Single White Female (15 page)

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Authors: John Lutz

BOOK: Single White Female
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25
Allie didn't leave the apartment for days. She ignored her temporary job at the camera store. The Iranian brothers must have called, she was sure, but she didn't bother answering her phone. By now they'd probably replaced her and not thought much about it. People did strange things in New York. People came and went for their own reasons, and life continued its raucous, zigzagging slide toward eternity.
She didn't call Sergeant Kennedy about the orchid and note she'd found by her door; the thought of more contact with the police repelled her. She wanted only to escape from unpleasant reality.
It scared her finally, the possibility that she was withdrawing completely from everything human, so she began to go out and take long walks, for the exercise, she told herself. But she knew it was really for the tenuous contact with people. In one way the press of Manhattan's humanity made her feel less alien, but in another it made her feel more lonely. Often she had the sensation she was invisible. Locked inside herself and invisible.
During one afternoon walk, on impulse, she stopped in at Goya's for lunch. It would help to talk to Graham; he at least thought she was real. She sat at her usual table. The restaurant was crowded with a mixture of neighborhood people, office workers on their lunch hours, and a few tourists who'd stopped to eat after wandering around the Upper West Side. The mingled, spicy scent of a kitchen going full tilt added to appetites. A grayish haze from the smoking section hovered close to the high ceiling, swirling ever so gently with the lazy rhythm of the two large and slowly rotating paddle fans. Goya's employees in black slacks and red shirts glided swiftly and efficiently among the tables, holding trays level above their heads and out of harm's way; the nonchalant balancing act of waiters and waitresses everywhere.
Allie expected Graham to appear any second, dodging tables and diners with his lanky sideways shuffle, wearing his lopsided grin and exchanging comments with regular customers. Her glance kept darting reflexively to the kitchen's swinging doors, like a reformed smoker's hand edging toward an empty pocket.
But a tall girl with wet-look red lipstick and dark hair in a frazzled French braid took Allie's order. The plastic tag pinned crookedly to her blouse said her name was Lucy. She was tentative and seemed new to the job.
“Is Graham Knox working today?” Allie asked.
“I don't think so,” the girl said. “I mean, I just started and don't know everybody yet, but the guy I think is Graham isn't in today.”
Allie thanked her and watched her walk away.
Since Goya's was crowded, about twenty minutes passed before Allie's food arrived. Lucy smiled with only her glossy lips and said she was real sorry about the delay. As she placed the white plate on the table, Allie noticed her fingernails were long and painted to match her lipstick. About half the bright red nail polish had been chipped or chewed away.
Allie fell into a somber mood as she sat munching her pastrami-on-rye and sipping Diet Pepsi. A different waitress, this one middle-aged with hair going to gray, asked if she wanted her glass refilled, but Allie declined. She left immediately after finishing her sandwich.
For a long time she walked the crowded, noisy streets of the city, until her feet were sore and the spring was gone from her legs. Around her, steam rose from the sidewalk grates; the monster breathing. She sat for a while on a bench in Riverside Park before smelling rain in the air and starting for home.
The phone was ringing when she let herself into the apartment. She hadn't been using her answering machine because she dreaded having to deal with the kind of messages that might be left, so the phone kept ringing. She ignored it.
The ringing continued as she slipped off her blue blazer and draped it over the sofa arm. She sat down in the wing chair and stared at the ringing phone. She didn't move.
Finally it stopped ringing.
Allie walked into the kitchen and got a glass of water, then sat again in the wing chair and stared at the dusk closing in outside the window. The noise of the city was beginning to lessen with the advent of night and the threat of rain.
The phone began ringing again. Shrill and insistent.
It rang twenty-one times before it stopped. Someone wanted very much to talk to Allie.
Whoever it was, they kept calling back. Finally, on the third ring of the fifth call, she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear.
Hedra's voice said, “I know you're there, Allie.”
“Yes, I'm here,” Allie said. She wasn't even curious about why Hedra had called. Nothing about Hedra could surprise her now.
“Sam's going to be mine forever,” Hedra said. “I've seen to that.” Her voice sounded odd, flatter than usual yet with an undercurrent of excitement.
Allie almost laughed. “Don't try to tell me the relationship has only just been consummated.”
“I wouldn't tell you that,” Hedra said. “Anyway, I never liked that word ‘consummated' when it was used to describe people. It sounds too much like soup, don't you think?”
Allie held her silence.
Hedra said, “Okay, crabby appleton, I know you're still on the line.” A little girl's voice. Taunting. But still flat. “Listen, I didn't mean to hurt you, Allie.”
“Then why did you?”
Instead of answering, Hedra said, “Are you lonely, Allie?”
“Yes,” Allie said, “I'm lonely.”
