Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (26 page)

Then I was aware of nothing but the twin waves of pain—one from my legs, the other from my skull. My vision blurred and I doubled up, trying to clutch at my head and my knees at the same time. The waves met at my midsection; bile rose to my throat. I cradled myself about my middle, forcing the nausea down.

Other footsteps—tentative ones—came down the stairs.

I said, "Unnh?"

Irene bent over me, her hair straggling down from its coiled braid. She said, "Are you okay?"

I let go of my midsection. The pain was diminishing—but not nearly fast enough. I tried to sit up, fell back against the floor.

Irene grabbed my arm and got me into a slump against the wall. There was a searing in my back.

When I could speak, I said, "Where's Johnstone?"

She squatted down next to me. "By the time I got to the top of the stairs, he was gone. Then I heard the front door to the offices slam, and a few seconds later his car started."

I hadn't noticed it in the street. "Are you sure it was his?"

"Yes, I know the sound of that Porsche."

I let out a sigh that hurt my ribs. "Neither of my shots hit him."

"No."

For a moment I wondered why the shots hadn't attracted any attention; then I realized that at night this neighborhood was given over to the derelicts—and they would have a vested interest in not noticing.

I said, "Did you see what happened?"

"Part of it. He'd pushed me to the floor before you smashed the window."

Then I remembered her screaming. "What did he do to hurt you?"

"Applied pressure on a nerve." Her voice was bitter. "He's skilled at little things like that. He's got a degree in physiology, as well as veterinary science. I've always been amazed at the kind of knowledge he picked up in school."

I recalled my initial negative reaction to Hal Johnstone. My judgment hadn't been so far off after all. "Had he hurt you before like that?"

She dipped her head slightly, looking ashamed. Possibly she believed him when he told her everything was her fault. "Can you help me upstairs?" I asked. Slowly Irene got me to my feet. Fingers of pain played over my backbone; my head and knees throbbed; but nothing seemed to be broken. I leaned on her all the way up the stairs and across the porch to the kitchen.

Somewhere inside the flat a child was sobbing. Irene said, "My God, I forgot about Susan!" She left me leaning against the counter by the door and hurried out of the room.

So the child was here after all. Why had she told Hal she'd left her with friends? Was she afraid he'd also hurt Susan?

After a moment I went back out onto the service porch. My purse was still hooked on the newel post at the top of the stairs. The gun turned up under a stepstool to one side. I put the safety on, slipped it into the bag, and went back to the kitchen. On my way over to the table I stepped on Rudy Goldring's chalkmarks. It gave me a chill, as if I were walking on his grave. Then I thought,
Doesn't matter now
.

As I sat down at the table, Irene came back into the kitchen. "Susan's asleep again," she said. "Do you want a drink— some brandy?"

"Please." I watched her as she went to a cupboard and removed a bottle and two glasses. "I thought you told Hal that Susan was with friends."

"With the Cushmans, yes. For obvious reasons, I didn't want him anywhere near her. I gave her a mild sedative and put her to bed in the room next to this one; then I told him I was afraid to come to the rear of the flat because of Rudy dying here. I should have known that would make him want to drag me back here."

As she set the glasses on the table and sat down across from me, I studied her. Although her hands trembled, she seemed remarkably in control now, considering what she'd just been through. I said, "You weren't afraid to come here, after what happened to Rudy?"

"No. After the initial shock of finding him, it hasn't seemed quite real. I've been through something… traumatic like this before, and for a long time I kept on as if nothing had happened." Her eyes strayed toward the floor in front of the stove. "Of course, reality eventually sets in."

"Hal as much as admitted killing Rudy, you know."

She nodded. "Apparently he went through the trunk of letters that I left in the attic at the ranch and found I had a close friend here in the city. He must be the one who came here that day. He knew which room Rudy died in. He seemed to know where this place was without me giving him directions. Stillman's really only an alley; it's not someplace you'd know about unless you'd been here before."

"Without
you
giving him directions? Did you ask him to meet you here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"When he called to tell me Frank was dead, he said there were things we needed to discuss."

"What things?"

She shook her head, looking down into her glass.

