Listen to the Shadows

by Joan Hall Hovey

  “I enjoy fussing over good patients. Besides, I’m a fast nurse.” She started away, then turned back. “And don’t take that the wrong way.”

  Maybe she was making too much of the “vision” or whatever it was she had experienced. One thing was sure: she had no intention of telling anyone else about it. Dr. Shea had already suggested she’d concocted the story of seeing the eyes in the rearview mirror. Adding to it might just end her up in a rubber room somewhere, instead of on her way home.

  Katie started at the feel of warm lips on hers. The sight of Drake drawing back from her, smiling down at her as a mother might smile at a sleeping child, was dreamlike. Lost in thought, she’d neither seen nor heard him enter the room.

  “I think that’s called taking unfair advantage,” she said tightly, struggling to a sitting position and drawing the sheet up as far as it would go to cover her hospital shirt.

  “You’re right and I apologize,” he said. “It’s just that you looked so like a little girl lying there, I couldn’t resist.” His gray eyes were innocent of ulterior motive as he lay a hand on her shoulder. “I was so worried about you, Katie; I’ve hardly slept a wink since you’ve been in here.”

  At once, Katie’s initial annoyance faded and she gave him a forgiving smile. The kiss had been kind of sweet, now that she thought about it. She thanked him for the roses, told him how handsome he looked in his charcoal gray suit, the white shirt and silk burgundy tie.

  “You look very much the prosperous lawyer,” she said, while in the back of her mind she wondered how to broach the subject of the expensive gifts she had no intention of keeping.

  “All for show,” he replied, grinning. He went to the foot of her bed to raise her up. His movements were quick and precise, like pencil strokes. “Enough?”

  “Perfect.” He had nice, square teeth. His mouth was a little on the thin side, but sensuous. Drake really was quite nice looking.

  She watched him smooth the already neatly combed hair across his forehead in a familiar gesture. A nervous habit, she thought. Drake drew the chair to her bedside, the same chair Dr. Shea had sat in yesterday. It appeared to fit Drake better. Drake was shorter than the doctor, but stockier in build.

  And why am I making the comparison? She also noticed that Drake’s fingernails were dirty, and felt crummy for noticing.

  “I hope everything fit,” he said, glancing down at the overnight case, which stood unopened against the wall beside the closet. “I guessed at the sizes.” His smile was tentative.

  Understanding his nervousness now, knowing he’d expected her to be wearing something from the case, Katie braced herself. “That’s something I need to talk to you about, Drake,” she said, relieved he’d raised the subject himself.

  The anxious, intense expression Drake wore so often spread across his features. Even his tan seemed to pale, leaving his freckles naked.

  “You didn’t like my choices?”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy. “Your choices are perfect, Drake. The clothes—everything is exquisite. And I’m genuinely flattered by your generosity. But I—I can’t accept these things.”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Knowing she was hurting him and wishing that he hadn’t made it necessary, Katie explained as if speaking to a not-so-bright child that these were gifts a man might give to his wife, or perhaps his wife-to-be. “I’m sorry if you can’t accept my feelings about this, Drake,” she finished lamely.

  After a lengthy pause, Drake surprised her by smiling. “But I do, Katie,” he said. “I do understand. I see I’ve put you in an awkward position, and I respect you all the more for your principles. I just wanted to do something special for you, that’s all. It’s because of me that you’re here, that you had that terrible accident.” He lowered his gaze. “It’s because of my not showing up to take you to that damned dinner that you were out driving in that storm,” he ended hoarsely.

  Until this very instant, Katie had completely forgotten about the unkept dinner date. Poor Drake. He was miserable with self-reproach. She felt something melt within her.

  “You’re blaming yourself for something you had nothing to do with,” she said softly. “And that’s silly. The accident was just something that—happened.” Fleetingly, dead eyes flashed in her mind. She blocked them out. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Maybe not directly, but I still feel responsible. There’s a good reason I didn’t show up, Katie. It was unavoidable. I did try to call you, but the lines were down.”

  “I knew there had to be an awfully good reason for you to miss such an important occasion, Drake. And believe me, there’s no need to explain.”

