If the purse wasn’t hers, and she felt strongly that it was not, this was her chance to prove it.
The wallet was Gucci. She recognized the distinctive design. Flipping it open, she found a shopaholic’s dream: at least a dozen credit cards, including a black AmEx, in little leather slots; what looked like a substantial amount of cash in the pocket designed for it; and, in the plastic rectangle on the inside flap of the cover, a driver ’s license.
With her picture on it. Or, at least, a picture of the woman she saw when she looked in the mirror. The newly tanned, blond, and glamorous her. Along with her name, date of birth, and this address.
That’s it, she told herself fiercely even as she dropped the wallet back into the purse, zipped it closed again, and headed toward the door. You’re you, damn it.
The shoes fit, the robe color was right. The driver’s license matched. Even the photograph on the nightstand that caught her eye as she was rushing out of the room was of her—the new, improved her—standing with a man she instantly recognized as Ed. Earlier, Ed had seemed to recognize her voice; Dan had recognized her.
She knew her way around inside the house. She had known where to find the spare door key.
There was no mistake: She was Katharine Lawrence, and this was her life.
So why, she asked herself as she slung the purse over her shoulder and, duffel bag in hand, hotfooted it back down the stairs, did that just feel wrong?
When the phone started ringing, I didn’t recognize the ringtone and realize that it was my phone I was hearing. Then I had to hunt for the purse. I didn’t know where it was, and I didn’t recognize it, either.
The caveats hit her even as, aches and pains notwithstanding, she practically leaped the last few steps into the hall. For a moment she paused with one hand on the newel post, eyes widening, as she considered.
Hello, moto was pretty universal. In fact, she was almost sure that it was the default ringtone for that kind of phone. Probably the phone was new, and she hadn’t personalized the ringtone yet.
Yes, but I still don’t remember anything about it.
And if her purse had been found last night while they were searching the house, the bastards would have either taken it or dumped it and left it where it fell. But clearly the purse had not been found, because it had been tucked neatly out of sight, and nothing in it had been disturbed.
So if it was hers, why didn’t she remember putting it there behind the nightstand?
There were lots of explanations, she assured herself, even as she recovered her wits enough to start moving toward the front door again. (Although the garage was her destination and the kitchen door offered the closest, most convenient access to it, no way was she setting foot in the kitchen again, she decided the instant the thought crossed her mind.) Maybe she was just a forgetful type. Maybe someone else had tucked her purse into that little hidey-hole. Maybe . . .
A whole long list of maybes was starting to unscroll through her head when the soft creak of a floorboard somewhere nearby refocused her attention like no-body ’s business. Her eyes widened. Her breathing suspended. Not just her ears but every fiber of her body strained toward the bone-chilling sound.
Nothing.
Other than the sounds of the house—the hum of the air-conditioning, the murmur of the appliances—she heard nothing more. Her gaze searched the hallway and as much of the adjoining rooms as she could see: still nothing. As far as she could tell, everything was just as it had been before. If there was anyone else in the house, she could neither see nor hear them. Probably, she told herself, what she had heard was just one of the usual creaks and groans of an old house settling.
But her instincts screamed at her: Get out, get out, get out.
Oh, yeah. I am so gone.
She was breathing again, shallow and fast. Her heart thudded so loudly that it was like having her own private drumroll crescendoing in her ears. Glancing warily around, with every sense she possessed now on red alert, she got a firm grip on the bag and rushed on whisper-soft feet toward the front door.
Her ears caught it first: footsteps racing across carpet; the rasp of quickened breathing. With her periphery vision, she saw a blur of movement as something big and dark and fast hurtled across the living room toward her.
Holy crap . . .
Whipping around to face whatever it was head-on, Katharine jumped back and crashed into the console table, screaming like death itself was after her.
Which, she confirmed seconds later as her brain registered what her eyes had already perceived, it was.
