The Deep End (43 page)

Joanne stands up quickly and bends forward, touching her fingers to her toes and staring back at herself from between parted thighs. “Well, hello there, Joanne Hunter, I’d know you anywhere.” She sticks out her tongue. “Same to you, buddy,” she says, straightening up and swiveling in a full circle, surprisingly satisfied with what she sees. “Not half bad for a woman over forty,” she congratulates her image.

Joanne returns to the bathtub and shuts off the water. It is very hot, perhaps a touch too hot, she thinks as she lowers her body. She presses her shoulders against the white porcelain, feeling the water ripple underneath her chin. Beads of perspiration immediately form on her forehead and upper lip. She closes her eyes, stretching her arms and legs out before her. I could fall asleep right now, she thinks. Just let myself drift off and fall asleep.

She hears a noise, feels her body instantly tense. Straightening her shoulders, sitting up, drawing her knees to her chest, Joanne waits to hear the noise again. But there is nothing, and after a few minutes of listening she relaxes back against the tub. There is nothing to worry about. The alarm is on; the Suburban Strangler has been apprehended; the police are keeping an eye on the house anyway. The nightmare is over. Almost, she hears a little voice whisper. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t fall asleep.

She closes her eyes despite the silent admonition, but it is already too late. She is no longer alone in the tub. Eve has joined her, and the two officers who were here what already feels like a lifetime ago, and Alan Crosby, his features indistinct behind an odious smile. They are leaving her no room to relax, no room to stretch out. Joanne reopens her eyes and grabs the bar of soap from its dish, quickly sudsing herself and then rinsing the soap off, standing up and stepping out onto the floor. Her bathtub has become a public pool. It is too crowded. She wants solitude.

Back in her room, Joanne pulls a T-shirt out of a drawer and pokes her head through its neck, her arms through its short sleeves. She is getting into bed when something makes her turn, forces her to alter her course. Almost against her will, she finds that she is tiptoeing across the upstairs hall, peeking first into Robin’s room and then Lulu’s, satisfied that both rooms are empty, thinking briefly how nice it will be when they are occupied again next week. She finds herself looking forward to her daughters’ return, to the coming year. Her first, she thinks, as a full-fledged adult.

Passing by the top of the stairs, she decides to make a final check on the alarm. She remembers having turned it
on after the police left, but her memory has not been serving her well lately, and she wants to be sure.

Seconds later, she finds herself in the downstairs hail. The green light shines brightly from the small box on the wall, telling her that the alarm is on. She is safe.

Proceeding next into her dining room, she stares out the front window at the street, is further reassured that all is well when, in the next minute, she sees a police car drive by, slowing down to take a good look at her house. She waves, but it is dark in the room and the police cannot see her. Still, she feels better knowing that they are there.

She is tired, so tired that her head is beginning to throb. Climbing in between the bedsheets, Joanne immediately lets her eyes shut. Don’t close your eyes, the little voice warns. Don’t fall asleep. “Go away,” she tells it impatiently, watching a young Kevin McCarthy embrace the beautiful Dana Wynter for the last time. Joanne is asleep almost before her head reaches the pillow.

Joanne is playing cards with her grandfather.

He is winning, which does not surprise her. What does surprise her is the number of people who are gathered inside his room at the Baycrest Nursing Home to watch them play. At first their faces are indistinguishable, one blending into another, impressionistic sketches only, their boundaries not clearly defined, a few simple strokes of color and light. As Joanne searches these faces, she sees familiar features intermingle, combine, disappear. Her mother’s eyes watch her from beneath Eve’s startling red hair. Lulu’s arms reach out to her from Robin’s shoulders, her father’s full-throated laugh emanates from Paul’s open mouth,

Go away, she tells them silently. I can’t concentrate when you’re so busy moving around. Stay still or go away. Instead, the strange audience remains; the cards disappear. She finds herself in a soundproof booth; her grandfather, an aging master of ceremonies, is asking her a question. She is on a quiz show, she realizes, straightening her shoulders and tucking in her stomach for the camera. If she answers the question correctly, someone is saying, she will win a giant egg roll. But the sound in the booth is faulty; sentences are begun only to disappear. How can she be expected to answer the question when she can’t hear it? she demands, catching snatches of good wishes from the excited crowd.

