Neil handed Cindy a bouquet of pink roses wrapped in green florist tissue. She smiled, and the smile would have been radiant if not for her swollen, purplish eye and the fat lip with its row of ragged black stitches underneath. He grinned, squeezed her shoulder, seemingly oblivious to her injuries. Then he mumbled something and glanced at Roberta.
Robbie watched Cindy approach. She lowered the window.
Cindy leaned down and gave her a lopsided grin. The delicate flowers and her vivid, battered face seemed at odds with each other.
“He wants another chance,” Cindy said passively. “He promised to stop drinking. I think he’s really sorry this time.”
Robbi looked at the husband. Neil Brewer was a high-level executive, a handsome, charming fellow. A man with expensive toys, such as the late-model Corvette he’d driven up in.
Their gaze met for a brief second before Neil turned away.
Cindy cleared her throat. “Thanks for bringing me over, Roberta.”
Robbi nodded solemnly. “If you need ...” But she was speaking to the hot, dry air, for the young woman was already walking toward her husband.
Good luck, Cindy.
Robbi turned the key in the ignition, grinding the starter. Before pulling out onto McCarran Boulevard a dreadful sense of foreboding enveloped her. She gripped the wheel, rolled to a stop and, with her knees shaking, tried to take stock of the situation. The sound of children sobbing rang in her ears. A vision of Mikey and Carey huddled together, their faces distorted from crying, flashed across Roberta’s windshield. She realized it was the same vision she’d had the night before in her driveway. Angela and the kids are in trouble.
She spotted a pay telephone at the corner, left the car, and hurried to it. As she fed in coins and dialed, the sky went dark. A bank of thunderclouds had moved rapidly across the sun; the wind chilled her bare arms. She shivered, hearing a low roll of thunder far away. On the second ring the phone was answered. Robbi heard children crying in the background.
“Angela, it’s me. Are you okay?”
“Roberta, thank God you called! Sam’s out front,” Angela’s voice, charged with tension, blurted out. “He’s trying to get in!”
How the hell had Sam found them so quickly? “Hang up and call the police—dial 911. I’m on my way. Don’t let him in. No matter what, don’t let him in!” She slammed the receiver in the hook and ran to her car.
As she sped down McCarran Boulevard, another vision flashed behind her eyes. Blood. Bright, crimson. Her own blood. She jerked the steering wheel and the car swerved. A horn blasted to her left.
Tires squealed when she made a sharp turn onto her street. The passing houses blurred in her haste. As she turned into the driveway, she saw Sam on the porch, his face framed between hands pressed to the window in the front door. Thank God he hadn’t managed to break in. Where were the police? She had talked to Angela nearly ten minutes ago.
Robbi screeched to a stop halfway down the drive, rushed from the Jeep, and quickly ran to the back door. She saw Sam round the corner of the house, charging toward her. She barely made it inside, slammed the door, and engaged the lock before he rammed it.
Robbi dragged a kitchen chair to the door, tilted it under the doorknob as he rammed against it. With her hands covering her ears, she backed away.
In the dining room she found the children huddled together in a corner, crying. The vision.
Robbi knelt, hugged them both, then gathered them up and led them to her bedroom.
Angela rushed in, clutching a fireplace poker. She looked both relieved and apologetic when she saw Robbi. “I’m sorry, Rob.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“He’s been banging on the door like that since you called.” She wrung her hands, wincing from the pain in the shoulder he’d dislocated. “I thought he’d give up and go away, but now I know he won’t. He’s over the edge. Nothing can stop him when he gets like that.”
“Did you call the police?”
She nodded, looked around helplessly. “Where the hell are they?”
Roberta turned back to the kids. “Mikey, there’s a lock on the door. Lock it if you have to? Understand?”
He nodded.
Sam called out his wife’s name in a tortured singsong tone.... “An-gela. An-gela.” Stanley calling out to Stella in Streetcar.
