Listen to the Shadows (13 page)

Despite her resolve never to let Raymond get to her, Katie said coolly, “I could easily have come to you for that, couldn’t I, Raymond? You’re such an expert.”

He smiled, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “By the way, I heard about your accident. Have a few too many, did we, dear?”

Now Katie’s anger was directed at herself. She was such an idiot. Why had she allowed herself to be reduced to Raymond’s level? Even if she hadn’t been above this sort of childish verbal ping pong, she was no match for Raymond when it came to trading insults. But she rarely took him seriously. Why today?

“I think her painting is beautiful,” came the meek voice from behind the desk. Katie thanked her, but felt even more the fool for having put herself on display. All meanness fled from Raymond’s face as he turned to the receptionist who had spoken. He was all charm now, all sweetness. “Aren’t you sweet,” he said, the French accent thickening like syrup. “But I meant no harm. I was teasing, is all. She is much too sensitive. And she has no sense of humor.” Resting his palms on the edge of her desk, he leaned down to gaze into her eyes. “But you, my dear. Ah, yes, I can see that you do. I detect a certain devilish quality in those big blue eyes.”

The woman blushed and giggled, her hand going coquettishly to her hair.

Katie groaned inwardly, but was relieved at the chance to make her escape without further humiliating herself. Especially since it was clear she was about to lose an ally. Katie headed for the elevator.

Only in class in front of Mr. Jackson did Raymond bother to hide his dislike of her. Jason insisted it wasn’t personal, that he was jealous. And it was true that whenever Mr. Jackson said something encouraging about Katie’s work, Raymond could be counted on for a snide remark that implied something other than her artistic ability had provoked flattery from their instructor.

Before she’d joined the class, it had been Jason who had been the butt of Raymond’s meanness, but Jason had grown adept at ignoring deliberately hurtful people over the years, and Raymond didn’t like to be ignored.

His own work, uninspired at best, never seemed to improve from week to week. Not so much due to a lack of inborn talent, but because of Raymond’s unwillingness to accept constructive criticism. It was a mystery to her why he continued to spend the money on lessons.

As she emerged from the building, Katie remembered what Jason had told her about Raymond insulting a guest speaker. She smiled to herself, consoled with the knowledge that at least she hadn’t been singled out for Raymond’s barbs. Good luck with your entry, Raymond, she thought, realizing that Raymond had been at City Hall for the same reason she had.

Hurrying along the sidewalk, Katie tried to regain her good mood. She dropped into a boutique and treated herself to an off-white angora hat and gloves set. A few doors further on, she went into the bake shop and bought two Kaiser rolls to feed to the pigeons in the park. She felt cheered. She didn’t notice the old blue truck parked across the street, or the man slumped down in the driver’s seat, peaked cap pulled forward to hide his face, watching her.

***

The rest of the day passed without incident, but the restaurant was busy, and it was well after six o’clock before Katie was finally able to get away. It was coming on to dark when she stepped off the bus and started up Black Lake Road for home. She hadn’t gone very far when she began to feel the effects of her first day back to work. Every inch of her body ached, and now, with the sun gone, the cold penetrated her camel-hair coat and bit at her legs through her nylon stockings. She would remember to wear slacks tomorrow. She was glad of the new hat and gloves.

Seeing her breath in the frosty air, Katie drew up her coat collar and quickened her step. Other than the sound of the wind soughing in the trees that hemmed her in on both sides, and her own hurried footsteps on the lonely country road, all was silent and still. The sky had grown a dusky purple, lightly flecked with stars now. Above the tallest trees, a crescent of white moon floated.

With the smell of wet, rotting wood and vegetation drifting to her from the deep woods, at times overriding the scent of spruce and pine, Katie thought over the events of the day. Faces rose in her mind’s eye…sinister faces now…Frank, Raymond, Joey…

She thought about them.

Both Frank and Raymond had a streak of self-destructiveness in their natures which, in varying degrees, often and without warning, turned outward. Was it possible one of them…? No, she was letting her imagination run away with her again. Frank simply had a drinking problem. And Raymond was a nasty little boy taking his frustrations out on the rest of the world. What about Joey? Poor Joey—a man-child locked in the narrow confines of a world imposed upon him by an indifferent society.

Katie knew these people. Didn’t she? Knew their quirks and idiosyncrasies. And yet today she knew she had viewed each of them with different eyes eyes that held suspicion and mistrust. Even fear.

And then there was Allen. Allen, who used to follow her in the police car, used to be parked at the curb when she got off work, used to phone her in the middle of the night, and once had broken into her house, waiting there when she got home. Allen who couldn’t accept that she didn’t want to see him anymore. Although eventually he had.

