"Detective de Solo.”
"This is Alex Carlson again. Has Detective Holmes returned or . . . or called in for his messages?"
"No, ma'am. Look, if you have a problem, maybe I can help."
"Someone is calling me."
“Are these calls obscene? Threatening?"
"I'm not sure."
"Don't encourage him. Hang up immediately without saying anything further. I suggest you look into getting an unlisted number."
"Yes, yes, I will."
"Call the phone company first thing in the morning. That should do it, ma'am."
Alex wondered if it would be that simple. Nothing was simple anymore. She hung up and dialed the second number on the card. No answer.
Calm down, she told herself. You're getting shook up over a couple of lousy phone calls. He just wants to scare you. Don't give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing he's succeeding.
She turned on the television, curled up in the rocker, and attempted to lose herself in a sitcom. But when the phone rang for the fourth time, her muscles tensed anew.
"No way, pal," she said aloud. Reaching over to the phone on the end table, she lowered the volume.
Each ring seemed to get closer together and last longer. "Stop," she screamed at the desk phone."Give up, you stupid sonofabitch."
She snatched up the phone.
The muffled voice started right in, "Oh, Alex, you shouldn't hang up on me. It's taken me a long time to get up the nerve to talk to you. Alex . . . ?" When she didn't speak or hang up, the voice continued, "You can be such a cold bitch. It hurts to be shut out. And you've shut me out. It hurts, and when I hurt I wanna hurt back."
Alex bit down on her lip, chewed at it.
"So where's the cop tonight? The one that was there last night? The one that's got the hots for you?"
Everything inside her turned to stone. He was watching the house. Had been watching the house last night when Holmes was here. Her eyes instinctively went to the tinted panoramic windows.
"Do you know where your cat is? Would you like me to bring this one home too?"
She let the receiver drop to the floor and, reaching over slowly, depressed the lever on the phone, held it down for a long time. Her finger ached from the pressure. Her hand and arm trembled.
She was close to falling apart. She had to get herself under control.
She left the receiver on the floor and ran downstairs to the bathroom. As she shook out half the pills from a bottle of Valium, she wondered how many she should take. Had they lost their potency? The pills were three years old, prescribed to her after her divorce from Joe. It had been such an ugly divorce, with Joe making threats and accusing her of sleeping with practically every man in town. Her hand trembled as she popped one pill into her mouth, then another, washing them both down with water cupped in her palm.
She headed back upstairs, turning off the lights as she moved through the house. In the dark she had a better chance of seeing someone outside. No one could see in. She wanted to call Margie, then remembered that she and Bob had gone to the Red Rose Tavern to practice the two-step.
In the kitchen, she took the flashlight from under the sink and turned off the overhead light. She pulled out the drawer with the kitchen knives. They glinted malevolently in the beam of the flashlight. She wondered if she could use a knife on someone, even in self-defense? The thought of plunging a blade into a living, breathing body sickened her. Unless she made direct contact with a vital organ, she'd have to repeatedly stab and stab and stab. The blood. There would be so much blood.
Momentarily abandoning the knives, she poured a hefty shot of brandy. Like a gunslinger in an old Western, she put the glass to her lips and tossed the liquor down her throat. After the coughing eased, she went back to the knife drawer. Deciding against the long, black steel-bladed knife, she took hold of a keen boning knife. She left the flashlight burning on the kitchen floor. Total darkness on top of everything else would drive her mad. As she crossed the kitchen tiles she stepped on a hard nugget of cat food. Is Blackie dead now? she wondered, a sick feeling in her stomach.
She began her vigil in the swivel rocker.
Her head felt light. Her body tingled. Her tense muscles softened like warm marshmallows. When her eyelids became heavy, she willed them to stay open—to stare unflinchingly into the blackness of the deck beyond. The blackness became complete.
