Stitches in Time (25 page)

“We will. We're following several promising leads.” He hesitated, torn between professional discretion and personal feelings. “Rachel, I'm ninety percent certain he's out of the picture. Out of state, out of your life. On the run.”

“You've identified him?”

“Well…Not absolutely. But we've got a suspect who fits the criteria and there's an APB out on him. Some cop somewhere will pick him up sooner or later, and then we can get a positive ID. Tony agrees with me—”

“You've talked with Tony about this?”

“Sure. He calls at least once a day. So you can stop worrying. The guy is miles away by this time.”

“That's good news.”

“Keep it confidential, will you?”

“Of course,” Rachel said.

Tom beckoned the hovering waiter. “How about dessert? They make a great tiramisu.”

He was determined, so she accepted. The tiramisu was excellent; Tom was glad to finish hers. They were drinking coffee when the waiter sidled up to the table and informed Tom he was wanted on the phone.

“I thought you were off duty,” Rachel said, drawing the obvious and inevitable conclusion, not only from the interruption but from the change in his expression.

“Back in a minute.”

He was, looking even grimmer. “So much for my bril
liant deductions. Rachel, I hate to do this, but you'll have to come with me.”

“To the station?”

“To the shop. Your friend Adam just called the station. He caught someone trying to break in.”

Warned by the dogs, Adam had the door open when they
arrived. “It's okay,” he said, when Tom would have held Rachel back. His tone was mildly indignant. “I told you I had the situation under control.”

“You sure have.” Tom studied the figure that lay on the floor. Overlapping coils of clothesline were wrapped around it, and a long woolen scarf—one of Adam's, to judge by its frizzled appearance—covered the lower part of its face. At the sight of Rachel it began to thrash around, dislodging Patches, who had been trying to curl up on its stomach.

“Did you have to use quite so much rope?” Tom inquired.

“I didn't want to hurt him.”

“Considerate of you.”

“He was fighting dirty and I was getting mad,” Adam explained. “Then he started using vulgar language—”

“I see. Well, get that gag off so Rachel can have a look at him.”

“I know who he is,” Rachel said.

Adam yanked off the scarf, none too gently.

No man looks at his best in such a position, but if his face hadn't been so distorted by fury it would not have been unattractive. By conventional standards his features were better shaped than the comical conglomeration that occupied Adam's face. Funny, Rachel thought, with critical detachment, I used to think he was good-looking. It wasn't the bones and muscle and shape, it was the expression. Even when he smiled his eyes had been angry.

At the moment he was—with cause, she had to admit—extremely angry. Spitting out a mouthful of fuzz, he began to speak. After a while Tom said, “That's enough.”

“Enough, hell! I haven't even started—”

Tom didn't raise his voice. “I'm a police officer. If you have a complaint it will be heard at the proper time. Rachel, is this guy who he says he is?”

Rachel's face felt as if it were on fire. Choked with rage and wool threads though they had been, the adjectives directed at her had been only too intelligible.

“His name is Philip Marshall. He's a former—friend of mine.”

“Some friend,” said Adam. “Sneaking around the house, peering in the windows—”

“That will do,” Tom said wearily. “Untie him, Adam, and keep quiet. Mr. Marshall, let's hear your version of what happened.”

Rachel could see that Phil had been drinking, but he was sober enough to realize that further outbursts would damage his position. He claimed he had come to the door like any normal caller, asking for her, and that Adam had first insulted and then attacked him. Unfortunately his attempt at dignified self-control was slightly marred by Adam, who had refused to cut the ropes—“Why ruin a perfectly good piece of clothesline?”—and was circling him like a dancer around a maypole, coiling the clothes
line as he unwound it. Two of the cats followed him, pouncing on the dangling end. By the time he finished freeing his prisoner, Rachel's anger and embarrassment had been replaced by a wild desire to laugh, and Tom was having trouble controlling his mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Marshall,” he said, looking up from his notebook. “What do you have to say, Dr. Nugent?”

“It's a big fat lie from start to finish,” Adam said. “I heard the dogs and went out to see what was going on. Caught this guy on the front porch trying to see in the window.”

Rachel didn't doubt his version was the truth and Tom obviously shared her opinion, but after an exchange of denials and contradictions, he said wearily, “All right, enough. I can't hold him on anything, Adam, it's your word against his. Mr. Marshall, do you want to prefer charges?”