And Allen was living in Los Angeles now, probably even married, certainly with a girl friend. He wouldn’t remain long without a woman in his life. And yet the get-well card had been mailed from Belleville.

As Katie walked along the dirt road thinking her thoughts, the plaintive cry of a loon echoed on the night. And a moment later an owl hooted close by. Happy to set her mind on a different track, Katie wondered if the owl was calling out to its mate. Or perhaps it had babies and was warning her off. Did owls hatch their young in the fall of the year? Spring seemed more likely, but she wasn’t sure. Aunt Katherine could have told her. Or had it spotted some small game with its round, predatory eyes? A rabbit perhaps? No, it would have remained silent before swooping down on the unsuspecting prey for the kill.

Suddenly nervous, she glanced behind her at the road snaking back to the highway. Why did the walk seem so much longer than it had this morning? One thing was sure, she wouldn’t be braving it at night again. She was lucky there was a moon to guide her, otherwise she would be walking blind. If there was any place darker than a country road at night, Katie hadn’t found it.

As she trudged on, she heard the loon cry out again, and its mournful sound filled her with a deep sense of vulnerability, of aloneness. She walked faster, ignoring the stitch that leapt like a flame in her side.

Not much farther now, she tried to console herself, not much farther.

An uneasiness had bloomed inside her. The kind of uneasiness that came when she was a little girl and had gotten up in the night to go to the bathroom, and her small fingers couldn’t find the light switch. The kind of uneasiness that started out small, but could swiftly become a terror that paralyzed, that brought the tears. Think of something pleasant, she commanded herself. Yes, think about that sweet little lady who comes in to The Coffee Shop every day at exactly two o’clock carrying her own sandwich and a teabag in a Snoopy lunch pail. As if she were the Queen visiting, she would say, “Just a pot of hot water, if you please, my dear.” She wore a ratty fur coat and a child’s red and white toque.

Sometimes Katie would manage to sneak her a couple of fresh-baked cookies or a bran muffin, treats the woman accepted as her due, but Katie didn’t miss the child-like delight dancing in those lively blue eyes.

Mrs. Cameron, of course, wasn’t at all thrilled at having a table taken up for “just a pot of hot water,” but she never said anything directly, and Katie would give her a good argument if she ever did.

Katie stopped walking suddenly, thinking she’d heard something in the woods. She peered in at the place from where the sound seemed to come, but other than shifting shadows caused by moonlight, and the deeper blackness beyond, she could see nothing. With the murmur of wind in her ears mingling with the escalation of her heartbeat, she walked on, careful now to stay well in the middle of the road.

Every few seconds she cast a wary eye into the woods, where suddenly threatening shapes lurked everywhere, crouching menacingly behind every tree, every bush, inching closer the instant she turned her head away.

“Stop it!” she commanded herself. It’s probably some mangy old raccoon. Yet the sound had suggested something heavier. A bear? That thought brought with it its own special jolt of panic, even though Katie couldn’t recall ever hearing of any bear sightings at Black Lake.

If her car wasn’t ready tomorrow, she would rent one and damn the expense, she vowed as she continued, pain stabbing her side rhythmically as she half-walked, half-ran toward home and the safety of locked doors.

And then she heard it again. A rustling in the woods, just to her right. She stopped, straining in the semi-darkness to see what it was.

And did. Not clearly and only for an instant, but long enough to see that this shape was no shadow cast in moonlight. It had substance. It had stopped when she stopped.

Slowly, Katie began to walk.

The rustling began.

Oh God! There was something in the woods.

And it was keeping pace with her.

Chapter 16

Katie’s first instinct was to run, but a deeper, saner voice warned her that if she did, she just might not make it home. Don’t act frightened, she told herself, though terror clawed at her. Just walk calmly. Don’t run. Don’t run.

It was all but impossible to heed her own advice with the rustling so close beside her, remaining steady, speeding up as she did, slowing as she slowed. Fear tasting like rust in her mouth, Katie tried not to hear the whisperer’s voice as it had sounded on the phone this morning, calling her name. She tried not to envision the strawman moving through the woods, not three feet from her, fixing her with its pale, unblinking stare like some ghastly monster from a childhood horror movie.

Abruptly, the rustling stopped.

Only her footsteps now, soft and hurried on the dirt road. She dared to hope that whatever or whoever was in the woods had grown bored with following her. But her heart knew it was a vain, foolish hope.

And then, behind her, came other footsteps.

The sound catapulted Katie into a full run. Adrenaline flooded her veins, erasing all pain and exhaustion from her mind as her feet fairly flew over the road, not slowing even when her house burst gloriously into view, with its dark, familiar shape through the trees filling her with a blessed relief.

