She stretched her arm under the seats. A rumpled sheet of paper with one of Colin’s first attempts at writing in cursive reminded him of a spelling test. Squeezing into a bent position on the floor of the back seat, Josie awkwardly reached under the seats on both sides. She smelt the old vinyl floor mats. Her fingernails came back grimy. There was no scarf.
Trying to remember what she’d done the day she planned to grab the neckpiece from her car and bring it inside, she couldn’t recall that she’d taken it. Still, she might have without thinking.
She entered their house and checked her mother’s closet.
Scarves of all colors and fabrics hung together.
Josie stared at one empty hanger. It had once held the entire scarf from which someone had cut the small piece that her moist palm now squeezed.
* * *
She found it.
The man who’d seen her was twisting the scarf and drawing his fingers along the frayed edges where he had cut off the piece.
Was Josie confused now? Frightened?
Of course she was.
He wished he could be beside her to peer into her eyes. Their yellow-brown color would almost disappear and in their center the black circles would expand. Just like his little eyes used to do.
He might be able to see inside Josie’s soul, to locate the core of her terror.
The day had almost ended and he’d waited so long. All afternoon he had thought of her finding the fabric and worried that her mother or brother might go to the mailbox first and not see it.
But Josie would surely locate what he’d left her. Of that, he’d been certain.
The apprehension of wondering how she’d be affected made him excited, and he wanted to do what the counselor had warned against.
Voices came to his head. He clapped both palms against his ears, trying to force away the admonitions. More words filtered through, mocking him. “The next time you’ll be sent to the pen. Do you know what it’s like for a man who did what you did to be locked up with others?
“You may not have been convicted of the other charges.”
No! He wouldn’t do it. Not now or ever would he get caught.
He removed his hands from his ears. No, he wouldn’t do that again.
Except—
Josie would look so intense when she saw the rest of the scarf he was holding.
Only then—very shortly—when she revealed to him her full terror, would he do what his instincts ordered.
Chapter 13
After work the next day Josie changed clothes and carried her supplies next door. She’d thought enough about the found piece of fabric. Maybe whoever placed the envelope with her name under the door at This ’n That had placed it in the mailbox. Maybe that scrap had been in the mailbox a long time. Possible even, its resemblance to the missing scarf could be a coincidence. The thing was, she decided, a tiny piece of fabric in the mailbox posed no threat. She needed to get on with more pressing concerns.
LauraLee Allen guided her out to the pool deck where they sat with posters and paints.
“What a great job,” Josie said, watching LauraLee complete a poster. She had drawn one barrel holding only a little water. The other barrel held water up to its brim.
“Thanks.” With quick strokes, LauraLee drew bold words: FILL SOMEONE’S LIFE. DONATE YOUR ORGANS.
With a pleased smile, Josie began using markers to color in the letters. “I can’t believe how good you are at this.” Josie really had been surprised to learn of her neighbor’s talent in this area. She’d been more than pleased with LauraLee’s offer to help.
“Art,” LauraLee said. “One of my many classes. There was also bonsai, graphics, bread making, ceramics, and other things.”
“You make bread?” Josie had never seen a woman do that.
“No, but I recently learned how. I’ve learned many frivolous things. Smocking is all I really enjoy. The other classes just filled in time.”
“But you are so talented.”
LauraLee admired her handiwork. “And you are making me feel so worthwhile.”
“I can draw,” Josie said, “but only clothes. I’d love to be half as talented as you are.”
LauraLee clucked her tongue to brush off the tribute. She grabbed a new poster and sketched.
“You and your husband have helped so much.” Josie filled her paintbrush with blue letters. “Most of the business people Mr. Allen suggested told me they’d make a donation. They also said I could put posters up in their stores.”
“You see now.” LauraLee placed a hand on Josie’s. “So now you hit my husband up for a TV spot.”
“I couldn’t. He’s been so generous, but televisions costs so much.”
LauraLee’s blond waves flopped on her forehead with her nod. “Do it. He can afford it. And contributing will be good for him.” She squeezed Josie’s hand.
