Still Life

by Joy Fielding

  When she opened them again, it was ten minutes after twelve.

  No, it can’t be. It can’t be.

  How could she have fallen asleep, even for a few minutes? She was running out of time. She had to get out of bed. She had to get out of the house.

  Again, Casey tried lifting her legs. This time she succeeded in bringing her knees halfway up to her chest before she collapsed with fatigue. Her heart was pounding erratically in her chest. She had little doubt that if Mrs. Friedlander were here right now to check her blood pressure, it would be through the roof.

  I have to get up. I have to get out of bed.

  “I haaat …”

  Casey heard the strange sound as if it was emanating from somewhere across the room. Who was here? Had Warren come home during the minutes she’d been asleep? Was he even now sitting in a chair by the window watching her, and laughing at her futile attempts at escape?

  Casey slowly brought her head around to the chairs in front of the window.

  No one was there.

  A careful scan of the room confirmed she was alone.

  “Whaaa …?”

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  The sounds were coming from her own mouth, Casey realized, quickly pushing more sounds out. Most shattered instantly upon contact with the air, emerging more as a series of grunts and hoarse whispers.

  I can’t die now. I can’t.

  “I caaaaa …”

  The phone rang again. Casey’s head moved toward the sound. Not quickly, but not quite as slowly as it had the last time.

  Keep moving. Keep moving.

  Who was calling? Was it Nick, the horrible man Warren had hired to kill her? Was he phoning to say he couldn’t make it, that he was stuck in traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway? Or maybe that he’d had a change of heart, that it was one thing to plow into someone with a piece of heavy machinery, but quite another to smother that person with your bare hands, to actually feel that person’s dying breath as it brushed against your fingers? Surely even hired killers had their limits.

  The phone stopped ringing, this time after only four rings.

  You don’t have time for this, Casey castigated herself, forcing one knee back to her chest, and then the other. But when she tried to lift both legs at the same time, it proved impossible.

  That’s okay. That’s okay. Keep trying. Keep trying.

  “Keeeee….”

  The next time Casey looked at the clock, it said 12:30.

  Keep trying. Keep trying.

  12:35. 12:42. 12:47.

  The phone rang again.

  Maybe someone would get suspicious that no one was answering the phone. Maybe they’d drive out to investigate. Maybe they’d alert the police, ask them to check on the house, make sure everything was all right.

  Four more rings, and then the ringing stopped.

  Five minutes later, it was the doorbell that was ringing, followed by a loud pounding on the door.

  Thank God, Casey thought. Someone was here. Someone had come to rescue her.

  Help me. Somebody, please help me.

  “Hellll …” Casey sighed, the faint sound riding the wave of her breath as the front door opened and closed.

  He’s here, Casey realized. Her killer was in the house.

  Except why would he ring the bell and knock on the door? Clearly Warren had given him a key. Why the charade?

  “Hello?” a female voice called out from the downstairs foyer. “Anybody home?”

  Patsy?

  “Hello?” she called again.

  What was Patsy doing here? Was she part of the plan? What was happening?

  “Warren? Are you home?” Patsy asked, reaching the top of the stairs and turning toward his bedroom. “Warren?”

  Casey brought her legs down as her hands returned to the top of the covers, her head finding its familiar groove in the middle of the pillow. She kept her eyes open and stared straight ahead. Whatever was going to happen, she decided, she wanted to see it.

  “Well, well, well,” Patsy said, walking into Casey’s bedroom and dropping her large canvas purse to the floor. “You are here! I thought maybe they’d taken you back to the hospital or something. Where is everybody, anyway? I can’t believe everyone went out and left you all alone. That wasn’t very nice of them, was it? Although you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” She laughed, leaning over the end of the bed and filling Casey’s line of vision.

