Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  Autumn was making an impact on the Indian summer weather, and Jonna's teeth chattered in response to the nippy air.

  "You'll stop by for coffee before you leave in the morn­ing?"

  He was obviously not interested in sharing dinner or the evening or even her bed. She crushed out the images rush­ing in. "Maybe I shouldn't go. Shouldn't accept it," she said.

  "That solution occurred to me before I went to Colo­rado," he said quietly. "I thought about telling Leah Darcy not to accept her award, but realized he probably wouldn't know, so that wouldn't stop him from coming. You may as well go, enjoy getting it and accept it with pride. I'll be waiting and watching here."

  "I have to leave for the airport by about five-thirty," she finally said.

  "I'll have the coffee on by a quarter to five then," he promised.

  She bit her lip, wanting to ask him to please share her night, devastated that he didn't mention it himself. But wasn't that why she'd all but told him she didn't expect anything from men? So he wouldn't know how much it hurt when her expectations came true? She cursed herself for hoping this time was different as she went her separate way.

  * * *

  He was a fool. He'd seen the invitation in her eyes. He'd seen her hurt and left it there to gnaw away at her.

  He just couldn't risk what he was risking. It was time to step back, take a deep breath and concentrate on reality.

  And if he stayed with her, who would monitor the alarms? And she shouldn't see the dream that shattered each and every night. That would terrify her. And in the dream, he thought it was his hands that were doing the killing.

  And this night, time after time, Jonna—not Denise—had the starring role. The nightmare didn't stop until he saw her and reassured himself that she was really alive. He was glad he'd suggested she stop for coffee before she left for L.A.

  He heard her hushed and uncertain sigh as he opened her car door. "Take care," he said.

  "Sure." She stared straight ahead and twisted the key in the ignition.

  The muscles in his arms contracted, refusing to let him close her door. She glanced up at him hopefully, her lips parted.

  The nightmare was too fresh. He couldn't kiss her. It was too much like a promise of life, one he was no longer cer­tain he could keep. And he especially couldn't kiss her goodbye. That would seem permanent, as if he would never see her alive again. It seemed like making a concession to a killer.

  A look of betrayal clouded her over-bright eyes and tore at him so he looked away.

  He leaned against the door, and the hollow sound ech­oed in the early-morning gloom even after she drove away.

  He had her cell number; he had her number at the Century Plaza, where the awards ceremony was to take place, but he didn't call.

  Instead, he did the chores and started the countdown, preparing for her return, checking and rechecking the alarms, the guns, the infrared scope he'd attached to the ri­fle.

  He slept in snatches, taking twenty-minute naps, concen­trating wholly on the monster her homecoming would bring.

  He didn't realize how tense he'd become until Jonna called early Sunday morning.

  "I'm not coming back tomorrow," she said at his hello.

  A reprieve. The knots in his shoulders loosened even as his groin tightened at just hearing her lyrical voice.

  "You mean today."

  "Okay, today," she verified, a flatness seeping into her tone. She surely didn't expect him to ask her to hurry back to be with him. He was in hell. “It's three-thirty here. I just got in and haven't been to sleep so it still seems like Satur­day night. I forget it's close to morning there."

  He felt like someone rammed his solar plexus. She was just getting in? "How was the ceremony?" he choked out so he wouldn't ask where she'd been, who had been with her.

  "It was wonderful." For a second the excitement was back and he could hear her glow. "The award is beautiful. Much better than it looked in the pictures and drawings."

  "Having your name on it wouldn't have anything to do with that, would it?" The words reverberated through his mind. He'd said the same canned phrase when Denise had won her award.

  Denise had hugged the crystal-clear engraved plaque to her chest and practically danced into her apartment. "Oh, Sam, you can't imagine."

  "Good," he'd said. His finger had traced Denise's name as she extended the plaque for him to inspect for the thir­tieth time. His arm had wrapped around her shoulders. "Now you can come home."

  Her face had jerked up to his, disbelief widening her warm brown eyes. "Sam, you promised you wouldn't start that again."

  "I'm sorry." He'd spread his arms beseechingly. "I also promised Mom I'd take care of you," he pressed. "How can I do that with you in San Francisco, half a continent away?"

  "You've kept your promise to Mom." Denise clenched her teeth warningly.' 'And I love you for everything you've done. Weren't you listening tonight?" Her hand groped at the side of her sleek-fitting silk dress. She extracted a nearly mutilated paper from the pocket, curling the plaque close to her heart with the other hand. "Didn't you hear the very last of my speech? 'I would never have had this chance without the help of my big brother, Sam. This is for you, Sam. It's really yours.'"

  The front of her bright red dress had heaved with her great gulping breaths. She'd flung the piece of paper before him on the coffee table, then placed the award firmly on top of it. Her nails, newly manicured and matching her dress, lingered like drops of blood on the etched symbols. She drew them reluctantly away and his name, stark black on the typewritten page beneath, overpowered the frosty engraved Denise above.

