She didn't dare think about Mark. Shreve must have had an accomplice. She could not have done everything alone…
Karen had worked most of it out while she walked to the car and fumbled for the keys, delaying as long as she could. But she had barely settled herself on the seat, one hand already reaching for the catch that would lock the doors, when Shreve raised the gun and brought the barrel down against her temple. She felt her forehead strike the dashboard and felt nothing more.
KAREN was not completely unconscious for long, but the state that followed her dazed recovery could not really be called consciousness. It was a nightmarish succession of isolated, incoherent memories separated by periods of dizzying darkness. Once or twice she must have tried to sit up, for she felt a hand shove her back into the corner of the seat. The motion of the car was erratic, sometimes smooth, sometimes jerking forward and then stopping. Traffic is always backed up on the bridge this time of day. The sentence floated to the surface of her mind, and her body tried to respond to the possibilities it suggested, but then something pushed her again, so hard that her bruised temple banged against the window glass and she lost track of things again.
The worst moment was when she heard voices, or thought she heard them; she never knew whether the incident really happened. "Your friend doesn't look so good, ma'am." A deep man's voice, that one, and Shreve's, replying smoothly, "I'm afraid she has had a little too much to drink, officer. I couldn't let her drive in her condition." Then something about a hospital, and Shreve's little laugh. "She'll be fine once I get her home and in bed." The hand again, covering her mouth and holding her in place with hurting strength. "Oh, darling, don't be sick here. I'll have you home in a jiffy. Officer, if you don't mind…"
She didn't remember being sick, but there was a sour taste in her mouth when she finally woke, and her head was beating like a tom-tom. Shreve was slapping her face, rhythmically and efficiently.
"Stop it," Karen croaked, raising a feeble hand to protect herself.
"Then sit up and take notice. You'll have to walk a few feet. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry you."
She dragged Karen out of the car and draped a limp arm over her shoulders. Cool wetness stroked Karen's cheeks. "It's raining," she mumbled.
"Pouring, in fact. Filthy driving weather. I hope your little friend is enjoying herself on those back-country roads."
They negotiated the gate and started up the walk. The bricks were uneven and slippery with rain; the boxwood bushes on either side glistened as if varnished. Karen's foot slipped. Instead of trying to recover her balance she let herself fall heavily to her hands and knees. Already her hair was soaked, but the cool water on her aching head cleared some of the cobwebs away. If she could just stay where she was, head bowed, for a few minutes, she might be able to think. One last chance, when Shreve opened the door, her attention concentrated on the stiff lock… And there was Alexander. Darling little Alexander. How could she have resented Alexander's wonderful habit of biting everyone who came in the door? Please, Alexander, do your stuff.
Shreve didn't give her a few minutes. She yanked Karen to her feet and shoved her toward the house. "Take the key. Unlock the door."
Karen dropped the keys. The gun jabbed painfully into her side. "Pick them up. And don't try that again."
She didn't have to make the threat explicit. In the gloom and the driving rain, half-hidden by shrubs, anything she chose to do would be unobserved from the street or the neighboring windows. Another chance gone. If only Alexander…
But when Karen opened the door there was no sign of the dog. Or of anyone else. She fell again, her wet shoes slipping on the smooth, polished floor of the hall. Shreve pushed her inside. The door slammed; the key turned in the lock, and a switch clicked. The chandelier overhead blazed into light so brilliant it cast shadows across the floor. A squat, huddled shadow and a longer one standing over the first: the shadows of killer and victim.
"Crawl if you prefer," Shreve said. "The position suits you. Where is it, upstairs?"
"I told you-"
Shreve's foot caught her in the ribs and toppled her onto her side. The light beat down, plunging fiery fingers into her eyes. Karen covered them with her hands and heard Shreve's brittle laugh.
"I'm beginning to enjoy this," Shreve said.
All right, Karen thought. That does it.
Physically she still felt as wretched as a sick dog, but the surge of anger brought a strange unnatural strength to her limbs. It couldn't last, but while it did she had better take advantage of it.
What could she tell Shreve, where could she take her that might offer a chance of escape? Not upstairs. Not any farther from the doors, front and back. Her strength was no match for Shreve's now, she wouldn't stand a chance in a hand-to-hand struggle, even if she got an opportunity to grapple for the gun. Get out of the house-that was her only hope. Once outside, she'd be safe. It was only on television that the bad guys stood out on the street blazing away at the fleeing hero.
The kitchen was one of the few places Shreve had not searched already. The kitchen possessed that most attractive of objects, a door. But there was no hiding place there that Shreve couldn't examine in a few moments.
From between her fingers Karen saw Shreve's weight shift, saw her raise her foot. The inspiration she had been searching for finally came. "I buried it. In the garden."
The look on Shreve's face consoled her a little- but only a little-for the kick. She mumbled, "It's in a cookie tin. Wrapped in plastic, sealed with tape…"
"Goddamn! Where in the garden?"
"Between the Marchioness of Lorne and Frau Karl Druschki. They are roses," Karen added.
Shreve's face twisted. Rain had reduced her sleek coiffure to a straggling ruin and washed off most of her makeup. Her linen dress was rumpled and damp, not only with rain but with perspiration. Without its mask her skin looked dry and mottled; her nose was longer than Karen had realized, and her lips were thin and colorless.
"At least the ground will be soft," she said. "Easier for you to dig. Let's go."
Karen took her time about getting to her feet. Was Shreve really going to allow her to get hold of a shovel? It would be Shreve's first mistake and with any luck it would be her last. Once outside in the rain, I'll take my chances with the gun, Karen thought. Her aim won't be too good if I'm swiping at her with a shovel.
Pretending a greater weakness than she felt, she stumbled along the hall, with Shreve close behind. The kitchen door was ajar. As Karen reached out to push it open, a light within suddenly went on.
Shielding her eyes, Karen heard Shreve's breath catch in a furious hiss. For a brief, exultant moment, hope leaped like a flame. Then she recognized the figure that stood between her and the back door; and the last missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
For once the tables were turned; Miriam was as composed and well-groomed as her friend was disheveled. There wasn't a spot on her dress. She must have arrived before the rain began. The only details that marred her appearance were her torn stocking and the carving knife in her hand.
"My dog," Karen cried. "What have you done to Alexander?"
Miriam's pale-blue eyes touched her indifferently and moved on. "I'm surprised at you, Shreve," she said in her gentle voice. "Were you really going to let her go outside? That was a trick, you know. She didn't bury it."
Shreve did not answer. Karen could almost feel the other woman's fear, like a heavy cloud whose edges touched her too.
"Don't stand there, come in," Miriam said. She gestured graciously toward a chair; the knife turned the movement into a grotesque travesty of courtesy.