Retribution (21 page)

May's husband Delman came out from the back of the butcher area, straightened a clean apron, and smiled at her. "What can I do for you today, Miss Saunders?"

"How about a barbecued beef sandwich and a chicken salad sandwich to go?"

He nodded and briskly went into motion. Jagger whined slightly, pressing his head against her brace.

The beef sandwich she'd have for dinner as well as her salad, knowing full well that at least half of it would go down Jagger's begging jaws. The saucerich sandwich tantalized both their taste buds as Delman served it up on a long, freshly baked roll, wrapped it in waxed paper, deftly twisted the ends, then wrapped it again in light foil He made the chicken salad as quickly, the wax paper crackling as he twisted it, and then put both in a paper bag. "That it for today, Miss Saunders?"

"All I can think of."

He smiled broadly. "Would you mind if I stuck a bone in for Jagger?"

"Not at all."

He fished out a bone from under the counter. It had been boiled, from the looks of it, perhaps to make broth, but still had plenty of meat hanging from it and one large knobby end. He rolled foil around it and added it to the paper bag. Jagger licked his chops in anticipation.

She laughed. "I think he knows that's for him."

Delman grinned. "You two have a nice day, now." He went back to cleaning his counters as she gathered in the paper bag which was already redolent with savory aroma.

Jagger escorted her to the small checkout counter by the front door, his head bumping her brace from time to time.

"Piggy," she said quietly to him, as she put her basket up and watched May begin to unload. Jagger continued to bump her leg without remorse.

May giggled as she emptied the basket and totaled up the items. "He knows what smells good," she noted, her short, slim fingers flying over the register keys.

"His idea of heaven is to come shopping here with me." Charlie could not help but smile as she ruffled the dog's ears. "How is your son?"

May's and Delman's son was a budding young artist, one of many helped by the local colony art programs. May's face brightened even more at the mention of her child. She reached out and moved a poster board toward Charlie for better viewing. "He drew this," she said proudly. "His was chosen out of several hundred."

Charlie looked down. She saw a starred night, a highway, a car with blaring yellow headlights staring into the darkness, some childish words about driving safety… the colors were bold, garish, in wide strokes, reminding her of something she had painted. The poster caught her, ensnared her, she could not look away.

Jagger whined and bumped her knee again. Charlie heard him as if from far away, muffled, as though she lay underwater. The car in the poster began to slide sideways, careening off the asphalt highway, sliding, headlights skewing wildly into the night, across the stars, the moon, until the car came to a tumbling halt, the jolt popping a door open and a young woman falling out.

She staggered to her feet, leaning upon the car, blood streaming from a gash across her forehead. Charlie blinked and watched, her hands growing icecold, the only part of her she could feel… the rest of her being had narrowed into this singular focus, the nighttime drama unfolding in front of her. She was sight and sight only, with no other sense or flesh.

Another set of beams pierced the darkness. The highway looked as if it glistened, with rain or dew, wetly ebony, lights wavering as they streamed across it. The young woman clung to the side of her vehicle as the other car pulled near. Rescue was at hand. Charlie could see the relief on her face as the other car stopped, and more light illuminated the dark as a car door opened and stayed open. A figure stepped out of the car, big, burly, masculine by its very size. Moved toward the girl. The figure carried light in his hand… and that light flashed up… in her vision, the young woman looked toward the figure, toward Charlie, opening her mouth, beginning to scream.

The light flashed up and down, up and down, swinging violently as the object bludgeoned into her head again. And again. And again. Until, still silent, face cascading with blood made black and muddy-looking by the night, she sank to her knees, slumped into nothingness. The figure grabbed her by the collar and dragged her to the open car door and shoved her inside. The door closed. With that movement, all light winked dark.

Jagger nosed her again.

"$17.59, Miss Saunders… are you all right?" May peered at her over the handled shopping bag of groceries on the counter, blinking in concern.

"Am I… what?"

"Are you all right? Should I call someone for you? You look very pale."

