The Rose Killer

Pat Gragg

Published by Patricia Gragg at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition

patagragg@gmail.com

http://www.patgragg.com

Copyright 2010 Patricia Gragg

License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

PART I

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

--Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

Chapter 1

Le Murmure Des Roses.

The Whisper of Roses. He loved the sound of the words, the way they rolled from the tongue like the gentlest of whispers. What was that term from Mrs. Jefferson’s English class? Onomatopoeia? He returned the box of bath powder to the countertop, his fingers straying across the crimson rose, the quicksilver slash of the words. He could almost taste the flower, feel the smooth petals on his tongue. He’d experienced nothing like it since, well, since Mother died.

His breath caught in his throat. Careful. He must be careful. This delicious accouterment of femininity might push him over the edge. In the mirror, his reflection smiled. Tonight would be perfect.

He strolled down the short hall to her bedroom. Where would he find it this time? He had discovered nothing of interest in the living room. But then, hadn’t it almost always appeared magically in the bedroom? A memento had no importance, no innate, organic significance unless it was personal. The February moon streamed through her sheer curtains. Her bed in the far corner, pale and delicate, seemed an otherworldly bower. A two-drawer nightstand stood next to the bed, a cedar chest under the window, a fine healthy fern next to that. He caught his breath at the sight of louvered doors on the opposite wall. Her closet.

Three great strides and he was there. He flung open the doors and revealed a walk-in, filled with her apparel, her things. He braced himself and stepped inside.

She was exquisite. How pretty were her blouses and the little dresses. Of course, there were the ugly things too, the fashionable articles of clothing that made women look like streetwalkers. He could ignore those. She would never wear them again.

Using one finger, he slid open one of the drawers. A cloud of fragrance rushed up. Roses. Roses, crushed and bruised, the scent sucked the air from his lungs. He panted in the dark, until his heart slowed its upward rush, until he was in control.

Finally, he reached in and touched...a nightgown? A slip? Heat seared his mouth. He gathered the garment into his hands. He longed to raise the silkiness to his mouth, but he dared not take such a risk. He folded the slip, tucked it under his jacket, and slid the drawer shut.

In the next drawer, he found pantyhose and tights, all neatly rolled and arranged in tidy rows. He selected one pair of each and placed them in his hip pockets. Reluctantly, he stepped out.

The bed coverings were old fashioned, of a material his mother had favored, delicately embroidered with small white daisies. Her taste was feminine, perfect. He had expected nothing less.

The nightstand held a small lamp, a white portable telephone, and a brass alarm clock. Nine thirty-six. He had plenty of time. A photograph in an oval-shaped, antique-gold frame stood next to the clock. The man who was now out of the picture. He chuckled at the pun.

Why did she keep his photograph?

He remembered that night last summer, the night that he had crept through the side yard and climbed the trellis. He had crouched beneath her window. In the cold and in the dark he had listened to the muffled, mewling sounds of their lovemaking.

Remembering, he sat on the edge of the bed and, with a groan soft as the purr of a cat, closed his eyes.

Chapter 2

Valerie Yates didn’t spot the girl right away that frigid Wednesday night. She walked into the welcome warmth of the L&N All-Nite Mart positive that she’d have the place to herself. After all, no sensible person would come out in such weather and the residents of Cordova, Kansas, were, if anything, supremely sensible. They were also supremely compassionate, which was why, after eleven months of widowhood, Valerie still shopped late at night. Just because her friends and neighbors kept handing over soft words of solace, didn’t mean she had to keep accepting them.

Valerie had just picked up some canned chili and turned into the frozen food aisle when she first spotted her. The young woman—a girl really—was looking over the L&N’s meager supply of microwave dinners. Valerie yanked her cart to a stop. She turned to study the cartons of ice cream in the freezer, pretending she couldn’t make up her mind. Butter pecan was good, but then vanilla with chocolate syrup was always a no-brainer. Finally, the girl moved away from the microwave dinners and turned the corner. Valerie hurried over and picked up cold packages of roast beef, fried chicken with mashed potatoes, and Mac’N Cheese. She had just tossed a second Mac’N Cheese into her basket when a voice came from behind her.

“Mrs. Yates?”

Startled, Valerie jerked around.

The girl looked ill, eyes circled with black as if she’d been applying new mascara over old for years. She was pretty, though, with red hair, a high aquiline nose, a body as thin as any of the anorexic models in the magazines, bird legs covered by shiny tights under the tiny skirt and fake-fur jacket. The strong-boned little face looked vaguely familiar.

“It’s Amber. Remember?” The girl offered the name as if she were drawing a line in the dirt.

Suddenly Valerie did remember. This was the girl who’d knocked on their door about four years ago, the girl who’d left a message for Jack. Tell Jack Amber came by.

Valerie shivered. The air was cold in the frozen food section. “Yes?”

The girl coughed out a laugh, shook her head as if Valerie’s response fell beyond the boundary of her expectations. “Yes?” she echoed and then again, with more emphasis. “Yes?”

Valerie’s face burned. “I….”

The girl gave an impatient twitch of the head. “I checked out the grave today.”

Valerie tried to swallow the pang of alarm that bubbled in her throat. “The grave? You mean....”

Amber coughed up another of those laughs, an old and bitter sound for one so young. “Mom’s dead too. All that time I thought she was such a bitch for dumping me. Well, it turned out she was rotting away at the bottom of the Arkansas River.”

Valerie said, “I’m going now.”

“Wait.” Amber lifted her sharp little chin. “I thought maybe we could talk. About— About him, your old man.”

“My dog’s waiting in the car.”

The eyes turned to slate. “Ever been on your own in your whole fucking life, lady? Ever try earning your keep when you’re just fourteen fucking years old and all you’ve got is a pretty face?”

The girl’s face was rigid and if there was anything Valerie recognized, it was pain. Oh God, she couldn’t help this girl, she couldn’t even help herself. Now her cheeks were wet. Crying in public, what she dreaded most.

At the sight of Valerie’s tears, Amber’s lips quivered. The stony stare gave way and tears responded to tears. Their gazes locked for a moment. With a shrug of her shoulders, Amber turned and hurried away.

Valerie headed for the checkout stand, heart thumping against her chest so loud she was sure everyone in the store could hear, until she remembered that no one else was in the store this late at night. She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes.

At the checkout stand, Charm Boy, the owners’ loquacious teenaged son, flashed a grin. His real name was Leonard Junior and he was tall, lean, and blond.

Valerie tossed out her candy, the peanuts, the cupcakes, the frozen macaroni-and-cheese, and spaghetti-and-meatballs. Jack had hated packaged meals. Leonard Junior reminded her a little of Jack, easy moving and good looking. Had Amber left the store? She didn’t dare look back.

Lenny cleared his throat and she tossed out a bag of oatmeal cookies.

“Careful now, ma'am. You'll end up with a sack full of crumbs,” he drawled.

“You the crumb police?” The words popped out, sharp and harsh under the fluorescent lights.

A flush covered his handsome face.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a little tired.” She could hear the squeaking wheels of a shopping cart nearby. Please, please, don’t let it be that girl. She grabbed her change and ran out of the store.

~

Amber lifted her chin. So what if smudges of mascara ringed her eyes. She flashed a smile as she maneuvered her cart into the checkout lane. “How they hanging, Lenny?”

Lenny blushed. “I saw you talking to that Mizzz Yates. She just ain’t been the same since it happened, has she?”

“Well, shit happens all the time, doesn’t it?” She handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

He finished ringing up her groceries. “Fifteen twenty-three, ma’am. I guess cops takes their chances like they say, but it sure must be hard on the women folk.” He gave her one of his blond-boy smiles.

She laughed, noticed how startled he looked, and laughed again. “Yes, it certainly must be hard on the women folk,” she said, imitating his mournful tone. She accepted her change and hefted the sack.

“Mizzz Yates is one good-looking woman. It’s tough to see her so down. She used to be such a go-getter. I expect that’s what comes of having all the new people in town what with Votrix building here and all.” He handed her the receipt. “You take care now. The bad ‘uns come out this time of night, y’know.”

She laughed again. Take care. For all he knew, she was one of the bad ‘uns.

A man looking like a clown in a red-down parka rushed through the door. The blast of frigid air he brought with him was like a slap in the face. She shivered. Near the door, in the newspaper rack, the black armband of a headline on the Cordova Courier jumped out at her.

Another victim found

Amber shivered again. Seems like some kids had found the rotting corpse of a woman on the banks of the Walnut River just south of town. This chick was put down like a cat nobody wanted. Not a suicide like Mom, no note like hundreds of other notes, crying wolf, wanting pity, wanting her way. Just rotting in the god dammed Arkansas River.

Amber lowered her head and rushed out the door. Yeah, shit sure does happen. She hurried to her Accord, lungs aching from the sharp cold air. She tossed the groceries into the car, leaned against the fender, and lit a cigarette. Two quick puffs, she promised herself.

The night was great, cold, but really great for a change. The stink from the refinery must have been blowing the other way. What was she was doing in this hellhole? Kansas City was the place, or Denver maybe. Even nearby Wichita. For now anyway, it had to be Cordova. Cordova was cash town.

She dropped the cigarette and snubbed it out with the toe of her boot. Valerie Stanton Yates was a looker all right. Mom had talked about her all the time, envied the shit out of her. Well, she didn’t envy Valerie Stanton, not one bit. Valerie Stanton had been married to Jack the lying sonovabitch Yates, the big tough cop who couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants. Never got to be the big deal in the Wichita P. D. much less the Cordova P. D., just another body moldering in the ground that nobody would remember in another year or two.

~

“Amber,” Valerie said, as she urged the Dodge around the turn at Fourth, trying to steady her trembling hands.

The big black dog in the passenger seat thumped his tail in response.

“This was no accidental meeting, Bruno. What does she want from me?”

Bruno smiled, releasing strings of drool.

The last time she’d seen Amber, the girl had been a pudgy adolescent with shy eyes and a stammering, unsure manner. How long had it been? Four years? That would make Amber about eighteen. Valerie shook her head. Eighteen going on forty. The girl’s face was almost gaunt now, with high cheekbones and a thin aristocratic nose. How did she know Jack? Had she been an informant or a kid in trouble? Jack was always going out of his way to help someone.

Valerie, remembering Jack’s laughing face, made the turn at Jefferson. The scene played again. Jack coming home from work, tired and serious, ready for food and a quiet evening. He’d sit in the recliner, all loose and easy...tall, broad sloping shoulders, and a long-boned face that was all smooth planes. Sexy hooded eyes. Her Jacque. You look like a Frenchman, she’d told him on their first date. The scene dissolved. The case was still open. On the first anniversary of his death, she’d stopped asking Neal about progress. The police were never….

She pulled into her driveway. Next door, Maggie Blackburn stood between the front door and the storm door, hunched inside a shawl like an old lady. Of course, technically, being sixty-five, she was an old lady; it was just that she’d never, as she often said, “given an inch to Old Man Time.” Wasn’t that Kevin with her? No mistaking that thatch of hair and the old familiar pea coat. Kevin Blackburn, home for his regular check on Mom. She returned their waves before she pulled the Dodge into the carport.

Bruno breathed a hot cloud redolent of dog-food makings that didn’t bear dwelling on and tried to climb into her lap.