  “But I want to. Please. Katie, I hope you don’t think I’m trying to buy your affections.” His hand went to his hair. “No, of course not,” she said, and hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.

  “Good,” he said, his face relaxing. “Because I wouldn’t do that. Do you know when you’ll be going home?”

  Glad for the change of subject, Katie told him that if the tests came out okay, Dr. Miller had promised her that she wouldn’t have to remain in the hospital for more than another week or so.

  “I’ll come and get you,” he said flatly, leaving no room for argument. “Now that you’re allowed visitors, I’ll be here as often as I can. You just be sure and let me know when you’re being discharged, okay?”

  As he smiled at her, Katie was suddenly struck with the sensation of the room growing hotter, of the flowers on her night table smelling sweeter, heavier. “Drake, I…”

  He reached for her hand. “No strings, Katie,” he said gently. “No pressure. I promise. I just want to be your friend. Will you let me?”

  Despite not quite believing them, Katie was relieved at his words.

  “Of course I will. Thank you, Drake.”

  “Thank you, Katie. I was so damned scared that night—it was Dad. I thought I’d lost him.”

  At that moment, a tall, slim gentleman with snowy white hair appeared in her doorway. Mr. Jackson, Katie’s art teacher, held a small bouquet of violets.

  Chapter 9

  Aside from his mother’s photograph, the only other item on Jonathan Shea’s desk was Katherine Summer’s chart. Jim had scrawled “for your information” across the top. Jonathan had read it with reluctance. All her tests were negative and that, at least, was good news. He supposed he should have followed up with a second visit as he’d promised, but there seemed little point. His one visit had done little more than upset and exhaust her. He’d been angry with her. Why in hell had he reacted that way? He didn’t even know the woman. She’d been right to accuse him of a lousy bedside manner, which was a gross understatement. He hadn’t wanted to leave. He was the one looking for therapy, for Christ’s sake. He’d wanted to lose himself in the green pools of her eyes. Despite the confusion he’d seen there, even the fear, her eyes were alive, filled with spirit. They challenged him. Maybe he’d hoped some of her passion would rub off on him, for he was, without doubt, feeling more dead and empty in his soul than he had ever felt in his life.

  Correct that. Since he was twelve years old.

  Since his mother.

  Sagging deeper in his chair, Jonathan rubbed a hand over his unshaven face.

  Dead and empty. Like Jodie. Jodie lay under the ground now. He hadn’t attended her funeral. He knew he wouldn’t—couldn’t. It was not easy to face one’s failures. Obviously impossible for him.

  Thrusting the girl’s memory from him, he let his gaze wander to the photo on his desk, which he’d left until last to pack. His mother smiled wistfully out at him, her raven hair falling softly to her shoulders, framing her small, oval face. She looked so young in the photo. Her eyes seemed almost too large for her face. They were gentle eyes, never accusing, yet he felt their accusation deep inside him like a heavy stone in his heart.

  “I couldn’t even help you, could I, Momma?” he whispered.

  Only the soft ticking of
the wall clock answered him.

  ***

  Jeannie looked up from her typewriter as Dr. Shea strode past her desk, bursting through the swinging double doors and out into the corridor heading straight for the elevator. The door swung shut and he was gone from her vision.

  She turned the diamond ring round on her finger. Jeffrey had given it to her on Saturday night. She’d been dying to tell Dr. Shea her exciting news, but the time didn’t seem right. She’d hoped he might notice the ring, even thought it wasn’t very big, but she guessed he just had too much on his mind.

  The doors swung open and Constance Sewell was suddenly standing at her desk. “Is Jonathan in his office, Jeannie?”

  Jeannie cringed at the familiar, demanding voice, at the sight of the woman in a royal blue cape, her hair piled on her head like a flaming bush, looking as if she’d just stepped out of Vogue.

  “He just went out, Miss Sewell,” Jeannie said pleasantly. “You missed him. Would you like some coffee? He should be back any…”

  “Page him!”

  Jeannie’s face warmed. “Miss Sewell, I don’t think…”

  The woman let out a long-suffering sigh. “Please don’t aggravate me, Jeannie. I’m not in the mood. Please do as I ask. Please.” She favored Jeannie with a cool smile.