9
In that split second of shock before he was upon her she saw that the dark blur was actually a tall, muscular man dressed in a dark suit with a black knit ski mask pulled down over his face.
A spook . . .
Her heart practically leaped out of her chest. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck catapulted upright. The ski mask had holes cut out in it for the eyes and mouth, just like the ones last night’s attackers had worn. In fact, if he wasn’t one of last night’s attackers, he could have been their twin.
Screaming like a siren, she tried to dodge, but it was too late. The purse slid off her shoulder; the duffel bag hit the floor with a thump. Scrambling sideways, banging into the console table again in her rush to get away, she was stopped by a huge arm hooking her neck in a brutal grab that yanked her back against his chest. Her feet went out from under her. She would have fallen if it hadn’t been for his grip on her and her instinctive grab of his imprisoning arm. Behind her, mail spilled in a slither of paper. Water and flowers pelted her legs as the vase of roses toppled with a thud and a splash. Fortunately, the vase itself, after dumping its contents, came to rest on its side on the table without crashing to the floor and shattering around her bare feet.
“Gotcha.” There was a wealth of satisfaction in his voice—not a voice she recognized from last night, she registered instantly—as her feet scrabbled on the wet floor to regain their purchase. Terror washed over her in an icy wave as he used his choke hold on her throat to haul her upright. She felt his body heat, the abrasion of his clothes against her skin. He was big, strong, and probably close to twice her weight, she realized with despair, even as she gasped for air and her nails tore uselessly into the smooth cloth of his jacket. Still, she struggled to be free, squirming frantically and kicking back at his kneecaps with desperate force. He jerked his legs back just in time and the blows slammed into his shins, which did nothing more, as far as she could tell, than hurt her feet.
“Help! Help! Let . . .” me go was how the scream was going to end, but the words were still forming in her mind when his arm tightened viciously around her throat, choking off the words, choking her. Coughing, wheezing, she fought for air even as it hit her that this time there was no one to help her: She was on her own.
And after last night, she had to assume that he meant to kill her if he could.
Her fight-or-flight response went crazy. Adrenaline shot through her veins. Flight wasn’t happening right now, not with the hold he had on her. But . . .
“Hold still.”
The gun that he pressed to her temple was silver, she saw out of the corner of her eye, just like the one last night. And the cold, terrifying feel of metal against her skin was definitely the same. Talk about déjà vu all over again. She felt dizzy, sick.
Her nails released their death grip on his sleeve and her arms dropped. Heart pumping like a trapped bird’s, terror racing like icy fingers down her spine, she forced herself to go perfectly still.
“Yes. All right.” Her voice was low, hoarse. She had to force the words out past his constriction of her throat. But he clearly understood, because his grip on her eased fractionally.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “I thought I was going to have to search all by my lonesome.”
She sucked in air. “For what? What do you want?”
“Don’t give me that.”
The arm around her neck tighten
ed again, suddenly, violently forcing her jaw up and slamming her head back against his collarbone hard. Her feet went out from under her a second time, and he grabbed her around the waist to keep her upright. She barely had time to register that at least his gun was no longer pressed to her temple when he ducked his head so that his mouth was near her ear. The cotton hood felt smooth against her cheek and ear. His breath was warm against her skin. Struggling to breathe with his arm heavy across her throat, scrabbling to get her feet solidly back under her once more, she found herself looking at the ceiling, the wall, the vivid colors of the sunset painting to her left. On her right, she could see a good-sized portion of the living room as well as a sliver of the den, which, like the rest of the place, had been cleaned up. That sliver encompassed the desk, part of the fireplace, and the area above it where a painting of a sandy beach usually took pride of place. The only wrong note was that the painting was missing. In its place, a raw-looking rectangular hole about half the size of the painting gaped in the plaster. It took her a second, but then she realized that she was almost certainly looking at the spot where the safe had been.
If, as she assumed, the thugs last night had dug it out of the wall and taken it with them, then what was this guy looking for?