Now that safety was close, her chest tore with every step, the pain in her side a searing fire as she ran toward the house. She faltered for an instant at the sight of Jason’s car parked behind her Comet. They’d delivered her car while she was at work. Thank God, she thought, as she half-ran, half-stumbled toward the red Volkswagen, crying out her friend’s name as she went.

But when she reached Jason’s car, there was no one inside. Hesitating only an instant in her bewilderment, gasping for breath, she raced on, not daring to look behind her. She ran up the slight incline over the dead grass, brittle leaves scurrying in disturbance about her ankles. Then she was climbing the stairs, at the same time fumbling in her purse for her house key and praying aloud. Her hand closed around the key, but when she took it from her purse, it slipped through her gloved fingers and fell—where? She hadn’t heard it drop. Had it gone through the floor boards? Oh, please, no! She began to cry. The sound came out in small puppy whimpers.

Down below, the bottom step creaked.

Terror closed a hand around Katie’s throat, started a loud buzzing in her ears.

She spotted the key on the landing. It hadn’t fallen through after all. Yanking off a glove, she bent to retrieve it, tears making the key a silvery blur. Dear God, don’t let me drop it. Please don’t let me drop it this time.

Holding the key firmly now between thumb and forefinger, every inch of her alerted for the next footfall on the steps, Katie quickly let herself into the house and locked the door.

Gasping for breath, she stared at the locked door and waited. Only after several minutes, in which there came no scratching of nails, no whispering of her name from the other side, did she finally let herself sag down on the chair in the hallway. She dissolved there, cradling her head in her arms, feeling her body clammy inside her coat. She remained unmoving for a long time—until gradually her heart slowed to normal, the fire in her side cooled, and terror loosened its grip.

Why is Jason’s car parked out front? He always parks around back. And where is he, anyway? Katie lifted her head slowly to stare again at the locked door as suspicion coiled around her heart. Could Jason be the one…? No, that’s crazy thinking. She shook her head as if to clear it of the traitorous thoughts. And the guilt that followed them. Jason wouldn’t hurt her. Jason was her friend.

At last, Katie rose from the chair and, on watery legs, headed for the studio. Her step was silent through the carpeted rooms. “You’re becoming scared of your own shadow, Katie Summers,” she said aloud, and heard her voice echo hollowly in the empty house. Jason probably just got tired of waiting around and decided to go for a walk, that’s all. Not like Jason to walk alone out here at night. And what you heard in the woods was exactly what you thought it was in the first place—a raccoon, or maybe even Charlie Black’s old lab, Sarah.

You didn’t think animal, she argued with herself as she lit the lamp in the studio. Only at first did you think it. You thought—never mind what you thought. You were wrong. Forget it.

Enough hysterics for one night. She shivered. Lord, it was as cold as a tomb in here. Not much new about that. Turning, she groaned at the sight of the empty woodbox. She’d forgotten she’d used up the last of the wood this morning. Damn! She hated the thought of having to go down to the cellar for more. She wasn’t even sure if she had the strength. She supposed she could wait until Jason returned and ask him to go get it for her, but then she decided that was hardly a fair way to treat a welcome guest. And neither was a cold, damp house. Giving a small sigh of resignation, Katie collected the empty woodbox, the flashlight from the table, and started back through the house to the kitchen, from where the narrow flight of steps led down to the cellar.

She’d taken no more than half a dozen steps when the phone rang, nearly startling her out of her skin. Setting the woodbox on the floor, she turned back. Just as she was about to answer, the whisperer came to mind. Katie’s hand remained in midair for two more rings, then she picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Would this be Katherine Summers?” the woman asked. Her voice was husky with a trace of British accent. Katie answered that it was, wondering if the relief she felt carried over the line.

“You don’t know me, my dear,” the woman said pleasantly, “but I’ve recently become acquainted with you through your work. Though most of your paintings had ‘sold’ signs on them, I did manage to purchase one, which I must say I’m enjoying immensely.”

Sold? Most of her paintings had sold? Katie’s heart lifted. “Well, I’m very pleased and flattered, Mrs…?”

“Oh, do forgive me. I’m Hattie Holloway. Please call me Hattie. And may I call you Katherine?”

“Katie, please. Katie is fine. It’s so kind of you to call, Mrs. Holl— Hattie. Which painting did you choose?”

