False Memory Part 16

When she searched the next drawer, she found an array of tools and devices that for the most part didn't alarm her. A flour sifter. An egg timer. A garlic press. A basting brush. A colander. A juice strainer. A lettuce dryer.

Mortar and pestle. No good. The mortar was about the size of a baseball, carved out of a chunk of solid granite. You could brain someone with it. Step up behind him and swing it down hard, in a savage arc, cave in his skull.

The mortar had to go, right away, now, before Dusty came home or before some unwary neighbor rang the doorbell.

The pestle seemed harmless, but the two items composed a set, so she took both to the trash can. The granite mortar was cold in her cupped hand. Even after she threw it away, the memory of its coolness and satisfying heft tantalized her, and she knew that she had been right to dispose of it.

As she was pulling open another drawer, the telephone rang. She answered it hopefully: "Dusty?"

"It's me," Susan Jagger said.

"Oh." Her heart withered with disappointment. She tried not to let her distress color her voice. "Hey, what's up?"

"Are you all right, Martie?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You sound funny."

"I'm okay."

"You sound out of breath."

"I was just doing some heavy lifting."

"Something is is wrong." wrong."

"Nothing is wrong. Don't grind me, Sooz. I've got a mother for that. What's up?"

Martie wanted to get off the phone. She had so much to do. So many kitchen drawers and cupboards had not yet been searched. And dangerous items, potential weapons, were in other rooms, as well. Instruments of death were scattered throughout the house, and she needed to find them all, dispose of every last one.

"This is a little embarra.s.sing," Susan said.

"What is?"

"I'm not paranoid, Martie."

"I know you're not."

"He does does come here sometimes, you know, sometimes at night when I'm sleeping." come here sometimes, you know, sometimes at night when I'm sleeping."

"Eric."

"It must be him. All right, I know, he doesn't have a key, and the doors and windows are all locked, there's no way in, but it's got to be him."

Martie opened one of the drawers near the telephone. Among other things, it contained the pair of scissors that she had not been able to touch earlier, when she had wanted to cut the strapping tape.

Susan said, "You asked me how I know when he's been here, were things out of order, the smell of his cologne on the air, anything like that."

The handles of the scissors were coated in black rubber to provide a sure grip.

"But it's a lot worse than cologne, Martie, it's creepy...and embarra.s.sing."

The steel blades were as polished as mirrors on the outside, with a dull brushed finish on the inner cutting surfaces.

"Martie?"

"Yeah, I heard." She was pressing the phone so tightly to her head that her ear hurt. "So tell me the creepy thing."

"How I know he's been here, he leaves his...his stuff."

One of the blades was straight and sharp. The other had teeth. Both were wickedly pointed.

Martie struggled to keep track of the conversation, because her mind's eye was suddenly filled with bright flashing images of the scissors in motion, slashing and stabbing, gouging and tearing. "His stuff?"

"You know."

"No."

"His stuff."

"What stuff?"

Engraved in one blade, just above the screwhead pivot, was the word Klick, Klick, which was probably the name of the manufacturer, although it resonated in a strange way with Martie, as if it were a magical word with secret power, mysterious and full of grave meaning. which was probably the name of the manufacturer, although it resonated in a strange way with Martie, as if it were a magical word with secret power, mysterious and full of grave meaning.

Susan said, "His stuff, his...s.p.u.n.k."

For a moment, Martie couldn't make sense of the word s.p.u.n.k, s.p.u.n.k, simply couldn't connect with it, couldn't process it, as though it were a nonsense word invented by someone talking in tongues. Her mind was so preoccupied with the sight of the scissors lying in the drawer that she couldn't concentrate on Susan. simply couldn't connect with it, couldn't process it, as though it were a nonsense word invented by someone talking in tongues. Her mind was so preoccupied with the sight of the scissors lying in the drawer that she couldn't concentrate on Susan.

"Martie?"

"s.p.u.n.k," Martie said, closing her eyes, striving to push all thoughts of the scissors out of her mind, trying to focus on the conversation with Susan.

"s.e.m.e.n," Susan clarified.

"His stuff."

"Yes."

"That's how you know he's been there?"

"It's impossible but it happens."

"s.e.m.e.n."

"Yes."

Klick.

The sound of snipping scissors: klick-klick. klick-klick. But Martie wasn't touching the scissors. Although her eyes were closed, she knew the shears were still in the drawer, because there was nowhere else they possibly could be. But Martie wasn't touching the scissors. Although her eyes were closed, she knew the shears were still in the drawer, because there was nowhere else they possibly could be. Klick-klick. Klick-klick.

