Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

  Roberta leaned into him as they walked back to his car. She was slightly inebriated, which he found charming. Usually nervous and uptight, she was at ease tonight. Her smile, quick to come, lit up her face. This was the real Roberta Paxton. Or, he surmised, as close to what her personality had been like before the accident and all the tumult it had evoked.

  He wanted the real Roberta Paxton. Wanted her with a profound ache.

  On the ride home, Jake was quiet, almost pensive. She stole glances at his firmly set profile and wondered if he was upset with her for drinking too much.

  At her door, unwilling to end the evening, she said, “Jake, let’s try the ESP.’’ She had her key in hand, trying to fit it into the lock with rubbery fingers.

  “What? Now?” he said.

  “Yes, right now.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I’m not tired. I feel good.”

  “You feel good because you’re tipsy.” He spoke in a flat tone.

  “So what if I’m tipsy,” she said defiantly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been tipsy, or relaxed or ... or ...” She let the words die away.

  “Or what?” he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “We’ll work on it tomorrow night,” Jake said, helping her insert the key in the lock.

  Pushing the door open, she turned to step up onto the threshold when her ankle, weak from walking in the plaza, gave out. She felt herself falling, reached out abruptly. Suddenly strong arms were around her waist, twisting her around to face him. He held her against him with her back pressed to the door frame.

  “You okay?”

  “No .. .” she said softly, putting her arms around his neck, leaning into him.

  His arms tightened around her. And then she was staring into his eyes, eyes that seemed to harbor a feverish glint. Not sure who made the first move, though she suspected she did, her eyes closed and she felt his lips on hers; at first light and tender, an instant later they were hot and moist and alive with a fierce energy.

  Devour. He would devour her and she found herself inflamed with the very idea of it. The intensity of their passion startled her. So swift, so forceful. What had been building between the two of them these past weeks had reached volatile proportions. She wanted him. Wanted him now before she could think about it.

  He moaned, then abruptly pulled away from her.

  Robbi opened her eyes and stared at him, questioning.

  He shook his head sadly, reached out and tenderly touched her jaw with the tips of his fingers. He lifted her into the entry, turned, and was gone.

  She sank to the floor, her legs too weak to hold her.

  At the corner of Roberta’s street, at the stop sign, he gripped the steering wheel and shook it viciously, then laughed ironically. It seemed he spent a lot of time at this miserable stop sign, contemplative time, time spent easing the pressure in his crotch.

  She had a guy in another part of the country. Over six months separated. Undoubtedly she was lonely, perhaps longing for a man’s touch, but definitely intoxicated and therefore not in full control of herself Tonight she wanted him. But tomorrow, sober, she would probably regret everything. It had been up to him to draw the line.

  So what was he, for chrissake, the policeman of logic and emotion?

  He laughed again. Only one other time in his life had he felt such wanting. Such obsession.

  Oh, God, he was in trouble.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When Jake entered the lake house the phone had rung a half dozen times. Wiping engine grease from his hands, he answered.

  “Dr. Reynolds, it’s Lois Paxton.”

  “Mrs. Paxton, how are you?”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I... I’m calling about my daughter, Roberta.”

  Jake’s stomach twisted at the mention of her. An image of her in his arms, her body pressed to his, played across his mind. “Yes?” he said through a tightness in his throat.

  “Well, I want to thank you for seeing her and, of course, to ... to find out how she’s doing?”

  “Mrs. Paxton, I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “You’re seeing her, aren’t you?”

  “Your daughter does not want professional help from me or from anyone.”

  “No one knows that better than I. Her father, you see, he—well, it doesn’t matter. I won’t take up anymore of your time. I know you tried and I thank you for that. Please send me a bill, Doctor.” A click and the hissing line told him she had disconnected.

  He considered calling her back, then decided to leave it be. He should have made it clear to her in the beginning that he had absolutely no intention, for any amount of money, of treating her daughter on the sly.

  Roberta Paxton did need help. But psychiatric help? Again he thought of Susan and felt that familiar ache.

  Susan. Five years ago, at the age of thirty, Jake met Susan Calla, a psychological assistant, at a seminar in Reno. She was beautiful, intelligent, and the most sensual woman he’d ever encountered. He embraced her. Became obsessed with her. Blinded by a consuming love lust, he overlooked or made excuses for the subtle signs of emotional instability that had gradually begun to surface. After moving in together, the barriers fell away one by one. Daily the chronic lying, the tantrums, the paranoia emerged. When he suggested she get counseling from one of the staff doctors, she refused, and at that point seemed to go off the deep end. He tried to break it off. She sank deeper, threatening suicide if he left. Fatal Attraction personified. For two endless, roller-coaster years he remained trapped in a web of sex and sickness, his own sanity teetering precariously on the edge. His own sanity ...

  Jake stared out the window at the shimmering turquoise lake and willed himself out of the past. There was nothing he could do for Susan now.

  But he might be able to help Roberta. It was impossible to shut her out of his thoughts. Images of her haunted him. A thrill shot through him just thinking about seeing her that night.

