She’d nearly reached the bottom of the barrel when she found it: last Thursday’s cash-register receipt from the grocery store.
It was folded and crumpled and stained yellow with some unknown liquid that had long since dried. Sarah picked off a few crusty scraps from one corner of the four-inch-wide, foot-and-a-half-long receipt. Then she straightened and flattened the paper as best as she could. Thankfully, it was still legible, containing a detailed computerlike printout of each item purchased. Sarah replaced the lid on the barrel and went into the house.
Patches greeted her at the door and followed her into the kitchen.
Sarah decided she was no longer hungry; she felt too much anticipation for what she might find. She heated water on the stove for coffee, then brought a notepad and pencil to the table. She began searching her memory and writing down as completely as she could the description of each meal that she and Alex and Brian had had since last Thursday.
Patches circled her feet a few times, rubbing his tail against her leg. When no caresses were forthcoming, he marched haughtily away.
By the time Sarah finished her cup of coffee, her list was as complete as she could make it.
She spread the grocery receipt flat on the table beside her list and began drawing a line through each item that had been consumed, or partially consumed, since last Thursday. When she was finished, more than half the items on the grocery receipt had been crossed off.
Now she took the receipt to the cupboards. She carefully arranged the cans and boxes on the shelves, checking them against the receipt. There were some items on the shelves that were more abundant than her receipt would indicate. This didn’t concern her. She was only interested in those items that she knew she’d purchased last Thursday and that now were either on the shelf or on her list of meals.
When she’d finished with the cupboards, she checked the refrigerator, crossing off more items. And then she was done. Theoretically, every item should have been crossed off the receipt, having either been consumed during the week or located on the shelves. Of course, there were exceptions, such, as apples, for which she didn’t have an accurate count.
However, she did have an accurate accounting of these items, and they had not been crossed off the receipt: one 32-ounce can of beans, one loaf of whole wheat bread, two large cans of soup, one package of sliced ham, one box of saltine crackers, one package of cheddar cheese, one box of chocolates, one large can of fruit cocktail, one half gallon of orange juice, and two cans of tuna fish.
There may have been more things missing, but she was absolutely certain about these things. They were gone. Definitely gone.
She had a sudden, disturbing mental image of Christine Helstrum sitting here at the kitchen table, alone in the house while they were all at work or school, calmly fixing herself a sandwich.
Sarah checked the back door. It was tightly closed, and its heavy snap-latch lock was solidly in place. She opened the door and examined the lock, not quite certain what she was looking for. However, it did not look damaged or even tampered with. She was remembering last Monday, when she’d found this door open.
She must have gotten in another way, Sarah thought, then went out through the back door, leaving it open behind her.
Sarah walked back through the kitchen to the front of the house. She checked the front-door lock but could find nothing wrong with it. Then she began a thorough inspection of the ground floor, going from room to room and carefully examining every window. Each one was closed tight and securely latched. She knew that the second-story windows were too high to reach without a ladder. She tried to think of how else someone could get into the house.
The basement windows?
She walked through the kitchen to the laundry room. The door to the basement was bolted shut. She turned the bolt and slid it completely into its housing on the door. Then she pulled open the door, slid the bolt out as far as it would go, and bent down to examine it closely.
She frowned.
There were scratches and nicks on the bolt, some of them relatively deep. Most of the scratches were shiny, as if they’d been made recently. Sarah wondered how scratches like that could have been made. She closed the door, slid the bolt, and rotated it into place. Then she rotated it the other way, away from her. The scratches seemed to line up with the direction of rotation, but she couldn’t yet see what was causing them.
Something brushed the back of her leg, making her jump.
“Damn it, Patches,” she said, feeling her heart thump.
The big cat meowed and rubbed his body against her.
Sarah opened the door again and slid out the bolt to take another look. Suddenly, Patches darted past her onto the landing.
“Patches, come—”
The cat ran down the stairs into the dark basement.
Sarah hesitated, then reached around the doorway, found the light switch, and flipped it on. When she stepped onto the landing, the harsh overhead light cast her shadow halfway down the wooden stairs. She could see partway along the hallway below. It was empty.
“Patches!” she called.
There was a muffled roar from below. She knew it was only the furnace, but it brought goose bumps to her arms and neck.
She checked her watch. Her next customer was due at the shop in less than twenty minutes, so she’d have to leave soon or be late. But she didn’t want to leave the house with the basement door open. She had a very bad feeling about that. And she didn’t want to lock the door and leave Patches in the basement all afternoon—it was too cold for him down there.
She started down the stairs slowly, reluctantly. She had a nagging sense of uneasiness, as if she shouldn’t be doing this, as if she shouldn’t go down there alone.
That’s ridiculous, she scolded herself. You’re being childish.
However, there was an uncharacteristic tightness in her chest. She stopped halfway down.
“Patches,” she called, though not as loudly as before.
She waited a moment for the cat to appear, and when he didn’t, she descended the stairs to the bottom.