Her eyes flew open. Don't fall asleep. Please God, don't let me fall asleep. In an attempt to keep her eyes open, Alex let her gaze dart around the room. It flitted from one place to another, until, spotting the telephone receiver lying on the carpet four feet from her, it paused. Was he, still on the line? Could he hear the creaking of the chair springs as she methodically rocked back and forth, back and forth?
The sudden jerking reflex of her body brought her back to a state of semiconsciousness.
She had dozed off. For how long? And what had caused her to wake up so abruptly?
Someone was out there.
She tried to focus her eyes, blurred from sleep and the Valium, on the grandfather clock. The face of the clock was shadowy, indistinct. It began to chime. She counted eleven.
There.
She distinctly heard something that time—out on the deck—the creaking of wood. Then the sound of metal clicking against metal. That sound could only be the handle on the sliding door, Alex told herself. Someone was out there, trying to get in.
With a racing heart, eyes straining to look through the glass door, she pressed her palms firmly to her temples in an effort to think. It was important that she concentrate . . . to rationally plan her moves.
The knife. Where was it? Sliding from the chair onto her knees, Alex groped about frantically in the dark for the knife. In desperation she thrust her hand down and along the side of the cushion and felt a shocking, sickening sensation as the sharp blade sliced across one finger.
Ignoring the throbbing pain, she grabbed the knife, scrambled across the room and, with her breath coming in ragged gasps, rose to her feet at the portion of wall between the glass door and the kitchen telephone. She lifted the receiver to her ear. Dead.
The phone was dead.
"Oh, you stupid fool." She cursed herself as she stared at the living-room phone, its receiver lying useless on the floor. She had disconnected it earlier. Did she want to cross ten feet of open space, in full view from the deck, to get to it? With a despairing moan she replaced the receiver, wincing at the sucking sound her sticky hand made as it reluctantly came away.
Then, her body pressed flat to the wall, she held the knife in both hands at chin level and felt the warm blood run down her hands and arms. In the darkness the blood was the color of black ink.
For what seemed like an eternity, Alex stood there, straining to hear the intruder. She wondered how long she would be able to keep this up. Soon her legs would collapse if she didn't do something. She steadied herself as best she could. Then, leaning slightly to her right, she looked through the glass door. The south portion of the deck was visible. Covered redwood table and chairs sat serenely in testimony of summer past; of normal uncomplicated days unhampered by panic and fear. Nothing, with the exception of her beating heart, moved or made a sound.
She leaned out farther. Then, like an explosion, a loud clank shattered the silence. Abruptly she pulled back, slamming her head against the wall, biting her lower lip. Her legs gave out, and she slid to the floor. Blood flowed into her mouth. She swallowed over and over, shuddering.
The metallic clanking went on for what seemed an eternity. The automatic deck awning moved into place, activated, she realized, by her shoulder pressing against the button when she leaned forward to look outside. A final clank and the motor wound down.
Holding her breath, she listened. She heard the sound of something sharp being scratched against the glass. Then, as she exhaled with a rush, the scratching was followed by two welcome and wonderful meows.
Blackie? Good Lord, it was Blackie.
He was alive.
Relief flooded through her weak muscles. She found the strength to rise and place herself in front of the door. "Oh, you stupid, beautiful cat,” she breathed, leaning forward. "You scared the living hell out of me. I'd skin you alive if I wasn't so glad to see you. Was that you making all the noise?"
Blackie stood on his hind legs, front paws scratching persistently on the glass. Alex hastily unlocked the door. At the same moment the latch went up, a pair of shoes suddenly appeared beside Blackie. Alex gasped as her eyes shot up from the shoes to see a tall dark figure—with only the glass of the unlocked door separating him from her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out as fear imprisoned every muscle in her body.
The door slid open. The man took hold of her wrist, pried the boning knife from her hand, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"Mrs. Carlson, it's all right. It's me, Justin Holmes."
The sight of Holmes released the paralysis. As Alex brushed the hair from her face with the back of her bloody hand, an arm circled her waist. With a meek cry she leaned against Justin. His hand gently pressed her head to his shoulder. They stood together, silent, swaying, like two lovers dancing, oblivious to the rhythm of the music.
