Stranger in the House

by MacDonald, Patricia

  Ignoring her mother, Tracy switched off the reading light beside the bed.

  Anna stood there in the darkness, wondering how she could make it right. She gazed at her daughter’s form, curled up and still in the bed. I’ll make it up to you, she vowed silently. But she wondered, even as she promised, how she ever would.

  Albert Rambo gave his head a shake over the empty basin, and a shower of coffee-tinted droplets hit and clung to the sides of the sink. Rambo stood up and smoothed his wet hair down on his head, spreading the thin hair evenly over his white liver-spotted skull. Then he stepped back and examined himself in a three-quarter profile on each side of the bathroom mirror. His normally graying hair was now a deep, robust auburn. It looked pretty good, he thought. He decided he would grow a mustache and dye that, too, the same shade. There was still plenty of dye left in the bottle. He hadn’t liked the way the Lange woman recognized him so easily. Tomorrow, when he got the money, he would buy a new hat also, before he took off.

  Picking up a bathroom towel, he gingerly patted his balding head dry. Then he wadded up the flimsy plastic gloves and put them, along with the glass bottle of dye and the squeeze bottle of stablilizer, back in its box. After looking in the mirror approvingly one last time, he shrugged on his shirt and buttoned it. Then he took the hair coloring kit with him from the bathroom to the bedroom and shoved it into a corner of his valise. He fingered his upper lip absently, wondering how long it would take him to raise a mustache. He had never been the hairiest guy. It might take a couple of weeks of looking untidy. By the time he grew it, he mused, he’d be far away from here.

  Just then there was a flurry of raps on the motel room door. Rambo froze, staring at the back of the door, his heart accelerating with fear. Police, he thought instantly. They’d found him. Maybe the Lange woman…but why would they knock? It must be a mistake. Maybe if he was quiet, whoever it was would realize that he was at the wrong door and go away.

  At the second set of knocks Rambo clenched his fists. But then a low voice followed the knocking.

  “Sorry to bother you. This is the manager, Mr. deBlakey.”

  The manager. He exhaled with relief and then became immediately irritated. “What do you want?” Rambo barked.

  “It’s your car, sir. I’m afraid it’s parked in front of the wrong cabin, and the other guest is making a fuss. I know it’s late and all, but could you just move it over here in front of your place?”

  Rambo shook his head in annoyance. “Okay, hold on a minute,” he answered gruffly.

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Rambo.”

  “Wrong space,” Rambo muttered under his breath as he slipped on his shoes and unlocked the door. “I parked it right outside here. Where the heck were you supposed to park?” Just as he was pulling the door open, he remembered. He had signed the register Smith. Mr. Willard Smith.

  A force from outside shoved the door open, ramming him back into the room. For a second Rambo was paralyzed by the shock, his throat closing on him. He could not even cry out. The man in the doorway reached for him, and Rambo began to struggle, flailing the other man with ineffectual punches.

  The man grabbed Rambo’s head and pushed his face into the rag he was holding in a gloved hand. Rambo gasped and tried to jerk his face away from the suffocating smell which filled his throat and nostrils. He began to hear the voices crying faintly in his ears, and then, as the eyes disappeared, there was silence.

  11

  Anna watched the side of the road anxiously as she drove, looking for the sign for the La-Z Pines Motel. She was afraid to miss it and lose any more time. It was past noon already. She had gone to three different banks to withdraw a few hundred dollars, and had stopped twice in the town of Kingsburgh before she found someone who could direct her to the La-Z Pines.

  The sign came up suddenly on her right, and Anna made a sharp turn into the driveway and slowly crossed the gravel courtyard. Driving at a crawl, she deciphered the cabin numbers, looking for Number 17. A tall gray-haired man in work clothes, carrying a pail and a mop, stopped and watched for a moment as she drove in. Then he turned and went down to the cabin at the front marked OFFICE.

