“Oh, my god,” she whispered. “She killed her.”
Johnson whined. His tail stretched straight out behind him, not up and waving as it usually was. She lowered her hands, and took a slow breath. She had frightened him. When she swung her legs out and put her bare feet on the floor, his hackles lowered. His tail rose, but it didn’t wag. He sat down, his black eyes fixed on her with what she could only feel was wariness.
Tory reached for her zippered sweatshirt and pulled it on as she padded out into the living room. Johnson followed her, but when she opened the front door for him to go out, he sat down again, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Okay,” she said in a low tone. “I get it. I’m sorry I scared you.” She closed the door, and went into the kitchen to start coffee, but found herself with the filter in one hand, the scoop in the other, staring blindly out into the mist that enveloped the beach, the rock, even obscured her own front gate. Shreds of snow still clung here and there, and lacy patterns of ice gleamed on the window glass. The dream was distinct in her mind, an impression of unbearable pain, of helpless sorrow, of the sickening shock of becoming a victim.
She saw again, as if it had not been a dream but something real, the eyes of a murderess glittering with fury, and she knew, with a sudden and overwhelming certainty, what these dreams were telling her.
The girl in her dreams had relinquished her power. She had let a madwoman control her life, and it had cost her everything. Tory was doing the same thing, and she saw now, with a clarity that cut to her soul, how great a mistake she was making. Her fey was telling her there was no time to lose.
She knew, belatedly, what she had to do. But she didn’t think she could do it alone.
Before the coffee had even begun to perk, she had her new cell phone in her hand. She stood staring blindly into the fog as she waited for someone to answer, waited and waited until she heard the recorded message. “You have reached the Cannon Beach Veterinary Clinic,” Shirley’s voice said. “Our office hours are—”
Christmas Eve. Was no one there?
Her heart pounding so she could feel it in her toes, she looked at the clock. It was only seven. Too early.
She pushed her hands through her hair, trying to think. Did she have another number? Could she—
Oh, yes. He lived over the clinic, he had said that. With an exclamation, she rushed to the bedroom to throw on a sweater and jeans, to brush her teeth, to drag a comb through her hair. She opened the drawer in the bottom of the bureau and lifted out the file. She pulled on the dilapidated black down jacket, grabbed her keys and Johnson’s leash, and hurried out toward the Beetle, the file tucked under her arm. “Breakfast later,” she told the dog. “Sorry about that. We have to hurry.”
Johnson seemed relieved by the sudden action. He trotted at her heels, stopping only for his morning pee before they went out through the gate. He leaped into the car, taking up his usual position, facing forward as she started the motor.
She drove as quickly as she dared over the icy streets toward the veterinary clinic. She saw that Iris had been right. Most of the snow was gone, dissolved into the dry grass and cedar chips of the flower gardens, but the streets shone with rime, and twice her tires slipped, sending the little car sliding sideways. Johnson panted, fogging the windshield. The engine was too cold for the defrost to work. Tory had to wipe the glass clear with the edge of her hand.
Fortunately, it was too early for much traffic. She pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the veterinary clinic, and with a rush of relief, saw that lights shone from the windows above it. The SUV was parked to one side, but there were no other cars.
The rush to get here had distracted Tory. Now, her legs trembled as she stumbled around the car to clip on Johnson’s leash. He jumped out, but he kept a little distance from her as they walked around the clinic in search of a door to the apartment above. “It’s okay,” she told him. “It’s going to be okay.” She hoped it was true. Her throat was dry, and her heart had not eased its thudding. The dog followed at her side, but she was sure her rough awakening and her sudden panic had infected him. His customary smile was absent. His mouth was closed, and he kept his eyes straight ahead.
The door to the apartment—at least she hoped that’s what it was—was on a small landing at the top of a short stair. A tiny spruce tree in a clay pot rested in one corner, and someone—Hank, she supposed—had draped it in curling red ribbon. She gave it the briefest glance as she led the dog up to the door and lifted her hand to knock.
