Still Life (28 page)

Casey immediately closed her eyes.

“Think it’ll work?” He walked to the side of the bed. “Think Drew will fall for my Prince Charming routine the same way you did? Think she’ll consent to becoming Mrs. Warren Marshall the second? I think she will,” he said without pause. “Okay, then. Think I’ll go back to bed now. All this patting myself on the back has proved quite exhausting.” He leaned forward, kissed the side of Casey’s lips.

Casey wondered if his eyes were closed, and had to fight the urge to open hers.

“I’m really going to miss these little talks of ours,” he said.

Casey lay awake for the balance of the night, her eyes open and refusing to succumb to either wooziness or fatigue, as she listened to the chimes of the grandfather clock in the downstairs foyer announce the passing of each quarter hour. She watched the moon grow dimmer, as the sky traded its inky pallor for something more pastel. She watched as the pale blue of the early morning hours turned to steel gray at around seven o’clock when the skies filled with ominous clouds that promised rain. By the time she heard Warren singing in the shower an hour later—
“By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be sleeping….”
—lightning was streaking across the sky, as if put there by a cartoonist’s hand, and thunder was shaking the room.

A sound-and-light show just for me, Casey thought, enjoying the spectacle in spite of everything. Or maybe because of it. When was the last time she’d derived such pleasure from the sight of rain slamming against the window? She thought of Drew and wondered if she was still asleep, or if the thunder and lightning had woken her up.

Drew had always been terrified of storms. When they were little, she used to come running into Casey’s room in the middle of the night and crawl into her bed, burying herself beneath the covers and digging her fingers into the flesh below Casey’s ribs as the thunder raged. And Casey would kiss the top of Drew’s head and assure her that the storm would soon stop. Invariably Drew would fall asleep in this position, while Casey would remain awake, guarding her younger sister until the storm had, indeed, passed. In the morning, Drew would climb out of bed without a word and return to her own room, her pride refusing to allow even the hint of a thank-you to drift toward her sister. As they grew older and increasingly estranged, Drew had stopped coming into Casey’s room altogether. Eventually, she found other arms to comfort her, other beds to share.

The phone rang.

Casey heard Warren answer it in his bedroom. “Yes, this is Warren Marshall. Right. We’ve been expecting you. Is there a problem?” A slight pause, then, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, what with this weather. No, I guess you’re kind of stuck. Hopefully, the police will have it cleared up before too long. Right. Okay. I should be able to manage with Casey until then. It’s unfortunate. You’re only one exit away. Yeah, not much we can do. Okay. Get here as fast as you can. Thanks.” Moments later, standing in the doorway to Casey’s bedroom, he announced, “Accident on the Schuylkill Expressway.”

Because of the thunder, Casey hadn’t heard him approach, and hadn’t had time to close her eyes. Please don’t come in, she prayed. Please don’t look at me.

“The nurse is stuck a mile from the Rosemont exit. Apparently the police are busy cleaning the mess up now.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Casey saw him shake his head.

“I don’t know what happens to people when there’s the slightest bit of rain,” he said, his words accompanied by another loud clap of thunder. “They forget how to drive. Anyway, she should be here in the next half hour. You can wait till then to eat, can’t you?”

The phone rang.

“Probably Nurse Friedlander again,” he said, crossing to the nightstand as Casey closed her eyes. “Oh, hello, Drew,” he said seconds later, his voice as warm as cashmere. “Yes, I can see what’s doing out there. It’s pretty awful. And according to the weatherman, it’s only going to get worse. But the good news is that it’s supposed to clear by late tonight, so we should be all right for Gettysburg tomorrow. No, I wouldn’t drive today if I were you. Of course. I understand completely. You wouldn’t catch me driving in this weather either. Don’t worry about it. We’ll do pizza tomorrow. Absolutely. I’ll call you later with a full report. Okay. Try not to worry, and give Lola a big kiss from me…. Well, tell her I’m looking forward to it, too.” He hung up the phone.