After a time he pulled away from her to turn on the dining-room light. When the brightness made her moan and cover her eyes, he quickly dimmed it. "Jesus,” he said huskily, his eyes moving from her face to her feet and back up again.
He took in the blood on her face and hands. Scarlet rivulets, now drying, traveled from her hands down her arms and into the sleeves of the kimono. The kimono was twisted, gaping open.
He untied the sash of the robe and pulled the two pieces together. "Here . . . help me," he said softly. He lifted her limp hand and placed it between her breasts to hold the bodice while he tied the sash. "Was anyone here?"
She tried to shake her head, but the motion was more like a roll than a shake.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
She moved her head from side to side, shrugging her shoulders.
"Where are you bleeding from? You've got blood on your face and in your hair." Lightly parting her hair, he looked for a wound.
She lifted her trembling hand. The blood still oozed from the cut, thickly coagulating.
He inspected the cut. "Come.” With one hand around Alex's waist and the other hand holding her bleeding hand, he led her into the kitchen. She stood rigid as he dampened paper towels under warm water and carefully washed the blood from her face and beneath her chin. After closely inspecting her lip where she had bitten it, he switched the warm water to cool. "Put your hands under the faucet. Do you have Band-Aids?" She pointed to a drawer beside him and then lowered her hands under the icy water and kept them there until he shut off the faucet a minute later.
When he finished drying her arms and hands, he applied the Band-Aid to her finger: Then he led her into the living room where he gently deposited her in the rocker.
She lifted her feet, tucked them under her as she stared at the stain on the arm of the chair . . . blood, so much blood— on her, on the phone, on the knife, on his shirt, all that blood from a little cut on the finger. Had she actually contemplated stabbing someone to death?
Holmes went into the kitchen again. He returned with a small glass filled with amber liquid. "Drink this," he said, putting the glass in her hand. He removed his jacket and started to take off the gun and holster.
"Don't take that off."
"It's all right. Drink the brandy."
She drank half of it down in two swallows. It burned her throat, coursed warmly into her stomach. She took another deep swallow.
He bent and placed a hand on each arm of the chair. "Look at me. I said, look at me." She obeyed. "Did you take anything this evening?" He stared first into one eye and then the other. "An upper? A downer?"
Her head nodded twice.
"How many did you take?"
She held up two fingers and stared blankly at the Band-Aid.
"Oh, shit." He took the glass from her hand. "Then you don't need this. Are you in the habit of taking drugs?"
She shook her head.
"Terrific."
In a foggy state, Alex watched him straighten, turn, and step to the phone. After replacing the receiver, he returned and sat on the edge of the end table, swiveling the rocker around to face him. He pressed a knee to each armrest. He leaned in. "Talk to me . . . please."
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Panic rose in her. People had been known to become mute from trauma, their larynxes paralyzed by fear. Except for the one outburst regarding Holmes's gun, she hadn't said a word. But she could talk, she thought with relief, if she said those words, she could still talk.
"Talk to me."
She licked her dry swollen lip. "He . . . he said the same thing."
"Who said what?"
"The man on the phone said, 'Talk to me, Alex.'" Each word was an effort. "He called again, and .. . and he talked to me. It was better when he didn't."
"What else did he say?"
She thought hard. "He had my picture. He said I liked to flaunt my body." Alex looked down at her legs. The kimono had pulled apart, exposing bare skin to the hip. Holmes reached over and covered the leg with the silky material.
"What happened to your robe?" With a thumbnail he picked at one of the burnt holes.
"Fire . . . in the kitchen. I left the burner on. A dish towel . . ."
"Okay, back to the call. What else did he say? Think. Think hard."
There was something, something very important she had to tell Holmes, but what was it?
"Did he make any sexual overtures?"