  Anna waited until he had disappeared inside the screen door, and then she pulled her car up and parked it. The motel courtyard was quiet and almost pleasant, shaded by dense pines. The walls of the little cabins were graying from their original white, but the trim on each window and doorway was freshly painted forest green to match the surrounding trees. Anna sat in her car, feeling the seat of her skirt and the back of her shirt sticking to the car seat. On the seat beside her, in a brown paper grocery bag, was the money. She hadn’t known how much to bring. It was ironic, she thought. There was a time when she would have welcomed a ransom note, some sign that the person who had stolen her son had done it for gain, that there was some possibility of an exchange.

  Now here she was, ready to pay for help from the man who had stolen Paul from her. To pay for information that was probably useless, and in so doing, she would be helping her son’s kidnapper to escape. She would take the risk. Anna felt certain he knew something important about the boy. And after Paul’s attacks of the night before, she was more convinced than ever that she would pay any price for that information.

  Anna glanced in her rearview mirror to see if she could spot Rambo skulking anywhere. He had said he would leave the door open and wait until she was inside. She saw nothing but a few scattered cars, closed blinds, and the unmoving foliage of the trees.

  Okay, she thought. Here goes. As she got out of the car, she puIled her skirt away from the seat and picked up the paper bag, which she put under her arm. Quietly shutting the car door, Anna looked all around and then hurriedly traversed the patchy grass to the doorway of Number 17. There was a single step outside the doorway. Anna mounted it and rapped twice on the door. She glanced all around, but there was no sign of anyone watching her.

  With one swift movement she reached down, turned the doorknob, and leaned forward to push the door open. It did not budge. The handle turned back and forth only a fraction of what it should. Anna stared at the doorknob and then rattled it as hard as she could. The door did not move.

  Blood rushed to her face as she tried to force the locked door. Then she stopped and spun around, to search the surrounding cabins and trees with her eyes, in case he was watching her, enjoying her distress. Nothing stirred in the quiet courtyard. She put her face up to the door and softly called out his name. “Rambo. Rambo, open up.” There was no answer from inside.

  For a moment she stood staring into the courtyard, not knowing what to do. Over on her left she heard a door opening. She looked in the direction of the noise and saw a chubby man and a redheaded woman in bowling shirts emerge from a cabin two doors down and look her over. They got into a long Chrysler and drove away.

  Clutching the paper bag tightly, Anna retreated to her car. She slid into the front seat and slammed the door. Her eyes blistered the locked door of Cabin 17 as she thought about Rambo, that weasel of a man, controlling her life once again.

  For a moment she was tempted to treat it like a hoax and drive away. Just forget the whole thing. But even as she thought of it, she knew she could not let it rest like that. If she could only get into Rambo’s room. Even if he had lost his nerve and was on the run, he might have left something behind, something for her to go on. She had to keep on trying.

  Resolutely she got out of the car again. She hesitated about taking the bag of money with her. Then she decided that she’d better not leave it lying there. She walked down to the cabin marked OFFICE.

  The La-Z Pines office consisted of two plastic-seated chairs, a high Formica-topped counter, and a wooden rack on the wall holding a few scattered brochures about the Kingsburgh area. The floor of the office was covered in a cracked brown and black linoleum.

  Behind the counter sat Gus deBlakey, absorbed in his favorite soap opera, The Young and the Restless. He’d been watching it on and off since it started. He felt
a twinge of annoyance when he saw the woman with the Volvo coming into the office. He had a feeling that she had more than just a yes or no question on her mind. He had figured she was in the wrong place when he saw her come in. She didn’t look much like one of his customers. Probably lost, he thought.

  He tore his eyes away from the screen and looked up at her as she leaned over the counter. “Help you?” he asked, one eye on the man in a tuxedo who was declaring his love to a girl in a hospital bed.

  “I’m looking for someone,” said Anna. “A…friend of mine. He’s in cabin seventeen.”

  Gus furrowed his brow and looked at her again. She didn’t seem like the type to be friendly with the guy in 17. He was that sleazy guy who drove the blue Chevy.

