Valentine, page 23
She jabbed a thumb in the direction of the main highway. “East, next exit. There’s a real town there, with a mall. Lots of restaurants in the mall.”
“Thanks. Who owns the house now? I mean, who’s selling it?”
“Big Joe’s sister.”
He nodded. As he left her porch and walked back down the road, she called after him. “So, are you gonna buy it?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He grinned. “I wouldn’t want to crowd him.”
Her dry cackle followed him all the way to the car.
After Mike left the range, Jill remained for another hour, setting up her own targets, loading, and shooting. She was growing used to the feel of the weapon in her hand, and she was actually beginning to like the sense of power it conferred. As for her aim, the worst she’d done all afternoon was narrowly miss the target, and that had happened only twice. All her other shots were within the circles, nearly half of them in the center two.
When the sun began to set and the light faded in the little glen, she put the gun in her purse and went across the baseball field to the main house by the lake. Ruth Monk was the only person there, sitting near the fire with what Jill was flattered to see was a copy of her own new paperback, Murder Me. All the writers were probably in their cabins, hard at work. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a project, she thought as she waved to Ruth, who held up the book and raised her eyebrows before going back to it. Jill smiled at the compliment and went over to the little table in the comer of the room that held the colony’s only telephone. The cabins did not have phones, or televisions or radios, or any other form of distraction. Newspapers were not allowed in the compound, and even modem hookups for personal computers were discouraged. Gwen and Mike had the only television, in their bedroom. This place was here so that people who were easily distracted could get some serious writing done.
The handmade sign sticking out of the wicker basket beside the instrument read:
5 MINUTES PER CALL ONLY!
LOCAL CALLS: $1.00.
NEW YORK CITY: $2.00.
LONG DISTANCE: SEE GWEN.
Jill dropped a five-dollar bill in the basket and placed two calls to New York City. Neither Tara nor Nate was home. She left a brief message on Tara’s machine, wishing her the best on her date tonight. But when she heard Nate’s deep voice on his machine, she immediately hung up, remembering their conversation from two nights ago.
She’d broken Gwen’s rule and stayed on the phone with him for fifteen minutes, trying to explain that she hadn’t meant to hurt him. She’d left town abruptly because she just wanted to get away for a while, and she hadn’t asked him to come with her because he had a show coming up, and that’s what he should be worrying about. Nate was actually somewhat mollified until he’d asked her where she was calling from and she’d refused to tell him. Then he’d started yelling again, and she had said a quick good-bye, promised to call him again soon, and hung up.
Now, she couldn’t think of a suitable message to leave on his answering machine. She wasn’t going to explain to him that she was hiding from someone who had broken into her apartment to give her another grisly gift, who had bugged her telephone and her living room, who had murdered two people and had probably murdered three others as well. If she told him any of these things, he’d insist on knowing where she was, and he’d come out here to hold her hand instead of being in New York getting ready for his opening, which is what he should be doing.
With a little grimace, Jill took the five-dollar bill out of the wicker basket and replaced it with two singles. She’d call Nate later. And she promised herself that, after this, she’d never withhold things from him again.
She went back to the kitchen and offered to help Gwen with dinner. Her offer was gratefully accepted.
The phone was ringing as Tara came into her apartment. She dropped the dry cleaning she’d just collected—the red dress she would wear to dinner tonight—and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Tara, it’s Doug.”
“Hello there! I’m just getting ready for—”
“Umm, listen, Tara. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to meet you tonight. Something—something’s come up. Business. I’m sorry about this, but I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Oh, sure, that’s okay. I understand.”
“Thank you for being so nice about it. I—I’ll call you in the next couple of days, okay?”
“That’ll be fine. I’m sorry about tonight, too. Don’t work too hard. ‘Bye.” She hung up quickly, hoping she hadn’t sounded too disappointed, too desperate. She hadn’t really been aware until this minute just how much she’d been looking forward to tonight.
She looked over at the plastic-covered red dress. Oh, well, she thought. Later. He’ll call in the next day or so, and we’ll try this again.
