The Abduction of Mary Rose (27 page)

She felt her plan suddenly threatened. "I shouldn't have told you."

"But you did. Thank God. If you don't call the police right now, and tell them everything you know, I will."

"Lisa, please don't say that. I know you mean well, but…."

"No, what you plan isn't going to happen. Unless you have the police watching your house, ready to grab him if he shows, you can forget it, honey. That's the deal."

"I can't make that deal. He'll know he's being watched. He's clever. He'll sniff them out like the dog he is. Mary Rose has led me to him, Lisa. She means me to bring him down. She's been with me every step of the way."

With more argument back and forth that lasted a good half hour, Naomi finally got Lisa's promise not to call the police, though it wasn't easy and she didn't give it happily.

The truth be known, Naomi half agreed with her. She felt anything but brave. Leeland had left his vile imprint on her and she couldn't wait to take a shower, not that there was any chance of washing it off. She felt clammy inside her clothes.

She didn't dare let herself think too long about what she had set in motion. It was like being on a runaway train; you could only hang on and hope to survive the crash. Or you got to jump off before it sailed over a cliff, the way it worked in those old serials she saw at the movies when she was a kid.

But she wasn't ready to jump just yet. She still had a little time. She needed all her wits about her. Lisa made more tea. They talked. She told Lisa she also suspected Marcus of killing Norman Banks because he was a threat. "I think he killed Marie Davis, too, and maybe others."

"Marie Davis was a prostitute. Mary Rose was a schoolgirl."

"I know. But she was vulnerable, Lisa. And that's what connects her to Mary Rose."

"Mary Rose was a child," she argued. "She knew nothing of men."

"That's true, of course. But we don't know about this girl's life, we don't know what might have taken her on that path."

"I guess you're right." Lisa sat silent for awhile. She looked miserable and afraid.

Hating that she was making Lisa so unhappy, wanting to cheer her up," she said, "Did I tell you I found the perfect frame for Mary Rose's poem. I hung it in my room."

"Good," Lisa said, standing up suddenly as though she couldn't bear to sit there any longer. Couldn't bear to think. "You should eat. What can I make…?"

"Nothing. I couldn't eat."

"Well, I don't wonder."

It would be over soon. No more looking over her shoulder. She didn't want to feel afraid anymore. She wanted him out of her life, out of everyone's life. She wanted him behind bars. And she meant to make it happen.

She stayed until after eight, then Lisa walked her out to the car. When they got there, Lisa handed her a cell phone. "One of the kids left this behind. It's all charged up. In case you hear something well, you could be in the bathroom, or anywhere. You can call 911. I'm in there too." She gave her a quick tutorial. Naomi thanked her and dropped the slim silver phone into her purse.

It was near dusk, the air warm and soft and fragrant, and beneath it the ever-present but faint briny, metallic smell of the bay. The cobalt sky was strewn with stars and a pale moon floated among them.

Similar to the night Mary Rose was left on the side of a road to die. Hard to believe something so awful could happen on such a night as this one. But it could. It had.

Lisa deposited Molly's carrier on the back seat, then turned and put her arms around Naomi.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind? Spend the night? Deal with this tomorrow. Or next week."

"I'll take a rain check. Okay?" She gave herself over to the soft comfort of Lisa's embrace before moving away and getting into the driver's seat. Forcing a smile, she said, "I'm grateful for your friendship, Lisa. Just keep a good thought. I'll be okay. Thanks for the phone."

Driving out of the yard, gravel crunching under her tires, she could see Lisa in her rear-view mirror, watching her. She looked to be ringing her hands.
I would be too if they weren't on the wheel
, she thought.

* * *

Lisa stood in the yard watching Naomi drive away, everything in her screaming at her to run out into the street and call her back, beg her not to go. But she didn't, knowing it would do no good. She could only hug herself and pray that Naomi would be safe. As she watched the car drive away, the glowing red taillights growing smaller and fainter as it moved through the darkness, and finally disappeared as the car turned left onto the main road.
God be with you, Naomi.

