Shattered Silk (32 page)

Her car was still in front, where she had left it. "Keys," Shreve said curtly. After watching Karen fumble in her purse she snatched it and found the keys before she tossed the purse into the car.

Karen got in the passenger seat as directed. Her head was spinning, but she knew there would be a moment, after Shreve shut the door and went around to the driver's side, when she might have an opportunity to make a break for it. There was another set of car keys in her purse. She always carried two sets in case she locked one in the car.

It was a desperate, almost hopeless risk, but she had to take it. There was a far-out chance that Cheryl had not thrown the dress in the trash; Cheryl was always trying to salvage things. But if she had done so, the dress was gone. The weekly trash pick-up had taken place that morning.

Anyway, Karen didn't believe Shreve's assurance that she would be released unharmed. Why should a multiple killer balk at murder number four? Compared to the others, this would be easy. Suicide, while in a state of depression following the break-up of her marriage, with a gun registered to her uncle-a gun that, so far as anyone knew, had never left the house. It would be said that she had arranged the false telephone call to get Cheryl out of the house-that she had played most of the tricks on herself or invented them, further evidence of a mental and emotional breakdown. Cheryl wouldn't believe it; but everyone else would. Even Tony. He had insisted all along that there was no connection between the harmless nocturnal visits and the violent incidents. And Mark…

She didn't dare think about Mark. Shreve must have had an accomplice. She could not have done everything alone…

Karen had worked most of it out while she walked to the car and fumbled for the keys, delaying as long as she could. But she had barely settled herself on the seat, one hand already reaching for the catch that would lock the doors, when Shreve raised the gun and brought the barrel down against her temple. She felt her forehead strike the dashboard and felt nothing more.

KAREN
was not completely unconscious for long, but the state that followed her dazed recovery could not really be called consciousness. It was a nightmarish succession of isolated, incoherent memories separated by periods of dizzying darkness. Once or twice she must have tried to sit up, for she felt a hand shove her back into the corner of the seat. The motion of the car was erratic, sometimes smooth, sometimes jerking forward and then stopping.
Traffic is always backed up on the bridge this time of day.
The sentence floated to the surface of her mind, and her body tried to respond to the possibilities it suggested, but then something pushed her again, so hard that her bruised temple banged against the window glass and she lost track of things again.

The worst moment was when she heard voices, or thought she heard them; she never knew whether the incident really happened. "Your friend doesn't look so good, ma'am." A deep man's voice, that one, and Shreve's, replying smoothly, "I'm afraid she has had a little too much to drink, officer. I couldn't let her drive in her condition." Then something about a hospital, and Shreve's little laugh. "She'll be fine once I get her home and in bed." The hand again, covering her mouth and holding her in place with hurting strength. "Oh, darling, don't be sick here. I'll have you home in a jiffy. Officer, if you don't mind…"

She didn't remember being sick, but there was a sour taste in her mouth when she finally woke, and her head was beating like a tom-tom. Shreve was slapping her face, rhythmically and efficiently.

"Stop it," Karen croaked, raising a feeble hand to protect herself.

"Then sit up and take notice. You'll have to walk a few feet. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry you."

She dragged Karen out of the car and draped a limp arm over her shoulders. Cool wetness stroked Karen's cheeks. "It's raining," she mumbled.

"Pouring, in fact. Filthy driving weather. I hope your little friend is enjoying herself on those back-country roads."

They negotiated the gate and started up the walk. The bricks were uneven and slippery with rain; the boxwood bushes on either side glistened as if varnished. Karen's foot slipped. Instead of trying to recover her balance she let herself fall heavily to her hands and knees. Already her hair was soaked, but the cool water on her aching head cleared some of the cobwebs away. If she could just stay where she was, head bowed, for a few minutes, she might be able to think. One last chance, when Shreve opened the door, her attention concentrated on the stiff lock… And there was Alexander. Darling little Alexander. How could she have resented Alexander's wonderful habit of biting everyone who came in the door? Please, Alexander, do your stuff.

Shreve didn't give her a few minutes. She yanked Karen to her feet and shoved her toward the house. "Take the key. Unlock the door."

Karen dropped the keys. The gun jabbed painfully into her side. "Pick them up. And don't try that again."

