Listen to the Shadows (6 page)

Chapter 7

Other than the photograph of Katie Summers, which was now thumb-tacked to the A & R Realty calendar just above the red-circled “5” in the month of November, there were no other pictures in the man’s room—nothing to suggest family or friends—to indicate past. He’d had parents, of course, just like everyone else, but he rarely thought of them and when he did it was with the indifference one afforded strangers or, on occasion, contempt. Particularly for his mother, which was ironic since she was the one person in the world who absolutely adored him, for whom he could do no wrong.

He recalled her hugs, the way her soft, cushiony breasts would mash against him, and felt the same revulsion he had felt then. A silly, simpering woman, his mother. Not that he wasn’t always very careful about hiding his feeling; he wasn’t a fool, after all. She had her uses. He could, for instance, always manage to persuade her to open her purse and fork over a dollar or two from her house money, meager fruits borne from his father’s bookkeeping job in a department store. “Love you, Mommy…beautiful Mommy…love you,” and her face would go all soft with love for him, and he knew he was her “sweet, precious boy” and that she would deny him nothing.

His father, on the other hand, was a different story. Almost from the beginning he’d sensed in his son, an only child who’d come to them late in life, something not quite so sunny, so innocent. In fact, sensed something dark—something that frightened him over time, causing the small, gray man to withdraw into himself, becoming a silent phantom in the house.

Until his death when the boy was thirteen. A tragic accident, everyone said. A horrible accident. The small orange plastic radio his father liked to listen to when he was having his bath had fallen into the tub with him—must have caught the cord with his hand, they said— and electrocuted him.

He had seen the boy in the bathroom doorway—saw the radio perched on the edge of the sink—and knew. Perhaps he’d always known. His scream was short. All the lights in the house went out, but the boy managed easily to slip back to his room before he heard his mother’s panicked footsteps bounding up the stairs.

“Call an ambulance,” she’d cried hysterically, as he came running to join her. “My God, call an ambulance.”

His father’s face wavered just beneath a skin of cloudy bath water, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes on the boy—wide, staring, accusing.

Tears streaming down his face, the boy ran to obey his mother’s cries. In the beginning, it was his father’s interference in his life that got to him. His father telling him what to do. He couldn’t stand people telling him what to do. After a while the old man gave up and let him be. But it was his eyes that drove the boy nuts—those eyes following him around, watching.

Winding a length of rope about his hand, the man smiled, remembering the time his father had walked in on him and the little girl next door. What was her name? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. They were in his bedroom, and he was holding a pillow over the girl’s face, taking it away, listening to her gasp air back into her lungs. Over her pleas, he would bring it down again, holding it firm with his strong, thin arms, using all his strength, giggling at her helpless, flailing hands, sitting on her legs so she couldn’t kick. It was fun. A game. Until his father had rushed in and whipped the pillow away, barely able to speak his rage and shame, backhanding him so hard he practically flew off the bed.

Well, his father would never hit him again. He’d fixed him.

For good.

The man jammed the brand new coil of one-quarter inch white nylon rope into his pocket, gave a rare thought to his mother, with whom he had lived for the three years following the demise of his father. Until she fell dead on the kitchen floor of a massive stroke.

He was sure his mother guessed things about him toward the end. He really didn’t mind her knowing. From time to time, he would catch a fleeting horror in her eyes as certain thoughts took shape, another piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

Once a neighbor came to the house wailing and complaining that her cat, “poor, dear Fritz,” had been found hanging from a tree behind the school, sweet pink tongue lolling. She’d pointed her fingers straight at him. He stood behind his mother, grinning his mocking grin at the old hag, quickly wiping it off when his mother turned questioning eyes on him.

Then there was the time the new boy on the block suffered a fractured skull delivered by a wielded baseball bat. The cops had come to the house that time. He was fourteen then, his accuser seven. He denied it, of course. Must have been someone who looked like him. Why would he do it? He didn’t even know the kid.

He denied all of it. There were never any witnesses. He was always very careful about that. And she believed him. He was once again his mother’s “sweet, precious boy”.

In the end, she believed what she wanted to believe.

***

The knife lay on the cot with the flashlight. He picked it up, fondled it. Nice and new like the rope. Never used. Virginal. He picked up the flashlight. Everything he would need to accomplish his feat, he had. A crucial part of his plan, of course, waited behind his closet door. He looked there now, and grinned.

