Either way I lose, she thought. Either her lover had betrayed her. Or her lover and her sister. Still, she had to know the answer.
"Oh, Lis, of course not. I wouldn't do that to you. Didn't you know that?"
"No! How could I know. You're my sister but . . . No, I didn't know." Lis wiped tears, looking down. "I thought he might have told you, and you, well, you just decided to go ahead anyway."
"No, of course he didn't."
Lis's heart hadn't beat this hard since she'd been in the cave at Indian Leap, fleeing from her mad pursuer. "I didn't know. All these months, I just didn't know."
"Believe me, Lis. Think about it. Why would Robert say anything? He wanted to get laid. He wasn't going to spoil it by confessing that he was my sister's lover."
"When I saw the two of you there together . . ." She closed her eyes and massaged her temple. "And tonight, when you were flirting with Owen . . ."
"Lis."
"Weren't you?"
Portia's lips pressed together tightly. Finally she said, "I flirt, sure. It doesn't mean I want somebody. If Robert'd told me about you two, I'd've said no. Men look at me. It's a power I have. Sometimes I think it's all I have."
"Oh, Portia. It was Robert of course I was so angry with. Not you. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to kill . . ." Her voice faded. "I felt so betrayed. Claire died because of him. After she saw you two, she was so upset she ran off and got lost in the cave."
"Half the guys I go out with are Roberts. You can spot 'em a mile away. Lis, he was all wrong for you."
"No! It's not what you think. It wasn't just a fling. We were equals, Robert and me. Dorothy was dragging him down. They hated each other. They fought all the time. And Owen? He doesn't love me the same way. Not at all. I could feel it. After being with Robert, all I felt was the absence of Owen's love. The night before the picnic, that Saturday night . . . Owen was working late in Hartford. And Robert came over."
"Lis--"
"Let me finish. Owen called and said he wouldn't be home before two or three. Robert and I made love in the greenhouse. We were there for hours. He'd pull the petals off flowers and he'd touch me with them--" Lis closed her eyes and lowered her head once more to her knees. "And then he proposed."
"Proposed?" From Portia's lips popped her breathy laugh. "He asked you to marry him?"
"He and Dorothy had been unhappy for a long time. She'd been cheating on him for several years. He wanted to marry me."
"And you said no, right?"
"And," Lis whispered, "I said no."
Portia shook her head. "So he was pissed at you. And when I turned my big hazel eyes on him in the truck, he jumped at the bait. Oh, brother, did I put my foot in it, or what?"
"I didn't want to end it with him. I just couldn't leave Owen. I wasn't ready to. He'd given up that woman for me. I thought I should try to make it work."
"Mistake, Lis. Mistake. Why didn't you go for it? My God, it may've been your only chance to dump the last of the family."
Lis shook her head, confused. "You?"
"No, no! Owen. You should've done it years ago."
"What do you mean, last of the family?"
Portia laughed. "Doesn't Owen remind you just a little of Father?"
"Oh, don't be crazy. There's no comparison. Why, look what he's doing tonight." She waved at the window. "He's out there for me."
"Owen's a despot, Lis. Just like Father."
"No! He's a good man. He's solid. He does love me. In his way."
"Well, Father put a roof over our heads. You call that love?" Portia had grown angry. "You call it love when somebody says, 'You didn't clean up very well this week' or 'How dare you wear that low-cut blouse'? Then lifts up your skirt and leaves those darling little welts on you? The willow tree's still in the backyard, I see. If I'd moved here, that's the first thing that would've gone. I'd've chopped that son of a bitch to the ground in ten seconds flat.
"Tell me, Lis, how did you explain the marks in gym class? You probably changed into your uniform with your back to the locker. I told everybody I had an older lover who tied me up and jerked off while he whipped me. Oh, don't look so horrified. You talk about love. . . . Love? For Christ's sake, if we grew up in such normal circumstances, how come you hide away in this Neverland and why'm I the easiest fuck on East Seventy-second Street?"
Lis buried her head in her arms, the tears streamed.
Her sister said, "Lis, I'm sorry." She laughed. "Look what being back here does. It makes me crazy. I've had more of a dose of family than I can deal with. I knew I shouldn't have come on the picnic. I shouldn't've come tonight."
