The Searing Page 7

  “See you in the a.m.” Tom got out of the car, then he leaned back inside and added, “Joe, you got an explosive situation out here. I just want you to know I’m on your side on this one. I’ll help you, but I’ve got to do my job.”

  “I understand, Tom. Thanks.” He reached over and shook the reporter’s hand, his enormous fist squeezing Tom’s fingers in his grip. “And I appreciate everything you can do for the case.”

  “I want to make you a hero,” Tom said lightly, trying to put some humor into the situation.

  “If I don’t come up with some results soon, they’ll bust my ass back to highway patrol.”

  “Cheer up, Joe, it will come.” But Tom knew this young detective was lost on the case. And that if someone else didn’t intervene, there would be more children killed in Renaissance Village, because someone, for some reason, had gone crazy on the banks of the Potomac.

  SIX

  Benjamin Fleming leaned forward, pressed his forehead against the window, and turned his face back and forth. The glass was cold and wet on his skin.

  “What are you doing, darling?” Marcia asked from across the room.

  “Nothing.” He kept his head where it was; he liked the chilly feeling of the wet window on his face.

  “Come away from there,” Marcia asked.

  “Why?” Benjamin asked, finding another cold pane of glass.

  All day Marcia had been guarding Benjamin. When he played outside, she came along, saying that she felt like playing on the swings, too. But then she only stood in the park, freezing in the slight fall chill, her body shivering while he swung alone. Now she was afraid someone was outside in the dark, watching the house and her son, framed in the window.

  “It’s cozy here, honey, by the fire,” she tempted him. “Why don’t you get some popcorn and we’ll make it on the fire?” But Benjy didn’t move to join her. She was sitting on the rug before the fire, her back propped up against a chair, and paperwork from her office spread out on the floor.

  Marcia had telephoned the Smithsonian that morning, explaining what had happened at the Village, and saying she was taking annual leave for that week. She had also been on the phone all day trying to reach her husband in California, hoping to have Benjamin fly out to Los Angeles and stay with his father until the village killer was caught.

  “Benjy? All right now, come away from the window. Please.” She tried to say it nicely, offhandedly, as if it wasn’t an order.

  Reluctantly, the boy hopped down and ambled over to the fireplace. He made a small game of it, slapping each piece of furniture with his hand as he came across the room. Marcia suppressed telling him to stop.

  He was bored, she knew, and lonely. Perhaps she should have let him go to school, but the night before he had woken up several times, crying out in fear. She had taken him into bed with her, but still he woke up screaming with nightmares. Marcia knew what he saw: Debbie Severt, her tiny body bloody and stiff in the tall grass at the top of the hill. And maybe Benjy saw something more, something Marcia hadn’t seen—the face of the killer.

  “Why don’t you bring the small T.V. in here and watch something? Isn’t it about time for Happy Days?” She smiled at him. He looked so adorable, dressed in his jeans and green soccer shirt, and she wanted to pull him close and hug him for a moment, but he was at that stage where any physical display of affection made him pull away and say, “Oh, Mom.” She kept her hands off and he plopped down into the cushioned chair across from her. He was so small that the upholstery seemed to swallow him up.

  “I saw someone outside.” Benjy said it casually, but she could see him watching her.

  “Who?” she said calmly.

  A smile crept slowly across his lips, then burst out, lighting up his face.

  “Benjy! That’s not funny!” Her sudden fear caught in her throat and left her trembling. The early sunset of late fall filled the living room with shadows. But instead of enjoying the dusk as she usually did, Marcia felt she had to resist the gathering darkness.

  “Turn on some more lights, Benjamin,” she ordered, then added, “I can’t see what I’m reading.”

  “Can I go over to Michael’s?” he asked, getting off the couch.

  “No!”

  “Why not?” He moved around the room, affecting a limp as he went from lamp to lamp.

  “Because I said so.”

