Stitches In Time (39 page)

Rachel turned to the mirror over the mantel. She had braided her hair that morning; the thick, shining rope
hung down over her shoulder, emphasizing the curve of the fabric across her breasts and ribs. The tightly gathered skirt belled out becomingly as she pivoted.

"Sweet and simple," she repeated. "
I
don't know that this is the look I'm after, Kara. It is well cut, though."

"You look adorable." Kara's grin indicated that she knew Rachel wouldn't appreciate the compliment. "Fits like a glove, too. Yes, she was an excellent seamstress. There are no darts in that bodice, she used six separate pieces of—oh, damn!"

A soprano howl from Poiret made her start and spill the wine she was pouring. The other dog added his deeper tones. Kara cursed them both. Rachel was about to point out that they probably wanted in out of the rain when something happened to prove her wrong. The door to the hall opened.

She hadn't heard footsteps. He had taken care that neither of them would hear him.

His hand still on the knob, ready to retreat, he looked quickly and apprehensively around the room, though he must have known from the barking that the dogs were outside. He must have waited till they were outside. He had been drinking, not enough to blur his speech or make his steps unsteady, just enough to give him false courage. Rachel knew the signs. Shocked into paralyzed silence, she watched his hunched shoulders relax, saw a smile replace his worried frown when he saw they were alone.

"Hello, ladies. Yes, thanks, I will join you in a glass of wine."

"How did you get in?" Rachel gasped.

"Bedroom window." Phil gestured. "Nice place you have here, Mrs. Brinckley. Now why don't you go sit over there in the corner while Rachel and I have a little chat? I'd suggest you leave the room, but I don't trust you not to
telephone the police. That would be foolish. We don't want them."

"Get out," Kara said.

"How rude." The wrinkles framing his mouth deepened. "Don't be afraid, Mrs. Brinckley, I'm not going to hurt you. Or Rachel. I just want to talk to her. She's behaved rather badly, but I'm willing to give her another chance. That dress suits you, Rachel; you look demure and feminine and sweetly simple-minded, the way a woman is supposed to look."

"It was you upstairs," Rachel said. She was still afraid, but not for herself.

"I've been all over the house," Phil said complacently. "Found your room, Rachel; it's a nice room, much more comfortable than your old one. You landed on your feet with this move, didn't you? Nice room, nice rich influential friends—"

"What have you done to Adam?"

"Nothing. Oh, I came prepared to deal with him—he owes me satisfaction, don't you think?—but your hero isn't here. How do you suppose I got in that window? I saw him leave the house before I tried it."

Rachel noted the blatant contradictions, the macho bragging and the cautious cowardice, but she was too stunned to comment on them. "Adam isn't here?"

Kara's eyes narrowed. "We don't need Adam," she said. Rachel looked at her. Kara's eyes met hers, and then rolled sideways. A slight jerk of the head accompanied the eye movement.

"Right," Rachel said. She wasn't sure what Kara intended to do, but the meaning of the gesture had been clear: move toward him, distract him, get him to turn.

At least I'm dressed for it, Rachel thought, with a coolness she would marvel at later. Sweet and demure
and—what was the word Kara had used? Adorable. Nonthreatening. Her skirts swayed as she walked slowly into the center of the room, and Phil swiveled, his eyes hard and bright. He was reaching for her when Kara picked up the heavy wooden cutting board from the counter and brought it down on his head.

The two women stared at the sprawled body. When Rachel spoke, she had to raise her voice to be heard over the indignant barking of the dogs.

"My hero."

"You weren't so bad yourself," Kara said. She tossed the board onto the counter. "Hitting him was no trouble at all, I enjoyed it. Yours was the dirty part of the job."

"Not really. I knew you'd stop him, somehow."

"Thanks," Kara said simply.

"Thank
you.
Shall I call the police?"

"Why go to all that trouble? It's late and I'm tired. Wake him up and get him out of here." She filled a glass with water and was about to dump it onto the face of the fallen man when she paused. "Wait a minute. Did you say he carries a gun?"