It was Mary Rose leaving her yard all over again, except on foot. Lisa envisioned the pendant, the crescent moon as it lay in her hand, felt its warm smoothness. She remembered how pretty and exotic it had looked against Mary Rose's flawless, light coppery skin. She remembered exactly how it looked. Like it was yesterday. They had painted each other's nails. I painted hers with a clear polish because she didn't like the pinky-red I chose for mine. I dabbed a little of my mother's Eau de Cologne on our inner wrists, where you take your pulse. All those smells are mixed together in my memory.

It seemed to Lisa that Naomi was right, that Mary Rose had set this course, had willed it into being, perhaps even as she lay dying. Or maybe only after she passed on could her spirit then have the power to reach out to this child of her loins. If that was so, then surely she would protect that child, who has grown into a lovely and passionate young woman intent on avenging her death.
Or am I being too fanciful. Too optimistic.

What she knew for sure was that on another June night such as this, Lisa had stood on other steps, calling 'See you tomorrow' to her school friend, who had turned and waved, then walked on into the night as the strains of Donny Osmond's Puppy Love drifted out to her through the screen door.

She hadn't been in the least afraid for her friend, had had no premonition whatever of the evil that would befall her within that hour. I fully expected to see her in school the next day, just as I was sure we would be friends forever.

Mary Rose said she was going to be a writer and publish short stories and poems about her people one day. Lisa had no doubt whatever that she would have. All things seemed possible back then. But not what happened. No, not what happened.

Feeling that same sense of helplessness she'd felt looking down on Mary Rose's still pale form in the hospital bed, Lisa went back inside, a knot of dread in her stomach and a prayer for Naomi's safety on her lips.

Behind her, the screen door banged shut, a different door than the one from so long ago, but it held a warning now.

To hell with this bull crap,
she thought suddenly.
I have to do something. I have to call somebody. I promised her I wouldn't call the police, and I'd be betraying her if I did, but I didn't say I wouldn't call anyone.
She searched her brain and the only person she could think of who might be helpful was Eric Grant, the writer. She had written him a note of congratulations when his book came out and he'd taken the time to write her a gracious note in return, thanking her for her support. She was sure he'd included his email address.

She found it in the chocolate box where she had also kept Mary Rose's poem all those years. Yes, his email address was there. He was the one who wrote up Naomi's story for the paper. So didn't he bear a certain responsibility for its outcome? Her logic didn't sit easy, but she could think of nothing else to do. She plugged in the new laptop and brought up her Outlook Express. She had emailing down pretty good now, thanks to the course at the library. She'd phone if she had a home number, but she didn't, and the newspaper offices would be closed by now anyway.

She typed up her note typing URGENT- NAOMI WATERS in the subject so he wouldn't, not recognizing her name, automatically delete it. She clicked on
send.

There was little traffic on the drive home. The streets were strangely silent, almost eerie, like dark streets in a scary movie. Of course that was her over-active imagination. The streets were no different than on any other night. At least that's what she told herself. But despite her resolve to outwit Marcus Leeland, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was driving to her doom. A coldness had nested in the hollow of her stomach.

She was half a block from her house when she noticed a dark car parked on the opposite side of her street, causing her heart to speed up. She'd passed it too quickly to make out if there was anyone in the driver's seat.

And then she was turning up her long driveway.

The night-light lit up the front lawn, throwing far reaches into deep shadow. She parked and turned the engine off, and sat in the silence with the doors locked for a good minute, listening to the faint ticking noises of the car cooling off. Even with the night-light, the house seemed darker and more isolated.

Had that been him in the parked car? A shiver moved through her.
Was he watching the house? Waiting for me to come home?
Then again, it could just be a neighbour's car. It could be anyone's.

Is he in the house now, waiting?
She'd wedged the chair beneath the back door knob, but that wouldn't stop him. He'd find another way in.

Had she, like Mary Rose, stayed too long at Lisa's?

Molly gave a soft meow from the back seat and Naomi let out the long breath she'd been holding as she fished with thick clumsy fingers through the keys on her key ring for the one to the front door.

"Okay, Molly," she said in a bare whisper. "Let's get on with it."

