An hour later Justin was at the art center viewing the paintings of Alex Carlson. On a bench in the middle of the room he sat, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, and studied the paintings one by one. His eyes were repeatedly drawn to the nightscape titled Depth.
With a sigh he rose and walked out to the reception desk. Velda Lancaster looked up and smiled.
"Good afternoon, Sergeant Holmes. Something I can do for you?"
"Mrs. Carlson's painting, Depth. Is it sold?"
"I'm not certain. That's the one with the Not for Sale sticker, right?"
"Right." Justin cleared his throat. "I'm interested in buying it. Could you call her? Ask her if she'd consider selling it?"
"Of course.”
"Uh . . . would you mind not telling her it's me?"
Velda smiled, reached for the telephone.
Justin walked back into the gallery. Five minutes later Velda joined him.
"She's willing to sell it, Sergeant. But not cheaply, I'm afraid. Evidently it means something special to her.”
“I’ll take it with me."
"I haven't told you the price.”
"It doesn't matter. Will you take a check?"
With the painting wrapped in brown paper, he headed for home.
An hour later, back at the station, Justin looked up to see Gunther standing stiffly on the other side of his desk.
"Can I have a word with you, Sergeant?" Justin leaned back in his chair. Nodded.
"It's about that woman . . . Mrs. Carlson."
"Go on."
"Well, I'm thinking I might've said some things about her that could, well, give you the wrong impression of her."
"Oh? Now what would that be?"
"I think you know, sir." Gunther swallowed, his Adam's apple rose and fell. "I didn't lie. I told you what I saw. But maybe what I saw, and how I related it to you, wasn't really how it was. If you know what I mean."
Justin stared at him. “What reason would you have for wanting me to think ill of Mrs. Carlson?"
"Because of that prick Ott. Her boyfriend. I guess I wanted to get even. She was sort of a scapegoat.”
"What you're saying is that you didn't see the Carlson woman and Corvette man embracing?"
"No, sir. I did see them. As clear as a bell. What I'm not certain of is if she was actually a willing participant."
Justin leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped in front of him. In a calm, even tone he asked, "Are you telling me that you sat there — or stood there, or whatever and looked on impassively while a woman was being assaulted?"
"I didn't say that, sir. I don't know that for sure."
“What do you know? And where the fuck were you?"
"In the patrol car at the bottom of her drive. I, uh, had the binoculars. I was just about to go back up there and check it out when this guy on a motorcycle pulls up and asks me for directions. I got rid of him real quick, but by then the man had come out of the house and was getting into his car. So I took off."
"I see. So take off now," Justin said, picking up the file in front of him.
Gunther moved away.
Justin slammed down the file. He reached for the phone, his hand pausing on the receiver a moment, then he lifted it and dialed. He put in a call to Dallas and requested a criminal check on David Sloane. Dallas responded promptly. David Leroy Sloane had been arrested twice in the previous year. Assault with intent to commit rape: acquitted. Rape: charges dropped. Justin followed a hunch and checked on Sloane in the Reno files. Five years ago while employed at the Nevada branch of Norday Investments, a petition had been filed by a female employee accusing Sloane of sexual harassment. Upon Sloane's transfer to Dallas, the petition had been withdrawn.
Alex had been damn lucky. Somehow she had been spared the pain and anguish of being yet another victim of David Sloane.
But Alex had been a victim of prejudice and hate. Of the people Justin had interviewed regarding Alex, all those with an unfavorable opinion of her had had a spiteful motive. An ex-husband, an angry neighbor, an alleged rapist, and a cop with misdirected animosity.
And he had believed them. You're an asshole, Justin told himself. You should have seen through Sloane.
But knowing that Alex had told the truth about Sloane didn't rectify the fact that she'd lied to him about being with Ott at his condo on Wednesday night.
Was there also a reasonable explanation for that incident? Forget it. Leave it. It's over and done with.
At dusk, Alex turned on the lights throughout the house. She had been unable to shake that feeling of malevolence from the night before. And now, without Justin, it was twofold. Being alone had never been a strong point for her. Several times she had dialed Greg's number, but had hung up before it rang. The last time she had completed the call, only to get Greg's answering machine. She'd left no message.
Through most of the evening she found her thoughts alternating between Justin and the intruder. Was Justin at home, alone, as she was? Was he out with the blond woman from the restaurant? Was he thinking of her? Then: Who was the intruder? Why was he after her? When would he come again? Where was he now?
He stood in the bathroom looking at his image in the mirror. Light filtered in from the hallway.
She was nothing but a whore, he told himself as he chewed on his lower lip. The same as her mother. Grief and heartache, that's all she was capable of giving. He thought back to the night before, thought of her standing before her bedroom mirror undressing touching herself, preparing herself for that man she'd known less than two weeks.
Through the skylight, in a state of rage, disgust, and desire he had watched the two of them naked, writhing, clutching shamelessly, until, sexually sated, she had sent the cop from her bed and out into the night.