"I don't think he carries it."

"Hold this." She handed Rachel the glass and calmly investigated Phil's jacket pockets. "Looks like you were wrong," she said, straightening.

"My God."

"I doubt he'd have used it," Kara mused. "Carrying it made him feel big and brave and macho."

"I'm going to let the dogs in."

"I'll do it. They'll shake themselves all over that dress."

Directed by Kara, the dogs were happy to assist in the resuscitation of Phil. When he started to stir and groan, Kara shoved them out of the way and finished the job with a glass of cold water.

"Get up," she ordered. "And pay close attention."

Propped against the door, spattered with muddy water, his eyes rolling from the gun Kara held to the attentive dogs, Phil listened.

"This is your last chance," Kara finished. "You show your face around here, or within a hundred yards of Rachel, once more and I'll have you locked up for life. Don't think
I
can't do it. You've got exactly sixty seconds to get to your car before I set the dogs on you. One— two—"

After he had stumbled out, Rachel closed and bolted the door. Kara dropped limply into a chair. She was still holding the gun; realizing this, she placed it carefully on the table. Her hands were shaking.

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked anxiously. "You were so cool, I didn't think—"

"Yeah, I'm all right. Reaction." Kara covered her face with her hands, shook herself, and then smiled. "Wow. I was so mad I didn't realize how scared I was. How about some wine for us heroes?"

"We deserve it. Just wait till I see Adam," Rachel said furiously. "I'll give him some wine too—the whole bottle, on the top of his thick skull. Fine protector he turned out to be, sneaking out without a word. Where could he have gone?"

They found Adam's note on the floor under the table. One corner had been chewed, presumably by Figgin, who was willing to taste anything, but it was still readable and it was, for Adam, positively wordy. "Had to run an errand. I won't be long. You'll be all right. Keep the dogs in. I'm sorry, but this is absolutely necessary. All that rain. I'll be back soon. By midnight at the latest."

But midnight came and went and Adam had not returned.

They didn't wait up for him. Not exactly. But when
Rachel went to bed she left her door open, and started from light, uneasy slumber whenever she heard a noise. Some of the noises came from Kara, who was doing what Rachel had done—going to the window or the door in the hope of seeing the wanderer return.

Kara had refused to move to one of the upstairs bedrooms, despite the fact that it had been her window Phil had used as a means of entry. "I forgot to close and lock it this morning," she admitted. "Careless of me. I won't make that mistake again."

"And besides," Rachel had said, with only a hint of sarcasm, "you have Alexander."

Alexander was still wandering aimlessly around the room sniffing and bumping into things. Occasionally he gummed a chair leg out of pure frustration; he couldn't believe the owner of the new, interesting smell had gotten away from him.

"I'm glad Phil didn't hurt him," Rachel added, more charitably.

"He probably didn't even notice him." Kara picked the
dog up. "If Alexander is asleep it takes him a while to pull himself together and get moving."

"You aren't going to take him out, are you?"

"Not me. I've had enough excitement for one night. If a shadow moved out there I'd drop in my tracks. Anyhow, it's easier to mop up a puddle than dry a soggy, muddy dog. I guess we should roll up the rugs and spread some newspapers on the floor."

Since the scatter rugs were antiques, hooked or braided, Rachel agreed that they should.

"I told Cherry she was crazy to put these things here," Kara grumbled as they piled the rugs on top of the blanket chest. "It's a wonder Tony didn't break his neck."

"She wanted the room to look pretty for him."

"I know." Kara sighed. "Why are nice, decent people so stupid about the ones they love the best? Doing the wrong things, saying the wrong things, hurting one another, and always with the best of intentions ... He does love her, you know. And even if he didn't, he'd never leave her and the kids."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"Just thought I'd mention it. Oh, for God's sake, go to bed. And don't worry about Adam, that beat-up old wreck of yours has probably broken down somewhere and he can't find a phone or a tow truck."

