"Carter!" The word was barely a whisper as it came from Eleanor's throat. "Carter, is it you?"
"Oh, yes, it's me. Back from the dead. Back to claim my wife."
"I'm not your wife anymore." She swirled suddenly, hoping to find him behind her. But the garage was as empty as it had been the last time she looked. "Quit playing stupid games, Carter, and come out."
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he mocked her. "Did you mourn me when I died, Eleanor? I don't think so. You packed up and left Colorado. You didn't even tell our friends goodbye."
"Your friends, Carter." She turned on her heel and started to walk away, wobbling slightly. The garage had become a landscape for a nightmare. She had to escape, to get away from the sound of his voice so that she could think clearly. She started to run.
Carter Wells was dead. Dead and buried, and she was standing in the garage of her building having a conversation with her imagination. Or maybe her guilty conscience. She hadn't allowed herself to feel anything for a man…until Peter. And now that she was beginning to warm to a spark of interest, her mind had opened up to give her the ugly reminders of Carter. There was nothing real in the voice she heard, only her own repressed guilt.
"Hey! I've come a long way to see you."
She turned suddenly and looked back at her car. Her knees began to buckle. Lounging against the fender was Carter Wells. He was smoking a cigarette, the gesture casual and perfect, as always.
The blood rushed to her heart, a pounding tide of denial. "No," she said. "No!" She held out a hand as if to ward off the vision. "You're dead!"
"No, Eleanor, I'm not." He stepped toward her, his face shadowed by the wide-brimmed hat he'd always favored. "But you may be, if you don't give back what you took."
* * *
PETER WAS FRANTIC as he waited for Wessy to open Eleanor's apartment door. He didn't speculate on what he might find, but he was afraid she was injured. At last the door swung open and he and the doorman rushed inside. There was no sign of Eleanor, but Familiar gave them a half-interested greeting.
Peter checked all the closets before he was completely satisfied, and then he left with the doorman, his own plans still indefinite. He had to find Eleanor, but where could she have gone?
"Ms. Duncan might be shopping," Wessy offered.
"Of course." Peter didn't want to reveal how deeply worried he was. "I'll call back later, and thanks for opening the door."
"Is she in some type of trouble?"
Peter closely scrutinized the old man. Wessy was obviously fond of Eleanor, but was there something else behind his question? He'd delivered a threatening photo, and he'd conveniently been away from his duty post when it was left.
"No, she isn't in any trouble, Wessy. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you're looking for her with a worried face, and that friend of hers, Dr. Betty Gillette, came by earlier and asked for her. She looked worried, too. Even Eleanor seemed nervous when I was teasing her about a secret admirer."
"Who is this Betty Gillette?" Peter asked.
"Some professor out at the university. She and Ms. Duncan work together."
Peter remembered the name. Eleanor had said she often worked with the woman on Sunday afternoons. "Probably some business thing," he said, "but I'll tell Eleanor when I find her." He didn't wait for a reply but hurried toward the elevator.
Instead of heading for the lobby, he pressed the button for Parking. There were three levels, and he intended to walk the entire garage until he found Eleanor's car— if it was parked. She might be shopping, as Wessy had mentioned, but he wouldn't rest easy until he knew for certain.
He walked the first level, looking for the bright red import. He spiraled to the second level, his eyes growing more and more accustomed to the gloom. Parking garages! How he hated them. It was like being in a cave that worked its way slowly and inexorably into the heart of the earth. He turned a corner, walking gradually downhill.
Long, slender legs seemed to protrude from the rear of a car. He saw them but didn't believe his eyes. Even as his brain refused the image, his own legs began to pump. He ran.
He recognized the skirt, the jacket, the ivory skin and hair.
"Eleanor!" She was sitting on the bumper of a car, her face in her arms. "What's going on?" When she didn't respond, he gently touched her shoulder. "Eleanor?"
