Mortal Faults (4 page)

4

The doorbell frightened Andrea.

She had no visitors, ever. For the most part, the only sounds in her world were the ticking of the wall clock and the laughing cries of children in the park across the street. She rarely turned on the television or radio. She didn’t even own a record player or tape deck. She lived in a cocoon of silence.

Now, at nearly ten o’clock at night, the doorbell had rung.

Her first impulse was to hide. Retreat to her bedroom and wait for whoever was outside her door to leave.

But then the doorbell rang a second time, and Andrea knew she had to answer. She had to know who was out there. Otherwise her imagination would torture her with a hundred possibilities. It was better to know.

Besides, she didn’t have to actually
open
the door.

She crossed the living room, past the carefully nurtured plants on her end tables, plants chosen because they didn’t need much sun. Once she had loved daylight, but then she had spent twelve years in darkness, and now it was only in the dark that she felt comfortable.

Bracing herself against the door, she risked a look through the peephole. The porch light was on, illuminating a woman, dark-haired, slender.

“Yes?” Andrea called out. “What is it?”

The woman frowned, perturbed at having to speak through a closed door. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. My car seems to have run out of gas.”

She gestured behind her. Dimly it was possible to see a car stopped by the curb.

This could be a trick. People were always claiming to have some automotive problem, and when the homeowner opened the door...

She wouldn’t fall for it. She would make the woman go away. “I don’t have any gasoline. I’m sorry.”

“I was hoping to use your phone, call Triple A.”

The phone. No, that was out of the question. For the woman to use the phone, she would have to come inside the house.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Andrea said through the door. “Don’t you have a phone of your own? One of those cellular phones?”

“The battery is dead.”

“Then you’ll have to try one of my neighbors.”

“All the lights are out. It doesn’t look like anyone’s awake.”

“Someone must be. If they’re asleep, you can wake them.”

“I’d really prefer not to do that. Can’t I just make a quick call? It’ll only take a minute.”

Yes, it would only take a minute. A minute to place a phone call—or to knock the trusting homeowner unconscious and rob her blind.

Still, the woman looked all right. Not that you could judge a person by appearances. Andrea had learned that lesson. She’d learned about the masks people wore, and what was behind the masks—not least, her own.

“Ma’am?” piped the irritating, beseeching voice.

“I’m sorry,” Andrea said firmly. “I can’t help you.”

There. That was that. The matter was settled. She was turning away from the door when she heard the woman say, “Please.”

No one had said
please
to Andrea in a long time.

She hesitated, her lips working silently, mouthing words. Then on impulse she unlatched the door and opened it a few inches, without releasing the security chain.

“You’re polite,” Andrea said. “I like that.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” the woman said again.

Andrea could feel her heart clenching and unclenching in her chest, each beat a separate jolt that traveled up her breastbone into her throat. She didn’t want to release the chain. She was sure she would regret it if she did.

And yet it had been so long since anyone had treated her with courtesy. And the ticking of the clock did get irksome at times, with no voices in the house.

The chain made a poor defense, anyway. The woman could have forced open the door by now, had she wanted to. One good shove would rip the chain out of its socket.

She could probably be trusted.

“All right,” Andrea said, her own words surprising her. She took down the chain and opened the door before she could change her mind. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” The woman stepped over the threshold, and Andrea took a step back, afraid of sharing her space. “I appreciate it. Really. My name’s Abby. Abby Bannister.”

Andrea realized she was expected to give her own name in return. It had been a while since she’d practiced the ritual of exchanging introductions. “Andrea Lowry.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lowry.”

“It’s Miss Lowry. Just Miss. Call me Andrea.” Her mouth was dry. Speech was difficult. “The phone ... in the kitchen.” She gestured vaguely.

The woman moved past her. She was alone. No accomplice had been waiting to spring through the doorway.

