Woman in the Window (25 page)

“All right. You’re right, of course. The only thing I can do this minute is get on to the Staten Island police and have them send a man out to the house. And I’ll head out now myself—I don’t know how long it’ll take me, Natalie. It might be quicker to take a police motor launch. But now, right now, Natalie, I’m going to call the Staten Island cops. Do you understand?”

“I’m scared, MacPherson, not an imbecile.” Her mind had switched to practical matters: the doors to the house … which made Aunt Margaret so proud. No working locks. “Yes, I understand. Just hurry, for God’s sake.”

“We will. Now let me get to the cops out there. And remember one thing—if he shows up, if he drops in on you, you’re going to have to handle him. Just remember, we’re on the way. And remember this—if he should get to you he may come as Dr. Drummond—our people here don’t think he’s dangerous when he’s in character. It’s only Barry-as-Barry who’s dangerous. Hang on, Natalie.” As an afterthought, he softened his voice: “And remember, nothing D’Allessandro told you is true. If it makes any difference to you …”

She sat, almost in a trance, as if she’d covered herself with a protective shroud, in a rocking chair in the parlor before the warm radiance of the fire. In her mind—was it in her mind, after all?—she heard the mournful crying of the cats and the closing of the door in the middle of the night. Had she heard it, the clicking of a door? Or had it come from within herself, born of her dreams and fears?

Was it her imagination? Or was he already there, in the house, waiting for her with a knife … the way he’d waited for Bradley Nichols?

She heard the footfalls on the porch and her eyes snapped open. She must have briefly gone catatonic, hiding in the shadows of her psyche. The porch flooring creaked. There was a knock on the door.

She sat rocking, staring into the fire, unable to move. She felt chilled, despite the fire, felt as if she were drawing in upon herself, vacating the premises.

The knocking was increasing in intensity. Pounding.

Julie? Her mind wandered momentarily. Had Julie somehow gotten through? The rocking chair lulled her. She felt drugged by fear.

In her hand she held the poker from the fireplace set. When had she taken it? She couldn’t remember. …

Someone was calling her. A man’s voice piercing the wind.

“Mrs. Rader? Are you in there? Mrs. Rader?”

Of course, the Staten Island cop. MacPherson had gotten his call through. She heard herself sigh. Kept rocking slowly.

She heard the pounding cease, then the front door opening, tentative footsteps in the front hallway.

“Mrs. Rader? Are you there?”

She made herself call out, “Who is it?”

The footsteps came down the hall, closer. She sensed someone in the doorway, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the fire.

“My God, Natalie,” he said. “Are you all right? Look, it’s me.” The voice was soothing, calm.

Slowly she looked toward the door.

She felt the breath easing out of her. She felt almost relieved.

“Why, Dr. Drummond, what are you doing here?”

“W
ELL, THIS HITS THE
spot, I must say!”

He sat at the kitchen table, hunched forward in a bankerish gray suit, sipping hot coffee. Then he looked reassuringly at her, shook his head for emphasis, and noisily drank more coffee. His straight gray hair was matted down and his scarf still hung around his neck, though he’d dumped his wet overcoat on a chair in the parlor. He caught her staring at him and offered an avuncular smile. How could it be the same man? The hair, the nose, the bulk of the body …

“It’s positively hellish out there,” he said. “Trees knocked over, telephone wires all tangled up and pulled into the street down in the village, fog, snow—damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at her where she stood by the counter. “Is that a loaf of homemade bread behind you?”

“Yes. I found it in the freezer—”

“If you don’t mind, some toast. No, you sit down, I’ll get it myself.” He pulled out a chair for her and went to the wooden block that held the knives. She watched him select one, admire the blade. “You want a slice?” She shook her head and he carefully sliced a thick piece, dropped it in the toaster. “At least the electricity isn’t out,” he said. “If I were you, I’d be ready for anything tonight. I hear there’s a god-awful accident on the Verrazano Bridge, completely blocked it off.”

She tried to smile. “How did you get here?”

