Holmes stared at the notebook, pen poised to write. After pausing a full ten seconds, he jotted on the paper. "Anyone else in the picture?"
"No, just me."
He exhaled. "Okay, I guess that's all I need." He bent down and picked something off the carpet. A dried flower. The flower was crushed.
"Throw it away, please,” she said, pointing to the wastebasket in the kneehole of the desk. "It's broken."
He nodded, dropped the flower in the wastebasket. He stared after it, then he bent down and lifted the wastebasket, his eyes riveted inside.
"I thought you said you looked everywhere in this room?" Without waiting for an answer, Holmes tilted the wicker basket so Alex could see the frame at the bottom. He reached in and pulled it out by the felt stand. The frame was empty.
Alex's stomach tightened painfully.
"I'll just take this along . . ." He paused, his back tensed.
Before she knew what was happening, Holmes was out of the room, climbing the stairs two at a time and unfastening the catch on his holster. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.
She ran after him and nearly careened into his back as he stood just outside the door. He took several cautious steps forward, looking right and left.
Hawkins appeared unexpectedly from the side of the house. He stopped when he saw Alex and the man with her.
"Oh, Miss Carlson, sorry if I scared you. I . . . uh . . . I thought I left some prunin' shears in the yard.” he said, hiking up his pants.
"Hawkins, I didn't hear you drive up," she said.
"Yeah, well I figured I left them shears down there by the mailbox. When they wasn't there, I just walked on up to the house. Didn't mean to be botherin' nobody."
"You didn't find them?"
"Naw. But that's okay; they'll turn up." He scurried by without so much as a glance at Holmes.
"Who was that?"
"The yard man."
"Hawkins," he said speculatively. "Does he have a first name?"
"Otis. Why?"
He reached inside his jacket and fastened the catch on his holster. Gazing out over the landscape, he said, "Mrs. Carlson, would you please bring me the frame. Don't touch anything but the felt backing."
Oh, he could be so damned infuriating, she thought. One minute he was saying too much—scaring the hell out of her — and the next he was closemouthed and secretive — also scaring the hell out of her.
When she returned he was standing at the car with the door open. He carefully slid the frame into an envelope marked Evidence.
"I'll be in touch," he said, climbing behind the wheel and starting the engine.
Alex headed for the house before he could pull away.
From the living room, she watched him turn his car around, accelerate down the hill, then turn the corner. She didn't see his car pass between the trees on Rockview Drive. Strange. He must have pulled over just beyond her drive.
She located the two security-alarm phone numbers Holmes had given her. As her fingers touched the receiver, the phone rang. She picked it up. There was a long pause then a click, followed by the dial tone. She replaced the receiver slowly, puzzled.
The grandfather clock chimed the half hour. "Oh shit."
She was going to be late for her class. She hurried downstairs to get her art supplies.
Holmes pulled to the side of the road alongside a willow tree, shut off the engine, and sat staring straight ahead.
Last night there'd been no doubt in his mind she was telling the truth. Now he wasn't so sure. What is her game? he wondered. She didn't look like the kind of woman who played games. Serious games. Illegal games. But it took all kinds.
Was she lonely like Mrs. Quinz in Hidden Valley, who repeatedly fabricated intruders and disturbances for a few minutes of companionship? Not likely. No, he doubted that Alex Carlson would have much trouble finding companionship, at least not among the male gender. She was too damn pretty. Christ, she was better than pretty, she was a knockout. Dark, silky hair. Large gray-green eyes. A sensuous mouth—made even more sensuous by the nervous habit she had of biting down on her lower lip, sucking on it until it was full and glossy. And her body — yeah, she had a body. Those- shorts she'd been wearing revealed long shapely legs. And that stretchy top certainly concealed very little—when she had gotten cold, standing at the window, he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off those two buds rising . . . .
