Slowly Linda relaxed her cramped fingers, which had been clutching the edge of the drapes. Her mind began to function again. If Briggs had gone with Gordon, the telephone call must have been a business call, and it might take some time. Andrea in the garden, lost in her crazy spells…
You see, one of those disembodied voices murmured gently, if you want something badly enough, it arranges itself…
She smiled, slowly, and saw the subtle response in Michael’s face; she turned, slowly, slowly, and looked out into the palely lighted night. He would have to join her at the window; it would only be courteous. And from here she could see Andrea returning. She could hear, if she listened carefully, any footsteps approaching the room.
He came. She had known he would.
“Very effective,” he said, after a moment.
Startled, Linda looked up at him. Just what had he meant by that ambiguous adjective? Whether he meant to refer to the lights or not, she would have to assume that he had.
“I don’t really like it,” she said. “The lighting.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It bothers me, somehow.”
“Because it’s not real? You are bothered by pretense?”
This time she could not be mistaken. There was a slight but definite mocking tone in his voice.
“No,” she said sharply. “I don’t object to good imitations. But there’s a tint in this light that is like a travesty of moonlight. Greenish. Don’t you see it?”
Michael looked, frowning in concentration. That was one of the qualities that made him so attractive. He seriously considered new ideas. He might be prejudiced against her-that was inevitable-but he would not dismiss any reasonable question without thinking about it.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “You don’t see it right away.”
“No. It-grows on you.”
Linda moved a little, shifting position. Her bare arm brushed his sleeve. She felt the slight recoil of his arm with satisfaction. He was not impervious. But then which of them was? Old and young, stupid and brilliant, sensitive and brutal-they were all alike in this one thing. If she couldn’t reach the mind of the individual man, she would reach the male animal. But she would have to force it upon him. He was civilized enough, and cautious enough, to reject subtle advances. Some men would have responded before this.
She swayed, raising one hand to her face. Crude, this method, but time was short. Once she was in his arms, the rest would follow.
He had to put his arm around her; he couldn’t let her crash to the floor at his feet.
“Feeling dizzy again?” he asked coolly. “You’d better sit down.”
“No. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
Damn him, she thought. He was as rigid as a stick of wood. It was hard to resist his effort to move her toward a chair or couch, and still seem limp and helpless. She let go completely, clinging to him with both hands, her body against his.
There was a moment of resistance. He knew quite well what she was doing. Then it happened, as she had known it would. That the response was purely mechanical, a reflex that his mind rejected and resented, she did not care.
But as his arms tightened and his head bent, seeking her mouth, a strange thing happened. It was the first time for many months that a man had touched her in this way, and she had expected her body to respond with starved alacrity, all the more so because he was a man to whom she might have been attracted, normally, under normal circumstances. How abnormal these circumstances were she did not realize until she felt her head twist, avoiding the kiss she had invited, and sensed the pressure of her hands against his chest. His arms loosened; he could hardly escape feeling the mindless revulsion that filled her. And then, over the curve of his arm, she saw the eerily lighted window and the thing that stood outside, on the lawn, staring in at her.
Only once before had she seen it so distinctly. It stood quite still. Still as a statue, still as a figure painted by a child or a primitive artist-an outline sketched by a sharp pen and filled in, solidly, with black ink. Yet the individual hairs, bristling along the curve of the back, were distinct; so was the heavy, predatory muzzle and the thrust of the head. The only lights in the whole mass were the eyes-red, luminous, glowing like coals.
From a great distance Linda heard Michael’s voice repeating her name. She wasn’t pretending now, and he knew it. But his voice was lost in the shrieking cacophony of the other voices, the voices that had haunted her for months, risen now to a whirl of mocking laughter: We told you, we told you. Now it’s too late. Too late, too late, too late…
Then all the voices faded into blackness and silence.
Chapter 4
I
A SHARP, STINGING SCENT PIERCED LINDA’S LUNGS. she struggled, choking. Her face was all wet; cheeks and hands stung as if they had been slapped. Opening reluctant eyes, she saw a face near hers. It was not one of the faces she expected to see, and for a moment it was as unfamiliar as a total stranger’s. A round, florid man’s face, with horn-rimmed glasses and thick, iron-gray hair…Gold. Doctor Gold. Linda’s eyes closed again.
“I’m all right,” she muttered, as the doctor waved the horrible-smelling thing under her nose again. “Don’t…”
“Sure you’re all right,” he agreed smoothly. “Just fainted. Take it easy for a minute.”
He patted her shoulder mechanically and stood up. Gordon must have dragged him away from a quiet evening at home; he was tieless, and pepper-and-salt stubble darkened his heavy jowls. As he moved away from her, Linda saw Andrea at the foot of the couch on which she was lying. The old woman was bent like a priest bowing before the Host; her hands wove patterns in the air and she crooned under her breath. A wave of feeble dislike swept Linda. How could she have had such faith in the old witch? Not that Andrea didn’t-know things. But she hadn’t been much help so far. Her behavior tonight had been maddeningly wrong, evoking hostility instead of sympathy. What on earth did she think she was doing now-summoning her friend’s wandering spirit back into her body?
Her ritual completed, Andrea caught Linda’s eye. She leaned forward over the foot of the couch.
“What was it?” she hissed.
Linda shook her head. Stupid, stupid…she couldn’t talk about it here, Andrea knew that. But sooner or later she would have to tell Andrea about the latest appearance. Whom else could she talk to? No one else would believe her. Andrea only believed because she was half crazy herself.
Her eyes pulled away from the avid demand in the older woman’s gaze. Michael was nowhere in sight; probably he had effaced himself, as any proper visitor would when the hostess was taken ill. Linda wondered where he was. She wondered why she cared-why this one man’s absence from a room could make it feel empty. Especially now, after that unexpected fiasco at the window…
She forced herself to concentrate on the important presences. Gordon and Hank Gold made a significant little group, standing with their backs turned, talking in voices so low she could not make out the words. She didn’t need to hear, she knew what they were saying. Once Gordon had made her visit Gold professionally. The doctor had poked every muscle in her body and taken samples of everything that was detachable. Then he had sat and talked. She had not been in good shape that day; the trend of the conversation had got away from her. Finally she had had to invent an excuse for leaving. It was a flight, rather than departure, and Gold had been well aware of it. After that, she had refused to consult him again; had he not admitted that all her physical tests were normal? But she couldn’t prevent Gordon from inviting his friend and neighbor to dinner occasionally. She couldn’t always excuse herself on the grounds of a headache. She couldn’t keep Gordon from telling him things.
And now-now she would have to fight. If there was the slightest hint, the least admission of what she thought she had seen…Panic twisted her stomach. Michael. Had she spoken to him in the last seconds, gasped out any damning description of the thing that stood glaring outside the window? There was no need to wonder whether he had seen it. No one saw it except she herself. Once, when she was showing Hank Gold the gardens, it had passed through the darkening twilight like a flash of black fog. Turning, at her startled exclamation, he had denied seeing anything except a shadow. That made it all the more important that she should not mention the word now-that deadly, ominous common noun.