I hope.
After dinner, Jill helped Gwen load the dishwasher and straighten up the kitchen. Then the two women went out into the living room, got hot water for herbal tea from the pot on the sideboard, and sat together on a couch, away from the others. Barbara Benson and Craig Palmer were playing chess at a little table by the fire, and Jeffrey Monk was imparting to Wendy Singer some arcane information she needed for the mystery she was writing. Something about poisoned darts, if Jill had heard them properly. Ruth Monk was again reading Jill’s novel, and Mike had retired for the night.
They sipped their peppermint tea in amicable silence. It was Gwen who began the conversation. With a glance over at the others, she turned to Jill and spoke in a low whisper.
“Are you pregnant?”
Jill turned her head sharply to stare at her friend. She thought about denying it, then realized the futility of lying. She nodded. “How did you know?”
Gwen laughed. “Oh, please! You’ve never met my three sisters. Seven babies between them in the last five years! I know all the early warning signs. You usually have wine with dinner, but you’re suddenly not drinking alcohol. Or coffee, or eggs and bacon, or any of that stuff. You put your hands on your stomach; you’re always touching yourself there. Never mind how I know. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not sure. I think I want it, but I want it to have two parents.”
“Does Nate know?” Gwen asked.
Jill shook her head. “Not yet. It’s one of the reasons I came out here—well, that’s not true. There’s only one real reason I came out here. I told you and Mike about that. As for the baby, well . . . I don’t know.”
“Do you think Nate will marry you?”
“Yes. He’s already asked me to marry him.”
Gwen reached over to pat her friend’s arm. “Well, then, what’s the problem?”
Jill smiled. “You don’t know him: you and Mike only met him once, at that party in New York a few months ago. He’s—well, he’s an artist. Very intense, very focused on his career. And now, with this new series he’s done. . . .” She shrugged. “I just don’t think now is the right time to broach the subject with him.”
Gwen took Jill’s hand in her own small, warm one and smiled her Earth Mother smile. “Darling, he’s asked you to marry him. You obviously want to accept. The baby is just more good news—for both of you. Anytime is the right time.”
Jill nodded. “You’re right, of course. You’re going to be a wonderful mother someday.”
Her friend smiled. “And very soon, I hope. Oh, Jill, it’s wonderful news! Tell Nate. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
“Yes,” Jill said slowly, “I think so too, now that I think of it—now that I’ve decided to decide.”
“Excuse me?”
Jill smiled. “Nothing. Yes, I think Nate will be happy. And he’ll make a wonderful father.”
Gwen nodded. “Well then, that’s it. Darling, when you know it’s right, that’s all you have to know. Everything else is just not important.”
Jill stared at her friend, thinking, Yes. That’s true. When you know it’s right. . . .
She decided, then and there, to have a long, honest talk with Nate as soon as she got back to New York City.
Barney sat in his car, waiting. He’d parked by the side of the road here, at the beginning of the long row of houses, over thirty minutes ago. He checked his watch: nearly eleven. There was a moon tonight, and the sky above western Pennsylvania was fairly clear. The moonlight shone down on the row of houses extending up the hill away from him, transforming them with its usual magic from shabby fossils into what they had once been: a line of respectable residences for the employees of the paper company. A few lights winked from the smaller houses in the valley below, the homes of the former factory workers who had lost their livelihood some twenty years ago. He wondered briefly what they did for a living now.
He’d taken the old woman’s advice and made his way to the mall in the neighboring town. And what a culture shock that had been, he reflected. There, not three miles from this forgotten ghost town, was a bustling small city, with several other affluent towns nearby, populous enough to necessitate a rather large shopping center.
