She needed advice from someone she could trust. But who? Amelia would insist that she prosecute Russell to the fullest, or think Liz was the worst kind of fool if she didn’t. As much as she respected Amelia and Sydney, neither of them would be in a position to offer an unbiased opinion. She couldn’t ask Jack either. He hated Russell; she could guess what he’d say. She needed to talk to Michael, and the sooner, the better.
She had reached for the phone again when she remembered that Michael had told her he wouldn’t be at school on Friday because of some routine medical tests he was having at Christiana Hospital. He’d said they’d be keeping him overnight, and releasing him at noon on Saturday.
She’d offered to go over and look in on Otto, but Michael had said the dog would be fine. Michael usually left the dogs outside when he went on short trips. Liz knew he had an automatic water bowl and feeder for the animals in his garage. Otto could come and go as he pleased though a dog door.
“My luck,” she said to Heidi after an unsuccessful call to Amelia, who said she was going to drive down to spend the weekend in Norfolk with Thomas. “On to Sydney.”
Her friend was home, but expecting company. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Sydney said. “If I forget, you call me. You’re welcome to join us for dinner if you like. We’re going to drive out in Maryland to Suicide Bridge, that restaurant on the water. Terrific seafood.”
“No, thanks,” Liz answered. “I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. Have a good time.” She hung up and looked back at the dog. “Well, what do you say?” she asked. “Jack or Detective Tarkington?”
Heidi wagged her tail and looked hopefully at the cookie jar.
“No more treats until after supper,” Liz said. “Michael won’t forgive me if I send you home ten pounds heavier.” Reluctantly she punched in Jack’s number.
“The Dolphin III is out catching fish,” Jack’s recorded answer proclaimed. “Leave your number and a message, and the captain will get back to you tomorrow. Unless the fish are biting.” At the beep, Liz hesitated and then hung up without saying anything. What could she say in twenty words or less?
She sighed, realizing how much she’d hoped that Jack would pick up, listen, and have sensible advice. She dug in her purse for Nathan Tarkington’s number.
“Leave a message at the beep.”
“I hate voice mail,” Liz said to the dog. “It’s . . . it’s barbaric.” She considered explaining her fears about Russell’s safety to a desk sergeant, but then decided against it. It was time Russell started behaving responsibly and cleaning up his own mistakes. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life taking care of him. She’d tell Detective Tarkington everything on Monday and let him take it from there. Besides, maybe Russell had already taken her advice and asked for protection.
Taking only a quick break for a grilled cheese sandwich, a salad, and a bowl of ice cream, Liz spent the rest of the evening preparing her exams. Heidi paced the hallway and front staircase, occasionally barking, but whenever Liz went to see what was upsetting the dog, she couldn’t find anything wrong.
Liz flicked through the channels to see if there was anything worth watching on television. Too restless to settle for reruns or comedies with canned laugher, Liz did a load of laundry, let Heidi outside, and gave the command that would turn her from companion to watchdog. Alight rain was falling, but Michael had assured her that the German shepherd was oblivious to the weather. She’d been thinking about what Jack had said, that Heidi would be a better watchdog if she wasn’t in the house, and decided that he was probably right. By the time Liz was ready for bed and a few chapters into the best-seller she was reading, it was eleven-thirty.
“Maybe I should take Michael up on his offer,” Liz murmured to Muffin. “Board you in a kennel and enjoy a vacation.” Muffin didn’t answer, merely staring back with slitted eyes and an irritated twitch of her tail.
Liz fluffed her pillow. If she went with Michael, it wouldn’t be just a few weeks away, it would be more . . . It would mean breaking with Jack once and for all.
And what then?
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” her father always said. But what kind of sense did that make? Liz wondered. If you had cake, you usually ate it. Funny, she’d never questioned that old chestnut before.
Michael or Jack? Or keep both as friends and go on alone as she had been for so many years? Somehow, independence didn’t seem as appealing as it always had before.
She switched off the light.
