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David
Ellis’ Line of Vision won the 2002 Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best
First Novel by an American Author.
CHAPTER
ONE
SOMETHING
IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE.
The
winds on November 18 are unusually strong for this time of year,
even by Midwestern standards, carrying mist and some stray leaves
in the night air. It doesn't make my journey up the three acres
of the Reinardts' backyard any easier. The ground is hard, but
still damp from today's rain. My feet keep slipping on the blanket
of wet leaves. I silently curse the Midwestern weather, the Indian
summer that provides us these leaves that should have disappeared
weeks ago, the abrupt plummet of the temperature this week. I
feel the near-freezing mist on my cheeks, which are about the
only parts of my body exposed to the elements. But even as I trudge
up the hill, focused on the ground—both to avoid the wind
and to watch my step—I sense that something is out of place.
The typical leap of my heart when I make it into the clearing,
the dreamy sensation as I approach the house—none of this
fills me now. Something is different.
I
read just the wool scarf, wrapped tightly around my face and irritating
my skin to no end. Back before I crossed the stream, I was forced
to tie it in a knot behind my head, or else it would fly off.
Every few steps now, I stop to pull it back over my nose.
I
press on, with my head down and eyes open in slants; no angle
is safe from the relentless, swirling wind. My hands have curled
into fists to keep warm, leaving the finger holes of my gloves
empty.
I
make it up the hill to within about thirty yards of the old Victorian
house. It's been, what, sixteen years since high school, and it
feels more like thirty to my legs. I catch my breath next to my
favorite oak tree, whose naked branches wave mercilessly from
side to side in this wind.
The
estate of Dr. Derrick Reinardt and his wife, Rachel, rests triumphantly
on top of a small hill in the suburb of Highland Woods. Your basic
spread in this north-shore bedroom community: sprawling acreage
in the back with no front yard to speak of, a fairly unassuming
exterior masking the ornate decor within. This is the upper-class
side of the suburb—not mega-rich family money but working-class
wealth, CEOs, doctors, personal-injury lawyers, a former governor—and
the houses in this neighborhood remind me of tiny fiefdoms, wide
plots bordered by trees and shrubbery that serve more to ensure
privacy than to impress. This is not a bad thing, mind you; there
is no way that a neighbor could see me back here.
The
Reinardts have a long, wooden back patio with a surprisingly simple
array of wood furniture and a gas barbecue grill that is covered
this time of the year with a thick gray tarp. The den is in the
back of the house by the patio, separated by a large sliding glass
door with a silk curtain that—
The
curtain is open.
Wait.
Today's Thursday, right? Yeah, of course it is. Am I late? Could
she be done already?
I
furiously pull back my coat sleeve to look at my watch, which
is no small chore wearing these gloves. No. No. I be late.
No.
The fluorescent numbers read 9:34. As usual, I'm way early. Maybe
she hasn't set up yet. But—that doesn't make sense, either.
She usually has everything ready well before she starts. She knows
I get here early, likes the fact that I'm waiting with anticipation.
No, the curtain should definitely be closed.
I
stand around for a couple of minutes, looking over the house,
seeing nothing, no sign of Rachel. Tonight the sky offers no light;
the warm-weather insects do not provide their creaks and calls.
The fury of the wind mutes all sound, leaving me to a silent film
with not much for video, either.
Maybe
she just got a late start, is all. Maybe she'll come down soon.
I yank my scarf down just in time to sneeze into my gloves. Then
I sneeze again. I wipe my hands on the tree.
"This
is ridiculous,'' I say to no one, though this is really not the
most appropriate word to describe me at this moment, a grown man
sneaking around outside a married woman's house. Pathetic. Depraved.
Perverted. All of the above?
I
consider leaving. It can't be more than twenty degrees out here,
well below zero with the windchill. God, the wind is whipping
up something awful.
"Story
of my life,'' I mumble, again to an audience of no one. All dressed
up and nowhere to go.
My
mind drifts from my aborted fantasy show to work tomorrow. I have
to get in early anyway, get ready for the presentation. It's probably
just as well. Time to turn back, no more jollies, adult responsibility
time. But still, my feet remain planted. I think of Rachel's words,
almost two weeks ago to the day. I had mentioned her husband in
an offhanded way, an innocuous comment, I don't even recall what.
