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The Disappearing Girls

by Darrell Bain

Copyright © 2002 Darrell Bain

2002 Hard Shell Word Factory

Hard Shell Word Factory

www.hardshell.com

Suspense/Thriller/Paranormal

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

To Gary and Barbara Bain

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

DARRELL BAIN

PROLOGUE

^ »

TERESA SMITH waited impatiently for the security guard at the rear entrance of Northpark Hospital, located in the Kingwood section of Houston. The employees’ parking lot was already deserted, the rest of the night shift having come and gone while she stayed with a cardiac patient in the emergency room. She felt the weariness of her twelve-hour shift even more than usual. Her shoulders and back ached from bending over desperately ill patients half the night and her feet and ankles hurt so badly that she could almost feel each individual muscle and tendon complaining. She shifted her feet, trying to lessen the pain and made an effort to pull her shoulders back. She hated to slump. Where was the guard? She looked out over the asphalt, shadowed by pin oaks already in full foliage. There were cars and vans and pickup trucks scattered randomly in marked off parking slots, the yellow stripes appearing a dull gray in the wispily clouded moonlight. Teresa had come on duty at noon, when the lot had been overflowing with vehicles and had to park in the farthest corner from the entrance.

Where was the guard? She glanced impatiently at her watch and twisted her neck, trying to get the kinks out. A gulf breeze blew strands of blandish hair around her face and she brushed them away, feeling the dampness there from her last sweat-soaked exertions with the cardiac patient. He hadn’t made it, despite all the heroic efforts of the emergency room crew. The death only added to her weariness. It depressed her when that happened, especially to a relatively young person. He had only been fifty three, a salesman attending a convention at one of the hotels near Houston International airport, not all that far from the hospital.

Where was the guard? It had been hospital policy that women leaving work after dark should be escorted to their cars ever since a young nurse had been assaulted in the parking lot a few months before. A flickering of light to the south drew her attention. She turned that way just as lightning flashed again against the clouds in the southwest, harbinger of an approaching thunderstorm coming in off the gulf. She shifted again, nervously, and shoved her hand down into her purse. Her fingers touched her car keys just as the moon came momentarily from behind a blot of approaching clouds. The parking lot brightened measurably. She scanned the expanse of concrete. It was still bereft of persons, but damnit she could see her car, the lines of the General Motors Saturn unmistakable even from this far away.

Where was the guard? He was usually all too ready to escort her to her vehicle when she came off duty. He was famous for paying more attention to attractive women than duty strictly required, taking his time getting them out to their cars or trucks or vans and bantering them with innuendoes that fell just short of sexual harassment while he surreptitiously admired their bodies. Teresa was familiar enough with him. She knew she was attractive and ordinarily didn’t mind stares of approval at her slim figure so long as they weren’t blatantly sexual, but the guard commonly went rather far in that direction. He made her uncomfortable. Lightning flared again, closer this time, limning dark clouds racing north, toward the city. Teresa suddenly made up her mind not to wait; much longer and she would get wet, either that or be forced into close proximity to the guard while he held his umbrella over them both, and used the opportunity to “accidentally” brush against her. Maybe that was why he was late; perhaps he was holding back until the rain began before making his appearance. Well, she didn’t feel like fooling with him tonight, not as tired and depressed from the failed resuscitation as she was. She stepped from beneath the canopied entrance and headed toward her car, walking swiftly.

Teresa detoured around a van, crossed a double row of vacant parking spaces and walked past a large pickup truck, hesitating momentarily just to the side of the cab, checking for the shadowed figure of anyone who might be lurking on the other side. Seeing nothing unusual, she hurried on, now on a direct path toward her car, parked beneath one of the old pin oak trees. Her car keys were already in hand as she approached her vehicle. She stopped, dropping her purse strap from her shoulder to her hand and inserted the key into the lock. She was already twisting the key when she heard a popping noise behind her, like the sudden release of air into a vacuum. Immediately, a rush of wind blew her hair around her face again. She turned at the noise, thinking that the wind had blown an acorn to the pavement, then as a sudden darkness blotted out everything in sight she tried to scream. It was impossible; she was suddenly gasping for breath, trying desperately to suck air back into her lungs. The purse strap slipped from her fingers as she fought against a terrific force pulling her backwards into the blackness. Her last thought was that it couldn’t have been an acorn dropping; It was too early in the year for them to have formed yet.

CHAPTER ONE

« ^ »

WESTON TAMRICK had barely set his coffee and donuts down on the one corner of his desk unencumbered with paperwork when he heard his partner’s voice behind him.

“Good thing you’re here early, Wes. We got another one.”

Weston turned around. His partner, Jimmy Thang, was already halfway across the precinct room, coming toward him from Lieutenant Ward’s office where the door was just swinging shut. He didn’t have to ask what Jimmy was talking about. The set expression on his blandly oriental face was tinged with the frustration they both were feeling since being assigned to the disappearances.

“Where this time?” Weston asked.

“Northpark Hospital. In the parking lot, sometime after midnight.” Jimmy pushed some file cases toward the middle of his own desk, clearing a corner of it to sit on. The only time he used his chair was when he was forced to sit in it in order to type case and activity reports into the computer.

Weston glanced at the map of the northern environs of Houston tacked to a large bulletin board set against a wall behind their adjacent desks in the corner of the precinct room they called their office. The board had seen better days. Its frame was weathered and stained with smudges from frequent handling. On the map were sixteen small red circles, scattered seemingly at random, each with a date written neatly beside it.

“Same MO?”

“That’s what the Lieutenant thinks. He’s getting pissed, too. He wants some action.”

Weston shrugged. He couldn’t blame Lieutenant Ward. He and Jimmy had made absolutely no progress since being assigned the cases after the seventh—or was it the eighth?—abduction. He picked up a marker from the narrow trough running along the bottom of the board and scanned the map until he found Kingwood Avenue, then traced the street line to the hospital location. Carefully, he made a seventeenth red circle on the map then stood back to see if it made any difference in establishing a pattern. It didn’t, other than the fact that all the marks were located north of the Beltway. He turned away from the map and pulled his chair away from his desk and sat down. Jimmy Thang leaned forward and handed him a hard copy of the latest report. Weston scanned it briefly, picking out the high points in hopes that something would stand out and give him a hint of an abnormal datum, something different or in addition to the other cases.

“You see anything?” Jimmy asked, rummaging in Weston’s sack for a donut.

Weston dropped the printout to his desk and pulled the lid off his coffee. It was black and not overly strong. McDonald’s might not make very good burgers but he preferred their coffee even if it did mean two stops on the way in, one for coffee and another for donuts. He glanced down at the sparse report while he sipped at the coffee, cursing silently at the old woman who had sued and won a huge settlement from McDonald’s over hot coffee she had spilled in her lap. He liked his coffee hot, but now they had lowered the temperature and by the time he got it to the precinct it was only lukewarm. He traced down the report with one finger.

“No witnesses?”

“Same as usual.” Jimmy agreed.

“No sign of a struggle?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Not so far as we’ve heard. We’ve got uniforms holding down the scene til we get there.”

Weston moved his finger down the page and found the time of the disappearance and stopped there. He dropped his half eaten donut back into the bag. He looked up at his partner.

“Jesus Christ, Jimmy, the woman disappeared at midnight. Why weren’t we called in earlier?”

“Read on. There was a security guard involved who was supposed to have escorted her to her car after she got off. Someone turned in her keys and purse, but the guard didn’t turn up until after one o’clock. They found him in a linen closet diddling one of the housekeepers.

After that, the hospital folks spent an hour reaming his ass out then wasted some more time searching the grounds before they called us.”

Weston turned that over in his mind, feeling his pulse increase. “You think there’s a connection with the guard?”

“Could be. At first he claimed he had escorted her, then finally confessed that he hadn’t.”

“Maybe we’re finally going to get a break.”

“Maybe.”

Weston stared at his partner. Jimmy was new to homicide. He still wore his suits as if he missed his uniform, every now and then feeling about his waist as if still wearing a gun belt rather than carrying his weapon in a shoulder holster. For all that, Weston was beginning to like him. Jimmy tended not to speculate without cause and worked as if he had memorized the procedure manual. His tone of voice hadn’t been very convincing, though.

“You don’t think he was in on it?”

“Doesn’t seem likely, unless her body turns up on the premises. I don’t think it will.”

Weston ran his finger along the next paragraph. “Keys still in the car door. Purse on the ground. No sign of a struggle. I don’t think so either. Shit. Well, maybe something will turn up at the scene.”

“I hope to hell something turns up somewhere. Whoever is doing the snatching must be one smart son of a bitch.”

Weston couldn’t agree more. He had been working the disappearances the last six months, ever since it had been decided that there was probably a serial killer involved and a task force had been formed, with himself as the lead detective. Jimmy had been assigned as his partner shortly afterward, but they had made absolutely no progress so far, other than agreeing that the snatcher’s MO matched most of the disappearances they were working on. It was always the same. A young white woman or a very young Hispanic or Caucasian girl, finding herself momentarily alone, sometimes only for moments, abruptly dropped off the map as if she had fallen into a black hole.

Weston pulled out a new folder and slid the report inside the covers then marked the case number and name of the victim on the outside. He looked up at is partner, still sitting on the edge of his desk. “You ready to go?”

“Let’s do it.”

Weston drained the rest of his coffee and buttoned his jacket over his shoulder holster, dropped his cellular phone into a side pocket then walked over to the uniform manning the desk. He wrote down the Hospital address and phone number where they would be and exited through a side door into the parking lot. Jimmy followed behind, silently, as lost in thought as Weston himself was. There was something about these cases which didn’t ring true, as if a math professor were handing out problems based on the premise that two and two didn’t always add up to four. Sixteen, now seventeen disappearances if this one followed the same pattern, and not a clue one. Not a witness, not a sign of a struggle, not a bit of evidence left on the scene and worst of all, from the standpoint of having something to work with, not a single body had yet to be discovered. The missing women were being treated as homicides simply because there was nothing in most of their backgrounds which even hinted at a cause for deliberately vanishing.

“You want to drive?” Weston asked, as usual. He hated driving in Houston traffic, even the relatively lighter amount that they would encounter going against the morning commuters.

“Sure.”

Weston slid into the passenger seat and began making a list of questions he wanted to ask the security guard when they arrived. Like Jimmy, though, he didn’t think that lead was going to be very productive.

“I guess this one really does rule out robbery,” Jimmy said after he had gotten onto the Eastex Freeway heading north.

“Nothing missing from the purse?”

“Her wallet was still in it. All the ID and credit cards and over a hundred dollars in cash.”

“I guess the fucker must not need money. What’s this; the sixth or seventh one where valuables were left behind?”

“Yup. Like that first one, the teenager that went into the ladies room at the park and never came out. She left her purse behind, too, if you remember.”

“Yeah. Shit. Did you check with the Fibs while I was off yesterday?” The FBI had begun working with them since the formation of the task force.

“Cranston says they haven’t turned up anything. No prints they can’t identify, no hanky panky with boyfriends or husbands, no drugs except the one lady who had a lid of pot hidden in her dresser drawer. They did find her dealer, though.”

“Yeah?” Weston brightened. That was the twenty-year-old secretary with the live-in boyfriend who had last been seen taking a nighttime dip in the pool at her apartment complex.

The boyfriend had an airtight alibi; he had been out of town visiting his parents.

“No joy. She didn’t buy often and on her last contact she told the guy she was quitting; her fellow didn’t like it.”

“They still treating them as kidnaps?”

Jimmy slowed and turned off the freeway at the Kingwood exit before answering. “You know the Fibs. Half what they find out they never share. However, Cranston did let out he thinks it’s a sex slave business or something like that.”

“Crap. Cranston is into profiling too much. Sooner or later we’ll turn up a body.”

Dudley Cranston was the FBI Agent in Charge assigned to the disappearances, having been promoted to that position a couple of months ago after being given two other agents to work under him.

“I don’t know, Wes. These snatches are too clean. Remember the little girl?”

Weston winced. If there was anything about his job that made him sick it was child killers.

Having seen his only daughter die slowly from Leukemia, degenerating from a bright, healthy twelve year old to a pale hairless ghost vomiting sickly from chemotherapy before finally passing away made him rage inside at the perversity of anyone who would murder or even abuse helpless, children with a full life ahead of them. Janie’s illness and subsequent death had even cost him his marriage; Sheila simply hadn’t been able to handle it, somehow blaming him for not finding someway to save the only child she would ever have. She had divorced him soon after the funeral and dropped all contact with him. He didn’t even know where she lived now, whether she was even still in Texas or had pulled up stakes. He suspected that she had probably moved, wanting to get as far away from her memories as possible.

“It makes me sick,” Weston said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He stubbed out his cigarette and cracked the window of the Taurus to let out some smoke. “It’s a goddamn shame when a kid can’t go for a ride on her bicycle without some scumbag snatching her.”

Trisha Alvarez’s bicycle had been found neatly parked on its kick stand not fifty yards from her home in the upscale neighborhood where she lived, just as if she had stopped and gotten off to talk to one of her friends. But no one had come forth who admitted talking to her, though several neighbors had seen her earlier, riding alone. And as usual, there had been no sign of a struggle.

Jimmie glanced at his partner. Weston’s normally friendly face was set in grim lines, making him look, with his short gray-flecked hair and black framed glasses, like a judge about to pass sentence on a particularly malevolent murderer. Jimmy knew from precinct gossip that Weston had lost his daughter to some illness but had yet to hear him make a comment about it. The only sign of the loss he had ever noticed was the rare display of temper when they got the report of a teenagers disappearance. Occasionally he noticed a gentle, faraway look in his eyes when they passed a school just letting out with swarms of kids filling the sidewalks on their way home or clustered in front of the school waiting on parents to pick them up.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you,” Jimmy said.

“It’s all right. I just hope you’re with me when we catch that motherfucker; otherwise he’s liable to get shot resisting arrest.” Weston rolled the window back up as Jimmy turned off Kingwood avenue and into the parking lot of Northpark Hospital. “There’s the scene, over there,” he said unnecessarily. Jimmy was already headed that way and as if that weren’t enough, there was a black and white parked near where yellow crime scene tape surrounded Teresa Smith’s Saturn. The tape included a wide adjoining expanse of parking space, then ran back behind and around the pin oak tree rising above the car from the grassy knoll ten feet beyond.

Two forensic technicians were already present, going over the area with a rather helpless look on their faces in the absence of any significant material to collect. Weston let Jimmy talk to them while he examined the car. It was an ordinary two-year-old Saturn, slightly cluttered with Kleenexes and nursing magazines on the back seat. The keys still dangled from the driver’s door, hanging there as if the nurse had simply forgotten something at work and ran back to retrieve it, forgetting to take the keys with her. He noticed that they had already been checked for prints, as had the interior of the car. He left the car and wandered over to the oak tree, hoping to find footprints of a skulker. The grass was innocently unbent, marred only by morning dew. He eyed the small crowd of onlookers, mostly nurses and housekeeping personnel, remnants of the eleven to seven shift who had hung around, hoping for something interesting to happen. He had no real hope that anyone involved would be on the scene; nevertheless, he scanned the faces, watching for the averted gaze, the rapt stare that might signal a knowledge of what had happened. This guy was so clever he might think he could come back to the scene and laugh at the fruitless efforts of the investigators, like a carnivore returning to its kill, supremely confident that it alone was in control and the curious sniffing of nearby animals was simply a useless exercise, not worthy of concern.

Jimmy broke his scrutiny by coming over, followed by the uniformed policeman from the patrol car. “They haven’t found anything worthwhile.”

“How about the security guard? Do we know where he is?”

“The hospital administrator has him waiting,” the uniform said.

“Thanks,” Weston acknowledged. “Do you know the way?”

“Yes, sir. Go in the back entrance there—” the young patrolman pointed toward the alcoved entryway, “—follow the hall, then take the first right. Is there anything else you need me for?”

“Thanks. You can hang around until they pick up the car, then I guess you’re free to go if the forensic guys say so. I think they will, given the circumstances. Let’s go, Jimmy. There’s nothing else for us here.”

A MIDDLE-AGED woman with black-dyed hair and dressed in a slightly rumpled gray power suit, obviously chosen in a hurry or while she was still too sleepy to notice, guarded an alcove leading to the hospital administrator’s domain. She raised her eyebrows from behind a desk loaded with two phones, a computer terminal and several baskets of papers. Seated across the room from her on a low divan was a balding, middle-aged man wearing a parody of a police uniform. He appeared drawn and nervous, rubbing his hands together as if he were working lotion into his palms. The security guard, Weston knew. He stared at him briefly, causing the man to twitch as if fleas were biting him and he was ashamed to scratch in public.

“May I help you, sir?” The receptionist asked in a neutral voice, as if she had been taking lessons from her computer.

Weston pulled out his badge and displayed it for her. “I’m detective Tamrick and this is detective Thang. We’re here to see the Hospital Administrator.”

The woman looked startled for a moment, then shifted her gaze briefly to the guard before answering. “Oh, of course. I’ll tell him you’re here.” She touched a button on her phone and spoke almost in a whisper, as if conveying information of vast importance. “Mr. Jenkins, the detectives are here.”

A baritone voice came back. “Thank you. Send them in, please.”

The woman looked up from her phone. “You may enter.”

Weston smiled mirthlessly to himself. If the woman knew just how helpless he felt right now, she might have announced their presence in a much less diffident manner.

Jenkins looked more like a burley workman than an administrator. He had heavy jowls and already had loosened his tie with the morning hardly begun. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet confidently and greeted them with a bearing more revealing than his appearance.

Weston introduced himself and Jimmy.

“Have a seat, gentlemen. I’m very glad to see you. This is a horrible circumstance that shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if our nighttime security guard had been attending to business. Needless to say, he will be terminated, effective this morning.”

Weston sat down in one of the over padded chairs in front of Jenkins’ desk. Jimmy used the wide arm of the other to lean his rump against.

“Mr. Jenkins, we’ll get to the guard momentarily. What we need is first, for you to tell us anything at all which you might know or have found out concerning Teresa Smith’s apparent abduction. Then secondly, we would appreciate it if you could provide a list of employees she worked with or who were present during and shortly after her shift and might have been in a position to notice anything unusual. Also, a list of anyone at all you might know of that she associates with away from work would be helpful. And last, if you could, we’d like to have a copy of her personnel record. We’ll have to notify her next of kin.”

Jenkins looked pained. “There’s no need of the last. Her husband is a Medical Technologist.

He already knows.”

“Is he present?”

“I’m afraid not. He came in when someone called him, but he was rather upset. After I spoke to him, he said that he was going home. Teresa’s parents were going to meet him there, I believe.”

“Thanks. We’ll still need the personnel record, though.”

“Certainly. So far as the rest, I know very little. I got a call at home early this morning after it was discovered that Teresa was missing. Since then I’ve done very little other than trying to find out why our security guard failed to escort Teresa to her car. And dealing with the patrolmen and newspaper reporters, of course. Thank God they’ve gone for now.”

Weston winced. Already, the Houston Chronicle was running a series on the missing women. This one would only add gist to the mill and underscore how little the department had going on the case. “Just run through what you’ve done and who you’ve talked to since you came in.”

Jenkins talked readily and at length, leaning back in his chair to do so, but it was obvious that he would be no help with the details. As soon as he began repeating himself, Weston cut him off. “That’s fine, Mr. Jenkins. We appreciate your help. Now, if we may, we’d like to question your guard. Is there somewhere handy we could have some privacy?”

“Certainly. You can use the conference room. While you’re tending to that, I’ll get the rest of the information ready for you.”

“Thank you. Where—?”

“This way. I’ll send Mr. Coleman right in. When you’re finished with him, would you please send him back to my office?”

Jenkins led Weston and Jimmy back through a side door of his office and into the conference room. It contained a large oval table and twelve leather padded chairs. On the paneled walls hung pictures of architectural drawings of the hospital and portraits of various officers of Gulf States Medical Services, the parent corporation of the hospital. A moment later, the guard was ushered inside. He was visibly trembling.

Weston pulled out his badge again. “Mr. Coleman, I’m detective Tamrick and this is detective Thang. With your permission, we’d like to ask you some questions. Is that all right?”

“Yes sir, but I swear, I had nothing to do with it. God help me, if I had known—” The nondescript guard collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

Weston gave him a moment, then spoke. “Mr. Coleman, regulations require me to read you your rights. Please listen.”

The guard looked up with a haunted face as Weston read from the standard Miranda card, speaking slowly and plainly. “Do you fully understand what I’ve said?”

“Oh, yes, sir, but I swear, I didn’t do anything to Miss Smith. God, I liked her. I should never have—” he broke down again.

“Relax, Mr. Coleman. You are not under suspicion. This is purely routine. We’ll be questioning other employees in the same manner. Now if you will, please tell us where you were and what you did from shortly before midnight until the time you learned of Miss Smith’s disappearance.”

Hesitantly, Coleman began talking. “Well, I was in the emergency room right before twelve o’clock. I walked two of the nurses and two of the aides to their cars, then…”

“Can you give us their names?”

“Oh yes, sure. I know them all.” He rattled off the four names then had to repeat them while Weston wrote them in his notebook.

“OK, fine. Now what did you do next?”

“I—I uh, went off with Lilly. She works in housekeeping. See, she wasn’t busy just then and I—”

“Weren’t you supposed to escort Miss Smith to her car as well?”

“Yes, but she wasn’t there. I thought maybe I had missed her or she had went on out by herself.”

“Do you know what kind of car she drives?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s a Saturn.”

“Didn’t you notice whether it was in the parking lot when you walked the other ladies to their cars?”

“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t really looking.”

“There weren’t that many cars in the parking lot were there?”

“Uh, no, not many I guess.”

“How many after the other ladies left?”

Coleman realized he was being caught out. “I guess maybe I did see it, but I still didn’t see Miss Smith. And Lilly—”

“You decided your business with Lilly was more important, is that it?”

Coleman hesitated, then a sudden catharsis bubbled out of him. “Oh, Christ, yes, I guess that’s what I was thinking. I should have waited; I know that I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world. There wasn’t no body around when I took the other ladies out. I thought she would be OK. Look, I swear I was with Lilly the whole time, even if I shouldn’t have been.

Now look what happened.”

Weston caught Jimmy’s eye and let him take over the questioning. Coleman stuck to his story, alternating the narration with abject admonishments against his own behavior.

It became obvious to Weston that the guard probably was telling the truth and that there was nothing more there for them now. After writing down Coleman’s address and phone number and telling him to keep himself available, Weston led the way back into Jenkins’ office.

The administrator was gone but he had left the requested information with his administrative assistant.

It took another three hours to complete the questioning of other employees. Weston grew increasingly frustrated. No one had seen anything; no one had heard anything. Teresa Smith had simply vanished. Finally he decided to give it up, leaving only the nurses and aides Coleman had escorted to their vehicles left to be questioned.

“Let’s go,” Weston said. “We can contact the others this afternoon. You hungry yet?”

“Not especially,” Jimmy said.

“Me either. Let’s get back to the office.”

Back on the freeway, heading south this time, Weston decided that the next day he and Jimmy should go over the case files of all the other missing women and girls once again.

Surely, somewhere, they must be overlooking something.

The Houston Chronicle evidently thought so, too. When they stopped to pick up some coffee at McDonald’s, Weston saw headlines from the newspaper rack glaring at him in bold black print: INVISIBLE MAN STRIKES AGAIN! Police, FBI baffled at lack of clues.

That summed up his feelings exactly.

CHAPTER TWO

« ^ »

THE “INVISIBLE MAN” was the farthest thing from Sandra Woolridge’s mind. For the past several weeks, almost a month now, she had let everything else go while trying to put the finishing touches on her second novel. She was trying very hard to make this second historical romance a little juicier than the last one, taking that advice from her editor, but finding it as difficult as she always did to write believable sex scenes. She knew it had to do with her own inhibitions but there was little she could do about that, not when counselors and psychologists had succeeded only in allaying her fear of intimate sexual contact, not demolishing it. At that, she supposed they had done a reasonable job. She could have sex now without going to pieces but she had yet to find anything exciting about it.

Sandra’s fingers paused on the keyboard of her computer as she tried to find blissful words to describe in more intimate detail her female character’s first sexual experience. Her mind wandered, pulling images of herself as a ten year old being forced into her father’s bedroom while her mother was working. She could practically smell the alcoholic fumes of his breath in the memory and see his pale, naked body moving to cover her own while he mumbled incoherently of his love for her. The abuse went on until she was thirteen, then her mother came home early one day and caught her father in the act. She never saw her father again, and never cared to. But her mother…her mother might have made a difference…if only she hadn’t died so soon after—and so senselessly—shot to death during a convenience store robbery where she had stopped for gas on the way home from work. For several years after that, Sandra remembered feeling as if life were barely worth living. She spent her high school years and the first three semesters at Kingwood Community College in a series of foster homes where she was cared for adequately enough but never felt comfortable and certainly not loved, though she supposed, in retrospect, that it was more her fault than that of her wards. For years, she was scared of forming emotional attachments, not with her foster parents and certainly not with any of the boys or young men at the high school, where her pretty face and slimly curved figure attracted more attention than she was prepared to handle, even after all the counseling.

It was only after she began classes at the community college that she managed to come at least partway out of her shell, accepting some dates and eventually, more out of curiosity than anything else, going to bed with a few of them to see if adult sex was all it was cracked up to be. So far as Sandra was concerned, it wasn’t. She preferred to study and read, concentrating on math and literature before being forced to drop out of school for lack of money.

Employment with an accounting firm gave her the basis for eventually deciding to freelance and try to make it as a writer, something she enjoyed more than anything else. At least she could give her characters a happy ending, something she had so far failed to do for herself.

“Oh, the devil with it. I’ll come back to it later,” Sandra muttered to herself, pushing the memories back down into her subconscious. She punched the save key and got up, brushing her shoulder length blond hair back out of the way. She went into the tiny kitchen of the one bedroom apartment she rented, located just north of the Beltway and a quarter mile from the Eastex Freeway. She rinsed out the coffee pot and filter holder and dumped two spoonfuls of Folgers into the basket. While it dripped, she debated getting dressed. Shrugging, she simply pulled her robe tighter around herself, especially where it half exposed her full breasts, then retied it. There was really nowhere she had to go this morning and not dressing would give her a little more time to work before getting back to the novel.

When the coffee was ready, Sandra poured herself a cup and went back to the computer, where she pulled up some accounting ledgers which had come in the day before. She positioned her calculator in a handy position to her right side in case she needed it and began scanning the first ledger. Her mind drifted as she worked, thoughts playing beneath surface of her attention as she almost automatically went over the accounts. She smiled briefly at the thought that if she had known how hard it was to get started as a novelist and how little one normally made from a book, she might have thought twice before quitting her job for piece work she could do at home when she wasn’t in the mood for writing. Nevertheless, she enjoyed the creative process and it hadn’t been a total loss: her first novel had earned almost two thousand dollars so far, five hundred more than the advance (which had long since been spent).

Two thousand, she thought. Not even enough to pay a year’s rent, and her savings had steadily dwindled over the last two years. If she couldn’t come up with some better descriptive scenes in the second novel the savings were going to vanish completely. Too bad the public seemed to demand that sort of thing now. A novel without a sex scene or two was like a package with insufficient postage; it just didn’t fly. Well, get the accounts out of the way and try again, she decided. Then an idle thought intruded; maybe she should go out and have sex again to see if it would help. However, there was no one she was even interested in at the moment, much less anyone she would consider going to bed with. The hell with it! If this novel didn’t earn any more than the last one, she could always go back to work and write how she pleased in her spare time. Maybe it wouldn’t sell and would take longer, but after all, she thought, I’m only twenty-three; there’s the rest of my life ahead of me.

Sandra finished the accounts and sent them to their respective destinations, along with her invoices, then got up to pour another cup of coffee. She put a piece of bread into the toaster and was leaning against the little bar waiting for it to brown when there came a knock at the door.

Now who could that be? She checked the wrappings of her robe and went to the door. The peephole showed a middle-aged man with short hair and a solemn face with lines running down from his mouth and across his forehead, as if he seldom smiled.

Sandra pulled her robe closer and cracked the door to the length of the chain. “Who is it?”

“Are you Miss Sandra Woolridge?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Ma’am, I’m detective Seevers from the Kingwood precinct. May I come in?” The man displayed his badge for her inspection.

Sandra examined his identification, wondering how she could be expected to tell the real from a fake but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She unlatched the chain and pulled the door open.

Seevers stepped inside. Sandra noticed that his eyes scanned what he could see of her apartment automatically, as if he could no more keep from displaying his professional scrutiny than an actor could refrain from primping before going on stage. She wondered what on earth a detective could want with her. However, he seemed harmless, so far at least.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Seevers? I just made some.”

“Thanks, that would go good.”

“Have a seat, I’ll get it for you.” Sandra indicated the lone seating arrangements in her apartment, a narrow, uncomfortable couch. The detective placed himself on one end of it and waited. Sandra poured coffee for him, then served it black as he requested.

Seevers sipped briefly from the cup then set it on the end table and turned to face her, then spoke. “Miss Woolridge, there’s really no easy way to break news like this, but I have to tell you that your father has just died.”

Sandra stared at him, Very carefully, she set her cup down, trying to think what sort of reaction she was supposed to display. Sorrow? Astonishment? Relief? She didn’t feel any of those. In fact, she felt nothing out of the ordinary other than a brief, momentary surge of guilty pleasure that the thought of his vague presence somewhere in the world would no longer be of concern to her.

“Why did you come to me?” Sandra asked, the first thought that came to mind. “I haven’t had anything to do with him for years.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “And I don’t want anything to do with him now, dead or not.”

The detective seemed to hesitate for a moment before going on. “You were mentioned in a note he left.”

“Note? What kind of note?” Oh God, she thought, please don’t let him have made public those years of abuse, even if it was in the form of an apology. Then the implication of a note impacted. Before she could fully get the thought into her mind, the detective brought it into the open.

Seevers spoke gently, though Sandra thought she could detect an undercurrent of mystery in his voice. “A suicide note, apparently. So far as we’ve been able to determine, he killed himself.”

“He did? How?”

“A gunshot wound to the head.”

If that was his way of atoning for his misdeeds, all Sandra could think of was that he should have done it sooner. She clutched at the lapels of her robe. “What did the note say?”

“He said he couldn’t live with the guilt any more.”

“The guilt?” Oh Lord, Sandra thought, please don’t let it be me he was talking about. She didn’t think she could stand going back over those memories.

“That’s what the note said, and I’m quoting now: ‘They will never see their families again. I can’t live with that.’ ” Seevers waited for a response. When there was none, he went on. “We’ll let you examine the rest of the note before it goes to the evidence room. Maybe you can make some sense of it.” He raised his eyebrows slightly.

Sandra had to take a moment to get her wits together before she answered. She took a deep breath then let her thoughts turn into a verbal epithet. “Mr. Seevers, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I have had nothing to do with my father since I was thirteen. I want nothing to do with him now. Go see some of his other relatives, if you can locate them, and let them handle his death. Understand?”

Seevers regarded her with an enigmatic expression, as though he were discarding some preconceptions he had brought with him. Finally he spoke again. “It’s not quite that easy. You see, he also left a will, naming you as his only beneficiary.”

A memory from several years ago, which Sandra had very nearly managed to completely suppress, came to the surface of her mind, unwanted. She laughed, the sound resembling mirth no more closely than that of a Hyena’s bark. “If he left anything, his fortunes certainly must have improved in the last couple of years. The only contact I’ve had with him since mother kicked him out of the house was over three years ago when he called and asked me for some money. He was drunk and said he was homeless. I hung up on him. Besides, I don’t want anything from him, not ever.”

“You might change your mind when you hear what he left you,” Seevers said.

“I doubt it.”

“In case you didn’t know, he was living in a rather elaborate mansion in the western Kingwood area, built a little over two years ago. The will states that it is completely paid for. He also left checking and savings account records with the will. If the amounts are correct, there seems to be quite a bit of money involved as well.”

Sandra was speechless. She clutched at her robe and stared blankly at Seevers as if he were an actor who had suddenly jumped out of a movie and begun conversing with her. Finally she responded weakly. “I’m finding this whole thing hard to believe. Are you sure you have the right person?”

Seevers crossed his legs and put both hands around his knee. “The identification in his wallet indicates it is. However, we would appreciate it if you would come with me and positively identify the body.” He raised his brows slightly as if the statement had been a question.

“No,” Sandra said immediately. “If you want to know whether it’s really him, take his fingerprints. You must have them on file; he served some time in prison.”

“Do you know what for? Pardon me for asking, but it might be germane to the investigation.”

“Investigation? I thought you said it was a suicide?”

Seevers contemplated his answer while he uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Miss Woolridge, that’s what it looks like, but as you must realize, when a person dies like this, leaving a rather substantial inheritance to someone he was apparently estranged from, we have to look into it.”

Sandra was astounded. “You mean—you actually mean that you think that I—that I might have had something to do with it? That’s ridiculous!”

Seevers’ tone of voice changed. “Miss Woolridge, I don’t think I mentioned that you were involved, did I?”

“Oh—no. But—”

“We’re still investigating. It’s possible that I or someone else from the department will be back to talk to you. From the wording in the note, there’s a chance that he may have been involved in some cases we’re investigating. In the meantime—” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. “Your father left this with his note. He suggested that you call him immediately.” He handed Sandra the card.

She took it and read quickly. It listed the name, address and phone number of one James Phelps, Attorney at Law. Sandra looked back up at Seevers but could think of nothing further to say. Seevers nodded to her and walked to the door, then paused there. “We’ll let you know as soon as the identification is confirmed, if it is. Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, rather ironically, Sandra thought, then stepped outside into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Sandra held the card Seevers had given her, turning it over in her hand again and again.

She thought of the lonely seven hundred dollars left in her savings account and slowly, reluctantly, as a person might approach an unsafely caged wild animal, she walked over to the phone and dialed the number.

WESTON AND Jimmy stopped by the precinct office briefly and found the Lieutenant and most everyone else gone to lunch. Weston checked his desk and found a message there requesting that they report back at 5:30 for a strategy and brainstorming session.

“Sounds like Lieutenant Ward must have gotten some more pressure from the chief,”

Jimmy remarked as he read the note after Weston handed it to him.

“After those headlines in the Chronicle, I would imagine so,” Weston said. “ ‘The Invisible Man’. Shit. I hate reporters.”

“Don’t we all.”

Weston crumpled the note and tossed it into his wastebasket. “Well, let’s hit the road and talk to those nurses and aides. Maybe they noticed something Coleman didn’t.”

“Possible,” Jimmy said, “but if you ask me, I doubt he ever looks two degrees away from the women he escorts out to their cars.”

“Would it help if he did?” Weston said. “Who’s going to notice an invisible man?” He smiled lopsidedly at his partner. “Still, maybe we’ll turn up something. Besides, we have to question them regardless.”

“So we do,” Jimmy agreed, “but let’s stop for something to eat on the way to the first one.

I’m getting hungry.”

“Barbecue?”

“Suits me.”

Jimmy drove, as usual, checking the first address and picking out a place on the way. The barbecue sandwiches were palatable, but not much more than that. Weston was still feeling the effects of his when they made their first stop to interview Wanda Henning, one of the nurses who had worked with Teresa Smith on the night shift. She lived in a residential area in Humble, a city between Kingwood and the northern environs of Houston. She answered after they had rung the doorbell several times, coming to the door in a robe. She was a short, compact woman with dark hair cut mannishly short.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any,” she said sleepily.

Weston displayed his badge and the nurse’s sleepiness quickly disappeared. She invited them inside, and then as soon as Weston revealed their errand, she broke down in tears. He waited patiently until she quit crying, before he went through the routine. Had she noticed anything unusual, or any person she didn’t recognize in the parking lot when leaving the hospital?

“No, it was deserted, like always that time of night.”

“Did Coleman walk you to your car like he said he did?”

“Of course; not that the little bastard is any help. All he’s ever interested in is acting like he’s God’s gift to women. The better looking a woman is, the more he stares at her and tries to walk behind her and get a good view of her ass. If it weren’t hospital policy, I’d tell him to save his time.”

“Has he ever made any overt advances toward you or any of your friends?”

“Damn right, but I cut him down to size right quick and so have all the other nurses on the night shift. The little fucker acts like he’s a hunk and single instead of a balding old bastard past forty. He has a wife and four or five kids.”

Weston made a note to run a background check on Coleman. “What else do you know about him?” Maybe there might be a darker side to the guard after all, he thought.

“Not a thing, other than none of the nurses like him. I hope he gets fired.”

“How about other nights, say when he’s off. Have you ever noticed him hanging around the hospital?”

“No, not ever.” She grinned. “I think he must be henpecked at home, or has a jealous wife, maybe. She meets him after work every payday, so I’ve heard, with the car full of kids.”

“How about anyone else. Have you ever seen anyone you didn’t recognize hanging around the hospital after dark, or when you get off?”

“Not that I remember. You have to understand, though, that there are always patients, and relatives of patients around an emergency room. I have to say, though, the ones here seem to be a better class than others I’ve seen, especially when I worked at John Sealy.”

“That’s the hospital in Galveston?”

“Yes. I took my training there.”

“Do you remember whether any of your friends or co-workers have mentioned any odd characters on the premises at any time.”

“No.”

“All right, how about Teresa Smith. Did you know her well?”

“Fairly well. She has a gem of a husband. He works in the lab on the day shift.”

“Isn’t that a little unusual, them working opposite shifts?”

“Not when they have three kids under six to take care. One of them needs to be home all the time.”

Weston grimaced to himself. They had yet to question Mr. Smith, but it appeared that he would quickly be eliminated as a suspect.

“Do you know any of Mrs. Smith’s friends?” Jimmy asked.

“No, we don’t socialize with them.”

“We?”

“My partner and I.”

A husky female voice came from one of the back bedrooms. “Honey, who’s here? If it’s Ken, tell him to go away.”

“Oh,” Jimmy said.

Weston smiled to himself. He produced one of his cards and handed it to the woman.

“Please call me if you think of anything at all that might relate to Mrs. Smith’s disappearance, no matter how inconsequential it may seem.”

