Night of the owl, p.6
Night of the Owl, page 6
"Of course you will. Being shut up is hateful to cats. They'll drive you crazy."
"You must have a cat of your own."
"Moira had a Siamese. I gave the cat away after the accident."
Sara wondered if he'd tell her more about his wife's death but he didn't go on. A small uneasy silence fell.
"Who answered the phone this morning?” Ian asked abruptly.
"My ex."
"I can feel the words you're not adding,” he said. “Like it's none of my business."
Sara shrugged. “No big deal."
"Okay, but tell me if you ever want my help. I feel sort of responsible for you. Stupid, but there it is."
"Responsible!” Sara's voice rose. “I'm twenty-eight years old and I've been married and divorced, for God's sake."
"I said it was stupid. Maybe I react to your dreaminess. You don't seem to know what's going on around you half the time. I've watched you in class. You're in another world."
Ian's right, I'm always rehashing the past, she thought. Why be annoyed with him? I do hold too many interior monologues.
"Besides, I'm almost ten years older than you,” Ian went on. “Maybe no wiser but ten years more disillusioned. Take our Ralphie for example. You don't seem to understand what kind of—"
"I don't care to discuss him,” she said crisply.
"How long were you married?” Ian asked after another silence.
"Seven years. Until I learned enough to know I'd better finish the marriage before it finished me."
"Yet you're friendly enough with your ex to have him visit you."
"I didn't invite C.W.—he just showed up. And I don't care to talk about him, either."
What was this sudden possessiveness? Sara asked herself. Ian had absolutely no claim on her. If he continued such an attitude she'd have to stop seeing him. No way was she going to have her life directed again by a man.
Damn it, Ian thought, I'm messing up. He didn't want to be involved with Sara, with anyone, but when he wasn't with her he remembered every movement she made, the way her hands fluttered as she tried to explain some point, the way she ducked her head and turned away when she was out-argued or embarrassed.
I can't afford to get obsessed with her, he warned himself, knowing at the same time he couldn't keep away from her. He had no right to be jealous of her ex or of that ass MacDuffy. But he was.
"I don't belong to you,” Moira had warned him. “One person can't own another. Let me loose. If you don't, I'll smother."
Long-limbed Moira with her high breasts, and her sly green eyes. So different from small-boned Sara whose eyes revealed her every thought. Why did she attract him?
"Would you come with me the next time I go to see Jamie?” he asked impulsively.
"Jamie? Oh, he's your son."
"Yes, I try to visit him once a month. Not that he knows I'm there."
"You can't be sure of that.” She leaned toward him, peering into his face. “He may sense your presence but be unable to show it. Tell me more about Jamie. Does he see? Hear?"
"They think he sees and hears but that his brain can't—as their lingo goes—process the input. Like he's a computer with malfunctioning chips.” Ian's face twisted. “No one seems to remember he's my son."
She put her hand over his. “It's hard for you, I know."
He jerked his hand away. “How can you know when you've never had a child?"
Sara clutched her hands together. “But I did. She died before she was born. They told me she was dead and I had to carry my dead baby around inside me for two weeks until they decided to induce labor. It messed me up for a while—my head, I mean. The doctor lost patience with me. He was a man and no man can know how it feels to have a dead baby inside.” She turned her face from him so he couldn't see her expression.
"I'm sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?"
"Yes.” Her voice was choked and husky.
He pulled the car over to the curb, put his arm around her and held her.
She clung to him momentarily, then cleared her throat and sat back. “I thought I was over that."
"Grief is always there waiting for your defenses to go down."
This time the silence lasted until they reached Pirate's Cove, overlooking the bay. In the restaurant he ordered vodka martinis for both of them, hoping alcohol would drive away the demon of melancholy that had settled in him but instead he found himself superimposing Moira's face over Sara's.
"We're a cheery pair,” Sara said finally.
"I was remembering the past,” he admitted. “An exercise in futility."
"How long had you been married?"
"Ten years. Jamie is eight. I've always felt the accident was my fault."
"I thought you weren't with them."
"I wasn't. But Moira—I—we argued and she was angry when she left the house."
He could see her clearly, Moira standing by the door, eager to be away, furious with him, tossing her head so her long black hair swirled over her shoulders.
"Good God, Ian, can't I go out the door without you conjuring up imaginary lovers?"
"All I said was I couldn't see why you don't pick up Jamie after his swimming lesson instead of having me go after him,” he'd protested.
Moira shut her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Because I'm dropping him off, then going to Fashion Valley to shop, that's why. You know very well the pool's miles from Fashion Valley. What's the matter with you, Ian? I'm taking him, it's only fair you pick him up—you aren't all that busy. Besides, it wouldn't hurt you to spend more time with your son."
He suspected her of having an affair, that's what was wrong with him. His beautiful Moira, so lovely men turned to watch her. Had she been meeting other men all along? An occasional Saturday afternoon shopping trip had always been her thing but now it was every Saturday and when she came home she looked—different. Had he been too naive to notice before?
His stomach churned in distress at the same time he felt a fierce desire for her. Moira had never looked more lovely, her face flushed with annoyance, her eyes bright with anger. He reached for her but she glared at him, spun around and called to Jamie to hurry up, she was waiting.
