CHAPTER TWENTY
There was no one in the cabin with her. Nor was there anyone outside—not out front where the graveled lot spread emptily, not out back where the forested hill rose dark and silent.
It was getting on to be night, and Annie was alone.
She tried to crank the front window even more tightly shut, though it couldn’t close any further. Methodically she moved from one window to the next, performing the same pointless ritual for the third time that evening. The doors she’d checked, too, both of them, the front door with its jiggly doorknob and the side door near the kitchen, which boasted a chain. An insubstantial chain, but nonetheless a safety feature the front door did not possess.
She inched down the short hallway, not sure what she was looking for but looking all the same. She edged inside the lone bathroom and glanced inside the shower stall, with its 80’s-era opaque glass and uneven mosaic-tile floor. Droplets clung to both surfaces from the shower she’d taken earlier. One ran down the vertical glass like a tear.
Back into the hall, where to her left and right were the bedrooms. She pushed on the door to the larger of the two, where she’d spent the night with Reid. The door creaked slightly as it opened all the way, revealing the full-size bed with its rumpled bedclothes, red silk coverlet half cascaded onto the plank floor, pillows still smashed with the imprints of two sleeping heads. Moonlight snaked through a narrow gap in the drawn curtains like a silvery intruder, cutting a slice across the bed’s sensuous disarray.
The other bedroom revealed less activity. Annie drew those curtains closed, then smoothed the coverlet of the twin bed on which she’d napped that afternoon, hours before when she hadn’t been alone.
She returned to the bathroom, switched on the light, and got the cold water running. It was an old-style sink with two faucets, one hot and one cold. She splashed frigid water on her face, then grabbed the hand towel and patted her stinging skin dry. Her eyes, reflected back at her in the mirror above the sink, looked oddly sunken. In the harsh fluorescent light, her dyed blond hair appeared hideously fake.
Once again in the main room, she cleared her throat. The noise seemed overly loud. “Everything’s fine,” she said. Then, with more force, “Everything’s fine.”
No one answered, either to confirm or deny. The cabin air felt pregnant with silence.
It was time for noise, she decided, time for proof of life. She strode to the small television—ever the friend of the too-quiet room—and jabbed at the power button. Seconds later the sound of canned laughter filled the cabin. A sitcom. Nothing could be more ordinary.
She dropped onto the couch, its green corduroy cushions rubbed thin from years of use, and watched good-looking people talk to one another in what Hollywood took to be a typical all-American kitchen. There was just enough clutter to make it semi-realistic but not nearly enough to make it look like any of the kitchens she’d ever used, or remotely like the one in the house she’d grown up in. Was there a marijuana plant on the windowsill? Any half-burned incense sticks or piles of flyers ready to be distributed?
She thought back to the newscast she’d seen earlier, and the video of the rally her mom and stepdad had organized. For her. It was almost as if they’d thrown her a party. They’d drawn an impressive crowd. Hundreds of people, many of them no doubt there for fun but some who actually cared about Annette Rowell’s plight.
And Kevin Zeering had been among them. Looking clean-cut and out of place, like a priest at a rock concert. Annie frowned as an image, a memory, tripped across her mind. Her eyes scanned the room until they found her carryall, on the floor next to the chest-high bar which separated the kitchen from the main room. She grabbed it and thrust her hand deep into its depths, past eyeglasses and a cosmetic bag and a notebook and a cell phone and balled-up tissues and all the other detritus that lived in an everyday bag. Soon her hand closed around what she was searching for, what she’d forgotten about for more than a week. She pulled it out.
It was an eggshell-blue Tiffany box, tied with a white satin ribbon. A gift from Kevin, presented to her at the last writing class she’d taught, eight days before. He’d given it to her and she’d stuffed it in her carryall, intending to open it later. But then fate had intervened in the form of a call from FBI agents who wanted her consent to search her property. After which they’d found curare-doped frogs. Poisoned like Maggie Boswell had been, then buried by the killer in Annie’s back yard. Annie had forgotten all about the gift then; she’d forgotten about everything but the noose around her neck.