“Came out yesterday, not long after I spoke with you on the phone. Decided to drive out and see a friend, he talked me into staying overnight, and today came the storm.” He shrugged, looked into the toaster to see if all was well. “As long as I was here, I figured I’d look you up. The story you told me yesterday worried me. I thought you might welcome a friendly face.” He smiled. The toast popped up and he buttered it. “Where’s your aunt, by the way? Didn’t you say she’d be here?”

“My former husband’s aunt, actually. I don’t know where she is. Atlantic City, I guess. It’s a little confusing.” Watching his face, she felt as if she’d entered a fun house—nothing was what it seemed. She was relaxing again, chatting with him. Yet he was Barry … God, she had to keep it all straight. He was the friendly deliveryman. He was D’Allessandro. He was Dr. Drummond.

“I’ve been wondering about your murderer,” he said, munching the toast. “Eerie story. Is there any news on that front? Have they found him?” He was staring at her, chewing, reassuring. He had cut Bradley Nichols to pieces.

“No, not yet. Still looking.”

“They’ve got a hell of a night for it.” He looked out the window over the sink, shook his head, came back and sat down. “I’ve been going over what you told me yesterday. You really have had a plateful. Lots of stress. Too bad you happened to see the guy with the gun in the first place. Bad luck.” He finished the toast and pulled a pipe from his pocket. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” She had a pain in the middle of her chest and trying to force herself to be calm seemed only to make it worse. She watched him light the pipe, shake out the match, drop it on the plate. He puffed, smiling at her. “Very peaceful here, isn’t it? Snug.” He frowned. “I suppose I’m being terribly insensitive, given your present anxieties. But it will all be over soon enough.” Smoke hung in an aromatic cloud between them.

“We sound like characters in a soap opera,” she said. “A dark and stormy night, doctor comes to visit patient, a murderer on the loose—”

“A bit overwrought? Is that what you’re saying?”

She nodded. “The stuff of nightmares.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Well, you seem to be holding up very well. More power to you. Think it sounds like a soap opera, do you? Then that makes me a soap-opera psychiatrist.” He laughed. “We’re all just actors, then.” He laughed again.

They went into the parlor. He knelt before the grate and jabbed the fire back to roaring life. He was so bloody convincing! She kept being lulled.

They sat quietly, listening to the crackle of the flames in the dry logs, the wind whipping along the front porch, the snow rattling at the windows, the house protesting.

Suddenly she sat up straight, cocked her head.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Listen … do you hear that?”

He listened, puffing. “Sounds like a cat—is that what you mean?”

“I noticed it last night. But I can’t find any cats. I’m glad I’m not imagining it.”

“Little fellow sounds like he’s in trouble somewhere. You’re not imagining it. We’d better see if we can find him.” He looked at his watch. “Then I’d better be going. God only knows how long it’ll take to get back to town.”

Natalie stood up and took the poker from the stand beside the fireplace.

“I don’t think we need to go armed,” Drummond said quietly. He reached for the poker.

She drew back, laughed nervously. “I keep thinking that maybe the cat cornered a rat or something. I’d feel better with this.”

“Right. Well, let’s go then.” He set off into the hallway and up the stairs. “A shrink must be ready for anything.” He chuckled.

She watched him go up the stairs ahead of her. A solid, imposing figure, everybody’s idea of an authority figure, always ready to help … He said he’d be going once they found the cat. She had the poker. She couldn’t show him any of her fear, her weakness. She had to hang on.
Hang on, Tiger, be a tiger.
He turned at the landing and held up his hand for her to be quiet. In the stillness they heard the weak meowing.

“Third floor,” he said. He felt for a light switch and dim, yellow illumination came on at the top of the narrow stairway. She’d never been to the top floor of the house before. He was halfway up the stairs, looked back. “Well, come on, you’ve got the weapons.”

The sound of the cat grew stronger as they climbed, a pained, wounded sound that made her skin crawl. Drummond looked back. “Scary, isn’t it?” he said.

At the top of the stairs she drew even with him, both of them out of breath. She gripped the poker tightly.
Barry-as-Drummond is not dangerous. …
She gulped air.
Barry-as-Barry is a homicidal maniac. …

“Why, you’re shaking, Natalie,” he said. “We’re just looking for a cat.”

