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  Soon the pictures inside Ellen’s head grew more vivid than those on the television screen, complete with sound and texture, making her want to claw them from her brain. A small, agonized moan breaking from her, she bolted from the chair. Crossing to the sideboard, she poured herself a generous shot of vodka to go with the two Valium she’d taken earlier, and which didn’t seem to be working.

  Her hands shook, and some of the vodka splashed the sideboard’s lovely cherry wood surface. She didn’t bother to wipe it up. The drawer was not all the way closed, and she could see one corner of the bulging scrapbook containing Gail’s brief life.

  No need to buy another one. Not now.

  Nine

  Other than to refill her glass, and turn the sound up a little, Ellen had not moved from in front of the television. The room had grown dark. She was on her third vodka, glass in hand, clear liquid gently swirling. She looked to see it creating a tiny whirlpool, and longed to lose herself in it.

  What did it matter if she drank? What did anything matter now? She thought about the bottle of Valium on the shelf in the medicine cabinet—maybe twenty left.

  Enough, she knew, to end the nightmares.

  Strangely, Myra’s nightmares came to mind. "A shadowy figure at the foot of my bed," she’d told her on the night Gail was murdered. "I wake up in an icy sweat, terrified. What do you think it means after all this time, Ellen?"

  "I don’t know," Ellen said aloud to her glass, her words slurring slightly. "I don’t know anything anymore."

  Ellen continued to stare at the screen. Live at Five. Only five o’clock? It got dark out so early now. The announcer’s voice cut through the boozy haze "...More trouble in the Middle East... economists are predicting the country is headed for another depression... a plane exploded over Bangkok..."

  The voice faded out again like a receding tide as Ellen began thinking about him. Was he too, at this very moment, sitting in some darkened room in front of a television set? Smiling perhaps, reliving his vile, brutal act with a sick pleasure? Her hand began shaking so hard she had to set the drink down.

  And suddenly Gail was smiling out at her from the television screen, sending a knife of searing pain straight through her heart. It was the picture of her they’d run with the last article.

  "Police are still baffled by the recent murder of a young Evansdale woman," the announcer read from the sheaf of papers in his hands. "Gail Morgan’s body was discovered two weeks ago today on the bedroom floor of her New York apartment, savagely beaten, raped and strangled. Ms. Morgan was a singer on the verge of her big breakthrough in the music industry. Her recording of "Do You Know Me?" also written by Ms. Morgan, should hit the airways in a matter of weeks, reports a spokesman for Genesis recordings. Police are continuing their investigation into the murder.

  "The search for a Scarsdale man missing in the Maine woods over the weekend has ended on a happier note..."

  The announcer’s voice lost to her now, Ellen leaned forward in her chair, focusing, concentrating all her mental energies. Who are you? You’re out there somewhere. She tried to see him in her mind’s eye, trying in desperation to tune him in. What kind of monster are you to do what you did to my sister?

  Imagining Gail’s pain, her helplessness, and the final terror of knowing she was going to die, sent a surge of rage and hatred through Ellen so powerful she felt it might suffocate her. Bile rose in her throat as wave after bitter wave took her, building in strength and intensity like dark clouds before a storm. When she could no longer contain the storm within her, in the space of a breath, she released the torrent of writhing, black emotion into the television screen, and beyond.

  You’ll pay, you bastard. I’ll find you. And you’ll pay for what you did.

  Outside, the cold January wind screamed under the eaves and snow-crusted branches bowed low under starless skies.

  After several moments, drained and exhausted, Ellen went into the kitchen and poured the remainder of her drink down the sink. Quite sober now, she thought how silly it was what she’d tried to do. She wasn’t even sure she really believed in E.S.P. Sure, she and Gail had often been able to tune in to one another thoughts, and sometimes, when she’d pick up the receiver to call her, Gail would already be on the line. They would laugh about that and feel no small sense of wonder.

  But even if something more than simple intuition was at work, it wouldn’t happen with a stranger. And you couldn’t call it up, like a witch’s curse, no matter how bad you wanted to.

