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  Clearly, Shannon wanted Mike to get her off his back. Because Mike had been the one to have to tell her that her sister wasn’t coming home this Christmas, she had somehow become his responsibility. He felt a stirring of resentment.

  "You asking me to travel to New York and bring her back here, Sergeant?" Mike asked, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "What should I charge her with? Harassment?"

  "That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant." Mike heard the grin in his voice. "I think she’s planning on going home tomorrow, anyway—not that I’m kidding myself we’ve seen the last of her. She’s one driven lady. With a little luck, though, maybe I pushed her in a different direction."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I told her that her sister’s killer wasn’t necessarily one of our own resident wackos. He could just as easily be someone from your neck of the woods—no pun intended. What is it—an hour’s flight from there? Even if he drove, it’s no big deal. An old disgruntled boyfriend, maybe, ticked off at her success, feeling thrown aside. So he follows her to New York. Or maybe it was just some nutso fan. Look at that nut who shot the president just because he wanted to impress Jodie Foster. And look at what happened to John Lennon. It wasn’t any secret, Lieutenant, that the girl was singing at the Shelton Room. She’d had plenty of media play."

  Mike promised to talk to Ellen Harris when she returned, which had been his intention anyway. He hung up slowly, a frown furrowing his dark brows.

  He hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t considered that the killer might be someone living right here in Evansdale.

  Fifteen

  Under dusky, purple skies, the old Victorian house sat well back from the road, all but hidden by tall, foreboding pines. The house might have appeared vacant but for one lone light in an upstairs window.

  The man stared angrily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, examining the infected wound on his face. The mirror was small and cracked, and his narrow face looked as if it had been sliced down the middle and put back together just a fraction off center, like a face in a Picasso painting.

  "Bitch," he muttered, squeezing a little of the ointment from the tube onto his finger, then gingerly dabbing it on the raised, puckered flesh that ran from just under his left eye down to one corner of his mouth.

  The wound was hot and throbbing to his touch. He shouldn’t have put makeup on it.

  Debby Fuller had left her own, similar mark on him.

  "Oh, my God, honey," his mother had cried when he got home that night, "Whatever happened to your poor face?" He fed her some story involving barbed wire and a football while she fluttered about him, washing away the dried blood, applying antiseptic. He could still feel her cool, gentle hands on his face.

  Later, when she found out what happened, she’d turned on him, banished him from her life. She sent him here. "Let Mattie handle you," she’d said, tossing his clothes into a cardboard suitcase. "I can’t anymore."

  He knew she was glad to be rid of him, that he cramped her style. He also knew she’d begun to be afraid of him; he could see it in her eyes. It pleased him that she was.

  Only the thought of prison had made him go. He could almost hear the steel doors clanging closed on him, shutting him in, and he knew he could never, ever handle being caged up like that, like an animal. So he’d gone without much of a fight, fully intending on returning as soon as things died down a little.

  He could see his mother now, sitting at the vanity, sliding the tube of ruby red lipstick over her full lips, smacking them together softly in the mirror. Before leaving the house, she would bend down and kiss his cheek lightly so as not to smudge her makeup. Her perfume would linger inside his head long after she was gone. "How do I look, sweetie?" she always asked him, her hand going coquettishly to the soft fluff of blond hair that framed her pretty face.

  That was when he was a little kid. She didn’t ask later. Sometimes he could make her screw up her makeup just by staring at her in the mirror.

  His mother was a fool, a painted whore who allowed men to use her. Sometimes he could hear the ugly sounds of their lovemaking through his thin bedroom wall. His hands balled into fists with the memory, his eyes darkening in the cracked mirror.

  Debby Fuller was like his mother—except that she thought he was the fool. Teasing him, coming on to him the way she had, hips swaying, breasts jiggling under the thin pink tee-shirt.

  "Hi, Alvin," she sang that day he’d been standing in the school parking lot beside his car—an old, blue Ford Comet Lili had bought him.

  "I wish it could be a Porsche, baby," Lili’d said as they stood together on the sidewalk looking at it. "But at least it’ll get you around until we can afford something better." She had a new boyfriend and this was her way of asking him to lay off—a bribe. Don’t ruin this one for me, okay, baby? Don’t scare this one off.

