time to spend with Jen. That was all she had wanted, and all she needed. Why was this happening now?
'Excuse me, Miss?'
The dowager, her husband hovering behind, stood by the stool Zack had just vacated. 'Huh? Oh, sorry, ' Suzanne said. 'I see you're interested in Gerard Morris's work?'
'Yes. Is he local?' f 'One town over. He's growing more popular every year.'
Why had she lied to him about Wednesday? Jen did have plans with friends, but she was free. Why had she lied?
'Well, ' the woman said, 'my husband and I are most interested in the work on the left. The one with those lovely deer. Could you tell me its price?'
'It's eibhteen hundred.'
'Oh, ' the woman said. 'I see.' She scanned Morris's mimeoed resume.
'Has he had any gallery shows outside of this area?
Boston?
New York?'
'No, ' Suzanne said, realizing that, despite her taste in art, the woman was no novice at buying it. 'I don't believe he has.'
Maybe Helene was right. Maybe it was time to stop running scared. 'Well,
' the woman said, 'that being the case, don't you think the asking price for his work is a bit high?'
Suzanne eyed her for a moment, and then flipped the crumpled list into the wastepaper basket. 'As a matter of fact, ' she said, 'I do.'
For years people had called her the Witch of West Eighty-seventh Street.
But Hattie Day had known better. They called her Batty Hattie and filed petitions claiming her cluttered apartment was a health menace and her family of cats against the law. But Hattie hadn't cared. On her infrequent trips to the store, children taunted her and even sometimes threw things at her. But Hattie had understood, and still loved them as much as she loved her cats. For years, people had said that she was crazy. But because she had known better, Hattie had just smiled at them But now, since the terrifying events that had followed her trip to V, Hattie smiled at no one. Because now Hattie knew they were right. It was nearly two in the morning. Exhausted, but reluctant to sleep, Hattie hobbled to her stove, lit a cigarette from the burner, and then put on a pot of tea. She was only sixty-two, but with her pallor, her long, unkempt hair, and her cadaverous thinness, she looked eighty. She sank into a tattered easy chair and studied her hands. There was nothing about the bony, nicotine-stained fingers and the long, curving nails to suggest the wonderful music they had once made. The death of her parents in an accident had, in effect, ripped the violin from her hands-pulled her out of Juilliard and into a succession of mental hospitals. But over the years, she had made do. She had her apartment, and her cats, and her battered stereo, and more than enough records to fill each day with music. But that was before Quebec. Shakily, Hattie stubbed out her cigarette, hesitated a moment, and then limped to the stove to light another. The water had not yet boiled. If only she had refused the invitation to Martin's wedding, she thought, if only she had stayed home where she belonged, none of this would have happened. But Martin, her cousin's son, was really the only family she had. And when he was at Juilliard he had stopped by often, bringing food and usually a record or two, and staying long enough to tell her about his studies. Once he had even brought his guitar and played for her-Bach, and several wonderful Villa- Lobos pieces. Hattie smiled grimly at the memory. The bus ride up to Canada had been easy enough, and the wedding had been beautiful-especially the chamber groups made up of Martin's friends. It was during the ride home that the dreadful ache in her leg had begun.
The bus driver had turned her over to the ambulance people in Sterling, New Hampshire, and within an hour she was in the operating room having a cloth artery put in to bypass the clot in her groin. They had called her recovery a miracle. After just a week in the hospital and two weeks in a nursing home, she had gone home. Martin had driven her back to Manhattan and had even gotten one of her cats back for her from the animal protection people. A miracle. It was just a day after Martin had dropped her off that the frightening episodes had begun. Without warning, her mind would go limp. For an hour or more at a time she would sit, staring at nothing, unable to move or to focus her thoughts, knowing what was happening but powerless to control it. The colors in the room would become uncomfortably bright, all sounds unnaturally muted. Sometimes she could force herself out of her chair. Other times, she could only sit and wait for the terribly unpleasant episodes to pass. Twice she had wet herself. She knew she was becoming insane. Then, as if verifying her fears, some of the bizarre episodes had begun exploding into horrible, vivid, distorted reenactments of her surgery. The teapot began whistling. Hattie pushed herself upright, put a tea bag into a chipped stoneware mug, and poured in the boiling water.
On the way back to her easy chair, she stopped and put on one of the albums Martin had left with her- Elizabethan music and English folk pieces, with Martin featured on his guitar. Perhaps, she thought, it was worth calling Martin and telling him she was going mad. She looked about for Orange, the cat he had retrieved for her. During the last of her nightmares, she had hurt it somehow-knocked out a tooth and cut its lip. Since then, the animal had spent most of its time under the bed or behind the bookshelf Hattie sank heavily into her chair. For a brief time, Martin's playing brought her some serenity and even some sweet glimpses into her dim past. There was a set of dances that she felt sure she had once played at a recital, and a lovely rendition of a song by Thomas Stewart. Next came her favorite, a gentle and haunting flute and guitar duet of 'Greensleeves.'
Bit by bit, her fears began to loosen their grip. Then, as they had twice before that day, the colors in the room began to intensify. No!
Hattie's mind screamed. Please, God, not again. The mus,^. grew faint, and gradually faded into the hum of traffic passing on nearby Columbus Avenue. No. Hattie felt the unpleasant inertia begin to settle in. The glow from the lamp across the room hurt her eyes. Please, God…
Desperately, and with all her strength, she forced herself to her feet, and grabbed her cigarettes, and stumbled toward the stove 'Not this time, ' she said out loud. 'Goddamn it, not this time.' She thrust a cigarette between her lips and shakily turned the burner knob. The gas flame flashed on. 'Hattie… Hattie, just relax.'
The voice, deep and soothing, seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Then, from above her, Hattie saw the blue-gray eyes smiling at her over the mask. 'Just relax now. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. I want you to begin counting back from one hundred.'
'Please…'
'Hattie, count!'
One hundred… ninety-nine…'
Good, Hattie. Keep counting. Keep counting.'
'Ninety-eight…'
'She's under.'
'Ninety-seven…'
'Ready, everyone. Okay.'
'Ninety-six… No, wait, please. You're wrong. I'm not asleep. I'm not asleep yet.'
'Suction up.'
'Wait!'
'Knife, please.'
'No! Not yet! Not yet!'
Hattie Day screamed as the scalpel cut into the wall of her lower abdomen. Her screams intensified as flame leapt from the stove and ignited first her hair and then her robe. 'Snap, please. Now another.. '
Hattie reeled across her apartment, knocking away pieces of fiery cloth.
The rug began to smolder. She fell to the floor as the scalpel cut down her abdomen and over her groin. Flames seared her face and scalp. She retched from the smoke and the acrid smell of her own burning flesh.
'Retractors ready, please…'
The voice bored through the pain. The knife cut deeper. 'Sponge. No, over here. Right here!'
Her clothes now a mass of flame, Hattie Day lurched to her feet and plunged toward the window. 'Okay. Now, retract here.'
Shrieking, and now engulfed in flame, the woman they all called the Witch of West Eighty-seventh Street hurled herself through the glass and out into the summer night, ten stories above the street. TUESDAY MORNING descended on Zack in the guise of one of his sneakers, set neatly and carefully on the side of his face by Cheap dog. 'Self-centered brute,' he mumbled, working his eyes open one at a time. 'The world has to turn upside down just
