The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

15

BECKY LEFT THE drugstore at five feeling good after her first day at work. She’d found a bookkeeping job at last, after multiple tries. She liked the people she was working with; she liked the fact that the Latham family had slowly, over the years, established a small chain that gave five areas of Atlanta excellent pharmacy service. She would be paid at the end of each week and she badly needed the money to pay their attorney. The shop windows along Peachtree were bright with Thanksgiving color, a hint of Christmas scattered among them, and the air had turned crisp and chill. She had started to cross the street to the department store meaning to buy some stockings before her last pair gave way when she thought she saw Brad Falon.

Catching her breath, she drew back into the shadow of a doorway. The man moved swiftly away from her; she could see only his back, a slim man, Falon’s height. Same narrow head, light brown hair combed into a thick ducktail. He turned the corner and was gone and she hadn’t seen his face. Had he seen her, was that why he hurried away? She wanted to follow him, but that wasn’t wise. Instead she returned to the pharmacy, stood in the shadow of the doorway for a long time watching the street.

He didn’t return. Maybe it wasn’t Falon, maybe only someone who resembled him. The man had been visible for only a minute, and was half hidden by shoppers. How could Falon have found out so soon where she’d gone? Moving on into the drugstore as if she had forgotten something she smiled at Amy, the small, blond clerk, and went on into the back office. She sat down at her desk, feeling shaky. She stared at the neatly stacked ledgers, at the chrysanthemums that Mr. Latham had brought from his garden to brighten her first day on the job, a homey, kindly gesture.

The Latham’s pharmacies were small shops selling prescriptions only and over-the-counter medications, no ice cream counter, no magazines or toys. The plate-glass windows were kept sparkling, the marble floors immaculate. Near the front door were two benches where customers could wait for their orders. Behind the pharmacist’s counter was a large safe where cash and a few narcotic drugs were kept, a refrigerator, and shelves of prescription medicines. The inner office was lined with file cabinets facing the two desks. Becky’s job was to keep daily accounts for the five stores. Invoices and sales records were put on her desk each night, after John Latham had made his rounds. Latham was a slim, quiet man, with a habit of smoothing the top of his head, where his hair was thinning.

Becky had found the job through an agency after two weeks of looking on her own. She had chosen the agency with the most comfortable atmosphere, and had indicated on her registration forms that she was a widow. Two days later she had the job. The previous bookkeeper, who was leaving to have a baby, had interviewed her, and then Mr. Latham had talked with her. Her salary was more than she had hoped, and this downtown branch was a five-minute drive from Anne’s, an equal distance from the grammar school. Sammie should already be in school, but Becky was still reluctant to send her off by herself. Now, if she had seen Falon, she would have to keep Sammie home.

If he had tracked her this far, he would find the house—or had already found it, was already watching the Morningside neighborhood. Fear and anger made her heart pound. She breathed deeply, trying to relax. She couldn’t let panic paralyze her, she had to think what to do, had to watch more carefully around her, further caution to her aunt and Anne’s housekeeper to be aware, to keep the doors locked. And she’d have to carry the .38. An empty gun was no good, lying in the bottom of a suitcase.

She waited at her desk for twenty minutes, then left by the back door, crossing the small parking area to her car. She drove home to Anne’s by a circuitous route, watching for Falon’s black coupe. The next morning when she dressed for work she unlocked the .38 from her battered overnight bag, loaded it and put it in her purse.

Leaving Sammie at home with Mariol, Becky drove to work, warily watching the streets. Pulling into the narrow parking area behind the redbrick building, she left the gun under the seat of the locked car. Maybe she was being paranoid, carrying a gun, and maybe not. Falon had been in their house more than once. He had killed one man that she knew of, and he had nearly killed bank teller Betty Holmes. He might well have killed her and Sammie that night when Sammie was small, when he broke into their house and Sammie’s good cat attacked him. Sammie was so little then. Neither of them had forgotten Misto’s bravery and the terrible shock of his death.

