Stitches In Time (21 page)

"That's enough," Pat said mildly. "That's what I
expected. What you saw wrapped around her was one of the quilts. There's nothing else it could have been—no shawls, no afghans lying on the chair now. It was on the chair that night. He reached for it when he saw she was cold, and put it around her, and—"

"Stop," Ruth said firmly. "You've got what you wanted. Don't push it."

"All right. We'll adjourn.
I
could use a cup of coffee." Adam hung back when they left the room. He avoided Rachel's eyes, and she realized she wasn't the only one whose privacy had been invaded. She shouldn't have been pleased about it, but she was.

"Adam, you're a terrible cook," Pat declared, studying with obvious disfavor the muffin from which he had taken a bite. "What's this supposed to be?"

"
I
didn't have any blueberries," Adam explained. "So I used cranberries."

"You're supposed to cook them before you add them to the mix," Rachel said.

"Oh."

"We'd better be getting home," Ruth said.

Pat stared at her in surprise. "What are you talking about? I've barely begun." He took a notebook and a pair of glasses from his pocket. Adjusting the latter on his nose, he opened the notebook and looked at Adam.

"You found nothing when you searched the house?"

"No."

"Where did you look?"

"Basement, upstairs bedrooms, and kitchen ..."

When he finished the list Pat asked, "Not Rachel's room?"

"You said it wouldn't ..." Adam caught himself. "You said not to bother with the places where she normally goes."

"So we've only got two confirmed attempts at—" Pat paused, and said delicately—"at causing harm. I'd like to have a look at that bed canopy."

Several of the cats accompanied them upstairs. The heavy canopy still lay on the floor beside the bed.

"I didn't realize it was so massive," Ruth murmured. Her voice was unsteady. "How could Cheryl stand to sleep under something so dangerous?"

"She must have had it repaired and braced quite recently," Adam said. "There are four separate sets of screws, each six inches long, plus a heavy bolt and nut on either end. There's no way screws and bolts could have worked loose."

Pat lowered himself to his hands and knees and squinted at the end of the canopy. "Some of the screws are still in place."

"She only had to loosen the screws on one end. When that end fell, the weight pulled the others away from the bed frame." He picked up an object from the table. "The nut had been removed.
I
found it under the bed. You can see the marks of the pliers."

The traces of tampering were obvious. The pliers had scored and brightened the metal. The head of the screw Adam offered next had the same sort of marks.

"It would take a great deal of strength to do that," Ruth protested. "Surely only a man—"

"With the proper tools, anyone could have done it," Adam said. "Tony's got long-handled pliers and an electric screwdriver in his workshop downstairs."

Pat got stiffly to his feet. "Damned arthritis . . . She didn't know you were going to sleep here?"

"It was a spur-of-the-moment decision."

"So cheer up. She isn't out to get you. So far."

"Your levity is disgusting," Adam snarled. "In front of Rachel—"

"I wasn't talking about Rachel," Pat said.

"Then who, or what, are you talking about? You're giving this—this thing—gender, and thus, by implication, identity. What are you basing that on?"

"Past experience," Pat said. "I don't buy the idea of an abstract demonic intelligence. There must be some spiritual connection between the invading entity and the host it occupies. In the earlier situation Sara was susceptible because she was the same age and sex as the girl who spoke through her. I'm assuming that the same thing applies to Rachel. I admit it's only a hypothesis so far, but several things support it. First, the sexual attraction that moved a puritanical man like Tony to violate his moral code."

"Oh, come on," Adam said angrily.

"
I
said it was only a hypothesis," Pat repeated. "The second point is stronger. The source of the contamination seems to be the quilt. Women make quilts."

"That's a sexist—" Ruth began.

"You know any men who make them?" Pat demanded.

"Not personally. But now that it's become an accepted art form—"

"It wasn't an art form when this quilt was made. Sewing was woman's work. Still is, on the whole."

They went on arguing, more for the fun of it than for any other reason; Pat's point was valid, and Ruth knew it.

Rachel didn't know whether to be relieved or sorry when Pat was finally persuaded to leave. It had been painful to see the evidence of her deadly intent, and to relive an experience from which memory shrank. His hand on her breast, hard, hurting, pushing her away ...

Only you know about that. He doesn't know. And you won't tell him. Why should you? It only matters
to you.

"What?" She started. Pat was speaking to her.

"
I
said, what's the name of that friend of Tony's at the station?"

"Tom Hardesty. Why?"

"I want to have a look at those quilts."

"Why?"

"Because," Pat said patiently, "there's got to be a connection. And before you start sneering at my deductive abilities, Adam, let me point out the underlying logic. The theft—which is now a case of theft and murder—has several peculiar aspects. Why haven't the police been able to find the thief? From the description of his appearance and behavior he would seem to be an ordinary stupid crook, without intelligence or subtlety. You've got two out-of-the-ordinary situations here—the theft, and the anomalies of Rachel's behavior, which began the night Tony wrapped her in the quilt. We are justified in assuming that the two are somehow connected."

"You always did reason like a Jesuit," Adam said rudely. "And you never listen to counterarguments. Play your little games. What do you want me to do?"

"You promised me a report on the Wiccas."

"Very funny," Adam said.

"
I
mean it. There's nothing else you can do at the moment."

"We really must get back, Pat," Ruth said. "I have things to do."

"What things? Oh, all right." He removed a cat from his lap, stood up, and put the cat on the seat he had vacated. The cat promptly jumped down.

"What about me?" Rachel asked.

