She went upstairs to bed and drew her pillow under her chin. Her eyelids twitched back and forth, shuddered. John tore the veil and entered her dreams.
She stood in the driveway. The house was in shambles. The front door thrown open, the massive cement vases lay in a hundred thousand shards on the steps. A bomb dropped through the ceiling.
Worry. Dread. Paralyzing terror. They ripped through her and she trembled and knew death was coming. John strode through the debris, his eyes a pair of slits. She tried to turn. Tried to scream. Tried to run. Her feet wouldn't move; molded into cement bricks. John came ever closer, his eyes now bottomless pits.
He raised his arm, and in his hand was a thick metal rod, something he'd used on the Morgan. She couldn't scream, couldn't raise her arms, and the rod barreled down.
Davonna woke. A long piercing wail cut through the night and the dream lingered. She fell with a sob back onto the bed, curled into a ball under the sheets, and cried herself to sleep.
V
Κακό σκυλί, ψόφο δεν έχει.
Bad dogs die hard.
Davonna stood on the marble steps to the left of the glass doors and watched the driveway. Her watch beeped once to mark the hour. A breeze ruffled the potted purple gladiolus and St. John's Wort. Her leg tapped the marble underneath her. Her eyes swept the hedgerow for a tell tale trail of dust from an oncoming car.
He came like a whirlwind. The taxi flung gravel so far that rocks pinged off of the cement vases on the steps. He rushed into the house; the car drove off, at a snail's pace, as though the driver was relieved to be divested of his passenger. He thundered up the stairs to the bedroom. She looked at her feet, the red painted toes that peeped out of her leather sandals. Sweat trickled off her forehead and soaked her blue cotton dress with the embroidered hem, but she didn't move.
She racked her brain for what had set him off. There must be something. The never-ending toil in the garden was an age ago, as though her work no longer mattered, and being alone was just a dream. And any minute he'd fly into a rage and it wouldn’t matter that she'd done everything. Her shoulders slumped, and she dreamed of burying her head in her hands and curling into a ball and never move again.
She turned as the heavy footfalls fell behind her. John flew by: a blur of blue and white, across the drive to the garage.
"I'm going to the hotel," he shouted.
Davonna stood, rooted to her perpetual place on the left side of the door, and studied him. He looked radiant as though the cooler London air had seeped beneath his skin. His eyes shone, full of a strange fire.
The Morgan backed out of the garage. The bright afternoon sun glinted off the silver wing mirrors and the black bonnet shimmered in the heat. With a muted rumble it crawled across the driveway. Davonna walked out to the circular lawn in the middle of the drive, her sandals padded on the warm grass. She frowned, and her fingers shook at her sides, but John didn't spare her a glance as the car crept toward the road. His hands clutched the wheel, his knuckles white, and his eyes shone straight ahead. In another moment the Morgan disappeared, its bumper whipped around the hedgerow and up the hill to the hotel.
As she turned to step into the house, Ioannis strode up to the open gate, smiling as Davonna waved him in. Their closest neighbor, he always seemed close at hand whenever she was outside. He didn't walk like John. His was a calm, assured, a kind saunter. He was everything that women loved in a Greek man, but it was his openness and laughter, and the lines around his eyes, which made Davonna smile.
"Such a charming afternoon," he said.
"It is."
"Was that John I saw pull away?"
"Yes, he's been in London this week."
"Ah, no rest for the wicked?"
"I suppose."
"My dear, I'd like to ask you a question," Ioannis said, his tongue flicked out over his lips. "You've worked too hard. You're tackling too much on your own. With a property this size, you need a part-time gardener. I'm happy to send ours over two days a week."
Davonna blinked and tore her eyes from the gate at the end of the drive. "I appreciate it, Ioannis. Just a few tasks I left too late which got out of hand."
"Davonna, those weren't ‘simple tasks.’ Why hasn't John hired someone?"
"Because I c ... can do it myself."
"Does he want you to get heat stroke?"
