She swerved the vehicle to the side of the road and slid to a stop. Quickly, she shifted into neutral, set the emergency brake, and climbed out.
The engine’s idle made a low rumble as Sarah stood beside the car, hugging herself from the cold. Tiny snowflakes, whipped into currents by the passing cars, whirled around her. The drivers gave her curious looks, but none of them stopped or even slowed down. Sarah walked completely around the Wagoneer—at one point sinking up to her ankles in frigid snow—and peered into every window, assuring herself that Christine was not crouched in hiding behind the seats.
She climbed back into the Wagoneer.
She sat there for a moment, shuddering from the cold. Her eyes were pressed tightly closed to keep back the tears—tears of humiliation and guilt. For now that the blinding fear had passed from her, she began to blame herself for what had happened. She knew it was illogical, but part of her mind insisted that she could have done more when she’d first been confronted by Christine. She could have pushed past her and immediately left the shop. She could have fought. She could have done something, anything. But she’d done nothing, merely obeyed. She’d submitted.
Sarah pulled the Jeep back onto the road and moved into the flow of traffic. The heater was still set at maximum, but Sarah shivered all the way home.
Alex met her at the front door.
“Hi, babe. How was—What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Oh, Alex.”
She stood in the doorway, her shoulders slumped, her arms straight down at her sides. Alex reached for her, gently pulled her inside, and closed the door.
“Were you in an accident?”
“Oh, God, Alex, it was her.”
“What?”
“I tried to get away from her, I wanted to, but I was so frightened, I …” She shook her head, then clung to him as if her life depended on it. “She came in the shop. She was there when I called you. It was Christine.”
“Christine? That’s impossible. Christine’s dead.”
“No, Alex, she’s alive. She was just in the shop. We’ve got to call the police.”
Alex pushed her slightly away and looked down into her face.
“Are you talking about Mrs. Green? Did Mrs. Green come in your shop?”
“She was there, the same woman as before, but it wasn’t Mrs. Green. It was—”
“When exactly?” Alex’s face was flushed with anger.
“Just now.” Sarah briefly told him how Christine had held her there with implied threats.
“Goddammit,” Alex said, pulling away from her.
He opened the closet door, grabbed his ski parka, and hastily put it on. Then he began rummaging inside the closet.
“Alex, what—”
“Maybe she’s still around there,” he said. “Goddammit, the police were supposed to have been watching your shop.”
He came out of the closet. Brian’s baseball bat was clenched in his fist.
Sarah remembered when they’d given the bat to Brian. It was on his birthday last June. After he’d unwrapped it, he and Alex had gone immediately out to the backyard, where Alex began showing him how to hold it, how to stand, how to swing it. And the very first time Alex had tossed Brian the baseball-sized rubber ball, Brian had hit it solidly. It had flown clear over Alex’s head, delighting them both. Brian had taken the bat to bed with him that night. Sarah remembered gently prying it out of his hands after he’d fallen asleep.
And now Alex wielded the bat as if it were a deadly weapon.
“I’m going to the shop,” he said flatly.
“No, Alex, she—”
“You stay here with Brian and keep the doors locked.”
“Alex, no.”
Sarah grabbed his arm, wrapping both her arms around it. He tried to pull free, but she hung on tightly.
“No, Alex, please. Don’t leave us here alone. Please, call the police. Let them—”
“The police.” Alex spat the words. “We already know how effective they are.”
“Alex …” Sarah pressed her forehead to the shoulder of his coat. “I … I’m frightened. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to leave us here alone.”
Alex took a breath and let it out through his nose.
“All right,” he said. “If you want to, get Brian. You can both go with me and stay in the car.”
Sarah looked up at him.
“Either way, Sarah, I’m leaving now.”
Alex drove the Wagoneer in silence, his face grim, his shoulders hunched forward.
The snow had increased. Large, puffy flakes flattened themselves on the windshield and were swept aside by the wipers. Sarah looked out the side window, away from the occasional glare of oncoming headlights. There was little traffic. She saw a city truck spreading sand near a street intersection.
She hugged Brian closer. He was bundled up in his coat, hat, scarf, boots, and gloves. When Sarah had told him they were going for a ride, he’d been excited, but now he seemed tired. She realized it was past eight, close to his bedtime.
By the time Alex turned into the shopping-center parking lot, Brian was asleep in Sarah’s arms.
“The lights are on,” Alex said, as if that might mean something.
“I left them on. And the door open. My purse is in there, my coat. I just ran …”
Alex parked in front of the shop. The blinds were drawn, glowing faintly from the lights inside. Alex stared at the front door of the shop, but he made no move to turn off the headlights or the engine. The wipers ticked rhythmically from side to side.
“Sit tight,” Alex said softly. He glanced down at Brian, then reached behind the seat and came up with the baseball bat.
Alex climbed out and quietly closed the car door. He motioned to Sarah, and she pushed down the lock button. She watched him walk warily to the front of the shop, looking to his left and right. He held the ball bat with both hands, resting it on his shoulder, as if he were waiting his turn at bat. Then he pulled open the door, paused for a moment, and stepped inside, letting the door close behind him.
