by Morgan Hayes
Stevie hit the play button, and only seconds into the opening act, Paige was at the front door.
She was still standing by the stereo moments later when she heard the door again.
“Did you forget your wallet?” she shouted.
But there was no answer. Stevie turned down the volume and crossed the living room to the landing of the stairs.
“Paige?”
Silence. Stevie felt a wave of dread prickle along her skin. She ran her hand along the wall parallel to the landing, feeling for the security system’s control panel. Her fingers fluttered over the keys until she found the activate button.
When she pressed it, she should have been rewarded with a single beep indicating that the system was already activated. But instead, there were two short beeps.
Paige wouldn’t have forgotten to turn on the alarm-she’d been fanatical about the security system from the moment it had been installed.
Stevie backed away from the stairs and was about to call Paige’s name again when she heard a muffled thud.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THROUGH THE POUNDING silence of the studio, Stevie strained to hear something, any noise at all that she might have been able to identify. She hoped it was only Tiny downstairs. But now there was another sound-slow and deliberate, like something being dragged across the floor. It was not Tiny.
Someone was in the studio.
She stumbled toward the kitchen. With her heart hammering in her ears, Stevie couldn’t be certain if she’d heard footfalls in the studio or maybe even on the stairs. The apartment seemed to take on a life of its own: breathing around her, whispering its secrets in unfamiliar creaks and bumps.
On the wall next to the fridge, she found the fuse box. In seconds, she flung it open and grappled for the main breaker. There was a satisfying click.
She had to hide.
No, she had to get to the phone. The bedroom was closest.
She’d call the police. They’d get here, just like before, she told herself.
She was about to step out of the kitchen when she stopped. Adrenaline pumped through her as she brushed her hands across the counter. Her fingers were shaking almost uncontrollably, trembling along over the smooth tiles. And then she found the wooden knife block.
Closing her fingers over the largest handle, Stevie drew out the wide-blade butcher’s knife. The cool grip against her sweaty palm fed her new determination.
But when at last she did step out of the kitchen, her left hand sweeping the air in front of her, Stevie was struck with a terrifying thought and she froze.
What if the intruder was already upstairs in the apartment? What if he was watching her now? Standing maybe five feet away?
She listened again. But all she could hear were her own shallow, rapid breaths. She could feel her blood coursing through her veins, pounding in her head.
No, she couldn’t let her fear paralyze her. She had to keep moving.
The knife handle slipped in her sweaty grip. She switched it to her other hand, wiped her palm against her jeans and clutched it again. This time when she searched the darkness in front of her, she used the knife, as well.
In moments that felt like hours, Stevie reached the bedroom door. Behind her, in the apartment, she thought she heard footsteps, quiet and cautious, but she couldn’t be sure if it was only her fear playing tricks on her mind. She crossed the bedroom to the nightstand and lowered herself to the floor. Even as she pulled the phone onto her lap, Stevie wondered if the blinds were drawn, or if the street lamp outside illuminated the room.
Like before the dial tone seemed to shriek its presence. She laid the knife down next to her and covered the earpiece.
But even as her finger trembled over the nine, Stevie smelled the cheap after-shave, sharp and pungent.
There was the quiet brush of slick fabric.
And then a voice that sounded like death itself. “Not this time, you don’t,” it said.
In an instant Stevie felt a rush of air and the phone was torn from her hands. There was a loud clatter on the other side of the room—the phone smashing against the opposite wall.
A scream started deep down in her chest and clawed its way to the top of her throat. But she swallowed it. She had to be strong. She could not let this man see her fear. Besides, there was no one to hear her.
Yet another part of her wanted to give in then. To let this nightmare run its course. Don’t fight it, a small voice in her head whispered. You’re blind. You can’t possibly win.
And then Stevie remembered Gary.
No! She was not going to end up like Gary.
Her right hand groped the floor beside her, and with her last remnant of hope, she seized the knife.
He was standing over her. She could hear him breathe. He was just staring at her. She was certain of it. She was also certain it was too dark for him to see the knife.
“So, you gonna make this easy on yourself?” he asked.
The assuredness in his voice alone threatened to immobilize her, and Stevie bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop from crying out. The knife handle burned in her palm.
“Choice is yours, sweetheart,” he said.
And then he reached for her. The air churned in his wake, thick with the stench of his after-shave.
It was then that Stevie lunged at him. She swung the big blade through the air, and she heard her own gasp along with his when she felt it strike.
“Son of a…”
He staggered back, cursing.
In an instant Stevie was moving. Still gripping the knife, she scrambled across the floor, away from him.
This time when she felt his hands on her, Stevie did scream. Like vices, his fingers clamped around her ankles, dragging her back. Dragging her toward him. She kicked and thrashed. With her left hand she groped for anything to hang on to, anything to give her a hold.
The throw rug bunched up beneath her, and she floundered against the bare hardwood. And when she’d managed to tear one ankle free, she kicked out. She heard a low grunt. The kick had obviously been well placed. She only regretted that it hadn’t been harder.
