The television proved to be the perfect sedative. She tuned in on a series of inane comedies, lay down on the couch and dozed. The sound of the telephone ringing pulled her back to consciousness. Her mouth felt dry; she had no immediate way of knowing how long she’d slept. Glancing over at the clock, she saw only two hours had passed. She lifted the receiver on the third ring.
It turned out to be Lorette. “I’m glad I caught you. I hope I’m not disturbing you. You sound sleepy.”
“No, it’s all right.”
“Something happened today. I wasn’t going to bother you about it, but it’s been troubling me. I’m not sure what to do.”
“What happened?”
There was a pause, a heartbeat. “I got another threatening note.”
“In your mailbox at school?”
“Yes.” Lorette’s voice was higher pitched than usual, like a violin strung too tightly.
“What did this one say?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.” Somehow Kim was sure it did.
“I don’t even want to look at it again. It crawls in my hand like a snake.”
“Read it to me. Maybe I can help in some way.”
“All right.” Lorette paused, and then her voice sounded clear and somber. “The deaths ye died I have watched beside/And the lives ye led were mine.”
“Obviously a quotation. You want me to check Bartlett’s?”
“I already have. It’s Kipling. I don’t think that’s the significant part though, do you?”
“No,” Kim agreed.
“I’ve thought about it quite a bit already, you see. I believe this person is saying he or she wishes to watch me die and that the death will be slow and painful, as if I died many times. And my death will belong to this person because he or she intends to murder me.” Lorette sounded as if she were on the edge of nervous collapse.
“You could be interpreting the note too broadly.”
“No, this person expects that my mind will move in just that direction.”
Kim admired the fact that, even in a situation like this, Lorette was able to be keenly analytical. “It seems this individual is attempting to psyche you out.”
“And succeeding admirably.”
“You can’t permit it.” Kim spoke in a gentle but firm voice.
“I’m frightened.”
“I know. Do you want me to come over?”
“No, Jim is coming by. I’ll make certain he stays with me. I can’t be alone tonight.”
“If for any reason he doesn’t show up, you can always come over here, or call me and I’ll come to you. And there’s also your mother. You’re not alone.” Kim hoped she sounded reassuring.
“I’d never call Miranda. There are things you don’t know, things I don’t tell other people. Let’s just say, contrary to appearances, Miranda has not been the most nurturing of mothers.” In spite of an effort to sound unemotional, there was a trace of bitterness in Lorette’s voice.
“Look, tomorrow is Saturday. If you and Jim don’t have any special plans, you might drop by my place in the evening and we can talk. In fact, come for dinner and bring the two notes. Maybe we can compare them.”
“I threw the first one away.”
Kim found that troubling, but was careful not to say so. “Well, we can look at the second one together.”
“I don’t want to impose on you.”
“You won’t be imposing. I never have company. It’ll be nice to break my solitary pattern of isolation for a change.”
“Promise you won’t fuss with dinner.”
“It’ll just be something informal,” she said. “I’m not known for my culinary skills.”
“I’d rather not talk about this problem in front of Jim.”
“We’ll figure out something. Fix yourself a cup of chamomile tea in the meantime.”
The conversation ended with Lorette sounding calmer and in control again. Kim had done her best to put her friend’s mind at ease, but in her own mind, she was uncomfortable with the situation. She sensed Lorette was not telling her everything. Her awareness, her odd sensibility, was kicking in again. Kim was certain there was real danger in this situation. The problem really ought to be turned over to the police.
She considered the matter more thoroughly while she brushed her teeth. Death threats should not be taken lightly. But the police would probably pay little attention to Lorette’s notes because no actual crime had been committed. Besides, Kim had very little faith in them. The police couldn’t be trusted; hadn’t she found that out for herself? As for a private investigator, such services were expensive. She doubted Lorette had much money, nor was she likely to ask her mother for any.
That night, Kim slept restlessly, in the morning rising to vague remembrances of bad dreams, lurid nightmares. It seemed she could not escape her ghosts. Carl was in those dreams, like some demon from hell. She had to remind herself that those were Karen’s dreams, not the dreams of Kim, who could and would brush them aside like the wispy cobwebs they now were.
* * * *
Later in the morning she drove to a supermarket. As she selected a firm head of lettuce and two ripe tomatoes for the salad she planned, Kim thought about Lorette and her problem. If she were going to talk to Lorette privately, Jim would have to be occupied in some manner. There was nothing wrong with Jim being included in their discussion, but Lorette did not want him to be. Kim didn’t understand that kind of reasoning; wouldn’t it be better for Jim to know what was going on so that he could help? Still, Lorette would do as she wished. Kim sighed in frustration. She would like to be more helpful. Moving on down the aisle, she wondered at her need—almost a compulsion—to assist other people with their problems. Was it an expiation for sins? Maybe helping others was her way of proving to herself that she was worth something after all.
