Once more, the pointer began to move. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, dispelling any remaining thought of Helen’s influence. Darting like a live thing from letter to letter, Iris could scarcely keep her fingers on its smooth, warm surface, or follow its path with her eyes. An unpleasant prickling had started up in her hands, and she was about to follow her initial inclination to send the thing flying, when it stopped abruptly.
Then, as though a movie screen had unrolled before her eyes, Iris found herself watching a scene in which a young woman in a strapless dress was walking along a narrow path toward a house glimpsed through trees. Swept-up dark hair, wispy curls fallen down past her ears, a dreamy smile on her face. She appeared to be almost floating.
As a cloud passes beneath the moon, the girl’s smile disappeared. She stumbled on the walkway. Something had startled her. Yes, someone else in the picture now, face hidden in darkness.
The vision ended as quickly as it appeared. Iris blinked as one does when the lights come up in the theatre. But the vision of the girl remained imprinted behind her lids.
There’d been something familiar about the girl. And the faint scent of perfume in the air, mingling with the candle-wax smell. Evening in Paris. Iris recognized the fragrance easily because it was the first perfume she’d ever owned, a birthday gift from her dance teacher, Miss Dalling, when Iris was twelve. It had made her feel so grown up. She could still see the pretty cobalt blue bottle. Iris hadn’t come across that particular perfume in years. Yet in life, this girl had worn Evening in Paris. At least on the night she was murdered.
By someone named Charlie.
A good thing I’m sitting down, she thought, as she scanned the lengthy article. Two paragraphs into it, she learned it was written by the reporter who had covered the murder trial seventeen years before. The reporter had apparently picked up on the victim’s mother’s recent passing in a nursing home, and parlayed it into a rehash of the murder.
The face now had a name—Marie Morley. Her older brother had raped, then drowned her in a ditch behind their house. He was sent to an institution for the criminally insane. As she read, a sense of foreboding spread in her breast like dark wings. She recalled the crow outside her store window that day. A harbinger of death. Lord, when had she become so superstitious? When had she become her mother?
Iris looked back at the photograph and knew now why the girl in the vision looked so familiar to her. She looked like a young Rachael.
Her dress was the same one she’d worn in Iris' vision Iris of her. A prom dress. A pink corsage adorned her slim wrist. The caption beneath said: Photo of Marie Morley, taken earlier that evening by the victim’s mother.
She was smiling in the photo, but Iris could see the deep sadness behind the smile. She read further. Her date for the prom that night had been a dentist’s son named Harold Johnson, and a prime suspect in the case until Ruth Morley’s own suspicions, and later indisputable forensic evidence, pointed to the adopted brother, Charlie Morley.
Neighbors were questioned. A Mr. Ralph Nealey was quoted as saying: “Always was a mean bugger to the little girl. I was working in the yard one afternoon and I saw him whip a fistful of rocks at her because she was crying to go with him. She was crazy about her big brother. Damned if I know why. Pretty little tyke, she was.”
The article continued onto the next page. Reading Ruth Morley’s own words saddened Iris. The distraught woman had told the reporter, “I only adopted him to please James. He’d always wanted a son. I thought I couldn’t have children, until Marie. I always suspected there was bad blood in that boy…”
Why would anyone adopt a child only to mistreat it so? But then Iris recalled a case in which a woman, for reasons known only to herself, had singled out one of her biological children for horrendous abuse, while the rest she treated quite normally.
Despite the systematic torture at his mother’s hands, however, the boy somehow managed to grow up and make something good of his life. He even wrote a couple of bestselling books. Maybe it’s in the arrangement of chromosomes, Iris thought. Not even the experts agreed on what went into the making of a killer.
Iris didn’t know how this old murder case was connected to Rachael, but was quite certain that it was. I was meant to find this article. Not for a moment did she believe it was mere coincidence that she’d come here today, or that she’d picked up this particular magazine. The irony was that the magazines in this waiting room, but for this one, were always at least two years old.
The only other person waiting with her was a young man with a cage on his lap, an injured dove inside. He was making cooing noises at the agitated bird.
Iris rolled up the magazine and stuffed it into her bag. She didn’t think Doc Stetson would mind.
At home, Iris reread the article until she could have recited it by heart. She studied the girl’s face until it seemed the teenager might open her mouth and speak to her of the secret horrors she had suffered in her young life, even to the end.