  “Didja knock?” he asked, his eyes drawn back to the small screen.

  “There’s no answer.”

  “Must be out. His car there? It’s a blue Chevy,” said Gus. “Look outside.”

  Anna stepped outside the office and looked down the row of cars. Parked not far from 17’s door was a dirty blue car with a large dent in the front fender.

  She called in to the man behind the counter. “Is that dirty blue car out there a Chevy?”

  “What?” Gus called back, leaning forward as the couple embraced on the hospital bed.

  Anna came in and approached the desk. “Could you come and look? This is important.”

  Gus glanced up at her irritably and then, with a sigh, reached over and switched off the set. He got up, came around the counter and followed Anna to the door. She pointed at the battered fender just visible from where they stood.

  “That’s it,” said Gus.

  “But he doesn’t answer the door,” Anna protested.

  Gus shrugged. “It’s a free country. Maybe he changed his mind.” Then, seeing the distress on Anna’s face, he said more gently, “Maybe he went for a walk.”

  “He was expecting me,” she said. “He’s got to be there. His car is there.”

  “I don’t know,” said Gus.

  “Please, sir, could you just open the door for me? I’m afraid he’s ill or something. If he’s not there, I’ll just leave him a note with you.”

  Gus began to shake his head.

  “Oh, please,” Anna entreated. “If I could just look in.”

  Gus frowned. He knew better, but there was something about this woman that got to him. Whatever she wanted with this guy, it obviously meant a lot to her. And the guy really was paid up only until noon.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you,” said Anna. “Thank you so much.” She followed the man down the courtyard. He fiddled with the keys on the chain on his belt as he walked, finally locating the one he wanted.

  “This is it,” he said, stopping in front of cabin 17. He knocked on the door and called out, “Mr. Smith, you in there?” Then he turned to Anna. “I hope he isn’t just passed out drunk or something.”

  That’s probably it, Anna thought. The explanation suddenly made perfect sense to her. And if she walked in with the manager, Rambo would never talk. She’d ruin everything. She watched the manager insert the key into the lock, wondering frantically if she should tell him to stop. “All right,” said Gus. “I hope you two are real good friends.”

  He pushed the door open and walked into the gloomy room. Anna followed behind him, peering around his arm. All the blinds were drawn, and the lights were off in the room. The double bed was rumpled, but not unmade. Rambo’s few belongings were heaped in an open valise lying on the floor beside the bureau. On top of the bureau were car keys and a tiny pile of change. Well, thought Anna, at least he didn’t leave town.

  “Where’s the light?” she asked.

  “There’s a lamp beside the bed,” said Gus, pointing to it. Anna leaned over and turned it on. Its dim bulb illuminated only a small corner of the room.

  “He probably went out for cigarettes,” said Gus, pointing to the crushed packs and the pile of butts in the ashtray on the bedside table. “There’s a little Seven-Eleven store about half a mile down the road. He probably walked over there.” Gus walked to the window and tried to raise it. “Phew,” he said. “It stinks in here.”

  Anna tried to take in as much of the room as possible, knowing that the manager would soon be insisting that they leave. She noticed that the bathroom door was ajar about six inches, but there was no light coming from the bathroom.

  “Which direction is the Seven-Eleven?” she asked. “I should think I would have passed him as I was coming in,” she said, walking over to the bathroom door and pushing it. She switched on the overhead light as she did so.

  “We’d better clear out of here,” said Gus impatiently. “You’ll just have to come back and meet him another time. There must have been a mix-up.” He waited, but there was no reply from the bathroom.

  “Come on, now, Miss. You’ll have to come back later,” he said, but there was still no answer. Gus walked over to the door and stepped up behind Anna, who still stood in the doorway. “Holy Jesus,” he cried.

  A pair of shiny black shoes swayed only inches in front of Anna’s face. The legs hung limp, pants stained wet in the crotch. The hands were open and stiff, the fingernails blue. A rope which hung from the light fixture cut deeply into the broken neck, and Rambo’s tongue protruded, swollen and gray. His sightless eyes bulged from the bluish, mottled skin of his face. A few auburn-colored clumps of hair stood up messily from the white scalp.

