Very slowly and very carefully, I put down the knife. Without taking my eyes off the darkness beyond the house, I wrapped my bleeding finger in the soft blue and white striped Turkish cotton dishtowel lying on the couner. A red splotch spread through the fibers. The cut was deep.
The lights in the kitchen were blazing. I was exposed to anyone who was watching silently in the woods. The entire backside of this house is glass, soaring two stories into the air. In the morning, the sun filters through the trees, in summer creating a patchwork of green and gold. Even now, in winter, the bare branches gleam, backlit by the pale rays of the sun. As much as I hate this house, I have to admit it’s breathtaking.
But at night I had the uneasy feeling of being an insect trapped under a water glass.
I casually turned toward the Wolf range and flicked off the flame. The chile puree bubbled for a few seconds, then subsided. There was a rich peppery tang in the air. I was ravenous. Too bad I had bled into the pineapple.
I drifted into the front hall. All my senses were heightened. I could feel my finger throbbing, feel the cool polished floor and then the coarseness of the kilim beneath my bare feet, hear the tiny squeak of the floorboards as I darted to the stairs.
The light flickered again, now level with the second story. Someone had slithered up the steps in the giant oak and was in Marco’s study. Naturally It was a glass enclosed tree house perched at the end of a narrow cantilevered bridge that extended from the deck outside our bedroom, across the strip of velvety grass—a concession to my traditional urges--into the woods. It was a high flying sanctuary where my remote and mysterious husband, direct descendant of Marco Polo—yes, that one--had spent long hours intently studying the antiquarian manuscripts and maps that regularly arrived in the mail.
I’m not a fearful person. I’ve ridden with deranged Russian cab drivers, dodged bricks falling from the sky, stared down a pack of snarling King Charles spaniels—and that’s just on Fifth Avenue. But now I was really frightened. Marco might have come back to retrieve something. But why would he sneak through the woods? Wouldn’t he just use his key to open the door? I would have welcomed him back with open arms, no matter what he had done. No, it had to be someone else, someone I might not want to meet in the dark. One murder had occurred. I didn’t want to be the second.
I slipped up the shadowy stairs, turning once, then twice until I reached the landing on the second floor. I took a deep breath. It was cold. Had I left a window open? I paused, listening hard, but heard only the tiny creaks of the house as it breathed in and out.
I ran into darkened bedroom, flung open the walk-in closet—a concession to my ex-urban life---and found the thick, black, cable knit cashmere sweater I had left lying on the floor the night before—was it only 24 hours ago?—in my drunken stupor. I pulled it on over my thin silk blouse and instantly felt warmer. I stepped into my black Merrells, fleece-lined, with silent rubber soles. Now the playing field was level—I was invisible.
Silently I unlocked the sliding glass door that opened onto the upper deck and stepped outside. The shock of icy air set my nerves tingling. I could see the faintest light behind the wooden shutters in the tree house. The deck was wet and a fine mist was falling. I crept slowly out onto the bridge. It swayed slightly under my weight. I took a step forward and the metal cables groaned. I waited. I had to decide. I could run back to the house, lock the door, and call the police who had, coincidentally, issued an all points bulletin for my husband and would be more than delighted to apprehend him on his home turf.
Or I could see if he had come back. I took another step forward. The bridge was wet and slippery, just wide enough for one person, and I held tightly to the metal cables on either side. There was no moon, and I inched forward in total blackness. It was many minutes before I found myself, more by touch than sight, at the door of the tree house. There was a pale gleam of light where the shutters didn’t quite meet the doorframe. I put my eye to the gap.
Books and papers were strewn over the floor. OK, I told myself. It was now or never. Almost dizzy with fright, I grasped the metal handle of the door and opened it.
I saw—and blackness descended over me.