Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

  “I’d never make you cry.”

  She vehemently shook his hand away and jumped from the stool. Without a word or a backward glance, she grabbed her purse and strode off toward the back of the bar. He watched her enter the ladies’ room. As he slid off the stool, he looked around. The bartender, with his back to him, was engrossed in the TV program. The old woman had passed out at the bar, her weathered face a sponge for a puddle of spilled beer.

  He went out the front door, stood on a sidewalk littered with cigarette butts, tourist coupons and cocktail glasses, and looked up and down the deserted street.

  He walked to the end of the building, then turned left into the alley. Within moments he heard heels clinking along the pavement, coming his way. He stood in the shadows, waiting.

  A waist-high barricade of black plastic trash bags lined the curb. Opposite them, she was walking briskly. He quickly moved to intercept her. She turned, saw him, and stopped cold.

  He was within a foot of her when she spun around toward the street and started to run. The bags tripped her up. She fell into them as he reached for her. The expression on her face changed from fearful to feral. She brought her hands up, the fingers clawlike.

  He moved in, pinning her to the trash bags, his massive hairy hand closed around her throat.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said low in his throat. As he squeezed, she clawed at him, raking long furrows of skin from his hands and wrists. He squeezed until she ceased to struggle against her bed of black plastic bags—

  Robbi jerked awake in the darkness. She was sitting upright in the hospital bed, gulping for air. Icy sweat stung her eyes and she rubbed them. Moaning now, she rocked back and forth.

  The nightmare faded rapidly, but the ominous vision closed around her with suffocating clarity. The large man, the woman, the trash bags. What did it mean?

  Robbi clutched the sheet, brought it to her stinging eyes. She wiped one eye, then the other. Though barely visible in the dim light of the hospital room, she realized she was staring at a white sheet held in long, tapered fingers.

  Her own fingers.

  She opened her eyes wide, straining to see. A pale moon glow reflected off a chrome paper towel dispenser across the room. The balloons in the window—four of them—shifted softly, catching the light. The large clock on the wall read 3:32.

  Roberta sucked in a deep breath.

  She could see again.

  NINE

  Margaret Winston opened her eyes and stared into a glaring light. She quickly closed them. Taking a few moments to get her bearings, she opened her eyes again, more slowly. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling in the middle of the tiny room. Where the hell was she? How had she gotten here?

  As she looked around, she began to recall things she didn’t want to recall. The bar. The big man with the black eyes. Oh, God, no.

  Her hand went to her throat. It felt tender both inside and out. It all came back to her in a rush. He had jumped her outside the bar, choked her into unconsciousness, then brought her to this place.

  She sat up quickly. She was fully clothed in the casino black and whites, her black high heels on the floor at her feet. Her nylons were snagged on both legs but still mostly intact.

  She swiveled around, taking in her surroundings. The room was approximately five by six feet. She sat on a narrow army cot covered with a lavender chenille spread. The walls and ceiling were a mosaic of various carpet scraps, a straw mat fit corner to corner on the floor. Adhered to the walls with masking tape were pages torn from magazines. Three pictures: a mountain lake, two deer grazing in a golden meadow, and a single dewdrop rose.

  She reached out and pulled back a corner flap of carpet on the wall. Behind it she saw a layer of Styrofoam. Styrofoam was used for insulation. It could also soundproof a room. She’d learned that from Sonny. Her boyfriend, Carl Masser—she called him Sonny— was a carpenter. Sonny. They’d had a fight last night after she’d gone home from work. To punish him she had stormed out of their apartment and ended up at the Stardust, a bar she hung out at before she met Sonny. Oh, Jesus, Maggie, you really did it this time.

  Beyond the small room she heard scratching. The door opened and he ducked down and came through. His huge bulk seemed to choke the tiny space.

  Margaret’s heart slammed painfully in her chest.

