Devastating was when he never even showed up. Somebody said that his hometown girlfriend had been in the audience, that he’d gone off somewhere with her after the show.
How could that be?
At least Christina didn’t bother to say I told you so. She was too busy basking in the adulation of fawning underclassmen.
Bewildered, Kelly went back to her room and cried herself to sleep.
This morning, she’d told herself she was not going to call Julian.
Then she had.
Three times.
She texted him, too, asking Are you okay?
Who knows? Something horrible might have happened to him when he was walking from the theater to the party.
She knows.
Something horrible definitely happened to her.
She’d ignored the little voice in her head that told her a smooth older guy like Julian could not possibly fall in love with a nerdy freshman like her. Now she can’t wait until the semester is over and she can escape to her parents’ farm near Spokane. She never wants to see Julian Dodd again.
“That’s it. I can’t do this anymore.” Lying on her loft bed, Kelly’s roommate, Renee, snaps her textbook closed. “I’m starving. Want to go get something to eat?”
Realizing she’s starving too, Kelly nevertheless shakes her head. “I need to study.”
“That’s all you’ve done for the past three hours.”
No.
All she’s done is think about Julian.
“Come on, Kel, take a break.”
“I—”
She breaks off as her phone signals a new text message.
She checks it. “Oh my God! It’s from Julian!”
Sheila Wright—like Cam’s sister and the others—was a beautiful girl with long hair parted in the middle.
Cam learned, from reading several articles about him online, that Stockman had been stalking Sheila for a week or two before she died.
Stockman had a gun. The girl fought hard for her life. Her screams roused campus security, and an officer arrived in the midst of the struggle, just in time to see Stockman’s gloved hand close around Sheila’s fingers as she grasped the gun. He twisted the barrel so that it aimed at her temple, and pulled the trigger.
Sheila Wright died instantly.
Andrew J. Stockman went to prison.
Attica.
Cam found a photo of him online.
He was stocky, with black-framed glasses and pockmarked skin.
But he couldn’t have written the red lipstick note to her, because a little over a year after his arrest, he’d been killed during the infamous prison riot.
Sitting on the bed in her hotel room, Lucinda mutes the local news on television and calls Randy. It’s almost eleven o’clock. He’s probably getting ready for bed.
He answers the phone immediately, as though he’d been holding it in his hand when it rang. “Are you okay?”
“How was Frank when you went to see him, Randy?”
“He looked awful. Emaciated. Barely alive. It really makes you think, seeing someone like that.”
Then he told her again to be careful, and she promised him, again, that she will be.
She’s keeping her promise, all but barricaded in her hotel room for the past few hours, just in case…
The FBI has stationed a guard on the corridor outside her room tonight, too, just in case…
Just in case Lucinda Sloan is the Night Watchman’s intended victim in Seattle.
The sun sets in less than a half hour.
“I’m fine,” she assures Randy now. “Just thought I’d call and say good-night.”
“What are you doing?”
“Same thing I was doing last time we spoke. Keeping an eye on the local news in case something happens. Waiting for the killer’s face or the victim’s name to pop up in my head so that we can reach her before he does.”
“You’re not getting anything?”
“Nothing at all. Although…”
“What?”
“Did you ever hear this song?” Feeling a little ridiculous, she sings the only line she knows: “If I were a bell I’d be ringing,” then hums the melody for a few more bars.
“I’ve heard it. I think it’s old, but I don’t really know it. Why?”
“I don’t know…. It’s been stuck in my head on and off for a while now. Today it’s on again.”
“That happens to me sometimes. You must have heard it someplace.”
“I guess.”
Any other day, she wouldn’t think much of it.
But today…
“Randy, I have to go. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Wait—do me a favor. You don’t have to stay on the phone with me, but call me back at eight-thirty.”
“Why? It’ll be so late there.”
“I’ll be awake. Just…call me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She knows why.
He wants to make sure she’s survived sunset.
Renee climbs down from her bed and comes over to read the text message over Kelly’s shoulder.
Can you meet me on the trail by the stream out near Graves Field?
“No way,” Kelly says.
“Wait, maybe he wants to explain what happened last night.”
“Now? After he ignored me all day?”
“You never know. There might be a good reason.”
Frowning, Kelly texts back, Why?
“Good,” Renee says. “See? At least give him a chance to explain.”
It doesn’t take long for the reply: I want to ask you something.
Trying to tamp a flutter of anticipation in her belly, Kelly turns to her roommate. “What do you think he wants to ask me?”
“I don’t know, but you’re crazy if you don’t find out.”
Kelly responds, Ask me now.
She holds her breath, waiting. It doesn’t take long.
In person. Please. I want to see you.
Neal knows from experience that a telephone ringing in the dead of night never means anything good—unless one of your daughters happens to be in labor.
His aren’t.