Television. The radio spots Josie had considered would only be reminders to people, short statements that might make a few individuals in their area consider donating their organs. But this? How many more people might television reach?
The idea filled her head. Josie dabbed a brush in the paint bucket and wiped extra blue inside its rim, imagining thousands of people seated in front of their TV sets watching…what?
Like a burst bubble, her imaginings halted. She couldn’t envision what those ads might display.
“But you’re so talented,” Josie’s earlier statement repeated. It was her voice, but she had said the words moments before, and she wasn’t speaking now.
LauraLee’s reply sounded again although her lips remained closed. “And you are making me feel so worthwhile.”
From behind nearby folded lawn chairs, children giggled.
Josie grinned. “When did you two come out here?”
Colin and Annie chuckled, squatting in their hiding place and playing more of their recorded conversation.
LauraLee shook her head. “Annie sure loves that recorder. I’m glad we finally found something she didn’t tire of after two days.”
Like a true artist, she held her poster at arm’s length. “You have to also see the blank space. In art, you don’t only see what you’re painting. You also look at what’s left.”
Colin scurried behind Annie, saying, “Now let’s go get your daddy.”
“Yeah.” Annie carried the recorder and a cola. Her cat darted away from them.
“Colin,” Josie called, “don’t drink any of those.”
LauraLee was drawing a young girl with her mother. “The kids play so well together.”
Josie watched the kids dart inside. Again she felt sorry to be the bearer of don’ts. “There are so many foods Colin can’t have. It’s hard to make him believe how dangerous they could be for him, even a cola.” Why did he have to be limited? Today he seemed so healthy and normal, exactly like every other child his age.
But he was the only one who needed a body part replaced if he was to live long enough to graduate with them.
“Did you hear about that man?” LauraLee asked, oblivious to Josie’s considerations.
“What man?”
“That killer. He used nylon rope to strange his victims.”
Josie shuddered. She peered at her neighbor. “Do you know Maurice very well?”
LauraLee held the marker beside her cheekbone. If she moved half an inch without thinking, her ruddy cheek would get blackened. “Not really.” She drew high heels on the woman. “His grandmother died right after we moved here. I only met her once, a real friendly lady.”
She glanced at Josie. “He was visiting you yesterday afternoon?”
“He returned Colin’s football.”
“Now you see? He’s probably as nice as his grandma.” LauraLee painted the woman’s purse.
Beyond her, motion from the sheer white curtains in their breakfast room garnered Josie’s attention. From inside the double glass doors, two men stared. Josie raised a hand in greeting. Randall Allen waved back. Otis Babineaux did not.
“How about your husband’s partner?” Josie didn’t turn her eyes from the doors.
LauraLee’s gaze followed Josie’s. “Now that is one strange person.” Still watching the pair, she whispered, “I wish Randall hadn’t felt the need for him. My husband has good business sense and makes good money, but he thought Otis’s experience with bridal stores would help him accomplish bigger goals. Now they’re always talking business.”
“His car still isn’t fixed?” Josie asked. “I didn’t see his car outside.”
LauraLee drew again. “His wife has it.”
Josie watched the sheer curtains drop.
Uneasy, she started to ask what kind of car Babineaux owned, but LauraLee cut off her question. She started talking nonstop about articles she’d read and what experts had to say about every topic.
Later in the evening, Andrew came to Josie’s house for dinner. He and Colin tossed a football. They played with plastic heroes and bad guys. Colin protested when Josie told him it was time to bathe.
Once he was finally asleep, she took the blue square of fabric from the drawer where she’d put it and showed Andrew. She told him about the scarf.
“Josie, you need to call the police.”
“I considered going to them,” she said. “But what’s my complaint? A missing scarf that might have slid out of my car when Colin got in or out of it?”
She clasped the light square of blue. “And this piece of material? Remember last year when some teenagers went joyriding and most of the mailboxes in our neighborhood were pulled down? A child might have put this in the box. I haven’t found Sylvie’s scarf, so it might not really be that similar.”