“I will. Teresa was a good friend. She never gave us any hassle.”

Weston and Jimmy walked back outside. As the door closed behind them, he heard the sleepy voice calling out again.

“About like we figured,” Weston remarked as he opened the passenger side door of their Taurus.

“Except for her partner,” Jimmy said.

Weston shrugged. “I can’t see where it matters. Where next?”

Jimmy consulted his map and drove off, back toward the city.

The other nurse and the two aides were no more help than Wanda Henning, though not voicing quite so much belligerence towards Coleman.

“Still invisible,” Jimmy said after they finished with the last aide.

“Except maybe for Coleman,” Weston said.

“He seemed awfully sincere,” Jimmy countered.

“So did Bundy,” Weston said. He checked his watch. “Let’s leave Mr. Smith until in the morning. It’s about time to head on back.”

WESTON WAS surprised when they entered the precinct room. Cranston and his two cohorts were there, evidently having been invited to the strategy meeting. The Lieutenant must really be getting some pressure for him to have brought them here for the conference. The FBI agents were standing in a little group, the three of them together talking in low voices. Weston ignored them. He didn’t particularly care for Cranston, having observed that he tended toward unorthodox theories such as the sex slave business he had mentioned as a possible scenario, even though he had to admit that any theory at this point was more than he or Jimmy had come up with. Whoever the perp was, he wasn’t playing by the usual rules. Without thinking, Weston pulled out an almost empty package of Winstons and lit up, momentarily forgetting the no smoking rule in city buildings.

Ward stuck his head and shoulders out of his office door. “All right people, let’s get started.

And Weston, put out that goddamned cigarette. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I forgot.” Ward looked at him disbelievingly as he stubbed the cigarette out against the side of a wastebasket.

CHAPTER THREE

« ^ »

LIEUTENANT WARD had folding chairs brought into his office, crowding it to the point that it was almost impossible to move once they were all seated. The bulletin board had been detached from its wall stand and moved into his office and hung on the wall behind his desk.

A pile of folders sat on the desk in front of him which he tapped nervously with a forefinger until everyone was seated. He scanned the room to be sure no one was missing then ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair, rumpling long strands of it into disarray.

“OK, people, here’s the situation. The chief is getting all kinds of pressure from the mayor to get this thing solved. In case you’re not aware, there’s an election coming up soon and Kingwood is still contesting their annexation. If we can wrap this up quick, word is they might drop their suit. That would help the mayor carry Kingwood and get another term. Also—”

“Politics,” Weston heard someone murmur.

Ward clamped down quickly. “Goddamit, of course it’s politics. There’s politics to every goddamned thing we do. Now shut up about it. We’ve got a situation, not a theory. Like I was saying, the chief is bursting at the bit, too. He’s looking for a seat on the city council when he retires but it isn’t likely he’ll even be nominated unless we solve this thing before he puts in his papers.”

Lieutenant Ward stared angrily around the room then glanced down at some notes he had made. “OK, let’s move on. Reports first. Tamrick, you and Thang were doing the legwork on Smith’s friends and that goddamned security guard today. What did you turn up?”

Weston spread his hands. “Nothing, Lieutenant, other than we found out that Coleman, the security guard, is kind of a sleazeball. I’ve got a note here to run a background check on him, but haven’t had time yet.”

Ward’s mouth thinned with exasperation. He punched his phone and got the desk sergeant on the line. “Browning, put this name on the line. It’s uh—” He covered the mouthpiece with one hand and asked, “What’s his first name?”

Weston consulted his notebook to be certain he had it right. “Robert Coleman. No middle initial.”

“—Robert Coleman, NMI. Do it now and call me back.” Ward then pointed to Cranston, the FBI agent in charge. “Next. Mr. Cranston has a profile for us from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico.”

Cranston stood up to deliver his report. “We don’t have all that much to go on, but here’s the profile of suspects we think we should be looking for. First, the guy must be extremely intelligent, a very good planner who never gets excited. He sets his grabs up in advance then executes them only when he knows that there is absolutely no chance of getting caught.

There’s never a trace of evidence, so we think that indicates a former or present law enforcement officer. If there has been struggles or violence at the scenes, he knows exactly how to eliminate the traces. He must be a big man to have taken every one of the women into his custody without anyone ever hearing a scream or shout. Possibly he drugs them with a shot first thing then carries them to whatever vehicle he’s using. We don’t think he lives in the area of the abductions; any other upscale part of Houston would be a better bet. We think he comes here searching for high-class blond women. He’s probably single, probably with a reputation as a playboy who brings different girlfriends home with him fairly frequently, giving him a cover.

We doubt that he’s killed any of them, otherwise a body or two would have surely turned up by now. There’s a world market for blondes in the Arabic countries, also in Japan and China.

Possibly he’s the first step in a pipeline supplying women to some or all of those areas, probably using them himself first. He will be in the mid-thirties up to possibly fifty years old, probably handsome, almost certainly Caucasian. He will probably have blond or light colored hair. He will be well educated but have been a loner in college, preferring to use prostitutes for his sexual gratification rather than doing much dating. He will have come from a broken home and almost certainly have lived with his mother. We doubt that he will have any kind of a record. He will have or has had a job of some kind which entailed travel overseas to the areas mentioned, most likely in the petroleum industry considering he lives in this locale. The most likely scenario for apprehending him will be to examine characters meeting this profile who reside in high scale neighborhoods then narrow them down to the most likely suspects and keep a tail on them.” Cranston looked up from the paper he had been reading from and scanned the room triumphantly, looking as if he expected a barrage of questions. No one spoke. He stood for a moment then sat down, somewhat sullenly.

Weston wondered where in hell the FBI had gotten Cranston from and further, where he had actually gotten the profile from the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit or simply made it up or pulled it from the bottom of his hat. He didn’t believe that anyone could have possibly deduced that many characteristics from such a paucity of evidence. Strangely, he didn’t remember feeling so strongly that the man was an idiot when he had first been assigned to the case. It was only recently that he had changed his opinion.

Lieutenant Ward didn’t look overly pleased with Cranston either, but he waited politely for a moment then pointed to another man. “All right. Sergeant Slocum. Analysis, please.”

Slocum was the detective who, a few days previously, had been pulled from undercover work and made responsible for coordinating and researching the various cases for connecting threads or phenomena common to all or several of the disappearances. He stood up and edged past knees and elbows around behind the Lieutenant’s desk, and stepped to one side of the bulletin board. He held a notebook in his hand. He coughed nervously, and began reading from it.

“First thing, you can see from the map that the location of the cases form sort of a bean-shaped oval, with the top and bottom running north to south. If we was to draw a circle, like to complete the oval, that would put the center somewhere in the middle west of Kingwood—”

“That doesn’t look much like an oval to me,” Ward interrupted.

“You have to sort of extrapolate,” Slocum apologized. “Anyway, that’s what I’m seeing.”

Weston looked at the map. Being very generous, he could see that Slocum might possibly have something. However, the way the red circles on the map were scattered, even if they were a portion of a circular area, that would still leave a center of several square miles.

“OK, OK, move on,” Ward said.

“We ain’t—we haven’t seen any pattern so far as the Invisi—the perp moving from north to south or vice versa when he comes out to play. It jumps back and forth, but you got to admit there ain’t—there hasn’t been any snatches—abductions from the West part of Kingwood yet.

“Anyway, the first one took place over two years ago, the last one this morning—that is, if we decide it fits the pattern.”

“It does,” Jimmy said, drawing a look of appreciation from Slocum.

“OK, next, all the missing broads—women, that is, have been young, oldest 25, youngest the Alvarez kid, thirteen. Also, all of the older ones have been blondes. The missing kids—girls—we’re including are all Caucasian or Hispanic, hair color ranging from black to brown to blond.

“We don’t think the kids fit with the rest of them,” Cranston said. “Too young. This guy is after adults.”

“The MO’s are all the same,” Slocum said diffidently.

“What MO? We haven’t got a goddamned MO unless you count the fact that he never leaves a goddamned shred of evidence.”

“Which brings us to forensics,” Slocum said. “Bascomb—” He nodded to the chief forensic specialist who had been asked to sit in at he meeting. “—Bascomb says they haven’t turned up nothing—anything. No prints. No blood. No signs of struggle or resistance. No fibers, hair or car tracks or footprints. Nothing left at the scene except in some cases a purse or car keys, with ID and money, so far as we’ve been able to find out, all intact. It’s like a goddamned ghost is doing the snatching.”

Rob Bascomb folded his arms in front of his chest in a protective gesture before he spoke up. “How can we do our jobs without a body? You guys give me a corpse and I’ll give you some forensics.”

“There won’t be any bodies,” Cranston said. “I tell you, these women are being carried off live and they’re still alive. If that goddamned invisible man was doing them in, we’d have turned up a corpse by now.”

“If he’s as slick at disposing of bodies as he is at snatching them, we wouldn’t find them,”

Weston said.

“He isn’t—”

“Thank you Mr. Cranston. And Tamrick. Move on, Slocum,” Ward said.

Slocum coughed self-consciously, then continued. “The fact that we’ve found purses with money left at the scenes seems to rule out robbery as a motive, that is unless the perp got hurried in them—those cases.”

“How about the others?” Someone asked. “Were they carrying purses?”

“We’ve determined that at least three of the others were, and one of the remaining one, the jogger, usually carried a wallet in her sweats. We don’t know about the last one, the lady what—which went out her front door on a Saturday morning and never came back. She wasn’t going anywhere according to her room mate, at least to her knowledge, but she might have been.”

“Let’s say it’s not robbery, at least as a primary motive,” Ward agreed. “What’s next?”

Slocum coughed again and referred to his notebook. “The Fibs—”. This drew a dirty look from Cranston and a grin concealed from their boss by the other two agents. “Uh, the FBI and us too, has—have run checks on all the known sex offenders in the area. Nothing here fits their MO.”

“We don’t have a goddamned MO,” Cranston repeated, looking around the room to see if he could spot anyone who disagreed.

Weston took the plunge. “With all due respect, Mr. Cranston, I believe we do have a MO.

The perp makes clean snatches, cleaner than I’ve ever heard about anywhere. He doesn’t leave any evidence. He isn’t interested in money, we think. He’s staying in the same area, though he does move around a bit. He’s not a taunter; we’ve never heard a word from anyone bragging or sending notes to reporters. He snatches only blondes if we make an exception for the young girls. And last, he doesn’t follow the normal sequence of the usual serial killer in that he hasn’t speeded up the killings.”

Cranston gave Weston a disgusted rebuttal. “That’s not a MO. That’s the total lack of one.”

“Negatives form a pattern just as surely as positives do,” Weston said mildly.

“So what do you think? We should question every scumbag in Houston who doesn’t have an MO?”

“Of course not. What I’m saying is that I think we should start looking outside the boundaries of what we’re used to seeing in cases like these. Hell, maybe it’s a gang of three or four men operating together where they intimidate the women so badly they don’t put up any resistance at all. Maybe it’s someone disguised as a policeman, perhaps even driving a patrol car he keeps hid most of the time. Maybe he shoots them with a tranquilizer dart after watching them with binoculars to be sure they’re alone. Crap, maybe it’s not a man at all. How about if it’s a woman? That would have kept any of them from getting suspicious until it was too late.”

“Women aren’t serial killers,” Cranston said loudly.

“I thought you said they weren’t being killed?”

“Goddamnit, you guys are the ones going in that direction. Besides, all those ideas are crazier than Jews migrating to the Vatican.” Cranston immediately realized he had let his temper drive him to political incorrectness. His gaze shifted surreptitiously around the room looking for expressions on faces of anyone he might have offended.

“They’re no crazier than the newspaper’s Invisible Man,” Weston said with some heat.

Lieutenant Ward broke it up. “Thank you, Tamrick. Slocum, what else do you have—no, wait a minute.” The printer on Ward’s desk revved up and presented a sheet of paper. Ward picked it up, scanned it briefly then said, “Coleman is clean. Nothing but a speeding ticket and that was five years ago. There was a background run on him three years ago but no ID on the agency doing the scan. Probably some clerk forgot to enter it. OK, Slocum, you can go on now.”

“Just one more item,” Slocum said. “We checked our records going back several years for other unexplained disappearances. There’s three others we might could add, all young girls, thirteen or less, all from Kingwood.” He paused to grin nervously at the federal agents. “We chalked them up to runaways at the time, but on looking back, maybe they weren’t.” He referred to his notebook and read them off. “All three disappeared without a trace. Two were blondes, had good family backgrounds, no apparent reason to leave. The other was a Vietnamese, tops in her class, no record of trouble with her family that we know of. They were classed as runaways because of lack of any evidence to the contrary; no leads, no forensics, no signs of a struggle. No bodies ever recovered.”

“Hell, they probably were runaways,” Cranston said. “Especially the Viet kid. In that length of time we would have turned up at least one body if they had been killed.”

“We haven’t turned up any others, either,” Jimmy reminded him.

“That’s what I’m saying. No bodies, no killer. These are kidnappings.”

Weston and Jimmy turned to each other at the same time. Weston shrugged minusculy but Jimmy suddenly appeared to have had an aberrant thought. His eyes narrowed, then closed.

He rubbed his chin, then looked over towards Lieutenant Ward. He appeared to be about to speak, then closed his half-parted lips.

Weston became immediately alert. Jimmy never liked to come out with an opinion unless he was reasonably certain that it was pertinent to the subject under discussion.

Weston leaned against him and nudged him with an elbow. “You thought of something, Jimmy?” He questioned in a whisper.

“Maybe,” Jimmy whispered back, “but—”

“Would you gentlemen mind sharing your thoughts with the rest of us?” Ward asked sarcastically.

“Lieutenant, I just had a thought but I’m not sure—”

“Out with it, Thang,” Ward demanded. “This is a brain-storming session, not a private meeting.”

Jimmy’s face turned a slightly darker shade of brown which Weston interpreted as a blush.

He shrugged, as if to himself, and spoke. “I just remembered a case about three years ago. We were working on drugs and had one of the higher level dealers tapped. We got the word that he was getting ready to move a big load of cash out of the country and decided to move in on him. It was near one of the tenements north of here in a small warehouse. We tailed him there, then blocked off all the exits. As soon as the courier arrived and went inside with the money—it must have been a hell of a lot because he was carrying a fucking duffel bag—we broke in with stun bombs. Once inside, we got the courier, but the dealer had vanished, along with the money. We never did figure out how he escaped. Damn it, we had every exit and entrance covered and afterwards we tore the fucking place apart looking for hiding places.”

Jimmy paused, then continued. “We never found a goddamned thing, even after we brought dogs in. The guy and the money just vanished into thin air—like these women have been doing. Even after we put word out on the street and gave out a whole hell of a lot of money looking for a lead, we never heard a thing about him again. Never.” Jimmy shrugged again, as if disclaiming responsibility for what anyone might think of the story.

Before Lieutenant Ward got a chance to speak, Cranston popped in. “Come on, guy! What the hell was that all about? We’re working on kidnappings, not drug cases.”

“Thang?” Ward nodded at him.

Jimmy looked around the room, finally bringing his gaze back to Weston. He smiled briefly at his partner then slumped a little lower in his chair. “It’s like Wes said; if we want to get anywhere on this case, we ought to start considering anything at all we can come up with. The women are disappearing without a trace; the dealer and the money did the same thing.” He crossed his arms and waited for comment.

Cranston shook his head as if he were being bothered by a pesky fly. Ward ran his fingers through his hair, causing strands of it to fall toward his ears. Weston punched his partner on the shoulder, a friendly tap of support. So far as he was concerned, Jimmy’s story had at least a chance of being related to the missing women.

Ward made up his mind. “Slocum, when we’re finished here, pull that file and go over it.

See if there were any women involved, even peripherally. We can’t afford to overlook anything. Anyone else have any ideas?”

Another detective coughed. Weston looked over in his direction and saw Bobby Seevers getting ready to speak. Ward pointed a finer at him. “Go ahead Seevers. You think you have something?”

“I doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible. What Jimmy just told us made me decide to mention it. I caught the case this morning of the suicide over in West Kingwood on Briarwood Creek road. A guy by the name of Terry Woolridge. An ex-con, went up on a child molestation charge but he’s been clean since. Three years ago he didn’t have a pot to piss in. Now we find out he owned a fucking mansion and had a half million dollars in the bank when he cashed himself in. He left a note saying he couldn’t live with himself because they would never see their families again.”

Ward rose halfway out of his chair. “You mean he confessed to killing all these women?

Why haven’t you—”

“No, no, Lieutenant, it wasn’t like that. The note didn’t say he done any of them. In fact, he wrote he hadn’t killed anyone, and he didn’t mention whether it was women or men anyway.

Besides, he was such a dumb scumbag, and a drunk to boot, that I can’t see him masquerading as the Invisible Man.”

Weston was suddenly alert. “You did say he was a child molester, though?”

“Oh, yeah. In fact, he went up for doing his own daughter.”

“And we have several missing little girls after he came into his money. And all in the same area—or near enough—to where he lived. And this is after Jimmy says all that drug money vanished. Goddamn! I want to go see his place and talk to his neighbors.”

“You guys are fucking crazy,” Cranston said. “If there’s a connection there, I sure can’t see it. What do you think; he’s burying the kids there? Hell, if he had that much money, why didn’t he just fly to Thailand when he wanted some young pussy? Or hell, buy it right here in Houston? Besides, what’s his name there just said he was too dumb to cover up a snatch.”

“He wasn’t too dumb to rake in a half million dollars from somewhere, not to mention a high range estate. I want to check that place out.”

“You may have to check with his daughter first. He left a will giving everything to her,”

Seevers said.

“Is that the same one he took his fall for?”

Seevers shrugged. “I really haven’t gotten that far on the case.”

“You said he left everything to his daughter. Are you certain it was a suicide?”

Seevers shook his head. “Not certain, since the forensics haven’t come back yet, but all the signs point to it. I think you’re going overboard too soon, though. I still say he was too dumb to pull the stunts we’ve been seeing. And remember, he never specifically mentioned women.”

Lieutenant Ward stopped the discussion. “It’s worth looking into. Tamrick, why don’t you and Thang go over there tomorrow and see what you turn up, if anything.”

Weston was agreeable, but suddenly remembered that he and Jimmy still had unfinished business with the case from the night before. “We still have some leads to question in the Smith case,” He said.

“Give them to Thang, then. Report back to me tomorrow.”

“I’ll do that,” Weston agreed, thinking to himself that perhaps Seevers had misread the background on Terry Woolridge. It was a better lead than anything discovered so far anyway, tentative as it might be.

While this discussion had been going on, Slocum had quietly left the room. Now he returned, and began examining the map.

“Lieutenant?”

Ward turned around.

“I thought I remembered right, and I did. Briarwood Creek is right in the center of my circle. And that’s not all.”

“What else?”

“The missing kids. They all disappeared less than a half mile from Briarwood circle.”

Now Weston was beginning to get excited. At last something was beginning to make sense.

Or at least he hoped it was.

The meeting broke up a half hour later with nothing else accomplished. Before heading back to his home for some much needed rest, Weston paused on the sidewalk in front of the precinct station to talk privately to Jimmy for a few moments.

“Some profile Cranston came up with, huh?” Weston remarked, the tone of his voice inviting comment.

Jimmy was ready to talk and had no reticence about voicing his opinion this time. “What the hell is it with that fucking Cranston character? It’s like he’s having a personality crisis or something.”

“I was wondering if you were thinking the same thing I was,” Weston said.

“If you mean he’s turned into a total jackass the last few weeks, you’re right. That profile he read off stinks worse than cat piss. Hell, I even saw his own men looking like they wanted to go hide under a rock while he was talking.”

“Yeah, I noticed, too,” Weston said. “But you know, I don’t remember him being like that when we first met him, do you?”

“Now that you mention it, no. At least, no more so than any other Fib anyway. I wonder what changed him?”

Weston ran back over the time since Cranston had been assigned to the case. Upon first meeting the man, he remembered him as somewhat overbearing, tending to discount any opinion other than his own but he hadn’t been all that bad. He had seemed fairly competent, dutifully studying every aspect of each disappearance then methodically, if somewhat unimaginatively, going over his interpretation of such facts as were apparent.

Jimmy interrupted his musing. “Maybe he got some sort of different orders from Washington those two days he was gone.”

Weston remembered then. Cranston had mysteriously disappeared for almost two days, and upon his return claimed he had been called back to Washington for consultation with the director. He ran over Cranston’s behavior before and since, trying to be objective and not read his own dislike of the man into his disagreement with the way he had suddenly begun looking at the case, as if he were purposely trying to mix facts and fancy in a manner designed to obfuscate rather than investigate.

“What do you think?” Jimmy prodded.

“I think I’d like to talk to those other two agents if I could be sure they wouldn’t repeat what I said to Cranston.”

“I doubt that would work. Fibs always stick together,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah. I guess that’s not a very good idea. Sure as hell, he’d hear about it, and then if he ever did learn anything useful we’d never know about it. The hell with it. Maybe I’ll turn up something tomorrow with that suicide.”

“I think I’ll ask the lieutenant to let me have another look at the file on that drug case when he’s finished with it. I never have stopped thinking about it. It was damned weird.”

Weston agreed, but he thought it unlikely that Jimmy would discover anything new there.

Nevertheless, he said, “Go ahead. It can’t hurt.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get out of here and get some sleep. I’ll check with you tomorrow afternoon.”

“OK, Wes. Good luck.”

“You too, Jimmy.”

CHAPTER FOUR

« ^ »

SANDRA PAUSED on the sidewalk in front of the law office of James Phelps. It was located just off the Eastex Freeway adjacent to a small shopping center, too small to be called a mall.

The building was a one-story brick affair which appeared to have been newly renovated and landscaped sometime in the recent past. The grass had been freshly mowed and a sprinkling system was busily adding moisture to grass already wet from a shower during the night. She skipped around wet spots on the sidewalk and stopped at the entrance in order to dowse her cigarette before entering, annoyed at the requirement and thinking that being able to smoke whenever the hell she wanted to was one of the best things about working at home.

Inside, she walked through a short hallway with doors to restrooms on either side, complete with matching water fountains. The hallway opened up into the receptionist’s area of the office where a young, dark haired woman wearing too much makeup was sitting at a desk guarded by an ornamental railing. She sat with her legs crossed, busily filing her nails.

“Good morning,” Sandra said when the receptionist failed to acknowledge her presence.

The young lady looked up then. She flicked her eyes over Sandra, observed that she was dressed informally in gray slacks and beige blouse with an off white windbreaker hanging open and decided that she was no competition despite her neat figure. “May we help you?”

“I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Phelps,” Sandra said The brunette shifted her gaze to a clock occupying a center spot on one wall. “Oh, yes.

Mr. Phelps is expecting you.” She pointed to a doorway outside the rail. “Go on in.”

Sandra did so, leaving her to the important business of grooming her nails.

Phelps glanced toward the door as it opened, spoke a few more words into the phone he was holding to his ear then deposited it back on the receiver. “Miss Woolridge?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

Phelps got to his feet and came around his desk to shake hands. He was dressed almost as casually as Sandra, in a bright sports jacket over a pale yellow shirt open at the collar. His hand was cold and slightly clammy. “Pleased to meet you Miss Woolridge. I was very sorry to hear of your father’s death.”

“Thank you,” Sandra said, deciding not to let on that she couldn’t have cared less that her father was dead.

“I’m sorry, too, for the, umm, spectacle it caused.”

“Spectacle?”

“Oh, sorry. I thought perhaps the police had informed you. He shot himself in the front yard, just as a patrol car was passing by. Most unusual, but then one never knows, does one?”

“No. I understand that he left a will.”

“Yes, of course. You will be inheriting a rather substantial amount of money as well as your father’s house. Of course it will have to go through probate first.”

“How long will that take?”

Phelps had re-seated himself. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “It depends on how busy the probate court is. If you would allow me to handle it, perhaps I could expedite the proceedings. I’ve been handling your father’s affairs for some time now and that could make a difference.”

Sandra hesitated. For some reason she couldn’t understand, she didn’t care for the casually dressed lawyer. However, if he could hurry things along, perhaps it would be best to let him do so. The quicker she could get it settled, the quicker she could get her mind off her father, a subject which was reviving painful memories. However—“What kind of fee are we talking about?”

Phelps smiled, his full lips parting slowly, as if arranging his thoughts behind the smile.

“Put your mind at ease. Your father was a very good friend of mine. It shouldn’t run over a few hundred dollars, just expense money so to speak.”

Sandra didn’t tell Phelps that being a friend of her father was the worst possible recommendation he could have voiced. “May I think about it and get back to you?”

Phelps’ lips closed abruptly, like a fish which had just missed the worm. “Yes, of course, but like I said, I think I could expedite the probate for you. There’s also the matter of the house. Just before your father sh—died, he had received a rather lucrative offer for it from a development company. I have the paperwork here, all drawn up. It wouldn’t take much to simply change the names, and the title transfer to you should go through quickly. Again, if I may say so, having all your father’s papers here I could take care of the sale for you much more quickly than if you started from scratch.”

Sandra wondered what his hurry was. It was as if Phelps was also wanting to get her father’s death and postmortem affairs settled as quickly as possible, though obviously for different reasons, what ever they were. She felt as if she were being pressured and decided to push back a little, just to see what his reaction would be.

“Suppose I decide that I would rather keep the house?”

Phelps smiled again, but only with his lips. “Oh, well, I suppose you could, but honestly Miss Woolridge, I doubt that you would be happy with it. Not only is it much too large for a single person—you are single, aren’t you?” When Sandra nodded, he went on. “As I said, not only is it a very large place, but the location is less than desirable, especially for a young, single woman.”

Sandra hated to be patronized but let it go. “Then why has there been so much money offered for it?”

Phelps waved a hand in the air. “Oh, well, I believe that the tender came from a firm representing a development company, probably intending to use it as a basis for renovating the neighborhood. If you stayed there and such came to pass, you would almost certainly be bothered by several years of construction in the area. And if not, as I said, it is not a good location, not a good location at all.” He shook his head solemnly, like an undertaker catching his helper placing wilted flowers on a casket.

“I think I’d like to see the place before making up my mind,” Sandra said. She was curious now. Shakespeare’s old paraphrased quote popped into her mind. Me thinketh he doth protest too much!

Phelps acted as if a miscreant child had just snatched a toy from his playmate and he was reluctantly being forced to intervene. He searched reluctantly in one of his desk drawers and eventually pulled out a set of keys. “All right, Miss Woolridge, if you insist. Luckily, I don’t have any appointments this morning so I’ll be able to accompany you.” He got to his feet.

Sandra’s dislike for the attorney was growing by the minute. She rose and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Phelps, but I think I prefer to go by myself.”

Phelps retained the keys, letting them dangle from his fingers like a prize he intended to make her work for. “I really think I should go with you, Miss Woolridge. Remember, the—incident, I guess we can call it, is still being investigated. You might not be able to enter the house at all just yet.”

“If I couldn’t, then you wouldn’t be able to either, would you?”

Phelps’ cheeks grew a red color and a bright red splotch appeared between the open lapels of his shirt.

Sandra continued holding out her hand. “Give me the keys, please.”

Reluctantly, he handed them over.

“Thank you,” Sandra said, forcing herself to be polite.

“You’re welcome. Please return them when you’re finished.”

Sandra had begun to turn away, but the remark stopped her. “Why should I? Doesn’t the house belong to me now?”

“There’s still the matter of probate. And of course, should the prospective purchaser need to examine the property again, I will need to be able to let them in.”

“Tell the prospective purchaser that for the time being, the property has been taken off the market.” Sandra walked hurriedly out of the office, clutching the house keys. For some reason, Phelps suddenly reminded her of what she remembered of her father and her reaction had been to distance herself immediately. By the time she got back to her old Camry and got out of the parking lot she had calmed down somewhat. Yet her last remark hung in her consciousness like a flashing neon sign. Damned if she intended to let her father’s oily lawyer pressure her into anything. Maybe she would take it off the market!

Sandra began to see what Phelps had meant about the house being located in an undesirable area as she got closer to the address detective Seevers had written on the back of the card he had given her. She passed from the freeway onto an undivided two lane road banked on both sides by old tract houses with tiny yards, jammed together in rigid grids like boxes in a low-ceilinged warehouse. From there it only got worse. The road, though still paved, degenerated into a narrow lane marked by old mobile homes with untended yards, interspersed with wooden framed houses with peeling paint. She passed an outdated sign which stated that she was leaving the city limits of Kingwood then the narrow road suddenly broadened for a short stretch. On one side of the wider part of the road an oversized mailbox was supported by a waist high structure of gray brick. She slowed the Camry, holding the wheel tighter to prevent the car from sluing to the side; the front end was out of line and she hadn’t been able to afford to have it repaired.

Sandra checked the number on the mailbox to be sure it was right then turned into the short driveway and the vista of an expansive, two story home sided with the same gray brick as supported the mailbox came into sight. The house was flanked on one side by an overgrown field and on the other by an old frame buildings which appeared to be deserted, or if not, had been subjected to complete neglect for several years. The yard, in contrast to her father’s home, was completely unkempt. Sometime in the recent past hedges had been planted on either side of the—there was no other word for it—mansion, an apparent attempt to block from view the unkempt structures on either side of it. She parked in the driveway circle and looked back after she had gotten out of her car. Sure enough, the road was still visible, and the driveway was short enough for a passing patrol car to have seen her father’s last exhibitionist act. She wondered idly if he had timed it that way or whether it had been simply a fortuitous occurrence. But then, she told herself, that didn’t make a bit of difference; the world was well shut of him in either case.

Sandra was so occupied with examining her surroundings that it took a moment for the incongruity of another car and a big pickup parked in the circle to catch her attention. She started for a second, wondering if a thief, knowing or having heard that her father was dead, was already trying to rob the place. Then she realized that the vehicles probably belonged to her father, though why he should have been driving an old sedan rather than a Cadillac or Lincoln with all the money he had apparently accumulated seemed rather strange. He had been a strange man, though.

Contrary to Phelps’ declaration, Sandra had no problem entering the house. The only barrier was a sign tacked to the door declaring that a police investigation was under way. She ignored the sign and inserted her key in the lock then noticed just in time that the house was guarded by a security system, evident from the little electronic box with raised numbers set into the brick facing by the door. She wondered whether the police had re-activated the security system, then decided that they would have had no way of knowing the code. She turned the key, still half expecting an alarm to begin ringing.

The key turned with a snapping noise. Sandra twisted the knob and felt her fingers slip over the metal without effect. Bewildered, she turned the key the other way. She heard the snap again, then realized that the door had been unlocked all along. Careless policemen, she thought. Or perhaps they simply hadn’t been able to find another set of keys and were relying on their sign to keep intruders out of the place. She pushed open the door.

Lights were on inside. More carelessness, she thought. Either that or they had been left on deliberately by the police to give a semblance of occupancy at night. She walked through the entrance alcove and was greeted by the sight of a massive living room dominated by a huge fireplace. Chairs, couches and end tables were scattered around in an aimless pattern which struck her immediately with the thought that her father must have been living alone; the arrangement was nothing which would have appealed to a woman.

Three arched exits led from the huge front room. She chose one at random and walked slowly down a hallway, opening a series of doors at random. Some rooms were furnished, others bereft of furniture, lacking even drapes. She found two large bedrooms after she turned a corner, one furnished and containing signs of having been used, the other with a queen sized bed and not much else. Turning the second corner, she opened two more doors leading to empty rooms then found herself back in the front living room.

Sandra paused there to examine it more closely than she had when she first entered. It looked lived in, but just barely. She wondered what on earth her father had wanted with such a huge home. She didn’t care how he had obtained it, but her memories of him and this place somehow didn’t fit together. She thought that if he had won a lottery or something like that, (the only way she could conceive of him having come into such wealth) he would have been more likely to move into a luxury apartment somewhere in Houston, where the action was, rather than isolate himself in a half-empty mansion in a derelict neighborhood. On the other hand, perhaps he wanted to stay close to his roots, and this section of the suburbs of Kingwood certainly must contain the kind of associates he was used to. She entered another of the open arches, wondering what she would find on this round.

Somewhere above her, Sandra thought she heard a door close, then the faint sound of footsteps. Startled, she stopped and listened. She could hear nothing. If someone had been walking around upstairs, they weren’t now. Either that or they had left an area of hardwood floors such as the front alcove had contained and were now on a carpeted surface. Suddenly the house became a massive presence, surrounding her with a hollow silence like that of an empty forest. She hesitated, then decided that the noises must have been the air conditioning unit coming on or going off. She stepped through the archway into another hallway.

This one was wider than the other and straight. She followed it, again opening doors, all of which were located on the same side of the hall. These rooms were smaller and appeared to have been designed as closets or store rooms rather than living areas but then at the other end of the hall she again encountered a massive living room.

Sandra stopped and tried to orient herself. Obviously, there was much more to the house than what she had been able to see from the front of it. Noticing three similar arched exits from this room, and going back over her previous explorations, she decided that the house must be built like an oversized duplex, but with the second section having been built behind the first rather than them being side by side. She decided to find out, remembering that the circular drive had paved extensions running to either side of the house and disappearing behind it. She stepped under one of the arches and was just about to proceed down the identical hall when she heard more noises. She stopped and listened. There was no mistake this time. Footsteps, coming nearer, muffled by the deep carpets covering most of the house. But they were not coming from the second story where she had thought she had heard them the first time but from in front of her, from the still unexplored back of the house!

Sandra held her body rigidly, wondering whether to run. She thought of the car she had seen parked outside, not the type of vehicle which went with a mansion. She thought of screaming, but hated the idea. It had taken years for her to get over her fear of men and she didn’t want to get back in the habit. And yet, if the footsteps still coming toward her were hostile, she was helpless. She thought of running, but realized that would simply reveal her presence, and anyway, there was no assurance that the back door, if she could find it, would be unlocked as the front one had been. She felt her pulse begin to race and her legs tremble like a newborn fawn just taking its first steps. The soft padding came nearer, sounding as if it were just around the first corner of the hallway. Sandra drew in a deep breath and stepped carefully backward, trying to be as quiet as possible. She intended to get back through the archway and to the side of it where she would be well hidden by the wall. Once there, she hoped that the intruder would either go somewhere else of fail to look back and see her when he entered the living room. She felt her back bump into someone who must have been standing just behind her. A pair of masculine arms wrapped around her. A cold fear such as she had not felt since she was thirteen swept over her and she screamed with terror.

CHAPTER FIVE

« ^ »

WESTON HADN’T intended to startle the young woman he had seen get out of the old Camry from the second story window, assuming it was either a stray reporter or Woolridge’s daughter come out to look at her father’s property, most likely the latter. He had come down the stairs looking for her but had missed her on his first round of the confusing labyrinth. After spotting her at he end of the hallway he had walked up behind her, intending to announce himself but then had held his voice when it appeared to him from her body stance that she was listening to something. Just as he stopped, she stepped back into his arms then screamed as if all the denizens of hell were after her.

“Easy, easy!” Weston said. “I’m a police officer. You’re not in any danger.” The woman sagged in his arms then abruptly jerked herself free and twirled around.

Sandra’s chest was heaving. She gasped and tried to still her racing heart. “You scared the hell out of me!”

Weston smiled at the pretty young woman, trying to put her at ease, but at the same time wanting to know who she was. “Sorry, I didn’t intend to frighten you. I saw you pull up while I was upstairs and came down looking for you. But unless you are Miss Woolridge, you have no business being here.”

Sandra got her breathing under control. She stared at the man in front of her. He had a pleasant but sad looking face and wore glasses with black frames. At first she thought he was much older than her, but then she realized that the graying hair and glasses were deceiving.

His face was almost unlined except for faint forehead creases and lines running down from his mouth, as if he seldom smiled enough to erase them. “I’m Sandra Woolridge. I thought the car parked out front probably belonged to my father. I—”

From around the corner of the hallway, where she had heard the soft pad of footsteps, there came a faint popping noise. Sandra whirled around, thinking that the other person in the house must have come into view. The hallway was empty. She turned back around. “Did you hear that?”

“That little popping noise? Probably just from heat expanding in the house as the sun warms it. Nothing to be frightened about.”

“I heard footsteps from back there just before I backed into you.”

Weston hadn’t heard anything. “Are you sure?”

“Damn right I’m sure. It was footsteps.”

“Let’s go see,” Weston said. He stepped in front of Sandra and led the way around the corner. The hallway was empty. “See? Just the house settling.”

“I know I heard footsteps,” Sandra insisted. She knew she hadn’t imagined them.

“Well, let’s look around, shall we?” Weston wanted to talk to the woman anyway and assuring her that there was no one else in the house and putting her fears to rest would provide a simple enough setting for his questions. He led the way down the second tack of the hallway, pausing to open doors as they walked. “It’s quite the house, isn’t it?” He said pleasantly.

“A person could get lost in it without a guide,” Sandra said.

“So they might. Miss Woolridge, I’m sorry about your father.”

“Don’t be,” Sandra said shortly. “He was a sonofabitch. I would just as soon have never heard of him again.”

So, she was the daughter Woolridge had been sent up for abusing. That made it easier in one way and harder in another. “Well, it seems as if when you did hear from him, he left you pretty well off. It’s evident he was thinking of you anyway.”

“I don’t know why. I haven’t had anything to do with him since I was thirteen, except one time when he called and asked me for money.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, three years ago, more or less. I turned him down and told him not to bother me again.”

Weston turned the last corner and they were back in the second living room again, allowing him to walk beside her without crowding her. So, Woolridge had indeed been destitute only three years ago. Could there possibly be a tie between his sudden wealth and the drug money Jimmy had talked about? It would bear checking into. “Well, he certainly found some money from somewhere, didn’t he?” He commented.

“I guess he must have, but don’t ask me where. I was the most surprised person in the world when the detective who came to see me yesterday said he had left me a fortune.”

They walked beneath a second archway. “No idea at all of where he got his money?”

Sandra stopped and faced Weston. “Look, detective—”

“Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. Please call me Weston, or Wes if you like. Tamrick is the last name.”

