“She says she doesn’t, but I suspect she’s blocked it out. Maybe that’s part of the reason the acting profession has such an appeal for her. She can pretend to be someone else.”
“You blame yourself for your mother’s suicide, don’t you?” she said gently, deliberately returning to the subject, going only on her instincts, and love.
He didn’t answer.
“Did you cry when your father told you she was dead?”
“No.”
“Did you ever let yourself cry?”
“Katherine.” A plea. A warning.
Katie began to stroke his arm. “Did you?”
He shook his head. “I—I couldn’t.”
She had no thought as to where her questions were leading, only that they came from her heart, from the love she had for this man beside her, and that the words, finally, felt right.
She reached for his hand. “Then why don’t you cry for her now?
Let it all come out once and for all.”
“Katherine,” he protested, trying to laugh and not succeeding. “I’m a grown man. I’m no longer that twelve year old boy. All of that—it happened a long time ago.”
“No, it didn’t, darling,” she whispered. “It happened yesterday.”
She kissed his face, his hair, and she held him close against her. And she rocked him. Ever so gently, she rocked him.
And at last, she felt something break within him, heard the harsh, wracking sobs that shook his body, sobs that seemed to tear up from the very depths of his soul.
Chapter 25
It was coming on to darkness when they finally left Stoneybrook for Black Lake. The smell of more snow was in the air. As Katie drove down Belleville’s Main Street, she glanced in her rearview mirror, warming at the sight of Jonathan following in his car, waving to him, honking her horn like a happy schoolgirl, grinning when he honked back.
Damn, he was sexy. No, he was far more than just sexy. He was downright beautiful, inside and out, and he was hers, she thought in glad possessiveness, and would have hugged herself right there had her hands not been on the wheel.
A first, he’d been embarrassed by his tears, barely able to look at her, making weak jokes about her sending him a bill for analysis, uncomfortable that she had witnessed his terrible vulnerability. But it had only made her love him all the more, and she’d been quick to reassure him that tears were not a sign of weakness, only of feeling.
He sure didn’t know much for a psychiatrist, she thought. Not when it came to himself.
It seemed no time at all until she was making the turn onto Black
Lake Road, feeling the car, as always, beginning to jump and bounce over the washboard road. Soon the road narrowed, the trees closing them in. Minutes later, the brown house loomed into view. Katie eased up on the gas, wiping her perspiring hands alternately on her coat. She turned off the ignition and sat in silence. I don ’ t want to be here. I want to turn around and go back. Behind her, Jonathan’s door opened and closed.
She had a right to happiness. She did. She would not allow negative thoughts to rob her of her good feelings. Maybe Jason really did just slip and fall in the lake after all. A tragic accident, but an accident all the same.
The police would have accepted that, too, if not for the strawman, which could, she tried to convince herself, have been merely the work of a prankster. And then she remembered her photograph tucked in Jason’s hand—and the tire tracks down by the lake—and the phone calls, and the gladness in her heart began to fade, eclipsed by a dark foreboding. She got out of the car just as Jonathan came up to her. As they stood looking up at the house, Katie’s chest grew heavy. She shivered involuntarily.
Why couldn’t she and Jonathan just have stayed forever in that fairy-tale house in the woods? she thought in childlike petulance.
Inside, the air was cold and dank and musty. No surprise.
“I used to love this house so much,” Katie said, feeling a welling of sadness as they walked through to the studio. “Now it looks as cold as it feels.” All the charm and warmth Aunt Katherine’s presence had given the house had somehow vanished, been replaced with something else—something frightening.
There is evil here now, she thought. I can feel it all around me, emitting from the very walls, defiling the air. She told herself she was being melodramatic, but the fact remained that she could not go upstairs to her room without seeing that effigy of Todd sitting on the chair. Nor could she bring herself to go down to the cellar again, which, of course, she would have to do if she stayed on here. She would just have to—deal with it. And then there was the lake where she loved to swim in summer. She sighed heavily as Jonathan’s arms went around her.
“Maybe that cop’s suggestion that you move wasn’t such a bad one at that. Perhaps you should consider selling this house. Would you really mind?”
“No,” she said at once, and knew it was true. This house was no longer her home. Something else, some dark and malevolent presence had taken it over. “I’ll list it tomorrow,” she said. “And I won’t mind one bit.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m very sure.” She lit the lamp.
“Good.” He smiled. “I know I’ll be a lot happier not having to think of you being way out here.”
“Do you think it’ll bring much of a price without electricity or heating?”
“It won’t matter. I’ve got enough money for both of us.”
“Oh, I see,” she teased. “I’ve got me a rich man as well as a handsome and brilliant one.”
“Flattery, my dear,” he said, draping the afghan over her shoulders and sitting her down in the chair in front of the fireplace, “will get you anywhere. Now, don’t go ‘way. I’ll get some wood, and as soon as I get a fire going, I’ll make some tea. Hungry?”
“You must be kidding. After that feast you prepared?”
Grinning, he said, “I always knew I’d make someone a good wife.
Comfortable?”
“Like a ‘bug-in-a-rug,’ as they say. You’ll spoil me, Jonathan.”
