Chasing Venus (38 page)

Once again in the main
room, she cleared her throat.
 
The
noise seemed overly loud.
 
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
 
Then, with more force, “Everything’s fine.”

No one answered, either
to confirm or deny.
 
The cabin air
felt pregnant with silence.

It was time for noise,
she decided, time for proof of life.
 
She strode to the small television—ever the friend of the
too-quiet room—and jabbed at the power button.
 
Seconds later the sound of canned
laughter filled the cabin.
 
A
sitcom.
 
Nothing could be more
ordinary.

She dropped onto the
couch, its green corduroy cushions rubbed thin from years of use, and watched
good-looking people talk to one another in what Hollywood took to be a typical
all-American kitchen.
 
There was
just enough clutter to make it semi-realistic but not nearly enough to make it
look like any of the kitchens she’d ever used, or remotely like the one in the
house she’d grown up in.
 
Was there
a marijuana plant on the windowsill?
 
Any half-burned incense sticks or piles of flyers ready to be
distributed?

She thought back to the
newscast she’d seen earlier, and the video of the rally her mom and stepdad had
organized.
 
For her.
 
It was almost as if they’d thrown her a
party.
 
They’d drawn an impressive
crowd.
 
Hundreds of people, many of
them no doubt there for fun but some who actually cared about Annette Rowell’s
plight.

And Kevin
Zeering
had been among them.
 
Looking clean-cut and out of place, like
a priest at a rock concert.
 
Annie
frowned as an image, a memory, tripped across her mind.
 
Her eyes scanned the room until they
found her carryall, on the floor next to the chest-high bar which separated the
kitchen from the main room.
 
She
grabbed it and thrust her hand deep into its depths, past eyeglasses and a
cosmetic bag and a notebook and a cell phone and balled-up tissues and all the
other detritus that lived in an everyday bag.
 
Soon her hand closed around what she was
searching for, what she’d forgotten about for more than a week.
 
She pulled it out.

It was an eggshell-blue
Tiffany box, tied with a white satin ribbon.
 
A gift from Kevin, presented to her at
the last writing class she’d taught, eight days before.
 
He’d given it to her and she’d stuffed
it in her carryall, intending to open it later.
 
But then fate had intervened in the form
of a call from FBI agents who wanted her consent to search her property.
 
After which they’d found curare-doped
frogs.
 
Poisoned like Maggie Boswell
had been, then buried by the killer in Annie’s back yard.
 
Annie had forgotten all about the gift
then; she’d forgotten about everything but the noose around her neck.

She looked at the box
in her hand.
 
Her fingers removed
the ribbon, lifted the lid.
 
A black
velvet jewel case lay inside.

At that moment she
couldn’t stand the sitcom noise anymore.
 
She used the remote to turn off the TV, plunging the cabin again into
silence, and focused on the jewel case in her hand.

She pried open the
lid.
 
Inside perched a ring, a
lovely ring with a platinum band.
 
And in the center, arranged in the shape of a heart, diamonds.
 
Small diamonds, but diamonds
nonetheless.
 
Annie turned the ring
this way and that, marveling at the brilliant stones twinkling in the light.

This was no cubic
zirconium imposter.
 
This was an
expensive ring with gems of high quality, gorgeously cut, gorgeously
arranged.
 
Given to her by … Kevin
Zeering
.

Annie felt dazed.
 
A man didn’t casually give a woman a
ring, particularly not one bearing diamonds.
 
A ring like this was an intensely
personal gift, weighty with meaning.
 
The sort of meaning she had never attached to Kevin
Zeering
in any way, shape, or form.
 
But
apparently he did attach it to her.

Was he in love with
her?
 
Of course, she had known he
harbored a crush.
 
But that’s what
she’d always considered it.
 
Maybe borderline
obsessive, but essentially harmless.
 
On some level, flattering.
 
To her, Kevin didn’t have the heft, the maturity, to be genuinely in
love.
 
And of course he didn’t
really know her.
 
He might take all
her writing classes, he might attend all her signings, he might even travel to
conferences to hear her speak, but he didn’t know her.
 
Not the way a man needed to know a woman
to be truly in love with her.

Yet maybe he thought he
was.
 
Maybe he genuinely thought he
was.

Then he would have to
be … delusional.
 
Unhinged.
 
She realized those adjectives might
describe Kevin
Zeering
quite well.

Annie returned the ring
to its black velvet case and set it down, keeping the lid open.
 
The diamonds’ facets sparkled rainbow
colors.
 
She pictured Kevin at the
Tiffany counter, examining the merchandise, making his selection.
 
What would he have told the
salesperson?
 
I’m looking for a gift for my … writing teacher?

Annie eyed the
ring.
 
Just how off-balance was
Kevin
Zeering
?
 
A notion took root in her mind.
 
She shook her head, believing and disbelieving at the same time.

What might Kevin
believe?
 
Might he believe, for
example, that he would advance his beloved teacher’s career by getting rid of
her competition?
 
Could he be that
deranged?
 
Could he be a true
psychopath, who was able to justify murder because it suited his own skewed
ends?

Yet why would Kevin
frame his lady love for his crimes?
 