Stay calm. Try to think.
“Where is it?” There was an angry edge to her captor ’s voice that made her go cold all over.
“Wha-what—” His constriction of her throat made her break off to gasp for air. Her blood seemed to spike in her ears. What made the whole nightmare even more terrifying was the realization that she had absolutely no idea in the world what he was talking about. Her ignorance was not, as he seemed to think, a ruse.
Panic made her suddenly light-headed. What don’t I know?
“I’m going to ask you one more time.” His grip on her throat loosened again, presumably so that she could speak.
Now, her internal voice screamed even as her desperate, reaching fingers finally made contact with what they had been seeking: the newly empty vase. Curling her fingers around the cool, wet rim, she swung it up and over her shoulder in a frenzied arc, slamming it as hard as she could into his head.
“Oww!” Howling, he let go, staggering back as the gun dropped from his hand to go skittering away across the floor and the vase slipped from her fingers, hit the ground, and shattered with a boom.
Yes. That was all the opportunity she needed. Fueled by abject fear, she ran for her life. Leaping over the profusion of roses and water and broken glass like a champion hurdler, she bolted down the hall for the kitchen, screaming her lungs out all the way. It wasn’t the route she would have chosen, but she had no choice because he stood between her and the front door, and even in his slightly stunned state she recognized that she had no chance of getting by him.
“You fucking bitch!” Murder was in his roar. A single petrified glance over her shoulder told her that he was already coming after her, barreling down the hall in pursuit like a linebacker after an opposing player with the ball. There was no sign of the gun. Clearly he hadn’t taken the time to go after it. He was too eager to get his hands on her again.
Oh, God, please don’t let him catch me.
Terror gave wings to her feet. Shrieking like a peacock with its tail on fire, she rounded the corner into the kitchen and raced across the cool, hard floor so fast her feet barely touched the tiles. Brick wall, microwave, kitchen island; she saw it all in a single wild-eyed glance. Heart pumping, panting with fear, she looked frantically for a way out. Heading for the back door wasn’t an option, either, she realized as her gaze touched on the laundry-room door. Last night’s debacle with the dead bolt was hideously fresh in her mind. Was it still locked? Was the glass still missing from the top of the door? She could maybe jump through it again—unless it had been fixed. It might have been fixed. She would be trapped....
“I’m gonna make you pay.”
He was only a few strides behind her now, his feet thundering over the tiles, his arms pumping like pistons as he narrowed the distance between them.
Her screams echoed off the walls as she made the only choice she could: circle through the dining room and the living room and back out into the hall, then try to make it out the front door before he caught her. Maybe she could even scoop up his gun, turn it on him . . .
Yeah, right, me and Dirty Harry and who else?
Escape was the best she was going to do, if she could even manage that. Cold sweat poured from her body as she careened toward the dining-room door, then realized to her utter horror that his long strides had almost closed the gap. He was right behind her. He was going to catch her. . . .
It was just a matter of seconds, she knew. Her shoulders hunched in terrified expectation. He grabbed for her just as she reached the threshold, his big, sausage-like fingers hideously white, like the fingers of a corpse. She shrieked again as that nightmarish hand brushed her shoulder and then, as she lunged away, grabbed the tail of the huge shirt that flapped behind her like a sail.
“No!” she screamed, trying to pull free, but he had a good hold and the synthetic material was strong. He yanked and she fell backward, landing hard on her butt on the kitchen floor. He overshot her, nearly tripping over her as her fall seemed to take him by surprise. Screaming desperately, heart pounding like a jackhammer, she at last succeeded in yanking her shirt free of his hold. Turning onto all fours, she tried to scramble away, to come upright again, to run . . .
The hard tile felt cold and slick beneath her hands. Her nails dug into the grout, her feet sliding uselessly on the slippery surface.
