"Christ Almighty," she muttered, a hand going to her pounding chest. "Blackie." The cat was regarding her curiously. "Sic it. That's your job."
Blackie looked at the end of her pointed finger, yawned, then lay back down and began to clean his paws.
"Thanks, I'll remember this when you whine for that dried cuttlefish I can only find in the oriental market." As Alex reached for the light, deciding to leave the moth where it was, she heard a muffled thud above and to the right of her room. Kitchen — something had fallen to the floor in the kitchen. Blackie was blameless, Alex reasoned as she watched the cat draw a paw over his face. With her heart cranking up again, she slid out of bed, put on her robe, and looked around for something with which to protect herself, something heavy. She spotted the cast-iron soldier on her work table. With both hands she picked up the statuette, then cautiously headed upstairs, turning on lights as she went.
Nothing was out of place. Everything appeared normal. No one was in the house.
Back in bed a few minutes later, frightened and perplexed, she clutched the iron statuette in icy hands. She stared at it, thumbs stroking the smooth contours of the steely face. She had bought the eighteen-inch union officer from a sculptor in Carmel because it had reminded her of her father. Handsome, commanding, and as rigid as the metal from which the piece was cast.
Again she found herself wondering if her childhood would have been different if her mother had not run away. She thought so.
Almost immediately after that day, William had become a martinet, relentless in his quest to protect, or perhaps, hold on to, his two little girls. The invisible seine he had cast over them seemed to grow smaller as time went on. Supervising his daughters cut disruptively into William's career as a budding architect. He was fired from his job. He borrowed money to open his own architectural business. The family room was converted into an office. He dropped his friends and ignored the attentions of available women attracted to a handsome man nobly trying to raise two motherless daughters. Long before either girl reached puberty, Lora and Alex felt stifled by his constant presence. His daily lectures. His warnings.
Cosmetics were forbidden. Upon finding a tube of lipstick under Lora's mattress, William scribbled Passion Pink words across her vanity mirror, "Cheap hussies wear painted faces." He selected their clothes. His range of colors narrowed with each passing year. Quaker drab, Pilgrim brown, and cadet gray hung like burial shrouds in their closets. For school, he chose plain cotton dresses with high necklines, always a size too large. For play, he bought long pants and baggy tops. Undergarments were plain white cotton. Shoes were sensible, ugly, and wore like iron. Fad apparel, shorts, and swimsuits were strictly taboo.
By the time Alex was thirteen and Lora fifteen, Lora rebelled. During lunch period, at the beginning in her sophomore year, Lora left the school grounds, went to the shopping center, and stole jewelry, cosmetics, and clothing. Clothing that, to her way of thinking, showed off her ripening figure to its fullest. These clothes she stashed in her locker. Every morning before the first bell, Lora changed from her dowdy dresses into sweaters and skirts so tight they fit like celluloid. After the last bell she washed away the makeup, removed the jewelry, and changed back.
That same year, Lora began to sneak out of the house late at night. Alex heard the giggles of other kids as they ran with her across the backyard and let themselves out the side gate. On the nights Lora stole out the window it was impossible for Alex to sleep until her sister was safely back in bed.
Before long something unforeseen happened to take up what little slack in the reins William left in tethering both girls. Surprisingly, Lora was not to blame. Although Lora would suffer along with her sister, and would run away from home less than a year later, it was Alex who brought the roof down around their heads shortly after her fourteenth birthday.
One evening, on a rare occasion when Alex was alone in the house, a boy she knew only slightly conned his way inside. Within minutes he maneuvered her to the couch, pushed her down, and fell on top of her. She struggled as his hands grabbed eagerly and his wet mouth sought hers.
"Filthy pig." a deep voice boomed from across the room.
Alex looked up to see her father, a colossal figure, standing in the dining room, the evening newspaper twisted in his hands, his face purple and distorted with rage. He lurched forward. But before -he could cross the room, the boy rolled off the couch, scrambled to his feet, and, without stopping or looking back, charged out the front door.
