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  The third and last student, Scott Withers, was a cocky, golden-haired Adonis in his late twenties. He lay sprawled on the couch of his sparsely furnished apartment. He reminded Justin of the cloned, bronze surfers who flocked to the beaches of Southern California.

  Withers, displaying a mouthful of perfect white teeth, offered Justin a beer. When Justin declined, Withers shrugged, sauntered to the refrigerator, and got out a Coors Light. He returned to the couch and flopped down.

  "So," Withers said, popping the tab with an exaggerated motion, "you wanted to talk about Alex?"

  "What can you tell me about her?"

  "Hey, man, do I look like the kind of guy who kisses and tells?"

  You look like a blue-ribbon asshole, Justin wanted to say. "I'm not interested in the notches on your bedpost. I'm investigating a crime committed against Mrs. Carlson."

  The bright blue eyes narrowed. "She give you my name?"

  "I got it from the Art Center."

  "Oh." He looked both relieved and disappointed. "So why you investigating her art students. Someone paint her a dirty picture?"

  Justin ignored the smirk. "Someone broke into her house and stole some valuable property."

  “Hey, man, it wasn't me. Look, I took a class from her. That's it." "You didn't try to see her outside of the Art Center?"

  "Whadda I look like, a fucking moron? Sure I did. You've seen her, right?" Justin nodded. "She's a sexy chick. Mature. You know what I mean? I go for older women. They can always teach a sly dog a new trick or two.”

  "Are you an artist?"

  "Naw. I work in the pizza joint across the street. She'd come in a couple times a week after class. We got to talking. You know how it is? I wanted to see more of her—literally.”

  "So you turned on the charm. Tried to score,” Justin said evenly. "Was that how it was?"

  "Yeah, only I wasted my hard-earned bread trying to make it with that chick. Besides the ten bucks for that one lousy class, she has me buy paint, canvas, brushes. Then she treats me like the rest of those dumb bohemians. Turns me down flat like I'm some snot-nosed kid. Wouldn't even have a drink with me after class.”

  "That must have pissed you off, huh? I bet a guy like you doesn't get turned down often.

  ”Not so's you'd notice." Withers brought the can to his mouth, halted without sipping, then lowered the can. He eyed Justin shrewdly. "I wasn't that pissed, man. Not enough to break into her house and steal. I called her a couple times, then said to hell with it. I got better things to do than chase after some cold-ass broad.”

  "These calls, did you talk to Suzanne?"

  "You mean Alex?"

  "Yes, Alex.”

  "No, man. I whistled 'The Star-Spangled Banner. What the hell do you think? 'Course I talked to her. That’s what phones are for."

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?"

  "I don't know. Shit, until you called this afternoon, I'd forgotten she existed.”

  "When did you see her last?" Justin pressed, leaning forward.

  "Aw, fuck it," he spat out. "Last week. Okay? Ya happy?"

  "Forgot she existed, huh? You've got a short memory, Mr. Withers. Now tell me about it?"

  "After her class one night I stopped to say hi. No big deal."

  Justin waited.

  "She wouldn't talk to me. That's it, man. End of story."

  "You going to be around town for a while?"

  Withers sighed. "I'll be around. Don't you cops have anything better to do than hassle people?"

  "Scotty old dog, we live for that shit."

  On his way back to the station, Justin told himself that Scott Withers was one to watch. It might be wise to keep an eye on David Sloane as well.

  Chapter 11

  He worked the glove off his right hand with his teeth, then pulled the butane lighter from his pants pocket. He flicked it. The flame shot up with a loud hiss. He lowered the flame. Holding the photo in his gloved hand, he positioned the lighter under the backside, and, carefully moving the flame in small circles, watched as the glossy skin of the picture blistered and darkened. Several minutes later he returned the lighter to his pocket and laid the photograph on the work table. After replacing the glove, he reached for the pen at his elbow. He wrote rapidly, the felt tip squeaking across the photograph.

  The phone rang for the second time since he had been in the house. He moved toward it. Between the first and second ring he heard her key in the lock.

