Have You Seen Me?(76)

I smile ruefully. “Maybe he’s trying to determine how much of a nutjob he married.”

Later, I make an attempt to read in the den while Roger disappears upstairs to his office for a while. Hugh calls at about nine to say good night and I keep it brief, too exhausted to play at sounding normal. Shortly afterward, my brother returns and joins me on the couch with an art book, but he seems distracted now, flipping pages without lighting on them. When I glance up, I see that he’s staring off into space, his head slightly cocked, and I half expect him to ask, Did you hear that? But he doesn’t. A minute later he announces he’s turning in, but I’m welcome to hold down the fort in the den.

“No, I should call it a night, too,” I say. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Roger.”

“My pleasure, Button.”

I follow him upstairs and soon crawl into bed. Somehow, I manage to drift off to sleep pretty quickly. But when I awake with a start, I see that it’s ten past eleven, and I’ve been asleep for only a few minutes. I lie on my back beneath the covers as my mind churns with now-familiar thoughts of Hugh in his towel, Hugh lying, Hugh and Ashley. And then Mulroney, dead perhaps because of me. The large dimensions of the guest room, with its soaring ceilings, don’t help to put me at ease. But finally, perhaps from sheer mental exhaustion, I finally nod off again.

And then once more I jolt awake. The bedside clock now reads 3:12. At first, I assume my internal agitation has roused me, but as I shift onto my back, I see a faint light shimmering outside the two windows looking onto the side yard.

I scoot up in bed. Am I seeing car headlights from the road, the beams on high? But it doesn’t diminish as quickly as those would.

I toss off the duvet, slip out of bed, and cross the room toward the window. Halfway there, I notice a fiery red bleeding into the yellow glow, and as I reach the sill, I gasp in shock. One side of the garden shed that sits near the edge of the property is engulfed in flames. Smoke is billowing up toward the treetops.

I stuff my feet into flats and race down the hallway toward Roger’s room. Pounding on his door elicits no response, so I shove it open. From the dim light of the hall I can see that his bed is empty. God, where is he?

I notice there’s light emanating from the base of the stairwell and rush down the wide steps into the center hall, pivot, and tear to the rear of the house. The chain’s off the door. I swing it open and spill into the night.

“Roger?” I scream, staggering onto the gravel drive. I can hear the fire crackling from the side yard. “Roger?”

I’m about to round the building to find him when a force whacks me hard from behind. My knees buckle, the wind knocked out of me.

I try to right myself, but something comes out of nowhere and slams into my throat. It’s an arm in a jacket, I realize. A man’s arm. Panic explodes through my limbs. The grip tightens and he starts to yank me backward. Somehow I manage to struggle, clawing behind me. For a split second, I touch something scratchy on either his head or face.

I make an attempt to scream, but he reaches up, clamps a hand on my mouth. His feet keeping moving, though. When squirming doesn’t free me, I kick at his shins. For a split second he freezes, still gripping me at a slant. Then, with his free hand, he punches the side of my face with the force of a battering ram.

The shock from the pain makes me crumble, but he hoists me up and keeps dragging. I dig my shoes into the dirt, trying to slow our momentum. One flies off, then the other. My feet are bare now, and stones and tree roots tear at the skin. We’re descending, I realize. Down the front lawn of the house as it drops to the river.

Finally, he stops. I hear his arms fall by his side and I make an attempt to bolt. “Roger,” I scream, but it comes out as a tiny squeak.

An arm shoots out and this time I’m yanked backward by the neck of my pajama top. The movement makes me spin a little in place and I finally see his figure. His face is obscured by a ski mask.

“Help,” I scream, louder this time. “Help!”

Another punch to my face, and my cheek erupts in pain. He grabs me again with both arms and hauls me through the dirt and grass. Only a foot or so away I can hear the river water lapping against the banks.

And then I understand.

He’s going to drown me.





29


I try once more to fight him off, but it’s useless. He drives me to my knees, then grabs a wad of my hair in his fist and plunges my head into the river. The feel of the ice-cold water is like an electric shock and my heart nearly stops.

I hold my breath, trying desperately not to inhale. Flailing behind me with my free arm, I make contact only with air.

I’m going to die, I realize. Right here, right now.

Then, even through the river water, I hear it—thwack. And a second later, the hold on me miraculously loosens. I tear my head from the river, retching. Propping myself on my elbows, I slide backward and gulp for as much air as I can.

Behind me there’s the sound of footsteps, shoes scuffing in the dirt. Still on my knees, I turn to see the man in the ski mask a yard or so away. He’s on the ground now, but trying to stagger to his feet.

In the glow from a security light I spot Roger a few feet beyond, legs wide and both hands grasping the oar of a canoe. He takes aim at the assailant and swings the oar, delivering a blow so powerful, I hear wood crack. Or maybe bone. It’s the second blow, I realize. The man teeters for a few moments and finally collapses, faceup on the ground.