A high-pitched squeal erupted from the rabbit's throat as Mark began to squeeze, the squeal cut off as Mark's other hand released the rabbit's ears and gave its head a sudden twist.
There was a soft cracking of bones. The rabbit went limp in Mark's hands.
He gazed at the little animal blankly for a moment, as if he weren't quite certain what he'd done.
Then, tossing it back into the hutch, he turned and started slowly back toward the house.
Chivas, a ball in his mouth, caught up with him at the back door and whined eagerly.
Mark ignored him.
Chapter Sixteen
CharlotteLaConner eyed the image in the mirror with lethargic disinterest. Could what she saw really be herself? But she knew the answer. The CharlotteLaConner she had grown up with-the gently smiling woman whose soft brown eyes had invariably gazed out at the world with calm acceptance-had disappeared almost completely over the past week. In her place was a pale ghost of her former self. The smile was gone, and around her lips a harsh picket fence of tiny lines had appeared. Her eyes, sunk deep from lack of sleep, flickered with suspicion, seeming even when at rest to be constantly moving, searching for some unseen enemy that must be lurking just out of sight, ready to spring out at her, to attack her if her vigilance flagged for even a moment.
The image in the mirror wore no makeup, its sallow complexion exposed for all the world to see, its stark features framed by a limp tangle of unwashed hair that bore a faintly oily sheen. But it didn't matter what that image looked like, Charlotte realized, for no one had seen it. After all, she hadn't been out of her house for more than a week.
It was Saturday afternoon, though Charlotte was only vaguely aware of it. Time, for her, seemed to have slowed down. Now, as she turned away from the mirror and its strange reflection of a person she was quite certain she didn't know, she felt herself moving with the slow rhythms of someone mired in a swamp. There were things she should be doing; she'd been keeping a mental list, adding items to it each day, as each day none of the previous items were checked off. The cleaning, for instance.
Newspapers were piled neatly by Chuck's favorite chair, the stack growing as each day she reminded herself to take them out but didn't. A thin layer of dust lay over the furniture, and wisps of lint had gathered in the corners. With a desperate effort, Charlotte tried to pull herself together to begin her chores, then sank down in front of the television, her hand automatically reaching for the remote control to flick it on. She sat still, her eyes fixed on the flickering image on the picture tube, but she didn't quite comprehend what she was seeing; the thick cobwebs that had settled over her mind effectively blocked out the inane stimulus of the cartoon on the screen.
Chuck had been patient with her, silently accepting her excuses at the beginning of the week that the snow was keeping her from going out. But the snow had melted by Tuesday morning and still Charlotte remained closeted within the house, retreating deeper and deeper within herself, desolated by her sudden and complete isolation from her son.
She was dimly aware of the back door opening and closing. When Chuck came into the little den where she sat-perched rigidly on the edge of the chair, as if afraid she might collapse completely if she let herself relax at all-her eyes slowly left the television set and focused on her husband.
Chuck gazed at her worriedly. She looked worse today, worse even than when he'd left this morning for a quick meeting with Jerry Harris. She was barely even speaking to him now, and as he'd watched her sitting at the kitchen table earlier, slowly stirring a cup of coffee long after it had turned cold, he'd wondered if she was lost to him, too, as Jeff was lost. But now, after meeting with Jerry, he had a fragile ray of hope. "Honey?" he said softly. "How are you feeling?"
Charlotte forced a wan smile. "There's so much to do," she replied, her eyes uncertainly scanning the room. "But I just can't make myself do it."
Chuck drew in his breath, then crossed to her, lowered himself to the arm of the chair and slipped an arm protectively around her. "You don't have to," he murmured. Her neck twisted and she gazed up into his eyes. "We're going away, honey. I've been transferred."
A look of confusion came into Charlotte's eyes, as if she weren't sure what the words meant. "T-Transferred? But we can't go anywhere now-it's the middle of the year. Jeff…" Her voice trailed off, as if the mere mention of their son's name had reminded her that he was no longer going to school.
"It's going to be all right," Chuck assured her. "All the arrangements have been made. We're going to Boston."
It was where Charlotte had grown up, and he'd hoped that the prospect of moving back home would snap her out of the depression that had closed around her during the past week, but she only stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.
"But of course we can't go." She spoke the words hollowly, as if repeating something Chuck must already know.
"No, darling," Chuck told her. "That's what the meeting this morning with Jerry was about. It's all set-we can leave any time. Even today, if you want to."
At last his words seemed to penetrate her fog. She looked at him again, almost suspiciously, like a mouse sniffing around the cheese in a trap before trying to snatch it. Then her eyes cleared.
"But we can't do that!" she exclaimed. She shook Chuck's arm away and rose to her feet. "We can't just pack up and go-what about Jeff? We have to make arrangements for him-find a hospital for him…" Then, seeing the bleak emptiness in her husband's eyes, the full truth of what he was saying sank into her. "Dear God!" she breathed. "You don't mean for us to take him at all, do you? You think we're just going to go away and leave him here-"
"No," Chuck protested, though he knew her words were the truth. It wasn't meant to be the way Charlotte made it sound. "We can't take him with us now," he admitted. "But when he's better, Jerry says-"
"Jerry!" Charlotte spat the name at him. "I might have known Jerry Harris was part of this." Her eyes glowed with fury. "It's all part of another one ofTarrenTech's grand schemes, isn't it?" Her voice rose dangerously and her eyes darted about the room as if she half expected to see Jerry Harris himself watching her from a corner. "Is that what it is?" she demanded. "They did something to Jeff, didn't they? And now they want to buy you off. What are they going to do, Chuck? Are they going to make us disappear, just like Tom and Phyllis Stevens did?"
It had been a wild stab, but she saw that it struck home. Her hand flew to her mouth at the look that came into Chuck's eyes, a look that was part pain, part fear.
"Don't be ridiculous," Chuck snapped, but his controlled reaction had come too late. She stood frozen where she was for a moment, listening to the lies that issued from his mouth. "Nothing happened to Tom and Phyllis. They're in New York. Tom is running the Travel Division and I saw Phyllis at a meeting in San Marcos not five months ago. She looks great."
Charlotte's eyes narrowed. "And what about Randy? Did they tell you how he is?" she fairly hissed at him. "Did you even ask?" He didn't answer for a moment, and her voice rose perilously. "Did you?" she screamed.
Chuck was on his feet now, and he took a step toward her. "No, I didn't," he began, "but-"
Charlotte backed away from him, then spun around and fled from the room. It was a trap! She knew it now. All of it was a trap. She had to get out, had to get out of the house, away from Chuck and everything that was happening. She ran to the front door, not even pausing to grab a jacket. It didn't matter, for she didn't even feel the chill of the air as she burst outside.