Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  “Brad? Is that you?”

  Sounds of water dripping. The ping-pinging din that seemed always to accompany an abundance of water pipes and pumps punctuated the silence.

  Out in the other room, where the pool and Jacuzzi were, she heard a door close.

  “Brad? Answer me.” She pulled the T-shirt over her head, stood and stepped into the denim miniskirt. Tugging it over her hips, she lost her balance, fell back on the bench, crying out when the corner jabbed into her thigh. She felt dizzy again. “Shit!”

  Footsteps.

  “Brad?”

  She moved into the other room, her heels clicking, wobbling on the wet tiles.

  “Brad, I’m going. My husband’s coming for me.”

  No answer. He was ignoring her.

  She saw the door to the utility room close slowly.

  Tammy felt confused. Something about Brad. She and Brad had been having an affair. Why had she been seeing him anyway? Then it came back to her in hazy bits and pieces. The separation. Her dating Brad. And with that recollection came a surge of anger. He thought he was so frigging great. He leeched off her for over a month, eating her food, drinking her booze, and screwing her whenever he got horny. Did he ever consider her? Did he take her out, or buy her one shitty present, or ask her what she liked in bed? Hell no. He just took. Took. Took. Took. Now that Gary was coming for her, what did she need with this sonofabitch?

  Tammy stepped unsteadily to the door and pushed it open. The light was off, but light from behind her cut abstract forms out of the darkness. She made out the familiar shapes of mats, weights, and stereo speakers. And standing in front of the shelf of pool cleaning supplies, with his back to her, was that damned brawny brainless bastard.

  “I hope you overdose on steroids, you shithead,” she said, stepping into the room. “You can’t use me anymore, cause I’m--”

  The dark figure turned, a unit of black from head to toe. Not a fraction of color relieved the blackness. A phantom. Her mind reeled. A nightmare phantom. And through her numbed senses, terror, as she had never felt it before, turned her body to stone. She saw it coming and was powerless to stop it.

  A split second before the blinding liquid hit her eyes, Tammy become completely clearheaded. Completely sane.

  Panic paralyzed her vocal cords. She whirled around, one hand flew to her face, groping desperately at her eyes, her long glittery nails gouging at skin. Her other hand lashed about in the air, searching for something tangible to give her direction. It smashed into the door frame. So great was the agony in her eyes that she barely felt the pain from the fingernail that was ripped off well below the quick.

  She waved a hand in front of her until she found the door frame again, and then she lunged straight through, knowing exactly where she wanted to go. Her pumps teetered precariously, but stayed on her feet.

  She moaned, emptying the air from her lungs, and just when she thought that she had somehow missed it, her feet left solid ground and she free-floated for an instant before plunging into the warm water of the swimming pool.

  She felt herself going down, down, with blackness all around. Pinging, echoing underwater sounds mingled with the pounding of her heart and the rush of bubbles escaping from her nose and mouth.

  She forced her eyes to open. More blackness. Red flashes exploded everywhere. The skin around her eyes stung.

  Gary, help me.

  Oh God, oh no, she thought with a hopelessness. She was going to be deformed. Ugly. Hideous. Gary couldn’t possibly love her now. All she’d ever had was her beauty. And now it was gone. Gone with her sight. Blind and hideous.

  She felt her body settle in a sitting position on the bottom of the pool. Her chest ached. There was no air in her lungs. She needed to go to the top for more. But she couldn’t move. Would dying be painful, she wondered? Death would be better than being tossed aside like an old shoe. Death. The thought of it calmed her. Without her looks she would never have Gary, and without Gary she had nothing.

  She had to breathe. Had to ... had to ... had ...

  She opened her mouth, inhaled, and struggled with the choking panic.

  Moments before she lost consciousness, her eyes rolled upward to see light. A blurry dark figure stood in the light—a phantom waiting for her. She would not let him hurt her again.

  A sense of peace came over her.

  “We’ll take another call,” Regina said, pressing a flashing button on the phone. “Hello, you’re on the air.”

  “Hi, Regina. Mine is a voice from the past. Jamie Sue Larson. I was a contestant in the Miss Classic Pageant with you and the others. I saw the clip of the show last week ... the day Donna was injured. I was one of those ill-fated statistics you spoke of.”

  Regina frowned. “Jamie Sue?”

  “It was rumored I’d overdosed on drugs. That wasn’t true. Everyone in the pageant knew I was acutely allergic to alcohol, yet someone spiked my soda. There were other incidents.”

  Regina looked at Pandora disconcertingly. What to do now, she wondered? There were dozens of callers holding to talk to the psychic and time was running out. Yet, this call was something Regina, for personal reasons, couldn’t ignore.

  Stork signaled for a break, taking the decision out of her hands. She instructed Jamie Sue to stay on the line. To the viewers Regina said, “We’ll resume taking calls for Pandora when we return.”

  During the break, Regina took Jamie Sue’s phone number. She felt compelled to continue their conversation. Then they were back on the air.

  “We have time for one more call.” Regina pressed another button. “Good afternoon, you’re on the air.” Silence. “Hello? Are you there? I guess we lost that—”

  “Van Raven ...” A voice, low and quiet, come over the airwaves.