We’re rooting for you, her mother enunciates clearly, though Joanne cannot hear the words. She nods, but she is worried. She doesn’t want to disappoint her mother. She has been a good girl; she has studied hard. All her friends are here; she doesn’t want to let them down.

You can’t disappoint us, her father says clearly, and then the sound is gone. We love you, he mouths silently.

We should go now, Eve says. Let you concentrate.

I love you, Paul tells her.

I need you, Ron Gold reminds her.

And then they are gone. She is alone. The sound in the booth crackles ominously as if the booth has been electrified.

Are you … your question? her grandfather asks, his voice fading in and out.

I can’t hear you. Joanne gesticulates wildly, but either he cannot see her or she is being deliberately ignored.

Here is … question, the voice says.

I can’t hear you. I missed …

When is … date … start of …?

I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. I keep missing words. I don’t know the question.

Joanne feels the initial stirrings of panic in her chest, knows that her glass booth has become an airless prison. She wants to get out. But she must answer the question correctly before they will release her. Frantically, she searches out the faces that suddenly surround her. But she is in a roomful of strangers whose faces blend into their surroundings, whose bodies are inseparable from the walls they lean against. Her breath catching in her throat, she realizes that she is in a room full of Alan Crosbys.

The glass booth is not a prison, she realizes in sudden desperation as she watches it disappear. It is what has been keeping her alive. Now she stands alone and unprotected in a room full of killers.

When is the date of the start of the Boer War? their collective voices taunt her, their bodies drawing closer.

I don’t know, Joanne pleads.

Sure you do, the voices insist. Just ask Lulu. She told us she’d never forget it.

What are you talking about?

“Linda …”

We were there when you told your grandfather.

“Linda …”

We know the combination to your alarm.

“Linda …”

Eve’s voice suddenly pierces through the others. I’m dying, Joanne, she cries. Help me!

I’ll be right there, Joanne calls to her, pushing through the tight circle of Alan Crosbys into her front hall, her keys clutched firmly in her hand. She pauses for an
instant to press the numbers on her alarm system before racing out the door.

When is the date of the start of the Boer War?

I turned on the alarm.

“Linda …”

I turned it on when I went out but it was off when I came back in.

“Linda …”

I turned it on. Someone turned it off.

He’s in the house.

He’s been here all along.

Joanne bolts upright in bed, her eyes open wide in terror.

“Linda …”

The voice fills the room.

“Linda …”

Joanne’s eyes move to the intercom on her bedroom wall. She is not asleep. She is wide awake. The voice she has been hearing is not part of any dream. The voice is real. It is part of her nightmare. And it is real.

Alan Crosby is in the house.

“Wake up, Linda,” the voice sings eerily, like a child. “I’m coming to get you.”

Joanne feels her hands start to tremble, her body start to shake. She feels sick to her stomach. Where is he? What room is he speaking to her from? Where can she hide? Where can she run?

Why didn’t she install panic buttons? she berates herself. Karen Palmer told her to install panic buttons.

“Linda … I know you’re awake now. I can feel it. I can feel your fear. I’m coming.”

It wouldn’t have made any difference, she realizes. He would have found a way around them, just as he found
his way here tonight. He must have taken her keys from her purse and returned them after he’d had copies made. They disappeared after she’d been to visit her grandfather; they were returned after another such visit. Why hadn’t she thought to put it all together?

“Ready or not, Linda … here I come.”

He is playing games with her. Silly, childish games. Murderous games. Hide-and-go-seek. The cat and the mouse.

Joanne looks around wildly as total silence suddenly surrounds her. The voice is gone. The house is completely still except for the sound of her own shallow breathing. Somewhere in the house, he is moving. He is coming for her.

Are you just going to sit here in bed and wait for him? a little voice demands angrily. Move!

Joanne remains rooted to her bed.

Move, you motherfucker!

