You belong to me (35 page)

While he twisted the rope around her limp body, he would explain to her why it was happening. He had explained it to the others, and while Susan's death was not a part of his original plan, but more a matter of expedience, she nonetheless deserved to know that she too had become a part of the ritual he had undertaken to expiate the sins of his stepmother.

Had he wanted, he could have killed her with the paperweight, but he hadn't hit her that hard. The blow had only stunned her, and already she was beginning to stir. Surely she was alert enough now to absorb what he had to tell her.

"You must understand, Susan," he began, in a reasoning tone of voice, "I never would have harmed you if only you hadn't butted in. In fact, I quite like you. I do sincerely. You're an interesting woman, and very smart too. But then that's been your undoing, hasn't it? Perhaps you're too smart for your own good."

He began to wind the rope around her arms, lifting her body gently. She was lying on the floor beside her desk; he had found a pillow and placed it under her head. He had dimmed the overhead lights. He liked soft light, and whenever possible used candlelight. Of course, that would be impossible here.

"Why did you have to talk about Regina Clausen on your radio program, Susan? You should have left it alone. She's been dead three years. Her body's at the bottom of Kowloon Bay, you know. Have you ever seen Kowloon Bay? She liked it there. It's very picturesque. All those hundreds of small houseboats filled with families, all living there, never knowing that a lonely lady lies beneath them."

He crossed and crisscrossed the rope over her upper body. "Hong Kong is Regina's final resting place, but it was in Bali that she fell in love with me. For such a smart woman, it was remarkably easy to convince her to leave the ship. But that's what happens when you're lonely. You want to fall in love, so you're anxious to believe someone who pays attention to you."

He began to tie Susan's legs. Lovely legs, he thought. Even though she was wearing a trouser suit, he could feel their shapeliness as he lifted them and wrapped the cord around them. "My father was easily duped as well, Susan. Isn't that funny? He and my mother were a grim, humorless pair, but he missed her when she died. My father was wealthy, but my mother had a lot of money of her own. In her will she left it all to him, but she thought he'd eventually pass it on to me. She wasn't a warm, or tender, or generous person, but in her own way she did care about me. She told me that I was to be like my father-make a lot of money, be diligent, develop a good head for business."

He yanked the cord more tightly than he had intended as he recalled the endless lectures. "This is what my mother would tell me, Susan. She would say, 'Alex, someday you will be a man with a great fortune. You must learn to preserve it. You will have children someday. Teach them properly. You must not spoil them.' "

He was on his knees beside Susan now, leaning over her. Despite the anger apparent hi his words, his voice remained calm and steady, his tone conversational. "I had less spending money than anyone else at school, and because of it I never could go out with the crowd. As a result, I became a loner; I learned to amuse myself. The theater was part of it. I took any role I could get in school productions. There was even a fully equipped miniature theater on the third floor of our house, the one big present I ever received, although it wasn't from my parents but from a friend of the family who had made a fortune because my father gave him a stock tip. He told me I could have anything I wanted, and that's what I chose. I used to act out whole plays all by myself. I'd play all the parts. I became very good at it, maybe even good enough to be a professional. I learned how to become anyone I wanted to, and I taught myself to look and sound like the characters I made up."

Susan was aware of a familiar voice just above her, but her head was splitting with pain, and she didn't dare open her eyes. What is happening to me? she wondered. Alex Wright was here, but who hit me? She had gotten just a glimpse of him before she blacked out. He had untidy, longish hair and was wearing a cap and a shabby sweat suit.

Wait, she thought, making herself focus. The voice is Alex's; that means he's still here. So why wasn't Alex helping her instead of just talking to her, she wondered, as some of the disorienting effect of the blow to her head began to abate.

Then what she had been hearing sank in, and she opened her eyes. His face was only inches away from hers. His eyes were glittering, shining with the kind of madness she had seen in the eyes of patients in locked wards. He's mad! she thought. She could see now-it was Alex in that straggly wig! Alex in those shabby clothes! Alex, whose eyes were like sharp chips of turquoise slicing deeply into her.

