Night Hunter (30 page)

“
It’s very sweet and moist. I judge it delicious. You should make one for your boyfriend,” John said.

“
I did. He said it was delicious.”

“
He’s a wise fellow.”

“
Yes.”

“
So, what’s his name?”

“
Who?”

“
This wise fellow. Your boyfriend.”

She smiled at him.

Oh-oh. They had stepped up the operation. So it’s come to this—pushing the virgin out the door and across the hall bearing edible proof of her talents. The dress was a nice touch. American men were suckers for the mark of femininity. They had to be very trusting or very desperate to allow her to be alone with him. In Hungary, a good Hungarian girl didn’t spend time with men alone in a place with a bed. But this was America.

“
How old are you?” John asked.

“
Nineteen.”

“
Nineteen,” he repeated. “Do you know how old I am?”

“
Thirty-eight.”

So they had already discussed his age ... these matchmakers, these conspirators.

“
I’m too old for you, Ilona.”

“
No,” she said, shaking her head.

“
Then you’re too young for me.” He looked into her somber brown eyes. “Look, I know a couple of really nice guys. Men closer to your age. I’ll talk to Mrs. Dobos first to clear it with her.” He slid off the counter, turned to the stove and stirred the soup. In a quiet voice, with his back to her, he added. “I have nothing to offer you.”

He heard the scraping of the chair legs as she pushed it back. Soundlessly she moved to his back. Her hand stroked lightly along his arm.

“
I like the older man. I like you, Johnnie.”

“
I like you too, but—” A knock at the door interrupted him.

He expected it to open and Aunt Anna to breeze in. He figured she wasn’t desperate enough to leave them alone too long in case he was inclined to sample the girl’s other talents.

Another knock.

He excused himself and went to the door. Regina stood there in a pair of white slacks and a navy and white blouse. She looked fresh and crisp and every bit as feminine as Ilona. This was his day for beautiful ladies, he thought. The soup was on and there was plenty of it.

“
Hi. Since I’m home for lunch,” she said, “I thought you might like to know what Wilma had to say.”

“
Yes, sure. C’mon in.” He stepped back to let her enter.

“
Wilma had both the medical and the police report. It seems that—” She stopped talking abruptly, staring over John’s shoulder.

He turned to see a barefooted Ilona leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, holding a coffee mug; one thin strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder.

“
Uh, Regina Van
Raven,
meet Ilona Dobos.”

“
Hello,” Regina said.

“
Pleasure to meet you,” Ilona said, but her eyes said otherwise.

“
This isn’t a good time.” Regina backed up. “We can talk later.”

John looked to Ilona and then to Regina. Ilona disappeared back into the kitchen. In a quiet tone, he said, “Come back after work tonight. I’m serving dinner.”

“
Oh, no—” she began.

“
Bring Kristy with you. That’s an order.”

“
I ...” She paused, her eyes flickered toward the kitchen. Then, as if accepting a challenge, she said,
“
Okay
.
Six?”

“
Anytime. It’s soup and it’s ready.”

She went out.

John stood in the doorway watching her climb to the second level. He glanced across the hall and noticed the door to his aunt’s apartment was ajar. He smiled. “Great strudel, Aunt Anna.
Koszonom.”

Corinne reread the article from the
San Francisco Chronicle.
She clipped the obituary and carefully centered it next to the article in the photo album. She lowered the clear plastic and smoothed it down.

The album was no longer entirely about her. Other beauty contestants, Donna and Tammy, now shared the many blank pages with her. Closing the album, she rubbed fingers over the lettering on the cover. With a black marker she had written
The Thrill of Victory — The Agony of Defeat 1970-1990.

Thrills and spills, agony and death.

Twenty years ago, she above all had gleaned the greatest thrill, but the agony, to her delight, was to be spread around. Three down, two to go.

The moaning broke through her reverie. The past few days it had become a constant sound, one she’d become accustomed to and rarely noticed anymore. She checked the clock above the stove. Time for his lunch and injection.

She wondered why she bothered with the food. For the most part her father ignored it, despite her efforts to make him eat. A balanced diet was essential to a diabetic. She’d have to remind him of that. He’d never taken care of himself properly, that’s how he got in this predicament in the first place. Diagnosed with diabetes in his fifties following a gall bladder operation, he had continued to drink, smoke, and eat everything that was wrong for him. And now this thing with his legs. The crazy fool would kill himself one day.

Well, there was only so much a daughter could do.

