Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  Gary stood by, his shoulders slumped, his arms hanging listlessly at his sides, a helpless expression on his face.

  Tammy went up to him. “I need you, Gary. Hold me,” she whispered softly. “Just hold me for a few minutes.” She wove her arms around his neck and buried her face against his neck. Her hands moved like silk on his body. Within minutes, against his will, he was responding to her touch.

  Then they were kissing. Deep, hungry kisses that sexually stirred her like never before. It can only be this way with Gary, she thought. Because she loved him.

  He removed his glasses, the area around his eyes looking stark and somewhat naked, but so familiar, so dear. And then he was undressing her, telling her she was beautiful, kissing her breasts and she felt she would die with the joy of his attention. Then they were on the floor making glorious love. With Gary it was making love; lovemaking. With Brad it was a sexual act. Gary was nowhere near as controlled or rhythmic as Brad, but Brad could never make her feel this wonderful. Ten years together had her anticipating her husband’s every move, looking forward to it, eager to please him. She chanted “I love you,” and he responded with “you’re beautiful.” And she knew then all of her efforts, the exercise, dieting, breast surgery, had been worth the pain and suffering. Amanda was smart but she, Tammy, was beautiful, and Gary was with her. She had him now and she’d make him stay for good.

  “... Get help.”

  “What the hell--? Oh, God…”

  Those words came from John Davie’s TV. The strained voices of the man and woman in the verbal exchange were too hysterical to be anything but real. The visual was rolling and jerky, another indication it was drama in real life. Following the words “... Paramedics!” the camera panned crazily around the interior of the restroom, an angled view of wall, ceiling, and floor, then blackness.

  John, with a concentrated expression on his face, reclined on a wingback chair in the dark, his stockinged feet planted on the edge of the coffee table as he watched through the opening between his legs. He popped a pistachio into his mouth, rewound the tape on the VCR, then started it again.

  Kitty Winter, co-anchor on KRNN News, reported the story of the assault on Donna Lake. They ran a sixty-second clip of that afternoon’s taping of ‘City Gallery.’ The segment being aired had the guests rehashing their ill luck as finalists of the 1970 Miss Classic Pageant.

  Then they ran the entire footage of the assault scene filmed by the crew member with the minicam. “Don’t adjust your sets,” Winter advised the viewers, “the first portion of the film has audio only.”

  A scream filled the black void.

  John felt the hairs at the back of his head bristle.

  A moment later the camera picked up light in what appeared to be the hallway, moved toward the door marked WOMEN, and beyond. The lens panned left, then right to a cubicle where two women where bending over a commode. A moment later the women, clinging to each other, stumbled across the room to the row of basins. “Sam, get help!” the brunette called out as she glanced into the lens.

  John flipped off the set.

  Twenty years ago another woman had gone through a similar experience. Jesus, he thought with wonder, had it been that long ago?

  Corinne Odett, a young woman of remarkable beauty, poise, and that additional gift —street smarts —had been a victim of acid. He wondered what had become of her? Had she managed to make a decent life for herself despite the nightmare? He’d heard she had undergone a couple of operations. But Vietnam, college, and a few years kicking around Europe—where he met and then married Darlene— had kept him busy. Eight years after the assault, when he returned to the states with his bride, Corinne Odett was but a dim memory.

  He dropped his feet to the floor and rose. He had work to do. He was little more than halfway through stripping the old varnish off the upstairs banister. From the kitchen counter he picked up the can of paint remover, brush, and rags and headed for the door, thinking that he would run through the whole weird ‘City Gallery’ business once more before he turned in for the night.

  Corinne sat in a tight ball in an overstuffed chair, her arms wrapped around her legs. She rubbed the ridged skin on her face back and forth across the rough denim at her knees. She hadn’t moved since watching the news report two hours earlier. In her mind she played it over and over. Donna Lake, TV hostess of one of the hottest local shows, had been maliciously burned in the face with acid. Naturally, Corinne had been mentioned, and she’d flushed hotly upon hearing her name. That segment of the news finished with, “The assailant is unknown and the SFPD say there are no suspects at the moment.”

  Corinne smiled. Her heart hammered in her chest.

  It occurred to her she might need an alibi. Her father would supply it. He’d better if he knew what was good for him.

  She stood, walked to the coat closet, and removed a long, dark raincoat. She pulled it on, buttoned it to her throat, and flipped up the hood, tucking her hair well inside. Then she quietly opened the front door and went out.

  The room was cold, gray. The pain was becoming dull at last. She wondered if there would ever come a time in her life when she would not remember the pain at its highest degree. Even now, hours later, heavily drugged, a cooling, soothing medication seeping into the ravaged tissue, she had only to bring to mind the raw sensations she had felt just moments after the liquid hit her to experience the devastating horror again.

  Now that the pain had loosened its paralyzing hold on her, she could finally think of other things.

  What happened?

  Who would do this?

  Why her?

  Where was Nolan?

  Donna forced her weary eyes to stay open, focusing on the wide door. As if by some mystic power, the door slowly opened, and through a narcotic haze she saw a man enter and stand to the side.