"No. I…" Charlie looked at the child's poster. "I… I'm fine." She handed May a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change, put it on my account." She took her groceries in her arms. The pungent smell of the barbecue sandwich hit her sharply. "I'm sorry. I was thinking." She took a deep breath. "Your son is quite an artist."

"Thank you." May gave a little bow. "But not like you."

"Thank goodness for that! He should have a longer career." Charlie tried to smile. Her face still felt frozen and numb. Jagger pulled her toward the door and Charlie let him.

What had just happened to her? What had she just seen— or imagined?

Shaken by the violence, by the coldness which seemed to dwell inside her still, she let Jagger pull her uphill toward the residential streets, his tail flagging. They made this walk at least once a week if not more often. He knew where they were headed: Home.

Or hell.

* * *

By the time they reached the house, she had broken into a light sweat, her muscles trembling with the effort. She sat down and ate mechanically, her mind's eye centered on the vision, her hands plucking a bit at a time off the chicken sandwich and feeding it into her mouth, and to Jagger. A bite for me, a bite for you….

She recognized that picture. Not the child's poster, but the picture she had seen. Not a movie, but a flat, two-dimensional rendering.

Charlie shot to her feet. Limping, she hurried through the bungalow to her studio, and went to the small built-in bookcase in the corner. Her various ribbons from art shows sat mounted on easel boards, gathering dust and webs from daddy longlegs spiders who seemed to be everywhere in the house, ribbons and small plaques, and a few local magazines. She picked them up and thumbed through them, knowing she had kept them because she was featured in them. The dust clung to her fingers. She wiped them off with one of her new painting rags. Yellowing pages turned stubbornly in her hands.

She recognized herself with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Looking at photos ten years old and older… she was both inside and outside that child caught in time. She looked at a figure somewhat waiflike, hair combed back and held with one of those clips, so trendy then, still popular now, sticklike legs in satin pants, vest and a silk shirt, leaning self-consciously against an easel.

Jagger came in, chuffing impatiently at the thought of a half-shared chicken sandwich still lying on the kitchen table, while she thumbed through the photo retrospective of the gallery showing. Some of the paintings were well captured by the camera lens, many others she could only catch glimpses of. She had forgotten them, not all, but a few, but it only took a passing glance to refresh her memory. She put a shoulder to the bookcase and, leaning upon it, paged through the first of a dozen magazines she needed to examine.

The phone rang.

Charlie looked up, drawn out of her memories, and frowned slightly. Jagger sprawled near her, having given up on the sandwich, and hardly moved when she stepped around him to get the portable in the bedroom. Late afternoon shadows laced the room, curtaining it.

The phone rang a second, and then a third time before she reached the appliance, its tone eerily flat. She answered it, to hear a buzz on the line not unlike the dial tone itself, and a void before someone answered back.

"You know who killed me," the young woman said.

"You know."

"H-hello?" Charlie stammered. "Who is this?"

"You know," the unfamiliar voice repeated.

"What are you talking about? Who is this?" The cords of her throat strained and her fingers wrapped tightly about the portable phone. Charlie shook. "Tell me what you want!"

The voice faded, barely audible.
"You know."

The line went dead. And then the dial tone resumed, from the background static buzzed to a loud droning in her ear. Charlie dropped the portable. It bounced on the corner of her bed. Stunned, she looked back toward her studio.

Jagger came walking in to find her, his head down unhappily, whining, his caramel eyes anxious.

* * *

John pulled the van up in the driveway and stopped. The interior of the vehicle reeked with the smell of freshly made onion-and-water bagels, and the rich aroma of newly brewed coffee. He swung his legs out, then gathered up his offerings. Jagger scratched at the house's front window, his nails clicking eagerly. Ruby grinned at the dog's excitement and hoped it was a reflection of the greeting he might get from Charlie this time.