  She looked much as Warren had described, although she was prettier than Casey had expected. Her eyes were a rich shade of brown that was somewhat dulled by the gray-ness of her eye shadow and the blackness of her lavishly applied mascara. Her skin was pale, her reddish blond hair twisted into a wayward bun at the top of her head. Lush breasts spilled out from between the deep V of her bright purple jersey. Her belly button, pierced by a small gold loop, was visible above the low rise of her tight white jeans.

  “Where’s Warren? Working out?” Patsy asked. “Couldn’t he find anybody to look after you? Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to let me go. Hard finding someone of my caliber.” She laughed again, although the laugh was more bitter than sweet. “You’re looking a bit flushed. Are you sweating?” Patsy leaned in closer, then pulled back sharply.

  Does she realize I can see her? Casey wondered. Should I let her know?

  “What am I doing?” Patsy asked, backing away. “You’re not my job anymore.” She walked toward the window. “This really is such a pretty view. I’m gonna miss it. Oh, well. Maybe I’ll be back.” She sighed. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here now.”

  The thought crossed my mind.

  “It seems I accidentally left a sweater of mine at the back of a drawer in my room. Accidentally, on purpose, of course. So my original plan was to stop by, ask Warren to help me find it, tempt him with a few kind words and a little bit of cleavage, and hopefully wind up in his bed. I tried phoning, just to check on how many people were around, but nobody picked up. I even called when I was right outside the front door. And I knocked and knocked, and waited and waited. I almost went home. And then I thought, well, what’s the point of coming all this way and leaving empty-handed? So I decided to come in. I still have my key. I accidentally forgot to give it back. Anyway, like I said, I figured you must be back in the hospital. It never occurred to me you’d be here all alone.

  “But here you are, and here I am. And since it doesn’t look like I’m gonna get to sleep with that handsome husband of yours anytime soon—which I guess means you win the bet—I might as well leave with a few parting gifts. Like they do on all those game shows we used to watch together on TV.”

  She walked to Casey’s closet, pulled open the door, then stepped inside.

  “Like this silk scarf, for example,” she said, returning moments later with the yellow-and-black Hermès scarf she’d admired earlier. “The one your sister got in such a snit about.” Patsy wrapped it loosely around her neck. “I mean, what are you gonna do with it? Besides, it looks much better on me anyway. Don’t you think?”

  You can have the fucking scarf. Take whatever you want. Just get me out of here.

  “Help me,” Casey cried softly, the barely audible plea tumbling from her mouth like a leaf from a tree.

  Patsy froze. Her eyes opened wide. Her lower lip dropped toward her chin. “What?”

  Casey tried to form the words again, but they refused to cooperate, their letters floundering on her tongue, unable to regroup.

  Patsy stared at her for several long seconds, then burst out laughing. “God, you scared the hell out of me. You know that? I actually thought you said something. Christ, I almost wet my pants. What’s the matter with me? Shit, I’ve gotta get out of here.”

  No. No, wait. Please.

  “I’ll just grab a few more things,” Patsy said, once again disappearing inside the closet. “I mean, these Prada pants are way too small, but I might be able to get something for them on eBay. And I do like this Armani jacket, although I’ll pro
bably have to let it out a bit at the bust.”

  You have to help me. You have to take me with you. You can’t leave me here.

  Casey began frantically kicking her feet beneath the covers, as if through water. She pushed her head off the pillow and lifted her right hand, grabbing at the air as if it were a lifeline.

  Help me. You have to help me.

  “Okay, I think that’s everything,” Patsy said, emerging from the closet, her arms filled with Casey’s belongings. “Jesus fucking Christ!” she said, dropping everything to the floor as her eyes connected with Casey’s.

  Casey fell back against her pillow, overwhelmed by the effort of what she’d just accomplished, as Patsy crumpled to the floor.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Patsy? Patsy? Where are you? What the hell happened?

  Had she run away? Casey tried to raise her torso off the bed to get a better look, but her body refused to cooperate.

  Patsy, for God’s sake, where are you? Get back here. You have to help me. You have to get me out of here.