  Pausing, he looked from the phone to the front door. Then he stepped back into the dim recesses of Alex Carlson's painting alcove.

  Alex shifted the grocery bag to her left hip and opened the door. The telephone rang again as he entered. She hurried downstairs to the study and snatched up the receiver in the middle of a ring.

  "Hello?"

  "You okay, babe?" Greg Ott asked, concern in his voice. "What took you so long?"

  "I just stepped in the door?" She put the bag on the desk and, shrugging off her coat, lifted a bottle from the bag. "I bought champagne. Domestic, but good."

  "What's the occasion?”

  "I sold a painting. A very expensive painting. The check came this morning. I owe it to myself to get ripsnorting drunk. Wanna join me?"

  "Oh, God," he moaned. "How you torture me. I called to tell you I'm leaving for the airport in two minutes to catch the six-fifteen to Denver. Come with me. I'll buy you dozens of bottles of champagne. Dom Perignon. We'll frolic in a bathtub filled with it. I'll drink it from your bedroom slipper—from your navel."

  Alex smiled "No, Greg, I don't think so.

  "Well then, promise me you won't get drunk till I can be there to take advantage of you."

  "No promises. How long will you be gone?"

  "Two nights."

  "Want me to feed the fish?"

  "Would you?"

  "Sure."

  "I'll leave a key in the barbeque."

  She heard a soft click on the line. "Greg, are you there?"

  "Always - for you."

  "Did you hear someone come on the line?"

  "No."

  Goosebumps rose along her arms.

  "Damn," he said, "gotta go, babe. Dinner out when I get back. Get glitzed up."

  Alex said goodbye and hung up. Standing at the lesk, the bottle of champagne clasped tightly to her chest, she shivered. The click on the line, she told herself, had been Greg's secretary—nothing more.

  She carried the groceries up to the kitchen.

  Opening the freezer door, she took out a Swanson Salisbury steak and, looking at it with indifference, decided that even cardboard tasted palatable with a glass of champagne.

  She put away the groceries and slid the frozen dinner into the microwave. After setting the timer, she went downstairs to sketch until it was time to leave for class.

  The bedroom was dark. Alex crossed it quickly before the dark could cover her in its claustrophobic veil. She switched on the swing-arm lamp over the center of the work table and adjusted the light.

  Her eyes, she decided, must be playing tricks on her. Forcing herself to stay calm, she stared disconcertedly at the photograph that had disappeared from the desk in the study.

  She leaned in closer, hands crossed over her mouth, unable to bring herself to touch it.

  The color photograph, which showed her standing on the deck of Joe's sailboat, hands on hips and legs parted, had been grossly altered. Her entire body was now a gray-brown. From her face to her feet the glossy paper was raised, rippled. Its texture reminded her of a roasted hot dog left too long over a blazing campfire. Her face had been totally obliterated.

  At the bottom of the picture, printed with a felt-tip pen, were the words, "The monsters want you, Allie."

  He'd been here again. Alex's heart banged in her chest. Was he still in the house?

  She ran across the room, dropped to her knees on the raised platform, and groped under the bed for the shotgun. She cried out when a burning, fierce pain spread over her palm. Jerked
her hand away and fell back. Her palm, though burning, showed no sign of a wound.

  Panting, Alex threw back the bedspread and, from a distance, looked into the dark space.

  The shotgun was gone. But in its place was the thing that had made her hand feel as though it had been plunged in acid. Alex knew then what had stung her. A nettle. Each stinging hair on the plant was like a hypodermic needle filled with an acid irritant. Years ago she had stepped barefoot on one. The pain had lasted for days.

  She scrambled to her feet, a strangled cry erupting from her lips. Panic made her clumsy, her hands useless. She groped and fumbled with the heavy drapes in an effort to get at the door latch of the slider. The drape slid across her back, enveloping her in a black void. She hit at the glass with a fist while she worked the latch.

