McKenzie looked down the hallway he wanted her to enter. Cloud gray at the mouth, it darkened down its length, ominously, like a growing storm. It frightened her. She did not want to go after the golden retriever. She stepped backward reluctantly.
Cody whined sharply, in warning. A metallic crash sounded behind her. McKenzie jumped at the sharpness of the sound. She wanted to turn round and see what it was, and could not. A second clash shattered the echoes of the first. Cody barked sharply, urgently. He dashed away, then turned and whined, urging her after. Fear raised the hackles of his coat.
Someone was out there.
Her danger rang in her ears. Mac fought to move, but her feet stayed frozen to the corridor floor. She could hear something moving behind her, coming closer, closer ... she could feel the warmth of another being’s breath in the chill corridor touch her, and heard a low, menacing laugh.
Cody threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling, mournful howling.
McKenzie broke loose and lunged at him. They collided in the intersection of the hallways. Cody yelped once, whirled about, and took off running. She dashed after, heedless of the darkness which loomed. The unknown presence behind her was worse, far worse. The Someone, or something, followed.
As she sprinted, she could hear her own footfalls, but no others, but she could hear his breath grow as ragged as her own, his low, guttural curse as they skidded around a corner. Cody stopped, incredibly, to raise his leg and mark the wall at a four-way intersection. McKenzie slid past him, crying, “Cody!” and the dog looked at her as if to compel her to remember the area. She looked at the wet puddle on the floor, yellowish stain, and the faint marks dribbling down the wall, like a shadowy fracture. Then Cody took to his heels again, leading her off into an ebony-shadowed tunnel which lightened only as they breached it.
She ran until she got a stitch in her side, and had to gulp for breath. Cody’s pink tongue hung from his jaws, throwing droplets of moisture to the floor as he raced. But no matter which way they turned, or how often he marked the passage in his own doggy fashion, they could not lose their pursuer.
Cody reached a last intersection. He lifted his leg in vain and could not urinate. He half-fell, half-sat and whined as she stopped by his side. She reached down to pet him, to run her fingers through his familiar, silken coat. She could feel the heat rising off him in this icy mausoleum.
“It’s okay,” she murmured softly to him. “You and me against the world, huh, boy?”
Her hand passed through him. He rolled his eyes as if he had felt it, wary of it, a tiny hurt, like the bite of a flea.
“Oh, God!” She pulled her hand back. Warm tears escaped her eyes, making it difficult to see the dog. There was nothing she wanted more in the world than to hug him, his silken, wiggly dog body, to feel the love in him brimming over, to feel him safe and whole again, to give him back the love.
Cody lurched to his feet, his lips peeling off his teeth, hackles up, growls rumbling through his throat.
McKenzie knew the time had come to turn and face whoever, whatever pursed them. The awful certainty, the dread, the dire sense of wrongness and evil began to rise in her. She braced herself and started to turn around.
She did not make it in time. Something immense and dark hit her with a jolt and—
Gasping, Mac sat up in the hospital bed, grabbing for the railing, the breath knocked out of her, heart racing, eyes wide in the twilight of the room. She hugged herself as the fear ricocheted around inside of her.
Sarah Whiteside sat inside the family minivan, huddled behind the steering wheel, staring at the outside of her home. A thin, Seattle mist trickled down the outside of the windshield and, in a few minutes, she’d have to turn the van on again to defrost the steam fogging up the inside.
She hugged herself, afraid to go in, yet knowing that, in the three hours she’d had the house staked out, she’d seen nothing more than the daring teenagers down the street drive past. The mangy marmalade tom from over the fence had gone strolling through the hedges. The moon had risen and disappeared into the cloud cover.
Sarah gritted her teeth. Damn that man for making me afraid to enter me own house. Damn him for hurting Mac and driving her off. Damn him, damn him, damn him.
Her fingers wrapped themselves about the steering wheel until the knuckles pinched chalk-white and ached. After a few long minutes, Sarah noticed the pain and gingerly let go. She winced as tiny aches lightninged through her joints as the circulation returned.
It had been four days. The kids were cranky, her parents and her friends had let her know that she was being overly fearful and cautious and eccentric.
She couldn’t help it. Mac had frightened her into fleeing, and only now did she have the nerve to come creeping back. Not much nerve. Enough to park under old lady Rhodes’ creeping wisteria and aging carport and stake out her home anxiously. She’d been sitting there until her butt had gone numb and that, Sarah reflected dryly, was an accomplishment in itself.
So. The time had come to either get her nerve up, or tuck her tail between her legs and creep back to her parents’ house. And her arrival at three o’clock in the morning, as her father would so eloquently put it, would upset every one.
She sucked in her lower lip and chewed on it as she turned the key, started the van up, and pulled slowly out of the carport. Long, trailing vines of feathery wisteria with their lavender buds pulled across the car like fingers, leaving trails in the damp. She did not turn on the headlights, though, as she drove down the street and into her driveway. As she turned the engine off and pulled her keys out, she sat another moment, debating whether to lock the van doors or not. Quick entrance if she needed it, but what if Jack Trebolt were sitting in the car seat laughing at her when she came back?