  She walked away from him, flouncing down in the chair across the room. The harsh apartment light caught in her curls, turning the rich espresso color a satiny brown as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  "You said you had to work in a major market to get a toehold," he persisted. "You wanted to eventually start your own ad agency." He tapped at the plaque. "Doesn't this do all that?"

  "It’s a toehold. Nothing more, Sam. And when I start my own agency, I sure as hell won't start it in some backwater place in north Texas." She directed her steady gaze toward him and her eyes glittered defiantly. "I told you not to come if you were going to start this again, Sam."

  Anger warred with frustration and he clamped down on both. She had changed so much since leaving college and coming to California. His little sister had acquired an edge he would never understand. It was time he left. Let her set­tle down. He didn't want to fight. "I'll come by in the morning," he said. "We'll go somewhere and have a cham­pagne brunch to celebrate—"

  "Don't bother," Denise had interrupted. "I have plans. Just take your damn award with you."

  Even as he told himself he wouldn't let her get to him, he had crossed the room. He told himself he should excuse her irritating insolence because she was soaring around on nervous adrenaline, but his hand had closed over her shoulder to demand her attention. She had twisted away. "Denise, I'm sorry."

  "I'm not fourteen anymore, Sam. Get your own life. You can't have mine," she said.

  So he'd left. And when he returned the next morning her bright excitable eyes had been glazed in death. If he hadn't left when he did...

  He'd never had the chance—

  "Sam?" He heard panic in Jonna's voice. "Sam, are you there?"

  He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Jonna. What did you say?"

  He forced himself to listen, and a vision of her hazel eyes superimposed itself on the image of Denise he carried in his head.

  "The ceremony was very nice. Very dignified," she said. "But the reception Classic American Home magazine held afterward was really impressive." She described the ice- sculpture house decorating the table and the molded choc­olate blueprint with different exotic fruits overflowing from every room. "Then there were chocolate truffles waiting on my pillow when I got back to my room." She took a hasty breath. "I'll save you one, okay?" she added.

  Her voice s
uddenly sounded desolate. Sometime in the course of the conversation a sleepy, lonely quality had crept into her tone. He could see her wheat-colored hair in a sun­burst against a white hotel pillowcase. Even from a thou­sand miles away, she stirred him.

  "I'm glad you're staying an extra day," he said quietly. His body protested, aching to sink into her warmth and lose himself in her again.

  "Till Monday," she confirmed. "You think he'll come while I'm gone?" She sounded childlike, seeking reassur­ance about a bad dream.

  "I can hope," he said. "I'd love to have this all over by the time you get home."

  "But you'll be there?"

  "You'd have to blast me out of here before I take care of that demon."

  "I mean if you've already caught him," she said tonelessly.

  "I'll be here," he said. "I'll be here come hell or high water."

  She changed the subject, launching into a preview of her luncheon date tomorrow with the editor of the magazine. "He wants to talk about some special project they're plan­ning. And if I agree, my new designs are going to be the fo­cal point," she finished.

  He listened as she told him that no one had seemed the least surprised that she was a woman, just that she was young. And when she said all the other architects who had won awards were men, he asked, "Older men?" and laughed at her delighted giggle.

  "At least as old as you—but not nearly so sexy," she added breathlessly, and he wondered how much cham­pagne they'd served at that reception.

  "Well, I guess I'll see you between three and four Mon­day," she said reluctantly and added, "goodbye."

  He let her end their connection without telling her what he needed to say about how he felt—because he didn't know. All he could hope was that he'd get another chance and that by then he would have figured it out.

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, Sam was tired enough he imag­ined he would catch his twenty-minute nap without the nightmare.

  He thought he'd barely stretched his length on the saggy mattress when the warning alarm went off. But the clock showed two hours had passed.

  Damn! He shouldn't have undressed. Shouldn't have re­laxed. He'd slept right through the timer he had set.

  He darted to the window and scoured the thick night along the drive for any movement or motion. He didn't see a thing.

  Hurrying to the other window, he picked up the binocu­lars. Her house was as vacant looking as it had been for the past three days. He was about to rush back to check the drive again when he heard the muted sound of…a car door closing?

  He frowned and searched the area at the top of the hill.

  A shadow crossed the rim above him.

  Damn and double damn! How in the hell had the bas­tard gotten past him? The savage was at Jonna's house? Sam had installed a second alarm at her house after she had left. That alarm had caught the son of a bitch going back to his car.

  A sheen of perspiration coated Sam's bare skin and a cold, engulfing nausea clawed at the pit of his stomach.

  He'd flattered himself that he was infallible this time, but the monster had slipped by and Sam had slept through all of his bells and buzzers and bangs.

  Sam's jeans stuttered over his sweat-drenched body as he yanked them on. A bead of moisture stung his eye as he grabbed desperately for shoes. He rocketed down the stairs, missing most of them as he pulled his knit shirt over his bead. He cursed himself for not picking up the rifle, then pounded out, seeking the piercing glare of the intruder's headlights.