  Several more minutes passed before Casey was able to muster sufficient strength to lift her head again. At first, all she saw were her clothes spread, like loosely raked leaves, across the ivory-colored carpet.

  And then she saw her.

  Patsy was half sitting, half lying on the floor, her back against the open closet door, her head lolling toward her right shoulder, her eyes closed.

  Don’t you dare faint on me, you thieving little twit. Wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!

  I don’t believe this, Casey thought, unable to sustain her position and collapsing back on her pillow.

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

  Patsy groaned.

  Yes! Wake up. Wake up, damn you.

  The groan became a moan. Was Patsy coming to or going deeper under? What was happening?

  “Jesus,” Patsy whispered several long seconds later. In the next minute, she was scrambling to her feet, her eyes slowly, and with obvious reluctance, traveling toward Casey. “I don’t believe this,” she said without moving. “You can see me, can’t you? You’re conscious.” She took two tentative steps toward Casey’s bed. “When did this happen? Where’s Warren? Has anyone called the hospital?” She walked toward the phone, her hand outstretched.

  Oh, thank you. Thank you.

  And then the unmistakable click of a key turning in a lock. The front door opening.

  “Warren,” Patsy gasped, glancing back at the pile of Casey’s clothes she’d thrown on the floor.

  Not Warren, Casey knew, hearing the door close.

  Death.

  Casey saw confusion shoot through Patsy’s eyes like lightning bolts.

  The sound of footsteps as they ascended the staircase.

  “Shit,” Patsy muttered, running back and scooping up all of Casey’s belongings from the floor and hurling them into the closet. “What’ll I tell him? How am I going to explain …?”

  “Beauty?” the voice purred seductively from the hallway. “Your prince has arrived.”

  Casey watched Patsy’s eyes narrow, her eyebrows crunching toward the bridge of her nose. What’s going on? her eyes asked Casey’s. That’s not Warren. What am I supposed to do now?

  Just make your presence known. That will be enough to stop him. He’ll be as flustered as you are.

  Save me, Casey shouted silently.

  Patsy swayed toward her, her hands reaching for Casey and then dropping to her sides as the footsteps drew nearer.

  No. What are you doing?

  Patsy suddenly turned and ran into the closet, bringing the door closed after her. Almost immediately the door reopened and Patsy bolted out again.

  Had she had a change of heart? Had her nurse’s training finally triumphed over her baser instincts?

  Thank God. Thank God.

  But ultimately Patsy’s instincts were only to save herself. She grabbed her purse from the floor, then scurried back inside the closet. This time she didn’t have time to close the door after her.

  Was she watching? Casey wondered. Would she see what was about to happen? Was there still a chance she might come to her rescue?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Casey saw Nick’s muscular frame appear in the doorway. He stood there for several seconds without moving. Casey prayed he was having second thoughts, that now that he was here, now that he had to actually confront what he’d come here to do, maybe he’d realize he couldn’t go through with it.

  Please don’t come any closer.

  But he was already walking toward her. He advanced easily, then stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes traveling up the length of her body, stopping when they reached her face. “You sure are a pretty thing,” he said. “It’s a shame I gotta do this.”

  Casey found herself staring at the man her husband had hired to kill her, assessing him in a detached, almost clinical way. He was of average height, maybe five feet nine or five feet ten inches tall, with a barrel chest and notable biceps that all but overwhelmed his slim hips. His hair was dark and cropped very short, his nose straight and narrow, his eyes brown and flecked with mischievous gold, his lips surprisingly lush and girlish. Under normal circumstances, she might have considered him attractive.

  She watched him dig into his pockets and pull out a pair of latex gloves. Her eyes widened in fear, although the man was too preoccupied with putting on the gloves to notice. “Can’t go leaving any telltale DNA,” he said, coming around the side of the bed to stand next to her head. “Now you just lie still and be a good little girl, and I’ll try to make this as quick and painless as I can.” Without any further delay, he reached down and gripped the tip of Casey’s nose, squeezing her nostrils together with the fingers of his right hand while covering her mouth firmly with his left.

