Read The Way You Look Tonight Online
Authors: Carlene Thompson
The Way You Look Tonight
“Go inside,” Steve hissed.
Deborah stepped back into the house, amazed as she watched Steve stalk back to the evergreens. He went between and behind them. Deborah shuddered, waiting for a burst of gunfire, Steve's scream as a knife plunged into his stomach. But after a couple of minutes, he emerged and raised his shoulders. “Nothing out here.”
“But there was,” she insisted.
“Some kind of animal,” Steve said, his arms folded across his chest as he loped back across the lawn, his bare feet obviously suffering the bite of the frozen ground.
“It was
not
an animal,” Deborah maintained. “It was a man. Since when do animals stand nearly six feet tall? Or do you think perhaps it was a bear?”
Steve was shifting from foot to foot. “Deb, don't get nasty. Let's get back inside before we freeze to death and be glad no one was there. Like I said, it was probably just a stray dog.”
She stood her ground, searching his harried face with her own worried, angry eyes. What on earth was wrong with him? she wondered in bewilderment. A dog? Since the Vincents had gone to Florida and taken their ancient toy poodle Pierre, there were
no
dogs in the neighborhood aside from their own, Scarlett. Besides, the back yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence and last month, after Scarlett had learned to flip open the latch, she had found a strong clip at the hardware store to keep it fastened. The gate couldn't possibly be opened without human hands.
Then she heard the faint sound of metal clinking against metal. Steve's gaze shot to the gate, and Deborah didn't need him to tell her the gate she'd clipped shut that afternoon was open, swaying back and forth in the freezing night windâ¦
In memory of Margie
When he entered the bar at ten, Kelly's was packed, which he guessed was usual for a Saturday night. Every few minutes the door opened, spilling a shaft of light, the blare of the jukebox, a gust of cigarette smoke into the cold, quiet night. That's how all those places were â loud, bright, smoky. He endured several cigarettes, sipped three shots of abysmally bad Scotch diluted with flat soda, diplomatically fended off the attentions of a fiftyish barmaid with a lumpy figure and careworn eyes, and managed to speak briefly to only two other people for over an hour and a half. Then he left.
Outside, a frigid gust of air washed over him. He drew a deep breath. Brisk, clear, clean air, he thought. Pure. Snow fell heavily, veiling the street lights, carpeting the sidewalk, forming small drifts against storefronts. He remembered being eight years old and climbing on to a red sled he'd found abandoned on the sidewalk, waiting for the garbage truck. He'd been too young to care about its chipped paint and bent runner. He was only aware of the sharp air, the lacy snow sparkling in the moonlight on the hill behind his house, the exciting ride aheadâ¦
He shook his head slightly, bringing himself back to the matter at hand, lit a cigarette, and focused again on Kelly's. A couple emerged, laughing giddily as the woman slid on the snow. They headed north, away from him. For the next few minutes, no one else came out. As if drawn by a distant, irresistible call, they had abruptly started abandoning the bar half an hour ago. Now the stream of revelers had begun to trail off. It must be near closing time.
Kelly's blue neon sign shone. The sign was what had attracted him to the bar â the blue glow turned spectral by the mystical veil of snow. He had an appreciation of lights, and this one was lovely. He wondered how many other people were sensitive to its impressionistic beauty. Not many.
He'd found most people had exasperatingly dull, prosaic perceptions. He always reminded himself that he shouldn't measure them against himself. After all, he was special â intelligent, sensitive â things people in those pathetic Personal columns claimed to be but probably weren't. However, he couldn't help being constantly aware of his superiority. It was a fact of life.
He was half finished with his cigarette when a woman came out the door. He'd seen her earlier, sitting at the bar, not in one of the booths. She was a regular because the bartender had greeted her by name. Sally? Was that it? It didn't matter. Names gave people an identity, so he didn't like to think about them, not even nicknames.
She stood uncertainly in front of the door, squinting up the street then down, toward him. He was not well concealed, but that wasn't important. She didn't have
his
vision, despite her youth and beauty. He recalled from the bar that her eyes had been large and gentle, her face pure, innocent perfection. She'd reminded him of Olivia Hussey in the movie
Romeo and Juliet
. A rose among thorns. At times like this he always thought of the song âThe Way You Look Tonight'. He sang softly, his words drifting away in the cold wind. âSome day when I'm awf'ly low/When the world is cold/I will feel a glow just thinking of you/And the way you look tonight.' His mother loved that song.
In the gleam of the blue light, he could see the girl blinking rapidly against the snow peppering her smooth face. The man's heart beat faster as he stared at her, willing her to come his way. Every nerve in his body seemed to ignite as he waited, willing,
willing
. The girl turned north, took two steps, then abruptly turned around.
That was the Power! he thought exultantly. No one was immune to the Power, the power of
his
will, especially not the unformed mind of a young female.
He tossed away his cigarette and slowly, quietly slid down until he was sitting on the snow. She hurried along, then halted when she heard his moan echoing in the alley. âMiss,' he called feebly. âMiss!' She tensed, ready to run, but still stared at him. âSomebody mugged me,' he slurred, pulling a red-stained handkerchief away from the side of his head where the hair grew thick. âHit me. Don't think I can walk.' She hesitated as snow fell steadily on her long, shining dark hair. She looked like a frightened child, not sure whether to be friendly or run as fast as she could for home. Then she frowned. âDo I know you?'
