by Sheryl Lynn
His deliberate avoidance astonished her. He sounded different, somehow cold. She rubbed her upper arms slowly. He didn’t remove the robe until he was under the covers. He never looked her way.
She walked slowly to the bed. When he failed to speak, sadness washed through her. He turned out the light next to the couch. She crawled under the covers and turned off the light on the bed table. The utter darkness gave her a little shock of fear. She growled at herself for acting like a baby. She wasn’t afraid of the dark. She turned her gaze to the door, though, where a thin slash of light showed under the door. “Good night.”
“Night, Ms. Duke.”
His neutral tone offered no clues as to whether the formality was meant to tease or not.
She sat up and turned on the light. “Are you mad at me?”
“No, ma’am.”
Ma’am? He snuggled under the covers and closed his eyes. The 9 mm glinted on the floor beside him. “Are you sure you aren’t mad at me? You seem...different.”
He opened one eye. “Everything is cool. Now get some sleep.”
She snapped off the light and flumped back against the pillows. He was angry! Everyone else was angry at her, so why not Daniel, too? She tried to sleep, she longed for sleep, but sleep eluded her. She listened to the wind battering the lodge. She held little hope that a decent snowfall would transform the resort into a winter wonderland for the party. February tended to be the driest month of the year.
She tossed and turned for what felt like hours. She listened to Daniel’s deep, even breathing. She fantasized about his beautiful body and the touch of his hands against her skin.
A stealthy noise alerted her and she snapped upright. She strained to identify the source. A shadow rippled through the light shining under the door. She sprang off the bed, noting in passing that the digital readout on the alarm clock read 2:08. At the door, she pressed her ear to the wood and listened. She heard only her hammering heart.
She debated opening the door to peek into the hallway. If someone was actually out there, she’d die—if not figuratively, then quite possibly literally. Her mouth dried and her tongue stuck to her palate.
Her bare foot brushed something on the floor. Her calf muscles recoiled. She groped and found a square of stiff paper. She ran her fingers over its outlines. It felt like an envelope.
A light flared. Daniel sat up, the gun in his hand.
Janine’s fingers lost all strength. A bright pink envelope fluttered to the floor.
Daniel leaped off the couch and ordered Janine into the bathroom. She scooted for safety. When he heard the click of the door lock, he raised the Luger to shoulder level, drew a deep breath and eased open the bedroom door. Adrenaline ripped through his veins and heightened his senses. Dim lighting shined at both ends of the hallway.
Mike, he thought, heart sinking. The deputy was posted outside the colonel’s bedroom. Horrible images of a bloody lawman rose in his brain. He drew another deep breath, prepared for the worst, and stuck his head out the door.
Down the hall, Mike Downes slumped still and silent on a chair. The chair back rested against the wall. Arms crossed, chin to chest, with a magazine draped over his thigh, the deputy slept. Daniel stared until convinced he saw Mike’s chest rising and falling. He sidled out of the room, shifting his gaze back and forth. Gooseflesh broke on his bare back. Every hair on his body stood at attention.
“Mike!”
His harsh whisper startled the deputy awake. The chair legs thumped on the floor. The magazine slipped off his lap. Mike looked around wildly.
Daniel lowered the pistol to his side. “You missed the party, man.”
“Huh?” He blinked blearily.
Wondering when was the last time the deputy had a good night’s sleep, Daniel clucked his tongue. His mouth tasted funky. “Pinky was here. He slipped a letter under Janine’s door.”
“Here?” Mike asked stupidly. Cursing a blue streak, he scooped his hat off the floor and unsnapped his holster. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. You’re sure it’s Pinky? Which way did he go?”
Daniel shrugged. The little sneak could be anywhere by now. He returned to Janine’s room. He slipped on the terry cloth robe before he knocked on the bathroom door and gave her an all-clear.
“Did you see him?” she asked angrily. “Is it Brian? How did he get past you, Mike?”
The young man hunched his shoulders and pulled his hat brim through his fingers. “I fell asleep.”
