Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Mal thought, with an envious catch at her heart, that it was the real version of the fantasy world she had created in her penthouse.
“The large painting is of Horse,” Harry said, “my father’s favorite. And the one of the retriever is Dog.”
She held up a protesting hand. “Wait a minute.
Horse? Dog?”
He shrugged. “He said he didn’t have time to be thinking about names, and when he called, they came anyway. I’m just surprised I didn’t end up named Boy. Though come to think of it, he did tend to call me Son a lot. He grinned at her. “And you thought you had problems.”
“I would have settled for Girl if it meant being brought up here,” she replied wistfully. “Did you hate him?”
“Of course I didn’t hate him.” He looked astonished at the very idea. “He was my father—he was who he was. He might not have had time to think up names for his animals, but he cared about them all right. And he cared about me.”
“Then you loved him? Even though he cost you your football career,” she added.
“Come on, Malone,” he said, amused. “I’m not on your show.” He picked up a photograph in a silver frame. “This is him,” he said, handing it to her. “The genuine article.”
Miffy appeared suddenly in the doorway. “Oh, Harry, you’re showing Mallory the house. How nice.” She drifted, smiling, toward them. “Harry spent his boyhood here, you know. And I spent my honeymoon here. Never wanted to go anywhere else then. Now I’m older, I’m making up for lost time. I can’t get around to all those distant countries fast enough.”
She noticed Mal was holding the photograph. “Ah, that’s Harald. My one and only true love. I miss him like billyo,” she added regretfully.
Mal looked questioningly at Harry. “‘Like billyo’—an antique English expression often used by my mother, which we take to mean ‘like crazy,’” he explained.
“They should write a song,” Miffy said thoughtfully. “‘I’m Billyo Over You.’”
Mal laughed and looked at the picture. She could see where Harry came from all right.
Miffy read her mind. “No chance Harry was adopted, is there?” She laughed. “His father always said he was a true chip off the old block.” She picked up other photographs from the collection massed on the tables and sideboards, explaining who they were and how they were related. “It’s all quite complex because the Peascotts go back so many years and have so many branches. And the Jordans are almost as bad.
“What about your family, my dear?” she asked, putting the beautifully framed photographs back in their places. “Not as big as ours, I hope. Just think of—” She stopped herself in time as she caught Harry’s warning eye. She was getting ahead of herself again—she had been going to say, Think of the size of the wedding party.
She laughed merrily. “Forgive me—Harry always says I ramble on. And after all, you two hardly know each other yet, do you?”
Mal threw an amused glance over her shoulder at Harry, as Miffy linked her arm and drew her out onto the porch. He shrugged and pulled a pained face as though he didn’t know what his mother meant, though of course he did. He thought he’d better get Mal out of there before Miffy really put her foot in it.
“Almost time for the cake, Mom,” he called.
She glanced at the beautiful diamond evening watch she was wearing; another long ago birthday gift from her husband. “So it is, so it is. Oh, what fun.”
Harry marveled at her enthusiasm as she darted off to make sure her cake would appear on time in the tent. “She goes through the same performance every year. And every year I swear she enjoys it more.”
“She’s wonderful,” Mal said. “So … vital.” She thought that Miffy Jordan was everything her own mother had not been.
Everyone seemed to know the midnight routine and was heading in the same direction. They crowded around as the lights were dimmed. The butler struck the gong loudly twelve times; it reverberated until their ears hurt, and then the cake was wheeled in. It was yellow, of course, and topped with yellow roses. The band played and they all sang “Happy Birthday” as Miffy blew out her candle and cut the first slice of cake.
“As you all know, this first slice is for Harald, up there in Heaven. May you enjoy it the best way you can, darling.
And of course, the second slice is for my dear son, Harry.”
She continued cutting her cake and listing names, adding anecdotes and endearments.
Watching her, Mal felt like the little girl at the movies again. She was in a magical place where everyone wore beautiful dresses and lovely jewels; life was wonderful, and everybody lived happily ever after. Only this time it was real, and they had let her be a part of it.