She looked at the box in her hand. Her fingers removed the ribbon, lifted the lid. A black velvet jewel case lay inside.
At that moment she couldn’t stand the sitcom noise anymore. She used the remote to turn off the TV, plunging the cabin again into silence, and focused on the jewel case in her hand.
She pried open the lid. Inside perched a ring, a lovely ring with a platinum band. And in the center, arranged in the shape of a heart, diamonds. Small diamonds, but diamonds nonetheless. Annie turned the ring this way and that, marveling at the brilliant stones twinkling in the light.
This was no cubic zirconium imposter. This was an expensive ring with gems of high quality, gorgeously cut, gorgeously arranged. Given to her by … Kevin Zeering.
Annie felt dazed. A man didn’t casually give a woman a ring, particularly not one bearing diamonds. A ring like this was an intensely personal gift, weighty with meaning. The sort of meaning she had never attached to Kevin Zeering in any way, shape, or form. But apparently he did attach it to her.
Was he in love with her? Of course, she had known he harbored a crush. But that’s what she’d always considered it. Maybe borderline obsessive, but essentially harmless. On some level, flattering. To her, Kevin didn’t have the heft, the maturity, to be genuinely in love. And of course he didn’t really know her. He might take all her writing classes, he might attend all her signings, he might even travel to conferences to hear her speak, but he didn’t know her. Not the way a man needed to know a woman to be truly in love with her.
Yet maybe he thought he was. Maybe he genuinely thought he was.
Then he would have to be … delusional. Unhinged. She realized those adjectives might describe Kevin Zeering quite well.
Annie returned the ring to its black velvet case and set it down, keeping the lid open. The diamonds’ facets sparkled rainbow colors. She pictured Kevin at the Tiffany counter, examining the merchandise, making his selection. What would he have told the salesperson? I’m looking for a gift for my … writing teacher?
Annie eyed the ring. Just how off-balance was Kevin Zeering? A notion took root in her mind. She shook her head, believing and disbelieving at the same time.
What might Kevin believe? Might he believe, for example, that he would advance his beloved teacher’s career by getting rid of her competition? Could he be that deranged? Could he be a true psychopath, who was able to justify murder because it suited his own skewed ends?
Yet why would Kevin frame his lady love for his crimes? It was one thing to try to clear the field for her, but what good would it do if she were tried and convicted? Imprisoned, even executed?
Ideas crashed together in her brain like marbles spilled on a sidewalk. Before this night she had never suspected Kevin, not for an instant. But suddenly he loomed center-stage, a villain revealed in the third act.
She sank back against the cushions, spent, as if having this new suspect to ponder had drained her of all energy. Of course, she hadn’t slept much the prior night, and yesterday had been exhausting. She was finding it very difficult to sort her thoughts, file them in order. “I’m wrecked,” she said aloud. Maybe it was time to go to bed and think about all of this later, when her head was more clear.
Maybe she was actually tired enough to sleep. A few hours ago she wouldn’t have believed it. She levered herself to her feet and swayed to the bathroom, shed her jeans and sneakers, stripped down to her bra and panties.
She
ran the water to moisten a toothbrush then bent over the sink, brushing with her right hand and leaning on the porcelain with her left. She bent lower to spit and cup fresh water and spit again, then rose to a standing position and wiped a hand across her wet lips.
Suddenly she froze, her eyes glued to the mirror over the sink. With the bathroom door fully open behind her, it reflected the cabin’s main room. And the front door.
Which was opening.
Annie stared into the mirror and watched it open. A man dressed all in black, with a ski mask obscuring his face, slipped inside. His movements noiseless and careful, he closed the door behind him and turned to face the cabin’s interior.
In the mirror, Annie’s eyes met his. A few details smashed into her brain. He’s short. He’s got a gut. Is that a rope coiled over his shoulder?