He knocked on the door, to hear resounding barks from the golden retriever, but it was long moments before the door opened hesitantly. Charlie leaned on the edge of it, bracing herself, her face pale and drawn. Tangles of her hair trailed about her face, and she smiled of paint. The only color about her was the smear or two on the shirt and trousers she wore. She held a brush loosely in her hand, almost as if unaware of it, the paint still glistening damply.

"Charlie?" he said anxiously.

She blinked, almost as if not really seeing him. Then she made as if to close the door, barring him. "Go away."

"Are you all right?"

"Go away. I'm busy… I can't see you today."

He put his body in the gap between door and threshold. "What's wrong?"

"You can't come in." Charlie put her hand up as if to fend him off, her fingers stained with paint, trembling slightly. Faint indigo stains of tiredness hung belong her eyes. She tried to block him, but he took her by the elbow and let himself in, steadying her.

The faint smell of oil paints hung in the air. Jagger came dashing up, still in harness, but it had slipped about him, hanging from his side, half unfastened. He pawed at John and began to slobber at the scent from the paper bag full of bagels. The living room looked as if a whirlwind had hit it, newspaper flung everywhere and on those papers, canvases lay or stood, propped up against sofa and chairs and wall. Bright, glistening canvases gleaming with fresh paint, bold colors that struck him before he even looked upon them… ten… maybe twelve of them, trailing down the hallway and disappearing.

"My God," he muttered, and shut the door behind him. He put his arm around her shoulder and held her to him, afraid she would move away warily, and more afraid she would topple. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Charlie took a deep breath at his touch and relaxed against him slightly. She looked at her hand and the paintbrush she still held as if it were a foreign object. Her fingers opened stiffly and the brush fell to the floor, where it landed upon one of the strewn newspaper. She looked at John in bewilderment as if he had awakened her, shadows thinning in her blue-gray eyes.

"Is it Midnight yet?" she asked faintly.

John felt her tremble as he guided her through the house and into the kitchen, the only place he could find away from the paintings. She sat down numbly. Jagger bounced at him impatiently, nosing the paper bags, backing off only when John dropped them on the kitchen table. He looked and saw the water bowl in the corner nearly dry, only a thin puddle of liquid on the bottom.

He got both of them water and brought hers back. She stared at it, then curled the fingers of her left hand about it. Jagger pushed his face into his water bowl, lapping noisily and continuously.

"It's almost eight-thirty," he told her. "The dog acts like he's starving. Has he eaten? Have you? Did you even sleep?"

She sipped at her water aimlessly. "I don't remember. I don't think I did." Charlie shuddered. "I've done some painting." She considered her hands, small streaks of color on them. "Haven't I?"

"The house is full of them."

She closed her eyes, a bleak look on her face. "I need to look at them."

"You painted them."

"I need to look at them!"

Not comprehending, but trying to keep her calm, he answered. "Not just yet. You can barely stay on your feet. Let me feed the dog, take care of him, then we'll go… look."

Charlie nodded, slumping down in her chair.

Jagger trotted across the kitchen as he went to the pantry and found the large bag of kibble propped up against the storage shelves. The dog's tail began to beat a tattoo against the air and he licked his still wet chops in anticipation as John filled his eating bowl.

"Go ahead."

The golden hunkered down, and whined, but made no move to the bowl. Charlie stirred and said hoarsely, "Dinner, Jagger. Come on and eat."

At her signal, Jagger leaped toward the bowl and began to wolf it down, his noisy crunching filling the small room. John opened the refrigerator door and found a carton of orange juice, nearly full, stowed next to the carton of low-fat milk. He poured them each a stout glass of orange juice before sitting down.

"Tell me," he said, "what you want to."

She wrapped both hands around the juice and took a long drink, before setting the glass down with a sigh. "I have to look at them," she told him. "Before I can tell you anything."

"Look at them? The paintings? You just finished them."

"I know." Charlie glanced away from him, checked Jagger, who was polishing off the last of his kibble nuggets, then looked back. "It's hard to explain."