  “Very well.” Without another word, Jeannie obeyed, knowing Dr. Shea wouldn’t be too thrilled. But she didn’t think he would be mad at her. He hadn’t taken his coat, so she knew he was still in the building. As she paged him, Constance Sewell, cape flaring out behind her like a mad bull-fighter’s, flounced into Dr. Shea’s office as though she owned it, and shut the door behind her.

  ***

  Several miles away, the man stood alongside his blue, badly rusting half-ton, leaning on his shovel, his eyes raised to the swollen purple clouds moving swiftly across the gray sky out of the west. A storm was brewing. Damn! He hoped to hell that didn’t mean snow. Snow would make his work a lot harder. It would leave tracks, too.

  Naw, he argued with himself, too early for snow. More rain, probably. At the sound of childish giggling, he turned to see two kids coming up the path toward him. Tossing the shovel onto the back of the truck where it thumped and rocked to silence, he straightened his shoulders in the faded army jacket, and waited.

  As they came closer, their steps suddenly faltered, and the man grinned to himself. They sensed he was a man to be reckoned with. He liked that. You couldn’t too often fool kids—although there’d been a couple who hadn’t been too sharp, and they’d paid the price. He thought of the boys’ home they’d stuck him in after his mother died, and then the foster homes he’d been in and out of like they’d had revolving doors. Some of the kids in those places thought just because he was an orphan they could lord it over him. Well, they found out different soon enough. No one ever told on him, either. They knew better.

  Anyway, they probably wouldn’t have been believed. Most grownups liked him. Most told him what a “ lovely, sweet boy ” he was.

  Oh, yes. It was the grownups who were easy. You just had to tell them what they wanted to hear, that was all.

  The dirt path leading up to the house was fairly long, maybe two hundred feet, and he watched, unmoving, as they drew nearer. The taller of the two kids was peering uneasily at him through holes in the sheet he wore, while the little one, a girl, he figured, of about six or seven, adjusted her black witch’s nose. Fine, blonde curls escaped the pointed hat. They stopped a few feet from where he stood.

  “Trick or treat?” came the thin, timid voice from behind the sheet. A boy’s voice.

  The man made no reply, only continued to look down at the two children, enjoying his effect on them. Instinctively, the boy reached out to take the girl’s hand. His feet shifted in dirty, scuffed Nikes. “Is—Is Mrs. Nickerson home?”

  “No. No one’s home.” The man’s voice was barely audible, yet filled with menace. His lips stretched in a slow, cruel smile. “Only me. Now you two move to hell out of here, or I’ll give you a treat you won’t like.”

  For a moment the two stood frozen, caught like a pair of rabbits in the man’s pale, icy stare. Then, as he took a threatening step toward them, they were suddenly off and running, feet flying over the dirt path, back the way they had come.

  He was still chuckling low in his throat long after the two had disappeared from sight. They’d probably squawk to their parents, he thought, but to hell with them. To hell with all of them. He would be moving on in a few days anyway, once he took care of business. Taking the knife from his pocket, he tested its sharpness against his thumb. Just a slight touch of the blade and a bead of blood leapt to the surface.

  The knife felt good in his hand, better than the butcher knife. More authority. He didn’t really want to use it, though; that would spoil things. Unless, of course, she gave him too much trouble.

  Thoughts of her, as they always did, began the blood throbbing hotly through his veins. Slowly, he turned the knife over in his hand, observing how, even in the last light of day, it gleamed like polished silver. Head bent in admiration, it shot up at the sound of a car coming up the road, and he quickly returned the knife to the front pocket of his army jacket and patted down the flap. Fear coiled and stretched and coiled again, cool as a serpent in his bowels, as the full implication of what had just happened struck him. What he had said to those kids was stupid, he now knew. Careless. People knew him around here. They could mess things up. In spite of the cool temperatures, sweat trickled down his sides.

  He was getting impatient, that was all. But he mustn’t. Had to keep it together. He’d waited too long to blow it now, and November fifth was only five days away. Then he would be rewarded for his patience, for his careful attention to detail.

  A frown worked itself between his brows as again the voice reminded him that he had put the plan in jeopardy—had in fact nearly caused the entire plan to backfire.

