Garden of Lies (58 page)

more drink.

She hadn’t finished even one, but David, she observed, was now on his third tumbler of Scotch.

The way he looked, that glazed expression, and the way he was sitting, sideways on the couch

facing her, one leg tucked up on the cushions, an arm hooked over the back, it was all wrong

somehow. Yes, he looked ... as if he planned on settling in with her for the evening.

This apartment, all wrong too. Like a sample room in Bloomingdale’s, all done in shades of

biscuit and oyster, the furniture all hard right angles, somehow soulless. David probably didn’t

even know that etching on the opposite wall was an Icart. Some decorator probably had just

picked it out to go with the table underneath.

David was talking about Presbyterian now, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying,

but her mind kept wandering.
Brian should be on his way home now,
she thought,
if he isn’t there

already. God, I wish I were home with him.

Now David’s voice was rising, petulant about something. Rachel tensed, her mind tuning in to

him.

“... Yeah, sounds weird, but it’s true. My Princeton degree didn’t mean two shits at that place.

You come from the wrong side of the tracks, and they don’t want you in their club. It’s all very

genteel, they pretend that you can, then they snub you in little ways ... like always calling you by

your full first name while
they
all have nicknames for each other ... and somehow there’s never

an extra chair for you at their table in the cafeteria. And then those bastards set me up. I worked

the hardest, a perfect record, too. I
deserved
Chief of OB. I was the best, far and away, no

question.”

He was breathing heavily, face flushed. Rachel sensed that he might be on the verge of really

losing his cool. She put her drink down on the coffee table, and started to get up.

“I’d love to hear the whole story sometime, David, but I really have to—”

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist like an iron manacle.

“Don’t go yet ... please, you haven’t told me anything about [351] you, what it was like over

there in Vietnam. And you haven’t even finished your drink.”

David was trying to turn on the charm again, but it was slipping, like a mask coming loose. For

some absurd reason she thought of Lon Chaney, the Phantom of the Opera. And suddenly she

didn’t want to see what was underneath, didn’t want to
know
what was behind those bloodshot

eyes, his manic grin.

He’s not letting go of my wrist. He’s not
—

She sank down, her legs suddenly weak, rubbery. She rubbed her wrist, which prickled a little.

But David couldn’t have
meant
anything. No, she was only
imagining
he might be dangerous.

She was being silly. She’d come here to talk to him, about St. Bart’s, about Alma Saucedo. And,

well, that’s what she’d do.

Then, when he calmed down,
then
she would get up, go over to the door, walk down the two

flights, hail a cab ...

Ten more minutes tops, she promised herself. Then home.

“David, I’d like your advice about a patient of mine.” She began angling herself casually to be

in line with the door. Then she gave him a run-down on Alma’s condition. “I don’t like the idea

of starting her on Pitocin. The baby’s chances of survival would be less than fifty percent. On the

other hand, if I wait ...”

“First day on the job I went over every department in the place.” David seemed to pull himself

together. “Pediatrics is a joke, the others not much better. You’re talking fifty percent on the

curve.
I’d say forty, maybe a whole lot less, if you factor in a substandard Pediatrics ICU, and a

sixteen-year-old nullip who’s probably been living off potato chips and Coca-Cola the past eight

months.”

“That’s pretty pessimistic. I won’t argue that these are hardly the best circumstances, but

Alma’s a bright girl. Straight A’s in school. She’s very aware of what’s going on, she’s been very

careful.”

“If she’d been a little more careful, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant in the first

place.”

Rachel felt as if she’d been struck. David was looking straight at her. Glaring at her. Oh God,

she had not been imagining. He
was
out to get her.

She just sat there, paralyzed, watching David drain the two fingers of Scotch left in his glass in

one long gulp.

“Examined her myself,” he went on, “couple two-three hours [352] before you popped up out

of the blue. She didn’t look like she’d win a prize doing the tango, but I wouldn’t rush into

anything if I were you. Give her a day or two before you zap her with Pit.”