From her parse Robbi took out a tiny key. “Wait here,” she said to Angela. She strode into the living room, straight to a slim secretary desk against the wall, and unlocked it. She pulled open a drawer and lifted out the revolver. It was loaded. Behind her Sam was banging and calling out. Making sure the safety was on, she replaced the revolver and closed the drawer.
With her back ramrod-straight, displaying grit she didn’t feel, she strode to the entry. Her insides quaked and she felt sick. No trouble, please. Not with the kids here. Not in my own home.
The burly man watched her approach, his face devoid of emotion. Her heart thumped heavily.
The normally bright room with its floor-to-ceiling windows, floral-print chintz, natural wicker and latticework, suddenly dimmed, turned cool and gloomy as a cloud shut out the sun.
Through the closed door she said calmly, “Sam, this isn’t going to settle anything ... you’re scaring the hell out of the kids.”
“Open ... this ... door.” He kicked the door. Robbie jumped, sucking in her breath. He began to pound on the window inset. Suddenly a denim elbow crashed through the pane. A hand reached in and began to fumble with the chain and dead bolt.
Robbi tried to push his hand back out. He grabbed her wrist and sawed it across the remaining shards of glass. She cried out and wrenched her arm away, watching in horror as the flesh opened and blood oozed out. She backed up toward the desk.
Angela appeared in the arched doorway of the hallway, her hand against her injured shoulder, her mouth and eyes open wide in fear.
Sam flung the door against the wall, his presence filling the space. He looked around quickly, then made for his wife. Angela froze. He punched her in the stomach. She went down on her knees without uttering a sound. He grabbed a handful of her thick, dark hair and yanked on it.
Robbi rushed at him, but, as if she were a mere gnat, he easily flicked her away.
On unsteady legs she ran to the desk, pulled out the drawer, her fingers leaving smears of blood on the handle, and grabbed the gun.
“Stop it!” she screamed.
Sam turned to Robbi and pointed a finger at her. “Stay out of this, you meddling bitch!”
Angela was on the phone, dialing, when Sam lunged at her. He pulled the cord from the wall, twisted it around Angela’s throat and pulled it tight.
Robbi’s chest felt tight, her vision blurred. Shaking violently, she raised the gun. Do it. Do it. Do it. He was going to die today, and she knew it. She had seen it. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
The children appeared at the couple’s side, crying, begging for him to stop hurting their mother. Mikey began kicking his stepfather, screaming and slapping. Sam momentarily abandoned his attack on Angela and turned to the boy, grabbing him around the throat, holding him at arm’s length.
“I’ll break your neck, kid,” he snapped at the boy. Then he whipped around and faced his wife. “Is that what you want, bitch?”
Mikey coughed, struggled.
Angela moaned deep in her throat. She turned to Roberta. “Stop him, please! For God’s sake, stop him!”
Roberta’s mind screamed, Do it!
Do it. ..
She watched in horror as the gun slipped from her leaden fingers and dropped to the floor.
Angela lunged for it. On her knees, the gun in tremulous hands, she aimed it at her husband.
“Let him go,” Angela whispered.
“You think you can shoot me? Huh?” When she failed to answer, he added, “You’re so fucking stupid. How many times have I told you, you are so fucking stupid.” He pushed the boy away and took a step toward Angela. “Gimme t
hat.”
Angela pulled back. The sharp click as she cocked the gun stopped Sam momentarily. Then he charged.
Angela closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.
Robbi looked from Angela to Sam, staring in disbelief as blood appeared at the waist of Sam’s blue denim shirt. He looked stunned.
Angela stared into his eyes, lost, scared. Then she cocked the gun and shot him again, square in the chest. He dropped to his knees, teetered there a moment before toppling over on his side on the braided rug, lifeless.
Robbi moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. She heard the gun drop to the floor, she heard distant thunder and a sad mingling of sobs. And finally she heard the wailing sound of sirens.