"What about you? Follow your normal routine. Keep busy." He moved to the table that held Rachel's books and papers. "Work on your dissertation."

"Fat chance," Rachel said. "With Adam thumping around and cats sitting on the keyboard and my mental processes distracted by wondering what I'm going to do next."

Pat picked up one of the books. "Maybe I should read something about quilts. The subject has never had much attraction for me. Mind if I borrow this?"

"Take anything you like," Rachel said.

"Thanks." He put the book in his pocket. "All right, Ruth, we're off. Just one more stop."

Tat!"

"It won't take long. I want to have a look at the front steps. We'll go outside and around."

Her lips a thin line, Ruth let him help her into her coat and preceded him out the door.

"You told him about the knife," Rachel said. Her voice was neutral, but Adam reacted as if the speech had been an accusation.

"
I
told him everything. Any objections?"

Without answering, Rachel followed the others.

Adam joined Pat, who was peering at the gash in the step with absorbed concentration. Ruth waited at the bottom of the steps, foot tapping and arms folded. The bright sunlight brought out lines in her forehead and cheeks Rachel hadn't noticed before.

"He's really into this, isn't he?" she said.

"Yes."

"You're both being very kind."

Ruth shook her head, frowning, and Rachel said hesitantly, "Are you angry about something? Have I done something?"

A flush of ugly color darkened the older woman's cheeks. She took Rachel's arm and led her away from the steps.

"It's not your fault. I'm a little worried, that's all."

"About me?"

"It happened to him once before." Ruth might have been talking to herself. "He's been exposed. Does that make him more susceptible? I couldn't go through that
again. I couldn't stand it if he ..." She looked at Rachel and said bluntly, "You're a nice girl, Rachel. I like you, and I'm very sorry for you, and I know you're not responsible for this. But I'd abandon you, this day, this moment, if
I
could persuade Pat to do the same. I'd hate myself for the rest of my life, but I'd do it."

eight

After the MacDougals left, Rachel settled herself in front
of her word processor and tried to look as if she were working. She couldn't face Adam's clumsy attempts at casual chitchat, or his questions.

Ruth's blunt statement had left her speechless. She wouldn't have known what to say even if Ruth had given her a chance to respond, which she had not; collaring her husband, she had led him, protesting but unresisting, to the truck. It had been a fascinating demonstration of how that relationship worked. Ruth didn't assert herself often, but when she put her small foot down, Pat MacDougal obeyed.

What had struck Rachel dumb wasn't Ruth's candor, unexpected though it had been, but her realization that Ruth—intelligent, sophisticated, gentle Ruth—really
believed
Pat's hypothesis.

Pat claimed to believe it too, and Rachel didn't doubt his sincerity, but nothing he had said affected her as Ruth's blunt statement had done. In his own way Pat was enjoying the intellectual challenge; as he kept saying, he was testing a hypothesis. Ruth was not enjoying the situation.

She was afraid—afraid because she believed. Believed wholeheartedly and without reservations, as some cultures believed in the efficacy of magic, as devoutly religious people believed in God and angels and the literal interpretation of Scripture. That intensity of belief was one of the strongest forces in the world, and one of the most dangerous. Old women had been burned alive because of it, heretics and sinners had been tortured to death when they refused to conform to a particular creed. Witches were fair game in almost all cultures; the most effective way of canceling evil spells that could cause illness, bad luck, accident, or death was to kill the witch.

She couldn't concentrate on her work when thoughts like those were squirming around in her head, and when Adam kept tiptoeing loudly past the door, pausing only long enough to look in before he went on.

The next time his shadow darkened the doorway Rachel called out to him.

"Pat told you to watch me, didn't he? So come in and sit down and watch."

"
I
thought you were working. I was trying not to bother you."

"Oh, stop being so damned tactful. How can I possibly get any work done? Admit it, he did order you to play watchdog."

"He didn't have to tell me." Adam came into the room, sat down on the edge of a chair, and stared fixedly at her. "I should think you'd find it reassuring to know I'm— uh—monitoring your activities. It won't try anything while I'm around."

At first she didn't believe her own ears.
"It?"
she repeated.

"Maybe we ought to give it a name," Adam mused. "Lilith? Medea? Susybelle?"

"Who was Susybelle?"

"Nobody. I just threw that innocuous name in to be fair.
Its
activities thus far have been reminiscent of some of the nastier ladies in literature and myth, but we shouldn't leap to conclusions without more evidence than—"

"
I
think you've lost your mind," Rachel said flatly. "Am I the only skeptic left?"

"My skepticism has been somewhat shaken. There are a couple of things that have led me to support Pat's lunatic hypothesis."

"Oh?"

"The first is the peculiar incident of the knife thrust into the step. It bothered me from the start, but
I
couldn't figure out why. It wasn't until last night, when I was going over things in my mind—and a damned uncomfortable process it was, I might add—that I realized the perpetrator probably wasn't your burglar. I think you did it. Now don't start yelling, let me explain. What would be the sense of a vague, melodramatic threat like that? If he were stalking you, he'd be more direct and more obtrusive. And there's the significant clue of the dogs that didn't bark."

Rachel had wondered about those points herself, but she was still on the defensive. "Why would I do such a thing?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it? Think. The incident happened on the night of the Winter Solstice. That's one of the great festivals of witchcraft—Esbats, as they are called. The smears of mud around the knife could have been a footprint. Hell's bells, woman, this is your field! Surely you've heard about sympathetic magic."