His eyes swept over her. “Every chance I get.” Then he laughed. “I love it. A woman who knows how to blush.”
“You’re terrible. I hate to tell you, but I think I used up the last of the wood you stacked in the pantry.”
“Then I’ll get it from the cellar. Won’t take me but a minute.” As he turned, his gaze stopped on the nearly completed portrait of Hattie
Holloway. Katie felt a rush of pleasure at the unmistakable gleam of admiration in his eyes.
“Katherine, this is wonderful,” he said, moving to get a closer look. “The likeness—the detail…”
“You really like it?”
He turned to her, smiling. “Darling, you must stop sounding like an insecure little girl. You’re a truly gifted artist, and there’s no reason whatever for you not to be very, very pleased with what you’ve done.”
“Thank you. It’s for her husband. An anniversary gift.”
“He’ll be crazy about it. And she’ll recommend you to all her friends.”
Katie glowed under his praise. “Will she?”
“Of course. Soon you’ll be famous and independently wealthy,” he said, tousling her hair, “and I’ll have to make an appointment to see you.”
“You’re making fun of me.” She gave him a mock pout.
The teasing left his eyes. “No, it really will happen for you,
Katherine. I have absolutely no doubt of that.”
When he was gone, Katie played happily with the idea, indulging in the fantasy of being a rich and famous artist, and after a little of this, laughed at herself. Getting paid for work she’d gladly done for no pay for years (and maybe just a little recognition) would suit her just fine.
She didn’t need more than that. Except for Jonathan, of course. She very definitely needed Jonathan.
As she snuggled deeply into the afghan he’d wrapped so tenderly around her, she thought with a smile of utt
er contentment, I could get used to this.
She looked around the room—this room she had once so loved. It held nothing for her now. All the pleasure she had known here had diminished under the terrible things that had happened. She would finish the portrait of Hattie Holloway, and then she would never work in this room again.
Jonathan had talked about building a studio for her at the house in Stoneybrook. He also hinted at his desire for a child. Was it possible?
Dare she hope? It all seemed too good to be true.
Perhaps it was. No! Why did that thought keep coming back? She mustn’t let it. Mustn’t think that way. She and Jonathan were good and decent people. They deserved a chance at happiness. Yes, they would have a good life together, one filled with love and sharing. No guarantees, of course, but she now knew that without the risk of pain, of disappointment, no joy was possible.
Katie held her watch close to the lamplight, frowning. Jonathan should be back by now. It had been nearly twenty minutes since he went down to the cellar for the wood. What was keeping him? Maybe he was checking locks—or had found something of interest. After several more minutes of sitting, of fidgeting, she rose, opened the drapes and stood looking out through the glass doors.
The moon floated in and out of dark boiling clouds, a scene the lake mirrored perfectly. As she stared down into it, she had the uncanny sensation that if she jumped she would just float down and down for all eternity, like falling through space. She made herself look away. At the same time she heard a loud thud that made her jerk the edge of the drape she still held in her hand. What was that? It had seemed to come from outside. But she couldn’t be sure of that.
Sliding the doors open, Katie shivered against the cold and drew the afghan more tightly about her shoulders as she stepped onto the tiny balcony.
A stirring of uneasiness in the hollow of her stomach.
Behind her, the phone rang.
It surprised her to hear Clayton Jackson’s softly modulated voice on the line. She couldn’t remember her art teacher ever phoning her before. It must be important, she thought, especially to call so late.
“I’ve been trying to track you down most of the day,” he said. “I called The Coffee Shop, but they said you no longer were employed there.”
“No, Mr. Jackson, I’m not. We—uh, decided to part company.”
“Well, no matter, Katie.”
Did she detect a note of excitement in the unexcitable Mr. Jackson?
She pressed the receiver closer to her ear.
“… I just wanted to give you the good news, Katie,” he said, and she heard the rattling of paper. “I only just received word by mail this morning. Your painting took second prize in the state art competition, dear, and I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.”
For a moment, there were no words. Then, “I can’t believe it.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “Well, believe it, my dear, because it’s true.
I’m so very pleased for you, Katie. And since you’re no longer working at The Coffee Shop, I’ve a proposition for you. I was wondering if you’d be interested in teaching a beginner’s class, part-time.
“We could start the first of the year. There’s been a fair amount of interest locally, and I’ve been wanting for some time now to open the school to less advanced students.”
Katie accepted without hesitation. “And thank you—for everything, Mr. Jackson,” she said.
“It’s I who thank you, Katie. I’m not so without ego that I’m not extremely proud to have two of my students walk off with the two top honors.”
“Two of your…” There had been the faintest hint of sadness in his voice as he’d said it. In the space of a breath, she understood. “Jason,” she half-whispered, her eyes filling.
“Yes, his painting ‘ City At Night’ won first prize. And I can’t think of anyone Jason would rather have accepting the award for him than you, Katie.”
After hanging up the phone, Katie just stood there trying to digest her instructor’s words, playing them over in her mind like a favorite song. Finally, desperate to share her good news, she took off through the house—through the dining room, the parlor, past the front door in the hallway and on into the kitchen.
The door leading down to the cellar was partly open.
