"Tell Hank we'll need him down here when he's finished upstairs."
"Yes, sir. I'll do that, Sarge." His eyes lingered overly long on the bed and its contents before he finally turned and walked from the room.
"Anything missing from there?" Holmes gestured toward the bed as he watched Gunther retreating down the hall.
She stared at the items from the night-stand drawer that were strewn over the spread. Oh, my God. Alex closed her eyes tightly for several seconds. That night-stand drawer had been her most private of private niches, and because it was so private, she'd kept it locked. On the face of the night stand was a deep gouge. The wood above the lock was splintered and chipped. Her face burning, she stared at the personal articles displayed unsystematically like junk merchandise at a flea market. Her small, travel douche kit lay next to the open powder blue case of her diaphragm—though she'd switched to the pill ages ago, for some reason she'd kept the obsolete contraceptive. On the open pages of her five-year diary lay a sex manual, the words 100 Positions with Graphic Color Photographs splashed boldly across the cover — it had been given to her and Joe as a gag on their tenth wedding anniversary.
She stood frozen, not making a move to touch anything; instead, she shut her eyes again and expelled her breath.
"Go ahead and put those things away,” Holmes said as he stared out the window into the darkness. "If possible try not to touch the outside of the drawer."
She quickly tossed everything back in the drawer. As she slid it back into the night stand, she paused and sucked in her breath, "The gun . . .” she whispered. Holmes was beside her in two strides. "The gun my husband bought for me. It's gone."
"What kind of gun?"
"A twenty-two, I think. A revolver. Oh, my God.” Alex hurried across the room to the dresser. She knelt down. After tossing all the sweaters and knitted caps out of the bottom drawer, she sat there, hugging a cardigan to her chest and staring numbly into the empty drawer.
"They're gone too," she said. "My father's dueling pistols."
Alex and Holmes sat upstairs in the dining room. The uniformed policemen had gone.
"Would you like coffee?" she asked.
"I'd love some, thanks."
After slipping on sandals to walk on the glass-crusted floor, Alex prepared the coffeemaker, swept the glass to one side, then returned to the dining room. She joined Holmes at the windows.
The sky was brilliant with stars. The moon, glowing a warm orange, was in a three-quarter phase. A light breeze, stirring from the west, the same direction as the broken window, tapped at the heavy paperboard. Wind chimes on the deck tinkled randomly. Shuddering from a sudden chill, Alex hugged herself.
"You're cold," he said, looking over at her. "Why don't you go down and put on something warmer."
"It's the combination of sunburn and overwrought nerves hitting me all at once."
He nodded. "Do you have the serial number of the revolver? A description— any information on it?"
"Yes, downstairs."
She went down to the study and found what she was looking for after sorting through a dozen receipts and warranties for merchandise she hadn't owned in years. She made a mental note to clean out the files.
On her way back upstairs, Alex stopped at the entry closet and took out a long navy cardigan sweater and put it on. She pushed the sleeves up to her elbows.
"Joe is one of those organized creatures. It's all there." She handed Holmes the papers, then stepped around the breakfast bar to the kitchen. She took down two cups.
"Mind if I take this along with me?" He looked over at her. "I'll return it to you.”
"Take it," she said, pouring coffee into the cups.
He leaned back, ran a hand through his hair. "So, as far as you can tell, all that's missing is the guns?"
"As far as I know, yes.”
"You're sure the guns were in the house prior to the break-in tonight?"
"I'm sure.”' Just the night before, after the incident with Sloane, Alex had slept with the night-stand drawer open and the .22 within reach.
She carried the cups of coffee into the dining room. The man from CSI came up the stairs. He stopped at the top.
"Excuse me, folks. Jus, can I have a word with you?"
Holmes and the fingerprint man went back down to the foyer. Alex heard whispering. Minutes later she heard the front door open and close.
Holmes came back to the table and sat down. The CSI man had been the last to leave.
