He whistled the whole way, trying not to think of the work that lay ahead of him. He had an assignment, and it was due soon. He didn’t care—he wouldn’t care about it—until he was out of the woods.
He knew every step of the way by heart, of course, though the seasons changed each turning by bringing new growth, different wild flowers. He liked to watch the trail as he came back.
He was now approaching the last rise, climbing steadily out of the gorge that led down to the reservoir behind him. Another hill, and he would come to the end of the woods.
He walked faster, the tug of responsibility growing slightly stronger in him. Then he stopped.
Something had moved just ahead of him, just around the next corner in the trail. Cornell adjusted his glasses. He was sure he had seen it. The bushes at the edge of the trail had rustled.
Whatever it was, Cornell thought, it was big. A deer, maybe. He stood still a few more seconds. If it was a deer, he wanted to get a glimpse of it. The woods held nothing more beautiful and, like most fishermen, he couldn’t understand the sensibilities of hunters who shot deer down.
There was no more motion. The deer, or whatever it was, was gone.
Cornell began walking slowly and, as he walked, he began whistling again.
He continued on out of the woods.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Scott and Ross were lost.
Both had been to Vine Street and to the Jenkins house just the other day. Neither remembered where it was.
“Is it this way?” Scott asked.
“Beats me,” Ross answered. “Jeez.”
They drove slowly, searchingly, through the suburban streets, like a pair of prowlers casing the homes of the well-to-do. They radioed for directions and, as they did, they reached a corner.
“Is that it?” Ross asked.
“I think so,” Scott answered. “Jeez.”
The blue Chevy turned. The car chugged down the block. Scott craned his fat neck out of the driver’s window. Then they passed a house with a jungle gym and a swim set on the back lawn. And a roof with a few tiles missing.
“This is it,” Ross said suddenly.
“What?”
“This is the place.”
“How do you know?”
“For one thing, the mailbox.”
“Should I stop?”
“No, now that we’ve seen it, let’s go back. I’m satisfied. Of course, stop.”
They stopped. Scott backed up and parked in front of the Jenkins house. Then the two detectives got out and waddled up the front path.
“See?” Ross said, pointing up.
“What?”
“The roof.”
“Oh,” Scott nodded. “Yeah.”
They reached the front door. Scott pushed the bell and they waited. Ross’s stomach grumbled.
“Shut up,” Scott said.
The door opened on a middle-aged woman. She wore a fancy silk bathrobe and a polite but tired smile.
“Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Scott started. “We’re from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, State Police.”
Mrs. Jenkins was very interested to hear this. She was also very confused.
“Well,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”
“No,” Ross said. “That’s where we’re from. I’m sure.”
Scott sighed and shot his partner a look.
“We’re here about Paul White,” he said. “We know he was doing some work on your house.”
The woman relaxed, eager to help now. “Oh. Well. He was. But he’s not today.”
Scott paused. “No?”
“No. He called me this morning. He’s sick apparently.”
The two detectives looked at each other now, then back at Mrs. Jenkins.
“He is,” Scott said. “Very sick.”
He shot a quick good-bye to the bewildered woman, then the two men raced down the front path, back to their car.
Once inside, they did not hesitate.
“White’s house,” Ross said. “Hard.”
From the glove compartment he pulled out the detachable flasher. He reached out the window with it and slapped it on top of the car as the Chevy peeled out.
The two detectives were silent.
“I hope so too,” Ross said.
His stomach grumbled. The siren screamed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“Joaneee!”
Paul was right behind her now. She could hear his footsteps thundering closer and closer. There was no longer anyplace to hide. He could see her now, and when she cast a terrified glance over her shoulder, she could see him, too, jogging easily down the forest trail behind her, smiling as he ran, calling: “Joanie, come on!”
Mrs. White tried to put out a last burst of speed, but there was nothing left in her. She was out of shape; the muscles in her legs had been taxed beyond their capacities.
The hollow, somber sensation of despair rose up in her stomach as she knew she could not get away. She almost stopped running, but she did not. Her speed flagging, her strength failing, she pushed on a few more steps.
“Joanie, please.”
Paul was no more than six steps behind her; his voice was almost in her ear.
Mrs. White’s eyes darted left and right, but she did not know what for—some aid, some angel to come and take her out of this nightmare. Her husband was chasing her through the woods; her husband was a killer, chasing her through the woods. He was going to catch her. He was going to hurt her. What could be more like a terrible dream?
How long ago had it been, that hers had been a happy, normal life? A few days.
“Joanie, now …”
His hand swiped at the back of her blouse. She strained forward. She looked wildly for some aid.
She saw Cornell.
She didn’t know what it was at first, some incongruous colors in the green depths of the woods before her. She saw it move; she saw the flash of light on glasses. And then she knew.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, reaching forward, as if she thought she could touch him.
She did not know if she had the breath to scream. But Paul was reaching for her again, and she began to see visions of all the unimaginable things that can happen to a human body. That would happen to her body, while Paul, her beloved Paul, hovered over her, grinning.