  Nolan?

  Terror suddenly gripped her. What if, instead of Nolan, it was the one with the acid come to hurt her again? She wanted to call, to ask if he was Nolan, but pure oxygen from a breathing apparatus flowed into her, making it difficult to speak.

  The man took long, yet tentative steps toward her. Her eyes refused to focus. She stiffened, raised a hand uncertainly. He stopped at the foot of the bed. His gaze flitted around the room, over the contraption that held the intravenous bottles which fed life-supporting fluids into her body, to the tanks of oxygen, to finally settle on her face. His body flinched, as if he were surprised to find her awake.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Nolan said in a quiet voice. “They wouldn’t let me in to see you until now.”

  Donna tried to nod, but the movement set off a deep aching under her chin. She moaned.

  “They’ll only let me stay a moment.”

  Donna’s wan smile was lost to him under the medicated gauze dressing wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face and throat.

  A nurse strode into the room, pushing a tray filled with rolls of gauze, tubes, and jars of a milky liquid. She nodded at Nolan.

  Nolan began to back away.

  “You needn’t leave, Mr. Lake. This won’t take long.” She began to remove the gauze from Donna’s face. “It might help to ... to pass the time if you talked to her while I work.”

  If Nolan had heard the nurse, he made no acknowledgment. With a grim expression, he pivoted sharply and rushed out.

  Regina waited in the hospital lounge. She was told that only the immediate family could see the patient, but she couldn’t leave until she learned the seriousness of Donna’s condition. When she saw Nolan rush out of Donna’s room, she hurried to intercept him at the elevators.

  “Nolan, how is she?”

  Without looking at her he shook his head and entered the elevator.

  “Is it critical? Is she conscious?”

  Turning to face her, jabbing at buttons, he said hoarsely, “She’s conscious. I don’t know what her condition is. Ask the doctor. Dr. Hemmer.” And the doors closed, leaving her to stand there taking in her o
wn reflection in the stainless steel doors.

  She found Dr. Hemmer at the nurse’s station.

  “Mrs. Lake is in serious but stable condition,” he said. “With this sort of trauma we won’t know for days. Shock and infection are our main concern. If you’ll excuse me.” Then he too was gone.

  At nine o’clock, before leaving the hospital, Regina called home to Kristy. After only the second ring the answering machine clicked on, indicating a message waiting. Thinking that Kristy may have called in, Regina pressed her code number to receive the message. Background noises filled the receiver, and just when she thought the caller had decided not to speak, a gravelly voice said, “Regina Houston,” followed by more background sounds, then clicks and, finally, the dial tone.

  Regina hung up slowly, disconcerted. Aside from the show that day, she hadn’t been called Houston in many years. And that voice, low, raspy ... She found it difficult to breathe.

  With a growing tension that made her jumpy and impatient, Regina left the hospital and, distracted, failed to take the usual precautions. She had forgotten to take out her key ring—to which was attached a small container of mace in a leather sheath —until after she’d reached the tan station wagon. Now, fumbling in her oversized bag, the nearest street light just far enough away to create distorted shadows all around her, she heard someone walking toward her.

  Regina looked up to see a man dressed in layers of clothing—too much clothing for the unusual heat and humidity of the day. The man’s hair, gritty looking, stood on end along the crown, like a cock’s comb. He was neither tall nor big, but big enough and tall enough to overcome her if that were his intent.

  “Got change for a dollar, lady?”

  Her fingers curled around the container of mace. She pulled it from her purse, tripped the snap and then the safety device. With the mace palmed, she turned to the man. “I don’t have any money.”

  The man looked at her hand held against her stomach. After an agonizing moment, her heart racing, he shrugged and moved away.

  Trembling fingers inserted the key in the door and jerked it open. She quickly got in, closed the door, locked it, started the engine and drove away.

  Sometime during the fifteen-minute drive home, with the tears blurring her vision before finally flowing down her face, she asked herself Why? What reason could someone have for wanting to hurt Donna Lake? Donna couldn’t have an enemy in the world. Everyone loved Donna. Damnit. Why?

  And then she wondered if a mistake had been made. Had the acid been meant for someone else? For Amelia, or Tammy, or ... or for her? There had been a warning. And the threat carried out. Had it really mattered to the assailant who the victim was as long as it was a Miss Classic contestant?

  Miss Classic.

  Beauty contestant.

  Kristy

  She wiped her eyes with the backs of her fingers, then pressed down on the accelerator with a renewed sense of urgency. She was still five minutes from home.

  John dipped the rag into the solvent, then rubbed it along the wooden banister, working loose the old varnish and stain.

  As he worked he plotted, forming and reforming the perfect scenario in his head.

  The door to 2B slowly opened. Kristy Van Raven, Walkman earphones draped around her neck, her expression curious, stuck her head out. A moment later she asked, “What’s that awful smell?”

  “Paint remover.” John held up the coffee can. “I kinda like the smell of it.”

  “Cheap high, huh?”

  He laughed.

