Shiver (15 page)

“It was better off in the display case,” she whispered. Quick tears stung her eyes. “Shouldn’t have bought the thing.” Her fingers fumbled at the clasp. “Waste of money, is what it is. Goddamn waste.”

She yanked off the necklace and flung it to the floor. Then she sat on the closed lid of the toilet, shoulders slumping, and lowered her head, not quite crying but wishing she could.

After a few minutes she collected herself, then knelt and picked up the necklace. As far as she could tell, it was undamaged. She stroked it gently, almost tenderly, as if seeking to apologize for having been so rough with it.

In her bedroom, she opened the jewelry box in the top drawer of her mahogany dresser and laid the necklace inside. She pulled off her tan suit, then changed into white satin pajamas and a blue terry-cloth robe. Groping on the floor of her closet, she found a pair of cushioned Deerfoams and slipped them on her feet. She unclipped her hair and let it fall loosely around her shoulders.

Then she left the bedroom to fix herself a snack. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but an apple might be nice. In the kitchen, in the shadowless light of the overhead fluorescents, she cored and sliced a red Delicious. She switched on the portable TV for the company of a human voice. The ten o’clock news was already under way.

“... search continues for the Gryphon. Thirteen days have passed since the body of Elizabeth Osborn was found ...”

Wendy snapped off the TV, letting silence settle over the apartment once more.

She put the apple on a plate, poured a glass of skim milk, and sat at the dining table in her usual chair, facing the two corner windows. Chewing slowly, not noticing the taste, she stared out at the leafy branches of the fig tree swaying and creaking in the wind.

She thought about Jeffrey and the games he played with her, the mind games, the power games. He was wrong to act like that, but she was equally wrong to let him get away with it. Why hadn’t she simply asked him straight out, “How do you like my new necklace?” Why had she been afraid to solicit a compliment from him? But she supposed she knew the answer. She remembered how, as a little girl, she’d dressed up for her parents, hoping to hear words of approval, only to be criticized for being a showoff.

A sigh escaped her lips like a hiss of air from a punctured tire, the weary sound of something shrinking, flattening, losing shape and firmness, a sound that matched the way she felt inside. No longer hungry, but determined to finish her snack, she picked up the second-to-last wedge of the apple and raised it to her mouth, and then from somewhere in the room at her back, she heard a noise.

The noise was faint, so faint as to be nearly inaudible, yet she had no difficulty identifying it in an automatic, almost instinctual way. It was the sound a joint makes when cartilage snap-crackle-pops. The crick of a spine, perhaps, or ... or the creak of a knee.

A
human
sound.

Somebody is in here, she thought in slow, creeping horror. Somebody is … in the apartment ... with me.

But that was crazy. Insane. There was no way anyone could have gotten in. The door had been locked. There’d been no sign of forced entry. She had to get hold of herself.

Her hand closed over the cold glass of milk. She took a sip, tried to swallow, couldn’t.

Because she was thinking that, yes, the door had been locked when she’d left and locked when she returned—but locks could be picked, couldn’t they? A man could get in and shut the door behind him, and she would never know. Not until she heard the crackle of bones in the stillness of her living room.

Holding the glass in one hand, she sat motionless in her chair, listening. She heard no further sound. Which, of course, proved nothing. Nothing at all.

Suppose, she thought, now just suppose for the sake of argument that somebody really is in the apartment with me. Hiding. Crouching down, say, his knees getting stiff. Where would he be? In the hall closet? No. Closer than that. Somewhere in this room.

She tried to visualize the layout of the room at her back, but it was difficult; her mind seemed to have gone blank. She’d moved into this apartment five years ago, bought every stick of furniture in the place, spent nearly all of her free time here—yet at this moment she had no idea what the room looked like.

Of course she could see for herself, simply by turning in her chair. But she didn’t want to do that. Because all of a sudden she had the feeling that as long as she didn’t see whatever was there, it couldn’t hurt her. She was a child again, pulling the covers over her head so the monsters wouldn’t be real.

All right, Wendy, she ordered herself. Get it together.

She shut her eyes. She forced herself to construct a mental picture of her apartment.

She started with the front door. To the left of the door there was the doorway to the hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom. To the right, there was the kitchen, divided from the living room by a chest-high counter. Near the entrance to the kitchen was the table where she was now seated. Directly behind her, perhaps five yards from where she sat, was the sofa she’d gotten at Sears. It was flush with the wall; no way for anyone to hide behind it. In front of the sofa was a glass coffee table; it, too, was useless as a hiding place. And at the far end of the sofa, near the doorway to the hall, was her little reading nook: a floor lamp, the fake schefflera tree, and that big old armchair and ottoman she’d picked up at a garage sale and reupholstered ...

She drew a sharp breath.

Those two things—the potted plant and the chair—formed a kind of bracket, didn’t they? A man could conceal himself there, screened from view by the bulk of the chair and by the schefflera’s polyester leaves. Couldn’t he?
Couldn’t he?

Wendy shivered.

No, the hard, stolid voice of reason insisted. It’s absurd. And you’re going to prove to yourself just how nonsensical it is. Right now.

She put down the glass of milk with a loud, oddly reassuring clunk. Slowly, deliberately, she turned in her chair and stared at the other end of the room.

Nothing stirred. No one was there. No one she could see, anyway.

She considered getting up and looking behind the easy chair, then dismissed the idea. If somebody were there, why would he still be hiding? He would come out and get her, wouldn’t he? The whole thing made no sense. She was just overtired. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night.

Calm once more, mildly amused at herself, she ate the last of her apple, then washed it down with the milk. She was still thinking about how silly she’d been to overreact that way when she heard the noise again.