She drew a breath. She saw, for a single instant, Cornell’s face poised in an attitude of listening. She screamed.
Paul’s hand clapped over her mouth. The scream became a muffled cry. Her husband was dragging her down, rolling over her in the underbrush. She struggled, but she could not move at all. All she could see was her husband’s face, his battered face, all she could smell was her husband’s smell, and all she knew was that it was over, over forever. She could not fight anymore.
As Paul pressed down upon her she shifted her eyes and saw, from the corner of them, Cornell passing by, unaware, on the forest trail. Then she saw a flash of the butcher knife poised over her head. She looked at her husband.
“Now,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
One hand in his pocket, the other gripping the rod on his shoulder, Cornell came walking up over the White’s lawn. He glanced toward the cottage, half expectantly. For some reason he had a hunch that Mrs. White was going to call him in for coffee, off her usual day.
There was no sign of her, and Cornell went up the driveway with a small sigh of relief. He felt a little guilty. Clearly, the woman was troubled. She was a fairly simple soul, and he suggested the complications suddenly introduced into her life had thrown her for a bit of a loop.
But guilty or no, Cornell kept walking until he reached the street. It wasn’t his fault, after all, and there was precious little he could do about it. She really shouldn’t have burdened him with it in the first place. It was the sort of thing a person had to tackle on his own.
Cornell came to a dead stop in the cent
er of the street. He brought his hand out of his pocket and stared at it. He let out a particularly vile curse.
He had forgotten his tackle box. He had left it in the woods.
He cursed again, but he didn’t move. It was a weekday, after all, the woods were pretty empty, and the box would probably be there when he got back.
On the other hand—and he cursed yet again—every single piece of fishing gear he had, save his rod and his knife, were in that box. If someone should make off with it, it would cost him a bundle to replace. More than that, those were his lures, the spoons and poppers he had personally tested and approved. They were his old companions.
Now, he only sighed. Deliberately, he headed back across the White property back into the woods.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The word reverberated in Mrs. White’s head: Now.
The knife dangled above her. Cornell had just passed by her out of sight. Paul’s body was restraining hers in the bushes beside the trail. His hand covered her mouth.
It was over now and she knew it. Oh, God, she thought. Now.
“I’m sorry,” Paul was saying. “But what else can I do? I … can’t do anything else.”
Mrs. White stared at him. Hearing Paul’s voice, she felt a strange, distant sense of peace. It was a strangled, helpless, haunted sound, that voice. It was not the strong, sure sound of her husband’s voice. This was not Paul. It was another man inside Paul. She had not been so blind; it had not all been a lie. She had loved a man who really did exist: the man Paul might have been. That, if there was any solace here, would be hers.
The knife came down quickly. Then it jerked up again, without touching her. Paul was only speaking with it, punctuating, thinking with the knife.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’m not going to … to …”
His hand weakened around Mrs. White’s mouth. The thick sweaty fingers fell away.
“I’ll be—faster,” he said.
Mrs. White’s mouth worked, but no sounds came. Then, finally, desperately, imploringly, the word escaped.
“Paul …” she choked out. “Darling …”
It seemed both to please and to annoy him, for he smiled a bit. But his hand rolled tighter around the weapon.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “It’s no good. I can’t let you go. What would you do? You’d tell. You’d tell on me.”
“Oh, no …” she managed. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t. Sweetheart.”
Paul moved his head around, as if agonized by the endearment. He stabbed the knife aimlessly into the air.
“No,” he said, “that’s not a—thing I can do. But I will, I promise, Joanie. I will be quick. Because you’re the one I … trust. Because I—I love you.”
Mrs. White whispered. “Oh, yes … and I love you too. Paul, dear.”
Paul winced. His big shoulders moved in toward each other. He moved the knife slowly up and down as if to stab himself. He smiled. Hopefully, Mrs. White returned the smile. For a moment, husband and wife seemed locked in a passionate embrace. Then, with sudden bitterness, Paul said, “You love me. You—you hit me. You called the police, and you know what they’ll do. You know.”
“What could I do? What else could I do, Paul? I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” he spat at her. “You were afraid. I trusted you.”
“Please … We’ll go home. It’ll be—”
“You turned on me. That’s what you did. That’s what you always do.”
Mrs. White did not respond. She had lost touch with him completely. There was nothing in her twenty years of marriage that she could use to call back the man she’d known. She waited, nearly faint. She hoped she would faint so she wouldn’t feel it. But Paul’s hold grew rougher.
“Why should you get off easy, I’m asking myself,” he hissed. “Why should this time be any different.” Man and wife were eye to eye and Paul was smiling again. “I was wrong to think this should be different.”
Tears began streaming in fast floods from Mrs. White’s eyes. She had lost control. She was begging. “No, no, Paul, please. I love you, I love you, I—”
“Shut up,” he snarled. “Just shut up. You’re going to feel it now, this time. This time you’ll feel it. You, above all. Especially this time.”
“Oh, Paul—”
“Shut up.”
