Slice (9 page)

E
LEVEN

“
R
eally,” Jessie said, as Todd hurried to join her,

“you don't need to come.”

“I don't trust Manning,” her brother-in-law said. “Never have.”

Crickets kept up their constant song in the bushes all around them. The moon rode high in the sky, providing the only illumination in the dark night.

“Is Abby okay by herself?” Todd asked.

“Aunt Paulette's with her,” Jessie said. “I stopped by her cottage on the way over here and asked her to stay with Abby while I went next door.”

“Okay, then let's go,” Todd said.

Jessie made a face. “I thought about just calling, but I don't know Mr. Manning's number. And Inga didn't take her cell phone.” She smiled weakly. “We might be very embarrassed if we interrupt something.”

“I guess we'll just take that chance.”

They headed into the row of fir trees between the properties. The air was fragrant with pine needles. The woods were a little deeper here, adjacent to Todd and Monica's house, than they were farther back, closer to Jessie's house, where Inga had crossed through. Here, for a moment, the trees blotted out the moonlight, and Jessie instinctively gripped Todd's hand. She realized it had been thirteen years since she had held his hand. She felt a tingle, despite herself.

On the other side of the trees, a stone gate surrounded John Manning's stone mansion. There was an intercom with a buzzer. Todd pressed the red button, producing a short, sharp electronic hiss. In a moment a man's voice crackled over the intercom. “Yes?”

“Manning? It's Todd Bennett.”

“This is Mr. Manning's assistant. I'm sorry, but he's gone to bed.”

“We're looking for Inga,” Todd said. “Is she still there?”

There was silence from the intercom.

“Hello?” Todd called after several moments had passed.

“Good evening, Todd,” came the voice of John Manning. “How can I help you?”

“I'm here with my sister-in-law, Jessie. We're looking for Inga.”

“Why don't you come inside?” Manning asked, and suddenly a buzzer sounded, long and deep, like the call of a train. The gate in front of them swung open slowly. Todd and Jessie looked at each other.

“I'm hardly dressed for a visit,” Jessie complained, indicating her terrycloth robe and the flip-flops on her feet.

“Looks like you just came from the pool,” Todd said, smiling a little.

They walked up the length of John Manning's blacktop driveway, the sound of Jessie's flip-flops echoing in the still night. They passed a silver Porsche 911 Carrera, and in the open garage they could make out several other cars in the moonlight, including a shiny, restored black Corvette from the 1970s and a newer white Bentley. Suddenly the front porch light popped on in front of them, and Jessie and Todd were bathed in an amber glow. They hurried up the stone steps and rang the bell.

The door was immediately opened by a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a green Izod shirt and khaki shorts. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. “I'm Caleb. Please come in. Mr. Manning is waiting.” He held the glass outer door open as Todd and Jessie stepped inside.

The house was enormous. Great vaulted ceilings with exposed dark mahogany wood beams. In many places the stone of the exterior was visible throughout the foyer and the cavernous parlor beyond. Bookshelves skyrocketed from the floor with a library ladder attached to a slider. In the center of the parlor stood an enormous marble abstract sculpture, fronted by three huge vases filled with calla lilies.

“Please,” Caleb said, “have a seat. Mr. Manning will be with you momentarily.”

“Really, we don't mean to intrude,” Jessie said. “We were just concerned that Inga hadn't come home yet. We don't want to bother—”

“No bother at all.” This was the voice of John Manning, who emerged from the dark corridor leading off the foyer. He wore a dark blue satin smoking jacket, tied at the waist, and what looked like black silk pajamas underneath. He was barefoot. Once again those deep-set eyes caught Jessie's, and for a moment she felt dizzy. She had to look away.

“Look, Manning,” Todd said, “we're not here on a social call. Is Inga still here?”

“Why, no, she isn't.” Manning looked from Todd to Jessie. “She left here some time ago, with the books I gave her.”

“Well, she hasn't come back,” Jessie said. “And my daughter thought she heard someone scream.”

