The Wall (15 page)

'I don't know. He would have had to fly out here to do it, but if he

happened to be following me, then I suppose anything is possible.

What I want you to do is to find out for me. Hire a private detective

from there to check out the fellow—I think he lives somewhere in

Pasadena. The letters are filed with the rest of the fan mail. It's a

good thing we've made a point to keep it all! Barry, I want whoever

did this found out, and I don't really care how much it costs. Do you

realise how my freedom could be impaired if we don't find out who

did it? I would never know if I was safe or not!'

A sigh wafted over the receiver. 'I know, babe, I know. I'll get

someone checking on that fellow right away. In the meantime,

though, couldn't you get in touch with the local police and tell them

who you really are? I think you need some protection, kiddo.'

She smiled. 'For the moment, Barry, I have protection. Don't you

worry about me. I'm not going to go to the police unless something

dire happens. That has to be avoided at all costs right now. Don't ask

me to explain.' It would be, she thought, disastrous. 'My friend called

the police this morning and they've already been here to dust for

fingerprints. The place was clean, so there's no lead here. I'm afraid

it's up to you.'

'And I'm half a continent away!' he groaned. He would be clutching

at his hair, she guessed.

Let go of your hair and relax,' she said calmly, and grinned at his

startled exclamation. 'Private detectives know how to board planes,

too, you know. If they happen to come out here, get a message to the

house somehow and I'll try to arrange a meeting time with them. Tell

them to stick it under the garage door—I've got the car and the

garage is empty, so there's no reason for anyone to try to break in.

We can work out something, I'm sure. I've got to go now, Barry. See

you, and thanks, old boy.'

She had nearly replaced the receiver when she heard distant yelling.

She brought the phone curiously back to her ear. 'Whoa, Sara! Don't

you want to hear about contract negotiations with the television

network? I think they're going to agree with your demands, kiddo.

They're breathing fire and stomping around right now, but I think it's

just a ritual rain dance, nothing more. Sooner or later we're going to

have 'em!'

'That's great, Barry,' she said warmly, not feeling half as good as she

might have at the information. 'I'll get in touch with you. 'Bye!'

She spent the rest of the time cleaning out her refrigerator, packing

up all the perishable foods in the car to take back to Greg's. When she

had everything in cartons in the back, she checked once more in her

bedroom to see if she had left any clothing that was undamaged, and

she found stuck in the back of the closet a dress and a pair of slacks

that she threw over her arm. Then, whistling cheerfully at Beowulf,

who fell pantingly in beside her, she opened the front door—and

shrieked at the dark shadow of the man that was standing before her,

blocking out the sun.

Strong hands gripped her as, in a panic, she tried to back up and run

away. Beowulf snuffled a greeting at Greg's feet. He pulled her close

for a quick minute, then let her go. 'I'm sorry,' he said softly, taking

the clothes off her arm and slinging them over his. 'I didn't mean to

scare you. You were a long time, and I got worried. Everything all

taken care of?'

She put a hand over her pounding heart, taking a steadying breath. 'I

think so. Just a minute. If I fall over in a faint, you know that I've had

a cardiac arrest, nothing big. Just call an ambulance.'

He smiled ruefully. 'And that was after I said I was sorry! Are you

ready to go?'

She wrinkled her nose at him, nodding. He ushered her out then, and

locked the door behind him. It was a blustery day, with sudden,

unpredictable gusts of wind that tore right through their coats and

whipped their hair into tangles. Greg opened the passenger door for

her without asking, and though she raised her eyebrows at this, she

slid into the seat anyway. He then climbed in and started the car,

backing swiftly.

They put the food away quickly. Sara had apples in her cheeks from

the outside wind and her eyes were very bright. Greg kept looking at

her, and she caught a few of his glances. Finally, laughing with

embarrassment, she said, 'What's the matter, do I have birds nesting

in my hair, or something?'

He gave a silent snort and she saw his chest heave. 'No. Do you want

to go for a drive?'

Her eyes lit up at the suggestion. 'What a nice idea! Yes, I would,

thank you.' He swatted her on the bottom.

'Then go and comb your hair and get your coat again, little girl.' It

was her turn to snort, and he was laughing when she left the room.

Greg pulled open the door to the garage and let Sara sail on through,

a few minutes later. She sank into the passenger seat of his car and

ran an admiring hand across the leather upholstery. Then he was

beside her, revving the engine slightly, and they were travelling down

the lane and soon pulling out on a main highway. He increased the

car's speed until they were travelling at a nice steady pace, then he

leaned back as if to say, 'That's it. We're on our way,' and Sara put

her head back on the headrest, relaxing.

She was soon in a very strange state, almost surrealistic. The ribbon

of the road was coming towards her continually, and threading under

the car to disappear behind her. She was oddly alone and yet not, at

the same time. She felt free to think her most private and closely

guarded thoughts as if she were by herself, but she had none of the

sense of loneliness that usually accompanied such thoughts. From

time to time she glanced sideways at the strange and strangely

familiar man next to her and found him silent, concentrating on the

road and yet seemingly relaxed as well. She felt him, felt his presence

and awareness and peace of mind, almost as if she had telepathy and

was inside his mind, thinking his thoughts, feeling his emotions.

It felt as if they were two separate manifestations of the same being.

