Mortal Pursuit

30

“My God.” Barbara stared at Charles as he stumbled into the closet, shoved by the tall ski-masked man with gray eyes. “What did they do to you”

Charles didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even understand. He blinked vapidly.

The doors swung shut, darkness slamming down.

“Charles” Philip laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You all right”

“Did they … hurt you” Barbara whispered.

No reply.

Outside, a chain rasped, a padlock clicked, footsteps retreated.

When Barbara was sure the man had left, she switched on the flashlight she’d hidden behind her back. Charles blinked in the wavering beam.

“Philip found it on the shelf while you were gone,” she said. “We put a box of earthquake supplies in here, remember”

Still Charles was silent. She studied his face, chalky in the pale circle of light. She saw no bruises, no sign of injury, yet an awful change had come over him. His smug assurance was gone. He was a broken man, a concentration camp survivor, all hollow eyes and bloodless lips.

Then an explanation occurred to her, terrible in its plausibility.

“Is it Ally Is she …” She couldn’t finish the question, wasn’t certain what horror she imagined: rape or torture or murder, or all three.

Finally Charles roused himself, a man climbing out of a deep sleep.

“No,” he said in a dusty voice. “Not Ally. Ally’s fine.” He nodded. “She’s fine. I saw her. She’s fine.”

“Where is she”

“Her bedroom.” Still nodding, nodding. “She’s comfortable. She’s fine.”

“Then … what happened”

“I opened the safe. That’s all.”

“But why do you look so … so …”

“I’m okay,” Charles said. “Really.”

Barbara exchanged a baffled glance with Judy, whose hand was absently stroking the spot between her collar bones where the crucifix had hung.

Like a patient father leading a small child, Philip ushered Charles to the wicker hamper. “Why don’t you rest your feet”

The hamper had creaked when Barbara sat on it earlier. But it registered Charles’s weight not at all, as if he weren’t really there, as if only his image inhabited the closet.

“That better” Philip asked.

“Much,” Charles said without visible reaction. “Much better.”

The flashlight was trembling. Barbara bit her lip. “Oh, Charles.”

Distantly she was surprised to hear herself speak her husband’s name with a tenderness she hadn’t felt in years.