"I'm scared, Martie."

Me too. Dear G.o.d, me too.

Martie's left hand was clenched around the phone, and her right hand hung at her side, empty. The scissors couldn't operate under their own power, and yet: klick-klick. klick-klick.

"I'm scared," Susan repeated.

If Martie hadn't been shaken by fear and struggling determinedly to conceal her anxiety from Susan, if she'd been able to concentrate better, perhaps she wouldn't have found Susan's claim to be bizarre. In her current condition, however, each turn of the conversation led her deeper into confusion. "You said he...leaves it? Where?"

"Well...in me, you know."

To prove to herself that her right hand was empty, that the scissors weren't in it, Martie brought it to her chest, pressed it over her pounding heart. Klick-klick. Klick-klick.

"In you," Martie said. She was aware that Susan was making truly astonishing statements with shocking implications and terrible potential consequences, but she wasn't able to bring her mind to bear exclusively on her friend, not with that infernal klick-klick, klick-klick, klick-klick. klick-klick, klick-klick, klick-klick.

"I sleep in panties and a T-shirt," Susan said.

"Me too," Martie said inanely.

"Sometimes I wake up, and in my panties there's this...this warm stickiness, you know."

Klick-klick. The sound must be imaginary. Martie wanted to open her eyes just to confirm that the scissors were, indeed, in the drawer, but she would be entirely lost if she looked at them again, so she kept her eyes shut. The sound must be imaginary. Martie wanted to open her eyes just to confirm that the scissors were, indeed, in the drawer, but she would be entirely lost if she looked at them again, so she kept her eyes shut.

Susan said, "But I don't understand how. It's nuts, you know? I mean ...how ...how?"

"You wake up?"

"And I have to change underwear."

"You're sure that's what it is? The stuff."

"It's disgusting. I feel dirty, used. Sometimes I have to shower, I just have have to." to."

Klick-klick. Martie's heart was racing already, and she sensed that the sight of the gleaming blades would plunge her into a full-fledged panic attack far worse than anything that she had experienced previously. Martie's heart was racing already, and she sensed that the sight of the gleaming blades would plunge her into a full-fledged panic attack far worse than anything that she had experienced previously. Klick-klick-klick. Klick-klick-klick.

"But, Sooz, good G.o.d, you mean he makes love to you-"

"There's no love involved."

"-he does does you-" you-"

"Rapes me. He's still my husband, we're just separated, I know, but it's rape."

"-but you don't wake up during it?"

"You've got to believe me."

"All right, of course, honey, I believe you. But-"

"Maybe I'm drugged somehow."

"When would Eric be able to slip the drugs to you?"

"I don't know. All right, yeah, it's crazy. Totally whacked, paranoid. But it's happening. happening."

Klick-klick.

Without opening her eyes, Martie pushed the drawer shut.

"When you wake up," she said shakily, "you've got your underwear on again."

"Yes."

Opening her eyes, staring at her right hand, which was knotted around the drawer pull, Martie said, "So he comes in, undresses you, rapes you. And then before he goes, he puts your T-shirt and panties on you again. Why?"

"So maybe I won't realize he's been here."

"But there's his stuff."

"Nothing else has that same smell."

"Sooz-"

"I know, I know, but I'm agoraphobic, not totally psychotic. Remember? That's what you told me earlier. And listen, there's more."

From inside the closed drawer came a m.u.f.fled klick-klick. klick-klick.

"Sometimes," Susan continued, "I'm sore."

"Sore?"

"Down there," Susan said softly, discreetly. The depth of her anxiety and humiliation was more clearly revealed by this modesty than it had been by anything she'd previously said. "He's not...gentle."

Inside the drawer, blade pivoting against blade: klick-klick, klick-klick. klick-klick, klick-klick.

Susan was whispering now, and she sounded farther away, too, as though a great tide had lifted her beachfront house and carried it out to sea, as if she were steadily drifting toward a far and dark horizon. "Sometimes my b.r.e.a.s.t.s are sore, too, and once there were bruises on them...bruises the size of fingertips, where he'd squeezed too hard."

"And Eric denies all this?"

"He denies being here. I haven't...I haven't discussed the explicit details with him."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't accused him."

Martie's right hand remained on the drawer, pushing against it as though something inside might force its way out. She applied herself with such intensity that the muscles in her forearm began to ache.