“Shove over.” She eased him back to the passenger seat and climbed out. God, it was cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones.

Bruno, in the driver’s seat again, slobbered on the window. She grabbed the sack of groceries, hurried around the car, and opened the door. The dog burst out, plunged helter skelter up the driveway and back, and came to a head-banging stop against the kitchen door. Valerie gasped. He turned around and gazed at her as if nothing had happened.

She heard a laugh behind her. Kevin, as expected, had come over to say hello. “That’s a helluva lot of dog, Valerie.” He leaned forward and patted his leg in invitation. Bruno, tail swiveling, came running. Kevin grabbed his collar and turned to Valerie. “After you.”

“Bad dog.” Valerie glared at Bruno. “You’re supposed to chase strange men out of the yard, not welcome them.” She opened the storm door, fumbled through the keys in her hand until she found the one she needed.

Kevin and the dog followed her inside.

After switching on the light, she dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter.

Kevin struggled to maintain his grip while Bruno sniffed his shoes, pants, and coat, and then began the whole routine again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “What do I do with Gargantua here?” His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. Whatever magic Kevin had in high school, he still had it. People craved his company and it had to be more than curling hair and a great smile.

“Let him go.”

The dog scampered to her and, claws clattering on the vinyl floor, back to Kevin. She knew Kevin expected a welcoming hug. The last time she’d seen him had been at Jack’s funeral where she’d pretty much looked right through everyone.

She kept her parka on—hoping he wouldn’t shrug off his pea jacket—and gave him a bulky, awkward hug. He was barely taller than she was and smelled of wood smoke and the same shaving lotion he’d worn since he was fifteen. She’d almost forgotten the mysterious reaction that scent evoked in her. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Back for good now. The high life in LA was too much for this small town boy.”

“Talked to Sunny and Clay yet?”

He chuckled. “Had dinner with the golden pair just last night.”

She began to sweat and unbuttoned her parka. “Staying with your Mom?”

“Got a place in the North end. Speaking of Mom, I’d better get back. Just wanted to say hello.” He cocked his head and studied her for a moment. “You’re looking good. A little scrawny but then you never did have much meat on your bones.”

She had to laugh. “And you’re still the same old sweet talker, I see.”

“Hey, I almost forgot. Mom said there was some trouble in town. Let me check your house for you before I go.”

“No need. I’ll send Bruno through the house in a minute.”

Kevin looked at the dog uncertainly. “He’s kind of friendly.”

“That’s because of the tone of my voice when I spoke to you. You should see him when I’m mad.”

“Okay," he said, still looking doubtful. “But we’ll have to have lunch soon and catch up.”

“Sounds good.” She tried for enthusiasm to make up for the relief she felt that he was leaving. Had Sunny put him up to this? Trying to get her out of her doldrums? At least he hadn’t gone into the routine everyone else gave her, dishing out sympathy and encouragement like extra helpings of mashed potatoes. After she shut the door behind him, she turned to the dog quivering by his food bowl and shook her head. “And you. Some kind of guard dog you’ve turned out to be.”

~

Amber shook her head. The maple trees may have been effing quaint the rest of the year, but in the winter Wilson Street looked spooky as hell. Tripper, the dude running this shoot, had been doing a number on her, trying to get her chilled out, really chilled out. Keep your car doors locked. Don’t drive close to the curb. Lenny at the L & N hadn’t helped.

To hell with them. The moon was full and bright; nothing could happen on a night like this. She picked up her cigarette case from the seat and dropped it in her shoulder bag. She should have tossed it, she thought, even though he—she couldn’t bear to say his name, even to herself—had had it engraved with her initials.

She didn’t like parking right on the street, but she didn’t have much choice. The Sweets’ antique cars and tons of musty old furniture filled the garage. Anyway, the apartment was a perfect place to hang until she moved to her new place. At least she had plenty of room and a little privacy. All the shit in the world could happen, but as long as she had her own little pad, she could stand it.

Looked like the Sweet sisters were still up; all the lights were on. Usually they were in bed by nine, which was only natural, them being two hundred years old at least. She bet that creepy little Marty was home, sponging off the old ladies again. In the few months she’d been living there, he’d twice ‘flown home to his little aunties.’

Weird though. The windows up there in her apartment over the garage were dark. She always left the bathroom light on. She hated the effing dark. Amber climbed out, grabbed the sack of groceries, locked the car, and got her front door key ready. Wasn’t that one of the rules? Never stand on your front porch fumbling for your door key? “Shut up, Amber!” she told herself, the frosty puffs of her words skittering away. Maybe she should get Marty. Shit, that would be like asking the fox to guard the hen house. Damn, she wished she’d stop coming up with her Mom’s old sayings. Was she an independent, high-living bitch or wasn’t she? She tucked her head down, sprinted to the stairs, and took the steps two at a time.

The balcony ran the length of the apartment but was narrow and what with the groceries and all, she had trouble with the key. A sudden gust of wind stung her face. Shivering, she finally got her key in the lock. Inside, she’d be safe.

~

Valerie hung up her coat and turned to Bruno. Now that she’d told Kevin she’d send Bruno through the house, she might as well do it. Sunny had urged her to get a dog, all in her very best drama school intonation no less. What character was she doing? Princess Di? Maybe it was fate, because the next day, she’d caught that twelve-year-old kid, the Fascist-in-training down the street, tormenting this beast. She’d had no choice, actually. The only thing to do at that point was a rescue. The dog, at over a hundred pounds, was a behemoth by anyone’s definition. He was worth the trouble. At her first sight of him, Sunny, for once, had been wordless.

Bruno followed her through the living room, snuffling at empty food wrappers along the way.

The flashing red light on the answering machine nagged at her, but she’d had practice ignoring it. She knew what the messages were. Call me, Sunny would urge. Come back to work, Brenda would beg. My baby misses her dance lessons, some mother would whine.

“C’mon, Bruno.” The dog followed her to the front windows. She pulled a drape aside and jerked Bruno’s leash. “Here, boy. Let them see what they’re dealing with.”

The dog jumped up, rested front paws on the sill, and pressed his quivering nose against one of the small windowpanes.

She tugged on his leash. “Down now.” A bleary smudge marked the spot where his nose had been and she laughed.

She led him into the dining room, paused at the stairs that led to the second floor bedrooms. “No,” she said finally. “We’ll do the upstairs last.”

In the kitchen, everything appeared normal. She checked the back door. Locked up tight.

She led him to the entry, to the basement door. The black pit yawned at her feet. She jerked the chain attached to the stair light and the sudden glare from the bare ceiling bulb threw the wooden steps into harsh relief.

Bruno hunkered at her feet.

She pulled him forward. “You first, big boy.”

The dog looked up at her.

She raised her arm, tossed an imaginary stick down the stairs.

“Whuff.” The dog dove down the steps, skidded to a halt on the tile floor below. He twisted around, looked up at her, wriggled in anticipation, and disappeared into the blackness.

Valerie heard the sound of claws skittering across the floor, then a snuffle, then more skittering. Finally, his woolly head appeared again, his eyes pools of black light.

She motioned him up. “That’s enough.”

She got them both a snack from the kitchen and returned to the living room couch. Bruno curled up at her feet as she flicked on the television. A shapely blonde woman draped in a towel stepped out of a sunken bathtub. Background music moaned in synthesized terror.

Valerie groaned. A slasher movie. She clicked the control button. Surely, she could find something better, a movie about some gloriously make-believe world. She clicked again, and again, until she came to the black-and-gray flickering of an old film.

Joan Crawford, eyes glistening and avid, turned away from an angry lover.

Valerie ripped open the sack of potato chips and tossed a chip to Bruno. Joan’s leading man was young and blond. Like Jack. Jack’s picture on the mantel gave her a sexy, ingenuous smile. She fingered her wedding ring, snuggled into the cushions, and stuffed a chip in her mouth. Mmmmm. Crunchy and salty.

Joan raised her fruity lips for a kiss. Violins swelled. Valerie closed her eyes. Slowly, delicately, the strings faded until a single sweet and lonely note remained.

A sharp cracking sound splintered the music.

What was that? The floorboards? Sometimes, in the winter, the house would groan and complain. Valerie sat up. She’d forgotten to check the bedrooms.

Joan raced down a sandy beach in the moonlight, her whispery dress trailing behind her.

It would be a shame to wake Bruno now. He slept, quivering and whining, lost in the dream chase of the rabbit that, no matter how fast, how furiously he ran, he never quite caught. She rose from the couch, taking care not to disturb the dog. If someone waited upstairs, she could always give Bruno a shout.

~

Amber scurried across the living room and switched on the lamp. Light flooded the big room. Shit, she hated acting like a big baby, hated it. She shed her coat and placed her hand on her chest. Why was she so antsy? She had no good reason to be scared. She had locked the front door. There was no other way in. She flopped on the couch to slip off her boots. As far as temporary digs went, this wasn’t a bad place, sure as hell beat the motels in this town. Come the first of March though, she’d be in her ultra deluxe new garden home. Tripper said the money should be rolling in for at least another two years, maybe more.

In her stocking feet, she tiptoed down the hall that led to the bath and the bedroom. The bathroom light was on, which was okay, but the door, which should have been open, was shut tight.

Fuck. That’s all she needed. More spookiness. She sucked in her breath. All quiet. Do it, girl, do it now. She jerked the door open.

What?!! Her hand froze on the doorknob.

She let her breath out slowly, giggled, and, because she had sounded just like a leaking balloon, giggled again. Her own reflection mocked her from the vanity mirror.

Empty. Of course. She was letting everyone turn her into a nutcase. She was an independent high-rolling bitch. Time for a glass of wine.

In the kitchen, she put away the groceries and poured a glass of Chardonnay. The wine was tart and sweet. She should make it a habit. Yeah, when she moved to her garden home, she’d have wine with dinner every night. From here on out, nothing but the best for little Amber.

Wineglass in hand, she headed for the bedroom.

Chapter 3

He stood in front of the walk-in closet, making his final survey. Bed in the corner. Nightstand. Window. Chest of drawers on the opposite wall. He reached up under his jacket. The metal of the knife was cold, sleek. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. The handkerchief was new, crisp and white, whiter than the full winter moon, the moon whose brilliant light had not discouraged him from entering this place.

He would have to find the memento on her person.

Every little sound gave him information, told him where she was and what she was doing. She was on her way.

He stepped into the closet, eased the doors shut. The knobs of the drawers pressed into his spine. He stirred restlessly, flexed his fingers, pulling surgical gloves taut across his hands. Heat, the heat was rising. He closed his eyes, lifted his face, and breathed deeply of the scent of roses.

At the sight of the slender girl framed in the bedroom door, he let out his breath.

Amber dropped the glass and turned, pretty mouth a big circle of shock.

With a great stride, he was on her, the knife at her throat. “Don’t scream,” he crooned.

“But, but, but, but.” She swallowed, hard. She smelled delicious, like a big hothouse rose.

“I won’t hurt you. Just do as you’re told.”

She whispered, “I’ll give you the money.”

Wonderful. Voice thick as molasses “Nothing bad will happen, if you do as you’re told.” He pressed the knifepoint ever so slightly into the soft flesh of her neck. “Turn around slowly and sit on the bed.”

He loosened his grip.

She turned, sank onto the edge of the bed. Cheeks aflame, she looked up. The sweet green eyes flared.

