by A. W. Gray
Melanie wriggled in the passenger seat and turned her face to the window. “I didn’t have any homework.” Her seat belt strap was twisted just above the catch.
“That’s also nice,” Sharon said. “You never have any homework. The note from your teacher last week said differently.”
“I’ve made those lessons up,” Melanie said.
Sharon pursed her lips. This single-mother bit was a nightmare at times. Melanie was bright—was exceptionally gifted, in fact, scoring in the ninety-nine percentile on the TASS and Stanford Achievement Tests—a condition which, Sharon thought, the child had inherited from Rob. Learning had never come easily for Sharon, but Melanie could make A’s at the fifth-grade level while standing on her head. By eighth grade she would be in accelerated honors classes, but for the time being school bored her to death, and she often fudged on her homework. When she did, the notes would come home from the teachers, Sharon would ride herd on studies for a while, and Melanie would escape the hangman’s noose with a string of 100’s. While Sharon broke her neck practicing law, however, she simply didn’t have time to monitor Melanie’s lessons often enough. She pressed on the brake pedal harder than necessary and halted abruptly in her driveway.
“If you’ve made up the lessons, you’ve made them up,” Sharon said. “I’m going to ask your teacher. I’m telling you, Melanie, one more note from school and the Nintendo competition is history.”
“Mah-um.” Melanie unsnapped her seat belt and opened the door.
Sharon cut the engine and dropped the keys into her purse. “Don’t mah-um me, young lady. I mean it.” She climbed out of the car feeling guilty, wondering if she was taking the crawling creeps—bolstered now with a half ounce more than Sharon’s limit of alcohol—out on her daughter. She said in a more friendly tone, “Only what, two more weeks of school?”
“Week and a half.” Melanie half jogged alongside her mother, obviously relieved to steer the conversation away from school work. “When do I go to camp?”
Sharon slapped a mosquito away from her neck; the vicious little critter had taken a nip, and the flesh on her throat swelled and itched. “Second week in July,” she said. She fumbled for keys and inserted one in the front door dead bolt lock. Inside the house Commander whined and scratched. “Mommy’s going to be in trial that …” Sharon paused with the door partway open, her gaze across the street. “Week,” she said softly. The crawling creeps paraded up and down her spine like a spider herd.
Parked in front of the Breedloves’ house was a beat-up old convertible, a Chrysler LeBaron. Sharon had never seen the car before, of that she was certain, and the presence of a stranger in the neighborhood made the antennae shoot up automatically. The car was dented like a WWII combat tank, and there was a chunk of chrome missing from the rear bumper. Mr. Breedlove was a nut about his autos—a ’73 Buick and an ’84 Pontiac—and kept them in mint condition, and he’d never permit the disgusting old Chrysler to sit in front of his home if he was aware of it. Christ, Sharon thought, it’s the bogeyman for sure.
She decided that the spookiness of the evening coupled with the apricot brandy had made her delusionary, and mentally kicked her own behind as she depressed the thumb latch and swung the door open wide. Melanie dashed inside and hugged Commander while the shepherd quivered all over and licked the child’s face. Sharon paused for a final glance at the old Chrysler. You’ve gone bonkers, you dummy, she thought. Completely out of your mind. Chuckling at her scaredy-catness, Sharon then went inside. Once in the entry hall, she quickly locked the door.
Chasing Melanie in to bed took Sharon’s mind completely off the old car parked across the street, Midge Rathermore’s examining trial, and anything else other than the exhausting process of getting the child down for the night. No little girl in America, Sharon thought, could possibly be as exasperating as Melanie Hays when the child set her mind to being stubborn. Something else she had inherited from old daddyo, Sharon thought.
First Melanie demanded three separate drinks of water, and wailed when questioned as if she were on the Gobi Desert and the nearest oasis were fifty miles away. Then she wanted the New York stories for the five zillionth time. Much as it burned Sharon’s conscience, she flatly denied the story request, knowing that once she started Melanie would ask to hear each big-city tale over and over until mommy was ready to pull her hair.
