The Third Victim (12 page)

The tall figure was turning purposefully toward the house, straight for her front door. Now the figure was twisting to face him fully. The mouth was open.

“Is that you, Steve?”

The voice was low, but the night was splitting around him, crumbling, tumbling down. The man was calling out to the houses with their dark, spying windows. Trees and shadows shifted dangerously. The knife could never save him from so many. The man was a shadow behind the voice, still speaking. To the left, the hedge was low. The night whirled as he ran, leaped, cleared the hedge. From behind came the sound of running feet on cement. His own footsteps pounded on hard ground—grass, unwatered. He remembered the yard, brown and blotched. The next hedge was taller. Head down, knife slashing blindly, he was tangled in branches that tore at his face, his arms, his legs. The hedge twigs were alive, fighting him. But, struggling, he was free. Ahead, he knew, was a tall wooden fence. His breath wracked in his throat; the sobs he heard were his own. He could still hear the pavement-pounding footsteps behind him.

He knew this yard—knew now what to do.

He turned toward a small gate, found the gate latch where he’d first seen it, weeks ago. He lifted the latch, pushed open the gate, slipped through. He pushed the gate closed, stood for a moment listening. The footsteps on the sidewalk slowed, stopped. He could hear hesitation in the silence. Puzzlement.

It was the moment he needed—the time he’d commanded. His power was stronger now, growing every moment.

Softly, keeping to the shadows, he crept along a garage wall, past a small toolshed, past children’s toys and a black-reflecting plastic wading pool. He’d seen it all; it was all familiar, stored safely behind his eyes. From the street, voices were beginning—voices that would call to other voices. The hyena pack was gathering. He must move slowly, carefully. The rattle of his breath, the constant roaring in his ears must not deafen him to the voices. He must listen—must wait for the full power to return.

The back fence was ahead, another high wooden fence, another gate, latched only inside. Beyond the fence was a narrow rutted alley. Safety was in the alley, dark and deserted. It was his escape route. Animal burrows had escape routes, too. If hyenas had their pack, he had his burrow. Ipso.

As he crept toward the gate, crouched low, he saw the knife gleam leading him. Others had followed the gleam of a knife. Saints and soldiers and Hamlet, too. If animals had knives, and no teeth, then Hamlet must chew, and woodchucks were murderers. At the thought, a sudden giggle threatened, saved only by the sound of the gate latch clicking beneath his hand. He still heard their voices. But the voices were soft, unworried. There was no danger in these voices. His power had smoothed out the danger, erased it.

Now he was in the alley, alone. The voices were gone, disappeared. Suddenly weak with relief, he was leaning against the fence. Safety surrounded him in the darkness like a woodchuck at midnight, burrowed deep and dark. But he could still see the knife. Hamlet might be blinded, dead and buried. But he could still see…

The giggling returned—quickly, dangerously, desperately. He closed his eyes, clenched one hand around the knife, the other into a fist. With his eyes closed, helpless, he was savagely shaking his head from side to side. But the giggles were sharper, threatening the silence around him.

His mouth was opening, savagely closing. As his teeth caught the lump of scar tissue, he felt the secret flow of blood begin, heard the giggling swallowed in pain and sudden silence. He drew a deep, slow breath, opened his eyes. Nothing beyond him had changed.

He drew another breath, testing himself. He pushed himself away from the fence. Within minutes—two minutes, no more—he would be on the Yamaha, safely riding home.

She folded the robe and draped it across the nearby chair back.

Should she have awakened Josh and taken him to the bathroom? When he had a cold, he sometimes—

Outside, directly in front of the house, a voice called out. Had someone called for Steve? Had Steve, upstairs, come home from vacation? An exclamation followed. It was a familiar voice, alarmed. Automatically she reached for the robe.

Was it Kevin’s voice?

Was Kevin out there?

She was in the hallway, now in the living room. Drawing the robe close, she stepped to the window and parted the flimsy curtains. She could see nothing, could hear nothing. But the voice, moments before, had been unmistakable.

“What the hell’s going on out there?”

