Listen to the Shadows (20 page)

I’ll put on some coffee.” The pain in his eyes was terrible to see, like peering into someone’s soul. His grief, she knew, was far worse than her own. Impulsively, she put her arms around him. He smelled of alcohol and of the cold night. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He drew away first, and Katie saw in his eyes that at some level, he blamed her. Looking away, he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose. When she asked if he’d had any supper, he shook his head. “I’m not hungry. He’s being buried tomorrow, you know,” he said, his voice on the edge of breaking.

Katie could only nod. She wished she could find words to comfort him, but she knew there were none.

“I made all the arrangements,” he said, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket. “His parents won’t be coming to the funeral; they disowned him years ago—when they found out. He has no brothers and sisters…”

“I should have called you, Peter. I should have called and offered my help.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. I wanted to do it.” He suddenly swayed on his feet, and Katie feared he might pass out right there in front of her. She put out a hand to steady him. “Are you all right? Would you like to lie down for awhile?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Coffee, then,” she said, putting firmness into her voice. Black coffee. Gallons of it.

“What happened, Katie?” he asked, as she put an arm about him and led him out to the kitchen. The question might have come from a small boy, lost and confused. “Why is Jason dead?” And then, as she guided him to a chair at the table, he covered his face with his hands and his shoulders heaved as harsh sobs tore at him. “He never knowingly hurt anyone in his life. I don’t understand.”

Katie’s own tears spilled over as she thought, Neither do I, Peter.

Dammit, neither do I.

In a little while, Peter began to get himself together. The coffee had had the desired effect, sobering him somewhat. The tuna sandwich she’d fixed for him remained untouched on his plate, as did her own.

More than food or sleep, Peter seemed to need to talk. Katie was more than happy to listen.

“We never really had all that much in common, you know. Not on the surface, anyway. I mean, well, I’m a lawyer—objectivity, facts and all that. Jason is…” He clenched his fists on the table, swallowing hard. “Jason was an artist. He liked people; they liked him.” He bit down on his lower lip. “I’ve always been something of a loner. I never believed there would be any kind of real relationship for me—just out-of-town bars—just…”
 
He shook his head as though to clear it of painful images. “And then I met Jason. I was twenty-two, still in university. Jason was active in the drama club. He was starring in a play called Charlie ’ s Aunt the first time I saw him. God, he was funny. He got a standing ovation every night."

Peter gave a wistful smile, turning his sandwich plate round and round on the table. “Jason could always make me laugh. It was one of the things I loved about him. He thought I took life too seriously. Jason was a beautiful man, Katie. What we had wasn’t—sordid. It was special.”

Katie smiled. “I know,” she said softly.

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then he dropped his gaze to stare into the dark swirls of his coffee. “I don’t think too many people knew about me.”

Katie said nothing. The fact that secrecy was so important to Peter, that his grief was something he need now feel ashamed of, caused her own sadness to deepen.

“They do now, of course,” he said, giving a short, bitter laugh.

“Now that the police have found the letter.” He grew thoughtful.

“Jason told me he confided in you. I was angry about that at first—I was afraid. But he trusted you, so I had to trust you, too.” Idly, he spooned sugar into his coffee, stirred it slowly. “I think I was jealous of Jason’s friendship with you—a little.”

“There was no need to be.”

He nodded, sliding the cup away from him. “I really don’t expect you to understand.”

“And I won’t patronize you by pretending to, Peter. I can’t know about your experience. But I do know about loneliness—and loss.

Believe me, I do.”

Peter took two cigarettes from a silver case and offered her one, and though Katie hadn’t smoked in over three years, she accepted it. Peter lit them. Dragging deeply on his own, he then exhaled the smoke in a long, shuddering sigh. Quietly, he said, “I can see why Jason was so fond of you.”

Despite the kind words, Katie knew that she and Peter would not share a similar friendship. The knowledge saddened her, but she thought she understood. Part of Peter would always resent her. Mainly because if Jason had not come to her house that fateful night, he would still be alive. On that, they both agreed.