"Seems he didn't leave any prints. Hank got a lot of smudges, some clear ones of yours. But that's it."
"I see. So what happens now?"
"Now I investigate. I'll start with your neighbors. They might have seen someone prowling around."
"That should be easy. I only have two. Both live above me. The O'Briens to the east and Thelma Klump, the wicked witch, to the west."
"O'Brien," Holmes said, writing in his notebook, "and Klump, was it?"
She nodded. "Don't expect much cooperation from Miss Klump. She's sort of the neighborhood dragon lady."
"May I make a suggestion?"
Alex nodded.
"Since you live alone, I think it'd be wise to spend the night somewhere else." He gestured toward the kitchen window where the flimsy illustration board covered the opening. "He may come back, and he can punch that out with a pinkie."
"Why would he come back?" She was trying to keep the rising alarm from her voice.
"Mrs. Carlson," he began in a patient tone, "you're missing three guns . . . and that's all. You might have interrupted him — scared him off. A sharp burglar would've had all your valuables in a matter of minutes. I've been in this business long enough to know your house is a burglar's paradise. Now either he was a gross amateur or he was interrupted by you or someone before you."
"What if he just wanted a gun?"
"That's another possibility. A man on the run, let's say a dangerous fugitive from a prison, would want to be armed. If that's the case, he now is."
"And you think he'd come back?"
His answer was a penetrating stare.
"You know, you're scaring me," she said barely above a whisper.
"If it's the only way I can make you understand the seriousness of the situation, well then, get scared."
"I am. But I don't believe he'd come back." Alex said it more to convince herself than Holmes. She waved a hand in the air. "With the police and everything . . . my stuff can't be that appealing to a burglar."
"We haven't determined yet if he is a burglar. He left you a calling card on your bedroom mirror."
Alex had pushed the written message back into the recesses of her brain. Holmes had plucked it out. Spread it out before her.
"Do you have somewhere you can go? Friends? Relatives?"
"Yes," Alex said absently. "Friends."
"Why don't you give them a call. Then when you're ready to leave I'll walk out with you."
She went to the phone.
"Mind if I take off my jacket?" he asked.
"Please," she said, glancing down at her bare legs. "I guess I'm a little underdressed tonight. Afraid I didn't have a chance to change clothes when I got home."
His eyes flickered over her legs as he removed his jacket. He turned to hang it on the back of the chair. Alex noticed he was wearing a holstered gun. She also noticed he was tall, his body was well proportioned and muscular—not with the bulging overdeveloped muscularity of a body builder, but with enough sinew to deter the average bully.
She lifted the receiver and checked her watch simultaneously. Ten-fifteen. She hoped the Meachams weren't already asleep.
Margie answered the phone on the fifth ring. They spoke for several minutes. Alex hung up, turned to Holmes. "It's all set. You don't have to wait."
"I don't have to, but I will." He tore a piece of paper from the pad. "I wrote down the names of two security control firms here in town. You might want to look into having an alarm system installed. It's pretty isolated up here. A coup
le of flood lights might help too."
Alex nodded, taking the paper.
"Your homeowner's insurance should cover the cost of the window, the vandalism, and the guns. I assume the pistols were insured."
"Well insured. They're French dueling pistols, early nineteenth century. Very valuable. They were given to my great-grandfather by the Marquis Achille-Claude.”
"Was there an inscription?"
"Yes, inside the case. 'To my good friend Captain William Bently —Louis Benigne Achille-Claude.’"
Holmes wrote it down. "There's a good chance-we'll recover your heirlooms from one of the downtown pawnshops. If not, at least they're insured."
"I hope you find the pistols. You know, sentimental attachment and all that."
Holmes nodded.
