Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

Sandy closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again. Though the room is shadowy, she can make out the silhouettes of familiar objects. A chair . . . a desk . . .

  Her gaze falls on something that’s sitting on top of the desk. Swiftly and silently, she moves across the room to it.

  Picking up the telephone receiver, she prays for a dial tone.

  Yes!

  She forces her fingers to stop shaking as she punches out 9-1-1 and waits for the emergency operator to answer.

  But there’s nothing but a tone, and then a recording that begins, “We’re sorry. There is no 9-1-1 emergency service in this location. To reach your local police or fire officials, dial—”

  Sandy depresses the button on the phone. Her mind races.

  Outside the door, she hears the footsteps stop. The doorknob jiggles.

  “Lorraine, I know you’re in there. But I’m going to get you out.”

  Panicking, Sandy clutches the receiver and stares, wide-eyed at the door. She hears a dull thump, as though Stephen has thrown his shoulder against it.

  “Lorraine, open this door. Right now. I mean it. If you open it, everything will be fine. If you don’t . . . I’ll get it open myself. And trust me, Lorraine, you’ll wish you had done as I asked.”

  There’s another thump, and a grunt.

  And then another thump.

  Sobbing now, Sandy starts dialing the phone again, automatically punching in the first number that comes to mind, knowing there’s nothing anyone can do to help her . . .

  But praying for a miracle anyway.

  “Oh, terrific.” Danny Cavelli groans and looks down at his wife, who’s lying beneath him on the bed. “Why does that damn thing always have to ring when we’re right in the middle of something?”

  “Better get it,” Cheryl says, untangling her fingers from his hair. “It could be important.”

  “It’s probably Tony, telling me another branch fell into his gutter. Or Pop, wanting me to come over and jump start his truck for the fiftieth time this week. We never should have bought a house this close to my family.”

  The phone rings shrilly again.

  “Danny . . .” Cheryl lifts her head from the pillow to look at it on the nightstand. Her eyes are wide, fearful. “It might be my mother. What if Daddy’s . . .”

  She trails off, and Danny nods. Cheryl’s father has been in the hospital for over a month now, suffering terribly from the last stages of lung cancer.

  “Okay, I’ll get it, babe,” Danny says, rolling off her and reaching for the receiver. “Hello?”

  For a moment, he doesn’t hear anything, just heavy breathing.

  Scowling, he turns to Cheryl and is about to tell her it’s just an obscene phone call when he hears a voice.

  “Danny . . .”

  It’s nothing more than a faint whisper, but he recognizes it, and his blood runs cold.

  “Sandy?” He clutches the receiver. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “Danny, help . . .”

  “Sandy, I can barely hear you. Speak up.”

  “I can’t . . . oh my God, Danny . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Jesus . . . Sandy? Sandy, where are you?”

  Behind him on the bed, Cheryl sits up and leans toward him, brushing his wrist with her fingers. “Danny, what’s wrong?”

  There’s a sudden crashing sound on the other end of the line, the sound of a male voice, ranting something that sounds like “Open the door!”

  Sandy lets out a blood-curdling scream.

  “Sandy?” Danny shouts. “Sandy!”

  But the line has already gone dead.

  Chapter 8

  “How dare you?” Holding the butcher knife high above his head in his left hand, he throws the phone against the wall with his right. It crashes to the floor with a jangling thud. “Did you try to make a phone call?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t—”

  “Speak up when you talk to me!” he thunders.

  “Please . . .” she whimpers, shrinking back, then trying to scurry across the floor like a cockroach.

  “You’re pathetic.” He reaches down and closes his fingers over her ankle, then pulls her toward him. Her heavy body slides across the polished wooden floor with a rustle of silk even as she claws the air with her arms, trying to take hold of something.

  He grabs her arm and turns her toward him, then leans down and lifts her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him.

  “I told you, Lorraine . . .” He trails off, gaping. “You’re not Lorraine.”

  “No . . . please, Stephen, don’t hurt me.”