THREE
When the police arrived minutes later, Roberta freaked out. She screamed at the two officers, accusing them of reducing the complaint to low priority because it was a domestic battle. She blamed them for the dead man in her house. In the end it was Angela and the children who calmed her down by embracing her, whispering consoling words to her.
They took Sam Braga to the morgue, Angela away in cuffs to the county jail, and the children placed with welfare. Roberta went to the hospital for the cut on her wrist.
Back at home, Sophie Bennett took over. She called a glass shop to repair the broken window, straightened the house, and cleaned up the blood—Roberta’s as well as Sam’s—while Roberta soaked in a warm bath. After tucking Robbi into bed with a glass of warm Chianti, she put the telephone in her lap.
“Call Don,” Sophie said. “You wanted to call him, so now’s the time.”
Tears sprang into her eyes at the mention of Donald.
Somehow thinking about him made her realize how vulnerable she was. Six months earlier he had been there for her. A solid shoulder. Someone to turn to for support.
She was scared. In a series of visions she had seen it all; brief but vivid, accurate. The children crying, her own blood, and finally Sam’s death.
As she dialed, Sophie backed out the bedroom door. She blew Robbi a kiss and waved good-bye.
Robbi waved back. Then Don was on the line.
She told him about her experience.
“Jesus, Rob,” Donald said, “you could’ve been killed. Are you sure you’re okay? You say you were cut?”
“A few stitches, that’s all.”
“Babe, if this doesn’t convince you to get a normal job, I don’t know what will. This was bound to happen. You’re dealing with violent people. They’re crazy.”
“Don, she’s my friend. Angela’s my friend.”
“Well, sure, but—dammit to hell, I really wish I could be with you right now. But I—I don’t know how I’d swing it.”
“It’s okay.”
“I guess you could fly here,” he said tentatively. Then with a bit more gusto, “Yeah, sure. That’s what you could do, come to New York ... a visit. You might as well have a look at the place before you decide to move here.”
“That sounds good, Don. I’m really tempted.”
And she was tempted. She needed him. She needed a male she could be entirely female with, someone she loved who loved her in return.
“Well, think about it,” Donald said. “I’ve got an unbelievable workload, but—well, shit, if you feel the need to get away, just give me a call. Better yet, let my secretary know. She’ll take care of all the arrangements.”
Robbi didn’t respond.
“Rob, are you there? Rob?”
“I’m here.” She faked a yawn. “Don, the doctor gave me a shot to settle my nerves. I guess I’m not with it. Getting sleepy.”
“Well, good, good. Lie down. Rest. I’ll talk to you later. Love ya, honey.”
Pause. “Yeah, me too.” She slowly hung up the phone.
Despite the sedative, it took her a long time to fall asleep.
That night she dreamed about her dead brother.
FOUR
Angela spent the weekend in the county jail. Monday morning she was released on bail to return to her own home. The children, however, remained wards of the state.
After visiting Mikey and Carey in a foster home, Roberta sought a court order to have the kids released from welfare into her temporary custody.
The day of the arraignment, Roberta called Calvin Tanner, Angela’s attorney.
“Cal, what’s the charge?”
“Open murder. There was a smoking gun and a body.”
“But it was my gun. It was a clear-cut case of self- defense.”
“Not quite so clear-cut, I’m afraid. She told the police he wasn’t coming after her when she fired the fatal shot.”
“Calvin, you and I both know that the way he was going he probably would’ve killed her. Maybe not at that moment, or even that day, but eventually.” Yet Roberta realized there was no “eventually” for Sam. His time had come and she had known it well before it actually happened.
“Let’s hope the grand jury sees it that way too,” Calvin said.
That afternoon in a conference room at Harrah’s Hotel just minutes before she was to address the Junior League—over Sophie’s heated objections—Roberta Paxton suddenly and without warning, like a flash flood gushing down a crusty wash, broke down and sobbed. Sophie sent her home and insisted she take the rest of the week off.