“Jonathan?” she called out.
Through narrowed eyes, Katie strained to see into the thick darkness. There should be some light from his flashlight. The dank cellar smell rose up to her like the smell of an open grave and sent the faintest trickling of fear along her spinal column.
Too good to be true, an inner voice taunted. Again that sense of deja vu. She had run this scene before, only days ago when she got the phone call from Hattie Holloway. Then, too, she had felt an eagerness to share her good news. Then, too, she had raced through the house, gone down to the cellar.
There was a lamp on the kitchen counter, Katie lit it, turned up the wick until she had a good flame. She checked the time. A half hour now since Jonathan had gone down to get the wood. Far too long. She stepped down one, two—hesitated—three steps, called out his name again, heard the tremor in her voice, listened hard for some sign that he was safe. Maybe he’d found something of interest down there, she thought again, and the time had simply gotten away from him. She heard only the dull beating of her heart.
“Jonathan, are you down there?” Her fear was in her voice. “Please answer me.” She stepped down onto the fifth step, closer now to the din of silence and darkness below. The lamp was slippery in her hand as she played the light slowly over each step below her, crouching low to allow the light to reach as far as possible.
Panic seized her suddenly, and she screamed Jonathan’s name.
Easy, easy, she told herself, fighting back a wave of dizziness that threatened to send her tumbling down the rest of the stairs. She gripped the railing. She must remain calm. Getting hysterical would help no one—not Jonathan, not her.
He’d been there for her all along. Now it was her turn. She must be strong—and clever. She had to think what to do. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. And again.
Something—someone was down there—waiting. Jonathan was hurt or gagged or—NO! Don’t even think it. He’s fine—just fine. You have to figure out what to do, that’s all. Whoever is down there with Jonathan expects you to come rushing to the rescue, is counting on it.
But she wouldn’t do that. No, she would do the sensible, logical thing. She would go back upstairs and call the police.
A rush of air behind her—a footstep. Before she could turn around, or even complete the thought, the door above her slammed shut. The metal bolt clunked home.
She’d taken too long in making her decision, and now, as she stared up at the locked door, a terrible sinking sensation was in her. She thought of trying the knob anyway, but knew it would be futile. She turned away. Holding the lamp, with its tiny, yellow flame, before her, Katie looked down into the black void below.
And waited.
Chapter 26
Down below, the outside cellar door creaked open slowly on rusted hinges, letting in light that cut a pale blue swath across the cement floor, swallowing it up again at the door closed.
And suddenly he was standing on the bottom step smiling up at her. Katie’s breath seemed to clot in her throat. She couldn’t move or scream, only stand in numb disbelief, taking in the baggy overalls, the faded army jacket, the mudcaked boots with their top laces undone.
“You,” she said at last.
“Surprise.”
There was amusement in his voice, and a terrible coldness. She’d heard hints of the coldness before. She remembered now—now that it was too late.
“What have you done with Jonathan?”
“All in due time. Surely you’ve heard that patience is a virtue. I’m an expert on patience. Oh, yes. You’re a long way from Lennoxville,
Katie. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
“Why?” s
he asked, and it was as if her voice belonged to someone else.
“Revenge.” His smile widened, a death-smile, lifting the hairs on the nape of her neck.
He watched her fear, enjoyed it. Too bad about her falling for the shrink. It would have been far more interesting to have her rely on him for awhile, trust him. He’d meant to terrorize her to point where she would be driven to reach out, to cling—well, the plan had worked well enough, he had to admit that. Except that she’d found another hero.
Well, no matter…
The flame in Katie’s lamp flickered precariously as her hand shook.
But her voice was even as she asked again, “Where’s Jonathan, Drake? What have you done with him?”
“Back to that, are we? Well, Jonathan’s waiting for you too, Katie. We’re going to have a little party. A sort of farewell party—just the three of us.”
“Jason,” she whispered, as it came to her. “You killed Jason.”
“I didn’t need a boyfriend on the scene. And then I heard about the letter they found on him when they pulled him out of the lake. A queer, for Christ’s sake.” He laughed, an ugly sound. “It didn’t matter.
He could have identified me.”
“He saw you leaving this house.” How could she ever have thought Drake Devlin even remotely attractive? And yet, nothing about him had altered. He had that same clean-cut, masculine face, the same smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the faintly clefted chin.
Only the eyes are different, she thought. Or was it simply that she had not looked closely enough before? She again recalled Sergeant
Miller’s remarking how easy his job would be if killers always looked like killers.
“He might have gotten away if he’d stayed in his car,” Drake was saying matter-of-factly. “But he wanted to be a hero—everybody wants to be a hero. I chased him down in the truck. There was no place left for him to go but the lake—or under my wheels.”
“He couldn’t swim,” she muttered foolishly.
“Just wasn’t his day, was it?”
He laughed, that same insane, chilling laugh she’d heard on the telephone. He was crazy—crazy. The laughter cut off as quickly as it began. His eyes slithered over her. “I have to admit Raynes had great taste in women. Raynes…” He cocked his head like a dog listening for some alien sound, a sound only it could hear. “He wanted to be a hero, too.”
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