He would drive out to her house tonight, get a feel for the place while she was still in the hospital. Things had worked out sweetly for him, after all. Better than he could have imagined, given the forced changed in plan. Fate was on his side.

He believed in fate.

Chapter 8

It was after one o’clock when Katie arrived back in her room, just in time, as Linda Ring had predicted, to miss lunch. Despite feeling shaky and weak from her ordeal of being tested, probed and prodded, Katie was undoing the robe practically before the wheelchair was through the door, and a moment later, returning it to the case, perfectly folded. She would phone Jason and ask him to drive out to the house and bring her a few needed items.

As promised, Linda shampooed her hair, styling it with a dryer borrowed from a kindly patient. A little lipstick, blush and mascara, and Katie had to admit she both looked and felt a lot more human. The nurse thoughtfully brought her tea and toast before going off duty. Now, having finished it, Katie lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. It had been a long day, and it was only half over. Still, she knew she was getting stronger all the time.

Lying there, listening to the blaring television set across the hall, Katie guessed her neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, was indeed a little on the deaf side. A man was passionately raking someone over the coals— probably a woman—a soap. Katie tuned it out.

Eyes closed, she drifted.

The scene rode to the front of her mind as if captured by a movie camera on a trolley, a single frame, starting small, becoming swiftly larger in close-up. She saw a boy dressed in ragged clothing running in a field, waving his arms about in joyous greeting. In the act of running, the boy’s body suddenly froze in midair, then it spun, arms and legs flailing in grotesque pantomime. Blood spattered the blades of grass like red rain, dripped from a leaf just above Katie’s head. Behind where the boy lay dead, a chorus of anguished voices rose in terrible mourning, and it reached Katie’s very soul.

Her eyes shot open, while behind her eyelids the picture continued to play. It was several seconds before it finally faded to let the room shimmer whitely back into focus.

Across the hall, the television set grew louder.

A nurse poked her head in the door. “Anything wrong in here?”

“No, nothing. I didn’t ring.”

“One of the patients thought she heard someone cry out in here.”

Katie smiled thinly. “Sorry. Wrong room.”

Sitting up in the bed, Katie rubbed her eyes, as if to erase any residue of the scene. My God, what was that all about? A dream? Yes, she must have been dreaming. Yet she was sure she hadn’t been asleep. She put a hand to her cup on the night table; the remaining tea was still hot.

Frowning, Katie lay back on the pillow to think. It had, in a way, been like seeing in her mind’s eye the eyes in the rearview mirror. And yet, it hadn’t—not exactly. The “ eyes, ” she was certain now, were a memory. Her memory. The boy had seemed more a vision. And there was no sound except at the end when that awful cry, like some primal wail, went up in chorus, leaving her with a heavy, lingering sadness. Had she had a psychic experience? A premonition of some kind? A vision from the past? Katie believed in such things, as had her aunt before her. Not that either were fanatic about it, and Katie knew there were plenty of frauds around only too willing and able to con the gullible and the lonely. There was also no doubt in her mind that there were some things human beings had no answers for—some things that defied scientific explanation.

Who was the boy? she wondered. She had had no sense of recognition, although admittedly she hadn’t seen his face clearly. Just as she hadn’t seen with any clarity the surroundings, only that there’d been grass and trees.

Was it Black Lake? It hadn’t felt like Black Lake. And yet she’d been part of the scene.

“Everything okay?” Nurse Ring asked, coming into the room, wearing her coat and carrying her purse over her arm.

Clearly, the other nurse must have related to her that her patient had cried out just as Linda was about to leave for the day.

“Everything’s just fine,” Katie said cheerfully. “The tea and toast really hit the spot. I hope you’re not neglecting your other patients, what with all this fussing over me.”

“I enjoy fussing over good patients. Besides, I’m a fast nurse.” She started away, then turned back. “And don’t take that the wrong way.”

Maybe she was making too much of the “vision” or whatever it was she had experienced. One thing was sure: she had no intention of telling anyone else about it. Dr. Shea had already suggested she’d concocted the story of seeing the eyes in the rearview mirror. Adding to it might just end her up in a rubber room somewhere, instead of on her way home.

Katie started at the feel of warm lips on hers. The sight of Drake drawing back from her, smiling down at her as a mother might smile at a sleeping child, was dreamlike. Lost in thought, she’d neither seen nor heard him enter the room.

“I think that’s called taking unfair advantage,” she said tightly, struggling to a sitting position and drawing the sheet up as far as it would go to cover her hospital shirt.

