Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  Wiping the sweat from her face and throat, she hurried to her locker, took a quarter from her purse, and went to the pay phone on the wall. She dialed the medical office, asked for Gary, gave the receptionist the name of his girlfriend, and while waiting, stretched her muscles.

  “Mandy,” Gary said, eagerly, “what the hell happened to you last night?”

  “Gary, it’s Tammy.”

  There was a pause. Then in a deadened tone, Gary said, “I was told Amanda was on the line.”

  “Someone made a mistake.”

  “What do you want, Tammy?”

  “I wanted to share my good news with you. Donna Lake wants me as a guest on her show. Isn’t that a kick?”

  Silence.

  “My best friend. Donna. Y’know, ‘City Gallery’?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Guess you’re wondering why she wants me on the show.” She paused for his response. “Gary?”

  “I’m in the middle of an examination. My assistant is signaling to me.”

  Tammy clenched her fist. “The girls have a birthday next weekend.”

  “Yes, I know. If it’s all right with you I’d like to take them to Marine World for the day.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe this, that’s what I had in mind,” she lied. “It’s perfect. We could do it as a family thing. Nothing could make them happier.”

  “Tammy, look, I ...” He cursed softly. “I don’t think so. Not this time. I, uh, already invited Mandy. The girls know about it.”

  A painful knot formed in her stomach. She felt a rush of heat in her chest, hotter and heavier than the air in the sauna across the hall. He was going to introduce that bitch to her daughters. On their birthday. And they knew about it and were keeping it to themselves. How could that be?

  No way. No. No. No.

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “You can’t stop us. I have my rights.”

  “Gary, no.”

  “You’re only hurting the girls.”

  “Gary ...” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “Please, no.”

  “Suit yourself. Tell the girls I love them and that I’m sorry we can’t get together Sunday. And tell them why.” There was a soft click before the dial tone came on.

  Tammy carefully hung the receiver on the hook.

  She stumbled the few feet to the sauna and entered. It was thick with steam, impossible to see into. Without the least concern as to whether she was alone or not, Tamara opened her mouth and screamed.

  Donna looked up from basting the chicken to see her husband enter the kitchen. It was 6:00 p.m., and although it was still hot, Nolan looked crisp and cool and incredibly handsome. He rarely looked anything less than immaculate.

  “Hello, darling,” she said. “There’s a mug in the freezer.”

  As he took a Heineken from the refrigerator, he stopped to look at a child’s drawing on the metal door.

  “Nigel did that,” she said. “I thought it was very good.”

  “Yes, I agree.” He slipped the drawing out from under the magnet and laid it on top of the refrigerator—out of sight— then took a frosty beer stein from the freezer.

  “Dinner will be ready whenever you are,” Donna said. “Where would you like to eat tonight?”

  “There’s a breeze coming up. The terrace, I believe.”

  Donna smiled to herself. What Nolan called the terrace, she and the boys called the deck. Nolan tended to elevate the status of everything. Chicken was “the bird.” Chocolate pudding was “mousse.” Even something as common as beer, became “lager.”

  The Lakes lived in Marin County, in prestigious Kentfield. Nolan wanted the boys enrolled in the Ross School District. The house was small, with only two bedrooms, but it was the best they could manage in that expensive neighborhood. Plans to add on and renovate were in the works. Donna, by choice, did all the cleaning, shopping, cooking, and laundry for her family of four.

  A half hour later Donna, Nolan, and their sons, Nolan II, “Junior,” nine, and Nigel, seven, freshly scrubbed and in clean clothes —a ritual Nolan had insisted on from the very beginning—sat down to dinner on the terrace. A slight breeze from the ocean pushed cooler air around them. Gulls screeched, dipping and soaring just yards away. As Nolan skillfully poured lager into a frosted, clear glass stein, Donna cut up the bird.