Lis touched her sister's knee, observing that Portia was once more wearing her gaudy silver rings, and the flecked crystal, like a huge grain of salt, again hung from her neck. A moment passed and Portia lowered her hand onto her sister's toughened, ruddy fingers but offered no pressure and soon withdrew it.
Then Lis too took back her hand and looked out the window, staring at the rain snaking down the glass. Finally she stood up. "There's something I have to do. I'll be back in a minute."
"Do?"
"I'll be right back."
"You're going outside?" Portia sounded frightened, mystified.
"The padlock on the basement door. I have to see about it."
"No, Lis. Don't. I'm sure Owen checked it."
"I don't think so."
Portia shook her head and watched Lis take the gun from her pocket and awkwardly pull the slide to put a bullet in the chamber. "Lis . . ."
"What?"
"Nothing. I . . . Nothing."
Carefully pointing the muzzle toward the floor, Lis dons the bomber jacket. She pauses at the back door, looking back. The old house is dark, this house three stories high and filled with flowers and books and the spirits of many dead. She thinks how odd it is that we're awed by our mortality only during the small moments--when we think of painted fingernails, or a passage of music, or the proximity of sleeping bodies--never at mean, ruthless times like these. She flicks off the safety catch of the gun and feels no fear whatsoever as she steps into the rain-drenched yard.
Owen Atcheson, every inch of his skin wet, in agony, ducked against the muddy embankment of the drainage ditch and cringed like a child as a shaft of lightning engulfed the sky above him. The thunder shook his teeth and sent spasms of pain through his left arm.
After all this, he thought, please don't let me get electrocuted.
He looked along Cedar Swamp Road, down which the Jeep had vanished five minutes before, sending rooster tails of dirty rain into the air behind it. He'd recognized it as Will McCaffrey's. He supposed the old coot had worked overtime at the mill and was finally heading home.
Owen sank back into the dirty, foaming water. This unpleasantness didn't bother him. On hunting trips, he'd endured leeches, mosquitoes and temperatures of 110 degrees and 30 below. Tonight, he carried only his pistol and twenty rounds of ammunition; on other occasions he'd borne not only his weapons but an eighty-pound pack and, more than once, the body of a fallen comrade as well.
These hardships he could cope with. Far more troubling was the question--where the hell was his prey?
Owen surveyed the terrain for the dozenth time. Yes, he supposed, it'd be possible for Hrubek to avoid the road completely and reach the house through the forest. But that would require a compass and hours of time, and would force him to swim the lake or skirt the shore, which was thickly overgrown and virtually impassable. Besides, Hrubek had shown a strong preference for roads--as if his impeded mind believed that people could be connected only via asphalt or concrete.
Roads, Owen reflected. Cars . . .
The Jeep . . .
McCaffrey, he recalled, didn't live north of town. His bungalow was on the west side. He'd have no need or occasion to take Cedar Swamp, certainly not to reach his house. The only reason someone who didn't live near here would come this way was to take the shortcut to the mall in Chilton. And there sure weren't any st
ores open there this time of night.
Owen looked up the dark, rain-swept road for a moment then struggled from the water and began the agonizing run to his wife and his home.
29
Trenton Heck slowly climbed the face of the huge rock shelf that cut the Atcheson property in two.
The surface was slick with rain but slipperiness was not the greatest impediment to his twenty-foot climb; rather, Heck's disobedient leg made for very slow progress. He was as exhausted as he was drenched by the time he reached the summit and collapsed on the rocky plain. He caught his breath while he massaged his thigh and scanned the driveway and forest below him. He saw nothing but the mesmerizing flutter of leaves as the rain poured down. After resting for a moment he rose slowly and in a crouch eased along the crest of this hill, parallel to the vague white strip of driveway in the shallow valley below. He made his way slowly from the house toward Cedar Swamp Road--keen to spot Hrubek, yes, but even more eager to find Owen, a man with whom Heck felt considerable kinship. And a man maybe weaponless, maybe injured.
