Rage. We’re talking about rage. …
Then she saw Bradley Nichols’s frightened, vulnerable face, heard him crying softly in the darkened room, in the dim glow of reflecting snow. She felt again the pressure of his mouth, a stranger’s kiss, and she wondered what had happened to him … what the rage had done. She tried to push him out of her mind but it was no good, he was with her now, the memory of him and his fear of his crazy roommate. …
My God, a tear squeezed from the corner of her eye, there was no epitaph, nothing left of him. Rage … rage had claimed him.
The night was tearing apart and she couldn’t stop it. Her psyche was a graveyard, it seemed, had become one since chance had placed her at the window and made her look. And now it was coming to life, the graves were opening, the night seethed with her own fears and the images she couldn’t wipe away. Murder. And blood. Alicia Quirk’s face disintegrating, poor Bradley dead of someone’s rage, and who would be next? It was a middle-of-the-night question and too easy to answer—
Rain spattered against the bedroom window, lashed at the crusty snow. The tips of the evergreens in the window box tapped at the glass like survivors in water, clinging to the wreckage and weakly reaching for safety, begging to be noticed. She made a face. Her thoughts sounded like something she’d read in a very bad manuscript. She blotted her damp cheek and forehead on the sheet. The streetlamps cast shadows bisected by windowpanes across the rumpled bedspread.
She gritted her teeth and tried to focus her thoughts, but it wasn’t working. She was heading into an anxiety attack and she knew the territory. She’d been there before. Through the breakup with Tony, confronting and acknowledging the failure, the waste of seven years.
And this was a honey, building up along the walls of her bedroom, pushing in on her like seeping gas from vents she couldn’t find, nastier than she remembered. A classic. She knew how an anxiety attack worked, recognized its every angle, but that didn’t make it go away. It had to blow itself out, a typhoon in her brain, snapping at her nervous system. She hated it, resented the way it penetrated her real self, violated her and demeaned the woman she knew she was.
Resourceful, tough, able to deal with what came along. All those aspects of her self-image she had so carefully put in place … with no provisions for dealing with murder. Goddamn it!
She had been in bed for nearly four hours. The pretty flowered sheets, blanket, and spread lay in a twisted welter all around her, soaked with sweat. It was building. She felt the gnawings of hysteria. Nausea. Heart pounding. Eyes flickering around the room like a caged, terrified animals.
She willed herself to switch on the bedside lamp, blinked against the sudden glare. Sir’s eyes popped open nervously. She picked up her old copy of John Fowles’s The Magus, a mammoth hardback like an anchor that might hold her attention in place. She’d read it three times over the years, knew it held a secret she’d been trying to pin down all her life. The dust jacket with the eerie horned creatures head was tattered. Page after page with bent-down corners. The spine had broken long ago. She wanted to call MacPherson and ask him if he’d read it, what he thought about it, get through the night with his voice at her ear, calming her, talking her down like someone in the control tower in a movie. But she couldn’t call him, not now, not anymore … not after listening to D’Allessandro.
She opened the book at random, tried to force herself to read, but the lines of type blurred, melted into single black bars stretching across the page. Her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t support the weight, couldn’t hold the book upright. But she kept trying.
And then she broke.
Crying out, in a spasm of strength and frustration, she slammed the volume shut and hurled it blindly across the room.
It hit the mirror over her dressing table. The glass seemed to explode in movielike slow motion, spraying across the table and floor. Hair dryer, perfume bottles, nail-polish bottles, bits of jewelry scattered, floated through space, Sir off the bed and headed for the hallway …
She untangled herself from the bedclothes, ripping a button from her pajama top, and ran into the bathroom. In the brightness of the tube of light over the sink she stood gagging, fighting it off, then knelt over the toilet bowl. The tile was cold and hard under her knees. She felt the sting of a piece of glass in the sole of her foot. Then the unstoppable surge in her belly, and she vomited, her slender back arching, knuckles white on the cold porcelain.
Finally she sighed, exhausted, slumped against the toilet. Sitting on the bathroom floor she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror next to the scale.