The man was a sadist who had hurt her before. She'd been so afraid to have him near her child that she'd concealed Susan's presence. It made no sense that she would agree to meet him alone, in such a deserted place. Unless what they needed to discuss concerned something—or someone—she feared more than him.

I backed up a little, asking a question that had been bothering me. "Irene, how did Hal know to call you at the Cushmans' this afternoon?"

"I assumed Vicky had told him. She'd threatened to call both Harlan and Frank, you know. But Harlan's… ill, and if she called the ranchhouse, she would most likely have reached Hal."

"I see. What he needed to discuss with you must have been pretty urgent, for him to drive all the way up here rather than go into it on the phone."

Silence.

"Dammit, Irene! The man's a murderer! You've no right to protect him."

"It's not Hal I'm protecting."

"Who, then? The person who killed Frank?"

No reply.

I was tired of her games, angry with her silences. I said, "Irene, I spoke with Gerry tonight. He told me Susan wasn't Wilkonson's child."

Slowly she raised her head. "He wouldn't tell you that."

"But he did, and he was planning to tell Frank, too—if Frank had shown up for their meeting at the windmill last Saturday."

"No! He wouldn't have— "

"Mama, I'm scared!"

We both turned toward the doorway. Susan stood there, wearing yellow terry-cloth sleepers, her pale blond hair tousled. She was blinking against the light; when Irene didn't reply immediately, she thrust her thumb into her mouth.

I transposed Irene's facial features on the little girl's. Then transposed Hal Johnstone's. Looked back at Irene.

I said, "That's what all this is really about, isn't it? Hal is Susan's father."

Irene paled and sat very still. Susan's face puckered; she was being ignored. Then she took her thumb out of her mouth and began to cry. The sound brought Irene out of her chair and across the room, where she knelt cuddling the child, as if to shield her from me with her own body. After a moment Susan quieted. Irene lifted her and said, "I'll put her back to bed."

Once again, while she tended to her daughter, I waited, sipping brandy and thinking of all the questions I would need to ask.

When Irene returned—a good ten minutes later—she had freshened her makeup and repinned her unruly braid. There was a stiffness to her carriage; her eyes glittered as if they were covered by a thin skin of ice. She sat, folded her hands on the table, and looked steadily at me.

Apparently in her absence she'd reordered her emotions as well as groomed her person. I sensed now that the truth was out, there would be no more outbursts or evasions. It would make it easier for both of us, but I couldn't help wondering what would happen when she finally gave full vent to her feelings.

I said, "I was right, wasn't I? Hal is Susan's father."

"Yes."

"Who knows?"

"Only he and I. And now, Gerry."

"Is he trying to reclaim his daughter?"

"God no! Hal hates children. Hates me, too—he's detested me since he first set eyes on me, at Harlan's and my wedding."

"If he hates you, why did he have an affair with you?"

She was silent.

I tried another tack. "Why did he hate you at first sight?"

"It has very little to do with me, personally. Hal wants the Burning Oak. But under community property, it would have come to me. Initially he gave up on the ranch, stayed back east, tried to make a life for himself there. But I guess he changed his mind, because from the day he moved back here, he did everything he could to drive me away. Then, when I admitted I was pregnant and that the child was his, he made me leave there and promise never to let Harlan know."

"I still don't understand why the two of you would sleep together—"

She interrupted me, going on with her story as if it were a speech she'd memorized. "Since Frank started looking for me, most of Hal's energy has been directed toward worrying that somehow it would all come out. If Harlan suspected Hal had fathered my child, he'd write him out of his will."

"Why would he suspect? He must know how the two of you feel about one another."

She shrugged. "I didn't say Hal's fears were rational."

I thought of how Hal had told his father about Irene's affair with Frank Wilkonson. A bit of self-serving misdirection there. "What about Rudy?" I asked. "Did he think Susan was Frank's?"

"Yes."

"And Vicky?"

"Her, too."

I hesitated, still wondering why she had slept with Hal, then asked something else that was bothering me. "Are you sure Susan is Hal's daughter? She resembles him, but you
were
having an affair with Frank at the time she was conceived."

