She stared at him, nodding her head slowly. When she spoke, her voice was calm, quiet. "You're too clever for me, Sergeant. Yes, I'm the witch who lives on the hill, practicing deadly satanic rituals and . . . and evil mumbo jumbo. You saved me a call by dropping in tonight. I was just about to report a homicide. Quite a few homicides, actually. It might interest you to know that not only did I murder my own cat, but for years I've been luring men up here, seducing them, then cutting their throats. Their bodies are hanging like sides of beef in my basement. Care to see?"
"I want some straight answers.”
"You can go straight to hell." Alex slammed her mug on the floor, it tipped over, spilling the buttered rum over the carpet. She rose with such vigor that the chair rocked precariously on its pedestal as she headed for the stairs. "After you get out of my house."
He bounded to his feet and grabbed her arm, wrenching her around to face him. "You started this, Mrs. Carlson., and I'm going to see it through. The average citizen can go years, possibly his entire life, without police intervention. You've had four independent incidents in a very short time. I just want to know what the hell's going on? Is it too much to ask that I get some straight answers?"
She tried to twist her arm free. He grabbed her other arm, holding both firmly.
"Who tried to assault you on the fourth of October? Take your time. I'm sure you'll think of something intriguing." Alex glared at him. "Talk to me, damn it, I've wasted enough time on you as it is.”
"What do you plan to do. Twist my arm? Handcuff me to the banister?"
"I could take you in for questioning. I could request that you be evaluated by a qualified psychiatrist."
"And I could have you up before the police commission on charges of duress and police brutality. You're hurting my arms.”
Holmes released her. One hand pawed through his hair. He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. That was uncalled for.”
Alex instinctively massaged her arms. Although the sunburn stung slightly, he hadn't hurt her. But if he stayed any longer, implied that she was lying again, she didn't know if she'd be able to refrain from hurting him. She had felt a strong urge to smash her fists into his face.
"I'd like you to go now."
"Mrs. Carlson, please. Who assaulted you that night?"
"You find out. That's your job. I'm now the suspect, remember?"
They stood facing each other, tense, wary. Finally he nodded. He got as far as the stairway when the phone rang. He turned slowly. They looked at each other.
"You take the kitchen phone, I'll get the one in here," he said. "When I signal, pick it up and answer just as you normally would."
"Why? You've already made up your mind. Why trouble yourself?"
"Just do it .. . please."
She moved to the wall extension. They picked up their respective receivers on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
No one spoke. She heard the breathing. She glanced over at Holmes. Her pulse throbbed. Then: "Suzanne?"
Alex gripped the receiver tightly.
"Suzanne, is that you?" The voice was deep, raspy. A mere whisper.
"No." Alex felt the blood rush to her head. It was him. Something told her it was the man who had been calling her. Her middle name was Suzanne. Could that be coincidental?
Looking at Holmes, she jabbed her finger at the receiver, mouthing the words, "It's him."
The connection was broken.
Her hands were shaking. Instead of feeling confident and safe with a policeman by her side, Alex felt grave apprehension. There was something about the voice that made her skin feel as if it were too tight for her body.
"It was him." Alex slammed down the phone.
"How can you be sure? You said no one spoke to you before."
"The breathing, the . . . the . . . .
"And why would he talk this time?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Her entire body shaking now, Alex moved to the window, hugging herself. Someone out there knew a lot about her. And she was at a disadvantage — she knew nothing about him. No, that wasn't entirely true; she knew he had a thing for skimpy underwear and he had her picture, revolver, and heirloom guns. She knew that much about him because she felt certain the person on the phone was the same person who had tossed her stuff around, had made off with what he wanted; and then, last night, had brutally murdered her cat. What does he want? she wondered. Why me? Jesus, why me?
With her hands clenched tightly into fists, she stared across the valley at Rattlesnake Mountain. The glow of a campfire flickered— no, not a campfire, the beginning of a brushfire.
The storm was waning with only an occasional flash of lightning in the eastern hills. The thunder rumbled far off in the distance. A spattering of raindrops began to pepper the window, making sharp pinging sounds as the wind propelled the drops against the glass.
Her gaze dropped to the weather vane attached to the white fencepost. The wooden duck was swirling hack and forth in semicircles, its wings churning like pinwheels. Not committed to any particular direction, the duck jerked left and right crazily, wings pulling through the air like an Olympic swimmer going for the gold.
Absorbed in her own troubled thoughts, Alex had momentarily forgotten about Holmes until she felt his hands on her arms. Her body stiffened. She jerked her head up to glare at his reflection in the glass. He immediately dropped his hands and stepped back.
"Come lock up after me."
On weak legs she followed him down to the door.
"I'll have a patrol car cruise the area tonight." He took out a notepad. "May I have your husband's phone number?" When she stared at him questioningly, he added. "It's about the handgun. I need more information.”
She gave him the phone number.
Alex watched as he took his jacket from the banister knob, walked to the door, and opened it. Before he went out, she said, "David Sloane.”
He turned to her his eyes staring into hers. Understanding flashed in his eyes. He nodded. Then he was out, pulling the door shut behind him. She locked the deadbolt and fastened the safety chain.