The color had drained from her dark complexion, some strands of gray in the thick black hair plastered across her forehead caught her eye, she rubbed her tilted nose and swallowed back the sourness, blinked at the reflection of herself stripped of defenses, so easily hurt, so cornered just now.
Her mind wandered sluggishly. She’d never looked at herself in the moments after making love, as the orgasm lingered and slowly faded, but she thought she must look then much as she did now. Mottled and pale and so terribly vulnerable.
She wiped her face on a towel and flushed the toilet.
In the living room the light of the night was filtering through the huge window facing the garden. The leafless trees were turning to ice in the rain. She went to the door leading to the garden, flung it open, and flipped the switch on the outdoor lights.
Snow was piled on the remains of the geraniums in the big terra-cotta pots. The white metal furniture had become a row of hulking, round mounds of snow.
Standing in the doorway, wearing only her pajama top, she felt the cold wind harden her nipples beneath the cotton. She wiped her eyes, sniffled. She had to get through the night and she had to be a big girl. She had to pull up her socks, the way her father used to tell her. No more, Natalie. Cry yourself out and throw up and scare hell out of Sir, but get past it. Life won’t stop for you. You’ve got to hang on, so get it out of your system now. The hell with all of them—MacPherson, D’Allessandro, Bradley Nichols … just move on, get it together and move on. …
Chapter Nineteen
SOMEHOW SHE MANAGED TO get through the night without Valium or even a sleeping pill, but she was exhausted once the day began. Sir looked at her reproachfully and she had to clean up the mess in the bedroom. And she couldn’t get the face of poor dead Bradley Nichols out of her mind. He’d been there most of the night, like a haunting dream, along with her memories of how he’d seemed Saturday night. Nervy, shy, afraid, sad, lonely, yearning … She could still hear the things he’d said, his description of his own life, the story about the roommate she’d decided was in fact he. Maybe she’d been wrong after all.
Once she’d gotten to work, she put in a call to MacPherson first thing, not altogether sure what she was going to tell him but knowing that tell him something she must. Of course he wasn’t there and she left a message. He should return her call as soon as possible, it was urgent.
Jay was taking a morning at home so she didn’t have to put up with his expected critique of her performance with the odious Betty on the television pyre the night before. Lisa hadn’t seen it since she was still at the office, but her boyfriend had passed judgment: “Said you were smashing and made a fool of the silly cow.”
She took a cab down Fifth Avenue, got off at Tenth Street, and found Dr. Drummond pacing the newly shoveled sidewalk in front of the address he’d given her. It was a narrow brownstone with an unobtrusive nameplate by the shiny black-painted door a few steps below street level. Elegant neighborhood, chic at the Topside of the Village. He watched her coming toward him.
“Mrs. Rader? Dr. Goldstein gave me a very accurate description. I’m Alex Drummond.” He was stocky, fifty or so, in a black overcoat with a velvet collar, his gray hair combed straight back from his forehead, rimless spectacles, and a slight pink flush. He had a bulbous nose that struck her as a clownish comment on the otherwise somber, grayish presentation. The
nose gave him the edge of a Dickensian creation. He shook her hand, squared his shoulders, jammed his hands into the pockets of his coat, pulling it tight across his solid girth. It was hard to picture him as a friend of Lew’s. Drummond had the look of a banker, a stuffy lawyer. But then, Lew hadn’t recommended him as a chum, but as a good doctor.
Now he took her arm and steered her away from his office. “The painters,” he said. “It’s insufferable in there. Let’s just take a walk. The exercise will do me good. If you don’t mind …”
“You’re the doctor,” she said.
