08 Illusion (21 page)

There she was, in blue, untucked shirt and blue jeans, juggling four tennis balls … in slow motion, and looking toward the house with a big, showbiz smile on her face. “Can we talk?”

He watched her juggle, the balls floating in a high, graceful arc from one hand to the other. She made it look effortless and didn’t even have to watch the balls but looked toward the window with that teasing smile. How did she do that, standing outside? Did she have some kind of device in the VW? If so, she’d gone to a lot of trouble to impress him.

He set down the binoculars. Feelings. Nothing more than feelings. What to do?

He could have refused a million-dollar check because he didn’t like the color of the ink; he could have been drowning and refused to grab a rope tossed to him because the rope was nylon instead of hemp; he could have jumped out of a plane without a parachute because the chute didn’t match his socks. But no, he did worse: “Go away!”

“Just a few minutes?”

“I said, ‘Go away!’”

He hung up.

And then he watched her sadly catch the balls, one after the other, toss them in the backseat of her Bug, get in, start up the engine, and drive off.

Feelings. Oh, they were so very powerful! His insides hurt to the point of nausea.

He looked at the drawing on his drafting table and sighed. Just when he was starting to think about other things and get back to some projects.

Well, here was another day shot.

chapter

19

S
he drove back the way she came, kicking herself for getting all wound up and full of hope like a believer in fairy tales until she put her foot deep in poop and lost her shoe.

She felt sick. Stupid. Juvenile. She should have known better.

She heard a hiss-hiss-hiss from her right front tire and then it started flopping and shaking the whole car.

She pulled over, moaning, whining, pounding the steering wheel, and trying to think of words that weren’t too dirty, the little car growling and wobbling to a halt on the gravel shoulder. She pushed her door open and struggled from the car as if she were tangled up in it. Getting out was very uphill because the car was leaning forlornly toward the right.

She opened the trunk—in front of the car, she always loved that—and pulled out the spare and the jack.

She jacked up the car to take the weight off the wheel but keep the tire touching the ground so it wouldn’t spin when she twisted off the lug nuts. The spare lay on the ground beside her, ready to go. Good enough. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d changed a tire. Things could have been worse. It could have been raining.

A big SUV came by, slowed down, then pulled over just ahead of her.

She wilted a little. Not that she didn’t appreciate the help, but right now she wasn’t in the mood. “Oh, got a flat tire, huh?” she mimicked to herself. “Yeah, sure is flat, all right. Hey, but it’s only flat on one side! You live around here?”

A nice-looking guy got out the passenger side. Young and studly. Olive complexion, black, wavy hair. “Hello,” he said. “Looks like you have a problem.”

“Oh, guess it happens.”

“Can I give you a hand?”

Well … “Okay. Sure. I appreciate it.”

The man extended his hand. “Lemuel.”

She shook it. “Eloise.”

He squatted by the lame tire. “Oh, you need to jack it up more.”

So she had to tell him, “You need to get the lug nuts off while the tire’s touching or the tire will spin.”

He went for the jack handle. She decided to let him find out for himself.
Klinka klinka klinka
, he pumped the jack up farther and the wheel came off the ground.

The first lug nut he went for, the tire spun.

She would have had the spare on by now.

Lemuel pointed. “What kind of lugs are these?”

Eloise squatted down beside him. “What do you mean?”

Lemuel had a friend, the driver of the truck. She heard him get out and walk along the street side of the Bug to circle around the end.

“They metric?”

“That’s right.”

“Right- or left-hand threads?”

“Rightsy-tightsy, lefty-loosie.”

He broke into a grin. “I like that.” He tried turning the wrench again. The tire spun again.

“You gonna lower the tire?”

“Well, I guess I’d better.”

The friend came alongside them. Quiet, wasn’t he?

Lemuel lowered the tire so it touched the ground. The first nut twisted off easily. He had the concept now. She looked up at the friend.