“All right. The detective who informed me of my father’s death yesterday said someone else might be wanting to talk to me. Is that what you’re here for?”

“Not entirely, but yes, I had intended on seeing you in a day or two. I’m just as glad to make it now as later and here rather than having to bother you at home.”

“What else do you want, other than to know why my father suddenly decided to kill himself and leave me a fortune?”

Weston debated with himself for a moment, wondering how much he should say in order to draw Woolridge’s daughter out. It was evident that she still felt a great anger at him for the childhood abuse. That could make her close up tight. On the other hand, if she were aware that he might have been peripherally involved in the case of the disappearing women, especially the young ones, that fact might serve as an inducement to get her to talking. “Miss Woolridge, have you heard about the investigations into a series of women who have disappeared over the last two or three years?”

“Oh good God,” Sandra said. “Is that what this is about?”

“I can’t tell you exactly; we’re just following every possible lead. Besides the grown women you may have read about, there are several other cases which may be related. Those involve younger women—girls, actually.”

Sandra felt the old fear and disgust sweep over her. “I think I need to sit down.”

Weston took her elbow, being very gentle about it, and led her over to one of the several couches. Sandra collapsed onto it, feeling weary. She had thought the horrible experiences of her childhood were all behind her, yet within the last twenty four hours she had been plunged back into a morass of unwanted memories.

“I’m very sorry I had to mention that,” Weston said. He felt at his breast pocket for cigarettes. “I guess this is your house now. Do you mind if I smoke?”

Sandra smiled at him for the first time. “Go ahead. I intend to.” She took her own package of Winstons from her purse and allowed Weston to light one for her.

Weston drew the smoke into his lungs gratefully. By chance, he had tapped into an act which couldn’t help but draw them a little closer. In the world of the anti-smoking crusades, those who still indulged almost naturally felt that anyone else who did was a comrade in arms.

Sandra leaned against the back of the couch and drew on her cigarette until she thought she was calmed down. She smiled again. “All right, my fellow smoker, go ahead with your questions.”

“There’s not that many,” Weston said, a small lie, “but for starters, there’s the matter of quite a lot of missing money from a few years ago, just about the time your father became suddenly wealthy. If you know anything about it, or have any ideas at all, we’d like to hear them.”

Sandra shook her head, exasperated. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t help you. As I said, I only found out yesterday. What does that have to do with the women who have disappeared?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss the connection—if there is one. Have you any idea why Mr. Woolridge would have left everything to you?”

“I—Do I have to talk about that?”

Weston knew what she meant. “Not unless you want to. However, it might possibly help in solving the disappearances.”

“Mr. Tamrick, if you have run any sort of background on my father, you must know that he went to prison for sexually assaulting me.” Sandra drew a deep breath. “The only reason I can think of for him making me his beneficiary is as some sort of atonement. Not that it helps.

I hated him then and I hate him now.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up. I know it must be difficult for you. Let me ask you something else: did detective Seevers show you his suicide note?”

“No. He told me there was one, but that’s about all, other than that he mentioned something in the note about someone never seeing their families again.” Suddenly the implication hit her. “Oh. Oh, no. Please don’t tell me that he’s the one responsible for those poor women. Goddamn him, wasn’t it enough that he ruined my life?” Sandra bowed head and felt tears leaking from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Weston said. “Actually, it isn’t that we think he’s the one—or at least the one who’s been grabbing the grown women. It’s just that the wording in the note led us to begin investigating him for a possible connection. Then we discovered a few girls who had previously been classified as runaways since he came into his money. Knowing his history, we had to get into it.” He paused. “If it’s any consolation, we haven’t found any actual evidence that he went back to his old behavior after his parole. Not that we’re certain of anyway—though it’s possible he was just more careful after serving a prison term.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” Sandra said.

“Let’s move on to something else. Since I got here this morning, I’ve gone over a good portion of this place and haven’t discovered any personal papers, none at all. Would you have any idea of where he might have kept his records, if he had any?”

“No. Oh, wait. There’s the attorney detective Seevers said I was to contact, James Phelps.

When I stopped by to pick up the house keys, he said that he had been handling my father’s affairs—whatever they were.”

“Thanks. We’ll check with him. How was it that he had the keys, do you know?”

“He said a development company of some sort had made a very high offer for the house. In fact, he seemed rather adamant that I go through with the sale as soon as possible.”

Weston thought that one over. Could it be possible that the attorney was involved in some way? Maybe as a front for someone who wanted to keep the place off the family real estate market. He had a sudden vision of basements full of bones and decomposed bodies, with Woolridge, and now his attorney, having used the mansion as a trysting place after the abductions. If Woolridge hadn’t been smart enough to pull off the abductions, perhaps the attorney was. That seemed highly unlikely, though. He had detected no suspicious odors nor seen any evidence that a woman of any sort had ever inhabited the house. “You say Mr. Phelps was anxious for you to sell this place. Is that what you intend to do?”

“I don’t know. This morning he irritated me so much that I told him I was removing it from the market but I’m really not sure yet what I’ll do.”

“How did he irritate you, Miss Woolridge, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Sandra leaned forward to stub out her cigarette. After dealing with Phelps a few hours ago, this detective’s manner was such a contrast that she felt herself warming to him. “Please call me Sandy. That’s what most people do.” She favored him with a tiny smile, as she mused for a bit over the scene at Phelps’ office that morning. “First he offered to do the probate for a ridiculously low fee, knowing lawyers. Then he went on and on about how a single woman shouldn’t live in this area and how much better it would be if I went through with the sale.

Then when I decided to come out here and look at the house, he practically insisted that he accompany me.” She shivered. “There’s something about the man that I just don’t like—but maybe I’m just over-reacting because he said he had been handling my father’s affairs.

Whatever, he gives me the creeps.”

Weston had a creepy feeling, too. The first thing he intended to do when he got back to the office was to run a background check on James Phelps. In the meantime, he still wanted to examine the rest of the house.

“Do you feel up to looking around some more, Sandy?” Weston said her name softly, liking the sound of it.

“All right. I’d rather do it while you’re here just in case I hear someone else walking around again.” She stood up gracefully.

Sandy—he really did like that name—seemed absolutely positive that she had heard another person inside. And maybe she had. The place was big enough to conceal a whole gang of intruders from what he had seen so far. He offered her his arm. “Let’s go then.”

Sandra examined him again, more closely than she had done before. He had a gentle, reassuring smile on his face which seemed totally honest. His arm didn’t seem threatening at all. She took it and they walked through the next unexplored archway.

Weston kept up his mild questioning, without finding out anything of significance, as they went down hallways and opened doors and looked into rooms. The back part of the place was very sparsely furnished. The only room which was interesting contained a high-end computer occupying a large desk and an office type telephone. There was a file cabinet set against one wall and an oversized couch with folded sheets on one of the cushions against another, as if Woolridge had sometimes slept there. Occupying the third wall was a floor to ceiling bookcase with mostly empty shelves.

Weston pulled out each of the file drawers and looked inside. They were all empty of documents though there were a number of file folders which appeared to have been used. He made a note to have one of the forensic team he intended to have over dust them for prints, then looked into the wastebasket beside the desk. There were several pieces of crumpled paper mixed in with ashes and cigarette butts. He pulled them out and unwadded them. All of them except one contained doodles and little else, other than a phone number which he wrote down in his notebook. As he entered the numerals, they suddenly came together and jogged his memory. He stared at the page. That phone number belonged to the Chief of Police, Sampson Leeward.

Sandra noticed that Weston seemed to be preoccupied. “Did you find something important?”

Weston came back to earth. He closed his notebook and tucked it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’m not sure,” he temporized.

“Is it anything you can tell me?”

“It wasn’t anything relating to your father, I can tell you that much,” Weston said. He couldn’t imagine Leeward having anything to do with a convicted child molester. Probably Woolridge had looked up the number, perhaps intending to make a big splash by confessing whatever it was that he had been occupied with to the chief before doing himself in. That was the only explanation he could think of. “Come on, let’s go back up front; that is, if you’ve seen everything you want to.”

“I have for now,” Sandra said.

They walked out and closed the door behind them. When they were several yards down the corridor, Weston heard a popping noise behind them.

“There it goes again,” Sandra said. “Did you hear it?”

“Uh huh.” Weston turned around and went back to the room. As he twisted the doorknob, he heard the noise again. He pulled the door open and looked inside. The room was empty, just as they had left it.

“We must have disturbed the pressure inside when we went in and out,” he said.

“It’s strange that it happened before we ever entered the room isn’t it?” Sandy said.

Weston had to admit that she had a point but there was certainly nothing inside that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier. “Maybe it was the computer or the printer resetting.”

“They weren’t on,” Sandra reminded him.

Weston grinned at her. “You’d make a good detective. What kind of work do you do, by the way?”

“I’m a writer.”

Weston grinned even more. “Ever write Mysteries?”

Sandra had to laugh. “No, sorry. Historical romances are my forté.”

“Too bad. I could use some help. This case is the most confusing one I’ve ever worked on.”

“I’m sure you’ll solve it eventually. Let me ask you something: if I decide to keep this place, would it be all right for me to move in?”

“Give us another day or two and I don’t see why not. Let me have your phone number and I’ll call you. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

While scribbling her phone number down, Sandra couldn’t really answer that question in a way that made sense. Reviving the memories of the horrible treatment she has been subjected to by her father, along with the possibility that he was connected to the missing women, caused her to remember something. For a few years after her mother’s death, she had fantasized about a place where young girls such as herself could escape; a refuge from abusive homes, all free and available for the asking. Weston’s mention of helpless young girls who had vanished at about the same time her father had suddenly gotten rich and his leaving all his money to her, would have fit perfectly into the dream then. But would it now? There was Phelps’ creepiness and the way he had tried to talk her into an immediate sale of the house and his insistence that he come with her while she examined it. Added to that was fact that he had been her father’s attorney and the cryptic suicide note, which she still hadn’t read. Then there was her certainty that there had been someone else other than she and Wes in the house. All of these things ran together in her mind like a puzzle designed to baffle and intrigue her at the same time, wrapping her in tentacles which seemed to be pulling her against her will into the very midst of the place where it had originated. It was like nothing she had ever felt before in her life. And then, there was Weston, the detective, also part of the puzzle, looking at her with slightly raised eyebrows from behind the black frames of his glasses, genuine concern written on his face and reflected from his kind, heavy lidded eyes. She thought he would probably make a good father, the kind she had only read about and wondered suddenly if he were married. She glanced down at his hands and saw that the only ring he wore was a class ring, probably from college. She became suddenly aware that she was blushing and turned her head.

“I’m sure, I think,” she said. She didn’t really want to live alone in the huge mansion, but somehow she felt that she needed to be there to protect it. Phelps had been too insistent that she get rid of it. In the back of her mind was the thought that if the house was connected to the terrible tragedy of little girls, or even grown women being abused, or even murdered that she shouldn’t leave it vacant. Something terrible might happen. It wasn’t logical, she knew that, but the feeling persisted.

“All right, then. Let me suggest something, though. This isn’t that great a neighborhood.

Why don’t you hire a security guard to stay with you, at least during the night?”

Sandra folded her arms around herself. She didn’t want any strange men staying here. Yet she didn’t want to be alone, either, not while the disposition of the house was still unsolved.

And Weston—Wes—was working on the mystery. Before she quite knew what she was thinking, she blurted, “Could you stay here instead?” Immediately, she blushed furiously, wondering what that statement had sounded like to him. “I mean—look, there’s plenty of extra bedrooms. It’s not what—”

Weston was as surprised at the offer as Sandra had been making it. He had no inkling of why she would want to stay in the huge place by herself but he thought it must be tied somehow to the memory of her father’s abuse—or other reasons. He was beginning to believe that Sandra Woolridge and her father were somehow involved with the disappearances, if only peripherally. Perhaps if he did stay with her, for a few nights at least, just casual conversation might bring out facts that she wasn’t even aware of. He didn’t have anything better to do at night, and besides, he felt an abiding sympathy for her, just as he did all victims of child abuse.

Or was he simply using that as an excuse to see more of her? He decided that it didn’t matter.

In either case there was nothing to lose and possibly something to gain.

“If you don’t mind keeping company with an old man, I could stay for a while,” he said.

“You’re not that old,” Sandra said.

“I’m pushing forty. And here lately I’m feeling every year of it.”

Sandra thought he must be exaggerating, a little bit anyway, but thought the better of him for not trying to understate his age like most men would have in the presence of a much younger woman.

“You will stay then?”

“If you want me to,” Weston confirmed. “I’ll be in and out, though, sometimes at night. In my line of work you never know when you’ll get called.”

After Weston gave Sandra the security code to the house he told her goodbye, reminding her that he never knew when he would be able to leave from work and would be coming back.

As he drove off, he kept spotting her car behind him from time to time until finally losing sight of her in the Freeway traffic. You’re a goddamned old fool, he told himself. All she’s looking for is protection.

Sandra kept Weston’s car in sight until after she turned onto the freeway, heading back to her little apartment to gather some of her things. I’m being silly, she told herself. He’s probably fifteen years older than me. And besides, he’s so good looking he probably has girl friends all over the city.

Weston would have been amazed at being considered handsome. He hated having to wear glasses and thought his nose was too big and his lips too thin. And he knew he didn’t smile enough. He was always being asked what he was mad about. Suddenly he realized that he was grinning to himself, all alone in his car and wondered what those people would think if they could see him now.

CHAPTER SIX

« ^ »

WESTON STOPPED at McDonald’s for a sausage biscuit and apple pie, taking it to go, along with a cup of coffee. He arrived back at the station and found Jimmy already there, sitting at his computer with a coke perched precariously near the keyboard. He looked around when he heard Weston come in.

“Hey, Wes. What’s happening?” He said.

Weston sat down and pried the lid off his coffee. “You first. Anything on Mr. Smith?”

“A waste of time. He was home with the kids when his wife went missing and he hasn’t got a clue why. No family problems that his neighbors know about, no reason in the world for her to run off. She’s just gone, like the rest of them.”

“Like we figured. Anything new come in overnight or this morning?”

“Nothing. What did you find over at the Woolridge place?”

Weston sipped at his coffee before answering. “Bleh. This stuff is barely warm. The main thing I found there was Miss Woolridge. She pulled in not long after I did. Came over to inspect the place.”

Jimmy spun around in his seat then stood up and leaned against his desk. “That was pretty quick, wasn’t it? Her father dead only one day and she’s already checking out her inheritance.

Is there a connection there?”

“Not like you’re thinking. According to her, the old man should have offed himself the day she was born. She’s the kid he got sent up for molesting.”

“What was she doing there so soon?”

Weston thought. “You know, she actually never did say. She plans on moving in immediately, though.”

“Yeah? I wonder why? From what I’ve heard of how big the place is, that will be like a marble rolling around in a packing crate.”

Weston didn’t mention that he had been asked to stay in the house with her at night. He didn’t feel like subjecting himself to the inevitable raised brows. “Yeah. Here’s a curiosity, though. Woolridge’s lawyer—the old man’s, not the girl’s—tried pretty hard to get her to let the place go right away. According to her, he’s already got the papers drawn up from a development company that wants to buy it.”

“That was pretty damn quick, too.”

“Yeah, if it’s true. And there’s more. Sandy doesn’t like him; she practically had to kick him in the nuts to keep him from going out there with her.”

“Sandy? You mean the Woolridge girl?

Weston felt his ears turning red. “That’s what she said she wanted to be called.”

A hint of a smile appeared on Jimmy’s face. “And I’ll bet she calls you Wes. Not wasting any time, are you?”

Weston wondered what Jimmy would think if he told him that he would be spending nights in the same house with Sandy. “It’s not like that; she’s just friendly.”

“Good looking, too, I’ll bet. All right, what else?”

“She swears she heard someone else in the place while she was looking around.”

“Phelps maybe?”

“No, not unless he materialized there. I didn’t hear anyone, but—” Weston paused, wondering whether or not he should mention the popping noise they had both heard.

“But what?”

“Nothing. I do think it would be worthwhile running a background on this Phelps character, though.”

“OK, read it off to me,” Jimmy said, sitting back down at his terminal. He tapped the keys as Weston spelled out the name from his notebook and in a few minutes had a file on the screen. “Interesting,” he said. “Arrested twice for sexual assault, once here, once in Denver. No conviction, though, so I guess he kept his license. Three speeding tickets, all paid. Married once, divorced, single now. And last but not least, he has a sealed juvenile record. I wonder what that was for?”

Weston wished he knew, but there was no way of getting that information short of a court order with Phelps under indictment. However… “Why don’t we go see the dude and ask him?

There’s no law against that.”

“There’s no law saying he has to answer, either, but guess it wouldn’t hurt. I’m more interested in the house, though. I thought Rob’s forensics detail was supposed to go over there today. Did you see them?”

“Nope. Let’s call and see when they’re going out.” Weston picked up the phone and called Robert Bascomb’s office. Bascomb himself answered.

“Hey, Rob,” Weston said. “Just checking to see when you and your gang are going to the Woolridge house. Have you got a schedule yet?”

“We’re not going at all, at least not for a while.” Bascomb sounded disgusted.

“What? Why not?”

“Beats the shit out of me. All I know is that Lieutenant Ward got a call from the chief this morning putting the place off limits. How does that grab you?”

“Did you say the chief ordered us not to toss the place?”

“Our very own Sampson Leeward. Ain’t that the shits?”

“Did he give any reason?”

“Ward isn’t saying, but I can tell you he’s pissed. First he gives orders to solve the damned case, then next thing you know he’s putting potential evidence off limits. Does that make sense to you?”

“About as much as a real Invisible Man. Thanks Rob. Let me know if anything changes.”

“Will do.”

Weston hung up the phone slowly.

“Did I hear what I think I heard?” Jimmy asked.

“If you heard that the chief just ordered us away from the Woolridge place, you did.”

“What the fuck? Did Sampson go get his head shaved or something? That isn’t like him.”

“No, it’s not,” Weston agreed. Chief Leeward had come up through the ranks and was known more for his honesty than his intelligence. “There’s something else, too.”

“Like what?”

“This.” Weston pulled out the crumpled piece of scratch paper he had retrieved from the wastebasket and handed it to Jimmy. “In case you don’t recognize it, that’s the chief’s number.”

“So?”

“I found it in the wastebasket in one of the rooms at the Woolridge place.”

“Jesus Christ, Wes! What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know. This whole thing just keeps getting more and more fucked up.” Weston thought a moment then said, “Jimmy, if you don’t mind, I think maybe we ought to keep this little piece of information between the two of us until we figure out what it means.”

“No shit. I like my job just like you do. Well, what do we do now?”

Weston glanced at his watch. “Let’s go talk to that Phelps character. I’d like to see if he’s as creepy as Sandy said he is.” He didn’t mention to Jimmy that he was already thinking of a way to get Sandy into her new mansion, regardless of the chief’s orders. He wondered whether the order applied to the new owner and decided right then that he would suggest that she go ahead and move in. Then, if Leeward insisted on removing her, he might just have to explain his order. As for himself, what the chief didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Now he wanted to stay there as much as Sandy did.

WESTON WAS hoping that they would be able to go right in and see James Phelps before he knew that they were detectives but it didn’t work that way.

“You’ll have to make an appointment,” the nail buffing receptionist said indifferently.

Weston produced his badge, wondering why a lawyer would have such a bimbo greeting prospective clients. If this introduction to his practice was the same as for other prospective clients, he doubted that the man was getting much new business.

“Just a moment.” The girl held her hand around the mouthpiece of the phone and spoke briefly into it. She hung up the receiver and said, “You’ll have to wait a few minutes. He’s busy just now.”

Weston noticed that a few seconds after she hung up, one of the buttons arrayed along the base of the phone lit up. He wondered who Phelps was calling. Whoever it was, he talked to him for almost ten minutes, judging from when the light went out. A moment later Phelps came out of his office. He didn’t act as if he was worried.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” He asked, standing at the open door.

Weston stood up. “We need to talk to you for a few moments, Mr. Phelps.”

The lawyer shrugged and gestured for them to come into his office. Inside, he waved his hand toward three chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of his desk. Weston seated himself while looking around. The desk contained no file baskets nor were there any papers laying there, only a scratch pad and a yellow legal pad with nothing written on it. There was only one file cabinet inside, and the bookshelf against one wall contained only magazines. If Phelps was a practicing attorney, he was singularly bereft of the paraphernalia which went with it.

Weston introduced himself and Jimmy, then said, “Mr. Phelps, the subject we’re here about concerns a Mr. Woolridge. We’ve been given to understand that you handled his affairs before he—passed away. Is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Could you tell us anything about Mr. Woolridge?”

Phelps folded his hands and placed them in front of him on his desk. “Such as?”

“Such as what Mr. Woolridge did for a living. In particular, how an apparently destitute, former convict accumulated so much money in so short a time.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“None at all?”

“Sorry. I never went into the source of his income.”

“All right. You also told Miss Woolridge, his daughter, that you had been preparing to sell his home before he died. Could you give us some information on that?”

“I’m sorry, that’s privileged information.”

“Even with him dead now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“All right, then. Without getting into details, we want to know a little more about Mr. Woolridge. Do you know any of his associates or friends? Any businesses he dealt with?

Where he went during the day? Where he traveled to, if he did?”

Phelps unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, almost smirking. “I’m sorry, that’s all privileged information.”

By prearrangement, Weston let Jimmy drop the next move on him as a means of changing the pace. His partner had sat in the chair for a moment but now he stood up and used the armrest for a brace. He felt inside his suit coat and pulled out a card. “Mr. Phelps, we are conducting an investigation which almost certainly involves murder. Withholding information is a felony offense.” Phelps stared blankly at him as he continued. “I am required to read you your rights.” He looked down at the card and recited the Miranda phrases as if he were reading them even though he and most all other officers had them memorized. When he was finished he looked back up and stared crossly at Phelps as if he were debating whether to get the handcuffs out now or wait until the interview was over.

Phelps’s overly generous lips parted in a manner suggestive of a school yard bully getting ready to demand that a smaller child hand over his lunch money. “I told you, I don’t know a thing about any of that stuff you’re asking,” he said.

Weston jumped back in. “You don’t? A moment ago you said it was privileged information, not that you didn’t know.”

Phelps was wrong-footed but he recovered quickly. “I haven’t got anything to say on the subject. Unless you’re charging me with a crime, of course. In that case, I think I would have to consult an attorney before answering.”

Weston changed track. “Mr. Phelps, were you aware that Mr. Woolridge was a convicted felon, a child molester?”

The attorney hesitated, then answered, “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

Jimmy cut in. “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Phelps. Are you sure the two of you haven’t talked in the past—of similar interests, shall we say?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that twice in your life you have been accused of sexual assault.”

“That’s none of your goddamned business!” Phelps said loudly, before realizing that he hadn’t really had to admit anything. “Anyway, it was a mistake. I was innocent.”

“You also have a sealed juvenile record. You do realize, don’t you, that if you should be charged with a crime that we could get the records unsealed?”

“The hell you could! I don’t have to listen to this bullshit.”

“What kind of car did Mr. Woolridge drive?” Weston asked, remembering that both vehicles he had seen were rather old and used up, not the types a rich man would normally drive.

“I don’t know.”

“When Mr. Woolridge came to see you, how did he arrive? If you don’t know, perhaps your receptionist does. She has a good view out the window from her little alcove.”

“She doesn’t know—I mean—crap! You guys can’t come in here like this and ball me around. Get out. If you want to ask anything else, see my attorney.”

“We may,” Jimmy said. “Who would that be, Mr. Phelps?”

Weston noticed that the lawyer’s forehead was showing a thin film of moisture. He stood up and leaned on his desk. “I—I’ll let you know. That’s all I have to say. Go on, get out of here.”

Weston caught Jimmy’s eye. “Thank you, Mr. Phelps. We may be back. Have a nice day.”

Phelps followed them out and hovered right behind as Weston led them leisurely toward the door. Before exiting, he turned toward the receptionist and paused to copy her name into his notebook from the polished nameplate at the edge of her desk.

“What the hell are you up to now?” Phelps demanded.

Weston said, “Just thought we better take this young lady’s name down before we left.

Who knows? Maybe she has a sealed juvenile record, too.” He smiled brightly at her. “Or maybe she still is a juvenile. What do you think, Jimmy?”

“Out!” Phelps almost screamed.

Weston hooked a thumb at Phelps and spoke to the girl. “Cutie Pie, if you like your boss, better start thinking of stripes as the uniform for the day. That’s what he’s likely to be wearing before long.” He pushed open the door and was met by sheets of rain. He dug in his pocket for a coin. “Call it,” he said.

“Heads,” Jimmy said.

“It’s tails. You go for the car.”

Jimmy looked out at the pouring water. “Damn it, how do you do that? You win the toss every fucking time.” He turned up his collar and raced for their car.

Inside, Phelps hurried back into his office and picked up the phone. His hands were trembling.

“KIND OF GOT his goat, didn’t we?” Jimmy said, slicking his thatch of thick black hair back, intentionally flicking drops of water over to Weston’s side of the car.

“Yeah. Let’s let him stew a couple of days then go see him again. In the meantime we can run a background on that juvenile delinquent he has working for him.”

“You think she works?”

“Well, she’s there, anyway, for whatever reason.”

“And I can guess the reason,” Jimmy said. “What next?”

“Back to the badder side of town.”

“The Woolridge place? It’s off limits, remember?”

“The bars and grocery stores aren’t. When I was poking around in that overpriced castle I checked the kitchen and bar. Woolridge might have been rich, but his tastes didn’t change.

Cheap wine and beer and frozen dinners.”

“Good thinking.”

“Thanks. I’ll make you a bet. He bought everything right near his home. Someone may recognize him and give us a tidbit or two.”

“You’re forgetting something, boss.”

“What?”

“We don’t have a photo of him.”

“Damned smartass. I’m supposed to be the intelligent part of the team.” Weston made a U-turn and headed back to the station. On the way, he reviewed his exploration of the Woolridge mansion and another fact which he had overlooked came to mind. As he had told Jimmy, the front section of the place had been stocked with cheap wine and frozen dinners, but now he remembered bottles of Scotch and Jack Daniels and Crown Royal in the bar in back, seen through the glass doors of the liquor cabinet. Maybe Sandy really had heard someone else prowling around!

CHAPTER SEVEN

« ^ »

BACK AT THE station, Weston pulled up a mug photo of Woolridge and began making copies.

When he had finished, he motioned to Jimmy, but before they could get on their way Lieutenant Ward opened the door to his office and motioned them in. The knot of his tie was halfway down his chest and his hair seemed to be living a life of its own. He waited until they were inside, then closed the door behind him.

“I’ve got some bad news for you guys,” he said.

“If you’re talking about the chief putting the Woolridge place off limits, we’ve already heard about it,” Weston said.

“Did you go out there before you got the word?”

“I did,” Weston said. “I met the Woolridge girl there.”

“What did she have to say?”

“She wants to move into the place.”

Ward fiddled with his tie, dragging the knot even further down his chest. “She can’t. The chief said it’s off limits.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, damnit, he didn’t. He just said that there were good and sufficient reasons and that when the time came he would let us know, if he could.”

Weston respected the Lieutenant. He wasn’t overly intelligent, but he had always been methodical when he worked details before being promoted. His major fault was letting his frustration get the best of him when he caught a case he couldn’t figure out. Until he did, he became a nervous wreck. Weston played on that aspect of his personality. “Does that make any kind of sense to you?”

Ward ran his fingers through his hair for the third time since they had joined him in his office. He grudged a thin smile. “About as much as anything else does lately.”

“How about if we twist the chief’s tail a little and see if he won’t share with us?”

“The chief doesn’t like being pushed. Especially by sergeants or lieutenants. What did you have in mind?”

“Why don’t we discretely pass the word to Miss Woolridge that she can move in if she likes and if the chief objects, tell her to have her attorney make him tell why. That might get him to open up.”

Ward ran his fingers over the knot in his tie. “I didn’t hear you say that.”

“Say what? Jimmy, did I say anything?”

“If you did, I didn’t hear it.”

Ward changed the subject. “What else have you done today? Anything on the Smith case?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy said. “Not a fucking thing. Same as the others.”

“I didn’t want to hear that,” Ward said. “The fucking newspapers and reporters are going bananas. The only consolation is that they haven’t connected the Woolridge suicide to the missing women yet.”

“We haven’t either,” Weston reminded him. “And by the way, we talked to Woolridge’s attorney, James Phelps. If there’s any connection from Woolridge to Jimmy’s missing drug money, he isn’t saying and isn’t likely to. He does seem awfully concerned about that mansion Woolridge built, though. He tried to talk the girl into letting him sell it immediately. Says he already had an offer for it before the old man blew his head off.”

“What about—Phelps? Is that what you said his name is?”

Weston nodded. “He has an arrest record for sexual assaults but no convictions. I think he knows something, but he’s not talking.”

Ward disarranged his hair again but his eyes were suddenly alert. “You think he’s involved with the missing women? That would be a break.”

“Don’t count on it. More likely he’s into some crooked scheme or another rather than the disappearances. Maybe with Woolridge’s finances. We kinda rang his bell today and he got all agitated.”

“Well, shit.” Ward got up and walked around his chair then sat back down again.

“Tamrick, we’ve got to come up with something here. This has gone on too long already.”

Weston spread his hands. “You’ve read all my reports. Can you think of anything I’ve missed? Anything else I ought to be doing? Hells bells, I can’t follow leads on the women if there aren’t any!”

“Take it easy. I’m not getting on your case. It’s just that this whole fucking mess doesn’t make sense. We haven’t had a clue one on how the women are being snatched, then the chief pulls us away from a possible lead, and Cranston suddenly goes apeshit on us—not that the Fibs are ever much help anyway—and I can’t figure out what either one is up to. It’s like we’re going backwards instead of forward. It’s driving me crazy.”

Weston felt sorry for the man. No detective ever solved all his homicides but for someone like Ward, who had expectations of making Captain, a case like this could bring an abrupt halt to his career. He was glad that he didn’t want to rise much higher in the force; he liked field work, not paper pushing and politics.

“Well, don’t just sit there and stare at me,” Ward said, a little louder than necessary. “Tell me what’s next on your agenda.”

“The chief didn’t say anything about not investigating the history of the Woolridge place did he?”

“No. No he didn’t. What do you have in mind?”

Weston began ticking points off on his fingers. “Lieutenant, we’re at a dead end investigating the women. Or we were until yesterday. Since then, we’ve got Jimmy’s story of a drug dealer who disappeared, along with a hell of a lot of money, in just about the same fashion as the women have. This happened about three years ago. Second item: Woolridge, a convicted child rapist, comes into a bunch of money at about the same time. Shortly thereafter, three of our girls disappear, classed as runaways at the time but now we’re thinking they may be related to the grownups we’ve been investigating. Third item: Woolridge builds a mansion out in the boondocks and—I didn’t mention this earlier—I suspect he wasn’t living alone.”

“You mean he had a woman there?”

“No, unless I miss my guess it’s a man. Fourth item: Woolridge’s attorney, with a history of sexual assault, tries to talk the daughter into selling the house, immediately if not sooner. He’s a sleazy character and he clams up about Woolridge’s history. Fifth item: our own Chief of Police puts the Woolridge place off limits to forensics without giving a reason, yet I can’t think of a single cop who would ever accuse him of being crooked. And last: the Fibs, or Cranston, anyway, disappears for a day or so, then comes back acting like a refugee from a silly farm.”

“So you think Woolridge and the house are the keys to the case, huh?” Ward asked hopefully.

“I didn’t say that. The only thing that really connects them is Jimmy’s story, and possibly Woolridge’s suicide note, but crap, that’s all we’ve got! I don’t know anywhere else to go with it.”

Ward reached into one of several baskets and pulled out a file. He looked at Jimmy as he spoke. “This is the report on your drug case. I went over it and it’s just like you said. Not a way in hell the bust should have went bad. Unfortunately, I can’t connect any of the disappearances with it.”

“But it was just as goddamned funny as them, wasn’t it?” Jimmy said.

“You’ve got me there. Fuckit. You guys follow up on Woolridge and see what he’s been up to the last few years.”

“And the house; we’ll find out what contractor built it and maybe why.”

“All right, go ahead Sherlock,” Ward agreed. “I don’t have any better ideas. I’ll call you back in if anything breaks on the Smith woman or any of the others. Not that I’m expecting anything, Goddamnit.”

ON THE WAY home, driving his Jeep Cherokee, Weston found himself thinking more about Sandra Woolridge than the vanished women. It was like they had disappeared into a black hole, but Sandy was alive and well, a tangible presence in his mind. He thought of her history and the way she shrank from him at first and reminded himself to be very cautious when dealing with her. Women with a history like hers always carried scars from their past, sometimes going unhealed for the rest of their lives. He didn’t want to do anything to aggravate whatever emotional baggage she still must be carrying around. He wondered if she had any other family or if there were male friends or lovers in her life. It would be nice to know, but he decided that it wasn’t his place to ask. If she felt like talking, she would.

Weston parked his car in the garage and, as he did every evening after arriving home, debated with himself over whether he should sell the place and move into an apartment. The moderately priced, three bedroom home located in Humble, a city north of Kingwood, was certainly too big for him now, but he hated to leave the last tangible link to Janie and happier times, and even to Sheila, though he didn’t think of her so often any more, preferring to concentrate on memories of his daughter. He still remembered the way she looked as they came from the doctor’s office that horrible day when the diagnosis of leukemia had been confirmed. She had just gotten her long, brown hair cut to shoulder length, in keeping with the current middle school fashion for girls, and the faint blush of lipstick she was just beginning to be allowed to wear, made her look like a sad little pixie until she smiled and took his hand on the way back to the car.

Weston zapped the garage door closed and entered through the side door into the kitchen, shucking his jacket as he walked. He hung it over one of the high backed stools on the other side of the bar separating the kitchen from the dining nook and living room, then took a bottle from a kitchen cabinet and poured a large helping of bourbon into a glass. He added ice and walked into the other room, checking his watch as he went. It was already too late for local news. He thought about turning on to CNN but decided that would be a waste of time. The case of the disappearing women so far had not become national news and that was the only reason he would have been interested. Instead, he sat down and picked up the phone, not bothering to remove his shoulder holster, and dialed the number Sandy had given him. It rang several times before she answered.

“Hello.” Her voice sounded as if she were distracted.

“Sandy, this is Wes. Am I interrupting anything?”

She laughed. “No, I was just trying to correct a scene in my book.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“It’s all right. I wasn’t having much luck anyway.”

“Well, the reason I called is that there’s a little complication about moving into your father’s house.”

“You mean you can’t? What’s wrong?”

Weston thought he detected disappointment in her voice, but he hurried on. “I wasn’t talking about me. It seems that your place isn’t going to be looked at by the forensic guys any time soon.”

“You mean I can’t move in, either?”

Weston spoke very carefully. “Legally, I don’t know why not. It’s not as if it’s the scene of a homicide. However, I would suggest that you contact your attorney, if you have one, and let him know what’s happening in case the police try to order you out. With a lawyer behind you, I don’t think they will be able to.”

“Then why—?”

“Sandy, it’s sort of a delicate situation. Could I ask you to just trust me on this? And please keep my advice just between the two of us.”

Weston waited out the silence before she answered. “Does this mean you won’t be coming out?”

“No, I’ll come if you promise not to let another soul know that I’m there. I’m sorry I can’t explain just now but that’s the way it will have to be.” Weston didn’t want to tell Sandy that he was going to be acting in direct contravention of the Chief of Police’s orders; she might reveal the fact inadvertently.

“If you say so. What time will you be out?”

“Not until after dark, though I may be in the area sometime during the day tomorrow.

There are a few things I need to check in the neighborhood.”

“All right, I’ll see you then. Oh—I don’t really have an attorney. Could you recommend someone?”

“Just a sec.” Weston thumbed through the address book beside the phone and gave her his own attorney’s number, a former assistant district attorney who was now in private practice.

“Tell him that I recommended him to you, but remember, don’t mention that I’m going to be staying there.”

“I won’t. Thank you Wes. This is very nice of you.”

“Glad to help. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, sometime after it gets dark.”

Weston finished his drink then made another and brought his briefcase back with it. He sat for an hour, going over every file on the women who had vanished, studying them until his eyes began to burn. They were just as enigmatic as ever.

BACK IN Kingwood, Phelps was doing exactly as he had been ordered. He told Maria to go on home even though she didn’t want to leave without him; she was growing increasingly possessive. He insisted and she left, reluctantly. Phelps waited until he heard the outer door close before beginning his task. Maria didn’t know anything but she would have wondered why he was combing his office and her desk so assiduously, making certain that there was no reference, not even a scratched out name on a stray piece of paper which might give the cops a lead. The only reason he kept her at the office was for the sake of appearances, and at home as a means of relieving sexual tension when Gerant’s leavings weren’t available. At that, she was a poor substitute. He couldn’t do some things with her that he could with the others, things which excited and repelled him at the same time. In fact, lately he had been having trouble even getting it up with her. Gerant had been specific, though: leave the good stuff to the time and place designated while keeping Maria around to provide the appearance of normality.

Normality! It had been almost three years since he had led a normal life, but God, wasn’t it worth it! He hoped it would never end, and likely it wouldn’t. How could anyone possibly find out? It was too bad the old man had suffered an attack of conscience, and really too bad that he had chosen to kill himself right in front of a patrol car.

Gerant had been furious. Just a few more days and the old bastard would have disappeared just like the women, but in his case no one would have missed him, not when he already had all the papers ready to transfer title to the house to the front company he had set up. He would have signed too, inspired by the peculiar threat Gerant was capable of if he hadn’t killed himself first. Who would have thought that he could be so brutal with barely pubescent girls yet suffer inside at what happened to grown women? Probably a mother fixation or something like that. Anyway, it was done now and he and Gerant were picking up the pieces. Gerant still hadn’t told him what they were to do with the daughter. It wouldn’t do now for her to just go missing, not while the cops were still investigating her father’s death, and maybe not at all.

Probably she would eventually, though. She was the right age and the right color that Gerant preferred and she was in the way now.

