Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Cancel that, she mused silently. His husky, southern-tinted voice over the phone had been the first thing about him that turned her on. She had to admit that Frank Longpre was one of those men who attracted women without even sensing his power over them. More often than not, she found herself avoiding direct eye contact because when she looked at him his gaze set up a little licking flame down inside her. She had a feeling that if she let him feed that flame it might just burn her alive. There were other things, too. The way the dark hair on his chest curled up toward his neck, looking so inviting when he wore his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. She found herself longing to reach up and stroke those glossy strands, to feel her fingers gliding over the coarse texture.

  The more she thought, the guiltier she felt. She had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone in New Orleans knew and disapproved of the fact that she had just come from Frank’s room and was now thinking such intimate thoughts about him. She knew it was silly. She also knew that Frank’s mood when she’d left him contributed to her own guilty feelings now. She still couldn’t figure what had come over him, but she had no intention of letting his moodiness stand in the way of what could well be the dawning of a new and wonderful relationship.

  It had been a long time since Carol had been so moved by and attracted to a man. She quickly corrected that thought in her mind. I have never felt this way about anyone before! It was truly scary.

  The quiet security of her own room came as a vast relief. Quickly, she shut the door, locking the troubling world outside. She needed some time alone to think everything through, not only this new turn of events with Frank, but all that had happened during her most recent visit back to Camille’s lifetime.

  Only after Carol had relaxed in a hot tub, brushed her teeth, and washed and dried her hair did she realize how exhausted she was. Frank had said he’d come for her about five. She glanced at the clock, hoping she could catch a couple of hours’ sleep before then.

  With a sigh of pleasure, she turned back the covers, climbed into bed, and stretched out, almost purring it felt so good. She was gone the minute her head touched the pillow.

  For a time, she drifted in blissful, restful nothingness. But soon the dream began.

  Carol herself played no role in the troubled wanderings of her mind this afternoon. The main character was another woman—a beautiful, blond housewife, who looked to be in her mid-twenties. Carol hovered, unseen, as the other woman went about her morning chores in the modern, ranch-style house. She made the bed, did some laundry, put the breakfast dishes into sudsy water in the stainless steel sink. This seemed to be the quite normal routine of a quite normal domestic engineer. Carol couldn’t accurately judge the date by the woman’s attire—faded, low-slung jeans and a purple stretch-knit turtle-neck. Then she glimpsed a 1980 calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. It was turned to the month of May. She read several notations jotted down on various dates—doctor’s and dentist’s appointments, a church picnic, laundry to be picked up.

  Nothing sinister, nothing threatening. Yet Carol reacted to the ordinary in this case as if she were in the throes of the most terrifying nightmare. She tossed and turned in bed, moaning in her sleep as the young housewife went about her everyday tasks.

  When the beige wall phone rang in the tidy kitchen, Carol cried out in her sleep. The woman, on the other hand, answered it calmly, smiling as if she had been happily anticipating this call.

  “Hel-lo-o,” she answered musically.

  Her smile immediately faded, replaced by a business-like expression.

  “No. I’m sorry. My husband isn’t here right now. He won’t be home till this evening. You might try him at the station.”

  She paused, listening to the caller for a moment, then reached for a pencil and pad. Although Carol had no idea what she wrote down, it seemed to be only one word.

  “May I ask who this is?” the woman inquired politely. “I’ll take your number, if you like, and have my husband return your call as soon as possible.”

  Whoever the caller was hung up abruptly at that point. The young woman stared at the receiver in her hand with a look of exasperation on her pretty face.

  “Probably some insurance salesman,” she said, scratching out whatever she had written on the phone pad. “They never leave a name or number. Then they call back just in time to interrupt supper.”

  The scene dissolved, leaving Carol to sleep peacefully for a time.

  When the dream returned, Carol saw the same house, but from the outside. She could see the woman through the window, hurrying to the side door to answer the doorbell at the carport entrance.

  “Coming,” she called out. “Just a minute!”