  The car was okay—rusting and noisy as hell, but it ran, and his mother could always be counted on to come up with a few bucks from her tips for gas. She was right—it did get him around. It got him around that snot, Debby Fuller. He’d fixed that little tease. Maybe he ought to pay her another visit, he thought, not for the first time. He grinned, thinking about it, forgetting for the moment the scratch on his face, wondering if sweet Debby would recognize him after all these years. Maybe she’d even be glad to see him.

  His grin froze as a high, thin moan reached him. He turned from the mirror and stepped into the hallway, his eyes narrowing with hate and fear. He stared at the closed door at the end of the hall.

  "Bo-oy," the feeble voice called out, and his face flamed. Boy. What she’d always called him. Never by his real name. He took a single step toward the closed door. Shut up, you old bag, just shut the hell up! He’d go in there, go in there right now and finish her off—except he didn’t want to see her eyes. They frightened him. They always had.

  He knew that’s what she was trying to do—make him go to her so she could set her evil gaze on him and bring him down. Well, it wasn’t going to work.

  He was in control now.

  Stepping back into the bathroom, with its filthy, rust-stained facilities, he opened the small drawer built into the sink enclosure. Gazing down at his growing collection of souvenirs, he picked up a rhinestone earring from among the mound of trinkets, fondled it, then exchanged it for a slim, silver bracelet, then for a locket with a picture of a man and a little boy inside, and finally for a pretty, red plastic hair clip. There were a couple of watches, some rings, a beaded bow he’d torn from a shoe.

  His little trophies, his treasures.

  They helped to calm him.

  Alvin closed the drawer and took the red wig from the counter and fitted it over his own thinning hair. Patting it smooth, he reached for the tube of lipstick.

  He needed a new Debby. Now. Tonight. A sense of urgency filled him, an urgency so strong it made him ignore the inner voice that warned him of the danger of hunting so close to home.

  Downstairs, he thumbed through the phone book, dialed a number. Hanging up, he smiled to himself. He’d hit it on the first try.

  Luck was with him.

  Sixteen

  The instant Doug Neal opened his door to her, Ellen knew he was well on his way to drunken oblivion. When she told him who she was, he practically fell on her.

  "Have a drink with me, Ellen," he said, his voice thick with booze and emotion. "Have a drink in memory of poor, li’l Gail."

  "No thanks," she said, stepping past him into the apartment. "But you go ahead."

  A grand piano dominated the room. Music books and sheet music were strewn everywhere, piled on chairs and a table against the far wall. On the floor, beside a rumpled cot where he’d obviously been lying before she disturbed him, sat an overflowing ashtray and a near-empty whiskey bottle, both within easy reach.

  Ellen’s gaze lingered momentarily on the pale amber liquid in the bottle. She imagined how it would burn going down, soon spreading through her, flooding her senses with a lovely numb
ness. She resisted the temptation and put the thought firmly from her mind.

  Doug sat heavily on the cot and lowered his head to his hands. "I loved her, you know. I really loved her. Do you think she knows, Ellen?" He looked up at her in confused torment.

  "I’m sure she does, Doug," Ellen said, sitting down beside him, knowing intuitively that Doug Neal was not the man she was looking for. Nor would he be able to shed any light on who that man might be. Ellen stayed a while, talking, but mostly listening until the bottle was empty, and gradually his words drifted into an incoherent mumble. When she left, he was sound asleep, snoring loudly, his mouth fallen open. Ellen covered him with a blanket, and for safety’s sake put his cigarettes and matches out of harm’s way on the mantle. At least he’d have to sober up enough to go looking for them, she thought as she returned to the apartment to dress for an evening at the Shelton.

  Seventeen

  "Thank you, Jesus," Cindy Miller said aloud as the nerve-grating, torturous whine and wheeze of the vacuum cleaner was abruptly cut off. She wished it would take its last gasp so they’d buy a new one. They were so damn cheap around here. That machine was probably as old as the building. Even when Edie turned the thing off she went on hearing it inside her head for the next fifteen minutes.