“Oh, for—” She snatched the envelope off the floor and ripped it open. She extracted a sheet of pale pink paper, covered front and back with crabbed handwriting. “I can’t read his garbage,” she said, the words trailing into a groan.
Daniel took the letter. Pinky’s brazenness angered him, but didn’t surprise him. The stalker had proved his determination over and again. The letter’s tone surprised him. Pinky commiserated with Janine about the shadows under her eyes and the way she neglected her appearance. He urged her to wear the red silk Donna Karan suit, assured it would make her feel better. He also suggested she trim her hair. Split ends were showing. He said a vacation might not be a bad idea to take her away from the stress of her overbearing father and his countless demands. For three paragraphs he spun an adolescent fantasy about the two of them hiking the Appalachian trail, sleeping under the stars and communing with nature.
The final paragraph chilled his blood. He read it aloud.
“I passed every test. I’m ready for the main event now. I bow before your wisdom even though it’s been hard, love. I confess, I’ve faltered and had my doubts. But I know how proud you are of me. I see in your eyes how much you care. Your smiles give me courage. Every day is a challenge to live up to your expectations. I can do it. I have the right stuff. It’s time to make our love public.”
Janine paused in her aimless pacing. The wind had died, so the room was quiet. Her breathing sounded harsh and ragged. “What tests?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
“He knows I’m a ringer,” Daniel answered. “I don’t know how he knows, but he does. Damn it.”
Mike took the letter. His eyes flicked over the words, and his lips moved silently. His face darkened until he looked as dangerous as a mean drunk spoiling for a bar fight. “This doesn’t make any sense. Sounds like Ms. Duke knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“That’s part of his delusion.” Daniel jammed his hands in his pockets. Muscles flexed in his arms and shoulders. He went rigid. “Whoa! Let me see that again.”
Mike and Janine crowded Daniel to read over his shoulder. He stuck his finger on mid-page and read aloud, “‘I am grateful for your modesty.’ Modesty?” He turned a wondering gaze on Janine and cocked his head.
“He’s congratulating you on using me to test his devotion. Then he’s glad you’re modest?” He swept his gaze over her sweatshirt and fleece pants. He turned his face toward the ceiling.
Curious, Janine looked up, too. Like all the rooms on the second floor, it had exposed log beams running across the heavily textured ceiling.
Daniel pointed up. “What’s above your room?”
Short hairs lifted on her nape. No way did she want to think what his question led her to think. “The attic.”
Gaze on the ceiling, Daniel walked slowly back and forth. At her bed, he leaned far over the mattress until he rested on both hands, his neck craning. He hopped onto the bed and stretched, reaching for the ceiling. His fingertips barely brushed the bottom of a beam. “Look at this.”
Janine turned on the overhead, then peered closely at where he pointed. Finally she saw it, a fuzzy pink tuft.
“Insulation,” Daniel said. “There’s a hole in the ceiling.”
Janine’s belly seemed to drop to her toes; her gorge rose. The tiny hole was directly over the side of the bed on which she slept. Pinky had been spying on her. Sneaking stealthily about in the attic, peering through the hole, watching her. The view that rose in her mind was of herself, her face slathered in cold
cream, her hair bristling with fat pink rollers, while she read a racy novel and watched an old movie on television. Maybe all those times she’d imagined noises in the night hadn’t been her imagination after all.
She had a right to privacy. She deserved her privacy. For Pinky to so casually strip it from her was an offense for which he’d receive neither pity nor compassion. Murderous rage displaced her fear.
The three of them carried flashlights up to the attic. Daniel and Mike had their weapons drawn. None of them made a sound—though Janine was positive if Pinky lurked nearby, then surely he heard her pounding heart. Daniel urged her to stay behind him. He kept reaching back with his left hand as if checking she followed.
She found the control panel and turned on the lights. In the nanosecond before the bulbs flared, she prayed Pinky was up here. He’d be wishing for the mercy of a bullet by the time she finished with him.
