Victoria ran from the room.

Donna remained cool. “Lean forward with your head between your knees. It’ll be okay, honey.”

It stopped. The sights, sounds, and sensations lost their intensity before fading away. Rory was still panting but breathing easier.

“I’m okay.” She put up her hand.

A nurse rushed into the room. “What’s the problem?”

Victoria was on her heels.

“She couldn’t breathe,” Donna said, moving to give the nurse access to the bed.

The nurse examined Rory. “How do you feel now?”

“I’m fine now, thanks. The air’s so dry in here and my allergy to pollen…”

The nurse took out a tongue depressor. “Say ahh…Your throat looks a little irritated. I’ll bring you a bottle of spray that will make you more comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“We’d better go,” Victoria said. “We’ve stayed too long.”

“Me too,” Donna said. “You need your rest.”

Rory did feel tired, even though she didn’t want them to go. “Thanks for coming.”

They all hugged and kissed Rory and left.

The room was quiet. Rory gathered the sheets of stationery from under the bedcovers and put them into a nightstand drawer. Deciding to take a nap, she slowly turned and plumped the pillows. She again caught a whiff of ammonia and the other, fetid odor behind it. She heard the tinny music.

“Oh no.”

She grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV, turning up the volume, trying to drown out the noises in her head. She found a cooking show and tried to focus on it. Another room was dimly superimposed over the show. It was painted pale green and the walls were covered with pictures.

Rory repeated the chef’s instructions: “Sauté the onions, carrots, and celery until they’re soft.”

Desperate to stop the dream, she reached beneath her pajama top and pinched the flesh on her waist. She pinched as hard as she could, wincing. The pain helped. The images in her head grew transparent. The tinny music and the odors faded. The flesh in her grip grew numb. She released it to try a fresh spot.

A familiar image tugged at the edges of her perception.

She grabbed another hunk of skin and started to squeeze, but she was lured by the scene taking shape. She released her skin and closed her eyes. On a wall in the pale green room she saw one of the nudes that Junior had painted of her, the most provocative one he’d done. She’d posed for it wearing only heeled bedroom slippers. She’d told Junior that she hated the painting, but he’d said it was his favorite.

With her eyes still closed, she found the remote and clicked off the TV. She decided to stop resisting and let the visions happen. Maybe if she gave in, she’d work through whatever she was processing and finally get back to normal. Her injury had made her mind play tricks on her. The medications she was taking probably contributed. Also, Junior’s family was all over the news, renewing the guilt Rory still harbored about Junior. After the Five Points shootings, she’d buried thoughts of Junior. She’d never gone to see him in the hospital, never called his family. Before the shootings, she’d loved Junior profoundly, yet she’d eliminated the two years she’d spent with him from her life as easily as snipping a disowned friend from a group photograph.

She relaxed and tried to clear her head, opening herself to wherever her mind took her. She was transported to one of the many afternoons in Junior’s loft when she had sat for that nude portrait. She saw through Junior’s eyes, was painting from his point of view, looking at her, looking at the work, and then at her. His hand with the blue angel tattoo moved easily from palette to canvas, each brushstroke adding shape and light.

She tried melding her own memories and sensations into the scene. The experience intensified. She was fully there, at once Junior and herself.

It’s late afternoon in the loft. Rory’s tired of holding the same pose and watching while Junior works. She lets her foot slip to the floor and stretches her back in an arch. Junior’s been lost in his work for hours, looking at her but not seeing her. He sees her now. She sees herself through his eyes, stretched out on the sofa, ready for him. She’s Junior now, setting down his brush and palette. Unbuckling his belt, unfastening his workman’s pants and stepping out of them. Crossing the room. Taking in every inch of her. At the same time, she’s watching him as he watches her, her passion rising, blending with his. He kneels between her legs.

In her hospital bed, Rory turned to hug her pillows. She whispered, “Junior, I’ve missed you.”

29

In the penthouse of the Tate Building at the corner of Lake and Colorado in Pasadena, Richard Tate sat behind a Chippendale desk, which had belonged to his father, and listened to his son rage about Sylvia Torres and the attorney she’d hired
.

Richie paced the office. “Freaking Yvonne Argos, that publicity whore. Flat-out calling you a murderer on national TV this morning. We can’t just lie down and let those Laras hand our asses to us.”

Richard was leaning back in his chair with his feet on his desk, his hands clasped behind his head. He knew that Leland Declues, who was also there, would come up with the best way to handle the situation. Leland hadn’t escaped Yvonne Argos’s tart tongue, as the high-profile attorney had called Leland the “Tate family consigliere.”

Leland downed the last of his coffee. The Limoges cup made a sound like rattling bones when he set it in its saucer on a coffee table. “Richie, it’s tempting to get down in the mud with Yvonne Argos, but publicly responding to her allegations only gives them weight and gives Yvonne another opportunity to appear on TV. After the DA’s office issues its press release—probably tomorrow—I’ll release a statement from the Tate family. Then we’ll wait to be sued for whatever Yvonne can come up with in civil court.” He smiled and shook his head.

“What do you think she’ll sue for, Leland?” Richard asked.