Hedra said, “I'm not.”
“You have Sam,” Allie said. “You deserve each other. You're both contemptible.”
“He's
contemptible. Otherwise he wouldn't have put his hands on both of us. He wouldn't have done what he did to us.”
“He didn't do it alone, Hedra.”
“He didn't
have
to do it at all, did he? What if I promised he'd never do it again?”
“I don't want your promises,” Allie said. “I don't care anymore about either of you. Can't you understand that? There's no reason for us to have anything to do with each other.”
“I hope you're right, Allie.”
“Don't call me again, Hedra.”
“I won't.”
The connection broke with a click, and the empty line sighed in Allie's ear until the dial tone buzzed.
She hung up the phone and sat for a while thinking about the call, watching a large bluebottle fly, later along in life than it thought, drone and bounce off the window, trying to escape into the drab, cool evening. The sky was darkening quickly now; it was getting dark noticeably earlier each day. Seasons changing.
What was Hedra trying to do? Why had she virtually taken over Allie's life, sapped Allie of herself and somehow
become
another Allie? She'd lived in Allie's apartment. Wore duplicate clothes, jewelry, and perfume. Sometimes wore Allie's clothes and jewelry. Used Allie's identity. Even some of her gestures and speech habits. Slept with Sam.
Envied Allie.
Had no identity of her own.
“She's ill,” Allie said to the bluebottle fly. Hedra had mentioned being hospitalized as a young girl. Possibly she'd been kept in a mental institution, and she was still very, very sick. So gradually had the situation made itself evident that the seriousness of Hedra's problem had never registered on the unsuspecting Allie. Allie had misjudged the intensity of Hedra's inner fire and envy. It was clear now why she'd wanted Sam so desperately, and why she flaunted the affair in front of Allie. It was as if she were letting Allie know that now she, Hedra, had finally supplanted Allie, and Allie no longer was quite real. Allie had become the inhabitant of an empty life, the shadowy subleasing roommate in her own existence.
The terrible part was that Allie
felt
that way. She'd bought it. She'd been so involved with other problems in her life that she hadn't noticed danger creeping up from an unexpected quarter. And then it was too late.
It was Hedra, Allie realized, who must have stolen her credit cards and driver's license, so she could be Hedra
outside
the apartment as well as inside. Hedra, the thief who stole so much more than property.
Why had Hedra called tonight? What had she meant about making Sam hers forever? And why the strange tone of her voice? There'd been an odd, deranged quality to the way she'd sounded. On the other hand, why shouldn't there be? She'd certainly been behaving that way.
Allie remembered the blueberry cobbler recipe she'd found in the shoe box in Hedra's closet, and the murder news item on its reverse side. There had been other newspaper clippings in the box, but she hadn't looked at them, assuming they were other recipes or cooking columns. But maybe the grisly homicide story on the back of the recipe didn't simply happen to be there. Maybe it was the
recipe
that happened to be on the back of the news item. Maybe the other clippings were about murders.
No, Allie told herself, don't let your imagination make a fool of you again.
But the longer she sat there, the more a kind of pressure built in her. Things Hedra had said and done over the months seemed to click into a pattern and became meaningful. Ominous. Imagination? Maybe.
Only maybe.
Allie walked to her purse and dug in it until she found the card Sergeant Kennedy had given her. Then she untangled and stretched the phone cord so she could rest the phone in her lap while she sat in the wing chair.
Listening to her own harsh breathing, she punched out the number on the card. She waited while the phone on the other end of the line rang, unconsciously twirling a lock of her hair around her left forefinger. It was a nervous habit she'd had as a teenager, and she wondered why she was doing it now. God, was she regressing? She jerked her hand away so abruptly she pulled her hair. Then she hung up the phone.
She had to give this some careful consideration before talking to Kennedy. For all she knew, her call would result not in a quelling of her fears, but in a uniformed officer knocking on her door within minutes, then a ride to the precinct house, where events would be dictated by emotionless procedure. One phone call, and the blue genie of police power would be out of the bottle and out of control. The police would want something more substantial than the anger and dread of a spurned lover. And that was how they'd see Allie. Even Kennedy would see her that way.
Allie thought again of the news item on the back of the recipe clipped from the paper.
Right now, whether she liked it or not, she cared a great deal about Sam.
She shouldn't care, but she did. And if Sam knew what she knew about Hedra, he'd feel differently—not only about Hedra, but about Allie. He'd
have
to feel differently.
She phoned the Atherton Hotel and asked the desk to ring Sam's room. Then she waited while the phone rang eight, ten times, until she was positive it wasn't going to be answered.
Allie hung up and glanced at the clock. It was quarter past eight, but sometimes Sam worked late. She remembered the number of Elcane-Smith Brokerage and pecked it out with her finger so violently she bent a nail.