White cloths covered upholstered sofas and chairs. Metal shelving held boxes of old papers and books, table lamps, flowerpots and other miscellany. A row of hooded lamps hanging from the central room beam formed more shadows than illumination. Dust motes swirled around the light fixtures. Mustiness was undercut by the flavors of ancient potpourri and mothballs.
Daniel and Mike shone flashlight beams into corners. She strained to hear suspicious rustles or clunks.
“The floor,” she whispered and pointed her flashlight at footprints in the dust. The men crouched to examine the prints.
“Looks like he’s wearing socks,” Mike said. “Clever.” He shone the flashlight at an angle that highlighted the faint prints. “Not many people come up here, do they?”
“We use this for long-term storage. Anyone up here for a good reason would wear shoes.” She got her bearings in regard to where her room was. “Over here.” She squeezed through upholstered chairs stacked two high and covered with cloths. The dust on the floor had been disturbed recently. She hunkered into a crouch to search for the peephole.
On hands and knees, the three searched between the stacked chairs. Their bobbing heads formed a macabre shadow puppet show on the walls. She kept checking to make sure only three shadows flickered on the walls, not four.
“Loose board,” Mike announced. He held up a piece of planking. The insulation beneath the board lifted like a flap and a ray of light beamed upward through a tiny hole.
Janine peered through the hole. The view it offered astounded her. She could see her entire bed, the bedside table and nearly to the door. “He’s played us for jackasses all along. Spying on us, listening.”
“Looks like it.” Daniel peered under a furniture cloth. “His stash is here somewhere.”
Between two chairs, their cushions removed, stacked so it formed a sheltered niche, Mike discovered Pinky’s shrine to Janine. The centerpiece, placed like a bible, was her Day-Timer book. A used candle was stuck to the middle of the book. Soot stained the chair upholstery above it and wax pooled on the organizer’s leather binding. Over it, pinned to the chair was Janine’s college graduation photograph.
She peered curiously at the photograph, uncertain where Pinky might have acquired it. The only photographs she kept in her room were photos of friends and snapshots she’d taken on vacations. He could have stolen it from her parents’ room, or even Kara’s.
Surrounding the photograph were newspaper clippings about Elk River. Each mention of her name was highlighted in pink. She recognized her missing hairbrush, a lipstick tube, and a small spiral notebook she’d used as a journal. Pens, slips of paper, a key and a used cloth napkin weren’t personal, but they disturbed her on a deep, instinctual level.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mike warned.
“Here’s more,” Daniel said. He held up a corner of cloth. On another chair seat was a flat-woven basket. It contained pink stationery, a roll of stamps, pens and greeting cards. A clipboard was propped against the inner chair arm.
Janine pictured Pinky, seated in the dark, burning a candle in homage while he penned declarations of sick love.
“Roust Juan out of bed.” Mike lowered the cloth over the make-shift shrine. “Have him padlock the attic door. I’ll call the sheriff. He’ll get the state boys over here to collect the evidence.”
Daniel looked around the attic. “We can trap him.”
“No can do. We don’t know how often Pinky comes up here. You could spend weeks sitting in the dark while he’s making trouble elsewhere. Uh-uh, this is all the trap we need. We’ll get fingerprints. Match up the footprints.”
“If the fingerprints don’t belong to Brian? Then what?”
“You said Brian is Pinky.”
“Maybe. Or he could be a goofball who got caught in a lie. If they run the prints and come up with zilch, then what? Get fingerprints from every employee? What about those who refuse? You couldn’t get a judge to sign a warrant for Brian’s handwriting exemplar. Where will you find one who forces everyone to give fingerprints?”
“I can’t withhold evidence.”
“Pinky warned us about the main event. That means the party. I’m not willing to trust Janine’s life or the colonel’s life to the bureaucratic process.”
“Gentlemen!” Janine waited a beat until certain she had their attention. “We can have it both ways. Mike, ask the sheriff to make sure the people who collect this stuff are very discreet. Daniel, call J.T. and have him set up a surveillance camera. It doesn’t have to be one of those special little models. There are dozens of places we can hide a camcorder.”
The men exchanged a glance.
