Michael Prescott: Mortal Faults

Abby started driving again and cruised past the house, noting the street number just as she’d noted the street name at the corner. Now she knew her quarry’s address-903 Keystone Drive.

She made a U-turn in a cul-de-sac, then considered her options. The safest approach would be to go home, look up the address in a reverse directory, and see if the resident was Rose Moran. Then she could arrange one of those cute-meet situations she was so good at.

The problem was, she was a little hyped up after the long tail job, and she wasn’t in the mood to do research. She was in the mood to get up close and personal, right now.

Could be dangerous. Worse, it could be stupid. In the past she’d rarely approached the subject without proper preparation. Lately she’d been more willing to wing it. She told herself that her experience gave her enough flexibility to improvise her way out of anything. It might be true. Or maybe she just liked the rush she got by taking a reckless chance.

She drove back down the street. A few yards from the woman’s house, she killed the Mazda’s engine and let the car roll to a stop by the curb.

She took a moment to study the place. A small one-story home, huddled between look-alike houses in an aging development. The car in the driveway next door was raised on cinderblocks, and a lawnmower rusted in the yard. The house on the opposite side appeared to be abandoned, its windows boarded up. Across the street was a pocket park with playground equipment-a slide, a swing set. The park was empty now.

She got out of the Mazda and walked up the front path. She was getting a funny vibe from the place. In some unaccountable way, the little house seemed draped in sadness. Maybe it was the lawn, green and close-cropped and meticulously tended, or the flower beds with their desperately cheerful arrangements of pinks and mums. Someone spent a great deal of time on appearances. Or it might be the heavy curtains covering the front windows, curtains that were stiff and faded, as if they hadn’t been opened in years.

The woman who lived here was alone. She never had company. Abby was sure of it, sure in her gut, where the truest intuitions lived.

Well, she would have company now.

The doorbell frightened Andrea.

She had no visitors, ever. For the most part, the only sounds in her world were the ticking of the wall clock and the laughing cries of children in the park across the street. She rarely turned on the television or radio. She didn’t even own a record player or tape deck. She lived in a cocoon of silence.

Now, at nearly ten o’clock at night, the doorbell had rung.

Her first impulse was to hide. Retreat to her bedroom and wait for whoever was outside her door to leave.

But then the doorbell rang a second time, and Andrea knew she had to answer. She had to know who was out there. Otherwise her imagination would torture her with a hundred possibilities. It was better to know.

Besides, she didn’t have to actually open the door.

She crossed the living room, past the carefully nurtured plants on her end tables, plants chosen because they didn’t need much sun. Once she had loved daylight, but then she had spent twelve years in darkness, and now it was only in the dark that she felt comfortable.

Bracing herself against the door, she risked a look through the peephole. The porch light was on, illuminating a woman, dark-haired, slender.

“Yes?” Andrea called out. “What is it?”

The woman frowned, perturbed at having to speak through a closed door. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. My car seems to have run out of gas.”

She gestured behind her. Dimly it was possible to see a car stopped by the curb.

This could be a trick. People were always claiming to have some automotive problem, and when the homeowner opened the door…

She wouldn’t fall for it. She would make the woman go away. “I don’t have any gasoline. I’m sorry.”

“I was hoping to use your phone, call Triple A.”

The phone. No, that was out of the question. For the woman to use the phone, she would have to come inside the house.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Andrea said through the door. “Don’t you have a phone of your own? One of those cellular phones?”

“The battery is dead.”

“Then you’ll have to try one of my neighbors.”

“All the lights are out. It doesn’t look like anyone’s awake.”

“Someone must be. If they’re asleep, you can wake them.”

“I’d really prefer not to do that. Can’t I just make a quick call? It’ll only take a minute.”

Yes, it would only take a minute. A minute to place a phone call-or to knock the trusting homeowner unconscious and rob her blind.

Still, the woman looked all right. Not that you could judge a person by appearances. Andrea had learned that lesson. She’d learned about the masks people wore, and what was behind the masks-not least, her own.

“Ma’am?” piped the irritating, beseeching voice.

“I’m sorry,” Andrea said firmly. “I can’t help you.”

There. That was that. The matter was settled. She was turning away from the door when she heard the woman say, “Please.”

No one had said please to Andrea in a long time.

She hesitated, her lips working silently, mouthing words. Then on impulse she unlatched the door and opened it a few inches, without releasing the security chain.

“You’re polite,” Andrea said. “I like that.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” the woman said again.

Andrea could feel her heart clenching and unclenching in her chest, each beat a separate jolt that traveled up her breastbone into her throat. She didn’t want to release the chain. She was sure she would regret it if she did.

And yet it had been so long since anyone had treated her with courtesy. And the ticking of the clock did get irksome at times, with no voices in the house.

The chain made a poor defense, anyway. The woman could have forced open the door by now, had she wanted to. One good shove would rip the chain out of its socket.

She could probably be trusted.

“All right,” Andrea said, her own words surprising her. She took down the chain and opened the door before she could change her mind. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” The woman stepped over the threshold, and Andrea took a step back, afraid of sharing her space. “I appreciate it. Really. My name’s Abby. Abby Bannister.”

Andrea realized she was expected to give her own name in return. It had been a while since she’d practiced the ritual of exchanging introductions. “Andrea Lowry.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lowry.”

“It’s Miss Lowry. Just Miss. Call me Andrea.” Her mouth was dry. Speech was difficult. “The phone… in the kitchen.” She gestured vaguely.

The woman moved past her. She was alone. No accomplice had been waiting to spring through the doorway.

Andrea lingered in the living room while Abby Bannister called AAA and arranged for service. When the call was over, Abby emerged from the kitchen. It had taken longer than the promised minute, but Andrea wasn’t upset about that. She was beginning to adjust to the peculiar sensation of sharing her living quarters with another human being.

“I’m sorry I was so standoffish,” Andrea said. “But a person has to be careful, you know. Especially at this time of night.”

“I understand.”

“The car people-they’re sending someone?”

“Yes. It may take some time. I’ll wait outside.”

“You can wait in here… if you like.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No, really, I don’t mind.” The odd thing was, she didn’t. Now that she’d allowed a person into her home, she suddenly dreaded the thought of being alone again. “I can fix you something to drink.”