  Casey fought desperately for breath as the smell of latex assaulted her nose, and the room began spinning. Her arms shot reflexively from her sides, her feet twitching uselessly beneath the sheets. She heard a loud gasp escape her lips.

  Except the gasp hadn’t come from her, she realized, as the pressure on her nose and mouth suddenly weakened and the man’s hands quickly withdrew.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked, leaving Casey’s side.

  Casey’s mouth flew open, sucking the surrounding air into her lungs like a powerful vacuum. She watched the room spiraling out of control, the floor changing places with the ceiling, the tub chairs by the bay window skating from one side of the room to the other, the various paintings sliding across the wall.

  Nick walked purposefully toward the closet. He took two steps in, then reemerged, dragging a sobbing Patsy into the center of the room. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Please,” she was crying. “Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

  His response was to slam her against the end of Casey’s bed. “You gotta be kidding me,” he snarled, slapping her hard across the face.

  Patsy screamed as she tried to evade his murderous grasp. She grabbed the striped armchair, trying to drag it between them, but Nick was too fast and too strong. He pushed the chair aside as if it were a stuffed toy, then grabbed Patsy by the throat, twisting the Hermès scarf at its base and pulling it tight. Patsy’s hands shot up, ripping into the man’s latex gloves, then clawing at his face.

  “Shit!” he yelped as Patsy’s long fingernails found their mark, drawing blood. In an obvious rage, he pulled the scarf so tight around Patsy’s neck it disappeared inside the folds of her flesh.

  Casey watched in horror as Patsy’s feet lifted off the floor to kick frantically at the air, her fingers straining to loosen the deadly silk at her throat, her eyes growing wide at the vision of her own impending doom.

  No, please, no.

  And then Casey heard something snap, and suddenly Patsy stopped struggling. Her feet stopped kicking; her hands stopped flailing. Casey closed her eyes, understanding Patsy was dead.

  When she opened them again, Nick was loosening his hold on the scarf, allowing P
atsy’s body to slide clumsily to the floor. “Shit,” he cursed repeatedly, pacing back and forth while dabbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, wincing at the sight of his blood on the white latex. “Look what you did to my face, bitch. Shit!” He kicked at Patsy’s lifeless form. “And you ripped my fucking gloves.” He tore the gloves from his hands, throwing them to the floor, and glared at Casey.

  Casey forced her face to go blank, her eyes to stare straight ahead.

  Nick stood absolutely still for at least two full minutes, clearly weighing his options and trying to decide his next move. “Okay,” he said, as if he’d come to a decision. “Looks like you get a reprieve, Beauty. I’m bleeding. My gloves are ripped. The bitch has my DNA under her fucking fingernails. And there’s no way in hell I’m doing two for the price of one. That was definitely not part of the original deal. I’d say we have to renegotiate before we proceed any further.”

  Casey tried to keep a grateful cry from escaping her throat.

  She watched as he began straightening up the room, returning the armchair to its former position and making sure everything else was where it was supposed to be. Then he stopped and looked around, as if searching for something in particular. “She’s gotta have a purse around here somewhere,” he said, his eyes sweeping across the floor. He stepped over Patsy’s body on his way to the closet, then returned seconds later, Patsy’s big canvas bag in his hands. He rifled through it, locating her wallet. “I wondered whose piece of shit was parked out front,” he commented, pocketing Patsy’s car keys. “That makes another car to dispose of. I’d say my bonus just got a little bigger.” He returned to the bed, taking a minute to straighten Casey’s covers, and even wiping some errant spittle from the side of her mouth. “Catch you later, Beauty.” Then he returned to Patsy, scooping her dead body into his arms and tossing it unceremoniously over his shoulder, the scarf still embedded tightly in her neck. Without so much as a backward glance, Death strode from the room.

  Only when she heard the door slam behind him and knew for certain he was gone did Casey unleash a low, guttural wail, as primal as life itself.