Then there was the sudden concern over Commander. Melanie would just die if she couldn’t wait until the dog’s nightly constitution was finished before she hit the hay. Ever since the attempted poisoning, Sharon had monitored Commander very carefully, letting the shepherd into the yard only in the early morning and just before bedtime. She wasn’t sure how Commander’s bladder was holding up to the change in routine, but thus far she hadn’t seen any soiled spots on the carpet. Sharon told Melanie that she would bring Commander to Melanie’s room as soon as the shepherd was through with his business—which Melanie already knew very well to be the rule—then marched the child firmly back to her bedroom. Finally Sharon stood, arms folded and doing a toe-tap, over Melanie until the child was in pajamas and tucked beneath the covers. Mommy then breathed an exasperated sigh of relief, turned off the lights, and retreated to the den with Commander shuffling along beside her.
She flicked on the yard lights and led Commander out onto the deck, stooping to pick up the flashlight as she did. It had taken a week or two, and Sharon had employed the German training collar for the first time since Commander had been a pup, but she’d finally convinced the shepherd that under no circumstances was he to bound into the yard until she’d given him the go-ahead. Sharon didn’t know if she’d ever get over finding the strychnine-laced steak. Overly cautious? Well, maybe, she thought, but acting a bit silly was better than winding up with a dead dog on her hands. The night was unusually cool for late May; in another couple of weeks the after-sundown weather would be muggy and stifling, and would remain so until mid-September. Sharon stepped down onto the grass and looked around.
Nothing was on the ground out in the open save for a broom and rake which Melanie and her playmates used as stick horses. Sharon propped the broom and rake against the side of the house, then cast the flashlight’s beam into the shadows surrounding the swing set. She probed that area, checked beneath the fence all around the yard, and looked closely around the edges of the redwood deck. Nothing.
At the far corner of the house she was crouched down to inspect the rosebushes, when there was sudden movement on her left. She leaped erect as if touched by live current; the flashlight flew from her hand and bounced on the grass, shooting its beam in wild and crazy arcs. A half-grown bunny then emerged from the bushes and regarded Sharon with dark, frightened eyes. The bunny then hopped to the fence, scuttled and wriggled out through a small hole, and disappeared. Sharon held one hand over her pummeling heart as she retrieved the flashlight. God, she could see the headlines. Fearless Lawyer Frightened to Death by Wild Rabbit. From his vantage point on the deck, Commander regarded Sharon as if she were a madwoman. Sharon stuck out her lower lip to blow her bangs away from her forehead as she shot Commander the bird. Insane Lawyer Gives Finger to Dog, Sharon thought.
Finally satisfied, she told Commander, “Go to it, boy. I’ll let you back in the house as soon as I scrub the old bod.” Commander hopped down into the yard, and trotted over to piss contentedly against the swing set. At least he’s still got a use for the slide and swing, Sharon thought, even if Melanie doesn’t. Christ, she’d gotten a German shepherd for protection and now she was guarding the dog. Ruefully shaking her head, Sharon went inside.
In her bedroom she considered getting down on all fours and peering under the bed, then changed her mind. To hell with it, Sharon thought, if the bogeyman’s hiding in here, he’s just got me. Muttering, rolling her eyes at her own silliness, Sharon stood before her closet and wiggled her feet out of her shoes one at a time. Then she lifted her skirt up to her waist and b
ent to strip out of her panty hose.
So jumpy was Sharon Hays that the simple act of taking a shower was a fearsome ordeal. She stood side-straddle to the nozzle jets, soaping her belly and thighs, her eyes narrowed into slits as she peered through the opaque shower curtain. She thought that any second the bathroom door would swing open, and a blurred moving shape would approach the shower stall. Then a gnarled hand would yank the curtain aside and … Christ, Sharon thought, there he’ll be, Anthony Perkins in the flesh, his eyes black holes in his face, his lips pulled back in an insane grin. Perkins would be wearing a granny dress and stringy black wig, and he’d hold a foot-long butcher knife aloft as light flashed from the blade. Then he’d slash her; she’d back up against the tiled wall and futilely grab at the knife, and the blade would cut her to ribbons while the wild background music reached a crescendo. Finally she’d flop onto the floor like a dead fish, one eye wide and staring as her lifeblood swirled down the drain. My God, Sharon, she thought. She gritted her teeth and jammed her head beneath the nozzle. Plummeting hot water soaked her hair and cascaded down her body. She reached blindly for the squeeze bottle, forced a mound of shampoo into her palm, then lathered and rinsed her hair. Normally she wouldn’t have washed her hair until tomorrow night, but she’d decided that with the extra perspiration brought on by the crawling creeps she would likely look a fright in court in the morning if she didn’t shampoo.
