'Almost,' he admitted. He got to his feet and stretched. 'Ready to go through the financial reports?'
She nodded. 'Fine, but I've got to go back to the barn first. I left my figures there.'
'All right, I'll be waiting upstairs in the library.'
She nodded and closed the dishwasher door, then turned the machine on. 'I won't be long,' she promised.
Edmond went upstairs and she took her quilted, down-filled coat from the hall closet, slipped it on, and went back into the kitchen. She snapped a switch, and the path between the house and the barn was suddenly flooded with light from fixtures hidden in the trees.
She opened the door and stepped outside. The Connecticut night felt crisp and cold against her face. She put her hands in her coat pockets and stood on the porch for a moment, taking a deep breath. The air smelled good; clean and fresh. Somehow innocent. She looked up. The skies were clear and the stars were winking brightly on a peaceful sea of black velvet. And above all, it was quiet. Very quiet. That was what she liked best about the weekends out here. The solitude. It gave her time to think. Somehow you couldn't do that in Manhattan.
She started across the flagstones toward the barn.
The moment the outside lights clicked on, the Chameleon drew deeper into the shadows. The beginnings of a tense excitement stirred within him. It was an almost sexual excitement. He always felt it when he was about to face his prey. It was the excitement of the hunt. But no matter how strongly he felt it, he always kept it under control. He never let it overstep its bounds. His first priority was—and always would be extreme caution. In this line of business, only the fools took chances. And fools died.
An instant after the lights went on, he saw the door opening and a woman coming out of the house. For a moment she just stood there looking around. He nodded to himself. He guessed that she was on her way to the barn. But he would wait patiently until she came closer. He had to make certain that it was Hélène Junot.
With growing anticipation he watched as she came down from the porch and started walking toward the barn. Her heels echoed on the flagstones. Beside him, Rufus stiffened and emitted a low growl.
The Chameleon looked down at the dog. The canine's eyes were caught in the floodlights and gleamed yellow. 'Quiet!' he whispered.
Instantly the growl died in the dog's throat. But the Chameleon could still sense the animal's tension. That was good, he thought. The dog was as excited as he was.
He smiled to himself. Anticipation wouldn't hurt. It would propel the dog to special fury.
Slowly he reached into his pocket and took out the sonic whistle. He Remembered the trainer's instructions. Two short blows for attack. One long one for retreat.
The Chameleon kept his eyes glued on Hélène. He watched her with appreciation. She moved elegantly and sensually, but without any overt suggestiveness. This was one classy dame, he thought to himself. That is, if it was her. . .
When she was halfway between the house and the barn, he caught his breath. One of the lights in the trees bathed her face and he could see her clearly. The photo hadn't done her justice. He no longer had any doubts. It was her.
Hélène suddenly stopped in her tracks. She stiffened as she felt a sudden prickling of her spine.
Something was wrong.
Danger lurked nearby. She didn't know what it was, but she'd experienced this feeling before. Long ago, in Paris. Before the Boche came, when she had been playing with Antoinette in the little park. Only this time, the warning was even stronger. It swept over her like a persistently pounding surf. As if this time the danger was closer.
Her eyes darted as she looked around, but she couldn't see beyond the shadows; the lights in the trees bathed only the path.
For a moment she stopped breathing and listened carefully. She couldn't hear anything, but still the feeling persisted.
She shivered, briskly rubbing her chill arms with her hands, but it was not a shiver from the cold. Then she tried to swallow her fears. 'You're just being silly,' she told herself. 'There is nothing here to hurt you.'
Nevertheless she gauged the distance between where she stood and the house and the barn. The barn was closer.
She started to run toward it.
The Chameleon frowned. What was that crazy bitch doing? Why was she running? Had she seen them? But that was impossible. They were too well hidden. And they had been quiet, so she couldn't have heard them, either.