It was one thing to try to clear the field for her, but what good would
it do if she were tried and convicted?
 
Imprisoned, even executed?

Ideas crashed together
in her brain like marbles spilled on a sidewalk.
 
Before this night she had never suspected
Kevin, not for an instant.
 
But
suddenly he loomed center-stage, a villain revealed in the third act.

She sank back against
the cushions, spent, as if having this new suspect to ponder had drained her of
all energy.
 
Of course, she hadn’t
slept much the prior night, and yesterday had been exhausting.
 
She was finding it very difficult to
sort her thoughts, file them in order.
 
“I’m wrecked,” she said aloud.
 
Maybe it was time to go to bed and think about all of this later, when
her head was more clear.

Maybe she was actually
tired enough to sleep.
 
A few hours
ago she wouldn’t have believed it.
 
She levered herself to her feet and swayed to the bathroom, shed her
jeans and sneakers, stripped down to her bra and panties.

She ran the water to
moisten a toothbrush then bent over the sink, brushing with her right hand and
leaning on the porcelain with her left.
 
She bent lower to spit and cup fresh water and spit again, then rose to
a standing position and wiped a hand across her wet lips.

Suddenly she froze, her
eyes glued to the mirror over the sink.
 
With the bathroom door fully open behind her, it reflected the cabin’s
main room.
 
And the front door.

Which was opening.

Annie stared into the
mirror and watched it open.
 
A man
dressed all in black, with a ski mask obscuring his face, slipped inside.
 
His movements noiseless and careful, he
closed the door behind him and turned to face the cabin’s interior.

In the mirror, Annie’s
eyes met his.
 
A few details smashed
into her brain.
 
He’s short.
 
He’s got a gut.
 
Is that a rope coiled over his shoulder?

She pivoted, slammed
the bathroom door shut.
 
Twisted the
lock on the doorknob.
 
Pivoted
again, lay back against the door.
 
Oh God
.
 
She looked around frantically.
 
Out.
 
How do I get out?

Two ways out.
 
Door.
 
Which was toward him.
 
Or window.
 
Window over the toilet.

He found me.
 
I can’t
believe the killer found me.

Panting.
 
No breath.
 
Try
to breathe
.
 
Can’t breathe.

My clothes, have to get my clothes on.
 
I can’t believe he’s here.

After me.

Door knob jiggling.
 
She wrenched on her jeans, watching the
knob move.
 
He’s on the other side.
 
Trying to get in.
 
She
pushed away from the door as if it might detonate.
 
Spun around again.
 
Door knob rattling now.
 
Harder.
 
He’s trying harder.

Don’t look.
 
Get the hell
out.

She jabbed her feet
into her sneakers.
 
She had to climb
on top of the toilet to reach the window.
 
She slapped the seat down and climbed up.
 
Plastic seat, weak in the middle.
 
She tried to set her feet on the outside
edges, nearly slipped.
 
Don’t slip.
 
Don’t you dare slip ...

She paused, tried to
steady herself.
 
Too quiet now.
 
What’s
he doing?
 
Then a kick against
the door.
 
She flinched.

Don’t think about him.
 
Move.

Window.
 
She put her hands on the sill, its white
paint chipped to reveal an ugly green underneath.
 
It was a double-hung window with
multiple panes of opaque glass in a white painted wooden frame.
 
There was a lock on the middle top of
the lower window frame, the kind with a groove that the tongue from the upper
window frame slid into.

Another kick on the
door.
 
Splintering.

Her hands shook.
 
Steady
.
 
She twisted the lock.
 
It opened easily.
 
She took a deep gulping breath.
 
The lower window had a handle screwed
into it.
 
She grabbed it, yanked it
up.
 
It didn’t move.

She tried again.
 
Nothing.

My God, I think it’s painted shut.

Behind her the door
shuddered.
 
He’s throwing his body into it
.
 
Grunts, heavy breathing.

Again she yanked up on
the window handle.
 
Nothing.
 
She pounded on the wood frame, trying to
separate the two windows, weaken the paint that bound them.
 
Dammit
!
 
She yanked up on the handle again.
 
The window didn’t budge.

I need a tool.

She looked around
frantically.
 
What in God’s name
could she use?
 
She leapt down from
the toilet, yanked open the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet above the
sink.
 
There was a jumble of crap
inside.

Including a big old
rusting can of hair spray.
 
She
grabbed it and climbed back up onto the toilet seat.
 
She began to use the hair spray can like
a battering ram against the bottom part of the frame.
 
Behind her, the killer’s body was
thumping heavily against the door.

More like that and he’ll get in.

Again and again she
rammed the can along the bottom of the window frame.
 
Stupid, stupid window!
 
The bane of her existence, the only
route to her salvation.

But she could tell: the
window was loosening.

She was vaguely aware
there was silence outside the door.

What’s he doing?

Behind her she heard an
enormous crash, as of a limb being pulled from a tree.
 
She threw the can of hair spray in the
door’s direction then yanked upward on the window’s handle with every ounce of
might her body possessed.

It lifted.
 
Nighttime appeared in front of her, and
cool saving night air.
 
Behind her,
she heard scraping noises.
 
Him
getting up.
 
Him moving.
 
Him.