After work Regina changed into jeans and a short-sleeve sweater. At six o’clock Kristy called from The Farm House.

“
Gotta work over, Mom. We’re short-handed here tonight.”

“
Oh, I was waiting for you.”

“
What’s up?”

“
We’re invited to John’s for dinner. In fact we’re supposed to be there now.”

“
Yeah? John cooks?” Kristy said in an amused tone.

“
I guess.”

“
So go on down. What do you need me for?”

“
You were invited too.”

“
I’m sure the two of you can amuse yourselves without the kid there.”

“
Kristy...”

“
Mom,” her tone was patient, parental, “It’s time you learned how to date again.”

“
This is not a date—”

“
So pretend. Practice.” She laughed lightly. “John’s incredibly hot, in case you haven’t noticed. He’s also a cool guy with a great sense of humor. He treats women like they’re an important part of the human race. And she tells me he can cook—hell, the man is righteous.”

“
Your father’s been gone less than six months.”

“
Mom, he’s been gone two years and you know it. Two years.”

No one knew it more than Regina. The long hospital stay. The many visits when she prayed that he would remember who she was. The anger, confusion, and violence. He had died of pneumonia and Regina had felt the awful pain, but the pain came from a sense of guilt, not loss.

Kristy was right, she had lost him two years ago. The day he entered the nursing home.

“
You like him a little, don’t you?”

“
Well, yes.”

“
Do you think he’s good looking, maybe even sexy?”

“
Kristy, really.” But despite her embarrassment, she did find John Davie attractive and sexy. Very sexy.

“
I get off at nine. Tell you what, if you’re not at home, I’ll drop in at John’s to say hello.”

“
I’ll be home. Be careful, okay?”

“
Okay. Have fun.”

“
This is not a date--”

Kristy was gone.

When the phone rang again, Regina figured it was Kristy with something to add. But a soft voice, unmistakably female, said, “There is a very dangerous person out there who has killed and will kill again—”

“
Who is this?”

“
Don’t interrupt. I will not repeat. Listen carefully. Initially, a sea will lead to the assailant.”

“
Is this a joke?”

The dial tone hummed.

Regina jotted down the message, then sat quietly for several minutes, contemplating the call. At last she dismissed it as merely a crank. Someone had seen her on ‘City Gallery’ and had gotten her phone number. That was one of the disadvantages of being in the limelight; no matter how bright or how dim the “light,” people craved contact and they reached out.

She looked at her watch. 6:15. John was waiting. She rose, went out the door, came back in, grabbed a bottle of red wine, then, wondering if red was appropriate, she grabbed a bottle of white. With a bottle in each hand she went downstairs. She tapped on John’s door with the neck of one bottle.

Two doors opened at once. Regina glanced at John, then turned to see the landlady standing in the doorway across the hall.

“
Ahh, I see you are home tonight, Johnnie,” Anna Szabo said.

“
Regina and I have some work to do.”

“
Ahh,” she said, glaring at the wine bottles in Regina’s hands. “How are you, Mrs. Van Raven?”

“
Fine, thank you, Mrs. Szabo. And you?”

John gently pulled Regina inside and, after waving to his aunt, closed the door.

“
She’s not usually a snoop,” he said. “It’s just
that—”

“
It’s okay. I understand. I have relatives too.”

“
Where are they? Your parents?”

“
In San Diego. My father’s a retired fireman and my mother’s a travel agent. They travel.” She held up the bottles. “Red or white. I didn’t know.”

He took the bottles from her and suddenly she felt awkward with nothing to hold. She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She looked around his apartment. “I like your place. Southwest, isn’t it?”

“
I call it sunbaked Santa Fe.”

He invited her into the kitchen. The table was set for three. Place mats, linen napkins, a fat red candle, a round ceramic vase filled with spring flowers from the garden, and a bowl with a small, black-shelled turtle.

“
That’s Oliver Tuttle. Ollie for short,” John said when she leaned in to look at the turtle. “I named him after a character in my first book. They’re both slow, quiet, and thick skinned.”

“
Hi, Ollie.” She lightly stroked the shell.

“
Where’s Kristy?” He kneeled, peeked through the window in the oven. He had changed clothes. There was a drop of dried blood in the cleft of his chin where he had nicked it shaving.

“
She had to work. She won’t be here.”

He looked up at her with a tiny smile, his eyes saying a dozen different things. He pulled the oven door open. “What do you think?”

She frowned. “About what?”

“
Bread, hot out of the oven.”