"I didn't get heat stroke, Ioannis, don't be dramatic."
"Davonna, you're thinner since you walked past the house last week. You're pale. You're working far too hard. Give yourself a break."
Davonna barely suppressed a huff. A break? When was the last time she'd had a break – freedom from John or catering to his needs? She ran a calloused hand through her hair.
"I'm fine. Please don't worry."
"I do worry. You're alone far too often."
"He's an important man, he's busy."
"Too busy to take care of his wife?"
"No."
"Well then, I'll send my gardener over on Wednesday.
"Ioannis, please..."
"I insist. He'll come after John leaves. Aside from the work, no one need ever know he was here."
"I didn't say yes."
"You didn't have to," Ioannis said. He lifted his dark freckled hand and squeezed her arm.
Davonna smiled. There was comfort in Ioannis' care and concern, and relief that he'd watched her. There were a few times over the week she'd very nearly collapsed. At least Ioannis would have come when he didn’t see her walk by his house on her way to town.
Davonna lifted her hand and placed it, for the smallest part of a moment, on top of Ioannis' larger one, calloused and strong.
"Thank you."
"We care for you, both of us."
"I know she sent you, tell her thank you."
"Come over for dinner tomorrow," Ioannis said as he backed down the stairs.
"I don't …"
"Think on it." Ioannis waved as he walked away.
Davonna smiled. He left, so she didn't have the chance to say no. She snorted with mirth; Ioannis' wife was a lucky woman.
Davonna turned to walk inside, dreaming of the break Ioannis had mentioned, maybe she would read. At the door, she turned to see Ioannis standing at the gate. His hand rose in salute and she raised her own. He turned left, swallowed by the wall of green. A thick wave of loss rolled over her. She blinked back tears; the darkness had receded for a moment. For a moment, the bliss of Ioannis' company filled her mind and lightened her heart. And now—now it came back … reality.
She couldn't open a book. There was always something, more to do. It was like this every day: protect yourself for when he comes home. Because the nights were infinitely worse when he wasn't satisfied.
Davonna slunk back through the house with a mournful sigh, brought out cleaning supplies and rectangular scrubbers, and buffed out the small black spots on the baseboards. Her mind drifted. Was there a way to make the madman happy? But a stubborn black scuff caught her attention and Davonna slipped down, down into her prison.
She worked through the house, ferreting out any corners where dust and discoloration hid. It became microscopic guerrilla warfare; pouncing on spots and dust with an unwarranted ferocity. As the clock struck four, Davonna stumbled upstairs and tried to make herself presentable. Ioannis was right. She was pale and gaunt. Her face was a white mask and individual grooves stuck out of her sternum.
In front of the mirror, the reflection galled her. She didn't even have energy to stand unaided, but stood propped up against the cabinet. Had she eaten today? And water? How much had she drunk? Her shoulders plummeted forward and the whole of her life stretched out in front of her: waking every morning saddled with John's demands; trudging to town too afraid to talk to anyone; baking and cooking and washing until her fingers bled; and laying underneath him while he stripped away the last shreds of her dignity – her sanity.
This wasn't supposed to happen! Who could she blame? Who was it that had stuck he
r in this hellhole? Was it a great cosmic joke? Was it comeuppance for a perfect childhood?
Davonna looked at the clock that hung on a wall in a discreet corner of the bathroom and flew into action. She rifled through the long line of dresses in the closet and pulled out a black broderie anglaise dress and a blood-red belt. Her chest heaved with fear and exhaustion. One moment she pulled the black straps over her shoulders and dragged mascara through her eyelashes and the next she rushed from the bedroom, heels in hand. But on the landing, her entire body froze, terror drug its claws through her. She shuddered and fell to the floor, her arms spasmed even as she clutched them around her knees.
She stared at her knees willing them to move, to unbend, but they were rigid as planks of steel. Memory after memory flooded through her fragile mind. Life was going to end ... somehow or other he'd planned it. She'd never get out of this house or out from under him. Her life was to be a long slow death of misery.
