[Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind (16 page)

She sputtered a laugh and leaned back in the chair.
Her speculations were beginning to wander away from
common sense. But she found herself much more re
laxed now that distance had been placed between the
apartment and the quarry. Now it was a matter of
setting up possible villains and beginning the process of
logical elimination. And in thinking that she realized she was sounding like Ellery Queen or Sir Henry
Merrivale
; it was a crime to be solved, with a dozen possible criminals, all with motives as fragile as the
illusion.

The tea cooled; she did not notice.

It would be interesting to learn how it was done. It
would be fascinating to see how long this calm would
last before her temper
took
charge. She could feel it
now, stirring like a disturbed slumbering beast, its limbs
jerking in half-sleep, searching for whatever it was that
had poked it awake.

Nightred
, rising . . .

You are a remarkable woman, Patrice, if I do say so
myself.

. . .
soaring
above the mouth of the quarry, masked in white, bellowing in fury . . .

Anyone else would be a prime candidate for a strait-jacket and a padded room. Doctors scuttling all over the place, their glasses sliding down their noses while they
stared at you and questioned you and wanted to know
how well you got along with your mother, your father,
why was it really that you broke up with your husband,
and isn't it possible that you've never really gotten over
the death of your daughter and so you're lashing back
now, striking out at everyone you believe to be your
enemy at the college?

Isn't that possible, Dr. Shavers?

Isn't it possible you've finally lost your mind?

. . .
massive
forearms stretching toward the clouds,
whistling through the air to smash the shed and render
it into firewood; less, into dust
. . .

She felt the cup slip from her hands and shatter on
the floor, felt a splash of cold tea land on her ankle. Her
boots were off. When, she wondered
,
had she taken them off? And why, she wondered, is it so damned dark?

She could barely see her hands on the table. But she
could feel her fingers twitching, feel the vibrations tingling up her arm to her shoulders, making their
serpentine way to her neck and causing her throat to
tighten, her lips to draw taut, her eyes to widen until
she thought they would explode out of their sockets.

"It . . . was . . . real."

Her voice.
So small.
Mouselike
.
Quivering.
No con
fidence there at all. Not at all like the way she had
spoken to Ben.
Ben, who had just happened to drive out
to the quarry because Greg had told him what he had done.
Ben, who
—if Harriet was to be believed—was
ready to agree with Oliver about the state of their
career.
Non-career.
So young.
So damned young, so
damned
inexperienced,
and so
goddam
ready to take on
the world.

"Real."

A gasp more than a word.

She closed her eyes tightly, furrowing her brow,
pulling up her chin. The
bloodwind
beast was there.
Rising.
Climbing.
Hidden behind the
snowcloud
, the
snowpillar
, the tornado, allowing her only glimpses to
fuel the imagination she wasn't supposed to have. It
was there. Vividly stalking her, vividly silent, launching her into the forest as it trampled the shed.

Her eyelids fluttered and lifted. There was nothing for it but that she would have to go back. As long as
she sat here in the dark she would vacillate between intriguing illusion and horrifying insanity. She had to
know, and she had to know now, before she tried to sleep.

And immediately the decision was made there was no
hesitation in her movements. She pushed back the chair and heard a leg crunch through the shards of the cup.
Carefully, she sidestepped the debris and grabbed a
broom from the narrow closet at the back.
Swept up as
much as she could and dumped it in the trash.
Skirted
the table so as not to cut her feet on anything she'd
missed and walked purposefully into the bedroom. Changed her jeans, slipped on a ski sweater midnight
blue and unadorned, found her boots in the bathroom and pulled them on over a fresh pair of wool socks,
fished a dry pair of gloves from the top dresser drawer
and strode into the
livingroom
.

Though it occurred to her that she ought to, she did
not feel the least bit silly. This was her sanity she was
defending, and nothing she did now would seem any
more insane than fleeing what just might be a delusion.
She would need luck, of course, in getting out there and
back without attracting attention, or without breaking
her neck. And luck, she decided with a grin, was exactly what she would have.

Whistling, she hurried into the kitchen to fetch Ho
mer. There was still only the lamp's light from the front
room, so she only frowned when she reached around the door and came up with nothing. Frowned more
deeply when she half-stepped into the room and saw the
shelf was empty.

"Rat," she said. "Where the hell did I put you?"

The bedroom didn't hide him. Neither did the hall
way or living room. Despite the fact she'd never brought
him in there, she checked the bathroom anyway, checked
the closets, checked under all the furniture while she
wrestled with the implication that somehow she'd lost
him.

Then she snapped her fingers. "Ha!" It was too
easy. She'd been working on Greg's present in the
workroom. She had used Homer for the model. There
fore, it stood reason's test the grizzly would be there.

But it wasn't.

When she flicked on the overhead light and her eyes adjusted to the glare, the pedestal was empty, as well as
the stool.