“I just want to get away from this hairy Neanderthal,” Phil growled. “Your tastes have certainly deteriorated, Rachel, but you've made your bed and if you choose to share it with—”

Adam took a step toward him and he scuttled out the door.

Adam closed it. “Well,” he said. “Uh. Did you have a nice time? What about a cup of coffee?”

Tom closed his notebook and stood up. “Thanks, but I'd better be going. Good night, Rachel.”

“Thank you for a lovely evening.” They shook hands while Adam beamed paternally.

After Tom had left, Adam became very busy, letting the dogs out, wiping the sink, sweeping the floor. Absently stroking the omnipresent Krazy Glue, Rachel watched him in silence. Eventually Adam ran out of chores. He replaced the broom and turned to face Rachel.

“Did you have—”

“Yes.”

“Look, I'm sorry about—”

“That's all right.”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” Rachel said. Getting mad at him was a waste of time. In some ways he was as naive as a child, in others as devious as an atheistic shaman. Even raging paranoia couldn't believe Adam had conjured up a presumed burglar as an excuse for getting her home early, but she was convinced he had known from the start who Phil was. It hadn't been necessary to call the police, or ask for Tom.

“I guess he won't be back,” Adam said.

“I hope not. This situation is complicated enough without him.”

“Yeah. Did you get any information out of Tom?”

“No.”

She had promised not to repeat Tom's reassurance, and although she wasn't “mad” at Adam, she was annoyed. Her annoyance increased when Adam said shrewdly, “There's been no sign of the Alleged for days. He's probably skipped town.”

“I hope so.”

“Which leaves us with only one remaining difficulty.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Adam ignored this. “And now we've got Kara on our side. She's an amazing woman, you know that? The way she put Pat in his place…You sure you don't want coffee or something? It's still early.”

“It certainly is.” How would the evening have ended, she wondered, if Phil hadn't turned up to disrupt it? Tom probably wouldn't have suggested they go to his place, not at this stage in a relationship which was in part professional, but he might not have considered a few friendly gestures unprofessional. She pictured them sitting in his car outside the house, with Tom's arm around her and his
mouth searching for hers—and a large shadowy shape hovering in the doorway. Or would Adam have trotted out to the car with cheerful greetings and hospitable offerings of food and drink?

She laughed involuntarily. “Oh, all right. Coffee.”

Adam's worried frown smoothed out. She watched him fill a cup and add a little milk—he already knew how she took her coffee, he didn't have to ask—acknowledging if only to herself that the comic relief Adam supplied had helped to maintain her mental balance. Who was it who said that sardonic laughter was a homeopathic protection against total disintegration? Or, to put it less pedantically, sometimes you have to laugh to keep from falling apart. Had Adam developed his lunatic habits as a means of protecting himself from emotional pressure, or was it the result of natural joie de vivre?

“You were looking at the quilt books,” she said, glancing at the stack on the table. “I don't suppose you found anything.”

“No. It was a waste of time, I guess. The only one I might recognize was the—what do you call it?”

“Album quilt,” Rachel said, resisting the temptation to suggest a more theatrical name. She began leafing through one of the books. “I'm not sure I would spot the others either. Especially the white on white; I've forgotten the details of the quilting.”

“You could ask Tom to check the old lady's bookshelf.”

“I didn't think of that.” Rachel thought about it. “Yes, why not? He wouldn't be breaking any rules by telling me the names of the quilt books she owned. I'll call him tomorrow.”

“Why not now?” He added blandly, “It's still early.”

Rachel was prepared to offer Tom a long complicated explanation for her interest in the books, but it wasn't necessary; he apparently saw nothing unreasonable about the
question. “Sure, I'll see if I can get around to it tomorrow. I'm glad you called, Rachel, I wanted to apologize—”

“There's no need for you to apologize,” Rachel murmured. “I'm sorry the evening ended as it did. I was having a lovely time.”

She looked at Adam, who gave her a broad, unrepentant grin.

“Me too,” Tom said. “Are you willing to give it another try?”

“Anytime.”

“Great. I'll call you tomorrow, then.”

“I'll look forward to it.”

“That was disgusting,” Adam said, as she returned the phone to its cradle. “You were purring like one of the cats.”

This time his light tone struck a false note. The repetition of the word
tomorrow
had made Rachel realize how little time they had. Another comment of Adam's came back to her with an urgency that might or might not have been coincidental.

