. . . sun-shine. My only sun-shine .. .
“Who are you?" Alex asked wearily.
"You know who I am. You just won't accept it"
"Who are you?" 1/4
"Allie, why did you forsake me?"
Her body stiffened. A moan escaped from her lips.
"They're out there, Allie. Waiting. You, know where they are."
"No."
"Can you hear them scratching . . . looking for a way in? Can you —"
"They're not there," she shouted. "There's nothing out there. You can't make me believe."
"They want you, Allie. Monsters eat little children and bad girls. Bad girls . . ." She hung up.
Allie. Her father was the only one to call her Allie. The warnings were his. Had he come back from the dead to haunt her? No. Dead people stay dead. But wbat if he hadn't died that day nineteen years ago? Then where had he been for almost two decades? And why would he come back now?
Alex went upstairs to the kitchen. She poured a glass of wine, drained it, then refilled the glass with trembling hands. Whoever he was, he was playing with her . . . for now. Teasing and taunting, as Blackie had done with the field mouse before putting it out of its misery.
Oh God, please make him stop.
The phone began to ring again.
Alex grabbed her purse and hurried down the stairs. Without bothering to take a coat, she flung open the door and ran straight into the arms of a man.
She gasped. Then seeing that it was Justin Holmes, she threw her arms around him and held on tight.
Justin held Alex close. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the fresh, sweet scent of her. His fingers gently worked the muscles at the small of her back. He heard the phone ringing inside the house, but chose to ignore it.
With her face against the hollow of his shoulder, she said, "It's him."
He pulled back to stare at her. "You talked to him?"
Alex nodded. She moved away from him, stepped into the house. Justin followed. The ringing stopped.
As Alex climbed the stairs ahead of him, he found himself staring at the neat curves of her hips and buttocks under the tight fitting jeans. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. Now is not the time, he reasoned.
He followed her into the kitchen. She attempted to mix him a drink. The Scotch spilled on the counter. He moved her aside and took over.
"Did you put the number on the phone?"
"With everything else on my mind I was afraid I'd forget it. I didn't think anyone . ." Her words faded.
"So what'd he say?" He handed her a glass of wine. The wine sloshed over the rim. "Easy, Alex.”' She nodded, sipped her wine.
He guided her to the couch. "Tell me what he said."
He listened to Alex's account of the odd conversation.
"Did anything he say make sense to you?" he asked.
"Yes, but it wouldn't make sense to anyone else."
"Why is that?"
"It was something I was raised with. Warnings by my father."
"Things only you and your father would know?"
"And Lora. My sister."
"Your father is dead, right?"
She nodded.
"What about your sister?"
"I don't know what happened to her. I haven't seen her since we were kids."
"Do you think the pistols have some significance here?"
Alex rested her head on the back of the couch. Justin wanted to stroke the long graceful curve of her throat.
She rolled her head back and forth.
He leaned forward, put his hands together, made a steeple with his fingers. "The voice, does it sound like your father's?"
"Yes:' she whispered.
"You're certain?"
"No, not a hundred percent. I haven't heard his voice in so long. But there's something — inflections that are similar.”
They sat in silence. Justin sipped his drink and watched Alex absently pick specks of cork from her wine.
He rose, walked to the fireplace. After building a fire, he returned to the couch. "Scott Withers.”
Alex looked up. "A student of mine. His name was on the list.”
"He called you a few times. Any similarity in the voices?"
"No." Alex laughed lightly. "Scott was looking for a mother. A mother with incest in her heart. He has the patience and attention span of a two-year-old. I can't see him being vindictive. I only bruised his ego a little."
"That may be enough. Revenge, hate, jealousy, that has to be this guy's motive. It's obviously not personal gain. Your ex, would he know about these warnings of your father?"
Alex swallowed. "Yes. It's not Joe. He wouldn't wait three years to take revenge.”
"Maybe he waited until your son was out of the picture."
Alex stared off into space for several moments. Then she shook her head sharply. "I can't accept that. Justin, Klump said something today .. . something very odd. She said I should sell my house and move before I got hurt.”
Justin rubbed at his chin. "She knows something, that's damn certain."
"Do you suspect her?"
"I'd like to get into her house. I just don't have enough to request a search warrant." He put his glass on the table and stood. "Come with me. I have something for you. It's in my pickup.”
Alex watched from the open front door as he reached down into the truck's bed and lifted out two metallic poles. He returned to the house.
"Charley-bars. For the sliding glass doors. I'm sure that's how he got in last time. C'mere," he said, leading her down the hallway to her bedroom. "I'll show you.”
Crouching in front of the slider, he removed the stretcher bar, inserted the metal bar, and demonstrated how it worked. He handed her the bar. "Now you try it.”
"It looks easy enough," she said.
"Go on, do it."
She stared at him and, seeing his sober expression, took the bar and crouched down.
Her long hair fell across the side of her face. Her back arched delicately and through the thin material of her blouse Justin could see the lacy straps of her bra. An intoxicating scent stole over him. His mind went back to the night before, and he thought of her breasts cupped in his hand, the silkiness, the weight, the nipples responding to his touch. He felt his own body responding to the sight of her both then and now, responding to the idea of making love to her completely.
