"Angela, honey," he called out. "Give Mrs. Balena a call, will you? I’ve got to go out for a while." To hell with phoning; he’d just drive on out there. Maybe there was some problem with the line.
"No one’s home, Dad," Angela called back after a minute. "Oh, I forgot, she’s at her gourmet cooking class. She always gets home around nine-thirty."
Damn! Wednesday. Right. Well, he’d just have to wait. Maybe he would try her number again.
Mike slipped his slate blue shirt from its hanger on the door-hook and put it on, frowning in the mirror as he buttoned it. Ellen needed to pick up the pieces, go on with her life. But he knew she wouldn’t be able to even begin to do that until her sister’s killer was found.
He prayed for a break that would make it happen.
Evansdale was a decent little town, mostly, nestled on the banks of the Penobscot River, a good place to raise kids, he’d always thought. He’d wanted to keep it that way. He remembered while working for Jack Seeley over on High, pumping gas, just a few months out of high school, how he’d waited on the edge for the letter that would tell him whether or not he was going to be accepted into the police academy. He could have told you the exact number of rust spots on the green mailbox at the end of their driveway.
Would it all be for nothing?
Mike went into the living room. Angela was sprawled on the sofa, talking to one of her friends on the phone. He glanced anxiously at his watch and picked up a magazine.
He’d give her exactly fifteen minutes.
~ * ~
Tossing her coat and bag on the bed, Ellen changed into her jeans and an old shirt she wouldn’t mind getting doused. An icicle from the Christmas tree clung to one leg of the jeans; she plucked it off and dropped it into the wastebasket. These jeans used to be snug, now they hung on her. A dull ache was starting at the back of her head. "It’s been a long day," she sighed aloud, sagging down on the bed.
Her hand went out to absently smooth a wrinkled pillow sham. Through the window sheers, she could see the dark branches of the tree outlined against the darker night. After a moment, she got up and headed for the bathroom, intending to take a couple of aspirin.
The phone rang.
She turned back. Tensing, she picked up the receiver. "Yes."
"Is this Ellen Harris?"
"Yes," she answered warily.
"You don’t know me, Mrs. Harris," the woman said. "My name is Ruth Miller. Cindy Miller was my daughter."
Ellen felt an instant shock of empathy, mingled with resentment. "Oh." She swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. "I’m so terribly sorry about your tragedy, Mrs. Miller. I think I have some idea what you’re going through."
"I know you do, dear. That’s why you’re the one I wanted to talk to. They told me at the clinic you were taking some time off. I got your number out of the phone book. I hope you don’t mind."
"No, of course not," Ellen lied. Her headache was getting worse.
"I have to talk to someone. I don’t seem to be coping very well. And I must, for the sake of my little grandson, Jody. He keeps asking for his mother, asking when she’s coming home. It just tears at my heart. I know he’s picking up on my own state of mind, too. He cries all the time. He doesn’t sleep or eat. I don’t seem to be able to help him. I can’t help myself." Her voice broke.
"Mrs. Miller, I’m sorry, but I’m not the one to—"
"Oh, please don’t refuse me," she said, sobbing in earnest now. "I know you have your own troubles, dear, and I hate to bother you, but..."
When Ellen hung up, she’d reluctantly agreed to see Ruth Miller the following afternoon. She didn’t have any idea how she was going to help her. To paraphrase Mrs. Miller’s own words, "she couldn’t help herself."
But neither had she been able to bring herself to turn her back on the distraught woman.
Ellen snapped on the bathroom light, understanding for the first time that whatever happened, she wouldn’t be going back to the clinic. Paul had made that impossible, but she couldn’t blame Paul. She knew that it was her own doing that she got involved in the first place.
She stood looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked enormous, her cheekbones too prominent. No wonder Mike had been moved to take her to lunch.
Something drew Ellen’s gaze upward, to the circle of moisture on the mirror. The size of a half-dollar, it was evaporating even as she watched, becoming smaller and smaller. At first, the implication of what she was seeing did not register. And then it did, raising the hairs on the nape of her neck, slamming her heart up into her throat.