  Befuddled, he stares into her round face. “Where is she?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Lorraine . . .” Confused, he closes his eyes and tries to remember. What happened to Lorraine?

  Images flash in his memory—a red-and-white blur.

  Roses and baby’s breath . . .

  Full lips and ivory skin . . .

  Blood on silk . . .

  Lorraine’s blood, spilling over the wedding dress she wears as she lies crumpled on the floor of her suite.

  Now it’s coming back to him. Leaving the brownstone through the back door in a frenzy while two hundred guests and the minister mill around wondering what happened to his bride and speculating on where he’s going.

  When he reached the door of her suite, she had opened it quickly, saying, “You can take the bags that are—”

  Then she’d seen that it was he. “Stephen,” she’d said growing pale. “I thought you were the bellman. . . .”

  “Where the hell are you going?” he’d asked, taking in her jeans and jacket, the luggage stacked by the door, including the trunk he’d bought her for their honeymoon. It was empty, he knew. She was planning to fill it with the lovely things he would buy for her as they traveled around the world.

  You’ll have the finest Scottish wool, Lorraine, and silks from the Orient and the latest dresses from Paris . . .

  He remembered, as he faced her in the hotel suite, how his promises had made her clap her hands together in glee, like a child getting excited about the prospect of an ice-cream cone on a sweltering August day.

  “Lorraine,” he’d said softening, “you’re not going anywhere without me, are you? We’re going together, remember? Just as soon as we’re married, we’re leaving for Europe. Tonight, Lorraine. Just a few more hours. Now come on, let’s go back home. The minister is waiting, and all of our guests, and—”

  “No, Stephen, I can’t. I just can’t marry you. I changed my—”

  “Stop it! Don’t say it, Lorraine! You love me. You told me that you love me. You said you want to marry me. Now do it!”

  “I can’t. . . . I-I have to go, Stephen,” she’d told him, sounding as though she were on the verge of tears. “Please . . .”

  “Please . . .” sobs the woman who cowers at his feet now. “Let me go.”

  “Shut up!” he barks, squeezing his eyes closed, seeing only Lorraine.

  Lorraine had backed away from him as he stood there in the doorway, as though she couldn’t stand to be near him. She’d averted her eyes, as though she couldn’t stand looking at him.

  And he’d snapped.

  Stepped into the hotel room and slammed the door closed behind him, sliding the bolt and fastening the chain. The first thing he saw was the white-silk confection of a dress that hung in the corner of the room, perfectly pressed and hooded in clear plastic. A wedding dress, waiting for the bride to step into it.

  “Why aren’t you wearing that?” he had demanded.

  “Because I’m not going to marry you,” Lorraine had replied, lifting her chin, suddenly defiant.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not, Stephen. I’m leaving town. Going back home to Chicago for a while, until I figure out—”

  He’d slapped her then, hard, across the face, leaving a harsh red handprint on her white cheek.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he�
��d told her. “You’re going to put that gown on, and you’re going to marry me.”

  “No . . .” She looked less certain now, taking another step backward and watching him with frightened green eyes.

  “Yes, dammit! Today is our wedding day. And we’re going to get married. Now put . . . on . . . the . . . dress.” He’d said it in a deadly quiet tone, locking his eyes on hers.

  When she didn’t respond, he reached into his jacket and removed the thing he had brought with him for some reason . . . the ice pick he’d swiped from the caterer’s cart that had been set up in his kitchen. He held it up at her and raised his eyebrows, as if to ask whether she wanted him to do something he’d regret.

  She had come to her senses then and, with trembling hands, reached for the dress. As she fumbled to release it from its plastic shroud, he had leaned back against the wall to watch her, his arms folded and his jaw set resolutely, his hand still clutching the ice pick.

  She tossed the jacket, sweatshirt, and jeans aside and stood there for a moment wearing only her white-lace bra and matching panties and a look of dread.