It was close to eleven when Peter left. Though she’d tried her best to persuade him to stay over, he’d just shaken his head numbly and went out into the night. It was too late, of course, to call the girls. But then, Katie realized, she’d never really intended to go there anyway.

She lingered over the tepid, bitter coffee for a long time, thinking of Peter. He’d come here tonight because he’d needed to share his grief—he’d needed to talk to—someone who had been close to Jason. He’d also been looking for answers that neither she nor anyone else could give him.

A sound like pebbles hitting the window made her look up, startled. Then she saw it was hailing, and thought at once of Peter, driving. The roads would soon be treacherous if this kept up. She prayed his depression would not cause him to drive recklessly. Damn! Why hadn’t he accepted her invitation to stay over, for both their sakes?

Peter’s embarrassed admission that he’d been jealous of her friendship with Jason came unbidden into her mind, calling up Sergeant Miller’s ugly insinuations and speculations. She considered them briefly, guiltily, before rejecting them. The only person Peter was apt to hurt, she thought uneasily, was himself.

She went into the studio wondering if she should call Jonathan. Maybe he would talk to Peter. She picked up the receiver—put it back down. Oh, sure, you’d like an excuse to call him, wouldn’t you? Okay, I admit it. The truth was, she just didn’t think she could bear to stay here alone tonight.

The hail had stopped as quickly as it started. Thank Heavens for that. Staring at her ghostly reflection in the night-blackened glass doors, she had an overwhelming sense of someone out there in the darkness—someone watching her. Recalling Jonathan’s remark about her foolish bravado ending her up in a body bag sent her back to the phone where she dialed the number Jonathan had given her.

As the phone rang at the other end, Katie found herself wondering if maybe she really had heard disappointment in Jonathan’s voice when she’d turned down his offer to stay the night. Maybe she was wrong about Lona being someone special in his life. Her heart gave a little skip as someone picked up the receiver—then plummeted as a woman’s voice—Lona’s, she knew—called out melodiously, “Jon, darling, would you be a love and bring me my drink?” Then she sang into Katie’s ear, “Hellooo.”

Katie gently replaced the receiver.

***

His hair damply dark from the shower, Jonathan crossed the forest-green carpeting, tying a navy velour robe over his pajamas. “Who was on the phone?”

Lona was sitting on the floor in the lotus position, her long, slender body clad in black leotard, her hair cascading like an ebony cloud to her waist. Except for enormous brown eyes, her face was a finely chiseled, feminine version of Jonathan’s.

“No one. Well, I suppose it must have been someone, but they hung up. Wrong number, I guess.”

“Where’s your drink?”

“In the bedroom.”

He looked at her.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Do you mind? I’m tied up.”

Shaking his head, but grinning, he went to get it. “Booze and yoga,” he said, his tone lightly teasing. “Weird combination.” After handing her the drink, Jonathan sat down on the sofa. “Well, little sister, what’s next on your varied agenda?”

She grinned up at him, her face glowing with the vitality and energy of youth, though she was thirty-three. “New York,” she said, untangling herself and going to sit next to him on the sofa, curling her long legs up under her. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I landed a great part in

Frank Marcus’s The Killing of Sister George. I’m playing Mercy

Croft, the producer of a soap opera.”

“Saw the movie,” Jonathan grinned. “Hated it.”

“The play’s a comedy, dummy. Except for the story line, there’s no comparison.”

“So, Broadway, huh?” He tousled her mane of hair playfully. “I’m impressed.”

“Off-off Broadway, actually,” she quipped in her perfect British accent. “But what the hell? It’s work. Tell me what’s been happening with you. What’s this about a year’s sabbatical?”

“I needed a rest, that’s all.”

She gave him a mock pout, sipped her drink. “So don’t tell me. You never tell me anything, anyway.” As if dismissing him, Lona rose and sauntered over to the painting that took up most of the narrow wall facing them. “I’ve been looking at this while you were in the shower.