Sarah opted for a quick entrance into the van and crossed her fingers, praying no one would take advantage of the unlocked doors. She slid down and outside, shutting the door quietly but solidly behind her.
She loved this house. She had always loved this house from the first day she and her husband had bid on it until this evening when she looked on it in abject cowardice. Had it betrayed her or had she betrayed it?
Doesn’t matter, Sarah decided, suddenly realizing she’d chewed her lip into a puffy lump. She stretched her mouth open, trying to soothe it, and pushed her feet up the sidewalk to the back door.
It was closed, but not locked. It gave way to the subtle pressure of her putting the key in, squeaking slightly, as it opened inward to the darkness. Sarah’s heart did one of those little pipsqueak jumps and settled into a racy pulse.
This has to be better than aerobics, she thought, as she eased into the storm porch and then into the kitchen.
She felt for the light switch plate, then hesitated again. Light or no light? What if he was sitting here in the dark, waiting for her?
What if he wasn’t? Did she really need to break a leg stumbling over something in the darkness?
Damn him. Damn him to hell forever. This was her home, and she knew every square inch of it, even when the kids messed it up and left their junk lying around. She could slink through it in eternal darkness without bucking a shin or stubbing a toe, she knew it so well.
Until tonight.
Impatiently, Sarah turned the lights on and then stood a moment, blinking in the sudden illumination.
The kitchen looked perfectly ordinary. There was some dried grit on the flooring—it had been raining last week, too, when they’d loaded the van to leave. Someone had tracked in mud. Time had dried it. Sarah took a deep breath and passed into the rest of her home, throwing on lights wherever she could touch the switches.
She made her way straight to the answering machine. It blinked sullenly at her. There had been nothing on it for days, because she had checked it by remote. She sat down in the easy chair next to it, casting her glance over the living room, seeing nothing out of place, and triggered the machine.
>You have one message,<< it told her.
She retrieved it. Listened in amazement to a detective from Los Angeles. The second time around, she had cobbled together a scrap of paper and a pencil so she could write the number down.
She sat back, and decided it wouldn’t help Mac to call the police in the middle of the night. She’d go home, wake her husband, tell him they could come back, and then sleep until the kids woke her. Life could ease back into normalcy.
Jack had undoubtedly gone after McKenzie. She had a thing or two she could tell Pete Moreno, but it could wait.
Sarah stood, her throat suddenly dry. She needed a drink. If she remembered correctly, there were still a couple of peach Snapples in the fridge.
She left the living room light on, gained confidence as she passed through the rooms. The hardwood flooring seemed to creak happily under her shoes as she walked. It was lonesome, this huge, old house. It was waiting for her and the family to come home.
Feeling vindicated that she had come back that night, Sarah yanked open the refrigerator door.
The sight hit her full on. She blinked. It took a moment to realize what she saw.
A bloody, severed dog head stared back at her from the milk carton’s shelf.
Sarah screamed. Her legs folded under her and she felt herself collapsing to the hard kitchen floor, collapsing like a house of cards.
Chapter 22
Dolan’s call woke Carter at an ungodly hour. Eight thirty-two or something to that effect. He squinted his eyes against the harshness of the late May sun creeping through his bedroom shutters as the editorial assistant said, “No artist today, Carter. I can’t put her onto it until tomorrow morning.”
Carter didn’t like the delay, but what could he do? He said as much.
Dolan returned, “Thought you’d see it that way. Anyhow, I’ll be by tomorrow for dinner. What do you want?”
“Mu shu pork, but only if the crepes are thin enough to see through. Lo mein. Fried rice. I’ve already got the Tsing-Tao on ice.”
“Gotcha, boss.” Dolan clicked off the line.
Carter rolled over in bed and contemplated the ceiling of his bedroom. Tiny spiderweblike cracks from the various tremors over the years greeted him. Outside the apartment, he could hear the faint, distant sound of heavy equipment working on the nearby segment of the subway system. He had the day off.
He drew his hand up to tuck it under his head, bringing the equally scarred landscape of his wrist into focus. Then he slipped his hand into place, and thought of McKenzie Smith. Even if he didn’t have the day off, he’d find a way to go to Mount Mercy and be with her.
Uneasiness crawled around a little, somewhere under his rib cage. Or maybe it was just gas from last night’s pizza. He closed his eyes to think and slipped back into restless sleep.
“Well, girl, as they say in my neighborhood, don’t you clean up nice.”
Mac had been standing at the window, looking through the reinforced glass, determined to stay on her feet as long as possible, building up strength, when Joyce hailed her. She turned around, smiling. “Like the duds?” She was wearing a pullover pajama top and drawstring bottoms, nothing remotely like street wear, but far better than she’d had the past two days.
