Stranger in the House (23 page)

Maybe he had seen the car, and the hood ornament had made an impression on him, she reasoned. But that would not explain why it frightened him so or why the dream recurred. She felt her breath growing short as she stared at the bird. She wanted to get out of the garage before Edward realized she was there. She was loath to deal with him again. She needed to get home and think about the impressions which seemed to be colliding in her mind. She started back around the car, admiring, in spite of herself, its glossy finish. Just as she passed the windshield, she noticed a piece of paper stuck under one windshield wiper. The letters
LaG
jumped off the paper in the gloom and caught her eye. Carefully she reached over the hood and extracted the slip from under the wiper blade.

The paper in her fingers was a receipt for parking, with the number of a space on it, for a parking garage at LaGuardia Airport. It was timed and dated that morning.

Anna’s knees started to buckle as she stared at it. She willed herself to stand up, to recover from the fainting feeling that came over her as she crushed the paper in her hand.

In a few moments she thought she could walk. She hurried toward the side door of the garage, which she had pulled shut behind her as she came in. There was light coming through the windowpanes on the door, and she kept her eyes on the light as she stumbled toward the door.

She turned the knob and pushed it open. A force from the other side jerked the door back, and Anna fell forward. She looked up into the unblinking eyes of Edward Stewart.

For a moment she stared at the white, fine-boned face that was contorted with anger. Then she began to stammer. “I was just looking for something…”

“What have you got there?” he said, reaching for the paper clenched in her hand.

“Nothing,” she protested, trying to lift it away from him. But he was too quick. He grasped her hand, and unclenched her fingers. His light complexion grew even paler as he recognized the parking ticket.

“Careless,” he said in a gloomy tone.

Recognizing the danger, Anna tried to get past him, to reach the door. His hand shot out and grabbed her by the jaw. She felt her teeth crack together, and there was a clicking sound as if the bone were separating from her skull. The force of his grip lifted her off the cement floor, and then he tossed her back inside the garage. She landed on her hands and knees, on the concrete, and cracked into the side of the Cadillac. She felt the skin tear from her palms and her kneecaps. A foot came down on her back from behind. Anna lifted her head and cried out.

She heard Edward growl like an animal above her; then something sharp and hard caught her in the temple, and she passed out.

B
uddy Ferraro took a sip from his plastic glass filled with pink punch topped by a disintegrating grapefruit section and gently nudged his wife with his elbow. “Look at Mr. Popularity,” he said, nodding toward his son, who was huddled with a group of boys across the reception room crowded with freshmen and their parents in the student union.

Sandy gazed wistfully at her eldest son and sighed. “He seems to like it here,” she said.

“He’d better like it here if he knows what’s good for him,” Buddy said gruffly. “At these prices.”

Sandy smiled and slipped her arm through her husband’s. “I’m going to miss having him around the house.”

“Yeah, me, too,” said Buddy. “I’ll miss him swiping my razor, and leaving his dirty socks all over the bathroom floor, and his girlfriends calling and waking me up at midnight.”

Sandy pressed her lips together in a shaky smile. “Seems like a long time until Thanksgiving,” she said.

Buddy quickly looked in all directions and gave her a peck on the forehead. She squeezed her husband’s hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back to the hotel and take a nap before this dinner tonight. He doesn’t need us.”

Sandy raised an eyebrow at him, but she did not resist as her husband edged her toward the cluster of students where their son was standing.

“Hey, son,” said Buddy, “your mother and I are going to take off for a while.”

Mark tore his gaze away from a pretty blonde girl who had joined the group and was tossing her hair. “Oh, okay, Dad.”

“We’ll meet you at the dorm tonight at six thirty for the dinner.”

“Okay,” said Mark. “See you then.” He and his new schoolmates returned to their conversation as Buddy steered Sandy toward the door, smiling at the various relaxed-looking faculty members and the pairs of nervous, correctly dressed parents.

“That kid can’t wait to get rid of us,” said Buddy, as they left the student union and began to stroll across the campus toward the hotel on the other side of the street.

“I know,” said Sandy sadly. Then, after a pause, she smiled. “I guess that’s good, huh?”

Buddy nodded. They walked in silence toward the cobbled walkway to the hotel lobby.

“Mr. Ferraro,” the desk clerk called out as they passed through the lobby.

Buddy looked over at him in surprise. The clerk held up a slip of paper. “There’s a message here for you.”

Buddy excused himself from his wife and walked over to the desk. Sandy thumbed through a blue folder that she found on one of the tables in the lobby. On the cover of the folder was a picture of the campus in fall, with students scuffling through the leaves and laughing as they passed a handsome old classroom building.

She looked up to see Buddy standing by the desk with a grim look on his face. “What’s the matter?” she asked, walking over to him.