At home, as she attempted to lose herself in yard- work, Roberta was forced to take stock of the situation. The doctor had told her that the shock of Sam’s death could have a delayed effect on her. Consciously she hadn’t been thinking about the incident, so the weepy outburst had been as much a surprise to her as it had been to Sophie. But she knew the human mind worked in mysterious ways, and hers was trying to tell her something.
Crouching at the flower bed along the side of the driveway, she rammed the trowel under a particularly stubborn weed and tugged with her other hand. The weed broke, dropping her on her bottom, hard.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she moaned miserably, then burst into tears for the second time that day. On the warm concrete, still gripping the weed, arms hugging her legs, face buried between her knees, she sobbed, oblivious to the neighbors and playing children.
She needed to get away. She hadn’t taken a vacation in years—hadn’t wanted one. Where would she go? To New York to see Donald? Somehow she sensed that a part of her problem had to do with Donald. What would she find in his new world? And was she ready for the answer?
“Mom,” Roberta said tentatively into the phone, “is it okay if I come for a visit?”
A pause. Roberta sensed her mother’s perplexity. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
“I just need a little time away from ... from...” Tears stung her eyes. Then she was telling her mother about Angela and Sam.
“Come today—now,” her mother said. “I’ll send Hanley for you.”
“I’ll drive up. Tonight, after dinner.”
“Come sooner if you can. I wanted to see you on your birthday, and now I will. We’ll have a little party.”
“Don’t go to any trouble. I’m really not in a celebrating mood.” She hesitated, then: “Oh, Mom, don’t tell him I’m coming.”
“Sweetheart, you can’t avoid your father.”
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
The sun was just setting over the mountains when Roberta turned off Highway 267 onto a narrow paved road flanked by enormous evergreens. The air was cooler in this scenic valley in the Sierra Nevada less than a hour’s drive from Reno. Roberta inhaled deeply, the crisp scent of pine filling her head. She loved it up there. If it weren’t for her father, she’d go every weekend. But he was there, a blemish on the otherwise pleasant picture. Seven years ago her father, Cameron Paxton, had retired from his psychiatric practice in Reno and moved his family to this mountain wilderness. A short time later he suffered a stroke. Although he was an invalid now, his movements restricted, his presence cast an ugly shadow over the large ranch house.
Several minutes later, through the tall trees, she made out
the sprawling ranch-style house with its brass lamps, used brick, and white pillars and posts.
As Robbi approached the curve in the long circular drive, the front door opened and a young girl rushed out of the house and jumped down the steps, arms pin-wheeling to keep her balance. The girl ran towards her down the gravel drive, her long blond hair swirling around her oval face. Beneath a pair of skimpy green shorts and a narrow pink tube top, she was as golden as a toasted almond.
Roberta smiled, a pleasant glow warming her insides. Coming out to meet her was her thirteen-year- old sister, Tobie.
FIVE
That first night, Roberta, her mother, and her sister had sat up in the rustic kitchen drinking Cokes, munching on popcorn, and talking. Sometime in the wee hours they wound down and gave in to the contagious cycle of yawns. Roberta had the guest room on the opposite side of the house from her father’s room. It was easy to pretend he didn’t exist, nearly as easy for her as it was for him.
In the morning Roberta helped Tobie feed her pets in the rear yard. The menagerie consisted of two rabbits and their litter of bunnies; three cats, Clarice, Bonnie, and Snowman; and two ducks. Then there were the wounded wild animals. A stellar jay—pried from the mouth of Snowman—and a young yellow-bellied marmot shot with a BB gun. These Tobie would nurse back to health, then turn loose.
“Tomorrow’s your birthday,” Tobie said.
“Let’s not dwell on it, okay?”
“Thirty’s not so old ... is it?”
“If you have to ask, then it’s old.”
“Well, you’re not old. In fact, tomorrow after the party I want to show you a secret place. Nobody knows about it but me.”
“Where is it?”
Night Prey Page 2