"I have your shroud, Susan," he whispered. "Even though you were not one of the lonely ladies, I wanted you to have it. It's exactly the same as the ones the others wore."

He stood, and she could see that he was holding up a long plastic bag, much like the kind used to protect expensive gowns. Oh God! she thought. He's going to suffocate me!

"I do this slowly, Susan," he said. "It's my favorite part. I want to watch your face. I want you to anticipate that moment when the air is cut off and the final struggle begins. So I'll do it slowly, and I won't wrap it too tightly. That way it will take longer for you to die, a few minutes, at least."

He knelt in front of her and lifted her feet, sliding the plastic bag underneath her so that her feet and legs were inside. She tried to kick it away, but he leaned across her, staring into her eyes as he pulled it over her hips and then her waist. Her struggles had no effect, not even slowing him as he continued to slide the plastic bag up her body. Finally, when he reached her neck, he paused.

"You see, soon after my mother died, my father took a cruise," he explained. "On it, he met Virginia Marie Owen, a lonely widow, or so she claimed. She was very girlish, not at all like my mother. She called herself 'Gerie.' She was thirty-five years my father's junior and attractive. He told me she liked to sing in his ear while they danced. Her favorite song was 'You Belong to Me.' You know how they spent their honeymoon? They followed the lyrics of that song, starting out in Egypt."

Susan watched Alex's face. He was clearly engrossed in his story now. But all the while his hands kept playing with the plastic, and Susan knew that at any moment he was going to pull it over her head. She thought of screaming, but who would hear? Her chance of escape was nil, and she was alone with him in what seemed an otherwise empty building. Even Nedda had gone home uncharacteristically early this evening.

"My father was smart enough to have Gerie sign a prenuptial agreement, but she hated me so much that she dedicated herself to persuading him to establish the foundation rather than leave his money to me. It would then be my role in life to administer it. She pointed out to my father that I would have a generous salary while I gave away his money. My money. She told him that in that way their names would be immortalized. He resisted for a while but eventually gave in.. The final piece of persuasion had come as the result of my own carelessness-Gerie found and gave to my father a rather infantile list I had made of 'things' that I wanted to buy as soon as I had control over the money. I hated her for that and swore to myself I would get even. But then she died, right after my father, and I never had the chance. Can you imagine how frustrating that was? To hate her with such a passion, and then for her to deprive me of the satisfaction of killing her?"

Susan studied his face as he knelt above her, a distant look in his eyes. He's definitely mad, she thought. He's mad, and he's going to kill me. Just the way he killed all the others!

105

By eight o'clock that night, Doug Layton was at a blackjack table in one of Atlantic City's slightly less fashionable casinos. Through some rapid manipulation of funds, he had been able to come up with the money he needed to cover the debts he had racked up during his last visit, but still his favorite casino had turned him away. To many of the people who knew him in Atlantic City, Layton was getting the reputation of a deadbeat.

The guys he paid back, however, celebrated by taking him out to lunch. In a way, Doug had felt a little relieved with how things were working out. Sooner or later the auditors would have caught up with him for stealing from the Clausen Family Trust, and there was still a good chance that Jane Clausen would get to Hubert March again; she might even convince him to call the police. Forewarned, he planned now to get out with the half-million-dollar stake he had gotten hold of today, before it was too late. He already had made a reservation for a flight to St. Thomas. From there he would manage to get to one of the islands where there was no extradition policy with the U.S. It was what his father had done-and he never had been caught.

Half a million would buy a good start on a new life. Layton knew that, and was determined to leave the country with that amount.

"You can't leave this place without trying your luck at least one more time," one of his new friends told him.

Doug Layton considered the challenge; he acknowledged that he felt lucky. "Well, maybe a hand of blackjack," he said in agreement.

It was only nine o'clock when he left the casino. Barely aware of his surroundings, he walked onto the beach. There was no way to get the money he needed now, the money he owed to the guys who had staked him again today, when his luck turned sour for the last time. It was all over for him. He knew what would follow: conviction for embezzlement. Prison. Or worse.