It’s really good. Terrific, in fact.” She peered at the name scrawled in the lower right-hand corner. “Katie Lynn Summers. Never heard of her.”

Clasping his hands behind his head, Jonathan said, “You will,” so confidently that Lona turned to look at him.

“You say that like a number one fan. Someone you know.”

“Yes, I know her.”

Lona came closer, cat-like in her movements, her dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Do I detect, after all this time, stars in my big brother’s eyes?”

Jonathan laughed. “You always were nosy.” He stood up, and, crossed in front of her to the sideboard where he poured himself a generous shot of whiskey over ice. Standing with drink in hand, he returned his attention to Katherine’s rendition of Madonna and Child.

He’d bought it at the local art gallery weeks before he’d actually met the artist. Aside from its being a superior work there was an added, special reason why he’d felt compelled to buy it. At the time, there’d been a couple considering the painting, and while they were arguing about whether or not the colors fit in with their new decor, Jonathan had unashamedly snapped it up, earning some icy looks for himself.

He grinned, remembering. “We’re just good friends,” he said, coming to sit beside his sister. Odd, how his blood had quickened at the mere mention of Katherine. But, alas, there was the matter—however virtually invisible—of Drake Devlin. The lady, as they say in Victorian novels, was spoken for.

“Too bad,” Lona said, and for a moment Jonathan was startled, thinking she’d read his mind, or that he’d spoken aloud. Then he realized she was responding to his half-truth that he and Katherine were no more than good friends. Lona shifted her position on the sofa, began rearranging the plump cushions, behind her back. Jonathan glanced around the apartment. It was a typical bachelor apartment, pleasant enough, he supposed, but he knew he wasn’t the apartment dweller type. He needed space. He needed to walk out of his door and see green trees, breathe clean air.

And he would. Soon. But for now the apartment served his purpose just fine.

“Ever hear from Constance?” Lona asked, trying to make the question sound matter-of-fact.

Down in the street a car horn blatted, while above their heads someone was practicing chords on an electric guitar. Jonathan gazed into his drink, swirled the pale amber liquid lightly so that the ice tinkled against the sides of his glass like tiny crystals. “No. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Always the protective little sister, aren’t you?”

“And why not? She was never right for you.”

“Would anyone be?” he teased.

She put on a deeply wounded face. “Sure. You think I don’t want you to be happy?”

He patted her knee. “Tell me about your love life, Lona. It’s always a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.”

“Always the psychiatrist. Get them talking about themselves; keeps the spotlight off you, right?” All the same, Jonathan watched her expression grow thoughtful as she turned the large, fake emerald on her engagement ring finger, flashing a plum-colored nail, a secretive little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Actually,” she said, letting her hands drop to her lap and looking at him, “there is someone.”

“Oh?” Jonathan tried to act surprised.

“Yeah, I met him at an audition. I don’t even remember the play. Big, blond and oh, so gorgeous. Ivan Wellington. How about that for a name? Not a stage name, either. Too bad he’s as dirt poor as I am, and just like me, stalking the big break.” Her face, always expressive, suddenly lit up with something close to awe. “Oh, but Jon, what a fine actor he is. Reminds me of a young Laurence Olivier. He doesn’t act. He simply becomes. He internalizes the role, makes it uniquely his own. He will make it, there’s no doubt in my mind.” Then she rolled her eyes and hugged her knees, a mischievous look coming into her face. “Not too bad in the real life department, either, if you get my drift.”

Jonathan smiled and shook his head. “You’re incorrigible, Lona.”

Then he settled back to listen, as he so often had while they were growing up, to Lona’s latest love adventure. Lona’s voice rose and fell like the tide, often far in the distance, as Jonathan’s thoughts kept returning to Katherine. He was so afraid for her. And for himself, too, he might just as well admit it. He was terrified he would prove powerless in the face of this evil that had invaded her life, and ultimately, his own. He was terrified of failing again. He didn’t think he would be able to go on if that happened. Well, at least for tonight, he consoled himself, I needn’t worry. Tonight she was safe in the company of her friends.