The Vision (17 page)

Whimpering, weighted down in sleep by the sedative she’d taken, Mary turned over, unaware that she was alone in bed.

 
 
He pushed up the unlocked bedroom window and slipped inside without making a sound.

Toward the front of the cottage a stereo was playing one of Joan Baez’ most soulful albums.

He crossed the bedroom and went down the narrow hall to the living room. Erika Larsson was sitting on a high wooden stool with her back to him. She was at a large easel, working on an oil painting.

The girl’s black cat, Samantha, was curled up on an easy chair. It raised its head and stared at him with yellow eyes as he came out of the hallway.

There was a pleasant odor in the air. She had made herself some popcorn not long ago.

He was only ten feet from her when she sensed him and turned. “You,” she said.

She was as beautiful as he remembered her. Thick, kinky blond hair. Pale, almost translucent skin. Huge blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and her dark nipples were prominent against the thin white material.

She got up from the stool. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer.

The black cat knew something was terribly wrong. It jumped down from the chair and ran into the kitchen.

He took another step toward Erika.

She edged around the easel. “Get out of here.”

He knocked over the easel.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He held up the knife.

“No. Oh, no.”

She backed up against the windows that looked out on the Pacific Ocean.

She held her hands in front of her, as if she would push him away when he tried to close the last few feet between them.

“Mary will know,” Erika said.

He said nothing.

“Mary will see who did it,” she said.

He reached for her.

“She’ll turn you over to the cops. Mary will know! ”

Near dawn.

The black cat named Samantha came out of the kitchen cabinet in which she had hidden and fallen asleep. She yawned and stretched. Then she stood for a minute with her head held high, listening.

The cottage was quiet. The wind soughed softly across the roof.

At last, Samantha padded into the living room. The Christmas tree had been knocked on its side. Ornaments were strewn across the floor
_;
and many of them had been stamped to slivers and dust. Samantha sniffed at a broken glass angel, pushed at its head with one paw. She tasted a crushed candy cane and investigated a broken crucifix that had once hung on the living room wall above the hall door. She nosed around a discarded pair of jeans and a rumpled white T-shirt.

Finally, warily, Samantha circled the body of Erika Larsson and tasted the blood as she had tasted the candy cane.

LIKE SCARECROWS FLAPPING on an empty snow-covered field, nightmares had studded her sleep. Most of them were based upon the worst moments of her childhood. This morning filthy rags of those dreams hung around her and made her uneasy, nervous.

Ordinarily, after she showered and before she dressed, she half dried her hair with a towel, then applied one hundred vigorous brush strokes. Now, curiously disturbed by her nakedness, she counted the twenty-eighth stroke and knew that she couldn’t wait through seventy-two more before putting on her clothes.

She usually enjoyed performing this and other morning rituals in the nude. She admitted to being an exhibitionist. (See me, see my lovely breasts and ass and legs, see how unmarked, see how very pretty, like me, love me, love me.) But she was motivated by more than exhibitionism. She felt that by beginning the day unclothed, she acquired a sense of lightness and freedom that stayed with her through the afternoon. Dr. Cauvel said that perhaps by starting each day naked, she was trying to prove to herself that her nightly dreams had left no sign on her, that Berton Mitchell had left no sign on her
_;
but she couldn’t see the logic in that bit of analysis.

Sometimes Max would sit in perfect silence and watch as she brushed her hair and exercised in the nude. He could make her blush by referring to his voyeurism as “reading beautiful poetry.”

But now Max was in the shower. There was no one in the motel room to read her poetry. Yet she felt that someone was staring at her.

Shivering, she put on a brassiere and panties.

When she opened the closet to get slacks and a blouse, she saw Max’s muddy shoes and mud-streaked, blood-stained jacket. As she was examining the dark reddish blots on the jacket, Max came out of the bathroom. He was drying his hair with a towel, and another towel was wrapped around his waist.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

“All I did was take a shower.”

She didn’t smile. She held up the soiled jacket.

“Oh,” he said. “The cut on my finger came open.”

“How did that happen?”

“The bandage tore loose when I tripped and fell.”

“Fell? When was this?”

“Last night,” he said. “After you took your sedative you went right to sleep, but I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I went for a walk. I was three blocks from the hotel when it started to rain. It was a regular cloudburst. Surprised the hell out of me. I started to run back. Took a short cut through the vacant lot next door, tripped on a stone and fell. Pretty stupid of me. The bandage came off my finger and the cut popped open.”

She winced. Looking down at the jacket in her hands, she said, “You bled a lot.”

“Like a stuck pig.” He held up his hand. The injured finger was swatched in clean gauze and adhesive tape. “It still aches.”

He tossed aside the towel with which he’d been drying his hair, took the jacket from her, turned it over in his hands. “I don’t think any dry cleaner is going to make this look like new.” He took the jacket to the wastebasket and threw it away.

“You should have awakened me when you came in last night,” Mary said.

“You were a mile under.”

“You should have tried.”

“What for? It wasn’t anything serious. I applied pressure for fifteen minutes, until the bleeding completely stopped. Then I put on a new bandage. Nothing to worry about.”

“You should see a doctor.”

He shook his head. “No need.”

“Well, it’s apparently not healing.”

“Give it time. It had just begun to heal when I fell and pulled it open,” he said. “I’ll be more careful.”

“The next time you change bandages,” she said, “I want to see the cut. If it isn’t healing, you’ll go to a doctor even if I have to drag you there.”