So
you
were the one,
she thought.
I
might have known. Still king of the assholes.

Rachel abruptly rose, bumping her knee on the coffee table. Her drink skittered away, leaving a

wet skid mark along the polished blond surface. Pain shot through her leg. Shit. She’d have a

bruise. But she didn’t care. Right now, all she wanted was to get out, get away from here.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said. “I really have to run. Listen, don’t get up, I’ll find my way

out.”

But he
was
getting up, moving with clumsy purpose, blocking her exit a few feet from the

door. Rachel’s heart began to beat very fast, and her stomach did a slow, sickening cartwheel.

“What’s your big hurry?”

She saw that he was flushed, the veins standing out in his neck, eyes narrowed.

“Seven years, goddamn it, I don’t see you in seven years, and all of a sudden you’re burning

rubber to get to the door. I ask you, is that any way to treat an old friend?”

“Look, David, let’s not spoil things. It was great seeing you again, but like I said—”

“You got someone besides hubby waiting for you? A kid or two maybe?”

“No kids.” Even speaking those words hurt. Goddamn it, she didn’t need him of all people to

remind her.

“You know, it’s funny, because I always thought you’d make a great mother,” he went on,

slouching back against the door. “Take my own mother, for instance. Wouldn’t let anything stand

in the way of me and my pop. Not even when he was beating the holy crap out of me. Now
that’s

togetherness for you. My old man and I, we were just like that.” He held up two fingers, pressed

together. His hand, she saw, was trembling. “But I don’t hold it against him, and you know why?

’Cause she was the one. Selfish bitch. Nothing ever good enough for her, Always wanting things

her
way. She drove him to it. She just popped the fucking clutch and drove him right into that six-

pack every night. And if little Davey happened to be in the way, well, that was just too damn

bad.”

[353] “David, stop it.” She was scared now, her stomach in a tight knot. He didn’t even sound

like himself anymore. Older, coarser ... the voice of a bitter man in janitor’s overalls, not the

David she’d known, the charismatic young resident in a crisp white coat.

“Hey ... I’m just getting started. You know, seven years is a long time. A lot of thoughts come

to a man in seven years. Like I never realized before how much you remind me of my old lady.”

His eyes, hard and fiery, fixed on her. Rachel felt a chill dart up her spine.

“David, you’re getting yourself all worked up. Look, why don’t you just try and relax, sleep it

off. We’ll talk in the morning.”

She took a tentative step backwards, toward the door.

He shot forward, grabbing her by the shoulders, roughly, fingers gouging. A scream stuck

somewhere below her Adam’s apple, but she couldn’t get it out. She couldn’t move. She was

frozen, as if in a nightmare.

His face inches from hers, the booze stink of his breath enveloping her like some noxious mist,

now she was seeing what was under the mask. She was dealing with a
madman.

“No!” he roared. “We’ll talk now.
Now!”

“You’re crazy,” she said.

She struggled to free herself, but he swung her around, slamming her against the wall,
pinning

her there. She heard something slither past her ear, crash into her. A Roman candle exploded

inside her head. A fountain of red sparks. She tasted blood. She’d bit herself. She felt like the

time she’d fallen off her bicycle speeding down a hill when she was eight, numb, disoriented,

even a little foolish. This couldn’t be happening to her. This couldn’t—

David brought his mouth down hard against hers.

Oh dear God,
no ...
NO ...

She felt his tongue, rough as sandpaper, thrusting into her mouth. Hurting her. She tasted

blood. God ... oh God ...

“Feels good, doesn’t it, babe?” he panted. “Yeah, oh yeah, I remember when you used to

scream
for it. You want it now, don’t you? You want me to fuck you now just like the old days,

make you scream. Isn’t that why you came here?”

She felt a hot rush of adrenaline spiraling through her. Now she was angry. She wanted to kill

him.