Someone answered at Elcane-Smith, a harried-sounding man who told her Sam had left at five o'clock.
So where was Sam? Possibly on his way to meet Hedra for dinner. Or in his room and not answering his phone. Maybe because Hedra was with him and they were making love.
Reason left Allie. Only fear for Sam remained. Sam, who was in her blood forever.
What she really wanted most was to have him back. She didn't like knowing that about herself, so she shoved that sticky bit of knowledge to a dim corner of her mind where she could let it lie for a while before coming to terms with it. She heard again Hedra's little-girl taunt on the phone, and she understood the great truth: What we wanted, whom we needed, was wound and set like clockwork in us when we were children, infants perhaps, and after a while there could be no denial.
If Sam wasn't in his room, she'd find him no matter where he was and convince him Hedra was sick. Maybe dangerous. A woman who had no self, and who might be the collector of news stories about gruesome murders. The police would be interested. She and Sam could go to the police together and substantiate each other's stories, and Kennedy would listen. Together she and Sam could awaken from the nightmare.
She wanted to be real again. To be the only Allie Jones.
She was sure she wasn't imagining things.
She strode to the hall closet to get her blue coat.
It wasn't there. Wearing only the blazer over her jeans and blouse, she rushed out into the cool night, risking rain.
26
In the Atherton Hotel's long, narrow lobby were a white sofa and chair in front of a large mirror and an arrangement of potted plants. Beyond them, the desk and the entrance to the adjoining coffee shop were on the left, the elevators on the right. A middle-aged Hispanic woman sat low and almost unnoticeable at the switchboard, idly plucking at a hangnail. Behind the long marble-topped desk, a tall gray-haired man was busy registering a young couple whose only luggage seemed to be the overstuffed backpacks lying at their feet in a tangle of canvas strapping, like parachutes in case of fire.
One of the elevators was at lobby level. Its doors slid open immediately when Allie punched the UP button. She stepped in and pressed the button for the tenth floor.
On Five, the elevator stopped and an overweight blond bellhop got in and smiled at Allie. He was carrying a clipboard under his arm and had a yellow pencil wedged behind his right ear. At Seven, he got off the elevator, and Allie was alone when it arrived at Ten.
She walked down the narrow, dimly lighted hall toward Sam's room. The carpet soaked up the sound of her steps. A TV was playing too loud in one of the rooms; the inane chatter of a game show seeped through the door as Allie passed, then was left behind in an outbreak of enthusiastic but diminishing applause. Somebody had won big. The humidity outside had inundated the hotel; the hall was cool and had a mildewed smell about it. The air was almost thick enough to feel.
The next room was 1027, Sam's room. Allie stood for a moment close to the white-enameled door. No sound came from inside.
She knocked.
No answer. Nothing.
She turned the knob and found the door was unlocked. In fact, it hadn't been closed quite all the way. Wasn't even latched.
Maybe Sam hadn't pulled it tight when he'd left to go out. He could be careless that way. Or maybe he was in the shower. Or sleeping so deeply her knocking hadn't awakened him. She prayed it was something like that, that the reason he hadn't come to the door was something innocent and explainable.
She swallowed, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped inside.
The smell that struck her was familiar, yet she couldn't quite place it. The lights were out in the room. The only illumination was from the picture rolling soundlessly on the TV near the foot of the bed; a car chase racing vertically as well as horizontally. The TV game show next door was barely audible through the wall. Sam's double bed was unmade, sheets and spread in a wild tangle.
She could see into the suite's adjoining room. It was also dark. The bathroom door was closed, but no crack of light showed beneath it.
Allie said, “Sam?”
The only answer was the muted, constant roar of traffic ten stories below, the background rush of noise that was always there and was itself a part of the city's silence and existence. A vital sign of life; steel blood coursing through concrete arteries.
Allie saw something on the floor near the television, at the foot of the bed. The flickering light from the screen had a strobelike effect and she couldn't make out what the object was.
She moved forward a few steps.
Stopped and gasped.
She wasn't seeing what she thought! It was a trick, a magician's prop!
It was a fake! Please!
But as she edged closer she knew she was looking at a hand that had been severed at the wrist.
Shaking uncontrollably, she lurched away and steadied herself on a small desk with a lamp on it. She switched on the lamp, but carefully avoided looking again at the severed hand.
She saw Sam's ankle and his black wing-tip shoe protruding from behind the bed and walked over there, staying near the wall, away from the hand. She tried not to think of the hand, lying there so still like some kind of pale, lifeless sea creature that had somehow worked its way onto land and then died.
She didn't want to look at Sam, either, but she knew she must. She'd come this far and there was no choice.