âI don't think so,' he said in an instinctive bid for anonymity, then realized his mistake. She wanted to help and vaguely acknowledging an acquaintance would have erased her fear. Now suddenly reversing himself and announcing she
did
know him would sound like a lie and send her scurrying away. Better not to out-think himself. Just play it pitiful. He spoke more clearly, injured innocence throbbing in his voice. âMiss, please. If you'll just help me up, I'll find a phone and call an ambulance.' He stood, then bent forward. âOh, God!'
She was beside him in an instant. A big-city woman wouldn't be so gullible, he thought with amusement. But in a place like Wheeling, West Virginia, they tended to be more trusting. He always counted on that fact. He pulled away the handkerchief and groaned. âI didn't know there was so much
blood
. Oh well, I'll live, although I'm awfully dizzy,' he mumbled with a feeble laugh, noticing how her dangling gold filigree earrings caught the dim light.
She was all business, suddenly in control. Or so she thought. âYou just put your arm around my neck, mister. We'll get you in that bar down the street and call for help.'
The man's gloved right hand slipped into his coat pocket and closed around something as he smiled at her with carefully practiced gratitude. âYou're an angel, young lady. You'll be rewarded for your goodness.'
Two
Twenty minutes later what was left of Sally Yates opened her eyes. Pain. It overwhelmed her awareness. Pain and a cruel, suffocating band around her throat. She clawed at it. A rope. A rope with knots. Around the rope, warm slickness.
She reached up and touched her head. The left side felt strange â dented. Blood gushed from it, covering her face, saturating her hair, dripping on her white imitation-wool coat she thought so elegant. Her hand trailed down to an eye-socket puffed shut, a crushed cheek, and further down to the jagged end of a bone sticking out in the jaw area. What in the name of God had he done to her face? Then she remembered â the hammer. She'd seen it after he laughed as he jerked the pierced earrings from her ear-lobes.
The pain was almost unbearable. Dazed, she rolled over, fighting for balance, her mind reeling. âYou got no business goin' out tonight.' Her mother's words rang in her head. âJack's gonna skin you alive if he finds out.'
âI'm twenty-two,' Sally had protested. âHe's always gone and he never wants to have any fun. Besides, I'm just going to a movie.'
âMovie, my foot. You're goin' to that bar â that Kelly's. You should stay home and mind your baby.'
Amy. Safe at home with Sally's nagging but loving mother. But what if Sally didn't survive this? Amy would be raised by Jack, who was quick to scream and hit and kick when things didn't go his way.
The thought of her eight-month-old baby flooded Sally with new resolution. Fighting the urge to lie back in the snow and let darkness descend, shutting out the pain and the horror, she forced herself to look up. With her right eye she saw something looming above her. She reached out. Cold metal. A dumpster, she thought, fighting for clarity. He'd pulled her behind a dumpster before he yanked the rope so tight it cut off her air and rendered her half-conscious before the rape and the beating.
She tried to swallow and choked on something in her mouth. She spit up a small wad ofâ¦of what? Leaves? Twigs? She couldn't see in the dark. More bits floated around in her mouth, lodged near the broken jaw bone, but she didn't have the energy or the tolerance of pain to dig them out with her tongue.
Her breath rasping, trying to force its way past the stricture of the rope, she clambered to her knees and crawled. Her stomach churned with nausea. Her left third finger hurt and hung at an odd angle. It was broken, and her wedding ring was gone. How strange, she thought dimly. The bastard took my wedding ring!
Snow coated her hair and pressed against her bare knees â her panty-hose were in shreds â but she couldn't feel the cold as much as she had when she first opened her eyes. Snow crunched beneath her weight as she dragged herself to the street, the street where people might be, the street where lights glowed, where help lay.
She fell sideways a couple of times, and once she was aware of slithering along, like a snake, her tongue protruding as she fought for air. The nails she'd manicured just that evening broke raggedly as she pulled herself forward, occasionally reaching for the rope around her neck, the rope embedded deep in her young, soft skin. She'd lost her shoes, she realized dreamily. Good shoes. Her very best. Real leather. Have to find them later.
The street. Through her one good eye she surveyed the area. No one around, but she dragged herself on. On and on. Everything whirled and she closed her eye, still pulling herself forward. After an eternity she heard someone shouting, âWhat the hell?' Dimly she became aware of people around her. A man turned her over, then muttered, âSweet Jesus, no!'
She felt an absurd wave of embarrassment, an irrational desire to cover her ruined face, but her hands wouldn't move any more. âIt's Sally!'
âHow can you tell?' a woman quavered.
âThe hair. Sally, what happened?'
Hank, the bartender. She tried to talk, but no words emerged. Her throat seemed swollen shut. He worked futilely at the rope.
Sally's body went limp. She'd lived through the strangling, the rape, and the beating, but something was happening in her brain. Her physical sensations were dimming. Brain damage. She knew â she was a nurse. Desperately she fought to regain the pain that indicated continued life and normal brain function.
âWho did this to you?' Hank demanded.
The woman's voice rose eerily. âOh, lordy, lordy! Look at her face! She's beaten to a pulp!' She moaned. âI think I'm gonna faint. I'm goin' down right this instant.'
âStop worrying about yourself and call for help!' Hank shouted.
âI can't. I'm sick. I'm shakin' like a leaf.'
âDammit, Belle, stop actin' like a jackass. You're scarin' the hell out of her.'
â
I'm
scarin' her! Listen, she's way past scared. Can't you see she's dyin'?'
Dying, Sally thought in one last, dim flash. I'm dying on a cold, snowy sidewalk, all because a man in an alley asked for help.