Alex drew in a deep breath. "Well, I'll get my stuff. I won't be long." She hurried downstairs:
She avoided looking at the words on the closet mirror as she took a tote bag and hastily stuffed in a cotton jumpsuit, the demi bra and a pair of panties that had miraculously escaped the spray paint. She moved into the bathroom. What cosmetics had not been smashed or dumped into the toilet and basin, she tossed into the bag. A feeling of reckless desperation was closing over her. This was her home. Despite her ambivalence toward it, she had felt safe here. Oh, God, would she ever feel safe here again?
At the bedroom door she paused, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the message. Monsters. Waiting: The walls began to close in. The house itself folded in on her, black, oppressive, suffocating. It was his house. He could make it do anything he wanted. If he wanted it to hurt her, there was nothing she could do to stop it. She squeezed her eyes shut and hurried through the doorway. At the end of the long hallway she stopped and leaned against the wall until the panic left her and she felt in control again. She had wanted to run.
Within moments, she and the detective were outside. He was writing something as she climbed into her car. He handed her a business card.
"If you find anything else missing, or if something comes up pertaining to the case, no matter how trivial it may seem to you, call me at one of those numbers. The top number is headquarters, just ask for the detective division."
As she drove away she wondered if Blackie would be all right. She had no thoughts of Winnie. Winnie was not a part of the nightmare.
Chapter 3
The following morning, expecting to be received coolly, if not disdainfully, by Thelma Klump, Holmes was momentarily taken aback when the large woman, wearing a canary yellow sweatsuit and matching shoes, greeted him with a warm smile and a steady stream of chitchat. She ceremoniously placed him in a fat leather recliner — obviously the seat of honor in the garish, ornate living room — and hurried off to make herbal tea. The "wicked dragon lady of the west" appeared pleasant and cooperative.
Several minutes later she returned, a brilliant spot of rouge now on each cheek, effortlessly carrying a tray bearing a silver tea service, cups, and sweets. She sat across from the detective.
"A brownie, Detective Holmes?" Klump held out a plate of chocolate-frosted brownies. "They're homemade. I don't use that package stuff."
"No, thank you."
"Mine are moist. The secret's in adding a bit of oil to the batter."
"I'm sure they're great, but I have to watch my blood sugar."
"Pity." She poured the tea, handed him a cup.
"Ms. Klump, the —"
"Oh, call me Thelma. I'm not into the Ms. business."
"The home of your neighbor, Mrs. Carlson, was broken into last night and I wondered —"
"You don't say. How dreadful. Is she all right?"
"She's fine. Mrs. Carlson wasn't at home when the intruder entered. Now, did you —"
"We're so isolated up here. I'm not complaining, mind you. I'm a country girl, born and raised. But sometimes . . ."
"Who lives in the house east of you and Mrs. Carlson?"
"That'd be the O'Briens. But there's no point in you going there. They winter in Arizona, Labor Day to Memorial Day. Place is all closed up."
"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary yesterday? Someone in the area that didn't belong? A vehicle cruising back and forth?"
"Nooo." She toyed with a silvery curl on her forehead. Justin noticed dingy gray-brown strands at the nape of her neck, sticking out from under the wig. "And you can bet I'd notice. I live alone and I keep my guard up. A woman living alone must always keep her guard up. With the O'Briens gone, there's only Mrs. Carlson and myself for a good quarter-mile. I'm forgetting her son. Nice young boy."
"Do you know Mrs. Carlson socially?"
"No, no I don't." She sipped her tea. Looked rueful. "But it's not for lack of trying, mind you. The few times that I've tried to be neighborly, Mrs. Carlson has . . . well, shunted me. And none too gently.”
"Does she appear to be a loner?"
"Hel-- Heavens, no," she said with force. "That one dotes on attention. Quite popular with the gentlemen, y’know. Now mind you, I'm no snoop, but I do take pleasure in fiddling in the yard and I can't help but notice, living above her as I do, the cars coming up the driveway and . . . and going down the following day.”
"More than one car at a time?"
"No. Different cars. Different times."
"Were you in the yard yesterday afternoon?"
"I was."
"Yet you saw no one at her house?"