  “Put it on,” he’d urged her, his eyes fastened on the swell of her breasts in the delicate lace cups, on her flat belly and her long, firm legs. Even in February, her body was tan, thanks to Christmas in Hawaii and their January trip to St. Bart’s.

  Lorraine had pulled the dress over her head and it settled around her with a soft swoosh. She hesitated for a moment, glancing up at him, and then began to fumble with the row of buttons at her back.

  There was a knock at the door then, and she froze, her eyes widening as she glanced in that direction. She opened her mouth; but before she could speak, he was beside her, covering her lips with his hand and muffling the sound of her voice.

  Another knock and then he heard the bellman’s voice calling, “Miss LaCroix?”

  After a few moments of silent waiting, the footsteps faded down the hall outside the suite.

  “Now, Lorraine,” he had said in a reasonable tone, his hand still clamped over her mouth, “I’m going to let go of you and you’re not going to make a peep. If you do, you’ll be sorry. Do you understand?”

  She’d nodded, her eyes big and round above his fingers.

  “Good.” He’d let go, and she’d instantly opened her mouth to scream.

  “Damn you!” he’d hollered, grabbing her and throwing her onto the floor. “I told you to be quiet!”

  “I’m sorry. . . . Please, Stephen, I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. Please, no,” she’d begged as he advanced on her, brandishing the ice pick. “Please, don’t hurt me. Oh, God . . .”

  “Don’t hurt me,” the woman at his feet is whimpering now as he stands over her, holding the butcher knife. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  She obliges, staring up at him with frightened eyes, just as Lorraine had.

  “Sandy,” he says softly, suddenly remembering.

  She only stares at him, waiting.

  “You don’t love me. You don’t want to marry me, either. You ran away, just like Lorraine did.”

  “No . . .”

  “Yes! I bought you this dress, and I made everything beautiful for you downstairs. I got roses . . .” He drifts off, wondering if she likes roses, as Lorraine did.

  “Stephen, I’m not Lorraine,” she says, looking somewhat calm though her voice bears a telltale high pitch. “I never said I would marry you.”

  “Why not?” he asks abruptly, his eyes snapping back to her.

  “Don’t get upset again, Stephen. I didn’t say I would marry you because I was just a kid when I knew you.”

  “But you’re not a kid now.”

  “No . . .”

  “And you’re going to marry me now!”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll marry you now.” Her voice is shaky. “I will. Whatever you want.”

  “Before we get married, though . . .” He leans over her and, in one swift movement, shoves her so that she goes sprawling onto her back.

  “No, please . . .” she says, clearly realizing exactly what his intentions are.

  “No?” he asks, hesitating, watching her. His fingers clench around the knife-handle.

  She’s shaking. “I just meant . . . not . . . not like this, Stephen.”

  “Yes, just like this.” Still holding the knife, he fumbles with the fly on his black tuxedo pants.

  “Oh, God no . . .”

  He looks down at her and sees that she’s squeezing her eyes closed.

  “Look at me!” he commands her.

  She doesn’t move, just lets out a little sob.

  “I said . . .” He bends over her so that his face is only inches from hers. “Look at me!”

  She opens her eyes. They’re rimmed with smudged mascara and eyeliner, and tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  Disgusted, Stephen yanks her dress up around her hips and rips off her panties and stockings, exposing her abundant, ripply white thighs and hips and droopy lower belly.

  “Look at you,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re fat.”

  She looks up at him hopefully, as though he might have changed his mind now that he sees her.

  But he steps calmly out of his pants, then his boxer shorts, and, still holding the knife, sinks to his knees, his mighty erection throbbing as he imagines sinking into all that quivering flesh.

  “Stephen, please . . . no!” Her voice explodes into a shrill scream as he forces her legs apart and rips into her.

  He pounds away, trying desperately to sate himself. But he can’t . . . not even with his powerful climax, not even as he imagines that he’s pumping her full of himself, possessing her completely.

  He collapses on top of her, panting and shuddering all over, but still filled with pent-up urges that have nothing to do with sex.