Sarah could see Alex’s faint silhouette against the drawn blinds. His shape moved to the right, into the shop. Brian stirred beside her. Sarah gently moved his head so that it rested more comfortably against her side, and when she looked up, Alex’s silhouette was gone.
Sarah stared at the front window of the shop. There was no movement. The only sound was the low, rhythmic rumble of the Wagoneer’s engine and the steady ticking of the wipers.
Minutes passed.
Sarah considered locking Brian in the car and going into the shop.
Then a light went out behind the blinds. Then another, and the shop was dark. Sarah held her breath, and a moment later Alex stepped outside, pulling the door closed and locking it with a key. Sarah’s purse was in his left hand, and her coat was draped over his arm. He walked toward the car, ducking his head from the snow, looking defeated.
When he climbed into the car, Brian woke up.
“Can we go home now?” he said sleepily.
Alex faced Sarah, snowflakes clinging to his hair and eyebrows. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
He turned the Wagoneer around, crunching snow beneath the tires, and pointed the hood toward Nevada Avenue.
“I was wrong to drag you out here,” he said softly.
Sarah put her hand on his arm.
“I should’ve known she wouldn’t still be here. I … lost my head.”
“It’s all right,” Sarah said. But she had a frightening image of him, standing in the foyer, clenching the baseball bat, ready to kill. “We must call the police.”
Alex nodded.
By the time they got home, it was snowing heavily. Thick white flakes filled the air, obscuring vision. Their house seemed unsubstantial, made up of dots of pale light behind the black evergreen trees.
Alex turned into the driveway.
They all left deep tracks in the snow as they walked from the garage to the hous
e. Brian led the way, fully awake now, his face turned up to the white-speckled black sky, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue. As he approached the front porch, he called to them over his shoulder.
“Hey, tomorrow can we build a snowma—”
Brian stopped abruptly, one foot on the porch. Alex and Sarah came up behind him. Sarah sucked in her breath, then pulled Brian back to her.
Yellow-white light was spilling onto the porch.
The front door stood wide open.
26
ALEX STEPPED AROUND SARAH and Brian and walked through the open doorway.
“Alex …”
He stood in the middle of the foyer, head cocked, as if he were listening for something, holding the baseball bat slightly out from his side. Sarah entered the house with her arm around Brian. Patches strolled out from the kitchen, then arched his back against the cold air, turned, and went back.
“Alex.”
Alex looked around at her. His mouth was a straight, firm line, and his eyebrows were pulled down in a frown. He glanced past her toward the door.
“I was in a rush,” he said. “I might not have shut it all the way. The wind could have blown it open.”
He turned away from her and faced the interior of the house.
“Stay here with Brian,” he said.
Before Sarah could respond, he’d gone down the short hallway to the kitchen. She felt cold air behind her and closed the door. In a moment, Alex returned to the foyer.
“The back door’s locked, and so is the basement,” he said, moving toward the living room, the bat raised before him.
“Alex, let’s call the police.”
“No,” he said firmly, stopping to face her. “The wind blew open the door. That’s all. I’m just going to check the house to make sure. You and Brian just stay here for a few minutes.”
Sarah felt anger stir inside her.
“Alex, don’t be stupid. We—”
“This is my house,” he said loudly. “Our house. I can deal with this, Sarah. Now please.”
He did not wait for a reply, but walked directly into the living room. After a few moments he came out, crossed the foyer without looking at Sarah, and stepped into the “music room.”
Sarah remembered how they’d named the room right after they’d moved in. The previous owner of the house had left them one piece of “furniture”: a baby grand piano. Neither Sarah nor Alex played, although she’d taken lessons as a child. But they’d paid to have a man come to the house and tune it. It had seemed so civilized. Now Alex walked out of the room carrying the baseball bat.
He walked down the hall toward the dining room and the family room.
“What’s Dad doing?”
“He’s … he’ll be through in a little bit, Brian.”
“Can I go up to my room?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, honey.” She squatted down next to him. “Let’s just wait here until your father is finished, okay?”
Brian shrugged. “Okay.”
Sarah watched Alex reappear in the hallway, then climb the stairs. Five minutes later he came back down, walked past her, tossed the bat in the closet, then hung up his parka.
“Nothing’s been disturbed,” he said. “I even looked under the beds and in the closets. It was just the wind.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll call the police now.”
They all climbed the stairs. Alex went into his den, and Sarah took Brian to his room. She helped him undress and put on his pajamas, then tucked him in bed and kissed him good-night. When she walked back to the den, Alex was sitting with his elbow on the desk, the phone in his hand.
“When will he be on duty?” he said into the receiver. “Then you tell him that I want to talk to him. … Alex Whitaker.” He gave their phone number. “You tell him that Mrs. Green came into my wife’s shop today and—”
“Alex, no, it was—”
Alex shook his head at Sarah. “—and he was supposed to be there to apprehend her. … You’re damned right. … That’s right. … No, we don’t need any policemen coming to our house tonight. … Yes, I’m sure. Good-bye.” He hung up the phone.