Rachel went. In addition to Alexander, Kara had the gun, which would be a good deal more useful in a case of real emergency. Rachel wondered whether she would actually fire it even if a brace of burglars appeared in the room. She hadn't needed a gun to handle Phil.

Earlier they had investigated the upstairs apartment together, fearing Phil might have left some unpleasant memento. They found nothing out of the way until Rachel opened her closet door and saw the pink peignoir lying crushed on the floor.

"Your mother must have paid a pretty penny for it," Kara said, after Rachel had explained its origin and restored it to the hanger from which it had . . . fallen? The possibility that Phil might have handled it, thrown it on the floor in a perverse fit of rage or jealousy, made her skin crawl.

The gun had not been fired. Rachel kept telling herself that as she lay awake, listening. She hadn't mentioned that particular nightmare to Kara because she knew it was ridiculous. Adam wasn't lying dead on the street, with the rain beating down on his open eyes. The gun had not been fired. They would have heard a shot. Her car was gone, he hadn't returned.

Where could he have gone? The errand must have been important or he wouldn't have behaved so irresponsibly— though she had to admit that Adam's definition of important might not be the same as hers. A list of possibilities, some logical, some wildly fantastical, circled endlessly through her mind. A secret conference with Pat? Surely not. Adam wouldn't have to leave the house, they could talk on the phone. Another meeting of the witches, or a private consultation with Stargazer? He had taken so much kidding on that subject he might be embarrassed to admit resorting to Wicca . . . but he had said he'd be back by midnight. A shopping trip, for more magical supplies? There were all-night drugstores and markets . . . but he'd have been back by this time, he wouldn't chase all over the county late at night trying to track down something stupid like purple candles or esoteric herbs.

There are other things. Things that don't come from stores.

The inner voice might have been hers or the voice of That Other. They shared the same knowledge. Graveyard dirt, coffin nails, other ingredients even more obscene . . . They were obtainable, if one knew where to look. Adam knew. "Plenty of them around here," he had said. Thanks
to the advice in the book from which he had read to her, he also knew what equipment he would need—ropes, flashlights, pliers, shovels—and a sweatband. "Digging is hard work." He had said that too. The author of the book had recommended taking several friends along, but Adam wouldn't—couldn't—involve anyone else. He was strong enough to do the job alone. Or so he would believe.

Rachel got up and tiptoed to the front window. The rain fell harder now, a solid veil of transparency through which she saw no moving object. It was a quarter past two in the morning.

She slept, finally, out of sheer exhaustion—a troubled sleep shot with disturbing dreams. When she woke, nudged into consciousness by a cold nose in her face, sunlight lay bright across the bed and the massive bulk of Figgin lay heavy across her chest.

Then she remembered and shot out of bed, dumping Figgin unceremoniously onto the floor and moving so fast his lunge at her bare ankle missed.

Adam's bed had not been slept in. Rachel scrambled into jeans and shirt and headed down the stairs, without brushing her teeth or washing her face.

Adam wasn't in the family room either. Stretched out on the couch, coffee in hand, Kara was watching the news. Normally she didn't do that. Rachel knew why she was doing it this morning.

"Anything?"

"No." Kara waved the remote at the set, which went black. "I've watched the same local news twice. Not that I expected anything had happened."

"Yeah, right. I'm calling the police, Kara."

"Let's discuss it first. Now, Rachel, another five minutes won't matter. Have some coffee. I agree, I completely agree, we must notify someone. The only question is, who?"

"The police." Rachel reached for a cup.

"What police? The station? You tell the typical sergeant your boyfriend has been out all night and he'll giggle behind his hand. Tom? Maybe. If we can locate him. But I'm not sure Adam would thank us for dragging him into it. I'd rather talk to Pat first."

"Pat," Rachel repeated. "He's not a policeman."

"Drink your coffee," Kara said, trying not to smile. "I'm not taking this lightly, believe me, but I'm sure Adam is all right. If he had had a serious accident it would have been on TV. The local news broadcasts adore car crashes."

