The Attraction, page 12
Telling Lisa to stay by the door, Cassandra went to look at the window. The lock had popped out of the wood frame. On the sill were the marks of a crowbar or some other tool that had been used to force the window open. She wondered why the glass hadn’t broken, then pushed the question aside. It was unimportant.
Moving through the rest of the house, she found that the contents of the refrigerator had been piled on the kitchen floor, then doused with milk and smeared with broken eggs. In her bedroom, the mattress had been shoved off the bed, her dresser and closet emptied, their contents strewn around the room. Lisa’s room had been treated similarly. In the bathroom, an entire box of Kotex had been wedged into the bottom of the toilet so that any attempt to flush it would cause it to overflow.
When she returned to the living room, Lisa still stood by the door, looking frightened and confused. Her eyes scanning the room, Cassandra spotted the phone’s cord, then the phone itself, which was sticking out from under a cushion from the couch. Moving the cushion aside, Cassandra saw the paper that had been folded into a long strip, then slipped under the dial. Unfolding the strip, she found another unsigned message composed in letters cut from magazines and newspapers. It read:
FIRST THE CHILD, THEN YOU, CASSANDRA.
Dropping the note, she grabbed the receiver and put it to her ear, hearing the dial tone. The phone still worked. Quickly, she dialed 911, telling the woman who answered what had happened and that she should notify Detective Hoskins. When she hung up, Cassandra realized that Lisa, who was still standing in the same spot, was crying.
“Mommy,” she sobbed, “somebody ruined our ’partment.”
Cassandra went to her and hugged her, realizing as she did so that unlike Lisa, she had absolutely no one to comfort her. She had to have enough courage and strength for both herself and the child. And she was uncertain just how much of those qualities she had left within her.
“None of your neighbors heard anything out of the ordinary,” Hoskins said.
He and Cassandra were standing beside the overturned couch. Across the room, another detective was dusting the windowsill for fingerprints. Lisa stood next to her mother, keeping quiet but staying close.
“The woman in the apartment directly below yours says she heard a few sounds from up here, but she thought they were just the normal noises you’d expect to hear when someone had just moved in.” He rubbed his cheek. “He did this slowly and quietly, I think. Nothing’s smashed or anything like that. It’s just messed up.”
Cassandra nodded. She didn’t really care how it was done. It had been done, and both she and Hoskins knew by whom. That was all that mattered. “Will you arrest him now?” she asked.
The detective frowned. “We can’t find him.”
“What do you mean?” Cassandra asked, not liking the sound of that at all.
“He’s lost his job and moved out of his apartment. We can’t locate him.”
“He’s out there somewhere,” she said softly. “He wants to kill us.”
Hoskins sighed. “I wish I could say something encouraging, but I can’t. Eventually, we’ll pick him up, but unless we’ve got some proof that he’s the one who broke in or that he’s the one who’s been threatening you, we’re not going to be able to do much. We need some fingerprints, a witness, something.”
“But … he’s done so many other things. He even made me lose my job.”
“We can prove that. That’s no problem. But it’s circumstantial; it doesn’t prove he did these other things. If this Clayton was some punk, we could pick him up and lean on him a little bit, try to scare him into leaving you alone. But he isn’t a punk; he’s an intelligent, educated man, and he knows a good lawyer will have him out of our hands an hour after we pick him up unless we get a hell of a lot more than the circumstantial evidence we have right now.”
Cassandra watched the detective who was dusting the windowsill. “If you find his fingerprints here, will that do it?”
Hoskins nodded. “We could go to the DA with that.”
She studied the detective’s face. He wasn’t an old man, but he looked worn, used, as if the things he did and saw in his job were draining him of something no one should be required to give up. She said, “You don’t expect to find any of his fingerprints here, do you?”
“No,” he said. “I think he’s too intelligent to make such an obvious mistake.”
“Why do you think he moved out of his apartment?”
Hoskins shrugged. “To save money, maybe. He had to figure he was going to lose his job, and that place he was in was pretty expensive. Or maybe he just wanted to avoid being picked up. He has to know we’re interested in talking to him.”
“What—” Cassandra fumbled for the right words. “What makes someone do things like that?”
“I don’t know. The shrinks pretend to know, but I’m not really sure they do. I’m not sure Clayton knows.”
“I hope you know that’s more than a little frightening.”
His eyes met hers, and he studied her in silence for a moment. Then he said, “I think you have every reason to be frightened.”
Glancing down, Cassandra noticed that Lisa was staring up at them intently. She took the child’s hand. It was cold and damp.
When the police officers had left, Cassandra set about straightening up the mess. After taking some photos of the scene, the detectives had helped her right the furniture, for which she was grateful, since things like the couch and mattress were a little bulky for a woman and a seven-year-old to handle by themselves.
She started with the kitchen, cleaning the milk and eggs off jars and bacon packages and the like. When these things were clean, she put them back into the refrigerator, then mopped up the floor. Finishing in the kitchen, she moved on to the bathroom, and removed the Kotex clogging the toilet. Although Lisa helped where she could, wiping with a sponge here, picking up an item there, most of the jobs were beyond the abilities of a seven-year-old, so the child mainly watched with a worried expression on her face.
