The Return (15 page)

"Can I help you?" the woman asked in a deep sober voice. She sounded like a cannibal might after a late-night dinner—the simile just popped into Debra's mind. Her thick red coat covered most of her squat figure. She wore black satin gloves and kept her right hand on the edge of the door.

"Yes," Debra said. "I'm here to see Scott. Is he at home?"

"Scott doesn't live here anymore." The woman started to shut the door. "Have a nice day."

Debra shot out her arm. "Wait a second. What do you mean he doesn't live here? I visited him here last week. Who are you?"

The woman stared up at her with her dark glasses. There was something wrong with her skin. It looked burnt, peeling, while at the same time it was ashen.

Debra couldn't help noticing how large her hands were, bigger than Sam's for that matter.

"A relative," the woman said.

"Where has Scott moved to? Do you have a forwarding address?"

"No."

"Do you know why he left so suddenly?"

"No."

Debra frowned. "If you see him would you tell him Melissa Monroe stopped by."

"The writer?"

"Yes, that's me."

The woman seemed to grin. Yet the expression was hard to classify as a simple smile because there was gloating in it. As if the woman were still hungry after her late snack and wanted dessert. Her tone took on a false note of sweetness.

"I love writers," she said. "Would you like to come in, dear? Maybe for some tea? We could discuss books."

Debra swallowed and took a step back, feeling a strong sense of deja vu. "No thank you. I have an appointment in half an hour. I really must run. But please, remember to give Scott my message."

The woman nodded. "It will be my pleasure."

"Thank you," Debra said. As she turned toward her car, just before the woman closed the front door, she thought she heard someone pounding on a wall somewhere deep in the house. She paused to listen closer, but just then the woman shut the door and she heard nothing more, not even the woman moving inside.

"Must have been my imagination," she muttered to herself.

Yet as Debra Zimmerer, New York Times Best Selling Author, started her car and pulled out of the driveway, she wondered if she wanted to stay, in the writing business, even if Sam continued to help her. She had the feeling that being a horror author was a lot more dangerous than it was cracked up to be.

*****

Jean laughed out loud as she finished reading her last line. "I like how Scott got put in the closet, too. It appeals to my ghoulish nature. But you know, Debra, it also makes me nervous about where I get my ideas." Jean paused to wipe away another tear. Her voice became softer. "But you might know that—

wherever you are. If our ideas really do come from angels, then put in a good word for me with them. Have them send me down a story for a best seller. I can't make sandwiches at Subway the rest of my life." She paused and touched the marker. This date to that date, she thought. Eighteen years in between. It didn't seem right that an all-loving God could give a person so little time. She had only known Debra ten days, but she still missed her. Biting her lip, she traced Debra's name with her fingertips. "I will remember you," she whispered.

I want people to remember me.

Jean jerked back from the marker. Who had said that? The voice seemed to come out of the air. Of course, she thought, that was ridiculous. The voice had been in her mind. Just her own thoughts. Yet the line felt as if it had been spoken by another.

The memory of that bloody stain on the condo concrete came back to her.

"I thought you knew her. "

"Knew who?"

"The girl who died here."

Jean thought of James Cooper. After she had helped him move, he had taken her straight home and dropped her off. He had asked for her number, however, but he had not called her. She had been careful not to mention Lenny around him—not out of an urge to cheat on her boyfriend—more out of an innocent desire to get to know James better. Or was her desire so innocent?

She did not lust after the guy. Nevertheless, she desperately wanted something from him, something she couldn't explain even to herself. Why hadn't he called her? Because you spooked him as much as he spooked you. Yet she had never asked him about his dead sister. Something Cooper.

"I suppose we all want to be remembered," Jean said in a shaky voice to Debra Zimmerer's grave marker.

Gathering her story together, leaving the flowers behind, she stood and walked slowly back to the car. Carol snored behind the wheel. Jean woke her and said,

"Take me home."

