Listen to the Shadows (9 page)

Jason dragged nervously on a new cigarette. “But the police found nothing.”

“No. I was quite alone in the car.”

“Eerie,” he muttered. “Damned eerie.”

Not exactly an answer to the mystery, but what did she expect? It was a crazy story. Even Dr. Miller had thought she needed a psychiatrist, and worse, Dr. Jonathan Shea had implied she was making the whole thing up. Jason finished off the wine in his glass, and she saw him shiver just before he went to get his coat. “Horrible business,” he said, shrugging into his coat.

It was suede, olive-green. Katie brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the collar. “New?”

“I needed a treat. Do you like it?”

“Smashing.”

He looked pleased. Each button he buttoned took him farther away.

“Do you really have to go right now? I haven’t had any supper. I could make us both some.” She heard the near-pleading in her voice and realized how very much she didn’t want to be alone right now.

“Your road’s a hazard at the best of times, love,” he said, touching her arm affectionately. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Now just try and put the whole, nasty business out of your mind.” He moved toward the patio doors, flipping his collar up. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation.”

“Yes,” Katie said. “You’re probably right.” She was glad she hadn’t told him about her vision of the boy. It would really have freaked him out.

“Get some rest, Katie,” he said, and she smiled at the familiar, easy advice.

“Thanks, I will.”

Jason lingered, looking anxious, as if sensing he was letting her down. “Will you be all right? Have you enough wood for the fires? God, when are you going to install central heating in this place, love?”

“Probably about the same time I’m discovered as the next Rembrandt. But I’m fine, Jason, really. And thanks for coming out on such a terrible night—and thanks for the wine.” She kissed his cheek “I really do appreciate it and you.”

He looked at her, shifted his feet. “You know, I think you’re quite mad to stay here all by yourself. No pun intended.” He peered behind him through the part in the drapes. “God, I hate it when the lake looks like that,” he blurted. “So black and angry.”

Katie was surprised at the vehemence in his voice. “I didn’t know you have a fear of water, Jason. You never told me.”

“More like a terror. I can’t swim a stroke. I nearly drowned when I was a kid. A couple of bullies threw me into—well, it doesn’t matter now. It was a long time ago. But I guess that has something to do with it.”

Katie stood on the little balcony, chilled to the bone in only her linen dress, until he reached his car. “Drive carefully,” she called out, but her voice was lost in the rising storm.

Poor Jason, Katie thought. I’ve spooked him. Once inside, she quickly closed and locked the patio doors behind her. And then, too late, she remembered that she’d meant to ask him if he’d used her front door the last time he was here. She would call him tomorrow.

A gnawing uneasiness, which she knew had been further fueled by Jason’s reaction to her story, had crawled inside her skin. Maybe Jason was right about the wisdom of her living alone out here. Maybe everyone was. Yet she’d never minded it before. Black Lake was her home; she loved it here. Katie stood before the fire, rubbing the goose-bumps from her arms, thinking.

She’d always been independent. Even before she came to live with her aunt she’d had her own apartment, working as a hostess in the town’s one good restaurant. By then her mother had already left and was living in Florida, their relationship having become more and more strained. And then when Todd didn’t come back from the war there was no longer any reason to remain in Lennoxville—no longer anyone to wait for. And so she’d accepted her aunt’s invitation to come and live with her here at Black Lake.

More than a decade ago. In some ways, only yesterday.

Holding the lighted lamp in one hand, and the glasses she and Jason had drunk from in the other, Katie headed out to the kitchen.

In the living room, she paused, frowning at the muddy footprints on the rug. She’d missed them on her way in. Jason? It didn’t sound like her friend to track mud into someone’s house. But footprints didn’t lie. Someone else’s? The thought sent a blade of ice straight to her heart. She played the lamplight over the tracks—definitely a man’s. He’d actually walked around in here.

Allen? After all this time? He was capable of breaking and entering, she knew that.

Well, it was stupid to jump to conclusions until she talked to Jason. Katie continued on to the kitchen. Here, the air smelled of wood-smoke and of the apples Katie had picked a few weeks earlier. It was a large country kitchen, painted ivory, the trim a robin’s egg blue.

