Chill Waters (10 page)

Their voices comforted him. He wondered what they’d do if he went right up to the front door and knocked. Maybe they’d invite him inside. His mind conjured up their welcoming smiles at the sight of him standing in the doorway. “Hey, look, it’s Tommy.”

He would sit with them at the kitchen table and tell them about his life. About Heather. How he promised her he would go back to school and get his diploma. He’d even planned on talking to Mr. Gardner and seeing if it would be okay if he started back next term. He would work part-time and pay his own way. He’d been doing that all along anyway.

Heather was smart; she wasn’t about to spend her life with a loser who worked in a scrapyard. She said she didn’t care, but he knew she did. The funny thing was, he probably wouldn’t even have
that
job now. Mr. Gabriel wouldn’t want someone working for him who everyone thought was a murderer.

So who cared?
He
had. Once.

A wave of dizziness sent Tommy weaving for the back porch, where he sagged down on the bottom step. Trapping the pint between his knees, he gazed mournfully at it. Around him, wet leaves rattled in the biting wind. The booze having lost its ability to warm him, Tommy shivered in his cold, wet clothes. When the shivering stopped enough to allow him to uncap the bottle, he finished it off in a couple of swallows, and tossed the empty into the darkness.

Coughing against the harsh taste, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked longingly at the closed door behind him. “Oh, look how wet you are, poor boy. Come inside this minute and let me get you a towel.”

The voice became his mother’s voice, and the words played in his mind like a sweet, painful lullaby. Tommy hugged himself in his sodden clothes and began to rock to and fro, like a child, trying to comfort itself. Slowly, slowly, his eyes closed, his head dropping down and down to his chest. His last thoughts before sinking down into the dark womb of sleep were of his mother, as she’d been the last time he saw her, when he was seven years old. So pretty with her shiny brown hair, wearing the powder blue coat with the double row of pearl buttons. She had smelled so good, like the violets that grew in the woods.

Her suitcase had been open on the bed and she was throwing things into it, stuffing them down, crying. When he saw her take his picture down from the wall, gaze on it, then quickly slip it between her dresses in the suitcase, terror and panic had filled him, and he begged her to take him with her. As she turned to put her arms around him, he saw that the old man had given her another shiner. Her eye was puffy, all dark and purple and ugly.

She stroked his hair, saying, “You understand, don’t you, sweetie. Momma’s got to go. I’ll send for you as soon as I get us a nice little place. I promise, baby. You be good now. Don’t make your papa mad. Do what he says, and stay out of his way when he’s drunk. I’ll write, I promise. And I’ll put money and a bus ticket in the letter, and you can come to me.”

Everyday, for weeks and then months, he’d run home after school and look eagerly in the mailbox. But no letter ever came. After awhile he stopped looking.

He wondered where she was living now.

Soon, memory faded and he was snoring softly, unmindful of another watchera deadly watchermoving through the night toward him.

Fourteen

“Like ‘em?” Betty grinned, looking pleased with herself. “They’re 18 karat.”

“What’s not to like?” Rachael said, admiring the hammered-gold hoop earrings nestled on royal blue velvet. “They’re beautiful. They must have cost a fortune.”

“Just a small one. But you’re worth it. You would have gotten them sooner, but—anyway, many happy – happier returns, my friend.”

Dear Betty, always so generous. And they really were lovely. She tried to sound enthusiastic. “I love them. Really. Thank you so much, Betty.”

“You’re welcome. So, why didn’t you call me before you took off?”

Rachael sipped the Champagne. It was dry, very good, and knowing Betty, outrageously expensive. She ran a thumb over the velvety surface of the box, then snapped it closed. “I almost did. But I knew I had to start relying on my own inner resources. Find out if I have any,” she laughed wryly. The words sounded good, almost as if she had a plan.

“C’mon, Rach, you’re the strongest person I …”

“No, that’s not really been tested. For a good part of my life I’ve found my identify in being a wife and mother. I’m not sure I have any beyond that. Susan and Jeff are grown, and Greg has, forgive the bad poetry, “flown”. At this moment, I feel as if vital organs have been removed from my body without benefit of anesthetic.”

To Rachael’s dismay, Betty immediately got out of her chair and put an arm around her shoulder. “You are strong. Stronger than you think. If you want my opinion, you wouldn’t have looked at Greg Timmins twice if your mother hadn’t died when you were four days old, and if your father had been available to you emotionally. If he had…”

“Betty, please don’t psychoanalyze me,” she said, standing so that Betty’s arm dropped away. She wiped the counter for want of something to do with her hands. For some reason, the scent of Betty’s perfume was suddenly cloying. Any second now and I will shatter into a million pieces, like old china. “Anyway, you’re wrong. I loveloved—Greg. I was happy in my marriage.”

“At the risk of evoking your wrath, dear friend, I think you were as happy as you thought you deserved to be. I…”

An explosion of glass cut off her words, the missile smashing through the window barely missing Betty’s head. Cold, wet air blasted into the room. Both women leapt to their feet as glass tinkled to the floor, and the rock thumped to rest beside the refrigerator.

Before either of them could speak, a second explosion sounded from the livingroom, propelling Rachael to action. She dashed from the room, Betty behind her.

This rock, a boulder really, had landed in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks and ash. Bits of burnt wood were strewn across the carpet, giving off an acrid stench of old rags burning.

As Betty stomped about the floor in her good leather boots, trying to trample out the live sparks, resembling a frenzied, primitive dancer, Rachael looked dazedly up at the wet newspaper flapping in the smashed window.

Shock giving way to a rage she didn’t know she possessed, she flung open the front door and cried into the night, “You bastard! This is my home. How dare you? How dare you?”

“Take it easy, Rach,” Betty said, maneuvering past her and down the porch steps. “I’ll call the police.”