“That was your sister,” he said, sinking into the chair beside Casey’s bed and flipping on the TV. “She won’t be coming over today.”

THIRTY

“W
ell, well,” a soft female voice was saying. “How are you feeling this beautiful Sunday morning, Mrs. Marshall? Did yesterday’s storm upset you? Your blood pressure’s still a little high, I see.”

Casey recognized Harriet Friedlander’s voice from the previous afternoon and welcomed her gentle touch. How different it was from Patsy’s, she thought, as Harriet removed the tight blood pressure apparatus from around her arm, then gently brushed the hair from Casey’s forehead with the palm of her hand. She continued with her ministrations, running a warm washcloth over Casey’s face and hands, and then tending to her feeding tube. “There,” she said when she was done with everything. “Now you’re all set to face the day.”

To face my death, Casey amended, hearing the other woman walk toward the en suite bathroom, and opening her eyes just enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of neat gray hair and a crisp pink uniform.

“How’s my wife this morning?” Warren asked, entering the room and approaching the bed, taking both of Casey’s hands, which Mrs. Friedlander had left lying on top of the covers, in his.

“Her blood pressure is still higher than I’d like. You might want to consult with her doctor.”

“I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning. Unless you think I should take her to the hospital right now….”

“No, no. I don’t think that’s necessary. Sunday’s never a good day to go to the hospital. All you’ll get are interns and residents. Casey’s in no immediate danger.”

That’s where you’re wrong, Casey thought.

Dead wrong.

“So, she’s all set until tonight?” Warren asked.

“I’ll be back to change her feeding tube at five o’clock.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

“Is there anything else I can do while I’m here?”

“No, thank you. You’ve been more than generous with your time. It was very kind of you to come in today at all, especially on such short notice.”

“I’m glad I could help. Good-bye, Casey. See you later.”

Please don’t go.

“Let me show you out,” Warren offered.

“Thank you.”

As soon as they were gone, Casey opened her eyes. A spectacular summer sun was blasting through the bedroom window, causing Casey to blink several times in rapid succession. It was a breathtaking day, the kind they put on the covers of brochures. A shame to waste it by dying, Casey thought, flexing her fingers and toes, and rotating her ankles and wrists. Slowly, with great care, she began turning her head to one side, stopping only when she heard the front door close. Warren would be back up the stairs in seconds, Casey knew, carefully returning her head to its former position.

“Now, that’s one nice lady,” Warren commented, reappearing in the doorway. “She’s going to be very upset when she comes back this afternoon and finds out you passed away. Probably blame herself for not insisting I take you to the hospital. Oh, well. What can you do?” He paused, as if waiting for an answer. “Okay. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to finish getting ready for my date. Wouldn’t want to keep your sister waiting. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

Casey kept her eyes closed for the ten minutes it took her husband to do whatever he had to do and come back to her. When he reentered the room, he smelled of mouthwash and cologne.

“How do I look?” He perched on the side of the bed, once again taking her hands inside his. “No, I guess you’re right. This really isn’t the time to be making bad jokes. Nick’ll be here in a couple of hours. Hopefully he won’t stay very long. Hopefully I’m sending you to a better place. So, take care of yourself on your journey.” Warren leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth.

Casey fought the urge to grab hold of his lips with her teeth. Could she do it? she wondered. Did she have the strength?

“Good-bye, Casey.”

She felt him leave her side and pause in the doorway for one last look. Did he have any regrets at all? she wondered. Seconds later, the front door closed. Only then did Casey risk opening her eyes. The room came into immediate, sharp focus.

I have to get out of here.

How? What could she do?

Casey tried turning over on her side. But her body refused to cooperate, allowing her only limited movement as she fought to bring her right arm toward her left side. After several frustrating and fruitless minutes, Casey gave up, tears filling her eyes as she stared up at the ceiling.

If she could just manage to get out of bed, she was thinking. If she could get to the phone, call 911. Even if she couldn’t speak, the police would be alerted, then dispatched. Someone would come. Someone would save her.