William towered over Alex. "Nothing but a filthy pig," he said through clenched teeth. "Barely fourteen and already whoring around.”
"Daddy . . ."
"Sluts. All women. No-good sluts."
"Daddy . . . honest to God, I —"
"How long has this been going on? I leave you alone for a few minutes and look what happens.”
"It wasn't —"
"Do you open your window for them at night? Let them crawl into your bed? You're just like your mother. Was she satisfied with a loving husband? Was she content to raise you and your sister? Was a new home in a nice neighborhood good enough for her? No. And when that scum she whored with ran off and left her, did she come home? Ask our forgiveness? No, no. She took up with more scum. Who knows how many bums have lived off her and the money she stole from me — stole from all of us. Who knows how many men have used her in these nine years."
"Daddy, I'm not like her."
"Liar," he shouted. "Like mother, like daughter. Look at your sister. She thinks I don't know she sneaks out her window at night and runs with those delinquents. No better than her mother. She's, a two-bit floozy. But you—I prayed you'd be different. Christ, why was I burdened with daughters? I'd trade the both of you in a minute for just one son."
Tears filled Alex's eyes, rolled down her cheeks. She whispered, "Oh, Daddy."
"Allie, my God, Allie." He dropped to his knees, crushed her to him. "Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn't mean that. Not one word of it. I love you with all my heart. I love Lora. I wouldn't trade you sweet girls for anything in this world." He kissed her face, his tears mingling with hers. "'Tell me you love me. Tell me you'll never leave me like your mother did."
Sobbing, she whispered, "I love you, Daddy."
"Whose baby are you?"
"Yours, Daddy"
William had then listened to Alex's explanation. To her surprise, he had absolved her of all blame. A pretty girl such as she was fair game, he had declared. Men would try to use her, then toss her aside. Her mother, he'd said ruefully, had probably been used up years ago. If she was still alive, only God knew what had become of her — or what she had become.
The lectures multiplied. The warnings grew more vivid and frightening.
Suddenly Lora changed. She no longer sneaked out at night. Her moods became variable. She had screaming tantrums one day, was solemn and weepy the next. Six months later she took off without a word to anyone.
Alex hadn't thought about Lora in a long time. She wondered what had become of her. Was she happy? Married with a nice family? Or had she chosen the wayward route of their mother?
The house creaked. She shivered. God, how she hated this house. With Todd gone, she should sell it and move into something smaller. Yes, that was exactly what she should do. But she knew she never would. Whatever it was that held her here controlled her life as well.
With a burst of angry frustration, she shook the statuette, shoved it under the pillow, and pounded it with balled fists, crying, "Let me go. Let me go."
He paused in his search through her purse when he heard her call out. The words had sounded like, "Let me go.” Was she having a nightmare? No, not her, he thought bitterly. Her sleep was peaceful, filled with good dreams and happy times. Not like his. Had there ever been a night when he had not awakened in terror, his screams echoing in his head? Yes, of course, many years ago — when she had been with him — his dreams had not all been bad.
Earlier that evening after deliberately dropping
a book to the floor, he had quietly stepped into the pantry. Minutes later, through the wooden slats, he had watched her enter the kitchen clutching a metal statuette in her white-knuckled hands. She had crossed the room to peer out the window above the sink. Then, standing stiffly at the breakfast bar, her fingers drumming nervously on the very book that had been responsible for bringing her upstairs, she had looked around the room. Finally, leaving the lights burning she'd gone back downstairs.
He thought she had looked so beautiful in that white wrapper; her long hair loose and full, her eyes exquisitely frightened.
He shook his head hard to clear his thoughts, then went back to the task at hand. He put away her appointment book, then lifted out her address book. He opened it and sorted through it page by page, his mind cataloguing certain names and numbers. Sometime later, he returned the book to the exact compartment-in her purse.