Why in hell did she want the old man’s house, anyway? If she realized what she was setting herself up for, she would take the money and run. Money was no problem; Gerant could get all the money he wanted, any time he wanted, and didn’t mind sharing it. Money wasn’t his primary interest. He much preferred the other things.

Phelps went over the office one more time, making certain that he had gathered up all references to Woolridge’s affairs, just as Gerant had instructed him to. He didn’t want them destroyed just yet; the girl still might decide to sell the property and remove herself from consideration. He knew the papers would be going to the perfect hiding place, someplace the cops could not even imagine searching for them. He laughed to himself. Earlier in the day he had been upset, but Gerant had reassured him. The cops didn’t have anything on him. No way. He was as safe as a lion cub in a zoo, with Gerant hovering protectively around him as the figurative lioness, ready to attack anyone or anything which might threaten her cub.

Phelps closed the briefcase he had gathered the papers into and set it on his desk, knowing that Gerant would retrieve it before the night was out. He buttoned his jacket and fished for the office keys as he turned to leave. Behind him, he heard a popping noise, like a prospective customer kicking a tire at a used car lot. He felt his body begin to collapse backwards and a black curtain descending over his mind. His last thought was a silent, dreadful scream into the darkness. The sonofabitch! He lied to me!

CHAPTER EIGHT

« ^ »

THE NEXT MORNING, Weston woke up feeling better than he had since Janie had died. He didn’t know whether it was because he was finally putting the depression behind him or because he was unaccountably anticipating some progress on the case of the disappearing girls.

Whatever, the rain had stopped and the sun was out and even the coffee from McDonald’s seemed hotter than usual when he arrived at the station and took his first sip. He was early; Jimmy wasn’t there yet, nor any of the other detectives. The first thing he did was boot up his computer to see if anything new had come in overnight. Nothing had, and he began entering his notes which he hadn’t gotten around to the day before, designating key words to go into the general data net which would flag any other files containing them and call them to his attention when he did his usual morning review of cases he was working on. After that, he began entering data for the usual load of reports and statements, and documentation of activities and all the other bureaucratic necessities of the job.

Weston was already finished with his paperwork and dipping into his donut bag when Jimmy arrived. He glanced at Weston’s screen which was displaying the last of the sequence of reports which must be filed. “Jesus, Wes, what time did you get here this morning?”

Weston grinned. Jimmy was usually ahead of him and he the one waiting. “I got up feeling good this morning and decided to come on in and get some work done. You should try it sometime.”

“Ha! This is the first day you’ve beat me here in a month. Save me a donut.” Jimmy sat down at his terminal, and like Wes, keyed in the search pattern for the case of the missing women first thing. A second later he shouted, “Jesus Christ!”

“Goddamn, Jimmy, what the hell is it? You made me spill my fresh cup of coffee. Not that this office stuff is worth drinking.” Weston flicked drops of coffee from his hand towards Jimmy who was getting to his feet, yet still staring at his monitor.

“Look here, Wes! Phelps has gone missing!”

“What! That can’t be! I just plugged his name into the net fifteen minutes ago.”

“Before or after you ran your search program?”

“Oh. After. Here, let me see.” Weston sat down in the chair Jimmy had vacated and read through the file displayed on his monitor while Jimmy looked over his shoulder.

Phelps’ disappearance had been filed by a uniform on the evening shift, simply as an activity report; if the person who had called still reported him missing the next day an actual bulletin would be posted.

“Look at the time. It seems like he never left his office after we saw him,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah. It was his secretary who made the call. Maria Sanchez. I wonder if that’s the same little juvenile delinquent that we saw there?” Weston thought it probably was.

“Most likely. Shall we go see her?”

“Why don’t we split up?” Weston suggested. “It’s got her phone number here. I’ll call and see if she’ll meet me at his office while you start making the rounds in Woolridge’s neighborhood.”

“Suits me. Meet back here at noon?”

“Yeah. Since you still have to finish your paperwork, I’ll give you the pleasure of telling the lieutenant that our only suspect just went missing.”

“Thanks boss. I love you, too. Gimme back my chair.”

Weston printed out a copy of the Phelps file then went back to his own desk and picked up the phone. He dialed the number listed for Maria Sanchez. A sleepy voice answered which he recognized as that of the girl who had been so uncommunicative in Phelps’s office. “Hello?”

“Miss Sanchez, this is detective Tamrick. I’m following up on your report that your employer, James Phelps, is missing.”

“Already? They told me last night that he had to be gone twenty four hours before they could do anything.”

“Well, I’m not busy with anything else right now and thought this might be a good time to talk to you. Could you meet me at Mr. Phelps’s office?”

“I guess so. What time?”

“It would be helpful if you could be there in a half hour or so,” Weston said.

“All right, but it might be a little longer than that. I was asleep.”

“Fine. Shall we say forty five minutes?”

“All right.”

“Thank you.” Weston hung up the phone. “I’m off,” Weston said to Jimmy, grabbing another donut from his bag and leaving the rest of them for him.

MARIA SANCHEZ, good to her word, pulled into the parking lot of Phelps’s office forty five minutes from the time Weston hung up the phone. He had only had to wait a few minutes after arriving there. She was dressed in form fitting jeans and a western shirt, as if ready to drop by a honky-tonk on her way back home.

“Good morning,” Weston greeted her. She appeared not quite so nonchalant as the day before.

“Hello,” Maria said.

“Do you have a key to the office?” Weston asked, not only wanting to get out of the parking lot to question her, but prepared to do a little sleuthing inside the office, search warrant or not.

“No,” Maria admitted, “He never gave me a key. It should be open, though; I had no way of locking up once I discovered him missing.”

“What made you decide to come back to the office last night?” Weston asked her as they walked up to the entrance.

Maria waited until they were inside before answering. “Actually, I never really left. I just parked out of sight and waited to see where he was going.”

“Why was that?”

The young girl looked pained. “I think the old bastard was planning on dumping me. I wanted to find out if he was seeing someone else. I was going to follow him but he never came out of the office.”

Weston passed through the receptionist’s alcove and tried the door to Phelps’s office. It opened with no resistance. Maria trailed behind him. A quick glance showed no sign of a struggle. The only discordance was a drawer half open on the lower part of the desk. He looked in the file cabinet. Not only was it empty, it showed no signs of ever being used.

Weston turned and asked, without warning, “Was Mr. Phelps supporting you?”

Maria blinked but answered readily enough. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. I never did much work here, and so far as I could tell, he never did either.”

“Is there anything missing that you notice?”

Maria shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. He never showed me anything in here. I suppose we could check my desk. I had a few files there.”

Weston followed her back to her own desk and waited while she looked through it. As she dug through the desk drawers, he noted that she didn’t appear to have much of a filing system.

Finally she looked up at him. “I had a file on Mr. Woolridge’s house that was going to be sold. I typed the papers up last week. They’re gone. So is the file on his bank account. I bet he just took off.” She looked puzzled. “The thing is, I had a good view of the front and back entrance both and I never saw him leave.”

“You’re certain?” Weston asked.

“I’m sure. ”She pointed out the window. “That Lincoln there in the lot belongs to him. It’s still here.”

“Do you have an address for him?” Weston asked.

Maria shook her head. “He never said where he lived, if he did live anywhere else, that is.

Most of the time he stayed with me. I guess I’ll have to move out now. I sure can’t afford to stay where we were living.”

When Weston asked where it was, he could see why. The apartments she named rented for upwards of a thousand dollars a month. “Did he keep any papers there?”

“No, nothing but clothes and stuff in the bathroom.”

“Would you mind if I had a look?” Weston asked.

“I guess not, but you won’t find much there.”

“Let’s try anyway,” Weston said.

While he placed crime scene tape across both entrance and exit and over the Lincoln, he asked Maria several other questions and got only a good case of exasperation for his efforts. She couldn’t remember the name of the development company nor the name of Woolridge’s bank, other than that it was “First” something or another, nor the names of what might have been clients or friends other than an occasional call from someone named Gary, when she admitted that Phelps did get a rare phone call. He began to understand why she had been apprehensive over the thought that Phelps might have been intending to break off the relationship with her.

She would certainly never win any Secretary of the week honors.

After wrapping the Lincoln, Weston followed her to Plantation North Apartments, a newly built complex on the northern edge of Kingwood. Inside their apartment, it was just as she had described; Phelps apparently kept only clothes and such other items as might be seen in any bathroom in America: an electric razor, deodorant, toothbrush and floss and a few other inconsequential items. After examining them, with no reward for his efforts, he sat with Maria and had her describe the sequence of last night’s events. He asked her where she had parked, how long she had waited before going back into the office, and what time she had called 911.

But when he asked her to describe Phelps as a person she had known rather than as an

“employer”, she grew reluctant to answer.

“How does stuff like that matter?”

“It’s just routine, Miss Sanchez; anything we know about him might help us to track him down.”

“I hope so. He still owes me two weeks salary.”

“How much would that come to?” Weston asked.

Maria was vague. “He gave me some one time and other amounts at other times. It was never the same.”

That led Weston to the next question. “I take it that he paid you in cash, then?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Did you claim it on your income tax return?”

Maria didn’t answer at once. When she did speak, it was only to ask, “Am I going to get in trouble?”

That answer made Weston decide to run a background check on her as soon as he got a chance. In the meantime, he played her answer for more information. “So long as you’re honest with me, probably not; we don’t have anything to do with the IRS. Let’s go on. I’m sorry I have to ask this, but believe me, it’s routine and whatever you say will not be made public. Tell me, did Mr. Phelps have any odd habits?”

“Sometimes he would be gone for days at a time. He always told me they were business trips, but lately I stopped believing him.”

“Why was that?”

The girl looked off in various directions and wouldn’t meet Weston’s gaze. “Well, when he came back, he was never good for much for weeks afterward.”

“In what way?”

“You know, like sex.”

“You mean he couldn’t perform after those trips?”

“Yeah. And when he could he always wanted me to wear a blond wig for some reason.”

Bingo. The missing women were blond. Unfortunately, the girl’s memory for dates was as bad as for names and banks and development companies. He questioned her closely and between them arrived at several tentative times when she thought Phelps had been away, but he wouldn’t bet the bank on them corresponding with any of the disappearances when he checked. Finally, he gave her his card and asked her to call him if and when her memory improved. He didn’t think it would. He had already judged her IQ to be about the same as the temperature on a cool spring morning along the Gulf. He didn’t think she had lied about anything; he had scrutinized her reactions closely during the questioning and the only sign of nervousness he had seen was when he asked her about income taxes.

On the way back to the station, Weston mused. Phelps’s disappearance had all the earmarks of the disappearing women. Were men now going to begin vanishing? Or was Phelps mixed up with them in some fashion? Having Maria wear a blond wig during sex was suggestive, but certainly not conclusive. What really struck him was that Phelps had gone missing and left no evidence behind, no sign of a struggle, no report of anyone else in the vicinity, and like several of the women and girls, he had vanished from a place as if by magic, leaving no signs of his exit. However, suppose he was the culprit they were looking for? Would the disappearances stop, at least in this area? Suppose he had just pulled up stakes in order to begin operations elsewhere? Well, one way or another they would find out. There were already bulletins out to other law enforcement agencies in most metropolitan areas asking them to be notified of similar occurrences. Sifting through those reports had become almost a daily duty.

Jimmy hadn’t returned yet when Weston got back to the station. He took the time to run a background on Maria Sanchez and turned up one violation for solicitation of sex and a bust at a topless club which had been violating the Houston sexually orientated business regulations.

There was nothing else in the file to suggest that she was anything other than what she appeared to be. Like hundreds of thousands like her, she was nothing more than a young woman depending on her beauty and willingness for sex to support herself.

Weston was becoming very hungry by the time Jimmy appeared; the donuts had long since disappeared and it was after one o’clock. Before he had a chance to question his partner, Ward called them into his office.

“I hope you guys have turned up something,” Ward said with no preliminaries, raking his hands through his hair twice in succession while fidgeting nervously at his desk.

Weston went over his morning’s activities. Ward cursed when he told him about the missing files, then turned to Jimmy. “How about you, Thang? Anything?” It was a feeble attempt at humor, Weston thought.

“I spent the morning tracing Woolridge’s activities for contacts. Not much luck there.

Apparently he was very reclusive and no one knew him well. However, I did find out a couple of things—not that I have any idea what they might mean.”

“C’mon, Thang. At this point, I’d settle for a stray piece of lint. Out with it.”

Weston smiled. Jimmy never got in a hurry reporting to anyone. He shifted out of his chair and stood behind it, holding the backrest with his hands. “Well, there aren’t many stores in that area, as you might imagine. However, I found that he had shopped fairly frequently at a little grocery just off the freeway; one of the cashiers recognized his picture. Now what’s funny is that he bought canned goods and items which didn’t need to be cooked almost exclusively.”

Ward looked disgusted. “Goddamnit, Thang, that’s nothing. So far as we know he lived alone. Shit, back when I was batching it, that’s all I bought, too.”

“Did you buy enough for five or ten people every time you shopped?”

The expression on Ward’s face changed immediately. “What? Why would he do that?

Oh—goddamn!”

“There’s more,” Jimmy continued. “As I said, he was fairly reclusive, but I did find one old man living on the same road who recognized his pickup. He lives right on a sharp curve near the mansion. One day a year or two back, he doesn’t remember exactly when, he saw the pickup as it slowed. He said it was loaded to the gunwales with packages and boxes.”

“That’s no help unless we know what was in them.”

“He remembered seeing an Academy label on a couple of the boxes. That’s where I went next. We got lucky. His big shopping spree was two years ago, but one of the clerks remembered him simply because he paid in cash, with hundred dollar bills, so many that the clerk had the manager scan them for counterfeits.”

Ward was alert now. He used one hand on his hair while the other yanked at the knot of his tie. “Goddamn, this might be our break. If we put those facts together with his suicide note, it sounds as if he might have been the perp and was holding some of the women and girls captive. God, we might even find some of them alive! Wouldn’t that be great?”

“They’re going to be hard to find with his place off limits—if they’re anywhere around there, that is.” Jimmy said.

Ward looked pained, then remembered that Weston had as much as said he was going to sneak into the mansion at night. “We might get a break on that, too,” he said.

“You mean the chief might rescind his order?”

Weston winked at Ward, reminding him that he didn’t want anyone else to know where he would be staying. Ward nodded his head, both confirming Weston’s secrecy and assuring Jimmy at the same time. “Well, I don’t expect him to right away, but I expect to get a few facts in the meantime anyway.”

Jimmy’s normally solemn face became even more impassive. He was imagining that Ward intended to have someone do a clandestine inspection but thought there was something incongruous about the idea; Ward had never been noted for exceeding the bounds of his authority. After a moment he shrugged to himself and let it pass.

Weston still didn’t know why he wasn’t informing his partner of his intentions and felt a moment of guilt. He decided that if he found out anything at all, he would break his silence. In the meanwhile, he just didn’t want to be bothered by a lot of questions as to his intentions.

Jimmy knew his history. He hadn’t gone out much since Janie’s death and the subsequent divorce and didn’t want to put up with the teasing that would be sure to follow if he knew.

That, plus the fact that it wasn’t quite appropriate to be keeping such close company with a potential witness; the DA would frown on such activities.

Ward leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie some more. “OK, here’s the situation.

I’ve found out that the Houston Chronicle is going to come out with a front-page story tomorrow on the disappearances, with feeds to national media, TV and newspapers both.

Tamrick, you can expect to be interviewed.”

“Do I have to be?” Weston asked.

“Sorry, no help for it. I’m going to have to suffer, too. One thing, maybe the publicity and investigation will turn up the chief’s orders keeping the Woolridge place off limits and make him rescind them.”

“That might be worth it,” Weston said, but he felt a surge of disappointment. If that happened, it wouldn’t be so easy to stay at the Woolridge mansion with Sandy. And he realized that he really did want to get to know her better.

CHAPTER NINE

« ^ »

DAN ARRENDELL, Weston’s attorney friend, had been outraged at the idea that the police chief had put the Woolridge mansion off limits to Sandy, since the coroner had already ruled that her father’s death was a suicide. He advised her to go ahead and move in if she wanted to and gave her his number to call in case the police gave her any problems. Satisfied, Sandra packed a suitcase with enough clothes and supplies to last her a few days and was on her way by mid-afternoon, hurrying because of a buildup of clouds, portending another shower moving in from the gulf. She couldn’t locate an umbrella anywhere and had no desire to get soaked while unloading the car.

She made it just in time. Large fat drops of rain began spattering onto the already damp ground and into her hair as she was bringing in her suitcase, the last item. She stood inside the front door for a moment, thinking about her car parked out front. No sense advertising that I’m here, she thought, even if I do get wet. She rushed to her car and drove it around to the back of the house, hoping that she would either beat the loaded clouds overhead before they began seriously dispensing their moisture or finding the back entrance unlocked. Neither scenario worked. The back door was locked from the inside and abruptly the rain began pouring down in wind-driven sheets.

Sandra waited for a few minutes to see if it would slack off but soon grew impatient and decided to make a dash for it. Her jeans would dry and she decided that her hair needed washing anyway. She ran from the small back porch onto the drive circling the mansion, out into the rain. She was thoroughly soaked by the time she got back inside. She picked up her suitcase and headed for one of the bedrooms she remembered just past the first archway where she had explored the day before.

By any standards she had ever known, the bedroom was luxurious, though furnished haphazardly, and the adjoining bathroom was positively sybaritic. She stripped off her wet clothes and deposited them on an expanse of the blue tile covering the floor, intending to get clean and dry before searching further to see where the clothes washing and drying facilities were located.

The bathroom contained a huge sunken tub, large enough to conduct orgies in, complete with a showerhead which she discovered could be adjusted for water massages. One wall was completely taken up with a mirror which faithfully reflected her naked image. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her naturally blond hair appeared darker now with its load of water but otherwise she didn’t think she had anything to complain about. She had high, full breasts and a slender enough waist, though in full face profile she thought (incorrectly, if Weston could have seen her then) that her hips were a trifle wide. She stretched, clasping both hands over her head, then relaxed and stepped into the tub, bringing soap and shampoo with her. Alone, she didn’t bother closing the curtain separating the sunken tub from the rest of the bathroom.

Sandra worked shampoo into her hair then rinsed it out while the tub filled. After that, she sat down on one of the now submerged seats at one end of the tub and simply relaxed and let the warm water caress her as it moved under the impulse of the circulation system. This was a luxury she could get used to with no trouble at all. Eventually, the warm flow of the water over her body began making her sleepy and she got to her feet and stood under the shower, letting it massage her front and back as it rinsed away the suds. It felt so good that she continued to stand under the stream even after all the soap had been washed away. Sighing, she reached and turned the faucet off. Standing, she ran her hands down over her body, sluicing away water. As she did she suddenly got the odd feeling that she was being watched, though it was impossible to see how that could be; she could plainly see the rest of the bathroom from the tub and there was certainly no one else inside with her. Nevertheless, she felt a shiver of apprehension. She dried herself quickly, and still feeling as if she were being looked at, decided to take her hair drier into the bedroom. There were more than enough mirrors there.

Sandra wrapped herself in a one of the nondescript towels which had been in the bathroom, again knowing that it was nothing that a woman would have furnished that large, ornate room with. Once she had covered herself, even if somewhat minimally, she felt more secure, as if the towel were somehow protecting her. As she was drying her hair, she failed to hear a popping noise over the whine of the dryer, but when she was finished and dropped the towel to begin dressing, the feeling of being watched came back, stronger than ever. She couldn’t understand why and began wishing that Wes would somehow manage to get there before dark. The mansion, for all its newness, made her feel as if she had taken up residence in a haunted house.

GARY GERANT watched Sandra bathe, massaging his erect penis through the cloth of his trousers. She was beautiful, a natural blonde, not like two or three of the others who had fooled him (and had paid dearly for it). She fitted perfectly the ideal he kept in his mind always, like an undeletable computer file. He wished he could have taken her then, in her natural state, just like the image that more and more occupied his consciousness. It wouldn’t do, though, not while Woolridge’s estate was still unsettled. He had to content himself with watching her in the bedroom, waiting until the sound of the hairdryer would override the small amount of noise necessary to get a view from there. After that he waited impatiently for her to finish with her hair, feeling the tension build up inside himself while she worked on her hair, so blond and long, not like the short, unattractive styles most women chose nowadays. When she finally did finish he stared avidly as she dropped the towel. Her pubic hair was dry now and it almost matched the color of her blond tresses, being only slightly darker. Again, the ideal. He massaged himself again, watching her step into her panties and lean forward to fit her breasts into the cups of her bra. A strangled sound came from deep inside him as he felt the pent up tension in his groin suddenly release. Oh, if only she would stay! If only she would stay until the estate was settled; if only she would not move too far away so he could take her then. He waited until she finished dressing and left the bedroom and only then did he remember that Leeward had agreed to keep the place off limits until things settled down. What was she doing here? Not that he was ungrateful; far from it. If she stayed it would save the trouble of searching later. If he could wait, that is. The sight of her had stimulated him to an almost unbearable degree.

SAMPSON LEEWARD, chief of the Houston police department was reading a file of the story that was to appear in the Chronicle the next morning. A reporter he dealt with from time to time had clandestinely made a copy and dropped it by his office a few minutes before. This isn’t good, he thought. Someone was bound to leak his orders placing the Woolridge mansion off limits and how could he explain the order without breaking security? It was a no win situation and he didn’t know what to do about it. He began scribbling on a legal pad, trying to sort out his thoughts and what he was going to say at the press conference tomorrow, after the article came out. There was no avoiding it, he knew. If he didn’t have a conference, the papers and local (and even national) TV stations would bring such unbearable pressure that he would be forced into it by the mayor anyway. He propped his beefy chin in the palm of one hand and continued writing with the other. He hated press conferences, other than those where a case was being concluded with an arrest and resolution. Otherwise, they were worthless, so far as informational purposes went. He could never give out salient facts of unsolved cases and was reduced to circumlocution and vaguely repeated statements of “progress.”

The phone rang, contributing to the irritation he already felt. He had left orders not to be disturbed while he tried to resolve the unresolvable.

“Leeward,” he said brusquely.

“Chief, this is Gary.”

“Thank God.” Leeward breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Gerant would tell him how to handle this.

“What’s wrong?” Leeward noticed that Gerant appeared to be breathing rather heavily and wondered what he had been up to. He forgot the fact within moments, though, as he explained the quandary the man had put him in.

Leeward listened to a moment of silence before he got a reply. “Security has already been broached, chief. There’s a woman out at the mansion now.”

“Do you know who it is?”

Gerant gave him a detailed description, not admitting that he already knew her identity.

“Hmm. Sounds like it might be the Woolridge girl. I’ll get her out of there right away,”

Leeward said.

“No, don’t do that!” Leeward held the receiver away from his ear for a moment, wondering what in hell was going on. First Gerant had ordered the place to be closed off and now he was saying it was all right for the girl to make herself at home there.

“Let the girl stay. I can’t tell you why right now, but it’s necessary.”

The chief didn’t understand, but let it pass. There was a hell of a lot he didn’t understand lately. “If you say so.”

“I do. She might be germane to the case we’re working on.”

“All right, but how about anyone else? My orders are bound to leak and I’m going to have to explain why I gave them.”

Gerant paused again before answering. “Stall as long as you can without getting into trouble with the mayor, then let the forensics people inside. Give them a time limit to get in and out, then recluse the place again, except for the girl. Remember, this is important.”

“So you said. Well, I don’t like it, but I’m a patriot; I’ll go along with you as long as I can.”

“Good. Thanks, chief. I wish I could tell you more, but I’m under restraints, too. You know?”

“Yeah, that seems logical. You still can’t give me a number where I can reach you if I need to?”

“Sorry, Chief. I can’t afford to take the chance on a tap or a shotgun mike. Like I said, this is very important.”

“Well, all right, but try to check with me a little more often. Could you do that much, at least?”

“I’ll try,” Gerant said and hung up the phone.

Leeward placed the receiver back onto its cradle and shook his head, resembling nothing so much as a disgruntled bulldog. If he didn’t get a handle on the disappearances before long, it wouldn’t be any use in retiring and announcing his candidacy for the city council. He would be laughed out of the party.

SANDRA SPENT the rest of the evening exploring the mansion, hoping she was checking every room in the house. It was hard to be sure, the way the halls rambled around and branched into other smaller corridors. She did locate an alcove containing a washer and dryer and returned for her wet clothes and started them cycling. The place was larger than it looked from the outside and she became disorientated several times before finding her way. Once, as she entered yet another bedroom she heard a faint pop from behind her. She twirled to see what had caused it but there was nothing there, as usual.

Eventually, Sandra completed her rambling exploration and came back to the front living room. From there, she went to the bedroom she had picked out and hung what clothes she had brought in the wall-to-wall closet. The few articles of clothing looked lonely there, like an almost empty stadium while a game was in progress. She thought momentarily of changing into something besides jeans before Wesley arrived then discarded the notion. He didn’t appear to be interested in her as a woman so why bother?

The kitchen was another matter. She was beginning to get hungry. She had brought a few items along with her and took them there, noting again that it wasn’t even halfway furnished as a woman would have had it. She fixed herself a sandwich, wondering while she did if Wes would be wanting something to eat when he arrived. Maybe he would like her cooking, if nothing else. She took out a package of deboned chicken breasts to sauté, some rolls, and washed some new potatoes. She had forgotten pineapples, but found a can of the sliced variety and decided that would do. As she worked over the simmering chicken breasts, she thought she heard the popping noise again but this time she ignored it. Maybe Wes had been right; it was only parts of the house settling as it began losing the heat built up during the day. Since arriving, the rain had passed and the sun had been out for an hour or so before sunset.

Sandra left the meal in a state where she could finish it in a few moments then wandered back to the living room and watched the last rays of the sun turn the passing storm clouds red, then orange and purple as twilight descended. After that she located the zapper and turned on the large screen Television, wishing she had thought to bring a book. Most programs held little interest for her as, yet again, while she scanned various channels, a sense of being watched came over her. She wished Wes would hurry. This place was too big and lonely, if not actually creepy, for her to want to stay by herself much longer.

WESTON WAS trying to hurry, but Lieutenant Ward was reluctant to let him and Jimmy leave before reviewing what would be revealed the next day and what facts would be kept from the press. Also, he had decided to bring two other detectives into active participation on the case. Jimmy’s revelation of Woolridge’s peculiar purchases was bothering him and he wanted more follow-up. And finally, he laid out the possibility that in lieu of those facts, that it might be advantageous to begin a search of the thick, swampy grounds to the west and north of Kingwood, on the possibility that Woolridge, indeed, had been responsible for the disappearances and was perhaps holding some of the females captive in the secluded, barely accessible region. After talking it over with them, it was decided that uniforms and dog teams could be assigned to that facet of the case. If nothing else, it would at least show that he was doing something positive, whether they turned up any evidence or not.

When they were finally allowed to leave it was almost eight o’clock.

“You want to go for a drink?” Jimmy asked. “I could sure use one.”

This was a normal practice for the partners after a hard day and Weston tried to appear even more tired than he really felt when he answered. “No, I think I’m going to go hit the sack and catch up on some sleep.” He yawned theatrically.

Jimmy shrugged. “OK. I’m going to stop by the watering hole for an hour or so then do the same. See you in the morning.”

Weston let Jimmy notice that he was driving off in the direction he normally took, then as soon as he was out of sight, turned back toward the freeway and Kingwood.

SANDRA SAW the lights of Weston’s car as he pulled into the front of the mansion, then, the same as she had done, circled on to the back and parked his car beside hers. Not seeing a doorbell, he retraced the route he had driven on foot and punched the button at the front door.

He waited for a few minutes then rang again, beginning to worry. What if Sandy had gone the way of the other women and he was ringing the doorbell of an empty house? He felt a peculiar catch in his breast at the thought and was just preparing to try the door and see if it were unlocked when it suddenly opened.

“I’m sorry,” Sandra exclaimed before he could even greet her. “I saw you pull past the front driveway and went around back to let you in. Then when I couldn’t find you, I decided that you must have come back around to the front. Or—or disappeared.” She said the last words with a lump in her throat, showing just how scared she had been.

Weston smiled at her, and then remembered Phelps. His face became serious again. “I guess I should have stopped in front first. May I come in?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I’m glad you’re here.” She stepped aside to let him enter. “Is there anything wrong? You look worried.”

“I guess it can’t hurt to tell you. Mr. Phelps disappeared last night.” Weston regained his smile. “For a few minutes there I was worried that you might have, too. I’m glad to see you haven’t.”

Sandra took Weston’s hand almost without noticing that she had done so and led him into the living room, saying as they walked, “I can’t say that I’m really upset that he’s gone, though I wouldn’t want anything bad to have happened to him. Maybe when he saw that I wasn’t going to cooperate with him, he just decided to pull up stakes and go find a new client.”

Weston stopped in the middle of the room. “I guess that’s what could have happened, but it has all the earmarks of the same kind of vanishing act as the women we’re searching for performed.”

“Oh, no! Are you sure?”

Weston forced a grin. “At this point I’m not sure of anything. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too. I mean I’m glad you came. Are you hungry?”

The grin became wider and Sandra picked up a sparkle in the detective’s eyes from behind his heavy framed glasses. “I’ll say. The lieutenant kept us overtime today. I just left. What I could really use right now is a drink, though. If you don’t mind, seems as if I remember some scotch back in the other section of the house.”

“I’ll get it,” Sandra said. Suddenly the idea of a drink didn’t sound bad to her either. “Why don’t you wash up a bit if you need to. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Weston remembered a bathroom located just off one of the hallways and headed in that direction while Sandra hurried to find the liquor, not hesitating as she had earlier. She had most of the passageways memorized now. She found the glass-enclosed display of bottles. She didn’t drink all that much but picked a bottle of Cutty Sark, a brand she remembered from what one of the college students she had gone out with a couple of times drank. As she turned to leave, she noticed another bottle, opened and more than a third depleted sitting on a counter across the way. Beside it sat a shot glass. Curious, she walked over and picked it up. She didn’t remember seeing it there in her previous explorations, but then she hadn’t been paying that much attention. She picked up the shot glass and sniffed. The odor of scotch was still present.

She wondered how long it might have been since the glass had been used and again remembered the feeling of being watched. Hurriedly, she picked up the bottle and retreated from the room. On the way back, she decided not to mention it to Weston. She didn’t want him to think she was getting the vapors from staying by herself here all day.

“Hi. I’m back.”

Weston looked up from where he had seated himself at one end of a short couch. While waiting, he had idly peered beneath the side table and spied a small stack of magazines on a shelf beneath it. Curious as to what Woolridge might have found interesting to read, he picked one of them up. It was a thick magazine entitled Teenage Girls. He flipped rapidly through the pages. It was replete with photos of young girls, many barely pubescent, posing alone or in sexually explicit positions with other girls. Hurriedly, he closed the magazine and put it back where he had found it.

Sandra smiled over her shoulder as she took the bottle over to a corner of the room where the makings of a fair sized bar lived. “What were you reading?”

“Oh, just a magazine,” Weston said, making a note to himself to try to dispose of it before Sandy chanced to look at it. That would only serve to revive memories of what her father had done to her. Anyone who had been through what she had deserved to be protected and he intended to do so, as far as was possible.

“How do you take your scotch?” Sandra called.

“Just with ice, thanks.”

Sandra poured their drinks, then diluted hers with water. Fortunately for her, the scotch fumes didn’t smell at all like what she remembered of her father’s breath, a stale odor of beer.

She brought the drinks back and sat down beside Weston. “I hope you like sautéed chicken breasts; that’s what I made for us.”

Weston smiled at her. “That was thoughtful of you. I appreciate it; I’m not used to having anyone cook for me.”

“You live alone, then?”

“Yes, I’ve been divorced for over two years now.”

“I’m sorry,” Sandra said, hoping that was the right response.

“No need to be. My wife just couldn’t take it when we lost our daughter.” The response came from his lips without a moment’s hesitation. When he realized what he had said, it amazed him that he could have opened up so readily with a woman he hardly knew; it wasn’t like him. Ordinarily, he never mentioned Janie’s death to anyone and rarely admitted to being divorced.

“How awful!” Sandra exclaimed. “That must have been terrible for you.”

Weston sipped at his drink. He said, “I’m gradually getting over it, even though it has taken a while.” Immediately it came to him that he was getting over Janie’s death. The realization felt like a load being lifted from his shoulders. With that, he remembered the purpose of his being here. “Would you mind if I look around while we finish our drink? I have a sort of unofficial authorization, but remember, I’m not really supposed to be here.”

“Sure. I’ve been through the place this afternoon. I think I can show you around without having to hire an Indian Guide now.”

Weston laughed and let her conduct the tour. It was singularly unproductive. He did write down the brand name of furniture and appliances where it was evident, intending to have either himself or Jimmy or Seevers track down the date and place where they had been purchased. Maybe another bit of interesting data would be uncovered, though he doubted that they would find much of a connection between furniture and camping gear or canned goods.

That was the way the game was played, though. Detective work was more often a matter of sifting through an enormous amount of data rather than uncovering obvious clues.

Sandra found herself chatting easily with the detective after they sat down to eat. He complimented her on the meal, asked about her life while in school and amused her with funny little anecdotes drawn from his work over the years. He asked discerning questions about her career as a novelist and expressed genuine amazement at how little recompense the average novelist brought in for the amount of work. Finally, when she noticed him trying to conceal a yawn, she suggested that they go to bed.

Weston agreed readily. It was later than he had thought. The evening seemed to have flown by as they talked. She showed him to his bedroom, right down the hall from her own.

“Goodnight. Thanks for coming,” Sandra said.

“It was my pleasure,” Weston responded. “I haven’t enjoyed an evening so much in a long while.”

Sandra smiled. “I’m glad. Good night.”

“Good night,” Weston said and stepped into the bedroom, much larger than the one in his own home. He undressed and was peacefully asleep within minutes.

Sandra removed her clothes and donned a thin, almost transparent nightgown, but it took her longer to get to sleep. She kept remembering the odd feeling of being watched during the afternoon and the darkness in her room kept her from relaxing. Finally she got up and turned on the light in the bathroom, leaving the door open so that the indirect lighting brightened the room yet didn’t bother her when she closed her eyes. After a time, she slumbered, unconsciously pushing down the sheet until it covered no more than her feet and the calves of her legs; she had forgotten to turn down the thermostat after adjusting it during the late afternoon shower when she had felt a chill in the house.

GARY GERANT quietly let himself into the bedroom and stared at the recumbent form of the woman. He hadn’t been able to resist seeing her in the flesh even though he knew he shouldn’t be taking the chance. She was like a beautiful magnet, pulling him into her presence just as if she possessed an oppositely charged body. She was turned partially to the side, one breast half concealed by an arm but the other wholly visible beneath the thin nightgown, the nipple limned like a little tent beneath the diaphanous fabric. His eyes trailed over the curve of her hip and down to bare legs and thighs, revealed as the hem of the gown had crept up from the normal night movements of her body. He came closer, trying to see her better in the shadowed light from the bathroom, knowing it was dangerous to be here but unable to resist.

Tentatively, he reached out to caress the strands of her long blond hair, glittering here and there where the light caught vagrant strands just right. God, she was beautiful. And so vulnerable

.

CHAPTER TEN

« ^ »

SANDRA HAD always been a light sleeper, a legacy from childhood when she dreaded the night knowing that several times a week she would be awakened by the weight of her drunken father shifting the mattress as he crawled into bed with her. Sometimes, if she was lucky, he would be too drunk to do more than paw her before passing out; on other occasions, however, he stayed awake long enough to complete the act, leaving his residue wet and sticky between her legs. On other occasions he fell into such a stupor during his violations that she was left to push and shove until she could get him off her body. Those times, she would lay awake hoping that he would wake up and make it to his own bed before her mother came home, catching her in the aftermath of his attentions. Her youthful mind never realized how outraged her mother would be, not at her but at her father, not until it finally happened.

At the first touch of Gerant’s hand fingering the strands of her hair her eyes blinked opened. At first she thought it must be Wes wanting to come into bed with her and she was sleepily trying to decide whether to allow it or not when she saw his face and realized that a stranger was in her bedroom. She screamed, with all the fear and terror in her voice that she had so wanted to voice years ago under the same circumstances, then screamed again and again, shrinking away from the hovering figure and unconsciously closing her eyes as she did so. When she drew in a breath to scream again, the figure had mysteriously vanished, as if it had been a figment from an unaccountably vivid nightmare.

WESTON WAS sleeping much more soundly, but Sandra’s first scream woke him up and the second sent him scrambling from the bed. With only a night light to guide him, he fumbled his heavy .45 from the holster where he had hung it over one of the bedposts and scrambled for the door, clad only in his shorts and a grim determination to kill if it was necessary; he had recognized Sandra’s voice, even through her terror. He burst out of his room and ran for the bedroom where he knew Sandra had retired for the night. He kicked the door open, gun leveled and braced with both hands, crouching in the classic firing position. There was no one inside except Sandy, huddling at the head of her bed with the sheet drawn protectively up to her chest.

Sandra screamed again when Weston burst into the room then cut it off sharply as she recognized him. She drew a deep gasping breath, half sobbing while she felt her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. “Wes! Oh, God, Wes, there was a man in here! He was touching me!” She huddled back against the headboard as if trying to push her body into the very wood.

Weston ignored her for the moment, scanning the room with his weapon leveled. Seeing no one, he edged toward the bathroom and shoved the door all the way open with his foot.

With the door open, he could see that it was fully lighted and empty. The shower curtain was drawn back, leaving no place for an intruder to conceal himself. Satisfied, he went back into the bedroom and closed its door. He snapped the lock to and only then did he lower his gun.

By this time Sandra was sobbing uncontrollably. Weston went to her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and she immediately came into his arms. He put his weapon down on the bedside table within easy reach and gathered her in, hugging her body to his chest and patting her back and making soothing sounds until her cries lessened and finally stopped. She sniffed a few times then raised her head. Weston picked up a corner of the sheet and rubbed tears from her face, then smiled and did the same for his chest.