Someone had stood in this very spot just seconds ago. It was his breath on the glass she was seeing.
Licking suddenly dry lips, Ellen turned her head slowly, and saw what she had failed to see when she’d entered the bathroom.
The shower curtain was fully drawn.
Now she could see the faint silhouette looming behind the beige plastic. Her mind flooded with terror. No—no—mustn’t panic. This was the moment she had waited for, had deliberately brought about. Except she had planned to have a gun in her hand. For the first time, it was not within easy reach. It was in her bag, on the bed. She had to get to it! Please, God, let me.
Her eyes riveted on the shadowy figure behind the curtain, she took silent backward steps, reached behind her for the doorknob, found it. Slowly, she turned it, pulled the door open a few inches. But she was too late. Suddenly, the curtain whooshed open, and he was standing there, grinning at her, the steel blade glittering in the bathroom light, poised above his head. "Looking for me?"
She screamed.
With a lightning-quick movement, she was out the door and into the hallway before he could clear the tub. Sam was bounding up the stairs, barking wildly, growling, hackles raised.
"No, Sam," she cried out, but even as she said it, Sam had leaped at the throat of the man standing in her bathroom doorway. She could only watch in shocked horror as the knife arched through the air and plunged into Sam’s body. The little dog let out a wail of pain that sounded uncannily human.
Her mind reeling with grief and helpless rage, Ellen watched through blurred vision as the man pulled the bloody knife from Sam. She heard the wet sound it made coming out.
Then he was grinning at her. A death mask grin. Cold, cruel eyes. Narrow lips. Jagged scar down one side of his face. You can’t help Sam now. Get the gun. Try to save yourself.
She bolted for the bedroom, slammed the door shut, but before she could get it locked, he rammed it, and she went flying across the room. She landed hard on the floor. The wind was knocked from her. She couldn’t move. You have to. Get up, damn you! Get up! Gasping for breath, she struggled to her feet. Her heart was thumping in her breast like a small, trapped bird.
He was standing between her and the bed—between her and the gun. Mike needn’t have worried about her being capable of killing him. She would shoot this monster before her without batting an eye, except she didn’t think she was going to get the chance. There was no way to get to the gun save going through him, and she’d be joining Sam very quickly if she tried that.
He took a couple of steps toward her, his big boots making small thuds on the wooden floor. He moved with deliberate slowness, his expression mocking her. She was backed against the dresser. Her gaze involuntarily flickered to her bag, on the bed. She looked away, but too late. He’d already seen where she was looking.
Sauntering over to the bed, he picked up the bag, opened it. He turned it upside down, spilling the contents out onto the cream-colored spread. Smiled. Palming the gun, he held it out to her. "Is this what you want?" His voice was soft. "Come and get it." He chuckled low in his throat, a mad, thoroughly evil sound that sent ice crystals racing along her spine. It was a laugh she’d heard only once before—over her phone line.
He dropped the gun into the deep pocket of what looked to be army camouflage coveralls.
Standing beside the bed, the light from the lamp on her nightstand cast
half his face in shadow, highlighting the side bearing the scar.
A fairly recent scar. Fragments of skin and blood were found under her fingernails. Ellen knew intuitively Gail was responsible for the scar. She had clawed his face in her desperate struggle to live.
It was a sign from beyond the grave. She could almost hear her sister’s voice: Fight him, Ellen! Fight him! Don’t let him win this time.
She reached behind her on the dresser for something to hit him with, her hand fumbling briefly before closing over the handle of the blow dryer. At the very instant he lunged at her, she brought it around with every ounce of strength she had, catching him squarely across the side of the head.
He stopped cold, letting out a grunt of pain and surprise. The knife clattered to the floor as his hand flew to the spot where she’d struck him. Blood was running between his fingers, over the back of his hand. He gave her one crazed look of fury before he staggered, half-falling on the bed.