Cassandra had just wrung out the last of the sanitary napkins when the phone rang. She hurried into the living room, which was still pretty much a mess, while a part of her mind tried to figure out who could be calling. Only Grace and the police had her number, which meant it was either one of them or a wrong number. Picking the phone up off the floor, she sat down on the couch and lifted the receiver.
“Hello, Cassie. It’s me. Clark. How do you like your new place? How does Lisa like it?”
Stunned, Cassandra stared at the phone in her lap, unable to speak.
“Cassie, you there? Say something.”
And then, all at once, she found her voice. “You’re a psychopath!” she said furiously. “You’re a sick, repulsive, demented piece of slime. If you ever come near us again, I’ll kill you!”
Before he could respond, she leaped off the couch and disconnected the phone’s modular plug from the wall jack. Then she simply sat on the floor, staring at the cord in her hand. Her anger drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving her with an empty, numb feeling. A few moments passed before she realized she was trembling.
How had he gotten her unlisted number? And then she knew the answer. The phone company had given her the new number before she moved in, and she’d written it down so she wouldn’t forget it. The piece of paper on which she’d written the number had been by the phone. Clark must have picked it up while he was ransacking the place.
“Mommy?” Lisa was standing beside her.
“What, honey?”
“Was that the bad man?”
“Yes, honey, that was him.”
“Why won’t he leave us alone?”
“I don’t know, Lisa. I just don’t know.” I’m not sure Clayton knows. Hoskins had said.
And then she realized that there was a way to stop Clark. Cassandra tried to push the idea from her mind, because it was a dangerous, irrational thing, but it refused to go away. She could plug the phone in again, wait for Clark to call, then accept when he asked her to go out. And when they were alone somewhere, she could kill him.
No! she thought. Don’t even think such things! Hoskins had said there was nothing the police could do without proof. If she was smart enough, careful enough, it could be done without leaving any hard evidence. Sure, the police knew that she had a strong motive for killing him, but that was circumstantial. And, according to Hoskins, a good lawyer would have his client out in an hour with no more evidence than that.
“Come on,” she said to Lisa, “let’s get a hammer and some nails and fix that window so no one will be able to pry it open again.”
The girl followed her into the kitchen, where the tools were kept. Cassandra rooted through the drawers until she found a hammer, then began looking for the nails. The idea of killing Clark was crazy; she knew that. She wasn’t even sure that she was capable of it, and she knew nothing of weapons. And if she did accomplish it and get caught, she would go to prison, lose everything—including Lisa. Even worse, she might fail in the attempt, and Clark might kill her.
And despite all these terrifying possibilities, the idea would not go away. It whispered to her, Yes, but if you were successful, you’d be safe, rid of him. You could make him pay for what he’s done to you, and then you’d be free.
And a part of her insisted on listening.
Sitting on the bed in the small motel room, Clark Clayton stared at the rectangular box on his lap. With the exception of the essentials—clothes, toothbrush, and the like—it was the only thing he’d made a point of bringing with him when he’d left his apartment. Buying it had been a thing done on impulse. He’d seen it, wanted it, purchased it. And then he’d put it on the shelf in his closet and never used it. Not until now.
So far, he’d managed to avoid doing anything that would cause the police to expend a great deal of effort in finding him. He’d sent threatening notes on which the authorities would not find his fingerprints. He’d made phone calls, shown up at her apartment and the place she worked, and although he’d made a few mistakes, none of them had been serious enough to get him arrested. The police might have gone by his apartment to talk to him again, but he was sure that when they found him gone, they would not search for him. Nothing he’d done warranted the effort.
But tomorrow that would change, for that was when he planned to begin the woman’s punishment. Tomorrow he would use the item in the box on his lap.
Putting the box beside him on the bed, he let his eyes explore the room. The motel was a dreary little place, the sort of establishment that tried with low rates to lure motorists away from the interstates. It was most likely owned by the aging woman who’d rented him the room. Someday, perhaps when the woman died, the place would go out of business, and no one would notice.
Getting up, he switched on the old TV set that occupied half the top of the dresser. When the black-and-white picture finally appeared, it was too faded and blurred to watch. He turned the set off and returned to the bed.
Along with his promising career, he’d left behind a luxury apartment and everything that went with it, including a practically new big-screen TV set. He’d given up all that for this. And he’d gladly do it again, because some things were more important than success and material concerns. Some things cut to the most secret, sensitive part of a person. They were incorporated within you, made you what you were, and made status, possessions, and such seem quite trivial by comparison.
His suitcase stood open on a chair beside the bed. Picking up the framed photo that lay atop his underwear, he studied it. You have so much to atone for, Cassandra, he thought. So very, very much.
Cassandra? Suddenly he was puzzled. That wasn’t the right name, was it? And how could there be a child named Lisa? Confused, he shook his head, and a splitting pain shot through his temple. It was best not to think about these things. She was the woman; that was all. She needed no name. And the child was important to her—oh, so very, very important—which was all that mattered as far as the kid was concerned.