Sandra laughed, a sound more like the soft uttering of an unhappy puppy. She wiped at her face with the fingers of one hand, keeping the other firmly attached to Weston’s back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you wet, too. Oh, God, I was so scared—”

“From the sounds you made, you were more like terrified. Who was it, do you know? I didn’t see anyone.”

“How could you have missed him?” Sandra said. “It couldn’t have taken you more than a few seconds to get here.”

Weston patted her back again. “He must have got out and around the corner of the hall before I got out of my room. Don’t worry; I imagine that, whoever it was, he’s gone now.”

Sandra looked at him disbelievingly. “But—look, the bedroom door was still closed when you came charging through. If he was in that much of a hurry, would he have stopped to close it?”

“There’s my detective again,” Weston said, attempting some levity hoping it would further calm her down. She did have a point, though.

“It doesn’t take much of a detective to have figured that out,” Sandra said. She observed that Wes was now looking more puzzled than protective. “You do believe me, don’t you? You don’t think I was just dreaming?”

Weston didn’t know what to think. He could only conjecture that it had indeed been only a singularly terrifying dream, or that the intruder was both extraordinarily fast and meticulous about closing doors behind him. “Nightmares can be awfully realistic, take it from me. For a months, I woke up screaming trying to save Janie from one thing or another. Tell you what, though. Why don’t we get up and put some coffee on? We can then look around and see what we see, being extraordinarily careful not to turn our backs on anywhere a person could be hiding? How does that sound?”

“All right.” Sandra waited until Weston had gotten to his feet then pushed back the sheet and stood up. Suddenly they each realized that they were standing only inches apart, clad in the most minimal of nightclothes. Weston dropped his gaze then realized he was looking at Sandra’s body through a film of material which left almost nothing to the imagination. Hastily, he raised his eyes back to the level of her own then averted his gaze when he caught Sandy’s amused look of comprehension. Weston coughed lightly, knowing that his face must be turning red. “It might be a good idea if we got dressed first, though,” he said lamely.

Sandra didn’t want to be left alone for even a moment. “All right, but I’m going to lock the door behind you. When you’ve got something on over those orange shorts, come back and knock at the door.”

Weston blushed even redder and retreated back to his own room. He tugged on his trousers and shirt but left off his shoes. He reholstered the .45 and shouldered the strap over his shirt then went back to get Sandra.

Sandra had simply thrown a robe on over her nightgown and had been waiting for his knock, though it turned out to be more of a light tapping instead, as if he wanted no chance of her mistaking his return for that of the intruder, if there had been one. He still wasn’t sure.

When she opened the door, his first thought at seeing her in the belted robe was that it wasn’t much of an improvement so far as concealing her body from him. The silky material clung to the lines and curves of her body as if it had been especially designed to produce that effect—and so it had. He hastily got his eyes back where they belonged, providing the impetus for a tiny smile from Sandra. She tried to lead the way to the kitchen but Weston insisted on going first, his right arm crossing his chest and his hand resting lightly on the grip of his weapon.

The sight of the holstered gun hanging on Weston’s chest did more to reassure Sandra than anything else. She felt herself calming down with remarkable speed.

Weston waited while Sandra got a pot of coffee brewing, then they both made a brief tour of the front part of the house with him leading the way. It was mostly out of concern for her that he did even that much; the mansion was so large that a dozen intruders could have eluded their search had they been present, and knowing the habits of night burglars (if that had been the case), was certain he would be long gone by now. However, he didn’t intend to let her stay in the house by herself again. Rapists and other deviants were an entirely different matter.

As soon as Weston thought Sandy was comfortable with the thought that there was no one around now, he led the way back to the kitchen, where they seated themselves at the dinette with their cups.

“What should I do now, Wes?” Sandra asked almost immediately. “I don’t think I could stand to stay here by myself during the day while you’re gone.”

Weston breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I don’t think you should even if you wanted to.”

He checked his watch and saw that before too much longer it would have been time for them to get up anyway. A thought occurred to him. If there had been an intruder, maybe Sandra would recognize him from a mug shot if the person had a record in Houston. If not, he could take her to a police artist and get a sketch made and have it circulated as soon as the missing persons report was filed. That would pretty well occupy her day and they could meet after he got off and come back here together. He broached the subject to her.

“Sure,” Sandra agreed readily. She sipped at her coffee and brushed a vagrant strand of fine blond hair from her face.

“And in the meantime,” Weston continued, “I’m a fair artist. While we’re waiting, and while your memory is still fresh, why don’t we get the most prominent characteristics of our little sneaky Pete down on paper, bearing in mind that I need to be gone from here before daylight so that no one can recognize me if they see me leaving. You can take the sketch with you to jog your memory in case you don’t pick anyone out from our mug file.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sandra said. She talked while Weston sketched, both pausing occasionally to drink their coffee. Gradually a caricature emerged, a heavy face with a too thin mustache and short dark hair, parted on one side. Weston knew a professional police artist would do much better, but it was a start and if nothing else, helped pass the time.

When that was finished, Weston suggested that they get dressed and have some breakfast on the way to the station; being aroused so early had given him an appetite for more than donuts.

Surprisingly, Sandra was ready before Weston was. It helped that she had done her hair the night before. While she waited on him to emerge, she sat on the end of the same short couch he had occupied the previous evening. Having nothing better to do while waiting, she picked up one of the magazines on the shelf below the end table.

“Oh, dear God, he never stopped bothering little girls,” she thought when she saw the type of magazine she was holding. Then she remembered that Weston had held the same periodical in his hands and told her it was ‘nothing’ when she asked what he was reading. Her first reaction was the beginning of outrage. “Surely not! Not him; he couldn’t be interested in this filth!” Then she remembered that he hadn’t looked guilty as he would have had he been interested in the material itself, but rather more like he was attempting to keep her from seeing it. Still…

Weston appeared abruptly, coming through the archway, his footsteps having been muffled by the thick carpet. He stopped and stood very still when he saw the cover of the magazine. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said immediately. “I had intended to hide it from you but it slipped my mind.”

Sandra realized how the words were intended. “That was thoughtful of you. I just hope all he’s done since he got out of prison was look, but…does this mean he might be responsible for some of those little girls who have disappeared? I guess it probably does,” she added forlornly.

Weston went to her as she slipped the magazine back into place and stood up, eyes downcast. He placed a thumb and forefinger under her chin and tilted her face up to him.

“That’s not necessarily so. Most men who look at this sort of stuff never go further than that.”

“Yes, but he did in the past. And he probably never stopped until he was dead, the sorry bastard.”

“Damned if I can say anything around you without you catching me out,” Weston said.

“We’re going to have to send you to the academy then put you on the fast track towards detective rating.”

Sandra looked up at him. Weston, with his hand still beneath her chin, couldn’t resist. He lowered his lips and kissed her lightly, but letting his lips linger longer than he had intended.

He felt Sandra’s arms moving then her hands were on his neck, pulling his head down and prolonging the kiss. Her lips parted briefly, allowing their tongues to touch, then she stepped back. “I think you are one of the most sympathetic men I have ever met,” She said. “Are you ready?”

“I sure am now,” Weston said.

They agreed to meet at the I-Hop near Humble for breakfast and left in their separate cars, Weston driving only with his parking lights until he was a block or so away.

AT THE STATION, Weston found that the artist would be free only in the morning, so he left Sandra there first rather than at the computer into which the vast majority of faces had been scanned into files.

“Where’s the donuts? And your coffee?” Jimmy demanded when he opened the door to their office. “I splurged this morning and ate breakfast,” Weston informed him.

Jimmy raised a brow ever so slightly. “Is that all you ate? I just got a call from Mel, telling me you brought in a good looking blond to work with you this morning.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Weston said, but he suddenly realized that he had forgotten to tell Mel, the artist, to keep his mouth shut. To change the subject, he added, “You should talk; where did you spend the night? You look a little dissipated this morning.”

“Not with a potential witness, that’s for sure.”

“How did you—”

Jimmy raised his hand. “You ought to know by now that there’s no secrets around this place. Ward is going to have your ass.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe the Oilers are going to come back to Houston, too. If Ward doesn’t get you, the chief will. What the hell were you thinking of?”

“I was thinking of how to solve this fucking case if you’re really curious. Besides, there’s no reason the chief has to know. So far as he’s concerned, it’s just a friend of mine who called me last night or this morning and I’m trying to help her out.”

“So Ward already knows where you were, huh?”

Oops. “Detectives. Always detectives around me, letting me know how incompetent I am.

You won’t say anything, will you?”

Jimmy ran a finger across his lips as if zipping them shut.

“When is the big conference scheduled?” Weston asked.

“I imagine the chief is already holding his, considering the headlines this morning. Ward has us, or rather you, lined up for a half hour from now.”

“Aren’t you going to be there?”

“Only to add color to the photos. You’re the bright detective who gets to tell the press how close we are to solving this case.”

“If Sandy can identify who it was who broke into her room last night, we might be closer than you think,” Weston said.

“You think the perp broke in on your little love nest in order to do away with a witness?”

“She’s not a witness, so far as I know. And it’s not a love nest. We slept in separate bedrooms.”

“She could be a witness, you know.”

“Let’s worry about it later. Right now, all she is is the daughter of a possible, and I repeat possible, perp, even if he did leave her a fortune.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re hot for her body. Money is involved!”

“Lay off, Jimmy. She’s a nice girl.”

“They all are.” Jimmy glanced at the wall clock. “You ready to go? Ward is waiting for us on the front steps.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go get it over with.”

LIEUTENANT WARD occupied the spotlight first, hoping that his performance would reflect favorably on his future prospects for promotion—if the case was ever solved. Ward ran over the highlights of the case first then went over the points raised in the Chronicle article, pointing out where they had gone wrong. While he talked, Weston stood back out of sight, reading the article from a newspaper he had snitched form a secretary’s desk on the way over.

The article’s headline was to the point: More disappearances of young women and girls tied to The Invisible Man. May have nationwide scope. Weston grimaced at the implication that just because the department had sent out queries concerning similar cases they were probably going to find some. He read on … Paroled child molester’s mansion placed off limits to forensics team. The reason for this reportedly comes directly from Chief Leeward’s office. No explanation has been offered for this development, but Leeward has scheduled an early morning news conference to review progress on the case. This question is certain to be …

Weston skipped a paragraph of speculation, then read on … according to our sources, lead detective Weston Tamrick has been following up leads the last two days, some of them directly related to the suicide of Terry Woolridge, owner of the sequestered mansion. It is known that Woolridge left a suicide note, but to date its contents have not been revealed. One of the major questions still unanswered is how Woolridge managed to accumulate enough money to purchase his elaborate home just to the west of the borough of Kingwood. However… Weston was glad the note was still being kept under wraps; at least the reporters hadn’t gotten onto the fact that his daughter was now involved in the case and had been named the only heir in Woolridge’s will. Woolridge’s attorney, it has been learned, has also been reported missing. A transcript of a 911 call by Maria Sanchez has been obtained and… Weston wished the reporters luck in obtaining any more information from Maria than he had … and finally, there are several other facts which need to be answered. Why is the OIC of the FBI team, Dudley Cranston, apparently going in a different direction with his investigation than the department?

What is the relationship between an unsuccessful attempt at a major drug bust several years ago, reportedly involving a large sum of money, and the source of Woolridge’s sudden wealth?

And last, considering the number of disappearances of young women from the environs of the borough of Kingwood, why have so few clues been left by the perpetuator? These and other pertinent and important questions are certain to be raised, not only at the news conference to be held by Chief Leeward, but at a separate news conference to be held at the same time at the Kingwood precinct station. If and when answers are obtained, they will go far toward allaying panic. In the meantime…

Weston heard his name being spoken and realized that was his cue. He hurriedly ripped the rest of the article from the paper and stuffed it into an inside breast pocket and shouldered up to the side and slightly behind Lieutenant Ward. He hadn’t been listening and hoped that Ward hadn’t said anything which would take him by surprise, but he doubted that he had.

Ward was famous for speaking in generalities rather than specifics, never allowing himself to be pinned down on anything not yet resolved.

Weston had little trouble with the reporters. He took the opposite tack as Ward, preferring direct answers where possible without revealing facts in cases where information was still being withheld from the press, and where that wasn’t possible, preferring to state simply that it wasn’t anything he was prepared to discuss yet for fear of compromising the case. It didn’t take long to cover the basics since he really didn’t know much. The one question he fumbled with was the reason why a forensics team had not yet examined the Woolridge mansion. Even stating that there existed a reason he wasn’t prepared to reveal (the reason being that the chief had ordered them to wait for purposes he had yet to understand) didn’t help much. The reporters didn’t understand either and he really couldn’t blame them. It didn’t make sense to him, either. He finally got the conference over with by allowing that he would be available for questioning the next day, circumstances permitting. He was already trying to think of such circumstances, real or imaginary which would prevent him from showing up.

Jimmy had not been questioned, which Weston thought a bit unfair but there was little to do about it. At any rate, it was over with for the time being. He headed for Mel’s domain, a floor up from his office where he found that they were just finishing up. He took copies of the sketch, which pretty much agreed with the preliminary one he and Sandra had drawn and scanned it into the files after dropping Sandra off to peruse mug photos.

THE ARTIST’S sketch was into the files before Chief Leeward finished his own conference, which had run longer, considering the plethora of dignitaries present. As soon as Leeward got back to his office, he immediately called up the newest developments in the case. One of the first things he saw was the artist’s sketch. He stared at it with disbelieving eyes. There was no mistaking the picture for anyone else. He was looking at a very good likeness of Gary Gerant and he began to seethe with anger.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

« ^ »

WESTON WENT back to see Sandra for a moment before returning to his office. She looked around from where she was seated at the computer and flipping through frame after frame of pictures being displayed on the monitor. “Hi!” She said. “Have you come to rescue me? This is boring.”

Weston was glad to see that she was being cheerful about the process but there was no way to hurry it, not without endowing her with eidetic memory and a facility for speed reading.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “We’ve got a conference scheduled in a minute or two. I just stopped back by because I suddenly remembered that you no longer have an attorney handling your father’s estate—not that Phelps was much help from what you told me.”

“Do you think Mr. Arrendell would do it? He seems like a nice man.”

“Sure. Just get back to him soon as you finish here. Tell Dan that I asked him to do it for you as a favor. I’ll call him later and confirm it with him.” Dan Arrendell was Weston’s attorney friend.

“OK, I will. Where do you want to meet after work? And what time?”

“I’ll have to call you. When you do go home, get the security guard at your apartment to go with you to open the door, then keep it locked.”

Sandra frowned. “Do you think that’s necessary? You told me you thought it was probably a burglar last night.”

“I still do,” Weston told her. “I just don’t want you taking any chances until we get this thing solved.”

“OK, that’s what I’ll do. Thanks.” She turned back to the monitor and began scanning pictures again.

Lieutenant Ward was already gathering the detectives in his office when Weston returned.

As soon as they had all crowded inside he stood up behind his desk and began. “Folks, what with the chief’s conference and the one I had to hold, we can expect this case to turn into a circus. You’re all going to be subject to questions from the media. You are not to give out any information without first clearing it with me. Understand?”

Ward scanned the roomful of men and women to let them know how serious he was then continued. “Tamrick, you’re the whip on this case. You want to tell us where you’re going with it now?”

Weston spoke from the back of the room where he was standing; he had gotten there too late to fit a chair into the room. He said, “First thing, we need to get Rob and his boys out to Phelps’s office and go over it with a fine tooth comb. There’s a chance there might be some prints there which would help us, or possibly even some evidence that he might have had one or more of the missing women there.” He held up a hand to stifle questions. “No, he’s not a real good suspect, but the concatenation from Jimmy’s drug bust where the money went missing, Woolridge’s sudden wealth, his suicide note and, if you’ve done your scans this morning, some of his odd purchases.” As usual, there were a couple of detectives behind on their work. Weston explained the facts Jimmy had turned up.

“Next, if that’s OK with you, Lieutenant, I’d like Seevers to organize a squad of uniforms to beat the brush west of Woolridge’s mansion to see if anything turns up there. That’s a long chance but we can’t afford to miss anything.” Seevers didn’t look all that happy about the duty; he knew how swampy and overgrown that area was. He nodded agreement without comment, as did Ward.

“We also need someone to run down the stores where Woolridge bought the furnishings for his house. That might possibly turn up something, maybe a companion or a deliveryman who noticed something out of the ordinary when he brought the furniture. Any volunteers?”

Amy Freemont, an auburn haired female detective Ward had brought in to help with the legwork raised her hand. She had a pretty smile. “I’ll handle that. I’ve got some shopping I need to do anyway.”

Weston joined in the laughter. As soon as it had died down he continued. “Jimmy will stay here today and categorize the most promising tips that come in. There’s sure to be a bundle of them what with our news conferences and the media attention.” Jimmy nodded his acceptance. Weston didn’t mind giving him the paperwork; he was good at it and likely to get it done faster than anyone else.

Weston turned his eyes back to Ward. “That’s all I’ve got right now, Lieutenant, but I’m open to suggestions.”

“Anyone?” Ward asked. “All right, let’s hear from the FBI. Have you got anything for us this morning, Mr. Cranston?”

“I still say you guys are off on the wrong track,” Cranston said, rising from his chair.

Weston noticed that he didn’t sound so obviously obstructive as previously, even though he was disagreeing with the focus of the investigation. In fact, he appeared to be nervous. Weston wondered why and decided to prod him a little. “Well, if you think that, perhaps you could tell us where we ought to be concentrating our attention.”

Cranston sat back down without replying. He crossed his arms across his chest, a protective gesture if Weston had ever seen one.

Ward closed the all too brief meeting. “All right, if that’s it, let’s get busy. Tamrick, I want to see you for a minute.”

Weston waited until the others had filed out then found a chair near Ward’s desk.

“Tell me about last night,” Ward said without any preliminaries.

Weston went into the events of the previous night with Sandra, then added, “I looked around pretty good while I was there, too, but the only thing I found which might have a bearing on the case was some child porn magazines. Woolridge apparently was back into his old interests even if he didn’t get caught before he offed himself. As to whether he had anything to do with the missing little girls, there’s no way to even attempt to find out until the chief lets Rob’s boys go over the house.”

“OK, but that’s bound to come. The chief won’t be able to avoid it much longer, not after all the publicity from this morning gets around. What else have you got going?”

“Nothing else, lieutenant. I do want to talk some more with the Woolridge girl, especially if she gets a hit with the mug shots.”

“Didn’t you talk to her enough last night?”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t get involved, Tamrick.”

“I won’t,” Weston said, knowing it was a lie—or hoping it was.

“Be sure. It’s going to be hard enough to keep anyone from finding out you’re staying out there as is. In fact—”

“I want to go back,” Weston interrupted, and thinking quickly. “If the perp that showed up last night comes back, maybe I can collar him. There’s a chance that he’s involved rather than being a simple burglar. Besides, that place is so big I haven’t looked all of it over yet. Not in detail, anyway.”

“All right. One or two more nights then that’s it.”

Weston breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Find me this motherfucker before we all get busted back to patrol duty.”

“I’m doing my best lieutenant. I—” Weston heard a popping noise from the corner of the room. He twisted his neck around but saw nothing. Before he could begin to wonder if it was the same sort of noise Sandra had heard in the mansion, he sent the thought away. It was just the morning sun causing the building to expand.

“What do you think about Cranston?” Ward asked abruptly.

Weston was more than glad to answer. “Lieutenant, there’s something weird about that guy. Is there any way we could discretely check with Washington and find out what his problem is?”

Ward loosened his tie and fingered the knot. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t know who his superior is, but I do have a couple of contacts with the home office who owe me a favor or two. Someone should get in touch with them and ask a few questions. Not me, of course, but I’ll see that it gets taken care of and get back to you. OK?”

Weston concealed a grin. Ward would never admit it openly for fear of a complaint finding it’s way to the bureau then back to the chief, but he knew that before the day was over the lieutenant would have called his friends.

“Sounds good to me.” Weston glanced at his watch. “Guess I better check on San—Miss Woolridge then go see whether Jimmy has anything for me to follow up on. I imagine he’s pretty well swamped by now.”

Ward nodded knowingly at Weston’s lapse with Sandy’s first name, a dismissal.

Ordinarily, Weston rather enjoyed spending an occasional bit of time at the tip desk, sharing some of the wild suppositions and reports with whoever was present. Alien abduction theories seemed to be predominating this time, which he could have guessed without ever reading a word, considering the lack of leads on the missing girls. This morning, though, he wasn’t interested, nor was Jimmy, as he found out when he got back to their office.

“Hi, Boss,” Jimmy said, pointing to his overflowing trashcan. “That’s the discards so far.

The usual Martians and Spaceship sort of thing, along with Devil worshippers, religious nuts and aliens among us nonsense.”

“Anything useful?”

“Not a goddamn thing so far.” He picked up another tip sheet. “I take that back. Here’s a Sears clerk that says she remembers Woolridge buying appliances.” He handed it to Weston.

“Thanks.” While Jimmy continued to sort through the tips, Weston dialed the number of Amy Freemont’s mobile phone and relayed the information. He waited a few more minutes then decided to check and see how Sandy was coming along.

He found her rubbing her eyes and with the monitor screen blank.

“Finished already?” He asked.

“Hi, Wes. Yup, just now.”

“Any luck?”

Sandra shook her head. “No one even close that I could see. Sorry.”

“Well, it was a chance. I guess that’s all you need to do here.”

“OK. I think I’ll run home and call Mr. Arrendell and talk to him about the estate, then try to catch a nap until you get off.”

“Wish I could,” Weston said.

Sandra smiled. “Or maybe I won’t, seeing that you can’t. I could always work on my book.

In fact, I think I will. That episode last night gave me a couple of ideas.”

“I hope they were good ones. I’ll call soon as I can.”

Weston and Jimmy broke for lunch, then Weston spent several wasted hours following up on phone conversations with tipsters which had, on first approximation, seemed promising. He came back to the office feeling hot and sticky. The temperature had risen considerably after two days of gulf showers, along with a concomitant rise in the humidity.

A second wastebasket Jimmy had located was heaped with wadded sheets of paper. He was talking on the phone but held his hand over the receiver for a moment when Weston came in.

“The lieutenant wants to see you.”

Weston turned and headed back to Ward’s office. He knocked, then entered and closed the door behind him. “What’s up?” He asked, not bothering to sit down. He had been driving most of the day and his bum was feeling the effects.

“This is between you and I. I’m putting a tail on Cranston first thing in the morning.”

“You must have gotten some hairy news from Washington,” Weston remarked.

“Yeah. He’s known there as a recluse and not very well liked. Someone pulled some strings to get him assigned down here, apparently to get him out of their hair.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough of a reason for a tail,” Weston said.

“It’s not, but there’s more. I—I mean the person who did the check on him also sent along that profile he dreamed up. Word came back that it’s a bunch of shit, just like we thought it was.” Ward screwed his face up and completely removed his tie. “And there’s more. Even though he wasn’t very well liked, up until now he’s been regarded as at least marginally competent. They couldn’t understand why he’s changed so much.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Weston said.

“Well, enough about that. We may just find out that once he got down here he got addicted to our topless clubs or something like that. Now. Seever’s look in the woods came up blank.

Not even a sign.”

“How about Rob? Did he find anything I missed at Phelps’s office?”

“Not that we know of. He’s busy surveying the prints he lifted to see if there’s a match for known sex offenders or the missing women. It will be tomorrow before the hair and fiber analysis gets back.”

“I’ll make you a bet,” Weston offered. “I’ll buy your dinner tomorrow if they turn up a match to any of the girls or women.”

“Thanks, I’ll bring my lunch.”

“Thought I was safe. Has Amy reported back in yet?”

“She called on the tip you sent her. Nothing unusual other than Woolridge paid cash, with hundred dollar bills, same as everywhere else. Preston checked back in, too. He didn’t do any more good than Thang with Woolridge’s associates. Apparently he hasn’t had many the last few years.”

“Damn,” Weston cursed. “We’re running out of what few leads we have, such as they are.

Oh—I forgot to tell you: Miss Woolridge couldn’t make an identification on our—her burglar.

That’s out, too, unless he shows up again.”

“Yeah,” Ward agreed. “Well, there’s one thing: we still have the Woolridge house to toss whenever the chief gives permission. OK, I’m finished with you.” He grinned, a rare expression. “Try to get a good night’s sleep.”

Weston looked away, knowing that his face was burning. If Ward and Jimmy knew just how unlikely the idea of sleeping with Sandy seemed, he thought they wouldn’t smirk so much.

Weston checked out, leaving his cellular phone number and told Jimmy to pack it in for the night and leave the tip desk for the night shift. Once outside the building, he lit a cigarette and pulled the smoke so deep into his lungs that it almost made him dizzy. He had been inside without a nicotine fix for too long. One nice thing about Sandy: she smoked, too. If he had to go outside in the evening to smoke, he thought it was about a fifty-fifty proposition that he would get lost going back and forth from inside the mansion. It was that big. Still smoking, he opened the door to his car and waited a few minutes to let the heat escape, then climbed in and plugged in the mobile phone.

Sandy answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Sandy. I’m finished for the day,” Weston said.

“Great. It’s not even dark yet, either. Besides that, I’m not making much progress with my writing. I’m ready to quit.”

“How about dinner somewhere?” Weston asked

“I’d love it. I’ve never been able to afford to eat out very often but I guess I can now. Dan said it wouldn’t take long to get the will probated and unless they can prove his money came from an illegal source, it will all come to me.”

“I’m glad for you,” Weston said and meant it. It was time something nice happened to Sandy after her traumatic childhood.

“Thanks. Where do you want to eat?”

“How about Poppa’s?”

“The one in Humble?”

“Yeah. It’s the nearest. And it’s my treat. You can take me out when you get all that money.”

Sandra laughed merrily. “It’s a deal. What time?”

“I’m ready if you are.”

“Good. See you there.” Weston unplugged the phone and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket to be sure he wouldn’t forget to take it inside with him that night; It was the only number he had left at the desk.

Poppa’s was a seafood restaurant along the Eastex freeway a few miles south of Kingwood.

It specialized in seafood. Since it was a weekday, they didn’t have to wait. The hostess led them to a table as soon as Sandra came into the lobby.

Weston ordered a carafe of the house Chablis to go with their meal, Mahi-Mahi accompanied by a baked potato and coleslaw and topped off with key lime pie. Sandra followed his lead.

“I think I must have just gained five pounds,” Sandra said as she chased the last bite of pie with the remains of her wine. She set the glass out of reach and lit a cigarette.

“You can afford it,” Weston said sincerely.

“Thanks.” Sandra tried to conceal a yawn and was only partially successful.

“Sleepy?” Weston asked.

“Getting that way,” she admitted.

Weston glanced outside through the picture window where they had been seated. “Me, too.

If you’re ready, I think it’s dark enough to get on our way.” He got their waiter’s attention and produced his MasterCard. A few minutes later they were in the parking lot. Weston asked Sandra to follow him, just on the remote chance that their skulker might be waiting outside for her return; he had made certain that the security system was correctly set before they left that morning.

There was only a half moon low in the sky when they arrived, making the entrance of the mansion looks gloomy and threatening, like a huge beast of prey squatting in the center of a scrubby jungle. The security system was still functional though, and Weston found no evidence that anyone had been around during the day. Nevertheless, once inside, he made a quick tour of the place with his right hand resting inside his jacket on the butt of his pistol.

When he returned, he kissed Sandy, intending it to be a chaste gesture but she wrapped him in her arms and made it into something which stirred him up inside. Afterwards, she kept her arms around him and kneaded his neck gently. “Thank you Wes,” She said. “It was a lovely evening. Remember now, next time it’s my treat.”

“I won’t forget,” Weston said, a little shakily.

“Good night then,” she said.

“Good night, Sandy,” Weston said, hating to break the embrace but doing so as he sensed her withdrawing. He took the time to shower away the sweat he had accumulated during the warm day then stripped and climbed into bed and was asleep almost immediately.

Weston felt a touch on his body and came awake almost instantly, reaching for his .45

hanging on the bedpost in its holster.

The touch grew firmer and he recognized the feel of feminine fingers just as Sandy spoke.

“It’s all right, Wes. It’s just me.”

He leaned back and looked up. Sandy stood beside the bed, hugging herself. Even in that stance, the night light made her alluring, shadowing the curves of her body beneath her nightgown.

“Wes, I’m scared. Please, may I sleep with you?”

Weston reached his hand out. It touched the curve of her hip. Sandy unwound her arms from her body and clasped his hand. He moved away from the edge of the bed, peeling back the sheets as he went. Sandy sat on the edge of the bed then slid under the sheet next to him.

Weston hesitated, not knowing whether she wanted comfort, love or protection or a combination of them. Tentatively, he put an arm around her. Sandy snuggled into his embrace. They kissed, lips merging together and holding until their tongues met and slid past each other then back, tips playing together in a gentle game of tag. Weston stroked her body, moving his hand over her back and thighs then to her breasts. They were firm and warm under his hands, yielding to gentle pressure then springing back into place with the tautness of youthful flesh.

Weston was very slow and gentle with his loving, knowing how she must have suffered as a child. He waited until her breathing increased audibly then removed her nightgown and slid off his shorts. He embraced her again with his lips and arms then slowly, slowly began moving his body over hers, waiting after each touch to allow the slight tensing of her body that he sensed to dissolve before continuing.

Sandy had never been made love to like this. She hoped it would be nice for him. He was so slow and gentle. After a while she stopped thinking of simply letting him have his way as she had done with her few lovers as an adult and began reacting and participating, as surprised and pleased with the unusual sensations coursing through her body as an abandoned kitten suddenly finding a home and enjoying its first affectionate petting. It was she who finally urged him into her and she gasped deeply at the pleasure she felt when his body settled easily onto hers and began slow sure movements that wafted her up into a realm of delight she had never known before. It was like a rising elevator, carrying her body upward toward a peak that grew nearer and nearer as she rose and rose until she felt that the whole earth was beneath her and the summit would never be reached. When it finally did, she cried out again and again with uncontrollable gratitude and release.

Weston had been carried away, too. He called her name over and over as he reached his climax, glorying in the knowledge that she was there with him.

Neither Sandy nor Weston, in the thralls of their first coming together heard the sound of a little popping noise, nor did they hear it the next time, much, much later in the night after they were drained and happily asleep in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER TWELVE

« ^ »

GERANT COULD hardly bear to watch, yet he couldn’t force himself to tear his eyes away from the bodies entwined on the bed, moving together like conjoined twins. It was an abomination to him, the perfect object of his dreams, more beautiful than any of the others, crying out her pleasure as if she had no shame. He raged at the thought of another man taking his rightful place, a crude hulk who couldn’t possibly appreciate what he was doing. His rage grew even more formidable when he heard her cry out his name and realized that the man in bed with her, fucking her like a dog in rut was the lead detective who was so ludicrously trying to track him down. He beat his fists against his head in frustration, knowing that he couldn’t remove him, not while the woman was there; no, not even if she weren’t present. It would cause too much commotion and focus too much attention in the very place where he couldn’t afford it, not now, not until she ceased to be a consideration in the detective’s investigation.

Gerant wondered if he could just wait until the man returned to his duties then cause him to disappear like he had done with Phelps. It would be so easy, but also so dangerous. Come what may, he needed to be careful, most careful, until he could manage to turn the investigation away from the mansion. Then, then he could act, and wouldn’t he make him suffer? And her, too, if he could bear to wait that long. He wasn’t sure that he could, not with that abominable detective taking up his place, not without some release. Some blessed release.

First, though, there was another matter which had to be taken care of. He forced himself to turn away from the object of his desire.

DUDLEY CRANSTON sat in his hotel room waiting for his two subordinates to show up.

He didn’t really want to see them. They kept asking embarrassing questions for which he had no answers. Even more worrisome was the knowledge that with all the publicity generated by the police news conferences, there was bound to be more unwanted attention coming to bear on his role in the case of the disappearing girls. If he continued his present course, Washington would be sure to start asking questions, too, and he had no reasonable answers to give them, either. He was caught in a trap of his own making and couldn’t see a way out of it. He pulled his gun from its holster and stared at it for a moment then slid it back. He knew he didn’t have that kind of courage.

Why had he ever done it? Before meeting Gerant he had managed to keep his desires under control, simply fantasizing rather than acting them out. Now he knew that he would never be able to go back. Realism was so much more satisfying, more so than he had ever imagined. But what to do? Gerant hadn’t contacted him in days and the damned police here seemed to be closing in on the meat of the case, like hungry wolves cutting out a lame caribou. Why hadn’t Woolridge waited? Just a few more days, Gerant had told him, and he had believed him, thinking that there was nothing the man couldn’t do. Now the situation was becoming chaotic and Gerant wasn’t acting, at least to his knowledge, not since he had somehow suborned Chief Leeward to place the Woolridge place off limits. That wasn’t going to last, though. He knew the media; they would ferret out the reason behind the order, given enough time. If he didn’t do something soon he was not only going to lose his job, he was going to lose untraceable access to what he now desired the most. He had no desire to take chances on his own, yet if things continued on the course they seemed to be going that was what he was going to be forced into.

And he knew how that would ultimately wind up. He might get away with it a few times, but ultimately, he would be caught and that was simply unthinkable. There was no way he even wanted to imagine having to mix with the type of miscreants he had been responsible for incarcerating during his career. He wouldn’t last two weeks in a federal prison and his demise would likely be excruciatingly painful.

Cranston sat and ran all these thoughts over and over again in his mind. Once or twice he wondered whether, if he just sat tight, perhaps really cooperating with the local authorities for a change, the whole thing would blow over. Would Gerant go along with that? Possibly, if he could assure him that he would be careful not to lead the authorities in the right direction.

Then he realized, as he had again and again, that wouldn’t work. His previous actions had already compromised him. Regardless of what he did, he knew that he was going to be removed from the case within a few days. Then what? Would Gerant hide him in that special place? He doubted it. Gerant would protect his only so long as he was useful and he knew that he no longer was.

Finally, sitting there alone, he came to the only conclusion possible for him. He couldn’t trust Gerant. The only thing left to do was run. And the sooner the better. Wearily, he got to his feet.

There came a knock at the door. Oh goddamnit, he had waited too long while debating with himself. His men were here and the phone call they had made to him earlier had made it plain that they either wanted some reasonable answers to their questions or they were going to blow the whistle on him. Panicked, he pulled his weapon from his holster. As the knock came again, he wondered if he could actually go through with his decision now, when it would mean a double murder and flight from Houston. God, he hadn’t even picked out a destination yet!

The knock on the hotel door came a third time, louder and more insistent. “Just a minute,” he said. At the same time there was a distinct popping noise from behind him which he failed to hear over his response. He tumbled backwards into an ebony night, a night which he knew would never end.

WESTON WOKE up to a perception of light and warmth. The light was shining through the bedroom window and the warmth came from the contours of Sandy’s body snuggled loosely against his own, one of her arms crossing his chest, and as he looked down toward the foot of the bed, he saw a delectable thigh crossing his own and nestling between his legs. He smiled to himself, then enlarged it into a grin of happiness. It had been much too long since he had woke up this way, and much, much too long since he felt such a sense of joy in a woman’s presence. He ran his hand along Sandy’s arm resting comfortably on his chest then smoothed his hand over her bare skin, reveling in the silky softness of it. His touch met the indentation of her waist. He caressed her hip and upper thigh and reminisced over their lovemaking of the night before. During the course of it, Sandy had told him that he was the first man she had ever had an orgasm with. He hoped he deserved the compliment and determined to himself that he would do his best to continue earning her love.

“Mmm,” Sandy murmured. “Don’t stop.” She blinked her eyes open and turned her face up so that she could look at him.

“Who would ever want to?” Weston said, continuing to move his hand back upwards.

Sandy shifted so that it came to rest on her breast. He felt her nipple begin to harden under his palm. He leaned down to kiss her then suddenly the awareness of what bright sunlight in the room meant struck him.

“Oh, shit!” He exclaimed. “I’m late for work. God, it must be nine o’clock!”

Sandy clutched him tighter. “Do you have to go in today? Can’t you take some time off?”

She thought that she had never been happier and didn’t want it to end.

“I wish to hell I could, sweetheart, but Lieutenant Ward must be frothing at the mouth by now. I’ve got to go.”

Reluctantly, Sandy turned him loose. “You’ll come back tonight won’t you? Please?”

“Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away. However, now that I’ve got you, I’m not going to take any chances on you disappearing—I don’t want you to stay here by yourself.”

Sandy stretched and yawned. “I wouldn’t want to without you. Oh, Wes, it was so wonderful. I never dreamed I could feel that way.”

“That’s what you said last night.”

“Did I? how many times?”

“I lost count, but you can tell me again. I love the way you say it. In fact, I feel just about the same way.”

“I’m glad. In fact, I’m ecstatic.” She hugged him fiercely, then slid out of the bed.

Weston watched her as she stretched, seeming to be reaching for heaven. “You’re beautiful.

You’re lovely. If I didn’t have to go to the bathroom so bad, I’d say to hell with the stupid lieutenant and just lay here and admire you.”

Sandy giggled. “It might not be very romantic, but I have to go, too.” She leaned down and kissed him firmly then headed for her bedroom.

Weston bounced out of the bed with enough energy to make him feel as if he had slept for hours and hours rather than finally dozing off well after midnight. In fact, the last time he had looked at the bedside clock it had been almost two o’clock. He hurried to the bathroom and relieved the pressure on his bladder then hastily shaved and dressed in fresh slacks and a sport coat he had brought along.

Sandra had hurried, too. She was ready to leave only a few minutes after Weston was ready. They walked to the entrance with arms around each other. At their cars, Weston said,

“I’ll call you just as soon as I can get loose. Suddenly this detecting business doesn’t seem nearly as important as it did yesterday.”

Sandy kissed him, not worrying about her lipstick, which had been minimally applied anyway.

“Be sure and have your guard escort you to your apartment,” Weston warned. “And keep your door locked.”

“I will,” Sandy replied. “I have some work to do today.”

“What’s that?”

Sandy dimpled. “There’s this love scene I’ve been trying to get right. After last night, I think I’ve figured out just how to do it.”

