April Fools (4 page)

"Your house is beautiful," Belinda said politely, taking in the entry way, the living room beyond. There were flowers and figurines on shelves, and on all the tables and countertops there were strange box-shaped objects draped with cloths. Belinda stared at them, wondering what they were, but Mrs. Thorne was already getting out of her coat and nodding toward a curving staircase that led to a balcony above. Belinda saw an open hallway there,

and a row of solidly shut doors. The house was absolutely still.

"You can leave your things on the couch." Mrs. Thome started up the stairs and motioned Belinda to follow. "Adam's room is up here."

"Maybe you should just tell him Fm --" Belinda's voice shook, but Mrs. Thome wasn't listening. She continued up the steps and down the hallway, and when she finally stopped at the last door, her knock echoed coldly down the long corridor.

"Adam," she said, "I've brought someone to meet you."

There was an answer from within that Belinda couldn't quite hear. A muffled voice that caused Mrs. Thome to pull back and look uncertainly at the door.

"Maybe I should leave," Belinda began, but suddenly she was being pulled forward and the door was being opened, and she stumbled into a dim confusion of half-light and silence.

"This is Belinda," Mrs. Thorne said.

And then Belinda heard the door close . . . the sound of feet moving quickly back down the stairs. . .

And the soft, slow shifting of someone who watched her from the shadows.

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It seemed an eternity that she stood there, her eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom. In her panic she saw the dull outline of a shaded window . . . the crouching shapes of furniture . . . and finally, frighteningly ... a vague silhouette standing in the farthest, darkest comer. Fighting down an overwhelming urge to run, Belinda spoke into the shadows.

"Adam? I'm . . . Fm Belinda --"

"I know who you are," the voice said. It was deep and expressionless, but very soft, and Belinda's heart caught in her throat.

"You know --"

"She told me you'd be coming."

Weakness washed over her in a great wave. "Oh. I ... I wasn't sure she had."

"You're wasting your time," the voice said. "I don't need any help. With studying or anything else."

Belinda nodded, relief making her braver. "But your . . . Mrs. Thome . . . wants me here. And

since I'm already here, couldn't we just get acquainted?" She waited for a reply, but nothing came. *We don't have to do any studying today, you know. We could just talk and -- "

"I don't have anything to say to you."

"All right. Then Fll talk." She took a hesitant step forward. "If you decide you don't like me, then I won't come back."

"And what if you decide you don't like me?" the voice fired back.

'Well... I ... I can't think of any reason why I --"

"Your voice is shaking," Adam said. **What are you afraid of ?'^

Belinda froze. "You," she said quietly. She was shocked that she'd admitted it, shocked that she would give him such an advantage. For a long, long moment there was silence. When he finally made a sound in his throat, she couldn't tell if it was a sigh ... or a laugh."

"How perceptive," Adam said. "Especially when you haven't even seen me yet."

Belinda chose her words carefully. "But I'd like to see you. Maybe you could turn on the light..."

"I prefer it dark. Believe me, you'll prefer it, too."

"I might not." Yet even as she said it, Belinda's mind swirled with the horrible possibilities that she'd tried so hard to suppress -- that face . . . trapped upside down . . . burning. .. . "I've worked at hospitals." Again she surprised herself, calm words welling up from the depths of her fear. "I've

seen lots of things before, so I doubt very much that you could shock me."

She paused, but he didn^t answer. Around her the threatening shapes had begun to resume their everyday ordinariness. A bed. A chest of drawers. A desk and chair. But still, back in the comer beyond the darkened window, an invisible face hid among the shadows.

"Mrs. Thome said you don't usually live here," she tried again, took another step forward. "Do you come here a lot? For visits, I mean?" She wracked her brain, words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "How long have you been here this time?" Her ears strained through the silence, finally catching his belligerent reply.

"A week."

"Oh. A week. Well, then, you've had some time to settle --"

"Look, you're wasting your time and mine. My dear stepmother feels . . . shall we say, obligation -- to my dying father? That's all. She's just using you to ease her own conscience. It's got nothing to do with me or my welfare."