Except how was she supposed to get out of bed when she couldn’t even turn on her side, when her larger muscles had all atrophied from months of inactivity, and she was as powerless as a newborn baby?

There has to be a way.

She couldn’t just lie here and wait passively for a cold-hearted stranger to smother her to death. Warren had said she had a couple of hours. Surely with enough concentrated effort, she could get out of this bed, get to the phone, and get out of this house.

After what felt like an eternity, Casey succeeded in turning her head several inches to the left. Slowly, she watched the room slide across her line of vision, the intense blue of the sky disappearing into the subtle lilac of the drapery and the soft mauve of the wall. She kept up the effort, her eyes scanning the plasma TV on the opposite wall, falling across the striped chair, and landing on the night table beside her bed as her cheek hit the pillow. I did it, she thought, catching sight of the time on the digital clock that sat on top of the table: 11:15, the large red numbers boldly announced.

I have lots of time, Casey reassured herself, starting the laborious process again, fighting dizziness and nausea as she succeeded in bringing her head back to its original position on the pillow, and then continuing on to the other side, catching sight of the closed door to her walkin closet and the open door to the hall.

All I have to do is get myself out of this bed and grab the phone, tap in 911.

Her fingers were already tapping at the air as Casey painstakingly brought her head toward the phone on the night table to her left. She pictured the night table beside her mother’s bed and wondered if her mother’s gun was still in its top drawer, where she’d always kept it.

Was it possible?

No one had used that room until Warren.

Drew had always balked at sifting through their parents’ belongings, declaring it ghoulish, and postponing one visit after another, until it lost all sense of urgency. For her part, Casey hadn’t been eager to go through her parents’ things either. They’d get to it eventually, she’d reasoned. They had lots of time.

And now time was up, she realized, trying to force herself into a sitting position, and feeling every muscle in her body rise up in protest and refuse to cooperate. Besides, even if the gun
was
still there, even if she
could
get to it, would she have the necessary strength to pull the trigger?

Would her conscience allow her to even if she could?

Oh my God, Casey thought as her eyes settled on the clock beside her head—11:52, the numbers read. That couldn’t be right. No way had more than half an hour passed since the last time she’d checked. No way could it have taken her this long to do so little.

What am I supposed to do? Would somebody please tell me—what the hell am I supposed to do?

You keep trying, she told herself as the phone started ringing. Once, twice, three times. You reach over and answer the damn phone. Four times. Five.
Hello? Hello?
Except that even as Casey was stretching her hand into the air toward the sound, the ringing stopped.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair.

“Oh, grow up,” she heard Janine admonish from a distant corner of her brain. “Who said life was fair?”

“You think I was ready to die?” her father asked.

“You think I liked crashing into the cold waters of Chesapeake Bay?” her mother demanded.

“My husband died of leukemia when he was still a young man,” Gail reminded her. “How fair was that?”

You’re right, Casey acknowledged silently, bringing her head back to its original position on the pillow. Fairness had never been part of the equation. If you asked “Why me?” when times were bad, you had to ask the same question when times were good. The bottom line was that you had to play the hand you’d been dealt. In her case, she could either raise the stakes or fold. And I’m not ready to fold, she thought.

Not yet.

She started in on the exercises Jeremy had done with her, bending her arms at the elbows and trying to bend her knees. Except that she was tucked in so tightly, her legs had almost no room to maneuver. Still, she continued pressing her toes up against the sheets, determined to loosen the bed’s firm grip. After another ten minutes, Casey felt the sheets finally start to give way. She closed her eyes, exhausted.

When she opened them again, it was ten minutes after twelve.

No, it can’t be. It can’t be.

How could she have fallen asleep, even for a few minutes? She was running out of time. She had to get out of bed. She had to get out of the house.

Again, Casey tried lifting her legs. This time she succeeded in bringing her knees halfway up to her chest before she collapsed with fatigue. Her heart was pounding erratically in her chest. She had little doubt that if Mrs. Friedlander were here right now to check her blood pressure, it would be through the roof.