  Suddenly the door flew aside on its track. Alex stumbled, off balance, across the concrete slab. Her foot caught the edge of a brick planter, throwing her down on all fours. She cried out again as her hand slammed down hard on something cold and steely. Instinctively grabbing at the object beneath her hand, she lifted it, holding it up, staring at it in confusion and terror. The moon's rays glinted off the Metallic blades of a pair of large hedge clippers, blades gaping open like the jaws of an alligator.

  The night air smelled of jasmine, sweet and lean. A cricket chirped twice, then became silent. A siren wailed in the distance.

  At that moment, on her knees, hugging the clippers to her breast, she could have sworn she heard laughter.

  She looked to the top of the bluff. The ragged outline of the ridge stood out sharply against the evening sky. Her eyes moved slowly along it until they came to something upright along the flat plateau. It stood unmoving. Then it was gone. Had it been a figment of her imagination? Or had it been him? A bone-chilling tremor convulsed her.

  Where would she be safe? In the garden where unseen eyes laughed at her—mocked her? Or in the house where a madman could still be hiding, waiting to . . . ?

  In there? Out here? Where was he? Wherever he was, she knew, beyond a doubt, he was watching her.

  She rose to her feet, using one hand to push away from the concrete, the other, the hand that felt like it was on fire, held the clippers in a death grip. Swaying slightly she walked across the hard slab toward the house.

  Without entering, she used the tip of the shears to move the drapes aside. She peered into the bedroom. The room was dim except for the glare of the swing-arm lamp that spotlighted the photograph.

  Her gaze followed the long shadows that crossed the floor of the studio to her bed. The quilt was twisted, and rumpled. The pillow had been pulled out from beneath the bedspread and lay propped up against the headboard. In the downy contours of the pillow—in the deep indentation made by someone's head — was the telephone receiver. She bit down on her lower lip. He had blatantly lain on her bed using her telephone—not to talk, but to listen.

  Alex felt the anger starting to burn. Why was he doing this to her? What had she done to deserve this? He was trying to drive her crazy. It wouldn't take much, she thought, just a couple more shoves and she'd be over the edge.

  She stepped inside, lifted the receiver off the pillow, picked up the base of the phone from the night stand and backed up to the door again. By putting her back against the metal door frame and straddling the opening, she had a clear view inside and out.

  Alex tucked the clippers under her arm and dialed the police. She asked for Detective Holmes. A moment later he answered.

  "Holmes here."

  "It's me . . . Alex. Can you come over?" Her voice, surprisingly, sounded normal.

  "Has something happened?"

  "Will you come?"

  "I'm in the middle of an interroga —"

  "He was here again — inside the house."

  "Did you see him?" He was whispering, but the urgency was unmistakably there.

  "I don't know?” She stared at a crusty patch of dirt on the white spread. "I don't know anything anymore. Can . . . you come?” Her voice broke.

  "I'll be right there. I'll send a squad car, too. Stay calm."

  As if in a trance she walked to the work table and opened the drawer beneath the picture. With the eraser end of a pencil, she slid the picture inside then closed the drawer. She returned to her post astride the door. The orange handles of the clippers pressed sharply into her stomach. The open blades pointed menacingly toward the bluff.

  The police arrived with sirens screaming eight minutes later. In those eight minutes, which seemed like eight hours, she stood in the doorway, eyes carting right, left, and straight ahead to the hands on the clock.

  A sharp pain shot across her shoulders as she left the brace of the doorframe to let the police in. It occurred to her as she was halfway across the room that she still held the bulky clippers. Suddenly feeling foolish, Alex paused, bent down, and slid the clippers under the bed.

  At the front door were two uniformed officers.

  "I'm Officer Capucci and this is Officer Olinski." The one speaking was female, approximately five feet four inches tall and very buxom. She was pretty in a pixieish sort of way.

  "I thought Jus—uh, Detective Holmes would be with you."

  "He'll be along," Capucci said in a husky voice. Large expressive eyes, the long lashes thickly coated with mascara, stared coolly into Alex's.