  “Yes? You’re on the air.”

  Regina glanced over at Pandora. The woman was sitting stiff in her chair, her eyes closed, her arms tight to her sides, hands gripping her thighs.

  Regina’s mind became stunned with apprehension. She leaned over, placed a hand on the woman’s knee, and asked softly, “What is it?”

  “Dark. Danger.” In a hoarse whisper she went on, “I see water and ... and a tall, dark figure. Not of flesh, but of iron. Atlas—no, no ... Neptune.” Her eyes remained closed. “Yes, Neptune, god of the sea. Black. Black. There is someone waiting—Regina ...” Pandora clutched Regina’s hand. “... be careful.”

  The dial tone came on.

  Pandora’s eyes flew open.

  Regina stared at Pandora, dazed.

  Without warning Regina, Stork gave instructions to break away for a commercial.

  Donna’s wandering mind returned to the TV show. She gazed at the two women on the screen. From the tense expressions on both faces she knew something was wrong. Donna quickly focused on their words. “Black. Black ...Someone is waiting—Regina...” Pandora said, “... be careful.”

  Commercial.

  Her mind reeled. What did it mean? Oh Lord, not another one.

  In her mind’s eye Donna reenacted the events of her last, fateful show. She saw the lights go out on the set. She heard the scream and felt the terror. The light exploded in her eyes again and Donna saw herself standing on the sideline, staring helplessly at the person who was screaming in agony. Only this time, instead of herself, it was Regina whose face was melting behind her fingers. And Donna felt a rush of gratification.

  “Oh, God, no!” she cried out, burying her face in her hands. Don’t let anything happen to Reg. “Please, dear God, don’t punish her for my evil, horrid thoughts.”

  “What does it mean?” Regina asked Pandora.

  The two women sat in Maxwell Conner’s office after the close of the program.

  “I don’t know for sure. The person on the phone was linked to you in some way, Regina. I felt you were in grave danger. Are in grave danger. But there’s something else. Something I can’t seem to make sense of. Someone else.”

  Max stood at the window, looking out at
the traffic on Van Ness. “That was one helluva show.” He turned to look at the women who gaped at him in astonishment. “That was for real, right? You didn’t make it up?”

  Their reply was a cold glare.

  Without knocking, Tom swung open the door, and in an excited voice said, “Quick, put on Channel Eight!”

  Max flipped on the TV and changed channels. Sam Quinn stood on the steps of the Fitness Center winding up his “on the spot” report while behind him a black body bag was being lifted into an ambulance. “…drowning. More at eleven. Sam Quinn, Channel Eight.”

  “What is it?” Max said.

  Tom turned to another channel. Sibyl Glayborn sat in the news studio at Channel Four. “Just moments ago the fully clothed body of physical fitness instructor Tamara Kowalski was found by her husband floating in the pool of The Fitness Center on California Street. Details are not available at this time.

  “Mrs. Kowalski was a runner-up in the 1970 Miss Classic Pageant, and just last week she was on the same broadcast in which Donna Lake, the hostess of ‘City Gallery,’ was assaulted with an acid-like substance by an unknown assailant. We hope to have an update on this at eleven.”

  “Oh god.” Regina put a hand to her mouth. “Tammy was staying with me. I just saw her this morning.”

  Pandora turned to Regina: “Is there a statue of Neptune at the center?”

  Regina shook her head dully. “I don’t know.”

  “There is,” Tom said. “I’ve been there dozens of times. It’s at the north end of the pool.”

  “It was Tammy you saw,” Regina said to Pandora. “She was the other person.”

  “Yes. And I saw what she saw. My vision was underwater looking up at the statue. What triggered the image was the phone call in the studio. That person on the line has a strong bearing on what happened.”

  Max paced. “Can you see him ... or her?”

  Pandora closed her eyes. After a few seconds she opened them again, shaking her head vigorously. “All I see is black. The color black. No images.”

  The phone rang. Max snatched it up and answered impatiently. He listened a moment, then hung up. “The switchboard is getting calls from astute viewers who are asking if there’s a connection between the Kowalski drowning and Pandora’s vision. Pandora, would you allow us to interview you for a special broadcast?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “When this breaks there’s going to be one helluva hoopla. ‘City Gallery’ will skyrocket right off the charts.”

  Regina’s mind was elsewhere.

  Tammy had been warned.

  CHAPTER 23

  Wednesday, four nights following Tammy’s death, John Davie walked toward the main doors of the hospital where Donna Lake was a patient. The streetlights warmed up to full incandescence. As he neared the entrance, he saw Regina come out, hurry down the steps, and turn in the opposite direction. She crossed the street to the station wagon.

  John called out to her

  She turned and watched him approach. “Are you following me?”

  “No. You’re in a car, I’m on foot, how can I follow you?”

  “What are you doing here then?”

  “I came to talk to you.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Kristy told me.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Don’t be mad at her. She trusts me, not like some people I know.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that ...”

  “What?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it and looked away.

  “Do you think I’d hurt you?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Probably not.”

