Chill Waters (22 page)

“Hello? Is someone here?”

Getting no answer, she hefted the poker as if it were a baseball bat.

Would she even be able to hit someone with it if it came to that? Yet she’d be damned if she’d let them take it from her and turn it on her.

The silence was more deafening then any explosion could be. Then she heard it again. Like the mewling of a cat.

Could a cat have gotten in here? Was it something as innocent as that? But she could feel the dark energy in the house, a lingering malevolence in the very air around her.

Making a conscious effort to breathe normally, Rachael took another step toward the kitchen, bat poised for swinging.

In the doorway, she froze, staring in horror and disbelief at the grotesque and pitiful sight before her. Snap …snap…snap went the shutter of her brain as it took its pictureshideous pictures that would remain forever etched in her memory.

The impaled bird was flapping feebly on her cutting board, spattering specks of blood on the walls and floor, the handle of her butcher’s knife and part of the blade protruded from its tiny body. The kitchen smelled of its terror, and blood.

“Who did this to you?” she whispered.

The little seagull grew very still, its black eyes watching her, seeming to plead for her help. She could feel the creature’s panic, its helplessness.

I have to do something. I can’t just leave it there. I have to pull the knife out. It will die if I do. Doesn’t matter. It will die anyway. I still must remove the knife, set the poor thing free.

As she took a small step toward the impaled bird it began to flap its wings in a frantic attempt to fly away. She remembered a boy in school once who had pinned a yellow butterfly to a board. The butterfly too, had tried to fly.

Now more blood spattered. Several drops struck her arm; it was warm. A wave of nausea washed over her and she grabbed onto the counter
. No, damn you. Don’t you dare wimp out like some weak-kneed damsel-in-distress.

A feather floated to the floor at her feet as the terrible squealing filled the kitchen. Rachael was crying too, hands clamped over her ears. Then, forcing herself to approach the seagull, she lay a hand on its body and, closing her eyes, pulled out the knife. The bird lay quiet. She didn’t know if it was dead.

Only then did it occur to her that the sadistic monster that did this might still be in the house. But she didn’t really believe that. Whoever performed this cruel, cowardly act was long gone. He had accomplished what he came for.

Dropping the bloody knife in the sink, she walked on trembling legs into the livingroom and called the police.

“St. Clair Police Department.”

It took all her effort to speak calmly. “This is Rachael Warren. I’m calling to report…”

“St. Clair Police Department,” the male voice repeated. “How may I help you?”

After a couple more failed attempted to make herself heard, she hung up. Something was wrong with the phone. She’d been able to hear the person on the other end but they couldn’t hear her.

Not quite ready to accept that explanation, she tried again, but the results were the same. She was getting her coat from the closet, intending to drive into town, when someone knocked on the door. She practically ran to answer, grateful to whomever it was.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I was wondering – “ Her caller’s friendly smile turned to concern.“Ms. Warren, is something wrong? You seem upset.”

“Mr. Dunn, I’m so pleased to see you. Please, come in.”

She didn’t know the man well. They had merely waved in passing, spoken briefly. She knew only that his name was Martin Dunn and that he was a photographer writing a book about well-known eastern coastal areas. But right then he might have been her best friend.

“It’s easier if I just show you,” she said, her voice barely audible. She ushered him out to the kitchen. “I just got back from my run and itI tried to call the police but the phone isn’t working.”

The gull was still. Mercifully dead? Please let it be so. She hugged herself against the cold that had settled into her very bone marrow and tried to shop shaking. “Who would do this?” she asked of no one in particular. “Why?”

Martin Dunn just shook his head and lay a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Who knows? Why don’t you go inside and sit down, Ms. Warren. Try to calm yourself. I’ll take care of things here.”

Glad to escape the carnage, she did as he suggested. But she couldn’t just sit and do nothing. She tried the phone again, but again it proved futile.

She heard him moving about in her kitchen, the tap…tap…tapping of his cane on the floor. She heard the back door opening and closing, water running in the kitchen sink.

Then he was back in the livingroom, assuring her that everything was okay now. As if it could be. Nonetheless, she was grateful to him for his help.

His expression thoughtful, he said, “You know, I think I just may have seen the culprits responsible on my way here. A black sportscar sped past me, wheels spraying dirt and rocks. One hit the roof of my car, dented it. I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but I think they were the same boys you and your friend ran into in town that day in town. They were moving pretty fast, but it sure looked like them.”

“But why would they…?”

“Kids don’t need much of a reason for violence these days. I suspect they didn’t like being interfered with. Especially by two women. They’re out to prove something.”

“
Catch you later, lady.”

Rachael sighed, feeling defeated. “Could you use a cup of coffee, Mr. Dunn? I know I could.”

“Thanks. That would be great if it’s not too much trouble.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Unless youif you’ll tell me where things are, I’d be glad to…”

“No, it’s okay. I have to go into my kitchen sooner or later. Might as well be sooner. Cream? Sugar?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Though all physical trace of the atrocity was gone from her kitchen, the seagull remained fixed in her mind’s eye. She knew she wouldn’t be using that particular cutting board again.

Ten minutes later, she was back in the livingroom. She handed him his mug of coffee. She had stopped shaking at least. “Those boys aren’t the reason you’re here, Mr. Dunn,” she said.

“No. To be honest, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve been looking for a place to rent around here, and someone said you had a cabin on your property. I was hoping you might consider renting it to me. I think I mentioned to you that I’m working on a bookwell, I’m also working against a deadline and it would be a big help if I could be right on the site instead of having to drive back and forth from town.”