Buddy shook his head. “That was from Marian at the station. She called to tell me that Paul Lange has been reported missing. She figured I would want to know.”

“Oh, no,” Sandy said. “How is that possible?”

“Listen, honey,” he said, “I’m going to have to go back right away. I’m sorry.”

“But what happened?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Buddy. “But I knew something wasn’t right.” He crushed the message slip in his hands. “I’m afraid for that boy, Sandy.”

Anna came to in the darkness, her head throbbing, her limbs stiff and painful. She tried to move her arms to rub her eyes and realized, through a groggy haze, that her hands were tied behind her and her feet were bound at the ankles. Her aching head rested on a cold stone floor. Her tongue felt like a lead weight in her mouth as she tried to maneuver it over her dry lips. For a moment she was tempted to slip back into the relative painlessness of an unconscious state. Scattered thoughts flickered and disappeared in her mind, and she was aware only of the pain and a desire to sleep.

Forcing herself to keep her eyes open, she gazed dully around her prison. The cold floor and the darkness led her to think she was still in the garage, and she was further disoriented when she saw that she was not. The piles of wood and pieces of boats confused her at first. It required all her concentration to tally her surroundings and finally understand that she must be in the windmill.

The recognition of Edward’s workroom brought back, with full force, her confrontation with him in the garage. Panic gripped her by the throat as she remembered. She gritted her teeth and waited for it to pass. Edward had done this to her. Everything familiar had suddenly been turned upside down. For one second she wondered if this was some kind of misguided practical joke. Then she remembered the parking ticket on his windshield and knew for a certainty that it was not.

A low moan from the loft above her startled her clouded senses into total alertness. In an instant she remembered why she was here.

“Paul,” she cried. Her voice came out in a whispered croak. She did not dare yell, even if she could, for fear that their captor might be just outside. “Paul, is that you?”

“I’m up here,” he said in a weak voice. She heard him make a thrashing motion, and a cardboard box and two pieces of plywood sailed off the edge of the loft and crashed to the floor.

Anna grimaced at the crash. “Don’t, don’t,” she called out. “Stay quiet. Don’t get near the edge of that thing. You’ll fall over.”

The thrashing sounds subsided, and then Anna heard a groan that caused her more pain than all her bonds. “Are you all right?” she cried. “Did he hurt you?”

He groaned again, and his voice was weak but steady. “I guess I’m all right,” he said.

“Thank God,” she said.

“He put a gag in my mouth, but I worked it off against my shoulder,” Paul said. “He tied me up. I can’t move too well. Let’s start screaming. Maybe someone will come.”

“I’m afraid the only one who’ll come is…is him. Paul,” she said, “how did he get you here?”

“He tricked me into getting into his car at the airport. He told me…he said my…father was in the hospital. Then he brought me here.”

A sickening thought made Anna tremble. “He didn’t do anything…you know…molest you…” she whispered.

“No, not that,” said the boy emphatically.

Anna felt relief at this denial. There was no reasonable explanation. “He’s gone mad,” she said.

“No,” said the boy calmly. “He was afraid I’d remember him. And finally I did.” He tried to laugh, but a sob caught him short. “A little late, I guess.”

Anna shifted her aching body and stared at the floorboards of the loft above her. “Remember him?” She felt the confusion overtaking her again, like spots before her eyes.

“Yeah, from that day. Back then.”

“What, darling? I don’t know what you mean.”

“I finally remembered today, when I saw the car, just before he knocked me out. I’ve been dreaming of it ever since I came back here. But today it came back to me. I got hit by a car. I must have been playing by the road. I got hit by a black car with an eagle on it.”

“The eagle,” she said, knowing now that she had been right about it. “Edward’s car.”

“And then he was there, bending over me.”

“You can remember that?” said Anna.

“Yeah. I was only little. I guess it hurt. I don’t remember. I guess it did. I was lying in the grass by the road, and I couldn’t move. And he was there. I was scared. That I do know. And I was reaching up to him. I knew him, and I thought he came to help me. I reached up, and I think I was crying. And then he picked me up, and he started to carry me.”

“Paul, are you sure this really happened? You were never hit by a car, that I know of. Never. I would have known. Are you saying that Edward hit you in his car? It’s impossible.”

“Yes. He hit me, and then he got out and picked me up.”

“But I would have known that. If you had been injured, I would have known. And you never played alone near the road. You were only a small child.”

“He picked me up, and he carried me a little ways, and then he put me down again.” Paul’s voice was dull and matter-of-fact. “In the highway. He put me down in the highway. And then he left me there. I remembered it today,”

Anna lay rigid on the floor, visualizing the scene her son described. For a moment she could not speak. Then her voice came out in a whisper. “He left you…in the highway.”

“Someone came and picked me up. Someone I didn’t know. I think it was my…you know…Rambo, my father. Only he was a stranger then. He picked me up and carried me off the highway.”