Yes, she thought, she wanted to go home. But first she had to find it.

Jean found James Cooper's phone number without difficulty. Information had it. But calling him proved to be more difficult. Alone in her bedroom, she dialed the number a half dozen times but quickly hung up before anyone could answer. She kept asking herself the same questions. Why had the spot where Sister Cooper died drawn her so? Why did the girl's incomplete name reverberate in her head like the echo of a lost cry off a high cliff? What was Ms.

Cooper to her? What could she be except a ghost?

Finally Jean let the number ring. He answered. She recognized his voice—she would never forget that voice.

"Hello?"

"Jim? This is Jean Rodrigues. Remember me? The girl who couldn't find the ocean?"

He hesitated. "Yes. How have you been?"

"Great. How are you?"

"Good. I finally have the place in order. You should see it. You wouldn't recognize it from the day I moved in."

"Can I see it today?" she blurted out.

He paused. "Is something wrong?"

"No. It's just, you know, I want to see you again. I had fun with you that day. I was disappointed when you didn't call." She lowered her voice, knowing she had no right to ask the question but wanting to do so anyway. "Why didn't you call?"

He took forever to answer. "The move was kind of rough for me, in a lot of ways I'd rather not go into. I didn't think I'd be very good company for anyone." He paused. "But if you want to get together that would be great."

"Would tonight be OK?"

He laughed—it sounded forced. "Sure. What time should I pick you up?"

"I'll come to your place."

"Are you sure? I don't mind driving over. I remember where you live."

"I'm sure. I think I can get my mother's car. I really do want to see your place.

And that whole section of town is so much nicer than here." She added, "I feel more at home there."

CHAPTER X

JEAN WAS IN JIM'S PLACE five seconds—they had hardly said hello—when she noticed Shari Cooper's picture. A four-by-five color photograph in a gold-leaf frame, it stood on his desk beside his computer. Jean had not seen it while helping Jim move. Without asking permission, she crossed the single large room of his studio apartment and picked it up. The girl was attractive with layered blond hair and longish bangs. Her face shone; her expression was intelligent. An eighteen-year-old girl with plans for the future. Her big green eyes, in particular, had depth. Yet, to Jean, the details of Shari Cooper's appearance were unimportant. It was the person behind the face that interested her.

Holding the photograph, Jean's hand began to shake, and she realized that the enchanted pool that granted the mysterious visions was not only found in the deep woods. Sometimes a senior picture in an unsigned yearbook pointed the way to profound mysteries.

She knew this girl.' Like she knew the reflection in her own mirror.

"Who is this?" she asked softly.

Jim came up at her back. "My sister, Shari."

Shari. Shari Cooper.

Jean nodded, swallowed. "She has such lovely green eyes."

"But they're brown, don't you think?"

"No. They're green, definitely green. What's the matter? Are you color-blind?"

"Yes."

She turned and looked at him. "I didn't know that."

He shrugged. "You hardly know me at all." Gently he took the picture from her and set it back down on the desk. The sight of it seemed to grieve him, but she did not wonder why he kept it so close. It seemed he couldn't turn away from it now. She watched him for a long moment as he stared at his dead sister.

"What happened to her?" she asked finally.

He shook himself as if from a trance. The feeling in the room was close to deja vu, yet different. It was as if the sorrows of yesterday and the hopes of tomorrow had slipped from their respective time frames and crossed paths in this place as she had crossed his path, seemingly by accident, without reason, and also because it was meant to be. She realized then that she loved James Cooper more than she had ever loved anyone in her life. Not as an attractive young man with whom she wanted to have a relationship. But because he had been Shari Cooper's brother. He shook his head.

"It's a long story. I'd rather not talk about it."

Jean reached out and touched his arm. "I know she was murdered."

His eyes widened. "How?"

"I went to the spot where she died."

He frowned. "Did you know Shari?"

"No. I never met her."

"Then why did you go there?"

