The Kills (42 page)

"Of
course," I said, embarrassed about forgetting how these self-sufficient
islanders were cut off from all normal services whenever Mother Nature got
angry.

I was
back in the house at eight-thirty, and tried to find Jake, to apologize. Voice
mail answered at his home, his cell phone, and the office. Maybe he was
mimicking my habit of screening calls, or maybe he was paying me back for last
night. Could he have really thought I was keeping him away because I was
settled in here with someone else?

"Hey,
it's me. Horatio Hornblower," I told his recorded message. Jake loved to
make fun of my bright yellow foul-weather gear, and here I was pulling the
rubberized hood back up over my head to go out and haul the deck furniture into
the barn. "Call me when you get a chance, okay? I'm trying to hunker down
for the storm. Miss you."

I went
through the old summer kitchen, refitted as an office, and out the side
entrance that led to the sheep barn, built more than a century ago. I pulled
open the door and surveyed the space. The Gravely and mower took up a third of
it, while the workbench and Adam's antique tool collection stretched along two
complete walls. I shuffled around some of the gardening equipment to make room
for everything that needed to come inside.

I spent
the next two hours ferrying recliners, chairs, and tables from the rear decks
around the building into the barn. I had been here for too many storms to risk
chancing the results of Hurricane Gretchen's fury-chairs lifted and blown
hundreds of yards away, and tables hurled against the side of the house,
shattering windows and spreading glass all over the interior floors.

At eleven
o'clock, I paused to make a cup of hot chocolate and sit at the kitchen table
to dry out and listen to the radio. The marine forecast issued alerts for
gale-force winds, and news bulletins tracked the eye of the storm as it
buffeted the Connecticut coastline. Flooding and downed electrical lines had
already caused five deaths in the New York area.

I put my
slicker on again and circled the property for a last check. The wind was
picking up, and I walked down to the edge of the wildflower field to recover
the bird feeders. The last cosmos that stood amid the elephant grass were
losing their heads to the elements, and the rain swept away small flecks of
white and fuchsia petals.

My
caretaker's cottage, beyond the rise at the foot of the hill, looked snug and
tight. It was two small rooms, an old Menemsha fisherman's shack that once
stood on the dock and had been moved up here in the sixties, before Adam and I
bought the place. Now charmingly redecorated, it was home to an islander who
maintained the property for me in exchange for a year-round residence.

Back
inside, I hung up the rain jacket on a hook, stepped out of my boots, and
changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I tried again to find Jake, with no better
luck, and decided against leaving more messages.

A fresh
cord of dry firewood was stacked in the bin beside the rear door, and another
neat pile was in the fireplace, ready to be lighted. I knelt on the granite
hearth and placed a match against the thin pine starters beneath the sturdy
logs, watching the flames take and spread. I was ready to give up rock and roll
in favor of some Beethoven piano concerti, music that I hoped would soothe and
calm me.

Now the
wind howled at the top of the chimney, drawing up the smoke and carrying it
away. I stood and looked outside, watching the tall evergreens bend and sway
with the pounding gusts that swept the hilltop.

The rolls
of tape were in the kitchen, and I made the rounds of the rooms, standing on a
chair to place
X
's across the
glass, corner to corner, on each of the enormous panes that afforded me such a
glorious view.

As I
balanced myself on my tiptoes in the bedroom, I heard a loud banging noise
coming from the opposite side of the house. The tape dropped from my hand and
rolled across the floor. I climbed down from the chair and followed after it.
Retracing my steps through the kitchen and hallway, I found the front door open
and swinging wildly as huge drafts of air pressed against it.

When I
was at home, I rarely locked the doors. But the booming noise was so jarring
that I pushed the door shut and turned the bolt. I circled the house, making
sure the side entrance and the other two doors leading out onto the expansive
rear deck were fastened as well, before going back to taping the glass.

Fierce
weather spooked the animals. I was used to seeing that here in the country.
Cottontail rabbits that usually didn't appear until dusk were skittering across
the lawn. A family of skunks huddled against each other under the leeward side
of a beach plum tree. Flocks of birds were fighting the wind in an effort to
steer themselves south.

I was
just as unsettled as the wild creatures. Somehow this old farmhouse had
weathered scores and scores of storms, but now a cedar shingle ripped loose
from the barn roof and flung itself against the window, reminding me that the
glass was all that stood between me and the approaching squall.

Again, I
paced around the house, checking windowsills for places that had leaked before,
and laying old beach towels beneath them. When I returned to the living room, I
fixed myself a spicy Bloody Mary, switched on the radio to track the storm,
reached for an old copy of Sterne's
Tristram
Shandy
in the bookshelf behind the fireplace, and settled onto the
sofa to relax, read, and wait for Gretchen.

I must
have fallen asleep, aided by the warm combination of the alcohol and fire. A
loud thud right behind my head startled me awake. A large bird, some sort of
grackle, had become disoriented and crashed against the pane. Dazed for a few
seconds, it picked itself up and flew off with a few taunting squawks.

The day
had changed. It was after three o'clock, and the sky had turned from a pastel
gray to a deep black. Everything in the landscape was atilt, yielding to the
power of the wind that was gusting at almost seventy miles an hour, according
to the local newscaster.