  “Oh, Mom! It’s only across the street. You can see his house from the front door.”

  “No.” She began to collect her books and papers, stacking them together. “Let’s go make cookies for dessert tonight,” she offered enthusiastically. Maybe that would keep him occupied.

  “No!” he snapped. There were large tears in his brown eyes and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Please, darling, use your handkerchief.”

  “I don’t have a handkerchief,” he shouted back.

  In a moment, she realized, there would be a flood of hysterical tears and a crying tantrum. She picked up a small package of tissues and went to him, knelt down, and wiped his nose. He tried to twist away, but she seized his thin shoulder and held him.

  “I know it’s hard, Benjy, to have to stay inside by yourself all day, but I don’t want you playing outside, not until that man has been found.”

  “What man?” Benjamin asked innocently. The tears were gone. His round brown eyes looked puzzled.

  Marcia had not discussed with him what had happened to Debbie.

  The police had only questioned Benjamin once about the death of the little girl, and she did not want to quiz him again, to dredge up more terrible memories of the afternoon.

  “I didn’t see any man kill Debbie.” His voice was calm and certain. “She just climbed up onto the mound, and then she fell down.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if it were just an accident.

  “Well, let’s not worry about it, honey.” Marcia stood. “How about helping me make those cookies?” she asked quickly. If he wanted to escape the fact of Debbie’s murder, that was fine with her. He was too young, too impressionable, and she did not want his life full of terror. In a few weeks the murder would be solved, and the child’s death forgotten in the Village.

  As they walked into the kitchen, the telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Benjamin shouted excitedly, running ahead to grab the wall phone. “Hello?” he said.

  Even from across the room, Marcia heard the screeching, and she paused at the counter and glanced back at her son. Benjamin was holding the receiver away from his ears. He held it up, saying, “It’s making a funny noise.”

  “That’s all right, darling. Just hang up. It’s probably broken.”

  Benjamin hung up the receiver and climbed down off the stool. The phone rang again immediately, loud and insistent in the quiet kitchen.

  “I’ll get it, Benjy,” Marcia directed, picking it up before her son could climb back onto the stool. But before she could say hello, she heard the frightening, high-pitched screeching, and over the noise, she shouted, “Who is this?”

  The screeching went on, chilling her with its fierceness. The sound curled around her like a snake, blocking out everything else. She slammed down the receiver and took a deep breath, relieved to escape the maddening sound.

  “Who was it, Mommy?”

  Marcia looked down at Benjamin. He was standing perfectly still, his tiny hands made into fists with both thumbs squeezed between the fingers. His small dark face was consumed with fear.

  She went to him immediately, knelt down, and pulled him into her arms. “It’s all right, honey.” She could feel his slight body trembling in her grasp. She whispered that everything was fine. That it was just some child playing on the phone and he shouldn’t mind.

  Then the phone rang again, and a thin sliver of panic ran along her spine. It was like being watched, she realized; there was nothing she could do.

  In her arms, Benjamin began to cry; his arms tightened around her neck. “Mommy, I’m scared.”

>   “Don’t be, honey. Now be a big boy, and I’ll make that person stop telephoning.”

  On the next ring Marcia jumped up and pulled the receiver off the hook, yelling, “Stop calling this number. I’m going to telephone the police.”

  “Marcia …?” The voice on the line was puzzled.

  “Oh, God! Neil, I’m sorry.” She sighed and sank down on the top step of the kitchen ladder.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m—we’re—okay, I think. It’s just that someone has been telephoning the house and screeching into the phone.”

  “Anyone you recognize?”

  “No. It’s a fierce, terrifying sound. Actually, shattering to hear. The range is very high, almost the sound you’d expect from a wild animal.”

  “Some crazy.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right, but I don’t know how he or she could have gotten me.”

  “Why?”

  “My telephone … It’s unlisted.”

  “Christ, that’s right.” He paused, as if sorting out what to do next. “Listen, I just got home. Why don’t you two bundle up and come over for dinner? Plan on staying the night.”

