The Deep End (44 page)

Sure, she thinks immediately, hearing the loud pounding of her heart against her chest. As if he hasn’t carefully gone over every inch of her backyard. Her fingers tracing the sides of the pool, Joanne creeps toward the deep end, the continuing sound of the alarm siren screaming into the night. Where are the police? If she can just keep out of the boy’s way until they arrive.

Maybe he has already left. Maybe the sound of the alarm scared him away. Maybe she is safe …

She hears him. He is somewhere above her, moving across the flagstone. Can he see her? Has he seen her already?

Joanne lowers her chin into her chest, trying to muffle the sound of her breathing. She feels the concrete rough
against the back of her bare legs. What is she wearing? Looking down, her hands tracing the outlines of her breasts, she sees the bold white letters jump up toward her as if they are printed in three-dimensional ink.
I SPENT THE NIGHT WITH BURT REYNOLDS
… they proudly proclaim. Goddamn, she shouts to herself, crouching forward, blocking the letters with her hands. Of all the T-shirts to put on, why did she have to pick this one?

I can’t believe that I’m worrying about what I’m wearing, Joanne suddenly berates herself, recalling Karen Palmer’s observations. What are people supposed to think about when they are faced with almost certain death? My thoughts were never that deep in life, she apologizes to Karen’s image. I can’t be expected to turn into Kant or Hegel because I only have a few minutes left to live.

“Linda …”

The voice twists through the darkness like a snake through grass. He is somewhere above her head, across from where she is crouching. Is he staring at her? She is afraid to look up, afraid the movement will draw his attention. It is possible that he hasn’t seen her. Perhaps he is hoping that the sound of his voice will frighten her into betraying her hiding place. It is important that she stay very still.

“Linda …” the voice calls again, this time closer.

Where are the goddamn police? Why aren’t they here? What is the point of having an alarm system if nobody is going to pay any attention to it when it goes off?

The girl who cried wolf, she thinks, recalling the earlier false alarms. Where are Officers Whitaker and Statler? They said they’d keep an eye on her house. But that was hours ago. It’s after two in the morning. They’re probably in bed by now, long since sound asleep.

There is a slight movement above her head, which Joanne realizes a second too late is a hand moving toward her. Instantly her hair is scooped into a tight ball, the force of her assailant’s fingers lifting her to her feet. She twists her head back to see a knife flashing through the air, a horrifying shriek escaping her lungs as the knife slices across the top of her hair.

“Cowboys and Indians!” the boy whoops, as Joanne trips over her feet to the other side of the boomerang at the deep end of the pool.

“Leave me alone!” she yells, her eyes reaching his through the darkness.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he laughs, waiting to see which way she will move.

“The police will be here …”

“I have lots of time,” he says confidently.

“Please …”

“But maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t get too cocky. Maybe I should start showing you that good time I promised you …”

Joanne starts inching along the side of the pool back toward the shallow end.

He moves with her. “That’s a girl,” he says. “Come to Poppa.”

Joanne watches in horror as Alan Crosby leaps easily into the shallow end of the pool after her.

In a mad scramble, Joanne dashes toward the steps, feeling something slam against her toes and then snap up painfully against her shins, causing her to lose her balance. She stumbles, feeling her body crumble, her fingers curling into the familiar strings of her tennis racquet, as her hands reflexively reach out to block her fall. Her feet
somehow miraculously maintaining their balance, she scoops up the racquet and scrambles up the steps, hostile hands reaching out from behind her to grab hold of her T-shirt.

She struggles to slip out of the boy’s tight grasp, but his grip on her T-shirt is solid and he begins reeling her toward him like a prize fish on a line. Again she hears the ominous click of a switchblade.

“You promised me a good time,” she suddenly snaps, catching them both by surprise with the vehemence in her voice. “I am
not
having a good time!”

What the hell is she talking about? Joanne wonders, feeling his grip relax and taking advantage of the confusion of the moment to propel herself out of his reach.

She tries to run but he is only inches behind her. Once more she feels him at her back, hears the knife cutting through the space between them. As the blade slices through the back of her T-shirt, a series of snapshots, tiny black-and-white photographs of the Strangler’s victims, flashes before her eyes. “No!” she hollers defiantly, her left hand joining her right on the handle of her tennis racquet. Watching herself as she spins around, almost in slow motion, Joanne Hunter bends her knees, her back foot planted firmly on the ground, and, starting low, swings the racquet, full force, up and through.

J
oanne hears the car pull up as she is finishing her third cup of morning coffee. Laying down her cup, she waits for the familiar chimes to ring. Shooting the intercom a nasty look, she walks briskly to the door and peers through the peephole.

“Hi,” she says, pulling open the door.

“Hi,” he says in return, and husband and wife stare awkwardly at each other from opposite sides of their threshold. “Can I come in?”

Joanne says nothing, simply backs away from the door to allow Paul to come inside. He closes the door behind him. “You look tired,” Joanne observes. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I’m exhausted,” he replies, “and yes, I’d love a cup of coffee.”

He follows her into the kitchen, walking to the sliding glass door to stare into the backyard.

“It’s been quite a week,” he says, almost absently, as if he is barely aware that he is talking out loud.

Joanne makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a cry and places his cup of coffee on the table.

“I tried to reach you,” Paul continues. “As soon as I heard about what happened, I called … I came over. Eve’s mother finally told me that you’d gone to California.”