  Regina unlocked her car door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut. She sat staring straight ahead. John stood by the side of the car, waiting. When she leaned over and unlocked the door on the passenger side, he walked around the car and got in.

  She started the car, shifted gears, and pulled away from the curb without another word.

  After several minutes of silence, John said, “How’s Donna?”

  “She’s healing.”

  “Have the cops contacted you about Tammy?”

  Regina glanced over at him. “No. You?”

  He shook his head.

  She chewed her lower lip.

  “I think we should do some checking on our own. What do you say?”

  “Not interested. I work in television, not in crime detection. I have a job. I have a daughter. I’m too damn busy to play cops and ... whatever.”

  “Too busy to want to stop this maniac before he hurts someone else?” He saw her fingers grip tight on the steering wheel. “We have a mutual friend in the D.A.’s office. Wilma would have access to all the reports and files. She’d want to help out a friend.”

  “You can do that without me.”

  “I’d like you to be the one to call her.”

  “You said you knew her.”

  “I do.”

  She stared hard at him now.

  “You have a reason for wanting to know. Both women were friends of yours.”

  She sighed, shifted around, tossing her hair back. “What do you want me to ask her?”

  “For starters, I’d like to know how they’re handling Tammy’s death. Accident? Suicide? Homicide?”

  “And?”

  “And then we’ll go from there.”

  Regina made the call to Wilma Greenwood from her apartment. Kristy and Sonya sat on the floor painting each others toenails and watching the Giant-Dodger ball game on TV. John paced at the bay windows.

  “Spill one drop of that nail polish and it’s —oh, Wilma, hi, it’s Regina Van Raven.”

  “Regina, how the hell are you? I’ve been thinking about you. God, I saw the show the other day —wild. I get the chills just thinking about it.”

  “That’s partly why I called. Wilma, I’d like your help on something.”

  “Sure, hon. What do you need?”

  “With your connections at the district attorney’s office, I wondered if you could nose around.” Regina watched John turn his head and look at her, grinning. She turned her back to him. “Y’know, look into a few things for me concerning Tammy Kowalski’s death?”

  Silence.

  “I want to know if the police are treating it as a homicide?” Regina finished quickly.

  “That’s it?”

  “For now.”

  “May I ask why you want to know? Is it for the show?”

  “No.” Regina decided the truth was best. “Donna, Tammy and I were contestants in the same pageant. I’d like to know if I should be concerned, that’s all.”

  “Ahhh. Yes, I can understand that.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “No problem. I’ll call you back tomorrow. At the station?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Wilma. Good-bye.”

  “Oh, Regina, how do you like the apartment?”

  “I love it.”

  “Have you met John yet?”

  Regina glanced over at John. “Yes. I have.”

  “Enough said then.”

  Regina wanted to ask what she meant by that, but John was staring at her now and Wilma was saying good-bye.

  Regina hung up. To John she said, “She’ll call tomorrow.”

  He lifted his jacket from the couch, draped it over his shoulder, and stepped up to her. Something fell from the pocket onto the carpet.

  Regina bent down and picked up three red pistachio shells.

  “Some people smoke and do drugs, I’m hooked on pistachios.

  “Good choice.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, can’t. I’ve got to tend bar tonight. I’ll be here all day tomorrow. Call.” Then he was out the door, closing it softly behind him.

  CHAPTER 24

  At eleven o’clock the following morning, Wilma Axelrod Greenwood called Regina.

  “Good news, dear. Homicide
has been ruled out. Of course it’s not official yet, but they’re leaning toward suicide or possibly an accidental drowning.”

  “She was fully clothed, Wilma. Not likely to take a swim in her high heels and miniskirt.”

  Regina heard the rustling of papers. “Medical examiner’s report states death due to drowning. No sign of a struggle. The police had gotten excited over a couple deep scratches and facial burns. Turns out the scratches were made by the deceased’s own fingernails, and the burns were a result of an anti-aging cream and too much sun.

  “There was enough booze and barbiturates in her system to greatly impair her judgment,” Wilma went on. “In other words, she was bombed. Two people, a co-worker and her husband, both attested to the fact that prior to her death she was extremely depressed and irrational.”

  “What about acid?”

  “Acid? Oh, you mean acid like with Donna Lake? Nothing here about acid, or any corrosive material, that I can see. I’m sure it would’ve shown up in the report had there been any.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t sound pleased. I thought you were concerned about a connection. There doesn’t seem to be one.”

  “I am pleased. Very pleased. Wilma, does that report give a time of death?”

  “Let’s see ... yes, sometime between four-ten and four-thirty-five P.M.”

  “How did the medical examiner determine that.”

  “Not the M.E. The police report states she was last seen alive by her aerobics class and one Bradley Segal, employee, around four. She called her husband at four-ten and he found her in the pool thirty-five minutes later.”

  “I don’t suppose they can pinpoint the exact moment she died?”

  “Now why —oh, I see. Of course, the psychic. I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo, but I must confess it was very convincing what that Cudahay woman did. Look, I’ll ask around. Let me get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Wilma. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Oh, Wilma, about John Davie. What did you mean ...” But the assistant D.A. had already hung up.