Behind Closed Doors

He wouldn't take her with him. He wanted to be alone; always that same apologetic half-smile; sorry, Katya, but I don't have the energy to be cheered up. I need to be quiet and think. Run back on up to the house to your mother, eh? She needs you.

What a joke. Alix needing her, hah. The boat drifted far-then He waved to her, and she remembered the dream she'd had that night. She called out to him, blubbering with panic, but he just hoisted sail and drifted farther. When she had dreams like that, something bad always happened. And if Alix saw her with red eyes, she would just say, oh, for God's sake, stop whining, Katie, I'm losing my patience.

She curled up beneath the roots of a dead tree that jutted out over the water. Waves had carved out a spot beneath just big enough for an eleven-year-old girl, small for her age, to curl up tight in a ball and watch that faraway sail bob on the water. As long as she could see it, nothing bad could happen. She didn't even dare blink. It would break the spell.

She heard heavy, clumping footsteps on the dock. Ed Riggs was the only one who walked like that. Katya had never liked Ed, even if he was her mother's good friend. He talked to Daddy like Daddy was stupid, when Daddy was the smartest man in the world except for maybe Victor. Ed pretended to be nice, but he wasn't. And lately, she'd had dreams about him. Like the one she 'd had last night.

He stood on the dock in front of her, watching the sail float and bob against the water, as frail and delicate as a white moth. He watched for a long time, like he was deciding something. She was outwardly quiet but her heart was thudding as he untied the boat, put the motor down and headed out. Diesel fumes floated over to her hidey-hole and almost made her sick. He headed right for that white sail, a black dot, receding until he was too small to see. The wind began to rise, and the water whipped and frothed, surging over the pebbles to slosh over her feet. The sky wasn't white anymore. It was brownish, yellowish gray, like a bruise. Thunder rolled, closer. It began to rain.

She kept her eyes fixed on that white moth, afraid even to blink; but the eye spell wouldn'twork anymore, Ed had bro- ken it. She pretended her eyes were a rope that could putt him back, but the white moth bobbed and tossed, resisting the pull of her eyes.

The dark speck grew slowly bigger again.

She scrambled out of the hidey-hole, wading over to the ladder of roots. She scampered up to the path. She didn't want to be stuck between Ed and the water, not after last night's dream. It was so dart Then she realized she was still wearing the frog sunglasses. Duh, of course it was dark, but she couldn't see well enough without them to take them off.

Ed was almost on top of her before he noticed she was there. His eyes went so wide that she could see the whites all the way around.

“What did you do to my daddy? “ she demanded.

Ed's mouth dropped open beneath his thick mustache. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking, but it wasn't cold outside.

“What are you doing out here in the rain, honey? “

“Where's my daddy? “ she said again, louder.

Ed stared at her for a moment, and then squatted down in front of her. He held out his hand. “Come on, Katie. I'll take you to your daddy.”

He smiled his nice-guy smile, but a flash of lightning illuminated what the smile really was—something horrible, as if snakes were coming out of his eyes and mouth. Like that horror movie she'd watched on TV one night while the grownups were partying.

Thunder crashed. She screamed and sprang away from him like a racehorse out of the gate. She was fast, but his legs were long. His hands closed on her arm, but she was as slippery as a fish. She wrenched out of his grip. The frog glasses flew, but she kept running, screaming, into the featureless green blur....

A knock sounded, and she sat up, choking back a scream. It sounded again; the same polite little tap which must have yanked her out of the nightmare. She wrapped herself hastily in the blanket, her heart still racing. “Come in,” she called out cautiously.

The padlock rattled, and the door opened. It was the skinny man with the cane, holding a wad of limp looking clothing against his chest. Seth had called him Connor. He regarded her with cool, somber eyes. “Good morning,” he said.

“You didn't go with them?”

His face tightened. “The gimp gets baby-sitting duty.” He indicated his cane. “I'm not happy about it, either, so let's not discuss it, please.”

“Why didn't you just lock me up and go?” she asked. “I'd never get out of this room.”

“Exactly. Totally aside from the fact that two hit men attacked you last night. If, God forbid, all four of us should get wasted messing with those guys, you would die of dehydration in this room before anybody heard you yelling. We don't have any near neighbors.”

She swallowed hard, and looked away.

“Yeah, makes you think, doesn't it? Personally, I thought you'd already rolled your dice. You should take your chances with the rest of us. But Seth wouldn't hear of it.”

“He wouldn't?”

Connor's eyes flicked over her. “No” he repeated. “He wouldn't.”

He laid a pile of clothing on the dresser. “None of us live up here full time, so we don't have a lot of clothes here. I scrounged up some of Sean's stuff from when he was a kid. Don't know how they'll fit, but they ought to be better than your nightie.”

“Yes, I'm sure they will be,” she said gratefully.

“Come on downstairs once you're dressed, if you want. There's coffee ready, and food if you're hungry.”

“You're not going to lock me up?”

He leaned both hands on his cane and narrowed his sharp green eyes at her. “Are you going to do anything stupid?”

She shook her head. Despite the cane, she was no match for this man. With that hard, purposeful look on his face, he seemed almost as dangerous in his own way as Seth. AH of the McCloud brothers had given her that impression.

'Thank you for the clothes,” she said “I’LL be down shortly.”

The clothes on the dresser were a threadbare, motley assortment. The best of the lot was a pair of low-slung jeans that were tight in the hips, but had to be cuffed three times to find her feet. Rude antisocial slogans had been scribbled over them with blunt felt-tip markers. The only shirt without too many holes was a shrunken, threadbare black Megadeth T-shirt with the neck ripped out. It did not quite succeed in covering her navel, and stretched perilously tightly across her breasts.

There was a pair of high-top sneakers whose original color was impossible to determine, warped and yellowed with age. They were inches too long, as floppy as clown shoes, and rasped painfully against her sore feet, but she pulled the laces tight and was pathetically grateful for every stitch of the ragged getup.

There was a series of framed drawings and paintings on the wall of the stairway. She slowed down to look at them as she descended. Some were charcoal, some pen-and-ink, some watercolors. They were mostly landscapes, animals and trees. Their simplicity and power drew her in and made her think of the vast, silent mystery of Stone Island.

Connor did a double-take when she walked into the kitchen. “Jesus” he said, turning quickly. “Ah... oh, yeah. Coffee's in the machine, right there. Cups over the sink. Cream in the fridge. Bread on the counter, if you want toast. Butter, jam, peanut butter or cream cheese are your choices.”

She poured herself some coffee. “Those drawings on the stairs are beautiful,” she said. “Who's the artist?”

“Those were done by my younger brother, Kevin.”

She pulled a quart of half-and-half out of the refrigerator and dosed her coffee. “Is Kevin one of the brothers that I met last night?”

“No,” Connor said. “Kevin died ten years ago. Car accident.”

She stared at him, clutching the carton. The refrigerator swung open until it bounced against the wall, rattling the jars of condiments.