As he moved cautiously toward the road, he found himself thinking about Lis Atcheson. He kept returning to the question that had occurred to him on the hectic drive here after he'd abandoned his journey to Boyleston. Limping into cover behind a tall oak tree for a futile inspection of the rain-drenched panorama beneath him, he wondered again: why exactly was Michael Hrubek after her?
Of course the fellow was maybe completely mad, Heck allowed. Lord knew, enough people seemed to think so. But if Heck understood right, Hrubek'd need one hell of a motive to go through with a trip like this--a journey that clearly terrified him. It'd be like Heck himself standing up and with full intent walking right toward someone threatening to shoot him in the leg again.
Why would a man bring that kind of heartache on himself?
Lis testifying against him? Naw, there had to be more to it. It was true, as he'd told her, that convicts rarely make matters worse for themselves by hurting witnesses.
The only time . . .
Well, usually the only time they carried out threats was when the witness had lied. But why would she've done that?
These musings were interrupted by something Heck saw in the distance: a large cube of faint blue light. It was in the direction of the house. He made his way closer and squinted through the rain. The lights of the greenhouse. She must have forgotten to turn them off. The radiance was, he thought, an unfortunate beacon but there was nothing to be done about it now.
Lightning flared through the forest and Heck was jarred by the encompassing blast of thunder. The lightning troubled him--not from fear of a hit but because he couldn't afford to be light-blinded. Also, a nearby strike would make him, if even for a fraction of a second, as sharp a target as if he'd been flare-lit.
Thunder sounded again.
Or was it thunder? The sound was more of a crack than a boom. And now that he thought about it, the noise seemed to have come from the driveway of the Atcheson place. Alarmed, he looked toward the house again for Lis's summoning signal but no lights flashed.
Through the plastic bag he thumbed the old Walther nervously and stalked toward Cedar Swamp Road, surveying the dense forest around him--with its mulchy, cluttered carpet of downed foliage. In this tangle he saw a dozen shadows that clearly resembled the man he sought. Then he forgot about the thunder that resembled a gunshot and grew depressed. The task of finding either Owen or Hrubek suddenly seemed hopeless.
"Oh, man," Heck muttered. Here he'd turned down Kohler's bribe, he'd helped get a woman killed, and he could just hear Adler saying, Oh, no, sorry Mr. Heck, it really was Tactical Services that caught Hrubek.
But here's a hundred bucks for your trouble.
"Damn."
Five minutes later he was engaged in a conversation with Jill about his troubles when he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of light coming from the direction of the house. He stepped forward quickly, thinking at first that it was a summons from Lis. But then he stopped and, squinting through the rain, noted how remarkable it was that light would reflect so vibrantly off a bald, blue-tinted head.
Michael Hrubek was not fifty feet away.
The madman was oblivious to Heck and hiding in a stand of bushes overlooking the garage.
Lord, he's a monster, Heck thought, his face burning at the first sight of his quarry. He trained the Walther, still in the Baggie, on the man's back. He flicked up the thumb safety and, walking as silently as he could, closed the distance between them. When he was thirty feet away Heck took a deep breath and called, "Hrubek!"
The big man jumped and barked out a frightened, pathetic cry. He looked back through the streaming rain toward Heck, his eyes scanning the darkness.
"I want you to lie down on the ground. Do it. I got a gun here."
Okay, Heck thought, he's going to run. You going to shoot him or not? Decide now. Otherwise you chase him.
Hrubek's eyes darted and his tongue appeared, circling his open lips. He seemed like a confused bear, rearing in fright.
Heck decided. Shoot. Park one in his leg.
Hrubek ran.
Heck fired twice. The bullets kicked up leaves behind the fleeing figure, who was covering ground like a wide receiver, dodging trees and crashing over saplings, falling, scrabbling through leaves then leaping to his feet again. He howled in fear. Heck pursued in a fast lope. Though Hrubek carried nearly twice Heck's weight, he set a furious pace and kept his distance for a long ways. But slowly Heck began to gain.
Then suddenly he cried out at a searing eruption of agony. A cramp seized his game leg from calf to hip. Heck dropped to his side, his leg out straight, twitching, muscles hard as oak. He contorted desperately, trying to find a position that would ease the pain. Slowly it subsided on its own, leaving him exhausted and breathless. When he sat up and looked around him Hrubek was gone.