He’s sitting in front of the eleven o’clock news when the phone rings, not because he cares about what’s going on locally, but because he’s still haunted by seeing Frank today, and consumed with worry about his extra daughter—Lucinda.
He crosses himself quickly, praying it’s not bad news, and picks up the phone.
“Neal, I’m so sorry to call you this late.”
Lucinda.
She sounds breathless, in a rush, but she’s okay. Thank you, God. Neal crosses himself again.
“It’s okay,” he tells her. “I was up. Anything yet? Did they get a print match on that drag queen case in the Bronx?”
“Nothing yet. You like old music. What song is this? I only know one line. Here, I’ll sing it.”
She does.
Relieved that she’s obviously doing just fine—and puzzled that she called him for this—Neal asks, “Are we playing Name that Tune?”
“Do you know the name of the song?”
“Sure. So do you. You just sang it.”
“If I were a bell I’d be ringing … That’s the title?”
“Yup. It’s from one of my favorite musicals. Guys and Dolls. When the girls were little, Erma’s mother came to stay one night, and I drove her up to New York to see it on Broadway. It was—”
“Guys and Dolls—Broadway,” she cuts in. “Oh, no…Neal.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t even want to say it, but…”
“Cin, what’s going on?”
“Bradley,” she says. “Bradley was in Guys and Dolls on Broadway. That song’s been going through my head for days now, and I didn’t know why. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but—”
“Maybe it does.”
Sitting by the computer, Cam waits for a response from John Ruzzoccino.
She
spoke to him a little while ago and asked if she could e-mail him a photo to look at. She had saved it as a separate jpg attachment, not wanting to send any information about the murder of Sheila Wright, or Attica. Nor did she mention who it was—or whom she suspected it was, anyway.
She just asked that John open it as soon as possible and let her know his reaction.
“Will do,” was his jaunty reply.
Mike is a few feet away, on the couch, ostensibly watching a post-game report on the Yankees. On an ordinary night, he’d be dozing in front of the television at this hour.
Not tonight.
She sighs.
“Anything yet?” he asks, glancing her way.
“Trust me, you’d know.”
“A watched e-mail box never boils…or something like that.” He yawns.
“Why don’t you go to bed? You have to be up at five-thirty.”
He shakes his head. “I want to see what this guy has to say.”
“What if he doesn’t get back to me tonight?”
“You asked him to.”
“I know, but what if…” She shakes her head. She can’t bring herself to say it.
Her instincts tell her that John Ruzzoccino is a good guy.
That’s not all her instincts are telling her today.
Earlier, she had another vision of that girl in the 1950s get-up. All along, she’d been thinking she was having a vision of a long ago crime victim—which isn’t typical, because she usually sees things before they happen.
Only this time, she realized the scene might be contemporary—that the girl might be wearing some kind of costume. In the vision this time, she was text-messaging into a cell phone—and they certainly didn’t have cell phones fifty years ago.
Cam doesn’t know what to make of the vision, but it’s troubling.
“You’ve got mail,” the computer announces.
She hurriedly drags the cursor over to the mailbox icon.
“Mike, it’s from John Ruzzoccino.”
Hanging up the phone with Neal, Lucinda immediately dials Vic’s number to tell him what’s going on.
“Guys and Dolls?” he echoes. “You think your friend might be the Night Watchman because he once was in Guys and Dolls?”
Bradley. The Night Watchman?
It’s preposterous.
And yet…
“For some reason, I’m making some kind of connection, Vic. Can you have someone look into it?”
“Of course. Sit tight. I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up, releases the mute setting on the television.
On the local news channel, they’re discussing the weather.
Rain.
What else is new?
“The sun sets tonight at eight-twenty-six P.M.” The cheery meteorologist spews the statistic along with several others, but all Lucinda cares about is the sunset.
It’s eighteen minutes away.
Dammit.
Bradley.
What if it’s him?
She can try to reach him, right now—see where he is, and what he’s doing.
What are you going to say? she asks herself, even as she dials his cell phone. Bradley, if you’re about to kill someone, please don’t.
His phone rings a few times before he picks up, sounding sleepy.
“Bradley—where are you?”
“Home. In bed. Where are you?”
“Working.”
“I wish I could say the same.” He yawns. “I thought you were going to make opening night.”
“I meant to—I’m so sorry I missed it. I’ll catch it as soon as I get back.”
“Back? Where are you?”
“Away. On business.”
“Well, don’t rush home to see the show, because you already missed closing night—which, actually, you could have attended, because it was opening night.”
“Oh, Bradley…I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
Now is not the time to comfort a once-again-out-of-work actor.
The clock is ticking.
Suddenly, there’s a loud pounding on Lucinda’s door.
For a moment, she’s seized by panic.
Then she hears Vic’s voice calling to her.
“Open up. Lucinda, it’s important!”