  After the woman’s words, Carol heard only silence, saw only the closed door before her, but the hair rose at the back of her neck. She was in the carport now, but had yet to glimpse the person who had rung the bell. As she lay sleeping, however—waiting for the woman to open the door—she became aware of several things. There was the sound of labored breathing, like someone who smoked heavily, was overweight, or who had recently exerted himself in some way, perhaps running or lifting weights. Yes, he was a smoker. Carol could smell a cheap, rank cigar even now. Another odor—no less pleasant—mingled with the tobacco smell. An unwashed, heavily perspiring body.

  Still, the door remained closed; Carol’s fear mounted. Her eyes stayed trained on the screen. She heard the tap-tap of the woman’s footsteps inside as she hurried to answer the bell. The closer she came, the more terrifying the dream. Carol tossed and moaned.

  The caller grew impatient. With her eyes still fixed on that closed door, Carol saw a thick hand, the back furred with black hair, reach for the button to press the bell again. Her eyes gazed on broken fingernails clogged underneath with black grease. The man had a tattoo on his right forearm—a dagger piercing a woman’s breast. Underneath the gory flesh-picture were the words: “My Heart Bleeds.” As the hand rose higher, she noted the peculiar way he rang the bell, using his middle finger with the two on either side tucked under, turning the mundane task into an obscene gesture.

  “Don’t… don’t!” Carol groaned in her sleep. “Don’t come! Don’t open it!”

  Then, as if in slow motion, Carol watched the knob turn. Inch by slow, agonizing inch, the door opened inward. The woman inside was smiling as she had been before. But, again in slow motion, Carol saw the muscles in her smooth cheeks tighten with fear. The corners of her mouth drew down. Her green eyes went wide and wild. One hand clutched at her stomach, the instinctive reaction of a pregnant woman trying to protect her unborn child. At the same moment, Carol watched the woman’s mouth form the wide O of a scream.

  Carol heard the throat-tearing sound. But when she jerked awake and sat up in bed, shaking and sweating, she realized immediately that the scream had come from her own mouth. The woman was gone.

  “Gone forever,” Carol whimpered miserably, having no idea why she said those words.

  A moment later, however, in a sudden flash of mental clarity—a psychic burst—she understood everything. She knew who the woman was and what she had just witnessed in her dream.

  “Oh, please, no!” she begged some unseen force. “I don’t want to know about this. Don’t show me,” she murmured, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I know, then I’ll have to tell Frank, and I don’t think he can handle this.”

  There was only silence. But somehow Carol knew that what she had just witnessed was the beginning of the end for Eileen Longpre.

  Chapter Eight

  Frank seemed preoccupied and subdued when he came by for Carol at five. As for Carol herself, she had yet to recover from her terrifying dream. The images of Eileen and the tattooed man still swam in her head—sharp and clear and frightening. If only she could believe that it had been only a dream!

  They walked the few blocks from the hotel to Jackson Square in silence. Still, Carol could feel the heat inside her rising with Frank so close again. She glanced up at him once when
they stopped at a corner. She’d been wondering if he was even aware of her beside him or if he was still lost in his own thoughts. When she looked up, he was staring down. Their gazes locked for a moment and Carol actually felt her heart race in that instant. Quickly, she shied away, knowing she was blushing. The moment passed. Her pulses calmed. But Carol remained very much aware of the man beside her.

  “We’re almost there.” Frank pointed toward the far side of the park over the heads of a wave of party-goers. “The Laissez-Les-Bons-Temps-Rouler-Café.”

  As they shouldered their way through the Carnival throngs, headed for the Let-The-Good-Times-Roll-Café, Frank suddenly brightened and made an effort at conversation.

  “I’ll bet you can’t guess who flew into N’Awlins last night.”

  Carol laughed as tourists pressed in around them. “About a million more people?” she ventured.

  “Aw, you probably don’t care anyway,” Frank said with a shrug. “I’ll bet you never even watch the Monday night comedies on TV. Too tame!”

  “I do, too,” Carol informed him. “‘Evening Shade’, ‘Major Dad’, ‘Murphy Brown’, ‘Designing Women’, ‘Northern Exposure’—start to finish, every week.”

