Olivia ordered a third cosmopolitan. She’d come to the Crown Room alone, hoping she would meet a better class of guy there. If she were lucky, she would end up with some guest at the hotel, and he’d let her spend the night. She wouldn’t turn her nose up at a room service breakfast in the morning either. The Grand Towers was pretty damn swanky. And it beat spending the night at home—alone.
It wasn’t so much that she was lonely. She was scared.
During the last week, some strange, disturbing things had happened to her. While undressing for bed Wednesday night, she’d caught a man peeking through her window. Olivia didn’t get a good look at his face. By the time she’d thrown on her robe and come to the window, all she saw was a tall, shadowy figure sprinting away from the townhouse. The next night, Olivia saw someone dart by her kitchen window. It scared the hell out of her. She immediately called the police. Two cops came by, asked a lot of questions, and then gave her some tops on home security and how to start up a neighborhood watch. Useless.
Then, two nights ago, she woke up from a sound sleep and immediately knew someone was in the house. She reached for the light on her nightstand, but hesitated. She didn’t want him to know she was awake. So she lay there in the darkness, afraid to move. She listened to the floorboards creak and told herself it was the house settling or the wind or something else totally harmless. After a while, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She focused on the bedroom door, which she’d left open a crack. If she stared at it too long, the shadows played tricks, and the door seemed to move on its own, ever so slightly. Still, she couldn’t close her eyes or look away.
Olivia remained paralyzed under the covers until dawn, when she heard the Seattle Times delivery person tossing the newspaper on her front stoop. She crawled out of bed, then checked the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and even the closets. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place.
She desperately needed some coffee and put some water on to boil. When she wandered back to the living room, she noticed something. Her photo album was in its usual spot on the coffee table, but it was open. She’d had a couple of drinks before going to bed, and couldn’t remember whether or not she’d looked at any pictures.
The kettle’s shrill whistle sounded, and she hurried back into the kitchen. It wasn’t until after she’d had a few sips of coffee that Olivia thought to glance through the album. Three photos were missing, pulled out of their clear plastic sleeves. If someone had actually broken into her home last night, it didn’t make sense that he’d steal a few photographs of her and nothing else. She thought about calling the police again, but what good would that do?
Olivia wondered if she might actually know this stalker. Was he someone from the gym or the supermarket? Maybe he was a customer at the chiropractor’s office where she worked. A lot of creeps came through there.
Whoever he was, she had a feeling he’d just gotten started in some kind of weird courtship of her. And it would only get worse.
That afternoon, Olivia bought a package of bullets for an empty gun, which she’d been keeping in the back of her closet for years.
The loaded gun was now in the glove compartment of her car, parked in the underground garage at the Grand Towers Hotel. She liked having it around for insurance.
Funny, it took this stalker to make her realize how alone she was. She’d lived with several different men over the years, but since moving to Seattle a year ago, there hadn’t been anyone who lasted beyond a few dates. It had been pretty lonely. Hell, she couldn’t even keep a cat; she was allergic.
If she went home alone tonight, she probably wouldn’t sleep a wink. Her prospects didn’t look so hot either. The bar would be closing within the hour. Frowning, Olivia planted an elbow on the bar and sipped her cosmopolitan.
“Hey there, honey. Why so glum?”
Olivia stared own at her drink for another moment. Part of her clung to the impossible hope that the smoky-whiskey voice belonged to a tall, handsome hunk. Maybe he’d spend the night with her and this would be the start of something terrific.
When Olivia looked up from her near-empty glass, she couldn’t hide her disappointment. He was a short, balding ape of a man. He wore a red Izod short-sleeve shirt that looked painted on. He was very muscular, with a coat of black hair on his arms. He had hair coming out of his ears, too. In fact, he looked as if he had hair everywhere except on the top of his head.
He leaned against the bar and gave her a smug smile. “Whaddya say, honey? Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m not your honey,” Olivia muttered. “Besides, you’re out of luck. It’s past last call.”