He took off his suit jacket and laid his watch and his wallet on it. It was something he'd read about, and it seemed to make sense.

He could hear the surf pounding. A stiff, cold wind blew off the ocean, and the surf was high. He shivered in his shirtsleeves. He wondered how long it would take to drown-and decided it was better not to know, that it was just one of those things that you wouldn't know about until you did it, like so much else in his life. He stepped into the water gingerly, then took another, bigger step.

It's all Susan Chandler's fault, he thought, as the icy water lapped at his ankles. If only she had stayed out of it, no one would have known, and I'd have had years more at the trust- He held his breath against the cold and plunged on until his feet were no longer touching bottom. A big wave caught him, then another, then he was choking, lost in a world of cold and darkness, pummeled by the waves. He tried not to struggle.

Silently he cursed Susan Chandler. / hope she dies. It was Douglas Layton's last conscious thought.

106

Don Richards caught the plane to La Guardia with only minutes to spare. It was not a direct flight. He cursed the layover in Atlanta, but it couldn't be helped. As soon as they had cleared the airport and he was able to use the telephone, he called Susan Chandler's office.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Richards, but she's with a patient and can't be interrupted," her secretary informed him. "I'd be happy to take a message and leave it for her. I do know, though, that she has another patient right after this one, so she may not -"

"How long will Dr. Chandler be there?" Don asked impatiently.

"Sir, she has patients until seven o'clock; she mentioned earlier that after that she's planning to do some paperwork."

"Then please take down this message, exactly as I give it: 'Don Richards needs to see you about Owen. His plane gets in about eight o'clock. He'll pick you up at your office. Wait for him.'"

"I'll leave it right on my desk where she'll see it, sir," the secretary said, her tone a little icy.

And so Susan would have, if it weren't hidden under the telephone.

The flight attendant was offering a drink and snacks. "Just coffee, please," Don Richards said. He knew he needed a clear head. Later, Susan and I will have a drink and dinner, Don thought. I'll tell her what I think she's already guessed-that the person poor Carolyn is trying to talk about is named Owen, not Win. Ever since he had seen the name Owen circled on both passenger lists on the desk in Susan's apartment, he had been turning this over in his mind, and he thought that was the most likely explanation.

He would also tell Susan-and that was the reason he was desperate to get back to New York-that whoever "Owen" really was, he was very likely the killer. And if Don was right, Susan was in grave jeopardy.

I was on Susan's program both when Carolyn and Tiffany phoned in, Don thought, as he stared into the darkening sky. Carolyn was almost killed by that van. Tiffany was stabbed to death. The killer won't stop there to protect his secret, whatever it is.

I told Susan, when I was on her program, that my goal was to help women help themselves, to be aware of and sensitive to danger signs. I've spent four years angry with myself, thinking I could have saved Kathy. Now I realize I was wrong. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but if we were to relive those same last few minutes together, I still wouldn't tell her to stay home.

The clouds were drifting past the plane like waves lapping at the side of a ship. Don thought of the two cruises he'd tried to take in the past two years-brief ones to the Caribbean. In both cases, he got off at the first port. He kept seeing Kathy's face in the water. He knew it wouldn't happen anymore.

Anxiety was gnawing at him. Susan can't go this route alone any longer, Don vowed to himself. It was too dangerous. Much more dangerous than she knew.

The plane landed at quarter of eight. "Bear with us, and relax," the captain announced. "They're having a busy evening, and all the gates are presently occupied."

It was eight-ten before Don got off the plane. He rushed to a phone and called Susan's office. There was no answer, and he hung up without leaving a message.

Maybe she finished early and went home, he thought. But he got no response at her apartment either, just the answering machine.

Maybe I should try again at the office, he thought. She may have just stepped out. But again he got no answer; this time, however, he decided to leave her a message. "Susan," he said. "I'm going to stop by your office. I hope you got the message I left earlier with your secretary, and you're still around. With luck I'll be there in half an hour."