Yes, Amber. You expected a brute and a low-life. You’re wondering where you’ve seen me.

She let out a long sigh.

“It’s best if I bind you.”

She glanced down, saw the plastic gloves. “Ahhhhhhhhhh.”

Such a strong scream for such a little girl.

She convulsed and heaved upward, but he twisted her down. “Be still.”

“Listen.” Words poured out, golden trills of words. “Take the money. Get out of here fast. Before my neighbors see, before my boyfriend comes.”

He raised the knife. “It’s just a precaution.” He pointed to the bed. “Lie down on your stomach.”

She glanced at the bed, back at him, shook her head.

“Lie down on your stomach.” He tested the edge of the knife.

She eased herself slowly onto the bed, and rolled over.

How small she was. He arranged her legs. “That’s the good girl.” Once he had them in hand, they all became good little girls. He placed the knife on the floor, pulled out the slip and the tights, and dropped them on the bed. “I didn’t expect anyone.” He was pleased at the sound of his voice, so friendly and confiding. He took hold of one wrist.

She squealed, tried to twist out of his grasp.

He placed his knee on her back. “Stop. No one will hear.” He whipped the tights around her wrists and tied the ends together. He used the slip to bind her ankles.

She thrashed her legs, tried to squirm away.

He leaned more weight into the knee. Wonderful game.

She screamed into the bedspread, strangled, terrified.

He eased his weight from her back. “All done now.”

She turned her face to the wall. All he could see was the lovely pure curve of her cheek.

They all cried. Most started snuffling and sobbing immediately. One or two had been stoic, but only briefly. In the end, they all cried. He loved their tears. He rolled her over, eased the white handkerchief out of his pocket. “Open your mouth.”

She clamped her lips together.

He nudged her shoulder.

She jerked her head to one side and then the other, pressed her lips tighter. Her eyelashes fluttered wildly. Raccoon eyes? Isn’t that what they called it when the mascara ran?

He forced the handkerchief between her teeth, turned her head, and tied the handkerchief at her nape. “I’ve caught your hair.” He cradled her head in one hand while he worked the copper strand loose. “You have beautiful hair.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Beautiful hair. Such an unusual color.” He studied her pretty, girlish face. Casually, as if they had been lovers for decades, he spoke her name aloud. “Amber.”

That blaze of astonishment and terror, how it made him hum with joy.

He knelt beside her. “Yes. I know your name. I know everything about you.” He wanted to look deep into her soul, seal the bond.

She closed her eyes.

“Look at me, Amber.”

Slowly her eyes came open; her gaze turned to him.

“Be my good little girl now,” he whispered.

She panted out those strangled mews. Her sweet green eyes pleaded. He was the master. Every breath she drew was at his pleasure. His alone. “You’ve taken the wrong path, but I have come to show you the way.”

Joy filled him, he was swelling, growing large, becoming more than human.

“You know, don’t you?” His voice came as if from a great distance, resonant, powerful, filling him, filling the room. “You know who I am, don’t you, Amber? You know why I’ve come.”

He picked up the second pair of tights. She was a tiny thing beneath him. He filled the room now, swollen with pure energy and boundless love, his desire a roar that drowned out her pitiful gurgles.

One quick turn, a twist. He held.

Her green eyes begged. She jerked and twisted, all in vain.

He turned his gaze to the heavens and held.

The joy coursed through his veins, a song of pleasure whipped to ecstasy. And he held.

He held, and he held, and he held.

How long had he been holding? It was done, wasn’t it?

It was done.

He removed the handkerchief from her mouth. Little girl, so still, so quiet. She had messed her pants, like an infant, like the sweet child she once had been. Now, she was as she was meant to be, ignorant and innocent and pure.

He loosened the tights from her neck and dropped them on the floor. He unzipped his pants, arranged himself, and pulled out the handkerchief and unfolded it. After he smoothed it over the palm of his left hand, he began to work. Sweet labor, slow at first, then building momentum. Faster and faster and fast and fast and—

When he was through, he wiped his brow and upper lip. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose, quivered a moment at the tip, and dropped onto her cheek. It trickled across her cheekbone into the red curls above her ear. Carefully, he lifted the handkerchief, sodden and heavy with his discharge, and spread it carefully over her face. The final, fitting triumph.

She was small. Quiet. Faceless. Perfect.

He picked up her handbag from the floor, pawed through it, fingered her comb, her wallet, but the minute he saw it, he knew that the cigarette case was what he wanted. He balanced it on his palm. The case bore her initials. ALC. Ornate, flowing letters. Old English, probably. He slipped the case into his pocket.

He put himself away, zipped up his pants, and eased onto the bed beside her, laid his head next to hers. Tentatively, he touched her arm. She was soft and warm. He touched the tip of his finger to the tender mound of her breast under the soft green sweater. Perfect.

A sudden noise shrilled into his ear. The telephone. He swore softly under his breath. The telephone shrilled again. He put his mouth close to her ear. The telephone rang again. And again. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his breath rustling the soft red curls, fluttering the handkerchief that covered her face.

Her hair smelled of roses.

Chapter 4

Valerie couldn’t move.

The alarm was ringing and Jack couldn’t open the door. She tried to get up, to get to Jack who was waiting, but her arms and legs wouldn’t respond. “Valerie!” Jack was calling her! Suddenly, the door opened and he rushed in, but a blonde woman jumped out and stopped him. I’m here to see you, Jack. Was it Amber? Valerie couldn’t see the woman’s face. Amber. She was dreaming. Wasn’t she?

The clanging persisted, like an alarm demanding that she wake up, but she didn’t want to wake up. If she woke up something horrible would be waiting for her, something that she couldn’t face or fix or…. She opened an eye. On the television screen, six women pranced forward and executed a chorus-line kick.

Aerobics. She’d slept on the couch again. The memory of the previous evening pushed itself into her consciousness with a sick, unsettling insistency. Why did she feel so uneasy about that young woman? Amber, that was her name. Amber.

The doorbell chimed again.

She clicked off the television, went to the front window, and peeked through the drapes. Sunny’s BMW sat in the driveway. The doorbell chimed and, in a duet with the furnace, which was chugging to life, chimed again.

“Valerie. Open up.” Sunny’s voice.

“I’m coming,” Valerie muttered. “Don’t have a hernia.” She stuffed her feet into the rabbit slippers, tucked her shirttails into her jeans, and shuffled to the entryway. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself, for the cold and for Sunny. She could do this. Like a stage performance, all she had to do was stay in character. She could play Valerie Yates. She opened the door.

The sun glinted off the spikes of Sunny’s blonde-blonde hair and then she was in the house, striding into the living room, divesting herself of cashmere swathing as she went. “It’s Antarctica out there, dammit.” The stole, the beret, the ankle-length coat, she tossed them all onto the couch and plopped down in Jack’s recliner.

Valerie rubbed her eyes. “What time is it, anyway?” Sunny, of Swedish ancestry, was robust, self-confident, glamorous. And when you were down, almost too much to cope with.

“Ten.” Sunny looked Valerie up and down, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at the wrinkled shirt and jeans. “You sleep in, or what?”

“Or what. Want some tea?”

“Sure.” She jumped up and followed Valerie into the kitchen. “Have you heard?”

“No. And unless it’s an asteroid heading directly for Cordova, don’t tell me.” Valerie ran water into the teakettle, knowing her repartee was pathetic but pleased that she’d actually tossed out a line.

“Murder.” Sunny sat at the kitchen table, pausing for effect. “They found another woman. Murdered. Everyone’s saying we have a serial killer.” She sat at the kitchen table, her broad beautiful face intense as she waited for a response.

Valerie tried to shake off the queasy feeling she’d had since first opening her eyes. Sunny was always excited about something and, this morning, her energy was overwhelming. Valerie busied herself putting on the teakettle, getting the Earl Gray out of the cupboard, trying to get into the ‘zone.’

“You just go ahead and ignore this, Valerie, but they found the woman this morning. A few blocks from here, in this very neighborhood. Strangled.”

Valerie got down the mugs, pulled out a couple of tea bags, and, with her back to Sunny, sniffed them. She’d forgotten how old they were. What the hell. She plunked one in each mug. Why couldn’t she get Amber’s intense little face out of her thoughts? She swallowed hard, trying to dispel the uneasiness. She turned to Sunny. “I had a funny run-in last night.”

“Yeah?” Sunny seemed suddenly on the alert.

“About four years ago, this adolescent girl knocked on our door and asked for Jack. He was at work, but she asked me to tell him that Amber was looking for him.”

Sunny narrowed her eyes. “How adolescent?”

“Thirteen or fourteen.” The teakettle whistled and Valerie poured the steaming water into the mugs. “Plump. Shy.”

“Just checking.”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Valerie placed a mug in front of Sunny and sat opposite her. “She was just a kid. I never heard of her or from her again, until last night when she….her name is Amber…shows up in the L & N. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she kept staring at me.” Valerie struggled to pull the scene from her memory. “Finally, she came up to me and said she was sorry to hear about Jack and then she said something odd, about her mother dying too.”

Sunny considered this, brow furrowed, gaze fixed on the geranium on the windowsill. “Back then, when you gave Jack the message from Amber, what did he say?”

“You know how close mouthed he was about work.” Valerie shook her head, smiling as she remembered Jack’s casual nod, the one that said Got the message. Over and out. Get back to the subject, she told herself. Keep Jack out of the conversation. “What bothers me is that I think she came to the L & N looking for me.”

Sunny, face quiet and serious, nodded. “You be careful. This girl could be after money. For all you know, she could be a druggie. Or a stoolie.”

“Informant. They only say ‘stoolie’ in those Forties film noirs.” That was better; she was getting into it.

“If she shows up again, give her the brush off fast.” Sunny swished her tea bag around the mug and then, brightening, said, “Did you know that Kev has moved back?”

“Actually, I talked to him last night. He was just leaving Maggie’s. She’s not getting into trouble again, is she?”

“Maggie’s been drinking for twenty years and hasn’t gotten into any trouble so far. That’s not what brought Kevin back. It’s you.”

Valerie’s cheeks burned. “Kevin and I are buddies. Don’t you remember how we used to have our confabs? I could talk to Kev just like I talked to you. Clay too. I always wished that Jack were more forthcoming, willing to talk things out.”

“Clay and Kev are the exceptions. Most men keep their feelings to themselves.” She picked up the mug and sipped her tea. “Which, of course, is why people get rich writing books like Men are from Mongolia and Women are from Anywhere Else.

“You start out crazy in love,” Valerie said, aware that she was straying into dangerous territory. Concentrate on Sunny. Keep it light.

Sunny was studying the contents of her mug with a puzzled expression.

“It might have been different if we’d had kids,” Valerie went on. “He never said anything, but I know he envied you and Clay. His eyes lit up every time he saw your Brad.” Valerie bent her head to hide the brightness of her eyes and took a swig of the tea. Concentrate on the tea. Yes, brackish beyond belief. “Mmmmm. Good. I love Earl Grey, don’t you?”

Sunny nodded enthusiastically and took another tiny sip. “Not your fault, kiddo. You got checked. He didn’t. Hey, how about Neal Malcolm? The Chief? He might be able to tell you who this Amber is.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Who do you think gave Jack all those lessons on how to be a stone wall?” She bent her head to the mug again thinking how empty the house seemed without that stone wall. “Anyway, I can’t bear to look at Neal.”