His first stop was a bank of pay phones. Using his Calling Card, he placed two calls. He told Jane that he’d be spending the night in Pennsylvania and flying back tomorrow or, at the latest, Thursday. She told him to keep warm, and he told her he loved her. Then he called his office and told Verna where he was and what he was doing. He instructed her to tell Jill Talbot that Victor Dimorta had apparently had plastic surgery. He also told her to suggest to Jill that she stay put wherever she was hiding until after Valentine’s Day. Verna said she’d convey the message, and told him to keep warm. He told her he loved her, too.
He’d had a long, leisurely dinner in a steakhouse at the mall. Then he’d wandered into a housewares store that had a small hardware section and made two purchases. After that, he’d gone to the multiplex cinema at one end of the center and sat through a really terrible horror movie.
Now, having killed enough time, he was back in Mill City, ready for action. He glanced up the road. The houses immediately flanking the Dimorta residence were obviously deserted, but lights still shone from the front windows of the old woman’s house two doors away. He’d wait a little longer.
Presently, her living room light went off, and another light came on in her second-story front bedroom. He waited until that, too, was extinguished, then ten minutes more. Now the whole row of twelve houses was dark except for the occasional porch light.
Barney got out of the car. Gasping at the sudden assault of freezing air, he pulled his coat closed and buttoned it. Then, as silently as possible, he walked up the road toward number 7. Once there, he glanced up and down the hillside drive. A bitterly cold wind was blowing, causing the bare trees along the road to sway and rustle. He fancied he saw something, some movement in the bushes beside the porch of the house next door. As he stared, a thin, mangy-looking black cat slid out from the clump of dead bushes and crept away down the street. He was alone here, alone with a few sleeping neighbors and a starving cat.
Making his way carefully in the darkness, he went around to the backyard. The cheap padlock on the back door was visible in the moonlight. He pulled the newly acquired screwdriver from his coat pocket and set to work. Two minutes later, the door swung open.
He stepped inside the house, pulling the door closed behind him. Then he reached into his other coat pocket and produced his other purchase. Snapping on the flashlight, he cast its bright beam about him. He was in the kitchen, a small, narrow room with gold-flecked white vinyl tiles and cheap-looking appliances: refrigerator, range, and a big, old-fashioned round washing machine with a wringer on top squatting in one comer. There was a wooden dinette set in another comer, and he tried to imagine the boy in the mug shots sitting there with a fierce-looking factory foreman and a silent woman who all but ignored his presence.
He moved forward through the swinging kitchen door and found himself in the large front room. A dining table stood just before him, and beyond it, a couch and two armchairs covered with sheets. He shone the torch across the surface of the table. It was not covered: the sheet that had once been used for that purpose was lying crumpled in a comer of the room. Two candles in porcelain holders stood on the table, and when he reached down to run his finger along the surface, it came away remarkably free of dust. A shiny brown stain on the lighter brown wood caught his attention. He leaned forward and sniffed: ketchup. Yes, he thought. The old woman was right. Someone had eaten at this table, and recently.
The living area was cramped and unappealing. He lifted the sheet on the couch and saw what he expected. Cheap, well-worn upholstery. The sheet on one armchair was no longer draped loosely over it, but fitted snugly in the seat area, as if someone had lately sat in it without bothering to remove the covering. A sheet-covered spinet piano crouched in a comer. There was one painting on the wall above the little table that had probably once held a television—a terrible portrait of Christ gazing mournfully out at the room, His eyes reflecting only His pain and suffering, and none of His benevolence. Barney shuddered and moved over to the stairs.
When he shone the flashlight slowly up the staircase, he saw what he had expected to see. The stairs were coated with dust, but there were footprints disturbing it on each tread. Nodding to himself, he ascended.
There was a short hallway at the top of the stairs, with one large door on the left and two smaller doors on the right. On the back wall in front of him was a window looking out over the barren backyard. In the faraway distance shone the lights of a nearby town. He looked around at the doors for a moment, guessing. Then he went over to the large door on the left and opened it.
Yes, he’d been right: the master bedroom. A large brass bedframe, its naked springs gleaming in the light from the torch. A bureau, a vanity table with a cracked round mirror on the wall above it, two closet doors. Another painting of Christ, this time on the cross at Calvary, His anguished face raised to Heaven. Dull green-and-yellow striped wallpaper.