Joanne scrambles to her feet. Where do I go, big shot? she implores, her knees knocking painfully together. Now that I’m up, what the hell do I do?

She grabs at the phone, balancing the receiver against her ear with her shoulder as she tries to dial. But her fingers jam in the small plastic circles, and she has to start again. Her eyes fastened on the doorway, she tears at the three digits which will connect her to police emergency.

“You have reached police emergency,” the familiar taped message informs her seconds later. “All our lines are busy …”

Joanne hears another click. A different voice comes on the line. “Can I help you, Linda?” it asks, less human than the tape. Joanne drops the receiver back into its
carriage, holding her breath, too terrified to move.

She can lock herself in the bathroom, she thinks, then immediately decides against it. Like her imagined counterpart in the glass booth, she will only trap herself inside. A simple bobby pin is all it takes to open the lock, and there is nothing in the bathroom that she can use to defend herself. Paul took his razor blades with him when he left.

Her only hope is to get outside.

Joanne looks at the bedroom windows. But she is two floors up—three off the ground—and even if she can succeed in breaking one of the windows, the fall will undoubtedly injure her severely, enough to let him find her and finish the job.

She has to get outside. Perhaps the police are still circling the block. She checks the time. It is after two o’clock. Are they still out there? Can she get outside?

Where is Alan Crosby? In what room is he waiting for her? Is he still by the phone in the kitchen or has he snuck upstairs?

She continues holding her breath, listening for the slightest sound, hearing nothing. She looks frantically around the bedroom. What can she use to defend herself? A hanger? A shoe? Her eyes return to the phone. Well, why the hell not? she thinks, pulling the cord from the wall, brandishing the phone wire like a whip in front of her.

Slowly she moves toward her bedroom door.

Her eyes stare down the upstairs hallway through the darkness, seeing nothing. Is he hiding in Lulu’s room? In Robin’s? Was he there, under the bed, when she checked their rooms earlier? Was he watching her in morbid anticipation while she slept? Her heart wedged firmly in the
middle of her throat, the butterflies in her stomach multiplying and invading every inch of her body, Joanne pushes her reluctant feet out of the room. If she can just get down the stairs …

Her bare toes slide along the carpet, inching their way toward the top step. Where is he? Will he let her get down the stairs?

Cautiously her right foot lowers itself down the first step. Joanne sees the fleeting image of a young girl with a rectangular face and flat chest. She hears Eve’s voice. You know she’s the survivor because she has no boyfriend and no boobs, she says. Well … Joanne thinks, looking down at herself—close enough. How did the girl escape? Joanne wonders, searching her memory and finding nothing. Great, she thinks. Alzheimer’s disease now too, on top of everything else.

She is on the last step. If she can only get to the front door …

She sees the movement before she hears the sound, hears his piercing scream before she hears her own, feels his hands reaching for her throat. In a total panic, she drops the phone she has been carrying to defend herself, feeling its weight crash close beside her, hearing another, sharp cry, this time of pain, the word “shit!” as it escapes his mouth, feeling his hands retreat, everything happening so fast that she is halfway out the front door before she realizes that she has dropped the phone on his foot and that their screams are now mingling with the shrill shriek of her alarm.

She is outside and the alarm siren is racing boldly through the neighborhood.

She sees Eve peering down at her from one of her bedroom windows.

“Eve!” she screams, running across the grass toward the house next door, watching as Eve disappears from view. “Open the door!” she screams, stopping midway between the two houses, waiting for Eve to open her door, turning her head to catch Alan Crosby smiling sickly at her from beneath her front porchlight. He is holding something in his hand. As she watches, a long silver blade snaps menacingly into view.

Move! her inner voice commands, and instantly she obeys, her bare feet carrying her through the grassy lane between the two houses into her backyard.

Now what? she screams silently, staring into the large, concrete-lined hole. My grave, she thinks, racing toward the shallow end and tripping down the three steps into the empty pool.

There is no moon and only a few stars. Maybe he won’t see her. Maybe he won’t see the hole. Maybe he’ll fall in and break his neck.