Joyce, wearing a Monet-inspired print of blues, lavenders and blue-greens, sat down with a grin. “Hey, I got nothin’ against seeing a perky little ass once in a while, but it wasn’t yours I’ve been thinkin’ about.”
McKenzie came over to her bed and perched on it, legs folded Indian-style, laughing in spite of herself. Joyce patted her on the knee briefly. “I came by early to check on you and saw you’d been moved already. I heard you had some problems last night—I wanted to tell you why I wasn’t there for you. The batteries went down in my pager. I never even saw the ‘lo cell’ warning. Mac, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I just ... I couldn’t stay there. He kept calling. He said he was inside the hospital.”
Joyce frowned, her ebony brows drawing close. “And you want to know if he could have been.”
Mac nodded.
“I won’t lie to you. He could have. But Heaven knows, he’ll have trouble gettin’ into Psychiatric. Those double doors lock if the receptionist doesn’t like the look of anyone trying to get through. Speaking of which, I better put Carter’s name on the guest list or he won’t be able to see you, either.”
Mac looked up. “He wants to visit?” Faint surprise was in her voice.
Joyce had been fishing through her purse. She met Mac’s expression. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Mac rolled her hand into a soft fist and pushed it into her stomach, just under her ribs. “I don’t know what to think. It’s gone all numb, and it hurts at the same time, right here.”
Joyce answered softly, “You don’t have to feel, just now. But you have to think, and keep thinking. The feelings will come along later.”
“Have you known Carter long?”
“Not long. He’s only been in Los Angeles, three, maybe four years. All I can say is that he’s not going to use you to sell newspapers. Not that he isn’t a good reporter. He is, one of the best. It’s just that he’s interested in you, not your story.”
Mac looked away then, back at the window, the diamond-shaped screen reinforcement hiding any real view, her fist still in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sorry for all the trouble.”
“Trouble? Defending yourself is trouble?” Joyce stood, gathering her belongings. She put a hand to her glossy dark hair, scooping it back from her face. “I get my hands on that spouse of yours and we’ll see what trouble is.”
“I’m worth it, right?” Mac said dryly.
“Of course you are! I never met a woman who wasn’t!”
“I’ll bet you haven’t.” Mac’s gaze tracked her to the door. Then, “Joyce—”
“Yes?”
“How long do I have to be in here?”
“Ideally, just a day or two. Long enough for you to feel better, and for us to get our hands on Jack Trebolt.”
“Then what do I do? Where do I go?”
“Why, home. If not, I’ve got a place for you.” Joyce’s mouth worked a second. “Do you think your father would want you at home?”
“I ... don’t know. He’s still not conscious, is he?”
“Not yet, but the good news is, he’s not supposed to be. He’s been kept in a coma purposely, while the brain swelling goes down. We won’t know about injuries or damage until they let him begin to waken. Once they take him off the ventilator, he can talk a little, though he won’t be coherent right away. But if you don’t want to go home, or we can’t find Jack, don’t you worry. I’ve got a place for you.”
Mac pointed at the closet. “I’ve got some money in my jeans. It’s not much, but—”
“Girl, don’t you talk like that to me.” Joyce put her chin up. “I’ve got a good job, and it pays me well enough. Save it for someone who needs it.”
Mac’s face flushed deeply. Joyce pointed a finger at her. “Next time I come in, I want to you to be ready to sign legal papers.”
“What kind? Not to stay here?” Her eyes widened.
“Are you crazy? Of course not. Petitions for restraining orders. I’m picking them up from my legal offices late this afternoon.”
“Against Jack?”
“Unless you’ve got someone else in mind?”
Legal action would infuriate him. He hated attorneys with a passion. Mac closed her eyes briefly at the thought of the reaction. Then she opened them. “No. He’s the one.”
“Good girl.” Joyce put her hand on the door, saw a hesitation in Mac, and asked, “Anything else?”
“How long ... how long will they keep me here if I’ve been seeing things?”
“McKenzie Smith, I’d think you were crazy if you weren’t seeing things the way you’ve been knocked around. You just get another day or two of rest under your belt, and stop worrying. You’re not in here permanently, okay?”
She let out her breath. “A
ll right.”
“Good. Now I’ve got work to do. And remember—” Joyce was already out the door, and she looked back in, dark eyes sparkling. “Page me. I’ve got new batteries this time.”
“Right.”
The door shut.
Too late, Mac remembered she’d forgotten to tell Joyce she had no phone. She put her knees up and hugged them. In a way, it was a welcome relief to be dulled and listless, to have lost the knife edge of terror and dread that had been stalking her for the last few days. The unraveling feeling had gone. Whether it would return, she didn’t know.
The door opened tentatively, and she saw a tousled head peak in. The boy had a scattering of freckles and squint lines between his brows as if he needed glasses. She recognized Brand.
Death Watch Page 24