  They passed a scant twenty yards away. The glimpse he caught of the man driving froze him. He knew him. At least he thought he knew him. He'd seen him before, of that he was certain. Hair and teeth. A bright cap of tight, longish blond curls, almost an Afro style. A smooth, sadistic smile as broad as the backside of one of Jonna's cows, all teeth. Who could forget seeing him?

  If Jonna had been here, she'd be dead. For a moment, reality clutched him and a retching dry heave compressed his stomach, then jammed it into his tight throat.

  His feet took over and he thundered through the dry growth beneath the thick shelter of trees along the drive.

  He reached the final curve in the drive as a red, late-model Pontiac swept past, in touching distance. His fingers twitched and he closed his eyes, imprinting the image of the driver in his brain. Gangly and thin, probably tall, maybe twenty-eight or thirty—about the age Denise would be if she had lived. Sam memorized the man's smooth face, his pale, loose skin. His eyes were—Sam hadn't caught a color—just a wild, excited brightness. Sam knew he would find that face in Denise's yearbooks. He was a NET alum.

  The car slowed as it neared the main road. Brake lights came on. Sam took one step in that direction, then realized he couldn't catch the bastard now. Not without his car.

  And if he did? No gun? No socks? What would he do? Grab on and hook a bumpy ride?

  Hysterical laughter rose at his ridiculous thoughts, but he swallowed it, afraid it would turn uncontrollable and debil­itating. He memorized the Kansas license plate, then cursed the fates as he noted a rental company name on the tag holder surrounding it. The license number wouldn't do him much good, but knowing the rental company was a start.

  The night wind glued his shirt to his damp, heaving chest as Sam ran for the .44 Magnum and his jacket. He'd filled his tank with gas at Moss's convenience store the night be­fore, and he'd taken to Jonna's habit of leaving his keys in the ignition. The man was only four, maybe five minutes ahead of him by now.

  As if to confirm his guesstimate, lights hovered near the top of a hill a couple miles away as Sam screeched around the corner at the end of the drive. Then they disappeared over the other side, leaving only a momentary ghostly glow in the sky.

  Sam floored the pedal of his ancient car. He'd bought it from the college fleet for Denise. And since he'd been pos­ing as a farm hand, he'd used it instead of his baby, a turbo-charged T-bird. If only he had that power now.

  But who would have known he'd be chasing a monster through this eerie, desolate land? The car wheezed over the next hill and he eased back on the gas.

  The distant car taunted him with glimpses of lights weav­ing in and out, up and down over the Flint Hills. At least he isn't driving any faster than me, Sam decided, keeping his speedometer at about eighty. His car neither gained nor lost on the cretin turning onto Highway 50 up ahead. And Sam figured the simple fact that the man didn't know he was be­ing followed gave Sam the upper hand.

  The miles fell away and he wavered between hoping a po­liceman who would stop the man, and praying that he him­self wouldn't be picked up for speeding.

  Traffic was heavier near Newton, then dwindled to noth­ing as the midsize town grew small in the rearview mirror. The land flattened as they left the Flint Hills behind and the four-lane interstate stretched wide open for miles.

  The back of Sam's eyes felt grainy, his head felt as if it would float right off his shoulders. Thoughts of Jonna squeezed his soul like a vise. Thank God, she hadn't come home when she had originally planned. Knowing she would be home later today brought such a chaos of emotions he quickly decided not to think about it.

  Dawn crept up as they neared Wichita, throwing streaks of copper and orange and mauve across a nearly cloudless sky behind him. Sam pushed even harder the car he'd thought would seem in keeping with the farmhand mas­querade, ignoring the shimmies and shakes as the speed­ometer needle edged toward ninety.

  Traffic, people getting an early start on their Monday morning, began to distort Sam's awareness of which exact vehicle he was following, and he fought off a desperate rage.

  He needed coffee. He needed to catch the damn red Pontiac. He needed to know Jonna could come home to a safe, bright day.

  And what are you going to do with him if you apprehend him? Sam's hand rested on and caressed the comforting grip of the gun on the seat beside him.

  He slowed slightly as the speed limit changed from sixty- five to fifty-five. The bastard had to slow down, to
o, didn't he? Or Sam would surely find him alongside the road, his rented car keeping company with a cop's flashing red lights.

  His heart lurched. Finally! The cherry-red Pontiac was a block and a half ahead. Sam slowed when he was practi­cally riding its bumper.

  Sam changed lanes and pulled up beside the other car.

  He couldn't have felt a blow more painfully if it had been physical. The driver of the other car had straight, nonde­script brown hair. She glanced his way, her freshly made-up features warily appraising him. She seemed mildly shocked as she quickly looked away.

  Sam glanced up at himself in the mirror. Bleary, wild eyes looked back. Strands of hair stood on end. No, he didn't exactly look like a run-of-the-mill good guy on his merry way to work.