His fingertips moved lightly down her back to the curve of her buttocks. He leaned over, his lips touched the back of her neck. He felt her stiffen.
"Justin," she began slowly, "about last night . . . I didn't mean — I don't know why I let it go that far. I . . . I'm just not good at casual affairs."
His mouth covered hers. Moving slowly against her unresponsive lips, his tongue teased and probed. Through her parted lips, her tongue came forward to lightly meet his. He felt a purring current like an electrical charge. Then he was kissing her hungrily. His hands roved over her warm body. She clung to him, returning his kiss with a wildness that made his insides twist and pull.
With a moan, she broke the kiss and came to her feet, pushing at him. Before he knew what was happening, Alex was out of the room. He watched her run down the hall, grab her purse from the foyer table, fling open the door and disappear outside. Moments later he heard a car start up and the sound of tires -crunching over dried leaves as it pulled away.
"Alex?" he said aloud.
What the hell just happened here? he asked himself.
Alex headed toward downtown Reno with no firm destination in mind. Where would she go now that she had run away like a sniveling virgin? The Meacham household was her last choice. Margie would only lecture, and Bob would look stricken and helpless. Without luggage, she couldn't go to a motel. She found herself turning onto Brookhurst, heading west. Greg Ott. Of course. Greg was out of town: She had promised to feed his tropical fish. She could stay there.
She circled the Lakeridge Golf Course and turned into the driveway of unit 17, parking alongside Greg's
white Mercedes. His condominium backed up to the fourth hole. She left the car and walked across the freshly mowed lawn to the front patio. Lifting the lid of the barbeque, Alex found the sardine can with the key inside.
After letting herself in and locking up, Alex turned and leaned against the door. Eerie light, coming from the built-in wall aquarium, shimmered green and aqueous over the furniture and fixtures. A soft bubbling sound filled the room. She walked through the apartment that had recently been decorated by High-Stepping Designs. A two-color scheme of tan and ultramarine meandered throughout. The furniture was a combination of sleek and puff.
She felt most comfortable in the kitchen. After switching on the overhead lights, Alex went to the refrigerator and took inventory. Greg was not your typical bachelor, she noted. There were rounds of cheese, various pâtés, and chilled champagne. She-closed the refrigerator door and opened the pantry. She found more pâtés, escargots, crackers, smoked octopus and frog legs, and a case of caviar. Wine bottles, stored at the proper angles, occupied the top shelf. There were mixes of all kinds. An abundance of liquor. The larder was stocked for a party.
Alex opened a package of crackers, a jar of white asparagus spears; and cut a wedge from a round of brie. She chose a chilled bottle of chardonnay. After making up a tray, she took it into the living room and, on the floor, with the wavering light from the aquarium, poured wine into a glass. As she slowly ate her dinner and sipped at the wine, she thought about what was happening to her.
Justin was foremost in her mind. She thought of his kiss and of how hard it had been to pull away from him. She wondered if it wouldn't be easier to just give in, as Margie had suggested—keep it simple and purely physical.
Purely physical.
Those were the exact words her father had used that night twenty-one years ago as they'd stood looking down at the swollen, lacerated face—which bore no resemblance to the beautiful woman she remembered as her mother—on a slab in the morgue. Alex and her father had traveled five hundred miles by car to the Clark County morgue in Las Vegas to view the remains of a murder victim. The Jane Doe, a prostitute, had been beaten and stabbed. The body had been discovered, bound and gagged, in the air shaft of a warehouse at the north end of town. For several days the police had run a description of her in the newspapers in the hopes that someone would identify and claim the body. To the sleepy morgue attendant, William Bently had shaken his head and mumbled, "No. That's not my wife.” Yet, only minutes later, as they were driving away, he had turned to Alex and said, "It was her, you know. Your mother.” Alex had been speechless. "I lied,” he went on, "because I will not claim her body, nor will I bury her. Let her lie in a pauper's grave where she belongs. She was dirt. The only thing that was ever important to her was the physical. Purely physical.”
No, Alex had told herself over and over on that long drive home, that woman was not my mother.
The sputtering sound of a motorcycle passing the condo brought Alex back to the present. She finished the last of the wine in her glass, picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen. She moved to the window above the sink. As she lowered the pleated shade she stared blankly at the window of the condo next door. A dark shape flashed across the front of the lighted window, making a brief silhouette. Her heart thumped. She pulled the shade back up and looked out. Nothing. It must have been someone inside that condo, she thought. It only looked as if it was on the outside. Stop imagining things. No one knows where you are. No one.
She lowered the shade again.
She straightened the kitchen, then fed the dozens of tropical fish in the aquarium. After getting a quilt and pillow from the guest bedroom, she stopped before the shelves holding Greg's video library. One entire shelf was devoted to titles such as Rhonda's Fantasy, Goin' Down in Beverly Hills, Nurses in White Lace.
That's the last thing I need now, Alex thought grimly, thinking of Justin's lips and hands touching her. She reached up and took down a cloth-bound edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Safe enough, she thought. Curling up on the couch with the quilt, book, and a snifter of anisette, she began to read.