Weston laughed, stole another kiss and drove off, whistling.

“WHERE IN HELL have you been? Goddamnit, we all thought you had disappeared, too!”

Lieutenant Ward shouted as Weston entered his office. He blinked. It wasn’t the usual thing for him to stray from his own abode into his and Jimmy’s domain.

“I’m sorry, I overslept,” Weston said, avoiding Jimmy’s sly grin.

“You sure picked a helluva time to do it. Shit has hit the fan this morning.”

“What’s happened?” Weston asked, hoping to get Ward off the subject of his very late arrival.

“For one thing, Dudley Cranston has vanished.”

“Aw, shit,” Weston said. “How did it happen, do you know?”

Ward reached up and tangled his hair into knots. “The same goddamned way everyone else in this crazy fucking case has. He just goddamned vanished, right from his hotel room. His two cohorts were supposed to meet him there. He answered them, then they never heard another word out of him. One of them stayed right by the door while the other went down to get a key from the night clerk. When they opened the door, the room was as empty as a fucking wine bottle left alone with a broke alcoholic.” Ward yanked at his tie, pulling one end of it completely free from the knot. He stripped it from his neck and threw it across the room.

Weston suddenly noticed that he and Ward were the only people in the office other than Jimmy. “Where is everyone?” He asked.

Ward picked up his tie and wrapped it in knots while he frothed at Weston. “They’re all goddamned gone out investigating another missing woman, which is where you should be! Of all the sorry goddamned times to oversleep, you had to pick this morning to do it. If that’s what you were doing, which I doubt. More likely you were getting a morning punch from that Woolridge babe. Were you?”

Weston squirmed to avoid a direct answer. “Lieutenant, I promise you, I got out of bed as soon as I woke up.”

Ward gazed balefully at him while he stuffed his tie into the pocket of his suit coat. “All right,” he relented. “Come on to my office and I’ll fill you in. What I should do is dock you a day’s pay!”

Weston followed Ward and kept his mouth shut. He had to agree with his boss. If he had to oversleep, he sure had picked the worst possible morning to do it. Once inside the lieutenant’s office, Weston sat down and listened.

“Besides Cranston going up in smoke, at nine o’clock last night, approximately, an eighteen year old freshman coed student over at Rice University disappeared while she was back in the stacks of the library. The librarian knew she was inside but claims she never saw her leave.

When it got time to close up, she went to look. Nothing. As it happened, she knew the girl and called the dorm. The girl never got there.”

“Maybe she spent the night with her boyfriend,” Weston offered.

“And maybe she didn’t. For your information, there’s a curfew for freshmen at Rice. She was supposed to be inside by no later than twelve. She wasn’t and she hasn’t been seen since.”

“Was she a blond?” Weston asked.

“Yes, Sherlock, she was a blond. Now ask me an intelligent question.”

Weston felt his shoulders slumping. One by one, potential leads, primarily people, were disappearing. And girls were still vanishing, too, apparently. He felt his heart skip a beat. If anything happened to Sandy…

“Well?”

“Lieutenant, I just don’t know what to say. Is that all or has Chief Leeward disappeared, too?”

Ward pulled his tie out of his pocket and began to untangle the knots. “I almost wish he had. He still hasn’t rescinded his order about the Woolridge place and that’s about the last goddamned lead we have, not that it’s much of one.. However—” He picked up a section of the Chronicle from his desk and slid it forward far enough so that Weston could reach it. “Take a look.”

Weston read the headlines. SUICIDE’S DAUGHTER FOUND! SOLE HEIR TO FORTUNE!

FBI BOSS REPORTED MISSING FROM LOCKED ROOM

In a separate column, there was another headline. INVISIBLE MAN MAY HAVE CLAIMED

ANOTHER VICTIM

In smaller type it elaborated: Late last night an eighteen year old coed from Rice University failed to report to her dorm. She had been researching a term paper in the library late at night and was never seen to leave there. The librarian is claiming that the young woman, still unidentified by authorities, went into some of the secluded stacks and never returned. She reports that the coed’s purse was left laying on a table beside her books and…In related developments, Chief of Police Sampson Leeward is still refusing comment on his orders that the Woolridge mansion…

Weston replaced the newspaper. He preferred to get his information from inside the station. It was bound to be more accurate than what the Chronicle contained, though he had read on for a few paragraphs down the column to where Leeward was being thoroughly chastised. He looked at Ward, whose facial expression gave evidence of having calmed down somewhat.

“Do you think the chief will fold his hand?”

“He better, if he wants to keep his job,” Ward said. “I just wish he would do it now rather than later. That’s neither here nor there, though; it’s his own lookout. There’s one more thing before you get to work, that is if you can keep yourself awake. We got the lab reports back from Phelps’s office. No matches, fiber, hair or anything else. No prints other than his and the Sanchez girl, as you’ve heard. Another dead end.”

“Christ, boss, this just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Is there anything you want me to do now?” Weston was feeling as helpless as a first grader trying to work the New York Times crossword puzzle.

“Yeah, you can get the hell to work like you should of been two hours ago.”

Weston departed, properly chastised.

CHIEF LEEWARD had just finished reading the morning paper. He had left orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. His face still retained the remnants of the red flushed face he had grown as he read about himself. He reached for the phone, hesitated, then drew his arm back.

He decided to give Gerant fifteen more minutes to call before making a decision. He waited, watching the clock tick away the minutes. They seemed like hours. Finally he did pick up the phone and dialed the number of Lieutenant Ward at the Kingwood precinct.

“Ward? That you? Good. I’m releasing the Woolridge place. You can send your team out there any time. In fact, the sooner the better. I’ll let the press know and maybe they’ll get off our asses.” He forbore to mention that it was his own ass they were tearing at.

“Thanks, chief. I appreciate it,” Ward said, trying to speak politely to the big boss. He couldn’t resist a little dig, though. “What should I tell the press if they catch on that we’re tossing the place now?”

“Refer them to me.” He took the initiative. “By the way, I heard through the grapevine that you’ve had your whip out at the place already. The last two nights, in fact. Don’t you know how to follow orders?”

Ward thought quickly. “Sorry, chief. I thought there might be a threat to the Woolridge girl and sent him out as protection for her. Good thing I did, too. There was an intruder the first night he was there.”

Leeward had to leave it at that. He didn’t want to admit that he had recognized Sandra’s sketch.

“Why didn’t you let me know?”

“Sorry, chief, the detective’s report must have gotten misplaced. Everything has been breaking so fast. You know?”

“OK, but do me a favor and clamp down on whoever you’ve got handling distribution.

Losing something like that is unacceptable.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get on that right away.” Ward was glad that visual telephones weren’t commercially feasible yet. He wouldn’t have wanted the chief to see the expression on his face, like a mouse which had just swiped the cheese from the trap and made a clean getaway.

“See that you do.” Leeward hung up.

As soon as Ward heard the click, he yelled for Weston.

“Yeah, lieutenant?” Weston said.

“Call Rob and tell him to get his team together, then haul ass to the Woolridge place. The chief just released it to us.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

« ^ »

WESTON CALLED Rob first to give him the news then dialed Sandy’s number. It took several tries before he got through.

“Wes!” She exclaimed as soon as he told her who it was. “I’m so glad you called. I haven’t had a minute’s peace since I got home. There were reporters clustered out front shouting questions at me and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I stepped inside the door. What on earth has happened?”

“Have you seen this morning’s newspapers?”

“No, I don’t subscribe and I came straight home. Why? What are they saying?”

“I’ll bring you a copy. Right now, I want you to stay where you are. I’m going to be leaving here in a few minutes to pick you up.”

“Where are we going?”

“To your mansion. A forensics team is on the way there now. We’ll see if we can’t pick them up and sneak in with them. Try to disguise yourself a little if you can. It might save you from a lot of harassment.”

“All I can think of are some sunglasses and old clothes. Will that do?”

“Probably. Bring another blouse along when you leave.”

“OK. What do you want me to do with it?”

“Once you get away, change into it. Meet me at the mansion and then we’ll mingle with Rob’s boys. I’ll bring a badge for you to wear.”

“Ah! You are going to make me a detective!”

Weston laughed and hung up. He wrote a quick note to Jimmy, who had gone off somewhere on business of his own and placed it on his desk, not wanting to take the time to phone and probably get the answering service for Jimmy’s mobile. He asked him to take Seever and begin investigating the library and start running down information on the coed who had disappeared. A few minutes later he was on his way to Sandra’s apartment.

“DO I LOOK like a movie star in disguise?” Sandra asked when Weston arrived to pick her up. She was wearing dark glasses and dressed in a pair of old faded jeans and a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

Weston leaned down to kiss her. “You look like a movie star whether you’re disguised or not. Are you ready?”

“Uh huh. How do we do this?”

“Very carefully,” Weston said. “I had to beat my way through that throng out back. Here’s how we’ll work it. I’ll go out and stop at the entrance since they’ve already made me, then—”

“Made you?”

“Police jargon. They’ve recognized me. What you do then is go out the back way while I let then shout questions at me. That ought to give you a chance to sneak away without them noticing. Then, when we get to your father’s place, you can put on a different top that you can attach this badge to.” He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was a fake police badge with a spurious number which he used on occasion when he was doing investigations which weren’t strictly legal.

“OK, I guess I’m ready if you are.”

Weston kissed her again, savoring the softness of her lips. He checked the balcony both ways before letting her come out then he took the elevator from the third floor where she lived and sent her down the stairs.

The ploy worked perfectly. He had ignored the plethora of reporters clamoring for his attention on the way in and they were expecting the same aloofness from him as he departed.

When he stopped and let them train their ubiquitous recorders on him and answered the first innocuous question the rest of them crowded around, expecting to gather sound bites for the evening news and morning paper. They were sorely disappointed. Weston stood patiently and answered each query in almost exactly the same words: “I’m sorry, I can’t comment on that yet. Maybe later,” and as a variation, “No, Miss Woolridge is not a suspect in anything.”

As soon as Weston thought Sandy had had time to make her exit and get into her car, he cut them off. “Sorry, folks. Why don’t you check with lieutenant Ward at the Kingwood precinct? Maybe he will have something for you.” It was a dirty trick to play on Ward but it got the reporters off his back and off on another trail.

Weston took a circuitous route to the mansion, checking his rear view mirror frequently to be sure that no overly ambitious reporters were following him. He could have saved his time.

They were flocked around the mansion like a herd of hogs at feeding time, parked in the driveway and up and down the road, leaving barely enough room for other traffic to ease through. He spotted Sandy’s car near the end of one of the string of cars and pulled off the road and walked to her car. She was sitting inside.

Weston tapped at the window. Sandy looked around, saw who it was and smiled. She had already managed to change from the oversized shirt into a chambray work shirt more her size—or perhaps even a bit small. The way her breasts taunted the material attracted his attention like a child at a candy counter with a pocketful of change.

Sandy pulled off her sunglasses and got out. She handed the badge to Weston with an impish grin. “Why don’t you pin it on me and make it official?”

Weston affixed the badge over Sandra’s left breast, taking an inordinate amount of time to get it just right, and providing them a short, pleasant interlude to themselves before having to run the gauntlet of reporters and face the mob of investigators inside the mansion. Weston had already spotted Rob Bascomb’s van and knew they were there.

Ignoring the cacophony of voices shouting to be heard over others, they made it inside, apparently without Sandra being recognized for who she was. One of Rob’s crew looked up from where he was lifting prints, recognized Weston then turned his gaze on Sandra, letting it linger there longer than Weston thought appropriate, though he admitted to himself that he might have done the same thing if he were in the other person’s shoes. He broke it up by telling the man who they were, then taking Sandra with him to find Rob Bascomb, the chief forensics specialist.

It didn’t take long to find Bascomb; he was in the first living room, directing a vacuuming operation. Seeing Weston, he came over to where they were standing in the entrance. “Ward should have given me a bigger crew,” he said. “You didn’t tell me how big this place was.”

“Sorry, I thought you knew,” Weston said. “Rob, I’d like you to meet Sandra Woolridge; she owns this place—or will own it as soon as the probate judge turns it over to her.”

“Glad to meet you, Miss Woolridge. Sorry about the mess we’re making.”

“I’m sure it’s necessary,” Sandra said. “I would like to sit down, though, if I could.”

“No problem,” Bascomb said. “Here, I’ll show you where we’ve finished.” He pointed out an imaginary line across the room, covering approximately half the area, including the bar and adjoining appliances. “You can use any of that area. We’re finished and so far as I know, the detectives are, too, unless Wes needs to look at anything there.”

“How about the bathroom?” Sandra asked, pointing toward one of the archways on the side of the room Bascomb had declared on limits. “Is it safe?”

“Sorry, I haven’t been in there yet. I do know the detectives have finished with it, though.

Give me ten minutes and it’s yours.”

“Thanks,” Sandra said.

“No problem.”

Weston coughed in order to get Sandy’s attention. She looked at him.

“Uh, Miss Woolridge, I’ll leave you here for now. I have to get to work. Please don’t leave until we’re finished. We may have some questions for you.” He winked at her.

Sandra looked puzzled for a moment then realized that Weston was having to pretend that he had never set foot in the place. She returned the wink and headed to the bathroom to get some towels and begin wiping away the residue the fingerprint specialists had left. Weston headed toward the interior of the mansion to find the other detectives and continue his charade.

“I HAD TO let them in,” Chief Leeward said, still angry that Gerant had delayed so long before getting in touch with him. His knuckles were white from clutching the receiver of the phone so hard.

Gerant cursed. “You couldn’t have stalled for a few more days?” He was thinking to himself that he hadn’t yet had a chance to have a cleaning crew go over his part of the house. He had intended to order Phelps to get it done, using the prospective sale of the house as an excuse to have it done but then Woolridge’s suicide and the necessity of getting the lawyer out of the picture had upset the schedule. Well, they certainly weren’t going to find anything at all connecting the mansion with the missing women and that was the important thing. And it wasn’t likely that anyone would ever think of trying to match whatever strands of hair and bits of lint from his clothes he had shed to him. Leeward was the only person who even knew he had ever been near the place and he could be trusted to keep silent, couldn’t he?

Gerant heard Leeward’s insistent voice breaking into his thoughts. “What?” He answered.

“I said, what in hell were you doing in the Woolridge girl’s room? I thought you were supposed to be keeping completely out of sight.”

“I thought she was in the other part of the house,” Gerant said, thinking rapidly.

“Well, she wasn’t, and for your information she made you.”

“What! She couldn’t have!”

“I’m not talking about identifying you, per se. Tamrick, the lead detective on the case had sneaked inside the same night. He brought her to the station and described you so perfectly that I recognized you immediately from the sketch.”

Gerant breathed easier. “That won’t matter, then. She doesn’t know who I am.”

“I do, though,” Leeward said. “And someone else is bound to make the connection eventually. With all this publicity, some reporter is bound to ferret out the fact and demand to see the sketch. That’s if Tamrick doesn’t decide to give it to them first for lack of any better leads.”

Gerant felt as if his world was caving in. It wasn’t as if there were any chance of him being caught, but without Woolridge to run errands for him and with Phelps and Cranston out of the picture he would be forced into using other means of bringing supplies to his special place. If he was connected to the case, he certainly wouldn’t be able to appear in public. However…

“Chief?”

“Yeah, I’m listening,” Leeward said.

“I’ve told you how important this thing is to us. Is there any chance of you pulling that sketch?”

“There might be if I thought it was warranted.”

“It is, believe me.”

Leeward rubbed his brow, wondering just how far he dared go—and whether he really wanted to go any further. “I want to believe you,” he said, “but you seem to be forgetting that we’ve got a case to solve, too. Do you realize how many women and girls have gone missing around here? Don’t you have any sympathy for them or their families?”

“Believe me, Chief, I know as well as you do about your disappearing girls. It’s just that the other thing is more important.”

“And you still can’t tell me about it?”

“I’m sorry, Chief. I have my orders.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Try hard, chief. Try as if your life depended on it.”

Leeward replaced the receiver. The phone rang immediately. He picked the receiver back up and said, knowing it was his secretary on the other end of the line, “I’m not here for anyone for the next thirty minutes. Understand?”

“Yes, Chief. Thirty minutes.”

Leeward waited for the click and set the phone back down. He needed some time to think.

For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what Gerant might be after and how Woolridge’s mansion fit in with his concerns. And yet…it had to be a genuine national security matter. He hadn’t taken Gerant’s word for that. He had not only called the number in Washington that Gerant had given him to verify his story, he had checked back later to be certain that the number actually was listed in the proper place in the Washington directory.

Could he put a squelch on the sketch? Yes, that would be no problem, for a day or two anyway, but what then? It was bound to get out, regardless of what he did. He looked up at the clock on the wall of his office. The thirty minutes were ticking away and he still hadn’t made up his mind. He doodled on a scratch pad while the last bit of time passed. Finally he decided that he would give Gerant the benefit of the doubt. For now. He called the Kingwood precinct and asked for lieutenant Ward.

“Hello, chief,” Ward said. “If you’re calling about the Woolridge place, they haven’t finished with it yet, or at least they haven’t made it back.”

“That isn’t what I’m after, but as long as we’re on the subject, I do want to know what they find there, if anything, just as soon as possible. In the meantime, I understand your whip is circulating a sketch of that intruder who was nosing around. I want it pulled and marked for restricted access.”

“What for?” Ward asked, puzzled. First the mansion and now a sketch.

“Never mind why, just do it. I have good reasons.”

“But chief, that sketch might turn out to be important! God knows we don’t have much else going for us.”

“Your evaluation next month might turn out to be important, too, Lieutenant. Just do what I tell you and I’ll tell explain later.”

“But—”

Leeward felt sorry for Ward. He could imagine himself in the same position, having to carry out orders which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, especially when they seemed to run contrary to the biggest case to hit Houston in its long history. More gently, he said, “Look, Lieutenant, didn’t I give permission to toss the Woolridge place after my reason for putting it off limits was satisfied? Just think of that sketch in the same way. Eventually, you’ll probably get another crack at it.”

Ward thought the chief had relented in the matter of investigating the Woolridge mansion more because of the media publicity than because he had wanted to, but he held his tongue.

Hell, for all he knew, maybe the chief had plans for cracking the case himself and using the resultant publicity to gird his bid for public office. “All right, chief, I’ll take care of it for you. I can’t guarantee that the press won’t get on to it, though. I can’t control what the girl does.”

“Your whip seems to be pretty good buddies with her. Tell him to use his influence if she seems reluctant to let it go or starts giving you problems.”

“You got it, chief,” Ward acquiesced. He hung up the phone, wondering how Tamrick was going to react to the order. And the girl. Shit. Sometimes he wondered if being on the promotional fast track was really worth it.

GERANT KNEW he should be watching Chief Leeward but he couldn’t wait any longer.

Being unable to do anything with the Woolridge girl made his body itch with frustration. If he didn’t find some release soon he thought he might go insane. He dithered but the decision was a foregone conclusion. He had known last night, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself, that when he took the college girl that he would turn to her as a substitute as soon as she was ready.

And it must be that time by now… It almost had to be; he couldn’t wait any longer.

Gerant killed the image he had been focusing on in the Woolridge house, no longer able to concern himself with the detectives. They weren’t going to find anything. He went off to his special place with a pounding heart and sweat-soaked body. He let out his breath, not even realizing that he had hardly dared to breathe until he saw that the girl was almost ready. She was just regaining consciousness, the young body with its supple curves still concealed beneath her clothes. He would change that right quick, then get down to business.

Quickly, he set the camcorder in its proper position, hurrying to get it ready before the girl regained use of her body. She was already beginning to stir, moving her limbs in little twitching motions which he knew portended an imminent ability to get herself upright and able to resist. He leaned over her prostrate body and turned her onto her belly. He would have liked to wait and stare at her, anticipating what he was about to do but she was already moving too much. The twitches were already beginning to turn into ordered movements.

He reached down and pulled her arms up behind her back and snapped on the handcuffs.

Now. Now, she was helpless, ready for his ministrations. He twisted strands of her long blond hair into his fists and pulled. The girl reacted to the pain by getting to her knees as she became aware of her position. He yanked at her hair, reveling in the sensation of the bundle of fine silken hair encased in his hands.

He got the girl to her feet, secured her on the rack then reluctantly released his hold on her hair. That would come later. He stood in front of her and let her examine the razor sharp knife he now held in his hand. She started to speak and he touched her neck with the tip of the blade, drawing blood. She shut up immediately, just like the good girl he intended to turn her into. He went around behind her and began slashing. The girl struggled at first, but that stopped as soon as he laid the blade of the knife along her neck. She grew very still then.

He went around behind her and began cutting and slashing with the knife. She moved again, frightened now, just as she should be, then stood still and quiet when she realized that he was simply cutting off her clothes. Or mostly clothes. The pressure was building now and he hurried, not worrying whether or not a few pieces of skin dropped to the ground along with the clothing. Besides, the knife was so sharp she hardly realized when he slipped in his hurry.

Its blade passed through her lovely pale skin as easily as the fantasy object he thought of so often appeared in his mind when he called it up.

He was shivering with anticipation, as he always was by the time the last bit of clothing dropped away. He held the knife with one hand and touched her shoulder with the other, holding it there as he moved around in front of her, but slowly, so that he could tease himself as he watched greedily for the full front view when he would start his work. One delicious young breast came into view first, then the other, standing out from her chest like pale twin melons tipped with cherries, strands of yellow hair floating in front of them.

He glanced down at his knife, ready to begin. From that vantage point he was able to see her pubic hair. He screamed, then screamed again, outrage and frustration washing over him like a storm tide, drowning him with its fury. A fake! She was a fake! After the hours and hours of waiting, anticipating, dreaming of what he was going to do and now it was all spoiled, the neatly trimmed thatch of hair between her legs a terrible black color that stunned his vision. A horrible madness engulfed his mind. He kicked and screamed and slashed madly at the abomination which had so cunningly fooled him, ropes of saliva falling from his lips as he gibbered and cursed and cut and cut some more, blind to all reason now as he went into a total frenzy. Only when there was nothing recognizable of the dreadful imitation which had replaced the icon of his dreams did the madness abate. He fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. He passed out and did not waken from the madness until the next day. When he came back to his senses and realized how much time had passed he was astounded. Each time he was fooled it lasted longer and longer. Henceforth, he decided, he would position his observations in places where he would be certain not to make such mistakes, even if it did increase the risk.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

« ^ »

WESTON HAD intended for Sandy and himself to stay at the mansion after Bascomb’s team and the other detectives finished with their business, with him still pretending until they left that he was there for the first time. He sent out for barbecue in order to keep them there through the day, hoping that they would finish up before quitting time. They did, barely. He was standing on the front porch, watching the departure and sympathizing with the gauntlet of media they were having to run while walking back to their cars, and at the same time going over the dearth of obvious evidence in his mind and trying to think of what their next step should be if the lab also came up empty, which he suspected it would, when his mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his coat pocket and flipped it open, expecting the answering service but hearing Ward’s voice instead.

“Tamrick?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get your ass back to the office. We got problems.”

“What now, lieutenant? I was planning on not coming back in until in the morning. It’s already past quitting time.” He felt Sandy come up and clutch his arm, as if she had sensed the phone call was going to interrupt their planned evening together.

“You can just change your plans and I don’t care what time it is. Get moving.”

Weston could picture the lieutenant tearing at his hair and yanking at the knot of his tie. He wondered what the urgency was this time. If he kept working as much overtime as he had been lately, he was going to be able to afford matching mansions with Sandy. “I’m on my way,” he said and snapped the phone closed.

“What is it, Wes?” Sandra asked anxiously.

“I don’t know sweetheart, but I have to get back to work. If you want to go somewhere for a bite to eat while I’m busy I’ll call you later.”

“Can I go with you?”

“I like having you with me anytime, but it’s liable to get boring, just hanging around waiting for me to get through with whatever the lieutenant is so hot about.”

Sandy considered for a moment then brightened. “If you can wait just a second, I’ll run get my manuscript and work on it while I’m waiting.” She raised her face up and kissed his cheek.

“That love scene is working out nicely now that I have something favorable to compare it with.”

Weston looked into the clear blue depths of her eyes and saw nothing but love there. Love!

He was certain that his own must be reflecting the same emotion. He tried to picture Sheila’s face and was unsurprised to find only a vague blur there. He felt a well of attraction to Sandy rising within him, like the unfolding of a new spring flower being struck by the rays of warm spring sunshine. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said. He hugged her briefly then put his arm around her waist as they walked down the road to their cars.

Jimmy was still fielding tips when Weston and Sandra arrived.

“Hello, esteemed superior,” Jimmy said. “Glad to see you back. Your companion improves your own looks if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I don’t mind,” Weston replied. “She would improve even yours. Jimmy I’d like you to meet Sandy Woolridge. You’ve heard her name mentioned, I’m sure.”

“Of course.” Jimmy was already standing so had no need to get to his feet to shake Sandra’s hand. “I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Woolridge. It would be nice if we could just stand here and get better acquainted but Lieutenant Ward has other ideas, I think. He’s waiting, Wes.”

“Yeah, he called me. Sandy, find you a place somewhere here and you can sit down and do your work until I’m through inside.”

“Until we’re through,” Jimmy said. “He wants to see us both.”

“In that case, you can use Jimmy’s chair, Sandy. He never sits in it anyway.”

Ward stuck his head out of his door. “Quit that goddamn yakking and get in here, both of you.” He ignored Sandra’s presence in the office.

Ward let them in then closed the door and went around to his desk. His necktie was dangling from his top jacket pocket like a dispirited banner which had been used and was now ready to be discarded.

“Sit down,” Ward ordered. They did so, neither of them saying a word.

“Do either of you have a copy of that sketch Miss Woolridge made with you?” He asked bluntly.

“I have one in my files,” Weston said.

“Me, too,” Jimmy said.

“No you don’t. I’ve had it yanked.”

“Don’t tell me,” Weston said. “The chief ordered them pulled.”

Ward stared at him suspiciously. “How did you know that?”

“Just a hunch,” Weston said. “What’s his problem this time?”

“Goddamed if I know, but that’s how it is. I repeat, do you have any copies of that sketch other than what was in your files?”

“No, sir,” Wes said. He didn’t mention that Sandy still had her copy.

“I don’t,” Jimmy said.

“Good.”

“You call that good?” Weston said.

“If the chief says it’s good, it is, and I’m speaking ex cathedra. Don’t ask me about the fucking logic behind it, though. Now forget it; he said he’ll explain later. What went on at the Woolridge place today?”

“Nothing obvious,” Weston said. “We won’t know about the lab results for a couple of days.”

Ward grimaced as if he were chewing nails. “Jimmy?”

“A couple or three tips that I guess we ought to check out tomorrow, but I’m not very optimistic about them. However—” He paused.

“Goddamnit, Thang, you always do that. Tell me what the fuck you’ve got.”

Weston waited as anxiously as Ward did. When Jimmy said ‘However’, he was preparing to deliver a strafing if not a bombshell.

“Like I was saying,” Jimmy continued unperturbedly, “Amy Freemont called in just a little while ago. If you remember, she was looking into Woolridge’s activities back when he was buying furniture for his house. When she finished up with that, she went on working on his past activities. As it turns out—”

Ward covered his face with his hands and rubbed his temples with his thumbs, clearly aggravated but knowing that it was no use trying to hurry Jimmy along.

“—she turned up something peculiar that happened a couple of months before Woolridge started construction of that mansion. The way she got it from one of the neighbors, there was something like a fire in that dilapidated old house he was living in at the time. The witness says it was late at night and she happened to be up reading and saw what she thought was a fire right about there. A real bright light that lit up the sky then died down right quick.” Jimmy paused to think then continued. “Or maybe she thought it was an explosion, but she claims she didn’t hear any noise. At any rate, she dialed 911 and a fire truck came out. Given the area, that took a little longer than usual. This will all be in Amy’s report, by the way.”

“Come on, come on, goddamnit, get to the meat.”

Jimmy looked wounded. “I am, Lieutenant. Anyway, when the fire truck got there, they couldn’t find any evidence of a fire or explosion either one. Woolridge claimed he had been asleep and didn’t notice a thing.”

“And?”

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders. “And that’s all, unless Amy writes it up different than she told me over the phone.”

“Everything seems to always go back to Woolridge,” Weston remarked. “But we still don’t have a shred of real evidence on him, other than maybe possessing child porn. Besides, we’ve had disappearances since he died.”

“Right, Sherlock. And speaking of which, what about the latest one, the college student?”

“Nothing at all from the library,” Jimmy informed him. “We’re still checking on boyfriends and others who knew her but all we’re getting so far is a clean cut young woman, pre-med student, who didn’t do drugs, didn’t smoke and if you can believe her boyfriend, was still a virgin.”

“So we’re back to square one,” Ward said. “Except for that sketch… Damnit, what in hell is going on?”

While Jimmy had been talking, Weston had been only half-listening. He could always get with Jimmy later if he missed anything important. He kept going over the disappearances.

Even though Woolridge had probably been ruled out as the perp, he still thought there was a relationship between him and the missing girls. It all started, in his opinion, with the drug money someone had mysteriously apprehended, then continued through Woolridge’s sudden bonanza of cash and on to the mansion. And somehow he thought that Cranston must have become involved, too, along with Phelps. They had both vanished shortly after the case really became active. Then there was the item Jimmy had just mentioned: a sudden bright light which died quickly away with no evidence of either fire or explosion shortly before Woolridge obtained his money, though he couldn’t imagine what connection it might have. What bothered him most, though, was Chief Leeward’s actions, putting the mansion off limits until media publicity practically forced him into relenting and now ordering that the sketch be pulled, a likeness of an intruder in the mansion. It all came back to that and he thought that any fool must be able to figure it out. In fact, though he didn’t consider himself a fool, it hadn’t taken a great stretch of imagination to put all those parts together and he suspected that Jimmy and the other members of the team were going in the same direction—other than Cranston, who had disappeared. Put everything together, combined with the fact that none of the disappearances, not a single one, had left the slightest shred of evidence behind and that left only the lab results from the mansion pending—and he wasn’t expecting any exciting revelations from those. If they turned out negative, as he suspected they would, then there was only one other question that he could think of which needed answering: why was the chief hindering the investigation?

Weston heard a tapping noise and rejoined the world, realizing that the sound was coming from Ward’s fingernails beating a tattoo on his glass-surfaced desk.

“Welcome back, Tamrick,” Ward said. “Would you mind sharing your thoughts with us, or did you just have a bit of pussy on your mind?”

Weston was too preoccupied to take offense. He was turning a thought over in his mind which might get him fired. “I was just thinking,” he said slowly, “of going directly to the chief and asking him why he had that sketch pulled.”

Lieutenant Ward stared at him as if he had just volunteered to test the temperature of the gulf waters by being keelhauled behind an aircraft carrier. “You’re a braver man than I am,” he said without a trace of sarcasm.

“Me, too,” Jimmy added.

“Do either of you have a better idea?” Weston asked, fidgeting in his chair.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Why don’t we volunteer our services over at the zoo? They could cut us up and feed us to the lions. The results would be just about the same.”

Ward wasn’t quite that reluctant. “You really want to do that? If you piss him off, just remember to keep my name out of it.”

Weston got up from his chair. “No, I don’t really want to, but I can’t think of anything else to do.”

“On your head be it,” Ward said.

Weston glanced at his watch. “What time does the chief usually leave his office?”

“Never before eight o’clock,” Ward said.

“Then I may as well get it over with while I’m still thinking about it,” Weston said. “I’ll let you know how it comes out in the morning.”

“Can I have your chair after he fires you?” Jimmy asked. “Yours sits better than mine does.”

“You don’t sit,” Weston said. “I’ll will it to someone who can use it.” He left Jimmy and the lieutenant staring at his retreating back as if he were a weaponless Christian bravely entering the arena to face a pride of starving lions.

Weston picked Sandra up at his office. He took her arm and escorted her to the elevator.

“Are we going to eat now?” Sandy asked. “You look hungry.”

“That’s not a hungry look,” Weston said. “I’m scared to death.”

“What on earth for?”

“The chief pulled that sketch you made and told us not to look for whoever it was.”

“What! Why would he do something like that?”

“That’s what I want to know, too. I’m going to his office and damn well ask him. Want to come along and be in on the slaughter?” He grinned to cover the way he felt, as if he were climbing a scaffold he had built himself.

Sandra was angrier than she could ever remember. She followed Weston to his car, thinking furiously. It didn’t take long for her to decide what she was going to do. As he drove off, she exclaimed, “He might be able to intimidate you, but there’s not a damned thing he can do to me. If he gives you a hard time, I’ll just tell him that I’m going to send my sketch to the Chronicle first thing in the morning and see how he likes that!”

“Thanks honey, but there’s no sense in both of us getting in trouble.”

“He can’t get me in trouble. And if he threatens you, I’ll call Dan and get him to lawyer him to death!”

Weston had to laugh, but on reflection, he decided that if the chief wanted to be an asshole he might just sic Dan on him, too. Unless he could come up with a damn good reason for withholding the sketch—and explain why he had kept the Woolridge place off limits as long as he could.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

« ^ »

WESTON DROVE towards the downtown area while trying to calm the butterflies flitting around inside his stomach. He was taking a step which might very well end his career with the department. If it had been any other type of case, even one with a similar lack of hard leads, he didn’t think he could have gotten up his courage for the trip but with the latest disappearance of the eighteen year old coed, he had reached the breaking point. Just the thought of what she must be going through (or probably had already gone through by now) made him so sick and so angry at the chief that right now he really didn’t give a damn whether he lost his job or not.

Something had to be done, and since no one else seemed willing to act, he had decided to take the risk himself.

Weston didn’t know exactly how he was going to go about telling the chief what was on his mind but he was determined to get it out someway. And if nothing else, the threat Sandy had voiced ought to convince him. The media were still castigating him for having restricted access to the Woolridge home without explanation. Surely he couldn’t afford another such episode.

Sandy noticed the grim set to his features as he took an off ramp from the freeway, hardly slowing down at the curve where the ramp did a half circle before feeding into the downtown area. She put her hand on his knee and patted it, expressing her approval—and admiration.

She didn’t think many detectives would risk their jobs bucking the chief in order to solve a case—or trying to solve one. And she felt a special appreciation for him for taking the risk. She felt as much, if not more, sympathy for the missing girls as he did, having an intimate knowledge of what they must have been subjected to.

The parking lot at Police headquarters was nearly empty, reflecting the fact that most employees there were administrators and bureaucratic personnel who tended to leave promptly at five o’clock.

Still silent, Weston led the way inside to the oversized lobby and then to a bank of elevators, all of them resting at ground floor level. Weston punched the button and touched the small of Sandy’s back to urge her inside. The door closed and he pressed the indicator for the seventh floor where Chief Leeward reigned over a bank of offices that housed his immediate subordinates.

Weston had never even met Leeward, nor did he know the exact location of his office. With all the paper shufflers already gone it took a few minutes to find it. There was one other person there, a lieutenant sitting idly at a desk outside the chief’s office and wearing a name tag which read M. Sheehan, Adm. Asst.

The Adm. Asst. glanced at them when she heard their footsteps. “If you’re looking for the chief, he’s not here,” she said.

“Yes he is,” Weston responded. “If he weren’t, you wouldn’t still be here. Now go tell him that Detective Weston Tamrick and Miss Sandra Woolridge are here to see him.”

The woman didn’t even have the courtesy to blush at being caught in a lie, reflecting the supercilious attitude Weston almost always noted in persons who preferred the nearness to power over real work. She brushed at her perfectly coifed hairdo, still without a strand out of place after what must have been a twelve-hour day. “As may be, you still can’t see him now.”

She pulled a pad from a corner of her desk and picked up a pen. “Give me your names again and I’ll leave the chief a message. If he desires to meet with you, I’ll let you know.”

Weston had already had enough out of the glorified clerk. He leaned forward, splaying both hands on the desk. “No appointments. This is confidential. Now you can either escort us inside to see Chief Leeward or I intend to find out how sturdy that door is. Understand?”

The woman got up from her desk, giving Weston a pitying look. In a very few moments she thought he wouldn’t be nearly so belligerent—nor be working for the department any longer. She tapped on the chief’s door then opened it without waiting for a response. She said,

“Chief, this detective said he was coming inside whether you wanted him to or not.”

Weston took Sandra’s hand and brushed past the chief’s assistant. He led Sandy up to the chief’s desk, seated her, then sat down himself, almost sinking past his elbows in the soft cushion of the visitor’s chair. Leeward gave Sandy a brief scrutiny and glared at Weston as if a Mafia Don had just strolled into his office and announced that he was taking over the police force. He recognized Weston as the lead detective in the disappearing girls case from the pictures of him which had appeared in the Chronicle. He said, “Detective, this had better be good or you can plan on leaving your badge with me when you go—which is going to be about two minutes from now, I do believe.”

“I hope not,” Weston said. He crossed his legs and got right to the point. “Chief, since you’re only giving me two minutes, I’ll be blunt. This lady here is Miss Sandra Woolridge, owner of the Woolridge mansion which you just gave permission to investigate. She is also the person responsible for the artist’s sketch of the intruder she saw there which you are refusing to make public. We are just about at a dead end on the case of the disappearing girls. I want you to give the order to have it released immediately.”

“Get out,” Leeward said, “And leave your badge here. You’re fired.”

“If you don’t have it made public, then I’m going to,” Sandra said angrily, meeting Leeward’s baleful continence with a glare of her own.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. That’s confidential information. You go making that sketch public and I’ll have you arrested for obstruction of justice.”

“And my attorney will sue hell out of you if you do,” Sandra returned.

Before their confrontation could go any farther, Weston spoke up. “She means it, chief.

And so do I. Do you think I would have come here like this if I didn’t have a damn good reason?”

Leeward’s face turned red with anger. “Goddamnit, Detective, don’t you think I have good reasons for my actions?”

“Are they good enough for you to be possibly causing the death of young women? Chief, that sketch is just about our last possible lead. We have to follow up on it, I don’t care what your reasons are.”

“Detective, you don’t know a damn thing—and you, either, Miss Woolridge. My order stands.”