The doors opening off the long, narrow hallway were all closed. The light was so dim she didn’t realize at first that there was another door at the far end. Her eyes accustomed themselves to the light and at the same time she heard the cat again.

Then she saw it.

It was crawling toward them, hugging the floor, coming out of the shadows at the far end. It was barely visible, almost a fragment of shadow that had detached itself from the main body of darkness. A tiny, frail creature, moving slowly, moving from side to side as if its gyroscope was out of control. It reminded her of nothing so much as a wind-up animal whose mechanism had just about given up the struggle.

They moved toward it as if it were somehow dangerous. It was making an awful, strangled sound, raw and painful, as it moved, crablike, toward them.

The smell hit her about halfway down the hall.

There was something horribly wrong. …

N
ATALIE KNELT BESIDE THE
cat just as it stopped moving, gave a tiny mournful whimper, and died.

She watched as the body tipped on its side and she saw the matted fur, touched it, felt the stickiness, then something warm and slippery and wet and realized that her finger had slid through the sliced flesh into the chest cavity.

She screamed, fell backward against Drummond’s leg.

“It’s been cut,” she whispered. A trail of blood lay along the floor, like the mark of a paint brush running out of paint. It led back to the door at the end of the hallway.

“We’d better take a look behind that door, Natalie—
”

“No, no,” she said, felling backward again, trying to get to her feet, trying to get to the stairway. “No, please, leave the door alone—please. …”

She felt the fingers of his right hand close around her forearm and draw her firmly to her feet. “Now, calm down,” he ordered, “be a big girl. You are a big girl, aren’t you? Then act like one—come on, face the music, Natalie.” His voice had undergone a subtle change, a hardening, a distancing. He sounded as if he was mocking her. He pulled her forward. She turned back, tugging helplessly. Beside the body of the cat lay the poker.

For a moment, before he pushed open the door, the world seemed to stop for her, as if it were imprinting itself on her mind, a kind of terminal sense memory. The wind hammering at the house, the rattling of glass in the ancient frames, the smell of blood, the eyes of the cat staring up at her as she touched its heart … The poker gleaming dully, the tightening grip on her arm, the dripping of perspiration down her back, soaking her …

He pushed open the door and the smell of blood increased like a stench from the netherworld. It was dark and she saw him feeling against the wall for a light switch. She knew what she would see. All the cats, gutted, dead, rotting …

The light came on.

The furry bodies were strewn about the floor of the large closet. Blood matted. Throats cut. Heads twisted at unreal angles.

In the middle of the carnage lay Aunt Margaret.

She’d been slit from her throat to her belly, her dress and flesh laid back by a kind of demented surgeon, legs splayed, blood dried beneath, soaking through her it seemed, soaking into the floor. Her mouth was open. Her eyes stared. In one hand she held a dead cat.

As if from a great distance, Natalie saw herself crack.

She heard the shrieking, heard it echoing and reechoing along the hallway, saw her face twist into a mask she’d never seen before, saw a kind of molten strength born of something close to madness course through her, saw her jerk away from Drummond and slam him back against the wall, heard her making sounds she’d never heard a human make before.

Drummond slipped in the blood, fell heavily against the wall, rolled over struggling to get up: she saw his white hand planted on the side of Aunt Margaret’s face, in blood the old woman had smeared there herself, saw him trying to push himself upright.

She turned, staggered down the hallway, stooped to get the poker, fell over the tiny corpse of the cat, hit her head on the floor, got back to her feet. She heard Drummond swearing, panting, turned and saw him standing in the doorway nodding his head, felt the floor shake as he came after her.

She was down the stairway to the second floor, turned the corner, dashed along past her bedroom, negotiated the turn and began rushing down the stairs.

The loose carpet undid her. Her foot caught and she couldn’t break the fall. She felt herself landing a million different ways, hurting herself each time. The breath was knocked out of her and she was on her back. Unable to get up. Pain attacking her from every angle.

He was at the top of the stairs; seeing her lying at the bottom, he stopped. He came down slowly. He was saying her name over and over again.

He knelt over her. Her eyelids were fluttering and she felt herself slipping away, felt the world going. He leaned down. “Natalie?” he said softly.