“That’s only a few minutes drive.”

“You’re right, of course. I suppose it’s more the psychological advantage. It’s just for a couple of weeks or so.”

Rachael recalled the real estate woman telling her about a cabin on the property, saying she thought it should probably be torn down. Rachael hadn’t thought about it again.

“I haven’t even looked at the cabin yet,” she said. “But I don’t think you could stay there. I doubt it’s habitable. I’m sure there’s no insulation or plumbing.” It was difficult to focus on anything else with the image of the little seagull so vivid in her mind. Anger at such senseless cruelty churned within her.

“My intention was to have it torn down,” she said, “Before it falls down. Or those kids set fire to it.” A chilly afterthought that now seemed entirely possible.

She would go into town tomorrow and ferret out this boy named Derek, who wore a tee shirt boasting a madman’s face on the front. A boy who drove a black sportscar. This was a small town. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.

“The cabin is in pretty decent shape, actually,” Martin Dunn was saying, as he set his mug carefully on the coaster on the coffee table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of having a look inside while I was waiting. The door was unlocked. The facilities are crude, but functional. And there’s handpump for water. Iuh, from what you’ve said, assume you’re not aware that someone has already been staying in the cabin.”

The statement got her full attention, striking her heart like an anvil. “What?”

“I don’t mean to upset you further, but it’s true. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, along with some empty bean and soup cans. The stove was still warm when I went in.”

As Rachael’s head spun with this unnerving revelation, Martin Dunn talked on about his plans for the cabin.

“The place needs a few repairs, but I’m a pretty handy fellow. Built my own place before my fiance…” He looked quickly toward the window. Back to Rachael. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sorry. It’s been a little rough…” He gestured to the cane propped against his chair. “Car accident. It’s been a year now since she’s gone. I sold the place.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to summon her natural compassion, but her brain felt like a computer on overload, about to crash. She was glad he didn’t seem to notice.

Smiled thinly, running a hand through his hair,” he said, “I’m still trying to come to terms with it. At least I’m out of the wheelchair. Work helps. So, what do you say, Ms. Warren. Will you have me for a tenant?”

Rachael caught herself picking at the dried blood spots on her bare arm, abruptly dropped her hand.

“I promise, no wild parties,” he joked.

When he was gone, she went upstairs and stood under the shower for a long time.

Twenty-Seven

Rachael drove the car into the space between a blue van and a motorcycle, and got out. Three yellow school buses were lined up in front of the double doors, spilling out throngs of studentsnoisy, high-energy, rambunctious teenagers. Normal kids. Unlike the one she was looking for.

A studious looking girl, arms laden with books, was walking in her direction. She cast Rachael a curious look as she passed her.

“Excuse me,” Rachael called after her. “I wonder if you can help me?”

The girl turned around, shifted the books in her arms.

“I’m looking for someone.” She went on to describe the boy called Derek. “He drives a black Corvette. Do you know if he goes to school here?”

“Oh, sure, when he decides to show up. Everyone knows Derek.” She gestured with her small dimpled chin. “There he is now, just driving in.” Rachael saw a certain grudging admiration on her face.

The mere sight of the black Corvette pulling into the parking area was enough to send Rachael’s blood pressure into orbit. Thanking the girl, she took off in the direction of the Corvette, anger fueled by the tormenting vision of the little seagull.

She reached him just as he was getting out of the car. “I’d like a word with you, Derek.”

His expression conveyed surprise. Then fear flickered across his arrogant good looks. He slammed the car door shut, shrugged. All defiance now. “What’s your problem?”

“Why did you do it? That’s all I want to know. Why?” Her entire body felt taut as a guywire.

He looked blankly at her. “Do what?”

“Don’t play games with me, Derek. I’m not in the mood. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

Mumbling something she couldn’t quite discern, he tried to shoulder his way past her, but despite his being several inches taller, she blocked his way. He was a big and muscular, but she was too angry to be afraid. As far as Rachael was concerned, he was a sadistic little boy who mistook himself for a man.

“I want an answer, damn you, and I don’t intend to leave until I get one. I want to know why you would do such a cruel thing to a helpless seagull. Were you that angry at having your bullying tactics interrupted by two women? Is that it?”

He actually blinked. “Seagull? What seagull? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, lady.”

Why did he look relieved? It was as if he’d been expecting her to accuse him of something quite different. His obscene gesture to her on the beach? And now he was off the hook. “Lady, you’re nuts. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no seagull.”

“I don’t believe you. I…”

“What seems to be the trouble?” said a familiar voice at her side.

Rachael was taken aback to see Peter Gardner standing beside her. But of course, if she’d been thinking at all, she would have remembered that he was a high school teacher, and that St. Clair had only one high school. In her single-mindedness, she’d forgotten that little fact. It had not entered her mind that she would run into Peter.

“This student has been terrorizing me,” she said, her gaze returning to the boy’s smirking face. “I believe he and his friends broke into a cabin on my property. He may also be responsible for making anonymous phone calls to me. Yesterdayheimpaled a seagull on my cutting board.”

A few ‘eeoohs’ and ‘yucks’ went up from the girls, nervous laughter from the boys. She had to admit, hearing herself say it aloud it did sound insane, like some gruesome fantasy heralded from a deranged mind. She could feel her face burning. The tears were right there, hot and threatening, just behind her lids. That’s all I need, to start bawling in front of this audience.