The Game Master found dealing with the guard dog difficult. He hated waste, and this animal was both beautiful and highly trained. But the German shepherd presented an obstacle, and obstacles had to be disposed of as efficiently as possible.
The poison was quick, deadly, and nearly painless. He injected it into a slice of raw liver and left it in a spot the animal, with her excellent sense of smell, was certain to discover. The results were predictable.
The Game Master glanced at his watch. 3:34. He waited. Fifteen minutes passed before he was certain that the dog was dead. He carried the still-warm body to the back porch and posed the carcass in a lifelike position near the kitchen door, where the professor would be certain to discover it in the morning.
He entered the house using a key that he’d duplicated from a spare set in the professor’s top bureau drawer. Surprisingly, he’d been able to remove the original from the key chain and return it, once it had served its purpose, without her ever knowing it was missing. Even the ones who believed themselves so smart proved to be foolish compared to his intelligence. Having the key made it easier to enter her home, but even if she’d changed the locks after he’d stolen the key, he would have gotten in anyway. And, he suspected, it would have been more fun.
Once inside, the Game Master made his way to the larger of the two attics to collect his videos and check his audio equipment. It was wonderful how science made observing his victims easier and easier. He couldn’t wait to get home and view the footage of the professor in the shower and the bedroom. He’d installed two cameras in her bedroom, so that he could view her antics from every angle. A woman let loose her wildest fantasies between the sheets.
Heat flashed under the Game Master’s skin, and his breathing quickened. Videos made the best mementos. He could enjoy them over and over, long after his game pieces were history. He glanced at his watch again, pressing the tiny button to light the display. He’d been in the house forty-two minutes. Where did the time go? Dawn came early to the shores of Delaware Bay in late spring. He would have to move quickly.
He descended the stairs and made his way through the hall passageway to the professor’s bedroom. Disappointingly, her door stood ajar. Foolish, foolish woman, he thought. Where is your sense of self-preservation? Haven’t you heard that smoke kills before fire? If an accidental fire started anywhere in the house—and old houses were known as firetraps—your smoke alarms might not sound until it was too late. Worse than silly, she was stupid. And he had little patience with stupidity.
Pushing open the door, he entered the room. His night-vision goggles made it child’s play to navigate around the furniture to the foot of her bed. She lay sprawled on her stomach amid the tumbled sheets, clad only in a worn green T-shirt and red boxer-type shorts. One slender bare foot protruded tantalizingly from beneath a furry object that he couldn’t identify at first glance. The professor’s nails were painted, but he couldn’t be sure of the shade. Were they pink or red? Surely not blue or black. He hated dark polish on women’s nails. It was too butch.
His gloved hand hovered over the professor’s bare foot. He had the strongest urge to stroke it, to hold it in his hand, but he resisted. He was not a man of impulse. No sexual act could satisfy as greatly as seeing a woman at her most vulnerable, no longer tough or abrupt, speaking to a man as though she were his equal. He performed coitus skillfully enough to please the females he’d had in the past. It was physically rewarding to him, and apparently, he was as good at giving pleasure as
receiving it. No one had ever complained.
He’d known the pain and satisfaction of union with his own sex, too. That and self-induced pleasure had been necessary during the years of enforced confinement, but neither of those alternatives were his first choice.
The Game Master liked women. He liked their scent and the texture of their skin. He loved their voices, especially the sighs and squeals they made during intimacy or at the point of death. Yes, he was all man, superior to the majority of his gender, but human. He knew that he was attractive to women; he had been gifted with good genes, regular features, and a powerful physique that he maintained by his vigorous lifestyle. And, contrary to the nature of other males, he continued to evolve.
The furry object moved, and he realized that it was a cat. The animal focused on him, recoiled, and hissed. He hissed back, and the creature flew off the bed and vanished through the open doorway.
A pity. He could have added the cat’s body to that of the German shepherd . . . placed it between the dog’s paws. What a delightful package the two would make. But the cat was gone, and he would have to forgo that bit of fun. There was always later, and cats were much easier to contend with than larger animals. Cats were so . . . so breakable.