He was an arrogant, smug bastard. But for some reason unknown to her, Alex wanted very much for him to believe her.
He had to believe her.
Chapter 6
The following morning, Justin called David Sloane. He told Sloane that Mrs. Carlson had implicated him in an act of aggression on the night of the party.
"Christ." Sloane had spit out. "That's just what I was telling you about, Sergeant. She was all over me after everyone had left that night. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I wanted her . . . wanted her bad, though I came to my senses before it went too far. That's when it turned ugly. She snatches up the phone and says she's calling the cops and she's gonna tell them I tried to rape her. Now, really, Sergeant, do I look like your typical rapist?"
Justin was about to tell him there was no such thing as a typical rapist, then decided against it. "Why didn't you mention this when I talked to you yesterday?"
"I didn't see any point. To be truthful, I thought she'd been faking the call. Y'know, pretending to dial 911. I just said, 'Screw it, and headed out, disgusted with the whole affair."
"I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Sloane."
"Glad to be of help."
Justin then made a call to California. He got through to the Newport Beach branch of Norday Investments, and after a long delay the secretary connected him to the office of Joseph Carlson. The man sounded gruff, out of sorts.
"Mr. Carlson, Sergeant Holmes, Reno Police Department here."
"I don't know what this is about, Sergeant, but I've got an important meeting across town in less than ten minutes. If you could get back to me in—"
"I'm calling in regard to your ex-wife, Alexandra Carlson."
A pause. "Is she in some sort of trouble with the law?"
"I was hoping you could help me straighten out a few things. Would you mind answering a question or two
?"
"This pertains to?"
"The break-in and burglary at her Rockridge address. I understand the stolen handgun had been purchased by you, is that correct?"
Another pause. This one longer. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”
"Your ex didn't tell you that on the fifth, her house was broken into? That several guns, among other items, were taken?"
"No."
"Do the two of you .. uh . . . communicate with each other?"
"Of course. Our son lives near me, goes to college at USC. We're civilized. We do speak — about important things, at least."
"Well then, can you think of a reason why she would keep something like that to herself?"
"Not the foggiest."
"Mr. Carlson, can you tell me something about your wife's—ex-wife's—background?"
"I really do have a meeting to get to, Sergeant.”
"I realize that, but this is important. Perhaps we can arrange to meet —"
"I'm planning to come into Reno in a week or so. I could call you when I arrive."
"I was thinking within the next couple of days, Mr. Carlson. At your office, if that's convenient?"
"Yeah. Sure. I'll put my secretary back on. She can set up an appointment. I must go."
A moment later Holmes was making an appointment for the coming Monday. This will work out fine, he thought. His daughter and her mother lived in the neighboring city of Huntington Beach. He'd combine business with pleasure.
As far as the workup on Mrs. Carlson was concerned, he knew no more now than before. The case began as a routine B and E— breaking and entering— burgary and vandalism. Then the delayed discovery of a stolen photograph and panties. And now this thing about a dead cat—a murdered pet, according to Alex Carlson. Why was it that everything he'd casually suggested somehow came to be? He remembered telling her that the act of satanism was remote because 'of the absence of a ritualistic killing. "Cats and dogs," he had said, "make convenient sacrificial offerings.” Voila — dead cat.
She had stuck to her story even after he'd practically accused her of illegally filing false police reports and insurance fraud. If she was telling the truth about the cat, the calls, the vandalism, all of it, then someone truly had it in for her. And that someone could be dangerous.
But it seemed the more he dug up, the weaker her case became.
Alex had finished her Thursday night class, stowed her totebag and paint box in the trunk of the car, and was about to get into her car when she felt a hand lightly touch her shoulder. She gasped, jerking around.
Velda Lancaster pulled back, eyes widening.
"God, Velda, you scared the hell out of me.” With her hand splayed over her chest, Velda said,”I scared youfor Lordy, my heart's thumping to beat the band. I thought sure you were going to deck me."
"Sorry. I thought you were . . . well, someone else.”
"Who? That young man I saw talking to you the other night?"
She had almost said no, not that young punk. Someone else. Someone whose idea of fun was to kill a defenseless cat. Instead she nodded and said, "Thanks for calling out. Scott's harmless, but he can by pushy."
"Is there something wrong, dear? You haven't been yourself the past week.”
Alex was tempted to tell the elderly curator everything, but didn't know how or where to begin. Instead she said, "Everything's fine, Velda."
"Then you're working too hard. You should take some time for yourself." Velda handed her a slip of paper. "New student. I sent him a supply list and told him I'd call when there was an opening.”
"Thanks, Velda."
Velda waved and walked back into the building. Alex climbed into her car and quickly locked the door. She wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her jeans. Although the night was warm and windless, she felt cold. Again she sensed she was being watched. Instinctively she glanced across the street, fully expecting to see Scott staring at her from the parking lot of Gina's. She saw no one. God, am I becoming paranoid as well? she wondered. She started the engine and pulled away.
Within a block of the center, in her rearview mirror, she picked up the bright lights of a car.