He didn't hesitate. Swiftly he raised the sonic whistle to his lips and blew into it twice. The night remained quiet; not a sound was made that could be heard by human ears.
But Rufus' ears weren't human. They picked up the high-decibel whistle. The dog tensed, and then, with the speed of lightning, emitted a low growl and shot to his feet.
He flew silently out of the shadows toward Hélène.
The richly paneled upstairs library was warm. Far too warm and stuffy with the fire crackling in the grate, Edmond decided. He and Hélène were likely to fall asleep before they got past the first page of the financial report.
He crossed between the twin chamois-upholstered Chesterfield sofas which faced each other across the shimmering silk Tabriz rug. Four windows, burgundy velvet draperies drawn tightly across them, punctuated the wall of books. He parted one set of draperies and leaned down, slid the mullioned window open. Then he released the catch of the storm window and slid it up, too. He stuck his head out.
The blast of night air felt good. He looked down. The tree lights were on and Hélène was standing between the house and the barn, spotlit as if onstage. He frowned. She was oddly posed, all her weight on the ball of one foot, the toes of the other hesitantly poised as she looked around slowly. Suddenly she started to run for the barn.
Even before Edmond saw the black blur lunging out of the darkness, long-buried instinct took over. His heart crashed against his rib cage, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.
Danger, he thought automatically. She's in danger.
He jumped back from the window, cold fear sweeping over him as he lunged across the nearest Chesterfield. He reached across it to the desk and seized a letter opener. It was like a miniature scimitar, with a sharp, sturdy, paper-thin blade. It would be a lethal weapon as long as the porcelain handle did not break.
He weighed it in his hand for a split second. It would have to do.
He thrust it between his lips and clamped his teeth down on the handle, at the same time rushing back to the window.
He did not have to think. He was governed by reflex alone.
Got to protect her. No time to take the stairs, run through hallways and rooms. The window is the most direct way down.
He clutched the top of the window molding between both hands and like an acrobat lifted himself off the floor. He swung his buttocks backward, bringing his knees up under his chin, and then swiftly flung his legs forward and out, loosening his grip as his body caught the momentum. He ducked his head as he shot feet first through the open window. Mentally he blessed his workouts at the Athletic Club. He was no longer young and spry, but still sinewy, still in good shape.
He slid down the steep roof of the back porch, bumpy and abrasive and cold under him. The edge was coming up. Careful, he cautioned himself. Timing was everything. Careful. ..
He shot past the drainpipe, off the roof, and out into the open air. He brought his knees neatly under his chin and crouched forward, ready for the impact.
It came, and with a jar, the pain shooting like fire through his ankles and up his legs. He somersaulted over, sprang to his feet, and began to run across the frozen ground toward Hélène. Her screams pierced the night, and on top of them he could hear the vicious snarls of a dog gone mad. Yards ahead, he could see her struggling with it, both of them rolling around, the dog huge, its short black hair glistening in the lights. He glanced up at the tree lights as he ran. They would be on for only two minutes. Then the timer would automatically shut them off again. He wondered how many seconds of light
were left.
He grabbed the letter opener from between his teeth and let out a yell.
Hélène had heard the dog before she saw it. At first there had been a heavy crashing in the underbrush. Then a menacing snarl. She could sense the muscular body racing toward her. She glanced backward and saw the flashing yellow eyes and the black sinewy blur in the glare of the floodlights. She let out a scream and began to run faster, knowing in the back of her mind that running would not be enough. The dog was faster. Much faster.
Suddenly the beast lunged at her. She dived sideways, instinctively tightening the muscles in her arms as she threw them up behind her. She could feel the rush of cold air as he missed her by inches. She rolled over on the hard ground and quickly scrambled back to her feet, continuing to run toward the barn. To safety.
In front of her, the dog, confused by the miss, skidded to a halt. Only as he turned around to attack again did Hélène realize the magnitude of her mistake. The dog was to one side of her, to be sure, but he was between her and the barn, cutting off her escape.