The door opened before her knuckles could strike it. He stood there, tall and steady, eyebrows raised. He put out his hand, and she gripped it hard, as if it were a lifeline in an angry sea. “I need help,” she blurted. “Hank, I really need help.”
He pulled her gently in through the door. His hand felt so strong and warm and steady that it made her throat ache. “The coffee’s on,” he said in his deep voice. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She found herself, moments later, seated in a pleasant little dining nook with a built-in table and padded benches under a window. The apartment, like the clinic below, still smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. Hank set a bowl of water down for Johnson, then brought two cups and a coffeepot to the table. He sat opposite Tory. “Cream?”
“No,” she said. She cradled the hot coffee cup in her hands to hide their shaking.
“Does the dog need food?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll take care of that in a few minutes. Tell me what’s up.”
“Hank—I’ve lied to you. I’ve lied to everyone.”
The corner of his mouth curled. “Paulette, you haven’t told us anything, so I doubt there could be much you’ve lied about.”
“Oh, there is!” she said bitterly, clinging to the coffee cup. “My name, to start with.”
“Really.” He tilted his head, regarding her. “You lied about your name?”
“I did. My name isn’t Paulette Chambers at all. I took it out of the phone book—well, the Chambers part. Paulette comes from La Rondine. I don’t even know why—I just thought of it.” She stopped, uncertain how to go on.
He said quietly, “Okay. You’re not Paulette. What name shall I call you?”
“I’m Tory. Victoria, but everyone has always called me Tory. Tory Lake.”
“Tory. That’s nice. It suits you.” He sipped coffee, sitting with his elbows on the table, his long legs stretched beneath it. Johnson lay a little distance away, his head on his paws, watching them.
She hesitated, casting about for a way to tell her long story. All she could do, she decided, was begin at the beginning. If she could find the beginning. She pulled the file out of her bag, and laid it on the table between them. Hank glanced at it, but he made no move to open it.
She drew the cup close to her so she could stare into the shining dark surface of the coffee as she started to talk. “I’m—that is, I was—a therapist. A counselor. In a small town in Vermont.” She spoke quickly, feeling the pressure of the dream, the warning it carried, the overwhelming sense of danger that had impelled her here.
“One of my clients did something very bad, and I made a mistake. I knew she was having fantasies, but I never thought she would act on them. She seemed angry, but not violent, just dealing with feelings of abandonment and betrayal. These fantasies—I just couldn’t believe she would actually act them out. I didn’t call the police as I should have. A man died, and it’s my fault. My client has never been investigated, and that’s my fault, too.”
Hank listened quietly, watching her face. When she glanced up she saw the angle of the cold sunshine glinting on his silver hair, and she was, somehow, encouraged. “My client—this woman, a sheriff’s deputy—she threatened my son. She knew everything about him, where he goes to school, which dorm he was in, what he did and where he went when he came home. She said, if I reported her—she said he would be next. She admitted she shot this man, just because she wanted to, and she said, if I
told anyone, she would shoot my son. I knew she meant it.”
He nodded, but he didn’t speak. She looked away again, down at the dog, then back into the coffee cup. She spoke even faster, feeling the pressure of time passing, some terrible event looming over her—and Jack. “She cut me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I still have the scar on my arm. She meant to kill me, that was obvious. I tried to get away from her, and she forced my car over a riverbank. I managed to jump out, and then I hid in the water until she was gone. I took some money from my house, nothing else. I walked away through the woods, and no one knows anything about what happened to me. I’m certain everyone thinks I’m dead.”
She paused, and took a sip of coffee to put some moisture in her mouth. At this movement, Johnson lifted his head, and it felt as if he was urging her to go on. “I came here to Cannon Beach,” she said, “just because it seemed a likely place to stop driving. I created a life, a story, everything a lie. All this time I haven’t done anything about Ellice Gordon. She could have hurt someone else. She could even hurt my son.” She glanced up again, into Hank’s uncritical gaze. “Jack,” she said. “His name’s Jack. He’s only twenty.”
