Haunting Refrain (13 page)

On Thursday a steady, drizzling rain reminded Kate that fall was on its way. The raw air suited her mood and made her long for something hot and comforting, maybe soup. On the way home, she stopped briefly at the grocery and then, digging out two quarters from the bottom of her purse, bought a paper from the vending box.

She ought to have the weekday paper delivered, instead of just Sunday's. Lately she seemed to have developed an avid interest in the news and stopped almost daily at the Quick Shop for a copy.

The boarding house lot held only the usual vehicles, she noted, turning onto her street. She saw neither dark trucks nor the mysterious gray Buick that had appeared with alarming frequency. Small comfort, she thought.
Goodness, I'm getting paranoid!

Looking ahead, she saw several people standing on the sidewalk in front of her house. What now? Her pulse jumped a notch. She slowed almost to a stop, craning to see what had attracted them. Whatever it was, it was at her house. She parked on the street and opened her door. The voice carried over the crowd.

"
Bring up a host against them, and make them an object of terror . . .”

The damned prophet! What was he doing here? She tried to merge into the little cluster of onlookers to see. He was on her bottom step, beard, hair, and robe flying in the wind. The sudden exposure of his black
Keds
made him even more sinister. Should she leave? She hated to give up her own house. Before she could move, the crowd parted, and he stood before her.
 

“And the host shall stone them and dispatch them with their swords. He shall slay their sons and their daughters, and burn up their houses.”
His staff jabbed at the sky like a lightning rod.
“Thus will I put an end to lewdness in the land, that all women may take warning—
"

“What are you doing here?” She broke in, trying to sound strong. The wind blew harder and the rain fell faster. The man, not as old as she had first thought, looked skyward triumphantly.

His deep voice boomed out. “
Therefore thus
saith
the Lord God; I will even rend it with a stormy wind in my fury; and there shall be an overflowing shower in mine anger, and great hailstones in my fury to consume it.
”

With his raised staff and wild eyes, he indeed looked like a prophet of old. Her heart pounded. The wind whipped his robe back. Only then did she see a spray can in his left hand. What—?

A siren wailed, drawing his attention toward the street. He looked back at her, fierce with hatred. “
Yea, I will gather you, and blow upon you in the fire of my wrath, and ye shall be melted in the midst thereof.
”

The prophet greeted the police with silence. After a brief discussion among themselves, one of the officers put the man in the back seat and told Kate’s neighbors to go home. When Kate gave her name, he sighed. She was sure he knew who she was. He probably thought she and the prophet were two of a kind.

“Call if he bothers you again.”

“What brought you here?” She asked, ignoring the steady stream of invectives now coming from the back seat. The second officer leaned down and spoke sharply to the venom-spewing preacher.

“One of the neighbors reported a disturbance.” He slid into the car with the furious man.

Thank goodness! After they left, she moved the car to the rickety garage and made sure the lock on the door behind the car was secure before she went inside.

In the kitchen, she shook the rain out of her hair, laid the paper and groceries aside, and put a pot of water on the stove. What had happened to her quiet life? What on earth had possessed her to wish for a little fun? And how had that man found her? She felt sure he’d come because of Kelly Landrum and the visions.

While she waited for the water to boil, she stowed away the few items she had bought and read the directions on a box of lentil soup mix—lentils, rice, and a small pouch of spices—to the accompaniment of her rumbling stomach. As soon as the lentils started cooking, she grabbed the paper to look for anything new on Kelly Landrum. She wondered what had drawn the prophet’s attention. She didn't have to look far. The article led page three. Her attention focused on the story bearing John's byline, she absently took a slice of cornbread saved from the restaurant and popped it in the microwave.

“Oh, no!”
The black words swam in front of her eyes. The prophet slipped from her mind. Quickly, she dialed
Venice
's number.

Venice
answered before the end of the first ring. “Kate? Is that you? I've been trying to call. My paper didn't come, but I know there must be news on our case.”

“Right.
John has another story.
Venice
, listen to this! He mentions an unsolved murder from last summer.” Kate, with the phone caught between her shoulder and ear, paced the length of the kitchen as she read to
Venice
, occasionally stopping to sniff and stir the lentil mixture bubbling away on the stove. “There's a picture of the girl.
 
It looks like a high school yearbook photo. He says that Charlene Nelson was strangled and left under a pile of leaves and brush in a wooded area. The police have never found the killer. Oh,
Venice
, it couldn't be the same person.”

She leaned over to turn the page and spread the paper on the counter top. Feeling a cold hand brush against her neck, she leapt back, gasping, and dropped the phone.

Venice
's voice came faintly from the floor. “Kate? Are you all right?”

“I just dropped the phone.” Kate, embarrassed, realized it had been her wet ponytail falling across her neck. “He says the psychics envisioned exactly what the police found at
Lake
Jocassee
.”

“I'm worried about you. I think I had better talk to Ramses again.”

“I haven't finished reading.” Kate paused, scanning the rest of the article. “Damn him! All kinds of crazy people are going to be looking for us. That wretched prophet from the mountain was on my doorstep tonight.”