  But she would find him, she thought, standing very still, holding the empty glass in her hand. She wouldn’t rest until she did. And he would pay. Under the sudden pressure of her fingers, the glass shattered, cutting her in a dozen places. Ellen watched with an odd sense of fascination as rivulets of blood flowed over her hand in every direction, dripping steadily as a heartbeat onto the black and white floor tiles.

  Gradually, she became aware of the throbbing pain in her hand, and almost welcomed it.

  Her life had purpose now.

  ~ * ~

  Across town, in the darkened den of an old Victorian-style house, the tall man jerked awake, the can of Miller Lite dropping from his hand to roll across the floor, knocking up against the leg of the old Philco television set, spewing beer onto the faded rug. He jumped to retrieve the can, looked bewilderedly around him. Aunt Mattie? No, he couldn’t have heard her from down here. Besides, his aunt didn’t swear.

  But someone had called out to him, an angry voice—calling him a bastard. Saying he’d pay.

  Ten

  Upstairs, Ellen stood holding the towel firmly around her hand to staunch the flow of blood. The towel was already reddening, though when she’d run cold water over her hand, she’d seen that none of the cuts were deep.

  In the mirror, her eyes looked haunted, sunken in her skull. Her new hairdo lay flat and greasy against her head. She looked like hell. Get yourself together, Ellen. You’ve got work to do.

  She opened the medicine chest, her reflection flying out of view. Taking down the bottle of Valium, she flushed the remaining tablets down the toilet. It was important to keep her wits about her. Smelling the faint sourness coming off her body, she realized she needed a shower.

  Tomorrow she would fly to New York, she thought, turning on the taps, testing the water with her good hand. She’d talk to Sandi, Gail’s roommate. And the landlady. Someone must know something, must have seen something. Sandi had called one day last week, crying. Ellen couldn’t remember what she said. She’d sent flowers. There’d been so many flowers. She thought of the stack of cards on the fridge. She would go through them. Perhaps Gail’s killer had even sent one. She’d heard of such things.

  She would take a sabbatical from work. She had nothing to give to anyone else just now. Someone else would have to take over her caseload. She wouldn’t be returning for a while.

  Not until she found him.

  ~ * ~

  She was half way down the stairs when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. It was five minutes past eight. Frowning, she wondered if Myra had come back. Other than the glow from the television, the room was in darkness. Ellen switched off the television, turned on a couple of lamps, and opened the door.

  It surprised her to see Miss Layton standing there, looking much as she had standing in the doorway of the funeral parlor—small black hat perched on her graying head, purse clutched in front of her. Up this close, she looked smaller somehow, and Ellen could see the deep lines etched in her face, and the way her lively blue eyes had faded. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, after all these years, that her teacher had aged, and yet she’d foolishly imagined Miss Layton remaining forever young, forever a formidable presence.

  "I hope this isn’t an intrusion, Ellen," she said. At the sound of that clear voice, instilled with the wisdom and gentle authority Ellen remembered, the years fell away.

  Ellen opened the door wider. "Not at all, Miss Layton. I’m pleased to see you. You-you look wo
nderful."

  The elderly woman entered amidst a rush of cold air and the faint scent of lavender. She didn’t address the compliment. "I know one often prefers solitude at a time like this," she said, sitting ramrod straight in the chair Ellen offered, "but you’ve been on my mind, Ellen. I had to come and see for myself how you were coping. I’ll be leaving Evansdale at the end of the month. Perhaps before I go, there’s something—something I can do for you."

  "Nothing, Miss Layton. But thank you." She sat across from her on the sofa. "Where will you be going?"

  "I have a widowed sister who lives in Atlanta. She’s been after me for some time now to come live with her. It’s a gracious old home, surrounded with lawns and trees."

  "It sounds lovely."

  "Yes, it will be a pleasant arrangement, I feel. Lillian and I always got on well."