So, this is where it happened, he thought. They were asleep in that bed when he crept silently into the room, the huge kitchen knife clutched and raised. The mattresses and pillows were gone, of course: they must have been ruined. He went over to the far side of the room, shining the light along the wall above the ornate brass frame. Several large patches of the striped wallpaper here were considerably lighter than the rest, as if someone had scrubbed them. He nodded to himself. Yes, there would have been blood everywhere.
He went out of the room and across the hall. The little door on his left opened into the tiny, white-tiled bathroom, the cheap, corroded plastic shower curtain black with mildew. The whole room stank of it. He quickly shut that door and turned his attention to the other one.
Yes. Here it was, at last. He pushed the door open and aimed the flashlight into the dark depths of the room, directly into the eyes of a pretty young woman. He took an involuntary step backward, staring.
A sudden, sharp wind rattled the panes of the window in the upstairs hallway behind him, and the entire house creaked and shuddered. He held his breath, listening. Was that a noise from downstairs? No, just the wind. This old wooden structure groaned under the slightest forces of nature. Shining the light before him, he stepped forward into Victor Dimorta’s bedroom.
The pretty young woman stared invitingly out from the far wall of the little room, and she was flanked by many others. The entire wall had been covered with photographs, some poster-size and some obviously cut from fashion magazines. A few were regular eight-by-ten glossies. Blondes, brunettes, redheads; hundreds of them. Leaning in doorways, running on beaches, holding up wineglasses, displaying beautiful clothes. Not all were professional models: among the others, he saw several photos of the young women from the yearbook. Sharon Williams, Belinda Rosenberg, Cass MacFarland.
And Jill. There were more pictures of her than of the others. On closer inspection, he noticed that not all of them were actually Jill. Several were of another young woman—a professional model, obviously, who bore a remarkable resemblance to his client.
When he stepped forward to study the pictures more closely, he recoiled in distaste. Every single one of the photographs had been marred with a thick red felt-tipped pen. Each girl had a long, bold slash of red across her throat. Bright red Magic Marker drops rained down from some of the wounds.
Oh, Victor, he thought as he stared at the macabre mural. Is this what you dream about?
He tore his gaze from the awful sight and played the light around the rest of the little room. A sagging chest of drawers. A little, boarded-up back window covered with lace curtains on a brass rod. A wooden desk and chair. Another picture of Jesus, this one more benign. He sat gazing lovingly down at a little girl on His lap, a fluffy lamb nestled at His feet. In the far corner beyond the desk was a closet door.
Barney stared at the door, thinking, Is that where he put you, Victor? Is that what he locked you in for three days after dragging your sorry ass back from Vermont? Did you sit there in the pitch dark for three days, making plans?
Another sudden gust rattled the house. He listened again: more creaking. One good storm, and this whole place just might come tumbling down. He stepped forward and opened the closet door.
At first, he thought the closet was empty. The only thing he initially saw in the light was the usual rod, from which hung two bare wire hangers. The little shelf above the rod was empty.
Then he looked down.
He stared, sinking slowly to his knees in the closet doorway. He leaned forward, playing the light slowly over the contents of the bottom of the closet. There must be a dozen of them, he thought. All different, yet the same. And all sick; so incredibly sick.
Oh, God, he thought. Jill!
That’s when the hand grabbed him from behind. He felt his hair being pulled viciously back, and his head snapped back with it. A dark shape loomed over him, reaching down toward him. He felt the sudden, sharp pain under his chin, felt the warm gush flowing down, and then his hair was released. He pitched forward into the closet, spewing blood as he fell. He rolled over on his back and shone the flashlight up into the face of the man who stood above him. He dropped the flashlight and reached into his coat, fumbling for the gun in his shoulder holster, aware that his throat was full of liquid. He began to choke as he tried to draw a breath, and a boot came out of the darkness to kick his hand away from his coat.
