The Woman Next Door Page 19

  But there was no ghost. Only her fears, and her turmoil, and something inside slowly tearing her apart. It had spent the last nine months at it, and its growth had produced only unanswerable questions:

  Why (the first question) had she demanded that Tim buy this house? Even restored it was ugly, without charm, claustrophobic.

  And why (the second question) had she so willingly accepted Becky Foster's offer of friendship and then, without reason, rejected it, as if that friendship had suddenly become an unnecessary burden?

  And why in God's name had she opened her arms to Marilyn Courtney, accepted her gifts and confidences as if hungry for the details of her life, for a live sketch of her psyche?

  And why the dreams, the exhaustion, the glimpses into her own, blank future?

  "Christ!"

  She found herself in the small foyer, facing Jimmy Wheeler's portrait. And the thing following her about the house—not her rational self at all, she realized, but . . . desperation? helplessness? Jesus, how did she define it?—pulled her away from the portrait. It was only a painting now—something dead and useless.

  Marilyn gestured stiffly at the three T-shirted men standing behind Mr. Hardin: "Please tell them to wait outside, Mr. Hardin."

  Hardin, a short, thin man in his late sixties, nodded, and the men stepped back from the door. "May I come in, Mrs. Courtney?"

  "Of course." She held her arm out toward the inside of the house.

  Hardin stepped in and glanced about. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, harumphed: "You have a very large house, Mrs. Courtney. You said on the telephone that you wish to sell everything?"

  "Almost everything, Mr. Hardin. All except for one room's worth."

  He nodded at a pecan settee near the entranceway. "Now, that's a nice item, Mrs. Courtney."

  Marilyn said nothing: Hardin's tone said he wanted to haggle about price, and she was not in the mood for haggling.

  Chapter 35

  Roger Peterson looked up at the man in the doorway. The man said, "There was no one at the desk; I guess it's past her quitting time, right?" He indicated the receptionist's desk, behind him. "So I came in. Are you Mr. Peterson?"

  "I am. And you are—"

  "Brett Courtney." He paused briefly. "You've got my son."

  Peterson stood slowly and nodded at the chair opposite his desk. He used his most officious tone: "Please sit down, Mr. Courtney. I have some questions I'd like to ask you."

  "Tell me first how Greg is. They wouldn't tell me a thing at the hospital. They sent me here."

  "He's listed as satisfactory now."

  Brett lowered his head. "Thank God."

  "For a while it was pretty much anyone's guess. But he'll pull through. I assume, Mr. Courtney, that you saw the boy's picture in the newspaper."

  "Could you tell me why neither you nor your wife came forward till now?"

  "My wife and I are separated, Mr. Peterson. Not legally—not yet, anyway." He paused: Did Peterson believe him? He had rehearsed the whole thing a dozen times on the way over. "I've been living at the Alexander Street Apartments for the past week or so." And that was true enough, if Peterson wanted to check, though Brett couldn't remember going back there. After escaping the attic, he had been fog-bound for at least a day. "Greg and I, that is."

  "Do you think you could tell me how your son happened to turn up on the steps of the Sibley Building?"

  "Yes. I have an office there. He knew that. I can only guess he had another of his nightmares—"

  "Nightmares?"

  "He's plagued by them, Mr. Peterson. He's under psychiatric care, as a matter of fact." Also true. "And sometimes these nightmares frighten him so badly that he panics. That's apparently what he did last night. He panicked."

  Peterson looked skeptical, Brett thought, but not disbelieving. This was, after all, the best way to go. Marilyn had obviously grown tired of Greg and thrown him out, frightened him away. Eventually—when he had Greg with him—Brett could deal with Marilyn in his own way, on his own terms. If he told the truth now, there would be so many difficult questions, and so many clumsy answers. Besides, it was possible—perhaps even likely—that, in the end, Marilyn could regain custody, could turn the tables and somehow prove that Brett was negligent, culpable. It would be, after all, one on one—his word against hers.

  "I take it, Mr. Courtney, that you left Greg alone last night?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid I did. Marilyn and I had started doing that from time to time about six months ago. He's usually quite a responsible child—"

  "Mr. Courtney, he's only, what—eight, nine years old?'