"My mother's never home, either. She works all the time because we need the money, and she's never there when I really need to talk to her. But I still know she loves me." Again Belinda stopped, startled at her own confession. She'd never said that to anyone before -- not to Mom -- not to Hildy -- not even to herself. She must be crazy, talking like this to some total stranger who didn't give a damn about her or --

"Aren't you lucky." It was a sarcastic remark, but the tone was almost sad as it hung there in the darkness between them. There was a slight rustling as if he had moved, and Belinda stepped back, ready to flee. "Relax," Adam said. "I couldn't move that fast, even if I wanted to."

And then, as Belinda stared in disbelief, the figure by the window began to come toward her.

It gathered itself from the shadows like smoke, and as it pulled slowly and purposefully across the floor, Belinda was suddenly aware of two things:

He was using a cane.

And one of his feet dragged uselessly behind the other.

Adam stopped near the desk, his breathing slow and even in the room's quietness. Belinda stood still, knowing he watched her. She could feel his anger in the air, so real and so incredibly strong. Her heart ached, not only for him, but for herself and her awful uncertainties.

"I'm . . . I'm so sorry about your accident -- I--"

"Are you, Belinda?" Adam sounded amused. "Are you so sorry that it keeps you awake nights?"

That sick feeling again, rising up into her throat. Belinda forced it back, her voice weak. "Do you . , . do you want to talk about what happened?"

The room was so hot -- so suddenly and unbearably hot -- and in a kind of slow haze she saw her hands out in front of her, searching for something to hold on to.

"Do you ..." she tried again, but the darkness

was growing even blacker, and the room was turning upside down -- "Adam," she gasped, and there was nothing to break her fall, no one to help her as she slumped down onto the floor -- just thick blackness and a muffled roar in her ears, and suddenly, ftighteningly, a hunched shape leaning over her.

Memories drowned her, dozens of them in such short seconds, and as Belinda struggled back to fiill consciousness, she felt hands gripping her arms, amazingly strong, calm hands beneath her shoulders. From some vague distance she thought someone spoke her name, but as her eyelids fluttered open there was only the silence . . . and shadows. . . .

And the thing looking down at her.

For a split second she thought she'd passed out again, that her faint had turned into some cruel, hideous nightmare.

And then she realized he was real.

In the eerie half-light she saw part of his face, the eyes so dark they seemed like holes in a death mask. There were huge gashes -- black, crooked lines crisscrossing his cheeks and forehead like jagged tracks, and as her eyes widened in horror, he suddenly released her and drew back into the cover of darkness.

Belinda lay there, not moving. The ceiling stopped swirling, the room righted itself, settled calmly back around her.

Several feet away, Adam was as silent as stone.

Belinda raised herself slowly on her elbows, trembling with a million emotions. "Adam," she said

softly, "why don't you come back out."

"If you're better, I wish you'd just leave." He sounded drained, yet beneath the emptiness Belinda thought his voice quivered.

"I don't think I can get up yet. I might fall down again." He didn't answer so she rushed on, her voice still unsteady. "It's because I haven't eaten anything -- I just got so hot all of a sudden -- I haven't really felt very good all day and -- "

"You said I couldn't shock you, but you were wrong."

Belinda shook her head, willing him to believe her. "No, that's not true. It's just that I passed out for a second and I didn't know where I was. It scared me, that's all. I'm sorry if I upset you --"

"Please," he murmured, "just go."

She stared unhappily in the direction of his voice. She felt embarrassed and light-headed, but even worse she felt like she'd let him down. Getting slowly to her feet, she paused in the threshold, light from the hallway falHng just short of his hiding place. "Goodbye, Adam. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

There was no answer. She couldn't even pick out his shadow from the others.

It seemed strange to be out in the brightness again. As Belinda went slowly down the stairs, she squinted against creamy walls and pastel colors, her eyes going automatically to the cloth-draped boxes around the room. They looked like different-sized blocks of some kind -- cages or aquariums all covered with dark scarves and again she wondered

what they could possibly be. Some weird sort of art? Sculpture? There didn't seem to be anyone around, and she wanted to get home. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the room and hstened for a moment, hearing only deep, stark silence.