“Why did you say it was Mrs. Green? I told—”
“Because it was her.”
“It was Christine.”
“No.”
“Alex, I’m telling you that—”
“Christine is dead!” he shouted, then glanced past her to the hallway leading to Brian’s room. “She’s dead.”
Sarah was shaking her head, remembering.
“The hospital people identified her body, Sarah.” Alex sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as convince her.” The Albany police identified her. She’s dead, stone-cold dead.”
“No. She was there in the shop.”
“The same woman as before.”
“Yes, Alex, she—”
“The same woman who you thought resembled Christine’s photograph. Resembled.”
“This time I’m certain.”
Alex stood and shoved his chair under the desk. He faced her, his arms folded across his chest.
“How so?”
“Her eyelid. It drooped, just like in the picture.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Christine’s right eyelid droops lower than her left one, remember?”
Alex shook his head no. “I don’t remember anything like that, and believe me, I’ve seen that woman up close.”
“Alex, for God’s sake …”
“Okay,” he said soothingly, “okay.” He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s take it easy. We’re both upset. But there’s nothing the police can do about it tonight. Detective Yarrow will call us tomorrow, and you can tell him what happened.”
“Alex, it wasn’t Mrs. Green. It—”
“It was Mrs. Green. Christine is dead. And by now she’s been cut open on an autopsy table.”
Sarah said nothing. She wished she could believe that he was right.
Alex put his arm around her, and they stepped into the hall. He stopped abruptly, his eyes focused on the ceiling beyond the stairwell.
“What is it?”
“The lock on the attic door,” he said, taking his arm from around her.
Sarah followed him around the head of the stairs until they neared the sitting room. Alex pointed up at the attic door, and Sarah saw what he meant.
The hasp of the lock was hanging down. It was about an inch wide and four inches long, with a hinge at one end and a vertical slit in the other. If the hasp were pushed up into place, the slit would accommodate a thick U-shaped staple fastened to the ceiling beside the trap door. But now it hung down, open.
“Has it always been open like that?” he whispered.
“I … don’t know.”
“That’s one place I didn’t search,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Then he hurried down the stairs. In a minute he was back with the flashlight and Brian’s baseball bat.
“Get me pole for the trapdoor,” he whispered.
“Alex, shouldn’t we—”
“No,” he said firmly. Then his look softened. “Please. Get the pole.”
Sarah hesitated, then stepped into the sitting room. She could see the blurred top halves of the pine trees in their front yard through the wide front window. It wasn’t snowing as hard as before, and the light from the window was pale and cold. Sarah walked around a pair of overstuffed chairs to the closet in the corner. The pole was leaning against the rear wall. She took it to Alex.
Alex used the blunt metal hook on the end of the pole to snag the metal loop set into the trap door. He pulled the door open. It swung downward, releasing a folded wooden ladder, which slid soundlessly down, stopping four feet from the floor. Alex set the pole aside, then unfolded the ladder so that the side pieces rested firmly in the carpet. The opening in the ceiling gaped above them like a black mouth.
Alex climbed the ladder awkwardly, the flashl
ight in his left hand and the ball bat in his right. He stopped on the fourth step, his head just below the empty black rectangle, then raised the baseball bat into the hole, like a cowboy in an old movie testing for the presence of Indians.
He went up one more step and poked his head into the attic, then took another step up and raised the flashlight. Sarah watched him swivel slowly from left to right, apparently sweeping the light across the attic floor. He stopped moving. She guessed that he was finished, satisfied that the attic was empty, and was switching off the flashlight, ready to come down.
But instead of coming down, he went up.
“Alex?”
“There’s something up here,” he said, his voice sounding hollow.
He disappeared into the attic.
“Alex, what is it?”
Sarah could hear the ceiling creak as he moved slowly through the attic. She put her right foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, then stopped, glancing across the stairwell to Brian’s bedroom doorway, wondering if she should stay down here with her son. Then she looked up at the empty hole in the ceiling. She strained her ears for a sound, any sound. There was nothing.
She hesitated, then began climbing the ladder.
When Sarah was halfway up, she raised her head through the opening in the ceiling. At first it was too dark to make out anything other than the two small, pale windows, one at each end of the attic. Sarah had been up here only once before, soon after they’d moved in. All she remembered of the large room was its peaked rafters and empty floor.
Suddenly one of the windows winked out. Sarah realized that Alex had moved in front of it. She saw the sickly yellow beam from his flashlight play on something lying on the floor near the far wall at the rear of the house. It was a foot and a half high and as long as a human body.
“Alex?”
“Wha—?”
He spun toward her. The flashlight beam stabbed at her eyes, making her squint.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, holding her hand up to the light.
“Yes.”
He moved the light away from her, then began walking toward her in a crouch. His head was directly beneath the peak of the rafters, and his arms dangled like an ape’s, the flashlight in one hand and the ball bat in the other.
Night of Reunion: A Novel Page 19