He came to her and put his hands on her slender shoulders. “Yes, Mother.” He had a charming smile which he reserved almost exclusively for her.

She sighed and leaned against his chest, where she could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart. “I worry about you.”

“I know,” he said.

“Because I love you.”

“I know.”

“Because I’d die if I lost you.”

He unhooked her brassiere.

“But we don’t have time,” she said.

“We’ll skip breakfast.”

She moved her hands over him. He was solid, powerful. His size and strength had tremendous impact on her. She felt drugged and excited at the same time. Her eyes grew heavy, her legs weak
_;
yet, in her breasts and belly and thighs, she felt an extraordinary heat and tension. The texture of his skin, the steeliness of his muscle and sinew and bone mesmerized her.

He stripped her, then took off the towel he had been wearing around his waist. He kissed her throat. She felt weightless. His hands slid down her back and cupped her buttocks.

“You could hold me so tight,” she said, “squeeze me so tight that you’d cut off my breath. You’re strong enough to break my neck.”

“I don’t want to break your neck,” he murmured.

“But you could. So easily.”

He took her earlobe between his lips.

“If you... broke my neck... I don’t think... I’d care.”

He moved one hand between them and touched the moist center of her.

“You’d be so gentle,” she said dreamily. “Even as you broke me, you’d be gentle. There wouldn’t be pain. You wouldn’t allow pain.”

He took her to the bed.

As he entered her, as the piston of lovemaking grew slick with her clear oils, she thought about being crushed to death in his arms, and she thought how odd it was for her to consider such a thing, and how much stranger still to consider it without fear and with something very like desire, a melancholy longing, a curiously pleasant anticipation, not a death wish but a sweet resignation, and she knew that Dr. Cauvel would say this was a sign of her sickness, that now she was prepared to surrender even her ultimate responsibility (the fundamental responsibility for her own life, for deciding whether or not she was worthy of life), and he would say that she needed to rely more on herself and less on Max, but she didn’t care, didn’t care at all
_;
she just felt the power, Max’s power, and began to call his name, dug her fingers into his unyielding muscle and surrendered willingly.

 
 
“Roger Fullet speaking.”

“Your name fits. Fullet, you’re full of it.”

“Lou? Is that you? Lou Pasternak?”

“I called and asked for Roger Fullet, the reporter, and was promptly told it’s now Roger Fullet, the editor.”

“It happened a month ago.”

“The
Los Angeles Times
is degenerating swiftly.”

“They finally recognized brilliance.”

“Oh? You mean after just promoting you they’re giving your job to someone else?”

“Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a funny man.”

“Thank you.”

“Plastic surgery might help.”

“Watch it, Fullet. You’re no match for me.”

“Sorry. Lost my head.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Hey, Lou, I’ve got an office with this job that’s almost as large as your whole shop.”

“They gave you an office so they could lock you in it and keep you out from under foot.”

“I dine with the brass.”

“Because they don’t trust you with the silver.”

“Christ, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“How are Peggy and the kids?”

“Fine. Wonderful. Everyone’s healthy.”

“Give them my love and wish them a merry Christmas for me.”

“I will. You’ll have to come visit for a weekend soon. You know we haven’t seen each other in six months? We live so close, only an hour or so apart. Lou, why don’t we get together more often?”

“Maybe subconsciously we loathe each other.”

“Nobody could possibly loathe me. I’m just a big Hershey Bar. My daughter says so.”

“Well, Mr. Hershey Bar, I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

“Name it, Lou.”

“I’d like you to go back through the
Times’
morgue and get me all available background on a crime that interests me.”

“What sort of crime?”

“Child molestation.”

“Ugly.”

“Also assault with intent to kill.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Somewhere in West Los Angeles. A pretty good neighborhood. The girl lived on a twenty-acre estate that’s probably since been subdivided.”

“When was this?”

“Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years ago.”

“Who was the victim?”

“This gets touchy.”

“How so?”

“Roger, she’s a dear friend.”

“I see.”

“She’s also a celebrity of sorts, very much in the public eye.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“I don’t intend to write about this. And I don’t want anyone else writing about it.”

“If it’s twenty-five years old, it’s dead material for a newspaper.”

“I know that. But someone might be able to use it in a magazine piece. It would hurt her badly if it were all dredged up again.”

“If you aren’t writing about it, why do you need to know?”

“She’s in trouble. Bad trouble. Iwant to help her.”

“Why can’t you get the details of this thing from her?”

“She was only six years old when it happened.”

“My God.”

“She can’t possibly remember it all——or remember it correctly.”

“And what happened back then has some connection with the bad trouble she’s in now?”

“I think it might.”

“Okay. I won’t send someone else to do the work. There’d be a leak if I did. I’ll go down to the morgue and pick through the files myself.”

“Thanks, Roger.”

“And I’ll go as your friend, not as a reporter.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

“Mary Bergen. No, wait... back then it was Mary Tanner.”

“The clairvoyant?”

“That’s right.”

“We carry her column.”

“So do I.”

“Who was the assailant?”

“Berton Mitchell. B-E-R-T-O-N. M-I-T-C-H-E-L-L. He was the caretaker for the Tanner estate.”

“I’ll get the full background. Is there something about it that especially interests you?”

“I want to know if Mitchell ever stood trial. If he had his day in court, I want to know whether he was acquitted and set free, or found guilty.”

“You said he was the assailant.”

“That doesn’t mean he was found guilty. You know what a good attorney can accomplish.”