It was Mr. Ferguson. Whenever something happened, Mr. Ferguson’s voice was always the first one raised. She stepped back from the window, hesitated, then moved to the front door. With Mr. Ferguson still blustering, there could be no danger. She unchained the front door, turned the knob, pulled the door open. Kevin was standing on the sidewalk, facing her. In the dim glow of the street light, she saw him raise his hands to her, as if to mutely explain himself. It was an abrupt, awkward movement, revealing an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Mr. Ferguson’s voice came truculently over the hedge: “I’ll phone for the cops. You can’t be too careful, you know, these days.”

“Kevin,” she called, “is that you?”

Why had she asked the question, already knowing the answer? Whom did she seek to spare?

She heard him mutter, saw his impatient hand-sawed gesture as he came toward her. His tall, slim body, normally so graceful, moved unevenly now, out of phase with itself. Was he drunk? Frightened? Both?

She waited until he’d come up on the small stoop and was standing before her. His face was in shadow. He stood silently, hands still moving uneasily.

Had it been Kevin inside her house?

Had he been in her bedroom? Had it all been real? At the thought, she felt her heartbeat deepening.

“What’s happening?” she asked. “What’s it all about?” Her voice was low. As if he were an unwelcome stranger, she stood squarely blocking the door, her arms folded beneath her breasts. It was a posture her mother had often taken, disciplining her.

“I was just going by.” His voice, normally so easy and assured, was almost a falsetto. She’d never before heard his voice falter. Even during their worst moments—all of their worst moments—she’d never heard this tiny, lost-sounding tremor.

“I saw someone by the cellar door—” His hand raised spasmodically, pointing. Involuntarily, her fearful gaze was following the gesture. “He was crouching down, there, under our—your bedroom window.”

“You said ‘Steve.’”

“I know. I knew it wasn’t, though.”

“Who was it, then?”

“I don’t know. I thought—I mean—” He gestured ineffectually. “I thought of all this crap—this Tarot thing. Everyone’s uptight. You know. Me included, I guess. It was probably a peeping Tom.”

“Did—” She paused, dreading what she was about to say. “Did anybody else see him? Anyone besides you?”

For a moment he didn’t reply. His eyes, she knew, were searching her face. She felt herself stiffen, unconsciously braced against the scrutiny she couldn’t see. He’d always been able to put her on the defensive. Always. Effortlessly.

“What?” His voice, sure enough, was sharp. But something was missing—some small edge of authority. “What?”

She moved back, turned, and stepped into the entryway. She couldn’t talk on the stoop—couldn’t talk to him with the street lamp behind him, and his face in shadow. “Come in.” She walked into the living room, making for the sofa. At the last moment she veered toward the room’s one easy chair. She switched on a table lamp. She heard the rattle of the night chain from the hallway. Now he stood in the archway, with the light full on his face. He stood motionless for a moment, then moved abruptly to the couch. His eyes were slightly unfocused, his movements erratic. He’d been drinking.

Could it have been Kevin? Had he been loitering in front of the house, drunk, when he’d been discovered? Had he decided to create a diversion? Already he’d admitted that the mysterious figure hadn’t been Steve, as he’d first said.

Yet the front door was chained, the back door bolted. Even with his key, he couldn’t have gotten inside.

Across the room, Kevin was smiling at her. But it was a wry, rueful expression, betrayed by the uncertainty that still shadowed his eyes. He was slumped back against the couch’s lumpy cushions, as if he were exhausted. He was wearing a shirt she hadn’t seen before. The shirt was tailored, and for the first time she saw a small roll of fat bulging over his belt.

“Are you cross-examining me?” He spoke from his reclining posture, with no urgency or rancor in his voice. His moment of pique had passed—dissolved, perhaps, in alcohol.

“No. But I was just wondering. I mean—” She felt a tremor beginning, deep inside. She saw him looking down at her legs. The robe was parted halfway up her thigh.

Why was her stomach quivering? It was the same feeling she’d experienced when she’d awakened, staring up at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, inexplicably terrified.

Had
someone been in the bedroom with her?

Could it have been Kevin?

At the thought, she felt her eyes momentarily close. She realized that she was blindly groping for the robe, pulling it together along her thigh. Across the room, she heard the couch squeak. It was an unpleasantly evocative sound. She’d last heard that particular couch squeak two weeks ago, with Tom.

“What’s wrong, anyhow?” Kevin’s voice was impatient.

Opening her eyes, she saw that he was sitting straighter. He was frowning at her. But it was a frown of puzzlement, no longer irritation. And his eyes were clearer, more alert. His mouth was firmer.