He whispered, I'm the one who should be with you, Allie. I'm the one who has the rightful place in your life." He bit down slowly, watching impassively as his teeth disappeared into the flesh of his lower lip. Blood oozed up around each tooth.
Upstairs in the living room the grandfather clock chimed the hour He looked upward, counting the bells. Ten o'clock. He twisted the knobs on the bathroom faucet; water gushed out into the sink. He turned off the light in the hall. Then he moved into the study, lifted the receiver, and held it to his chest. With the back of his hand, he wiped at the blood on his mouth and chin.
They could have been happy together all these years, he thought with contempt, if only she hadn't been like her, like the other one.
Curled up on the end of the sectional sofa, Alex thought she heard something. Turning down the volume on the TV, she listened to a hissing sound coming from somewhere downstairs. She lowered her feet to the floor, sat up straight, and listened again. It sounded like running water.
Rising slowly, she moved to the top of the stairs. With caution, she went down to the main level, turned left, and walked down the hall to her bedroom. Whatever was making that noise was not coming from the bedroom or master bath. She listened again. It sounded as though it was coming from the lower level, where the study and other bedrooms were.
She backtracked to the foyer and had begun to descend when suddenly, two steps down, she stopped. The hair rose on the back of her neck. The downstairs hall light that she had switched on earlier was now off.
Poised like a guarded doe, Alex listened. Over the rushing sound of blood pounding in her ears, she heard water running. She backed up carefully to the foyer, then, turning, she ran back to her bedroom. Snatching up the receiver, she punched 911.
"Hello. Hello. Damn it, answer me," she whispered frantically.
"It's time, Allie," the hoarse voice on the phone said. "They've waited long enough. The night is theirs.”
He was in the house with her.
There were four telephones in the house, at least one extension on each level. Which extension was he on?
She put the receiver on the bed and backed up to the glass slider. Quietly, keeping her gaze steady on the hallway, she re
ached for the lock lever at the handle. A piece of jagged metal scraped her finger. She risked a look. The lever had been twisted and broken off. It was stuck in the lock position.
She stepped into the studio alcove and wrapped a sweaty, trembling hand around the cast-iron statuette.
Keeping hysteria at bay, she switched on the light of the swing-arm lamp. Then she moved to the night-stand lamp and turned it on. The room was ablaze with light. If she found herself trapped in the dark she would go mad-- stark raving mad.
She ran.
Justin pulled up to the unmarked car parked under the trees. De Solo leaned over and rolled down the window.
"Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Not much. About an hour ago the old lady left her house—on foot. Unless I missed her when I took a leak, she hasn't returned."
"What's going on below?" Justin nodded his head toward Alex's house.
"She's still got the place lit up like a Christmas tree. Must be scared of the dark, huh?"
"Anybody with her?"
"Not that I know of."
"I'll take over, De Solo. Thanks for the relief."
"You gonna sit here all night?"
"I don't know. Couple hours at least."
"Why don't you see if you can get an invite in. Would sure be a helluva lot warmer."
"I doubt that," Justin said to himself.
It had stopped snowing by mid morning, and the snow had melted away an hour later.
De Solo drove away with only his parking lights on.
Justin took the .38 police special from the glove compartment and set it on the passenger seat.
Straight ahead, through the trees, he could see Klump's house. The lights were on in the living room. He saw a silhouette pass behind the shaded window. So she was back in the house again. De Solo had missed seeing her return.
He looked back down the hill. The house—with a light blazing in every window — suddenly went dark.
"What the hell . . . ?" Justin said. There was no way all the lights could go off at the same time unless someone hit the circuit breaker. There was no reason for Alex to do that. A power failure? He glanced over to Klump's house. Her lights continued to glow.
Shoving the gear shift in reverse, Justin backed out, his rear tires spinning on the loose gravel.
Alex froze. She had gotten as far as the hallway when everything went black.
Now she would go mad.
She could hide. She could make a run for the front door. Or she could stand here and wait for him to come for her.
The statuette was heavy in her hand. She switched it to the other one, wiped her palm on her denim skirt, then gripped the statuette again. In the oppressive blackness of the hall she sensed his presence. Her feet refused to move. She could go neither forward nor backward. A moment later, in a state of paralyzing terror, she felt, rather than heard, footsteps advancing toward her. From behind, she felt an arm close around her as a cold hand moved across her mouth.
Chapter 16
It isn't happening. Oh God, Alex prayed, let it be a bad dream.
"Pretty, Allie. Sweet, Allie." He ground his body into hers, and she felt with sickening horror his erection hard against her. "Whose baby are you?" Those words. That voice. Her muffled sob bounced back off his hand.
The statuette dropped from her numb fingers. She was pulled roughly from the wall and propelled toward the bedroom. She began to resist.
"Don't fight me, you slut. I'll hurt you if you fight me."
Alex moaned softly.
His hand tightened over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air. He kicked at her feet, partially dragging, partially carrying her a few steps farther down the hall.
