She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
But he mustn’t die too soon, she thought. He must suffer first. The way I suffered. Suffered every day I was locked up. Every day for two years thinking about my son. Two years of trying to get out. Two years of being probed and drugged by idiots in white coats. Two years? Or was it four? No matter. Now is what matters.
And now, she knew, she was in control of things. She could do whatever she wanted.
She folded her arms and hugged herself against the chill air. That was the only thing that she didn’t like about her hiding place—it wasn’t very warm.
A sweater would be nice, she thought.
She closed her eyes in the dark and tried to imagine how good she’d feel with a nice warm sweater on beneath her coat. She concentrated on the sweater. It was a pullover, and it was pink. She realized it was just like a sweater she’d once owned, back in a happier time, back when Timothy was still with her.
Timothy. Poor little Timothy. If only he were alive.
But how he’d cried. Always hungry. Always sick. Always something. Until she didn’t think she could stand it any longer. She just wanted him to shut up, the cries going through her brain like knives until she yelled at him to shut up, and when he cried even louder, she hit him. And again.
She remembered the police coming and taking her away from Timothy without even giving her a chance to soothe him and say she was sorry.
And then later, after she’d been released, she found out that he’d taken Timothy.
He’ll be sorry, she thought. He’ll pay. Him and his wife and …
Her eyes opened wide, and she stared into the blackness.
She’s never seen me, she thought. I could walk right up to her and she wouldn’t even know it was me.
Now she grinned, shivering with cold and, perhaps, delight.
He’ll pay, she thought.
14
EVEN THOUGH SARAH HAD Mondays off, she rose with Alex and Brian, made their breakfasts, and got them off to their respective schools.
Neither she nor Alex mentioned yesterday’s incident at the Broadmoor. And really, what was there to be said? It was over and done with. Alex had made a mistake—a frightful mistake, to be sure, but still just a mistake. He’d apologized, and there was nothing more to be said. He had said more, though. He’d promised to put Christine out of his mind and carry on, business as usual. Sarah wondered if things could ever be “as usual.”
“They can if you try,” she said out loud.
Patches meowed and rubbed against her leg. Sarah scratched him behind the ears. Then she poured herself another cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table with a pen and a notepad, and began making a list of gifts. It was only two and a half weeks until Christmas, she knew, and now was as good a time as any to get started. She already had a good idea of what she wanted to get for both Alex and Brian, but the act of writing helped her focus her attention.
Things as usual, she thought. Christmas shopping.
Her first stop was across town—the Citadel Shopping Center. The lot was already more than half-filled with cars despite the fact that it was only nine-thirty in the morning. Sarah parked as close as she could to the entrance of May D&F, locked the car, and pulled her coat closed against the fresh breeze. The outside of the store was draped in bright holiday decorations, contrasting nicely with the overcast sky, which promised snow. The scene lifted Sarah’s spirits and put her in the proper holiday mood to jostle her way through the happily harried shoppers.
The first thing she bought was a robe for Alex. She held it at arm’s length and pictured him in it. “Cuddly” was the word that popped into her mind. She smiled and handed her VISA card to the salesclerk.
Sarah spent nearly two hours in the store buying Brian two pairs of corduroy pants (one forest green, one burgundy); a sweater (off-white with multicolored deer across the chest); a pair of blue jeans; two rugby shirts (one with blue and white stripes, one with green and yellow); and a new parka (not that there was anything wrong with his old one other than that his wrists were starting to show at the ends of the sleeves). While she was picking out some socks and underwear for him, she got the idea to take a chance with Alex.
She walked over to the men’s underwear section and eyed the briefs. She knew that the microbriefs would be going too far, although she’d like to see Alex in something like that at least once. She knew she was even taking a chance on the bikini briefs, since Alex seemed to be fairly conservative, if not regimental, about wearing jockey shorts.
But, she thought, if nothing else, it would be good for a laugh. Maybe even a blush from Alex.
She bought a package of three in deep, rich sexy colors.
Sarah had carried her armload of booty out to the car before she realized she’d forgotten something on her list. She locked the car and walked back to the Fashion Bar. She’d already had in mind the color of sweater that she wanted to buy for Alex, but once she saw the assortment, it took her a good twenty minutes to make her selection: a V-necked ivory cashmere. She couldn’t decide whether a turtleneck or a dress shirt would look better underneath, so she bought both.
She was splurging, she knew, something she usually didn’t do. But, number one, this had been a very good year at the shop, so she had more money to spend (that is, charge now, pay later). And, number two, she wanted this Christmas to be something special. It already was special, she knew, their first together in their new house. She also knew that there was more to Christmas than simply material things.
But a few extra presents under the tree couldn’t hurt, she thought happily.
Before she left the shopping center, Sarah bought a game for Brian—actually, for all three of them. The one she picked looked challenging but not too complicated. The side of the box said “For Ages 8 and Up,” but she figured that Brian, at 6½, could probably handle it.
In fact, she thought smiling, if his checker playing is any indication, he’ll probably beat us both.