"Mrs. Thome?" she called softly.

Her voice faded, unacknowledged, and she shivered at its lonely sound.

"Mrs. Thome, are you here? I'm ready to go home now.'*

Belinda frowned and walked slowly about the room, looking for a clock. She had her own homework to do before Hildy came over, and there was no teUing how long the studying would take if Frank came, too. If there was one distraction Hildy didn't need tonight, it was Frank.

"Mrs. Thome?" Belinda called again. She stopped beside a coffee table and leaned closer to inspect the fabric-covered box on top of it. And then she frowned and pulled back. Just now . . . she thought she'd heard a noise from inside. A soft. . . soft . . . rustUng . . .

Cautiously she reached out to touch the cloth ... to lift one comer away.

She hadn't heard anyone slip into the room behind her.

She didn't even see the hand as it came out of nowhere and clamped down on her wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice said.

With a scream, Belinda jumped back.

The man towered over her, gaunt and expressionless, his hooded eyes fixed calmly on her face.

And as Belinda stared up at him, she noticed the slight movement of his other arm ... his smooth attempt to hide something behind his back... something shiny . . . yet smeared with dull red. . . .

A meat cleaver.

Jt2

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, miss," he said again. "Some of them are quite dangerous. Hardly safe to touch." He lifted the cloth, and Belinda's eyes widened. A screen was fastened on top of the box, and there below it, coiled in the bottom, was a thick brown snake. "A hobby of Mr. Thome's. Revolting, really."

Belinda couldn't stop shaking. She looked back at him as he replaced the cloth, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, and then she pointed weakly toward his back.

"Oh, this?" He gave the cleaver a disinterested glance. "I was just preparing dinner. Didn't want to frighten you,"

BeUnda's voice wavered. "You . . . you must be Mr. Cobbs?"

"Cobbs, miss, yes. And you're no doubt Miss Behnda."

She nodded, still studying him. He was well over six feet tall, ramrod straight and very thin, with a cadaverous sort of face and pale, cahn eyes, which

had remained half-closed throughout their conversation. He was dressed in a black suit, starched and neat, and Belinda doubted if he ever so much as wrinkled when he moved. It was hard to tell exactly how old he was -- with that angular face and receding white hairline; she guessed that Cobbs had been born looking like an old man. And then, as she continued her scrutiny, it occurred to her that he knew exactly what she was doing, and she dropped her eyes in embarrassment.

"I was looking for Mrs. Thome," she said quickly.

"Logical choice of locations."

"I really need to get home."

"Come with me."

Cobbs had that kind of voice that left no room for argument, and Belinda followed him into a gigantic, gleaming kitchen.

"Sit there." Cobbs nodded at a spotless tile bar that separated the cooking area from a smaller breakfast room.

"But I have to get --"

"Sit down, miss. FU fix you some tea and toast, and then I'll take you home. If you'll forgive my saying so, you look a trifle . . . anxious."

Belinda gave a grim smile and hoisted herself onto a high stool at the counter. She propped her chin in her hands and watched as Cobbs put the kettle on the stove, rinsed a flowered teapot with hot water, and measured tea from a blue cannister. He moved quickly without hurrying, and Belinda had the feeling he could find his way around this kitchen in his sleep.

"Sugar?" he glanced at her. "Cream?"

"I've never had cream in my tea," Belinda said doubtfully.

Cobbs lowered his head, but Belinda could ahnost swear he'd rolled his eyes. "It's the civilized thing to do, miss."

"Oh. Then I guess I'd better try it --"

"Splendid." He crossed to an oaken china cupboard on a wall in the breakfast room and took down a delicate cup and saucer, which he placed before her.

"Aren't you having some, too?" Belinda asked.

"I, miss?"

"Yes. I'd feel better if you'd have some, too."

A tiny flicker of -- what? shock? amusement? -- showed in his eyes. He regarded her thoughtfully, then fetched another cup and saucer.

"I just. . . well. . . you really don't have to treat me like company, you know," Belinda said uncomfortably. "I'm not used to being waited on."