“I needed a couple of days away,” Joanne explains. “I’m sorry. I should have phoned you. I wasn’t thinking too clearly. Everything happened so fast.” She looks around distractedly. “It’s not every day I almost kill someone,” she says quietly.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. That’s quite a swing you’ve got,” Paul jokes. “I understand that he broke his arm and leg when he fell into the pool. I guess it was a good thing that it wasn’t filled after all.”

“Things have a way of working out,” Joanne smiles. “Your coffee will get cold.”

Paul sits down at the kitchen table in what was traditionally his seat. Joanne pulls out the chair across from him and wonders why he is here. The girls will be returning from camp in less than an hour.

“I feel so guilty,” he says at last.

Joanne shrugs, saying nothing. What is there to say?

“I should have been here,” he continues, unprompted. “I should have been here for you. None of this would have happened if I’d been here.”

“That’s not so,” Joanne tells him. “And I’m not saying that to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.” Paul regards her quizzically. “Those women that the Suburban Strangler murdered had husbands around to protect them. They died anyway; I didn’t. Maybe the fact that you weren’t around, that I had only myself to depend on, maybe that’s what saved my life. I don’t know. It’s a nice theory. Besides, it’s over now, and I’m okay. So unless you enjoy the feeling, I’d suggest that there’s nothing for you to feel guilty about.”

Paul looks at Joanne with more than a trace of surprise. “You shouldn’t have had to go through it,” he says quietly, not quite ready to relinquish his guilt.

“No, I shouldn’t have,” Joanne agrees. “But there you go.” Her head pivots toward the pool. She sees the darkness, feels the knife slice through the soft fabric of her T-shirt, hears the swoosh of her tennis racquet as it crashes against the boy’s head, watches as he plummets into the concrete hole. “I’d like to sell the house,” she announces evenly.

“I can understand that,” Paul tells her.

Joanne nods. She is grateful that he doesn’t feel the need for a major discussion. “Find something without a pool,” she adds.

“Agreed,” he says easily, taking a long sip of his coffee. “How was California?”

Joanne laughs. “Actually, compared to here, it was kind of quiet.”

“How’s your brother?”

“Good. He’s been trying to convince me to move out there.”

“Are you considering it?” Paul asks, his shoulders arching stiffly though his voice remains steady.

“Not really,” Joanne answers. “It would mean uprooting the girls, putting them into new schools, taking them away from their friends. Besides, I have my job …”

“Still planning to keep working?”

“Yes.”

Paul’s shoulders relax. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“I thought I’d take the girls with me to the office tomorrow,” Joanne tells him. “Show them where I work. Show them what I do.”

“I think they’d enjoy that.”

“I think it’s important that they see that their mother is more than just a doormat with a welcome sign across her back.”

“I’m sure that’s not how they see you.”

“How could they help but see me that way?” Joanne asks. “I’ve been so busy submerging myself in everybody else’s expectations that I disappeared. I’m not blaming you,” she adds quickly. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do it to me. I did it. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to be me. I don’t blame you for leaving, I really don’t. How can you live with a shadow?”

“I wasn’t any great shakes myself.”

“Well, at least you were honest.”

“Honest, hell!” Paul exclaims. “I was a self-indulgent, stupid son of a bitch.” He stands up, taking his empty coffee cup to the sink and rinsing it out. “I mean, what did I think was going to be out there? Adventure? Youth?” He laughs bitterly. “There’s nothing sadder than a middle-aged man trying to find his lost youth. So what if I’m not Clarence Darrow? I’m still a damn good lawyer. I’ve finally discovered that there’s really nothing else that I want to be when I grow up.”

He stares at her, waiting for her to speak, but Joanne says nothing, simply returning his steady gaze.

He is the first to break away, looking toward the doorway. “How’s Eve?” he asks, seeking safer ground.

“She’s in the hospital. She agreed to let Brian take her. I think that maybe what happened that night finally shook a little sense into her. She’s the one who called the police, you know, got hold of Brian, made sure they got there in time. She probably saved my life.”

“Some summer.”

“It hasn’t exactly been a summer I’d care to repeat,” Joanne admits, running a hand across the top of her head. “He gave me a punk haircut,” she laughs. “Think the girls will like it?”

“Why don’t you ask them when we pick them up?” he suggests.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Joanne answers slowly, finding the words difficult to speak.

“Why not?” Paul asks.

“Because I think that if the girls see us together at the bus station, that will only get their hopes up, and then we’d have to let them down again.”

“Would we?”

Joanne stares at her husband. “What are you trying to say, Paul?”

There is a slight pause. “That I’d like to come home,” he says.

“Why?”

The question is startling in its simplicity. “Because I love you,” he answers. “Because I realized in the four months that I’ve been gone that there’s nothing out there …”

“There’s everything out there,” Joanne interrupts quietly.

Paul smiles sadly.

Joanne stares out the sliding glass door. “So much has happened. So much has changed. I’ve changed.”

“I like the changes.”

“That’s the problem.” Joanne turns back to confront her husband. “I won’t always have a psychotic killer around to bring out the best in me!”

They are suddenly both laughing. “We should get going,” Joanne says finally.

“There’s something I have to do first,” Paul tells her, walking steadily to the front door. Following behind him, Joanne watches as he heads down the front stairs to his car, quickly extricating two suitcases from the back seat.

Smiling confidently, Joanne watches as her husband of twenty years pulls his suitcases up the front steps.