Sarah drove north on Academy Boulevard. Several miles later, when most of Colorado Springs lay behind her, she turned into the lot of Hobby Town. She’d never been to this store before. However, she and Alex had both seen the ads that Brian had clipped from several weeks’ worth of Sunday papers—the ads for the radio-controlled car. They’d discussed more than once whether he was too young for such an expensive “item” (they both hesitated even to call it a “toy”), and they’d questioned him several times (cleverly, they hoped) to test his resolve about the car. In the end, they’d decided to buy it. Alex had tipped the scales in favor of purchase:
“It’s something that will last for years,” he’d said. “Besides, if Brian doesn’t play with it, I will.”
The car, a Volkswagen dune buggy with fat tires and a raised rear end, was much larger than Sarah had imagined. At first she thought that the salesman, who was a gum-popping young man with thick glasses and a nerd-pack stuffed with pens, was trying to take advantage of her ignorance. But after he painstakingly pointed out that each feature mentioned in the ad exactly matched each feature of the car itself, she tentatively handed over her charge card.
It was well after noon by the time Sarah drove south toward town. There were still a few items left on her list, but she was too hungry to go on without lunch. She paid for the salad bar at a fast-food restaurant. After carrying her Styrofoam plate along the row of pathetic-looking vegetables, she wished she had ordered a greasy burger and fries.
There were only two more items on her gift list, both for Alex: a book and a tennis racket.
The book was something she’d been considering buying for several months, ever since Alex had pointed it out to her at the bookstore downtown. It was a rare, old book on world history—a first edition and in very good condition. The price was five hundred dollars.
Sarah found a parking place on North Tejon one block from the store.
The book was still resting under its protective glass cover. It lay open,
displaying a map, a richly colored plate of fourteenth-century Europe. The facing page contained rows of crisp black text.
Sarah remembered how Alex had gazed for long minutes at the book, how he’d questioned the saleslady about it. She knew that he wanted it, not to use but simply to have, to cherish. She also knew that he considered five hundred dollars too much to spend.
Which was why she’d been debating whether or not to buy the book. She was also troubled that Alex might be embarrassed if she “outdid” him at Christmas. Although he’d never said as much, she knew that he was at least mildly bothered that she earned more at her shop than he did from teaching. She didn’t want to exacerbate those feelings. On the other hand, she wanted him to have the book.
She hesitated, then motioned to the saleslady.
Sarah left the store with the book, which was carefully packed in a thick cardboard box, tucked under her arm. She turned right, away from her car, and walked a block and a half to the sporting-goods store.
Sarah had played tennis since she’d been in high school. She wasn’t very good, but she enjoyed the sport. Last year she’d tried to get Alex interested in it. He’d loved it from the start, and although he’d never really played before, Sarah was amazed at how well he did, even though he’d been forced to use one of her old rackets. He’d considered buying one for himself. However, he’d kept putting it off until fall had given way to winter and tennis to ice-skating.
Sarah asked a clerk for directions, then made her way toward the rear of the store where the tennis equipment was displayed. As she passed by the hunting and fishing section, something caught her attention.
A salesman was showing a revolver to a middle-aged couple, obviously husband and wife.
“It’s for her,” Sarah heard the husband say.
The salesman handed the gun to the woman. He was one of two clerks standing behind a glass case that served as a counter. The wall behind them was lined with rifles and shotguns, and the glass case was filled with handguns.
The woman turned the gun this way and that in her hands as if she were quite familiar with it. She sighted down the barrel at the floor behind the salesman.
“It has good stopping power,” the salesman said.
“That’s what we’re looking for,” the husband said. “My job takes me out of town more often than it used to.”
“I’m sure I’ll never have to use it,” his wife said. “But it will make me feel safer at home.”
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” the salesman asked her.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
Sarah came out of her reverie. The other salesman was looking directly at her.
“Oh, no. No, thank you.”
Sarah walked quickly to the rear of the store, feeling guilty at having been caught eavesdropping. She tried to summon up her earlier feelings of joy, her Christmas spirit, by immersing herself in selecting a tennis racket for Alex. But she stood before a display of scores of rackets, unable to concentrate, and she ended up picking the one nearest at hand and handing it to the salesclerk.
She was thinking about the incident yesterday at the Broadmoor. What could she have done if the woman with Brian had been Christine? She wasn’t especially strong, and she certainly wasn’t skilled at self-defense. What could she do to protect herself and her son against a madwoman? Hit her with this tennis racket?
Or should she have something at her disposal that was better suited for the purpose?
“I’m sure I’ll never have to use it,” she’d heard the woman say a few minutes ago, “but it will make me feel safer at home.”
Sarah found herself walking back to the hunting section.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
It was the same salesman who’d spoken to her before. He was a heavyset man with a small mustache. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt that was beginning to fray at the cuffs. His tie was tacked firmly in place.
“I … yes,” Sarah said.
The man waited, a half smile twitching beneath his mustache.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Oh, well, I was thinking of protection. For my family. At home.”