“You should check with the police anyway.”
Josie waved away the idea and turned the conversation to Johan and his loves. Content and secure at Andrew’s side, she didn’t want to entertain her fears about the piece of fabric any longer.
* * *
From the dark paneled office, Dr. Hanover’s client stared out the window at shifting ponderous gray clouds.
Like a punctuation mark between their strained silence, the man at the window spoke. “Might rain.”
“We aren’t here to speak of the weather, remember? And not for you to stare out there.” The doctor’s voice hinted at exasperation. “You know the conditions of your parole.”
The client smiled. He clasped a chair near the wall, turned it to face the window, and sat.
Hanover’s pipe tapped against his desktop. “The other day you asked if it’s possible for a person’s urges to change.”
His visitor grew extremely still, his hearing now as highly attuned as if he were listening for the air to begin stirring.
“Of course it is,” the psychiatrist said. “With age. And other circumstances.” Hanover cleared his throat. “We also spoke about emotions. Some emotions do become great turn-ons.”
“Emotions,” the client whispered, watching the clouds building.
“Emotions,” Hanover said, “like love and hate.”
“Fear.”
“And fear.” Hanover released a loud exhale. “Fear normally brings out what we call the Nurturing Instinct. When a baby hears a loud noise, it cries. The mother sees the child’s fear and coddles her little one to show she’ll be there to protect it.”
The client rose. No woman protected him. One hurt him—much too often. “Women show fear.” He reached a hand out to feel a pane, wishing that instead of touching the window’s cool hardness, he could be feeling the weather gathering and closing in. The ashen clouds grew heavier. Behind them, fury gathered.
As though to appease him, thunder grumbled.
Silent laughter soothed his rib cage. Thunder and lightning always made him think of the woman’s voice and her rage. But now he was getting even.
Rain started to fall, and he slid his hand into his coat’s inner pocket. His fingers massaged the curled silken tip of a scarf.
* * *
The downpour left blackened sand on the beach. Still, some undaunted souls ventured out once the rain passed. Two children protested when their daddy called them from the water’s edge and took them away. A couple holding hands finally strolled to their car. The young woman who had not feared the night closing in stretched on a beach towel on her stomach. Some things could frighten her. She could know fear.
And she would.
The man whose shoes kicked a patch of wet sand knew that with certainty. Her face would twist and contort.
He hadn’t stalked this female and didn’t know what she looked like. But he knew the expression. That first look when they saw him, when they finally realized his menace.
Their screams were the same, freezing deep in their throats.
The pulse beat stronger in his neck as he watched the young couple disappear beyond a wet sand dune. He would need to wait longer while they got farther away, out of hearing range.
The woman who stretched in her swimsuit remained still. Surely she enjoyed the sound of rushing waved and the feel of the gentle wind sweeping shoreward.
The man stilled himself, eager, not wanting to wait.
Watching her motionless figure, he slid a gloved hand into the pocket of his slacks. The nylon rope felt especially thin. “Are you going to be hanging something, or maybe using this on a boat?” the nosy hardware saleswoman had asked.
“Yes,” he’d answered.
His other hand drew out the scarf. He brought the scarf under his nose.
Her scent lingered. He could still smell her terror.
Envisioning the girl on the beach towel turning over, he knew she would have Josie’s firm body, her fine chiseled face, all those curls. She would have Josie’s eyes under finely carved brows, and when those eyes spotted him, they would enlarge even more.
Through perfect lips, her breaths would quicken.
Josie’s fear was perfect. Not like these others. This one would be his and he would do all those wonderful things to her. But just like the others, she would not really be Josie.
Very soon, though.
He had been foiled at their house by her mother’s arrival, but Josie had surely planned that. She kept teasing him.
The man smiled, pleased that she would make such plans for him.
But now he was selecting another time and place. He would surprise
her
.
Soon Josie would be his. Then she would reveal that most exquisite look of dread, showing it only to him, as he had revealed his childish fear to his elder.