  Anna’s face was as pale as tissue paper. She stared at the gruesome sight before her.

  Gus pushed past her and nearly tripped over the straight-backed chair from the bedroom which was lying on its side. “Christ Almighty,” he breathed, standing the chair up with trembling hands.

  “Oh, God,” he heard the woman behind him whisper. “Oh, my God.”

  Buddy Ferraro looked from the piece of paper in his hands to Anna’s tired face. “So that’s all he said to you? That’s everything?”

  They were seated at Anna’s kitchen table. A glass of iced tea, untouched, formed a wet ring by Buddy’s elbow. Thomas stood with his back to the sink, his arms folded across his chest. The summer night had softly descended, and crickets hummed outside the screen door of the kitchen.

  Anna nodded. She noticed as she looked at Buddy that the hair at his temples was turning gray. For a moment she wondered when that had happened. Buddy folded up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think he was a desperate man,” said Buddy.

  “I don’t understand why he killed himself before I even got there,” she protested.

  Buddy gave her a baleful look. “I still can’t believe you did that, Anna. You know better than that. How many cranks came to us over the years, offering information for money?”

  “But this was Rambo. And he really did know something.” Anna ran a hand over her eyes. “And now he’s dead. There’s so much he could have told us.”

  “Well, I grant you there are a lot of questions that I would have liked to ask Albert Rambo.”

  “Buddy, why would he do that? Say those things about Paul if they weren’t true?”

  “Anna, the man was up against the wall. Listen. Number one, the man was not right in the head. We know that. He was a kidnapper on the run. He was down, literally, to his last few cents. It all was closing in on him. And then you got there a little late. I guess he decided he was out of options.”

  “I understand about the suicide, I guess,” said Anna. “But I’m convinced he really did have something to tell me. He wasn’t lying to me. I’ll tell you what I think,” said Anna. “I think there’s something physically wrong with Paul. And I think it had to do with that. I’m afraid he’s ill.”

  Thomas quietly pushed himself away from the sink and walked out of the room without a word to either of them. Buddy watched him go. Then he turned back to Anna, who was frowning, deep in thought.

  “Well,” said Buddy, “I sugg
est that you get him to a doctor then. And while you’re at it, you look like you could use some rest yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m taking him,” she assured him. “First thing tomorrow.”

  Buddy stood up to go. “How’s the kid handling all this?” he asked.

  Anna sighed. “It’s hard to say. I heard Tracy asking him about it, and he said he didn’t feel anything about it. He’s been up in his room for hours.”

  Buddy shook his head. “That kid has had it rough. Well, I’ll be going. Got a busy day tomorrow. Sandy and I are driving Mark up to college.”

  “Tomorrow?” said Anna. “How great. How long a trip is it?”

  “Coupla hours,” he said. “We’re going to go up and spend a few days there. They have a little inn. We have to go to all kinds of teas and cocktail parties and what-not,” he said casually.

  “It sounds lovely.” Anna beamed at him.

  “It oughta be lovely, for what this year is going to cost me,” Buddy observed, feigning exasperation.

  Anna started to rise, but he gestured for her to stay in her seat. “I know my way out,” he said.

  Anna sighed. “Well, at least I can forget about Rambo lurking around every corner.”

  Buddy looked at her thoughtfully. “You take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

  “I will,” she said, smiling at him. Buddy frowned as he turned away from her. He had his doubts about this suicide, but he had decided not to burden her with them. He knew she would seize on them, and she did not need any more worries. He raised his hand in a relaxed salute as he left.

  “Thanks,” she called after him. Anna could hear him going through the house and the sound of the front door closing behind him. She sat in her chair, her hands resting limply in her lap. She was afraid to close her eyes, even though she was exhausted. She was afraid to see it again in her mind’s eye: Rambo, dangling there; the hideous color of death; the bulging tongue and eyes.