Fractionally she hesitated, wanting to turn and run toward the house instead. But then the dog would be behind her, and she would be blind to his tactics.
For a moment she stopped running, her pulse racing, the cold air raw in her throat. Perhaps she should have stayed near the path, keeping a tree between the beast and herself. A tree. She glanced desperately behind her. The nearest one was seven yards away. She glanced back at the dog. It was growling menacingly, already on its haunches, ready to put all its weight into another spring.
Her mind raced. It was a Great Dane; she could see that clearly now. And it was enormous; it probably weighed as much as she. Probably outweighed her, in fact. Its jaws were enormous. And she had no weapon with which to defend herself. No protection of any sort.
No, she was wrong, she realized suddenly. She did have protection of sorts. Her coat. Her down-filled coat. It was thickly padded. If she rolled herself into a ball, tucked her head down against her chest, hid her hands, and curled her legs up under her, she would be afforded some protection. Not much. But maybe enough. . . .
The dog hesitated, his eyes glittering like iridescent headlamps. For a drawn-out second he seemed to crouch there, indecisive. Then the second was over and he lunged.
For one long frozen moment the dog seemed to be suspended in midair. Its razor teeth flashed whitely in the light from the trees, its enormous lean body, tapered as a greyhound's, showing the defined masses of hard muscle under the short gleaming hair.
Hélène ducked and dropped to the ground, readying herself for the swift maneuver of rolling herself into a ball. But the dog was too fast. He loomed larger and larger in front of her, and when she was least ready, the impact came.
Stabbing daggers of pain shot through her as the dog collided into her. She had had no idea the beast was this heavy or powerful. He had caught her on the chest, just as she had let her legs crumple and had felt herself starting to fall. She felt sleek black hair against her face, smelled the hot stench of his breath. The wind was knocked out of her lungs with a noisy whoosh! and her breasts were suddenly heavy and bruised as she fell backward, choking for air as any remaining wind was knocked out of her a second time as her back hit the frozen ground. But she could not wait to regain it. The air in her lungs would return. More important that she curl herself up, that she give the animal no outstretched limbs for his crazed jaws, that at all costs she keep her neck down. Dobermans went for the neck. Did Great Danes? She was taking no chances.
For the moment, the dog was not upon her. She had sensed him somersaulting over her, and the collision had stunned him momentarily. Wasting no precious seconds, she curled her knees up against her chest, wrapped her arms protectively around her, careful to keep her hands tucked far up her sleeves. She hunched her shoulders, trying to tuck her neck as far into her collar as possible, like a tortoise retracting into its shell at the first scent of danger. As the dog snarled and struggled to his feet, she quickly rolled over on her belly and pressed her face into the ground. It was hard and icy and scratchy, but she knew that her face was the most vulnerable, the most easily injured part of her body. She must keep it turned away from the dog at all costs.
The Chameleon watched in excitement. Tension welled up within him until it became almost unbearable. His penis hardened and strained against the fabric of his trousers. Rufus looked as big and powerful as a horse, yet was so light on his feet that his movements had the grace of a panther's. The woman had the same fluid grace. There was something peculiarly sensual about her.
The Chameleon's eyes glittered as he fingered his penis. He was witnessing a battle to the death—a battle between a superior brain and a superior body. A pity that they were so unevenly matched. The woman had no chance. The dog would win.
He congratulated himself for using the dog instead of his hands or a gun. There was something primordial about a duel between a human and a beast. But best of all, once the woman's body was found, her death would be blamed on a crazed animal. It would be a neat killing. A superior killing. One for which no man, however unknown, would ever be blamed. There was no chance that anyone would connect him or Rufus to the 'accident.' Both of them would be long gone. He on his way back to Chicago, the final installment for the murder in his pocket. The dog buried in a pit somewhere. Dead, like the woman.
All traces would be neatly obliterated. Once again, he had created a masterpiece. The perfect murder.