For a few moments the windmill was silent, save for the sounds of their breathing. The boy was quiet, relieved of his story.

It took Anna a few minutes to absorb what she had heard and to understand its truth. Suddenly her body began to shake with a violence so fierce it seemed that the ground must be trembling beneath her.

“He did that to you,” she said. It made sense to her now. This man, her neighbor, had hit her son by accident and then left the child in the road to die. Moved him, so that his death would not be left to chance. For a few intense moments Anna knew what it was to want to kill. With electrifying clarity she realized that she could plunge a knife into Edward Stewart’s heart without remorse. Without pity. She closed her eyes as the murderous rage engulfed her helpless body, and then she began to breathe again as slowly it subsided. When the anger passed over her, like the angel of death, she was left with only an intense pity that brought tears to her eyes as she pictured her child, helpless in that open roadway. For a moment she blessed Albert Rambo with her entire being for rescuing her son from a certain death.

Anna began to inhale deeply, trying to will herself to be calm. She had to think of a way out of here. She and Paul had to survive this torture. That was what was important now. She did not have energy to spare on hatred. She needed her wits to get them free. And then, then she would see Edward Stewart punished for what he had done.

She counted backward to herself, slowly, trying to focus on something other than the vision of her child in the road, left to die by a “friend.” Her mind refused to release the image. Then she heard Paul moan again from the loft above. She reminded herself of how scared he must be. Finally she found her voice. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll get out of this. I won’t ever let him hurt you again.”

Paul was quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “What’ll we do?”

In his voice was the innocent trust of a child, turning to his mother for the answer. And although she did not know the answer, his trust made her feel strong, made her sure that she could find it. “We’ll get out of here,” she said.

But as her defiant promise hung in the air, the door to the windmill opened, and Edward Stewart appeared. He was carrying a large suitcase. Anna stared at him, her loathing for him oozing from her body like sweat. Edward did not speak but turned on one small wall lamp and set down his valise. He began to search through the built-in cabinets. On one of the shelves he located an electric hot plate with one burner. He removed it and closed the cabinet door, then placed the hot plate on the workbench.

The sight of Edward’s face made Anna’s stomach churn with revulsion, but she understood the helplessness of her position. She kept her voice calm and steady as she spoke.

“Edward, untie these bonds and let us out of here. This has gone on long enough.”

“Please don’t speak to me, Anna.”

“Be reasonable,” she said coldly, “and stop this before it goes any further. Before you know it, people are going to be looking for us. This property is the first place they’ll look.”

Without answering her, Edward began pulling out drawers and emptying them on the floor, scattering papers and parts of boats around the room. Then he collected a bunch of rags that were in a bag on a workbench. They were stiff and stained with varnishes and turpentine. He examined them for a moment and then put them together in a pile. “By the time they find you,” he said, “it won’t matter.”

“As soon as Thomas or Tracy gets home, they’re going to come right over here and look for us. What are you planning to do? Take us away somewhere?” Anna asked.

“No,” he said, “you’re not going anywhere.” He opened the suitcase he had been carrying and laid it on the trash-covered floor. He began to select the models which were finished, or partially finished, and load them into the valise. He was only able to fit about three boats into the bag. With a sigh he snapped it shut.

Anna watched him in fascination as he tested the weight of the suitcase. She thought she understood and felt a momentary relief. He only wanted a head start on getting away. She could not resist tormenting him. “What’s the point of running?” she said. “You’ll get caught in the end.”

For the first time Edward looked at her incredulously. Then he started to laugh. It was a hollow laugh, over as soon as it began. “Oh, heavens,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to the club for dinner. No, no. I simply wanted to rescue some of these from the fire.”

Anna’s and Edward’s eyes locked for a moment. At first she could not comprehend what he was saying. And then she recognized, in his steely gaze, the calm determination of one who had made an irrevocable decision. “The fire,” Anna repeated.

Edward nodded and began to pile together some papers that crinkled. “I had planned to dispose of the boy somewhere else. But then you got involved, and it all became too complicated. So I thought it over and decided that the best solution was for a tragic accident to occur right here, while I was away from the house, of course.”

“You wouldn’t,” Anna said.

“There’s no one in the vicinity to alert the fire department. At least not before it’s too late. I suspect you’re right, that your husband or your daughter will eventually come looking for you and will find…what’s left of you. Forgive me, that was crude.”

Edward stepped over to the workbench and lifted the hot plate. He turned and looked at her, holding the hot plate awkwardly under one arm. “You shouldn’t have interfered with my plan, Anna.” He placed the hot plate on a low bench and plugged it into a socket on the wall. Then he picked up the pile of rags which he had collected. He carefully distributed them and the newspapers around the hot plate, with one corner of a rag overlapping the ring of the burner. “There,” he said. “That will heat up and start to catch.”