But it was the killer’s face she needed to get a better look at. In the photo shown on the page opposite the article, Charlie Morley, with his head down, might have been any young man being led away in handcuffs by police. He was thin, dark-haired. Face obscured in shadow.
There had to be other photographs taken during the time of the trial, didn’t there? And those photographs would have appeared in magazines and newspapers, just as this one had.
***
The instant she opened the door Rachael sensed someone was in the house. She stood unmoving. Then, slowly, she reached behind her, closed her hand around the doorknob, ready to bolt if she needed to.
In the lengthening silence, a soft whimpering issued from the direction of the kitchen. It lasted only a moment, then fell quiet. When the whimpering came again, she let her hand fall away from the doorknob, moved cautiously toward the sound. Halfway across the floor, she hesitated, looked around for something to defend herself with. Spying the stove poker propped against the wall beside the fireplace, she picked it up. It would do. Gripping it by the handle, she took a few hesitant steps.
“Hello? Is someone here?”
Getting no answer, she hefted the poker as if it were a baseball bat.
Would she even be able to hit someone with it if it came to that? Yet she’d be damned if she’d let them take it from her and turn it on her.
The silence was more deafening then any explosion could be. Then she heard it again. Like the mewling of a cat.
Could a cat have gotten in here? Was it something as innocent as that? But she could feel the dark energy in the house, a lingering malevolence in the very air around her.
Making a conscious effort to breathe normally, Rachael took another step toward the kitchen, bat poised for swinging.
In the doorway, she froze, staring in horror and disbelief at the grotesque and pitiful sight before her. Snap …snap…snap went the shutter of her brain as it took its pictureshideous pictures that would remain forever etched in her memory.
The impaled bird was flapping feebly on her cutting board, spattering specks of blood on the walls and floor, the handle of her butcher’s knife and part of the blade protruded from its tiny body. The kitchen smelled of its terror, and blood.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered.
The little seagull grew very still, its black eyes watching her, seeming to plead for her help. She could feel the creature’s panic, its helplessness.
I have to do something. I can’t just leave it there. I have to pull the knife out. It will die if I do. Doesn’t matter. It will die anyway. I still must remove the knife, set the poor thing free.
As she took a small step toward the impaled bird it began to flap its wings in a frantic attempt to fly away. She remembered a boy in school once who had pinned a yellow butterfly to a board. The butterfly too, had tried to fly.
Now more blood spattered. Several drops struck her arm; it was warm. A wave of nausea washed over her and she grabbed on
to the counter. No, damn you. Don’t you dare wimp out like some weak-kneed damsel-in-distress.
A feather floated to the floor at her feet as the terrible squealing filled the kitchen. Rachael was crying too, hands clamped over her ears. Then, forcing herself to approach the seagull, she lay a hand on its body and, closing her eyes, pulled out the knife. The bird lay quiet. She didn’t know if it was dead.
Only then did it occur to her that the sadistic monster that did this might still be in the house. But she didn’t really believe that. Whoever performed this cruel, cowardly act was long gone. He had accomplished what he came for.
Dropping the bloody knife in the sink, she walked on trembling legs into the livingroom and called the police.
“St. Clair Police Department.”
It took all her effort to speak calmly. “This is Rachael Warren. I’m calling to report…”
“St. Clair Police Department,” the male voice repeated. “How may I help you?”
After a couple more failed attempted to make herself heard, she hung up. Something was wrong with the phone. She’d been able to hear the person on the other end but they couldn’t hear her.
Not quite ready to accept that explanation, she tried again, but the results were the same. She was getting her coat from the closet, intending to drive into town, when someone knocked on the door. She practically ran to answer, grateful to whomever it was.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I was wondering – “ Her caller’s friendly smile turned to concern.“Ms. Warren, is something wrong? You seem upset.”
“Mr. Dunn, I’m so pleased to see you. Please, come in.”
She didn’t know the man well. They had merely waved in passing, spoken briefly. She knew only that his name was Martin Dunn and that he was a photographer writing a book about well-known eastern coastal areas. But right then he might have been her best friend.
“It’s easier if I just show you,” she said, her voice barely audible. She ushered him out to the kitchen. “I just got back from my run and itI tried to call the police but the phone isn’t working.”
The gull was still. Mercifully dead? Please let it be so. She hugged herself against the cold that had settled into her very bone marrow and tried to shop shaking. “Who would do this?” she asked of no one in particular. “Why?”