Before finishing the Raven's Story, she fell asleep.
She didn't hear the light scratching.
Justin waited an entire hour before locking up Alex's house and leaving. There was the possibility that she wouldn't return as long as his pickup stood in the driveway. And despite his irritation and confusion, he was concerned for her safety.
He drove the pickup to the bluff where he could observe, through the trees, both her house and Thelma Klump's. He parked.
Another hour passed. Give up, he told himself. What are you doing wasting time on her? What would she want with a cop? David Sloane was right, the woman was shopping. And when a woman like Alex went shopping it was in classy boutiques, not bargain outlets. She liked to play games with men. And she was good at it. Very good indeed.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the list Alex had given him. He ran his finger down the names, noted an address, and put the list away. He started the car and drove down the hill.
Five minutes later he was cruising the narrow street of posh condominiums. In the driveway of unit 17, he saw Alex's silver Honda parked alongside Ott's Mercedes.
The windows of the condo were dark except for a ghostly greenish-white light coming from the living room. In an upstairs window, Justin spotted the red glow of a cigarette. It moved upward and then grew bright, illuminating the outline of a man as he dragged on it.
Justin had seen enough. He pulled away slowly, resisting the urge to peel rubber.
Alex woke up, feeling disoriented. She looked around, saw she was at Greg's place and it was still night. She wondered what had awakened her. All was quiet except for the soft gurgling sound of the aquarium's pump. By the quartz clock on the mantel the time was eleven. She had fallen asleep reading the Ovid. Her philosophy teacher would have been appalled.
She closed the book and put it on the chrome and-glass coffee table. She was about to lie back down when she paused, breathing deeply. She smelled smoke cigarette smoke. Pushing the quilt away, she lowered her feet to the floor and leaned forward.
"Greg?" she called out. "Greg, are you here?"
Rising slowly, she went into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and looked around. Everything was as she had left it. Shutting off the light, she crossed the living room to the stairway.
"Greg?"
She turned on the light for the upper hall, then climbed the stairs. The smell of smoke was definitely stronger on the second floor. "Greg, please answer me.”
She pushed open the door to the master bedroom. It was softly lit from outside by a sodium street lamp. Alex could see the bed was empty and unmade. Nothing had changed since her tour earlier in the evening. The cigarette smell that had been so strong only moments ago was lost to her. Now that she was up here, it was difficult to tell where it had come from. She crossed the room to the window. Looking down, she saw the two cars in the driveway below. From behind her came a faint swishing sound. Alex turned quickly. There was nothing there. She heard it again, sounding like crisp taffeta. She took a hesitant step toward the closet, but before she could go any further, the sound of a car stopping out front distracted her. Turning back to the window, she saw a taxi at the curb. Greg stepped out.
What was he doing home? He had told her he'd be back Thursday. Had he come in earlier, while she was asleep, stayed long enough to smoke a cigarette, left, then returned again? Doubtful.
In the hallway now, Alex heard the door of the taxi close. As she hurried downstairs, she heard his key being inserted in the lock. She crossed the living room just as the door opened and Greg stepped in with a young, red-haired woman at his side.
"Alex," he said, looking alarmed. "I thought that was your car. Is something wrong?"
Alex glanced from Greg to the woman, then back to Greg. She put on what she hoped was a cheerful face. "Hi," she said to the redhead, "I'm Alex Carlson, a friend of Greg's." She the
n turned to Greg. "No, there's nothing wrong. I'd forgotten to feed the fish so I thought . . . well, better late than never. Right? I was just leaving.”
She placed Greg's spare key on the table, snatched up her purse, and squeezed around Greg. Without turning he reached backward and grabbed her hand.
"Diane, would you excuse me a minute? I have to talk to Alex. Make yourself comfortable." He pulled Alex outside and onto the patio. "You're not here to feed the fish, are you?"
"Honest, Greg," she said. "I'd forgotten. I was on my way home from Margie's and decided I couldn't bear to be responsible for the death of two dozen expensive, exotic fish.”
"Really?"
"Really."
"Well now that you're here— stay."
"And what will we do? Play three-handed rummy?"
"I'll get rid of Diane. It's not often I get you over here. We'll have one of those homey sort of evenings. Maybe turn on the TV and watch a video of two.”
Alex laughed. "Rhonda's Fantasy?"
He stared into her eyes. His smile was slow and sexy. "If you like.”
She kissed his cheek. "I gotta go. Don't forget dinner tomorrow night." Before he could stop her, she had slipped around him and hurried to her car.
She drove straight home. When she pulled up her driveway and saw Justin's truck was no longer parked at her door, she felt both relief and disappointment. Blackie ran up behind her as she was opening the front door. She picked up her cat, nuzzling him as she carried him inside. "Well, fella, how about sleeping with me tonight? I could sure use the company."
Chapter 14
"Is that a new dress?" Greg asked, leaning over to rub the material between two fingers. He and Alex were seated in a booth at Le Moulin, an elegant French restaurant south of town.
"No, Greg. You've seen it before." The dress, white silk, had a tank bodice, wide matching belt, and a soft flared skirt.
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