“So I am.” He blinked, his eyes given a roundness by the glass discs, shining darkly through the glass. He kept his mouth clamped in a thin, determined line. Like a father who spent his days counseling endless numbers of his children, accustomed to dealing with their countless and unpredictable problems. He walked neither fast nor slow, but merely determinedly. “Now, Mrs. Rader, Dr. Goldstein has told me only that you’ve been under a good deal of strain lately, that—to be absolutely blunt—you may need some calming down, some reassurance, before we even contemplate anything beyond that. This is not the sort of thing I would normally embark upon, but Dr. Goldstein has not inconsiderable persuasive powers. Perhaps, if you could give me some idea of what it is that’s troubling you …”
She laughed nervously, her mind racing, watching Drummond from the corner of her eye, thinking about the possibility that MacPherson might even now be returning her call, seeing the face of Bradley Nichols in the blank windows of the stately brownstones they passed. Then she let herself go, starting with the sight of the man with the gun and rushing at breakneck speed through the rest of the story until she reached Saturday evening, coming home from Lulu’s. She stopped abruptly, out of breath.
“Go on, Mrs. Rader. What then? Sergeant MacPherson spent much of the day with you, you enjoyed yourself, you became the proud owner of a Christmas tree … you spent the evening at this Lulu’s—and now you seem unable to continue with your story. Why is that, I wonder?” His voice droned, a monotone, as he marched on. They were rounding a corner, a dark church brooded in the cold, rising wind.
“It’s nothing,” she said. The chill stung her cheeks. She fumbled in her mind, pushing what had happened with Bradley Nichols back into the darkness. Shame, frustration, disgust at her own reactions: what difference did it make? “Something upsetting happened the next day. …” She was having trouble winding the key that would make her talk.
“Yes. Upsetting! I can see that, Mrs. Rader.” He stopped at the curb, a red light. Snow was piled in darkly crusted mounds beside them.
“What can you see?”
“I can see that you’re crying.”
“Oh, Christ,” she said.
They walked toward Washington Square. The arch seemed to be holding up the low gray clouds. The trees were black and tortured, like Giacometti sculptures.
“Let’s rest a moment,” he said, led her to a bench. The drug dealers were clustered together discussing the state of the economy, ignoring them as unlikely consumers.
She sat down, took a bedraggled tissue from her pocket and blotted away the tears.
“What happened Sunday?”
“Look, I’m just being foolish—”
“I doubt that, Mrs. Rader.”
“I was upset when I was told by a cop investigating MacPherson that he has a habit of combining business with pleasure when it comes to women involved in cases he’s working on. … Oh, please, there’s no point in going on about this, Doctor, it’s so silly.” She sniffed. “And humiliating—”
“You found this fact about MacPherson distressing.” He looked off across the expanse of snow, at the traffic and the quiet buildings feeing the square. “Because you had—what? Begun to grow fond of this man? Because he had been nice to you? Bought you a Christmas tree and made you an omelet?”
“You think I’m an absurd neurotic woman, don’t bother to say it—”
“Hardly, Mrs. Rader. That’s not what I think at all.” She saw him slowly shaking his head.
“What do you think, then?”
“I don’t have any kind of clinical opinion, obviously. I’m reacting as an observer, not a doctor. And I think this—you are very tense for the perfectly sound reason that you have in fact been under a good deal of stress. Anyone, Mrs. Rader, would be showing signs of wear and tear at this point. Couple that with the fact that you found Sergeant MacPherson an intelligent, appealing person who obviously reacted the same way to you … and that you then discovered that he might not be quite what he seemed—what could be more normal than some tears? Neurosis is hardly indicated, Mrs. Rader.” Finally, the firm mouth smiled, ever so slightly, and she let herself slump back on the bench. “But,” he said slowly, “I have the feeling there is still more to the story. Am I right, perhaps?” His face was reddening in the chill wind.
“The man with the gun,” she said, bit her lip, stopped.
“Yes? The man with the gun?”
“He killed someone else. Last night … his roommate.”
“I don’t understand.” He blinked, curious. “I thought this man was anonymous, unknown. How could you know he killed someone besides this woman, this Quirk woman?”
“Well, I suppose I’m the only one who knows it’s the same man—”
“Good heavens!” It was the first sign of emotion he’d shown, and she smiled involuntarily. “You’ve lost me, Mrs. Rader. If I may ask, how can you know such a thing? You say you never saw this mysterious man’s face, so how …” He offered a shrug of incomprehension.
