Part 49 (1/2)
”Are you going to be nice?”
”Yes.”
”Do you live alone here?”
”Yes.”
”No husband?”
”No.”
”Boyfriend?”
”He doesn't live here.”
”You expecting him tonight?”
”No.”
”Are you lying to me?”
”It's the truth. I swear.”
She was pale under her dusky complexion.
”If you're lying to me,” he said, ”I'll cut your pretty face to ribbons.”
He raised the blade, put the point against her cheek. She closed her eyes and shuddered.
”Are you expecting anyone at all?”
”No.”
”What's your name?”
”Sally.”
”Okay, Sally, I want to ask you a few questions, but not here, not like this.”
She opened her eyes. Tears on the lashes. One trickling down her face. She swallowed hard. ”What do you want?”
”I have some questions about Katherine.”
She frowned. ”I don't know any Katherine.”
”You know her as Hilary Thomas.”
Her frown deepened. ”The woman in Westwood?”
”You cleaned her house today.”
”But ... I don't know her. I've never met her.”
”We'll see about that.”
”It's the truth. I don't know anything about her.”
”Perhaps you know more than you think you do.”
”No. Really.”
”Come on,” he said, working hard to keep a smile on his face and a friendly note in his voice. ”Let's go into the bedroom where we can do this more comfortably.”
Her shaking became worse, almost epileptic. ”You're going to rape me, aren't you?”
”No, no.”
”Yes, you are.”
Frye was barely able to control his anger. He was angry that she was arguing with him. He was angry that she was so d.a.m.ned reluctant to move. He wished that he could ram the knife into her belly and cut the information out of her, but, of course, he couldn't do that. He wanted to know where Hilary Thomas was hiding. It seemed to him that the best way to get that information was to break this woman the way he might break a length of heavy wire: bend her repeatedly back and forth until she snapped, bend her one way with threats and another way with cajolery, alternate minor violence with friendliness and sympathy. He did not even consider the possibility that she might be willing to tell him everything she knew. To his way of thinking, she was employed by Hilary Thomas, therefore by Katherine, and was consequently part of Katherine's plot to kill him. This woman was not merely an innocent bystander. She was Katherine's handmaiden, a conspirator, perhaps even another of the living dead. He expected her to hide information from him and to give it up only grudgingly.
”I promise that I'm not going to rape you,” he said softly, gently. ”But while I question you, I want you to be flat on your back, so that it'll be harder for you to try to get up and run. I'll feel safer if you're on your back. So if you're going to have to lay down for a while, you might as well do it on a nice soft mattress rather than on a hard floor. I'm only thinking of your comfort, Sally.”
”I'm comfortable here,” she said nervously.
”Don't be silly,” he said, ”Besides, if someone comes up on the front porch to ring the bell ... he might hear us and figure that something's wrong. The bedroom will be more private. Come on now. Come on. Upsy-daisy.”
She got to her feet.
He held the knife on her.
They went into the bedroom.
Hilary was not much of a drinker, but she was glad that she had a gla.s.s of good whiskey as she sat on the couch in Joshua Rhinehart's office and listened to the attorney's story. He told her and Tony about the missing funds in San Francisco, about the dead ringer who had left the bizarre letter in the safe-deposit box--and about his own growing uncertainty as to the ident.i.ty of the dead man in Bruno Frye's grave.
”Are you going to exhume the body?” Tony asked.
”Not yet,” Joshua said. ”There are a couple of things I've got to look into first. If they check out, I might get enough answers so that it's not really necessary to open the grave.”
He told them about Rita Yancy in Hollister and about Dr. Nicholas Rudge in San Francisco, and he reconstructed his recent conversation with Latham Hawthorne.
In spite of the warm room and the heat of the whiskey, Hilary was chilled to the bone. ”This Hawthorne sounds as if he belongs in an inst.i.tution himself.”
Joshua sighed. ”Sometimes I think if we put all the crazies into inst.i.tutions, there'd hardly be anyone left on the outside.”
Tony leaned forward on the couch. ”Do you believe that Hawthorne really didn't know about the look-alike?”
”Yes,” Joshua said. ”Curiously enough, I do believe him. He may be something of a nut about Satanism, and he may not be particularly moral in some areas, and he might even be somewhat dangerous, but he didn't strike me as a dissembler, Strange as it might seem, I think he's probably a generally truthful man in most matters, and I can't see that there's anything more to be learned from him. Perhaps Dr. Rudge or Rita Yancy will know something of more value. But enough of that. Now let me hear from the two of you. What's happened? What's brought you all the way to St. Helena?”