He scanned the room. Everything was in place. He went down the stairs to the foyer. But instead of turning toward the front door, he turned the other way and, his jogging shoes soundless on the tiles, approached her room. The bathroom light was on. Just before reaching the doorway, he went down on all fours and, like a panther crept the rest of the way. At the far end of her room, in the dark grotto of her painting alcove, he stood. He looked on as she slept, a mixture of love and hate painfully gripping at his gut like a deadly toxin.
Chapter 7
From his desk at the station, Justin called his daughter in California. Her stepfather answered the phone.
"Dan, its Justin. Casey around?"
"Yeah, sure, Jus. She's out in the garage getting the camping gear together. I'll get her."
A few moments later. "Hullo, Justin.” It was Yvonne. Her voice low and sexy. Always working at it, he thought.
"Hello.”
"Casey's so excited about this camping thing. She wanted to practice sleeping in the tent. I had to disappoint her. It looks like rain."
"Tell her it doesn't take practice, it takes tolerance."
"When will you be picking her up?"
"In the morning between eight and nine."
"You're not driving down, are you?"
"No, flying. Tell Casey no hotrollers, hair blower, or any electrical appliances. Make sure she takes warm clothes. I'm leasing a car at the airport, so there won't be much room. Did she find sleeping bags?"
“We got everything on your list. You have change coming."
"Put it in her bank account.”
"I don't know why you won't let Dan lend you his pickup. He wants to, y'know?"
Good ol' Dan. The lieutenant had taken his wife and daughter. Now he wanted to lend him his pickup truck. Sounded like a fair exchange. Don't be an ass, Justin thought. The only one he missed was his daughter. And though Dan had been a royal prick —sleeping with his wife, then badmouthing her, only to turn around and marry her in the end—he seemed an okay stepdad to Casey. Justin had hated it, though, when they took Casey over four hundred miles from him.
Yvonne was insisting. "It'd be a lot easier with a truck."
Justin said nothing. After a long pause she cleared her throat. "Well, here's your daughter. We'll see you when you get here."
"Hi, Pop."
"Hey, pumpkin."
"If it rains are we still going?"
"If it rains we'll camp out in a Ramada. We'll pitch the tent on the floor, unplug the TV, and tell ghost stories around a Bic lighter."
"Oh, Daddy." She giggled. "No, really?"
"We're going."
"Aww ri-ight."
"See you in the morning, sweety. Get a good night's sleep. It may be your last until you're back in your own bed."
"Okay, Dad. Love you."
"Love ya too." He hung up. He checked his watch. It was after eight P.M.
Detective Frank de Solo stopped at his desk. Jus, Roberts and I are heading to the Pit Stop when we check out. You in?"
"Not tonight, Frank. I'm heading out now. Gotta catch a plane early in the morning. Taking my kid camping."
"No shit? How old is Casey now?"
"Ten going on making me an old man."
Five minutes later, pulling out of the parking garage, he surprised himself by turning right instead of left. He took the freeway and exited at the off ramp closest to Alex Carlson's. A minute later he was driving slowly past her house. The lights were on in the living room. He looked up the driveway and saw only her car. He pulled to the side of the road. His attention was drawn to the dining room where, from his worm's-eye view, he caught a glimpse of the top of someone's head, moving toward the kitchen.
Watching for several minutes without seeing anything more, he shoved the gearshift of his Corvette into first. "What the hell am I doing here?" he said aloud. He punched the gas pedal, spraying gravel behind him as he whipped a U-turn and accelerated back the way he had come.
Alex reclined in the tub, her head resting on an inflated pillow, her thoughts as hollow and vapid as the soap bubbles crowding around her in the scented water. She scooped up a large bubble and brought it to her face. When she lightly blew on the bubble it burst with a wet plop in the palm of her hand. She sighed. "Yeah, my sentiments exactly."
She stepped out of the tub, dried herself slowly, and slipped on a silk kimono she had bought in San Francisco's Chinatown. Then she headed upstairs.
Alex smelled the smoke before she saw it. The battery-operated smoke alarm shrilled into action just as she caught sight of the gray cloud hugging the ceiling. She froze on the stairway.