He’d experimented with cats as a young boy, often devising clever ways to rid the earth of them. They had outgrown their time and usefulness in the world. No one needed them to catch rats and mice anymore. Poison was much more effective, and it didn’t have to be fed daily, brushed, and taken to the vet for expensive shots.
He really preferred dogs. Dogs knew their place. And no matter what you did to a dog, they never held a grudge.
He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes? Had he really stood here for twenty minutes staring at the professor’s naked foot? Exasperated with himself, he turned away, pulled open a dresser drawer, and inspected the contents. Socks and what appeared to be panty hose and silky short stockings. He tried the drawer directly below that one.
The wood protested.
The Game Master caught his breath. Was the professor deaf, that she didn’t hear the squeak? She stirred, rolling over onto her back, so that her shorts rode up and revealed even more white thigh. If she opened her eyes, he would be forced to end the game here, to overpower her and carry her to the boat.
He waited.
She murmured something and burrowed under a pillow. Her breathing grew more regular.
He glanced at the east window. Soon the sun would break over the horizon and the bay would sparkle with a million diamonds. He had stayed too long. He was in danger of losing all for the sake of small pleasures.
He loved walking the edge. Tonight was proving to be all that he had hoped. Keen arousal made his body taut. Recklessly he slid the drawer open and plunged his hand inside.
The feel of slippery fabric brought moisture to his eyes. His throat tightened, and his heart leaped in his chest. His fingers trembled as he brought the panties to his nose and inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of detergent, fabric softener, and woman.
When he was certain that he’d not missed a single undergarment, he returned the panties to their drawer.
In three minutes, the Game Master was out of the house and crossing the back yard to the dock. He untied his boat, pushed off the mooring post, and let the current carry him away. He’d wait to start the engine until he was out of sight of the bedroom window. There was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.
He wished that he’d thought to place a camera on the back porch. The professor thought she was so safe now that Wayne Boyd was dead. But the best would be when she opened her back door and found his surprise waiting for her.
It would be an expression to die for.
Chapter Thirteen
“Wake up, Professor. It’s time to wake up.”
Liz opened her eyes. Sunlight streamed across the painted wood floorboards of her bedroom. Cool morning air wafted in the open window. Beyond, in the big yellow poplar, she could hear a mockingbird singing.
She yawned and listened. Nothing unusual. She could have sworn she’d heard someone call her name, but she must have been dreaming. Beside her on the bed, Muffin slept, head tucked into her fur, tail wrapped around her.
Liz rose and looked out a window. There were no vehicles in the yard other than her own. The surrounding yard and marsh teemed with birds, rabbits, and other small creatures. If someone was out there, the animals would be more wary. A great blue heron flew up gracefully from the river’s edge and sailed over the house. At the tree line where meadow and woods met, a quail called cheerily, “Bob white! Bob white!”
Odd, Liz thought. She’d been so certain that she’d heard a voice. Still yawning, she left the bedroom and walked down the hall to the back kitchen stairs. The uncarpeted steps were cool against the soles of her bare feet, and the kitchen lay in shadow. She paused at the bottom step and listened again, but—other than the steady hum of the refrigerator motor—the house was quiet.
Automatically, still only half awake, Liz went through the motions of making a pot of coffee and opened two windows to let in the fresh breeze off the river. She ducked into a downstairs bathroom off the kitchen, brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, and ran a brush through her hair before securing it in a short ponytail.
For a long minute, she stared into the age-spotted mirror over the 1950’s sink. “Pretty damn good for forty and not a stitch of makeup,” she proclaimed. Well, not exactly forty, she mused; nearer forty-three. But, hey, she wasn’t being graded on candor here. She wondered if the sparkle in her eyes was the result of her sexual adventures with Jack. She grinned, feeling slightly giddy and not the least embarrassed. After all, wasn’t she a free woman? Entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of the perfect orgasm?