Could she shoot Falon if she must? Oh, yes. If he came at Sammie, she’d kill him. She had warned Anne and Mariol about Falon, though she wasn’t sure that either one took the threat seriously enough. She had made them promise not to open the door to any stranger and not to let Sammie play outside alone.

On her second day, arriving at work, she didn’t glimpse Falon or his car, and when she didn’t see him the next day or the next, her tension began to ease. Very likely that wasn’t Falon she’d seen, but a stranger, a coincidence not a threat. She had been at work a week when she came out of the drugstore at four feeling good, her first week’s pay in her purse, feeling strong and secure to be making a regular salary again. Things were better at Anne’s, too; something was changing that puzzled her, Anne seemed almost pleased that they were staying there, she wasn’t nearly so grim and cold as when they arrived.

To further lighten her mood, Quaker Lowe had called not fifteen minutes ago, just before she left work. He said he should know about the appeal within the week, and he had sounded hopeful. That cheered her considerably. She didn’t let herself think they might be denied. Leaving the pharmacy by the rear door, she checked the alley, glanced between the parked cars, then moved toward her own car. She unlocked the driver’s door, tossed her purse on the seat—and was jerked backward. Hard fingers dug into her shoulder, jerked her off balance, she hit her head on the door frame. Falon spun her around, threw her to the ground, the rough surface ripping her outthrust hands.

He crouched over her, pawing at her dress. She tried to shout but was mute with fear. When he shoved his hand under her skirt she clawed him and tried again to scream. It was broad daylight, four o’clock, there were people on the street, people in the drugstore, someone had to hear her if only she could make some sound. He grabbed her hair, jerked her up so hard blackness swam, pulled her close, pawing and stroking her. When he leaned down as if to kiss her she bit him in the throat. He struck her hard across the cheek. She grabbed his face, dug her fingers in his eyes. He let go, knocked her hands away, and bent over, pawing at his eyes. Free of him, she pulled herself up into the car, but again he lunged at her. She kicked him in the crotch and reached frantically under the seat, feeling for the gun.

She couldn’t find it. Searching, she hit her head on the steering wheel. Behind her Falon was bent over groaning, holding himself. She spun around and shoved him off balance. He stumbled back. She jerked the door closed and locked it, snatched the key from her pocket, jammed it in the ignition and started the car. As the engine roared she pressed her face to the window, he was getting up. She backed out fast. She’d like to put the car in low and ram him. Careening out of the parking lot she swung into traffic nearly hitting an oncoming car. Falon would be parked nearby, would be behind her in seconds, and she didn’t dare lead him to Anne’s. Turning off Peachtree she sped two blocks to a gas station and swung in. Staying in the locked car with the window half down, she asked the attendant to call the police. The grizzled old man stared at the black car swerving in behind her and raced for the office phone. Falon paused, watching the attendant, then swung a U-turn, narrowly missing the gas pumps, and took off again.

When the police arrived she told them only that a man had attacked her behind the drugstore, that he had chased her, that she didn’t know who he was. The attendant gave them the make and model of the Ford but he hadn’t been able, at the angle and speed it moved, to see the license plate. She gave the police her Rome address, she said she was in town only for the day. If Falon didn’t know where she was staying, she didn’t want him finding out by some fluke at the police station, by some clerical indiscretion. If her lies caught up with her, she’d deal with them later.

Falon would be back, she was only grateful that he had come after her and not Sammie. Driving around the business district watching behind her and watching the side streets, she kept seeing the look in his eyes.

She drove around for half an hour and didn’t see the sporty black Ford. She hurried on to Anne’s, got out quickly, opened the garage door, pulled her car in beside Anne’s Cadillac, jerked the door closed from within. Locking it, she could hear the fiery music of Stravinsky coming from the living room. Mariol had told her Anne didn’t use the record player often, usually when she was upset, perhaps after some conflict in one of her women’s club meetings. Fishing her compact from her purse, looking in the little mirror, she frowned at the bruises already darkening her forehead and cheek, wondering how she was going to explain that. Carefully she combed her hair, straightened her blouse and jacket, tried to put herself in some kind of order.