Andrea lingered in the living room while Abby Bannister called AAA and arranged for service. When the call was over, Abby emerged from the kitchen. It had taken longer than the promised minute, but Andrea wasn’t upset about that. She was beginning to adjust to the peculiar sensation of sharing her living quarters with another human being.

“I’m sorry I was so standoffish,” Andrea said. “But a person has to be careful, you know. Especially at this time of night.”

“I understand.”

“The car people—they’re sending someone?”

“Yes. It may take some time. I’ll wait outside.”

“You can wait in here ... if you like.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No, really, I don’t mind.” The odd thing was, she didn’t. Now that she’d allowed a person into her home, she suddenly dreaded the thought of being alone again. “I can fix you something to drink.”

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I have lemonade. Is that all right?”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

Andrea got the pitcher out of the fridge and poured two tall glasses. She was distantly amazed that she could do this. She was entertaining a guest. She was a hostess.

She carried the glasses into the living room and handed one to Abby. They took seats across from each other.

“You have a very nice home,” Abby said.

Andrea doubted she meant it. The house was small and old and stuffy, the curtains were always closed, and there were security bars on the windows. No mementos or knickknacks were on display, no items of a personal nature. She’d lived here for more than a year but had furnished the place with little besides essentials, and most of those had been purchased secondhand.

Andrea asked Abby where she lived. “West L.A.,” Abby said. Andrea knew West L.A. It was miles away, a much pricier area, near enough to the ocean that you could feel the sea breeze.

“I envy you,” Andrea said, and it was true, and not only for living in West Los Angeles. The woman was young and attractive and seemed unburdened by fear and guilt, the two inescapable constants in Andrea’s own life.

They talked for a while, sipping lemonade. Andrea found it remarkable that she could be having a conversation with a stranger off the street. She barely noticed what they talked about. She was aware only of the ebb and flow of words, the casualness of it, the surprising ease. She had thought it would be impossible to talk to anyone, especially here, in her private sanctum. Yet it wasn’t so hard, after all. Perhaps she’d underestimated herself, or overestimated the perils of the world.

“Would you like more lemonade?” she asked when their glasses were empty.

“Thank you, yes. It’s very good.”

This time Abby accompanied her into the kitchen.

“Lived here long?” Abby asked.

“A year or so,” Andrea said, then wondered why the woman would have asked that question.

“Where were you before that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, you know, where do you hail from? Everybody in California is from somewhere else. I was raised in Arizona.”

“I was born in Oregon,” Andrea said softly. She took out the pitcher and carried it to the kitchen counter next to the sink.

“That’s a nice part of the country,” Abby said. “Of course, L.A. was probably real nice too, way back when. You know, years ago, before all the traffic and crime.”

Crime. Andrea picked up on the word. Why introduce that subject? “There’s crime everyplace,” she murmured. Her hand moved toward a drawer under the countertop, then shied away.

“We seem to get more than our share. So ... you said you’re not married?”

Stiffly, Andrea answered, “No.”

“Me neither. I prefer it that way.”

Andrea began to pour from the pitcher.

“Though I guess,” Abby said, “it would be nice to have children someday.”

Andrea’s hand shook, and she nearly spilled the lemonade.

“I think about it sometimes,” the woman went on. “The old biological clock is ticking, you know.”

Andrea set down the pitcher. “I have no children.” She looked at Abby, looked at her hard.

Abby gazed back, her face open and guileless. “Ever want any?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Just wondering.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Making conversation, that’s all.”

“Making inquiries. That’s what you’re doing.” Andrea turned back to the counter, and this time she opened the drawer. She reached inside, and her hand closed over the thing she needed. “Who are you?”

“I already said—”

Andrea turned to face her. “Who
are
you?”

This time she expected an answer.

***

Abby considered the gun.

It was aimed at her chest from a distance of four feet, a Colt revolver, a .38 Special, the Commando model.

She hadn’t expected the gun. It had been careless of her, really. She should have been ready.

“
Who?
” Andrea Lowry asked for the third time.