For the
next half hour, I felt as though I were on an amusement park ride that wouldn't
stop to let me off. Objects swirled around outside and thumped against the roof
and sides of the house. Tree branches snapped in half with a terrible cracking
sound and slapped at my taped windows. I moved to sit on the floor in the
middle of the room, fully expecting a limb or bough to hurtle itself through
the glass and impale me against the sofa's cushion.

It was
exactly 4:05 in the afternoon when the flickering lights went out and the
electricity went dead. No radio, no music, no quiet hum of kitchen appliances.
The interior darkness mirrored the weather, and I inched closer to the
fireplace to add more logs to my only source of warmth and light.

I had
flashlights at the ready in every room. I turned one on and tried to continue
to read, but the drama outside the window made reading impossible.

The storm
raged for more than an hour. The strange noises of nature's destructive forces
had unnerved me. Old wooden floor-boards creaked and groaned, damp drizzle
seeped in through cracks in doors and window sashes, squalls pounded against
every surface of the house.

And
something moved up above me. Footsteps in the empty second-floor bedrooms? I
took the flashlight and followed the beam up the staircase. Squirrels,
probably, or field mice. Had to be some frisky critter that had found its way
inside or burrowed under the attic eaves.

I checked
from room to room, but all seemed fine. I shined the ray into the bathroom, and
highlighted a spider on the outer window screen, clinging to an iridescent web
as the wind tried to tear it from its hold. Standing at the top of the stairs,
I could hear the pitter-patter of small-clawed feet echoing over my head.
Whatever was in the attic could spend the night. I wasn't going up to
investigate.

Now there
seemed to be a distinct tapping coming from below me. I took three steps down
and listened again. It was pitch-black, save for the narrow path of light
leading from my hand. Lilac bushes stood outside the door. Their bare, hearty
branches must have been scraping against the old six-over-six windows on the
house's facade.

I
returned to the living room and tried to settle down again.

Still
there was something besides noise that was disturbing me. There were shadows,
too. I hadn't put enough vodka in my drink three hours earlier to distort my
vision, but ghostly shapes seemed to move back and forth along the length of
the rear deck. I would have offered shelter to almost any form of animal life,
but not to these weird, unwelcome dancing phantoms.

Maybe the
bedroom was a better place to be. Careful not to trip over chair legs or
stools, I made my way through the house. Too much glass, I told myself. I
couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone was looking in at me. Was I
foolish to want to climb back upstairs to one of the guest rooms and snuggle
under a quilt, out of range if someone wandered onto the property? How stupid
to be afraid in my own home.

I pulled
the chaise longue away from the foot of my bed into a corner of the room,
flipped open my cell phone, and punched in Jake's number. A mechanical operator
told me the call I wanted to place could not be completed as dialed. I tried
Jake again before dialing Mike. The problem was clearly on my end, so I gave
up.

I rested
my head against a small pillow my mother had needle-pointed for me, just as a
violent spasm brought something crashing through what I thought must be one of
the kitchen windows. I jumped to my feet and ran through my office to get to
the large, open room, trying not to let my agitation overcome my wits. Why
hadn't I gotten extra small batteries for the radio when I was at the store?
Why had I wanted to ride out a hurricane in the first place?

One of
the window boxes that hung outside beneath the sill had been thrown up through
the glass and onto the floor with enormous force. Wet topsoil was everywhere,
and blustery air charged into the room behind the wooden missile, which had
overturned and landed beneath the dining table.

I looked
up and thought I saw someone running on the slick lawn at the bottom of the
steps that led down from the deck. Maybe it hadn't been the wind that had torn
the flower box from its mooring and sailed it inside. Maybe I wasn't imagining
the shapes and shadows around me after all.

Why
wouldn't someone have knocked on the door if he or she wanted to get inside? I
picked up the landline telephone to see whether it was working, but since the
portable models were now run on electricity, too, the phone was dead. Back to
the front door. I was nervous and edgy, checking to see whether someone had
driven in from the road, looking for help. With the house looking so dark and
quiet, it was possible that a person approaching it would think no one was at
home.

A
terrible rattling started again, now from the French doors in my bedroom. I
slinked through the narrow hallway, clutching the banister to steady myself.
There was a distinct outline of a body against the tall glass pane. Someone was
trying desperately to get inside the house.

Should I
call out to my unexpected visitor and let him know that I was indeed in
residence? No. Not a good idea. I remembered the plume of smoke that must have
been pouring out of the chimney. Forget the house's quiet and the darkness, of
course an interloper would know I was in here. This was not someone looking for
my help. Whoever it was wanted to scare me to death before he showed himself.

The noise
stopped. I turned off the flashlight and crouched in the area behind the
staircase, not visible from any of the windows. All I could hear was the
crackling of the logs shifting in the fireplace as they charred and burned.

Then
another blast of broken glass. This time it sounded like it was coming from the
living room. I had taped the giant picture window, but not the small panes in
the door that opened onto the deck. Had the wind propelled something through
the narrow space or was there really someone intent on breaking in? My gut told
me it was the latter.

I crawled
twelve feet to the front entrance, lifting my arm over my head to feel for the
small brass lock and twisting it gently 180 degrees. I paused, and heard what I
thought was a jiggling noise that might have been the door handle back in the
bedroom. I wanted out.