She didn't have to make the threat explicit. In the gloom and the driving rain, half-hidden by shrubs, anything she chose to do would be unobserved from the street or the neighboring windows. Another chance gone. If only Alexander…

But when Karen opened the door there was no sign of the dog. Or of anyone else. She fell again, her wet shoes slipping on the smooth, polished floor of the hall. Shreve pushed her inside. The door slammed; the key turned in the lock, and a switch clicked. The chandelier overhead blazed into light so brilliant it cast shadows across the floor. A squat, huddled shadow and a longer one standing over the first: the shadows of killer and victim.

"Crawl if you prefer," Shreve said. "The position suits you. Where is it, upstairs?"

"I told you-"

Shreve's foot caught her in the ribs and toppled her onto her side. The light beat down, plunging fiery fingers into her eyes. Karen covered them with her hands and heard Shreve's brittle laugh.

"I'm beginning to enjoy this," Shreve said.

All right, Karen thought. That does it.

Physically she still felt as wretched as a sick dog, but the surge of anger brought a strange unnatural strength to her limbs. It couldn't last, but while it did she had better take advantage of it.

What could she tell Shreve, where could she take her that might offer a chance of escape? Not upstairs. Not any farther from the doors, front and back. Her strength was no match for Shreve's now, she wouldn't stand a chance in a hand-to-hand struggle, even if she got an opportunity to grapple for the gun. Get out of the house-that was her only hope. Once outside, she'd be safe. It was only on television that the bad guys stood out on the street blazing away at the fleeing hero.

The kitchen was one of the few places Shreve had not searched already. The kitchen possessed that most attractive of objects, a door. But there was no hiding place there that Shreve couldn't examine in a few moments.

From between her fingers Karen saw Shreve's weight shift, saw her raise her foot. The inspiration she had been searching for finally came. "I buried it. In the garden."

The look on Shreve's face consoled her a little- but only a little-for the kick. She mumbled, "It's in a cookie tin. Wrapped in plastic, sealed with tape…"

"Goddamn! Where in the garden?"

"Between the Marchioness of Lorne and Frau Karl Druschki. They are roses," Karen added.

Shreve's face twisted. Rain had reduced her sleek coiffure to a straggling ruin and washed off most of her makeup. Her linen dress was rumpled and damp, not only with rain but with perspiration. Without its mask her skin looked dry and mottled; her nose was longer than Karen had realized, and her lips were thin and colorless.

"At least the ground will be soft," she said. "Easier for you to dig. Let's go."

Karen took her time about getting to her feet. Was Shreve really going to allow her to get hold of a shovel? It would be Shreve's first mistake and with any luck it would be her last. Once outside in the rain, I'll take my chances with the gun, Karen thought. Her aim won't be too good if I'm swiping at her with a shovel.

Pretending a greater weakness than she felt, she stumbled along the hall, with Shreve close behind. The kitchen door was ajar. As Karen reached out to push it open, a light within suddenly went on.

Shielding her eyes, Karen heard Shreve's breath catch in a furious hiss. For a brief, exultant moment, hope leaped like a flame. Then she recognized the figure that stood between her and the back door; and the last missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

For once the tables were turned; Miriam was as composed and well-groomed as her friend was disheveled. There wasn't a spot on her dress. She must have arrived before the rain began. The only details that marred her appearance were her torn stocking and the carving knife in her hand.

"My dog," Karen cried. "What have you done to Alexander?"

Miriam's pale-blue eyes touched her indifferently and moved on. "I'm surprised at you, Shreve," she said in her gentle voice. "Were you really going to let her go outside? That was a trick, you know. She didn't bury it."

Shreve did not answer. Karen could almost feel the other woman's fear, like a heavy cloud whose edges touched her too.

"Don't stand there, come in," Miriam said. She gestured graciously toward a chair; the knife turned the movement into a grotesque travesty of courtesy.

Shreve nudged Karen. She had to nudge again, harder, before Karen moved. She had never seen anything more terrifying than the smiling, immaculate figure of her old classmate.

Shreve cleared her throat and made an attempt to reassert her authority. "Miriam, I told you not to come in the house. You were supposed to wait for me and drive me home."