The low-ceilinged hallway stretched before her, cold and empty. Sarah held perfectly still, listening. The only sound was the low, muffled roar of the furnace coming from the room to her right. The door was partly open. Sarah pushed it completely open, surrounding herself with the noise from the furnace.
Light from the hall spilled through the doorway, forming a narrow path leading into the dark room. Yellow and blue lights, like alien animal eyes, flickered from beneath the small furnace in the corner of the room.
“Patches, come on out of there.”
Sarah reached around the door, feeling for the light switch, afraid to step into the dark room, afraid that her hand might encounter a spider or something worse.
She found the switch and flipped it on, filling the room with sick yellow light. The huge, old iron furnace dominated the room and reached up to the ceiling with cylindrical air ducts. In Sarah’s mind the abandoned furnace became a leechlike parasite that had attached itself to the underbelly of the living, warm-blooded house.
More realistically, it looked like a good hiding place for a cat. She stepped around the giant furnace and peered into the shadows, wishing she’d brought a flashlight. She could see just well enough to discern that Patches was not crouched there.
He’s been back there before, she thought, wrinkling her nose from a stale, rancid odor.
She backed away from the furnace.
Something grabbed her.
She panicked and started to yank free. Then she saw that she’d merely caught the sleeve of her sweater on the latch securing the furnace’s iron door. Sarah carefully unhooked herself. She noticed with dismay that she’d smudged her sleeve with rust—reddish brown, like old blood.
Sarah switched off the light and started across the hall toward the old canning room. A movement caught her eye. She spun around in time to see Patches trotting toward her with something hanging from his mouth.<
br />
A dead mouse.
He dropped it at Sarah’s feet and sniffed it. Sarah scooped up the cat in her arms, nudged the mouse carcass against the wall with the toe of her shoe, and quickly climbed the stairs.
After she’d slammed the door and thrown the bolt, she allowed herself to relax. But only slightly. There was still the matter of the missing food. She wondered if she should call Alex now or wait to tell him after work.
Before she’d decided, the phone rang.
“Mrs. Whitaker? This is Frank O’Hara.”
“Yes, hello.” Sarah wondered if he was calling to get news or to give it.
“I tried to reach you several times this morning,” he said.
“We were both at work. Is there … something?”
“Is your husband home?”
“No.”
“Well … I suppose I can tell you. I mean, it’s good news, if somewhat morbid. Or perhaps the Colorado Springs police have already informed you.”
“Informed us about what?”
“Christine Helstrum is dead.”
Sarah was stunned. For a moment she didn’t speak.
“Mrs. Whitaker?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here. It’s just that … she’s dead? Are you certain?”
“I’m positive.”
Sarah felt her shoulders slump as the tension drained from her body.
“They found her yesterday,” O’Hara said. “I just heard about it myself, and I wanted you to know right away. I can imagine the anxiety you must have suffered these past days.”
“Yes, but … are you positive?”
“Absolutely. Some hikers found her body in the woods a few miles from the state hospital,” O’Hara said. “It was partially buried in the snow. Apparently, she, that is, her body, had been there for a few weeks, since the night of her escape.”
“What happened? I mean, how …?”
“They don’t know yet. An autopsy will be performed today, or perhaps tomorrow. But the police think she froze to death.”
“And they’re certain it’s her?” Sarah was afraid to let herself believe it—it seemed too good to be true.
“Yes,” O’Hara said, “even though her face was—it’s difficult to be delicate about this—Small animals had been at her. Her face was mostly gone. But everything else fits exactly—same-size body, same hair color, same hospital clothes, right down to the underwear. It’s her, all right.”
“Thank God,” Sarah said. “Thank God it’s over.”
But it wasn’t over, she knew. Someone had been in their house. She considered telling him about Mrs. Green but decided against it. After all, what could he do about that?
“My husband may want to talk to you,” she said. “Will you be home today?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have him call you, and, well, I want to thank you, Mr. O’Hara. Thank you for everything.”
“It’s no problem. Take care.”
He hung up.
Sarah immediately phoned Jefferson High and had Alex paged. He was as stunned as Sarah had been, but more skeptical. As she’d guessed, he wanted to talk to O’Hara. She gave him the number, then glanced at her watch.
“I’ve got to run,” she said. “I’m really late for my next appointment. See you tonight. Love you.”
Sarah was twenty minutes late for her two o’clock appointment and nearly twenty-five minutes late getting started on her four o’clock. She tried to work faster, but her mind wasn’t on her job.
Christine was dead, and she should have felt relieved. But there was still the missing food. A burglar? She smiled to herself. A hungry burglar whom she’d surprised and scared away last Monday.
Stranger things have happened, she thought.
She also thought it ironic that the idea of a burglar in their house had once frightened her terribly and now it was almost a relief.
At six o’clock Kay left for the day. Sarah finished with her last customer half an hour later. After the woman had gone, Sarah went into the back room to make certain everything was straightened up and ready for tomorrow. She turned off the coffee machine, rinsed out the cups, and dried her hands on a towel. She turned from the sink and walked to the doorway.
She stopped dead still.