  “Thanks, Neil, that’s very sweet of you, but I want to reach Jeff in California. I’ve left messages for him at his office and on his service. If I can reach him, I’d like to have Benjy fly out to L.A. for a few weeks.”

  “You can place the calls again from here. Marcia, get out of that house.” He had raised his voice and was pleading with her.

  “All right, we’ll come.” She sighed. It made her uneasy to agree to leave the house. She didn’t like the notion of being driven from her own place, of having to go to Neil for rescue. But it would only be for one night, she reasoned. If it happened again tomorrow, she’d have her phone number changed.

  “I’ll come get you,” he said.

  “No, that’s not necessary. We’ll drive over. It’s still light out.”

  “I’m coming over,” he ordered, then quickly said good-bye.

  He thought he was being kind, but his presumption irritated her.

  Since leaving Jeff, she had prided herself on taking good care of herself and Benjamin, without a man, without anyone else running interference.

  The phone rang. The quiet, urgent ring left her breathless.

  “Don’t answer it,” she shouted at Benjamin, but the boy was on the other side of the kitchen, nowhere near the phone, and Marcia’s unnecessary command only scared him. He began to cry.

  “It’s okay.” She rushed to him and let the phone go, but each long ring seemed louder and louder, and she kept count. It wouldn’t last long, she thought; whoever was calling would grow tired and quit. But after twenty rings Marcia couldn’t bear the sound and she rushed to the telephone, jerked the receiver off the hook, and shouted, “Stop it! Stop it immediately!

  “Hello?” she demanded.

  She could not even hear breathing from the other end.

  “Goddamn you!” Marcia slammed down the phone, then called to her son. “Come on, Benjy. We’re going to spend the night at Neil’s. Let’s go pack your things. You can take your sleeping bag, too.” She tried to make it seem like a small adventure.

  “I don’t want to go outside,” the child whined.

  “Oh, Benjy, darling, please don’t make a fuss, okay? Just do what Mommy says.”

  “They’ll kill me,” he yelled back, and then began to sob hysterically. He fell to the kitchen floor, his feet slamming the tile.

  “Oh, dear God,” Marcia sighed, exhausted from her own tension and fear. She wished now that Neil would arrive, and admitting that to herself did not make her feel inadequate. There was only so much she could do alone, and now, at this moment, she could not handle Benjamin. The child needed someone to take care of him; she needed someone to take care of her.

  The telephone rang.

  Marcia whirled around and stared at the white wall instrument. It rang again, its persistent, short, measured rings striking her, ripping through her mind.

  “We won’t answer,” she told her son. “Come on!” Marcia gathered Benjamin into her arms, held him tucked to her body as they circled the kitchen, avoiding the telephone as if it were a rattler, and ducked out of the room.

  There was another phone in the hallway. It, too, kept ringing. She would unplug them both, she thought, take them off the hook until she had the number changed.

  Then Benjamin said, “Maybe it’s Daddy. Maybe it’s Daddy telephoning from L.A.” A sudden surge of joy and anticipation broke through the child’s crying, and he pulled from her arms and raced toward the hall phone.

  “Wait, darling … let me.” Marcia raised her arm, as if to signal him to stop, but the child had reached the telephone and lifted the receiver. Please, dear God, she thought frantically, let it be Jeff. Let it be his father.

  She heard the screeching from where she stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Benjamin dropped the receiver and screamed, and all she could think of in some odd, calm corner of her mind as she ran to the hall phone and yanked the plug from the wall, was that whoever was telephoning wanted her child, and it was up to her alone to save him, and she swept her terrified son into her arms, and ran out into the cold night and the dark cul-de-sac of the new Village.

  SEVEN

  Tom Dine rang the bell of Sara Marks’s home on Petrarch Court, and listened to the peppy jingle ring through the big house.