“If Pinky comes back up here, we’ll catch him on tape. If he doesn’t, the police will figure out who he is by the fingerprints. Can we do that?”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Daniel said.
Mike grumbled, but agreed.
“Hold off calling the sheriff until morning. I don’t want to disturb my parents...or alert Pinky if he’s still lurking around.”
“I have to call in. If Brian is prowling the premises, we can pick him up.”
“Of course, but I don’t want anybody in the attic right now. We’ll wake up everybody on the second floor.”
Mike announced he was going to search the lodge. Daniel insisted he guard the colonel’s suite. Seeing yet another argument about to commence, Janine issued orders. Mike would resume the post; she and Daniel would search the lodge. They wanted to argue with her, but she held her ground. This was her resort, her responsibility—and there was no way in hell she would allow Daniel to roam around alone.
AT THIS HOUR OF THE MORNING the lobby and lounge were silent and dimly lit, with only enough lights turned on to assure safety.
“Kind of spooky at night,” Daniel said, sotto voce.
“It didn’t used to be.” A shudder rippled down her spine and a rush of fear raised the hairs on her arms. “How long do you think he’s been spying on my room?”
“Try not to think about it.”
“You try not thinking about it.” She waited for him to take her hand or to drape an arm over her shoulders. When he did neither, hurt pinged her heart. She fiddled with a flashlight, turning it on and off, assuring herself the batteries were strong.
“You ready for the basement?”
“No,” she replied honestly. “But let’s do it.” She hefted the flashlight. If she found Brian Cadwell in the basement, she intended to brain him first, ask questions later.
She and Daniel descended into the basement. They searched every room, niche, corner and hidey-hole. Several times she trod on his heels. Her heart pounded until her chest ached, and she wondered if she’d have a heart attack before morning. Other than working herself into a raging case of the screaming meemies, nothing was accomplished.
Daniel turned the flashlight on her face. “Are you cold?”
She noticed her teeth chattered. She clenched her jaws. She had goose bumps on top of goose bumps, but the basement wasn’t cold. Heat from the boiler room, laundry room and myriad pipes insinuated itself into ev
en the most remote rooms. “I’m scared.” Her voice was husky and small.
“I’m high on adrenaline myself. Let’s get out of here.”
She watched him walk away, his footsteps quick and soundless, his posture alert. She’d all but held up a flashing sign saying, Hold Me. Could he truly be that unforgiving over the way she’d run off? She’d apologized. What more could he ask?
He stopped abruptly. His hair gleamed in the tricky light of the bouncing flashlight beams. “Do you hear something?”
Only the inane questions in her heart. She hurried to catch up to him. At the staircase, both of them took the stairs two and three at a time.
They checked on Mike. He stood in the hallway outside her parents’ suite rather than sit on the chair. He assured them that the sheriff had dispatched two patrol cars to check out the resort and nearby roads for Brian’s car.
An inspection of the upper floors of the lodge proved as fruitless as the basement search. Housekeepers and the kitchen crew were coming on duty. Everyone denied seeing Brian Cadwell. She noticed Daniel keeping his distance from her. No more “cupcake,” no more playing the lover. She felt abandoned.
Morose, irritable and frustrated, she ended up in her office. She dropped onto the sofa and threw her feet up on the arm. Her eyes felt as if she’d walked through a sandstorm. Her head throbbed. She wanted some coffee, but couldn’t bear facing Chef right now.
“Now what?” she asked.
Daniel sat behind her desk and pulled the telephone in front of him. “I’ll call J.T.”
“It’s too early.”
“He’ll be up.”
Her parents would be in the dining room by now, eating breakfast, unaware of the sickening discovery she’d made in the attic. She hoped Mike hadn’t told the colonel about the latest note, the hole in the ceiling or Pinky’s shrine. After the way her father had handled Brian, no telling what he would do about Pinky’s night-crawling. Shut down the resort, possibly—cancel the anniversary party, definitely.
If he did, damn it, that meant Pinky had won. That meant he’d jerked her strings, made her dance—it meant he owned her.