She pivoted, slammed the bathroom door shut. Twisted the lock on the doorknob. Pivoted again, lay back against the door. Oh God. She looked around frantically. Out. How do I get out?
Two ways out. Door. Which was toward him. Or window. Window over the toilet.
He found me. I can’t believe the killer found me.
Panting. No breath. Try to breathe. Can’t breathe.
My clothes, have to get my clothes on. I can’t believe he’s here.
After me.
Door knob jiggling. She wrenched on her jeans, watching the knob move. He’s on the other side. Trying to get in. She pushed away from the door as if it might detonate. Spun around again. Door knob rattling now. Harder. He’s trying harder.
Don’t look. Get the hell out.
She jabbed her feet into her sneakers. She had to climb on top of the toilet to reach the window. She slapped the seat down and climbed up. Plastic seat, weak in the middle. She tried to set her feet on the outside edges, nearly slipped. Don’t slip. Don’t you dare slip ...
She paused, tried to steady herself. Too quiet now. What’s he doing? Then a kick against the door. She flinched.
Don’t think about him. Move.
Window. She put her hands on the sill, its white paint chipped to reveal an ugly green underneath. It was a double-hung window with multiple panes of opaque glass in a white painted wooden frame. There was a lock on the middle top of the lower window frame, the kind with a groove that the tongue from the upper window frame slid into.
Another kick on the door. Splintering.
Her hands shook. Steady. She twisted the lock. It opened easily. She took a deep gulping breath. The lower window had a handle screwed into it. She grabbed it, yanked it up. It didn’t move.
She tried again. Nothing.
My God, I think it’s painted shut.
Behind her the door shuddered. He’s throwing his body into it. Grunts, heavy breathing.
Again she yanked up on the window handle. Nothing. She pounded on the wood frame, trying to separate the two windows, weaken the paint that bound them. Dammit! She yanked up on the handle again. The window didn’t budge.
I need a tool.
She looked around frantically. What in God’s name could she use? She leapt down from the toilet, yanked open the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet above the sink. There was a jumble of crap inside.
Including a big old rusting can of hair spray. She grabbed it and climbed back up onto the toilet seat. She began to use the hair spray can like a battering ram against the bottom part of the frame. Behind her, the killer’s body was thumping heavily against the door.
More like that and he’ll get in.
Again and again she rammed the can along the bottom of the window frame. Stupid, stupid window! The bane of her existence, the only route to her salvation.
But she could tell: the window was loosening.
She was vaguely aware there was silence outside the door.
What’s he doing?
Behind her she heard an enormous crash, as of a limb being pulled from a tree. She threw the can of hair spray in the door’s direction then yanked upward on the window’s handle with every ounce of might her body possessed.
It lifted. Nighttime appeared in front of her, and cool saving night air. Behind her, she heard scraping noises. Him getting up. Him moving. Him.
She didn’t look. She didn’t wait. She dove headfirst, catapulting her body out the open gaping space.
She didn’t get far. He’s got me. He had his hands on her calves. He was holding on. He was trying to wrench her back in. Most of her body hung outside the window. She braced her hands against the cabin’s exterior siding, slippery from nighttime damp, and struggled to get free.
He’s got his hands on me. She let out a guttural scream. Bastard! She flailed, kicked, kicked again. Damn him! She heard him grunt, felt his hands slip. Good! She kicked again, harder, trying to get higher, hoping her foot would connect with his face. This bastard’s not gonna get me! Again she kicked.
Loose, she was loose. Falling. She hit the ground hard, hands, arms, shoulders, head. Every part of her stung. No time for elation. Up. She leaned against the cabin’s siding as she struggled to her feet. There was dirt on her, grass, pebbles. She felt dazed. Move. She took an unsteady pace. Another. He’s going to come after you. Another step. Run.
Where is he? No idea. No sound except the high-pitched screeching between her own ears. Then … footsteps. On the gravel on the front side of the cabin. He must’ve gone out the front door. He was seconds away.
Run. Away, toward the forested hill behind the cabin.