Heck rolled upright and stood, gasping. He scooped up his gun and hurried along the low ridge near where Hrubek had disappeared. Orienting himself, he located the house, a hundred yards away. Through the rain he saw a thousand trees and ten thousand shadows, any one of which might be hiding his prey.
As he started toward the house, hurrying as fast as he dared on the trembling leg, Heck heard the gunshot not more than ten feet behind him. At the same time he felt, with more shock than pain, the tug of the bullet as it tore through his back. "Oh," he gasped. He staggered a few steps, wondering why no one had ever suggested that Hrubek might have a gun. He dropped his pistol and looked down at the pucker of his work shirt where the hot bit of metal had exited.
"Oh, no. Damn."
Dimly, in his mind's eye, Trenton Heck saw his ex-wife Jill in her freshly pressed waitress uniform. Then, as in his actual life, she vanished from him quickly, as if she had far more important matters to attend to, and he dropped to his knees, falling forward and beginning an endless tumble down the hill of slick leaves.
"Lis!" Portia called, as her sister returned to the kitchen and hung up the bomber jacket, shaking the water out of her hair.
Glancing at Portia she locked the door then turned and stared into the backyard, which was just a blur in the heavy rain.
"That noise," Portia blurted.
"What noise?"
"Didn't you hear it?" The younger sister paced, and wrung her hands compulsively. "It seemed . . . I mean, it wasn't thunder. I thought there were gunshots. I was worried--where were you?"
"I had trouble getting through the mud to the basement door. It was locked after all. Waste of time."
Portia said, "Maybe we should tell the deputy." Lightning struck nearby and she jumped at the thunder. "Shit. I hate this."
It was fifty or sixty feet to the police car. Lis stood at the door and waved but received no response from the deputy. Portia said, "He can't see you. Let's go tell him. With the rain he might not've heard anything. All right, don't look at me that way. I'm scared. What do you expect? I'm so fucking scared."
Lis hesitated t
hen nodded. She put on the jacket again and a black rain hat that was Owen's--more for camouflage than to protect her drenched hair. Portia pulled on the baseball cap and a navy-blue windbreaker--useless against the rain but less conspicuous than the slicker. Then Lis flung open the door. Portia stepped outside and Lis followed, clutching the gun in her pocket. They were immediately overwhelmed by the storm. They leaned into the torrent of rain and wind and struggled toward the car. Halfway there Lis's hat vanished toward the turbulent lake.
It was from this direction--the lake--that the figure suddenly appeared. He grabbed Lis around the shoulders and they fell together into the saturated mud of one of her rose gardens. The fall emptied her lungs and she bent double, gasping for breath, unable to call for help. His full weight was on her, pinning her to the ground. She yanked at the pistol but the rear lip of the receiver caught in the cloth of her pocket.
Portia turned and saw the assailant. She screamed and made a dash for the police car, as Lis kicked him away. She succeeded only in sliding through a muddy trench and catching herself, in an ungainly sitting position, on the thorny stalk of a blossomless Prospero rose shrub. She was held immobile as the man, his head lowered like an animal's, crawled through the muck after her, muttering eerie sounds. Lis ripped the pocket flap open and pulled the Colt from it. She placed the black muzzle against his head just as Trenton Heck looked up and said, "Help me."
"Oh, my God."
"I'm . . . Can you help me?"
"Portia!" she shouted, pocketing the automatic once again. "It's Trenton. He's hurt. Get the deputy. Tell him."
The young woman stood at the door of the patrol car.
"It's Trenton," Lis shouted over the wind and rain. "Tell the deputy!"
But Portia didn't move. She stepped back from the car and began to scream. Lis ripped her jacket from the rosebush and crawled away from Heck. Lis approached her sister cautiously, frowning. Smoke poured from the front seat of the cruiser. Portia pressed her hands over her face then fell to her knees, gagging. A moment later she vomited violently.
When the deputy had been shot--point-blank in the face--the cigarette he held fell into his lap and started his uniform smoldering.
"Oh, no," Portia was crying, "no, no . . ."