“You bastard!” she screamed, lashing out with both fists, wildly, [354] blindly. She connected

in a solid, bone-thumping hit that sent a jarring bolt through her arm. Good ... oh good.

He brought his forearms up, shielding his face to ward off her blows. And she saw, horrified,

that his teeth were all bloody, and there was blood drooling out of the corner of his mouth. ...

She bolted for the door, scrabbled wildly for the doorknob. She felt as if she were struggling to

move underwater, the air heavy, her limbs like lead.

I’m never going to make it. I’m never going to get out of here.

Then she found the latch below the doorknob, turned it, heard it click. The door was opening

now. Thank God. Oh, thank—

From behind, Rachel felt something jerk her, and suddenly the room was tilting, walls and

floor spinning end over end. Then everything went gray and slick. She tried to think what was

happening, but it was all somehow out of reach.

“Bitch.” A voice crashed into her skull. “I’ll give you what you’ve been asking for.”

Her head seemed to be clearing now, and she felt a fiery ache in her neck, as if she had been

skewered by a hot poker.

And she saw.

David. Kneeling over her. Frantically unbuckling his belt, yanking at the zipper on his pants.

Oh God. No. Please ...

She felt as if she’d gone mad. All those years had gotten swallowed up somehow. And she was

lying on a table in a deserted doctor’s office, hearing the rain pelting the windows, seeing the

grotesque white mask of David’s handsome face framed between her hiked-up knees. ...

David was jerking at her legs now, forcing them apart, forcing her out of that long-ago

nightmare into the nightmare of now.

“No!
No! Stop it!”
She found her voice.

She heard something rip. Her skirt, he was tugging it out of the way. Then his weight against

her, crushing, suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. Air, she needed air. Something soft and damp

pushed between her legs.

“Bitch. You fucking bitch. I want to hear you
scream
.”

She felt his whole weight heave against her.

But the thing he was pushing against her remained limp.

In a single, wild instant, Rachel understood. She’d been [355] reprieved.
He can’t rape me. He

can’t get it up.
Hysterical laughter clawed at her gut. She clamped her teeth down hard to keep it

in.
Maybe he can’t rape me, but he could still hurt me.

But then David was collapsing. Rolling off her, letting the air come back into her lungs in a

good clean rush. And she knew that it was over, as if a taut line had just snapped in two.

Rachel, sitting up, experienced a disoriented moment, as if she were looking at a surrealist

painting. A Dali portrayal of a disheveled, once-handsome man, lying on his back on an oyster

carpet amid the melting ice cubes of an overturned drink.

He was weeping, tears trickling out the corners of his eyes, dribbling down into his fashionably

long sideburns. His chest jerking up and down, making an awful, dry hacking sound.

“Can’t,” he sobbed, barely coherent, “can’t do it ... not you ... not anyone ... seven years ... oh

Jesus ... what did you do? What in fucking Christ’s name did you do to me that night?” His fiery

eyes were fixed on her, wet and glittering with malice. “Should’ve killed you, not the kid ...
I

should have killed you.”

Rachel staggered to her feet. He was sick ... a sick animal ... she wouldn’t listen.

She made it to the door. This time it opened, easily, swinging out as if guided by an electric

eye.

Careful now. The stairs. One step at a time. She pressed her hands against her ears to shut out a

voice that was following her; but she couldn’t. It seemed to be inside her head, shrieking, “
‘I’ll

get you. Somehow. I’ll pay you back for what you did to me.”

Outside, blessedly, she saw a cab with its roof light on.

Once into the back seat, the sobs came, wave after wave.

“Lady, you okay?” the cabbie rasped.

“No,” she moaned.

“Someone hurt you? You want the cops?”

“No, no.”

“Hey, lady, I’m sorry, but I gotta make a living. So where to?”

She gave him her address. Yes, Brian. Just Brian, no one else.
I
need him. Oh God, how I need