She had to leave everything. Her cash, her carryall, her glasses, everything. Her computer link to Reid. Reid. No choice. She heard footsteps on the side of the cabin now. Near. Nearer. Run. Her legs started moving, trying to gain purchase on the grass and dirt slick with moisture. Run. That she could do. That she knew how to do.
He was behind her, she could hear him, the pounding of his feet on the ground, his ragged wheezing. Faster. Don’t look back. She felt the beginnings of the incline. Now it would get steep fast. Bad for a killer with a gut. Good for her, with all those running miles she’d logged.
What’s that? Lights on the oak trees just ahead, from something behind her, bouncing rhythmically up and down, up and down. Headlights from a car? Bouncing up the lane to the cabin?
Reid? Oak trees now. Between two trees. Hard to see. A branch slapped her face, nearly caught her up. Run! He was still behind her but she thought he might be falling back. Don’t look. Run. That was all she could do, whether Reid had come back to the cabin or not.
He was on his own now. And so was she.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
8:30 Sunday night. Decadence Central in Sheila’s bedroom. She lay in bed wearing an old-maid flannel nightgown, eyes glued to the TV across the room, watching one of the many crime dramas to which she was addicted. A spoon dipped regularly into the bowl balanced on her belly, which contained chocolate fudge brownie ice cream topped with M&Ms. On those rare occasions when she set down the spoon, it was to reach for the wineglass on the nightstand.
The phone on said nightstand trilled.
“Shoot.” She glowered at the phone, which had the gall to ring again. She paused the drama, forced her reluctant body upright, and lifted the receiver. “Hello?” She tried to sound annoyed at being disturbed, which wasn’t difficult.
“You’re not going to frigging believe what’s gone down here.” It was her brother, sounding highly agitated.
“Rajiv, don’t be so dramatic. Just tell me what’s going on. I’m busy.”
“I didn’t know if I should call you first, or mom and dad. I figure you’re more used to this kind of shit since you deal with the criminal element.”
“What are you babbling about? Get to the point.”
“All right. I’m at the cabin. Fuck.”
She sat up straighter. “Watch your language. And what do you mean you’re at the cabin? You never go there.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that some bad shit has gone down here. Somebody broke in and trashed the place.”
“What do you mean, trashed it?”
“I mean trashed it. The bathroom door’s bashed in. I mean, totally broken down. The window’s open, too, you know that bathroom window nobody can open? And the toilet’s got footprints on it like somebody was standing on it. I think they got out that way, like jumped out the window. I don’t know what the fuck happened here. Sorry.”
She rubbed her forehead. This was not good.
Rajiv kept talking. “I also think somebody was living here. There’s crap everywhere, clothes lying around and dishes in the sink. And the bed’s a mess.”
“But nobody’s there now?”
“No. Carrie or I didn’t see anybody when we—”
“Wait a minute. Who’s Carrie?”
Silence.
“Rajiv?”
His voice got quiet. “I got a roommate at the apartment, remember? And that’s not always so convenient.”
“You’re not supposed to use the cabin for hookups. Since when have you been doing that?”
“That’s beside the point, isn’t it?” He paused, then, “By the way, I think you should be the one to tell mom and dad.”
So did she. “All right, I will.” But not now. Later. After she spoke with Reid.
But what if she couldn’t reach him? What if he had gone up to the cabin with Annette Rowell and something terrible had happened to him?
“What do we do now?” Rajiv was speaking again. “Call the cops?”
“No, don’t call the cops.” She threw back the bedcovers, stood up. “I’ll call them.” Maybe; maybe not. “I’m coming up there.”
“What? Why? I can handle it.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she lied, “but I want to get an idea how bad it is before I call mom and dad. Plus I deal with cops all the time. I’ll know better what to say to them.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Nothing. Just stay there and wait for me.” She picked up the TV remote and punched the power button. It was amazing how in the last few weeks her favorite crime dramas weren’t nearly as dramatic as her own sorry life. “I’ll drive as fast as I can.”
Chasing Venus Page 23