"I don't know. I went for a walk and found myself at the spot where she hit the ground. An elderly woman happened by and explained that she had been pushed from the third-floor balcony."

"Then you know what happened. You don't need to ask me."

"No. I don't know what happened. Why was she murdered?"

Jim turned away. "I don't know why you want me to talk about these things."

He sat down on the sofa and put his hands to his head as if it hurt. He chuckled unexpectedly.

"What is it?" she asked, crossing to sit beside him.

"I was just thinking of what you said. How her eyes were green, definitely green. I would tell Shari they were only brown, and she would always say what you said back to me." He looked at the floor. "For a second you reminded me of her."

Jean touched his knee. She couldn't stop herself from touching him. Deep in her chest, she craved for him to wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything was all right, finally, that the past was dead and buried and that they were both alive in a living universe. But she knew such a gesture on her part would disturb him. Yet she couldn't let it be, not without understanding what it was. The mystery of Shari Cooper's murder? No, she thought, it went much deeper than that.

"You remind me of someone as well," she said.

He looked up. "Who?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "I am not trying to be purposely confusing.

I am genuinely confused."

"About what?"

"You. And your sister. And why the stain of her blood on the ground—please forgive me—drew me like some kind of magnet." She pointed toward the picture. "Why does she have her bangs in her eyes?"

"Shari liked them that way."

"I knew that. I knew that before you said it."

"But you just asked me why she wore them that way?"

"I was being facetious. Or else I was mimicking your mother. I bet your mother didn't like the way Shari wore her bangs."

"She didn't. She always wanted her to cut them." Jim stopped and drew back.

"Why are we having this discussion? You said you never met Shari. Why should you care about how she wore her hair? Or for that matter, what else she did in her life?"

Jean fought to calm herself. "I'm sorry, Jim. I realize that by talking about these things I'm probably tormenting you. I assure you that is not my purpose.

I'm not some weirdo who just happened to show up at your doorstep." She added sheepishly, "Even though I did just show up at your doorstep."

He eyed her cautiously. "Why did you come to my parents' house? Did the elderly woman you spoke to direct you there?"

"Not specifically. But she told me your last name. She had spoken to your father after Shari's death. I found the address in the phone book."

"So you happened by on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I told you, I don't know why. There's something about you and your sister that draws me. This morning I went to the grave of a friend. Her name was Debra Zimmerer. I do volunteer work in a hospital and she was a patient there. We didn't spend a long time together, but we were close, you know. Sometimes it doesn't take long to get to know someone. Anyway, I went to her grave to read her a story I wrote, and while I was there the thought 'I want people to remember me' popped into my mind. And then I thought of you and your sister and I felt I had to call you—and like I said, I really don't know why I am telling you all this." She paused to catch her breath. "I'll leave now if you want me to."

He was hardly listening. He was staring at the picture of his sister again. No, not at it but just to the right of it, at his computer. A great change had come over him. His face had become pale—he was ghostlike.

"Jimmy?" she said.

"She used to call me that," he whispered.

"Shari used to call you Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"I'd assume many people do."

"It's the way you say it. Just like her." He considered.

"Besides being color-blind, I have a habit of walking in my sleep." He regarded her with something akin to awe. "Did you know that?"

"No. But that could be dangerous."

He nodded. "Shari always worried about me hurting myself while I was out for a nocturnal stroll." He continued to study Jean. Something she had said in her ramblings touched a nerve in him. She suspected she knew what it was. "You said you write stories?"

"Yes. A few. Why? Do you write?"

"No. I mean, I did write one story." He looked back at his computer. "While I was sleepwalking."

"Really? You were unconscious?"

"Yes."

"Wow. What was the story about?"

He drew in a breath. "My sister."

"That's nice that you'd write a story about her."

He shook his head. "No. I told you, I was asleep when I wrote it. And it wasn't exactly a story about her. It—it described what it was like for her when she died."

Jean sat stunned. "Are you serious?" Stupid question.