Out on the road, Rachael could make out someone moving on fast but unsteady feet. He soon disappeared from her sight.

Betty, having made the call to police, had just set foot on the porch step when a car pulled into the drive. “That’s gotta be a record,” she said, as they both stood watching the car come to a stop, and a man get out. He was tall and walked with an easy gait.

“Good evening, ladies. I hope I’m not intruding.” He introduced himself as Peter Gardner and explained that he’d been taking a drive, and thought he saw someone crouching outside the kitchen window.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking from one to the other of them, genuine concern on his face. “Were either of you hurt?”

They assured him they were fine.

“It didn’t register at first,” he said, directing his conversation mainly to Rachael. “A branch broken in the storm, I figured. But something wasn’t setting right with me. Actually, I was a quite a ways past the house, when I decided to turn back and check it out. And then I heard your call on the police band. I volunteer with the department. Or at least I used to. Did you get a look at the man?”

“No, not really,” Rachael replied. "I did see someone staggering down the road, but I couldn’t even swear for a fact that it
was
a man.”

The three stood in awkward silence as Rachael looked about her, again at the newspaper in the window hanging by its one piece of tape. It seemed a perfect metaphor for her life. The room smell vaguely of a housefire. A shiver slipped through her, and she hugged herself against the cold chill of the house.

“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to make arrangements to put you ladies up at the motel in town. We’ll get these windows replaced first thing in the morning.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Gardner,” Rachael said, surprised at his offer. “I’m sure it’s not part of your service with the police department, but I’d be most grateful.”

As she spoke, the whirling dome lights of a police car pulsed through the window into the room. Rachael opened the door to two burly policemen. The older one, hard eyed and with an air of arrogance, gave a brief nod of greeting to Peter Gardner. After taking their statements, they left. As the two policemen headed back to the cruiser, Rachael heard the younger one say, “Prichard, do you think?”

“Put your money on it,” the older man replied, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Prichard,” Betty repeated in a hushed, frightened voice when they had driven away. “Isn’t that the guy the cops are looking for? The one who murdered…?”

“He’s not been convicted yet. But yes, one and the same. Tommy Prichard. He was a student of mine. He’s basically a good kid. I don’t believe he killed anyone.” He turned back to Rachael. “Ms. Warren, you have a small cut under your eye. Maybe you should let me drive you to the hospital and have it looked at.”

Rachael’s hand went instinctively to her cheek, felt a sharp sting at her touch. “Probably just a splinter of glass. Nothing serious.”

“Are you sure, Rachael?” Betty said.

“I’m sure.” Betty’s own face was so pale her freckles seemed to jump out from beneath her makeup. She’d come very close to being seriously injured by that rock, Rachael thought. Anger returned, and bewilderment.
Who would throw rocks through my windows? Why?

“Well at least let me see what I can do about that splinter,” Peter Gardner said, already heading for the door before she could make any protest. “I have a first-aid kit out in the car. Comes in handy in the classroom. Don’t worry,” he grinned, “I’m an old hand at this.”

“He’s cute,” Betty said the instant he was out of earshot. “A teacher. He reminds of that actorwhat’s his name? And those blue eyes…”

Rachael was relieved to see Betty back to her old self. Even her color was returning. “He seems very nice. Quite a night, huh? Bet you’re glad you came to visit.”

“Hey, I can use a little excitement in my life. You’re the one I’m worried about. I get to go back home. Youoh, damn, someone should sew my mouth shut. Rach, I’m s…”

“It’s okay. I know how you meant it. Really, Betty. You don’t have to walk on eggs with me.”

Peter Gardner returned just then, kit in hand. Placing a firm, yet gentle hand under Rachael’s chin, he tilted her head so as to gain better advantage with the tweezers. Looking into those intense, deep blue eyes, Rachael felt herself relaxing. He seemed to know what he was doing. After a moment, she asked, “Are you, by any chance, related to a woman named Iris Brandt?”

“That I am. Are you acquainted with my aunt?”

“We’ve met. An interesting woman.”

He grinned at her choice of adjective. “That sounded ominous. But indeed she
is
interesting,” he said fondly. “There.” Sliding the barely visible sliver of glass onto a tissue, he then dabbed the tender spot on her cheek with a cotton swab. The odor of antiseptic drifted about Rachael’s face as the swab jointed the sliver of glass on the tissue.

He stepped back to appraise his work. “Good as new,” he said. “Won’t even leave a scar.” He included them both in his smile. Well, shall we head out?”

He
sat behind the wheel of his car, parked beneath a streetlight, directly across from the motel. He’d followed them here, staying well behind the Marquis, circling a couple of times until it was gone from the parking lot, and pulled in here.

A light showed behind the drapes in their room, and now and again he would catch a fleeting shadowy movement in the window. Visions of her taking off her clothes brought memories of another time, another place and a slow heat began to build in him.

The best part had been her not knowing he was there. Being secret from her, invisible. But one night she caught him, and beat him with her small fists, furious, indignant, tearful. At first, he was afraid, not sure what would happen next. But nothing did because she never told. And then he was glad she knew, because now he didn’t have to pretend anymore. He grew bolder, entering her room whenever the urge came over him.

After they locked him up he dreamed of her every night. And when he got out he looked for her everywhereon the streets, in the stores… a few times he thought he’d found her. He’d been wrong.
He was not wrong now.

Closing his eyes, he could almost hear her soft breathing in the darkness. Sense her sudden waking. Feel her body beneath his, warm and soft. So much better when she stopped fighting him.

The fire was raging through him now, centering in his loins, pulsing there, evoking a muttering from his lips, drawing his hands between his legs. With a sense of urgency, he unzipped his pants and began to stroke himself, his breathing raspy in the small confines of the front seat.