A
T MIDNIGHT
the lights were out in all the houses on Suzie Walker’s street. He got out of the Volvo, stretching with relief. It was later than he expected, but he wasn’t worried about that. Suzie was on the night shift. He knew he had plenty of time.
Keeping to the shadows, he walked quickly down the street. He was not wearing his uniform—that was for the special event. Instead, he had put on dark pants and a black shirt so if by chance he encountered someone, he would look like any ordinary passerby.
He slipped across the road and into the tiny forecourt where she usually parked her car, then glanced quickly over his shoulder. No one was in sight. He turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, closing the door silently after him. The thrill of the illicit, of the unknown, hit him in a rush of exhilaration.
He stood in the dark hallway, waiting, feeling the dense silence. He was breathing heavily, his pulse raised several notches by the excitement of his own daring, his own cleverness.
He took the miniflashlight from his pocket and flicked it on. This time he heard rather than saw the cat as it scuttled away in panic. He smiled—he liked animals. He used to experiment with them as a boy. He’d cut them up just to hear them scream and see what was inside them,
and his mother would laugh and tell him he should be a surgeon.
He stepped into the kitchen, keeping the beam low as he pulled down the windowshade. He did not turn on the light, in case someone noticed it had not been on earlier, when Suzie left for the hospital. He took a pair of thin rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then shone his flashlight around, frowning as he saw the half-eaten supermarket meal abandoned on the counter and the pile of dishes in the sink. She had a dishwasher—why the hell didn’t she use it?
He saw the letter, written on pale pink notepaper decorated with pastel flower garlands, and read it interestedly. So Suzie was to be a bridesmaid. Smiling at his own power over her, he wondered if she would make it to the ceremony. He knew the answer was in his hands.
The minuscule living room was on the other side of the kitchen, separated by the counter. He looked around it quickly, then crossed the narrow hallway into her bedroom.
He stood in the doorway, breathing deeply, like a dog seeking the scent of her.
Each woman was different; each had her own particular odor. Summer Young had been perfume and lipstick and cigarettes, but Suzie was sharper, clean, faintly hospital-antiseptic, overlaid with the rainforest scent of her bath oil. She smelled exactly like the person she was—a nurse and an outdoors woman who liked to walk in the woods on her weekends off. But under it they were all the same. They all had that vile, musky female scent. Like his mother.
Her bed was unmade—they always were. He thought there was probably not a single woman in the United States under the age of twenty-five who ever made her bed in the morning. He sat on the edge of it, running his hand over the dark-green sheet printed with a flashy gold
pattern. At least her sheets were clean, even if they did look like a whore’s.
He wandered around the bedroom, picking up her things and inspecting them: the medical textbook on her bedside table, the holiday photograph of her parents holding hands and smiling at the camera. Her sister—the one who was about to be married, he guessed. She looked like Suzie, only with dark hair and maybe not as pretty. A red-haired boy, probably her younger brother.
He opened the dresser drawers, fingering the underwear flung in any-old-how. Her taste ran to lacy thongs and push-up bras. He liked that. Strings of glass beads and pearls dangled from the mirror over the dresser, and a box decorated with a pair of entwined blue and pink bunnies held a tired-looking collection of inexpensive earrings.
He stepped into the closet, rifling through the garments hanging on the rail, sniffing them, rubbing them against his face. Her shoes were flung untidily into a corner, even though there was a plastic grid to hold them. Still, he liked the contrast between the nurse’s comfortable rubber-soled white flats and her spiky patent leather stilettos. He picked up the black patent shoe, caressing its heel as he walked through into the bathroom.
This was his treasure trove, the place he liked best. Her personal things, the face creams and the makeup, were piled in dusty Lucite trays on the cracked tiled counter-top, and a fresh bar of antibacterial soap perched on a grooved wooden holder that probably contained more germs than the soap could ever counteract.