Sunny shook her head in understanding. “It’ll take time. Are you teaching today?”

Valerie shook her head with a grimace. She tried not to think of the beginner’s tap class unless she had to. “I’m down to Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Chuckling, Sunny set the mug on the table as if it were ready to explode and rose. “I’m due at the clinic at eleven, but I want to run next door and get Kevin’s phone number from Maggie.”

Valerie walked her to the living room. “Say hi for me.” Sunny exits center, left. Valerie takes a bow.

Sunny flung on her cashmere and went to the door. “Where’s this dog of yours?”

“Bruno? He’s out back. I vaguely remember stumbling through the house at dawn to let him out.” Valerie opened the door. “When did you get so paranoid?”

“When you started placating me.”

“That’s what you get for being so damned bossy.”

“Moi?” Sunny flung her scarf over her shoulder. “You’re mistaking me for some other loud, blonde, caring friend.” Just before she stepped out, she turned and said, “Honey, is that tea some kind of family treasure? You know, handed down from generation to generation?”

Laughing, Valerie shut the door and stood there a moment, with her hand on the knob. Not her best performance, but recognizable as Valerie Yates, even by a best friend. Sunny tried to understand, but she couldn’t. Only another police officer’s spouse would know what she was going through. Oh, she’d have to see Neal sooner or later. She’d wake up some morning or in the middle of the night and find him on her front porch again. Memory crackled through her heart like lightning and she bent over, almost cut in half with the pain of it. The knock on her door and Neal on her doorstep. One look into his flat and haunted eyes, one searing irrevocable instant, and she had known. Everything.

She carried her pain to the sofa and sank into the cushions. Was she grieving too long? Too hard? Jack had been gone less than a year and she’d lost Aunt Monica only three months before that. Everyone acted as if she were off kilter. Oh, yes, that Valerie Yates, they were saying, she’s a few bricks short of a wall now, haven’t you noticed? She could just imagine the conversation that was taking place next door. Does she seem any better to you? Does she ever go anywhere? Sunny would urge Maggie to come visiting, and then they’d both agree that Kevin had to do something to get poor Valerie out of the house.

~

“She’s so easily upset,” Sunny said, ensconced on Maggie Blackburn’s big plump couch. “She thinks some young woman she saw in the store last night is after her for something. Supposedly, this person was involved in Jack’s police work a few years ago. Only she’s not sure about that. I don’t know what to think.”

Maggie, sitting opposite in the rocker, leaned forward, small bright eyes intent. “Involved in police work? How?” She wore Capri pants in the latest style. She had hennaed her hair and her makeup, keyed to the orange highlights in her hair, was what Sunny called a ‘bold statement.’ The old girl was still in there pitching.

“Not a clue. Who knows if it’s even the same young woman?”

Maggie clucked, shaking her head and leaning back in the rocker.

Sunny took a deep swig of coffee from Maggie’s Minnesota coffee cup with the circle of small pink piglets at the rim. “Great coffee.” She set down the cup. “She swears she got a dog for protection. Have you seen it?”

“Ha! Seen it. Heard it. Heard about it. The whole neighborhood was in an uproar. Valerie told the Brickells down the street their kid was a monster. That he didn’t deserve a dog. So they said they never wanted a dog in the first place and where does she get off yelling at their kid. He is a monster but you know you can’t go around telling your neighbors that, people you have to see every day of your life. They tell her that if she’s so worried, why doesn’t she just take the dog home. And that’s where the dog came from.”

Sunny shook her head. “She’s done a hundred and eighty degree turn. Gone from busy, lively, and friendly to slothful, sullen, and antagonistic. Brenda at the Courier wants her to come back to work, but she won’t even answer her calls. She’s down to ten classes a week at Monica’s studio. Do you know if she’s eating properly?”

“I’d gladly pick up some things for her when I do my weekly, but I know she wouldn’t have it.”

“Do you think she’s locking her doors? Being careful?”

Maggie shuddered. “Isn’t this just the most god-awful thing you’ve ever heard of? In Cordova! A serial killer. That Votrix brought all those strange people to town.” She shuddered again. “I’m so glad Kevin’s back.”

Sunny raised a questioning eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Maggie nodded, red curls bouncing. “It’s the most natural thing in the world, them being such good buddies and all.”

“She’s still shopping at night, alone. You know how dangerous that is?” Sunny picked up her coffee and sipped slowly, thinking about Valerie the way she used to be, so bright and lively, so goodhearted. Now she was this pale ghost, sitting in her lonely house day after day, like Pip’s Miss Haversham.

Maggie, nodding sadly, settled into her rocker. “Gonna get herself in trouble, if she isn’t more careful. Real bad trouble.”

~

Valerie went to the front window and peeked out. Sunny’s car was still in her driveway. Maggie and Sunny were having a heart-to-heart next door. Funny what brought people together. Tough old Maggie, former barmaid, short order cook, Avon saleslady, and who knew what else. Sunny, the Drama Queen and sophisticate, MA in psychology, wife of the richest man in town. The two of them in cahoots was a very scary thought.

Valerie turned away from the window. Didn’t Sunny have to be at the Youth Center by eleven? Were they going to talk about Poor Valerie all day? The remains of last night’s snack covered the coffee table. She should clean up. She stuffed a paper napkin in the water glass. Sunny was still after her to talk to Neal. Three times now, she’d suggested it for one reason or another. Dear Neal. He was a good man. He and a couple of the other officers were the only ones who still called. The wives, after courtesy visits during the first couple of months, faded away.

She squared her shoulders. She had to get busy. If she could fill her hours, little things like a strange girl showing up wouldn’t upset her. Then maybe people would quit treating her like a mental case. Because of that girl, she’d run out of the L & N last night without buying any real food. Probably in the first stages of malnutrition. She pushed the clutter on the table into one central collection. She’d check the paper for bargains, get some fresh produce and a couple of chops, maybe even a small T-bone.

Wiping her hands on her jeans, she went to the front door. The hard winter sun glinted off Sunny’s BMW where it sat behind her dusty old Dodge. Up and down the street, the yards were frost-pebbled rectangles of stiff gray grass. The sweet pungent odor of burning wood from someone’s chimney filled the air. Next door, the black cat Simone dozed on a sun-warmed porch rail.

The paperboy had missed the front porch again and the Cordova Courier rested on the sidewalk. She slipped out and, shivering, stepped gingerly across the frosty porch and down the steps. She was just stooping to pick up the paper when a voice boomed out.

“Hi, Mizzz Yates. Cold enough for you?” Gil, the mail carrier, held out a fistful of envelopes. Robust and pink of face, he reminded her of a prizefighter in one of the old movies, someone like Jack Oakie or James Dunn.

She took the mail from his outstretched hand, uneasy as always in his presence and, as always, not quite sure why. He was pleasant enough, outgoing, always smiling.

His gaze flicked down to her big fuzzy slippers. He smiled. “Renewal notices, couple of bills, a circular. Nothing very exciting,” he said, drawing out the last word so that it seemed to linger with the frosty air of his breath.

She turned away to hide her frown; she had to get out of this cold.

He raised his voice and the level of jocularity. “Looks like Cordova’s hit the big time. We’ve got our very own serial killer.”

She looked over her shoulder, disconcerted by the coupling of the subject matter with the happy tone of voice. “What?!”

“It’s big news. This guy’ll be added to the list: Bundy, Gacy, Dahlmer….”

“Bundy? You must be….” A knot in her throat, small and hard, halted her words.

“You haven’t heard? You know about the woman they found down by the Walnut River? Everyone’s been talking about it. Maybe you didn’t hear about the one they found over in East Cordova. She was strangled too. Well,” he said triumphantly, “they’ve found another one.” His glance traveled down to her feet and up again. “Last night.”

“Horrible.”

His eyes glinted. “This is the biggest thing to ever hit this burg. The guy is smart. They may never catch him. He’ll be like Wichita’s BTK. You remember? Bind, torture and kill?”

“That’s no way to talk!” Somehow, without intending it, her words had come out in a shout.

“I haven’t upset you, have I? I’m really sorry Mizzz Yates.” His tone was conciliatory, his face had a sympathetic expression, but his eyes were bright with pleasure. “I hope you’re being careful. He seems to pick all types.” He glanced across the street. “The little girl too.”

“Wynona?” Was he talking about Wynona Day, who had just turned thirteen?

“You know how these young girls are. Can’t wait to grow up, get out of the house. Out doing things with boys.” He waggled his eyebrows and laughed as if he’d made a joke that she, Valerie, was partner to.

She didn’t repress her shudder. “Has anyone ever reported you?” she shouted.

In a loud, carrying voice, he called to her retreating back, “Sorry if I upset you, Mizzz Yates.”

She heard the crunch of his boots on the walk. Thank heavens. The handle on the storm door wobbled out of her grasp. Damn thing! Why didn’t Jack.... She saw then that both Maggie and Sunny were standing on Maggie’s front porch. The older woman smiled and waved. Valerie groaned and waved back, muttering, “Side show’s over.”

Maggie, gingery curls bobbing, nodded enthusiastically.

Valerie rushed inside and slammed the door. Gil had pulled her chain and she’d lost it. Damn. If she tried to report him, she’d sound like a nut. He told me to be careful. He gossiped about the murders. He said the neighbor girl was growing up. She heard the sound of Sunny’s car starting up and opened the door again.

Sunny waved, mouthing the words “See you later.”

~

Valerie waved her away and went back inside to the window. Was Gil still around? Yes, there, across the street. He was on the Day’s porch in a half-stooped posture near the picture window. A flutter of alarm rose in her throat. Was he peeking in the window?

He straightened. The Day’s door opened and Wynona stepped out. She wore one of her crazy-stripe knit outfits, her hair in some kind of brushy topknot. She looked like what she was, a kid, not a sex-crazy teenager. He handed her what looked like a bundle of letters and they exchanged a few words. Wynona went in. A moment later Gil strolled down the walk to his cart.

She watched as he sorted through a handful of envelopes. Suddenly, he raised his head and looked in her direction.

She dropped the drape and jumped back. Great. He’d caught her snooping on his snooping. So what. She’d report him to the postal authorities for peeping and for being innately and irreversibly an obnoxious human being. He’d deny it, of course. He’d say he was tying his shoelace, or picking up an envelope, or getting a crick out of his back. She had no proof. In fact, she wasn’t positive he was actually looking in the window.

Was Wynona in the house alone? Valerie went to the telephone and dialed the Day’s number. Wynona answered. “Your nickel. Start talking.”

“Hey Wyn. You all right?”

“Hey Valerie. Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just checking. You do keep the doors locked, don’t you?”

“Is this about that killer thing? Don’t worry about me. I know karate.”

Valerie heard huffing and guessed that Wynona was dropping imaginary assailants with vicious chops. “It’s not just strangers, you know. Steer clear of acquaintances too, people you don’t know well.”

Wynona laughed. “Sure Valerie. You too.”

Valerie hung up and went up to change into a clean pair of jeans and a sweater, all the while trying to remember everything about her confrontation with the mailman. He’d talked about the murders, gleefully, like he was really getting off on it. What exactly had he said? Something about how smart the killer was? He’d mentioned BTK, the killer who’d terrorized Wichita and who’d recently been apprehended. He’d even compared the two.