  In reality, other than the soft buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights and the rustling of paper as Cindy sat at her desk stuffing dunning letters into envelopes, the building was silent—until seconds later, when she heard the shuffling of feet, and the clunk, clunk of the vacuum being shoved into the broom-closet.

  "Taking off, are you, Edie?" Cindy called out, taking a quick drag from her cigarette, resting it in the ashtray’s groove to reach for more of the window envelopes.

  A smiling Edie came into the office, shrugging into her shapeless cloth coat. Edie Carr, a small, slightly stooped woman, had been cleaning these offices since long before Cindy was born. Cindy knew Edie had it tough, yet she was always quick with a smile. Always so darned nice.

  "Yes, dear, Harry is coming to pick me up," she said, tugging an olive green knit over her graying dark hair.

  "Lucky you." Cindy set the envelope down and propped her chin in her hands. "I have to take the bus."

  "Oh, dear, it’s much too cold to stand around waiting for a bus. We can give you a lift if you like. Harry won’t mind," she added uncertainly.

  Cindy took her off the hook. "No, thanks, anyway, Edie. I have to get these bills out. I’m a little behind. We’ve been pretty busy lately, and I’m going on vacation next week."

  "Good for you. You work too hard, anyway. A pretty young girl like you ought to be having a bit of fun for herself." Edie still had a hint of Scottish accent, even after all these years. She’d come from Glasgow, she’d told Cindy, when she was just sixteen. From time to time she talked about going back for a visit—she still had friends and relatives back home—but she’d been saying that for the five years Cindy had worked here, and God knew how long before that, and she hadn’t gotten there yet. Probably never would. Harry sounded like a jerk.

  "I’m taking Jody to Disneyland," Cindy blurted. Just hearing herself say it sent a rush of excitement through her. She’d never been out of Evansdale, not even as far as Bangor. "I’ve been saving all year. It’ll give Mom a little break, too," she added, like she needed to justify such an extravagance.

  "That it will," Edie said, her smile widening, revealing a dark space where her tooth used to be. "It sounds like a wonderful trip for both of you. How is the wee lad?"

  "Great. He’s three now and into everything. Mom can hardly keep up to him." Her mother had taken care of Jody practically from the day Cindy brought him home from the hospital. Though she knew her mom was crazy about Jody, he was still a handful, and her mom wasn’t getting any younger. It made Cindy feel guilty sometimes, especially when her mom’s arthritis got to acting up, but she didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice. She had to make a living. She hadn’t laid eyes on Jody’s father since she’d sprung the news on him that she was three months pregnant.

  "I’ll bet he’s a wonderful little lad," Edie said. "A child is so precious. And your mom?"

  "Good, too, except for a touch of arthritis in her shoulders. Tomorrow’s her birthday. I bought her a painting. A beautiful farm scene. Mom used to live on a farm when she was a kid, you know. I’d show you, Edie, but it’s all wrapped."

  She gestured toward the photocopier against which the painting stood, lovingly gift-wrapped, topped with a big blue and silver bow. "You want some coffee, Edie? There’s still some in the pot."

  "No, thank you, dear. No time." She patted Cindy’s arm. "I just know she’ll love her gift. You’re real lucky to have your mom, Cindy. And she’s lucky to have you. Now, don’t stay too late, dear. There’ll be work when you’re dead and gone, as me own mom used to say." She was moving toward the door, working her reddened hands into knitted gloves with blue and red striped cuffs, like children’s gloves. "Good night, now. Harry doesn’t like me to keep him waiting."

  "Night, Edie. Take it easy," Cindy called to her.

  With Edie gone, the building seemed to drop into a deeper silence. Not that it bothered Cindy. She liked to work late. She always got more done after the others were gone. She grinned to herself and reached for another cigarette. Besides, it was the only time she got to smoke at her desk. Old Alice would have a fit if she knew.

  For the next hour, while cigarettes mostly burned themselves out in the ashtray, Cindy worked steadily, her honey-blond head bent over the growing stack of stuffed envelopes to her right, practiced hands flying. But her thoughts were far away, drifting pleasantly to visions of castles, fairy tale jungles, warm, sandy beaches, and Jody’s face lit up in wonder and delight.

