Nameless Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

aura seemed to press in upon them as they walked along the back of the house.
    “Spring has sprung” popped out of Ken’s mouth as soon as they rounded the corner. The pair gratefully made small talk all the way back to Ken’s truck. She waved him good-bye and then turned and walked up the front steps, only to find the door locked and her pockets devoid of keys. She rang the doorbell. Nothing. Repeated the process and got the same result. Banged the big brass knocker. Ditto.
    “Damn,” she said, retracing her steps down to the sidewalk before turning left, the opposite way, around the north side of the house, A legion of once-golden daffodils, now gone white with age, pushed their pale faces up through the rich brown loam. The centuryold iris plants, running the width of the house, was beginning to bloom.
    Paul was closing up the garage. She watched as he locked the side door and pocketed the key, a task with which he could not ordinarily have been trusted. He felt her presence and turned his gaze in her direction.
    She gave him a wave and a smile. “Paul,” she called. “The tree looks beautiful.”
    In the seventeen years since Helen had come to Harmony House, Paul Hardy was the only resident she’d ever cared for who was totally unresponsive, which perhaps explained her tendency to talk to him as if he understood what she was saying, in spite of the fact that he obviously did not. What else was she going to do? Ignore him? Treat him like he wasn’t there?
    Paul pushed his hands deep into his pockets and walked her way, head bent, looking silently down at his own shoes, just like always. His flowing hair had not been cut since the accident, nor had his beard. Another six months, Helen thought with a smile, and he’ll look like one of those rock-and-roll guys from Texas. She moved forward to meet him. Her skin tingled in the rapidly cooling air. She threw a hand onto his shoulder. “You did a great job,” she began. As they crossed the yard, she kept it up . . . about how good the tree looked and what a good job he’d done cleaning up after the job, all the while flicking what she imagined to be sly glances his way, surreptitiously trying to see if Paul understood what she was saying.
    As they approached the back stairs, she was saying, “. . . fifty years from now people will be sitting under that tree . . . they’ll . . .”
    Suddenly Paul Hardy stopped walking. When Helen turned her eyes his way, she shuddered. The close-set blue eyes no longer looked inward. For the first time in seven years, he met her gaze . . . and in an instant, she knew Ken Suzuki had been right. Whoever this was . . . The thought stopped her. She searched for something to call him and realized her conscious mind had no way of dealing with anyone or anything it couldn’t put a name to . . . especially a big, powerful anyone or anything standing four feet away staring holes in her deeply furrowed forehead.
    She brought a shaky hand to her throat. “Paul . . .” she began.
    “My name isn’t Paul,” the stranger said.
    5
    Helen Willis sat on the edge of the mission-style divan she’d ordered from the Pottery Barn catalog, her face ashen, her breathing shallow, her knees still weak and unresponsive. Only Paul’s great strength had helped her negotiate the back stairs and then the elevator.
    Paul stood just inside her room, leaning back against the door, his eyes locked on Helen. “You okay?” he asked finally. The voice sounded as if his throat was lined with leather.
    “I . . . why I . . . I don’t know what—” She stopped and sipped at the glass of water Paul had fetched from the sink. The blood was rising so quickly to her head she thought she might faint. She allowed her skirt to fall down between her knees. She brought a hand to her forehead. Felt like she had a fever. She picked up a dog-eared copy of The New Yorker from the adjacent cushion and began to fan herself.
    “I had no idea,” she offered finally. “When