I have to get up. I have to get out of bed.

“I haaat …”

Casey heard the strange sound as if it was emanating from somewhere across the room. Who was here? Had Warren come home during the minutes she’d been asleep? Was he even now sitting in a chair by the window watching her, and laughing at her futile attempts at escape?

Casey slowly brought her head around to the chairs in front of the window.

No one was there.

A careful scan of the room confirmed she was alone.

“Whaaa …?”

Oh my God. Oh my God.

The sounds were coming from her own mouth, Casey realized, quickly pushing more sounds out. Most shattered instantly upon contact with the air, emerging more as a series of grunts and hoarse whispers.

I can’t die now. I can’t.

“I caaaaa …”

The phone rang again. Casey’s head moved toward the sound. Not quickly, but not quite as slowly as it had the last time.

Keep moving. Keep moving.

Who was calling? Was it Nick, the horrible man Warren had hired to kill her? Was he phoning to say he couldn’t make it, that he was stuck in traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway? Or maybe that he’d had a change of heart, that it was one thing to plow into someone with a piece of heavy machinery, but quite another to smother that person with your bare hands, to actually feel that person’s dying breath as it brushed against your fingers? Surely even hired killers had their limits.

The phone stopped ringing, this time after only four rings.

You don’t have time for this, Casey castigated herself, forcing one knee back to her chest, and then the other. But when she tried to lift both legs at the same time, it proved impossible.

That’s okay. That’s okay. Keep trying. Keep trying.

“Keeeee….”

The next time Casey looked at the clock, it said 12:30.

Keep trying. Keep trying.

12:35. 12:42. 12:47.

The phone rang again.

Maybe someone would get suspicious that no one was answering the phone. Maybe they’d drive out to investigate. Maybe they’d alert the police, ask them to check on the house, make sure everything was all right.

Four more rings, and then the ringing stopped.

Five minutes later, it was the doorbell that was ringing, followed by a loud pounding on the door.

Thank God, Casey thought. Someone was here. Someone had come to rescue her.

Help me. Somebody, please help me.

“Hellll …” Casey sighed, the faint sound riding the wave of her breath as the front door opened and closed.

He’s here, Casey realized. Her killer was in the house.

Except why would he ring the bell and knock on the door? Clearly Warren had given him a key. Why the charade?

“Hello?” a female voice called out from the downstairs foyer. “Anybody home?”

Patsy?

“Hello?” she called again.

What was Patsy doing here? Was she part of the plan? What was happening?

“Warren? Are you home?” Patsy asked, reaching the top of the stairs and turning toward his bedroom. “Warren?”

Casey brought her legs down as her hands returned to the top of the covers, her head finding its familiar groove in the middle of the pillow. She kept her eyes open and stared straight ahead. Whatever was going to happen, she decided, she wanted to see it.

“Well, well, well,” Patsy said, walking into Casey’s bedroom and dropping her large canvas purse to the floor. “You
are
here! I thought maybe they’d taken you back to the hospital or something. Where is everybody, anyway? I can’t believe everyone went out and left you all alone. That wasn’t very nice of them, was it? Although you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” She laughed, leaning over the end of the bed and filling Casey’s line of vision.

She looked much as Warren had described, although she was prettier than Casey had expected. Her eyes were a rich shade of brown that was somewhat dulled by the gray-ness of her eye shadow and the blackness of her lavishly applied mascara. Her skin was pale, her reddish blond hair twisted into a wayward bun at the top of her head. Lush breasts spilled out from between the deep V of her bright purple jersey. Her belly button, pierced by a small gold loop, was visible above the low rise of her tight white jeans.

“Where’s Warren? Working out?” Patsy asked. “Couldn’t he find anybody to look after you? Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to let me go. Hard finding someone of my caliber.” She laughed again, although the laugh was more bitter than sweet. “You’re looking a bit flushed. Are you sweating?” Patsy leaned in closer, then pulled back sharply.