"Shit," he said, snapping the sun visor down. He leaned over to look out the passenger window. Through the drooping limbs of the willow tree he could see the house quite clearly. Someone was standing at the windows in the center of the living room. This was probably where Gunther had pulled over to watch a man and a woman embracing. From this distance, there was no doubt that what Holmes was looking at was a human form. But the sex was questionable. Open blouse? No way. For Gunther to see what he claimed to have seen, he would have had to scope them in with binoculars. Or perhaps he had left the patrol car and closed the distance on foot.
That brought up another matter. At about the time Gunther was spying on two lovers, an emergency call had been made indicating a possible assault.
Who was lying?
As Holmes watched, the form moved away from the window.
This morning, on the phone, when she called to report a missing photograph of herself—in what? a bikini, for Christ's sake— he had planted a seed. Given her a suggestion. Dangled the bait. And she had taken it hook, line, and sinker. So Mrs. Carlson had discovered her panties were missing? Very interesting.
And something else was interesting. All these odd occurrences began to take place shortly after her son left home.
Holmes thought back to the night of the break-in. When she had discovered the .22 missing from the night stand, she had been quick to assume the pistols would be gone as well. A little too quick, perhaps.
She lived in an expensive house. The mortgage and upkeep on such a place would be costly. Financial support from her ex may have ceased when their son turned eighteen. How lucrative could art classes be? A hefty insurance payoff could alleviate her financial worries for a while.
When he got back to the station, he would again try the number that the DMV in Austin had given him for one David Leroy Sloane, registered owner of a late model Corvette. Somebody had some answers.
Holmes sighed, shook his head slowly. First he'd find out what her game was. Then he'd decide what to do about her.
He started the car and pulled away.
Scratching and shuffling. That's okay, he thought, nothing to worry about. Hear it all the time. They can't get in. No way can they get in.
The shuffling became louder. Very loud. Suddenly his arm was grabbed in a vise-like grip. Needle-sharp teeth sank into his wrist. He screamed.
Tearing himself out of the dream, flailing his arms and legs and gasping for air—air that was not heavy from smoke and that horrible stench within the smoke— he felt, in his arm, that familiar aching pain.
He sat up in bed, rolled the sleeve of his shirt back and examined the oval of angry dashes on his wrist. He knew if he put his mouth just so over the oval, his teeth and the marks would fit neatly, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.
Would the nightmare ever let go? Most of the time he was able to wake up before the thing actually sank its teeth into him. But not always. He rubbed at the scars. Not always.
"Do you have nightmares, Allie," he whispered.
Reaching into the back of the radio, he pulled out the photograph. He studied it carefully, his fingertips lightly tracing over her image.
"So pretty."
He lifted a pair of flesh-colored bikini panties to the side of his face. With thumb and forefinger, he rubbed the silky material, chanting “Pretty . . pretty . . . pretty." His other hand reached out, gently stroked the thick white fur of the cat. She began to purr. “Wanna go home, kitty. To Allie?" Winnie purred louder.
In the spacious north room of the art center, Alex moved from one eas
el to another, critiquing and at times picking up a brush, dabbing it with paint from the palette, and demonstrating on the student's canvas in front of her. The class was full, fifteen students. All were female except for one elderly man.
Harry Bodkin called out to her from the next easel.
"Be right with you," Alex said to him "While you're waiting, change your turpentine. I see you've got it all muddy again."
She pointed to his metal cup of turpentine. Bodkin bobbed his head.
"Lovely, Mrs. Couch," Alex said. "I suggest, however, that you play down the flowers in the background. Soften the edges. That's it; smudge them up a bit. Better, much better."
Alex carefully stepped over the two canes lying beside the stool on which Bodkin was perched. She touched his arm. "What's the problem, Harry?"
"You don't get down this way often enough.” he said, pouting. "From the time you leave till you get back here, I always manage to make a mess of things."
Alex studied his canvas. He was working on a still-life setup on a table standing against the wall. She noticed he'd hardly put any paint to canvas since her last round.
"Oh, Harry, it's coming along just fine."