  Nolan was good to her, though he tended to put her on a pedestal, to elevate her status, as he did with everything that was his. She was nothing without him. When they had met, she was part of the production staff of KSCO, made local commercials, and acted in small theater productions. Nolan had taken a naive but eager bit-actress and had gotten her a talk show of her own. And she wouldn’t always be just a local celebrity, her brilliant husband was determined to get the show on Cable or in syndication.

  “We’ll take the Chris-Craft out tomorrow,” Nolan said, cutting the chicken neatly from the bones. “Anyone for waterskiing?”

  “Great, Dad!” Junior said.

  Nigel, looking up from his labored effort to carve his chicken, smiled and nodded.

  Nolan took a sip of his Heineken. “Luv, that dress you wore on today’s show was rather unflattering.”

  “But you approved of it at the taping.”

  “The camera added pounds, and with that horizontal pattern, it made you look —well, somewhat overweight. I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t know how conscientious you are about your image.” He reached over and positioned Nigel’s knife correctly across his plate.

  At the end of the meal Nolan asked, “So, how is the Miss Classic segment coming?”

  “Affirmative from everyone expect Corinne. Reg will call her tonight.”

  “Maybe you should call her yourself. Regina has no real stake in this, and she can’t always be trusted to do the job right. We need Corinne there.” He rose, casually looked out over the landscape, then bent and kissed her forehead. “You call her, hum?” he said in an offhand tone before going into the house.

  Corinne let the phone ring. On the seventh ring her father called out from the bedroom, “You trying to drive me nuts with that damn ringing. Answer!”

  “Answer it yourself. I ain’t your flunky,” she shouted back as she picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” she said sweetly. Her voice was deep and rich, like the resonant and sexy tone one gets just before laryngitis sets in. It was one of the aftereffects of the acid fumes and a heavy cigarette habit.

  “Corinne Odett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Corinne, it’s, uh, Donna Lake. I, uh—” The woman sounded unsure of herself, not at all like the cool, blond celebrity who dazzled thousands of San Franciscans with her wide, bright smile and glib tongue.

  Corinne said in a melodious tone, “My, oh, my. How are you, Donna?”

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  After a long delay, Corinne finally broke the silence. “I couldn’t be better.”

  “Oh, that’s good to hear. Corinne . .” Donna cleared her throat.

  “You’re calling about the upcoming show, correct? I have your letter right here in front of me. I’m sorry I didn’t get right back to you, but I’ve only this morning returned from a trip abroad.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was grim. I swear I’m finished with traveling for awhile. In every airport —Athens, Rome, and even London—I worried about terrorists. My fiancé and I cruised the Greek Islands, and even aboard ship I didn’t feel safe. But you didn’t call to hear about my boring excursions.”

  “Oh, no really, I’d love to hear about your trip.”

  Corinne lifted the beer bottle to her lips and drank, taking long gulps. Pulling the bottle away, she wiped her mouth with the inside of her wrist. She lowered the receiver to her side then belched loudly. After taking another swallow of beer, she put the receiver back to her ear.

  “Corinne?” Donna said. “Corinne, are you there?”

  “So you want me on your show?”

  “Yes. I’m a
fraid the taping has been moved up three weeks, so there’s not much time to—”

  “The others are coming?”

  “Yes. Would you believe that the five of us still live right here after all these years.”

  “I moved to Beverly Hills for a couple of years. Did the sun goddess scene for awhile, but it was all so superficial. Couldn’t wait to move back.”

  “Oh ...”

  “When’s the taping?”

  “Friday.” Donna waited. “If that’s too soon, we could possibly move it back. My husband—”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Well ...yes. After all, you were the queen.”

  “The queen’s reign was very brief.”

  A pause, then in a tone filled with compassion, Donna said, “Corinne, I can only imagine how devastating it must have been for you. I wish you would have let me do something, help in some way ...”

  Corinne paused before saying, “There was nothing you could do. But that was years ago. Everything’s fine now. Thank God for plastic surgeons.”

  “Were they able to ...”

  “Beyond my wildest dreams.” Corinne smiled, touched the network of scars on the side of her face. “I’ll do it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The show--I’ll do it.”

