Marie walked over to the front window, parted the curtains a half inch, and looked down at the apartment building's parking lot.
There, directly beneath the mercury vapour light that swayed in the wind, sat a black-and-white police car.
Marie felt instantly safe.
With the back door locked, there was only one way the killer could get in-the front door-and any such attempt would immediately be stopped by the policeman sitting out there now.
Marie spent the next few minutes looking around the neighbourhood from her eyrie. She liked late nights like this when all the houses were snug asleep and the trees blew in the wind and the moon rode the sky just the way it had for millions of years. There was a mysteriousness to the night that Marie loved. Somehow night was her friend and day her enemy-she could hide in the night, not be crippled, not be afraid, just be Marie, nobody pointing or whispering. Yes, night was her friend-
Then she thought about the events at the bookstore and had to amend that.
Most times, night was her friend.
Tonight being a terrible, bloody exception.
Suddenly, as her eyes scanned the neighbourhood, the dark houses, the deep shadows, she realised that night was now her enemy.
Because the killer was out there. Somewhere. Hiding.
Her gaze dropped to the police car again. If she squinted hard, she could make out the figure of a police officer sitting on the driver's side behind the steering wheel. From here, she could not tell where he was looking, or what he was doing.
It was enough to know he was there.
She closed the curtains and went back to the rumpled bedclothes on the couch. The sheets were damp, cold damp, from her drying sweat.
Beneath the covers she saw the shape of the gun. She leaned down and touched it.
In its way, her father's gun was just as reassuring as the police officer in the parking lot.
Like her mother, Marie frequently communicated with her father, even carrying on long conversations with him. And she knew the words weren't imaginary, either. She believed in another realm of existence, an eternal realm of existence, and if your faith was true enough and deep enough, then you learned how to communicate with the people in that realm.
She jumped when she heard the creaking noise on the fire escape.
Without thinking, her hand wriggled down inside the covers and retrieved the gun. It felt bulky but comforting in her hand.
The fire escape.
That's how he'd get up here.
He would first of all have checked the parking lot and seen the police officer and then begun to search for alternative ways into the Fane apartment.
And the fire escape was a very logical way.
Clutching the gun to her breasts, Marie moved soundlessly across the carpet to the window that looked down on the backyard. The iron fire escape ran at an angle across this wall.
Marie moved up to the curtains, teased them open with one trembling finger.
God, she wished she weren't so afraid.
Even with her father's gun, she was shaking and dry mouthed.
She looked down at the fire escape that zigzagged down two floors to the ground.
There he was!
Climbing up the steps!
Coming right toward her!
And then she laughed at herself. Out loud.
She'd always had the ability to frighten herself. When she was a little girl, she'd kept her parents running into her room all night long, because she could not disabuse herself of the notion that terrible monsters lurked beneath her bed and in the closet. Her parents would turn on the lights and show her that nothing, absolutely nothing, was there, but as soon as the lights went off and they left, she got scared again because she knew the monsters were back.
And so tonight, gazing down at the fire escape, she'd briefly imagined she'd seen the killer there.
Knife in hand.
Skulking-what a fine word that was, skulking-up the steps to kill her.
She listened to the wind and watched moonlight trapped in the spring trees make patterns against the wall where the fire escape ran.
The fire escape was empty.
She'd only been imagining him there.
She laughed out loud at herself again.
"You scared me."
At the words, Marie spun around, terrified, holding the gun out from her as if ready to fire.
Her mother stood ten feet away, stunned that her daughter would be pointing the gun at her.
"Honey, please put that down. It scares me."
Marie glanced from the gun to her mother. "I'm sorry," she said.
She walked across to the couch and set the gun next to her pillow.
Her mother came over and embraced her. "Are you all right?"
"I just couldn't sleep," Marie said. She mussed her mother's hair and then let her go. "I couldn't sleep. I kept waking up and having nightmares about the-the man at the store. But look."
She walked with her mother over to the window.
Marie pulled back the curtain as if she were displaying a gift and said, "There's a police car right out there."
Kathleen squeezed Marie's hand. "That should make you feel safer."
"It does."
Marie saw her mother in profile as Kathleen stared down at the police car. There were times when she realised that her mother was getting old, times when she realised-had no choice but to realise-that her mother wouldn't live forever. Now, as always when she had this thought, a heavy sorrow burdened Marie and she wanted to grab her mother and hold her and tell her a million things that, unfortunately, humans had no way of telling each other. 'I love you' had to suffice yet 'I love you' was nothing more than code for a thousand feelings, and nuances of feeling, that could never be expressed.
Her mother turned to Marie and looked startled by the girl's expression. "You okay, hon?"
"I'm fine."
"You look so sad."
Marie lied quickly. "I was just thinking about Dad. You know how I get."
Kathleen gave Marie another hug. "Well, you know he's here with us, don't you, honey?"
"I sure do." Marie smiled. "I talked to him tonight."
"Would you like a sandwich?"
"No, thanks, Mom."
"Glass of milk, then?"
"No, thanks." Marie yawned and stretched. "I'm pretty tired. Those pills I took make me feel weak. I just wish I could sleep."
"Glass of warm milk and a good book always puts me to sleep."
Marie smiled. "For a fragile little woman, you've got a will of iron. Has anybody ever told you that?"
"Everybody I've ever known over two days. I think it's their way of telling me I'm pushy."
Marie smiled. "Will of iron sounds better than pushy."
Kathleen laughed. "I think you're right. Will of iron sounds much better, in fact." She took Marie's elbow and pointed her in the direction of the couch. "Now why don't you go over there and pick up your book and I'll bring you in a glass of warm milk."
Marie knew that about all she could do at this point was comply.
The moment she slid beneath the covers, exhaustion began creeping up her legs, spreading into her arms and shoulders.
In the kitchen her mother sounded happily busy. There seemed to be no time that Kathleen was happier than when she was being Marie's mother-domestic, fretful, tirelessly energetic. The woman obviously regarded motherhood as some kind of religious calling.
Marie reached up, clipped on the table lamp, and picked up her book. Her mother was right. Warm milk, a few pages of the Irwin Shaw paperback she'd been working on for a week, and she'd be asleep for sure. And hopefully, this time she'd stay asleep.