Midge Rathermore’s examining trial would go on for two more days, three at the most. Sharon and Russ Black had pow-wowed after that day’s session, and had decided not to question the two teenage killers any further. Information about the other persons who’d frequented the Rathermore home was about all they could expect to get from Troy Burdette and Christopher Leonard until the trial itself, and the defense was better off letting well enough—and Judge Griffin’s attitude—alone until then. Anthony Gear, the new private eye, was trying to find out something about Leslie Schlee, so the defense was through with Leonard and Burdette for the time being. Linda Haymon Rathermore was also scheduled for a stint on the stand, however, and that would be a horse of a different color.
Deb North’s information about Linda’s penchant for sexual exhibitions wasn’t admissible in court because it was hearsay; Bill Rathermore, the originator of the statement, was no longer among the living and therefore not available to testify. Russ Black had done some snooping around—he had connections which made Sharon’s jaw drop in astonishment—but, surprisingly, hadn’t turned up a thing about Linda’s background. Her past seemed a total blank; it was as if she’d suddenly appeared out of the mist, walked into the television studio, and auditioned for a spot on the news program. Linda, of course, was the only eyewitness to the murder, and if the defense was going to make an attack on her, they needed something for Anthony Gear to sink his teeth into. Black had tossed the hot potato into Sharon’s lap; cross-examination of Linda during the examining trial was up to her.
Sharon silently rehearsed her questions to Linda as she finished rinsing her hair, then reached for the knobs and shut the water off. The bathroom was suddenly quiet, the drips from the nozzle like tomtoms. Her hair soaking wet, half blind from water in her eyes, Sharon gripped the edge of the shower curtain to yank it aside. She froze.
My God, she thought, is someone out there? A dim shape was outlined against the curtain, something big and menacing near the sink. She firmly shook her head. Anthony Perkins, right? Sharon thought. Well if you’re out there, Anthony, screw you. She managed a throaty laugh as she pulled the curtain open with a rasp of hangers and reached for her towel.
And recoiled in terror as a flash of light filled the room, followed immediately by a second blinding flash. Sharon backed up to the wall and hugged her breasts. As the red haze cleared from her vision, she gasped.
Bradford Brie sat on the counter beside the sink; he lowered his camera and let it dangle from the strap around his neck. He wore a yellow panama hat with a bright red band, dark sunglasses, and a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt with a blue and green flower pattern. He picked up a pistol from the counter and pointed it at her. The bore looked to Sharon to be about two feet in diameter.
Brie showed crooked yellow teeth in a grin. “Those shots will come out perfect,” he said. “The mist.” He reached behind him to trace a line in the mirror frost. “Better than air brushing. Trust me.”
Though she stood in a cloud of warm mist, she was suddenly freezing cold. “How did you get in here?” She tried her best to make her tone forceful, but her voice sounded like a child’s.
“Getting in was easy, pretty lady.” Brie’s tone was matter-of-fact. He was in full control, obviously enjoying her fear, savoring every moment. “Front window. I’d have been inside waiting when you got home, only that beast of yours don’t like people coming in the house. Jesus, mutt’s got a constitution.”
Sudden anger welled in her. “Did you poison my dog?” She forgot her nakedness and took a menacing step forward.
He laughed, laid the gun aside, and took her picture. Sharon covered her breasts with one hand and her pubic area with the other. She’d never felt as helpless—as out-and-out humiliated—in her life. She reached for the towel rack.