  As soon as he catches his breath, he rolls off her and sees that she’s lying still, eyes closed. The only thing that’s moving is her mouth, and it takes a moment before he realizes what she’s doing.

  She’s praying, her voice a mere whisper.

  “Stop it,” he orders her, and slaps her face.

  She does. Still her eyes are closed.

  As he pulls his underwear back on, he calmly says, “Open your eyes.”

  She does. Her expression is one of panic. And hate.

  She hates me, he thinks, stepping into his trousers again, and the knowledge doesn’t bother him. Not anymore.

  Lorraine hated him, and he took care of her.

  Now he’ll take care of Sandy.

  He zips his pants, then says, “Get up,” raising the knife in warning.

  When she doesn’t move fast enough, he grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet, the white wedding dress falling around her again to hide the blood that’s streaked between her chubby thighs.

  She sways as though she’s going to faint, then seems to get hold of herself. She even meets his gaze and lifts her chin.

  “I wouldn’t look so defiant if I were you, Sandy,” he says softly, “because I’m the one who’s in control here. And I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re not going to like what I have planned for you next.”

  With that, he starts to laugh, a wild, frenzied sound that releases more of his pent-up frustration. . . .

  But not nearly enough.

  There’s only one way to rid himself of it, only one way to satisfy the intense craving that fills him to the very core.

  Clutching the butcher knife, he leads Sandy out of the room and down the dark hall.

  “Hello, Laura, are you there? Laura? Okay, this is Keegan again. Please call me as soon as you get in. 555-4107, just in case you didn’t get the number when I left it before. I’ll be home all night. . . . Make sure you call, Laura. Thanks. Bye.”

  Frustrated at having reached the answering machine yet again, he hangs up the phone and taps his fingertips against the arm of the couch in a jittery staccato beat. For all he knows, Laura isn’t planning on coming home at all
tonight.

  In fact, he’d almost bet that she won’t be back until tomorrow. After all, she’s been known to spend the night with guys on first dates, and this Shawn is someone she’s been seeing since before Keegan and Jennie broke up.

  Correction—before Jennie dumped you. No warning, no excuses. She just dumped you, buddy, like a beat-up piece of trash.

  Keegan sighs and gets up, moving restlessly into the small kitchen of his one-bedroom apartment. He grabs a Molson from the refrigerator and pops the cap off, tossing it in the general direction of the trash container in the corner. He misses. The cap skitters across the linoleum and disappears into the gap between the refrigerator and the stove.

  Normally Keegan, who hates disorder of any kind, would grab a yardstick and fish it out, but tonight he merely shrugs. He’s too distracted to care about anything but Jennie.

  Jennie . . .

  Forget about her, he tells himself yet again as he takes a gulp of beer, then stifles a burp.

  She doesn’t care about you—why should you worry about her?

  But he is worried. So worried that he can’t seem to focus on anything else. For over an hour now, he’s been pacing around the apartment, wondering if Jennie’s okay. There’s no reason, really, to think that she wouldn’t be . . .

  Except that the damn sweepstakes was a scam.

  Still, that doesn’t necessarily mean Jennie’s in danger.

  But Keegan can’t shake the feeling that she is. He’s been a cop for too long, seen too much not to listen to his instinct, especially when it’s this strong.

  Listen to it, yeah. Make a fool out of yourself over it, no.

  He takes another gulp of beer and walks back into the living room, imagining what Laura will think when she gets home and finds that he’s left three messages. And the last one sounded almost frantic.

  And over what?

  Nothing at all.

  He sighs and stares blankly at the television screen, where an episode of “America’s Most Wanted” is drawing to a close with a recap parade of mugshots.

  Maybe, he tells himself, your anxiety over Jennie is coming from the break-up, and not from anything that has to do with that bogus sweepstakes or her trip to Tide Island.

  For a month now, he’s been trying to get to her, but she hasn’t returned his calls. All he wants is an explanation—for her to tell him why she left him like she did.