The man was blond and must have had terrible pimples growing up.

“Hey! You’re, um …”

He crouched down beside her and smiled.

“Clarence! You were at—”

She didn’t see what was in his right hand. She felt only a bolt of lightning enter her neck and shoot out her fingers and toes and she couldn’t stop trembling, as if her whole body was a funny bone that got whacked. He met her eyes. Misdirection, and she fell for it.

She teetered and slumped to her side on the ground and couldn’t help it, couldn’t do a thing about it. They were on her, taking hold of her and she couldn’t kick, couldn’t hit. She could scream—Lemuel, or whatever his name was, clamped his hand over her mouth.

A hornet stung her neck, hurting and hurting more! She twisted her head in time to see Clarence withdrawing a needle. She screamed into Lemuel’s hand.

Dane’s pencil sketched and scribbled, expanding the drawing, trying out ideas.
Seal the cocoon with rigged bolts? A little obvious, but how else would we—

His mind switched so suddenly it jarred him. Mandy. He could think of only Mandy.

Mandy … what? What about her?

His eyes went to the photos and posters. She was smiling in her pictures, looking great, but he felt troubled when he looked at her, as if, behind those great looks, she wasn’t doing great; behind that beaming smile, she wasn’t happy but afraid.

I’m losing it.

He looked out the windows, at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but those images. What was this, some kind of seizure? Was he having a flashback? A drug reaction?

He gripped the edges of the table and tried breathing, just breathing.

Dr. Kessler? Maybe you should call …

I can handle this.

What was that? He held still and listened. Somebody was in the house. Shirley? But Shirley wasn’t working today, and she never came in without announcing herself.

Maybe he didn’t hear anything. Maybe he
felt
it.

They were strong, holding her down and patiently, ruthlessly waiting for her strength, her fear, her mind to slip into chemical-induced surrender. Only her mind was still free, her terror keeping her alert for so very few, extra, precious moments. She concentrated even as she whimpered in fear, reaching, reaching for the other arms, the other hands, the other Eloises that could still grab, kick, hit, run.

She couldn’t see the lug wrench with her own eyes, but somehow, through time and tea-stained, wavering space she knew where it was, propped against the spare tire, glinting in the sun. She could feel the cold steel in a hand she didn’t have. With anger, with animal viciousness, she yanked the wrench aloft and toward
him.
Maybe she was only dreaming …

CLANG! She didn’t see the wrench hit the back of Lemuel’s head but she heard it and some distant, separate part of herself felt the shock ring through the metal. His grip loosened. He teetered, his eyes rolling, going blank. She kicked her legs loose—all six or eight of them, she couldn’t count—while someone somewhere named Eloise took the wrench to Clarence. He saw it coming at him like an angry insect and held up his arms, trying to block the blows, trying to grab it, but she was in a different realm of time, could move faster, and fully intended to work through those arms to reach his head and body. The steel rang and she could feel the shock of the blows, but her grip never tired.

One man was stunned, the other was fighting off a wild lug wrench. Eloise was doped and fading, but free. She wriggled, crawled, then dug in with her feet and bolted away, staggering, weaving, disconnected from her feet, barely understanding what her eyes may have been telling her.

But somewhere in her mind she could see the gate, the white fence, the three aspens, the big house on the heavenly hill …

“Hello?” he called. There was no answer save for the ring of his voice off the vaulted ceiling.

He looked over the rail into the house below, listening again for a stirring, a creak, a rustle, whatever may have clued him in that he was not alone. He looked out the south windows, searching the front acreage, the driveway, the distant gate. No, not out there.

She came to mind. Eloise Kramer! Every time he saw her, every time she showed up in his life …

He caught something in his peripheral vision, looked toward the east windows—gasped with a start, then froze.

There was a woman standing by the windows, looking out, her back toward him. Her hair was golden blond with a sheen of silver, teased, layered, and draping her shoulders. She wore a blue bathrobe that reached nearly to her feet and had a cup of coffee in her hand.