Her breathing had steadied at last, and Eleanor lifted her face to Peter's worried gaze. "I had a dizzy spell," she said. There was no way she was going to try and convince him she'd had a confrontation with Carter Wells. She wasn't sure she believed it herself.
"Eleanor, what happened down here? You're pasty-looking, as if you'd seen a ghost."
She managed a feeble smile. "Only a linguistics professor could appreciate that comment," she said. She had to pull herself together. Whatever was going on, she wanted Peter out of the path of danger. Carter Wells had never been a tolerant man, and dead or alive, she didn't think he'd mellowed much in the last nine years. He'd made his threat and then calmly walked out of the garage, hands in his pockets, hat cocked to one side. He'd never even turned around. No, she didn't want Peter mixed up in the mess her life had become.
"Can you stand?" Peter gave assistance as he spoke.
Knees still wobbly, Eleanor got to her feet. When she almost stumbled, Peter held her against his chest. "Easy now. Was it something you ate?"
"That would be my guess," she said. "Peter, I want to get out of here."
"Yeah, I hate these places, too." Peter's strong hand on her elbow guided her to the elevator.
"Maybe it would be best if I went upstairs and tried to rest." She had to make him leave, but without arousing his suspicions.
"Not on your life," he answered as he punched the button.
"I'm not really feeling well enough for company," she insisted.
"I won't leave you alone until I'm certain you're okay."
There was no arguing with him once his mind was made up, she realized and relented. "Maybe a cup of hot tea would do us both good." The worst thing she could do was make him wonder what had happened in the garage.
* * *
I THOUGHT I could escape them, but maybe it isn't going to be so easy. Looking at the dame, with her face all white and her eyes so scared, I feel like hell. If it weren't for me, she'd be sitting at the university in front of her computer, looking up the roots of words like "fetch" and "latch". I can only wonder how Dr. Frankenstein figures into this little drama. It's easy enough for a cat to see that the dame's hiding something from the good doctor, and I'll bet that something involves my good friend from the laboratory. I know the dame isn't schizy, so she had to see something in that garage. Something really scary. I may have to put my old alley cat abilities to work and sneak down for some personal snooping of my own. If Dr. Doolittle is good, I might even let him go with me. That is, if he can give the dame a rest for a few minutes. He's got more than a medical interest in her health, even if he's too stubborn to admit it to himself.
I can't help but think this all tracks back to my old laboratory home and those wonderful humanoids who tried to use me for some of their experiments. I wasn't exactly cooperative. Whoever would have thought they'd be so desperate to get me back that they'd terrify the dame? They seemed so much more involved with Zelda and her progress. I was foolish enough to think they really wouldn't miss me.
Poor Zelda. What are they doing to her now? Whenever I think about her brown eyes, and the eagerness with which she tried to please, I don't know if I can ever appreciate my freedom. If there were only some way I could get Dr. Doolittle to take a look into that place, he might be able to get the muscle to shut them down. That crazy broad with the poodle, Magdalena Caruso, may even be my last hope. To think that I'd have to appeal to a dog lover to save Zelda! It makes me shudder to think about what they might be doing to her, though. I guess I'd sell my soul to save Zelda. And that means doing whatever it takes, even appealing to a canine woman.
Maybe i
t's foolish of me to think anyone would help. When that bigwig with the CIA showed up, I thought he'd clamp down on that little romper room of horrors. But Charles Breck never dirtied his three-piece suit with a snoop into how experiments were performed. He only looked at Zelda and remarked on how cute she was, and what an absolutely perfect little gift she'd be. He didn't even notice the burns. He never even really looked closely. I was so mad that day I could have popped. But Zelda may be right. What's a prisoner to do except escape? And maybe that's the only hope for Zelda. As for me, I think I have some chores to attend to with the dame. Dr. Doolittle looks about ready to jump into her lap, and I'm going to stake my territory first.
* * *
"HEY!" Peter laughed as he pushed the tom cat down. "I think your cat is worried about you."