He put the picture back in the suitcase, picked up the rectangular box, and slipped out the object within. He held it in his hands a moment, feeling its heft and sensing the power of it. As he studied the .357’s long gray barrel, he recalled the exact words he’d used to let the woman know what his intentions were.
I’m going to kill the child.
Tomorrow.
11
Cassandra found herself staring at the worn and haggard face of a stranger in the bathroom mirror the next morning. The bags under her eyes were large and puffy, and the eyes themselves gazed at her with a frantic, confused look.
Mechanically, she applied the toothpaste to the brush and began the morning ritual. Too exhausted to stay awake again all night but unwilling to go to bed, she’d slept on the couch, the big kitchen knife beside her. It had been a fitful sleep, often interrupted by the night’s soft noises, which her fearful mind had interpreted as the sounds of a madman coming to kill.
With the morning had come relief. She and Lisa had survived the night. I can’t live like this, she thought. I can’t.
The notion of trying to kill Clark before he could kill Lisa and her hung in the back of her mind. The perfect, final solution. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea; her mind seemed incapable of addressing the matter. She stared into the mirror, and a tired face with toothpaste froth on its lips gazed back at her.
“Mommy.” Dressed in her Smurf pajamas, Lisa stood in the doorway.
Cassandra rinsed the toothpaste from her mouth. “Yes, honey, what is it?”
“When am I going back to school?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe in a few days.”
The child considered that a moment, then asked, “What are we going to do today?”
“Maybe we’ll just stay home and play games, maybe watch TV. How does that sound?”
“There’s nothing on TV,” Lisa said. “Just dumb love stories.” By that she meant soap operas.
Apparently having nothing further to say on the subject, the child disappeared from the doorway. Cassandra stared at the spot where her daughter had stood. She had no idea whether she dared enroll Lisa in school or accept a job. And yet the child had to go to school; the law said so. And to pay the rent and buy groceries, one had to work.
Cassandra slowly shook her head. She didn’t have the vaguest idea what she was going to do. Her life had been reduced to getting through the next few hours, waiting to see what happened next. All control had been taken away from her.
Because the refrigerator contained neither eggs nor milk—both having been dumped on the kitchen floor by Clark—she and Lisa ate a breakfast of canned peaches and toast. After the meal, they made an attempt to play checkers, but neither of them was able to develop enough enthusiasm to make the game worthwhile. She let Lisa beat her just to get it over with, then went into the kitchen to get some coffee.
She poured the hot liquid into her cup, then leaned against the wall and peered out the kitchen window. Her view consisted of the side of the building next door—another apartment about like the one in which she lived—and part of an alley. Suddenly, a man appeared in the portion of the alley she could see. In his late sixties or early seventies, he wore a tweed cap and was carrying a bulging plastic garbage bag. He disappeared from her view, and when he reappeared a few moments later, he no longer had the bag, which he’d presumably deposited in a garbage can.
She watched him until he was gone from her sight again, and then she continued to stare at the spot where she’d last seen him. The alley was graveled. On the other side of it was a low wire fence, and beyond that, some grass. A yard, she presumed. Having never explored the neighborhood, she had no idea what lay beyond the alley.
What if it’s an asylum? she thought. Full of dangerous lunatics. The thought wasn’t particularly disturbing. If they were there, they were lunatics who didn’t know her, and her main concern right now was the one who did.
She was about to return to the living room when a movement caught her eye. Another man had appeared in the alley, a younger man, tall and slender, with blond hair. He looked in her direction, his eyes scanning the windows. Cassandra stepped back, out of his sight. The man was familiar. And then she knew where she’d seen him before. In the room in which she’d worked at the insurance company. A man in a blond wig. It was Clark.
Her heart pounding, she dashed into the living room and grabbed the phone. As soon as a woman came on the line at the police department, Cassandra gave her name and address, then said, “There’s a man who’s threatened to kill me and my child. He’s here now. He’s in the alley behind the building, and he’s wearing a blond wig. Send someone right away. Please.”
“Can you describe the man?” the woman at the police station asked.
“Yes. He’s tall and thin but athletic-looking. His name’s Clark Clayton. Detective Hoskins knows what this is all about. Please send me some help. He’s threatened to kill us.”
“All right, ma’am. I’ll dispatch a car right away.”
Without thinking, Cassandra hung up. And then she wondered whether she should have stayed on the line. Pushing the question aside, she hurried to the door and checked the lock. It was old and flimsy-looking. She should have replaced it, but then she’d only lived in this place a few days—a few terror-filled days.
From the hallway came a noise, a scraping sound that might have been the sole of a shoe slipping in some dirt on the floor. She listened intently, hearing nothing. Was it Clark? Was he out there with nothing but a flimsy lock and an inch or two of wood separating him from her and her child?
“Mommy,” Lisa said uncertainly, “does the bad man want to kill us?”
Turning around, Cassandra found her daughter standing there, bewilderment on her face. Cassandra realized then that Lisa had been right there during the hurried call to the police station. She’d heard her mother say Clark intended to kill them.