She thought about that, then shook her head. "He said I was pretty." She laughed dryly. "I didn't say thank you. I've always had this thing about not being able to accept compliments gracefully."
"Mrs. Carlson, look at me. Try to pull yourself together. Did he threaten you in any way?"
"I don't know . . . I mean, I'm not sure it was a threat. He said I had hurt him and he wanted to hurt back. He said something about you." Her eyes bore into his. "He knows so much about me."
"What do you mean?" He gripped the arm on the chair. 'What are you talking about?"
"He knows about you. That you've been out to the house. He watched you come and go last night. He's watching me."
Holmes ran his hand roughly across his face and sighed sharply. He took one of her hands in both of his. It lay limp between his fingers. He began to twist the ring on her little finger around and around, seemingly fascinated by the row of small diamonds. Lifting his head, he looked into her face, meticulously scanning her features as he squeezed her hand gently—squeezed and relaxed, over and over. He looked into her eyes, his gaze holding hers so long and with such grave intensity that she had an overwhelming urge to comfort him.
She began to cry "Oh my God, my God," she moaned, staring back at him "He killed my cat, and he wants to hurt me. Stop him. Please stop him before I go crazy. Please."
"Alex . . ." he whispered so tenderly that had she not been watching his face she would have believed him incapable of such sensitivity.
He stood, lifting her with him. She buried her face in his chest as his arms closed around her holding her tight. "Don't be afraid. Have a good cry. Go on, Alex, let it all out."
Deep gasping sobs, wrenched from somewhere far down inside her, rushed outward in a great torrent. He held her as she cried. She cried until her chest hurt from the violent heaving and gasping. She cried, hiccuping, until she thought her throat would close up. She cried until she had no more tears. His shirt was damp from her tears. Dark smudges of mascara mingled with the dried blood on the white knit fabric.
Alex was immensely tired. The Valium and brandy encased her mind and body in a sheath of soothing dullness. After finally allowing herself to release the tension through her tears, she was totally depleted.
He carried her across the room and
, with her limp body in his arms, half-sat, half-reclined in the vee of the couch. Lying across his lap, her head against his shoulder, her face pressed to his neck, Alex drew her legs forward to lie in a fetal position. One of his arms rested across her back, hand on her hip, the other hand stroked the hair from her face.
Fresh tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheek. Alex sobbed again, so quietly this time that the sobs were barely audible over the rhythmic beating of Justin Holmes's heart.
The clock chimed twice. Someone was in the house. Someone evil and sinister, looking for her. Wanting to hurt her. Quietly, carefully, Alex lifted the telephone to call Holmes. What was that number? God, why couldn't she remember the number. Where was the card he had given her? As she looked around, the plastic receiver suddenly came alive in her hand. It took the form of a snake, writhing, coiling. The dial tone, sounding like someone breathing in a raspy hiss, sent chills up her spine. The cord was winding around her hand and throat. She struggled with it. Flung it from her. Turned and ran. The inky night, as she opened the door to escape, offered only terror with its warning sounds of hissing and rattling. Thousands of red eyes, like bits of burning coal, glowed in the dark, paralyzing her legs, freezing the blood in her veins. And then Holmes was holding her tight. "Don't be afraid," he said.
Suddenly, she was no longer frightened. She felt safe. At peace. He was holding her. Caressing her throat, her shoulder, her breast. Her body began to feel warm, tingly. She didn't want to wake up from the dream . . . she wanted to sink down and let it carry her along, release her from the horror of the nightmare. She moaned softly. The sound was cut off by warm lips covering hers. Startled, she pulled her head back, opened her eyes, and stared into those clear blue eyes. Then she remembered. And she realized that what he was doing, what she was feeling, was not a dream.
His hand was inside her kimono. "No," she said weakly, pushing at his hand. "Please . . . no."
"Why not?" he whispered against her mouth. She tried to sit up. He gently held her down. "Go back to sleep, then." His hand pulled away from her breast and out of the kimono. "I won't bother you."
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