  "Nine, actually. He'll be ten in June. Marilyn and I felt it was time—"

  "Marilyn's your wife?"

  "Could I have her address, please? For the records."

  "I'm afraid I don't know it, Mr. Peterson. I know she's living somewhere in Buffalo and using her maiden name." Yes, that was a good touch.

  "And what is her maiden name, please?"

  "King. K-I-N-G."

  Peterson wrote the name on a form of some kind. He looked up. "Could you tell me where you were last night? Again, just for the record."

  "I was in a motel, in Honeoye. That's about forty miles south of here. I had planned to come home about midnight, you see, but there was a storm—"

  "Did you try to call your son? Or maybe a neighbor? This is a very serious thing we're dealing with here, Mr. Courtney. Leaving a nine-year-old alone overnight is extremely poor judgment, don't you think?"

  "Yes, I do." Brett would take the lecture. He thought he actually deserved it, considering his years of neglect toward Greg. "And it won't happen again, Mr. Peterson."

  Peterson sighed; it had been a long day, and this man seemed sincere enough. "The police will probably have a few questions, Mr. Courtney. This is a possible child-abuse case, you understand; that's why I'm handling it. I don't believe I'll recommend that the D.A. file charges; however, I do hope you'll be a bit more careful in the future. Your boy came this close"—he snapped his fingers—"to dying. Do you realize that, Mr. Courtney?"

  "Yes, yes, I realize that." Brett lowered his head, as if in supplication.

  "I hope you do, Mr. Courtney. I really hope you do." He wrote furiously on a sheet of memo paper, handed it to Brett. "Give this to the doctor in charge of your son's case; he'll let you in to see him. I'll call ahead to verify it."

  Brett stood, thrust out his hand. Peterson took it.

  "Thank you, sir." Brett was genuinely pleased. "Thank you very much."

  Marilyn stared hard at the attic door. Nothing, she told herself; nothing was behind it. The past was behind it. And the past was dead. Buried. Decayed.

  The itch was on her wrists again. And again she felt it beneath her fingernails as the blood started. She sucked hungrily at the blood. She turned, ran. She stopped.

  Only the floor-standing mirror remained, and the high-backed red leather chair, so old and sturdy; the large, exquisitely detailed oriental rug; the robin's-egg-blue Haviland washbasin; the little black-walnut table. Greg and Brett had never come to this room. Never. Not in ten years. They had never had reason. The house was big enough. Even she had all but forgotten about it after the first couple years. It was a big, airy room—the biggest and airiest in the house. And now it was the last vestige of what she had worked so hard to build, what Greg and Brett had defiled and thus destroyed.

  She studied herself in the mirror and decided she liked what she saw very much. She was the Grande Dame, Mistress of the House, who had spurned a thousand suitors in favor of more noble pastimes. Heads hung bloodless from tall poles for her sake. Men waged wars for her sake:

  She was Mistress of the House.

  She laughed suddenly, softly. This was a pleasant game. She moved her hands slowly over her breasts, her stomach; she lifted her chin.

  "Marilyn?" she heard. "Marilyn, are you here?"

  Emptied, Brett thought incredulously. The goddamned house has been fucking empt
ied!

  "Some of these items, as I've said, are really very nice, Mrs. Courtney."

  "All of these items are priceless, Mr. Hardin, and you know it. But I didn't call you here to haggle over price. I called you here because all of this stuff has to go. As quickly as possible."

  "Marilyn?" Brett waited a moment, fascinated by the way her name caromed off the walls of the house. It was such a . . . terminal sound. "Marilyn, are you here?" He waited again. Still nothing. "My God," he murmured. He hadn't expected this. If she loved anything in this world, it was her house and her houseful of furniture. They were her identity.

  He passed through the living room, into the hallway. He started for the stairs.

  "It's . . . three-thirty now, Mrs. Courtney, and I've yet to appraise several roomfuls of furniture. This is not a process that can be rushed; I'm sure you realize that."

  "This is a process that must be rushed, Mr. Hardin. The price you've given me is fair; I accept it. As for what's left—take it; it's yours."