Ian thought of grabbing her, ripping her clothes off and taking her right there in the living room but his son came in and Ian turned away.
He'd never seen Moira alive again. He shook his head to dispel the memory and found Sara's grave amber eyes staring into his. As he watched, her pupils dilated and, suddenly aroused, he leaned over to kiss her.
Sara pulled back after a lingering moment, her breathing quickened. What was the matter with her that she could respond so easily to two men? Maybe it was normal but her upbringing allowed for only one at a time. Warmth suffused her body from Ian's kiss, just as when Ralph had held her. Before, only C.W. affected her. Casual kisses from other men had been just that. Casual. Now...
She stared into her drink, not wanting to look at Ian. A relationship with him would be difficult. He was moody, morose and in love with a dead woman. Yet she felt he was capable of more genuine feeling than Ralph. There'd be no complications in going to bed with Ralph, that's all he wanted from her, wasn't it?
Then why didn't she? She certainly wasn't ready for another possessive man, like Ian showed symptoms of being. She'd be better off not going out with Ian again. Yet the thought of him going alone to see his brain-damaged son tugged at her heart.
One more time, that's all.
After they'd eaten, Sara asked for a doggie bag so the cats could have her leftover fish. Her throat tightened when she remembered there were only the two females left.
"Are you afraid of me, Sara?” Ian asked when she tried to say goodbye to him on her steps before unlocking her front door. “After all, our Ralphie's visited you at home. He can't be less of a threat than I."
"I don't mind you coming in,” she said. “But I'm not—I don't—"
"Are you afraid of sex?"
"No! But I'm afraid of mistakes. My marriage was a disaster I'm still recovering from. It was wrong for C.W., too."
He smiled wryly. “I'm not proposing."
"Sex isn't that casual for me,” Sara said. “I need time."
"I won't come in tonight,” Ian said, “but you can't keep me out forever."
After he'd left and Sara was alone in the house, she began to wish she'd at least had Ian walk through the rooms with her—their dark emptiness made her uneasy. What if it hadn't been Bobo's dog that killed Namath? What if the strangler waited for her behind one of these closed doors? Stop it! she warned herself. But she couldn't relax until she turned on all the lights and examined every room in the house, closets included.
I ought to get a dog myself, she thought. One that would get along with Freidan and Violet.
The phone rang.
"Hello?” she said.
Silence.
"Hello!"
Was someone breathing on the other end of the line? She'd heard about breathers. But how could one call her when her number was unlisted?
Sara slammed down the phone only to have it ring again. She lifted it cautiously.
"Hello?"
Breathing.
This time she hung up, then unplugged the phone.
Who knew her number? Ian, of course. And Ralph. And C.W. She didn't have it printed on her checks so no one could acquire it easily.
Ian or Ralph wouldn't do such a thing. Would they? A chill crawled along her spine. What did she really know of either of them?
She did know C.W. Definitely not his style.
The sound of breathing ought to be asexual but she was sure the breathing she'd heard was a man's. A man waiting on the other end of the phone. Did he gloat at her fright and distaste?
I won't think about it, she told herself. He can't call me again tonight. Never mind that I can't call out, either. I won't need to.
As she settled herself into bed with the two cats it occurred to her that the breather could come to her house instead of calling. If he knew her phone number wouldn't he also know where she lived? She lay rigid in bed, unable to close her eyes.
Wasn't he most likely a stranger who'd punched buttons at random and gotten her number by sheer accident? He wouldn't know where she lived or who she was.
But what if he was the strangler? What if he'd followed her because she had red hair and watched to see which house she entered? Sara forced herself to take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He couldn't know her phone number from following her. Anyway, no one had followed her, she was being silly.
Suddenly she sat up in bed, frightening Violet. Bobo. Had she ever given Bobo her number? She couldn't recall. She pictured Bobo's face, his dark glasses hiding God knows what. Madness? Lust?
She sighed wearily. This was stupid. She read to distract herself from these dark notions, read until she got sleepy. The bedside lamp was still on. Sara eased from the bed and padded over to the small bookcase against the wall. Many of the books had been gifts to C.W. that he hadn't bothered to take when they split up. C.W. wasn't a great reader. Some of the books had never even been opened.
One entitled The Short History of Decay caught her eye. The author was unfamiliar to her—E.M. Cioran—but the title was intriguing. Anything was better than lying in bed frightening herself.
She opened the book at random and a sentence sprang up at her. “Once man loses his faculty of indifference he becomes a potential murderer..."
Then again, “The devil pales beside the man who owns a truth, his truth."
Sara shivered at this reminder that men with obsessions are dangerous. Even if a man spoke the truth about his ideas or convictions how could you tell the reasonable men from the fanatics?
Ian?
Ralph?
Bobo?
She laid the book aside and went into the kitchen to make coffee. If she couldn't sleep anyway, she might as well drink coffee. The cats joined her, blinking in the light. Freidan decided she needed food if Sara was going to have something but Violet crouched unhappily under the table, suspicious of this unusual activity in the middle of the night.