"I'm sure. I wasn't seeing Frank anymore then. Or anyone else. I broke off with Frank a few months after Hal returned to the ranch. Hal suspected what was going on, and I knew as soon as he had proof, he'd go to Harlan with it. Besides, Jane had had her baby by then and was suffering a bad case of postpartum depression; she needed Frank more than I did."

I was still skeptical of her motivations toward Jane Wilkonson, but that wasn't the central issue now. "Go on."

"Then I got pregnant by Hal."

This further refusal to elaborate on what seemed to be highly inconsistent behavior made me snap at her. "Could you be more specific? You've already said he hated you. Obviously there was no love lost on your side, either."

She was silent, her fingers so tightly interlocked that the tips of their nails were white.

"Irene?"

"Yes. I'm just trying to think of a way to say it."

"It's best just to get it out quickly."

"Yes, all right." She took a deep breath, expelled it. "Hal raped me," she said.

The tone in which she delivered the words was so flat that at first I thought I had heard wrong. Then I saw her eyes: the ice had melted, tears welled to the surface.

I touched her hands. She unclasped them and pulled away. Beneath the tears, I saw a flicker of fear.

She's afraid I don't believe her
, I thought.

It's common for rape victims to be disbelieved; in fact, it's the only crime I know of where the burden of proof is placed squarely on the victim's shoulders. Irene didn't have to prove a thing to me, though. Unless they're severely disturbed, women stand to gain nothing and lose everything by falsely accusing men of rape—no matter what the she's-framing-him or she-asked-for-it schools of thought claim. Certainly making the agonizing admission to me had cost Irene dearly.

I said, "Tell me what happened."

Some of the fear left her eyes and she wiped the tears from their corners. Then she resumed speaking—calmly and matter-of-factly, as if we were discussing the weather.

"As I said, Hal suspected about Frank and me. Even after I broke it off, he would make remarks—off-color, but subtle enough that no one else would get their meaning. Then he started trying to hit on me, thinking, I suppose, that that might be the thing to drive me away. When I'd resist, he'd hurt me."

"I can see why you couldn't go to your husband about it, but why didn't you tell Frank?"

"Frank had problems of his own, and besides, I was afraid of his temper, what he might do to Hal. I decided to handle the situation myself."

"But obviously you couldn't."

"No. One night Harlan had to come up here to San Francisco on business. I begged him to take me along, but he refused. I thought of leaving the ranch myself, but I knew if Harlan found out, there would be trouble—he was that jealous. And I had nowhere to go, no friends to cover for me, since Harlan had made me quit all my outside activities. So I stayed."

"And that's when it happened."

"Yes. I can't go into the details."

"No need."

"I have accepted what happened, believe me. I was in therapy for a long time after I went to the women's shelter in Tustin. It helped a lot and affirmed my decision to keep the baby. And I came to realize that it wasn't my fault—no matter what Hal said. It was something twisted and violent in him that was to blame."

"I heard him tonight, telling you you were to blame for everything."

"He's that way, evades responsibility entirely. To Hal, what went wrong in his childhood was his mother's fault. It's easier for him to blame her than Harlan, since she's dead and can't defend herself. When he got older, the blame fell to teachers, professors, girlfriends, employers. And then there was me."

I toyed with my glass for a moment, disturbed by her calm. I'd seen this same type of reaction in other victims—of muggings, robbery, attempted murder. They tended to dissociate themselves from the event, speaking of it in a detached manner that made it sound as if it had happened to someone else. It made me wonder if Irene's therapy had helped as much as she claimed.

I said, "After the rape, how could you go on living in the same house with him?"

"I didn't. You see, Hal had left. He'd never intended for things to go that far. He was afraid I'd go to his father or Frank, so he invented a request from a fellow veterinarian for emergency assistance in his practice and took off the next day. And I was in no shape to go anywhere, anyway. I didn't sleep much, and when I did, I had nightmares. I cried a lot, flew into rages for no reason. Had trouble concentrating, remembering things. A lot of the time it was as if I was on one side of a pane of glass, looking out at reality but never touching it."