  Frank smiled his approval. “I guess you would care, then. Gerald McRaney, ‘Major Dad,’ is here. His wife, too. He’ll reign as Bacchus XXIV tomorrow night.”

  Carol’s eyes glittered with starstruck awe. “Really, Frank? But you didn’t actually see him, did you?”

  Frank’s dark eyes twinkled as he gave her a gloating grin. “Oh, you think not? Well, you bet I did! Saw him and shook his hand! As for proof, I’ll tell you a little secret.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Delta Burke’s gone blond.”

  Carol gasped, then fell silent, mulling this over, her earlier grim thoughts upstaged by Mrs. McRaney’s drastic new hair color.

  They skirted the cathedral, walking down Pirates Alley into Chartres. Jackson Square was a mob scene, a carnival in itself, with a jazz band playing in the middle of the street, tourists jiving to the throb of an African beat, tap-dancers cavorting, artists stroking canvas, souvenir vendors hawking Mardi Gras masks, and a mime dressed all in black and white doing his own thing beside General Jackson’s statue.

  “The cafe’s over there in the Pontalba building,” Frank said.

  Actually, there was no need for Frank to point out the place. Carol’s nose had already picked up the spicy aroma of the Cajun eatery and she could hear the distinctive music of the old fashioned Acadian band, playing the traditional fiddle, accordion, and triangle.

  They arrived before the dinner rush, so they got a table immediately. The rotund, mustachioed owner, recognizing Frank even before they entered the open front door, hurried forward to show him to his regular spot. Soon they were seated in a relatively quiet back corner at a small table covered with a red-and-white checked cloth.

  Carol glanced about as they settled themselves. The high-ceilinged old building offered a perfect setting with its white marble floor, shadowy rafters, and tall windows that looked out over Jackson Square. Strings of dried red peppers and snowy garlic added bright touches to the dim interior, and Cajun music plunked and rollicked through the spice-laden air.

  “M’sieur Frank?” the owner asked with a quirk of his shaggy brow. “Le menu?”

  Frank smiled up at the man, but shook his head. “No need for a menu, Papa Joe. Just bring us the works.”

  “Oh, oui, M’sieur Frank!” The man shared his pleased grin with Carol, smoothed his hands over his white-aproned girth, then called toward the kitchen, “Le spécialité de la maison pour M’sieur Frank et la mademoiselle. Immédiatement!”

  In spite of her earlier bleak mood, Carol didn’t have to force a smile. “Such service! I’m impressed, Frank.”

  “You needn’t be.” He shrugged. “Restaurant people know me. I eat out a lot.”

  “It’s more than that,” Carol said. “Papa Joe likes you. In fact, everyone we’ve met seems to admire you greatly.”

  “Aw, cut it out, Carol,” he said, obviously embarrassed by her observation. “I’m a cop. Everybody either likes us or hates us. If they stay on the right side of the law, we’re great guys, keeping the peace and upholding their rights. They want to stay on the good side of us in case they ever need help. The rest—the bad guys—hate our guts. Once we’ve put them away, most of them would as soon slit our throats as give us the time of day.”

  Carol shivered slightly. “You sound so cynical, Frank. Surely you can’t believe that anyone who’s nice to you has an ax to grind, or that every criminal you’ve ever brought to justice is out to get you afterward.”

  “Can’t I?” He looked her straight in the eye, unsmiling.

  “You mean, there are really guys out there who might come after you?” She shuddered at the thought. “People who might try to do you harm?”

  Frank simply nodded, his face expressionless, showing his lack of interest in this particular topic of conversation.

  “But doesn’t that make you nervous, Frank?”

  “Not especially. It comes with the territory. I can’t jump at every shadow or I’d never know a peaceful minute.” He looked thoughtful, then added, “I’m one of the lucky guys on the force. I don’t have a family to worry about. It’s when the ex-cons come after a fellow’s wife or kids that it really gets scary. Still, the good folks outnumber the bad, and they treat us real fine to get what they want.”