Was he worried about her?

“What’s bugging you, anyhow?”

“I—I thought someone was in here—in my bedroom. Anyhow, I woke up, and I was scared. And then I—I heard you, outside.”

“In here? Someone was in
here
?” He was on his feet. His slim, graceful body was taut as he advanced a step toward her. He was frowning sharply. His eyes, still so blue, were snapping now.

He’d always been good, playing the role of family protector.

“Are you sure?”

She knew that she was doggedly shaking her head, suddenly unconvincing. She was unable to meet his gaze, somehow. Why should it happen like this? He was the one who’d been discovered prowling in the dark.

“Are you sure?” he repeated. “
Tell
me, Joanna. What the hell’s it all about?”

Her head was still helplessly moving from side to side in a small, forlorn arc. Was she going to cry? Was that to be her final indignity? Why did he always win? A moment ago, standing on the porch with arms calmly folded, she’d been coolly assessing his telltale tics with her trained artist’s eye. Now her chin was trembling and her stomach was quavering while he stood over her, demanding an explanation.

She drew a deep, stubborn breath.

“I’m not sure,” she said finally. Then, in a rush of sudden words, she was telling him everything, beginning with the switch-blade knife, ending with her moment of terror, lying in bed. Had it been only minutes ago that she’d awakened? It seemed like hours.

As she’d been talking, he’d gone back to the couch and sat down. He sat hunched forward, staring at her intently. But his elbow had slipped off his knee. He’d probably been drinking all evening—steadily, as he always drank, once he started. His expression was serious, almost dolorous. As she talked, her eyes never left his face. It was a good face, with a squared-off jaw and gracefully arched eyebrows. The nose was just a little too long, but the mouth was wide and expressive. Because the features were subtle, not strong, it was a challenging face to paint. Many times, she’d painted this face. When he’d worn his beard, in New York, he’d looked a little Biblical, especially when he smiled. When he laughed, though, he looked like a buccaneer.

“Did you tell the police about the knife?” he asked finally.

“No, I didn’t want to worry Josh. He—” She hesitated. “He hasn’t been sleeping well.”

As she said it, she saw his mouth tighten. Had she told him that Josh sometimes had nightmares these last two months? She couldn’t remember.

“Of course,” he was saying, “it could all be coincidence. Or, more likely, the same person—some creep who’s imitating Tarot. That happens, you know.”

“Was this—” Involuntarily, she hesitated. “Was this person you saw trying to get into the basement?”

“I couldn’t tell. I don’t think so. He was crouched in the shadow of that big bush, just to the right of your window. If I had to guess, I’d say that he’d been looking in your window, then crouched down out of sight when I came along. I’d say that he was trying to see into your room, to get his kicks. Maybe he was scratching on the screen or something. Maybe that’s what woke you. That’s how they turn themselves on, as I understand it. They like to stare, but they don’t get their jollies until something happens—a scream or something. When they get a reaction—a scream—they have an orgasm.” He paused, frowning at the thought. Then: “Are you sure you heard someone inside the house?”

“Well, no. But I—”

The doorbell rang: one short, decisive ring.

“Christ!” On his feet, Kevin glanced at his watch. “It’s midnight.”

She twisted in her chair. Through the window she saw a police car at the curb.

“It’s the police.”

“Ferguson called them. Shall I talk to them?”

She nodded. Rising from the chair, she was suddenly conscious of the skimpy robe. It had never been intended for anyone’s eyes outside the family.

“Do you want to go into the bedroom?” he asked in a low voice.

Again she nodded. “Don’t—encourage them. I don’t want them to poke around. Josh might wake up.”

Now a knock sounded: three brisk, authoritative raps.

As she stepped into the bedroom she heard Kevin fumbling with the night chain. With her hand on the bedroom doorknob, she hesitated. Should she close the door or leave it open? Closed, it would discourage the policeman—and also Kevin. Finally, with a small shrug of resignation, she pushed the door until it was six inches ajar. Now, irresolute, she moved to the chair where she usually draped her robe. From the living room came the sound of male voices—Kevin’s and another. She was standing in front of the chair. Unconsciously she’d loosened the robe’s belt. But now, with a resigned sigh, she reknotted the belt, turned, and sat down in the chair.