He picked up the gun and gestured. “No, uh-uh. No towels. Jesus, those water drops on your skin make for good poses.” Sharon backed away from the towel rack, her gaze riveted on the pistol. His grin broadened. “That’s it. That’s much better. So I got to tell you, I ’preciate you putting the dog outside. I was afraid I’d have to shoot him, tell you the truth. Wake the fucking dead.”
The inside of her mouth was dry cotton. “What do you want?”
He chuckled nasally, then coughed into his cupped hand.
Sharon had prosecuted many rape cases, and the victims all told one common tale. The attack itself, they said, wasn’t nearly as bad as the shock of encountering the attacker. Not even the beatings they’d taken could match the mental torture. “You won’t hurt me, will you?” Sharon said weakly. Sweet God, she thought, please let this be over with.
He stood and opened the door leading into the bedroom. “Come on. That’s right, pretty lady, come on, now.” He waved the gun.
Slowly, her legs like rubber, Sharon stepped out of the tub and moved woodenly to the doorway. Don’t upset him, she thought. Whatever you do, don’t set him off. Her sopping hair clung to her forehead and ears, and water dripped on her bare shoulders. The refrigerated air in the bedroom was shockingly cold.
There was a rump-sized depression on her quilted bedspread, and Sharon pictured him sitting there, grinning and waiting while he listened to the noise of the shower. She supposed he would take her on the bed. Would he tie her? Hold a knife to her throat? There was a coiled rope on the bed, alongside several sets of handcuffs. Sharon gently closed her eyes. She was certain that she was going to throw up.
He came in behind her and crossed over to the dresser. She’d laid the framed pictures, the ones he’d taken outside her office, on top of the dresser, and had planned to take them tomorrow to the office. He lovingly touched the chrome frames. “You like these, huh? They’re not bad, but you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Her mouth quivered. “Look, I’ve got a little money.”
“No talking.” His features twisted; he stepped up close and touched the pistol to her left breast. Cold steel hardened her nipple. He was an inch or so shorter than she was, and there was onion on his breath. His hat brim was a hair-length from her forehead. “Jesus, all you broads. You got to talk, you know? I don’t want no talking unless I ask you something.”
Without warning, he backhanded her across the face with the pistol. She cried out in shock and sat down hard on the bed. She wondered dully whether the blow had cut her face, then touched her jaw and stared numbly at two red drops on her fingertips. Strangely, Sharon felt no pain.
“Now, I don’t like doing that,” he said. “Messes up my subject. You wan
t to keep making pretty pictures, you listen to me.”
Sharon had taken classes on what to do in these situations. The instructor had been a police tactical squad officer who’d played the rapist while the students—all female assistant DA’s except for the woman who supervised the district attorney’s file department—took turns practicing judo moves or playing mind games with the guy. The reality, Sharon thought, is quite different from the classes. In class, the throat-constricting terror had been missing. She tried to call on what she’d learned, folding her hands over her bare thighs and forcing her expression to be calm. “May I ask something?” Always ask permission. Crazies want to be in control.
He tilted his hat back with the barrel of the pistol. “What?”
Sharon licked her lips. “Why me? I’ve never seen you before the other day.” Keep his mind occupied, she thought. They all like to brag to their victims before they … A shudder ran through her.
“No, but I seen you. You hurt a friend of mine.”
“Oh? What friend is that?”
He snugged up his sunglasses with his middle finger. “I’ll tell you something. Save you some breath. All that psychological bullshit, I’ve heard it before. All you people think you can fuck with a guy’s head, you know?” He bunched his fingers together in a come-here motion. “Stand up, pretty lawyer lady. And don’t try no mind games with me. I know stuff you ain’t even heard of.”
Sharon stood as resignation came to her. It was going to happen. That he knew she was a lawyer told her he’d likely been through the system, and what he was saying made a crazy kind of sense. There were men, she knew, who resisted all psych analysis, who were too far gone for help. She’d have to go along and pray he didn’t kill her.
He handcuffed her wrists, his face impassive as the bracelets closed with a rachety sound. He turned and removed the key. At least my hands are in front, Sharon thought. She made up her mind that if he gave her any opening at all, she was going to make the most of it. Don’t resist, she thought, but if he lets his guard down for the barest instant …
