Shattered

by Donna Ball

  “Was it a bitter divorce?”

  “Is there any other kind?” Then Guy frowned, annoyed with his own plunge into irrelevancy, and said, “The only thing I know is that whoever is behind this knows how to push my buttons. I can take care of myself, but he brought my family into it. I'm not going to have other people put in danger because of me.”

  Long nodded. “Like I said, I don't think anyone is in danger yet, and most likely nothing will come of this. But it's best to be on the safe side. Have you thought any more about the 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' connection?”

  “I haven't thought of much else.” Guy walked with him toward the door. “I figured it might have something to do with a story I've covered, but I've been in this business a long time. I can't remember every single story.”

  “That's funny,” said Long.

  “What?”

  “It’s a nursery rhyme, something most folks would associate with their kids. But you think it’s related to work.” He opened the door and paused, looking at Guy. “You really don't want to believe your daughter is involved, do you?”

  Guy had no answer to that. Long put on his hat, nodded to Guy, and left.

  ~

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time Carol got home that evening, her back was hurting so badly she could barely climb the stairs. After leaving Carlton in Laura's hands after lunch, she had spent the next three hours pushing through brambles and picking sand spurs out of her clothes, showing property to two rather unpromising prospective buyers. Midafternoon she had rushed home to meet Deputy Long, who wanted to install a tap on her phone and show her how to work it. His attitude, as it had been before, was condescending, and he left her with the distinct impression that, if her ex-husband had not been a reporter whose favor he wished to curry, he would have considered the wiretaps an unnecessary extravagance. He left her feeling furious, patronized, and uncertain. To offset her own sense of growing impotence, she spent the remainder of the day combing the island, leaving photographs of Kelly with realtors, shopkeepers and transient vendors who had already begun to set up booths on the streets. Between herself and Laura, they had covered all but the west side of Main Street and, of course, the seasonal lessors who hadn't opened their stores yet.

  Every single query had been met with a blank look, and Carol had never felt more foolish, more tired and defeated, in her life. Maybe Guy was right, maybe the police were right. She was wasting her time. After all, if anything could be helped by circulating a few photographs, wouldn't the sheriff's department have done it already? Wouldn't the previous fliers have brought Kelly home?

  Carol turned on the light and stepped out of her shoes, wincing a little as she shifted her weight from her right foot to her left and a spasm of pain grabbed at her waist. Even after all this time she couldn't get used to coming in to an empty house, especially at night. The bank of windows was like the eyes of a monstrous giant, giving back her own reflection in prismed fractions and distorted pieces. The sterile silence was unwelcoming, and seemed to overwhelm even the background sigh and splash of the surf. When Guy and Kelly lived here, there was never a silent moment; it used to drive her crazy, the noise they made.

  She moved forward to draw the blinds over the beachside windows, and stopped, her heart leaping absurdly to her throat when the phone rang. Her eyes went quickly to the instrument and the ugly police machinery attached to it and for a moment she was gripped by a paralysis of indecision, of anticipation, dread, hope, and reluctance. Her phone rang all the time, eighty percent of her business was initiated through the telephone and there was no reason to believe that this call would be different from any other. That just because the police had installed a tracing device only hours ago, she might have a chance to use it with the first call—there was no reason to believe, none at all, that it might be Kelly.

  Energy galvanized her limbs in a rush and she went quickly to the desk that held the telephone attached to the machine. Her finger was poised over the activation button as she picked up the receiver on the third ring and said breathlessly, “Hello?”

  ***

  From the beach below he watched, his shoulders hunched against the wind inside his nylon jacket, resentment rising inside him like bile with each passing moment. It never failed to irritate him, walking down the beach and looking at the big gaudy houses that rambled over the dunes, each one of them representing an investment of a million dollars or more. Who the hell made that kind of money? Who the hell deserved that kind of luck? And the worst of it was, for most of those rich assholes the million-dollar piece of real estate was just a part-time residence, a weekend retreat, something they barely thought about until it came time to pay the taxes. Hell, most of them didn't even bother paying taxes.

  Sometimes he'd walk for hours up and down the beach, looking at the big houses and wondering about the people who were in them, trying to figure out why they deserved everything and he ended up with nothing. Sometimes he'd walk right up the boardwalk and try the doors and windows, and sometimes—he himself was amazed at how often—a door was left unlocked or a window open and he'd just walk right in and make himself at home. Marble foyers, Jacuzzi tubs, expensive scotch, he was no stranger to any of it. He had to be careful though, and he couldn't enjoy his forays into the upper crust as much as he might have liked because the last thing he needed was to be hassled by the cops for small shit when he was working on something big.

  He walked mostly at night, when lighted windows turned those expensive beachfront homes into fishbowls and their aristocratic occupants went about their business completely oblivious to any other life form, supremely confident that their money could protect them from anything. He liked to stand on the beach and watch them, taking a kind of scornful satisfaction in nothing more than the fact that they didn't know he was watching. He always ended up here, in front of the gray castle. He would have done so even if he hadn't known who lived there. Because it was bad enough to have to deal with the rich arrogant assholes who had more than they knew what to do with, but when the bitches started taking over ... well, that was when something had to be done.