A woman stood in the middle of the front room. She wore a plaid scarf and a rumpled brown coat.
It was Mrs. Green.
24
MRS. GREEN SMILED.
Sarah felt her blood turn to ice.
She’s Christine.
But she can’t be. Christine is dead. O’Hara said so. She’s dead. This woman … resembles the photos, but …
“Hello, Sarah,” Mrs. Green said pleasantly. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“What—” Sarah’s voice caught in her throat. Her impulse was to run, to get away from this woman, whoever she was. But the shop had no back door, and Mrs. Green stood between her and the only entrance. “What … do you want?”
“What do you think? I’m here for my hair.”
Mrs. Green untied her scarf and removed it, revealing limp, dull brown hair. She casually dropped the scarf onto a chair.
“No,” Sarah said, trying to find strength in her voice. “No. I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”
Mrs. Green stood unmoving, her hands hanging loosely at her sides.
“But I have an appointment,” she said.
“No,” Sarah said firmly. “That was for yesterday. I’m sorry, but I said we were closed.”
“AND I SAID,” Mrs. Green yelled, making Sarah take a step backward. The shop was deathly quiet. “And I said,” Mrs. Green continued, her voice very low and mean, “that I have an appointment.”
“No,” Sarah said, fighting to maintain control.
She moved forward along the edge of the room, intending to get to the front door, to run if she had to.
Mrs. Green stepped directly in front of her.
Sarah stopped.
She knew that the only way to get out was to fight. And she didn’t know the first thing about fighting. Even if she did, she would’ve been reluctant to fight this woman, who was noticeably larger than she was.
“You can’t leave, Sarah,” Mrs. Green said in a commanding tone of voice. “Not until you do my hair.”
She wanted to shout for help. But there was no one to hear; the shops on either side had closed at six. And the blinds were shut, so no one could see in from the parking lot, even if anyone were looking this way.
Sarah watched helplessly as Mrs. Green unbuttoned her coat and carelessly tossed it aside. She wore a pleated skirt and a pink sweater. Cashmere, Sarah guessed, and some-what familiar. However, it was smudged with dirt and at least one size too small for Mrs. Green. It stretched tightly across her shoulders and chest, partly flattening her breasts. She wore no nylons. Sarah saw that her legs were white and muscular.
“Well?” she said, for Sarah hadn’t moved. “Shouldn’t we get started?”
“I … I can’t,” Sarah said, her mind frantically searching for a way out. “I have to leave. My husband is expecting me. If I don’t get home on time …”
Mrs. Green moved toward her, wagging her forefinger as if she were a teacher lecturing a stubborn student, wagging it so close to her face that Sarah could see that the nail was chewed down to the quick. Sarah looked beyond the finger to the woman’s eyes. They were dark gray. Expressionless. Doll’s eyes. And they were an inch or two higher than Sarah’s, further reminding her how big this woman was. Sarah guessed that Mrs. Green outweighed her by more than thirty pounds.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, smiling impishly.
“No, it’s true. If I’m not home soon, he’ll worry. He’ll … he’ll come here.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Green blinked once, thinking. Then she moved forward, forcing Sarah backward to the desk. “Call him and tell him you’ll be late.”
Sarah hesitated, then picked up the phone. Mrs. Green moved beside her.
“And Sarah,” she sa
id, “we don’t want anyone to get excited. So let’s don’t mention any names.”
As she said this, she picked up the letter opener from the desk. The opener had been a gift from Kay Nealy’s husband to both Kay and Sarah. It had an ivory handle carved in the likeness of a seabird with its head bowed and its beak resting along its neck. The blade was stainless steel, six inches long and tapered to a dull point. Mrs. Green held the opener in her right hand, her fingers wrapped tightly around the bird’s neck.
Sarah tapped out her number, then listened to the rings.
“Hello?” Alex’s voice sounded small and distant.
“Hello, Alex? It’s me.”
“Hi. What’s up? Don’t tell me the Jeep won’t start.”
“No, it’s … not that.”
Mrs. Green was now drawing the flat of the blade slowly across the palm of her hand, as if it were pleasurable to feel the cool steel against her skin.
“Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Is something wrong?”
She nearly said yes. But then what would she say when he asked her to explain? What could she say with this woman standing beside her?
“No,” she said. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
Mrs. Green smiled at Sarah, as if she’d heard Alex’s question.
“I’m … just running late, that’s all. I have … one more customer.”
Mrs. Green slowly turned the letter opener in her hands, carefully examining the blade.
“Oh,” Alex said. “Well, how long before you get home?”
“How long?”
Sarah glanced at Mrs. Green.
“Don’t you remember?” Mrs. Green whispered, as if she didn’t want Alex to hear. “We need time to change the color and then cut it real nice.”
“About … two hours,” Sarah said helplessly.
“Okay, well, I guess Brian and I will have to eat without you. By the way, I talked to O’Hara.”
“Yes?”
“He told me pretty much what he told you,” Alex said. “The hospital people positively identified the body as Christine. I guess it’s really over.”
Night of Reunion: A Novel Page 17
