She put on her robe and forced herself to walk to the window, stood for a moment, then flung open the curtains.
Nothing.
No one and nothing.
Only the dark night. The noise must have been in her mind.
It was almost ten-thirty. Jake would be getting off work soon.
After showering, then slipping again into her robe, she went back into the living room and slumped on the sofa. Her legs were beginning to stiffen, but she felt spent and relaxed. She used the remote to switch on the TV and tune in CNN news.
Within a short while the footage on the Seattle murder was repeated, as she thought it might be. Cable news ran their tapes over and over. First came the second interview with Rene Verlane. Throughout it, Mary stared fixedly at his handsome, brutal features, feeling his odd appeal and wondering why. The man wasn’t merely the pitiable widower of a murder victim; he was a prime suspect.
More tape was shown in this extended coverage of the story. This time a high-ranking police officer named Morrisy, a rough-looking man wearing a frown, a white shirt, and a fancy badge, after complaining about leaks to the press, reluctantly admitted to the voracious news media what the secret thread was that possibly connected the Seattle and New Orleans murders. In both cases there was evidence of sexual intercourse with the victims after death. “Necro-file-ya,” he said, mispronouncing the word with obvious distaste. And this time there was a photograph of Martha Roundner, the Seattle victim. A bullet of ice shot through Mary and she heard herself gasp. Martha Roundner was virtually her double.
20
“I gotta say I see only a vague resemblance,” Jake said.
It was almost midnight when he got to Mary’s apartment; he’d stopped at Skittles after work and she could smell liquor on his breath, mingled with the faint odor of stale perspiration from his efforts at the warehouse.
“Look closer!” Mary almost shouted, but the TV picture faded and the photograph of Martha Roundner was replaced by a bald man loudly and enthusiastically demonstrating a Chinese wok.
Jake shook his head. “Hey, I didn’t have to look closer. That woman’s got a rounder face than yours, and her eyes are set closer together. Got kind of a flatter nose, too. Not like yours.”
“Had, Jake. She’s dead. She had a rounder face and flatter nose. Somebody in Seattle killed her the same way the dancer in New Orleans was killed.”
“What dancer in New Orleans?”
“The one whose photograph I showed you.”
“Oh, yeah. Now, that one did look something like you, if you care to stretch a point.”
“What’s that mean-stretch a point?”
“Means she didn’t look all that much like you, only a little bit. Hell, maybe even not at all, you see her in person. Seems to me you might just be seeing what you wanna see, you know? People do that all the time. How’s he keep from cutting off a finger?”
The man with the wok was frenetically slicing vegetables with a wicked-looking chef’s knife, the blade snicking dangerously close to his knuckles.
Mary’s heart was beating with an odd exhilaration, as if she’d gulped down five cups of coffee. She felt as if she were living a split second ahead of real time. It was hopeless trying to get Jake to stay on a subject or look at things reasonably, especially after he’d been drinking.
She said, “You mean to say you didn’t see any resemblance at all between me and Martha Roundner?”
“Bastard’s gonna accidentally whack off his whole hand one of these days. Maybe his dick.”
“Jake?”
“Martha Roundner had a rounder face,” he said, grinning stupidly. Oh-oh. He’d had more to drink than Mary’d originally thought. A familiar tickle of alarm stirred in her.
“So what’s your point, anyway?” Jake asked.
“My point is that somebody’s murdering dancers who’re my physical type, then having sex with them after they’re dead.”
“Listen, Mar-Whoa! What’d you say?”
Jake had missed that part of the news report. “They were killed by a necrophiliac,” Mary said.
“Which is what?”
“Somebody who has sexual intercourse with dead women.”
“Well,” Jake said, “that happens to us all once in a while.” He started to laugh but phlegm cracked in his throat and he bent over in a brief coughing fit. The scent of liquor on his breath wafted strongly over to Mary.
“Jesus, Jake! These women were murdered, violated, then mutilated with a knife. Don’t you have any compassion?”
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and swallowed. “They were out fucking around on their husbands at the time, weren’t they? Least that bitch in New Orleans was.”
“No, she was simply out dancing.”
“Same fucking thing.” An irritated, dangerous edge had crept into his voice. “Tell you what, Mary, I had a shitty day at work, what with the supervisor riding my ass all day. Let’s you and me go to bed and talk about this tomorrow.”
“I’m not tired, Jake.”
“Not tired? ’S damn near one in the morning. Even the little birds are asleep.” His voice was casual, but there was a feverish earnestness in his eyes. And a look she’d seen in the eyes of predators in National Geographic TV specials. She knew for sure now what was in his mind.
“You go ahead, you wanna go to bed. I’ll be in later.”
“Mary, Mary… you’ll be in now, and it won’t be to sleep, huh?”
“Not tonight, Jake.”
He moved toward her. She tried to spin away-a dance step-but he caught her elbow. Then he bent down and kissed her on the lips, holding her head tight to his with his free hand on the nape of her neck, biting her lower lip. Then he kissed her gently, for a long time.
Mary felt her resistance break loose and begin its downward spiral, like a leaf spinning to earth in autumn. Jake’s commanding bulk was near and overpowering; she could feel the heat of him. She let herself be led toward the bedroom.
The next morning, while Jake was still asleep, Mary walked softly into the living room. The sun angling low through the window was warm on her bare feet. She sat down by the phone and asked Long Distance Information for Rene Verlane’s number in New Orleans.
She’d thought Verlane probably had an unlisted number, and she was surprised when the operator read it out for her to write down.
She didn’t let herself hesitate before punching out the New Orleans area code and the phone number. What she was doing was insane and compulsive, she knew. But she’d lain a long time in bed thinking about it, and she was determined. She had to call Verlane, had to tell him he was right, the same man killed his wife and the Seattle woman; they looked so much alike, and they were murdered and molested in the same manner, so it just had to be. Mary understood and sympathized with Rene Verlane, because she looked enough like the victims to be a sister. And, like them, she danced.
A woman answered the phone on the third ring and said she was the maid. Mr. Verlane wasn’t available to come to the phone and might not be for several days, did Mary care to leave a message?
Mary said no and hung up.
Of course! Verlane was traveling in search of his wife’s murderer. He’d be in Seattle, where he said he was going on yesterday’s TV interview. He’d seemed vehement about that, a man with a mission.
She thought about calling back and trying to get the name of his hotel, then she decided the domestic help wouldn’t give it to her, wouldn’t necessarily believe her when she said who and what she was, and why she was