Her outburst of tears, the contortion of her face, her eyes squeezed
shut.
"Tell
me, Rachel,'' I said.
She
shook her head. "No,'' she whispered.
I
sat up on an elbow on the bed, moved the wisps of bangs from her
forehead. "Tell me, sweetie. Tell me what's going on.''
Her
sobbing subsided momentarily. She swallowed hard. "If he
ever knew I told some''
"Oh,
honey. He'll never know. You think I'm gonna tell him?'' I actually
laughed as I said that. Then I took her hand in mine. "Told
someone about what?''
The
lights are on upstairs. I look up at the windows. No silhouettes.
No sign of life.
"Sometimes,''
she started. "Sometimes he—'' Her eyes closed, her mouth
turned in a frown.
"Rach,
sweetie, it's me. Tell me about it.''
She
let out a sigh. She had settled on it now. She would tell me.
Her eyes opened into mine.
I
look back down into the den, the only room I can see into. Nothing.
Nada. The staircase that leads to the bottom floor winds around
at the last two stairs and ends at the cream tiled hallway, which
leads past the living room into the den. From my view, I can see
those last two stairs, the hallway, and the den. On the right
side of the den is a white, deliciously soft couch. At the back
end of the den, opposite the sliding glass door, is the bar, lined
with bottles of liquor, oak cabinets underneath.
I
do another once-over around the house. Not a creature is stirring.
"It's
only sometimes,'' she said, apologizing for her husband. "Only
when he drinks.''
"Okay,''
I said quietly, "it's only sometimes.'' I brought a hand
to her face, then thought the gesture inappropriate. She needed
space, time.
She
sighed again, her body letting out a tremble.
"He
hits me, Marty,'' she whispered. "My husband beats me.''
Still
nothing upstairs. It's 9:37. My anxieties getting the better of
me, images running wild in my mind, but the truth is, no one's
home. She's probably at dinner with him or something. Regardless,
the regularly scheduled programming will not be seen tonight,
and all I'm gonna have to show for it is hypothermia and a bruised
ego. Time to cut my losses. I look back down the hill at the woods
that form the name of our town, Highland Woods. The entire suburb
has built up around this miniforest, which has made my path to
and from the Reinardts' house these many days a conveniently clandestine
one. Over the stream and through the woods. To grandmother's house
we go. I swear, that stupid song comes into my head every time
I make this trip.
I
looked over my beautiful Rachel, her neck, her shoulders, her
face.
She
sensed what I was doing. "No,'' she said flatly. Her face
pale, void of any expression, she lifted herself from the bed
and turned, adjusting herself so she sat with her back to me.
Before
she had settled I saw them. I brought a trembling hand to her
back but didn't make contact. Three, four, five lacerations, long
spindly scars forming a gruesome road map down the center of her
back. I remembered then her wincing while we had made love earlier,
as I sank my fingers into her back.
Guilt
was the first thing that I felt. How had I not noticed these before?
How long had this gone on, and I hadn't noticed?
I
brought my arms around her, pulling her backward against my chest,
my face buried in her neck.
"He
uses his belt,'' she said with no inflection. "But never
my face. He's too smart for that. He even keeps it below the neckline.
Scars you can never see.''
I
look back at the den again. I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets
and stomp my feet in a feeble attempt to keep warm. I fix on the
staircase in the hallway, my eyes tearing from the wind.
I
jump at the sight of her, my one and only, my beautiful Rachel,
the jet-black hair to her shoulders, the shapely outline, even
from a distance the shiny amber eyes. My hand leaves my pocket
just in time to grab the tree to keep my balance. She must have
been in the living room, not upstairs. Or did I miss her coming
down the stairs?
I
can't make out her features very well; I'm too far away to see
the expression on her face. She's wearing a whitish blouse and
blue slacks, not her ordinary attire for the occasion—she
usually opts for a negligee, sometimes surprises me with an outfit
like a schoolgirl skirt and knee-high socks. But tonight, as she
walks along the tiled hallway in a semicrouch, almost tiptoeing
yet moving with some urgency, Rachel is anything but provocative,
her whole body wearing an obvious pain, maybe fear.
Scars
you can never see.