“Scream?” John Manning looked skeptical. “I heard nothing of the sort.”

“Inga is a very responsible girl, Manning,” Todd said. “If she left here some time ago, she would have gone right home. If the two of you are having a little fling, no one is passing any judgments. We just want to make sure she's okay.” He narrowed his eyes. “So are you sure she's not still here?”

Manning's dark eyes narrowed in return. “Are you accusing me of lying, Mr. Bennett?”

“No, no, he's not,” Jessie interjected. “We're just concerned about Inga. Especially after my daughter said she heard something.”

“My wife heard it, too,” Todd said, and his voice was accusatory.

Manning was silent for a moment. “Caleb,” he said finally. “What time would you say that the young lady left here?”

“About thirty-five minutes ago, sir.”

Manning was nodding. “Indeed. Inga and I sat right in here, in the parlor, talking about literature, both American and German, and sharing stories of her homeland, to which I have traveled often, and for which I have considerable affection. I suppose the time did get away from us. We had so much to occupy ourselves with.” He smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps she stayed longer than she intended. But I can assure you that she
did
leave here. I walked her to the door, kissed her hand, and bid her good night.” Manning looked deliberately at Jessie. “Would you like to look around the house, Ms. Clarkson, to convince yourself that I haven't kidnapped her, tied her up perhaps, and hid her in a closet somewhere?”

“No,” Jessie said uncomfortably. “That won't be necessary.”

“But maybe we ought to take a walk around the property a bit,” Todd suggested. “After all, it's no more than a five-minute walk from here to Jessie's house, and if Inga left here half an hour ago, and people heard a scream right around that time, maybe she fell. Maybe she's hurt.”

Jessie noticed a change in Manning's expression. His eyes became less defensive and more concerned. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” He looked down at his feet. “In fact, I'll put on some shoes and come help you.”

“I'll get some flashlights,” Caleb offered.

“If you'll excuse me,” Manning said, and he disappeared back down the dark corridor.

Caleb had opened a cabinet in the hallway, producing two small flashlights. “We have some bigger ones in the supply room,” he said.

“These will do for us,” Todd said, accepting one and handing the other to Jessie. “We'll head outside now.”

“Mr. Manning and I will join you in a moment,” Caleb promised.

Jessie thanked him and followed Todd back out the front door. They hurried down the steps and through the front gate, and then into the thicket of pine trees, their flashlights swinging from right to left. The twin beams of light sliced through the darkness, sometimes intersecting with each other, illuminating nothing more than tree limbs and brush.

“She would have gone up this way,” Jessie said. “It would be a quicker route back to our house.” She told Todd she'd check up that way; he should look around the denser woods closer to Manning's house.

Inga might have fallen. It would be easy to trip among these tangled roots and the thick blanket of old pine needles. If she'd fallen, twisted her ankle, she would have cried out—the scream that Abby and Monica heard.

“Inga!” Jessie called.

Until this point she had been concerned, but not really alarmed. Until this point she really had believed Inga had been with Mr. Manning, maybe getting it on with him. Now . . . now she was scared.

Up ahead of her she spotted something in the moonlight. The vague outline of a shape—a shape that suddenly moved. Jessie heard the crunch of leaves and pine needles. She swung her flashlight toward the sound, but there was nothing.

Through the trees she could now see her house. The lights were all lit downstairs, and she could discern Aunt Paulette walking from the kitchen into the living room. Upstairs Abby's lights were still off. That was good. The little girl had fallen back to sleep.

“Inga!” Jessie called out again, not so loud that she might wake Abby, but loud enough, hopefully, for the nanny to hear her if she was nearby.

There was no response.

“Inga!” Jessie tried again, her flashlight swinging madly.

Movement again, the scuffle of needles, this time behind her. Jessie swirled around, searching with the beam of her flashlight. Nothing.

Was someone—something—in the woods with her?

Watching her? Following her?