“Summer ’s Silence. It’s wonderful. The barns and that old farmhouse—the green fields. It did so remind me of the place where I grew up in the south of England. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear my life’s history, so I’ll get right to the point. Oh, by the way, if you’re wondering, and I’m sure you are, they had your number at the gallery, and I took the liberty of copying it down. Since I’m a familiar old face, they didn’t seem to object. I hope you don’t, Katie.”

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. She didn’t add that her number was listed in the phonebook. Intuition told her that that would have been insensitive and a mistake. The woman obviously hadn’t called just to compliment Katie on her work.

“Good,” she said brightly. “Well, I was wondering, Katie—do you do portraits?”

Excitement coursed through her at the thought of a commission. “Yes, I’ve done several,” she said, not adding that she’d done them without pay, and mainly for her own enjoyment.

“Could you do one from a photograph, do you think? I know this is an unusual request, but I do so admire your style. I’d be quite willing to sit for you, of course, but I’m going out of town with my husband— a business trip. Anyway,” she said, laughing in her rich, throaty voice, “I’m slightly younger in the photograph. So you see, Katie, I’m not without a certain vanity.”

“None of us are, Mrs. Holl…Hattie. When would you—? I mean, I see no reason I couldn’t do your portrait from a photograph.”

“Wonderful. It’s to be an anniversary gift for my husband.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “I’d like it completed in three weeks, if that’s possible.” She went on hurriedly, as if anticipating a protest from Katie. “I’ll expect to pay you extra for rushing you, naturally. I only just thought of having a portrait done. Seeing your work inspired the idea.” And then she mentioned a sum that made Katie’s breath catch—enough to pay for art lessons for a year, and supplies to boot.

Admittedly, three weeks wasn’t much time in which to do a portrait, certainly in Katie’s case since she worked slowly, but it was enough time. She would make it enough.

Most of her paintings sold. A commission. Letting out a squeal of delight, Katie hugged herself and did a little dance around the floor, feeling much as she used to on Christmas morning before her father went away—a long time ago, but she remembered those times vividly.

Most of her paintings sold. A commission. She could hardly believe it. With renewed energy, her recent scare flown from her, Katie grabbed up the woodbox from the floor as if it were weightless and hurried from the room, figuring that by the time she got back Jason would be here and she could tell him her wonderful news. He would be so happy for her. They would celebrate. There was probably no more than a few drops left of the Mateus they’d shared, but Katie knew where there was a unopened bottle of Chablis—a last year’s Christmas gift from one of the regulars at The Coffee Shop.

Descending the cellar steps, Katie went straight to the woodpile stacked against the far wall. Setting the flashlight on the floor at her feet where the beam made a pale, sweeping light on the gray cement, Katie hunkered down to gather the wood. As she did, something creaked behind her.

Holding a chunk of wood in her hand, she frowned. Mice? She hoped not. But it was an old house, after all. She would have a cat if she were home during the day. She went back to gathering the wood, smiling to herself, thinking of the cat she’d owned as a little girl. Saucy, she’d called it, and it was. Even now, she could almost feel its soft, silky fur against her cheek, the warmth of its body vibrating in her arms whenever Saucy condescended to bestow her affections.

Well, she would have to forego that indulgence for the time being. Again, she thrilled at the thought of her sold paintings, of her first commission. Maybe someday she really would be able to stay at home and earn her living from her painting. Somehow, that possibility did not seem quite so remote as it usually did.

Katie was nearly finished gathering up the wood and stacking it in the woodbox. Half-filled would have to do. Otherwise, she would never be able to carry it upstairs. Cradling a few more chunks in the crook of her arm, she again heard the creaking sound behind her. It came from high up, just off her right shoulder. And then again.

Not a mouse. No, not a mouse.

Her shoulders tensed, her new-found joy fading, replaced with a creeping eerie sensation that prickled the hairs at the nape of her neck. Katie’s hand closed around the flashlight. For a long moment she was absolutely still. Then, slowly, she turned in the direction of the sound.

On a direct level with her eyes, brown and white shoes dangled in midair. Katie gasped, dropping the wood to fall in a noisy clatter on the cement floor. Her horrified eyes riveted on the shoes as back and forth they swayed—back and forth—like the feet of a mindless puppet. And upward to the familiar checked sports jacket, the lolling head. Screams sounded inside her head, piercing, wailing screams. Yet, except for the slow, rhythmic creaking, all was quiet.

She stood transfixed, staring in mute horror as the circle of light spotted the strawman dangling from the end of a hangman’s noose.

At last a scream broke from her, and she stumbled backwards. As she did, the flashlight slipped from her grasp, shattered on the cement floor, abandoning Katie to complete darkness. And when the warm, moist breath brushed her cheek, her scream became a soft, strangling sound deep in her throat.

She barely heard the cellar door close.