The kitchen windows looked out on the grounds that sloped down to the road. Beyond the road were dense woods.

The nights came early now. The stark branches whipped in the wind. Some of the trees nearer the house had lost their leaves. There were fallen leaves on the floor in her front hallway! About to turn from the window, Katie’s heart skipped as she thought she saw something move down by the big white pine near the path. She stood at the window for several minutes, her eyes fixed on the spot where she’d seen it, or imagined she had, but there was nothing. Just nerves, Katie thought, turning away. Or maybe a hungry raccoon, or a squirrel foraging for fallen pine cones.

At the porcelain sink, she rinsed and dried the glasses, set them upturned on the counter. On either side of her was an ivory painted door. The one on her right led into a walk-in pantry, while the one on the left opened onto a narrow flight of steps descending into the cellar where the wood was kept. Thankfully, there was enough wood in the woodbox to last at least until tomorrow, Katie thought, reaching for another chunk and feeding it into the monstrous cast-iron wood stove that took up most of the back wall. It occurred to her she was hungry, but the thought of preparing something, or even eating it, would take far more energy than she had at the moment. Sleep was what she needed most right now. Hours and hours of sleep.

She would face the world tomorrow.

The wide stairs leading to the bedrooms rose through the center of the house. Gripping the handrail for support, the candle’s flame guiding her steps, Katie climbed the stairs on legs that felt weighted with lead chains. Once she stumbled slightly and realized that having had nothing to eat, together with all the wine she’d consumed, were taking their toll. Katie was halfway up the stairs before she noticed the same muddy tracks as in the parlor. Bending to examine them closer, she picked up what appeared to be a few pieces of straw. She shoved them into her dress pocket, refusing to give any of it another thought until she had a chance to talk to Jason.

She thought instead about her car in the garage for repairs. The insurance would cover most of the cost, but in the meantime she was without a car. She would have to walk the mile and a half to the highway; from there she could catch a bus into town. Not a happy thought, what with the weather having turned so damned cold, but she didn’t have a whole lot of choices. She had to work. Well, no sense moaning about it. She supposed she should be grateful that the car wasn’t beyond repair, or she herself, when it came right down to it.

As she stepped onto the landing, a cool draft brushed the fine hairs on her arms, and in the next second the candle went out, leaving Katie in inky blackness. Fear made her heart race, dried her lips.

Get hold of yourself. There’s no reason to panic. You’re not a child; there is nothing to fear in the darkness.

Reminding herself there was a lamp in the room, and matches with which to light it, she felt calmer. Katie continued down the hallway, feeling along the papered wall like a blind woman trying to negotiate her way in a stranger’s house. At last she was outside her room, her fingers closing around the cool porcelain knob. Pushing the door open, she stepped carefully across the threshold.

Inside, she crossed to the dresser, relieved when her hand touched the glass base of the lamp. After fumbling briefly among familiar objects, she found the box of wooden matches. Striking one against the coarse strip on the side of the box, she then gave a delicate turn of the wick, and lit the lamp. Immediately the room was bathed in soft light.

Fitting the chimney back into place, Katie picked up the lamp, thinking she would read awhile. Reading always helped her to fall asleep. As tired as she was, she knew she would lie awake otherwise.

Half-turned from the dresser, Katie froze. Her breath clogged in her throat, escaping in a tiny whimper of shock and horror at the grotesque sight before her, now spotlighted in the flickering circle of flame.

Outside, the wind howled and raged, rattling the window in its casing, but Katie heard only the blood rushing in her ears, and the scream of terror she did not recognize as her own—a scream cut off as she sagged to the floor in a faint.

Chapter 12

The ringing of the telephone downstairs pulled Katie up from the darkness, dazed and disoriented. She felt as if she’d been passed out for hours instead of the few minutes it had been. Although a deep chill seemed to pour from the very walls of the room, Katie’s skin was clammy with perspiration.

What happened? Why was she on the floor? The edge of the braided rug dug into her cheek. The smell of kerosene was strong. Struggling to her feet, she reached out to the chair for support, and as she did, clutched a handful of thick, coarsely textured fabric. Memory jolted, and her hand jerked back.

“Todd?” she whispered.