She cleared the coffee table and cleaned up the kitchen. If she could catch the mailman peeking in windows or trying doors, she’d have enough to justify a call. She hurried to the closet and pulled out her mackinaw. Outside, she opened the side gate. “Bruno,” she called. “Get yourself over here. We’re going for a walk.”

~

Valerie hurried to the end of the block. Gil had turned the corner and she could see him across the street. She kept her distance while Bruno sniffed and explored. “Is this crazy or what?” Bruno whuffed a happy puff of frosty air.

The air smelled fresh and clean. She swung her arms and stepped briskly, just a gal out getting her exercise. Exercise, that’s what she needed, exercise and involvement in something other than the remnants of what used to be a life. “Better than dwelling on things that can’t be changed, isn’t it, Bruno? That’s what Aunt Monica would say.”

The dog yipped in excitement and Valerie ruffled his fur.

Gil kept up a good pace, strutting like a Banty rooster. He never glanced back, seemed totally unaware that anyone was behind him. Forty-five minutes after she first spotted him, he loaded his cart into a United States Postal van, and drove away. Valerie returned home, bone tired, and frustrated, although she knew her body deeply appreciated the walk. Not once had Gil veered from a normal routine.

~

Valerie rose the next morning, feeling edgy, as if there was something she had to take care of, something she couldn’t remember. She fed Bruno and let him out again. She’d had enough venting, more than enough exercise. She needed a touch of self-indulgent decadence for balance. She grabbed a sack of chips. “Scudder’s Bay” would be on TV soon. Crunching on a chip, she nestled into the couch.

Out in the back yard, Bruno barked, a high-pitched wheeze at odds with his size. The neighbors would be knocking on her door, complaining. She smiled to herself, remembering Sunny’s insistence. You have to get a dog, she’d said. Well, she’d gotten a dog, all right.

Valerie perked up at the opening strains of the “Scudder’s Bay” theme, but the channel’s logo appeared and a male voice announced a newsbreak. Film clips flashed across the screen. She hated these newsbreaks. Why couldn’t they wait until the program was over?

Neal Malcolm’s familiar face flashed onto the screen. He looked good on television. Tall and broad shouldered, with the dark hair and eyes of his Cherokee mother, he had half the women in town mooning over him. Even she had had a flash of heat when they were first introduced, not to mention that ridiculous crush that made her feel so guilty. Thinking of it, she felt the guilt again.

On the television, Bernie Walters, the Sedgwick County sheriff, appeared, his tight little face busy with self-importance and shiny with sweat. Good grief. Now they’d have to listen to his ranting and raving about society going to hell, because they’d lost Gawd.

A view of someone’s house filled the screen. From the looks of it, they had filed the scene just before dawn and everything and everyone looked ghastly. A stream of people—the usual uniforms, the new detective whose name she couldn’t remember, a few civilians—trudged up and down a staircase attached to the side of a two-story garage. She knew that house. She tried to grasp what the woman in the voice-over was saying:

“It was here that another young girl met a horrible fate at the hands of a serial killer.” The big redheaded reporter from Wichita’s KIRO stared into the camera, spitting frost-accented words into a handheld microphone. She’d covered her hair with a cloche.

The scene shifted. Two small elderly women and a smallish man, each wearing a bathrobe over nightclothes, stood on the front porch of the house. The women were almost identical. They wore frilly caps that didn’t quite contain their feathery white hair. Both were talking to the man, mouths moving raggedly, skinny arms sweeping up and down. The man, boyish in build but old in the face, puffed on a cigarette in a long thin holder. He stared at the camera in fascination, ignoring the two women.

Valerie had seen the women before, the Sweet sisters. Everyone knew them. Bet they were in a tizzy. She’d never seen the man with them though.

Come on, come on, she urged. Finish up and get back to “Scudder’s Bay.”

A photograph of a woman, obviously a professional portrait, flashed onto the screen. Valerie sat up. What on earth? What was the announcer saying?

“Repeating our earlier news bulletin, the body of Dominique Downy was discovered early this morning…. “

Heavy makeup adorned the woman’s face, and a fringe of false eyelashes shaded her eyes. Improbable masses of red hair tumbled around her narrow face and bare shoulders.

Dominique Downy! That girl wasn’t any Dominique Downy! That was Amber, the girl she’d seen at the L&N last night.

Chapter 5

Valerie jumped up from the couch, ran to the kitchen, and grabbed the newspaper from the table. There it was, right on the front page: Amber’s painted, almost unrecognizable face.

Serial killer claims third victim

The body of Dominique Downy, age unknown, was discover late last night in the bedroom of her apartment in Cordova. The police are withholding details but reliable sources confirm that the victim was strangled. When asked if this latest murder was related to recent and similar murders, Chief Neal Malcolm….

Valerie crushed the newspaper to her chest. Last night, she’d… Just last night. Amber had gone home and… The newspaper trembled in Valerie’s hands. She’d been watching Joan Crawford while someone murdered this girl.

She jumped up and hurried to the kitchen. She had to do something, call someone. She dialed Sunny’s number and got the answering machine. Of course, it was Tuesday; Sunny had gone on to the Youth Center.

She stared out the side window. What was this girl to Jack? Why had she come to see him those four long years ago? Why had she shown up at the L & N last night and tried to start a conversation? Was she another one of Jack’s strays? He was a magnet for young losers.

She went back to the living room, picked up the newspaper, and reread the article. Basically, all it told her was that last night someone had murdered a girl named Dominique Downy in her apartment. She flung the paper onto the coffee table.

Last night, this girl had sought her out at the mart. Why? Because she wanted to talk about Jack. Then the girl went home and someone killed her. What kind of insane coincidence could that be?

Jack’s things. Sunny and Clay had packed them for her. They were sitting in boxes in the basement, waiting for the day she’d have the heart to go through them. His mother, Margaret, fading away in Hearthstone, wanted his badge. She should find it and give it to his mother while she still remembered who she was.

Valerie went down to the basement, to Jack’s workspace where a dozen cardboard boxes sat in piles next to the workbench. She lifted a box from the top of a pile, placed it on the bench, and opened it. Clothing. His scent overwhelmed her and for a moment, she thought she couldn’t go on. Why did it have to be Jack that answered that call that terrible night?

She forced herself to pull out a flannel shirt. She went through the pockets but they were empty except for the usual pocket debris. A pair of chinos, three more shirts came out next, wrinkled, sad looking. Finally, she stuffed the clothes back and lifted another box onto the workbench. Gloves, office stuff, miscellany like a pocketknife and a measuring tape. She set aside the office stuff for later and grabbed another box off the pile. There wasn’t room on the workbench now so she dropped the box onto the tile floor and sat down, groaning at the stiffness of her hips. Fifteen hours a week teaching kids a few dance steps was not enough exercise.

She pulled out sweaters, jeans, a jacket, tossed them aside. She found the stub of a movie ticket, a handkerchief, a pocket comb. When the box was empty, she began stuffing the clothes back. As she was reaching back for a sweater, something under the workbench caught her eye, something pale that contrasted with the dusky wood. Leaning forward, she saw a manila envelope taped to the bottom of the table.

Stretching forward, she reached under and grabbed the envelope. The duct tape released the envelope at her first tug. Behind that envelope, she found another one taped to the under surface. She tugged that one loose too. They didn’t have labels. One seemed more worn than the other, otherwise they were identical. She rose and carried the envelopes upstairs to the kitchen where the light was better.

She tossed her finds on the table. Such small innocuous packages. A fluttering began in her throat. Why was she so nervous? Because Jack had gone to such lengths to keep these things from her sight, that was why.

She opened the clasp and pulled out the contents. Not much. A copy of an article from The Cordova Courier; Jack had received a commendation in his fourth year on the force. A clear-plastic sandwich bag containing a key that was too small for either a house or an ignition key. She put it aside and pulled out a white business envelope with the return address of a bank. A sheet of folded yellow-lined paper was next. She unfolded it. Someone, and there was no mistaking Jack’s childlike handwriting, had written a phone number and a name. Tripper. 555-3264. She put down the sheet of paper, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

A female voice, youthful and bored, answered. “Video Village.”

Video Village? “I’d like to speak to Tripper,” Valerie said.

“He won’t be here ‘til one.”

“He’s an employee?”

“Tripper?” She laughed. “He’s the big cheese. The manager.”

Valerie thanked her and hung up. Strange. Jack rarely went to the movies. They didn’t even own a VCR.

The telephone rang and, without thinking, she picked it up. “Hello.”

“Valerie!” It was Brenda at the Cordova Courier. Damn it.

“Hi Brenda.”

“How are you doing?” Brenda said in her gruff voice. Valerie could picture her behind her desk, feet up, pencil over her ear, gray pageboy smooth and gleaming.

“We sure miss you down here. Anything I can do to lure you back.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Brenda. Maybe in a couple of weeks.”

“Everybody asks about you. Mrs. Brockheimer at the Garden Club, the kids at the college. You’ve just got that magic touch we can’t do without.”

God, she couldn’t stand another word. “Nice of you to say so, but this isn’t a good time. I’ll have to talk to you later.” She hung up. She loved Brenda. How many people are lucky enough to have a real live mentor? But she couldn’t even think about going out and gathering news. Stupid garden club. Stupid book club. Who cared about what was going on at the library? None of that mattered.

Nothing mattered. Except finding out why a murdered girl knew Jack and why he had all this stuff hidden away.

She returned to the contents of the envelope and pulled out a photograph, a faded and grainy snapshot. Four people stood by a car facing the camera. They had bundled up for very cold weather and the focus was somewhat off. Jack was at the right, so the girl next to him must have been herself. Another couple stood to her left.

She put the snapshot down and pulled out what looked like a piece of wadded cloth. Her throat filled. A woman’s handkerchief, neatly folded. Unfolded, it turned out to be plain cotton in a pink-and-blue floral print, the kind you used to be able to buy in any dime store. Perhaps it had belonged to his mother.

She returned the items to the first envelope and picked up the other one. The corners of this envelope were dirty and worn, the flap torn and creased, as if someone had opened and closed it many times. Inside, she found a small black notebook. She opened it. Jack’s handwriting again. He had made many entries, but they were all composed of initials and abbreviations. One page near the front had only four items. A list of initials, each with a date.

ND 12/20/92

TSC 4/05/93

PRS 3/19/94

HG 8/14/96

TSC? A face from the past popped into Valerie’s mind. Tammy Sue Conklin, the girl with the terrible reputation back in their high school days. She laid the notebook on the table. The flutter was back in her throat, bringing with it the hint of a taste, almost an odor, of something rancid.

She returned to the newer manila envelope, dumped the contents out, and picked up the snapshot again. The focus was terrible. Whoever had taken the picture hadn’t been able to steady the camera.

Four people lounged against a car. They all wore big coats, mufflers, and knit caps. The boy on the left was probably Jack’s buddy Richie. Richie had gone off to California years ago. The boy in the photo was the right height for Richie and, yes, even with the bulky coat, his potbellied stance was recognizable. The girl next to Richie would have to be his girlfriend of the time, Felicia Bicardi. A muffler and a fur hat partly obscured her face, but she was thin and she had that familiar hangdog posture.