He raised the sonic whistle to his lips and blew into it again to egg the dog on. Not that Rufus needed any egging. He was onto the scent of blood. Any second now, and he would taste it.
The thought was almost enough to release the Chameleon's passion.
Already he could sense his seminal emission surfacing. Instantly, he stopped stroking himself and willed his orgasm to die. He did not want to be racked by the splendid passion until the final moment was at hand.
Suddenly a yell rent the air. Rufus stopped in mid-attack, and turned toward the house. The Chameleon's eyes shifted. For the first time, he became aware of Edmond, head bent forward, blade in hand, racing across the yard.
Again Edmond's yell rang out clearly. This time the Chameleon could hear the word distinctly.
'Sit!'
The Chameleon's erection died, and he felt a cold paralysis coming on. His eyes were wide and unbelieving. The stupid dog—his goddamn killing machine—was actually backing off! Obediently starting to sit down!
The Chameleon quickly lifted the whistle again, giving two more short blows. 'Sit!'
Confused, the dog sprang to his feet, then sat hesitantly back down again. His head twisted first in the direction of the silent whistle, then to the man verbally commanding him to sit.
'Motherfuck!' the Chameleon cursed under his breath. He blew into the whistle again. The short hair stood up on Rufus' back; then the dog sprang gracefully to his feet, fangs bared.
'Sit!'
The dog sat obediently.
Edmond stopped running. As he slowly approached Hélène, Rufus let out a low, menacing growl.
'Sit!' Edmond commanded.
The growl died in the dog's throat, and he remained seated.
'Get up slowly, Little French Girl,' Edmond cautioned softly. 'Don't make any sudden moves.'
Hélène raised her head slowly. The dog began to move again. 'Sit!'
The Chameleon cursed under his breath. Of all the stupid things to have happen! Why did those trainers teach a dog to obey common commands like 'Sit'? They should have used code words. And he should have been more alert and noticed that yesterday.
It was too late now. He didn't even have a gun to finish the woman off himself. Nor could he rush out of the bushes and use his lethal hands or his knife. The element of surprise was gone. And now there was the man to contend with, too. He had a blade on him. No, better to retreat and try again some other time.
He whistled one last time—a single, long, drawn-out blow to recall
the dog. Rufus got to his feet, backed off slowly, and then retreated into the darkness.
Hélène took a wobbly step toward Edmond. She felt suddenly drained and collapsed limply in his arms, closing her eyes.
'It's over,' he said softly, pocketing the letter opener. He held her tightly. 'The dog is gone.' He rocked her gently in his arms. 'Are you hurt?'
She shook her head. 'No,' she said huskily. 'But that dog—'
'Forget it,' he whispered. 'It's over now.' He pressed her face against his chest and stared out over her head. At that moment, the tree lights clicked off. Two minutes were over. Had it lasted only that long? he asked himself. It had seemed a lifetime.
'It's over,' Hélène repeated to herself, trembling. But her tremors were dying down. Edmond's presence was warm and comforting. 'Thank God, it's over.'
But was it? Edmond frowned into the darkness, his body still tensed. He did not have the heart to worry her by telling her otherwise.
He had heard not just the dog crashing through the bushes. He had heard something else. Something that moved with greater stealth.
A man.
2
Karl von Eiderfeld sat in thoughtful silence behind his big desk. The silk-shaded ormolu lamp cast a warm pool of light on the highly polished wood. He looked at the silver-framed photographs of his family. First there was Helga, his beautiful blond wife.
The oval photograph had been taken right after they were married. She was forty-four now and her hair had grayed, but she was still an extremely attractive woman. He hoped that this Hélène Junot business would soon be cleared up. He had just spoken to Helga long distance. She had told him that Düsseldorf was grim this winter and she wanted to fly to Marrakesh for a few weeks' vacation. He had promised that as soon as his business in New York was finished, they would fly to Morocco together.
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