Stitches In Time (5 page)

Like the Beltway, Rachel thought with a faint smile. Modern man is still trapped in a maze of roads that go nowhere.

There was no question about the fact that magic had been viewed by many cultures as a practical, pragmatic method of coping with the problems of life. In order to sprout and grow, crops had to be planted during the proper phase of the moon and with the proper spells; medicine would not be as effective without the incantations and prayers that accompanied it. In fact, there were few cultures, ancient and modern, that had not employed magic, and people who thought rational Western civilization had risen above such superstition were kidding themselves. It wasn't difficult to find examples of magical practices, but Rachel had not had much luck in identifying a secret, specific women's magic. That wasn't surprising. If the practices were secret, they wouldn't have been described to anthropologists, even female anthropologists, who would be viewed as foreigners, skeptics, outside the sisterhood of that particular culture.

She tossed the book aside and reached for another, on Ozark magic and superstition. Some of the superstitions connected with needlecraft were based on the principles of magic defined by the great nineteenth-century scholar Sir James Fraser. Knotting, braiding, and weaving were varieties of imitative magic; they could render a man impotent, or bind the affections of a faithless lover, or keep a woman writhing in the pangs of childbirth, unable to deliver. The magic of contagion or connection was based on the belief that an action performed on an object that had been in intimate contact with an individual, especially body parts like hair and fingernail clippings, would affect the individual himself. Never make a dress with a needle that has been used to sew a shroud; the contagion of death will affect the wearer of the dress.

Had Medea used such a needle when she embroidered the deadly garment she sent to the bride of her faithless lover? No; that was probably too farfetched. But Rachel felt sure Medea had steeped that garment in evil magic as well as in poison. Witch and sorceress they had called her, among other names—traitor, murderess, tiger. Well-merited names; her crimes had been unspeakable. And all for love . . . Rachel closed the book and turned out the light. So many spells, so many superstitions about love and marriage, winning a man and holding him. Women were fools. Including herself.

Her mind retraced the familiar labyrinth of indecision. She knew what she ought to do—give Cheryl her notice, find another job, or try to scrape along on her savings while she worked like mad on the dissertation.

If she stayed on she would give herself away sooner or later and that would settle the matter—in the most unpleasant, humiliating manner possible. There was no other possibility. Even if he ...

It wasn't the first time she had allowed herself to entertain that fantasy—being alone with him, seeing his face change, his eyes soften, his hands reach out for her. Hearing him admit he had tried to fight his feelings but that they had proved too strong to resist. . . Rachel turned over and buried her face in the pillow. She might
be hopelessly infatuated but she wasn't stupid or
completely
unprincipled. It would never happen. He'd never leave his wife and children, not Tony, not even if he fell in love with someone else. I wouldn't want him to, Rachel thought. At least I hope I wouldn't. Oh, God, what am
I
going to do?

Eventually physical exhaustion overcame her and she fell into one of those exasp
erating states of semiconscious
ness, too tired to wake up and too uptight to sleep soundly. If she had been deeply asleep she might not have heard the faint creak of the opening door.

She was lying on her side facing the door, but she couldn't see anything, not even the light she had left burning in the hall. For several seconds she heard nothing more, and she was trying to convince herself that the bulb had burned out and the sound had been the product of dreaming when another sound put an end to those comfortable assumptions. It was the sound of expelled breath.

Her heart was pounding so hard she felt sure the intruder could hear it, and she almost regretted her refusal to buy a gun. Almost, but not really. Phil had insisted on keeping his in the drawer of the bedside table, and its proximity had always made her nervous. A loaded gun was an invitation to accident or manslaughter, and an unloaded weapon wasn't worth a damn. "What am I supposed to do, ask the burglar to please wait till I find the bullets and put them in the gun?" she had demanded of Phil. He had not thought it was funny.

The only potentially useful item in the drawer now was a flashlight. Rachel's arms were under the bedclothes, and she knew she couldn't extract them without making a noise. The flashlight was no good anyhow. He was already too close. Her eyes had adjusted and she could see his outline, motionless in the open doorway. Ideas ran wildly around in her head like a frantic animal trapped in a maze. How had he gotten in? Silly question, there were no bars on the windows . . . With a key? Phil still had one. There
was no comfort in that thought; he had been furious with her the day he left, mouthing curses and threats. He'd been drunk, probably he hadn't meant it ... She couldn't think what to do, she couldn't move. Better lie still, pretend to be asleep, let him find her purse, her few pieces of jewelry.

Coward.

The voice was as clear as if she had spoken aloud, but the words leaped into her consciousness with the instantaneous speed of thought.
Hoping for a hero, are you? There are no heroes. Just you. Are you going to let him do whatever he wants
—
steal, rape you, hurt you? You can fight back.

The rustle of the sheets sounded as loud as an explosion to her, but the shapeless form didn't react. Perhaps he thought she was only turning over in her sleep. She knew the next sound would be louder. The drawer always stuck. She yanked it open, grabbed the flashlight, and switched it on. The beam struck him full in the face.

Rachel didn't get to Georgetown until almost ten
a.m.
She had hoped Kara would be gone by then and that she could leave the bag of linens with the maid. No such luck. Kara answered the door herself.

By her standards she was casually dressed, in loose slacks and an oversized shirt whose sleeves were rolled to the elbows. The shirt was Edwardian, a man's dress shirt with a starched pleated bib, and it looked sensational on her.

"Good God!" she exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

Involuntarily Rachel raised a hand to her face. "
I
ran into a door."

Kara grabbed the bag with one hand and Rachel with the other. "I had planned to offer you a cup of coffee, but I think an icebag or a slice of raw beefsteak—"

"I really can't stay. I'm late."