Only the wind under the eaves answered.

She licked dry lips. Was she losing her mind? Had she merely hallucinated? She must have. If not, then Todd was here in the room with her. And of course that was impossible because Todd had been killed in the war.

Then what? Even in the dim light, Katie could make him out, could see the dark outline of his still form in the chair.

Retrieving the lamp from the floor, which, miraculously, was still lit and hadn’t set fire to anything, Katie stepped nearer. The telephone downstairs stopped ringing.

Katie raised the lamp, stifling a gasp as the light threw a great looming shadow on the wall behind it. The shadow quivered as Katie’s hand, holding the lamp, shook. “Oh, my God, why?” she whispered.

Her words hung ominously in the room. She tore her eyes from the hideous sight, taking a backward step, wanting with every instinct in her to run from the room. But she couldn’t let herself do that. She had to know what she was seeing—had to make sure it wasn’t her imagination this time.

Steeling herself, Katie made herself look again, forcing the lamp steady.

The eyes were a pale, icy blue, the whites threaded with tiny veins. As real looking as those in the life-sized figures in Madame Toussaud’s Museum, which she’d toured with her art class two years ago.

There was no doubt in her mind that the eyes that looked at her now were the same eyes she’d seen in her rearview mirror—the eyes that had caused her to lose control of her car.

She lowered the lamp. The throat of “the thing” oozed a dark, sticky substance that looked like blood, as if it had been slashed. Unable to look any longer, her heart thumping in her chest, Katie slowly backed out of the room.

The eyes followed her.

In her studio, fighting nausea, tasting the sour, acidy wine in her stomach, Katie thumbed frantically through the telephone book for the number of the Belleville Police Department. She couldn’t find it, and only later remembered that it was clearly displayed on the front cover.

Frustrated, and trying to quell her panic, she dialed “0” for the operator. Her breathing, as she waited for someone to come on the line, seemed amplified in the silence of the house.

“Operator,” a nasal female voice said at last, and Katie forced her own voice to be calm and even as she asked the woman to please connect her with the police—that her house had been broken into.

After giving the police her name and directions to her house, Katie hung up and went to place more wood on the live embers. Then, wrapping herself in an afghan, she sat on the cot and waited for the police. Seized by a sudden, violent trembling, she hugged herself and tried to stop her teeth from chattering. What if he ’ s still here? What if he ’ s still in the house?

***

When the hammering sounded on the front door, she jumped up grabbed the lamp, and hurried to answer. She threw the door wide to a gust of wind and rain.

But it wasn’t the police.

Katie stared in astonishment at the man towering above her.

“Dr. Shea. I—I was expecting the police.”

“I know.” He pushed his way past her, shutting the door behind him, fading out the sounds of the storm. “I heard the call come in over the police band.” His eyes darted about like an animal sensing danger.

“There’s no one in the house but me, Doctor,” she said in a small voice. “At—least, I don’t think so.” Why is he here? And why is he looking at me with such anger?

“I telephoned earlier,” he said, his voice sharp and cold, and bewildering to Katie. “There was no answer.”

“Oh, was it you? I remember hearing it ring. I…”

“My God, woman, this place is like a barn. Are you trying to catch pneumonia?”

“There’s a fire in the studio fireplace,” she defended, “and the kitchen is comfortable. It’s just these rooms…” Her voice drifted off, and her body convulsed in harsh, wracking sobs. She was appalled at herself, but it was as if a dam within her had burst, a flood she couldn’t stop. She heard herself raving incoherently about something upstairs in her room, and before she could realize what was happening, Jonathan Shea had lifted her in his arms as though she were as weightless as a baby.

“So where’s your studio?” His tone had softened a little.

Katie pointed, at the same time trying to disengage herself from his strong arms. “Put me down, please,” she choked out, ashamed of her loss of control.

“Hold on to the lamp. I can’t carry both you and it.” His voice had lost its steely edge, and Katie let herself sag against him. In the studio, he deposited her gently on the cot and covered her with the afghan. His eyes were questioning.

“Upstairs,” she said numbly. “You’ll know I’m not making it up this time. First door on the right at the top of the stairs.”