If was as if they coexisted only side by side, and she knew that he felt

her presence as intensely as she felt his. She was aware of every

glance he gave her as if he had reached out with his hand and touched

her on the arm. She knew him intimately.

Presently she fell asleep.

Someone was lifting her, holding her, carrying her carefully. She

stirred and, without opening her eyes, put her arms around the neck

of the man she was so close to. 'Mmm, hi,' she whispered into his ear,

and he rubbed his cheek against hers.

'Hi.' He deposited her on the couch in the den and gently removed her

arms from his neck. 'Are you hungry?'

'No,' she murmured drowsily. 'I'm sleepy. What time is it? You know,

I'm always asking you that.'

'It's rather late. I'm going to fix us a light supper and then I think

you'd better go to bed.' Greg glanced at his watch and frowned at her.

Circles shadowed her eyes. She looked washed out.

Trying to hide her yawn, she apologised, 'I'm sorry I fell asleep—I

just got so relaxed that I kind of drifted away. Boring, huh?'

Greg sat beside her and took one of her hands. It was easily engulfed

by his larger one, and he played with the fingers absently. 'No, it

wasn't boring. I was hoping the drive would relax you and it did.

Mission accomplished. What would you like for supper?'

'I'd rather just go to bed.' Her eyelids were so heavy, she couldn't

keep them open any longer and she shut them just for a little rest. He

left her curled up on the couch as he went to the kitchen to prepare a

light snack of soup and salad for them both.

Sara was in a light comfortable doze- when a slight noise, a tiny

shuffle, a noise barely acknowledged in her consciousness, had her

heart pounding and her stomach flipping over in that terrible and

familiar way. It was just like last night, and she bolted up from the

couch with a cry of terror. Blundering into the hall, she grabbed at

the wall for support, then Greg was crashing out of the kitchen to

stare at her.

'What happened?' he snapped, looking around and appearing to her to

be very dangerous suddenly. She didn't consider him as a personal

threat any longer, however, and she rushed to him, crying.

'I don't know, I was almost asleep and then I heard something and it

sounded like last night—I-I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself,' she

babbled miserably, the easy tears of exhaustion slipping down her

cheeks and splashing on her sweater.

His face gentled. 'Sara, calm down. You were probably dreaming,

sweetheart. Look around you, there's no one here. See, Beowulf is

calm. He doesn't hear anything, and he'd be the first to know. Sara,

it's okay. You're safe, do you understand me? Safe.'

Her eyes clung to his face, needing to hear the words of reassurance

and to see that look of unruffled calm. He talked to her for a few

minutes more, soothingly and easily. She suddenly giggled and saw

his face change. 'I'm so stupid!'

'No. Perhaps a little unsettled, but never stupid. Come and keep me

company in the kitchen—I have some soup on to warm.' He perched

her once again on the high stool and gave her lettuce to cut up into

two serving bowls. She was soon finished with the job for her fingers

were graceful and quick. Greg saw her involuntary glance at the

black rectangle of glass that showed the dark autumn evening outside

and, moving casually to close the curtains so that nothing showed, he

started light chatter, soon having her respond in a normal fashion.

They ate in the kitchen, as they had that afternoon. Greg poured her

wine and she sipped with appreciation.

'Mm—tastes like mine,' she told him.

'It is,' she was informed complacently. He chewed a minute and

swallowed, grinning at her mock outrage. 'We'll have mine

tomorrow,' he soothed, reaching out and refilling his own glass. Sara

snorted.

'We'll have to, since this was my only bottle. You know, I'm really

beginning to wake up now. Greg, tell me about yourself. I know

virtually nothing about you.' She was looking for his facial

expression to change, to shutter up, and was ready for it when it did.

The open look in his eyes was replaced with the wall. She said

quickly, 'Don't misunderstand me. I don't want to know anything that

you don't want to share with me, really! I just want to know what you

like to do, what you work at for a living, what you like to eat, besides

omelettes, soup and salad, and if you're up on your tax payments to

the government, that's all.' She felt him start to relax, and she let

herself smile a little. 'I know one thing about you already.'

'What's that?' His eyes were still shadowed.

She waved a fork that had lettuce speared on it. 'You cook a mean

omelette, buster, and chop an incredible onion. Such style!'

He smiled involuntarily. 'I like to cook. I like to listen to music,

especially classical and rock. Jazz is a relatively new experience to

me that I'm learning to enjoy more and more. Country and Western

music, I can do without.'

Sara gurgled, 'Amen to that!' She wondered momentarily at his odd

twisted smile at that, when they raised their wine glasses for a solemn

toast. It was forgotten easily, though, as a light tinkle shivered down

her spine when the glasses clinked. 'What do you like to read?'

He lounged back against the counter behind him, balancing his wine

glass precariously. She watched with fascination. 'Eastern poetry.'

Her eyebrows arched delicately. 'Oh, really?'

'Don't look that way, you unenlightened chit! It's good stuff, very

philosophical. Of course, I like a good thriller now and then, too.'

His dark eyes sparkled at her evident amusement at that. His hair was

tousled casually, lying on his collar in a mussed-up fashion, and his

shirt gaped open several buttons down, showing a glimpse of the

brown chest that she had seen so briefly last night. She twinkled

wickedly at him, feeling a happiness course through her veins like

wine. 'How very erudite of you! William Goldman, I'll bet.'

'Yes, and Ian Fleming's James Bond series. There's a collection in my