He nodded, grinning in such a way that Alex knew he hadn't heard a word she'd said. "Fix it up for me, will you, missy?"
Smiling, Alex took the offered brush and began to paint. Within minutes her world transpired into a one of shadow and light, hard and soft edges, rich and muted colors. She crawled into the painting, wandering blissfully in a place that she knew well, a place where nothing could hurt her—where no monsters existed. With a chilling shudder, she wondered what had made her think of that.
She stopped painting when she realized her students were packing away their art supplies. It was time to close up shop.
"There you go,” Alex said to Bodkin, handing back the brush.
"I could watch you paint all day," he said.
"I'm sure you could." Alex knew that Harry Bodkin would apply a few more inconspicuous strokes, sign his name, and then hang the painting in the dining room of the Golden Era Complex where he lived, priced, thank goodness, too steeply to sell.
As she picked up paint-soiled paper towels and Styrofoam coffee cups, she called out goodbyes. The last of the students filed out, so she walked down the row of still-life setups and switched off the spotlights. The room was quiet and smelled strongly of oil paint, linseed oil, fixative, and turpentine. Alex washed and dried her hands at the ancient, rust-stained sink.
She took her supplies to the storage room, propped the door open, and, guided by the light from the studio, backed in. Easel in one hand and standing tray in the other, she worked her way down the narrow row of folding chairs to the back, leaned the easel and tray against the wall, and turned around just as the door slowly closed, shutting out the light. Alex froze. Acutely aware of the blackness, the musty smell, the suffocating heaviness, she felt the room closing in on her. Her pulse pounding in her ears, she took several faltering steps forward. Panic rose. She wanted to scream out, but forced herself to stop.
"Cool it," she whispered: "Keep cool."
She breathed deeply, once, twice. Then, with as much aplomb as she could muster, she leaned to the left, reaching out, until she felt the cold metal of a folding chair. Okay, she told herself, you're in the storage room. There's a way out. The door is just a few steps away.
She took a step, moved her hand along the top of one chair to the adjacent chair. It's only a room. With lots of air. It's not like before. There's a light switch here somewhere . . . somewhere. Her hand moved along the wall until she felt the switch. She flipped it on. Light from the bare bulb flooded the tiny room. Alex collapsed with a sigh against the wall. Instantly she felt her composure returning. She told herself there'd been no reason to panic. There was no danger. Not like before. And thinking that, she let memory take her back in time. Back to the day when her father had saved her life.
On that hot August day when Alex was five and her sister, Lora, was seven, the two girls, disobeying their father's rule about not leaving their own yard, climbed the fence into the back lot. They wanted to play hide-and-seek in the brick ruins of the Acme Laundry. Lora had counted down while Alex ran frantically around the yard rejecting one hiding place after another in her search for the perfect one. On the west side of the building, at the bottom of the cellar steps, she found what she was looking for. The old refrigerator was small and square and surely, Alex thought, cool. She climbed inside and quickly pulled the door shut by the shelves lining it. Within an instant she was transported into a world of heavy blackness. It dawned on her almost immediately that she didn't like this hiding place. It smelled rank and moldy, and she had to hold her breath to keep from drawing in the stink. And instead of being cool, as she had hoped, it was hot, unbearably hot. She decided to wait until she couldn't hold her breath any longer, and if Lora hadn't found her by then, she'd have to show herself. Her lungs began to hurt. Her head felt light. Her legs were starting to cramp. She fumbled in the black box for a handle . . . for something with which to open the door. There was nothing, just the slimy shelves. With lungs about to burst, she braced her feet on the door and pushed with all her might. She might as well have tried to push the building off its foundation. Air . . . had to have air. Opening her mouth, she sucked in the heavy foulness, filling air-starved lungs with it. A fit of coughing seized her. She coughed and gasped. She beat fists and bare feet against the door. Pain stabbed through her feet as the metal shelves twisted and bent inward from her weight. Tears and mucous smeared her face as she frantically fought for her life. She cried, kicking and clawing and sucking in that rancid air until there was no more, good or bad, to suck in. Dazzling white lights danced before her eyes. She stopped struggling. The light made her unafraid, calm, tranquil — happy even.