“Jack.”
“I called him once,” she said, her voice a little unsteady for the first time. “About two weeks ago, I think. I hung up right away, but I heard his voice. He was okay then. I don’t know where he was, though, at school or at home. I didn’t dare—you see, Ellice said if I told anyone, if I reported what I knew, she would shoot him next, the way she shot that poor man.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “Hank, I’ve made it even worse. All this time, I don’t know if Ellice might have done it again—I don’t know what happened. I should have—I don’t know what I should have done. I couldn’t think.”
“And you were all alone,” he said quietly.
“I should be used to that,” she said with a shrug. “But I—I just ran. I probably should have gone straight to the police, but the trouble is—she is the police. If I called the sheriff’s office, they’d take her part. Were they going to believe me, take action in time? She could have gotten to Jack so fast—I didn’t know what to do.”
“What’s changed, Pau—I mean, Tory? What brought you here, now?”
“I’ve been having these dreams.” She looked down at her cup again, wondering why she had ever thought he would believe her. He would probably think she was out of her mind. “The thing is, Hank, I have—I’m—” She drew a sharp breath through her teeth, and looked up again. “I have something my grandmother called my little fey. My intuition. I used it all the time as a therapist. No one knows that, really—I didn’t talk about it much—but it was helpful. I’m afraid I counted on it. But with Ellice—it failed me.”
The eyebrow again, but no comment.
“These dreams started soon after I came here. I brought something of my grandmother’s with me, and it’s in the dreams, too, but the dreams—I couldn’t think why I was having them, until now. Now I know. My dreams are warning me that I have to deal with Ellice. I can’t put it off any longer, and I can’t take any more chances. You don’t have to believe me about the dreams,” she added hastily. “I would understand that. But I have to do something. I have to report her, and before I do that, I have to get my friends in Vermont to make sure Jack is safe.”
“We’ll call them.”
Tory spread her hands. “Yes. But if I call, if they hear my voice—the shock will be—I guess I thought you might do it for me. So she and her husband will understand. You always seem to know the right thing—that is, you could try to explain why I haven’t let them know—it’s been awful not being able to—” She dropped her hands. She had run out of words, and she could only sit across from him, shaking her head.
“You know her number?”
She nodded, mute and miserable.
He unfolded himself from the bench and crossed the kitchen to where a telephone hung on the wall beside a small, new-looking refrigerator. He lifted it from the base and carried it back to the table. “Tell me her name, and her husband’s name,” he said as he held out the phone to her.
“The Binghams. Chet and Kate.” It felt strange saying their names aloud, as much a confession as everything else had been. She took the phone in a hand that shook so she could hardly press the buttons, but when she handed it back, she felt as if she had taken a huge step in the right direction, on the right path.
She heard the phone ring, and Kate’s voice—so far away, so small through the telephone—answering. Hank said, in a quiet, steady voice, “Mrs. Bingham? Good morning.”
Tory put her hands to her cheeks, and pictured Kate with the phone in her hand. She glanced at the stove clock in Hank’s kitchen, and realized it was ten-thirty in Vermont. Kate was probably busy with her baking, wrapping presents, getting her house ready for Christmas.
He went on. “My name is Hank Menotti. I’m calling from Cannon Beach, Oregon, and I have some news for you. It’s very good news, but it’s going to be a shock. Is your husband there?” A pause. “Good,” Hank said easily. “It would be good if he’s right there with you. But remember, this is the best possible news to hear.” His voice vibrated, ever so slightly, but in a way that Tory thought must give confidence to the person listening. “I’m calling about your friend Tory. Yes. Yes, Tory Lake.”