  The man remained hunched over, the back of his head touching the angled ceiling. He looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time, then his gaze settled on her. He smiled that same lopsided smile.

  “Time to eat.”

  Margaret only stared.

  “Come.”

  “I wan”—Maggie’s voice cracked, partly from fear and partly from the physical trauma to it—”to go home.”

  “C’mon.” He stepped away from the doorway.

  Maggie stood, began to slip a foot into one shoe.

  “You won’t need those.”

  She walked ahead of him through the door. Her legs shook. Any minute she expected a blow to the back of her head. She had to crouch down, walk crablike to an even smaller door at the end of a short, dark passage. He was right behind her as she entered a main room.

  She straightened. It became clear to her that she had been kept in the closed-in stairwell. She started toward the staircase, a sense of urgency giving her wobbly legs the strength she’d need to climb.

  He held her back. “No.” He pointed to a small Formica-topped table.

  Margaret wanted to scream. If she opened her mouth just a tiny bit, a blood-curdling scream would rush out and paralyze her with fear. She pressed her lips together and allowed the big man to propel her, on leaden feet, to the table. From out of nowhere he produced a limp bouquet of wildflowers. She took them, held them in a death grip.

  They were in a basement of some sort. She saw old furniture, a wood stove, things that failed to register fully in her numbed brain.

  She heard him saying something about fixing the place up... she only had to tell him what she liked ... anything she wanted ... wanted ... wanted ...

  She sank down on a plastic and chrome chair, exposed strawlike stuffing prickly through her thin blouse. In a daze she watched him open a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup with the blade of a Swiss army knife. He poured the soup into a tin coffee mug and put it in front of her. He pushed a spoon to her.

  Maggie stared at the cold soup. Pale chunks of hardened fat floated on the surface. “Where ... where are we?” she asked quietly.

  He smiled. “Home.”

  Despair overwhelmed her. The wildflowers slipped from her fingers.

  TEN

  The next two days Robbi spent more time out of bed than in, savoring the wondrous gift of sight. She read, watched TV, or stared out the window at the towering Sierra Nevada. She marveled at inconsequential things: traffic on Mill Street and jetliners taking off and landing at Reno Cannon International. The fluffy Cottonwood seeds floating through the air and the pigeons on the ledge just outside her window gave her hours of pleasure.

  The regular visitors to Room 411—her mother, sister, Angela, Sophie, and the staff from the shelter— surprised her with a belated birthday party. She was an exuberant guest of honor, eager to talk, laugh, but even more eager to go home.

  The battery of tests, CAT-scan, EEG, and others, taken after she’d come out of the coma, showed nothing out of the ordinary. Her mood, already excellent, grew jubilant with word she was free to leave the hospital.

  She sat up in bed, applying the last of her makeup. It felt fantastic to be able to put it on herself, then to actually see the results in a mirror.

  The phone beside her bed rang,

  “Hello?”

  “Robbi?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Donald.”

  “Donald?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my voice already?”

  “I--”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “Christ, Robbi, why didn’t you call, or have someone ca
ll, and tell me about your accident?” His tone hurt, scolding.

  “I’m okay now. How did you find out?”

  “I kept getting your damn answering machine. I finally called the center,” he said. “Sophie told me. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Robbi couldn’t believe it either. Why had he waited so long to call Sophie?

  “Well, I’m okay now,” she said. “Just about to go home, in fact.”

  “So tell me ... what happened?”

  After she told him and he had fussed appropriately, they spent several minutes talking about mutual friends, then current events.

  “So, Don, what’ve you been doing ... besides working?” she asked.

  “Well, there’s a few of us who hang out together. Conrad, Wayne, Tom and Kar. A great bunch of people. Can’t wait for you to meet them.”

  “Kar?”

  “Yeah, Karen. She’s an interpreter at the U.N. Helluva head on her shoulders. Most guys would be intimidated by her.”

  “Not you?”