She glanced at the knife on the floor, but it was too close to him, and he was already getting to his feet. Dropping the blow dryer, she sprinted past him into the hallway, and tried not to look at Sam and down the stairs, sneakered feet flying. She stumbled once, almost hurtling herself the rest of the way, but she managed to clutch onto the banister and regain her balance.
Even before she hit the bottom step, she could hear his boots thumping heavily down the stairs behind her, could hear the string of obscenities defiling the air.
Her eyes focused on the front door directly in her path, but she knew she wouldn’t have time to unlock it. Even if she did, she’d freeze to death without a coat. Running on past, she fled into the kitchen where she yanked open the knife-drawer, inadvertently bringing the whole thing crashing to the floor. She bent to grab a knife, but before she could pick it up, his boot slammed down on her wrist. Ellen cried out as agonizing pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder, buckling her knees. Blackness threatened. No! You mustn’t faint! You mustn’t. You’ll never waken.
Far away, she could hear a phone ringing.
~ * ~
Mike hung up the phone. He checked his watch for the fifteenth time in twenty minutes. 8:45 p.m. A sense of urgency was growing in his gut.
He paced the living room. Sat down. Picked up a magazine. Tossed it. Got up again. Ten minutes later, he called the station. "Did they get that unmarked car back out to Ellen Harris’ place?"
"On its way."
He muttered an oath, hung up. It should have been there hours ago. He checked his watch again. 8:55 p.m.
Angela came into the room. "Daddy, it’s okay if you need to go out. You’re real worried about Ellen Harris, aren’t you? You think the bad man will go after her, too?"
He started to lie, changed his mind. "I’m not real easy about it, Angela, to be honest."
"You really like her a lot, don’t you?"
He grinned at her. She looked so serious, so grown up. "Yeah, I guess I do, pumpkin."
"Do you love her?"
He tousled her hair. "Don’t be so nosy."
"You do-oo," she sang. "I can tell. Well, you better go, then. I can wait right here until Mrs. Balena gets home. I’ll lock the door and I promise I won’t answer it to anyone. It’s only twenty-five minutes more, for heaven’s sake. Hardly that, now. I’m not a baby, Daddy."
"No. No, you’re not, sweetheart. You’re sure not a baby."
"Well, then. So go already. I’ll be fine."
"I’m sure you’re right, Angela. It’s your dad who’d have a problem with that." He dialed the station again. "I think I’ll just make sure they go up to the house and check on her as soon as they get there. I’ll wait for Mrs. Balena."
Hands propped on her boyish hips, Angela rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.
Thirty-four
He was straddling her, pinning her beneath him. She tried to fight him, to push him off, but he was too strong. His mouth mashed down on hers. She jerked her head away, but he gripped a handful of hair and forced her head still.
She was totally helpless now, unable to move. She could smell the wave of sourness coming off him, mingling with the odor of stale beer. He brought his mouth down again.
No! No, you bastard. I’ll die first!
The instant his mouth touched hers, Ellen clamped her teeth down on his lower lip, bit down until she tasted blood. She fought the urge to gag.
Frantic as a speared fish, his hand wound tighter in her hair and he smashed her head against the floor in an effort to make her let go. With their mouths joined, his own head could only follow up and down with hers, teeth and noses striking together.
Pain exploded in Ellen’s skull. Still, she hung on. And then his hands were around her throat, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, squeezing the breath from her. There was a roaring in her ears, a burst of color behind her eyelids. Her lungs on fire, she released his lip, noisily gulped in air, her chest heaving.
Looking up into his face, so twisted with hate and savagery, so utterly devoid of humanity, Ellen knew she was going to die. She waited helplessly for the final violation before he killed her.
And then she remembered him dropping the gun into his pocket. Maybe if he was distracted, she could—But Alvin had lost all interest in raping her. Now his rage demanded a more immediate satisfaction. He began to beat her, pummeling her face and body with his fists as he vented his fury. Ellen tried vainly to protect herself, but in the face of such a brutal onslaught, her own small fists were as pesky moths flying against a screen door.