Who was the other girl? It wasn’t herself; she could see that clearly now. Too bad Sunny was at work; she’d be able to identify the girl in a minute.

The girl wore a fluffy knit cap that looked like cashmere, a hat that was in style when they were juniors or seniors. A muffler partially obscured the girl’s face, but she certainly looked like Tammy Sue Conklin. Pretty, trashy Tammy Sue Conklin. Hadn’t she moved to Kansas City a few years back? The gossip then was that she’d gone into business there, made the move from amateur to pro.

Why hadn’t she recognized Tammy Sue at first glance? Was it because Jack had his arm around her and looked as happy as she’d ever seen him? Jack with Tammy Sue Conklin, the school slut? The car was Richie’s Camaro, which meant they had to be juniors when they posed for this picture.

A strange stillness came over her. The flutter in her throat faded but the sour taste remained. Why was Jack standing with his arm around Tammy Sue at a time when she, Valerie, had been wearing his letterman’s sweater?

Valerie couldn’t stand looking through the contents of the envelopes any longer. She went to the living room and sat in Jack’s recliner. Images flashed through her brain and she tried to slow the progression. The girl in the mart, Jack with his arm around Tammy Sue, the girl again, this time her face aged with the show business makeup of Dominique. She had heard, of course, that there had been murders in town; she just hadn’t let the news register. A serial killer in her little town? Impossible, but it was happening. Someone she knew, this girl that Jack knew, had become a murder victim hours after she, Valerie Yates, had spoken to her.

And Jack had secrets. He had filled two manila envelopes with secrets. She had to face the possibility that Jack had led another, second life of which she knew nothing. Of course, being a police officer, he had to have a life secret from her. But, how far did this secrecy go? How long had he been practicing it? Since high school? Since they first became sweethearts?

She studied the picture on the fireplace mantel. Jack had certainly been impressive in his uniform, and, with those hooded eyes, very sexy. Now he was dead. And Aunt Monica. She was gone too. Her parents were long gone; she barely remembered them. She avoided glancing at the table where their photographs sat.

Valerie leaned forward. She had been asleep, in a haze, a coma for some time now. Time to wake up.

~

“You’ve changed your mind.” Brenda Givens’ eyes were gleaming. A compact, dark woman with high coloring, she looked younger than her fifty-some years. She perched on the corner of her well-worn desk in the Courier’s tiny office.

“Sorry, Brenda,” Valerie said. “I’m just here to do some research on…an article I’ve been thinking about.” Valerie edged toward the door to the library.

“Great. What’s the topic and when can you deliver it?”

“Ah, the topic is…the way violence affects a small quiet town.” How had she come up with that one, she wondered.

Brenda nodded and her dark eyes narrowed. “That could be great. Really great. Do you have a delivery date?”

“It’s just an idea now. I have to do some research first.”

Brenda nodded again, only this time her impatience was clear. “And the column?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

Brenda rose and went behind her desk. “Jesus, Valerie. I don’t know why I put up with you. You’ve got a week and I don’t care if it’s an article or the column, but I want you to deliver something.”

Valerie promised that she would ‘deliver’ and proceeded to the newspaper’s small library where she spend the next two hours going through the past editions of the paper. She checked for news of Tammy Sue or her daughter and for everything on Jack. She also copied everything they had printed on the murders. After leaving the Courier’s office, she went to the Cordova library and, on impulse, checked out some books on serial killers. Tomorrow, she’d see what she could find in the Wichita Eagle’s library.

~

Lunchtime found her hunched over her desk in the basement office, copies of articles on the murders in front of her. She could find nothing on Dominique Downy in the past editions. Dominique/Amber was new in town and was an aspiring actress. What the heck was she doing in Cordova? Eating a potato chip from her lunch with one hand and fingering the computer’s mouse in the other, she studied the heading she’d typed on the computer screen.

QUESTIONS

Directly underneath the heading, she entered:

What was the relationship between Jack and Amber?

She thought a moment more, than added:

What was Amber doing in Cordova?

Who is Amber/Dominique?

She grabbed the phone book and looked up Conklin. She found two listings, both male.

A rash of goose bumps erupted on her arms and she wrapped the shawl collar of the bathrobe tighter around her neck. The basement was always chilly. Even with homey additions, like maple paneling and the barré Jack had built for her, the office was still just a corner of the basement, surrounded by support pillars, conduits, high little windows, and all.

She shook her head again at the blaring headline of the newspaper at her elbow, the glamorous picture of Amber. What kind of man kills people as a hobby? What a twisted mind. Her encounter with Gil Rydell the mail carrier came to mind, his glee about Cordova having its own serial killer. Another weirdo.

She leaned back in her chair and studied her list.

QUESTIONS

What was the relationship between Jack and Amber?

What was Amber doing in Cordova?

Who is Amber/Dominique?

She added:

Why did Amber have two different names?

Why did the Rose Killer pick Amber?

Yes, she thought, and why did Jack have a picture of Tammy Sue hidden away all these years?

Nellie Bly, bold and perky in the black-and-white, stared down at her from the corkboard on the wall.

“Have I made a good start, Nellie?” she asked her idol, the woman who had been the first female journalist. She pushed aside a stack of papers. She’d have to dig out the high school yearbooks and take another look at Tammy Sue. Tomorrow, while she was in Wichita, she’d go to the city library and see what they had on serial killers. She should try that phone number again, find out who Tripper was—besides being the manager of AAA Video, that is—and what he had to do with Jack.

Outside, the wind whistled around the house. From the sound of it, one of those fast violent prairie storms would be roaring in any minute now. Luckily, the temperature had climbed to the mid-thirties; otherwise, they’d be in for a blizzard.

The windows rattled. Two big thuds made her sit up straight. Something had hit the house. A branch from one of the trees? A loud cracking sound came next, the sound of splintering wood. Valerie jumped up. She ran to the high narrow windows on the street side of the house and pulled up a crate.

From her perch, she could see the two young maples—the ones Jack had planted that first year—whipping in the wind. The junipers partially blocked her view of the east side, but she could see enough. A long section of the white picket fence had fallen. One of the posts had been quietly rotting away for a couple of years.

Damn. It had fallen on Maggie’s driveway.

The wind died. Raindrops spattered on the ground, the maples relaxed, then came back to attention. She’d have to get the fence out of Maggie’s driveway. She ran up the stairs and out the front door. Head down, she loped across the wet grass, the air settling round her like a damp blanket.

Valerie leaned over to examine the broken section. The wind rose again, whipped her hair across her eyes. She pushed it back, bent over the fence, and tugged at one of the posts. The rain came down like bullets. She couldn’t budge it. She tugged and heaved, but nothing happened. She braced herself and, muscles straining, tried to raise the section of fence again.

Damned stupid wind. Damned stupid fence. Her hands were cold and raw. Her back was hurting too, not to mention a myriad of other muscles, many of which were announcing their existence for the first time ever. She moved around, examined the fence from a new angle.

The yell came from behind her. “Valerie. Hold up there.”

Kevin. Smiling as if they were on a sunny beach instead of in this damned tsunami, he trotted across the grass, fastening his pea coat on the run.

Shaking her head at him, she tugged at the fence post again.

“You’re going to drown out here.” He grabbed the fence post.

Together they braced themselves and tugged. Finally, with a grunt, they heaved the section upright.

He smiled across the fence at her. How had the yearbook characterized him? Mr. Charisma? How they had teased him about that.

Valerie, rainwater dripping from her eyebrows, raised her voice above the howl of the wind, “Let it fall on my side.”

He shook his head. “If we drop it,” he yelled. “It’ll break.”

“Drop it, will you!”

He sucked in his breath, and let go. The section of fence fell, the wood splintering with a groan.

They stared down at it.

At least it wasn’t blocking Maggie’s driveway anymore. “I’ll have it repaired as soon as the weather clears,” she said as the wail of the wind reached an even higher pitch.

He grabbed her arm. “Let’s get inside.” He propelled her toward her front porch.

“Wait,” she yelled but the wind swallowed her voice. No use. He was determined. She bent her head, concentrated on keeping up with him. A branch of the maple tree whipped toward her face. She ducked, stumbled against him.

He tightened his grip on her arm, pushed her onto the porch and into the entry. He slammed the door behind them.

She collapsed against the wall. Rain pounded against the windows and roof. She could hear the sound of her own harsh breathing. My god, she was out of shape.

Kevin, laughing, collapsed against the door. His hair was plastered to his head and rainwater dribbled down his face. Jeez, he was so endearing with his smile and green eyes. A surge of irritation surged through her. How could he return and walk in as if it was yesterday and nothing had changed?

She glanced down to at the puddle growing around her. Her feet in the sodden slippers looked like wet animals. Small, wet, dead animals.

She looked up at Kevin “I’m a walking, talking Lucy rerun.”

They burst into laughter and suddenly it was yesterday and they were still young and carefree.

Finally, breathless, he said in a formal tone. “Kevin Blackburn. At your service, come rain or snow or wind.”

She shook her head. “Idiot.”

“I’ve been in the big city a long time. I’ve changed.”

She looked down at her feet. “You haven’t changed at all.”

He cocked his head. “You make that sound like an insult.”

“Really? I’m so sorry.”

How easily they fell back into the old routines. He glanced into her living room and did one of his accomplished double takes.

The remains of her morning breakfast littered the coffee table and the pages of the morning newspaper blanketed the couch and a portion of the floor. On one of the pages, sat a tower of large books. Her coat and shoes lay on the armchair.

“Still an obsessive-compulsive neatnik, I see.”

“And you’re still the world’s greatest wise-ass, I see.”

He strolled into the living room and picked up one of the books.

She stood her ground in the entry, resisting the temptation to smooth out her matted hair.

“The Serial Killer: Yesterday and Today,” he read and then flipped through the pages. “A little light reading for these long winter days?”

She hurried in and took the book from his hand. “I’m thinking of doing an article,” she said. “I should do something with all those journalism classes I took.”

“I wrote a paper on serial killers in grad school,” he said casually. He repositioned the book at the pinnacle of the tower. “That was before I decided to specialize in kids, of course.” He unfastened the top button of his jacket, then stopped with a look that said May I?

“Sit,” Valerie said. “I’ll make some coffee.”

~

Maggie turned off the television and went to get her hat and coat. If things went well, Kevin wouldn’t be back for quite a while. She’d leave him a note and hike down to Royal’s. The day had cleared up and she was thirsty. A little Seven Hi was just what she needed. Perk up her appetite for supper.

She wrote the note, bundled herself up, and stepped outside. Sky looked better now. These storms blew in and then blew out. She’d be okay. Maybe she’d go ahead and have a chicken-fried steak while she was there. Get home before sunset.

She walked briskly, kicking the slush with her rubber boots, swinging her arms. She didn’t mind a little extra padding here and there, but at her age, you had to keep moving. Use it or lose it.

No killer was going keep her shut up in her house. At least in the daytime. She wasn’t idiot enough to go out alone at night like Valerie. Valerie needed a good sensible man to be good to her and watch out for her. Her Kevin was just the man for the job. Valerie used to be perky and lively. Just not herself lately.

Too bad the new Mall wasn’t closer. She’d like to try out the Seven Hi at Paulo’s. ‘Course Royal Farley would have a fit, but maybe it would do him some good. He’d been dodging her ever since her old man took off. Conceited idiot. What made him think he was such a catch? Being a football hero forty years ago? At K-State? He sure kept hisself in a small pond. Royal Farley, big man in Cordova, Kansas.