“You’re right and I apologize,” he said. “It’s just that you looked so like a little girl lying there, I couldn’t resist.” His gray eyes were innocent of ulterior motive as he lay a hand on her shoulder. “I was so worried about you, Katie; I’ve hardly slept a wink since you’ve been in here.”

At once, Katie’s initial annoyance faded and she gave him a forgiving smile. The kiss had been kind of sweet, now that she thought about it. She thanked him for the roses, told him how handsome he looked in his charcoal gray suit, the white shirt and silk burgundy tie.

“You look very much the prosperous lawyer,” she said, while in the back of her mind she wondered how to broach the subject of the expensive gifts she had no intention of keeping.

“All for show,” he replied, grinning. He went to the foot of her bed to raise her up. His movements were quick and precise, like pencil strokes. “Enough?”

“Perfect.” He had nice, square teeth. His mouth was a little on the thin side, but sensuous. Drake really was quite nice looking.

She watched him smooth the already neatly combed hair across his forehead in a familiar gesture. A nervous habit, she thought. Drake drew the chair to her bedside, the same chair Dr. Shea had sat in yesterday. It appeared to fit Drake better. Drake was shorter than the doctor, but stockier in build.

And why am I making the comparison? She also noticed that Drake’s fingernails were dirty, and felt crummy for noticing.

“I hope everything fit,” he said, glancing down at the overnight case, which stood unopened against the wall beside the closet. “I guessed at the sizes.” His smile was tentative.

Understanding his nervousness now, knowing he’d expected her to be wearing something from the case, Katie braced herself. “That’s something I need to talk to you about, Drake,” she said, relieved he’d raised the subject himself.

The anxious, intense expression Drake wore so often spread across his features. Even his tan seemed to pale, leaving his freckles naked.

“You didn’t like my choices?”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. “Your choices are perfect, Drake. The clothes—everything is exquisite. And I’m genuinely flattered by your generosity. But I—I can’t accept these things.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Knowing she was hurting him and wishing that he hadn’t made it necessary, Katie explained as if speaking to a not-so-bright child that these were gifts a man might give to his wife, or perhaps his wife-to-be. “I’m sorry if you can’t accept my feelings about this, Drake,” she finished lamely.

After a lengthy pause, Drake surprised her by smiling. “But I do, Katie,” he said. “I do understand. I see I’ve put you in an awkward position, and I respect you all the more for your principles. I just wanted to do something special for you, that’s all. It’s because of me that you’re here, that you had that terrible accident.” He lowered his gaze. “It’s because of my not showing up to take you to that damned dinner that you were out driving in that storm,” he ended hoarsely.

Until this very instant, Katie had completely forgotten about the unkept dinner date. Poor Drake. He was miserable with self-reproach. She felt something melt within her.

“You’re blaming yourself for something you had nothing to do with,” she said softly. “And that’s silly. The accident was just something that—happened.” Fleetingly, dead eyes flashed in her mind. She blocked them out. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not directly, but I still feel responsible. There’s a good reason I didn’t show up, Katie. It was unavoidable. I did try to call you, but the lines were down.”

“I knew there had to be an awfully good reason for you to miss such an important occasion, Drake. And believe me, there’s no need to explain.”

“But I want to. Please. Katie, I hope you don’t think I’m trying to buy your affections.” His hand went to his hair. “No, of course not,” she said, and hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.

“Good,” he said, his face relaxing. “Because I wouldn’t do that. Do you know when you’ll be going home?”

Glad for the change of subject, Katie told him that if the tests came out okay, Dr. Miller had promised her that she wouldn’t have to remain in the hospital for more than another week or so.

“I’ll come and get you,” he said flatly, leaving no room for argument. “Now that you’re allowed visitors, I’ll be here as often as I can. You just be sure and let me know when you’re being discharged, okay?”

As he smiled at her, Katie was suddenly struck with the sensation of the room growing hotter, of the flowers on her night table smelling sweeter, heavier. “Drake, I…”

He reached for her hand. “No strings, Katie,” he said gently. “No pressure. I promise. I just want to be your friend. Will you let me?”

Despite not quite believing them, Katie was relieved at his words.

“Of course I will. Thank you, Drake.”

“Thank you, Katie. I was so damned scared that night—it was Dad. I thought I’d lost him.”

At that moment, a tall, slim gentleman with snowy white hair appeared in her doorway. Mr. Jackson, Katie’s art teacher, held a small bouquet of violets.