One of the blows smashed into her cheek, and she heard the bone crack and echo inside her head.
After that, she heard nothing at all.
Thirty-five
Myra hung up from talking to the kids. It was 9:30 p.m. She didn’t like Joey being up an hour past his bedtime, but she didn’t voice her opinion. They were having a good time at Grandma Thompson’s, and she guessed once in a while wouldn’t hurt. They’d be home on Sunday.
She was about to dial Ellen’s number again, thought better of it. She might just be put off at the interference. Maybe she was deliberately not answering her phone. Myra’d made the mistake of respecting her wishes and leaving her on her own after Ed died, and now she was doing it again. To hell with that. Let’s just drive on down there. Ellen was the first person to put a hand out to someone else, but when it came to herself, she had too damn much pride, and a stubborn streak a mile wide.
Carl was warming up the car. Myra did a quick trip to the bathroom, and grabbed her coat.
~ * ~
Under darkness of night, unobserved but for a crescent of moon slipping in and out of raggedy clouds, Alvin made his way across the frozen field, his prey draped over his shoulder. He aimed the flashlight low.
Even dead weight, she was much lighter than he’d expected. No trouble for him.
Nevertheless, when two minutes later he reached the small clearing in the woods where he’d parked the van, he was panting heavily. Sweating despite the cold.
His head hurt where the bitch had struck him with the blow dryer. His tongue probed his torn lower lip. He spat blood.
As he dropped her limp body to the ground, her arms flung outward as if in supplication to the heavens. He was looking down at her when he heard the mournful call of a loon in the distance, mingling with the sighing of the wind in the trees.
Alvin looked nervously around him. Again, the loon’s cry echoed on the night, causing his skin to crawl inside his clothes. Had the wind grown stronger? Despite the cold, he was now sweating profusely. Was it possible she could summon Satan’s forces to save her? To destroy her enemies? She was a witch, after all. Hadn’t her voice come to him in the night, wakened him?
No! No, I am the powerful one!
Hearing a car motor, panic gripped him. Picking her up off the ground, he threw her roughly into the back of the van. Her body struck the metal floor with a heavy thud.
Closing the door, he jumped into the van and sped off.
> ~ * ~
Where Cutter’s Road met the main road, Officer Gabe Levine, sitting in the passenger side of the unmarked car that had been dispatched to Ellen Harris’ house, barely noticed the dark Ford van going in the opposite direction.
Thirty-six
Standing on the front step, Myra pressed the doorbell a second time. She could hear it ringing inside her house. Still, no answer.
"I don’t get it," she half-whispered to Carl. "She’s got to be home. Her car’s in the drive."
"Maybe she’s asleep."
"You don’t think the bell would wake her?" she said, almost angrily.
"She could have taken a sleeping pill."
Yeah, Myra thought. And she just might be passed out drunk in there. "I developed a bit of a problem after Ed died." Damn, why did I listen to her?
"Let’s try the back door," she said finally.
"Maybe we should just let—"
But Myra was already racing around to the back.
She was about to knock on the door. Seeing it slightly open, an alarm went off inside her head. She opened it the rest of the way. "Ellen?" she said softly, stepping into the brightly lit kitchen. She froze.
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God, Carl!" she breathed.
Stepping past her, Carl took in the macabre scene—the knife drawer on the floor, knives scattered everywhere, the bloody handprint on the white enameled, lower cupboard door, all the more horrible in the stark light of the room. "Don’t touch anything," he said hoarsely. "I’ll call the police."
The words were no sooner said when the doorbell rang sharply, followed by an urgent pounding on the front door. "Mrs. Harris? Police! Are you all right in there?"
9:55 p.m.
Mike had just pulled in behind the dark green unmarked police Chevy, was getting out of his car when a wild-eyed Myra Thompson flung the door open, screamed hysterically at him, "She’s dead. He’s killed her. In-in the-the kitchen."
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