Nowhere to Hide (8 page)

~ * ~

In the days and nights that followed, Ellen floated in and out of a Valium-induced haze, trapped in a well of blackness so deep no light could reach her. With the passing of time, her doorbell rang less and less often, though Ellen took little notice.

Gradually, she began coming downstairs, sitting in a kitchen chair, or pacing from room to room, or staring out of windows, seeing nothing. When the pain got too bad, she took to her bed.

Other times, she found she was quite able to sit and talk with Myra, or Paul, or whoever was there, functioning almost normally, just as though she were not an empty shell, with nothing left of her but severed, bleeding nerves. And at odd times a part of her seemed strangely to stand apart from whatever was taking place, to become both spectator and participant.

Paul tried to reason with her, explaining to her about the stages of grief, quoting the experts, just as if she had never heard all the psycho-babble, had not spoken it herself. She was glad he was away at a conference in California.

At some point, she noticed the tree was gone from the living room, together with her gifts for Gail.
Myra, of course.
Dear, thoughtful Myra.

The parade of visitors bearing food and condolences had long since dropped off. One day Ellen shuffled into the kitchen to find Myra, wearing one of Carl’s shirts over paint-spattered slacks too big for her, (though she’d been slim for years now, when Myra was feeling depressed, she returned to wearing "fat" clothes) standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes, just as she’d been on the day of the funeral—on the day Paul remarked about the star quality of the funeral, saying how pleased Gail would be. He probably meant well enough, she thought now. It was the sort of thing people said.

A pink, plastic transistor radio sat near Myra on the counter, tuned in to her favorite country music station, but turned low so as not to disturb Ellen.

She gently took the soapy dish from Myra’s hand and set it on the counter. Managing a smile, she said, "You go on home now. I’ll finish these."

Myra stood hesitantly, her dark eyes moist with unshed tears. "Are you sure? I really don’t want to leave you alone."

"I’m sure." She hugged her. "You are such a good friend, Myra. But Carl and the kids need you now. And you need to be with them. I know it’s damn near impossible, but maybe you can try to salvage what’s left of the holidays." Their Christmas, of course, was clouded by Ellen’s loss, spoiled. She felt badly about that, especially for the boys. She imagined they were all feeling pretty neglected by now, and right that they should.

"There’s a stack of sympathy cards on top of the fridge," Myra said, tugging on her boots, "Just in case you feel like opening them."

"Thank you."

"You don’t need to open them. It might just upset you."

Feeling a rush of affection for her friend, Ellen put her arms around her, perhaps as much for herself as for Myra. So many emotions buffeted her, so many they were impossible to separate in her mind. When she drew away, she looked squarely at Myra. "I have to be alone sometime," she said.

The tears Myra had been fighting now spilled over. "It’s not fair," she sobbed. "First your parents, then Ed, and now—"

"Whoever said life was fair?" Ellen interrupted quietly. "You should know all about that, kid. Hey, wait a second." She went to the closet and returned with two shopping bags bulging with gifts. "Merry Christmas," she smiled.
"A little late, but better than never, huh?
I got Joey some games to go with his new Nintendo. And by the way, thank you for the robe. You know that’s my favorite shade of blue. I love it."

Myra was getting teary again.

"Hey, look, if I need you, I’ll call," Ellen assured her, giving her another quick hug. "You’re just up the road, for heaven’s sake."

"Promise?"
She sniffed a couple of times while reaching guiltily for her coat, her eyes never once leaving Ellen.

It touched Ellen to see her friend so torn between a sense of duty toward her, and a natural, healthy desire to be with her family—to be where death had not visited. Forcing a smile, and lightness into her movements, Ellen helped her on with her coat. Promising again to call, she ushered her out the door.

She stood in the doorway watching, as Myra drove off up the road in her little green Honda Civic.

In every direction she looked, the view was spectacular. It was a day that sparkled. Snow-laden trees beneath enamel blue skies.
A virtual winter wonderland.

Unmoved, Ellen went back inside.

Alone now, she wandered into the living room. She sagged down in the old sofa chair with its pretty new cover. When the silence grew too loud, she got up and turned on the television. She sat staring at the flickering images.

He was there. He was already there, in her apartment, hiding, when I was talking to her on the phone.
Gail’s words played in her mind. "Hold on a sec, Ellen. I think I heard something... It was just Tiger—crazy cat. I forgot to feed him when I came in and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms."

No, it wasn’t Tiger she’d heard. Not Tiger at all.

Soon the pictures inside Ellen’s head grew more vivid than those on the television screen, complete with sound and
texture, making her want
to claw them from her brain. A small, agonized moan breaking from her, she bolted from the chair. Crossing to the sideboard, she poured herself a generous shot of vodka to go with the
two Valium she’d taken earlier,
and which didn’t seem to be working.

Her hands shook, and some of the vodka splashed the sideboard’s lovely cherry wood surface. She didn’t bother to wipe it up. The drawer was not all the way closed, and she could see one corner of the bulging scrapbook containing Gail’s brief life.

No need to buy another one. Not now.

Nine

Other than to refill her glass, and turn the sound up a little, Ellen had not moved from in front of the television. The room had grown dark. She was on her third vodka, glass in hand, clear liquid gently swirling. She looked to see it creating a tiny whirlpool, and longed to lose herself in it.