“There's something I want to do before I go to bed,” she said. “I want you to help me. Watch me.”

“What?”

“Search the children's rooms.”

“I already did. While you were gone.” He gave her a reassuring nod. “Nothing.”

“I want to do it again. Now.”

Joe's room looked as she had left it and she was glad she had gotten rid of the encrusted glasses and scraps of food. They had had a particularly evil look. Adam's vigorous probing under the bed with a broom dislodged an overlooked soft drink can, but nothing suspicious turned up, in the drawers or the closet or under the furniture. At Rachel's insistence they stripped the bed and turned the mattress (she knew by Adam's guilty look he hadn't
thought of that). The copy of
Hustler
brought a smile to his face, but he replaced it without comment.

Megan's room took even longer. She had enough stuffed animals to equip a toy store, and Rachel made Adam squeeze each one of them from its furry head to its fuzzy legs. While he watched, she emptied the bureau drawers and inspected each miniature garment before replacing it. She probed the tiny shoes with her fingers, and checked the wooden toys for splinters and protruding nails. Megan's canopied bed looked like a wedding cake; smothered by ruffles, Rachel examined the legs and the supports of the box springs, shaking and tugging at them. She made Adam climb on a chair to inspect the frilly canopy and its frame.

“That wouldn't hurt her seriously even if it did fall down. It's too lightweight.” But he did as she asked.

“Now the closet.”

There were things at the back of Megan's closet that should not have been there. Rachel wondered whether Joe was still looking for his fielder's mitt; it was now serving as a mattress for plastic figures of six of the Seven Dwarfs. A pair of glittery evening pumps must be Cheryl's, and other souvenirs testified to Megan's affection for the remaining members of her family.

By the time they finished it was two
A.M
. and Rachel was shaking with fatigue and nerves. “No more tonight,” Adam said firmly. “We'll do Jerry's room tomorrow.”

“All right.” But she stood still in the middle of the room and closed her eyes, reaching in toward the dark, closed-off place in her mind with a mental probe as emphatic as the physical probes she had employed earlier. There was nothing, not even a psychic wall—only emptiness and withdrawal and the faintest, vaguest impression of…

“Rachel.” Adam's voice, low and urgent, pulled her back to reality before she could identify what she had felt.
“Was there a particular reason why you wanted to do this tonight?”

“I…” Rachel rubbed her aching forehead. “I remembered what you said. About Medea.”

“Son of a bitch.” The words exploded out of him. “Me, I mean. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

“I would have thought of it sooner or later. I was going to mention her in my dissertation. The gown she sent her successful rival was embroidered as well as poisoned—poisoned by magic, by the curses she wove and sewed into it. But the revenge she took on her faithless husband was worse. Destroying his children—her children—”

“Stop it, Rachel. There's no parallel between the two cases. None at all. It isn't Tony you—she—”

“Whoever,” Rachel said wearily. “I don't want to hurt any of them. But if I did want to inflict pain on a woman I hated, what more effective revenge could there be than striking at her children? If I were that demented, I wouldn't care who else was hurt.”

 

When Rachel opened her door the next morning, Adam was still asleep. She would have tripped over him if she had not expected he would be there.

He was sleeping so soundly that he had not heard her alarm. She had set it because she didn't want Kara to find her still in bed, and she feared she might oversleep. It had taken her some time to fall asleep; lying open-eyed in the dark she had mentally searched the rooms again and again, wondering what she might have overlooked. How could she possibly allow the children to occupy those rooms again, if there was the slightest chance of danger?

Adam must have lain awake too. He had been even more disturbed than she by what she had said, and he was too intelligent and too honest to deny the possibility that
she had been right. His breathing was deep and even, but he looked uncomfortable, probably because there was a cat on either side of him and a third on his chest. The effect of this, in the shadowy light of early morning, was to make it appear that his beard had grown a foot longer overnight. Rachel had developed a violent antagonism toward that beard; it was almost impossible to know what Adam was thinking when every feature except his nose was covered with hair. That was probably why he had grown the damned thing, so he could hide behind it.

She stepped over him and headed for the bathroom, followed by the cats. They were vocally annoyed when she refused to be herded toward the stairs. Their complaints woke Adam; when she came out of the bathroom he and the sleeping bag were gone.

But when she stopped on her way downstairs to try the door of Megan's room, she heard his door open.