  "Ma'am, what's that buzzing?" Officer Olinski, a man of medium build and height with thinning blond hair and a reddish mustache, asked.

  "What? Oh, it's the stove timer. Excuse me, I'll shut it off."

  "I'll go with you," Capucci said.

  Upstairs in the kitchen, Alex removed the TV dinner from the microwave oven with trembling hands. Capucci eyed the cellophane-wrapped tray with a look of disdain.

  Then she and Olinski checked through the house. The three of them met in the bedroom five minutes later.

  "No sign of anyone, Mrs. Carlson. Was this door locked?" Olinski asked, opening the slider.

  "Yes . . . no . . . I'm not sure she said weakly. "It was locked when I left today. I don't know if he managed to open it."

  "You unlocked it?"

  "I went out . . . I can't remember if it was locked or . . ." Her words trailed off.

  "Do you know what he was doing in your house?"

  Alex sighed deeply, looking from one officer to the other. "Using my phone."

  "Using your phone?" Capucci asked.

  "Actually he just listened . . . listened in on a conversation between a friend and myself."

  Capucci gave Olinski a dubious glance as if to ask, Is this chick for real?

  "There's dirt on the spread. I'll have a look out back for footprints.” Olinski said quickly, heading for the slider.

  Capucci wandered around the bedroom, one hand resting lightly on her gun, the other hand behind her back. She circled the room slowly, bending or stretching, looking at everything. Alex felt her scrutiny was more personal than official.

  "Is this the way you found the bedding when you came home?"

  Alex was about to answer when Olinski reentered, flashlight in hand. "Can't see much now. There is dirt on the back step, and with the dirt on the bedspread, I'd say he came in through this door."

  Alex, standing in the middle of the bedroom, tried to control her trembling, her chattering teeth. She was in a giant blender, being pureed. Where is Justin? she wondered.

  The phone rang.

  Alex made no move to answer it.

  "Shall I get that?" Capucci asked.

  Alex nodded.

  Capucci answered. She turned to Alex. "It's your husband."

  Alex took the receiver.

  "Joe? Where are you?"

  "I just got in, Alex," Joe said. "Is something wrong?"

  "No everything's fine," she lied.

  "Did Todd tell you I'd be coming for the tax papers?"

  "I have them out, Joe. But it's really not a good time —"

  "Don't worry, I won't barge in on you tonight. I'm bushed.
How about in the morning?"

  "Yes, that's fine." Alex felt a blessed relief. On a normal day Joe could be a drain on her nerves. His presence tonight would surely deplete her.

  "Are you certain you're all right? You sound .. . strange."

  "I'm just tired."

  Joe paused before saying, "Alex, I've been debating whether or not to tell you about this. I've decided you should know. A Sergeant Holmes called on me —"

  "Yes, I know. He's investigating a crime. I gave him your name several days ago. He needed to know about the gun. I'll tell you about it tomorrow."

  "He came to see me yesterday. The only thing he wanted from me was my opinion."

  "Your opinion?"

  "Of your mental state of mind."

  It took her a moment to digest that. "I see. And what did you tell him? Did you tell him about the nightmares? My fear of the dark? My father?" Her voice was flat, unemotional. She heard him sigh. "It doesn't matter. I'll see you in the morning, Joe."

  Minutes later, upstairs in the living room, Olinski was about to take Alex's statement when the doorbell rang.

  Alex started to rise but Capucci put out her hand and said, "Just relax, ma'am. I'll get it."

  Her large breasts bounced as she walked. And with each step a rounded cheek undulated provocatively beneath her dark blue pants.

  The sound of the door opening and Capucci's muffled voice carried to the upper level. Alex could hear Justin's voice, but his words were indistinct. Alex clenched her hands into tight fists, her fingernails cut sharply into the palms. The two of them are certainly taking their time down there, she thought, while I sit here taut as a bear trap, set and ready to spring. But then why should Justin hurry? The crazy lady was at it again. No doubt he'd humor her. Play along. See how far she'd go this time.