  Frank’s cynical attitude, his whole grim demeanor, made Carol more uncomfortable by the minute. She hesitated, but decided she had to ask. “Do you think I want something from you?”

  He looked blank for a moment, like he couldn’t figure what she was talking about. “No, Carol, not you,” he said quietly. “You’re an exception to my rule.”

  He mumbled something at the end of that last sentence that Carol didn’t quite catch. She thought he said, “In more ways than one.” She frowned, puzzled by the words. Maybe she’d been mistaken.

  When she glanced at Frank again, her frown deepened. He looked utterly miserable. She regretted asking the stupid question. She was acting like a pouty teenager, fishing for compliments. Why hadn’t she just come right out with it: “If I let you have your way with me, will you still respect me afterward?” How silly could she be?

  She smiled at him reassuringly. “Don’t mind me, Frank. I’m just a little edgy this evening.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted. “Carol, I’ve got to tell you something.”

  “Go ahead,” she urged expectantly, hoping they might clear the air and have a more pleasant evening.

  He shied away from her eager gaze. “It’s about this morning—the way I acted. I shouldn’t have thrown you out that way.”

  “You didn’t exactly throw me out, Frank, but I did wonder about your sudden change of mood,” she confessed.

  Frank had been staring down at the table, tracing a line of red checks with one finger. He glanced up at Carol, then slid his hand across toward hers, until their fingertips touched.

  She felt a thread of heat pass from his hand into hers. It raced up her arm before flowing into her chest to flood her pounding heart. She had to force herself to breathe normally.

  “I’m sorry, Carol,” he said simply. “You’re the nicest lady I’ve met in quite a while. I reckon I’ve just about forgotten how to treat someone like you. Hell, I never was any good with women. I think Eileen married me out of pity, figuring I’d never find a wife otherwise.”

  He looked up at Carol with a lopsided grin, and she thought: Sure, my sexy friend, and all these vibes I’m picking up are coming from some guy across the room!

  “Mostly, what I wanted to tell you, Carol, was that I’m afraid our business relationship is breaking down.” Frank paused to take a deep breath. “Hell, I’m messing this up every which-a-way. What I mean to say is that there’s something between us that’s getting in the way of business.” He paused and grinned. “Something real nice!”

 
Carol felt herself blush with pleasure. What a neat thing to say! What a neat guy!

  “Anyway, Carol, I just hope I haven’t offended you. I’ll try to keep things professional,, but…”

  Professional, ha! Carol thought. Before Frank could finish what he was saying, Carol closed her hand over the warm fingers that had been toying with hers.

  “Frank, look at me,” Carol said, and he did as she commanded. She was smiling. Her expression chased the worry lines from his face. “I’m not real sure what’s happening either, but I know I don’t want to fight it. In fact, I tried. I can’t fight it! Let’s just be friends and let nature take its course. Okay?”

  His whole tough-handsome face lit up, the smile starting deep in his dark, liquid eyes. “You bet, honey! We just won’t worry about it.”

  For a time, they sat silently—holding hands across the red-checked tablecloth and staring into each other’s eyes. Carol felt so choked up she didn’t dare try to speak. This couldn’t be happening to her, but it was. Frank Longpre, man of her dreams—the good ones, that is—was holding her hand, gazing into her eyes, and sending out enough signals to turn her to warm jelly. Lord, warm jelly felt nice!

  It took an outside influence to snap them out of their mellow trance. Papa Joe himself waited on them, bringing a drink in an Old Fashioned glass for Carol and branch water with a twist for Frank. “Lagniappe—on the house,” he told them.

  “What’s that?” Carol asked, wondering about Papa Joe’s strange word as she eyed the frosty tumbler.

  “Lagniappe means something extra,” Frank explained. “In this case, it’s one of Papa Joe’s special Sazerac cocktails. I think he likes you, Carol.”

  A moment later, the smiling Cajun was back with a tempting array of hors d’oeuvres—tiny green tomatoes and okra pickles, shrimp canapes, hot pepper jelly, and pink pickled eggs. Carol found both her cocktail and the plate of delicacies to her liking.