~

Valerie ran upstairs and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Kevin knew her weak points. She might want to be alone, but curiosity always ruled. Ignoring her hair, she ran back down, grabbed a notebook from the coffee table, and hurried into the kitchen.

Kevin sat at the table with a cup of instant coffee in front of him. Oh god, he’d used that old stuff that had to have been on the shelf for the better part of a year. She sat down, marveling that he could down the musty brew. The years had sure been good to him. His boyish face had matured nicely. He still had that mop of tousled wavy hair, very damp now, and his green-gray eyes still sparkled.

A memory she hadn’t thought of in years, decades actually, popped into her mind. She’d actually had her first sexual experience with Kevin. Not sex, of course, but they’d been dancing at a party. They were both fourteen and she had felt his erection against her. An electric something had flowered, bloomed gloriously, and quickly faded away.

It wasn’t until she was in college she realized that Kevin had given her first orgasm. She’d never told a soul, not even Sunny. She composed her face and, hoping she wasn’t bright red, sat opposite him.

He grinned as he wiped his hands on the towel draped around his neck. His coat hung over a chair set by the furnace vent. The storm had passed and with the cessation of the rain pounding on the roof came a looming silence.

“Spill it, Doctor Blackburn,” she said. “Everything you know about serial killers.”

He raised the coffee cup to his lips, sipped, raised an eyebrow, and put the cup down. “Serial killers in general? Or this one in particular?” He dabbed at his damp hair with the towel.

“This one in particular. The Rose Killer.”

“First, the odds are that he’s a white male. Serial killers usually stick to their own race. Female serial killers are rare.”

“That deserves discussion, but we’ll get into it later.”

“I only wrote one paper, Valerie. I based it on books written by psychologists about their pet theories. Data on serial killers comes from—Guess who?—serial killers. They’re sick people, downright evil mostly. A lot of times, they turn out to be crazy about the limelight.”

“Got you.” Valerie made a note on her yellow lined pad. “Serial killers are not reliable sources of information.” She looked up. “He may be getting off on the publicity?”

“Killing might make him feel all-powerful.”

“But these guys usually pick weaker people, like women. Does this killer hate women?”

He thought a moment. “He might. A lot of shrinks make the mother the scapegoat. He could expect women to kowtow to him, make him feel like a big macho guy. A man who has a big hole in his psyche may expect a woman to fill it up. If she doesn’t, she’s a scumbag, deserves to be punished.” He gave an uncertain shrug. “That’s my take, anyway. Of course, he may pick women simply because they’re easy marks, as you said.”

He took another sip of the coffee and smiled sweetly.

“Pretty bad?”

“God-awful.” He set the cup down. “To continue, the serial killer may have power fantasies from early childhood. He develops them into elaborate rituals. He often begins his career with small animals, first torturing, then killing them. He moves on to bullydom. Smaller children are his targets.”

She held up her pen to interrupt. “I’ve read that they often seem like ordinary intelligent people. Like someone from your neighborhood.”

“This guy is like most of them. I mean, he’s not psychotic. He’s a sociopath and takes care of himself. Doesn’t want trouble, doesn’t want them to catch him. Until he’s ready to preen in the spotlight, anyway. Or, like good old Ted Bundy, gets himself so worked up, he goes into a feeding frenzy.” He grimaced. “Had enough?”

“What do you think about our killer?” she prodded. “Did he start here in Cordova? Do you think he’s done it before, in other towns?”

“Hard to say. He could be a rover, move from place to place. Or, he could have lived here for years, going out of town for his fun.”

“Anything that would set him apart?”

“Like I said, I think our guy fits in. Some of these killers are loners, lifetime losers. Others are adaptable, with functioning public masks. Ted Bundy was a well-liked, up-and-coming young man. John Wayne Gacy played Santa Claus.”

“Would he be morbid? Like to talk about the murders? Get a kick out shocking and disturbing people?”

He cocked his head and eyed her. “Got someone in mind, Valerie?”

“I just want to keep my eyes open. I’d have a really big story if I identified the guy, now wouldn’t I?”

“Yeah. Sure. Valerie Yates, aspiring reporter, awarded posthumous Pulitzer for....”

She waved him down. “How does he pick them out? Why Amber, I mean, Dominique Downy?”

He shrugged. “She was probably a fit for his very own personal fantasy.” He pushed a stray hank of hair off his forehead. “How about dinner?”

Valerie tried to think of another question, but nothing came to her. Jack’s manila envelopes sat on the bookshelf behind Kevin. He could probably tell her positively if the girl in the picture was Tammy Sue.

“Do you remember Tammy Sue Conklin?”

“Tammy Sue.” He quirked his eyebrow. “A prodigy of sorts.”

She laughed. It was so easy talking to Kevin, always had been, but she couldn’t show him the picture. He’d have too many questions.

“Why?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about our school days.” She rose. “I really appreciate your passing on all this knowledge?”

“All this arcane and obscene knowledge? Does this mean I’m dismissed?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to sound so...dismissive.”

“It’s okay. Dr. Blackburn needs a rest and maybe a brew.” He rose. “Want to join me?”

She shook her head. “Have you seen Sunny again?”

“We chatted last night.”

“Funny how both of you went into psychology.”

“The human psyche. We studied it in our drama classes. Therapy. A natural progression,” He raised his hands in a there-you-have-it gesture. “And we grew up in abnormal families, Sunny with a much older mother and father who had hoped their parenting days were behind them and me with a mother who liked good times and no father.”

“I fit in there too, you know, being orphaned so young and raised by an aunt.”

He picked up his coat. “Clay was the only one with a normal family,” he said with a sly smile.

She laughed. “Clay had a mother and a father alright, but what a mother and father.”

“We probably shouldn’t get into that.”

She helped him into his coat. “Let’s all get together for lunch sometime.”

“Sunny and Clay still seem like the golden couple.”

“More than ever. They’re now rich as all get out.”

“Doesn’t that guy have any faults?”

“I thought you liked him.”

“What’s not to like? But look at it from my viewpoint. He’s tall and good-looking? He plays the lead and I play the comic relief? Now he’s rich and I’m not? How much can one man take?”

“He might have had the height, but you had the talent.”

He clasped his heart. “My God. After all these years. A token of appreciation.”

She raised a warning hand. “Kevin.”

He held up his hands in surrender and walked to the door. “If you’re going to do something stupid,” he said as he grabbed the doorknob. “Don’t do it alone.”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“Checking out some guy you think is a killer. I know I can’t stop you, but I can help you. Okay?”

“You’re even crazier than you were in school.”

“A done deal then,” he said. “Valerie only does crazy things with crazy Kevin.” Pushing up his collar, he headed back to his mother's house.

Chapter 6

High noon. The sun hung directly overhead, a pale yellow ball that gave off no heat at all. His breath hung in the air, a long white plume of frosty vapor between himself and the two women.

The women stood together in the middle of the sidewalk, chatting, one sturdy and middle-aged, the other young and petite. The small one reminded him of the redhead. This one had brown hair though, straight like an Oriental’s, not like Amber’s, which could twist and curl about your finger like a glowing copper wire.

Using both hands, the small one described a large circle in the air. She half turned his way. Was that a sneer on that lovely mouth?

Slowly and methodically, he swallowed the briny liquid in his mouth, allowed the heat to subside.

She was not the one. This was not the place.

He turned away, licked his lips, aware of his tongue, raw and pulsing like a creature with a life of its own. He breathed in, turned his face to the cold February sun. He had relaxed his guard. It had almost come out, unbidden. Control was crucial. Control was everything.

~

Valerie didn’t even try to sleep that night. Fantasies of lovemaking whirled through her mind. Jack’s long lean body, the thick shank of baby-brown hair falling across his brow as he bent over her, the hooded eyes. She knew his body so well, the scars—appendix, the bad fall on the basketball court, the hammer that flew out of his hand. She would trace them with her fingertips, across his abdomen, his left thigh, the corner of his eyebrow. She knew his smell, manly and clean after a shower, rank and strangely erotic after hard exercise, salty and sexual when they made love. Another scent entered the mix, the musky smell of a very familiar after-shave. After a moment, she recognized it. Kevin’s aftershave. Irritated and alarmed, she edited it out and returned to her thoughts of Jack.

She’d never learned how to pleasure herself. Everything sexual had come from Jack. He knew her wants and desires and she knew his. What she had never known, it seemed, was what Jack thought or felt about anything.

Chapter 7

Valerie tried to keep up with Sunny on the oval track the next morning, but she hadn’t exercised or worked out at the barré in months. A young yuppie couple passed them and she began to suspect that Sunny was hanging back. Seven other runners followed at varying intervals. In the next section, clearly visible through the wall of windows, a dozen swimmers swam laps in the pool. The Recreation Center was a new building, another monument to the bustling economy Votrix had brought to town. The youthful go-getter manager had approached a moment after she came in the front door. He had a list of the center’s activities he wanted her to include in her column next week. She squelched a spurt of guilt and told him to call Brenda.

“My mailman,” she huffed. “He makes my flesh crawl.” She blew out a long breath, urging on her aching legs. She couldn’t match Sunny’s pace much longer.

Sunny, resplendent in purple spandex, ran effortlessly, her sturdy legs covering ground in rhythmic strides.

“Have you ever,” Valerie huffed, “noticed him? My mail carrier? The guy who looks like a mean little bulldog?”

Sunny laughed. “If he isn’t a hunk, I didn’t notice him.”

“He’s always given me the creeps...now he’s hyped up...about these...murders...gushing over the killer.” She grabbed her side and slowed.

Sunny looked back. “I’m sorry. I forgot that you’re temporarily out of shape.”

They trotted together, slowly now, rounding the curve at the north end.

“I need a breather,” Valerie gasped. She stumbled her way to the locker room, Sunny behind her. Valerie plopped down on the bench.

“Hey,” Sunny protested. “Walk it out.”

With a groan, Valerie forced herself up, walked the length of the room and back, and did some stretches. The sweat had glued her cotton tee to her armpits and she plucked the fabric away. Why had she made herself do this? Because she needed exercise or because she yearned to confide in Sunny?

Sunny tossed her a towel. “You got energetic all of a sudden. Not that I’m complaining.” She made a sad face. “I’ve hated running all by my lonesome.”

Valerie wiped the sweat from her face, neck, and arms. She knew that if she told Sunny about Jack’s hidden envelopes, she’d feel like she was betraying him. She couldn’t do it.

“I’ll be a mass of aching muscles tonight,” she said and plopped down on the bench. “You know that girl I told you about? The one at the L & N? She’s the one.”

Sunny turned to face her. “The one what.” Then she got it. “Oh god no. You don’t mean she was the girl who was murdered?!”

“Shhhh. She uses two names. She told me her name was Amber. I was relieved when the paper this morning said she used the name Amber Downy as well Dominique Downy. I was afraid I’d have to call Neal.” She took a couple of deep breaths.

“Now you don’t have to tell him? That you knew her? That you saw her last night?” Sunny pulled her water bottle from her waistband and took a long pull. Her broad face, devoid of makeup and glistening with sweat, clearly showed her Scandinavian roots.