Her head felt light. Bright spots danced before her eyes. On the wall, in the, dimness, she stared at a family photograph—the one she had kept hidden from her father. A professional photograph of her parents, sitting side by side on a loveseat, four-year-old Lora sitting cross-legged on the floor between them and baby Allie on her father's lap. As she stared, her father's image began to waver—waver slightly to and fro. "Daddy . . . no, Daddy," she breathed, expelling the last bit of air from her lungs onto the salty dampness pressed to her mouth.
Her head was forced against the photograph. She heard the crack of glass.
"You fucking bitch. Because of the two of you, my life was a living hell." Alex heard him spit, felt droplets on the side of her face. "You'll pay for the both of you. Hear me? You'll pay."
Dark. Everything was suddenly so dark. Where was the light switch? She had to find daddy again. Had to tell him something . . . something very important. But what? What? Yes. Of course. She had to tell him to help her . . . help her get out of this hot dark box .. . this smelly refrigerator. Then his face was before her again, like the diaphanous, detached head of the Wizard of Oz in the palace. Strong. Handsome. Powerful. She felt her body relaxing, felt the muscles in her legs go limp as her knees began to bend. She was lifted up by strong arms and carried with ease a few paces before the ghostly features of her father's face became rigid. "Over my dead body, Allie,” the floating head shouted at her. "You promised. You promised you'd never leave me."
Her father's face was gone, and there was only darkness again.
An instant later she was gasping for air. Air filled her lungs as she sucked greedily with everything she had. She drew it in, afraid to let it out—afraid the supply would be depleted again. Then a steel band wound around her chest and squeezed, forcing the precious air from her lungs.
She cried out in sheer frustration.
"Shut up," the voice said in her ear as she was dragged through the doorway of her bedroom.
Struggling again with the strength heightened by a blast of adrenaline, Alex managed to free her mouth from his grasp. "No," she croaked, the sound barely above a whisper. Drawing in a deep breath, whipping her head from side to side to keep his hand clear of her mouth, she screamed, "Nooo." The word resounded in her head.
She fell over the raised platform and was -pushed down to the floor on her stomach, the weight of his body crushing her. At the edge of the bed Alex tried to rise, but was knocked back down. Her hand groped along the floor, under the bed, searching for a handhold. Her fingers touched cold metal. She knew instantly what it was—the hedge clippers she'd found on the patio the night he'd been in her house. With a strangled cry, she grabbed up the clippers, pulled them out and, with all her might, arched them up and over her left shoulder. She felt a pointed tip puncture solid matter. She heard him grunt, curse. Alex struggled upward, made it several feet before she was grabbed by her shoulder.
"Bitch!"
She heard pounding and shouting.
Suddenly she was hurled down. The oak night stand seemed to come at her like a runaway Mack truck, slamming against her hip with a solid thud. She cried out sharply as the pain in her side exploded, making her knees buckle. She fell to the floor.
Pressing the side of her face to the smooth wood, Alex watched as the dark form ran out the door, down the hall, and disappeared into the garage.
"Alex, open up." The voice at the front door was Justin's.
She heaved herself away from the night stand and rushed to open the front door. Justin pushed his way in. Grabbed her. In a breathless voice he asked, "You all right?"
"Yes."
He flipped the switch for the foyer light. "Where's the breaker box?"
"Garage. Be careful," she called out as Justin charged through the foyer door into the garage.
Within seconds the lights were on again.
Alex watched as Justin, gun in hand, crossed the garage and disappeared outside through an open side door. Wearily she lowered herself to the bottom step of the stairway. She looked up at the photograph on the wall. A crack in the glass ominously crossed the heads of her mother and father. Spittle blurred the smiling faces.
Within minutes Justin was back. He knelt down, his eyes darted over her, a muscle worked in his jaw. "Did he hurt you?"
<
br /> "I hurt him, I think."
"How?"
"Yard clippers. I stabbed him"
"Show me," he said, pulling her to her feet.
Seconds later they were in her bedroom. Alex pointed to the clippers. Justin looked for blood, but found none. "Are you sure you stabbed him?"
"One of the blades . . . went into him. He cried out."
"Let's go upstairs.”
On wobbly legs he helped her up the steps and into the dining room.
"Sit," he commanded, pointing to a rattan chair. He strode to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and called, the police. Then turned on the tap and filled a glass with water.
"Drink this, then tell me what happened." She took the glass from him. He removed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Next he loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Alex waited for him to roll up his sleeves, but instead, he towered over her, arms crossed, legs planted firmly apart, the butt of a gun protruding menacingly from, his waistband.
With both hands gripping the glass, Alex lifted it to her lips. Water sloshed over the top and dripped off her fingers into her lap. She took a small sip and allowed herself a few moments to gain some composure.
"What happened?"
She swallowed. "I heard noises. He was . . . he was here .. . in the house. Downstairs. He grabbed me . . . from behind—did you see him?"
"Did you see him?"
Alex shook her head vigorously.
"Any part of him? A piece of his clothing? His shoes?"
"Nothing. It was dark. The lights went out. He grabbed me from behind."
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