He nodded. “I’ll be right back. You stay here. I’ll bring an extra blanket. Is there a flashlight in this mausoleum? The lamp is a damned nuisance. Anyway, you’ll need it yourself.”

“In the desk drawer.”

As he started from the room, Katie flung off the afghan. “Wait, Jonathan. I’m going with you. I’m all right, now.” She needed to see the thing again herself, to know she hadn’t imagined it. Also, she did not want to be alone just now.

“Katherine, no,” he said, turning. “I won’t be long. You’re in no state to…”

“I’m going with you,” she said flatly, and stared him down despite his intimidating manner.

He gave her a long-suffering sigh. “Please yourself. But stay behind me.”

She needed little coaxing to do just that. As they climbed the stairs, Katie followed close at his heels.

“Don’t pull me backwards,” he said, his voice hushed, and Katie dropped her hands, realizing, with embarrassment, she’d had a death grip on the hem of his jacket. “It wouldn’t do if we both fell downstairs.”

As the flashlight’s beam paved their way through the darkness, she heard him say, “It’s bad enough you’re living in isolation out here, but to endure this place without electricity or central heating…” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m surprised you have a telephone.”

“I thought it a necessity. How did you find my house, Dr. Shea?” They were on the landing, and her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“I told you, the directions came over the police band. Anyway, most folks in Belleville know where Katherine Summers, the writer, lived. My kid sister has all her books.”

“Oh.”

“You are either a very courageous woman, or you’re quite mad. I haven’t decided which. I’ll reserve diagnosis until we have at least a few sessions together.

“Spare me,” she hissed. “I like where I live. It’s that simple. I’m with people all day in my job. I’m an artist. I need the quiet. Besides, it’s rent free.”

They were standing at the bedroom door now, and talking ceased. Katie heard their combined breathing. She heard the wind outside. Her nerves were as taut as guy wires.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Stay close to me.”

She had no intention of doing otherwise.

“Maybe you should wait out here.”

“No, I’m going in with you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Then she was following the wide-shouldered man into the room. He shone the light around, spotting the flowered wallpaper, her bed. As it came into focus, Katie’s hand instinctively darted out to touch Jonathan.

His back muscles beneath her palm tensed, and she heard him mutter a curse. Moving closer to him, she spoke in a whisper, as if they were in a funeral parlor. “Someone must have put it here while I was in the hospital.” With Jonathan in the room with her, the effigy did not seem quite so terrifying. “And I’d been thinking about Todd lately. I suppose it was the army uniform…”

“Todd?”

“Todd Raynes. We were going to be married. It was a long time ago. He was killed in Vietnam.”

Jonathan touched a finger to the bloodied throat of the thing, drew back his hand, and sniffed the red substance clinging to his finger. “Paint,” he said. He lowered the flashlight. Her tube of red paint was under the chair. He picked it up. He was about to say something else, when Katie grasped his arm. He followed her gaze to the picture on the dresser. As with the effigy, Todd’s throat in the photograph was smeared with the red paint.

“Todd?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Jonathan studied the photograph a moment, then returned his attention to the thing in the chair. There really was no resemblance to Todd. Even to the blue eyes, Katie thought. Todd had had beautiful brown eyes.

As if reading her mind, he said, “I can see why you thought it was Todd. Our sick friend did a crude job, but effective nonetheless. Your imagination supplied the finishing touches.”

They both turned at the sound of distant police sirens. “They might be able to lift some identifiable prints,” Jonathan said. “I imagine they’ll want to take that photo along, but I’m sure they’ll return it in a few days.”

A shiver passed through her. “It doesn’t matter. I doubt that I’ll ever want to look at it again.”

As the sirens rose in volume, he took her arm. “Come on. Let’s go down and let them in.”

They were halfway down the stairs when the telephone rang. It was still ringing when they reached the studio. Darting ahead of her, Jonathan picked up the receiver.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said in his authoritative doctor’s voice. “Miss Summers is not available to come to the phone just now. Yes, I’ll tell her.”

“Who is it?” Katie demanded, reaching for the phone. “I can…”

But he’d already hung up. “That was your lawyer friend, Drake Devlin,” he said off-handedly. “The guy with the rose garden.”