“Look, take my word for it, Dr. Drummond, I know. The fact is, I met the man he killed last night … his roommate. This roommate, Bradley Nichols, came to me—”
“This murder, this is the one I saw mentioned on the news last night? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yes, yes.” She nodded impatiently.
“But you’re the only one who knows about the roommate, the killer? That he’s the same man?”
“Yes. I’ve got a call in to MacPherson.”
Dr. Drummond looked at his watch. She remembered his lecture. He stood up. “Mrs. Rader, let me tell you that in the first place, I feel that you’re holding up very well, considering the circumstances. You’re doing just fine. I wouldn’t even prescribe a Valium.” They were walking across the packed snow toward the arch and Fifth Avenue. “But I would very much like to stay in touch with you over the next few days. Believe me, you’re not cracking up, not overreacting. You’re handling the whole thing with considerable grace … but do check in with me if you have a moments unease, if you’d like to talk about any of this.” He looked at his watch again. “Now I have to go be terribly authoritative for my students.” He allowed himself another small smile. “Let me give you a number where you can call other than the office. The painters informed me they’ll be a few more days. It’s incredible.” He wrote his number on a small notepad, using a thin gold pencil. “Don’t lose this. And please stay in touch.” He was holding the door of a cab for her when he said, “Don’t worry about the business with MacPherson. I’m sure it will resolve itself. Goodbye, Mrs. Bader.”
She looked back as the cab pulled away and he was standing in the snow watching her. His restraint and austerity, like a stage uncle, had reassured her, made her realize there was sanity out there after all. She was already looking forward to talking with him again.
When she got back to the office she put in another call to MacPherson and left the same message. She then tried to work on a variety of projects, fielded a couple of calls from business pals teasing her about her television appearance.
In mid-afternoon MacPherson called. He didn’t sound like himself. His voice was tight, almost as if he was angry with her, someone, the world.
“I’ve got to see you,” she said. “I’ve got to talk to you about this Bradley Nichols murder … are you there?”
“What about it?” he asked pettishly.
“He
came to my apartment the other night. He said it was his roommate who threw the gun away, the man I saw … he said his roommate has been following me. … Say something!”
“We know all this already, Natalie.”
“What are you saying? What do you mean? How—”
“We know he came to see you.” He paused.
She felt herself beginning to hyperventilate, heart pounding.
“We know everything about Saturday night, Natalie.”
Chapter Twenty
“THIS IS A LITTLE TRICKY, Natalie.”
MacPherson’s office was grim, long ago painted shades of pale green and battleship gray, so long ago that the grimy overlay had blurred them to something like a single unhappy color that reeked of desperation and sorry midnights. It was cop institutional, as far as she could tell from the movies she’d seen, and its effect made her slightly nauseated. Inexplicably, a plastic Christmas tree a foot high sat on one corner of his desk, a cynical reminder of the season out there in the other world. A coffeepot sat on a bookcase heavy-laden with files, manuals, odds and ends. There were two cups, one with a rainbow decal, the other with the heart logo proclaiming the owner’s undying love of New York. The coffee standing in the former looked like paint thinner. MacPherson ushered her into a straight-backed chair and sat down behind his desk. “Tricky,” he repeated. He looked at his surroundings. “No wonder I liked looking at your office. Cops’ offices have to look like this, by the way. Regulation. Crazy world but … You don’t look so good, Natalie. Water? Coffee?”
She shook her head. “I resent the way you handled our telephone conversation just now. You’re back to treating me as if I’m the enemy—”
“Not true,” he said. “I treat you inconsistently and that’s because I personally want to think of you as a woman I like very much. But professionally you’re a situation, not a person. I keep forgetting that because you’re very appealing and very vulnerable—and if I lose my objectivity about you, I’m not going to do you much good as a cop.” He took a deep breath while she remembered all the things D’Allessandro had said. “So I treat you inconsistently. Sue me.”
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