Valentine, page 24
Then everything slowly faded and he was falling down, down, down through space and he thought, Oh, Jill . . . Verna . . . Jane . . .
The music was playing again, and the three women were dancing around the dark cafeteria. She was sitting at the round table by the windows, looking out at the snowy landscape, unable to turn her head and look back into the room. It was as though she knew what was about to happen to them.
Then the shadow fell upon the room, and the women behind her began to scream. She clutched her belly with both hands, silently shouting. Oh, my baby! My baby . . .!
She was sitting up in the large four-poster bed. Gradually, as reality crept into her fevered consciousness, she realized where she was. She was in Cabin 12 at Gwen and Mike’s writing colony in Peconic, Long Island. She was many miles from her apartment in Greenwich Village. Nobody knew she was here.
Valentine didn’t know she was here.
She stood up and went into the little bathroom. The freezing water from the tap in the sink flowed into her mouth, soothing her parched throat. She patted a little water on her face to cool off, switched off the bathroom light, and got back in the warm bed, thinking over and over to herself:
Valentine doesn’t know where I am.
In moments, she was fast asleep. She slept on through that night, untroubled by any more dreams.
When he was finished in the back garden, Victor took the shovel into the kitchen and replaced it in the utility closet. Then he went upstairs to clean up the blood.
There were three dusty, moldy towels hanging on the rack in the bathroom. He put them in the sink and ran some cold, rusty water over them. Then he proceeded into his bedroom. He smiled as he worked, thinking, He never knew I was there. He didn’t see me once all day; on the plane, at the car rental agency, outside the prison, on the road here, in the steakhouse. He had no idea I sat in the movie theater five rows behind him, munching popcorn, watching all those teenagers being hacked to death by the escaped mental patient. And he didn’t see my car on the lower road, in the valley, as he waited in his car before coming in here.
He glanced over at his bedroom wall, thinking, he saw my pictures. He looked in the closet. He invaded my privacy. He came in here uninvited! He had to go, just like the doctor. . . .
As he went back down to the first floor, he began to whistle. He checked around the place to make sure everything was once again neat and tidy, the way he liked it. Noticing a small stain on the dining room table, he used his sleeve to remove it. Then he let himself out the back way, carefully replacing the padlock on the kitchen door. He slipped around the house and away down the windblown street to the detective’s car. He took the keys he’d found in the pants pocket and drove the car to the mall, parking it in the enormous lot. It would be days, maybe weeks, before anyone noticed it. Then, using shortcuts he remembered from childhood, he walked quickly back to his own rental car at the edge of Mill City.
Now, he thought. Back to New York. Back to Jillian Talbot. Four days. Four days till Valentine’s Day . . .
As he drove away into the shadows of the night, he began to sing.
11
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 12
“Hello?”
“Tara, it’s Jill.”
“Hi there!”
“Hi there, yourself. I wasn’t expecting you to be home. I was going to leave a message on your machine. Why aren’t you taping?”
“I’ve got a few days off. My character has gone to Lourdes.”
“Lourdes! Oh yeah, the unmentionable disease.”
“Right. How are you, Jill?”
“Oh, fine. It’s very peaceful here—where I am. How was your date Tuesday?”
“Don’t ask. Doug called and canceled. Work, or so he said.”
“‘Or so he said’?”
“Yeah. I don’t know, Jill. I get the feeling he’s not really interested in me. Or afraid of me, or something. And something else: have you noticed the way he’s always staring at you? Maybe you’re the one he wants.”
“Oh, Tara, don’t be silly. You said yourself that I look kind of like his dead wife. If he’s afraid of anyone, it’s me.”
“Hmmm. Well, let’s see if he calls me again. What’s up?”
“I want you to do me a favor. I want you to keep an eye on Nate for me, make sure he’s all right. He’s getting ready for next week, and when he gets working like that, he sometimes forgets to eat and sleep, little things like that.”
“Sure, Jill. I was going to call him, anyway. Maybe I’ll take him out to lunch today.”
“That would be great. I—I’ve got to tell you, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to marry him.”
“Oh, Jill, that’s terrific! And baby makes three, right?”
“How—how did you know?”
“Please, Jill! Mary and I both figured it out ages ago. At least, we suspected it. That’s wonderful!”
“Yes, I’m beginning to think it is. Now, remember: if you take him to lunch, not a word about any of this. I want to tell him myself.”
“You got it. Men are always the last to know, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. Listen, I’ve got to check in with Barney Fleck, so—”
“Oh, he sent the security people Monday, and I let them into your place. You now have an alarm system.”
“Great. Say hi to Nate for me.”
“Haven’t you spoken to him?”
“Not in a couple of days. It’s hard to talk to him without telling him about—you know, everything that’s been going on.”
“I think you should tell him, Jill.”
“I will—soon. Gotta go. ‘Bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Tara waved to him from the table in the corner of the crowded restaurant on lower Broadway. He grinned, taking in the sight of the potted palms and garish tropical murals that were the decor for this trendy West Indian place. Calypso music formed a background for the buzz of voices in the room. He made his way through the tables and dropped into the rattan chair across from hers at the bright yellow wicker table.