  “A little at first.” He cleared his throat. “But hell, I don’t have to impress her. Oh, hey, I got that big account I’ve been working on. Busted my butt, but it paid off. Last weekend I zipped over to the Cape to close the deal. The guy put me up at his estate. Jeez, Rob, you should’ve seen this place. Ten thousand square feet, gold inlaid pool. I thought I was at Hearst Castle. I kept wondering where those little velvet ropes were ... y’know, that keep people off the carpet? Babe, this could mean a lot of money for me—for us.”

  “Congratulations. Did you celebrate?”

  “Sort of. But we’ll celebrate together when you come up. Someday soon yours truly will be eating at classy places on a regular basis. I won’t deny it, babe, I love this kind of life. Love the pace. I bet you will too.”

  “Ummm,” she responded.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. What a jerk I am. Talking about classy restaurants and estates and there you are laid up in the hospital.” He spoke softly. “I’ll make it up to you soon. Promise.”

  After that the conversation waned, the pauses became more frequent, lasted longer.

  “Don, I have to go,” she lied. “The nurse just came in. I suspect she’s here to do something unpleasant to me.”

  “Roberta, if you want I ... uh, can fly out to Reno, or at least. . .” His words, feeble, trailed off.

  “Thanks, Don, but no. We’ll save our money and meet somewhere in between. We’ll make it a vacation. I still haven’t had one yet.”

  “Hey, sounds good. You take care, huh? Love ya, babe,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  For several minutes, with the receiver hugged to her chest, Robbi sat quietly. Sophie’s words came back to her. Long distance relationships are a bitch. You bet, babe.

  As she reached around to hang up the phone, her elbow bumped the water glass and tipped it over. She grabbed for the glass which spun away from her fingertips on the wet table. She swore under her breath.

  “Good morn—” a voice began. Then, “Oh, here, let me get that for you.”

  Twisted around in the bed with her back to the door, Robbi paused. She recognized the voice of Dr. Reynolds immediately.

  He pulled tissues from the box. “It’s tough enough when you can see what you’re doing,” he said, mopping up the water.

  He didn’t know she could see. No one had told him.

  “Doctor, I’m sorry ... I—” She stopped herself. Turnabout was fair play. “Thank you,” she said, sitting back and staring straight ahead. “I must’ve made a real mess.”

  He gathered more tissues and caught the flow before it went over the table’s edge. “When I was a kid I spent a few days in the hospital with an eye injury. I’m lying there, both eyes bandaged, can’t see a thing. The nurse brings my breakfast, runny oatmeal and a bowl of overripe blueberries, puts a spoon in my hand, and leaves. That, Roberta, was a real mess.”

  From the corner of her eye she watched him. He was taller than she imagined, at least six feet. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties. Though his voice was not deep, she’d expected a much older man. He had light brown hair, sun-streaked nearly blond in front, swept to one side of the high forehead. The hair at the back of his neck was somewhat long and curly. He was wearing stonewashed shorts, a green polo shirt, and gray Avia sport shoes. He dressed like no shrink she knew.

  When he straightened, she quickly averted her eyes. She felt him openly staring at her as she focused at a point on the opposite wall.

  “There,” he said. “No harm done.”

  She smiled, blinking.

  “So how are you today, Roberta? You look ... very nice.”

  “Thank you. I’m better.”

  “Headaches? Nightmares?” He was looking at her intently, studying her. She began to feel uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny.

  “Gone,” she said.

  “The headaches or the nightmares?”

  “Both.”

  “Oh? Well, that’s interesting. When was the last?”

  “Two days ago. Actually, the day you came.”

  “Really? Perhaps I can take credit for that,” he said, grinning. He leaned in toward her, his head moving from side to side as he continued to observe her.

  She smiled. “Somebody should, so it might as well be you.”

  “I wish I had more patients like you,” he said, pulling back. He turned and stepped to the window. With his hands in his pockets he rocked on his heels as he stared outside. “There’s still the blindness. Of course, there’s more than a good possibility it’s psychosomatic.”

