Chapter 6
Trixie put the pot of boiling water to the side and pulled out the bag of beans from the freezer. Rixie thought she was silly for going to such trouble over a cup of coffee, but she'd never known her sister to refuse one if it was offered.
She poured out the correct amount for two cups into the bin, and then carefully resealed the bag and returned it to the freezer. Coffee beans would keep forever like that, if taken care of properly.
Then, she began to turn the hand crank on the coffee mill, checking the catch tray periodically to make sure that the finely ground beans weren't threatening to spill over the edge. It was a pain in the ass, she knew, but there was no denying that the coffee thus produced was infinitely superior to the perked burnt mess that Rixie served up whenever she cooked breakfast.
She finally finished grinding the beans and poured the rich brown powder into the filter of her drip pot. It was an old variety, one that came from the Southwestern part of Louisiana. Cajun country. An old boy friend had given it to her, which turned out to be the best thing he'd ever given her.
She picked up the pot of water, now just below the temperature of boiling, which was essential to make certain that the delicate oils that caused the flavor in good coffee would not be destroyed. Perhaps, she told herself again, as she splashed the first drops over the coffee grounds, it was a lot of trouble to go through for a cup of coffee. But it was worth it.
And if you were trying to smother an unreasonable fear, one that had no cause and certainly could not be pinned down to anything in particular beyond the fact that your room mate had been brutally murdered that afternoon, it was a most therapeutic activity. It took one's mind off of things.
Things like where the fuck were Jack and Chet!
Where were the cops!
Where, actually, was Dennis. Had they let him go? Had they learned anything? She finished pouring the water onto the grounds, and waited for the last of it to sift through, and then she poured herself a cup. As she added milk, the clouds of light tan that first mingled with and then overwhelmed the straight black of the coffee seemed to her to be like the events of the day, a thick cloud that simply swept in and blotted out all else. She was numb. And she was scared.
Once again, she wandered through the house, checking to see if all the doors were locked. They were, as they'd been before, and as they would be every time she checked. She knew that. She still couldn't help herself.
There was a pit in her stomach and no matter how hard she tried, nothing would fill it. She added some logs to the fire place, sat in the comfortable chair of their living room, and wondered briefly why she hadn't cried for Marjorie. It didn't seem real. It didn't seem possible.
WHERE WAS EVERYBODY!! ! Why weren't there people coming over? Why weren't people calling?
But on the same token, why wasn't she calling? She shook her head, and realized, dimly, that they'd both been in a kind of fog, including that bizarre love-making session that had gone on between them. And yet, in the context of the utterly unreal events of the rest of the day, it seemed somehow, almost normal.
She sipped her coffee, and watched the night, and pondered her options, and let the fear grow inside of her, grow and grow, until at last, it was bigger than she was. It was a weight. It was crushing her, keeping her pinned right where she sat. Her brain functioned, she continued to ponder her options. And she did nothing but sit there and grow more and more scared.
Perhaps she would have stayed there all night. Indeed, there is something comforting about the inactivity of fear. It makes everything all right. It makes it possible to accept defeat. In her state, it would have taken something powerful to jar her back into action.
Rixie's blood curdling scream from the second floor bedroom provided exactly that stimulus.
In the unmarked building at the edge of the Fenwood campus, the old man called for one of the secretaries.
"Jack still hasn't returned?" he asked her.
"No sir," came the crisp clear voice over the intercom.
The old man paused a moment and thought. Finally he said, "Get me the research office in Washington."
And then he sat back and sipped his tea and pondered that strange man with the incredible record of service, and who seemed to have no past. None whatsoever.
At first, it hadn't bothered the old man. For one so inclined, there were any number of methods of avoiding the notice of the various data banks around the world. Someone like Jack would surely be aware of the state of the art technology. If anything it would be an indication fo the Man's skills and abilities, to say nothing of increasing ten-fold his capability for traveling undetected.
And yet ... and yet....
There was something about the agent that bothered the old man. Something that he couldn't quite figure. But there was no reason at all for him to be absent now. None. That alone was cause to check deeper. They would need access to some sophisticated cross reference programming. Washington, of course, would be able to supply it. He finished his cup of tea, and briefly wondered if Jack might not have been right. Perhaps there was no "Wolf after all. Perhaps there was only a psychotic killer. Perhaps.
Trixie bounded up the stairs and threw open the partially closed door to her sister's bedroom. At first she didn't even see her at all.
"RIXIE!! " she called, the deep pit of fear finally boiling over.
"It's all right, I'm right here," said Rixie from the corner of the room. She looked shaken, but otherwise all right. Then, Trixie saw the gun.
"Where'd you get that?" she asked.
"From here," Rixie said, indicating Dennis's pack. It remained where he'd left it, right in the corner of the room.
"What's that doing here?" Trixie asked, more frightened than ever.
"He didn't take it. He lied to the police about having anything with him."
"I don't believe it! You mean to tell me, you were covering for him?"
Rixie nodded, and then lowered her eyes to avoid her sister's accusing gaze.
"I really can't believe it. I really can't. This is incredible! Do you realize what you've done?
You've allowed him to withhold evidence. You've done it too. That makes you party to a felony. Do you hear me? Am I getting through to you?"
Rixie nodded dumbly, not wanting to acknowledge her sister's accusations, not daring to deny them. Finally she said "Don't you want to see what made me scream?"
Trixie was taken by surprise.
"Oh. Yes. Certainly. Look, I'm sorry I yelled. It just seemed pretty strange to me, that's all."
Wordlessly, Rixie held up an envelope that contained fifteen or so 8 x 10 glossies.
Trixie pulled out the first one and felt like she'd been caught between the head-on collision of two locomotives going full-tilt boogie.