What did it matter if she drank? What did anything matter now? She thought about the bottle of Valium on the shelf in the medicine cabinet—maybe twenty left.

Enough, she knew, to end the nightmares.

Strangely, Myra’s nightmares came to mind. "A shadowy figure at the foot of my bed," she’d told her on the night Gail was murdered. "I wake up in an icy sweat, terrified. What do you think it means after all this time, Ellen?"

"I don’t know," Ellen said aloud to her glass, her words slurring slightly. "I don’t know anything anymore."

Ellen continued to stare at the screen.
Live at Five.
Only five o’clock? It got dark out so early now. The announcer’s voice cut through the boozy haze "...More trouble in the Middle East... economists are predicting the country is headed for another depression... a plane exploded over Bangkok..."

The voice faded out again like a receding tide as Ellen began thinking about
him.
Was he too, at this very moment, sitting in some darkened room in front of a television set? Smiling perhaps, reliving his vile, brutal act with a sick pleasure? Her hand began shaking so hard she had to set the drink down.

And suddenly Gail was smiling out at her from the television screen, sending a knife of searing pain straight through her heart. It was the picture of her they’d run with the last article.

"Police are still baffled by the recent murder of a young Evansdale woman," the announcer read from the sheaf of papers in his hands. "Gail Morgan’s body was discovered two weeks ago today on the bedroom floor of her New York apartment, savagely beaten, raped and strangled. Ms. Morgan was a singer on the verge of her big breakthrough in the music industry. Her recording of "Do You Know Me?" also written by Ms. Morgan, should hit the airways in a matter of weeks, reports a spokesman for Genesis recordings. Police are continuing their investigation into the murder.

"The search for a Scarsdale man missing in the Maine woods over the weekend has ended on a happier note..."

The announcer’s voice lost to her now, Ellen leaned forward in her chair, focusing, concentrating all her mental energies.
Who are you? You’re out there somewhere.
She tried to see him in her mind’s eye, trying in desperation to tune him in.
What kind of monster are you to do what you did to my sister?

Imagining Gail’s pain, her helplessness, and the final terror of knowing she was going to die, sent a surge of rage and hatred through Ellen so powerful she felt it might suffocate her. Bile rose in her throat as wave after bitter wave took her, building in strength and intensity like dark clouds before a storm. When she could no longer contain the storm within her, in the space of a breath, she released the torrent of writhing, black emotion into the television screen, and beyond.

You’ll pay, you bastard. I’ll find you. And you’ll pay for what you did.

Outside, the cold January wind screamed under the eaves and snow-crusted branches bowed low under starless skies.

After several moments, drained and exhausted, Ellen went into the kitchen and poured the remainder of her drink down the sink. Quite sober now, she thought how silly it was what she’d tried to do. She wasn’t even sure she really believed in E.S.P. Sure, she and Gail had often been able to tune in to one another thoughts, and sometimes, when she’d pick up the receiver to call her, Gail would already be on the line. They would laugh about that and feel no small sense of wonder.

But even if something more than simple intuition was at work, it wouldn’t happen with a stranger.
And you couldn’t call it up, like a witch’s curse, no matter how bad you wanted to.

But she would find him, she thought, standing very still, holding the empty glass in her hand. She wouldn’t rest until she did. And he would pay. Under the sudden pressure of her fingers, the glass shattered, cutting her in a dozen places. Ellen watched with an odd sense of fascination as rivulets of blood flowed over her hand in every direction, dripping steadily as a heartbeat onto the black and white floor tiles.

Gradually, she became aware of the throbbing pain in her hand, and almost welcomed it.

Her life had purpose now.

~ * ~

Across town, in the darkened den of an old Victorian-style house, the tall man jerked awake, the can of Miller Lite dropping from his hand to roll across the floor, knocking up against the leg of the old Philco television set, spewing beer onto the faded rug. He jumped to retrieve the can, looked bewilderedly around him. Aunt Mattie? No, he couldn’t have heard her from down here. Besides, his aunt didn’t swear.

But someone had called out to him, an angry voice—calling him a bastard. Saying he’d pay.

Ten

Upstairs, Ellen stood holding the towel firmly around her hand to staunch the flow of blood. The towel was already reddening, though when she’d run cold water over her hand, she’d seen that none of the cuts were deep.

In the mirror, her eyes looked haunted, sunken in her skull. Her new hairdo lay flat and greasy against her head. She looked like hell.
Get yourself together, Ellen. You’ve got work to do.

She opened the medicine chest, her reflection flying out of view. Taking down the bottle of Valium, she flushed the remaining tablets down the toilet. It was important to keep her wits about her. Smelling the faint sourness coming off her body, she realized she needed a shower.

Tomorrow she would fly to New York, she thought, turning on the taps, testing the water with her good hand. She’d talk to Sandi, Gail’s roommate.
And the landlady.
Someone must know something, must have seen something. Sandi had called one day last week, crying. Ellen couldn’t remember what she said. She’d sent flowers. There’d been so many flowers. She thought of the stack of cards on the fridge. She would go through them. Perhaps Gail’s killer had even sent one. She’d heard of such things.