And it was then she remembered her door had been
unlocked.

ON the wall a crescent of light formed by the
baseboard and the edge of the lampshade. Within, a
shadow, an elongated globe that swelled and shrank as
Pat turned her head from side to side. She could hear
the water in the pipes trying to warm her, could feel the
carpet beneath her soles trying to muffle the sound of a
scream that had not yet been born. She pivoted slowly
and stared at the door. It was a block of wood with
inserted panels, polished and worn and fitting snugly to
its frame. She had never seen it before, not now, not since it was evident someone had used it while she'd
been away. Once part of her protection, it became alien
within the space of a blink, and she backed away from it, half expecting the knob to begin turning, to hear
breathing on the landing, to hear footfalls across the
threshold.

And it wasn't the first time.

Through all her hysterical outbursts and the accumulation of woes, she'd forgotten the glove.
Oliver's glove.
And how the statuette had been shifted from the perch
to the table.

Twice, then.
Twice someone had broken into her apartment; first to retrieve the glove, then to steal the
images of the grizzly.

I saw Dr. Billings at the curb,
Ben had told her only
a few hours ago. But the boy had been here, too.

She took several steps toward the kitchen and halted.

No, she would say to the police if they came; no,
nothing else has been taken as far as I know. My watch
is still on the dresser, and all the prints
—some of them
rather valuable, they're signed—are still here. It was
only a statuette.
Two, actually.
Of a grizzly bear.
I did them myself and they're not valuable at all. And no, no one has a key to this place but me. The
Evanses
from
across the way are down in Florida, and the two women
who live downstairs, well, one's man-hungry and the
other is deaf. No, we don't fight. No, I've never had a
cross word with Mr. Goldsmith, either. Who
am
I
fighting with? Funny you should ask. It seems like the
whole world sometimes. First, there's Greg Billings.
He's in love with me, you see, and I think I'm in love
with him but sometimes he can be so smothering that I strike out at him.
No, not with my fist, with my stupid
tongue.
We had a fight just this afternoon, as a matter
of fact. And then there's the Three Musketeers. One-
armed Ben, who saved me from going crazy this after
noon, and Harriet with the freckles who acts more like a
puppy dog sometimes than a growing woman, and Cow
boy Oliver, whose glove I found outside the other night
and then it was gone when I got back from New York
and I went over there to demand an explanation, and
we, the four of us, we didn't really have a fight but it
wasn't the most pleasant experience in the world, either. Do you want to count my parents? I've been
fighting with them since the day I was born.

No. No one hates me as far as I know. What an odd
question, officer. I thought we were talking about a theft here, not an attempted murder or anything like that.

No, I already told you, no one has my keys but me. I
keep them right over here in my purse. Right here on the table by the door. If you'll just wait a minute I'll show you. I keep them right down at the bottom, just
like my mother always taught me. Right
—

She blinked and pulled away from the purse, sud
denly realizing she'd been talking aloud to herself. And
realizing, too, her keys weren't where they were sup
posed to be.

"Easy." The word was barked. An order, as she
snapped her head around to check the corners, to check
the shadows. "Easy. Think."
A whisper, now.
Calm
ing, demanding calm, while she reviewed the weekend,
remembered Abbey asking for the keys for a double
date the night before. Saturday night. And unlike Fri
day, they'd not been taped in an envelope and left on the hall table.

"Easy."

It didn't prove anything. Abbey and Kelly had been
up here only a half-dozen times since they'd moved in
below, and not at all since the first of the year. Neither
one of them had expressed interest in anything they'd
seen here, made only socially polite remarks about the
furnishings and wasn't it curious how someone could do
something so totally different with the same space you
have.

It was a simple matter of calling downstairs and finding out. That's all there was to it. But she didn't want to stay here alone anymore. Grabbing her coat
from the floor, then, she hurried out to the landing and
closed the door behind her. A
thought,
and she leaned
over to the lock, searching for signs of a break-in, the
use of a tool to snap back the bolt. But there was
nothing. Not even space enough between
door
and frame
to use a credit card, or a stiff cutting of plastic.

Whoever had taken Homer and his image had appar
ently walked in as if the door weren't there.

The foyer was unlighted. The single bulb in the
ceiling had burned out, and there was nothing but the
drift of the
streetglow
through the curtained door and the panes to either side. She listened for sounds of activity in Goldsmith's apartment, crossed to Kelly's door and knocked.
Waited.
Frowned at the lack of
response and knocked again, several times, loudly. Her
foot tapped impatiently, and a loose fist pressed lightly
against her mouth. Kelly, she finally decided, must not
be home. She rang the bell, cocking her head to hear it buzzing inside. If Abbey were there, she would see the
warning lights flashing. If not
—

The door opened inward, the room beyond dark ex
cept for a single lamp muffled by a white glass shade.
She stepped over the threshold, and the door closed
silently behind her. Turning quickly, her left arm caught under the overhanging topcoat, she saw Abbey standing
in shadow.