“I see,” the man said. “So you’ll want something that both you and your husband can handle. Are you familiar with handguns?”
“No …”
“Then we’d better stick with a revolver.”
The man slid open the rear of the case, then squatted down behind it. Sarah felt foolish standing alone at the counter. She looked around, half-expecting to see someone she knew. What if they came over and asked what she was doing?
She was ready to walk straight out of the store when the man rose from behind the counter. He was holding a gun.
“This is a Colt,” he said. “It fires a .38 special, which is all you’ll ever need, believe me. Most people think they need a Magnum, probably because of all the Clint Eastwood movies. You know what I mean?” When Sarah didn’t answer, the man cleared his throat and held out the gun, butt first. “Here,” he said, “get the feel of it.”
Sarah hesitated, then set her packages on the counter and took the pistol from him. It was the first time she’d ever held a gun, and she was surprised by how heavy it was. She was also surprised at how it seemed to fit perfectly in her hand. She turned her hand, palm up, and stared at the weapon.
“It has a two-inch barrel,” the salesman said, “which is no good for target practice, but for around the house, it’s sufficient. You know, most shootings occur at less than twenty feet, which is probably longer than any room in your house.”
Sarah was about to say that their living room was longer than twenty feet, then realized how ridiculous that would sound. She tried to picture herself standing in that room, perhaps by the Christmas tree, showing Alex and Brian the gun, explaining to them that although she hated it and considered owning it immoral and that she believed in a civilized society and law and order and the protection of the police, she’d bought the gun for their own good and would not hesitate to use it, to shoot bullets into someone, to kill another human being.
Sarah shook her head no. She laid the small, blue ugly thing on the countertop.
“No,” she said softly.
She picked up her packages from the counter and walked through the crowded store toward the entrance. All the way she felt the man’s confused stare on her back. But by the time she’d reached the parking lot and climbed into the Jeep, she’d pushed the incident from her mind.
Sarah made two stops on her way home. One was to buy a bottle of White Linen cologne for Kay Nealy. Sarah didn’t particularly care for that scent, but it was Kay’s favorite. The other stop was for wrapping paper, ribbons, name tags, and tape.
When she got home, she made several trips from the garage to the living room, setting everything on the floor in front of the tree. Alex and Brian weren’t due home for almost two hours. She figured she could get all the presents wrapped and placed under the tree before then—a nice surprise for Brian, since a decorated tree wasn’t truly a Christmas tree until there were presents lying beneath it.
Sarah made tea, then brought a steaming cup and a pair of scissors into the living room. She’d begun to recapture the holiday mood she’d been in earlier today. To help things along, she plugged in the Christmas-tree lights and switched on the small stereo set. She searched the dial for Christmas music. Finding none, she settled for a station that billed itself as “easy listening.”
She sat cross-legged on the floor before the tree, surrounded by packages and brightly colored paper, and began working. Patches strolled in, toyed for a while with some ribbons, then curled up in a chair at her side.
An hour later she was nearly finished with her wrapping. In fact, she was on the last gift, Alex’s book, when she heard the kettle whistling from the kitchen.
She shook her head, smiling at her absentmindedness, and got to her feet. Then she stopped and held perfectly still. She stood in the
midst of colorful presents, empty shopping bags, and scattered scraps of paper. Patches raised his head and meowed. The kettle screamed shrilly from the kitchen like a small wounded animal.
I turned off the stove, Sarah thought. I remember. I turned it off before I poured water into my cup.
The kettle continued its one-note, off-key song of pain.
Maybe Alex and Brian came in without my noticing, she thought. One of them turned on the burner under the kettle.
She moved slowly to the doorway and peered out into the foyer and the hall leading to the kitchen.
“Alex?” she called.
No answer.
The kettle continued its shrill cry.
Sarah moved toward the kitchen.
“Alex?”
The kitchen was empty. The kettle sat on the stove on the left rear burner, the one she always used to heat water. The coil beneath it was orange red from heat, and she could see that the dial had been turned to “high.” The kettle continued to scream as steam shot from the spout and condensed on the wall by the stove, leaving a patch of tiny drops.
Sarah felt a bead of perspiration run down her side.
She took one step into the kitchen, then nearly jumped out of her shoes when Patches brushed past her leg. She slowly walked into the kitchen, glancing warily over her shoulder and wincing from the howl of the steam. She lifted the kettle, set it aside, and turned off the burner.
I’m positive I moved this before, she thought, and turned off the burner. But maybe not. Because if I did …
She turned her back to the stove, and scanned the room. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Even her purse sat open on the kitchen table, exactly where she’d left it.
Then she felt cold air on her right hand.
Sarah turned to her right, frowning, and stepped toward the laundry room. She was halfway through the doorway when she froze. The outside door was to her left. She distinctly remembered locking it before she’d left the house this morning. There was no question in her mind—she’d locked the door.
Now it stood wide open.
Night of Reunion: A Novel Page 10