In seconds he was after her again. He grabbed the waist of her jeans and almost lifted her right off the floor. Savagely he flung her over, but this time he was ready for the knife. When Stevie lashed out at him, he caught her wrist in his iron grip, which Stevie was sure would snap every bone. The knife fell uselessly to the floor, skittering across the boards.
He straddled her then, pinning her arms with his knees. And still Stevie fought him.
It was when he forced the damp cloth over her face, when she breathed in the sickeningly sweet stringent odor, that Stevie at last comprehended her defeat. She tried to hold her breath, gagging against the fumes, but it was impossible. Her throat burned. Desperately she tried to turn her head from the cloying smell, but he held her tighter still, pressing her head back against the floor.
When his knee slipped and her arm was freed, Stevie thought she would tear at his face. But she couldn’t even lift her arm. She heard her own cry muffled against the brute force of his hand. And she thought she saw lights—flickering splinters exploding in front of her—and guessed they were the effect of the solution on the cloth.
Then, as she felt her body slacken, as her consciousness gradually bled away, Stevie’s last thought was of Allister. His name whispered through her mind in a final desperate prayer.
VINCE FENTON stood over the woman. She was out at last.
He left the cloth draped across her face. He wanted to be sure she inhaled enough ether to keep her unconscious for a while. After the struggle she’d put up, he wasn’t going to risk her coming to in the back seat of his car.
He hadn’t expected her to put up such a fight, being blind and all. And he cursed her again when he drew off his blood-soaked glove. He turned his hand to catch the light from the street lamp outside. It glistened a dark crimson, and he could see the long gash the tip of the knife had carved through the
thin leather and across his skin. He was damned lucky, though. If he hadn’t seen the glint of the blade in that split second and pulled back, she might have really got him.
Still, he was bleeding pretty heavily. From his pocket he took out an extra strip of cloth and wound it tightly around his hand.
He looked at the Falcioni woman again. Yeah, she was a feisty one. A real handful. And if her kick hadn’t been so well placed, catching him square in the groin and temporarily knocking the wind out of him, he would have almost enjoyed her little struggle. He liked a good fight.
Not like her friend downstairs. The other woman had almost been too easy. Sure, he’d had to time it exactly right, grabbing her before she could activate the alarm system. But that had been the only challenge.
Through the uncovered windows of the studio, Vince had seen the other woman come down the stairs with her coat on and had known he’d have to make his move. He’d waited at the door, and when she opened it, he grabbed her before she could even scream. It had been a while since he’d felt that kind of rush.
In the end, though, she’d been disappointingly easy.
But Falcioni…He squatted next to her, removed the ether-soaked cloth and tucked it into his coat pocket. He had to admit, he admired her spunk. In fact, he almost liked her for it.
And Vince Fenton smiled to himself as he lifted her from the floor.
AT BARELY HIGHT in the morning, Allister steered Stevie’s Volvo into the short driveway of the Images studio. He knew it was early, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. All night he’d lain awake watching the headlights of cars in the street outside sweep across his ceiling. And he’d thought about Stevie.
He must have come up with a dozen different scripts in his head—things he might say to her to explain his actions, to apologize, to try to make her understand. But none of them would work, he’d decided by six-thirty.
He’d gotten up, showered and phoned the car rental agency to make arrangements for a pickup at Images. He’d call once he got there, he said, and something told him he’d be placing that call very soon after his arrival. He didn’t count on receiving any invitations for coffee this time.
Parking beside Paige’s Tercel, Allister was comforted by the fact that they’d stayed at Stevie’s. He’d half feared that Stevie might have convinced Paige to take her to Paige’s apartment downtown, to get away from the studio and the memories of him. But he was glad Stevie hadn’t forgone safety for emotions.
With any luck, he thought as he walked up to the front door, Paige would answer. He could give her the keys to the Volvo and avoid Stevie altogether. It would be best for both of them.
Allister knocked.
And if it was Stevie who answered? He wasn’t sure what he’d say to her.
He knocked again, a bit louder this time. Maybe they weren’t up yet.
The neon Images sign was off, Allister noticed then, and he wondered if the power was down, if something was wrong, but then he heard movement on the other side of the door.
Someone was coming into the front hall, and then he heard a muffled crash. It had to be Stevie.
Just like that first time he’d come to see her, Allister recalled. He felt a tug in his chest when he remembered the way Stevie had greeted him at the door, her sense of humor, her laughter, the smile that had lit her face.
There wouldn’t be a smile greeting him today, he could be sure of that.
But when the door opened at last, it wasn’t Stevie.
“Paige?” He must have sounded disappointed, Allister .thought. She didn’t smile.
“Allister.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She looked at him, squinting against the morning light, and held a hand to her forehead. Her face was pale and drawn.
He brushed past her through the door, and when he turned to look at Paige again, she sagged against the wall, one hand clutching her stomach.
“Rough night?” he asked, wondering what the two of them could possibly have been drinking to make Paige look so ill.
And then her knees buckled. Allister rushed to her side, catching her halfway down the wall.