Looking in the side mirror, she could see by the colored plastic appendage on the roof that it was a police car. Although blinded by the lights, Alex could barely make out a lone policeman behind the wheel. She checked her speedometer-- under the speed limit. She signaled, then swung a right onto the freeway ramp heading north. The lights stayed fixed in her mirror. Jockeying for a lane, her speed increasing, she soon forgot about the police car. When she exited the freeway a mile from her house, she noticed the lights again. They stayed close behind until she made the turn onto the street that crossed her drive. The lights were still there, but dropping back.
She turned left onto the road that was posted Private Drive and stopped. Turning in her seat to look out the back window, Alex caught a glimpse of a motorcycle passing and then she watched as Gunther slowly drove by. He was staring straight ahead, seemingly unaware of her car stopped at the entrance of her drive. He turned at the first intersection and disappeared.
Alex sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, her heart thumping hard beneath her breastbone. Had he been following her?
From his bed Justin reached out, pushed aside the alarm clock and a package of throat lozenges on the night stand, and not finding what he was looking for, pulled his hand away. The luminous hands of the clock pointed to half-past two. What was I looking for? he wondered. Cigarettes. The night companion. The friend that kept him company when he was waiting, or nervous, or just couldn't sleep. Although he'd quit over a year ago, the urge — not an urge exactly, more like a pang— zapped him now and then like an electrical shock.
Before reaching out, he'd been lying in the dark, arms crossed behind his head, thinking. Alex Carlson's face materialized before him again. His mind went back to the last time he'd seen her. The night of the storm. He remembered the disappointment he'd felt when her hand, reaching up to his hair, had come away with a leaf. He remembered the feel of her against him when, pulling her into his arms, he had stopped her mad dash to the phone. She'd been on his mind a lot. At first he'd told himself it was the strangeness of her case that had her weaving in and out of his head throughout the day. But when she began to invade his private thoughts, his sleep, it was time to unfold it, give it a brisk shake, spread it out, and have a good look. Okay, what was it about this woman that played on his mind?
She was no dawn nymph. He assumed she was close to his age. She was pretty, but he'd known others who were prettier: However, there was something about her, something more than the general construction of her face and body. She was different. Hell, he was intrigued, like a kid marveling over an unusual breed of butterfly. After a while, when the uniqueness wore off, boredom would set in. She was different, that's all. Certainly not special. No, damn it, not special.
Since divorcing Yvonne seven years ago, Justin had fiercely guarded his bachelorhood. Not that he didn't respect the institution of matrimony. It worked fine for some couples. His parents had been happily married for almost twenty-five years until death took them both, huddled together, one cold January night. It might even have worked for him if he had married someone other than Yvonne. Or he might still be married to her — he shuddered at the thought— if he hadn't interrupted her and the detective-lieutenant as they were conducting their own undercover work.
Years ago he had gotten over the pain and anger of coming home unexpectedly one day to find his wife bare-ass naked with another man in their bed. Justin had calmly turned and left the room. Over his shoulder, he had said softly, "Lieutenant, when you're through, may I have a word with you out back?" Before Justin could clear the hallway, the lieutenant had shouted the names of the other two cops—uniform and plainclothes—Yvonne had also gone to bed with. Justin had sat at the redwood patio table, a can of beer gripped tightly in his hand, and waited. He waited, thinking about the men the
lieutenant had named. He could go after them, break their faces, maybe get his own face broken, but was she worth it? He decided she probably wasn't. He could go to the daycare center and pick up their three-year-old daughter and just take off, for Canada, maybe. But he wouldn't do that. Casey loved and needed her mother. And, he knew, Yvonne — no matter how she felt about him — adored their daughter. He waited over an hour. No one came out the back door. The next time he saw Yvonne was four weeks later at the courthouse. She begged Justin to take her back, swearing to be faithful. He knew he would never trust her. She had lied too many times in the past. The first few years of their marriage he'd suspected she had lovers. He'd even confronted her. She had accused him of being irrationally jealous. She will never lie to me again, he told himself. At least not in affairs of the heart.
Thinking of Yvonne never failed to put his emotions in the proper perspective. Let the other guy get all sloppy and sentimental. Let him feel the pain. Justin had had his. He wasn't having any more, thank you.
Justin climbed out of bed and, naked, headed toward the kitchen. In the refrigerator were a cold Heineken and the makings for a thirty-two ounce Dagwood sandwich.
Alex had been dreaming. She was walking down an endless stone passageway toward an eerie light. As she walked, she brushed cobwebs from her face. They clung to her hair, softly stirred against her cheek. The light she was moving toward dimmed, then went out, leaving her in total darkness. In the blackness she heard scratching. Something caressed her face. She felt a paralyzing numbness.
Her eyes flew open. She moaned.
It's only a dream, she told herself, staring wide-eyed at the skylight above the bed. She was beginning to relax and feel drowsy again when she felt a fluttering on the side of her face—so like the cobwebs in the dream. Frantically swiping at her face and pillow, she cried out, sat up, switching on the bedside lamp. The thing that had awakened her was now batting itself furiously between the bulb and the lamp shade — a moth. A moth had been on her pillow, fluttering its wings against her fate.
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