"No one except her. She sunbathes on her deck nearly every morning-- in the altogether. If you ask me I'd say that's perverted behavior. Wouldn't you, Sergeant?" Justin made no comment. "I was planting ground cover all afternoon at the edge of the bluff. If someone had been down there prowling around, it's not likely I would've missed them. Of course, I did come inside to take my meals, and . . . well, who knows . . . ?"
"Did you see Mrs. Carlson come home?"
"She left the house at eleven and returned at dusk."
"You're very observant."
"We're two women alone. Neighborhood Watch applies to even remote areas like ours. I'm sure Mrs. Carlson would report a prowler up my way."
"Aside from the men coming and going, would you say things are generally quiet down there?"
Klump cleared her throat. "No, I would not."
"Oh?"
"You have only to check within your own police department to get that answer."
"I'll do that, but perhaps you'd care to enlighten me while I'm here.”
"Two nights ago she was having one of her rowdy parties. At midnight the police arrived."
"You called them?"
"Not me. I'm not that sort of neighbor. Granted, I'm no saint, Sergeant, but I'm tolerant. And I've seen plenty."
Holmes waited.
Klump picked up the cue. "More than once, coming home from an evening out, she's had trouble maneuvering her car around the rocks lining the driveway. People like her have no business being on the road."
After quickly drinking his tea, Holmes thanked her and left.
He headed for his car, then circled back and walked to the edge of the bluff. As he stood under a peach tree, looking down at the Carlson house, he mentally sorted and filed Klump's account. She could be an excellent witness, he thought. Intelligent, cooperative, keen-eyed. But perhaps she was too cooperative. Perhaps she tended to embellish certain points, understate others. According to her statement, she'd witnessed nothing pertaining to the crime. And his main objective was to obtain factual and useful information necessary to advance the investigation. Mrs. Carlson's personal activities were none of his business. She was a victim, not a suspect.
He watched as two cars drove up the long driveway and pulled to a stop at the front entrance. He recognized one as Alex Carlson's. A redheaded woman exited from the tan station wagon. She and Alex Carlson disappeared into the house.
At the Meachams' earlier that morning, Alex had lolled in the shower, leaning against the tiles with eyes closed, forceful spray stinging her sunburn, until the water cooled. She had avoi
ded looking at herself until after her shower. The steamy mirror, a nebulous veil, masked the dark circles and the puffiness around her eyes.
An hour later she and Margie were trying to put some order back into her bedroom. Margie, taking a box of broken cosmetic jars and perfume bottles out to the trash, had left the bedroom slider open to air out the room.
With Windex and paper towels, Alex approached the closet mirror. Trepidation slowed her pace. The words the monsters are waiting seemed to breathe on their own. It's an optical illusion, she told herself, light playing on the mirror. But knowing that, she still could not control that erratic voltage that skittered to each nerve ending.
She squirted Windex over the words, then bent over, picked up the roll of paper towels, unrolled several sheets and ripped them off. Wadding the towels into a ball, she brought her hand up to wipe the mirror. She froze.
The glass cleaner had loosened the dried substance the words had been written in. Red tracks, splaying out, ran down the mirror and joined in places. No longer did it spell words. The words, somehow, someway, had become living things. Monsters. Hideous red monsters with needle-sharp teeth and claws. Monsters eat little children . . . eat little children .. . eat . .
"It's blood."
Alex gasped and spun around.
"I'm sorry, did I scare you?" Holmes stood at the open slider.
She turned back to the mirror. It held thin pinkish streaks. Nothing frightening. Nothing ominous. Her body went limp. With the back of her hand, she brushed the hair from her eyes.
"The way you were staring at the mirror, I thought you might be wondering what it had been written in. It was blood. Animal blood."
"Thank you, Detective Holmes. I shall sleep better knowing that:" Alex said finally.
"May I come in?"
"Come in." She pressed the towels to the mirror and scrubbed.
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