  She inched out to stand against the door frame. Something in her face told him that she was troubled. She’d no doubt heard about the tragedy at the studio. She probably even knew the victim, since her mother obviously was acquainted with Donna Lake.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  She hugged herself. “My aunt —well, she’s not really my aunt—anyway, something awful happened to her today. She has this TV show and some guy threw acid in her face.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Why would someone do something like that?”

  “Crazy, perhaps.”

  “Another understatement.”

  John had nothing to add so he turned back to the task at hand.

  “I wish my mother would get home. She must be at the hospital. I’ve been calling down there, but they just give me the runaround. Won’t tell me anything.” Then she sighed, long and deep.

  “You look like you could use some cheering up.” When she looked up at him, he put down the rag and motioned to her to follow him. Without question she did. She’s too trusting, John thought. Someone should talk to her about that.

  He walked to a door on the other side of the hall, opened it, and turned on the light. It was the room they used for storage: cleaning supplies, tools, paints, and so forth. Kristy walked in without hesitating.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a cardboard box on the floor against the wall. “You like kittens?”

  Her face lit up. “Love em.” She stepped to the box, crouched down, and began to exclaim over the litter, cooing in baby talk.

  John crossed the room to a shelf by the window. As he poured fresh paint remover into the can he glanced out.

  Their neighborhood, without street lights, was darker than most. But as he casually scanned the street a car passed, illuminating the parked cars. John caught a glimpse of movement behind a van. He became alert, instantly stepping back from the window.

  With a quick motion he closed the blinds. Behind him he sensed Kristy watching him, wary at last, but he ignored her. A figure stepped out from behind the van and disappeared between the two apartment houses.

  John turned and stared into Kristy’s bewildered face. He smiled. “Pick them up if you like. Their mother’s outside.” Then using the cat as an excuse to investigate the figure he had seen down below, he said, “In fact, I think I’d better let her in so she can feed them.”

  He hurried from the room, took the steps two at a time, and headed toward the back entrance.

  In the laundry room, John put the can of solvent on the floor and was about to reach for the knob to open the back door when he saw it turn slowly, first to the left then to the right. He looked around the tiny room for a weapon. A hammer hung on a nail above the washing machine. He grabbed it, whirled around, and knocked a broom over. The handle fell with a clunk against the door.

  He swore under his breath.

  Moving to the door, he carefully turned the lock, closed his hand around the knob, and, twisting it sharply, raised the hammer and yanked the door open.

  There was no one there.

  He hurried down the steps to the side of the building and looked down the narrow walkway. It was clear.

  A car door slammed. John ran the length of the building, stopped at the corner, and, keeping his back flat against the apartment house, looked out. Regina Van Raven was hurrying along the walk toward the house.

  He waited, watching for signs of a prowler. When she was safely inside the vestibule, he circled the building once before going back inside.

  As Regina entered the apartment house, a rush of foreboding raced through her, making breathing difficult. She quickly looked around but saw no one. So strong was the feeling that she was somewhat surprised to reach the inner hall without dire consequences. She hurried up the stairs to the second level, her nose crinkling at the odd odor she encountered, rushed inside the apartment, and closed and locked the door.

  The living room and kitchen were dark. But the lights and radio were on in Kristy’s room — rock music pounded to the beat of Regina’s heart. Clothes were tossed about in the usual disorder. A glass of cola sat on the windowsill, the ice cubes only half melted. Kristy had been in this room less than an hour ago, Regina told herself. Possibly more recently.

  “Kris?” she called, looking in the closet, then the bathroom, and finally her own bedroom. Kris
ty, in the habit of leaving either a note or a message on the answering machine, had left neither. “Kristy, where are you?”

  She stood in the living room, with panic working its way through her like live electrical wires. Something bad was about to happen, or had already happened. First her best friend, she thought, and now her little girl. What the hell was going on?

  Footsteps approached the apartment door, then it was silent. She heard a key in the lock.

  Kristy, Regina thought with a flood of relief. She rushed to the door and yanked it open.

  Standing at her door was a man. He held a coffee can in one hand and her mace key ring in the other. The man was frighteningly familiar.

  Rooted to the spot, her knees threatening to buckle, she could only stare at the coffee can in his hand. The man stepped forward. Over the rushing noise in her head, she heard him say her daughter’s name.

  He had Kristy.

  “Where is she?” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

  He turned slightly, tipped his head to the side toward a door across the hall marked STORAGE. The odd way he was staring at her made her want to scream.

  “Kristy,” she called softly, then louder, more frantic, “Kristy!”

  Her own voice released the muscles in her legs. She brushed past the man and ran across the hall to shove the door open. She saw her daughter on her knees, facing the wall.

  With tears springing to her eyes, Kristy came to her feet and rushed into her mother’s arms.

  “Oh, Mom, Mom, thank God you’re here.”

  Regina whipped around in such a way as to shield her daughter from the man in the doorway.

  “What’d you do to her?” she demanded.

  The man looked from Regina to Kristy, his brows furrowed.

  Regina looked at Kristy.

  “Mom, what are you talking about?” Kristy said, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “That’s John Davie. From downstairs. He didn’t do anything to me.”