As sudden as it came, the fit left. She could heave herself off of the floor and pad down the stairs to sit by the window and wait.
He was driving home.
He was tired and ready for dinner.
He'd had a long day.
He wouldn't want a smile.
What would he want?
Davonna tried to orient herself to John's mood, to intercept it, to mitigate it, to prepare. It wouldn't be so severe if she managed it. She wouldn't say anything to set him off. She'd be prepared for every eventuality. She was lost in her own mind for so long she had missed the tolling of the grandfather clock in the hall. With a great start, which sent her flying from the chair and out the door, Davonna realized: he was late, more than a half-hour late. What if she hadn't been outside to greet him?
She stood, straight-backed, though she swayed every few moments, in front of the house; her hands clasped demurely in front of her. She concentrated on the strange delineation of the emerald green hedgerow and the brilliant cerulean sky. If she peered long enough, there was the barest hint of a suggestion that the two colors merged and became one.
She stood on the front steps, as patient as a cat, as the sun stretched towards the sea, when it happened. The silent grounds exploded with a cacophony of sounds and emergency lights from police cars. They surrounded the house, cut it off from the rest of the island, circled around the drive, and cast the house in garish shades of red and blue.
Davonna drew forward and a man, in his fifties, strode through the gravel to her. He wasn't in uniform but looked as though he'd just come from his dinner; there were flecks of pastry on the lapels of his suit coat. His beard lay thick on his cheeks and his skin was brown. He wasn't much taller than she was, but his eyes were tender and inquisitive and his thick brows knitted together as he reached out a hand. His lips moved but Davonna couldn't hear what he was saying. He stood for a moment, waiting, and then waved his arm, as though swatting at a wasp, and within moments the lights disappeared and only one car remained in the drive.
"Kalispera, Madame, I am sorry to have to tell you this," he said haltingly, "But your husband's car — it careened off a cliff along the route from the hotel to your home. We had divers in the water, but I am sorry to say … he is dead."
"He … what?"
The policeman blinked at her, the muscles around his dark eyes contracted in pain. "Madame, he died. The collision with the rocks and water; it was too much."
"He died?" Davonna shrunk. Her mind reeled as if she had been thrown off the cliff with him.
"Yes Madame. He died. We'll get the car out as soon as possible. I understand this isn't the best time, but we will need to talk to you … get a statement regarding your husband's movements over the past few days."
"But I don't know!"
"Sorry?"
"He's been in London for a week, at a conference. He got home at two, but left five minutes later for the hotel. To work."
"How did he get here?"
"By taxi; from the airport I assume."
"And how did he leave?"
"His own car."
"A vintage Morgan?"
"Yes, a 1936 Morgan 4."
"We will come by tomorrow, Madame," the policeman said and walked away.
"Wait!" Davonna cried out and rushed forward. "I want to see. I want to see where he died. Will you take me?"
He looked askance at her, studying her face, her dress, her crazed eyes.
"Come along, Madame. I'll take you there myself."
Davonna climbed into the nondescript black sedan. The older policeman sat beside her, brushed off the errant flecks of pastry, and a young private took the wheel. The house slid by and the car turned onto the curving road. It was strange, she knew John drove this nearly every day, and yet she couldn't remember the drive at all.
Ten minutes from the house, the car slowed, and the scene swung into view. A ten-foot long section of the steel girding lay twisted in the road. Police cars, with more flashing lights, blocked off the road, and blue and white tape flapped and snapped and whipped in the wind. Small rocks lay over the road as though dislodged in some wild careening.
Davonna opened the door. The air swirled around her, whipping the black dress tightly around her legs. There were so few trees here, where the wind whipped the shore. She tripped on the rough road, tottering in stilettos. With a great huff, she tugged the skirt, drew its folds in one hand, and freed her legs. They stood out pale and thin among the sun-bleached grey road and the dark blue police uniforms.
