He pulled into the carport, close beside the Volkswagen, and they hurried to the stairs through a chilling veil of drizzle. A sudden gust slapped hard at her, and she clutched the rail as he caught her about the waist. For an instant, she turned toward the sea. "Jesus."
Foam rolled across the edge of the dock.
Above them at the kitchen windows, the cat stared through wavering glass.
XXII
"I can't get an answer at Charlotte's. I'm worried. Storms always hit worse on that side of the inlet." She hung up but kept her hand on the phone. "The lines could be out in places, I suppose. And she never picks up after she's gone to bed."
He could see how nervous she was becoming. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, he cradled his head in his hands.
Twice the lights flickered, until finally she lit candles. The effect was hardly romantic, actually seeming to accentuate the shabby, claustrophobic aspects of the duplex. Eventually, she threw together a meal, but neither of them really touched it, and though she tried repeatedly to begin a conversation, he couldn't seem to bring himself to respond. After dinner, he sank back on the sofa, still silent.
Outside, rain billowed at the windows with a sound like cracking glass. A moment later, he kicked off his shoes and shifted a cushion. He saw her turn away quickly when she realized that he meant to sleep right there.
She left the room.
After a moment, he heaved himself up and followed. She had her back to him. Perched on the kitchen windowsill, the cat tentatively allowed the stroke of her fingertips. Rivulets snaked across the glass, and wind struck again. With an explosive hiss, the cat backed across the sideboard, knocking over a ceramic vase. "It's okay, cat. Don't be afraid. Just a little storm." Stooping, she began to gather the shards of the vase. "Hell, that was my mother's."
"You need help?"
She whirled around, not having heard him enter the room. Before she could respond, the ringing of the phone made her jump. "Could you grab that?" She dropped the fragments. "It might be Charlotte."
He'd already picked up the receiver.
"Who is it?" she asked. "Steve? Is it...?"
He turned away, cradling the phone. "It's for me," he answered in a flat voice.
"Oh." She dropped the pieces into a wicker wastepaper basket. "Who knows you're here?"
"Yes," he muttered into the phone, pacing back into the living room, as far from her as the cord would allow. At first, all he heard was a dissonant hum; then the voice on the phone reached his brain like the twitch of a nerve.
"Shall we not play games? Good. You know who I am," the voice grated. "Is your little policewoman in the room? Simply say 'yes' again in a normal tone."
He pushed the phone so hard into his ear that it ached like an old wound. "Yes."
"Well done. You'll want to memorize this address. Six thirteen Decatur. Fourth floor rear. I assume you do understand why I'm contacting you. Am I correct in this assumption? Yes? He'll move soon now. He's been searching for a new place for days." The words broke apart on a raking cough. "Just remember--leave the girl alone! Can you comprehend that instruction?"
"Yes."
"Pardon me if I get personal for a moment, but I've been observing you for quite some time now. You seem, if you don't mind my saying so, passionately involved in your pursuit. Is that correct? What precisely is your stake in all this? Did the boy take the life of someone you loved? Not that I object to such a motive, you understand. This merely represents, shall we say, academic curiosity on my part."
A dead voice issued from his throat. "Something like that."
"I thought as much. How virtuous of you. Virtuous in the old sense--an eye for an eye and all that. Moralizing, however, is hardly my line, and--as I said--it scarcely matters so long as you take his life."
Even after the line went dead, he kept the receiver pressed to his ear, as though seeking somehow to gain control of it. "Monsters," he whispered.
"What did you say? Steve?"
He kept looking at the phone as though expecting the instrument itself to reveal some secret. Finally, he returned to the kitchen and hung up, then stood staring out at the teeming rain. A moment later, she followed him in.
"Who was that?"
He watched her reflection in the window, saw the imploring way she stared at his back, the way the palm of her hand wiped invisible dust from the tabletop. "It has to end," he said at last.
Outside, the storm wailed, and an atmosphere of leaden exhaustion seemed to fill the apartment. She cleared away the dishes, and he wandered back into the parlor. Later, she brought him a blanket, but neither of them spoke as she retired to the bedroom and closed the door.
He lay on the sofa and listened to the wind. The rain droned, and he could hear the cat padding around the kitchen. He would have no choice now. He knew it, and the thought filled him with dread. Very soon, he would have to kill.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Tell you what?"
Kit wrestled with the steering wheel. "What's different? What's changed you?"
"Nothing's different." Rain sloshed at the vinyl windows.
"Right," she said through clenched teeth.
"So dark." With a sharp movement, he turned to face her, and she almost flinched. "More like ten at night than ten in the morning."
She sighed. "Are you going to stake out the apartment tonight?"
"Look at it come down." He stared at the rain again.
"Steve?"
"Like it's never going to stop."
"Answer me. Do you want me along or don't you?"
Shaking his head, he stared through the windshield. "I'm tired."
She pulled the jeep up in front of the hotel. "You sure you're all right?" The light held a thick, dull quality that made the bricks of the hotel seem luminous.
"I need to rest for a while." He leaned toward her. "Rest and think." He tried to make his voice warmer, less distant, and the effort cost him. "How's your shoulder, Kitten? Will you be okay?" As he spoke, his hand slipped to her arm, then to her shoulder, kneading. "You're exhausted too."
"Right." She stared straight ahead.
The noise of the rain intensified as he pushed the door open.
"What are you planning, Steve?"
He paused, rain drumming on his back. "Nothing." As he turned away, the rain shot in at her almost horizontally.
"Right. Call me." She gunned the engine to keep from saying anything further, to keep from demanding or pleading.
He slammed the door, and the tires splashed away along the shiny asphalt. He watched the red glimmer of the taillights disappear. She was too smart, and she'd guessed too much, he knew. There had to be a way to keep her out of it now. The wind struck, raw and wet, and falling water drove against him in steady waves. Streaks of ice glittered on the bricks of the hotel. Slush sheeted off the roof, most of it blowing away down the street, and in gurgling puddles at the curb clots of snow floated like miniature icebergs. Hunching against a sodden gust, he pushed up the few steps, water shimmering copiously around him. Rain smoked down in rolling clouds now, and it blurred the light in the hotel window, hammered at his face to slide dripping fingers down the nape of his neck. Another gust struck just as he reached the top of the stairs, and for an instant, he could barely move against it.
The wet doorknob yanked out of his hand, and the door slammed in his face. He clutched at it again. His jacket slapping around him, he yanked the door with both hands. A sudden billow drenched the foyer, pushing after him. The inner door also flew open, and he caught the street door before it could pound the wall again. As the turbulent downpour slanted through, he struggled with the door, finally slamming his shoulder against it. At last, he stood, gasping and dripping on the carpet.