"Okay, so I' might've come on a little too strong the first time. How 'bout giving a guy a second chance?"
"I never offered you a first chance."
"Shit, just 'cause you're older than me doesn't mean we can't have something special between us."
Alex sensed a strong innuendo in his last words.
"Forget it, Scott."
"Hey, lady, you should be flattered."
"I'm not."
"Look damn it, I signed up for those fucking classes. I thought that's what I had to do to get you to go out with me."
"I refunded your money. What do you want, compensation for the time wasted in my class?" she said sarcastically.
He bobbed his head, grinning "Yeah," he drawled. "My place . . . tonight."
"Drop dead." She tried to push his hand away.
"Alex?" Velda called from the side door of the center. "Everything all right out there?"
Alex pulled open the door and climbed into the car, slamming and locking the door.
Scott swaggered backward several steps, his hands locked behind him. He bent at the waist. "I'll call you."
Alex started the engine and drove away without looking back.
Chapter 4
Midnight.
He stared down through the tinted bubble into her bedroom. A soft light coming from somewhere to the left of the room illuminated the bed directly below the skylight. He could make out her shape in the center of the bed. She was lying on her back with her legs to one side, her hands by her head. He watched as she rolled onto her right side, then tossed over to her left. "Can't sleep, huh, Allie?" he said quietly under his breath. "Good. That's good."
He could sit up here on the roof watching her for hours. And he had, many times. But right now he had things to do. Important things. He pushed himself up, crouching on the balls of his feet; then, taking one last look at her, he began to creep silently down the wood shakes toward the apple tree.
Alex opened her eyes. She looked over at the clock. Twelve-six. The room was softly lit by the glow from the bathroom—the night light she had refused to give up from her childhood. Lying awake, she listened to the creaking and groaning of the house as it settled. It was back again, that irrational feeling of being watched. The oval skylight above her bed looked down like a dark and sinister eye.
God, how she hated that skylight. When her father built the house, he had insisted on it. She had decided that when the construction on her new studio began, she would get rid of the damn thing.
An all too familiar sense of oppression crept over her, making her shudder. It seemed like ages since she'd felt that heavy, suffocating sensation. God knows, she thought, in the past three days my emotions have run the gamut— anger, fear, desperation, shock, and even revulsion. But they all took a backseat to the wretched dirge that was trying to worm its way up from the past.
She pulled her legs up, curling into a fetal position, and thought of Joe and the dissolution of their sixteen-year marriage. Then she thought of her mother and sister. And finally, the inevitable thoughts of her father pressed forth, overpowering all else. Why, Daddy, why won't you let me go? Her mind drifted back to the beginning, back when it had all turned bad.
Her father, William Bently, had hired the carpenter, at a dollar an hour over union scale, to build the addition onto the back of their suburban California house. Happy to put out a little more to have the job done right, he had hired Fritz Lambert, the best carpenter in the trade. The Bentlys' new family room would be the pride of the neighborhood.
Her mother wrote the letter, propped it on the mantel against the photograph of her two young daughters, then ran off with the hired man. Mrs. Bently and Fritz made only one stop before heading out of town, the Downey Federal Bank where she cleaned out the joint savings account of fifteen thousand dollars.
Four hours later William arrived home from the office. He smiled when he looked into the family room to see his daughters and their friends sitting on the new carpet watching some inane kiddie show. William found the letter on the mantel and read it.
He sent the neighbor kids home. He put the toe of his shoe through the screen of the Motorola. Then he took a claw-toothed hammer to the new paneling of the family room.
Five-year-old Alex and her seven-year-old sister, Lora, stared wide-eyed in terror at the madman who only moments before had asked for kisses and hugs. They watched him lift a bar stool and hurl it through the picture window. The three matching stools followed. The girls clung to each other as their father, wildly swinging the fireplace poker, smashed all the glasses and bottles behind the bar. When he finally became too exhausted to swing the poker, when there was nothing left to break or slash, he collapsed on the gutted loveseat, in tears. The girls cried with him, though neither of them knew why they were crying.
The following day William pulled his daughters out of Wirtz Elementary School. Why, they wondered, had he taken them out just two weeks before the end of the term. And why did he carry on so, crying every day? Their mother would come back.. She never meant-to leave them forever
Four months later Fritz was back in town— alone.
William, stony calm on the outside, raging out of control inside, looked up the man who had seduced his wife — lured her away from her family. He learned that Joy had left the carpenter in Florida for a two-bit race-car driver. Although William attacked his wife's spoiler with his bare hands, fracturing his skull in two places, his rage remained constant.
From the day Joy Bently climbed into that Ford pickup with her white Samsonite suitcase and headed out on the highway, never to return, life for the three people she had left behind changed drastically.
Alex forced the past back into the recesses of her mind—where it belonged. The present was already more than she could handle.
She thought of Todd, and immediately the oppressiveness began to ease. She missed him terribly. Her son, the baby who had arrived within a year of her marriage to Joe, the child who had always been her main source of love and pride, was now a grown man living away from home. He was coming home from school this weekend. His unguarded optimism and playfulness were what she needed. She would make his favorite dishes. Tomorrow she would make fruitcakes. Todd loved fruitcake chock full of dried dates and nuts.