Mrs. White sobbed.
“You’re the one I trusted,” Paul said. “You’re the one who let me down. That wasn’t right. You kept doing that.” He lowered the knife toward her. “I was wrong to say that. It’s not going to be quick, it’s not going to be quick at all. This is going to take a long, long time.”
The last thing Mrs. White saw before the knife touched her was her husband’s dreamy smile.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Cornell was at the edge of the woods when he heard the scream. He stood stupidly, the word bloodcurdling passing again and again through his mind.
The scream sounded once more, echoed by the frightened birds that exploded out of the forest into the air. Cornell dropped his stringer and rod and ran into the woods.
He had no idea where he was going, the scream had already faded, leaving him with no sense of whence it had come. He stopped on the trail, panting. All around him the forest had fallen into silence.
“Oh, God.”
It was a woman’s pain-wracked sob coming from the underbrush by the side of the trail about ten yards ahead. Cornell ran toward it. He stopped only for a moment when he saw the horror.
Cornell saw Paul White kneeling in the underbrush. He saw White’s elbow working slowly. He heard the strangled cry again. He saw Mrs. White, crushed down under her husband’s knees. He saw the blood.
The artist had never been in a fight in his life, not even in school. He had never played sports. He had avoided almost everything that had to do with exercise. He was in no shape for a life-or-death struggle, and he would have known that if he had stopped to think about it.
But he did not stop to think. His mind took in the atrocity before him, and he charged into the underbrush immediately, with all the desperate strength of rage.
He flung himself onto Paul, his fists flailing wildly. The two men went careening down onto the forest floor, rolling over and over. For an instant Cornell felt the sticky liquid all around him. He saw the blade of the butcher knife rising in the air above his head. Then he saw it flying away, into the bushes; heard it landing with a dull thud.
His fists were still flying, but he was being hit back now, and each blow of Paul’s heavy fists pounded into him, making his insides shake painfully. The two men rolled over one more time and then separated. Before Cornell knew what was happening, both he and Paul were standing facing each other.
Paul was breathing hard, but Cornell was actually gasping for air. For another second they stood poised for an attack.
“Don’t be an idiot, Jon,” said Paul. “Just go away.”
Cornell’s voice cracked like a schoolboy’s. “You son of a bitch,” he said. He threw himself at the carpenter.
Paul stepped easily to the side, at the same time bringing his fist around in a short, hard right cross. It caught Cornell in the solar plexus. The artist gasped, stumbling forward in his headlong rush until he toppled over, falling to the ground.
Paul stepped up to him and kicked him in the side. Cornell grunted and rolled over. With what little strength he had left, he managed to keep rolling away from his attacker until he could clamber to his feet. But even as he stood, Paul was on him. Cornell was hit twice before he could even raise his hands to protect himself. The first blow struck him in the face, breaking his nose in a great spurt of blood. The second fell against his temple, sending him reeling to one side, dazed, almost senseless.
But Paul kept coming after him, and there was no place to hide.
The carpenter grabbed him by the shoulders, straightened him, and kneed him hard in the groin. Drool and blood fell from Cornell’s mouth. He collapsed, face forward.
&nb
sp; Paul, out of anger it seemed, kicked him once more. Cornell did not even grunt.
Paul turned around, searching for Mrs. White.
Cornell’s hands were clutched over his groin, his mind clouded with pain. He felt unconsciousness dropping over him. It felt peaceful and fine.
Cornell dropped one hand to his side and felt the handle of his fishing knife. He drew the blade, praying that he had the strength to rise, to make one last charge.
Paul White had his back on him now. Cornell could just barely see him through a haze of red. With a wild cry the artist rose to his knees. With another he pushed to his feet. With what seemed his very last breath, he threw himself at Paul’s back.
Paul swiveled about, bringing the edge of his hand around into the side of Cornell’s neck. Cornell keeled over to the side and, as he fell, Paul gave a deep animal grunt and kicked him in the stomach.
Cornell felt his fishing knife slip from his hand. He felt the damp forest earth press against his face. Then he felt nothing.
This time Paul stood over Cornell for a few seconds, waiting. The artist did not move. His breathing was shallow, his mouth was open. Paul White spit on him. There was blood in the spit.
He shook his head, as if annoyed. Blood trickled down from one corner of his eye, over his bruised cheek. Still, he smiled as he turned around.
Mrs. White was standing before him. Her face was a horrible, ashen gray. Her blood-soaked blouse was torn to shreds, and one side of her bra was richly stained with red.
Most of the blood was coming from her left arm. The flesh of her left arm had been stripped away from shoulder to elbow. Paul could see his wife’s muscle throbbing in the open air. He could see the white glint of her bone.
Mrs. White took a dazed, stumbling step forward. She raised her right arm weakly. She was holding the butcher knife.
When Paul saw it, he settled easily onto the balls of his feet. He crouched slightly. He grinned.
“All right, Joanie, darling,” he whispered. “Bring it here. Come on.”
Mrs. White Page 18