Fire.
On TV, she'd seen simulated house-fire escape scenes a dozen times. If she did what she was supposed to do—head for the exit—the whole place could burn down before she could reach an outside phone.
Alex ran up the last few steps, turned the corner, raced across the living room and looked into the kitchen. A dish towel lying on the counter beside one glowing electric burner was almost completely in flames. She ran to it, knocking over Blackie's food dish. Her bare feet crunched painfully on dry cat food. Grabbing the edge of the towel, she dragged it along the counter into the sink. Ashes and red embers scattered wildly throughout the room. She felt and smelled the hair on her arm singeing as she turned on the tap. The water hit the towel with a hissing, sizzling sound. Choking smoke invaded her nose, was sucked into her lungs. She coughed. Her eyes stung and watered. With her bare hands, she slapped at the live embers that had settled on the kimono. The tops of her feet felt as though fire ants were making a meal of them. She patted her head, making sure her hair was not about to burst out in flames.
When she was certain the fire was out, both on the towel and herself, Alex turned off the burner and silenced the fire alarm. Inhaling deeply, she rubbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands and then slowly looked around the room. Dark smoke stained one oak cabinet and the ceiling above. Hundreds of tiny charred holes dotted the silk of her kimono. Her hands were black, but not burned. Cat food stuck to the bottoms of her feet. She brushed it off and rolled up her sleeves.
All the while, as she cleaned up the grimy soot from the kitchen and herself, swept the floor, discarded the burnt towel, and applied antiseptic to the burns on her feet, she wondered how she could have been so dumb as to have left the burner on and the dish towel so close to the electric coil.
The phone rang. Her chest tightened.
She lifted the wall extension and listened to the music coming through the receiver. You are, my sunshine, my only sun-shine . . . That particular song had been a favorite of hers when she was a kid. Now it was raising goosebumps along her arms.
She was about to hang up when a muffled voice whispered, "Suzanne .. .”
She was about to say no, wrong number, when the voice said, "Alexandra Suzanne . . . ?" If speaking her name was meant to shake her up—it did. She squeezed the receiver. . . . never know de-ar how . . . click . . . much I love you . . . "Alexandra." A whisper. "I hear you breathing. So pretty. Always so pretty. Not for long."
She slammed do
wn the receiver. Jerked her hand away.
The phone shrilled a second time. She jumped, rapping her knuckles 'painfully' on the edge of the counter. It rang five . . . six . . . seven times before curiosity overrode her growing apprehension. Lifting the receiver slowly, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece and holding her breath, she listened.
"Alex, let me hear your voice. Talk to me, Alex." . . . happy when skies are gray . . . "Such a tiny bikini. Was that the way you were brought up, Alex? To flaunt your body . . . beautiful body .. ." . . . please don't take my sun-shine away . . .
She pressed the disconnection lever and hurled the receiver, as hard as she could, across the dining room. It clunked off the wall, denting the plaster, and bounced back over the carpet to where she stood. The coiled cord swung back and forth as the receiver spun lazily inches from the floor. She rummaged through her purse, dug out the card Holmes had given her. Then, rapidly punching the number of police headquarters, she asked for the detective division.
"Detective de Solo," a deep voice said.
"Detective Holmes, please."
"Sorry, ma'am, he left about twenty minutes ago. Something I can do for you?"
"No, I mean yes. I'd like to leave a message for him.”
"What's the message?"
She gave him her name and number. "Please have him call as soon as he gets the message. It's important.”'
Had she locked the front door?
She dashed to it, turned the deadbolt and fastened the safety chain. The sergeant would have made a federal case out of the unlocked door and justifiably so. She worked her way through the house, checking all the doors and windows. As she double-checked the lock on the dining-room slider the phone rang again.
She hoped it was Holmes.
"Alex,” the whisper. "Alex . . ." Her heart was racing as she slammed down the phone and called the police again.
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