“I told you,” Abby said slowly. “My name is Abby Bannister. My car ran out of gas—”

“Don’t lie to me. I can’t
stand
it when they lie to me!”

“Okay.” Abby kept her voice even. “I understand.”

“You don’t understand. Nobody does. Walk a mile in my shoes... You know that expression? You’re too young know it.”

“I know the expression,” Abby said.

“You don’t know anything. Asking questions. Marriage, children ... You think you’re so smart.”

“I don’t. Really.” At the moment this was true.

“You’re all alike. You all use the same dirty tricks, and for what? To get a few words you can print? To get a story?”

Reporters. That’s who she was talking about.

“Now admit it.” The gun hadn’t wavered. “Admit who you are. Tell me the truth. Tell me right now.”

“I’ll tell you.” Abby took a breath. “You’re right. I’m a reporter. For a newspaper.”

“I knew it. I always know. Which paper is it, this time?”

“The
L.A. Times
.”

“You work for them?”

“I’m what they call a stringer. A freelancer.”

“How did you find me?”

Abby formulated a vague but—she hoped—plausible lie. “I was working another story, and your name came up.”

“My name? Why would my name enter into it?”

“I can’t reveal my sources.” It sounded like something a journalist would say.

Andrea gave her a sharp look. “Your sources. Oh, for God’s sake. You act so ethical, and yet you gained admittance to my home under false pretenses. To spy on me. To write one of your damn stories!”

“I was going to tell you—”

“When?”

“When we’d established a rapport.”

The woman snorted, a sudden sharp noise like a gunshot. Abby managed not to jump at the sound.

“Rapport. When you’d gained my trust, you mean. Fooled me into trusting you.”

“I guess so.”

“You people—you disgust me.”

“Could you put down the gun now, please?”

“I ought to shoot you dead, you little bitch.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job. Your job is to ruin lives. People like you have been after me for twenty years. For twenty years—do you know what that’s like, never to be left alone, never to have any peace?”

“I’m sorry,” Abby said.

“Ought to shoot you in your lying heart,” Andrea hissed, but there was no more passion in her voice, and the gun was lowering. “Your car is fine, of course.”

“Yes.”

“And when you used my phone to call Triple A—”

“I didn’t really make the call. I faked it.”

“You’re quite the actress, aren’t you?”

Abby didn’t answer.

“Get out. Get out of my house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You think I’m a sideshow for your readers’ amusement? You think I’m a freak?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. You all do. Well, go and write about me. Go tell them I’m as crazy as they thought. Tell them I’m a psychopath. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Get
out
,” Andrea said again.

Abby got out. She didn’t look back until she was pulling away from the curb. She expected to see Andrea Lowry in the doorway or window, watching her go, but the door was closed, and the curtains remained shut.

Abby released a slow breath. “That went well,” she mumbled.

She’d managed to alienate the woman she was trying to befriend. Not that alienating Andrea Lowry was hard to do. She was afraid of people—reporters in particular. Had they really been after her at some point in her life, or was that just part of some megalomanic drama she was acting out?

Near the freeway entrance Abby pulled into a convenience store parking lot and dictated notes into the microcassette recorder she always carried in her purse.

“Hostile ... paranoid ... fixated on reporters. Claims they’ve been harassing her for twenty years. Has a gun—Colt thirty-eight. Keeps it in a kitchen drawer near the sink. She looked like she knew how to use it. And she was wearing a wig at the town hall meeting, so whoever she is, she’s afraid of being recognized. Afraid of a lot of things. And not likely to talk to me again.”

That was the bottom line. Her job was to get close to this woman, gain her trust. She’d failed.

Abby didn’t like failure. And she knew Jack Reynolds didn’t, either.

Still, she had more facts than she’d had before. She knew the woman’s name and address. Soon she would know much more.

***

Or maybe she wouldn’t. Information on Andrea Lowry turned out to be perplexingly difficult to find.