  But “nearly” was the key word here. It hadn’t backfired. What happened had actually allowed him to complete much of the work without fear of discovery. What happened was, in fact, an improvement on the plan, so it didn’t matter. He figured it was an omen—a kind of sign that the plan was taking on a force of its own. The thought calmed him.

  As did the sight of the brown Chevy moving on down the road, now slowing, the driver taking no notice of him.

  But he must be careful from now on. Very, very careful.

  Taking the coil of rope from his pocket, he tossed it into the truck’s cab. He locked the doors, then turned and headed for the house, only vaguely aware of the low rumble of distant thunder. He would sit awhile and look at Katie’s picture. That always helped to bring the moment closer.

  That sweet moment when he would be with her.

  She would be so beautiful.

  Trapped there beneath him, soft and naked and helpless, writhing and moaning in pain and ecstasy—for there could be no real ecstasy without pain. He could feel her body against him now, moist and slippery, feel himself thrusting hard into her, again and again. He heard her cries inside his head, and his legs trembled as he climbed the stairs to his room.

  Once inside, he closed the door behind him and sagged against it.

  Shutting his eyes, he let his mind savor what would be the best part of all.

  Her death. An exquisitely slow death—one chosen with great care.

  Just for her.

  Chapter 10

  Rachael and Billy Martin ran the half-mile home like the breath of the devil was at their backs. Now they bounded up the porch steps of their house, raced past the two jack-o-lanterns propped up on either side of the railing, and burst through the door. Their costumes were gone, their treat bags dropped somewhere along the way.

  Their mother was in the kitchen, a sweet-faced woman in a flowered dress, up to her elbows in sudsy dishwater. At the sight of her, Rachael began to cry.

  Alarmed, Mrs. Martin quickly dried her hands and came forward. “Billy, honey, what happened?” She s
moothed his hair, then knelt to put her arms around her little girl. Both children were trembling and out of breath.

  “Bad man, Mommy,” Rachael sobbed between gasps of air. “The man scared us.”

  “It was that man up at the Nickerson’s house, Momma,” the boy said, panting for breath. “He told us he was going to do something bad to us if we didn’t get the hell out of there.”

  “Don’t swear, Billy.”

  “Mom, I didn’t say it. He did. He said he was going to give us a treat we wouldn’t like. Rachael’s not kidding, Mom. He really was scary—just like—like—Freddy Kruger.”

  “Must have been someone dressed up in a costume,” his mother reasoned.

  “Someone teasing.”

  Billy made a move with his knees that looked like he was going to jump up and down. “No, it wasn’t, Mom,” he yelled in frustration. “I told you, it was the man at the Nickerson’s. It was.”

  “Okay, honey, okay. Calm down.” She’d seen the man up at the Nickerson’s, and he certainly bore no resemblance to the infamous Freddy Kruger. Kids had such lively imaginations. Then again, you never knew what was out there. Halloween wasn’t like it used to be when she was a kid—soaping windows, being invited inside the houses of warm, friendly neighbors, while they pretended to try to guess who you were beneath the mask. Halloween had been fun, exciting. Now it was poison and razor blades. Even though she didn’t think there was anything like that around here, she thought maybe this was going to be Billy and Rachael’s last year for trick or treating. Next year she would suggest a little party, invite some of their school friends.

  Maybe tomorrow, she thought, putting the last of the dishes in the cupboard, she would just take a little walk up there and have a friendly chat with Rose Nickerson.

  Chapter 11

  Katie was perched on the side of the bed anxiously waiting for Linda Ring, who was to escort her downstairs in a wheelchair. Then Katie would take a cab home. She knew Drake would be hurt she hadn’t let him know she was being discharged today, but she felt an almost urgent need to be alone on her first day home. Drake would have insisted on coming to get her. She glanced down at the overnight case at her feet and sighed. It, like the proverbial bed penny, was still with her. Well, she had tried to give it back. Katie stood to check her appearance in the mirror. Her legs were shaky now that she’d exchanged slippers for heels. Her navy and white dress hung on her. She tilted her head in the mirror, lifted her hair to examine the fresh bandage above her eye. At least the bruise on her cheek had faded and was now scarcely noticeable under makeup.