As she stood waiting in the express line, a misnomer if ever there was one, she considered that it might be better if there were another person for dinner, one Jim could talk with, someone who would even things out. Threesomes were always awkward. But whom to ask? She thought of Don Bernard, then immediately talked herself out of calling him. He was such a suave, attractive man; he must have dozens of lady friends. He would be busy on a Saturday night. She would just make a fool of herself. Her indecision was agonizing. By the time it was her turn to place her purchases on the checkout counter, she had vacillated back and forth countless times.
In the end, she phoned him. He picked up on the fourth ring when she was just about ready to put the receiver down. His deep, well-modulated voice sounded a little breathless. She identified herself and he sounded genuinely glad that she phoned him.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. I just came in from playing tennis. I’m about to hit the shower and then collapse for a time.”
She cleared her throat nervously. “The thing is, I’m planning to have a friend over tonight. She’s bringing her boyfriend, and so I thought, maybe a friend of mine might like to join us.” Did she sound like a nervous, pimply adolescent, or was that her imagination?
“It just so happens I’m between mad, passionate affairs this week and was looking for a friend to spend the evening with.”
She let out a deep breath; Don’s teasing manner always did cause her to relax. “Well, dinner will be at seven—nothing fancy. I’m not much of a cook. Would you like to drop by around six—that is, if it’s convenient.”
“Six it is. Thank you, Kim. This has been a pleasant surprise. I never expected to receive a phone call from you.”
“I suppose I do come off as pretty old-fashioned.”
“No, you just like to keep your distance. You’re reserved. Maybe I can show you all men aren’t ogres. You devout feminists are mighty cautious creatures.”
When their conversation ended, she considered what he said. He thought her a dedicated feminist? She’d never spouted chapter and verse. She lived the way she did as an act of self
-preservation. But then Don couldn’t know that. No one did. It wasn’t something she talked about.
She took the rest of the afternoon to clean up the apartment and do a little maintenance on herself as well. Rarely did she bother with make-up, but for some reason, she felt she ought to spend some time on her appearance for this evening. She used eyebrow pencil, a touch of eyeliner, mascara and blush, but no lipstick, which she thought made her look clownish.
She didn’t own jeans and wished now that she had bought a pair, but her navy blue slacks looked casual with a western-yoked shirt. For tonight, she wanted to appear less than the serious, austere academic.
Lorette and Jim arrived a few minutes before six o’clock. Lorette looked beautiful and chic as usual. She wore a white silk pantsuit that clung provocatively in all the right places and contrasted dramatically with her flowing ebony hair. Only a woman as tall and slim as Lorette could look quite so elegant and regal in such an outfit. Jim, ever the cowboy, was dressed in jeans, denim shirt, cowboy hat and boots. They were a study in contrasts; he appeared ready to ride out on the range, she to pose for the cover of Vogue.
Jim glanced around her apartment. “Same layout as Lorette’s place,” he said.
Lorette handed her a square white bakery box tied with multi-colored string. “For dessert. Jim picked it out. Black Forest cake.”
“Worth the calories.” Kim took the cake and moved some things around to make a space for it, aware how small and cramped the refrigerator was.
The doorbell rang and she called out to come in. Don Bernard entered, sophisticated and handsome in an eggshell-colored Irish cable-knit sweater and matching flannel slacks. There was a look of surprised recognition as he caught sight of Lorette and Jim. He didn’t seem at all pleased. For a moment there was an awkwardness in the room. Kim felt the tension acutely. She swallowed guiltily. She’d been aware there was friction between Lorette and Don Bernard and still she’d decided to invite him, to ignore the hostility. Why had she arranged this? It was uncharacteristically selfish on her part. She felt a distinct stab of guilt. The truth was, she’d wanted to see Don Bernard, looked for an excuse to be with him socially.
A neon sign registering the word mistake in bold red letters lit up in her mind’s eye. She was painfully aware at this moment of how tiny her apartment actually was. It was a miniature, too small to comfortably accommodate four adults, especially when the tension in the air was as thick as split-pea soup. Why hadn’t she realized that before?
“Well, it’s nice to see familiar faces,” Don said, his composure returning. He turned a warm smile on Kim and held out a gift-boxed object. “I thought you might like to serve this after dinner. It’s an interesting liqueur.”
Kim thanked him and put his gift on the kitchen counter without so much as looking at him. Quickly, she brought out cheese and crackers.
“I have beer, white wine and soft drinks,” she told them.
“Beer,” Jim said.
Don opted for the white wine. She and Lorette each drank a glass of ginger ale. Don glanced over at Lorette. Their eyes met and he quickly looked away. Kim wondered about that, because the look was clearly hostile. It seemed out of character for Don to feel enmity toward anyone. His personality was generally easygoing and amiable.
Don began conversing with Jim. Kim was glad to discover that they were acquainted.
“What made you go back to school?”