“Chief, will you at least listen to me for a few minutes?” Weston begged.

Leeward took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Firing Tamrick wouldn’t solve anything, not if the Woolridge girl sicced her attorney onto him—and the department. And he admitted to himself that he was curious about what the detective might say. He hadn’t been doing any work when the couple appeared. He had been turning over and over in his mind Gerant’s requests for secrecy and obstruction and he was beginning to worry that he was being set up for a fall of some kind, though he couldn’t imagine what it might be. He slumped in his seat and locked his fingers together over his belly. “All right, I’ll listen. Make it short.”

Weston let his breath out with a relieved sigh then began talking. He quickly went over his reasoning, concentrating on how the mansion seemed to be the focus of the case. Leeward didn’t seem overly impressed until he mentioned the 911 call to the old house which the mansion had replaced; he hadn’t heard about that yet. And the last item Weston brought up got his undivided attention.

“…and that’s the last reason I decided to break in on you like this, chief. As soon as we began investigating Phelps, he disappeared. We sent out some roundabout queries on Cranston, the FBI officer who was acting funny and he disappeared before we could go any further with him. Don’t you see? I hate to say it, chief, but the media must be investigating your motives by now, not to mention the fact that every detective on the case is beginning to question your orders, even if you haven’t heard about it.”

“Give me some credit, Tamrick. I’ve heard.”

“Well what does that suggest to you?” Weston asked.

“You tell me, Detective,” Leeward said, but the implication of Weston’s raconteur was already beginning to dawn on him.

“You’re holding back facts, for whatever reason. I think that you’re going to be the next person who turns up missing.” There. He had said it, the statement which had been working its way to the surface of his consciousness ever since he had decided to beard the chief in his den.

Weston waited anxiously for a response while Chief Leeward drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to dispose of him. It would bring every policeman on the force out into the streets. And yet…what could Gerant possibly have going that made the mansion so important? Could Gerant possibly have been responsible for Phelps’ and Cranston’s disappearance? The thought popped into his mind like a flashbulb going off. Now why hadn’t he thought of that before? Hell, he hadn’t even questioned Gerant about it, an oversight he would never have been guilty of back when he was still working his way up the ladder. Well, the next time the haughty Gerant contacted him he damned well would. And patriot or not, this obstruction had gone on long enough. Gerant was going to have to provide him some answers if he wanted any more cooperation.

In the meantime—he scrutinized the detective sitting on the edge of his chair, waiting anxiously to see what he had wrought. He wondered if he would have had the guts to force a confrontation with the chief when he was that young. The man had determination. And courage. He dropped his gaze and picked up pen and paper and began writing. It took only a few minutes. When he was finished, he folded the paper, sealed it in a business envelope and handed it to Weston.

“What’s this?” Weston asked.

“That, Detective Tamrick, is some information that you are not to examine, under pain of all the prosecution I can bring to bear, unless a single circumstance occurs.”

“Yes, sir. What would that be?”

“Just on the chance that you’re right and I turn up missing, you can look at the contents and do as you think best. In the meantime, my order about that sketch will stand—for two more days; no a day and a half, now. Day after tomorrow morning, if I’m still around—” for the first time he smiled, “—then I will rescind the order. When I do, you are to bring that envelope back to me, forthwith, unopened. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“That’s all. Thank you for coming in, Detective. You’ve given me some food for thought.”

Chief Leeward had a deep, gravely voice. None of the persons in the room heard the little popping noise over the sound of his words.

Weston tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket and got up. “Thanks, Chief.

I’ll do exactly like you said.”

“Be sure that you do. I still can’t tell you anything about the reasons behind my orders, but you have my word on it: two days from now, I’ll return all the confiscated copies of that sketch and you can circulate it to hell and back.”

Weston reached for Sandy’s hand and helped her out of the chair she had been sitting in; it was deep and soft like the one he had used. “Thanks again, Chief,” he repeated, and he and Sandy left Chief Leeward to himself.

GERANT HAD finally come back to his senses late in the evening. Once he was able to recognize his surroundings and move about, he disposed of the mutilated body in the usual fashion, quickly and neatly. He still felt horrible, as if he had been turned inside out and he saw that his hands were trembling. He forced himself to carry on, knowing from previous episodes that he would not recover fully until the pressure for a correct meeting with a proper woman was satisfied. It was useless to try again right now, though. He would have to wait a day or so until his strength returned and an opportunity was presented. In the meantime, there were other tasks to perform.

He washed himself and changed clothes and stoked himself with a meal he didn’t really want then decided that it was time to check on Leeward. It took some time before he was properly situated. He caught only the last bit of Leeward’s conversation, but the content passed from his mind almost immediately; he was too busy staring at Sandra Woolridge. For several moments he couldn’t pull his eyes away from her. Oh, if only it had been her in his chamber rather than that fake blond college girl! Desire twisted around in his mind like tangled skeins of brightly colored yarn, making him want to take her here and now and to hell with the consequences!

His mind frothed with a longing for release and the yearning caused him to shut his eyes to better visualize the anticipatory delight of what he intended for the woman. He blinked his eyes open and for the first time saw her out of the usual context. What was she doing in Leeward’s office? And the detective! He was there, too! My God, what had they been talking about while he was off in his fantasy world? He heard the chief say, “…two days from now I’ll return all the confiscated copies of that sketch and…”

Gerant didn’t catch the last of the statement; he was too astounded at Leeward’s betrayal to listen to the rest of it. He almost acted right then but restrained the impulse. He needed to think, but it was hard, hard with that beautiful object constantly distracting his attention and his anger at the detective who was keeping her from him befuddling his mind. Only the thought that soon he would take both of them allowed him enough sanity to consider the consequences of immediate action. That damned sketch. He couldn’t allow it to be circulated, not if he could prevent it. Then he happened to think that it wouldn’t be all that hard to change his appearance a bit. Just shaving off his mustache would help, and parting his hair differently would do the same. He couldn’t be certain that it would work but it might. After all, who would ever suspect him? He could always laugh off anyone who happened to remark on his resemblance to the sketch. And, it was possible that no one would ever notice.

Leeward would have to go, though, even if it did mean that his caricature would be circulated that much sooner. Leeward was the only real link to him, the only one who knew him. Get him out of the way and there was still the chance that they would never solve the disappearances, no, not even when he took the girl and her twice-damned detective. He could always look around after that and find someone else to front for him. Why, come to think of it, he could buy the mansion himself, or rent it if it remained in probate and pick a new person to help with logistics after that. There were always men around who would trade their souls for what he could offer.

Gerant saw the chief making motions to leave. He made up his mind to act but decided that it would be best to wait a little while longer. No use taking a chance on that ugly brunette assistant seeing what happened then having to contend with her.

Later, he watched Chief Leeward yawn as he fumbled for the key to his front door. It was time, and there was no one in sight. He moved and seconds later, Chief Sampson Leeward was gone and Gerant turned his attention elsewhere. He almost wished he hadn’t.

“MMM,” SANDRA purred. “Do that some more.”

“You’re going to make me be late for work again,” Weston said.

“Tell them you were up late with the chief.”

Weston moved his hand the way Sandy had asked him to. “One look at my happy face and everyone would know it was a lie.”

“Do I make you happy?”

“You know you do. Making you feel good is the best part of it, though.”

Sandy snuggled closer to him, holding his hand in place. “One more time and you can sleep.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. You know what?”

“What?”

“I think that popping noise we heard a while ago wasn’t just from the house contracting.”

“So what do you think caused it?”

Sandra giggled. “I think we’re shaking the foundations loose.”

“Let it fall down then. I’ll probably not even notice.”

“Me either,” Sandra said, pulling Weston over her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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WESTON DROPPED Sandy back at her apartment the next morning, again warning her to be careful and keep her door locked. Talking with Leeward the night before and warning him that he might be next on the list revived his fear that the same thing might happen to Sandy. He didn’t know if he could stand it if anything happened to her. He realized that he loved her with a passion he hadn’t known he was capable of. He hated the idea of her being associated with the case of the disappearing girls for the attention it drew to her and the possibility that whoever or whatever was causing the disappearances might decide that she met the same criteria as most of the women who had vanished: very attractive, good figure, and most important, long blond hair. He wondered if he should ask her to cut it. Would she? Or would the question only serve to revive memories of her childhood? He wanted that less than anything he could think of. He knew that he was the one who was responsible for her finally starting to respond and interact normally with a man, though he still couldn’t quite figure out what she saw in him. Whatever it was, he was grateful. Sex with her was wonderful. Just being with her was wonderful, seeing how she looked at him and touched him and opened her mind and body to him with a regained sense of joyful exploration that brought tears to his eyes when he thought about it. It was just too bad that she was an exception. He wished that every woman or girl who had ever been abused could meet her and see that life afterward could be so rewarding. He vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to see that she never had another unhappy experience in her life—and that included solving the mystery of the disappearing girls so she could get that off her mind.

Weston checked his watch as he pulled into the parking lot at the station. Good. He was only a few minutes late. No thanks to Sandy, though, he thought, laughing. She was going to have to learn that a man had his limits, even if it meant just holding her and telling her how wonderful she was at times.

Jimmy wasn’t leaning on his chair. In fact, when Weston opened the door to their office he was nowhere in sight. That was unusual; he was rarely late and almost always early. Probably following up on a tip, he thought, just before the door to Lieutenant Ward’s office opened.

Jimmy had been in there. He wagged a finger, motioning for Weston to come join him.

“Let me grab a cup of coffee first,” Weston called. He had been so enthralled with Sandy this morning that he had completely forgotten to stop at McDonald’s.

“Get your ass in here!” Ward’s command followed him to the coffeepot. He ignored it and filled his cup, knowing that Ward must be about to have kittens waiting to hear what the chief had said. His curiosity could wait for a minute, though. After all, it was he who had taken the risk of confronting the chief.

Weston strolled back to the open door, drawing a ferocious glare from Ward for not hurrying. When he spotted Ward’s necktie crumpled in the corner of his office, he suddenly decided that he had better stop acting like a prima donna. Ward was obviously more than curious; he was upset about something. At the same time he spotted the wayward tie, he also realized that he hadn’t seen any of the other detectives around, nor the two FBI agents or their new boss who was supposed to have arrived from Washington yesterday evening and been present this morning. Had the chief changed his mind? Or God forbid, had another woman disappeared?

“Tamrick, goddamnit, stop fooling with that goddamn coffee and tell me what goddamnit happened when you went to see the chief? Or did you ever get there?”

Uh oh. Three goddamns in one sentence. That meant trouble.

“He’s going to rescind his order within the next thirty six hours,” Weston announced, glad that he could bring his boss a little good news for a change.

“No he Goddamed isn’t either!” Ward said loudly.

“What? Why not?”

“Because he’s goddamned disappeared, that’s why not! Now talk!”

“Lieutenant, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Sherlock. His driver found his house keys and his briefcase laying on his front porch this morning when he stopped to pick him up, and he never showed up for work this morning. Is that good enough for your fine detective mind? Now talk! What do you know about it?”

Weston didn’t know what to think. He knew that Leeward was accustomed to arriving at his office before seven o’clock and everyone knew that he seldom left before eight at night. It was his gluttony for long hours on the job which had been partially responsible for propelling him up the ladder to Chief of Police.

“Lieutenant, I went in to see him last night. He was mad as hell at first, but after we talked for a while, he agreed to release the sketch. That’s about it.”

“And what did you goddamn say that managed to change his mind when I couldn’t, the captain couldn’t, the newspapers couldn’t and the TV stations couldn’t? Have you gotten his daughter pregnant and fixing to marry into the family, by chance?” Ward was furious, partly because the chief had disappeared, but mostly, Weston knew, because he had gotten what he had gone after when Ward hadn’t been able to. He noticed that Jimmy had been looking at him with undisguised admiration all during the lieutenant’s tirade.

Weston took a drink of his coffee before answering, drawing another angry grimace thrown in his direction. He put down his cup hurriedly before Ward exploded. “I didn’t even know the chief had a daughter,” he said.

Ward’s face turned a fiery red and Weston heard a suppressed snicker from Jimmy. “Sorry lieutenant, sir. The only thing I can think of I said that may have changed his mind is that I told him I thought he was going to be the next person to disappear if he persisted in keeping secrets, like why he wouldn’t let us into the mansion and why he had that sketch pulled from everybody’s files.”

Ward emitted a burst of profanity, then said, “Get on with it. What led you to that conclusion?”

“Well, Phelps was obviously withholding information and he turned up missing. I suspected that Cranston was doing the same and he up and vanishes. The chief was holding out, so—”

Ward held up a hand to stop him from going further. “All right Sir Holmes. I guess I have to give you credit for that deduction. Too bad you didn’t find out why he was holding out on us.”

Weston leaned forward to pick up his coffee cup again, thinking it might be safe to do so now. He felt the crinkle of paper inside his suit coat, reminding him of the envelope Leeward had trusted him with. “Hey! I just remembered. The chief gave me some papers to hold. He said not to look at them unless he went away like all the others. Are you sure he’s really disappeared, Lieutenant?” Seeing the look on Ward’s face, he pulled the envelope from his pocket and held it up. “This is what he gave me.”

“Tamrick, you’re getting worse than Thang about taking your time with a report. If I don’t have a goddamned stroke before this case is over with it won’t be because you two haven’t tried to give me one. Hand me that envelope.”

Weston thought he should be the one to look at it first since it had been entrusted to him, but he was afraid that if he opened and read it in front of Ward the man really might have a stroke. He passed it across the desk.

Ward ripped open the seal and scanned the single piece of paper inside. “Goddamn. I’ll be a sorry sonofabitch. It this doesn’t take the cake I don’t know what will.”

“May I see?” Weston asked.

Ward handed the sheet of paper back across to him. Jimmy leaned over his shoulder and read with him.

The sketch of the intruder at the Woolridge mansion has been identified as Gary Gerant, OIC of the Houston NSC office. He told me that the Woolridge house is the focus of an ongoing NSC investigation and that it was imperative that access to it should be restricted except for him. He also told me that it was a matter of national security that he not be identified nor associated in any way with the house until he cleared the case he was working on. I checked with Washington at this number he gave me to confirm his statements, and it is listed in the NSC directory. He has never discussed what type of case he is working on. This sealed letter is being given to Detective Tamrick to hold for 36 hours. If I should turn up missing before this time period expires, I suggest that the Director of NSC or an appropriate subordinate be contacted immediately in order to verify Gerant’s statements. If they should prove to be incorrect, I also suggest that he be arrested immediately and held for questioning.

The letter was unsigned.

Weston heard the tingling of touch phone numbers being dialed and looked up. Ward was already on the phone. He listened and heard him giving orders. “…read him his rights and bring him directly to my office. No phone calls on the way.” A pause. “I don’t give a good goddamn what he says. Bring him in. Use handcuffs if you have to. In fact, use them whether you have to or not; I’ll take the responsibility.”

For the first time in weeks, Ward looked as if he might live through the day without firing half his staff. Weston took the opportunity to light a cigarette.

“Tamrick, put out that goddamned butt. Just because you got lucky don’t start thinking you’re a privileged character.”

Weston stubbed out his smoke in the trash can, but he had gotten enough nicotine into his system to calm his nerves. “Sorry, lieutenant, I forgot again.”

“Bullshit. All right, you two can get back to work. As soon as the news gets out about the chief being missing, the shit is going to hit the fan. In fact, it probably has already. If you don’t have anything else to do, start working the tip desk; everyone else is out looking for the chief.”

“What about Gerant?” Weston asked.

“I’m going to get on the horn to Washington right now and find out whether he was really working on a case here.”

“What if he was?” Jimmy asked.

“Then I’m out the door, Tamrick gets promoted to Lieutenant and you become the lead detective. Go on, I’ll call you when they get back with Gerant if you don’t spot them bringing him in.”

Weston and Jimmy left Ward’s office and began answering phone calls. Ward had been right. The shit was already flying.

TWO HOURS later, from the sound of oaths coming from Ward’s office, loud enough to be heard over the ringing phones, it was apparent that Gerant had not been apprehended. Weston wondered whether it was possible that the National Security Council officer had been disposed of like all the others or simply found out somehow that he was going to be brought in for questioning and took a powder. His deliberations along that line were taken care of a little later when Ward stepped out of his office for a break.

Weston raised a brow, hoping for some information.

Ward shook his head disgustedly but began talking readily enough. “All kinds of hell is breaking loose at the main NSC office. It turns out that Gerant had been transferred down here because the director didn’t think his work was up to par. His assignment here was OIC of the Houston branch that inspects exports for restricted technology. It turns out that his subordinates rarely saw him; he claimed that he had to go back and forth to Washington for consultation all the time but that was a pure goddamn lie. He was fucking off somewhere.”

Weston had a sudden thought. “Hey, Lieutenant, why don’t we check that first number he gave the chief? It might be in the NSC directory, but someone had to have mislead the chief.”

“Tamrick, why the goddamn hell didn’t you mention that earlier?”

“I just thought of it,” Weston confessed.

Ward skipped his break and got back on the phone, cursing a blue streak.

None of the other staff returned to the office all day. Weston and Jimmy sent out for Chinese and ate it while fielding calls, getting the dispatcher to send uniforms to the places they might be able to handle and writing down the few others which had possibilities (though slim ones) which they would get to the following day, given the time and lack of other unexpected developments in the case.

Five o’clock came and went. Finally, Jimmy, sitting down for a change, announced, “I can’t talk any more. My voice is hoarse. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Who’s going to cover the phones?”

Jimmy pointed. One of the overlapping detectives Ward had called in was just walking through the door. Weston brought the woman up to date then knocked on Ward’s door. It opened immediately.

“I was just going to holler for you,” Ward said. “Your hunch about that first number was on the money. They questioned the guy for just a few minutes and he broke. Gerant had been stringing him along by promising access to live little girls, the sorry bastard. Luckily, he hadn’t come through on his promises yet or we would have more girls missing.”

“That’s some consolation,” Weston said, thanking the Lord under his breath. He wasn’t a religious person but he wanted to acknowledge thanks to whatever entity which had prompted the thought of checking up on Gerant’s crony.

“That’s all I think we’re going to get out of it. I just got word that they had his place searched. They came up with some child pornography, which ought to send him up for a few years, but nothing on Gerant. Goddamnit, I bet he’s the scumbag we’ve been looking for all this time.”

That set Weston off. If Gerant was the miscreant and was still on the loose, then Sandy was in imminent danger. “Lieutenant, can I leave now?”

“No, goddamnit, you can’t, not ‘till the rest of the crew reports back in. This thing is starting to break and I want you right here until the cows come home.”

Weston knew that there was no use arguing, but he had to do something. “Look, Lieutenant, Sandra Woolridge has exactly the same profile as the other missing women. I want to go over to her apartment and pick her up and bring her back here until I can get away.”

“Ha!” Ward exclaimed. “How do you know where her apartment is? I knew you were fucking around with her and that just confirms it. Didn’t I tell you not to Goddamn get mixed up with her?”

“I had to,” Weston said, thinking quickly. “She’s been helping me. Why, if it weren’t for her, the chief would have thrown me out of his office last night before I even got started.”

“You didn’t tell me about that.”

“It slipped my mind,” Weston said. Quickly, he pulled out a cigarette and made as if he was going to light it in order to give Ward something different to focus his wrath on for a moment.

“Put that goddamn cigarette back up! Won’t you ever learn?”

“Sorry, I forgot again,” Weston said. His mind was still racing. “Listen, Chief, I just thought of something else. Sandy—I mean Miss Woolridge was the one who spotted Gerant in her house. What was he doing there? I think we ought to go over that place again.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yes, sir. Everything we’ve turned up so far seems to point to that house.”

“OK, OK,” Ward conceded. “I’ll send a couple of units out there to seal it off front and back then have Rob and his crew out there tomorrow to have another look. Does that satisfy you?”

“No. I’m still worried about Miss Woolridge. How about me going over to her apartment and bring her back here until I leave? If she can disappear with a dozen detectives watching her then we may as well give up and start busting kids for buying tobacco.”

“Shit. Tamrick, I’ll be glad when I get my next promotion and you take over and have to deal with all the smartass detectives around here. All right, go pick her up.” He went back into his office, slamming he door behind him.

Weston checked the loads in his .45 and rushed from the office.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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IF THERE WAS a positive aspect at all to the chief’s disappearance, so far as Weston was concerned, it was the fact that the media was now focusing on his vanishing act almost to the complete exclusion of Sandy. He didn’t see a single reporter or news van in the parking lot of her apartment complex when he drove in.

Sandy opened the door immediately after Weston rang the bell, almost as if she had been standing there waiting on him. She was dressed in the same old clothes she had worn before when trying to avoid reporters, with her sunglasses tucked in the pocket of her blouse ready to put on. Even dressed like that, Weston still thought she was the most attractive woman he had ever known. “Hi love,” he said, reaching out to finger her fine blond hair. She was wearing it in twin ponytails, each tied with a bright red ribbon.

Sandy took his hand and brought it to her cheek and kissed it, then kissed him, not speaking but just kissing and touching him as if she had been afraid he wouldn’t show up.

When Weston was able to speak again, he said, “I got here as quickly as I could. I guess you’ve heard the news about the chief?”

“Yes, I turned on the TV to catch the noon news. Wes, what on earth is going on?”

“Sweetheart, we’re not certain yet but we’re beginning to get some breaks in the case despite the chief disappearing—or maybe because of it.”

Sandy led him on inside. “How could that be?”

“Remember that letter the chief gave me to hold?”

“Oh, yes! Did you open it?”

“Yes, but I can’t talk about it. Sorry, but that’s how the job works.”

“It’s all right. I’m just so glad to see you. I was getting worried that you might have disappeared, too.”

Weston stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might become a victim. It was Sandy he had been worrying about. And yet it made as much sense as anything else about the case. He was staying in the mansion at night, just as Sandy was and he now knew as much about the case as anyone else—and if Gerant was the miscreant, the fact that he was still on the loose left him as a possible target.

“What’s wrong?” Sandra asked, seeing the worried look on his face.

“Just thinking,” he said. He couldn’t see any use in having her worry about him.

“Well, think about what we’re going to do for dinner. I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Me either, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to rough it this evening. I have to go back to the office for a while.”

“Can I go with you? I don’t like staying here by myself.”

Weston smiled at her. “That’s why I came to get you. I don’t like being alone anymore, either. By the way, you can change into regular clothes if you like. The reporters are all out chasing leads on the chief.”

“Oh, good. Wait for me, I’ll be just a minute.” She gave him a quick peck and went into the bedroom. Weston thought for a moment of following her inside then discarded the idea.

Women liked their privacy at certain times and besides, he knew that he couldn’t possibly stay right beside her 24 hours a day. Still, he couldn’t help but worry until she came back out, dressed now in slacks and a long sleeved orange blouse with her hair unbraided and hanging as loose as she naturally wore it.

The office was in a turmoil when they arrived, with the evening shift of detectives mingling with the others who had finally returned but had not been allowed to leave yet. Ward was holding them until they all had their activity reports written up for him to take home and look at.

Weston found a chair for Sandy and a small space in one corner of his office to place it, then he got busy himself. He was way behind on his own paperwork and it took almost two hours before he finally had it caught up enough to think it would satisfy Ward, for a day or so anyway. When he was finished, he went over and tapped on Ward’s door.

“Come in,” came the shouted response.

Weston entered. “I’m finished, lieutenant. Do you want hard copies or can I leave everything in the files?”

“Leave ‘em for now. I’ll pull them up from home. I want printouts tomorrow, though.”

Weston could understand. When he was studying a case, he liked to have real papers in front of him so he could shuffle them back and forth, make notes, and look for correlations or related instances without having to return again and again to separate computer files. Going back and forth like that always hampered his thought processes. He sometimes envied members of the younger generation, like Jimmy, who had grown up with computers as part of their lives and were able to mouse files around with the rapidity of a hummingbird in flight.

“I won’t be in early tomorrow,” Weston said before he left.

Ward glanced up from his stack of papers. “And why the hell won’t you? I don’t remember putting you in charge of this goddamned office.”

“I want to stay at the mansion tomorrow while Rob is going over it again. And I want Jimmy there, too. We’re going to tear that goddamned place apart if we have to.”

“Have you run down the architect who built it yet?” Ward asked.

Weston was nonplused. He had a vague memory of asking that they be tracked down right after Woolridge’s suicide but he couldn’t remember ever seeing them.

“Uh, no, not yet.”

“Well, find them, goddamnit. Now get out of here and quit bothering me.”

Weston got. He went back to his desk and pawed through his in-basket. Sure enough, down near the bottom of the basket he found the drawings. He folded them up and slid them into his inside coat pocket then glanced over to where Sandy had been quietly waiting. He caught her eye and she picked up her purse. Weston waved to Jimmy, who was still working on his reports and they left.

Weston stopped just before getting onto the freeway and got burgers and shakes to go, knowing that nothing would be open in the neighborhood of the Woolridge house, even supposing they wanted to try one of the few places in the area. He was glad to see that a patrol car was parked in the driveway, absolving him from the necessity of concealing his car around back this time. He went over and spoke to the uniforms in the car for a moment then they went on inside.

“What is the patrol car doing here?” Sandy asked.

“We’ve got the forensic team coming back out in the morning to search this place again. I hate to tell you, but they’re probably going to tear the place apart tomorrow.”

“Why?”

Weston was under orders not to discuss the NSC involvement in the case. “Well, you know that we think something was going on here while your father was alive, not that we believe he was responsible for the disappearances—or at least all of them. Nevertheless, he must have been involved in some fashion. We’re going to try to find out.”

“Well, I hope you do. I don’t mind how much of a mess you make. After all, just a few days ago I hardly knew where my next dollar was coming from, let alone owning a mansion.”

“That’s a good way to look at it,” Weston said.

Later, after eating their burgers, they were laying in bed together. Weston was propped on one elbow and using his other hand to trace the contours of Sandy’s breasts, admiring the pensive look on her face, like a little girl listening attentively to a Sunday School lesson. Sandy was laying on her back, her breathing just returning to normal after they had made love.

Sandra suddenly rolled over and faced Weston, taking his hand. “Do you ever get the feeling that we’re being watched when we’re here?”

Weston raised his brows. “Hm. No, can’t say that I do. Why?”

Sandy squeezed his hand. “Because I do, and please don’t laugh at me. I can’t help it.”

“I would never laugh at you,” Weston said.

“Thank you. Wes, there’s something not right about this place. I’ve felt it before, as if someone was staring at me through a keyhole. Would you mind very much if we don’t stay here again after tonight?”

Weston didn’t feel exactly sanguine about the place himself. He had been wondering whether he ought to ask Sandy to move out of it, except for one factor. He said, “If you’re really uncomfortable staying here, there’s always my place. It’s certainly big enough. The only thing is—” He paused, trying to think of the best way to frame his concern without alarming her.

“What?”

“The thing is, even though we’re focusing our investigation here now, you have to admit that no one has turned up missing from right in this area, and certainly not from the house.”

“You’re worried about me, aren’t you?”

Weston was forced to admit that he was, but didn’t expound on his concern for himself. He wasn’t scared of anything which might get in his way, but whatever happened, he wanted to stay close to Sandy and keep her safe.

“And that’s why the patrol cars are here, isn’t it?”

“That’s one of the reasons. The other is that we wanted to seal the place off until tomorrow when we start going over it again.”

“Will you have to stay with them?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I hope we’ll finish up by evening, though.”

“Good. Let’s go to your place when you’re done here. I’ll feel much better.” Sandra felt herself shiver. Tomorrow couldn’t come too soon for her.

“All right, hon. That’s what we’ll do. I have to warn you, though: you’re going to find an unmade bed there.”

Sandra nestled closer. “What’s the difference? We’d just mess it up anyway. Like this one.”

GERANT HAD been gone all day, trying to relieve himself, but the experience had served only to agitate him, driving his mind to the borders of insanity with the thought that he was only using a substitute for what he really needed. By now he was fixated on the Woolridge girl, the perfect image looming larger and larger in his imagination. He knew he couldn’t fight it much longer and he was reaching the point where nothing else seemed to matter.

Gerant’s agitation was further increased when he returned and saw the patrol cars, one in front and another guarding the back entrance. Why were they here? Surely Leeward hadn’t revealed anything before he took him. It was impossible; he had heard him say that he wasn’t going to release the sketch for another 36 hours! But why the patrol cars? There was no way the police could possibly know that he was here. In fact, they shouldn’t know about him at all, not yet!

He gibbered to himself, trying to figure out what was happening. The newspapers and TV

were no help; they were all yelping over the chief’s disappearance, but there was no mention of his own name. The precinct station was bereft of information, too. There were few detectives around and the ones who were present were only clerks or uniformed officers helping with the phones. It was a puzzle with no answers that he could discover.

More frustrated than ever, he waited impatiently for the girl and her detective to return, convincing himself that watching them and contemplating their ultimate fate might ease the frenzy eating at his mind, even though it hadn’t helped before; it had only increased the impelling urgency to act.

He fought the urge, barely preventing himself from taking them right from their bed as he watched them rutting, just as he had been forced to observe and participate as a child. He had been helpless then, and he had gone through life since with only the barest essentials of the capacity to reconstruct those scenes. Until Woolridge came to him. Everything had changed then. Now his ability was almost unlimited, proven by the fact that he watched now, unseen and unheard.

After they were finished, he expected them to dim the lights and go to sleep, cutting off his view of anything other than shadowy outlines, but he couldn’t bear to turn away until that actually happened. He was gratified that they stayed awake a while longer so that he could observe and listen.

He watched the detective stroking her, caressing her breasts with an intimacy which was about to drive him crazy until they began talking. And then he knew. Somehow, the chief had passed on his knowledge before he was disposed of. And they were going to search the mansion again! What if they found him? He would be able to escape, of course, but would he ever be able to return if they did? Not likely. Well, if they discovered the secret of the mansion he would simply have to disappear. And the girl and her lover would go first. He would make sure of that! He wasn’t about to give them up.

WESTON AND Sandy had made love again before drifting off into a relaxed slumber, enhanced by feelings of tired satiation which left Weston and her with the sensation that all the bones in their bodies had dissolved and their muscles as weak as babes in a crib.

The next morning, he greeted Rob Bascomb and his crew with a yawn, drawing a knowing grin from Jimmy as well as an affectionate tap on the shoulder, telling Weston that his partner was glad that he had found a new love in his life. There were strangers with them. Jimmy made the introductions.

“Wes, this is Kelvin Sedgewick, from the NSC office in Washington. Weston shook hands with the tall thin man. He had a firm grip and met his eyes with a direct penetrating gaze. He waved toward two of his subordinates, giving names which Weston immediately forgot.

“And this is Paul Corning, the new FBI officer in charge.” The FBI agent, standing a few feet away, merely nodded. He seemed preoccupied.

“Lieutenant Ward briefed them early this morning so they’re up on all the latest information on the case.”

“They aren’t up on this,” Weston said, producing the drawings.

Weston sat down with Jimmy and the two bigwigs from Washington in the big living room while they all examined the architect’s rendering of the original design of the mansion while Rob Bascomb directed his crew in the start of their new investigation.

It was Jimmy who spotted the anomaly while Weston was engaged in a huge yawn; the caffeine in his morning coffee hadn’t worked its magic yet.

“Look here,” Jimmy said, pointing to a spot on the drawings.

Weston eyed the spot he was pointing at. As he had discovered before, the mansion had been built with the front portion almost exactly duplicating the back section. Between the two, there was an unlabeled blank space, running the whole way through the design except for a depiction of the short hallway on one edge of it connecting the two sections. The space appeared to be very narrow but there were no inches or footage lines to indicate its width.

Weston tried to picture the way he and Sandy had explored while he was investigating. He remembered that there was a hallway they had used to pass from the front to the back. At the time, he had not thought anything about the fact that there were doorways only on one side of the hall, leaving no way to venture the other way. And the hallway had been at least fifteen feet wide!

“Brother, I think you may have something here,” Weston said. “Let’s go find Rob and show this to him. By God, you may have found that scumbag’s hideaway!”

“Let’s hope so,” Jimmy said.

The NSC officer smiled thinly, displaying capped teeth. “May I have those drawings? They may have to be classified.”

Trust the government, Weston thought. Trust them to use secrecy when none was needed.

It annoyed him. “Not yet,” he said.

Weston gathered up the drawings and they went off to find Bascomb. When they discovered him, he was looking through drawers and cabinets in the kitchen just down the way from the big living room. They sat down and Weston allowed Jimmy to point out the blank space since it had been his discovery.

“Good job, Thang,” Bascomb said as soon as he had gotten the gist of the drawings. “It looks as though we’re going to have to find some saws and crowbars to get into that place, though. Unless there’s an exit from the outside?” He looked To Weston for that information.

“I really haven’t noticed, to tell you the truth,” he said. “It’s usually been dark when I drove in. There’s nothing to indicate there is in the drawing, though.”

“Let’s check anyway,” Bascomb said.

There were no outside entrances to the space between the duplicate sections of the house.

They trudged back inside and waited while Weston went out to one of the ubiquitous patrol cars and had him call for tools. After that, he went with Bascomb as he continued going over the rooms, just as he had before, but much more thoroughly this time.

A chain saw proved to be the most useful instrument. Jimmy, stating that he had experience in using one, wielded the saw, not bothering to avoid nails. It would ruin the chain, but not before the wall was breached. Weston followed up with a crowbar then pulled the last tags of insulation and wallboard loose. He peered inside and saw only a gloomy space fading into complete darkness. The uniform who had brought the tools was still hanging around, curious to see what was going on. Weston asked him for his flashlight and stepped through the hole. He shined the powerful beam ahead and to the sides. Jimmy, then the FBI and NSC

agents followed close behind.

“Goddamn,” Weston cursed. “This place is as empty as a beach house in January.”

The other men stared as Weston played the flashlight beam around. It lit only blank walls and uncarpeted floor space and baseboards with power outlets…Another lead had just gone up in smoke.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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AS SOON AS he heard the mention of chain saws, Gerant knew he would have to relocate. It would complicate matters, he knew, and perhaps ultimately be fatal. It would be fatal if the prime location was staked out and guarded for any length of time. His only hope was that when nothing was discovered in the empty space he could eventually return and renew his power source. If not, his choices would be limited to remaining in the other place or going back and eliminating the watchers long enough to plug back in. Doing that would only increase the chance of being caught the next time, though. In the long run, there was no good solution. He thought that he would be reduced to clandestine excursions away from the mansion, stealing food and supplies to live on, but even that would eventually arouse enough suspicion to focus attention on the mansion again, even if it was eventually abandoned so far as a continuous watch being maintained. No, his only chance was to hang on in the other place as long as he could and hope the nexus of the investigation would turn in other directions.

Perhaps he could help that along. In the meantime, there was the girl and the detective to take care of. He felt his heart begin racing at the thought and his hands trembled so badly that it was difficult to manage the controls. It was too bad that he didn’t know where the detective lived. He had heard the girl tell him that she didn’t want to stay here at night again and heard the sleuthy detective offer his own place for their trysts. He couldn’t afford to let them get out of range and it was virtually impossible to take them in a moving vehicle. When the growl of the chain saw forced him to move, he did it quickly. Later, he followed the girl and the detective as the day wore on, not intending to let them escape but wanting to take them at a time and place that would cause the least upset. And finally it came!

“DON’T LOOK SO dispirited, Wes. It isn’t the end of the world,” Sandra said as they watched the last of the detectives and officials drive away.

Weston put his arm around her slim waist. “I can’t help it. Damn it, I was so certain that we had found Gerant’s hidey hole.”

“Did you find any evidence that he had ever been there?”

Weston couldn’t see any reason to withhold that information. “Nothing. Zilch. Oh, we still have to wait on the lab results to be sure, but it doesn’t look promising. If any of the missing women were held in there, we sure didn’t see any signs of it. Nor of Gerant or your father, either. It’s like that hole was designed into the plans just to confuse us.”

“So what do you do now?”

Weston shrugged miserably. “I really don’t know. Probably we’ll just start from scratch again, go over everything, go back over the history of all the missing people and try to ferret out some connections. The same old gumshoe work we started with.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to stay there again. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. I’ll check into the office tomorrow. Jimmy offered to go by and brief the lieutenant, so that’s taken care of.” He stroked her hip. “Are you ready to go see that unmade bed?”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to stand the sight of it,” Sandra said. Arm in arm, they walked out of the driveway, past the patrol car in front of the mansion and onto the road where Weston had parked his car for lack of room elsewhere.

“A pretty night for a change,” Weston said as they approached his vehicle. The stars were out, and away from the still lit mansion and on the untraveled road, they appeared as bright as if they were in a planetarium. The gulf breeze had died down and the night was still except for sounds of nocturnal insects out feeding. A faint mist was beginning to develop at ground level.

“It’s beautiful,” Sandra agreed. They paused before getting into the car, standing together under the stars. Weston pulled Sandra against his chest and hugged her. He tilted her face up and they kissed. It gave Weston a renewed sense of vigor. Damnit, he would solve this case.

This time there was no mistake nor room for error. Weston heard a distinct popping noise behind them, sounding almost like a small firecracker going off. He tried to push Sandra way from him so that he could get to his gun but it was no use. Before his hand reached halfway to his chest he felt himself tumbling backwards. He just had time to notice that the stars had disappeared into a totally black night before he lost consciousness.

THE FIRST THING Weston noticed was that he was being dragged across a smooth metal surface. His mind felt foggy, as if he were struggling to come awake from a nightmare. He felt a weakness throughout his whole body as if it had been numbed with anesthetic. He tried to reach out and stop the dragging motion and discovered that his arms were locked behind him.