"But that would have been silly. I wanted to search the house one more time. Now I'm sure. It isn't here. She must have given it to someone to keep for her. We'll have to make her tell us where it is."

"She will, Miriam. She will. Let me-"

"She's already told you a lot of lies, Shreve. You don't know how to question people. The only way you can be sure they aren't lying is to hurt them. That's how I was sure Rob was telling the truth when he said he didn't know about my dress."

Karen took a quick, involuntary step back. Shreve didn't look at her. She said urgently, "Miriam, put the knife down, okay? You'd better leave this to me. You know you get… you get too excited sometimes-"

"Please don't talk to me that way, Shreve," Miriam murmured. "I don't like it when you talk to me that way. As if I were irresponsible or something."

"Give me the knife, Miriam." Shreve stepped forward.

The blade made one brilliant, flashing move. Shreve's hands went to her breast. They could not hold back the flood; it bubbled out, staining her gloves and spreading across the crumpled linen of her dress. The sound of her body striking the floor made an appalling noise; it seemed to Karen as if the entire house vibrated with it.

"She shouldn't have done that," Miriam said. "She's so damned bossy."

"We've got to call a doctor. The telephone-"

"I'm afraid not." Miriam's voice was politely regretful. "I cut the wires, you see. Why don't you just give me the dress, Karen? Then I'll go, and you can do what you want about Shreve. I don't know why you're so worried about her, she always was nasty to you."

"But, Miriam…" Karen's voice failed. Was Miriam really so far removed from reality that she failed to see the old dress no longer mattered? Whether that was the case or whether Miriam intended to kill her too and hope she would be blamed for Shreve's death didn't really matter. The result for her would be the same, because she couldn't give Miriam the dress. Shreve was still alive-the ghastly stain was still spreading-but she would bleed to death if she didn't get help soon.

There were three doors in the room-one into the dining room, one into the hall, and the back door, the one closest to Karen. The way to it was barred, not only by Miriam, but-Karen realized with a jarring shock-by the dead-bolt lock. She would need a key to open it, and the same thing was true of all the ground-floor windows. She'd have to break the windows to get out, not only the panes of glass, but the connecting wooden strips. It looked easy in the movies, when the hero flung himself at a window and it exploded in fragments that left only a neat little cut on his cheek, but she had a feeling it wouldn't work so well in real life.

There was only one viable means of escape, then- the front door. She was almost certain Shreve had locked it from the inside, but the key would still be in the lock. She started edging toward the dining room door.

Shreve's purse had fallen too, spilling a clutter of objects across the floor. Miriam pushed them around with her foot. "She really shouldn't have done that," Miriam repeated, in a querulous, complaining voice. "She had it coming. So did he. He did it for years, you know. It started right after Mother married him. I was thirteen. I told her, but she didn't believe me. She must have known, though. She wouldn't stop him because she cared more about what people thought than she cared about me."

"Oh, God," Karen said involuntarily. "That was why…"

"I thought after I got out of high school I could go away to college and get free of him," Miriam said conversationally. "But he wouldn't let me. He said it was better for me to live at home and go to Georgetown. So I had to do it. And then, when she came in and saw what happened, I had to do it to her too, or she would have told someone it was me."

The sensation that froze Karen's limbs and came dangerously close to making her forget her own peril was not fear. It was a paralyzing blend of horrified pity and of mindless terror-terror of the irrational and the unknown. Miriam was beyond reason or appeal. Part of her mind was back in the past, reliving her torment and the double murder it had caused. Even her voice changed.

"Of course after I did it I was all splashed with blood. I knew the dress was the main thing. I had to get rid of it. Then I remembered Shreve was next door, visiting her grandmother. We were all going out someplace afterward, to celebrate. To celebrate…" A sudden, obscene giggle blurred her voice. Then she went on, "Shreve stopped to see the old lady because she'd told her she had a graduation present for her. We thought it would be a check, but it was only some tacky little cameo pin. Shreve had a change of clothes with her because we were going to meet her folks at the restaurant and we wanted to get out of those stupid pink dresses right away. So mean of them, making everybody wear the same dress. But it turned out to be lucky for me, so I guess I shouldn't complain.