“I sometimes ask myself why I’m still at the university,” Jim said with a wry smile. “Truth is, I never imagined myself leaving the ranch. It always seemed to me that I was born and bred to work livestock. But I used to write poetry. It was all about ranching—at least on the surface it was. My English teacher back in high school took an interest in me. Said he thought my poems were really good. To prove it, he sent some around to these small literary magazines. Anyway, some of them got published. His confidence in me made me want to continue my education. ’Course I couldn’t go off to college right away. Couldn’t afford it. But I worked my way through college slow and easy. Then I got my Master’s back in Montana. My advisor thought it would do well for me to get my Ph.D. in the East. So here I am. The university was generous in its offer to me. I got this fellowship. I’m older than most of these kids, but I got my sights set on becoming a professor of American literature.”
“I take it you don’t plan to stay in the East permanently.”
Jim shook his head, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. “Not a chance. Out West when you look up at the sky at night, you feel as though you’re looking straight into the face of heaven, ’cause a million stars are showering their light on you. A body can breathe out there. You’d really like it,” he added, turning to Lorette and taking her hand. Lorette did not reply; her pale, slender fingers were swallowed up by his large, callused hand.
“So then you’re happy at the university?” Don said.
“Sure, I’ve been given a chance to better my life. I’d still be baby-sitting beeves if I weren’t being educated. I’ll never be rich, but I do like reading, learning and teaching a whole lot.”
“Worthy sentiments,” Don said and raised his wine glass in salute. “May you always feel that way. I would like to read some of your poetry one day.”
“My pleasure.”
“Why don’t you ask me what I think about the way the university prepares students to teach in academe?” Lorette said. Her voice had a hollow sound.
A look passed between Lorette and Don Bernard that Kim found disturbing.
“By all means, tell us,” Don said, as if she had challenged him on some level.
“I read an article in which the Association of American Colleges was quoted. Do you know what it said? If the professional preparation of doctors was as minimal as that of college teachers, the United States would have more funeral directors than lawyers.”
“And just what would you change?” Don asked with a tight smile, which Kim knew was false.
“To start with, in the graduate English program, why not offer some writing courses instead of limiting us solely to literature?”
“Ah, yes,” Don said, “of course that could prove beneficial. However, every course you take demands considerable writing.”
“Precisely why we should have a course or two on the graduate level which emphasizes the needed skills.”
“Not necessary,” Don said.
“Too practical, Dr. Bernard? You and your colleagues look down on anything not connected to literary criticism, don’t you? Ironic, isn’t it? You revere famous writers and study their work, yet you ignore the writing process as if it’s merely a basic course for freshmen.” Lorette’s tone was bitter, accusatory.
Kim began to squirm in her chair, thinking that her dinner party was fast turning into a disaster.
“I agree with you entirely, Ms. Campbell. Intellectual snobs are not to be trusted. They have the wrong slant on things because they’re always looking down their noses.” With that, Don smiled and took the edge out of the argument.
Quickly, seeing her chance, Kim stood up. “We may be a bit crowded, but dinner is about to be served. It was going to be lamb chops, but I did remember that Jim was a cattle person.”
Jim smiled, craggy lines forming at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He had the tanned face and sun-bleached hair of a man who preferred to spend as many hours as possible out-of-doors.
“I truly am a beef man. Fact is, I can’t remember ever swallowing any lamb. My grandpa used to tell stories about how it was in the days of the range wars with sheepherders. That old man would have starved before he touched mutton.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know we’ve got salad and a large pizza with everything.”
“Sounds perfect,” Don said.
“There’s only one little problem. I have to pick up the pizza. Lorette, you can come with me. We’ll leave the men to finish their drinks and discourse on world problems.”
So saying, she led Lorette out to her ca
r. “That was so we could have our talk privately. I thought you’d prefer it. Although I do think Jim should know about the threats.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“You can show me the note when we get to the pizza place.”
Lorette looked around as if she expected someone were watching, then nodded her head and followed. Lorette was rather subdued as they drove along. Kim thought she seemed distant and troubled. When they drove into the parking lot of Vito’s, Kim asked to see the note.
“I didn’t bring it.” Lorette lowered her eyes, training them on the floor of the car.
Kim was perplexed. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me to look at it.”
Lorette met her gaze. “I had other things on my mind. I forgot it.”
It was clear to Kim that her friend was not being entirely truthful; she was puzzled by this bit of mendacity.
“I will help you if I can, if you let me.”
“I think I ought to just toss this note away as I did the first one.”
“You can’t be serious! Tell me about the note. Was it typed or handwritten?”
“Typed.”
“What kind of typing? Manual machine, electric or computer printed?”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Manual strokes are usually uneven in some respects. Electric strokes are smoother. And the computers might use dot matrix, bubble jet or laser print. What did you notice?”
Her expressive eyes glanced up. “You think there wasn’t any note, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that or even think it.” Kim decided to drop the subject.
“Did you find out anything about the inferno collection?” Lorette ripped at a fingernail distractedly.
“I asked my boss, and he looked at me strangely.”
With surprise, she saw a look of fear come over Lorette’s features.
“You shouldn’t have asked anyone in authority. If they knew, they’d cover it up.”
“Cover what up?” Kim was growing impatient.
“There’s no point talking about it. Forget I asked. Don’t bother with it.”
“Wendell was displeased, but I didn’t sense any conspiracy,” Kim said.
The Inferno Collection Page 4