“Where do you think you’re going?” There was a gloating edge to his voice as he regained his balance first, rushing her, grabbing at her, knocking her to the floor when she would have eluded him. She hit hard, sprawling facedown, then, realizing her danger, immediately tried to roll away, kicking, and screaming like a steam whistle. To her horror, he succeeded in catching her right ankle. His hand was warm and terrifyingly strong but, she saw with a chill of repulsion, was also unnaturally white and felt plastic, inhuman. It was a second or so before she realized that he was wearing thin white surgical gloves.
“Leave me alone! What do you want?” On her back, she fought off her attacker with every ounce of strength she possessed as he tried to get a better grip on her. She could see his eyes, glinting at her through the slits in the mask. They were dark eyes, almost black in the dim light, and hard with menace. Despair lent a hysterical edge to her voice. “What do you want?”
“Shut the fuck up.” He gave her ankle a vicious twist. She cried out with pain as she was forced to turn on her side. . . .
“Open the door!” The muffled shout was accompanied by a frantic pounding on the back door. Dan—she recognized his voice. It was the most welcome sound she had ever heard. “Katharine! Open the door!”
“Help! Help me! Help!” she shrieked, taking advantage of her attacker’s momentary distraction to jerk her ankle free.
“Come back here, bitch.”
Cursing, he came after her as she scooted against the base of the built-in island, pushing the bar stools out of her way, flattening her back against the swirling wrought iron, grabbing on to the cold metal twists for dear life. Knocking the bar stools aside with a crash, he ducked beneath the marble overhang, grabbing at her while she kicked and screamed her lungs out. His intent, she thought, was to scoop her up bodily and carry her away before help could reach her. If he succeeded in taking her out of the town house with him, she was toast, she knew. Terror and hope combined to give her what felt like superhuman strength as she clung to the wrought-iron island with both hands and kicked him away one more time.
“Dan! Help! Help!”
There was a tremendous crash from the direction of the back door, then another. “Katharine! Damn it to hell!”
“Fuck.” Her attacker aimed a vicious kick at her, which fortunately, because she saw it coming, she was able to dodge. He then turned and ran out of the kitchen. E
ven as she rolled out from under the island and staggered to her feet, she could hear his footsteps pounding down the hall.
Was he going for the gun? The thought galvanized her. She had to move. . . .
“Katharine!”
There was another crash, accompanied this time by the sound of splintering wood and a sharp bang as if the back door had been kicked open and hit the wall hard. Dan had succeeded in breaking in, she realized as she lurched desperately toward the laundry room on legs that felt about as sturdy as rubber bands. The washer and dryer and the hook that ordinarily held the back-door key and the patch of tile—eerily clean—where Lisa had died flashed into view, then Dan was there in front of her, having run inside. Chest heaving, taking up far more space than she would have thought, given his lean build, he looked about as wild-eyed and frantic as she felt.
“Jesus Christ, are you all right?” Dan grabbed her by the upper arms, his grip warm and hard and urgent, momentarily halting her frantic flight.
“There’s a man. He has a gun,” she gasped, throwing a terrified glance over her shoulder while doing her best to pull him with her toward the door.
“Go outside.” He pushed her past him and ran on into the kitchen.
“Dan, no!” Katharine cried, looking after him, but it was too late, he was gone, and she was not about to go after him. She had come so close to dying twice now that she realized just how much she wanted to live. She wasn’t putting herself in harm’s way a third time, not if she could help it, not even for Dan, though he was endangering himself on her behalf.
She turned and ran.
A plywood panel had temporarily replaced the glass window in the door, she saw as she darted past it. The door itself, now splintered around the lock, stood wide open. Golden sunlight beckoned, underlined by a wafting influx of heated air. Heart pounding a mile a minute, she ran out into the wonderful, welcoming, life-affirming sunshine, flying down the steps, racing toward her garage.
It was only after she threw open the access door and discovered that her Lexus was not there that she remembered that the car’s absence didn’t matter anyway: The keys were in the purse, which she had dropped in the hall.
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