Jessie turned back around. She was just a few feet from the end of the row of trees now, practically in her own backyard. She was about ready to give up when she turned her flashlight once more onto the carpet of pine needles ahead of her.

And in its glow she suddenly saw a face.

A face that was covered in blood.

Jessie screamed.

T
WELVE

“
J
essie!” came Todd's voice behind her. “What is it?”

“Inga!” she screamed. “Oh, God, Inga!”

The young woman was sprawled at Jessie's feet. Her throat had been slit. Her eyes were open, staring like glass into the beam of the flashlight. Blood covered her face and her neck, and was seeped into her blouse.

Todd ran up alongside Jessie, breathing heavily.

“Jesus!” he shouted upon seeing Inga. He frantically slapped the pockets of his jeans. “My cell phone is in the house! We've got to call an ambulance.”

Jessie had stooped down and was feeling for a pulse. “It's too late for that,” she said, the words drying up in her throat.

“Jessie!” came Aunt Paulette's voice. She was standing at the back door of the house. “What's wrong?”

“Call the police!” Todd shouted over to her. “Inga's been attacked!”

“She's dead,” Jessie said quietly, as she let go of the young woman's wrist and stood back up. The tears came. “Oh, dear God, who could have done this?”

It was at that moment that John Manning, followed by Caleb, joined them, each bearing a flashlight. Manning was now dressed in the black jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers he'd worn earlier that day.

“Oh, God,” Caleb uttered upon seeing the body.

Jessie noticed the look the young man gave to his employer.

“The poor girl,” Manning said, staring down at Inga's body.

Caleb seemed as if he might retch, and he turned away, shaking terribly. But Manning stood there calmly, saying nothing, not even asking any questions, just looking down at the dead girl on the ground.

“The police are on their way,” Aunt Paulette called. “Is Inga . . . all right?”

“She's dead,” Todd told her.

“Shh,” Jessie said. “I don't want Abby to hear.”

She glanced up at her daughter's bedroom. The light was still off.

“Who could have done such a thing?” Jessie asked again.

She felt terribly guilty for the anger she'd felt toward Inga earlier. Inga had been her friend. One of Jessie's first friends after she had emerged from the fog of depression and fear that had cloaked her early days in New York. The tears rolled down Jessie's cheeks, falling from her face. How could she possibly relay such terrible news to Inga's parents back in Germany? How could she tell them they'd never see their beautiful daughter again—that someone had slit her throat in a quiet, pristine Connecticut backyard?

“Who could do this?” Jessie asked again. Louder now, more distraught.

She dropped to her knees and lifted Inga's lifeless hand to her lips, kissing her friend good-bye.

T
HIRTEEN

“
A
rthur! Sirens!”

Gert Gorin jumped out of bed as if she'd just heard she'd won the lottery. Her husband just groaned as she scurried out of the bedroom and into the living room. Outside the picture window, the night had turned red and gold. Police lights flashed from across the street, much as they had years ago, when the hunt was on for Emil Deetz. Now the cops had returned to the Clarkson residence—for who only knew
what
this time.

“There's an ambulance!” Gert shouted.

Arthur shuffled out of the bedroom, wearing his rumpled New York Yankees pajamas, rubbing his eyes like a little kid.

“That scream I heard!” Gert announced triumphantly. “It must be that scream I heard!”

She considered the binoculars, then decided instead to get an even closer look. She headed toward the front door.

“Gert, you can't go outside like that. You're just wearing your nightie.”

She looked down at herself. Her sleeping attire was an old pink silk negligee that Arthur had given her probably fifteen years ago. It was ragged with age, and threadbare. But she cherished it. They had been happy then. Young. She wouldn't throw it away until it literally fell to pieces.

But she had no time to change. She wanted to see what was going on. So she grabbed Arthur's old flannel coat that was hanging in a nearby closet and slipped it on. It hung on her like a sack, but she didn't care.

Gert Gorin rushed outside.