“There’s no last call at my place,” he said. “I have a bottle of scotch there.”
“Well, go home and drink it,” she replied, fishing for some cash in her purse. “Try some other woman in the bar, okay?”
He laughed. “Feisty. I like that. Are you feisty in bed too?”
Olivia waved at the bartender, then slapped two twenties on the counter top. She didn’t look at the creepy little man. “I’ll ask you nicely,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Would you do me a big favor, and leave me the hell alone?”
“Oh, c’mon, honey,” he purred. “You can’t mean that.”
“I sure do. So go haunt somebody else. Okay?” She continued to avoid eye contact with him.
“Fucking bitch,” she heard him growl. She caught his reflection in a mirror behind the bar as he walked away. He had the meanest, most hateful look on that ugly ape face of his.
The bartender came by and took her money. Then, a few moments later, he returned with her change.
Olivia defeatedly slid off the bar stool, and stared toward the elevator. She saw the creepy, little ape of a guy waiting there. Olivia stopped dead.
She didn’t want to ride down to the lobby with him, not alone. But she was saved. A handsome, well-dressed black couple stepped out of the bar area right after her. They headed toward the elevators.
Olivia followed them. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the obnoxious man glaring at her. She refused to look in his direction. The elevator door opened, and she stepped aboard.
The couple got in after her, and then the ape-faced man followed. He squeezed past the twosome and stood next to her.
Olivia kept ignoring him. She figured he wouldn’t say anything rude to her in front of the couple. The handsome black man was a head taller than him and looked as if he could tear him apart.
“Oh, God, I left my cellphone in the bar!” the woman exclaimed.
Her boyfriend grabbed the elevator door before it shut, and she ran out of the elevator. He tailed after her. The door began closing right behind him.
Olivia made a run for it.
The little man grabbed her arm. She recoiled, but he had a very strong grip.
The door shut. The elevator started its descent.
He was grinning at her. His eyes had a crazy, intense look. Olivia noticed a squiggly vein on the side of his forehead.
“Let go of me!” she snapped.
He chuckled, then released her. “I just didn’t want the door to slam on you, honey.”
Olivia backed away, until she bumped against the polished brass wall.
“I was afraid it would smash in that cute, fat little face of yours,” he said, touching her cheek.
Olivia shrank into the corner. She eyed the lighted buttons on the panel by the elevator door. They still had another thirty floors to go. She thought about pressing the alarm button.
Just then, he stepped between her and the door. He glanced up and down at her. Grinning, he brushed his fingertips against her blonde hair.
“Stop that.” Olivia shuddered. “Get the hell away from me. I mean it.” She looked up toward the ceiling. Where was the camera? Didn’t most hotel elevators have cameras in them?
The little man was still stroking her hair. “Whether you like it or not,” he whispered, “I’m going to fuck you.”
Just then, the elevat
or stopped, and the door opened.
The man backed away from her. He frowned at the tall, handsome stranger who stepped on at the eighteenth floor. The tall man wore a brown leather aviator jacket. He nodded politely at Olivia.
She felt such utter relief. As the door shut, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir?” she said, her voice a little shaky.
The handsome stranger turned to smile at her.
Olivia shot a look in the direction of the crude little man. “This guy has been bothering me,” she said. “Would you mind staying with me until the valet gets my car?”
The tall stranger glared at the creepy runt. He grabbed him by the collar of his Izod shirt and shoved him against the wall. Olivia gasped. The elevator shook a bit at the sudden tussle. “You son of a bitch,” the handsome man growled. “Are you harassing this lady?”
The ape-faced man held up his hands, sort of a half-hearted surrender. “Hey, it’s cool, buddy. Relax.”
Olivia’s rescuer turned to her with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Olivia. He won’t bother you any more.”
Olivia caught her breath and smiled back at him. She was so grateful for his intervention that it took her a moment to realize something was terribly wrong.