The insensate veil of sleep had begun to envelop her when, suddenly, alarmingly, she felt as if she were plummeting down a black well. She jerked awake.
The phone was ringing.
Apprehension gripped her.
She reached out, her hand hovering hesitantly above it. Calls in the middle of the night could only be bad news. She drew in a deep breath, lifted the receiver to her ear and said softly, "Yes?"
There was no response.
"Hello?" More impatiently, "Hello?"
She pressed the lever down then released it. Nothing. Whoever had called was still on the line. "Hello." Several seconds later she slammed down the receiver.
Flopping back onto the pillow, Alex squeezed her eyes shut. So it's going to be one of those nights, she thought grimly. Whenever thoughts of her father trespassed into her waking state of mind, sleep became nearly impossible. The smell of fresh interior paint was strong. A patchwork of shadows dissected the room, cutting across the walls and furniture. An owl screeched.
Alex pushed herself up into a sitting position. From the night-stand, she picked up the TV remote unit and switched on the set. Flipping through the channels rapidly, she paused, then backtracked until she found the dark, Gypsy-looking man whose leg muscles bulged as he ran in-place on a sandy patch of lush Hawaiian soil, counting down to high-impact aerobics: ni, san, shi."
Over the beat of the music she heard something else. A scratchy sound, like the rasp of an old phonograph record. She turned the volume off on the set and listened. Definitely scratching. Blackie? He had gone out earlier in the evening and hadn't returned by bedtime. Since the nights were still warm, she had decided to leave him outside. He could sleep on the deck chaise lounge.
The scratching went on, becoming more insistent and impossible to ignore. With an exaggerated sigh, Alex threw back the blankets and slipped out of bed. The blue light from the television flickered behind her, lighting her way as she padded barefoot along the cold tiles of the hallway. For the umpteenth time since Todd had left, she sensed how utterly cold and disquieting this damned house could feel. Most evenings when Todd had lived at home, she had been alone, but for some reason it was different now.
As she approached the foyer, the scratching became louder. It was coming from upstairs, at the dining room slider. Turning right, she climbed to the upper level. The scratching stopped. Cocking her head to the side, she listened. Wind chimes and crickets, nothing more. The upstairs was dark, but enough moonlight washed across the deck and spilled in through the slider for Alex to see there was no cat at the door.
"It's the chaise lounge for you, cat," she mumbled. She turned and headed down the stairs, back to bed. Something began to scratch at the front door. Alex stiffened. Fear gave her heart a boost, making it beat faster.
Although the front door was on the ground level, Blackie rarely scratched there. He preferred to climb the wooden steps to the deck. At the slider he could see into the living room. That was also where he would find his water, kitchen scraps if there were any, and an occasional unsuspecting sparrow.
Breathing deeply, Alex moved to the door, put her eye to the peephole and flipped the switch for the porch light. Blackness. The bulb must be burned out again, she thought. Then she remembered that there was moonlight. Enough to see faint light at least.
Pressing her ear to the solid wood door, she heard a shuffling sound. Too heavy for a cat. Her heart banged in her chest.
She backed up from the door, turned, then ran down the hall to the telephone in her bedroom. She snatched at the receiver, then, holding it to her chest, not dialing, she paused, listening again. The minutes ticked away with only the sound of her pounding heart and the steady hum of the dial tone in odd duet.
Hold it a minute, she told herself, calm down. Before you do something rash, think this out.
Would she have been so jumpy tonight if she had not let her thoughts go back into the past? The awful bad dreams that had haunted her childhood were just that—bad dreams. Remember that, she told herself—bad dreams, nothing more.
She forced herself to think about what she had actually heard, seen.
A scratching. Blackie.
A shuffling. Not Blackie.
The absence of any light from the peephole. She punched 911.
A scream shattered the stillness. Was it human or animal? Was it a cat?
Answer the phone, Goddamn you.
Another scream. There was no doubt this time — it was a cat in pain. And following the scream came a thud at the door.
"Reno emergency," the dispatcher said.
"Carlson. Rockridge Drive,” she shouted. "Get out here!" She dropped the phone, ran down the hall to the front door, and threw it open. Then she screamed.
Chapter 5
Alex reeled back from the door, the scream echoing in her head. She looked away and then, as if compelled, looked back again at the thing sprawled in a white heap at the threshold. It wasn't entirely white, though. Red splotches stained the beautiful long white hairs of Winnie's belly.
"Winnie?" Alex whispered, bending down. "Don't be dead, Winnie."
But she knew Winnie was. The cat's eyes were already glazing over. Her tongue, covered with clinging bits of gravel and dried grass, poked out of a mouth that was open and frozen into a cavern guarded by needle-sharp teeth. The cat looked strangely deflated.
Alex reached out to touch Winnie, but found she couldn't do it. Her hand, instead, pressed against the door for support. She felt something slick on her palm. Nearly a third of the way up on the outer facing of the front door she saw a wide streak of blood. She wiped her hand roughly on her robe, shivered, drawing in a ragged breath.