He opened drawers and cupboards, fingering her tampons and pads. A damp green towel hung over the shower rail. He pushed it to one side and inspected the tub. The thin beam of the flashlight showed a single dark-copper pubic hair curled near the drain. He picked it up and held it between thumb and forefinger, examining it.
Then he took a tissue from the box on the counter, wrapped it carefully, and put it in his pocket.
He looked around for the laundry basket. It was under the window. The black cat was sitting on top of it, watching him. This time it did not move.
Getting used to me, he told himself smiling. Anyhow, he had no need to disturb it. When Suzie undressed for her shower, she had thrown her discarded underthings on the floor. They were still there.
He pulled off the gloves and, trembling with pleasure, picked up the black lace thong and matching bra. He turned them over and over in his hands. He looked at the label: Victoria’s Secret. He held them to his face, inhaling the terrible female scent of her. And he groaned out loud.
The cat took off, its claws skittering on the tiled floor as it ran past him. He didn’t even notice.
Still clutching the thong to his face, he walked quickly into her room and sank down on the bed. He lay back and unzipped his pants, pressing the black lace underwear to his crotch. He groaned again, lost in a solitary sexual frenzy, writhing, moaning.
But what he really wanted to do was scream
.
It was no good of course. It never was. The only time he could ever reach that ultimate tearing climax was when he killed them. Tremors shook his body violently, as if he were suffering a fit. He was out of control again, caught up in the past. Thinking of his terrible mother who, even after all these years, still dominated him.
He was a boy again, trapped in her bed, she was hitting him with her shoe because he wouldn’t touch her. The spike heel zapped painfully into his bruised flesh, into his genitals, as she whispered the horrors she would inflict on him if he ever told….
Suzie drove slowly back down the street. She parked the Neon, thankful to be home again. She got out and stood for a moment, breathing in the warm night air. It
seemed to swim around her in a haze, counterpointed with flashes of light as the migraine hammered her brain. She clutched her hands to her head, praying for it to stop. The head nurse had given her some pills and told her to go home and get some rest; he said she was no good in the state she was in. She knew he was right and that it would only get worse before it got better. That was how it always was.
Sighing, she put her key in the lock and opened her door. At least she hadn’t lost her keys tonight, she thought gratefully. She switched on the hall light, and the cat came running. It had been a stray and their relationship was friendly but cool: as long as she remembered to feed it and let it sleep on her bed, it was okay. She was surprised when it rubbed around her ankles, miaowing.
“You’ve picked the wrong night to look for affection,” she told it wearily.
She walked into the kitchen, blinking with pain as she switched on the overhead light, then went to the window to pull down the shade. She stopped in surprise. It was already down. She remembered running back into the house to close the windows, but she didn’t recall pulling the shade down. She shook her head in bewilderment as she turned away.
The cat jumped onto the counter, watching as she took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, poured some into a glass, and swallowed the pills. She pressed her hands down on the counter, letting her head droop forward. She felt terrible.
She wasn’t supposed to come back
. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening. Panic rose like bile in his throat as he thought of her out there, of her coming into the bedroom. He had never encountered this situation before; it wasn’t in his plan of action. It didn’t happen to him.
He could hear her moving around in the kitchen. A
shaft of light shone from the hall through the crack in the bedroom door. He glanced at the window, but there was a screen on the outside. He hurried into the bathroom—the window was too small. He was trapped.
He heard her in the hall. He went quickly back into the bedroom and stepped into the closet. His heart thudded, his pulse raced, and sweat trickled down his back. It was the sweat of fear. He had never been confronted by any of his girls. His plans were always flawless. He was always the one in control.
He slid his hand into his pocket, took out the small knife, and removed the plastic case. Then he stood perfectly still behind the closet door, the knife ready in his hand. Waiting.
M
AL AND
H
ARRY WERE
in the stretch limo on their way back to Boston. He was holding her hand and singing along with Santana, complete with expressive Latin shakes of the shoulders and hips.
There was a smile on Mal’s face as she watched him—he was certainly full of surprises. “Is this a preview of what I can expect at Salsa Annie’s?”