The policeman she'd shared the car with held out his hand. It was clammy and full of calluses; there was a dull gold wedding band on his ring finger with a chip on it. Davonna took his proffered hand; torn between apprehension and gratitude.
They walked across to the obliterated girders and the ominous gap between the ones that still stood. Davonna took hesitant short steps, a deathlike grip on the folds of fabric in her hand. Time slowed to a crawl, it seemed to take an eternity just to cross the road. The small stones of the pavement poked mercilessly through the thin soles of her heels and she tottered, falling against the policeman's loose blue suit coat. As they neared the gap, she stopped and looked around at the pale faces staring at her. But the man whose hand she held urged her forward.
He took her up to a girder, that wasn't mangled and pointed to the surf below. At the Amali Cape. Jagged rocks lay here and there in the undulating water as though giants had thrown them pell mell. There among the rocks, the waves crashed and broke over the bonnet and poured in to the shell of John’s metal love, drowning the glass fronted instruments and the brand new leather seats: John's Morgan, his obsession. His grandfather's pride and joy, thrown like a child’s model car, in the heat of a tantrum. It was twisted and exposed as the tide pulled back for a moment, the wheels at odd angles from the body. Davonna couldn't tear her eyes from the car, from the damage wrought on such delicate workmanship. She peered further over the edge of the barricade. A stone dug into her palm and she winced.
She couldn't see him, couldn't see whether John's body was still in the car. Had he suffered? Did he know he would die?
"He's not in there," the man with the kind eyes said. Davonna looked blankly back. "My men pulled him out."
"He's dead."
"Yes. No one could have survived."
Davonna looked at the car. He was right. The fall alone, without a seat belt, would kill him; regardless of the sea and the rocks which waited at the bottom.
"Where is he?"
"We took him to the morgue. You must identify his body."
"And the car?"
The policeman paused; he accepted a black windbreaker from a passing private. "They'll get it, tomorrow at the latest. Don't want to risk it being pulled out to sea."
Davonna nodded and turned around, but if she hadn't, she might have noticed the queer look he gave her. The way his brows furrowed together, and a light kindled behind his eyes. He was a man on a hunt.
The wind grew broader and wilder by the moment as towering clouds of
black and grey built on the horizon. A policeman's cap tumbled across the road. It tumbled momentarily against the brown weeds at the edge of the road, but the wind buffeted it still, until its irate owner snatched it up and shoved it through an open car window. Davonna stood in the center of the chaos, silent, as the world swirled and tumbled around her.
"Madame." The private who had driven her to the broken, obliterated barrier, touched her elbow. He yelled across the wind. "Captain Savva asked me to take you home. You can identify the body tomorrow."
"My husband."
The private blinked and appeared to remember, "Ah, yes, your husband. My apologies."
It wasn't the captain's car they drove back, but a white cruiser with a blue stripe on the side. He ushered Davonna into the back, onto a hard plastic seat and separated from the front by an inch-thick plastic divider. The vehicle smelled of disinfectant and there were small bits of fluff left over from the cleaning towel.
The police tape was lifted as the car edged through the mass. On the other side, the wind grew quiet and the private seemed to relax. He pulled to a stop. Davonna looked up to find the house looming over her. The door shut, the planters intact, and no John in a fiery temper.
The car door opened and Davonna stepped out, placing her foot carefully on the loose gravel. She walked straight to the house, shutting the door with a snap.
Inside, the house was a tomb. Davonna faced the hall, her gaze on the light that spilled from John's office. The door was cracked open six inches. Just enough to send a shiver down her spine. She moved toward it, sure she'd find John at his desk, irate. The police had it wrong, and they were the reason she was absent when he came home. She would explain how it had looked so like his car, dashed to bits on the rocks.
Walking toward the open office door was the bravest thing Davonna Fitzroy had ever done. How could she prove that John wasn't alive? How could she prove where she had been when he'd arrived home? How could she save herself?
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