She unlocked the car door and got out. Despite the warm temperature, the fist of cold in her stomach spread throughout her body. A light wind had come up and she could hear the soft rustle of leaves, saw their shadows moving over the driveway. She drew her jacket more tightly about her, suddenly wishing she was still back at Lisa's, sitting in her cozy kitchen, sipping tea, safe, talking about matters of the heart. Or anything else that didn't include Marcus Leeland.

The yard was full of shadows, deep thick pools that could hide a person. Not turning her back on them, she retrieved the heavy flashlight from the glove compartment and put it in her purse, prepared to swing it at his head if need be. Then she reached into the back seat and lifted out the carrier. Her keys were in the same hand. She hadn't taken into account how awkward it would be toting both the now-heavy purse and the carrier.

The door closed with a clunk that seemed amplified in the night air.

Molly had gone suddenly quiet and Naomi could feel her watchfulness, her fear of drawing attention to them from whatever danger was out there, waiting.

It's you who's freaking her out, she told herself. Clearly, Molly was picking up on her fear. She tried to make her body relax, but it was not possible.

She hurried up the short path, glancing around her as she did, half-expecting him to jump out at her. Nothing happened. She walked up the three stone steps to her front door, then set the carrier down on the landing just long enough to unlock the door. Grabbing it up again, she slipped inside the house.

She hesitated in the hallway just long enough to listen, to feel, to smell to become attuned to the very air before locking the door behind her. She was pretty certain the house was empty. She believed she would have sensed him in here, otherwise.

Locking the door, she leaned her back against it, closed her eyes. Her clothes felt sweaty against her skin and her heart was knocking against her chest wall as if it wanted to get out.

She let Molly out of the carrier and watched her warily make her way out to the kitchen. She followed. The chair was still in place under the doorknob. Then she made herself a cup of herbal tea to calm her nerves.

Tea in hand, she sat down on the living room sofa and checked the batteries in the remote, even though they were new. She'd put them in herself. She pointed it at the office door and clicked play. At once, she heard herself reading inside the studio, a muffled sound as it would be if she were in there in person, with the doors closed. A remote that went through walls. She could operate her gear from anywhere in the house. Once, no one would have imagined such a thing, but technology just kept advancing and today this wasn't all that big a deal.

'It seemed like a fun little gadget', her mother had told her when she gave it to her, never imagining what she would end up using it for. No more than Naomi herself had.

Everything appeared to be working as it was supposed to.

But would he buy it? Wouldn't he be expecting her to try something after today? Not this, though. Not this.
No, don't start second-guessing yourself. It will work.

She thumbed the off button and sat the remote beside her on the sofa. Everything was ready.

Sitting in the silence, she sipped her tea and soon grew calm. She could do this. It will work, she told herself again.

But what if he doesn't come tonight? Or tomorrow night? How long could she wait before she started to lose it? She didn't know.
He'll come when you're least expecting it,
she thought.
So you want to make it easy for him.
She went out to the kitchen and removed the chair from under the doorknob.

She pictured the gas can outside the door, and knew if he had his way, she would not die easy. She had looked into his face today and saw evil there. He would not take well to her baiting him. As she sat there in front of the blank TV screen, she found herself jumping at every sound, real and imagined, threatening her newfound calm. She needed a distraction, and it couldn't be the TV.

She left the sofa and got her copy of Eric Grant's memoir, "Freakhead"
,
out of the bookcase, turned the lamp low, and opened the book to the first page. Before beginning the first chapter, she turned to his photo on the back cover. He was standing in a doorway, hair blowing in a breeze, grinning at the camera. Clean-shaven, casual in faded jeans and a checked shirt. Not quite handsome, but something very sexy about him. Very sweet. The smile. The way he stood there in the doorway, looking vulnerable, and at the same time just a tad arrogant. She turned back to the first page, and read: 'I spent much of my childhood trying not to make anyone mad at me'.

She was on the third page when she heard the creak of the back door opening, and the faint ring of chimes, suddenly stifled by what she knew was a hand closing around them.

Every instinct screamed at her to race for the front door and run like hell as far away from this house and from him and she could get. But you can only be terrified for so long. Your mind craves release, as Naomi's did now. It was fight or flight, and Naomi chose fight. Like an actor on stage suddenly remembering her lines, in almost a single motion, she grabbed the remote, pointed it at the studio door, hit the red play button at the top, and darted behind the sofa.