Crick.

Her lower lip began to tremble. She bit down on it, hard.

Old wood, she told herself. Old wood settling in for the night. That’s all it is. That’s all. Please. Let that be all it is.

As casually as possible, Wendy shifted her position in her chair, turning her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the other side of the room.

Her heart froze.

Because for a split second she’d
seen
something behind the armchair—a wisp of curly brown hair—the top of somebody’s head ducking quickly out of sight.

Oh, my God.

She turned back to the windows, trembling.

He
is
there, she told herself as panic rippled over her. He must have been there the whole time, ever since I got home. He’s been watching me, watching from behind the chair. For Jesus Christ’s sake, there’s a strange man in my living room and he’s hiding behind the fucking chair!

Okay, girl. Don’t lose it now. Don’t lose it.

With effort she stayed in control. Just barely.

She tried to determine her options. She could attempt to get into her bedroom and lock the door, then call the police. But suppose he heard her making the call and came after her. The bedroom door was only cheap plywood; anyone could break it down. Response time in this neighborhood was eight or nine minutes at least. Too long.

All right, then. She would make a run for it. Yes, even though she was wearing only pajamas and a robe. She would get out the front door and run, run like hell.

But she had to be smart about it. Had to act natural, con him into thinking she suspected nothing. In order to reach the front door she’d have to cross the living room, which meant she would pass right by the chair; if she betrayed any hint of what she knew, the man would pounce on her and bring her down, and then God only knew what he would do.

But if she could make it past the chair, then the front door would be less than five feet away. That would be the time to break into a run. All she’d have to do was get to the door, down the stairs, into the street. And scream. Scream for help. Yes. That was all.

But it sure was enough.

She took a breath. With studied nonchalance, she picked up her plate and her glass, carried them into the kitchen, and put them in the sink. To her astonishment she realized she was humming a melody—that old song, “Full Moon and Empty Arms,” which had been taken from the theme of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, hadn’t it? Now why would a tune like that have chosen this particular moment to pop into her head? The human mind sure was an amazing thing, yes, indeedy. Simply remarkable, what the old cerebral cortex could come up with to amuse itself in moments of extreme stress.

Nausea burned in her stomach. The back of her neck was icy; her forehead, feverish. She had the absurd impression that her heart had leaped out of her chest into her skull and was beating there; she could feel its hard steady rhythm against her temples, her jaw, the crown of her head, each beat a separate knock, shaking her body.

Still humming softly, she ran cold tapwater in the sink, banged her breakfast dishes around in a noisy pretense of washing and drying them, and shoved them into the kitchen cabinets. Then, prompted by a sudden thought, she picked up the knife she’d used to core and slice the apple, and hid it in the pocket of her robe.

Now for the hard part.

She tried to estimate how far it was to the front door. A good fifteen paces, she figured. All she had to do was cover that much distance, and she would be home free.

Heart pounding, she left the kitchen, keeping her face averted from the armchair and potted plant up ahead on her left. She could feel his eyes on her. Could sense his closeness, the closeness of a camouflaged jungle animal poised to spring for the kill.

She padded through the living room, still humming the tune, which in her ears had segued from a cheerful melody into a series of stifled screams. She was aware with preternatural alertness of every object she passed. The coffee table, its glass surface scattered with copies of
Elle
magazine. The sofa, still bearing the plastic slipcovers that had come with it. The end tables where ceramic lamps glowed, casting cones of yellow light over the bare white wall.

She wished she were not wearing her pajamas and robe. The bedtime clothes made her feel even more vulnerable, almost naked. Naked before him, exposed to his staring eyes.

The door was only six feet away. But closer still, there loomed the armchair. She wanted to veer around it, but if she did,
he
would know something was up. She forced herself to walk right by the chair, passing so close that the hem of her robe brushed its legs. Abruptly something cold and smooth touched the bare skin of her neck, and she was sure it was his hand reaching out for her—but no; it was only one of the schefflera’s plastic leaves. She hummed louder. The noise was maddening in her ears; it throbbed in time with the pulse of roaring blood.

Then—hallelujah—she’d gotten past the chair. The hallway was coming up on her left. He would expect her to turn down that hall. When she didn’t, he would know she was on to him, and he would strike.

She took a step toward the hall, and then with a burst of speed she raced for the front door.

Behind her she caught a flash of motion, and without even looking back she knew he’d sprung to his feet, bobbing up from behind the chair like a jack-in-the-box. She reached the door. Her hand fisted over the knob. She jerked it savagely. The door didn’t open. The dead bolt—oh, God—she must have thrown the dead bolt.

Behind her, footsteps. Closing in. Fast.

She drew the bolt and tried the knob again.

This time the door opened. She was going to make it. Going to make it—

At the edge of her vision, a blurred white shape. A sneaker lashing out in a kick. Thump of impact, rubber on wood. The door slammed shut.

Wendy grabbed the knob again, trying to turn it, to pull open the door and escape into the night just beyond her reach, and then suddenly two gloved hands flew past the sides of her face like brown bats, leather-winged and blood-spotted, and something threadlike and viciously sharp was looped around her neck, cutting into the tender skin, drawing blood.

“Let go of the door. Miss Wendy Alden,” a male voice whispered in her left ear, “and don’t make a sound.”

My name, she thought in cold shock. How does he know my name?

Slowly she released her grip on the doorknob. She let both hands fall to her sides, fingers splayed. She was unnaturally aware of the position of her body, her slippered feet planted wide apart on the floor, her back arched, her head leaning back under the pull of the sharp slender cord—a loop of wire, she realized—lashed around her throat.