  "I’ll make us some tea," Ellen said, rising, feeling a measure of comfort in the elderly woman’s presence. Perhaps because she’d been there for her at a crucial time in her life, because she knew her and Gail as children. How wonderful she had been that day they’d gone to get Gail released from the home. Just as the petite Miss Layton had always been able, with a mere look or word, to cow the biggest trouble-maker in the class, no matter his size, she had brought that tight-lipped social worker around to her way of thinking.

  So many years ago. In some ways it seemed like yesterday.

  "Are you sure it’s no trouble, dear?" Miss Layton said, eyeing Ellen’s bandaged hand.

  Ellen’s own gaze followed. "It’s nothing serious. I broke a glass. I guess I’m a bleeder," she added with a thin laugh.

  Miss Layton didn’t smile. "I did come to the funeral parlor, you know," she said, a little sheepishly. "But I’m afraid my courage abandoned me. It was so reminiscent of that—other time."

  "I know," Ellen smiled. "I saw you there. I looked for you later. I’ll just be a few minutes. The tea will warm you. Unless you’d prefer a nice glass of sherry."

  "Tea will be fine, Ellen."

  She served the tea in her best china cups and saucers, gold-rimmed with yellow roses, and set out a plate of cookies. They sat across from one another.

  Miss Layton sipped her tea. "And how are you getting on, Ellen?"

  Ellen was forced to meet those knowing, unwavering eyes. Only their color was faded. Ellen shrugged. "I’ll survive, I suppose."

  "Yes, you will," Miss Layton said, a direct command that would not be questioned. "You’re a survivor of the first order, a fighter. You always were, Ellen Morgan." She’d used her maiden name, spoken to her just as if she were still sitting in her classroom, second seat, first row by the door.

  "In a teacher’s professional life," she went on thoughtfully, "there are some students who stand out, while others, I’m afraid, fade in the mind. For that, perhaps we will have to atone one day. But you, Ellen, I have often thought about over the years. Of course, I remember what a good and hard-working girl you were, always such a joy to teach. But what I remember most was your sense of fair play. You were always the one to champion the underdog—the first to hold out a friendly hand to a child who did not quite fit in, and this despite your own regrettable circumstance."

  "I appreciate your saying these things to me, Miss Layton. It’s really very kind of you."

  "Posh. It’s not kindness at all. It’s only the truth. I was not in the least surprised to hear that you went into the helping profession. It was so wise of you, Ellen, to go back to school."

  Looking at her teacher, clad in a brown crepe dress, the ivory cameo brooch at her throat, as familiar as a uniform, Ellen remembered how distraught she’d been when Ellen dropped out of school to find a job. Yet in the end she’d been there to support her decision. "None of that seems to matter now, does it?" she said.

  "Of course it matters," Miss Layton said adamantly. "You have nothing to berate yourself for. You always felt you could make things right, Ellen. And sometimes that simply is not possible. Sometimes terrible things happen over which we have no control. My dear, you were fiercely protective toward your family—and your little sister in particular."

  Eleven

  It was late afternoon when Ellen arrived in a gray, bitterly cold New York. When she got to the apartment, Sandi Rousseau was grimly packing her things. She hadn’t taken off her coat.

  "Gail didn’t date," she said in answer to Ellen’s question, dashing back and forth between the dresser and the bed as she’d been doing the whole time they talked. With every turn her hair swung like a sheet of beige satin. "She was completely devoted to her career. Oh, she was friendly enough with her pianist, Doug Neal, but not in any romantic way. Though Doug might have felt differently. I talked to him on the phone. He’s devastated, poor guy."

  Sandi dropped an armload of designer sweaters into the suitcase, patted them down carelessly. Sighing, she turned to face Ellen. Her lovely eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Ellen envied Sandi’s tears.

  "Why do you think it was someone she knew?" Sandi asked.

  Ellen wasn’t surprised she was moving out. Another day and she might have had trouble getting in touch with Sandi.

  "Maybe not someone she knew," Ellen said calmly. She was sitting in the one chair in the bedroom, trying not to look at the fading chalk outline of Gail’s body on the carpet. "But someone who knew her. He was waiting for her, Sandi. He must have known who she was, that she would be coming home alone."