  Corinne’s father went into a fit of coughing. From where she stood in the dining room, she could see the end of his bed and the impression of his foot under the covers. She plucked a porcelain figurine off the knickknack shelf beside her head and sent it flying. The figurine hit the mound of covers, the old man cried out, cursed. The coughing stopped.

  “You’re willing to talk about ...?” Donna stammered.

  “Isn’t that why you want me on the show?” Corinne sensed how difficult this was for Donna and she was enjoying every minute of it.

  “Yes,” Donna answered softly.

  Corinne reached for a pen and pad, “Where do I go and at what time?”

  After hanging up, Corinne walked into the bathroom, took a Quaalude from the medicine cabinet, and swallowed it with the remaining beer.

  So they wanted her to be the star attraction again after all these years. How thrilling. What woman wouldn’t be excited?

  She closed the medicine cabinet halfway. Leaning forward, she pressed her face to the edge of the mirror so that only one half of her face showed — the unscarred half. She studied the image with a strange sense of dispassion. What she could see was not beautiful any longer, age and abuse had seen to that. But with makeup? With her hair fixed decently? Could anything possibly be salvaged from this ... this monstrous insult?

  She smiled. The smile brightened her face. She’d forgotten how lovely her smile was.

  Sitting at the antique claw-foot desk in the den of her four-bedroom house in Berkeley, Regina said good-bye and hung up the phone. She had just spoken to Tammy and was about to call the next on the list.

  As she looked up the number, she stroked a hand over the scarred wood of the desk and felt a tugging in her stomach. This, her husband’s favorite piece, had been sold along with the entire houseful of furniture. Leo Van Raven had had a passion for antiques. When she married him nineteen years ago, she had moved into his two-story Victorian house, and they had remained there. Rather, she and Kristy had. Leo had been placed in a nursing home the two years preceding his death.

  Early in his career Leo had been a successful screenwriter in Hollywood. Disillusioned by the studio’s cutthroat tactics, the pressure, and the long hours, he turned to free-lance writing. At the University of California at Berkeley, Regina met and fell in love with the charismatic guest speaker in her creative writing class. He was twenty-three years her senior and the brightest man she had ever known. Fourteen years later, Alzheimer’s robbed him of his brilliant mind, and then, after reducing him to little more than an infant, it took his life.

  At her elbow was Leo’s last manuscript, finished except for final editing and typing, which Regina had been working on in her spare time. She’d promised the editor it would be on his desk by the end of the month.

  Regina turned on the small lamp on Leo’s desk. The phone rang just as she was in the process of reaching for it to call Corinne, a task she dreaded with every fiber of her being.

  It was Donna.

  “Reggie, you don’t have to call Corinne, I’ve already done it.”

  “Nolan didn’t trust me.”

  “Reg, that’s not—” After a pause there was a drawn-out sigh. “Please don’t take it personally. You know how he can be sometimes.”

  How well she knew. So Nolan had again pulled the rug out from under her. The funny part, the really outrageously hilarious part, was that Nolan had less status and authority than either his wife or Regina. His was a token position, insisted upon by Nolan himself, and inadvertently achieved because of his marital status to Donna. For him, producer of ‘City Gallery’ was little more than a title. Ten years ago, Nolan — as an assistant producer and on shaky ground at the station —had gotten Donna the job, married her, and had then proceeded to crawl up her back to perch dogmatically on her shoulders.

  “Reggie, he’s not the chauvinist you make him out to be.”

  Regina bit her tongue to keep from saying what she really thought, and that was that all women, to Nolan, had a definite place in the business—at the bottom, without status or power. Except for Donna. But she was merely an extension of his ego. “So, how’d it go with Corinne?”

  “I think she’ll show,” Donna said. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Gotta go now, bye.”

  With a sense of disquiet, Regina slowly replaced the receiver.

  The phone rang again. A woman asked for Kristy.

  “Kristy’s not in.”

  “Are you her mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Van Raven, I’m so eager to meet you. My name is Marianne Nash. I’m Kristy’s appointed chaperon for the Miss Golden Gate Model Search.”