She stared at Rixie.
"You think he was benign? Do you think that now?"
Rixie couldn't help herself. She started to cry. And then she found that she couldn't stop.
"Cut it out," said Trixie, going on to the next picture, and the next. Although they were all different shots, and all seemed to be different locations, the subject in every one of them was the same.
Their father.
In some, he seemed to have had his appearance altered somewhat, but in others, there was absolutely no question as to who he was.
Trixie felt a chill once more crawl up her spine, and knew that it was not going to be dislodged. Not very easily.
"I'm calling the police," she said firmly, and Rixie did not argue.
"Is there anything else in there," she thought to ask, before dialing the number.
"I don't think so. Just clothes. He was right. He doesn't have any identification at all."
"Urn hmmm. Rixie. Do me a favor. From now on, don't depend so much on your intuition, all right? It will do us all a lot better. I mean, I go with my feelings too, sometimes, but enough is enough."
Rixie nodded, tears forming in her eyes.
"Hello," she heard Trixie say, "yes, this is one of the roommates of Marjorie Forsythe. The girl ... right. Listen, I have some interesting items concerning that man you arrested at our house this afternoon. Yes ... what? WHAT? HOW COULD YOU DO THAT? Listen, you don't understand, he wants to ... no, wait. WAIT! Please, will you listen to me? What do you mean, it's out of your jurisdiction. Listen, our lives are in danger. Because I know, that's how. Will you send ... hello ... hello....
She turned back to Rixie, who was standing now. Both girls stared at each other with blank expressions. "I don't understand. But I think it's time we got the hell out of here. This is ridiculous," said Trixie. Rixie nodded.
"Call Mary Beth. Tell her we're coming over there. Now. I refuse to spend the night in this house."
Trixie picked up the phone, and then turned back to her sister. As she spoke, the receiver fell noisily to the floor.
"The phone's dead," she said.
Sheriff Thompson was more and more perturbed. That was the damndest phone call he'd ever listened to in his life. Listened to mainly because he hadn't been able to get a damned word in edgewise. If there'd ever been a hysterical woman in the world, that little lady on the phone just now had been one.
He didn't like this. He didn't like any of it. He didn't like suddenly finding himself in the middle of a lot of currents and forces that he'd never even known existed. And now, there was a poor defenseless little girl on the phone begging him to protect her from some maniac that he just set free and given a ride to. He shook his head. It didn't seem fair. Well, that's the way life was, sometimes. It just wasn't fair.
He sure wished that he could help that little girl. Yes sir, he sure wished he could help her.
But if that maniac was really after her ass, well, he had bad news for her. Maybe they'd be able to do something about him, but maybe not. But if it was his friends that wanted her out of the way, it didn't make a bit of difference what one small county sheriff did or didn't do. Not one bit of difference. No sir, if they wanted her ass done in, she'd get her ass done in. Yes sir. She surely would.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
No sir.
"Quick! Turn out the lights!" said Rixie.
"What difference does it make? If he's out there, he already knows that we're in here. I say turn all the lights on. At least it will keep him from having the cover of darkness."
"All right, I agree, only let's do something and let's do it quick, or else we don't have a chance."
"Oh God, I'm so scared," said Trixie. "Shut up," said Rixie, "there's no time for that."
The two girls ran from room to room, turning on each light, breathing a huge sigh of relief when each room proved to be empty. They pulled the shades in each one before they turned on the lights, so it was impossible for someone on the outside to know precisely how many people were inside.
Unless, of course, they already knew.
It took them about five minutes to make certain that all the lights were on, and for Trixie to once more examine all the locks on the doors and windows. It seemed safe, and yet they knew that they were cut off. Incredibly, in the middle of a well populated neighborhood, they were cut off. No phone, and thick drifts of snow everywhere ... everybody with any sense would be well bundled up, indoors, behind closed windows, probably watching TV. There's no way anyone can hear us, thought Trixie.
And then, there was a knock on the front door.
The two girls screamed.
"Ohmygod, what'll we do?" asked Rixie, her eyes wide as saucers.
"Well, if someone wants to force their way in, they can always break a window. I doubt this clown would try knocking on the door. Not after all this. He must realize that we're not going to trust him."
They walked into the living room.
"Who's there?" called Trixie through the door.
"Inspector DeVane, State Bureau of Investigation."
"It's not him," said Rixie excitedly. "It's not Dennis' voice."
"How do you know?" asked Rixie, still not too sure.
"I'm telling you, I know it's not his voice."
Trixie called through the door another time.
"How do we know that?"
"How can I prove it?"
"Show us your badge?"
"Fine."
They peeked through the curtains of the door window and sure enough, there was an identification envelope with a badge.
"I think he's real," said Trixie, heaving a sigh of relief.
"I don't know," said Rixie, dubiously, "could you read the name on the card?"
"Rixie, come on, don't be a fool, this man is our salvation. There's a maniac out there who just cut our lines."
Rixie grabbed her sister's arm.
"How do you know he didn't?"
"You just said it wasn't Dennis."
"That's not what I asked."
"What's the matter Rixie, your intuition giving you bad vibes again."
"Yes."
Trixie gave her a scornful look.
"Give me a break, will you. Now get out of my way."
Before Rixie could stop her, Trixie had unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"You have no idea how glad we are--! "
She never got anything else out.
The man simply crashed his way through the screen door, tearing it right off the door frame, and the force of his body colliding with Trixie's knocked the girl to the floor. She went sprawling.
Before Rixie could scream, a huge, strong arm swung towards her head. The last thing she remembered was seeing a gloved fist rushing at the speed of light right for the center of her face.
And then, her brain exploded and she was at peace.