Hank spoke at length with Kate, and then repeated it all to Chet. Tory pulled up her knees and rested her forehead on them. Tears streamed down her cheeks to dampen her jeans. Johnson rose from his place in the kitchen and padded over to her. He crowded under the table so he could rest his chin on her foot, and now his tail beat gently, slowly, against the floor. Tory listened, her throat aching with the sobs she was holding in, as Hank patiently answered the Binghams’ questions.
At the end, when it seemed there was nothing else he could tell them, he handed the phone to Tory, got up, and walked away down the hallway. Tory heard a door close just as she said, her voice tight with emotion, “Hello? Kate?”
Her friend cried joyously, “Oh, my god! Tory, my god! I can’t believe it. Is it really you? What a Christmas present!”
“Kate, I have so much to tell you, and I’m so sorry about—about all of this, the way you must have felt, this phone call—I’m just so sorry. Something very bad happened, and I’ll try to explain all of it, but right now we have to hurry. Can you find Jack? Can you get him to stay with you until—well, until I settle something? I don’t think it will take more than a few days.”
“Tory, of course we would, but Jack’s not here. He’s gone out to visit a friend, somewhere west. Oh, Oregon, Chet says—but wait, that’s where you are! He’s spending Christmas with the friend’s family, he said.”
“What friend?”
“He didn’t tell us that. He left us his cell phone number. He’s been gone—what is it, Chet? Right, about five days. Oh, my god, I can’t believe I’m talking to you!”
“He didn’t say where?” Tory asked. “When is he coming back?”
“Honey, he said he was going to fly, but Chet went over to check on the house, and it looks like he took the Escalade.”
“He drove? Out west?” A sudden pain pierced Tory’s chest. She dropped her feet to the floor and pressed her hand over the spot where her fey had stabbed her. Her voice caught in her throat so she could hardly speak. She choked, “Are you sure, Kate?”
“As sure as we can be, Tory—oh, this is all so strange.” Kate’s voice turned thready, and she said unevenly, “Oh. Oh. I feel a little woozy!”
“Kate, I’m so sorry. I wanted to call you—please believe me, I really couldn’t.”
“Tory?” It was Chet’s voice. “Kate has to sit down a moment. This is so—it’s unbelievable!”
“I know. Hi, Chet. I’m terribly sorry.”
“That’s okay, honey. It’s okay. When we’ve had a chance to process all this, I’m sure we’ll understand.”
“I hope so. Is Kate okay?”
“Yes. She’s just�
�dammit, Tory, this is really wonderful! Just as your friend said, the best possible news!”
“Chet, we’ll talk about everything, but—I have to find Jack. You’re sure he took the car?”
“It’s not in the garage. At the moment, that’s all I know.”
“I’ll call his cell. I’ll have to hang up now, Chet, but—I’ll call you as soon as I possibly can. Please don’t tell anyone. Not anyone! It’s very important. And again—I’m sorry to have put you through all this.”
“Sweetheart.” She heard the tightness in his voice. She pictured him, fatherly, kind, standing in Kate’s bright kitchen. Fresh tears started in her eyes. “Just come home safe, okay?”
“As soon as I can.”
Tory closed her eyes when the call ended, trying to assess what her fey was telling her. Jack. A friend in Oregon. Christmas with another family.
She didn’t believe a word of it.
The sounds of Johnson munching kibble filled Hank’s little apartment as Hank and Tory dialed Jack’s cell phone number again and again. The only answer was his cheery recorded “Hey! Leave a message!” Tory couldn’t think what she could possibly say to a son who had thought for two and a half months that his mother was dead, so she didn’t say anything.
Hank said, “Maybe his battery’s dead.”
Tory’s chest still ached with the effects of her fey. She said, “It’s awful not knowing where he is.” The irony of that was not wasted on her, and she saw in the twist of Hank’s mouth that he understood it, too.
He touched her hand. “Let’s take the next step. He’s going to be okay.”
With trepidation, but driven by the conviction she had woken up with, Tory nodded. Hank said, “Where shall we start?”
The Glass Butterfly Page 33