  This one, he knew, would have to be taught a lesson.

  He watched her come in, turn on the lights, and stand illuminated in front of the bank of multishaped windows that faced the beach. He watched her kick off her shoes and run her fingers through her hair. He watched the way her shirt tightened over her breasts when she lifted her arm and that made him smile. He watched the way she moved in those tight jeans, slim hips, small waist, tapered legs. Showing off. It was almost as though she knew he was there watching, wanted him to see, and the thought both irritated and excited him. When she moved toward the window, for a moment, he was convinced that she could see him, and then she stopped, and turned away.

  He realized a moment later that it was the telephone that had distracted her. She went to answer it, and he smiled, his mind made up.

  He waited until she had finished her telephone conversation and started up the stairs. He knew if he stayed where he was and waited long enough, he could watch her undress in front of the second-floor window, but he had more interesting plans.

  Tonight's the night, baby, he thought. Payback time. He moved, boldly and silently, toward the steps that led to her private boardwalk from the beach.

  ***

  The call was from a customer who was driving down from Atlanta over the weekend to look at property. Carol hung up the phone feeling disappointed and impatient. It wasn't outrageous of her to expect Kelly to call tonight—after all, she had called two days in a row—but she couldn't keep jumping every time the phone rang. She had to remain calm and clear-headed so that when Kelly did call again, she would know what to listen for, how to keep her talking long enough for the trace to work, or at least how to get Kelly to tell her where she was before she hung up.

  Before leaving the house that morning, Carol had activated Call Forwarding to send all her calls to her cell. She wanted to take no chance on missin
g Kelly's call, even though she might not always be able to activate the police's tracing device. She debated for a moment now whether to stay downstairs so that she would be close to the machine, but her back was killing her and the important thing was not tracing or recording the call, but talking to Kelly. She took the cordless phone with her as she went upstairs to change into her swimsuit, and from there to the rooftop hot tub.

  A widow's walk enclosed the deck, and a glass windbreak surrounded the hot tub on three sides, protecting it from the harsh sea winds, which were strong year-round, and in the winter and spring far too cold for comfort. Carol hugged her terry robe close around her until she reached the protection of the windbreak, then placed the phone on the bench next to the tub and tossed her robe beside it. Wincing a little at the twinge in her back as she bent over, she folded back the cover on the tub and stepped gratefully into the warm, bubbling water.

  The wind was loud, occasionally rattling the three-sided-glass partition or funneling around it to create a low-pitched roar, which effectively screened out even the sound of the whirlpool motor and the surge of the surf. Carol glanced at the telephone once again, making sure it was close enough for her to hear if it should ring. Then she sank back into the water, positioning a jet against the small of her back, and relaxed.

  The stars were brilliant, as they can only be in an absolutely black sky viewed miles from the nearest light source. Guy used to say that being up here was like being in a space capsule with the earth and all its troubles light-years away. For a moment that was how Carol allowed herself to feel—insulated by water and sound, isolated by height, protected by the sky and the sea from all that troubled her. But it was only for a moment.

  The first indication she had of anything unusual was a sound too vague to be identifiable, and so muffled by the wind that she couldn't be sure she had heard anything at all. A slamming door? Something bumping against the side of the house? She listened for a moment and was just about to decide she had imagined it when she felt a definite, distinct vibration. For a moment she couldn't move.

  The house was tall, supported at the base by twenty-foot-high pillars that were designed to give and sway with structural stress. In the very highest winds or most severe storms, one could actually feel the sway of the house, much like a boat at sea. Most of the time, however, the house was as solid as Gibraltar—with one notable exception. Even the lightest footfall on the spiral staircase in the master bedroom tower would cause the entire tower to pick up the percussive vibration, a sensation which was particularly noticeable on the rooftop deck. The tower was vibrating now, in rhythm with forceful and determined footsteps.

  Someone was in the house. And he was coming toward her fast.

  Carol snapped her head around toward the door that opened onto the roof. It was the only exit and an intruder was on the staircase. There was no lock, no way to keep him on his side of the door. Her eyes moved quickly toward the telephone, and she was levering herself out of the water, turning toward it, as the door swung open.

  The square of light from the door widened and Carol's heart slammed against her ribs. Her foot slipped on the step as she tried to scramble over the side of the tub and she banged her knee hard. A shooting pain went through her back and she cried out. She pushed herself up again and was on the ledge, propelling herself toward the bench and the telephone, when his shadow, long and grotesque and horribly exaggerated by the glare of light from the open tower door, fell over her.

  ~

  Chapter Twelve

  Carol had one brief flash of stark terror that came with the realization of how vulnerable she was, alone and almost naked on a rooftop four stories above the ground, isolated by distance and wind from anyone who might hear her cries for help. Even if she could get to the telephone, it would be too late. Still, she tried to run, her heart closing up in her throat, but her wet feet slipped on the plank floor and she plunged forward. Then he was upon her, his hand hard on her shoulder, jerking her upright.