She had memorized the position of the play button in the dark, but with the room cast in dim lamplight, she had no problem seeing everything clearly. Please, please, work.

* * *

Lisa e-mailed her children, surfed the net, and in between kept checking her mailbox for a reply from Eric Grant. Overcome with worry over Naomi's safety, imagination running away with her, she dialed the cell phone number. But the phone just rang and rang.

* * *

Crouched down low behind the sofa, her heart drummed so hard in her ears she was sure he must hear it, even over the sound of her own voice issuing from the studio. Her own ears were trained on his footsteps, slow and measured, crossing the kitchen floor. She heard the floor squeak where it always did when you stepped on that particular spot by the table. The voice behind the studio door drew him closer.

She was startled at the suddenly ringing of a phone in the kitchen, a different ring from her house phone and she realized it was the cell phone Lisa gave her. The footsteps went silent. The phone kept ringing, a muffled sound.

Naomi did not move. She did not breathe. The phone was in her purse on the kitchen table. She'd forgotten it. A good thing, considering. It finally stopped ringing and seconds later the house phone rang. It rang four times and stopped.

The footsteps resumed in the ensuing silence, became muted as he stepped onto the living room carpet. She stilled the need to exhale the breath that rushed up from her lungs, let it out slowly, silently through her nostrils. Only when she was reasonably certain his attention would be on the studio door, did she dare a peek around the corner of the sofa.

Good. His back was to her. He was staring at the studio door, head tilted to one side, listening, as she'd prayed he would be.

He wore a long, black trench coat, dark clothes to evade watchful eyes, to meld in with the night. But she could see him clearly in the lamplight. He filled the room with his presence, this man who had raped and beaten a school girl and left her to die by the side of the road. Marcus Leeland. Standing not four feet away from her. She could smell him: the faint hint of turpentine, cigarettes and something raw and terrifying that defied naming.

He was the boy whose photo she'd looked at in the yearbook. He had grown into this twisted version of a man. Or maybe the beast had already been in him, waiting to surface.

The darkness of his soul showed in his face; she'd seen it as she stood next to him in the auto body shop today. But maybe she only saw it because she knew about the monster that lived behind the mask. Others would see him differently, perceive him differently. But then there were those who saw him as she did, who knew first-hand what he was and had chosen not to come forward for their own reasons. As Norman Banks had not come forward. And when he did, he had died for his brief show of courage.

Now, as she watched him reach into his coat pocket and bring out a length of cord, wind either end once around each of his black-gloved hands, her reflections fled. Between his hands, the cord was taut. She saw the tension in his neck muscles. He was standing very still, intent on the rise and fall of her voice behind the closed door. Hunkered down behind the sofa, she continued to watch him, her heart thudding against her chest wall.

Like staring into an abyss. She had read somewhere that when you looked into the abyss, the abyss also looked into you.

As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, he turned suddenly, and Naomi withdrew her head like a turtle drawing back into its shell, ducking down, trying to make herself one with the floor, blood roaring in her ears, breath trapped in her throat. Had he seen her?

She closed her hand over the handle of the butcher's knife she'd placed there earlier. Plan 'B', so to speak.

Chapter Forty-Three

For the past three hours, Eldon Carpenter had sat in his car dutifully watching Naomi Waters' house, a favour to his good friend, Frank Llewellyn. Elizabeth Avenue was dark, lit dimly by sparsely placed streetlights, and a few lights from rooms in houses set back off the road. There was lots of grass and trees; it was a nice street named for the Queen of England. Not as grand as it used to be though, according to his dad when he was alive.

Now and then one more light would blink out in one of the houses, as whoever lived there packed it in for the night. Earlier the sky was bright with stars, but it had clouded over, the stars winking out like the lights in the houses along the street. A dreary night, quiet, quieter than Eldon liked. It was the best part of his job as a bouncer: noise, music, people. Like a big family. Occasionally, one of the family went awry, and Eldon took care of it. He rarely had to get rough to make himself understood.