  "Mrs. Courtney, I couldn't—"

  "I'm not asking you; I'm telling you. I want this house empty by tomorrow morning."

  Brett mounted the stairs slowly. The empty house intrigued him. It was as if he was seeing it for the first time. He knew why: Marilyn had been exorcized from it. She had exorcized herself. Now it was just a big, empty house. Ugly and sterile. Even the memories had been exorcized.

  He stopped halfway up the stairs. "Marilyn?" he called, loudly. He grinned at the way the name came back at him a half-dozen times, each time softer, until it was just a tinny whisper, an almost mechanical thing. It made Brett happy. "Marilyn," he called again, even louder; but he expected no response. He got none.

  "We can take many of these items now, Mrs. Courtney, if that is your wish. And later in the week—"

  "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, Mr. Hardin. Or perhaps I called the wrong man. All of this stuff has to be out of here by tomorrow morning. All of it. If you and your men are not up to it. . . ."

  "Mrs. Courtney, do you realize the extra expense involved? The extra manpower? I do have another truck, but—"

  "Damn your expense, Mr. Hardin, and damn you! If it's that freakin' important, deduct it from the price you quoted!"

  Brett turned, descended the stairs, and crossed to the door. He wondered only briefly where Marilyn had gone. She had no relatives in the city; her nearest relatives were in Syracuse, so perhaps she had gone there. And perhaps she had had the furniture stored, or shipped. Perhaps she had sold it. Brett didn't care very much. After a while, he thought, he'd put the house on the market. Someone would buy it, eventually. Someone like Marilyn. And they'd fill it with antiques, and it would once again come to life. He chuckled at that.

  He opened the front door, glanced back. All the memories were gone from this place now. Most of them were bad, so to hell with them. He had Greg, and Greg was all that mattered. He only felt sorry that he was so long in realizing it.

  "We'll do our best, Mrs. Courtney, but I can't promise—"

  "You can promise, Mr. Hardin, and you will; otherwise I'll call someone else. Do you want me to call someone else?"

  "No, Mrs. Courtney."

  Tim realized he was trembling. He forced himself to steady the receiver in his hand: "Dr. Tichell?"

  "I got your message, Mr. Bennet. I would have called back sooner, but I was unavoidably detained. What seems to be the problem?"

  "It's Christine, Doctor. She's sick—fever, chills; her fever seems to be awfully high." Tim felt himself breaking down. He took a deep breath, held it a moment. "Yes, Mr. Bennet, go on."

  "I can't seem to wake her, Doctor."

  "How long has she been unconscious?"

  "An hour and a half, two hours . . . longer, maybe. I got home and found her this way."

  "Are you still at your Cornhill address, Mr. Bennet?" "Yes, we are. Should I—?"

  "I'll be there within fifteen minutes. Try and keep her fever down, if possible—wet towels, ice packs. I'll be there shortly."

  Chapter 36

  Surely the evening, and now sunrise, had cleansed the house of his spirit. Surely it was hers now. Hers alone. He had been looking for her; he hadn't found her (he didn't know about this room), so he had gone away. Forever.

  Marilyn closed her hand over the doorknob, turned it, opened the door an inch. She peered out.

  Morning sunlight through the stained glass window at the end of the hail cast patches of blue and red and yellow on the bare wood floor. The rest of the hallway was in semidarkness, as if the three doors along its length were open and one candle burned in each room. It was the kind of darkness that spoke softly—but with certainty—of abandonment.

  The house was empty; Marilyn knew it.

  She opened her door wide, held it open with her left hand. A wide, pleased smile spread over her face.

  It had been so simple. Really so simple.

  She would call the painters today. And Ethan Allen

  Furniture. They'd send a representative over, and she and the representative would spend long, happy hours discussing the house's new decor. It would be a marvelous day.

  Maybe Christine could help her. Christine was, after all, an artist, and interior decoration was a form of art. She had certainly made her own little house quite presentable.

  Marilyn moved quickly, jauntily, to the staircase, started down. She stopped, thought: She would tell the representative that nothing contemporary or Mediterranean or avant-garde would be allowed. Only authentic period pieces that oozed strength and solidity; only pieces like that could adequately mirror her own personality.

  It would be a marvelous day.

  And the painters. . . . Pastels, of course, were out. Only fine colors—deep greens and dark blues. White, of course, would have its place, but mainly to provide contrast for the cherrywood molding in the parlor and the dining room.

  She'd have the kitchen completely refurbished, take out the stove and the refrigerator-freezer and the dishwasher. It was all so modern, so lifeless, so mortal. Marilyn laughed at that. Lifeless and mortal. Her giddiness—she suddenly felt much younger—was producing nonsense.

  She heard herself giggle. She put her hand to her mouth. "Uh-oh," she said; she liked the way it felt in her chest, the. buoyancy of it, the freedom of it. "Uh-oh," she repeated. And heard someone call her name.

  "Mith King?" she heard.

  She glanced about, confused.

  "Mith King?" she heard again.

  "Who's there?" She looked toward the top of the stairs. She saw nothing. "Who is it?" she said.

  "It's me, Marilyn," she heard.

  She looked toward the bottom of the stairs. The voice was suddenly familiar.

  "Hello, Marilyn. Your house is quite empty." Marilyn blinked twice, rapidly. "Christine? How'd you get in?"

  "You had that ramp built for me, don't you remember? And you gave me a key."

  "I gave you no key."

  "Oh, but you did, Marilyn. See?" She reached into the folds of the checkered blanket wrapped around her legs and withdrew a huge iron key. It could not possibly have worked the lock to Marilyn's front door—seemed more like the key to some medieval, castle. "Here it is." She held it out; it gleamed dully. "You must have forgotten, Marilyn. You gave it to me several days ago. You said we were like sisters, so I should have a key to your house. Do you really think we're like sisters, Marilyn?"

  Marilyn said nothing.

  "I had no real sisters, Marilyn. Or brothers. I was an only child. Did I ever tell you that?"

  "No, you didn't." Marilyn's voice was a choked monotone.

  "An only child, yes. And quite spoiled, my parents tell me. Most only children are spoiled, I hear. Not enough discipline. Everybody's got to get whacked around once in a while, isn't that right, Marilyn?"

  "I . . . don't know."

  "I can't hear you, Marilyn. Why are you whispering? Are you afraid of something?"

  "No."

  "No? But you really
should be. If I were you, I'd be scared to death. I'd be petrified!"

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm your neighbor, Christine Bennet. And we go back a long way, you and I. A long, long way." Marilyn started backing up the stairs very slowly.

  "I would like you to. . . to go away now, Christine."

  "And leave you alone? That wouldn't be neighborly, Marilyn. I'll leave, yes. Right away. But I can't leave you alone."

  Marilyn turned.

  She saw the 9-iron first.

  "Certainly not alone, Marilyn."

  And Brett's hand resting on the grip. And his wide, white grin. He said nothing.

  "I know what it's like to be alone, Marilyn. You left me alone, once. Do you remember?"

  Marilyn felt her stomach turn over. Her gaze riveted on the deep, dark-blue gash at the side of Brett's head, close to his ear. His grin increased.

  "They will be here with you, Marilyn."

  And Greg appeared, his eyes wide and round and staring, his skin the color of eggshells; he had a stark look of surprise and weariness about him. "Mommy," he said, and Marilyn had a quick picture of herself reaching behind him and winding him up, or pulling his string. "Mommy," he repeated.

  "They will always be with you, Marilyn."

  Marilyn's head snapped from right to left. "No," she murmured. She stumbled past her husband and her son, up the stairs. On the landing she turned left. She looked back.

  Greg and Brett were slowly turning to follow.

  Dr. Ticheil's tone was apologetic: "Mr. Bennet, I must be truthful with you; I cannot yet adequately diagnose your wife's condition. It seems very much like a severe flu, but, even in severe cases, we rarely encounter fevers as high as hers, except in children. And when we do, the fever almost always responds to medication." He paused. "There is," he continued, "another possibility—toxic-shock syndrome. It's something relatively new, like Legionnaire's disease."