Tara took one look at him and began to laugh. “You have paint on your face.”
He raised a hand to his cheek. “It’s not paint, it’s stain. I’ve been working on the frames for the paintings. Thank you for calling. I was going a little crazy.”
“It’s the fumes.”
“Probably. How are you, Tara?”
“Oh, fine. Let’s have piña coladas, okay?”
“Sure.” He signaled to the waitress in the flower-print muumuu, and they ordered. “Have you seen Doug lately?”
“No,” Tara said. “I was about to ask you the same question. He canceled our date the other night.”
“Hmmm. Well, he mentioned a job the other day, some magazine layout, or something. . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry, Nate. I’m sure he’ll explain. That’s not why I asked you here.”
“Oh?”
The drinks arrived. He took a sip, wincing at the sweetness of the frothy coconut-and-pineapple concoction. Tara nearly drained hers.
“Yeah,” she went on. “I’m afraid I’m going to meddle, but I think it’s the right thing to do. I know you’re busy getting ready for your show, but—well, it’s about Jill.”
He leaned forward, lowering his glass to the table. “What about her? Is she all right? Where the hell is she?”
Tara raised a hand to stop the barrage of questions. Then she told him.
He sat there in the rattan chair in the silly, chi-chi restaurant on lower Broadway, listening to the whole story. The break-in. The jewelry box. The bug on the phone. The listening device under the couch. The music on the stereo. Then she told him what she’d gleaned from Jill’s conversation with the detective, Barney Heck. Victor Dimorta killed his parents, and Jill thought he’d killed these three other girls she went to college with. The four of them had played some kind of practical joke on him, and he’d been systematically killing them. On Valentine’s Day.
For a moment he couldn’t move as the room whirled around him. Then he was on his feet leaning down, his hands clutching the edges of the wicker table. “Where is she, Tara?”
She shook her head. “I—I don’t know. But Mary does. The other day, she said that Mary suggested it to her.”
“Thanks for the drink, but I couldn’t possibly eat now. I—I’ve got to call Mary.”
“I thought you should know about this, Nate.”
“Thanks. You did the right thing.” He was already heading toward the door.
After lunch, Jill called Barney Fleck’s office. The secretary answered on the second ring.
“Fleck Agency.”
“Hello, Mrs. Poole, this is Jill Talbot. I was wondering if Mr. Fleck was back from Pennsylvania yet.”
“No, Ms. Talbot, he’s not. He said he might not be back until today. But he called Tuesday with some information for you. . . .”
She listened as the woman relayed Barney’s message. Then Jill thanked her and hung up. She sat in the living room of the house by the lake, staring into the fire.
Plastic surgery. Victor Dimorta had a new face.
She actually smiled when she thought of the second part of Barney’s message: stay put until after Valentine’s Day.
Yes, Barney, she thought. I certainly will. Trust me. I’m not going anywhere!
The framer was in the studio downstairs, hammering and sanding. He put his free hand over his ear to block out the racket.
“Hello, Mary, it’s Nate.”
“Hi, Nate. How are you coming with the paintings?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Listen, Mary, I want to know where Jill is.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line before the agent replied. “Gosh, Nate, she’d kill me! She said nobody was to—”
“I know what she said. But I think—well, I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I think she may be in danger.”
Another pause. You mean, this ‘Valentine’ guy?”
“Yeah. He’s done some other stuff, stuff she didn’t tell us about.” He told her, briefly, about the break-in and the listening devices.
“Oh, my God! I had no idea, Nate. That’s awful!”
There was a sudden, loud hammering from downstairs. In frustration, he reached over and slammed his apartment door. “Listen, I want you to tell me where she is. I’d just feel better if I was with her. I’ve got to put my pictures in the gallery tomorrow, but after that I can go to her. Is she far away?”
Mary didn’t hesitate this time. “No. Just a sec.” He heard rustling papers. “She’s with some friends of ours at a writers’ colony on Long Island. Peconic Writing Colony. It’s way the hell out, at the end of the North Fork. You know where that is?”
He uttered a sigh of relief. “I can find it. Thanks, Mary.”
“Nate, are the police in on this?”
“Oh, God, Mary. We went to the police. They couldn’t do anything because he hadn’t committed an actual crime.”
“Well, if he broke into her apartment—”
“Yeah, I know. But then she took off, you see, without telling anyone anything.”
“That sounds like Jill, all right. Actually, I’m glad she’s there, Nate: the whole city seems to be going crazy. I’ve just been reading about that doctor who was murdered the other day, that psychologist.”
“I haven’t seen the papers in about a week.”
“Well, it was right near her, in the Village. So, can you go out there tomorrow night?”
“Yeah, just as soon as I’m finished at the gallery.”
“Okay. Say hello for me.”
“I will, Mary. ‘Bye.”