Tears filled Alex's eyes and coursed down her face. Poor kitty. Sweet kitty. Of the two siblings, Winnie had been the more affectionate, nuzzling, purring, and even sleeping at the foot of Alex's bed. When she had failed to come home three nights ago — three, was that all? —Alex had feared the worst, though not knowing for sure had made it easier somehow. Cats were known to be fickle, moving to suit their moods and tastes. And because Winnie hadn't been involved in the latest horrors, Alex had really not given her much thought. Now Winnie seemed to be a part of the nightmare— a fatal part.
The patrol car arrived several minutes later. Two male officers and a police dog. Alex told them all she knew, up to opening the door and finding her cat dead on the mat.
The officer bending over the cat said, "Coyotes, I'd say."
"I don't think so," Alex answered. And then she told them about the vandalism the night before.
"We know about that, Mrs. Carlson. But I don't think this has anything to do with that. Look here:' he said, the end of his black shoe wedged under the cat and he rolled it over. "Gutted. Coyotes do that."
Alex looked away, revulsion and grief washing over her. "Are you saying that a coyote killed my cat and then dropped it off on my porch?"
"It could've just come home to die. Cats are tough."
"They're also very private and prefer to die alone."
"Then tell me what you think happened."
"I think someone called me first to wake me up and then murdered my cat and threw her against the front door."
"Threw her?"
"Yes, threw her." She pointed to the streak of blood on the door.
"What reason would someone have to do that?"
"I don't know. To scare me. To hurt me." Fresh tears ran down Alex's face. "I don't know. Oh, God, I don't know."
"Elliot." the officer called out to the other policeman who was walking with the leashed dog, shining his flashlight around some shrubs at the base of the hill. "Hey, Elliot, bring Caesar up here."
Caesar trotted up the steps with Elliot close behind. The German shepherd approached the cat warily. He sniffed at it, starting from the head and ending at the tail. Then he sat down and looked from one officer to the other.
Alex's teeth began to chatter. She hugged herself, shivering.
"Mrs. Carlson, go on inside. We'll take care of your cat for you."
“What will you do with her?"
“Well, uh . . . dispose of her properly."
"Aren't you going to do an autopsy to determine what killed her?"
"If you make a request, then yes, ma'am, we will."
"Although you think it's a waste of time. Right?" His silence confirmed it.
"Leave her," Alex said quietly "I'll bury her myself."
"Yes, ma'am. I .. . uh . . . I'll wrap her in something for you." He turned to Elliot. "Get a plastic bag from the trunk, huh?" He turned back and paused before saying quietly, "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Carlson.”
She nodded.
He leaned against the porch lamp. The light flickered.
"Looks like you got a loose bulb here." He jiggled the lamp. "Don't think I don't know how you feel," he said, reaching underneath and twisting the bulb. Light washed over his hand. "I had a manx. A tougher house cat you won't find. I lost him to a coyote.”
"Mr. Sloane will see you now, Sergeant," the receptionist at Norday Investments said the next morning. "Second office on the left.”
Justin thanked her, walked down the hall, and entered the large corner office. The Norday suites were on the tenth floor of the Richmond Building. The view was to the east, toward the airport and the mountains of Virginia City.
"David Sloane? Sergeant Holmes," Justin said, extending his hand.
The man behind the desk rose quickly to his feet, shook Justin's hand. "Afternoon. What can I do for you, Sergeant?"
Sloane's hand felt wet, clammy.
"Just a few questions, if you don't mind.”
"Always willing to cooperate with the RPD. Have a seat.”
"You're acquainted with an Alexandra Carlson, Mr. Sloane?" Justin asked, sitting.
"Alex? Of course. Her husband once worked at this officer.”
“When was the last time you saw her?"
"Well, I uh . . . I saw her Sunday night, as a matter of fact."
"Social visit?"
"Well, yes, I guess you'd say it was social."
"Did she happen to say if she was having any problems?"
"Problems? I don't think— What sort of problems?"
"Problems of any kind? Financial problems?" Justin noticed the tension in the man's face easing. Sloane leaned back in his chair, put both hands behind his head, exposing damp perspiration stains under the arms of the cotton shirt. The room was cool, almost chilly.
"She's an artist. She teaches painting classes. That's how she supports herself."
"That's a big house she lives in. Lots of land. Art classes must be very lucrative."
“Must be. She has plans to build a studio onto the house. She asked if I could get her a deal on material and labor."
"Would you mind telling me a little about her? Disposition? Personality? Her general makeup?"
Sloane dropped his arms, let them swing along the sides of the chair. "How did you learn we . . . uh, know each other?"
"I didn't get your name from her. She has no idea I'm speaking to you or that I even know the two of you are acquainted.”
"Then how — ?"
"Your car was seen at her home on the fourth. Texas DMV supplied your name."
"What's she done?" Sloane sat forward eagerly.
"I didn't mean to imply she had done anything. If you'd rather not discuss her, I can appreciate that, Mr. Sloane."
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