He was thoroughly disoriented. He forced his eyes opened and a blinding light assaulted his senses. He squeezed and blinked his eyelids again and again and gradually the light faded back to something approaching normal illumination. He was face down, still being dragged. Smooth silvery metal passed in front of his gaze, inches from his eyes. The dragging motion stopped, then he felt hands grappling at his coat collar, pulling him upward. For the first time he realized that he was being manhandled along by a human being. He struggled against the hands, still unable to make his muscles work properly, but he succeeded in slipping from the grasp of the person whom he still hadn’t seen. He fell back to the metal surface and got a brutal kick in the ribs for his efforts. A blurry face hovered above him then again he was being lifted, this time accompanied by grunts and wheezing breath from his captor. He was pulled upright and his arms, still held firmly behind his back were raised painfully high, sending searing jolts of fire through his shoulders and bending him forward. He felt the hands fumbling behind his back for a moment then he was released. He started to fall forward. The pain in his shoulder muscles increased so sharply that he gasped for breath and forced himself to stand on shaky legs. He looked up and the blurred face he had seen before came into focus. Gary Gerant’s distinctive features stared at him, distorted by an evil grin.

“Just in time,” Gerant said. “I’ve never taken two people at once. A heavy load must lessen the period of unconsciousness and disorientation. But that’s good. Now I can get to you all the sooner.”

Two people? Sandy! Oh God, he must have gotten her, too! Weston watched as Gerant crossed the long narrow room, walls as silvery white as the floor. He wasn’t paying attention to the room, though. Gerant stopped at the opposite wall where Sandra was leaning against a sort of rack, build from raw two by fours. Her hands were behind her but her eyes were wide open and she appeared to be fully alert, gazing with intense concern at him first then switching her attention to Gerant as he came closer. She shrank back against the rack. Gerant stopped in front of her then turned around. “I’ve discovered that women recover more rapidly from the effects than men. Are you with me, Detective Tamrick? Or should I call you Wes as she does?”

Keep him talking. As long as he’s talking, he’s not doing anything to her. “Call me whatever you want to. Where are we?”

“Ah, the detective begins his questions.” Gerant smiled, the grin mocking mirth. It was more like the leer of a teenage thug waiting his turn at a gang rape. Weston saw insanity in his eyes and shivered involuntarily. There would be no reasoning with the man. He would do whatever he intended to, as cold and murderously as a missile moving to its target, guided by unalterable internal software. But as long as he was talking there was always a chance. He felt strength coming back into his body. He tugged at his bonds, ignoring the renewed pain movement brought.

“There’s no use struggling, detective. You, of all people, should know about handcuffs.

Why don’t you just relax and watch the proceedings?”

Weston felt the bump of the chain links of old fashioned handcuffs move across a hook of some kind that he was attached to. He could feel the point pressing into his back, just above where his hands were secured to it. He relaxed for a moment and looked around. They were at one end of the narrow room. In the center sat a bulky machine of some sort. He had no idea what it could be. Lights blinked on several of its surfaces like tiny fireflies. Beyond the machine he could see part of one side and the upper portion of the rest of the room. It appeared to be living quarters of some kind, with a bunk bed along one wall and clothes hanging from a clothes rack. The floor held scattered cans and empty wrappers from junk food.

With the detective helpless and the woman waiting for him like a toy which had just been unwrapped, Gerant felt a wave of exuberance pass through him. It was the detective who had caused all his trouble and now he intended to repay him, letting him watch as he teased himself before getting down to business. Then when it was over, if the girl still appealed to him, he might even let him watch again before he disposed of him. He reached out a hand and fingered a lock of Sandra’s long blond hair, touching it as lovingly as a mother with a newborn child. Sandra shrank away as far as she could then gasped when his fingers fumbled at the top of her blouse, loosening a single button.

Weston could see that Sandy was terrified but doing a heroic job of not letting the depths of her despair overcome her. He knew she must be experiencing her childhood memories all over again and dreading what promised to be worse, much worse.

“Where are we?” Weston asked again. Keep him talking!

“Yes, a good question isn’t it?” Gerant smirked. “Look down there and tell me what you see.” He pointed to the end of the room.

All of Weston’s attention had been focused on Sandy and Gerant. His gaze followed Gerant’s pointing finger. Half of that end of the room sported a large transparent opening. The other half had an enclosure barely large enough for a single person to fit in and was apparently designed to fold around and fit into seals around the transparent portion. He realized that it must be an airlock of some kind.

Weston could see outside. There was a view of a beach stretching into the distance. Fifty yards or so down it a group of tents were set up, with figures of nude women sitting or walking listlessly around. They were all blond, but their hair was short and appeared to have been hacked off with no thought of what the final effect might be. Beyond the beach was bare ground and sand dunes, spotted sparsely with what appeared to be sawgrass.

“Those must be the missing women,” he said. “I’m glad to see that they are still alive.”

“Oh, certainly. It’s only the fakes I send away.”

“Send away?”

Gerant smiled knowingly. “You still don’t understand, do you? Where do you think we are?”

“On a beach somewhere.”

“Somewhere. That’s the question, isn’t it?” He paused, seeming to contemplate his next action then reached out for Sandra’s blouse again. He undid the second button.

“I don’t understand,” Weston said.

“Of course not. How could you? You see, this isn’t the earth you and I and everyone else were born in. It’s another world, like the earth we know, yet different. Apparently it’s mostly a barren place. That’s why I have no fear of those creatures running away. There’s no where to go and I am their sole source of food and water.”

“I don’t believe it,” Sandra said, the first words she had spoken.

“Ah, but you must. How else do you think I’ve been able to take each and every one of them without being caught? How do you think I was able to take you so easily, my dear?”

“I don’t see any men around the tents. Where are Cranston and Phelps and Chief Leeward?” Weston asked, for no other reason than it was the first thing that popped into his mind. He moved his cuffed hands upward, wondering if he could slip them over the hook.

They wouldn’t quite make it and he relaxed. What would he do if he could get free? He would still be helpless.

“Want to see where you’re going, hmm? That’s easy enough to show you. Only a glimpse, though. Mustn’t waste power.” Gerant undid another button of Sandra’s blouse then paused to run his fingers over the flesh he had exposed, down to the vee of her bra. He walked over to the machine and punched a button, paused, punched it again then moved a lever. “Watch the wall there.” He pointed.

Weston turned just as an aperture blinked into existence against the heretofore blank wall.

It showed an expanse of rocky ground. Oily yellow swirls of gas drifted over the rocks. The plumes parted for a moment, exposing a pile of bodies. Most of them were nearer to being skeletons clad in rags. One of them, Weston recognized as the remains of Chief Leeward only by the remnants of his uniform; most of the flesh had melted from his body. He supposed the others still not decomposed belonged to Cranston and Phelps.

Weston stared, mesmerized until Sandra’s scream broke his concentration. She had seen that several of the skeletons were smaller than the others. Most of them had long hair.

“Not as hospitable a place as this, is it? The atmosphere is very acidic. I really don’t think they suffered much.” Gerant pushed the lever back into place and punched the button twice again. Weston watched closely, then had to close his eyes. They burned momentarily and his nose caught a whiff of something which reminded him of the formaldehyde smell in a morgue.

Gerant gave them each a grin like an evil face peering from the depths of a dungeon. He turned back to Sandra. “Don’t be frightened, my dear. I won’t send you there. I already know that you’re not a fake. I’ve been watching.” He loosed the last button on her blouse and began pulling it from her pants. While his back was turned, Weston strained again against the cuffs, enduring the pain as he forced his arms up. Just when he thought he was going to get the chain over the hook, one of the links caught on the point of the hook and he was suddenly trapped in an even more uncomfortable position. He hung there, helpless.

Sandra screamed again as Gerant reached behind her and withdrew a long sharp knife from a shelf of the rack. Gerant ignored her cries as he slipped the blouse from her shoulders and cut it loose from her arms, leaving the remnants of sleeves dangling from her bound wrists. Carefully, he cut them free and dropped them to the floor.

Keep him talking! Weston strained again. His struggles caught Gerant’s attention, drawing another insane smile. “Now, now, detective, why don’t you just hang there quietly. It’s no use struggling, you know. Those are the very same handcuffs that Miss Woolridge’s father used on his little girls. Of course he didn’t keep them upright. He preferred them on their backs.”

“Was Woolridge in on this with you?” Weston asked.

“Oh, yes. He was here at the very start. In fact, when the little blond beauty who owned this machine appeared very suddenly with it at his place, he became very patriotic all at once.

He went to the nearest National Security Agency and reported the whole thing. Fortunately, it was my office that he came to.”

“Where did the—woman?”

“Yes the woman.” Gerant didn’t smile this time.

“Where did she come from?”

“What does it matter? She was exploring the quantum phenomena, so she said, but the machine malfunctioned. It became stuck in our world, with only one other setting available: this place here.”

“Then what was that place you just showed us?” Weston asked, easing up onto his toes to relieve some of the pressure on his shoulders.

Gerant seemed proud of being able to explain. “Oh, yes. There’s access to two other worlds to either side of each of the ones the machine can transfer to. Unfortunately, they are only available with the aperture. Not that it matters, since none of them are habitable—as you’ll soon find out.” He paused to smirk, like a naughty child who had said a curse word and gotten away with it. “I may even give you your choice of which one I send you to if you don’t annoy me too much.”

Gerant turned back to Sandra. Tears were streaming down her face now, but she watched the knife as he handled it with careless expertise. He inserted it into the seam of her slacks and sliced down each leg, not drawing blood but eliciting a gasp of pure fear from her as the cloth fell to the silvery surfaced floor, leaving her clad only in bra and panties.

Weston could hardly stand it. He struggled and pulled at the cuffs, trying to get the link which had become entangled in sharp point of the hook to come loose. It was stuck there and try as he might, clenching his teeth against the pain, he couldn’t get enough leverage from his abused shoulder muscles to raise it off the point. His foot slipped on the smooth surfaced floor and the whole weight of his body pulled against the chain, bringing a cry of agony from him.

Gerant laughed like a berserk clown, then continued talking. “Of course the woman had to go after she became suspicious of me. She thought I represented the government. She deserved it, though. She was a fake, as I found out then. But I learned how to operate her machine before I sent her away. It’s just too bad that it won’t go anywhere else. And it needs power, too. That’s why I had to keep it in our world most of the time.”

“So that’s why you had Woolridge build his mansion. It was just to conceal the machine.”

“Certainly. And I kept him quiet by providing him with his little tidbits. He couldn’t resist once he knew we couldn’t be caught.”

Weston thought he had felt a slight shift in the hung link when he had fallen. Trying to keep his face blank, he bunched his arms and shoulders and pushed down as hard as he could.

The pain was agonizing but just as he was on the verge of quitting, he felt another shift of the link. He relaxed for a moment, but was unable to keep from gasping for breath.

Gerant misinterpreted the sound as the fear of helplessness. It excited him, but not as much as the sight of Sandra’s breasts after he used his knife to cut the shoulder straps of her bra, then the thong of material between the cups. He ignored the incongruous effect of the scrap of white cloth covering one of his shoes as it fell.

Weston saw Sandra shudder as Gerant touched her breasts momentarily. He couldn’t help himself. He yelled. “Leave her alone, damn you!” He yanked at his bonds and grimaced with pain. The link shifted again. Oh God, he thought, I can’t stand this. Make him talk! String it out, no matter how it repulsed him to see Sandy being abused. Maybe the hook will pull loose from the wall and I can run at him and knock him against the wall.

“What’s wrong, detective? Don’t you like anyone else touching her?” He giggled and waved his knife. “I’ve been watching, you know. I’ve seen everything you’ve been doing.”

“Liar!” Sandra screamed. “You’re a liar!”

“Oh, no, not at all. Want to see? Here, I’ll show you.” He tucked the knife into the waistband of his trousers and went back over to the machine. Weston watched as he went through the same motions as before. The aperture appeared again. This time it showed a view which Weston recognized, the road just outside the mansion. His car was still parked there, visible in the light of a half moon and the starry sky.

“That’s where I took you. Now watch.”

Weston grew dizzy as scenes flickered across the face of the aperture, varying from darkness to well lit streets and the insides of buildings. He gulped and glanced away from the kaleidoscopic views to Gerant. He was handling something like a joystick.

“What is all that? How do you do it?”

“The controls are simple enough, though I do wish it were a continuous scanning rather than jumping around in increments. I always had to get it into just the right position before taking anyone. It brings them from there to here or vice versa, depending on which button you press on the joystick here. Clever, isn’t it? I could even send those little things you saw on the beach back home from here if I wanted to. Of course I don’t though. I may need to use them again after I’m tired of this little beauty. And it would be too revealing, wouldn’t it? Besides, I doubt that there’s enough reserve power to take care of them all. And speaking of which, it’s time to stop wasting it just for your amusement. You are amused, aren’t you?”

Weston was astounded and angry. He was only vaguely familiar with quantum theory, but remembered something from a science survey course in college suggesting that alternate quantum worlds were theoretically possible. Apparently it was more than mere theory. Some alternate world had learned how to build an apparatus which could travel to their own and mere chance had put a deviant like Gerant in charge of the machine, giving him power that no person, no government, no entity at all should have. But now he gotten that control when the unfortunate quantum explorer had stranded herself in his world. And even worse luck, she had happened to be a blond female. He was sickened at the thought of what Gerant must have done to her after classifying her as the same kind of fake as the “others”, whatever that meant.

“I’m goddamn sick at my stomach, you sorry pusbag! How in hell have you gone all your life without getting caught?”

Gerant toyed with the seam of Sandra’s panties with his fingers then slid the knife blade under them and slit the material all the way down. They fell to the floor, covering his other shoe. Sandra began sobbing openly, helplessly.

“Oh, it wasn’t until I had this wonderful apparatus under my control that I could afford to really let myself go. It’s amazing what freedom it gives a person. When I took Cranston the first time, I held him here with one of Woolridge’s little kids and let him see just how easily I could let him get away with whatever he wanted to do. He couldn’t resist.”

“I don’t believe it,” Weston said. Cranston hadn’t seemed all that bad.

“You don’t?” Gerant pointed with his knife toward the far end of the room. “I don’t know if you can see it from here, but there’s a shelf of video cassettes there. Most of them have me in the starring role, of course, but there’s also some of Cranston and Phelps. Cranston was a little remorseful afterward, but what could he do? I had him on film. Phelps, now, was an altogether different case. He shared my own interests.” Gerant laughed crazily and turned back to Sandra.

“And you, my dear, are the epitome of all that I’ve ever wanted. I’ll watch this video again and again.” A bit of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. He moved closer to Sandra and caught a lock of her hair in one hand. With the other, he brought the knife up to her hair.

“Wait, wait!” Weston shouted, trying to get him turned back around and talking again.

Gerant ignored him. He hacked at Sandra’s hair, gathering the shorn locks in his hand, then stepped back. Weston saw his body trembling and his knife hand move suggestively.

Weston yelled again and again, almost out of control. Gerant finally turned around. His eyes were like pale emeralds. “Don’t distract me, detective. I’ve waited too long to have you spoil this.” He turned back around. Both his hands dropped down to the level of Sandra’s hips. His head bowed, as if in prayer, but Weston knew that his eyes were open and he knew where the focus of his attention was. God only knows what he’s going to do, he thought, an emotional pain such as he had never known surging through his body like a physical force. He used the sensation like a stimulant, forcing it into his muscles and tendons with a hysterical strength that bordered on the supernatural. He heaved with all his strength, trying to use the chain of the handcuffs to tear the hook loose from the wall. Instead, the link which had become imbedded on the point suddenly parted, as surprising and suddenly as the crack of a broken bat.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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THE SUDDEN snapping of the chain sent Weston hurtling forward, trying to regain his balance. Gerant heard the noise and spun around. Weston’s arms were so numb and causing so much pain that he could barely bring them forward in time to catch Gerant’s arm as he swung it, blade glittering, aiming for his chest. Fortunately, he used the tactically unsound overhead thrust, giving Weston just enough time to grab his arm with both hands and hold the point away from his chest. Even then it was a struggle to keep the blade away from him. Gerant foamed at the mouth and gibbered crazily, struggling with maniacal strength to plant the blade in his body. Weston felt his abused arm and shoulder muscles weakening. He tried to swivel around and trip Gerant but couldn’t get enough leverage. The point of the blade slid along the left side of his ribs, slashing his shirt and opening a bloody gash. Gerant’s insane strength forced him backward against part of the framework Sandra was chained to. It was all he could do to hang on to Gerant’s knife hand. He was forced to endure hammer blows from his balled left fist, striking him on the cheeks and the side of his head. He despaired of gaining the upper hand.

Gerant sensed his advantage. Suddenly he shoved Weston with his free hand, turning him to the side and yanked his knife hand loose. Weston was dazed from the blows and the crack of the back of his head against the wall when Gerant shoved him. He was turned away from where Sandra still hung, screaming, with Gerant facing her. Sandra’s foot lashed out. The point of her shoe caught him squarely in the groin. He screamed and doubled over, dropping his hands momentarily. Through a fog of pain, Weston used the last of his strength to clench his hands together and bring them down on Gerant’s neck. Gerant dropped his knife and fell to the floor. Weston dropped onto his back with the full weight of his body, knees doubled. He heard the snap of cracking ribs as he landed. Gerant screamed and tried to roll over. Weston got shakily to his feet, stepped back and kicked Gerant squarely in the head, making a sound like a pumpkin being dropped to the floor. He stood back and waited, gasping for breath until he was able to move again.

“Please get me loose, Wes. Please, please,” Sandra cried.

A much as he wanted to go to her, Weston delayed long enough to use scraps of Sandra’s clothes to tie Gerant up so firmly that there was little chance of him getting loose. Only then did he go to her, kissing her tear streaked face, and drawing her body to his for comfort.

“Please, Wes. Get me loose. Oh, God help us.”

“Hang on,” Weston said. He searched Gerant’s pockets for the keys to the handcuffs but found nothing there other than some loose change. He walked around the room, looking for obvious places where he might have hidden them. They weren’t hidden at all. He found them hanging from a nail behind the rack where he had been hung. Quickly, he got Sandra loose then unlocked the cuffs from himself, thanking God in the meantime that true to his nature, Woolridge had remained a cheapskate to the end. If he had used plastic restraints, he would be dead by now and Sandy would have gone through unthinkable degradation.

Sandra was still almost incoherent. She hugged herself and shivered. “Please Wes, can we get out of here? I want to go home to… to your unmade bed.” She laughed hysterically.

Weston took her in his arms and comforted her until she finally quieted. Even when he finally released her, she kept so close to his side that he had to walk carefully to avoid tripping them both. He went over to the alien machine which had caused all the trouble, Sandra clinging to him like a drowning child clutching at a lifeguard. Some of Gerant’s remarks had started him thinking.

“Can we go now?” Sandra asked again.

“Shh, sweetheart. We’ll go, but look out there.” He pointed to the stretch of beach with the listless women sitting or lying around in the sand. “We can’t leave them here.”

“Oh, God, I hadn’t thought of them. What are we going to do?”

Weston examined the controls he had seen Gerant using. “If Gerant knew what he was talking about, we can send them home from here. Let me try.” He went through the same motions Gerant had used, moving the joystick to control the aperture. It moved erratically until he got the hang of it, then he carefully placed it in front of one of the tents, directly behind one of the women. “Now,” he said. He punched the button. The beach scene vanished, leaving a view of the woman laying on the ground, thirty yards from the side of the mansion, just outside the row of hedges marking the boundary of the grounds. Satisfied, he punched the button again, bringing the beach back into view. The women were backing away, obviously frightened.

“Uh, oh,” Weston said. “I’ll bet they think its Gerant playing around. I’ll have to go outside and see if I can get them to hold still.”

It took a few minutes to figure out how the door to outside worked. While he was busy with the latches, he realized again that he was opening the outer door of what appeared to be an airlock. He wondered if there was a spacesuit inside somewhere, then let the thought slip away. It wouldn’t matter. He was already planning ahead.

Sandra refused to leave Weston’s side. A few minutes later he was glad she hadn’t. It took her to convince the women that he was a rescuer rather than one of Gerant’s cronies. After that, he could hardly keep them off him. Finally, though, he explained that he intended to send each in turn back to their own world, marking off spots on the sand for them to wait at; he didn’t want to drop them on top of each other for fear of some of them smothering before they regained consciousness. He didn’t know how long it would take.

Sandra followed him back inside. The operation went smoothly now that he knew how to operate the controls. He hadn’t told Sandy yet that he didn’t know how he was going to get back himself after he finished with them and sent her home. And something else came to mind: Gerant hadn’t been unconscious when he appeared and disappeared in Sandy’s bedroom and he knew Gerant wouldn’t have done that if there had been any possibility of being discovered, laying senseless at her feet. Apparently, going back and forth through the aperture when it was set on the same world had little effect on the body. All the more reason no one should have such power.

It wasn’t until the last of the women were gone that Sandra realized that something was amiss. She looked at Weston with a startled expression. “Wes, why didn’t you just bring everyone back into here and send the whole thing back to the mansion? Gerant said it could be done. We could all have just walked out!”

Weston had to grin at the picture she made. The remains of her hair were standing out from her skull in uneven tufts and she had wrapped herself in a man’s suit coat, which hung on her like a clown suit. “And we would have walked right into the arms of the National Security Agency and the FBI. Think about it. Would you want the government controlling this machine? What if they figured out how to unjam the controls and move the whole thing around? Or what if another miscreant like Gerant gained control of it?”

“Good God, no. Leave it here.”

“That’s my intention. Gerant said it would run out of power soon unless he got it back to our world.”

Sandra looked over to where Gerant, bound hand and foot, was still unconscious. “What are you going to do with him?”

Weston looked her directly in the eye. “You can call me cruel if you want to, but when I’m ready to leave, I’m going to send him to the same place that killed the chief and Phelps and Cranston. I don’t know how much he knows and I don’t even want a hint of what this machine can do getting out. In fact,” he added grimly, “there’s no time like the present.” He walked over to Gerant and bent over him, intending to drag him outside. A foul odor assaulted his nostrils. He stood back up. “Never mind, he’s dead. I guess I kicked him a little harder than I had to that last time. Either that or his cracked ribs ruptured a lung.”

Sandra looked away from the body. “I’m just as glad. Now I know for sure he can never bother me again.”

“Well, now it’s your turn. Go on outside and I’ll send you home.”

Sandra wasn’t having any. “Then how will you get back?”

“I’ll think of a way to rig a timer to the switch. See—” He stopped talking abruptly. A light he hadn’t seen before was blinking on and off.

“What’s wrong?” Sandra asked.

“I don’t know,” Weston said slowly, pointing to the oscillating light, “but I’m wishing now that I had sent you home first. That may be a warning signal telling us that the power is too low to operate the machine.”

Sandra’s face drained color until it was a deathly white. Weston hugged her. “I’m sorry, Sandy. Oh shit, I was so intent on getting those poor women back home that I didn’t stop to think.”

Sandra regained a little of her color. “Maybe it will still work.”

Weston was cursing himself for not getting Sandy home safely, but he began working rapidly. He placed the aperture at a spot he thought would correspond to where his car was parked, then said, “OK, it’s ready. Give me a kiss and go on outside and I’ll send you home.”

“No. Not without you.”

“Sandy, please. What if there’s not enough power to send us both home? What if the power is just low enough to leave us hanging in space somewhere? You go, then I’ll be right behind you. If I can.”

“No.”

“Please? I’m the one who wasn’t thinking and got us into this.”

“No. You wouldn’t have gone off and left any of those poor women anyway, would you?”

“No, but—”

“We go together or not at all. Please, Wes. I don’t ever want to be separated from you again.”

Weston argued futilely for another ten minutes, before Sandra stopped saying anything at all. Finally, when he thought he noticed the light flickering a little more rapidly, he gave up.

“All right, you win. Let me rig up a timer.”

Weston used a chair to break loose a two by four plank from one of the racks. He propped one end of it over the switch with a large splinter shaved from another board. He pulled out his lighter. “Chalk up one for us smokers. If I didn’t have something to start a fire, I don’t know what kind of timer I could come up with. OK, as soon as I set the prop on fire, be ready to run to our spot.”

Sandra grasped Weston’s hand. He flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the splinter.

As soon as he was certain it was burning good, he shouted, “Let’s go!” They ran from the room and toward the spot where the aperture was fixed. He drew Sandy into his arms and prayed for the first time since he had been a child. They waited. And waited. Weston gave it ten minutes, then he felt despair settling over him like a malignant miasma.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It looks like we’re stuck here. Damn, damn, damn.”

“Let’s try again,” Sandra said.

Weston shrugged. “Guess it can’t hurt.”

Inside, the light on the machine was definitely flickering faster, but the aperture was gone.

The splinter had burned through and released the board. He took the joystick and tried it.

Surprised, he was again able to pick up the spot on the beach. His heart jumped. Maybe there was still a chance.

“It went off before we even got out there,” Weston explained. “I’ll use a heavier prop this time. He set the makeshift timer again and set it alight. Again, they raced for their spot.

They waited. And waited. Weston felt the tension winding up inside him like the coils of a spring being slowly compressed. Sandy shivered in his arms with her cheek against his chest and eyes tightly closed. Just as Weston thought he would explode with anxiety from what seemed like hours of waiting, he heard the now familiar popping sound and gratefully surrendered to the darkness.

WESTON REGAINED partial sensibility through the process of his cheeks being alternately slapped and kissed. Dimly, he heard Sandra’s voice whispering to him. “Wes, darling, sweetheart, please wake up. We’re home! We made it. Please, Wes, wake up for me.”

“I’m awake,” he said groggily. “Are you sure we’re home.?”

“We’re right beside your car. Come on, get up before someone finds us. Please Wes.”

It took a few minutes, but Weston finally got upright. He had to lean on Sandra in order to make his way to the passenger side of his car. There was no way he could drive yet but Sandy seemed willing and able. He gave her the keys and seconds later she was guiding them back toward the freeway, away from the mansion where the women might or might not still be unconscious. He remembered Gerant saying that he and Sandy had recovered more quickly together than anyone he had captured alone. He was glad. He wanted them to be well away from the place before the circus started, which he was sure it would by then. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. It was just after two o’clock in the morning. He thought it was the morning after the evening when Gerant had captured them but couldn’t be sure. Finally he asked Sandra to switch on the dash lights long enough for him to make out the date numerals of his watch. Good. He was right. Now if he could just manage to get up in the morning and act as if nothing had happened, maybe he could carry out the innocent act he intended to project. He hoped he would be able to move his arms convincingly after the inevitable soreness of arm and shoulder muscles strained so badly had time to set in, not to mention the cut on his ribs.

By the time they reached his house, he was able to walk with no problem. He unlocked the door and led Sandy inside and immediately back to the bedroom.

“It really is unmade, isn’t it?” Sandy said as soon as she saw the disarrayed bed linen.

“It can stay that way, too,” Weston said, ignoring the blinking lights of the answer phone. “I need to get into the shower and let the hot water massager work on me a bit, then you can tape up my ribs. He looked down at his blood-soaked shirt, realizing that he was just now beginning to feel the pain from the knife wound Gerant had inflicted. There were also the bloody abrasions on both wrists to worry about, but a long sleeved shirt would cover them if he was careful.

After spending a half hour under the massager, letting it work on his arms and shoulders, Sandy bandaged the cut along his ribcage, pulling the sides of the wound together with surgical tape, which fortunately, he had on hand. After that he set the alarm for seven thirty and cuddled under the covers with Sandy close beside him, holding him so tightly that eventually he had to ease away from her in order to get to sleep.

“You can’t go with me looking like that,” Weston said the next morning, pointing to the remnants of her hair. “Why don’t you see if you can get into a beauty salon somewhere and see what they can do with it.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sandy responded.

“I don’t want you to, either, but this is a ‘have to’ case. Drop me off then go get your hair fixed. Wear a scarf if you have to. And remember, if you’re questioned, we went straight home last night after everyone else did. In fact, don’t answer a single question unless I’m with you.

Oh—before you come in will you call Dan for me and ask him to stay in his office today in case we need him? Tell him it’s urgent and that we’ll give him a zillion dollars if we have to call him.”

Sandra laughed. “I don’t have that much money.”

Weston was glad to see that she seemed to have recovered from the trauma of the night before, at least on the surface. He knew it would be a long time before either of them would stop having nightmares about the experience, though.

Weston had been ignoring the intermittent ringing of the phone ever since they had gotten up. He left it ringing as they departed, knowing what the constant calls must be about—and that meant it was time for his innocent act.

CHAPTER TWENTY

« ^ »

JIMMY WAS already hard at work by the time Weston arrived at the office, which wasn’t surprising, seeing as how he was more than a half hour late. He looked up as Weston came in.

“You better go knock gently on the lieutenant’s door before you do anything else,” he said,

“Then protect yourself from flying objects. One minute he’s in a rage, and the next he’s all peaches and cream.”

“What’s the peaches and cream for?” Weston asked innocently.

“You haven’t heard?”

“I overslept this morning. In fact, I slept so hard that I’m sore from it.”

Jimmy noticed Weston’s swollen cheeks where Gerant had battered him. “Looks like you slept on your face. You can tell me about it later. He was raging the last time he opened the door because of all those women turning up alive, then having them sequestered by that new NSC guy.”

Weston feigned surprise. “They really did turn up? Where and when?”

Jimmy didn’t get a chance to answer. Ward’s door open and he yelled, “Tamrick. Get your sorry ass in here and tell me where in goddamn hell you’ve been all morning!”

Weston winked at Jimmy and stepped into the office.

“What in hell happened to your goddamn face?” Ward exclaimed, before Weston had even taken a seat.

“Ran into a door,” Weston said, peeling the lid off his cup of coffee. He tasted it. Lukewarm again.

“Don’t give me that shit. We’ve been trying to contact you since four o’clock this morning.

Where in hell have you been?”

“Home in bed,” Weston said truthfully, wincing from the soreness in his arm as he raised his coffee cup again. “I guess I was so tired I didn’t hear the phone.”

“Well, you listen to me then, Sherlock. In case you haven’t heard, most of the missing girls turned up outside the mansion last night, all of them unharmed other than being a little thin and groggy.”

“Yeah, Jimmy just told me the good news. Isn’t that great?”

“They’re telling weird stories. That is, they were until that fucking Sedgewick invoked some goddamn regulation that let him keep them in seclusion. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about it. Some of them identified the guy who rescued them from one of your photos.”

“Must have been someone who just looks like me,” Weston said. “I went straight home last night after everyone else left.”

“Don’t give me that goddamn shit. You leave, then come limping in here with half the morning gone and your face beat to hell and tell me you don’t know what’s been going on?

You can either start spilling your guts or you’re going to be goddamn looking for another job.

Or on foot patrol in the middle of Montrose, I haven’t decided which.”

“Gosh, Lieutenant, aren’t you glad so many of the girls did turn up. Seems to me like that ought to take care of all the pressure you’ve been suffering from.”

“I haven’t been suffering from any goddamn pressure. Come on, Sherlock. I know goddamn well you must of had something to do with this. If you don’t tell me, the NSC and FBI will get it out of you.”

“No they won’t,” Weston said firmly.

Ward got to his feet and ripped his tie off. “Yes they will. You were the last detective on the scene. They’ll wring you out and hang you out to dry.”

Weston sighed. “All right, lieutenant. Yes, I do know what happened, but I can’t talk. In fact I won’t talk. And neither will Sandy. Our attorney is standing by, just in case anyone gets any funny ideas about isolating us in a little room in Washington and holding us there for the rest of our natural lives.”

Ward glared at him and sat back down, picking up his tie from the floor where he had thrown it first. “You say you won’t talk? No matter what?”

“No matter what,” Weston confirmed. “Look boss, you wouldn’t believe me anyway, so why should I?”

“Because the local press, the national press and for all I know, the president of the United States is begging for answers. Some of the stories the women told before the NSC got to them leaked out. I heard some myself. And let me tell you, I don’t believe in alien abduction, flying saucers or things that go bump in the night. The tabloids are going to go crazy. You’re going to be chased down and hounded to death no matter what you say.”

“Then best I don’t say anything,” Weston remarked. “Oh, by the way, do you have the case files on all the missing persons handy?”

Ward fumed and sorted through a stack of paper in one of the baskets on his desk. He pushed it across to Weston.

Weston thumbed through the files, picking out Phelps, Cranston, and Chief Leeward. He handed them back. “These you can forget. You’ll never see them again.”

Ward stared at him as if he were a magician giving a performance for a one-man audience.

Next, Weston picked out the files of the young missing girls. He closed his eyes for a moment in sorrow then handed them across the desk. “I think you can forget about these, too.

I guess it wouldn’t hurt to keep the parents’ hopes alive, but I think they’re all gone, too.”

“How do you know all this shit? Goddamnit—”

Weston pushed the rest of the files into Ward’s waiting hands. “It’s just a hunch, but I also think that if you go through the files of the women who didn’t turn up, you’ll find that none of them were natural blondes. If that’s the case, you can mark them off, too.”

“Listen, you goddamn smartass—”

Weston held up his hand to stop the next outburst. “Lieutenant, I gave you that information in confidence. I know you can’t mark the cases closed yet, but believe me, there’s no use wasting any more time on them. I hadn’t intended to say even that much.” He paused to reflect a moment. “I know this is hard for you to take, but it’s the way it’s going to have to go down. I just wish you had enough rank to give me and Sandy a little protection from the hoorah.”

Ward suddenly grinned like a toothsome gambler who had just hit an exacta. “If it comes down to that, and if I decide to do it, I’ll tell you something in confidence. When those missing girls began turning up, I got a call from the mayor this morning. It seems as if I might be Chief Leeward’s replacement.”

“Congratulations, Chief,” Weston grinned back.

Ward lost his smile. “I haven’t accepted yet.” The phone sitting on Ward’s desk rang. “Just a minute.” He picked it up. “Yeah, he just came in. No not yet, I haven’t finished questioning him. I’ll call you back. Yes, goddamnit, just as soon as possible.”

“That was Sedgewick. He’s waiting on you. Are you sure that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“If you take the chief’s job, maybe I’ll be able to fill in a few more details. Depending on how things go and if you help keep the wolves away. I’ll warn you, though: you won’t believe a damn word of it. Can I use your phone?”

“What for?”

“I want to call my attorney. And Chief, would you do me one more favor?”

“What now?”

“Hold off that NSC bigwig until Dan gets over here—and Sandy, too. She’ll be along sometime this morning.”

Ward nodded. “All right, Sherlock. I guess I can’t argue with success, no matter how weird it is. I’ll talk to you later.”

WESTON AND Sandra stuck to their original story, denying all accusations of being anywhere present when the women had been rescued. The questioning by the NSC and then the FBI and then from both agencies at once went on for hours until Dan finally called a halt to it.

“That’s all gentlemen. You can refer any other questions back to me. And let me put a bug in your ear. If either one of my clients here happen to turn up missing, some senators and congressmen will hear about it immediately. Let’s go, Wes. Sandy.”

Weston knew this would not be the end of the story, not by a long shot. But he also knew that eventually, if he stuck to his story, they would quit bothering him. The women’s tales would be put down to hypnosis or hysteria or some other easy explanation. No one could possibly conceive of the real story if they had not experienced it.

That night, as he and Sandy were preparing for bed, she asked, “Wes, what do you think Gerant intended to do with me?”

“I don’t think either of us really want to know. Why don’t we try to forget it? It didn’t happen. Let’s think of it as a particularly horrible nightmare and in the meantime, concentrate on each other so much that pretty soon that’s what it will actually seem like. And nightmares eventually fade away, you know.”

“I guess. I hope so,” Sandra said.

“And forget about your father, too. I don’t think he was responsible for sending those girls to that bone yard Gerant showed us. He never had a history of violence even if he was a pedophile. Gerant probably did them, just like he did the others. And if that’s not enough for you, think about this: if he hadn’t had a conscious buried somewhere down inside him, Gerant might still be creating nightmares.”

“I’ll try to think of it that way, but I’ll never forgive him, any more than I will Gerant.”

“We can forget, though,” Weston said, “and I know a perfect way to get started.”

“What’s that?”

“Let’s make up this bed, then see just how badly we can mess it up again.”

Sandy tossed away her night gown. “I’ll race you,” she said.

EPILOGUE

« ^ »

THREE YEARS later, it had happened just as Weston thought it would. The story had gradually faded into oblivion and eventually the questions had become fewer and fewer, especially after Weston took Chief Ward out one night and told him the whole story over a bottle of bourbon.

He was right. Ward didn’t believe a word of it. That was the last thing on his mind, though. At the time, he and Sandy were very involved in setting up a trust fund from her inheritance and turning the Woolridge mansion into a haven for abused children. After that, they spent much of their time off working with the children, trying to help them adjust to a kinder, gentler world than they had ever expected to know.

Right now, he was at Northpark Hospital, standing in front of the glass viewing window of the nursery, awed and pleased beyond words at the sight of his newborn daughter. When they closed the curtain, he would leave and go back to Sandy’s side. She had told him to start thinking of names for a son.

IN THE HILLS rising above the vast expanse of lights which showed off the city of Los Angeles much better and more attractively than it ever looked by day, there was a sudden flash of light which flared and died. A small child, out looking for fireflies, stared in bewildered puzzlement at the large, shiny, oblong box which had suddenly materialized in front of her eyes. She dropped her bug jar and ran for home, exploding with excitement, eager to tell her parents what she had seen. Behind her, one end of the box opened and a person stepped outside, looking around curiously, to see what this particular world had to offer.

DARRELL BAIN

« ^

DARRELL BAIN has been writing most of his life, though he didn’t get really serious about it until the purchase of his first computer, which made correcting his typing so much easier. In the last ten years he has had a total of twelve books either published or currently under contract to be published. Two of his works were finalists for the EPIC 2000 Awards and another nominated for the Frankfurt eBook awards. His writing ranges the gamut of genres from Science Fiction to Romance, from Non-fiction to Suspense and from Children’s books to Humorous Adventure and humorous non-fiction.

Darrell served a number of years in the military, including two years in Vietnam. His first published novel, Medics Wild was based in part on his time in Vietnam. After leaving the military Darrell obtained a B.S. in Medical Technology and managed medical laboratories in Louisiana, Texas and Saudi Arabia. Eventually he and his wife Betty settled in East Texas where they own a Christmas tree farm located—where else?—on a real road named Santa Claus Lane.

Two of his non-fiction works deal with crazy adventures on a Christmas tree farm. Other members of the family include Biscuit the dachshund and Black Spot and Black Dot, the tomcats.

Visit www.hardshell.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY