The Searing Page 12

  His immediate concern was his wife, and she hadn’t stirred since he had given her the injection. It was enough to keep her unconscious for another twelve hours, he knew, and he left her alone, locking the bedroom door behind him, and went downstairs to his workshop. It was not quite four a.m., and he had more work to do before daylight.

  In his basement workshop Kevin Volt again adjusted his miniwave Gunn diode, establishing the electromagnetic field at 10 GHz. He then switched on the microwave generator, and on his notepad scribbled down 10.2 GHz. Next, he turned the receiving oscillator to 10.245 GHz, and mixed the two signals in the Schottky diode to produce 20.445 GHz. On his notepad he noted the 45 MHz displacement.

  His hands were sweating as he flipped the transceiver switch and electronically tuned the Varactor bias, homing it in on section seven of the Village. He was working fast, and he glanced up quickly at the rough map he had pinned to the wall above the computer terminal and reset the Gunnplexer, adjusting it 0.35 MHz to allow for the colder night temperature. Then, almost casually, he flipped the switch, and heard Sara Marks say, “I think we’re all right for tonight. I don’t think we have to worry about anything more this evening.”

  In his basement lab, Kevin Volt sat down, exhausted from the tension. He did not bother about what Sara was saying; it did not matter. Finally, the alignments were correct. He had focused the homemade microwave signal. Tomorrow, he decided that moment, he would begin to direct the laser beam at the houses. And by Monday, he reasoned, he would have the answers he needed from Renaissance Village. But by Monday there would be no Village.

  THIRTEEN

  Sara cooked dinner for Tom Dine that evening, and found she actually enjoyed doing it, taking the trouble to set the table with her mother’s good china and a linen tablecloth she had bought on impulse on a trip to New York, in a small, elegant shop near the Plaza Hotel. She and Sam had seldom made the effort to eat dinner together, and if they did, it was usually Sam who cooked. He had the time, and he was better at it—or so he’d made them both believe.

  Now, in her new house, Sara let Tom make them drinks, and had him sit and talk with her as she prepared chicken, sautéed, with lemon and parsley. Then while Tom built a fire in the living room, she went upstairs to shower and change and comb out her hair. She reappeared wearing blue silk hostess pajamas, severely cut, one shade lighter than her eyes.

  They had dinner by candlelight, and coffee and brandy sitting in the semi-dark before the warm fire. Both were careful not to talk about the murders and what was happening in the Village, and for the first time since they met, they actually got to know something about each other, about how they had lived their lives before meeting on the night of Amy Volt’s murder.

  “I’ve always been too busy getting my medical degrees to think about marriage,” Sara explained. “I was living with a man before moving here from Boston. He’s at Harvard—entrenched at Harvard would be a better way of putting it—and when I got this opportunity to come to Washington and NIH, it seemed like the best thing for me.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  In the soft glow of the fire, Tom could see Sara’s eyes, shiny with unshed tears.

  “Do you think you made a mistake?” It was a question he had to ask, and he waited apprehensively for the answer.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she answered slowly. For a moment she thought of telling him what had happened—the pregnancy and miscarriage—and then realized she didn’t want to talk about it and said instead, “Sam and I were fine together, comfortable, but it wasn’t much more than an easy living arrangement. In many ways, I think, we were both glad that this job with NIH came along.”

  “Are you lonely for him?”

  “I am lonely, sometimes, but not for Sam. I just got used to living with a man, and, now, in this big house I feel lonely. Buying this house may have been a mistake. I should have done what most single women like me do in Washington, bought a condominium in the District.”

  “You wouldn’t feel so bad about this place if it weren’t for the deaths and those attacks.”

  She nodded, agreeing.

  “Anyway, maybe they’re over,” he went on, trying to snap the gloomy mood of their conversation.

  “I hope you’re right,” she replied, but there was no confidence in her voice. The thought of another attack made her immediately frightened. She sat up on the edge of the couch and began to toy with her hair, to comb her thin fingers through the fine, long, corn silk strands. The fear returned again. It ran the length of her body, until her arms and feet were trembling. She would have to do something, she knew, pour them both another brandy.

  Still, before she could move, Tom got up and moved closer, sitting next to her on the couch.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, and she turned her head and buried it in his shoulder.

  The wine with dinner, and then the brandy, had made her feel sad, and once, during dinner, when she looked across the candle-lit table at him, she thought how nice it was to have someone there in the house with her, and not be looking ahead to a long night by herself.

  “Come on,” he said, “let me take you upstairs.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid.”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “I’m afraid of myself. I don’t trust my own body.”

  Tom moved her away and looked at her face. The fear had crystallized in her eyes, making them look cold and hard.

  “You’re going to be all right.” He tried to reassure her.

  “No, Tom.” She raised her hand and stroked his cheek.

  He kissed her fingers. He knew he had to take control, to make decisions for both of them, and without giving her a chance to protest, he stood and, bending over, picked her up in his arms. She was lighter than he had expected, a child’s weight, and he carried her easily across the living room, and up the dark stairs to her bedroom. She lay quietly in his arms. His strength, the ease with which he carried her, was comforting. She could trust him. He would protect her.

  Tom placed her on the bed, and she lay still, watching while he closed the bedroom door and turned out the light. He stood in the shadows, taking off his clothes, and she could see his silhouette by the moonlight streaming in the front windows.

  She had never been courted this way, fussed over and adored. Her romance with Sam had not been very erotic, and she wondered about Tom, suddenly aware that she did not really know him. Perhaps he was peculiar and would make demands of her. She had at first been put off by his rough ways. He came across the large room, back to the bed, and she closed her eyes and waited.

  Sara lay on her side in the blue silk dressing pajamas. Her face was in profile and locks of blond hair had fallen over her cheeks, hiding her face. She looked asleep and so lovely on the bed that for a moment, just staring at her was a pleasure to him.

  She had a rare beauty, he realized. Lovely without effort. She did not have to orchestrate her good looks. Her beauty was simple and casual, as if it were merely an accident of nature. Just looking at Sara overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t get over his good fortune. When he touched her, his hand trembled.

  “Would you mind if tonight we didn’t make love?” she asked. “I think if I could get through tonight, I’d be all right again.”

  She did not open her eyes as she spoke. She was afraid of what he would think, of how he might react, and she did not want him angry at her.

  “Of course,” he answered. “Would you feel better if I slept in the guest room?”

  “No,” Sara shook her head. “Come to bed with me. I want you to hold me.” She sounded like a child, afraid of the dark.

  Tom went around the bed and slid in beside her. He was nervous himself, excited by being in bed with a new woman, and unsure of how to behave. It had been a long time since he had slept with someone and not made love to her.

  Sara slid out of bed, and went into the bathroom and closed the door. She did not explain what she was doing, but when she opened the bath
room door again, she was wearing a nightgown,

  In the moment before she flipped off the light, standing in the bathroom doorway, he could see her outline beneath the sheer cloth of the gown. Her long, thin legs, the dark triangle of her sex, and the slight impression of her small breasts. Her hair she had combed out and it easily reached her shoulders. She looked like a woman coming to bed to make love, and he thought for a moment that perhaps she had changed her mind.

  But her manner now was far from passionate. She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her jewelry, tilting her head to each side as she unfastened her small pearl earrings. She set them on the top of the night table and they clicked against the glass. It was the only sound in the bedroom until she said, “When I bought this house, my great fear was robbery.” She laughed nervously. “Who in the world would have imagined anything as bizarre as this?” She shook her head.

  Tom reached across the bed and stroked her arm. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but he would have to lie; he had no idea why she and the other women were being attacked. Instead, he said, “Come to bed, you need to rest.”

  She nodded, agreeing. It was late and she was tired, and tomorrow was a full day of work. He moved over and she slid in beside him. Now they were both tense, aware of each other, and careful not to touch.

  “I don’t know if this is going to work,” Sara whispered. She was facing him, and had pulled back her hair so her cheek lay flat on the deep pillow. She looked incredibly beautiful, he thought, so fragile and fair. He touched her, caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

  “You’re not going to fall asleep as long as I’m here, are you?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Okay, let me hold you for a moment, and then I’ll go into the guest room. I’ll be close, in case you need me.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk about all this.”

  Tom pulled her into his arms, and could see in her eyes that now she did trust him, that she was allowing herself to be comforted and held.

  Sara’s head was buried into his shoulder and she breathed deeply. She liked the smell of his body, and the fact that he handled her so easily. She was always cautious around men who were physical with her, always afraid that she’d be accidentally hurt by their fooling around, but in Tom’s arms she felt secure, and slowly she sank against him. He moved his hand and slipped it through the open folds of her nightgown, touching her small breast. She moaned softly at the pleasure of his touch.

  “Don’t,” she asked, but there was no authority in her whisper.

  Tom did not rush her, only slowly, gently, he fondled her bare breast. She pressed the length of her body against his, arched her pelvis to his, and he bowed his head and ran his tongue lightly over the arch of her breast. He could taste the salt of her sweat.

  “Don’t,” she asked again, but they both knew he would not stop, nor did she want him to.

  He moved his left hand up her thigh and slid his fingers between her legs. She was wearing panties and, through the fabric, he rubbed the ridges of her sex.

  Sara reached out and ran both hands through his dark hair, grabbing hold, as she shook with each touch to her body. The fear she felt about an orgasm had passed, and Sara wanted him now to come inside her. This time, with him, she would be able to come. Sara was certain he could take her over the edge of her resistance. In his arms she felt both saved and threatened, and this odd duplicity, this mixture of love and fear, would make her come.

  He had her nightgown halfway up her body, but would not stop to slip it off. She wanted to tell him to wait until she was naked, but he was in a rush. His hands and mouth were everywhere on her body and she could not stop him, nor did she want to. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down onto her body.

  The rock hit the window at that moment. It broke the glass in the bedroom window and crashed to the wood floor. Sara screamed and Tom pulled away, rolling off the bed. Another rock smashed the window, and Tom ducked immediately, but the stone dropped harmlessly to the floor.

  “Oh, God, what is it?” Sara was sitting up in bed, the blanket pulled high around her neck.

  “Stay where you are,” Tom ordered. A third stone struck the house, missing the windows while Tom, keeping away from them, moved around the room and out of the bedroom. He crossed the hall and went into the guest room. From there he could look down onto the front lawn.

  “It’s that farmer’s daughter,” he shouted to Sara. “She’s on the goddamned lawn throwing rocks.”

  Sara threw off the blankets and stood. Another stone hit the window, spraying glass into the room. The rock landed at the bottom of the bed and Sara screamed.

  “Watch it!” Tom was standing at the bedroom door. He looked helpless without clothes and in his bare feet, and he was afraid to step into the room. Broken glass was everywhere on the thick carpet.

  Sara slid into her slippers and pulled on her robe as she went from the room. A rock hit the house, missing the windows.

  “This is absolutely ridiculous,” she said, going past Tom. “That child is terrorizing this whole Village.” Whatever sympathy and understanding she had had for Cindy Delp was lost in her rage. The stoning and broken windows had frightened her, and that fear had turned to an almost uncontrollable rage.

  “Easy, Sara, she doesn’t understand,” Tom cautioned. But Sara did not reply. She had unlocked the door, turned on the front step lights, and gone out into the cold.

  Cindy was surprised by the light. She stopped and stared at Sara standing in the doorway. In her hand was a rock the size of a softball. Again, she was not dressed for the weather. She stood on the lawn wearing a cotton dress and heavy, barnyard shoes without socks.

  Sara wrapped the dressing gown tighter to her body and went across the lawn to the young girl. She could see there were more rocks at Cindy’s feet, a small stack of stones that Sara guessed Cindy had carried from the fields beyond the Village.

  Cindy watched Sara steadily as she approached. She did not change expressions. For a moment Sara wondered if Cindy would turn on her, raise her thin arm, and strike her with another rock. The child could kill her, Sara thought, slowing her pace and hoping to seem less forceful and threatening. She had no idea what delusions might be racing through the mind of this strange girl.

  “Cindy?” Sara spoke softly, and stopped within five feet of the child.

  The tall, thin girl opened her hand and let the rock drop. She turned to Sara, moving with the awkward, jerky motion of a retarded person. She began to cry and tears ran down her pale cheeks in a steady flow. Sara stepped forward and took hold of Cindy, held her firmly by the shoulders.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Why did you throw those rocks?” She watched the face of the child for a flicker of comprehension. Cindy was staring up at her, but Sara saw there was no recognition in the blank eyes of the girl.

  Cindy tried to speak. Her slight body trembled as she struggled to make sound. A frown crossed her forehead, and her wide mouth quivered as she attempted to utter a word. Then she raised her hand and, pointing across the lawn toward the house, screeched out loud. It was as if the sound was being painfully ripped from her lips.

  “What is it, Cindy?” Sara knew what torture she was inflicting on the child by making her speak, but she realized also that Cindy was trying to tell her something, to warn her.

  The girl kept staring beyond Sara, pointing toward the house. Sara could see the fear gather in the child’s black eyes, and she spun around to look behind her. In the doorway Tom Dine stood, watching them both.

  FOURTEEN

  “What do you think she was trying to tell you?” Tom asked. They were both dressed and sitting in Sara’s living room after Tom had taken Cindy home.

  “I think she was trying to warn me. Warn me about you.”

  Tom’s face paled, and he could feel his heart race angrily. The strange murders in the Village had not personally touched him
, but because of Sara he was being drawn closer to the crimes. Now she was even suspicious of him. He had a sudden urge to leave the Village and these people, but when he looked at Sara, saw the worry in her eyes and the weariness on her face, he knew he couldn’t leave her. She needed him, and he knew also that he could help her. He could save this woman’s life.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Sara shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps because she sees any sexual involvement for me as dangerous. Marcia Fleming has charted the timing of these spontaneous orgasms. They seem to be sweeping across the Village at predictable times. I should have had one about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe Cindy knew about these attacks.”

  “But you didn’t have one.”

  Sara nodded, realizing he was right.

  “Where were you fifteen minutes ago?”

  “Upstairs, getting dressed, then I came downstairs to the kitchen.”

  “And I was at the farm house with Cindy.”

  “I’ve been alone before when I had the attacks. Do you think I’m imagining them?” Her voice was immediately defensive, and she felt awful, thinking he did not believe her.

  Tom shook his head. “I wish it were that simple.” He leaned forward in the chair, speaking quickly. “But you haven’t been alone, not at least from what you’ve told me.”

  Sara frowned and shook her head. “Yes, I have. There was the one time you were with me in the kitchen, but …”

  “So was Cindy. Cindy Delp was in the field behind the house. And the morning you had your first attack, she was hiding in your bathroom.”

  “Cindy? But how could she be involved?”

  “I’m not sure. What about mental telepathy? Do you think that kid could have triggered those attacks and killed those little girls?”

  Sara sat stunned. She kept remembering Cindy, cramped in the tight comer of the shower, squatting in the rocky field behind the house, and then standing on the front lawn, throwing rocks at her bedroom windows. For the past week, every time she turned around, Cindy had been watching her, spying. Sara shook her head, “It’s not possible. You cannot kill people or attack them simply by mental telepathy.” Sara kept shaking her head, dismissing the notion. “It’s ridiculous,” she added, sounding angry at the idea.