Letting herself into the foyer, she looked into the empty living room, its ivory-toned velvet furniture and pale Oriental carpet pristine and untouched. The cream-colored afghan lay tangled on the couch among the throw pillows as if Sammie might have been napping. Following the scent of hot chocolate she headed past the dining room to the kitchen, pausing just outside the half-closed door.

Sammie was crying, a shaky sniffle; then she blew her nose. Anne’s voice was soft. “I cried, too, I cried after such a dream. Oh, so many times. But she’s all right, Sammie. Your mother’s all right now.”

“But she isn’t all right. That man hurt her, that Brad Falon—the man who watches us, who broke into our house. The man who killed my Misto.”

Becky stood dismayed. Had Sammie had a daytime nightmare, had awakened from seeing Falon’s attack? Awakened frightened and crying—and Anne had been there for her, had reached out to her? Something tender in Anne had reached out?

She moved into the kitchen. Anne sat at the big kitchen table, her back to Becky, holding Sammie in her lap, cuddling her close and tenderly in a way Becky would never have guessed. “I cried, too,” Anne repeated softly, “but your mother’s all right. And you and I are all right.”

Sammie looked up at Anne and reached to touch her face. Around them the airy white kitchen was fresh and welcoming with its mullioned-glass cabinet doors, white tile counters, and the three deep-set windows crowded with pots of green herbs. Mariol stood at the double sink washing vegetables, her back to Anne and the child.

“We’re together now,” Anne said. “Now, when the nightmares come, you have not only your mother to tell, you have me and Mariol to tell, if you want to.”

When the child glanced across at Mariol, the slim, mulatto woman turned to look kindly at her. Anne said, “Until now I have trusted only Mariol to keep my secret. But you have all three of us, Mariol and me and your mama, to hold you when the ugly dreams come, to hold you and keep you safe.”

“But you can’t change what I see,” Sammie said. “No one can. He hurt Mama and he’ll try again.”

Shaken, Becky moved on into the kitchen. Sammie leaped from Anne’s lap and flew at her, hugging her. “Are you all right, Mama? He hurt you.” When Becky knelt, holding her, Sammie gently touched Becky’s bruised forehead and cheek. Pulling out a chair, Becky sat cuddling Sammie as Anne had done, smiling across at her aunt.

“He got away?” Anne said. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Just bruises,” Becky lied, not mentioning the pain where she’d fallen and where he’d hit her. She watched Mariol empty an ice tray, wrap ice in a dish towel, and hand it across to her. As she pressed the coldness to her face, the pain and bruises didn’t matter, only Anne’s words mattered. I cried, too, after such a dream. Oh, so many times. What was this, where had this come from? To hear Anne confess to the same prescience as Sammie’s left her indeed shaken. Did Sammie’s strange talent, then, belong within their family?

Two half-empty mugs of cocoa stood on the table beside Sammie’s open picture book, and a third mug where Mariol had been sitting. That was another strange thing about Anne, Becky thought, that while most Southern households would not permit colored help to sit at the table with their employers, this was not the case here. In this house, even as proper as Anne was in other matters, she and Mariol were equals, were dear friends. Mariol might, Becky thought, be the closest friend Anne had, maybe her only true friend.

Mariol poured fresh cocoa from a pan on the stove, set the mug on the table before Becky, then took her own place again, her dark eyes, when she looked up at Becky, filled with concern. “You are all right?”

Becky nodded, drawn to her kindness.

“She’s a special child,” Mariol said. “She’s fortunate to have parents who understand.” She looked at Anne companionably. “And lucky, too, to have an aunt who understands.” And Becky wondered if Anne, in her own childhood, had not been so lucky.