  Once, hearing the faint hitch and grumble of the elevator down in the bowels of the building, her head went up. Someone else working late, she thought as the elevator continued its climb up through the building, groaning noisily on metal cables.

  It surprised Cindy to hear it stop on her own floor, to hear the doors slide open. Shit! She grabbed up the ashtray and slipped it into her desk drawer while trying to fan away the smoke. She waited to hear the inevitable footsteps approaching, but there was no further sound.

  Must be some light walker, Cindy thought, but at least it wasn’t battle-axe Alice, whose step was as heavy as her way. Cindy got up from her chair and went to stand in the doorway, half expecting to see someone in the corridor, but it was empty. She peered down the hallway in the direction of the elevator, her horseshoe earrings swaying with the turn of her head.

  The hallway was dimly lit and steeped in shadow, due to a couple of burned-out fluorescent lights the management had never bothered to replace. Kind of spooky, Cindy thought, though it had never struck her that way before. A small trickle of unease stirred in her stomach. Someone had to have gotten off that elevator. It didn’t damn well come up here on its own. It didn’t push its own buttons.

  To Cindy’s left was one other office, a cubbyhole, really, rented by a private eye, a sleazy type who had a fondness for brown polyester and slicked-back hair. He leered at her whenever they met in the halls. He gave her the creeps. Al Matchett, his name was.

  When she complained about his behavior to Alice, her supervisor had said, "What do you expect, dressing the way you do?" But just because she liked wearing sexy clothes, that didn’t give anyone the right to hassle her. Not that he actually had.

  Well, it obviously wasn’t dear old Al who got out of the elevator. He would have had to pass by her door to get to his office. She might not have minded so much if he was more of a James Garner type who was sort of old but very appealing.

  The office to her right was vacant, had been for a month now. Probably wanted too much rent. Shrugging, Cindy went back to her desk. Must have been some smart-ass kids playing around down in the basement, pushing the elevator buttons, then jumping back. Big joke. Or else some kind of malfunction.

  She sat unmoving for several
seconds, head cocked, listening. Then she retrieved the ashtray from the drawer, lit another cigarette, and went back to work.

  Ten minutes later, she crushed the cigarette out and stood up. She began winding elastics double around the stacks of envelopes now ready for stamping. Setting them on the desk, she dug her fingers into the back of her neck, massaged, trying to work out the knots. Her shoulders ached and her stomach was crying out for nourishment; she decided to wait until morning to put the letters through the machine.

  She dialed the familiar number, waited. "Hi, Mom. Just wanted to let you know that I’m just about finished up here. I’ll be home shortly." Looking out at the darkness beyond the window, she decided to hell with the expense, she’d take a cab home. "Jody being good?"

  "An angel," her mother said cheerfully. "He’s waiting up for you, all bathed and in his jammies. I’ve made your favorite—lasagna."

  "Great, I’m starved." Edie’s right, she thought. I am lucky. So very lucky. "I love you, Mom."

  Her mother laughed, but she sounded pleased. "Maybe you better wait till you taste the lasagna, honey. Oh, by the way, you had a phone call. Some man—didn’t leave his name. I told him you were working late."

  There were a few guys it could have been—no one special. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say. She didn’t speculate. She set the envelopes on the table beside the postage meter.

  And had a sudden, overpowering sense of someone behind her. She whirled around. No one there. She was quite alone. Suddenly Cindy wanted nothing so much as to be out of here, to be at home with her mom and Jody, sitting in their bright, cozy kitchen eating lasagna.

  Snapping up her coat from the rack, she put it on, slipped her stocking feet into her high, yellow suede boots, then phoned for a cab. Finally, gathering up her purse and the painting, and, taking one last glance behind her at the waiting desks, the silent typewriters, the beige-colored divider, behind which Mr. Anderson’s own office was located, she switched off the lights and closed the door. She was just about to lock it when she remembered the ashtray. Wouldn’t do to leave that there for old Alice to find when she came in the next morning. She could practically hear the mutterings that would follow about "Cindy’s filthy habit", and the windows being raised to the hilt, subjecting everyone to the cold, so they would all be mad at Cindy, too. She wished she could quit smoking. She’d tried a bunch of times. She guessed she was just too hyper.