  Roberta struggled with the cumbersome box on her way out the kitchen door. The phone rang. She backed up to the table, put the box down, and answered.

  “Darling, did I wake you?” her mother said in her soft voice.

  “Hello, Mom. No, I was just going out the door. A rummage sale for the center.”

  “You work too hard, honey.”

  “I like being busy. It keeps my mind ...” Her words died away.

  “Off your problems?”

  Robbi said nothing.

  “Now, please don’t get upset, but I was talking to a very nice doctor the other day and I happened to mention your problem. She was quite interested and said as much. Perhaps you could tell her yourself. Her name is Panaski. Claire Panaski.”

  “What kind of doctor. Mom?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “Psychologist, I believe.”

  “Mother, I don’t need a shrink.”

  “You need to talk to someone. I don’t know what went wrong between you and Dr. Reynolds, but I’m sure you’ll like Claire—”

  “What about Dr. Reynolds?”

  “Oh, dear, I—honey, I know you hate it when I butt in, but you did say you liked him. And I wouldn’t have called him if...”

  Roberta felt a tightness in her chest. “You asked Jake to treat me?”

  “Well, we did discuss treatment. Of course—”

  “You actually paid Dr. Reynolds?”

  “Not yet, he hasn’t sent the bill. I just spoke to him.”

  Roberta sank down into a chair. She swallowed; her mouth felt dry.

  “Honey, don’t be mad at me. I’ve been worried about you. I only want to help.”

  “I know.”

  “Would you like Dr. Panaski’s number?”

  “Maybe,” she said absently. “Not right now, Mom.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. Good-bye, dear.”

  She waited until her mother had hung up before she angrily slammed the receiver on
the hook. So the doctor believed her, did he? Theirs was no doctor- patient relationship, no sir.

  She shook her head, laughed dryly. No wonder he kept his distance. Ethically, professionally, she was off limits. Last night, after throwing herself at him, he had responded impulsively, only to gain control when he realized that a quickie at the door wasn’t worth jeopardizing his practice.

  What else was a lie? Belinda Sardi? Had he used a missing woman as an excuse to gain her trust?

  Embittered tears welled up in her eyes.

  The phone rang again. Roberta gave herself a moment, then answered.

  “You’re late,” Sophie said.

  “Sorry, it’s been one of those mornings.”

  “Well, gatemaster,” Sophie said, “if you value the lives of your friends and coworkers, you’ll step on it. There’s a crazed rummage-sale mob out here and you, little one, hold the keys to the building.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  At eight that evening Jake knocked on the door of the small house a second time. He rang the bell and resisted the urge to peer in the windows. Roberta wasn’t home. As he turned away, he heard the front door open. He turned back.

  She stood there, radiant. From a window at the rear of the house the setting sun provided a startling backlight. Through the white gauze sundress, the curve of her waist and her long legs were silhouetted sharply. She wore leather sandals, the thin straps laced around her ankles. Her light reddish-brown hair was down, loose, the long spiral strands a fiery, glowing cloud about her head. Large gold hoop earrings caught the light, sparkled.

  The only word to describe the way she looked standing there with the rosy light caressing her from head to toe was heavenly,

  “Hi,” was all he could muster.

  She stared at him with an expression that at first he thought impassioned, then decided it was apathetic, and finally realized it was both. Did she already regret their display of passion at the door the night before? The memory for him was quite pleasant, but then, he didn’t have someone waiting for him in New York.

  She stepped back, opening the door to allow him to enter.

  Jake crossed the threshold, sensing the tension.

  “Why the charade?” she said, softly closing the door.

  There was definitely something wrong. “I don’t understand.”

  She kept her back to him. “My mother called me this morning.” Smooth, cool. She turned, leaned against the door, and added, “Don’t hesitate to send her a bill. She and my father can certainly afford it.”

  His heart sank. Aw, shit, he groaned inwardly.

  “Roberta,” he said evenly. “I think we should sit down and calmly discuss this. I told your mother that—”

  “Oh, spare me,” she cut in, pushing away from the door. “Save the shrink crap for your patients ... your real patients.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then, “Roberta, we—”

  “Not we. I’ve been alone in this all along, haven’t I?”

  The doorbell rang. Roberta turned and opened the door.

  Carl Masser, his thick hair shining blue-black, his tight Levis and polo shirt free of sheetrock dust, the construction boss now movie-star handsome, stepped into the entry.

  A surge of resentment shot through Jake.

  “Hello, Roberta ... Dr. Reynolds.”

  Jake nodded, turned to Roberta. He stared into her large green eyes, searching for the right words.

  Carl cleared his throat, held up a ladies wristwatch. “I brought Maggie’s watch. Hope it’ll do?”

  “Can we talk a minute?” Jake said. “In private?”

  “No.” She opened the door wide. “Thanks for coming,” she said casually.

  “Roberta, I think I know what you’re planning to do, and I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Good-bye.” She waited at the open door, avoiding his eyes.