The blessed odor of coffee filled the kitchen. Liz filled a tall cup adorned with a painting of Bob Marley and a palm tree, sniffed the half-and-half to be certain it wasn’t sour, and added just enough. She inhaled the flavor of the coffee, wanting to take a sip but afraid to burn her tongue as she’d done all too often lately. She slipped into one of the comfortable old chairs at the round table. Today, she’d regain her life. Starting this morning, she’d take control and take stock of what was happening to her.
She’d begin by driving down to Port Mahon to see if the migrating shorebirds had arrived. Delaware Bay was one of the premier birding spots in the world, and she and her dad had always made the effort to witness the annual flocks as they stopped to feed on the horseshoe-crab eggs. Donald Clarke hadn’t owned a pair of binoculars. He couldn’t tell a black-necked stilt from an avocet, but he’d taken pleasure in the mid-May event and he’d defended with both fists the rights of horseshoe crabs to come ashore unmolested. “It’s all the same,” he’d say to his daughters, whenever they watched the prehistoric crabs crawling up the sand to lay their eggs. “Horseshoe crabs got a purpose just like every bird, fish, and mussel. Grind the crabs for fertilizer and you might as well do the same to the crabbers and the fishermen. Kills the bay as much as oil spills and chemicals.”
At ten, when Atlantic Books opened, she’d stop and pick up the book she’d ordered before Tracy’s death. And this afternoon she’d take Heidi back to Michael’s and tell him to return the pistol to the gun shop. Giving in to fear and practicing to kill someone went against everything she believed. Now that she had an explanation for everything, she could go back to living her life.
After Heidi was home, she’d stop and buy a new kitchen telephone, one equipped with Caller ID, and then she’d go to Troop 3 and demand to speak to someone about the pattern of harassment she’d faced since the murder. She’d not leave until the police took her suspicions seriously.
As for Jack . . .
Liz sipped her coffee, sighing with delight as the warm liquid slid down her throat. She’d worry about Jack once she’d cleared her desk of her current agenda.
Thinking about Heidi reminded Liz that the German shepherd needed to be fed. She washed ou
t the dog bowl and filled it with the special chow Michael had sent over. He didn’t buy dog food in the supermarket; Heidi and Otto ate only high-protein meal supplemented with chicken, fish, and beef.
Liz unlocked the back door and opened it. “Heidi!” she called. “Here, girl . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw the dog on the porch. “Heidi?”
The bowl of dog chow slipped through Liz’s fingers.
She screamed.
By the time the state trooper—a tall, muscular young woman—arrived, Liz had dressed, thrown up her first cup of coffee, and drunk a second to fortify herself. She’d called Michael before she called 911 but had gotten no answer.
The officer, who identified herself as Trooper O’Neal, took down Liz’s statement in a matter-of-fact manner. “And you say the animal was running loose last night.”
“Yes,” Liz agreed, “but she’s . . . she was a guard dog. She wouldn’t leave the vicinity of the house. Someone has been stalking me. I’ve made several other complaints.”
“It’s illegal for dogs to run loose.” Trooper O’Neal examined Heidi’s collar.
“That’s true,” Liz said, trying to answer calmly. “But only if the property is less than twenty acres. This is a farm. I own much more than twenty acres.”
“I see that her license and rabies are up to date. This is your dog, Dr. Clarke?”
“No, it’s my neighbor’s, Michael Hubbard,” Liz explained. “He’s a retired captain, Delaware State Police.” She knelt beside the dog’s body and stroked her head. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell him. He adored her.”
“Then Captain Hubbard’s dog was off his property?”
“No, that’s not it at all. He lent me Heidi.”
“Captain Hubbard should be making the complaint if the animal is his. You say that you found it on your porch?”
“Look, Officer, why don’t you call your desk sergeant? I’m sure there will be a record of a break-in here less than two weeks ago. Someone is stalking me. And . . . and please contact Detective Tarkington. I’m the one who discovered the murdered college girl at Somerville College. I’ve been trying to reach Detective Tarkington myself. I’m afraid there might be a connection between the attack on Tracy Fleming and what’s happened here.”
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