“Bradley, I have to go.”
“Now? But I was going to tell you about—”
“I’m sorry, Bradley. We’ll have to talk later. Something is going on here, and…it’s important.”
“Isn’t it always. Thanks for calling, Lucinda.”
His tone is sarcastic. She can’t worry about that now.
She hangs up, throws the phone onto the bed, and hurries over to the door.
“Lucinda!”
It sounds like him, but she checks through the peephole to make sure it really is Vic at the door.
Yes, of course it’s Vic. You heard Vic’s voice.
Who else would it be?
But it’s 8:11, and she’s not taking any chances.
“I’m here, hang on….”
She opens the locks, opens the door. “Did something happen?”
“Guys and Dolls…That show just played all weekend at U-Dub.”
“U-Dub…”
“University of Washington. A body was discovered on campus about an hour ago.”
“An hour ago? But—that’s too early.”
“It was a guy. They think he was mugged.”
“Then why—”
“He was in the show, Lucinda. Guys and Dolls. Let’s go.”
The rain stopped earlier, leaving the dense foliage along the path dripping and the bugs rattling and chirping. Cars rumble on the distant road, and Kelly’s own breathing sounds oddly loud in her own ears.
This is a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
And yet, here she is, walking along a deserted path at dusk, against her better judgement.
“Julian?” she calls, wishing he had told her where, exactly, they were supposed to meet.
No reply.
All right, this is really stupid. She doesn’t know this part of campus very well; in fact, she’s never been down here alone, and certainly not at night.
Maybe she should have asked Renee to come with her. But that wouldn’t have been very romantic, and—
Hearing a footfall behind her, she spins around.
“Julian?”
“No,” a male voice croons, “not Julian.”
Terror grips her. “Who is it?”
The only reply is laughter, harsh and high-pitched.
She tries to run but he grabs her by the hair, jerks her head back so that her neck is arched, and she can see nothing but the dark silhouette of tree branches far overhead.
Seeing the glint of something silver coming at her, she’s certain it’s a knife, and he’s going to hold it to her throat and…
Dear God, please don’t let him rape me.
But it isn’t a knife.
She feels something pressing against her mouth, a waxy substance smearing across her lips, and it’s bizarre, and thank God, thank God it isn’t a knife….
Then she sees the knife coming toward her.
“There’s no time to waste, Kelly. You have to die right—”
The world goes black.
Cam highlights John Ruzzoccino’s e-mail and clicks the mouse to open it.
The document contains three words.
That’s John Stockman.
Phone in hand, Randy paces through the cottage, from the Captain’s Quarters to the Galley and back again, doing his best not to let his imagination take him to a dark place.
Lucinda is fine.
She promised she’d stay in her room.
But it’s almost eight-thirty, and she hasn’t called.
He can call her…
No.
She said she’d call at eight-thirty. In one minute, the phone is going to ring and everything will be fine.
Just don’t think
about it.
Think about something else.
The move.
He’s moving in a few days. He’ll be glad when he doesn’t have to look at this nautical crap anymore, glad to be in a generic mainland condo.
Who cares if it’ll take him forever to get to work and back for the next few months with summer traffic?
He’ll be closer to Lucinda.
Okay, it’s eight-thirty.
Wait one more minute, and if she doesn’t call, you can call her.
He waits.
She doesn’t call.
He calls her.
The phone rings, rings, rings….
Randy’s chest is starting to constrict.
“Hi, you’ve reached Lucinda Sloan. I’m not able to take your call right now. Please leave a message.”
“Lucinda, it’s me. Where are you? You said you’d call!”
He hangs up abruptly, dials 411.
“Seattle,” he says in response to the automated voice. “The Marriot Hotel.”
“Which Marriot in Seattle, sir?”
“I…I don’t know.” She said something about being able to see the bay from her room. “Is there one on the water?”
“The Marriot Waterfront. I’ll connect you.”
Moments later, the hotel operator is on the line.
“I need to be connected to a guest room,” he tells her. “Lucinda Sloan.”
“One moment, please.”
For a split second, he’s grateful to have gotten the right Marriot on the first try.
Then it occurs to him that anyone wanting to see if she’s registered in that hotel would have been able to confirm it, just like that.
The Night Watchman knows she’s in Seattle. All he’d have had to do to find her would be to call one local hotel after another asking for her until he was connected to a room.
The phone rings.
Rings, rings, rings…
No answer, and a cyclone of panic engulfs Randy.
She said she’d be there; said she wasn’t going anywhere; promised she’d call him.
There’s only one explanation.
Something’s happened to her.
Racing toward the campus, seated with Vic in the back seat of a black SUV, Lucinda stares at the dashboard clock.
A few minutes ago, as she watched it turn from 8:25 to 8:26, she could see it all.
Dead Before Dark Page 37