Eleanor scooped Familiar into her arms. "I'm much better now," she said. "Peter, would you mind if I canceled our movie tonight? I think I'd like to try and sleep." She burrowed her face into Familiar's fur.
"You've been under a lot of pressure, Eleanor. Maybe it would be best if you could rest. Are you sure you want to be alone, though?"
"I'll have Familiar to protect me. He saved me once." She stroked the purring cat and scratched him under the chin. It wasn't all a nightmare. Familiar was proof of that. Carter Wells wasn't a hallucination. And neither was the fact that someone destructive was back in her life. Maybe it wasn't Carter, but it was someone who had known him well enough to pull off a very good imitation.
"Are you keeping something from me?" Peter asked. In the short hours of their separation, Eleanor had somehow grown distant.
"I'm just tired, that's all." She pressed her hand against his shoulder and was surprised by the way he pulled back. "What is it?"
"I seem to have bad luck with predatory birds. Someone broke into my office and let a great horned owl out of a cage. The bird was injured and frightened. When I went back into the kennels, he attacked."
"How bad is it?" Her own worries were momentarily pushed aside.
"Just a bruise, really. His talons were weakened and I had on a thick coat. I'm fine, but my jacket was a total loss." He looked at her. She'd had enough for one night. He decided against telling her about the damage to his car. But he did have to tell her about the files. The dreadful sensation that perhaps he'd involved her in his troubled life had been gnawing at him all evening. "What isn't fine is that whoever broke in, broke in to get your file."
They both turned and looked at the cat.
"Why Familiar?" Eleanor breathed. "What is it that he could have been involved in?"
"That question grows more and more important," Peter said.
"And more dangerous," she added.
Chapter Six
The dark walls of the garage closed around Peter. He was on the second level, not fifteen feet from where he'd found Eleanor slumped on the bumper of the car. He felt a surge of anger at the memory. Something had happened to her in the garage, something so frightening that she didn't trust herself to share it with him. Was it Evans? Had he frightened her?
Locked in her apartment with Familiar on guard and Wessy alerted, she was reasonably safe. For the moment. But he wanted an explanation of what was happening in her life. In the last few hours, he'd gotten the distinct impression that she wasn't telling him the whole truth.
He paced the area where she'd been sitting, but there was not a trace of anything. The concrete floor was clean of even a scrap of litter. He moved to her car. Someone could have been hiding in her back seat. He pushed the image from his mind and examined her tires.
There was no sign of anything amiss. The only thing he saw at all was a cigarette butt. He nudged it with his toe. The brand was Dunhill, a trademark he didn't recognize. He locked the car doors and headed back to the ground level. If there had been anything else in the parking garage, it was gone now.
He left through the street exit, his mind still full of Eleanor. He'd taken a cab after his car was crippled, but he felt as if he needed the clarifying feel of the wind on his face now, so he walked. The night air carried the smell of snow.
Washington was often thought of as a city of lights. Along the Potomac, the yellow brilliants were reflected again and again in the river and the pools before the many monuments. But on this night, Peter felt as if a dark hand had clutched the city and was slowly choking off the power. As he rounded the block and crossed an almost empty street, he realized that his sense of gloom came from his worries about Eleanor.
Was it possible that she was involved in some sensitive research? Something so sensitive that the CIA could be concerned? Had Familiar actually strayed up to her as she'd said, or was there more to the story?
He cut across a side street and headed into a small, neighborhood park. Almost fifty acres in size, it was typical of Washington's insistence on greenery in the midst of progress. In the spring, when the border of trees leafed out, it would be a tiny patch of paradise.
It was in the brittle leaves that had collected under a tenacious sycamore that he heard the distinct sound of someone else's footsteps.
He slowed his pace and the footsteps slowed. He walked faster, and they increased. Peter forced himself not to turn around, but to continue walking at a steady rate.