  “Chaperon?”

  “I’m afraid it’s necessary since she’s under eighteen. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have this opportunity to look after such a stunning child as your daughter.”

  “The Miss Golden Gate what?” Regina repeated in a dull tone.

  “You know, of course, that she’s a candidate in the contest?”

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Van Raven?”

  “Oh good god,” Regina said under her breath. Her former disquiet doubled.

  CHAPTER 7

  Marilyn Keane tucked her feet under her and shifted the receiver to her other ear.

  A branch snapped outside. She paused only briefly before resuming her conversation.

  The ivory-skinned, twenty-two-year-old, ecstatic beyond words to have made the first cut in the Golden Gate Model Search, talked to her mother in nearby San Francisco.

  Another branch snapped. She heard a faint screeching sound, like that of fingernails on a blackboard.

  She shivered, drew her knees up to her chest, and divided her attention between the voice of her mother and the rustling sounds coming from somewhere at the back of the house. A dog or cat in the garbage, she told herself.

  In the kitchen, the pair of finches began to set up a racket, thrashing about the cage, squeaking incessantly like children’s squeeze toys.

  Her pulse accelerated. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, tasted acrid.

  “Sssh,” Marilyn hissed into the mouthpiece.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Mom,” she whispered, “I think someone’s trying to get in the house.”

  “What?”

  Except for the television screen the room was dark. She heard a rattling sound, then something crashed to the floor.

  “Someone’s in the house.” The shrillness of her own voice frightened her.

  “Marilyn, who’s there?”

  A finch flew through the kitchen doorway and circled the living room, frantically ricocheting off one wall and then another above her. />
  “Marilyn ...!”

  She gaped at the bird, her fingers gripping the phone, her heart pounding maniacally in her chest. She looked back at the doorway to see a dark figure coming toward her. There was no relief in the blackness rushing at her. The intruder was sheathed from head to toe in black. No, not everything was black, she realized dully, there was a relief in the inky void. Yes, something glittered. Something long, catching a sliver of light from God knows where, flashed metallic.

  She felt a light object drop onto her lap. With a shudder Marilyn pushed the other bird, now bloody and headless, away. She tried to scream and managed only a pathetic cry and the word “Momma.”

  In her ear she heard her name over and over.

  The blade came down, slashing across one side of her face and then the other.

  It was a mistake. It wasn’t meant for her. She had too much to live for. Through the gushing roar of a panic pulse in her brain, she heard words spoken. Words she understood, yet could not relate to. Curses.

  The blade came down again. Not my face, she thought with a sick horror. Oh God, not my face. Her hands came up to cover her face and she felt the blade cut into the soft flesh of her upper torso.

  Like a moth paying homage to the light, the tiny bird continued to flutter above her with a papery crunching sound as its delicate wings batted against hard, pitiless objects. She held tight to the receiver.

  “Marilynmarilynmarilyn. . .”

  As the blood gushed out, as she surrendered to the violation of her body, words from long ago came back to her: A bird loose in the house forebodes ill will ... forebodes death ...

  Her last conscious thought was of the bird. She prayed it would rot in hell.

  CHAPTER 8

  At seven o’clock Saturday morning, Donna reached over to find Nolan’s warm body close to hers in the king-size bed. She shifted over, nuzzled her head in the hollow of his shoulder and began to rub his chest, running her fingers through the triangle of dark hair. His eyes were closed and his breathing was controlled, not the regular breathing of slumber. When he didn’t speak or move away, she let her hand burrow under the covers and traverse downward to his groin. He was beginning to swell. He murmured softly, finally reaching up to caress her shoulder while she tenderly stroked him to a full erection. He turned over and, kissing her throat, cupping a breast, he pushed inside her. There was some resistance, she wasn’t fully lubricated yet, but within moments he was gliding in and out with ease. She hoped he wouldn’t hurry. There was no reason to rush. It was her birthday and they had all the time in the world.