Martin Dunn just shook his head and lay a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Who knows? Why don’t you go inside and sit down, Ms. Warren. Try to calm yourself. I’ll take care of things here.”
Glad to escape the carnage, she did as he suggested. But she couldn’t just sit and do nothing. She tried the phone again, but again it proved futile.
She heard him moving about in her kitchen, the tap…tap…tapping of his cane on the floor. She heard the back door opening and closing, water running in the kitchen sink.
Then he was back in the livingroom, assuring her that everything was okay now. As if it could be. Nonetheless, she was grateful to him for his help.
His expression thoughtful, he said, “You know, I think I just may have seen the culprits responsible on my way here. A black sportscar sped past me, wheels spraying dirt and rocks. One hit the roof of my car, dented it. I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but I think they were the same boys you and your friend ran into in town that day in town. They were moving pretty fast, but it sure looked like them.”
“But why would they…?”
“Kids don’t need much of a reason for violence these days. I suspect they didn’t like being interfered with. Especially by two women. They’re out to prove something.”
“Catch you later, lady.”
Rachael sighed, feeling defeated. “Could you use a cup of coffee, Mr. Dunn? I know I could.”
“Thanks. That would be great if it’s not too much trouble.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Unless youif you’ll tell me where things are, I’d be glad to…”
“No, it’s okay. I have to go into my kitchen sooner or later. Might as well be sooner. Cream? Sugar?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
Though all physical trace of the atrocity was gone from her kitchen, the seagull remained fixed in her mind’s eye. She knew she wouldn’t be using that particular cutting board again.
Ten minutes later, she was back in the livingroom. She handed him his mug of coffee. She had stopped shaking at least. “Those boys aren’t the reason you’re here, Mr. Dunn,” she said.
“No. To be honest, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve been looking for a place to rent around here, and someone said you had a cabin on your property. I was hoping you might consider renting it to me. I think I mentioned to you that I’m working on a bookwell, I’m also working against a deadline and it would be a big help if I could be right on the site instead of having to drive back and forth from town.”
“That’s only a few minutes drive.”
“You’re right, of course. I suppose it’s more the psychological advantage. It’s just for a couple of weeks or so.”
Rachael recalled the real estate woman telling her about a cabin on the property, saying she thought it should probably be torn down. Rachael hadn’t thought about it again.
“I haven’t even looked at the cabin yet,” she said. “But I don’t think you could stay there. I doubt it’s habitable. I’m sure there’s no insulation or plumbing.” It was difficult to focus on anything else with the image of the little seagull so vivid in her mind. Anger at such senseless cruelty churned within her.
“My intention was to have it torn down,” she said, “Before it falls down. Or those kids set fire to it.” A chilly afterthought that now seemed entirely possible.
She would go into town tomorrow and ferret out this boy named Derek, who wore a tee shirt boasting a madman’s face on the front. A boy who drove a black sportscar. This was a small town. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.
“The cabin is in pretty decent shape, actually,” Martin Dunn was saying, as he set his mug carefully on the coaster on the coffee table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of having a look inside while I was waiting. The door was unlocked. The facilities are crude, but functional. And there’s handpump for water. Iuh, from what you’ve said, assume you’re not aware that someone has already been staying in the cabin.”
The statement got her full attention, striking her heart like an anvil. “What?”
“I don’t mean to upset you further, but it’s true. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, along with some empty bean and soup cans. The stove was still warm when I went in.”
As Rachael’s head spun with this unnerving revelation, Martin Dunn talked on about his plans for the cabin.
“The place needs a few repairs, but I’m a pretty handy fellow. Built my own place before my fiance…” He looked quickly toward the window. Back to Rachael. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sorry. It’s been a little rough…” He gestured to the cane propped against his chair. “Car accident. It’s been a year now since she’s gone. I sold the place.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to summon her natural compassion, but her brain felt like a computer on overload, about to crash. She was glad he didn’t seem to notice.
Smiled thinly, running a hand through his hair,” he said, “I’m still trying to come to terms with it. At least I’m out of the wheelchair. Work helps. So, what do you say, Ms. Warren. Will you have me for a tenant?”
Rachael caught herself picking at the dried blood spots on her bare arm, abruptly dropped her hand.
“I promise, no wild parties,” he joked.
Chill Waters Page 18