"Cheryl isn't expecting you till you get there." Moving with brisk efficiency she closed the door, divested Rachel of her wet coat, and draped it over a chair. "She called to tell me you were dropping off that parcel, but she didn't mention you'd had an accident. Come back to the kitchen and tell me about it."

There was no reason for reticence; Rachel had already reported the incident to the police, and she would have to tell Cheryl, if only to put her on her guard. But she resented Kara's authoritative manner, and she felt out of place in that house. It was as elegant as its mistress, one of the old Federal houses that gave the area its distinctive character, and as Rachel shuffled along the hall in Kara's wake she noticed details—a gracefully curved staircase, an antique Persian rug in the drawing room, floors polished to mirror smoothness except where her wet footprints marred them.

The kitchen wasn't as formal as the front part of the house; the warm red-brown tiles and the bright print of the curtains formed a cheerful contrast to the dead garden visible through the wide bay window. The table in the curve of the bay was set with woven mats, and at the moment its surface was comfortably cluttered with pottery mugs and dishes, a plate of doughnuts, magazines and papers. Rachel was starting to relax when she saw the woman who was sitting at the table, and felt herself freeze up again.

She was the daintiest of little ladies, exquisitely groomed and looking much younger than her probable age. The Chanel suit of soft blue matched her eyes and set off her porcelain skin and snowy hair; the outfit would have been more appropriate for a Junior League luncheon than a casual kitchen coffee klatch. When she saw Rachel she jumped up with a cry of sympathy.

"You poor girl! What happened?"

Rachel knew who she was even before Kara introduced them. Kara had often spoken of her Aunt Ruth, who had mothered her and encouraged her and helped her start her business. The house had once belonged to Ruth; she and her husband, a professor at a local university, now lived in the country.

She fussed over Rachel as Cheryl would have done, settling her in a chair, folding ice cubes in a towel and holding it against Rachel's bruised cheek. Kindness and sympathy had a demoralizing effect; Rachel felt tears come to her eyes.

She didn't want to show signs of weakness, so she fought back the tears and concentrated on producing a coherent story. Kara had obviously heard about the bag of quilts and the man who had left it; she nodded impatiently but didn't interrupt, since it was news to Ruth, who kept letting out little gasps of distress. Kara's interest revived when Rachel described what had happened the previous night.

"It was the same man?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"You were very brave," Ruth exclaimed. "I would have cowered under the covers and pretended I was asleep."

Kara's face softened. "No, you wouldn't. You'd have chased him, brandishing the flashlight."

"I hope I'd have had better sense," Ruth said indignantly. Then she gave Rachel an apologetic smile. "That wasn't meant as criticism. You didn't really chase him, did you?"

"I don't know what, if anything, I had in mind," Rachel admitted, with an answering smile. "It was sheer reflex— sheer terror, probably. You feel so helpless—you are helpless!—when you're lying down. I jumped up, yelling and waving the flashlight. He must have assumed I was asleep
until the light hit him in the face, and it startled him so that he turned and ran. No,
I
wouldn't have chased him;
I
just wanted to slam the door and shove the furniture up against it. I miscalculated—ran smack into the edge of the door and almost knocked myself out.
I
managed to close and lock it, though."

"You called the police, of course." Kara reached for a doughnut and bit into it. Powdered sugar sifted down onto her chest.

"Of course."

"You told them the whole story?"

"Certainly."

"Don't be so defensive," Kara said mildly. "Have a doughnut."

She pushed the plate toward Rachel, who realized she was starved. No breakfast, only a few hours' sleep, and a headache the size of Mount Everest. . . She ate the doughnut, while Kara thought aloud.

"It's the bag he wants, obviously. He must have mistaken the one you took home for the one he abandoned. You didn't notice anyone following you?" She answered her own question before Rachel, her mouth full of doughnut, could do so. "No, why should you? Heavy traffic, dark, you were anxious to get home. You live alone?"

Rachel explained. Ruth said in a worried voice, "She can't go back there. Not until they catch the man."

"It might not be a good idea," Kara agreed. "Though if he was on your trail this morning he knows the bag isn't at your place now."

"Where is it?" Ruth asked.

Kara brushed at the sugar speckling her shirtfront. "Here."

After a while she broke into Rachel's exclamations. "For God's sake stop apologizing.
I
know you had no intention of passing on the curse. And you stop fussing, Aunt Ruth.

I don't think he'll be fool enough to try again; he's narrowly missed being caught twice already. If he does, I'd rather he came after me than after Rachel, or Cheryl and the kids."

"And Tony," Rachel said, without thinking.

"Right." Kara didn't look at her. "This house is as secure as bolts and bars and alarms can make it. And I've got Alexander."

"Oh, yes," Ruth said sarcastically. "How could I have forgotten about Alexander? With him on the premises you've nothing to worry about."

"Who's Alexander?" Rachel asked.

The other women turned to look at a basket on the far side of the room, close to the radiator. Rachel had taken the motionless, fuzzy mass in it for a pile of knitting—with a particularly ugly pattern. At the repetition of the name the bundle stirred and squirmed and a face appeared. It had to be a face—Rachel caught a glimpse of an eye before hair obscured it—but it didn't resemble the countenance of any creature, living or extinct, she had ever seen.

"Good Lord," she gasped. "What is it?"

The thing climbed slowly out of the basket and stood up. It resembled a small barrel or keg covered with orange and white and black and gray fur, except for its rump, which was obscenely bare. It inched forward, rolling from side to side; when it was a few feet away it stopped, tossed its head, and lunged.

Kara detached it from the leg of the table and lifted it onto her lap. "This is Alexander," she said. "Good dog, brave dog."

"Dog?" Rachel repeated in disbelief.

"He's old," Kara said defensively. "He can't see very well or move very fast, but he thinks he's defending me."