He hung up, nearly shaking with relief. Okay, he told himself, calm down. Do your work. You’ll be with her tomorrow night. He thought about finding the phone number of the Peconic Writing Colony and calling her, but immediately dismissed it. She’d argue again. He’d simply arrive there, and that was that.
Then he thought, bugs? Listening devices? What the hell . . .?
Shaking his head in confusion, he went back down to the studio to see to the framing.
The new arrival joined them just before dinner.
Jill had been sitting in the comfortable armchair by the fire all afternoon, gazing into the flames and exercising her most effective defense mechanism: she was formulating a new story.
The desire to work had come upon her suddenly, almost the moment she actually made the decision about Nate and the baby. She found it fascinating that her mind worked that way: solve one problem, and the others immediately seem clearer as well. Even Victor Dimorta was remote, so far removed from this peaceful, relaxing place. Now that she was certain of what the future held for her, everything seemed possible. She would accept Nate’s proposal, and she would have the baby. She would talk with Barney Fleck soon, and together they’d do something about Valentine.
But now, she would start a new novel, and she knew just what kind of book it would be. It would be set in Nate’s world, the East Village art scene. Nate had made a joke recently, an offhand remark about some artist who would be worth more dead than alive. She’d laughed at the time, but she’d also been aware of that little alarm bell that rang in her mind when ideas came along, and she’d filed it away in her memory. Thinking so much of Nate and his upcoming show had reminded her of it.
So . . . a young woman, a painter . . . her mentor, a well-known artist . . . a mysterious accident . . . a series of other “accidents” . . .
She was just beginning to elaborate, to formulate the whole international conspiracy, when the door behind her was flung open and a blast of icy wind shot into the room. She clutched her arms to her, shivering, as she turned to look.
Mike Feldman marched in, carrying a medium-sized brown suitcase. He turned to call behind him.
“Right this way, and you’ll be warm in no time!”
Then, in walked one of the most attractive men Jill Talbot had ever seen. He was tall, very tall and slender, with black hair and dark eyes. Dark brown, belted camel hair coat. A brown hat, one of those handsome things men wore in the forties.
This thought was immediately followed by a guilty twinge. Nate. Oh, well, Nate is really as good-looking as this guy. But he isn’t here to defend himself. She silently berated herself for her disloyalty.
Mike clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and brought him over. “Jillian Talbot, meet Mr. Richard Farnum.”
She smiled and extended her hand. “How do you do?”
He was staring at her, and now that she was closer to him she could see that his handsomeness, though considerable, was not exactly perfect. There was a tightness about his face, a rather haggard look, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. But the single most arresting thing about him was the expression in his large brown eyes: she looked into them and saw a stricken, soulful quality that filled her with an inexplicable sense of sadness. It also made him seem even more attractive than before, which further disconcerted her.
Then he smiled, and her brief impression of sorrow vanished in a dazzling display of laugh lines and even, white teeth.
“Hello,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I’m honored to meet you, Ms. Talbot. I’m a big fan of yours.” She blushed, feeling the waves of warmth that seemed to emanate from him. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve read all of your books.”
“Oh.” She continued to smile vacuously, never certain how to reply to that particular, and increasingly frequent, confession from strangers. “How nice,” she finally offered, wincing at her own dullness.
He grinned again, and her awkwardness seemed to vanish.
Then Mike took each of them by the arm. “Come along, children. Cocktail time!”
Mike Feldman poured him a beer as he took off his hat, coat, and gloves. He stood there at the little bar in the corner near the kitchen, looking around him. Only with a conscious effort did he avoid openly staring at the woman who stood next to him.
When the three glasses were ready, he took the orange juice from the counter and handed it to her. She smiled, and their eyes met. Then he picked up one of the two draft beers, and the three of them clinked glasses across the bar.
“Mud in your eye!” Mike Feldman boomed.
“Cheers,” she murmured.
“Happy days,” he whispered.
As they drank, he could feel her gaze on him, curious, questioning. He looked over at her and smiled again.
“So,” she said, “what do you write, Mr. Farnum?”
“Richard,” he corrected. “I’m a mystery writer—at least, that’s the plan. I’ve just started my first story, and I want to see if I can finish it.”
She laughed, nodding. “I know the feeling. Is it a detective story, or—?”
“Yes,” he said. “My detective is a football player. A quarterback who kind of gets involved in—well, I guess you don’t want to hear all that. . . .”
“Do you play football?” Mike asked as he led them over toward the fire.
“I did. You know, in high school.” He continued to stand as Jillian Talbot returned to her former place in an armchair, and Mike dropped into a nearby chair. He looked around the big room, smiling. Pretty, he thought. Comfortable. Then he looked down at the beautiful woman. “Are you working on a new book, Ms. Talbot?”
She smiled up at him, and her dark hair glinted in the firelight. “It’s Jill—Richard. And, as a matter of fact, I was just dreaming something up when you folks arrived.”
He laughed as he once again surveyed the room. “Yeah, I guess it comes naturally, in a place as peaceful as this. It’s so secluded here. Kind of amazing: a two-hour train ride, and New York could be on the next planet! I have trouble writing in the city.”