"It might not have been a car accident. If he went somewhere isolated and remote—it was dark, not even starlight—the rain pouring down—muddy and slippery underfoot—if he fell..."

"Dark and muddy?" Kara's level brow furrowed. "What sort of place did you have in mind? Have you remembered something?"

"No." The idea was insane, the product of worry and fevered imagination.

Kara's forehead smoothed out. "Men do this sort of thing, you know. Mark has done it to me, every husband and every son has done it to some poor damned worrying woman. When they finally turn up they get all wide-eyed and indignant when you scream at them. They couldn't find a phone or they didn't have a quarter or they didn't want to wake you in the middle of the night."

"Yeah, right," Rachel repeated. "When I get my hands on him ..."

"Good. Normal reaction. Even if we convince the cops there is cause for alarm they won't have the faintest idea where to begin looking for him. Pat will be here pretty soon. If he doesn't know where Adam went—and it wouldn't surprise me to learn they were in cahoots—he may be able to hazard an educated guess. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Rachel said. "Right."

"Go wash your face."

Rachel had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the dogs. Pat was early. Or could it be ... She scrambled into her clothes and went running downstairs, her hair flying out behind her.

It wasn't Adam. She could hear Pat's voice, raised in a shout. When she reached the family room she saw that Ruth was there too. The older woman's smile and outstretched hands were eloquent, but she was unable to express her sentiments because Pat was still bellowing.

"No, dammit, I haven't the ghost of an idea where he might have gone. Some wild goose chase, I suppose. He has no goddamn business chasing off on his own without consulting me! So help me, I'll tear his head off when he shows up. Of all the stupid, useless—"

"Shut up," Rachel said. She didn't raise her voice, but Pat stopped talking and stared at her in astonishment.

"We waited for you because Kara thought you might have a sensible suggestion," she went on cuttingly. "I might have known you'd just yell. I'm going to call the police, as I should have done a long time ago."

Pat gave her a malevolent look. Before he could reply, Ruth said, "We must do that, certainly. But first—have you looked in his room to see what he might have taken with him? Did he say or do anything last evening that would indicate where he might have gone?"

"A sensible suggestion at last," Kara said. "No, we didn't look. We had a busy night."

"You certainly did," Pat muttered. "Why didn't you call the police then? Oh, hell, this is no time for Monday morning quarterbacking. That little encounter can't have any bearing on Adam's disappearance; he had gone before Whatsisname entered the house."

Ruth looked troubled. "If he was angry enough to lie in wait for Adam ..."

"Not without his gun," Pat said contemptuously. "He wouldn't tackle Adam barehanded. Anyhow, the car's not here. Come on, girls, think. Adam must have said something; reticent he ain't."

"He kept mumbling about the change in the weather," Rachel said. "It seemed to bother him." Rain on untrimmed grass and weeds, water trickling down in the excavation, turning dirt to gluey mud . . . This time the grisly image would not be dispelled: Adam facedown and motionless in the hole he had dug, mud blocking his mouth and nose, water rising around him. She was about to speak when the dogs rose and hurled themselves howling at the door.

No one else moved. When the door opened four pairs of eyes focused on the unspeakable object on the threshold.

His face and hands were clean, scrubbed pink as those of a baby, and he had made some effort to smooth his hair. Every other part of him, shoes, pants, jacket, was covered with a layer of dried mud that reminded Rachel horribly of the gray film on the quilt. Her pent breath went out in a gasp that seemed to empty not only her lungs but her entire body.

Pat was the first to move, and Rachel realized he had been more concerned than he had admitted. Grabbing Adam by the shoulders, he shook him violently. Flakes of mud rained onto the floor.

After a few incoherent epithets, Pat got to the point. "Where the hell have you been?"

"In jail," Adam said. It seemed to dawn on him, somewhat tardily, that he was in disfavor. Looking at Rachel, he inquired hopefully, "Were you worried about me?"