  How could she stand such a corny bell, he thought, and stepped away from the front door, scanning the other new houses on the cul-de-sac. It was a warm September afternoon, and half a dozen neighbors were working on their front lawns. A perfect suburb, he thought. The people of Renaissance Village had no reason to be living in the middle of farm land, and the whole notion of this planned community disgusted him.

  The door opened, and he turned around, smiling, determined to make her like him.

  “Oh,” she said in surprise, recognizing the reporter.

  “I’m sorry. Were you expecting company?”

  “No, not really.” She had been reading on the back terrace, and had come to the door with a medical book still in her hand, keeping her place with her forefinger. She was barefoot, with a white terrycloth robe over her swimming suit, and her long corn silk hair loose off her shoulders. Tom Dine thought she looked absolutely beautiful.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said hesitantly, “but Detective Santucci said you saw Debbie Severt, and I was wondering if we might talk for a moment.” Through the storm door window, he could see her frown.

  “I spoke to the police and signed a statement. I really don’t have anything to say for publication.” She managed a quick tight smile.

  Tom looked off, as if confused and embarrassed for the moment, then he said, “Well, think of it as off the record. Deep background. No names. No statements. It would help me understand what has happened if we could talk for a few minutes.” And then he smiled.

  It was infectious and she couldn’t resist. Involuntarily, she grinned and pushed open the storm door.

  He was wearing a suit and tie, and standing with the weight of his body on his right foot. His body was slouched forward, leaning precariously to one side, as if he were a tanker listing toward shore.

  His odd helplessness suddenly struck her as sweet and innocent. This man could do her no harm, she thought, and then asked, “Would you like to come inside and have a cup of tea?”

  “Coffee?” he asked. He smiled once more, and his eyes sparkled.

  “It’s coffee, then.” She felt suddenly weak in her legs as she led him through the house into the bright sunny kitchen. “Go to the terrace. I’ll put on the water.”

  She kept talking, hoping she wouldn’t say something outlandishly foolish. In spite of her beauty, she had never really known how to behave with men. At the hospital or the lab, she thought of herself as an equal—as more than an equal—but in social situations, even in her own house, she was always unea
sy and unsure.

  Instead of going out to the terrace, Tom stopped at the glass door and stood watching Sara fuss over the coffee. Her surprising shift in manner made him curious. All her poise had slipped away.

  Then he began to talk, to volunteer information about himself, to tell her why he was doing the story on Joe Santucci. He told her what Santucci had said about the killing of Debbie Severt.

  As he talked, he moved away from the back door and walked around the butcher block table. His flood of information spared her the burden of making small talk while she prepared a tray, and she obviously appreciated it.

  She was going to some trouble now, getting out packages of cookies and arranging them all on the tray. She did not look up from her task, nor stop him to comment on his story. Tom couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She would not even glance at him.

  Still, it gave him a chance to look at her, to see if she really was as beautiful as he had first thought. She looked older. Her face had lost that freshness of a twenty-year-old. It was a serious face, and through the years she had developed certain expressions with which to deal with others. It was those careful, orchestrated looks that she had used to respond to his questions at the front door. But he could see by the way her lips froze at the corners of her mouth that she was slightly frightened. He could see it as well in her blue eyes, and in the way she did not meet his glance.

  He was tempted to confront her, to see what it was that frightened her. It had nothing to do with the death of Debbie Severt, he knew. The look in her eyes, her vulnerability, was not something that had happened overnight. But he wasn’t going to tamper with her psyche. He was lucky she had even invited him for coffee. In time, he’d learn what it was that frightened her. In time, women always told him their secrets.

  “There!” she said, arranging the cups and pots on the tray. “Would you please open the sliding door, Thomas?” Even as she teased him, she did not look up.

  He slid open the door and stepped away as she passed him. The strong aroma of the coffee came back to him, mixed with the smell of burning leaves from the next backyard, and the scent of her shampoo.