After forty years, he knew who she was. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, was afraid to breathe lest anything scare the vision away.
Please. Just let me look at you, just for a moment. Please.

She turned, every feature of her face more alive, real, and lovely than he ever could have remembered, and he almost said her name. She was looking straight at him, but she looked puzzled, alarmed.

He didn’t say it but thought it, his face and body carrying the question
What is it?

She immediately looked out the window again with intent and alarm, enough to make him approach.

What is it?
he thought, and then he whispered it, “What is it?”

He could have touched her. He could smell the scent of her hair. She was looking out over the meadow. He followed her gaze.

What in the world was this? At very first glimpse he took it to be some kid traipsing across his land, but his next impression was the right one: it was Eloise Kramer, just coming around the pond and up the meadow, staggering, falling, crawling, walking again, looking seriously injured and crazy with fear.

And—who was that guy rounding the pond?

He looked at the woman.

She was gone.

But she’d reached him. He thundered down the stairs, bounded through the living room, grabbed a sword off the mantel—it was a stage prop that wasn’t sharp and would probably break, but it was all he could think to grab—and burst out the back door.

She was so small, so far away. It would take so long to reach her. The man coming after her was closing fast, running like an athlete, definitely not sixty. Nagging little thoughts squeaked in Dane’s brain:
You don’t know what you’re doing. That guy could kill you.

The girl may have seen Dane coming. She staggered one step in his direction, then another, then crumpled, half disappearing in the yellow grass. From there she tried to crawl, reaching and pulling with one feeble arm and then the other.

Dane stopped listening to little thoughts and charged, wielding the sword, animal rage sending strength to his legs and a war cry from his throat, a maniacal, high-pitched scream.

The other guy kept coming, but Dane didn’t slow down. He passed the barn—it was only a blurred flash of a shadow on his right—and galloped down the narrow trail into the meadow, sword waving above his head, teeth bared, a crazy, screaming barbarian.

It didn’t seem to be working. The other guy was still coming at him, and the way things looked, he and Dane would reach the fallen girl at the same time.

Well then, there’d be a fight even though Dane didn’t know anything about fighting. He’d just have to bite the guy’s ear off first chance he got.

But then the guy stopped, just came to a halt about thirty yards away and stood there, sizing Dane up through impenetrable sunglasses.

Dane reached the girl and positioned himself between her and the stranger, holding that sword out with murder and mayhem in his eyes and not the slightest idea of what threatening thing he ought to say.

The girl was still trying to crawl away, her hands too weak now to grip anything, her arms only swimming over the top of the ground, flattening the snow-wearied grass. Her speech was so slurred she could have been talking in her sleep, “I’m Eloise … I’m … driver’s license …”

Only now did Dane notice how hard he was breathing, how tired and sore he was. If that guy wanted a fight … well, maybe the girl could still get away.

But the man only looked at him with a tilt to his head, the trace of a smile on his lips. What, he was amused? He thought this was funny?

He looked familiar. Blond hair. Steely expression. That guy from the other night? Hard to tell from this distance. But he didn’t look well, even for him. His face might have been a little puffy in places, and Dane thought he might have a streak of red by his right ear.

The man looked down for a moment as if thinking things over, then wagged his head with resignation, gave both hands a little flip as if to say, “Well, so much for this,” and turned. Putting his hands in his pockets, he walked away. He didn’t run, he just walked.

Dane stole quick, precautionary glances at the girl. She’d fallen silent, her eyes closed, and after two final twitches of her hands, she was motionless. He knelt and checked her pulse. Still strong. She was breathing.

His eyes remained on the stranger, his stage sword ready to bounce harmlessly off flesh. The sinister stranger never checked behind him. He just walked across the meadow, climbed through the fence, crossed to the road, and disappeared over a rise.

What had he gotten himself into?