"Abbey?
Abbey, are you okay?"

Abbey walked away from her, stumbling once over
nothing Pat could see, and sat on the couch. Her hair
hadn't been brushed in what looked like days, her face
was devoid of makeup, and she was wearing a tattered
bathrobe that seemed stiff and uncomfortable.

Pat glanced around the dim apartment, looking for Kelly,
then
hurried to join the woman so her lips could
be seen.

"Abbey, what's wrong?" When there was no response, when Abbey just stared at her blankly, she reached out and took the girl's hand. It was cold, clammy, the feel of someone in deep summer who'd just come out of midnight walking. "Abbey . . .
it's
Kelly, isn't it? Your date last night was a flop, but hers
was a success, right? She probably made you drive
home alone and you're worried about her because she
hasn't gotten in touch."

Abbey didn't move, and not for the first time did Pat
wish the girl would talk. She could, physically, but 
someone
 
had told her what the sound of a deaf person
 
was like, sometimes too loud and often toneless. She'd
 
made a decision to use only her hands, which "was 
limiting only when she felt too weary to lift them. 
Or 
when she was depressed.

"You know, dear," she said, pulling up a leg, "Kelly
 
is always telling me how man-crazy you are." She 
smiled. "I know it's a fib. And I suspect it bothers you
 
when you hear it. But she's done this before, a hundred
 
times since I've known you. 
Abbey?
 Abbey 
are
 you
 listening to me?"

Abbey nodded.

"Okay. Well, look, I came down here . . . Abbey, 
did you, have you been here all day?" 
Waiting.
 
A slow 
nod.
 "Have you seen anyone come in or out of the 
house? Besides me and 
Linc
, that is. 
Anyone at all?
 Maybe Professor Billings, the man I work with at 
Hawksted
. Or maybe one of my students.
".

Abbey's hands fluttered in her lap, a sigh as she 
gathered strength. 
A boy.
 
He had one arm.

"That would be Ben. Did you see anyone else? Anyone you didn't know?"

Abbey's eyes widened in suspicion, a slow-growing
 
fear sparking her eyes.
 
What's wrong?

"I don't want to frighten you, dear, but I think 
someone's broken into my apartment. You remember Homer? 
The grizzly?
 He's gone, and so is a copy I was
 making for someone."

The questions came rapidly, and Pat answered them
 
all as best she could, explaining that nothing other than
 
the statuettes had been taken and there had been no one
 
there when she'd returned, and she'd wondered if either
 
she or Kelly had gone upstairs for some reason, perhaps
 
to return the keys and leave them inside. "But if Kelly's not home yet, that's impossible. Damn!"

She threw herself against the back of the couch and
 
folded her arms over her stomach. 
Shook her head.
 
Smiled quickly when Abbey leaned toward her, search
ing her face.
 
"No, I didn't say anything. I'm just . . . 
well, I was scared at first, but now
 I'm 
furious. I mean,
 it doesn't make any sense, does it? 
Someone ignoring all your valuables for a couple of hunks of rock.
 It doesn't make sense, and if you weren't up there . . . hell. Oh, hell, I guess I'd better call the police."

An art lover,
 
Abbey said, grinning.

Pat laughed, not so much at the joke as at the fact 
that the girl seemed to be coming out of whatever had
 
taken her. She tried futilely to straighten her flaxen hair
 
with her fingers, then blushed and excused herself. Pat
 had no choice but to nod, and wait, reach over and 
switch on another light so the room didn't remind her so
 
much of a mausoleum. She also realized that with Kelly
 
unthinkingly keeping the station wagon she had no way
 
of getting back out to the quarry tonight, not unless she
 
called Greg, or one of the trio. And that would be the
 absolute last resort. It would be bad enough to find 
nothing there if she were alone, worse if she did it with
 someone there.

She jumped when Abbey returned, fluttered a hand
 
mockingly over her heart.

I've just read the time. Have you eaten anything?

"No, but please don't go to any trouble, Abbey. 
I've
—" But Abbey was already heading for the kitchen,
 
and Pat had no choice but to follow. Was glad she hadn't protested too strongly when she sat down to a 
meal of thick Irish stew and homemade bread, a Cali
fornia wine Abbey refused to apologize for, and a chocolate cake heavy with fudge icing.

And it would have been funny if Pat had allowed the
 
thought to take hold. Two women, one deaf and one may
be crazy, both afraid to be alone; one worried about the
 
absence of a friend, the other frightened of the absence
 
of reason. Both of them eating as if it were their last meal, neither of them looking through the doorway to 
the front room, avoiding glances at the clock, talking as
 
best they could around the food they were eating. 
About 
the weather.
 
About school.
 
About Abbey's job in the 
bank.
 
About the troubles with Kelly's car and how it 
was barely worth holding on to until spring.