The choice of entering the park had been a poor one, especially on a blustery winter night. As he quickly scanned the area, he saw that except for the follower, he was alone. There were floodlights in the park around the swings and games, but the periphery was in dark shadow. Peter kept walking, hoping to emerge on the park's outer rim before the person behind him drew any closer. He cast a quick glance backward. An overcoat-clad figure was a hundred yards behind him.
Unable to tell if the figure was armed, Peter decided against a confrontation. The attack by the owl could have been lethal, and it had been an effective warning of intent. If he maintained his distance and kept moving, he might luck into a policeman. He walked faster.
The footsteps behind him increased in tempo, too.
He was two-thirds of the way across the park, following a narrow bicycle path that flashed back and forth among shrubs and trees. It was the perfect place for an ambush, and Peter was aware of his vulnerability.
Turning for another look, he saw again the dark figure behind him, inexorably following at the same distance as before. It was as if fate had magically linked them.
At last Peter broke free of the trees and found himself on the outer edge of the park. Directly ahead was a well-lighted sidewalk; people were milling about the front door of a restaurant. He crossed the street quickly and stopped at the restaurant. The door opened and a young couple came out, laughter bouncing on the walls and pavement as they waited for their cab.
Peter turned back to face the park. His gaze found the overcoat-clad figure. Backlighted by a street lamp, the man's head was covered with a wide-brimmed hat. As Peter watched, the figure inhaled on a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in his direction.
A city bus cut between them. When it passed, Peter scanned the edge of the park again, but the figure was gone, as if it had vanished into the night.
* * *
"SO, YOU TOOK a weekend off," Betty Gillette said as she fell into step with Eleanor on the way to the English department. "If you keep up that kind of behavior, I'm going to get the faculty grant I've been coveting for so long."
Eleanor smiled at her red-haired friend. Betty was more competitive than anyone had a right to be, and she was direct as hell about it. Since Eleanor had come to the English department two years ago, her research had won the grant offered to the university faculty. Betty wanted that grant, and she didn't mind letting Eleanor know.
"Cheer up, Betty. Maybe next year the faculty will view your work as more deserving of notice. Lord knows, I'm interested. But I keep telling you, the problem with your research is that it isn't exactly the thing universities lust after. It's more psychological, or even sociological."
Betty made a wry face. "That's the bureaucratic
line, for sure. But if we fully understood the modes of communication between all species, we'd have a better idea of how important the written word is. My work isn't that far afield from linguistics. It's all part of the same ball game."
"You're preaching to the choir, Betty." Eleanor picked up her pace.
Betty laughed and shook her head. "I missed you yesterday. I stopped by your apartment and talked with your doorman. He assured me that you were fine. Why did I get the impression that he was worried about you?"
Eleanor hesitated. She was tired, worn out from the weekend, but eager for a friendly ear. "It's been the wildest time," she said. She started to say more, but the sight of a solitary student running across the green alerted her to the time. "Let's have some lunch and talk."
"Is it a man?" Betty's blue eyes were dancing. "Did the studious Dr. Duncan spend the weekend with a man?"
Eleanor laughed. Betty was also incorrigibly nosy. "Not in the way you think, but I did spend the weekend with a man. And a cat. And an attacker. And a woman from a radical animal rights group." Her voice lost its touch of humor. "And the ghost of my dead husband."
"Where did you put all of those people in such a tiny apartment?" Betty asked.
Eleanor laughed. "We'll talk at lunch."
"I can't wait," Betty agreed as she waved Eleanor toward the classrooms. "I don't know whether to ask about the cat, the man or the ghost. Meet you in your office."
Eleanor knew that she barely had time to rush into her office and grab the papers she'd left, already graded, on Friday afternoon. She felt a short note of panic. Even after two years, teaching was sometimes difficult, especially student conferences. With classes out for the holidays, she was surprised when several of her pupils scheduled meetings. Now she felt ill-prepared, especially after skipping her normal Sunday afternoon work session. She was out of kilter with her job. She smiled at the expression, one she'd often heard her grandmother use, and hurried down the maze of halls to her door.
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