  Carol whirled and struck out hard with her fist just as he exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, Carol, what's the matter with you?”

  Her blow landed in the center of his chest and she drew back for another, but he stepped back and her fist just grazed his shoulder. “Damn it, Guy, are you crazy? You scared me half to death!”

  “Serves you right,” he responded, scowling. “I've been shouting for you for five minutes. Why didn't you answer? You could have been unconscious in the bathtub or held hostage at gunpoint as far as I knew.”

  “Oh, for God's sake! I can't believe you'd just walk in without knocking! You know I hate it when you do that.” Her heart was still racing and her face was hot; she felt foolish and mortified and awkward, standing there in her wet swimsuit with water dripping on the floor and her skin prickling with cold. She pushed past him to get her robe.

  “That's what keys are for.” He dangled his set in front of her face. “And I did knock, for your information.” And then he must have noticed the stiffness in her movements because his tone changed as he inquired, “Is your back bothering you again?”

  Carol pushed a damp hand through her hair, tying the sash of her robe. “What do you want, Guy?”

  He hesitated, in that way he had when what he was about to say was not exactly the truth. “I just wanted to see if the police got the equipment installed on your phone.”

  “You could have called to ask me that.” She walked toward the open door. To her surprise, he did not follow her.

  “Yeah, I guess I could have. I guess I was feeling a little edgy, wanted to see for myself.”

  “Well, the answer is yes. Is that all?” She had reached the door and she looked back impatiently, but he was half-turned from her now, gazing down at the beach.

  “No,” he said.

  She went into the house and down the spiral staircase.

  She changed into a soft warm-up suit and half expected Guy to be waiting for her in the master suite when she came out of the bathroom. He was not, and she retraced her steps to the roof.

  At first she didn't see him. She moved to make sure the cover had been replaced on the hot tub and that the controls had been reset, and when she turned, Guy was sitting on the bench, his head tilted back toward the starry sky.

  “Remember that contest we had to see who could name the constellations?”

  After a moment, Carol answered with only a slight stiffness in her voice, “You drove all the way to Tallahassee to get a book on astronomy.”

  “Kelly was one tough kid. She hated it when she thought you were letting her win at anything.”

  Carol almost smiled. “Well, you gave her a run for her money that summer. I wasn't even in the game.”

  “I was going to surprise her by naming a star after her on her next birthday. But by that time, there was so much going on, and she seemed to have lost interest in the stars.”

  Carol knew exactly what had been going on. Kelly's parents were getting a divorce, her world was shattered, and she wasn't interested in much of anything.

  She came and sat beside Guy on the bench. “Kids of that age outgrow things pretty quickly.”

  Guy said softly, “She was the best thing you and I ever did.”

  Carol felt her throat tighten. “Yes,” she agreed. “But not the only good thing.

  He was silent for a moment. Then, “What happened to the telescope?”

  “The wind knocked it over a couple of years ago. I never got around to putting it back up.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “It's probably broken.”

  Again silence fell. The wind rattled the glass partition and hissed around the corners; the stars hung brilliant and profuse overhead, as though suspended in a net. They were alone at the top of the world and Carol discovered, in the silence and darkness, that she didn't mind.

  Then Guy said, “I wanted to explain about the other night. What I said. No, how I acted.” He didn't turn his head to look at her, but spoke straight
ahead toward the sea. It was easier that way for both of them. “When you told me about the phone call, I know I cut you off at the knees. But if you think it was because I didn't think it was Kelly—that I didn't consider the possibility it could be Kelly—you're wrong. I did. Just like you, it was the only thing I could think.

  “But after all this time, I've kind of gotten into the habit, a bad habit, of closing that door hard and fast before it ever completely opens. And yeah, I guess it's easier for me to think she's dead than to believe she's out there somewhere and I can't reach her.”

  Carol knew how hard that must have been for him to say. She said, “I know you tried, Guy. I don't think I ever thanked you for that.”

  When Kelly had first disappeared, Guy had called in every favor, used every contact, brought to bear the investigative resources of every news agency and law enforcement office with which he had ever worked, but to no avail. He had had his street contacts in Tallahassee reporting to him on an almost hourly basis for the first two weeks; undercover cops who owed him favors put out the word over their own networks with the drug and countercultures of the city. The bus stations were watched, airline manifests called up, police, hospital, and maritime records all over the state were opened to him. But Carol, intent and absorbed with her own desperation, had been unable to understand just how much he was doing until it was all over, and he was gone. They hadn't been able to speak to one another back then without fury or accusations; instead of the tragedy bringing them together it had only pushed them further apart.

  That was why Carol had been so disappointed in the way their last encounter had turned out. She had hoped they might be able to deal with one another more maturely by now. And perhaps tonight was a start.