“Kate. Be careful. I have a feeling of danger. Last night when Martin brought me home, it was so strong I asked him to come in and check the house for me. Now I think it's directed at you. I don't like this.”

“I'm okay. Everything's locked.
But what about Charlene Nelson?
Do you remember anything about her?”

“No.
Just that a girl's body was found.”

Venice
's flat statement scared Kate. The woman must be truly frightened. The daffy old witch never, ever admitted to not remembering anything. If she didn't know, she made it up and swore the other person had the faulty memory. “
Venice
, I could come over if you want. Maybe it would be better if I spent the night with you.”

“No, but thank you for offering, Kate.
I'm fine now. It's you I'm worried about. Have you seen John again? I'd feel better if he were with you.”

“I hardly know the man! I may never see him again.”

“Ramses says there's a strong connection between you two. Just let it happen.”

Ignore her
, Kate told herself. It was absolutely pointless to argue with
Venice
on something like this. “Be careful,
Venice
. I'll call you tomorrow from the studio.” Thoughtfully, she dished the lentils into a bowl and sat down to eat.

* * *

6:10 a.m
.

Still dark.
Time to move.

At least he had another car now, and they still hadn’t found the old man, so no one knew it was missing. When they discovered the body, he would get another one. No sense using his own any more. And replacing it had been so easy. One clip with the pipe and the guy had dropped like a lead weight. Probably did him a favor—he must have been a hundred and looked sick besides, wheezing his way to the kitchen, all white hair and liver spots. Professor Plum, he thought, in the kitchen with a lead pipe—and Miss Scarlet was next. They hadn’t a clue.

Inside his garage, he lifted the hood of his new car, and using a rag wrapped around his finger, carefully wiped a smear of grime off the engine block. He rolled it in the rag and tucked it into the tool belt. On television, the cops always recognized a fresh cut because it was clean. He was smarter than that.

He drove into town, parked the car, and walked to a vacant lot behind the warehouse. It was ideal, higher than the gravel parking area at the back door and overgrown with small trees and weeds. He wanted to be in place early and make sure there were no surprises. He popped a couple of Tums into his mouth and settled down to wait, rubbing his thumb over the concave agate surface of the stone in his pocket.

Kate pulled up behind the building at 7:30 as he’d expected. A few minutes later he saw the lights come on in her studio. Occasionally she came close enough to the window that he could see her. His stomach tightened. He wished it didn't have to look like an accident.

At 8:00 the back door opened, and the maintenance man appeared.
Right on schedule.
He patted the tool belt and surveyed the area. Kate was out of sight of the windows and no one else was around. He slipped out of the undergrowth, ran quickly along the perimeter of the parking lot and into the building.

He took the stairs to the fourth floor, panting. He couldn't risk calling the elevator to the first floor because of the noise. He listened at the studio door, but heard nothing. She was probably in the darkroom. Turning to the elevator, he examined the door. Although opening the door was relatively quiet—nothing
like
the creaks and groans of the cage in motion, this was the risky part. If she heard it, she could come out to investigate. He felt for the pry bar in his tool belt, watching the studio. If she came out and saw him, he'd pretend he'd come to see her about a picture, or he could finish her right there if he had to.

No, no. It had to be an accident.

He let go of the bar. He could keep the tool belt hidden. Fortunately, it was cool enough this morning that the denim jacket was justified. He pressed the button and the door opened, revealing the crude wooden cage, just as he had hoped. The elevator stayed in its last position until it was called to another floor.

He waited a minute longer to be sure Kate didn't come out. He listened.
Still nothing from the studio.

Entering the elevator, he pressed the Close Door button and climbed to the top of the open cage, pulled
himself
up onto the
ladderlike
rungs embedded in the shaft wall, from which he could reach the cables. Removing a rasp from his tool belt, he began sawing through the wire cable. It was much tougher than he had expected. He had hoped to make it look frayed and avoid a clean cut, but he would have to use the bolt cutters after all. Maybe he could rough up the cut with the rasp afterwards.

This was taking longer than he thought. He flashed the penlight on his watch: 8:27. The maintenance man would be back in eighteen minutes. Trying to judge how far to cut into the cable, he began to sweat. He cut further. The cable held. He snipped a few more strands and waited, shifting his weight on the rung ladder.
Nothing.
8:31. He was well into the cable by now. What if he cut too far and it fell before he could get out? He made another tiny cut. One of the remaining strands snapped. The cut widened slightly, stretching the strands.

This was it! Quickly he slid the cutters back into his belt and took out the greasy rag. He rubbed it over the cut, wishing there were time to rough the cut with the rasp. It would look more like wear, he thought. But it was 8:34 now, too late. As he turned to leave the shaft, he glanced at the light bulb wired to the top of the cage and smiled. A quick twist and it was out. It would be worse for her in the dark. He climbed down the rungs, squeezing past the cage, careful to avoid putting any weight on it, until he reached the opening. He listened, but heard nothing from the studio across the hallway. He dropped to the floor and darted across to the stairwell.