  The girl clutched a full-length tweed coat about her, as if she were suddenly feeling vulnerable. "Maybe you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that." She sagged down on the bed. "She had a lot of fans. Sometimes they get—obsessed or something." She gave Ellen a look of pure misery. "I’m so sorry, Ellen. I wanted to come to the funeral, but I-I just couldn’t."

  Ellen crossed the room and sat down beside her, touched her arm. "I know. And I do understand. Gail would have, too."

  "Oh, God, I hope so. I can’t believe she’s gone." Her voice broke. She pulled Kleenex from her pocket and wiped away a fresh welling of tears. "Who would do such a horrible thing? What horrible fiend would do that to her? She was such a sweet person."

  "I don’t know, Sandi. But I intend to find out."

  "Gail adored you, you know. She used to talk about you all the time. She told me about your parents, the drinking and all that—and then that terrible accident. She said you were always there for her."

  No. Not always, Ellen thought. "I was the older sister. I did what I had to do. Gail would have done the same for me." I liked it that Gail needed me. It was never a burden. I liked being the one she looked up to.

  "She was real proud that you went back and got your degree. That must be hard when you’re older."

  Ellen smiled. "Not terribly. I always liked school." We did make it all work out, dammit, we did! Her gaze wandered involuntarily to the chalk outline on the carpet. Her throat tightened. Why? Why did this happen to her? Reverend Palmer was wrong. There was no great purpose being served here.

  Seeing where Ellen was looking, Sandi rose abruptly, causing the bed to squeak. The dresser drawers open and empty, she attacked the closet, tearing dresses and coats from their hangers, leaving them to rattle like old bones in her wake. "I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to get out of here."

  "Of course. Sandi, you mentioned obsessed fans. Did Gail ever talk about anyone who fits that picture? Some particular incident that maybe bothered her? Strange letters?"

  "No. Nothing that comes to mind, anyway." Sandi had taken the last dress from the closet, laid it across the top of the overflowing heap of clothes, and was now trying to force the suitcase shut. Ellen leaned her weight on the top, while Sandi managed to zip it around. "Thanks."

  "You need some help with these?"

  "No, thanks anyway. I didn’t bring my car. I’ll call a cab." She was about to pick up the receiver when she turned, frowning slightly. "You know, there was something."

  "What?"

  "A phone call. She got this weird call."
/>
  "Weird how, Sandi?"

  "Well, someone who just whispered, ‘Do you know me?’ You know—the name of Gail’s new song."

  "Yes. What else did he say?"

  "That’s just it. Gail wasn’t even sure it was a he. It’s hard to tell from a whisper, I guess. Anyway, whoever it was didn’t say anything else. Just ‘Do you know me?’ Then they hung up. Gail didn’t freak or anything, but I remember she got kind of quiet."

  "When was this?"

  "Around one in the morning. Maybe a little before. Gail hadn’t been home from work very long. It was just a few nights before—" She bit down on her lower lip as she glanced at the now boarded-up window. "She was a good friend to me, always boosting me up when things weren’t happening for me just the way I thought they should. Nothing ever got her down for long. She was one of the most positive people I’ve ever known."

  "Do many people have this number, Sandi?" Ellen asked, thinking, as she had the first time she saw her, how lovely she was. It was hard to imagine modeling agencies not clamoring for her services.

  "No, not really. Just those people we needed to have it, people important to our careers. Agents, publicity people and the like. And our families, of course. The number’s unlisted."

  "I don’t suppose you considered having it changed."

  She looked surprised at the question. "No. Not for one phone call. It wasn’t like we were being harassed or anything."

  "Did you report the call to the police?"

  "No. I didn’t think of it again. Not until now. I don’t think Gail did either. Just some creep with nothing better to do."

  "It doesn’t sound like a random call, though, does it? Not just someone punching out numbers. He knew who she was. He knew the name of her song."

  Sandi said nothing. She’d gone very pale.

  "Sandi, do you have Doug Neal’s address?" Ellen asked.