I can't continue like this, Sara told herself. The cliché woman, terrorized without a man in the house. I'll have the phone number changed, surely the breather is a stranger who dialed mine by accident. A new number will stop him. There's nothing to be afraid of, nothing but my own emotions.
Bobo is merely a guy earning a living doing yard work. Naturally he wears dark glasses since he works in the sun. Hardly sinister.
Ralph's a handsome man on the make, used to getting his own way, of not having women refuse him. He is hard to refuse but he's no more frightening than any Don Juan.
And Ian. Still mourning his wife but reaching out for—what? Sex? Love? Understanding?
Well, who doesn't want those things? She did, didn't she?
Violet spat suddenly and shot out of the kitchen, disappearing into the living room. Freidan stopped eating and shifted to face the back door. Sara looked, too, and froze as she heard the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted in the lock.
Nine
Before Sara could force herself to move, the back door opened and a man stood framed there.
"C.W.!” Relief that it was only him washed over her, to be replaced almost immediately with anger at his presumption. Her gaze left him to check the hook over the counter where she hung the extra key. Missing. He'd lifted it when he was here earlier. Damn him!
He came into the kitchen.
"What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Yet despite her anger, she couldn't help but be glad that she was no longer alone in the house. Even though she didn't want C.W. here.
C.W. swayed on his feet. “No money,” he said, the words slurred.
"You're drunk."
"Yo. And broke."
"You can't spend the night here. You must have a hotel room."
He shook his head. “Bet the plane ticket, too,” he mumbled. “Friendly l'il game."
Gambling again. God only knew how many times he'd promised her he'd stop. He was hopeless.
"What about credit cards?” Sara asked as he slumped into a kitchen chair.
"Accountant's got ‘em locked up. Cut expenses down, he tol’ me."
She sighed. “I'll make you some coffee."
"Good ole Sara."
From where she stood she could see the back of his head where the hair was thinning. Inexplicably a lump came into her throat. She wanted no part of C.W. anymore and yet she'd loved him once. He was growing older but no wiser. She felt a hundred years wiser than C.W.
"I'll fix you a place to sleep in the living room,” she said.
He looked at her owlishly. “Wanna sleep with Sara."
"No way. I only have one bed so you're going to sleep on the couch."
He reached for her as she passed him but she evaded him easily. Freidan came out from under the table and eyed him cautiously. There was no sign of Violet.
"Damn cats.” He looked around. “Where're the others?"
"There are only two now. Namath is—he was killed."
"The hell you say.” He reached down and picked up the startled Freidan. When she realized he didn't mean her any harm, she settled into his lap and began purring.
"Don't mind this one,” he said, “it's that slinking one I can't stand. Too bad it wasn't her."
I'll have to make sure Violet isn't hiding in the living room, Sara thought.
"Here's your coffee,” she told C.W. “Drink it while I get the sheets."
When she led C.W. to the living room, he collapsed onto the couch and began to snore. She pulled off his shoes and covered him with a sheet. Sara expected to be wakeful but once she crawled into her bed she fell asleep quickly.
In the morning C.W. was grouchy.
"Don't snap at me,” she said. “I didn't invite you here."
"I'm not even welcome in my own house,” he complained.
"It isn't your house, this never was your house. It's mine. I traded you my half of the equity in the Western Springs house for the down payment on this one, as you well know. This is my house, C.W., and I want the key you used last night. You had no right to take it."
He fumbled in his pocket and slammed a key on the table between them, making the coffee in his mug slop over.
"Do you have any money at all?” she asked.
He shook his head. “God damn poker game last night."
"All right, I'll look up the receipt for the silver coins. You can have your half. I'll have to write a check, though."
She paused on her way out of the room. “I don't want you coming here again without asking first,” she said coldly. “Just like the house isn't your property, neither am I, and my time belongs to me."
"You've changed,” he said. “You've gotten hard."
"I'm not hard. But I certainly hope I've changed."
He stood up and lunged, grabbing her so suddenly she couldn't escape. His lips were warm and familiar on hers but his kiss no longer stirred her.
"I can still make you want me,” he told her.
"No.” She struggled to get away. “That's all over, C.W., let me go."
"Little Sara,” he said, lifting her off her feet and carrying her toward her bedroom.
Panic rose in her and she pounded him with her fists. “No, put me down. Stop it!"
She fought him as he threw her onto the bed. “You can't, C.W., damn you, let me go!"
Only when she realized he wasn't going to stop did she begin to cry in angry frustration because she wasn't strong enough to prevent him from undressing her. He yanked off her panties and forced her legs apart, laying across her heavily. Her rage left no room for any other emotion.
She was still sobbing when he finished. When he rolled off her she slid from the bed and fled into the bathroom where she locked the door and flung herself into the shower. Even after a thorough scrubbing she felt defiled.
Raped. Horrible, even when the man was once your husband. Horrible because it's against your will, terrible to be so helpless. Whoever first said “relax and enjoy the inevitable” had to be a man. A woman would know better.
She didn't want to unlock the bathroom door. Having to look at him would make her sick. Wrapped in an old terry-cloth bathrobe she kept hanging on the inside of the door, she sat on the floor cross-legged.