Suddenly, the light was unpleasant. Slivers of brightness pierced through her eyelids and sent pinpricks of pain into her head. Cool air chilled her wet face and body. She shook violently as a voice said over and over, "Allie, breathe. Damn it, Allie, breathe!" She pulled air into her lungs— in and out with her sobs. "Breathe, Allie, breathe," her father had whispered, gently rocking her.
And so began the daily warnings.
Alex pushed herself away from the wall of the storage room. She untied her smock and pulled it off. With the hem, she wiped the wetness from her face before hanging the smock on the hook behind the door. She left the room, turned out the light, and gently closed the door. Picking up her paint box and canvas totebag, and taking one more deep breath, she stepped out into the front hall where Velda Lancaster sat at her desk.
Velda was the founder and curator of the Silver State Art Center. The building had once been the home of the Lancasters. When Velda's parents had died in an automobile accident in 1949, leaving her the large estate overlooking the Truckee River, she had founded the Center that now consisted of a dance studio, two workshops, a recital room and an art gallery.
Velda glanced up from a stack of papers, a startled look on her face. "Alex, for heaven's sake, what's wrong?"
Alex swallowed, then smiled wanly. Her heart was beating more normally now. "I thought I saw a mouse in the storage room."
"Oh, dear. I'll have Stan set some traps in the morning."
Alex checked her watch. Nine-fifteen. "Working late, Velda?"
"Mailers. Oktoberfest is nearly upon us." Velda peered over the top of her bifocals. "Can I count on you as an 'artist in action' again this year, dear?"
"I'm yours."
"Your portrait sketches are one of the highlights.”
"Flattery will get you everywhere. See you next week.”
"Oh, Alex, I almost forgot. I sold one of your paintings this evening."
“Which one?"
"The nude."
“You're kidding." Alex felt a rush of excitement. "I put an outrageous price on that. Did the buyer take it with him — or her?"
"Him. And yes. Paid cash and insisted on having
it now. In fact he left with it just minutes ago. I have a feeling he was willing to pay more. He was quite taken with it." Velda tipped her head and added in a whisper. "He wanted to know if you were the model."
"Really? Well"— Alex smiled, raising an eyebrow—"he'll never know, will he?" She waved goodbye and pushed through the main door. At the top of the steps she paused, inhaled deeply, smelling a tinge of wood smoke in the night air, then hurried down the steps. She strode across the parking lot to her silver Honda coupe feeling exuberant about the sale of her painting. With that money she could have her bedroom repapered and new carpet installed. Or perhaps it would even pay for the alarm system.
After stowing her art paraphernalia in the trunk, Alex unlocked the car door and opened it a crack. Suddenly an alarming feeling of anxiety rushed at her like a blast of frigid air. She sensed she was being watched, not just looked at, but observed—intently. Instinctively she bent, looking through the window into the backseat. Nothing.
Anxious to get safely into her car, she yanked on the handle. A hand appeared from nowhere and held the door closed.
Alex spun around with a gasp, her heart thumping madly in her chest. The man blocking her way was an ex-student, Scott Withers. The fact that she knew him failed to ease her anxiety.
"What do you want, Scott?"
"Just thought I'd say hello. You don't come over anymore." He tipped his head in the direction of the pizza parlor across the street.
"And you know why I don't," Alex said evenly.
Scott, a handsome, twenty-eight-year-old university student, waited tables at Gina's Pizza. After the painting classes, Alex had gotten into the habit of crossing the street to Gina's for a salad, pizza, and a glass of wine. Scott had loitered at her table, asking about her classes. He'd signed up for lessons. With an over inflated ego, accustomed to getting what he wanted, he had made his move, instantly and without finesse, at the close of the first class.
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