  Jake wanted to shake her. She was going to attempt to connect with the victim through clairvoyance. If she wouldn’t let him guide her, then she should have the good sense to let him find someone else who was qualified. There were so many things that could go wrong.

  “Dammit, Roberta, you’ve got to listen to me.” Jake’s voice became gruff.

  She whirled around and strode from the room. He heard a door closing in another part of the house.

  Carl stood awkwardly in the entry.

  Jake turned to him. “Don’t let her do it,” he said tersely.

  “Do what?”

  “Anything using her ESP.”

  “What can happen?”

  “Just about anything.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Carl, this is serious, damn—fucking—serious “

  “Okay, okay.”

  Jake glared at Masser a moment longer, then shook his head and left.

  He walked hurriedly to his car, looking like a man in complete control. As he passed Carl Masser’s silver and black GMC pickup, he resisted the urge to smash his fist against the tinted windshield.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Roberta heard the front door close. She stood at the window in her bedroom and, through a gap in the drapes, she watched the doctor climb into his car and drive off. She inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled with a rush. A moment later she joined Carl in the living room.

  Carl didn’t ask and Robbi didn’t volunteer anything about the weird exchange at the door.

  She opened a beer for him and poured a glass of iced tea for herself.

  “That’s as strong as it gets?” Carl asked, nodding at the tea.

  “For tonight anyway. I’ll need a clear head.”

  “You planning to go into a trance?”

  “Something like that. Does that bother you?”

  He shrugged. “Your doctor friend seemed to think it was ... well, risky. Is he right?”

  She shrugged, crossed the room to stand at the window. “I suspect the doctor wanted to be included. If he can’t play, he doesn’t want anyone else to play.”

  “Roberta, I don’t know you, and I don’t know much about séances or any of that psychic stuff, but I have a feeling it isn’t a game.”

  “No, you’re right,” she said somberly. “It isn’t.”

  “I must be nuts to go along with this. But, fuck it- sorry—but it can’t hurt to believe, can it?”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He lifted the beer bottle. “Maybe I shouldn’t be drinking either.”

  “One won’t matter.” She smiled. “Actually, you may need it.”

  “Now you really got me nervous.”

  “I want to try to go to Maggie tonight.”

  Something incomprehensible flashed in his eyes. Fear? Suspicion? Wariness? Then it was gone, and he was gulping down the beer.

  “You’re right, I do need this.” His strained voice was followed by nervous laughter.

  Robbi sat in a wing chair, removed her sandals, then put her feet up on the matching ottoman. She looked up at Carl. He was standing in the same spot, the beer forgotten in his hand, staring blankly at her. “Carl, sit down. Anywhere.”

  He backed up to the sofa and sat, his eyes never leaving her.

  “Tell me something about Margaret.”

  “She hates to be called Margaret,” he said with a thin smile.

  She smiled back. “Go on.”

  “Well, she looks a little like you, except her hair is blond.” He took a quick pull on the beer. “Guess you mean personal stuff, huh?”

  “Whatever you care to tell me.”

  “She has a nice voice. A real nice voice. She’s always singing along to the songs on the radio.”

  “What kind of music does she like?”

  “Country. Crossover mostly.” His voice turned quiet, reflective. “But she’ll sing to anything, damn near anything. And she can bake a mean rhubarb pie. Funny,” he said, chuckling, “she’s a terrible cook, terrible. But nobody can touch her in the pie department.”

  He
was sitting with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, the beer bottle cradled in both hands between his legs. He stared at his shoes.

  She waited.

  “She was—is—crazy about animals. When she was a kid she raised a chicken as a pet. Can you believe that? There’s nothing dumber than a chicken . .. unless it’s a cow. Then she had a three-legged dog, a one-eyed cat, and a crow that couldn’t fly. But that was Maggie, always favoring the underdog.” He paused.

  “Sounds like a nice person. She reminds me of my little sister. She loves animals too.”

  “Yeah.” He finished the beer, peeled at the label on the bottle. “What do you see in ... in these visions?”

  How much should she tell him? Until she knew him better, it was wise to say very little.

  “I see a woman who looks like Maggie being kept against her will. The visions are more or less flashes, images.”

  “Did he rape her?”

  “As far as I can tell, no.”

  He looked down at his shoes again, nodded.

  “It’s getting late. We better start.” She held out her hand for the wrist watch.

  “When you called and asked me to bring something personal of hers, this was the first thing I thought of. She wore it all the time till it busted.”

  She took the watch, then sat back. The crystal was cracked. “Did Maggie wear any jewelry? Rings, chains, pierced earrings?”

  “Her ears weren’t pierced. She said just the thought of having holes through her earlobes was enough to make her sick. No rings either. We were gonna go shopping for her wedding set when I finished this job. I usually get a bonus if the job comes in ahead of schedule. Does ... the woman you see wear jewelry?”

  Robbi shook her head.

  “What should I expect?” Carl asked.

  “I’m going to try to go into a relaxed state—” She chuckled dryly. “Hell, Carl, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. We play it by ear, okay?”

  He stared at her.