She stared at the man. “How do you know my name?” she whispered. She looked over at the short, hairy guy and wondered why he was smirking.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” the tall stranger said. He stepped between Olivia and the elevator door. “No, Olivia. Hurting you is my job.”
The elevator door opened at the lobby.
Suddenly, the short man came behind her and slapped his hand over her mouth. Olivia tried to scream. Only a muffled whimper emerged. She struggled desperately, but the ape-faced man was too strong for her. Olivia thought he’d snap her neck.
She caught a glimpse of the empty lobby. No one could see her—or save her. The man in the aviator jacket blocked her way out. He jabbed the button for the basement level.
“It’ll be easier for you, Olivia, if you just give in,” he whispered.
Olivia helplessly watched the elevator door shut.
Preston McBride started out the evening thinking he would get laid.
He’d met Amber (her last name hadn’t come up in conversation) at a kegger party at the house of some buddies near the University of Washington campus. Preston was in his junior year, studying business administration.
Amber wasn’t in college. She’d dropped out of high school a couple of years back. When she told this to Preston while nuzzled against him in a smoky, sweltering living room full of people, she seemed to be bragging. With a pink streak in her blond hair and her pierced nostril, she struck Preston as a free spirit. At one point, when she squatted down to pump the keg and refill her beer, he noticed a tattoo of a dragon on her lower back. He couldn’t help noticing her terrific body too. The front of her black T-shirt was stretched to its fiber limit. After an hour of screaming at each other over the noise, he heard her say: “I think you’re cute. Can we get out of here and go some place?”
They made out in his car for nearly two hours. Preston’s roommate was away, and he suggested they go back to his apartment. But Amber had another suggestion: “I know it’s September and all, but I’m hot. Aren’t you? Let’s go swimming. I’ve always wanted to make love on a beach at dawn.”
A half hour later, they were lost, driving around, trying to find the Denny-Blaine Beach. Apparently, Kurt Cobain used to meditate in the park there, and Amber wanted to visit the stomping grounds of the late rock legend. They never did find the place.
Birds were chirping and only the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon when Preston parked the car near a deserted Madison Park beach. With apartment buildings on both sides of the shoreline strip, and a quaint row of shops a stone’s throw away, the beach wasn’t exactly ideal for skinny-dipping and making love—even at this predawn hour. Some bushes camouflaged them at this end of the shore. Farther down, there was a beach house, a couple of lifeguard towers, and park benches staggered along the water’s edge, spaced out every few feet. Preston imagined people would be coming here soon for their morning run, or for a cup of coffee on one of the benches, or maybe—like Kurt Cobain—some morning meditation.
Preston felt cold—and terribly self-conscious—as he began to undress. He was still in his white briefs when he tested the water with his foot. Freezing.
He looked over at Amber, squirming out of her panties. For a moment, she stood before him naked, her long blond hair fluttering in the wind. Her lithe body was so white against the dark water. She swiveled around, and let out a shriek as she scurried into the surf. Preston stared at the dragon tattoo above her perfect ass.
He shucked down his briefs, then ran in after her. The water was like ice, but he didn’t care.
Amber wrapped her wet, cold, slippery arms around him. She was laughing and shivering. He felt her bare breasts pressing against his chest. Her nipples were so hard. He kissed her deeply.
With a squeal, Amber pulled away and splashed him. Then she swam out toward deeper water. Preston swam after her. But she splashed him again. He got water in his eyes and stopped for a moment. Standing on his tiptoes, he kept his head above water as he rubbed his eyes. He could hear her giggling and catching her breath.
When Preston focused on her again, Amber was dunking under the surface and swimming the length of the beach. He realized that if they were going to have sex, she planned to make him work for it. Once again, he started after her. She was a fast swimmer, with a good lead on him. “Come and get me!” she called, then dove below the surface again.