“Whoa, Paige.” He helped her up, holding her for a moment as she swayed slightly. She seemed to gather herself, but still she maintained a grip on Allister’s arm. “Paige, what’s the matter?”
“I…I think I’m going to be sick.”
No more words were needed. As quickly as he could, Allister helped her to the studio washroom. But once there, she barely had the strength to throw up. When eventually she staggered to her feet, he handed her a towel and put an arm around her shoulders to steady her.
“Feel any better?”
She nodded weakly, but he could see she was still woozy and disoriented.
“Are you sure, Paige?”
“I don’t…I don’t know, Allister.”
Allister couldn’t tell what it was about Paige that was so unsettling. Maybe it was her expression, but he knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. This wasn’t a hangover from too much alcohol. Paige had been drugged.
Panic coursed through him.
“Paige, where’s Stevie?”
She shook her head, a feeble motion he feared might make her sick again.
“Paige—” he took her by the shoulders “—where’s Stevie?”
But he didn’t wait for an answer.
“Stevie!” His voice exploded through the hollow studio as he barreled up the stairs, his boots hammering on every second step. “Stevie!”
Terror seized him. It snatched his breath, pounded in his head.
“Stevie!”
He charged through the living room, the kitchen and then into the hallway, dread clutching at his heart as each stride took him closer to something he did not want to know.
And when he rushed to the bedroom, stopping at last in the doorway, a tormented cry twisted up from his gut.
The throw rug was crumpled in the middle of the room. The phone had been ripped from the wall and hurled against the far wall. It had hit a table lamp; the porcelain base lay in shards on the floor along with the phone. And there was a knife, its blade gleaming against the hardwood floor.
But what horrified him most was the blood.
It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough, its dark crimson trail a vivid blueprint of the violent struggle that had taken place.
She’d been utterly defenseless, Allister kept thinking over and over as he stood transfixed in the doorway. She couldn’t see her attacker. She couldn’t even protect herself. She’d been all alone. The terror she must have gone through…
Paige was behind him all of a sudden, pushing past Allister.
“Oh, my God,” she cried, teetering slightly. “Oh, my God! She’s gone, isn’t she? Stevie’s gone?”
Paige turned to him then, her face a visage of shock, as she crumpled into-his arms with a sob. And Allister held her. He held her because she needed to be held, but mostly he held her because he didn’t know what else to do.
STEVIE AWOKE to pain, a heavy, persistent pounding in her head that made her think of the hospital. And for a moment that was where she imagined she was. But it wasn’t the sterile odor of starched sheets and antiseptic that reached her nostrils. Instead, it was a peculiar stale mustiness, and the wool blanket that scratched her cheek smelled of dust and mothballs.
This wasn’t the hospital.
And then she remembered.
Stevie lay still, afraid to move, afraid he was next to her, watching, waiting for her to wake. She kept her eyes shut, listening to the noises around her, hoping for any sound that might give a clue as to where she was.
She could hear birds—pigeons, she was certain—a flurry of wings outside a window and then a soft cooing. Beyond that, there was the wail of a train whistle. It didn’t sound too far-off, and Stevie thought about the abandoned factories and storehouses along the tracks at the south end of Danby.
More immediate than the pigeons and the train, however, was a low constant thumping and a high-pitc
hed whine like metal on metal—old and rusted. She imagined an exhaust vent, one of those big-bladed fans, turning lazily in a draft.
But there was nothing else.
Stevie risked moving then, surprised she wasn’t tied or restrained. She was stiff, though. Every muscle screamed in protest as she shifted on the hard mattress.
She remembered the struggle. Pain rippled through her joints, and she felt as if she had a million bruises. Her hip throbbed when she rolled her weight onto it. With a major effort, she sat up. She drew her knees into the circle of her arms, feeling still more aches and pains, and when she brushed a hand across her face, she was sure one cheek bore a nasty bruise.
But most of all, her head hurt. And then her stomach lurched with nausea.
The cloth. He’d held it to her face, and there bad been fumes. Whatever it had been, it made her sick now. She swallowed, containing it. She wanted water.
The room was hot and the air stale. The cotton T-shirt she wore under her sweater was damp against her back, and wet strands of hair clung to her neck and forehead. She brushed them away, the simple movement making her dizzy.
Stevie rubbed her forehead and opened her eyes. A blurred square of light flashed before her. It was the aftereffects, she tried to reason, from the fumes on the cloth he’d held over her face. Whatever he’d used was causing these flickers of light. Just like the ones she’d seen before she’d blacked out last night.
She blinked. The light was still there. She turned her head from side to side, fighting down the nausea, but the dim square remained, fixed in space. She looked directly at it and blinked again.
She lifted a hand and passed it before her eyes. A blurred shadow moved across the square of light. Her hand. She could see the shadow of her hand.
A thin whimper of excitement escaped her lips.
Dr. Sterling had said it would happen like this. He’d told her that when her vision returned she would distinguish light and shadow first, then movement. And gradually, he’d promised, she would regain more focus. The process could take a matter of hours—ten to twelve, he’d said.