He was on the floor between the bed and the wall. Lying on his back with his eyes wide open and horrified, his arms bent out of sight beneath his body. His other hand was resting on one of the pillows on the bed, centered as if it were on display in a museum. His jockey shorts and pants were bunched down around his knees. Things had been done to him with a knife.
Something in the room was hissing loudly. Steam escaping under pressure? Then she realized it was her breathing.
Allie backed away, stepped on something soft—the hand on the floor—and whimpered. Leaped to the side and froze like a startled, terrified animal. She stared at the stained sheets and recognized the smell in the room as blood. Bile surged bitterly at the back of her throat, a burning column of acid. Her stomach contorted so that she actually felt it roll against her belt. She retched and ran bent over to the bathroom, flung open the door, and automatically switched on the light.
More blood!
On the tiles. The white toilet seat. The white porcelain tank. A smeared red handprint on the curved edge of the bathtub. Allie saw that a trail of blood led from the bathroom toward the bed. Her jogging shoes were stained red.
The stench in the bathroom was overwhelming. She gagged, sank down on her knees before the toilet bowl, and vomited when she saw feces and a pudding of clotted blood in the water. Sam must have been attacked while he was sitting there, during a bowel movement. That was how it appeared, anyway. So violently did she vomit that some of what was already in the porcelain bowl splashed up in her face.
Trembling, moaning, she scrambled to her feet and twisted the faucet handles of the washbasin. She scooped handfuls of cold water over her face, listening to the cool, pure sound of it falling back into the basin. She kept scooping water until, with great effort, she made herself stop. Then she washed her hands thoroughly with the small white bar of hotel soap, though they were unsoiled. She staggered from the bathroom, noticing that the carpet was soggy and gave beneath her soles. Her heart slamming against her ribs, she ran to the door.
She didn't remember dashing down the hall to the elevator.
Riding the elevator down to the lobby.
The Hispanic woman at the switchboard stared at her and frowned with black, unplucked brows. She was peering into Allie's eyes as if there were something disturbing behind them that she'd never seen before. The tall gray-haired desk clerk stopped what he was doing with some crinkled yellow forms at the far end of the desk and glided toward her, his features aging with each step and with his growing apprehension. He'd been around a long time and knew trouble when he saw it.
He said, “Miss . . . ?”
Allie leaned with both hands on the desk, her head bowed. She gave the desk clerk a from-down-under look and said, “Room Ten twenty-seven. Dead.” Didn't sound like her voice. Someone high, floating, imitating her.
The switchboard operator had stood up and was crowding the desk clerk, as if she might want to hide behind him. Didn't seem much taller standing. She said, “What? What'd you say, hon?”
Allie tried to speak again but couldn't. Her throat was constricted. She heard herself croak unintelligibly.
“Somebody dead in Ten twenty-seven?” the desk clerk asked in a distant, amazingly calm voice. As if dead guests were part of hotel-biz; one or two every night.
Allie nodded.
“You sure?”
She could manage only another nod.
He stared at her like a stern, impossible father about to ask an important question, warning her in advance that he wanted the truth but he didn't want to hear anything unpleasant. “You mean he died of a heart attack? Something like that? Right?”
“Murdered,” Allie made herself say. “Cut up in pieces.”
The switchboard operator said,
“Madre de Dios!”
The desk clerk straightened up so he was standing as tall as possible and, still with his calm gaze fixed on Allie, called, “Will!”
An elderly black bellhop appeared. The old desk clerk casually reached into a side pocket and tossed him a key. It must have been a passkey. Its metal tag clinked against it as the bellhop caught it with one gnarled hand.
“Run on up to Ten twenty-seven,” the desk clerk said. “See what there is to see and then phone down.”
The bellhop glanced at Allie. He had sad, very kind eyes. He said, “Got somethin' all over your shoes.”
Allie heard herself say, “Huh? Oh, that's blood.”
The bellhop's face got hard with fear and a kind of resolve. Or was it resignation? “Seen that before,” he said, and walked over and got in the elevator she'd just ridden down. “Seen you before, too,” he said as the door slid shut.
But he hadn't, she was sure.
It took Allie a few seconds to realize what he'd meant. And its significance.
It was Hedra he'd seen. Hedra wearing her Allie wig. Wearing her Allie clothes. Inside Allie's blue coat. Walking her Allie walk.
Not Allie! Hedra!
Within a couple of minutes the switchboard buzzed urgently and a tiny red light began blinking. An insistent code:
Murder! Murder! Murder!
The Hispanic woman drifted toward it. Her eyes were brown pools of fear. The desk clerk shuffled over to stand by her. He leaned over with his gray hair near her dark hair, as if he wanted to hear firsthand what was being said on the receiver pressed to the woman's ear.
While they were standing facing away from her, Allie fled from the lobby and into the street.

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