Preston was in over his head and had to tread water. Suddenly, he felt something brush against his leg. It felt slick. He wasn’t sure if it was a fish or a piece of seaweed or what, but it gave him the creeps.
Preston shuddered. He quickly swam toward the shore—until he was standing in shallow water, up to his chest. Then he glanced around to see where Amber had gone. He no longer heard her laughing and splashing. He didn’t see anything breaking the water’s slightly rippling surface.
He felt a sickly pang in his gut. Preston told himself that Amber was screwing around with him. He glanced over to where they’d undressed. In the distance, he could see the piles of clothes near the shoreline. He turned and looked out at the deep water again. Nothing.
Preston tread closer to the shore. The cold air swept over his wet, naked body, and his teeth started chattering. He gazed over at the opposite side of the beach from where they’d shed their clothes. In the darkness—and the distance—he hadn’t noticed anyone there earlier. But now Preston saw someone sitting on one of the park benches.
“Amber?” he yelled. The water was just below his waist.
Suddenly, something squirmed behind him in the water. Before he had a chance to turn around, he felt it grab his ass. Preston let out a howl, then swiveled around.
Amber sprang up from under the water. She was laughing.
Preston felt as if his heart was about to explode in his chest. But he managed to laugh too. He grabbed her and pulled her toward him.
With a finger, Amber traced a line from his chest down his lean torso. She drew a little circle around his belly button, gently tugging at the hair there. Amber grinned at him, but then her eyes shifted away—to something past his shoulder. “Who’s that?” she asked, frowning. “Is she staring at us?”
Preston glanced back at the person on the park bench. He moved a bit closer. He could see now, it was a woman. She hadn’t budged an inch—not even when some birds came and perched on the bench with her. She seemed to be sleeping. Her legs were spread apart in an awkward, sort of boneless way. Her green wraparound dress was bunched up to her thighs, and a huge dark stain ran down the front of it.
“Who the hell is that?” Amber repeated. Covering her breasts, she crept closer to the shore—toward the sleeping woman. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Shivering, Preston covered himself up
as well. He stared at the woman slumped on the bench. Had she been in the water? Her face was shiny, and her short, platinum-blond hair was matted down on one side.
Amber let out a shriek that must have woken up half the residents of the apartment building nearby. The birds flew away. One grazed the woman’s head, but she didn’t move at all.
Several lights went on in the building—including an outside spotlight. It illuminated the ripples on the surface of the lake.
Now Preston could see the gun in the woman’s hand. Now Preston realized the woman’s face and hair weren’t dowsed with water.
It was blood.
Sunlight sliced through the blinds in his studio loft. He’d been up all night, and had lost track of the time. That often happened when he was painting.
He favored classical music while working on his art. Wagner was on the stereo, cranked up to Twilight of the Gods, Funeral March. The orchestration was rousing. He felt goose bumps covering his near-naked body.
He wore only a pair of snug black boxer-briefs as he put the finishing touches on his latest masterpiece. His lean, chiseled body was flecked with several different-colored paint smudges. It was almost as if he’d become one with the canvas.
A tracklight from above illuminated the painting. On either side of the easel stood a pair of tall, cathedral-type candleholders he’d bought in Paris. The candles were almost burned down to stubs. It was his own fault they burned so fast. Every once in a while, he’d take one of those tapers out of its ornate holder, then tip it over his chest. The hot wax splattering on his skin gave him a delicious little jolt of pain that kept him going.
He was exhausted, having been up the last thirty-plus hours. He wasn’t sure how long ago they’d left Olivia Rankin on that park bench by Lake Washington. But he could still smell her flowery perfume on his skin—along with the oil paint and his sweat. The combination of scents was arousing; it smelled of sex.
His drive from Seattle to Portland had taken three hours. He’d arrived home at dawn, then immediately shed his clothes and gone to work on his masterpiece. He wasn’t going to bed until he finished.
The Next to Die Page 39