She
reaches the den, still crouching sheepishly, one hand tucked under
her shirt. She walks to the bar. Her back is to me as she reaches
the counter, a deep mahogany brown. She keeps looking up at the
ceiling, probably listening for her husband upstairs? At the bar,
she raises a trembling hand to the ice bucket. She removes a couple
of cubes but knocks the tumbler sideways, the ice spilling onto
the bar and floor.
Her
head turns upward again.
It's
only when he drinks.
She
sets the glass upright, stuffs some more ice into it, and reaches
for a bottle of liquor. She fills the glass and tries to gather
the spilled ice. But her hand is shaking so hard that she can
barely put the cubes back into the container.
The
other hand remains tucked under her shirt.
She
looks up again, but this time not straight at the ceiling. This
time, she looks more toward the staircase in the hallway. Her
hands are still now.
A
clumsy, uncertain foot stomps onto that last stair, then into
the hallway. Dr. Reinardt is wearing an oxford shirt, haphazardly
tucked into his pants, with the sleeves rolled up. His movements
are slow and awkward. He stops at one point in the hallway and
reaches out to the wall to steady himself.
The
doctor can't see Rachel yet; she is still by the bar, against
the front wall of the den. But now Rachel has placed the drink
on the bar; she is reaching behind the bottles of booze that line
the back of the countertop. She pulls the bottles back and reaches
out with her other hand. I catch a glimpse of shiny steel as she
raises the object over and behind the bottles.
I
shift and feel the wood from the Reinardts' deck. I'm only about
twenty feet from the glass door now. The deck is raised three
steps off the grass, leaving me the perfect amount of space to
crouch down from their view. I reach up to the deck for balance
and realize that my hands, like Rachel's, are trembling.
The
outside porch light is off, so they can't see me unless they're
looking. And as Dr. Reinardt enters the den, he is not looking
out the glass door.
He
stops and just stares at Rachel. She reaches for the glass on
the bar, but the doctor, without moving, says something to her
that makes her put her hands at her side. He says nothing more,
just glares at her.
Rachel
fidgets. She brushes back a strand of hair from her face, then
puts her hands at her side again. She's talking to him, her head
moving compliantly, but he doesn't respond. Finally, she picks
up the glass and offers it to her husband. When he doesn't take
it, she sets it down on the bar near him. The doctor lashes out
with his right hand, knocking the glass and its golden contents
to the carpet. Rachel instinctively steps back, says something
in apology, then crouches down to retrieve the glass and ice.
She is facing me now. For the first time, I see her face. I can
make out cuts and bruises on her cheeks.
Scars
you can see.
Rachel
stands now, turning away from me and toward her husband. Her hands
raise in compromise; she's trying to calm him.
The
doctor staggers toward his wife, who holds her ground. They are
face-to-face now. As slow as he's moving, his right hand rises
in a flash, fist half closed. Rachel's head whips to the right,
her hair and arms flying wildly, her knees buckling as she falls
backward to the carpet. She lands awkwardly on an elbow, then
rolls over so she's facing the carpet. The doctor nods approvingly,
that's-what-ya-get, as Rachel brings a hand to the developing
bruise below her eye.
Rachel
slowly makes it to her feet again, her hand returning to her cheek,
her entire body trembling.
"I
know how it'll end,'' she told me only a few days ago. "He
told me how.''
Dr.
Reinardt approaches her. He grabs her by both arms, shaking her.
Rachel breaks a hand free and swings it lifelessly toward his
face.
I
am on the deck now, crouched down like a catcher, as I watch this
silent horror movie, no sound but the thump-thump,
thump of my pulse. The only thing separating me from the sliding
glass door is the wooden bench and the picnic table.
"Tell
me how, Rach.''
Dr.
Reinardt reasserts his grip on Rachel. He pulls down on her, forcing
her to the carpet in a vise grip. Once on the floor, he tears
at her blouse.
"He's
going to rape me first. He said he'll rape me then kill me.''
And
then, as I grip the wooden bench and slowly rise, it is suddenly
clear to me. And something like calm sweeps over me, a certain
focus through the panic. Because now I know how this story will
end.
—Reprinted
from LINE OF VISION by David Ellis by permission of Berkley, a
member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2002, David Ellis.
All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not
be reproduced in any form without permission.
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