  With his back to her she took the opportunity to look him over. Strong profile, good posture and physique. Then she tipped her head and forced herself to stare at a point beyond his head.

  He turned to her again. That same intense stare.

  She looked directly into his clear blue eyes. “Do psychiatrists always dress so casually for appointments?”

  A heavy silence filled the air as he stared back. Then he said evenly, “Only when the doctor thinks his patient can’t see him.”

  “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

  His smile was slow to form, but when it did it was broad and friendly. He shook his head as he moved back to the side of her bed, laughing good-naturedly. “We’re even now.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  A lock of hair fell onto his forehead. He brushed it back. “That’s great news. When?’

  “The same night. I had a headache and a nightmare. When I woke up I could see again.”

  They stared at each other. Robbi could think of nothing more to say.

  “Well,” the doctor said finally, “I guess you won’t be needing me anymore.”

  “No, I ... I guess not.”

  He offered his hand, said good-bye, then moved toward the door. He paused. “Roberta, if you ever need to talk, call me.” And he was gone.

  ELEVEN

  The cold rain beat against Roberta’s face. Her joints ached and her ankle throbbed unmercifully, yet she couldn’t stop. She ran through the dense woods, her heart pounding, her breath ragged in her throat. Branches reached .out, impeding her escape. Over her shoulder she heard something huge crashing through the brush, gaining. Two burning disks glowed in the untamed forest. There was no escape, absolutely no escape.

  She bolted upright in bed, her legs churning under the damp sheet. She moaned softly.

  Her eyes darted around the room, its familiarity instantly calming her. She buried her face in her hands and moaned again. The running nightmare was back. Since leaving the hospital three days before, she had slept soundly. Now it was starting all over again. What did she expect? Miracles? It was only a nightmare. It would go away with time.

  A commanding thirst forced her from her bed.

  Minutes later in the kitchen, as she stood at the open door of the refrigerator, a plastic bottle of ice water in her trembling hands, a tiny pinprick of pain stabbed in her forehead. Images began to take shape before her e
yes.

  Moonlight sparkled on the pond’s mirrored surface. In a long white dress she glowed ghostlike—a wood nymph. Her lovely hair now hung in dull, limp, tangled ropes. Eckker wanted to see it shine again, like that night in the bar where they met.

  Standing at the pond’s edge, he handed Maggie a sliver of soap. She stared at it as though it were something alien.

  “For your hair,” he said.

  She looked from the soap to the pond to him incredulously. “It’s freezing.”

  He reached out to touch her hair. “Make it shine again.”

  “I won’t go in unless you leave.”

  “I have to stay ... to protect you.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, a set expression on his face.

  An animal screamed deep in the woods. Sounds of something scurrying in nearby shrubs made her jerk involuntarily. He saw fear in her eyes.

  “I want to go back.”

  “Your hair. Wash it.”

  “Turn your back, then,” she said.

  He hesitated, watching her, then he slowly pivoted his large bulk until his back was completely to the pond.

  Several moments later he heard the rustle of fabric, then water sounds. He pictured her wading out to her waist, lowering herself until the water covered her nakedness.

  Thinking of nakedness made him think about her, Tobie, the one who unknowingly shared the pond with him. The young, innocent one.

  He turned his head and looked for Maggie.

  In the long white dress she was swimming, pulling herself through the water with strong, silent strokes.

  With unhurried steps he walked to the bank, pulled off his boots, and waded out to his thighs. Then he pushed forward and began to swim. The freezing water puckered his skin, though he scarcely noticed its coldness.

  Her once-smooth strokes turned choppy when she realized he was in the pond, not far behind her and rapidly closing the distance. She had nearly reached the other bank when he caught up to her. He felt the movement of the water as her feet kicked frantically beneath the surface. His massive hand closed around an ankle.