Shadowfires Read Free Page B

clothes, in which the corpse would be
dressed, was called “the final raiments.” Attison said “preparations
for preservation” instead of “embalming,” and “resting place” instead
of “grave.”
    Although the experience was riddled with macabre humor, Rachael
was not able to laugh even when she left the funeral home after two
and a half hours and was alone in her car again. Ordinarily she had a
special fondness for black humor, for laughter that mocked the grim,
dark aspects of life. Not today. It was neither grief nor any kind of
sadness that kept her in a gray and humorless mood. Nor worry about
widowhood. Nor shock. Nor the morbid recognition of
Death's lurking presence in even the sunniest day. For a while, as she tended to other details of the funeral, and later, at home once more, as she called Eric's
friends and business associates to convey the news, she could not
quite understand the cause of her unremitting solemnity.
    Then, late in the afternoon, she could no longer fool herself. She
knew that her mental state resulted from fear. She tried to deny what
was coming, tried not to think about it, and she had some success at
not thinking, but in her heart she knew. She knew.
    She went through the house, making sure that all the doors and
windows were locked. She closed the blinds and drapes.
At five-thirty, Rachael put the telephone on
the answering machine. Reporters had begun to call, wanting a few
words with the widow of the Great Man, and she had no patience
whatsoever for media types.
    The house was a bit too cool, so she reset the air conditioner.
But for the susurrant sound of cold air coming through the wall vents
and the occasional single ring the telephone made before the machine
answered it, the house was as silent as Paul Attison's gloom-shrouded office.
    Today, deep silence was intolerable; it gave her the creeps. She
switched on the stereo, tuned to an FM station playing easy-listening
music. For a moment, she stood before the big speakers, eyes closed,
swaying as she listened to Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are.” Then
she turned up the volume so the music could be heard throughout the
house.
    In the kitchen, she cut a small piece of semisweet dark chocolate
from a bar and put it on a white saucer. She opened a split of fine,
dry champagne. She took the chocolate, the champagne, and a glass
into the master bathroom.
    On the radio, Sinatra was singing “Days of Wine and Roses.”
    Rachael drew a tub of water as hot as she could tolerate, added a
drizzle of jasmine-scented oil, and undressed. Just as she was about
to settle in to soak, the pulse of fear which had been beating
quietly within her suddenly began to throb hard and fast. She tried
to calm herself by closing her eyes and breathing deeply, tried
telling herself that she was being childish, but nothing worked.
    Naked, she went into the bedroom and got the.32-caliber pistol
from the top drawer of the nightstand. She checked the magazine to be
sure it was fully loaded. Switching off both safeties, she took the
thirty-two into the bathroom and put it on the deep blue tile at the
edge of the sunken tub, beside the champagne and chocolate.
    Andy Williams was singing “ Moon River.”
    Wincing, she stepped into the hot bath and settled down until the
water had slipped most of the way up the slopes of her breasts. It
stung at first. Then she became accustomed to the temperature, and
the heat was good, penetrating to her bones and finally dispelling
the chill that had plagued her ever since Eric had dashed in front of
the truck almost seven and a half hours ago.
    She nibbled at the candy, taking only a few shavings from the edge
of the piece. She let them melt slowly on her tongue.
    She tried not to think. She tried to concentrate on just the
mindless pleasure of a good hot steep. Just drift. Just be .
    She leaned back in the tub, savoring the taste of chocolate,
relishing the scent of jasmine in the