Valerie did a Stan Laurel face of helplessness. What can I do about it?

Sunny shrugged. “To think we were talking about the girl and all the time, she was…. “ She shuddered. “I’ll have to do penance for every bitchy thing I said.”

“I still can’t figure out why she wanted to talk to me.”

“Probably something that would have ended up costing you.” She raked her fingers through her blonde spikes.

“Do you think I should report him?”

“The mailman?”

“If you could have seen the expression on his face. He was getting off on it.” She couldn’t tell whether Sunny was taking her seriously or not. Which meant, of course, that she wasn’t.

“You say he was peeking in the Days’ window?”

“That’s what it looked like to me.”

Sunny raised her eyebrows. “If he’s a peeper, damned straight. Report him.”

“A peeper who gets off on murder. There’s something not right about that man.”

Sunny turned, wide-eyed. “You sound like you think he could be the killer.”

Valerie didn’t know what to say. Did she think he was the killer?

“You picked up vibes,” Sunny continued. “And your instincts are first-rate.” She handed the water bottle to Valerie. “I’d talk to the authorities. Better safe than sorry.”

“If I don’t say anything, and he turned out to be the killer, I’d never forgive myself.”

“There’s your answer. How are you doing? Lungs still in tact?”

“Sure.”

“Everything else?”

“I’m not suicidal if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Just depressed.”

“I think the clinical term is ‘alienated,’ Sunny. You should know that.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I look up at the stars at night and think of how large our solar system is and then of course I have to consider the gigantic proportions of our galaxy and that leads to considering all the billions of galaxies out there. I feel insignificant.” She shrugged. “There you have it.”

Sunny took the water bottle from Valerie and drained it. “Didn’t we have this discussion when we were thirteen?”

“I didn’t know what it meant then.”

“What does it mean now?”

“To quote one of our most respected philosophers, ‘Shit happens,’” she said, rising. She grabbed her bag and headed for the shower. Happily, Sunny hadn’t brought up Kevin. She had too much on her mind to listen to Sunny’s inept matchmaking. Amber Downy. Jack’s hidden envelopes. Something was terribly wrong and she didn’t know what it was and couldn’t stand thinking about it. All she knew was that someone could be with you one day, present in the flesh, and then the next day that person could be gone, evaporated into the ether. Just as you yourself would one day, maybe in the next moment, evaporate into the ether. You could romanticize all you wanted by saying stardust formed us and we would return to stardust, but the result was nothingness. Why couldn’t the killer be the one who evaporated? Or the mailman Gil Rydell? She couldn’t bear thinking about all the strange things that were happening. Action was necessary.

Chapter 8

The day had been long and boring, and unfruitful. He was no closer to her than he had been the night before. It was good to be home, though, hidden away in his room like a hungry wolf returned to the den after the day’s unsuccessful hunt. Time for some pure pleasure. He would make up for the boring hours, smother the ache that burned in his gut.

The items on the table were in order: the tape recorder, the microphone, the glass of water, the script, the plastic gloves. He pulled on the gloves, lifted the microphone, hit the switch, and whispered, “You are impotent. Your frustration chokes you. Not to worry. You will learn to live with it.”

He punched the stop button on the tape recorder and drank half of the glass of water. He punched the start button and picked up the script.

“Know that there is no better tomorrow. Amber fell from grace. Now she is among the chosen.”

He stopped the tape and smiled. Beautifully written, beautifully spoken. He could have been a writer or an actor. He began again.

“How many are chosen, you may ask. And well you should. I can tell you now that there will be more. Many, many more. You cannot stop me. I think you know that now. Don’t you, Chief Malcolm?”

He stopped, let the tape roll on. Then, he whispered, “Who is chosen? Who will be next? Only I know. Only I have the power.”

Again, he let the tape roll on. Let them wait. Let them wonder what he had to say. The whisper was good, he was sure of that. They’d never get close enough to him to do a voice comparison, anyway. Now, he needed a hook, an ending that would capture the imagination. The image of the big lush rose on Amber’s box of bath powder crystallized in his mind. Le Murmere des Roses.

“I watch her. I wait for the moment.”

He paused for effect.

“She is chosen. Soon, I will pluck my fresh new rose.”

Chapter 9

The Cordova Police Department sat next to city hall on Main Street. Sergeant Janousek, as spry and wiry as ever, was waiting for Valerie at a side entrance, an accommodation to her desire to avoid the old familiar faces.

Valerie had gone to school with the Sergeant’s daughter Juanita. The Janouseks were one of only five black families in Cordova. Janousek had been a sergeant forever and if he had expected to be chief when old Chief Travers retired, he never let on. Smart as a whip, every time Neal would brag him up, talk about how he couldn’t get by without him, Janousek would just smile and go on about his business.

He led her back to Neal’s office. She took a deep breath, and stepped inside with a smile she hoped didn’t look too forced. Yesterday, talking to Neal had seemed like a good idea, but that was Sunny’s doing. Today, she wasn’t so sure. And she had put off going to Wichita.

Neal, fatigue evident in the shadows under his eyes, was on the phone. Tired or not, he was still one hell of a good-looking man, tall and rawboned, with a thatch of shiny black hair courtesy of his Cherokee grandmother.

Valerie tried to relax. He was just Neal, an old friend who had just happened to bring her very bad news one night not too long ago.

He finished his call. “Good to see you, Valerie.”

A sleek gunmetal-gray office set had replaced his battered oak desk and chair, relics from the forties. She could tell from the way he was trying to burrow into his new swivel chair that he missed his antique comforts.

Janousek brought in big mugs of coffee.

Valerie took a sip, steeling herself for the molasses-thick rocket fuel that Neal preferred. She already felt lightheaded and jittery from the aspirin she’d swallowed earlier. No telling what this blast of caffeine would do for her. She wanted to appear rational and businesslike.

Neal lolled back in the chair in that easy confident way of his. “I suppose you heard the news on the radio this morning. Talk about irresponsibility.”

“No. I don’t listen to the radio much. Did something happen?”

“Someone sent a tape into KJK claiming to be the killer, talking about roses and such. They put it on the air. It’s probably a fake, but they get everybody scared out of their wits. Enough of that. You don’t want to hear my problems. What can I do for you?”

“I want to tell you about my mail carrier. I’ve always been a little wary of him. He seems, I guess you might call him a creep, except that he’s gone beyond creepiness. He’s morbidly interested in these murders; he can’t stop talking about them.” She drew a breath and hurried on. “Amber Downy lived on his route. I also saw him peeping in my neighbor’s window.”

The expression in his dark eyes hadn’t changed. At least he wasn’t laughing or shaking his head in exasperation.

He leaned forward and picked up a pen. “What’s his name?”

“Gilbert Rydell.” She held her breath.

He wrote the name down on a yellow pad. “Rydell. Must be old Rydell’s son. He was the janitor at the cabinet shop where my dad worked part-time after he retired. I don’t think I know the son. You say he’s morbidly interested. How so?”

She let out her breath and drew another one quickly. She had to stay calm, believable. “He talks about the killings as if they were media events, as if he admires the killer. In his words, the killer’s putting Cordova on the map.”

Neal nodded. “I’ll check into it.” He jotted down more notes.

She couldn’t believe it was this easy. Her head felt light. “I suppose you have a few ‘persons of interest?’

He smiled. “Of course. Don’t we always?”

“Are you getting help from VICAP?”

He looked puzzled. “What’s all this interest in our investigation?”

“I’m a reporter. Curiosity is my middle name. And I was married to a law enforcement officer.”

He laughed. “I can’t talk to you about the case.”

“Of course not. And I know you’re not pleased about the publicity they’re giving the killer.”

“They’ve named him “The Rose Killer.”

She shuddered. That’s awful.”

He shrugged. “Par for the course. But how are you doing, Valerie?”

“I’m all right, Neal. I might go back to school.” For that matter, she might go on a cross-country run or join the circus. Who knew what she’d do?

“Drama?”

She laughed. Everyone still associated her with theater. “Journalism. That’s my real love. Not performance.”

“Right. Keeps you on the go, seeing people. You are getting out and about, aren’t you, seeing friends?” He cocked his head in that way he had, as if he were seeking a better angle to read her state of mind. Neal’s X-ray vision, they called it. What he was really asking was, Are you back to normal, Valerie, or are you unreliable because you’re distraught and grieving?

“Of course.”

“That’s good. Jack was like my kid brother, you know. He’d expect me to watch out for you, make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay, Neal. Honest. And you’ve got enough to handle.”

He smiled, this dark handsome man who was the center of many women’s dream lives, the man who’d been closer to Jack than anyone else. Neal was truly a good person, but was he a truly good person who took her seriously?

They stood and he took her offered hand in his big paws. “Call me if you need anything.”

She hesitated. Perhaps this was her lucky day.

“Something?”

“I saw Amber Downy the night she was killed.”

He scowled. “Tell me about it.”

“Actually, I’d seen her before. Maybe four years back, she came to our house and asked for Jack.”

“Asked for Jack?”

“She said, ‘Is Jack around?’ When I told her Jack was at work she said, ‘Tell him Amber wants to see him.’”

“Did Jack do a follow up?”

“I don’t know. I told him about her coming to the house and he grunted and nodded. You know Jack. You guys are all sphinxes.”

“And you didn’t see her again until that night, the night she was killed? What time?”

“About ten after nine. She was still there when I left the store.”

He made some notes on pad. “You talked to her?”

“Briefly. She said she was sorry about Jack. And something about it being weird because her mother had died too.”

He studied her for a long moment. “I appreciate your telling me,” he said softly. “Why the wait?”

She smiled. “She died day before yesterday. That’s hardly a ‘wait.’”

He gave what passed as a shrug. “I didn’t mean to lecture. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“Now, can you tell me something? Was she an informant and why the name Dominique Downy?”

He rubbed his chin. “You might call it a stage name.” He stood. “That’s all I can tell you.”

He rose. “Take care of yourself now, Valerie?” he said as he ushered her to the door.

“I’d like to know what her connection to Jack is, was.”

“Probably just a kid he was helping out. Four years ago? She’d have been about fourteen. Isn’t that right?” He patted her shoulder.

Valerie nodded. That’s right, Neal. Don’t tell me a goddamned thing.

Janousek waited at the end of the hall, ready to take her out the side door again.

Wait. She’d forgotten something, something that would add weight to her concern about the mail carrier: Gil had mentioned the names of several serial killers, as if he were a groupie. She waved at Janousek. “Just a minute.”

She hurried back to Neal’s office. He was on the phone, sitting on the edge of his desk, facing the windows. She waited, studying his back, trying to judge from his attitude how long the conversation might last.

He raised his hand, and tossed a wadded piece of yellow paper into the wastebasket.

Valerie’s stomach lurched. The notes he’d taken on Gil, her mail carrier. Heat flooded her face and filled her throat. Slowly, she backed out. Was Janousek watching? She took a deep breath and turned around with a smile. “It’ll wait,” she called.

She walked swiftly down the hall, hoping she didn’t look as steamed as she felt. Neal had been so nice. He’d seemed to be taking her so seriously. All the time he'd been playing her, convinced she was a depressed, overwrought woman who needed special handling. Obviously, she needed to bring him hard facts.

~

Valerie spent the rest of the afternoon going through her high school yearbooks. A feeling of weariness overtook her. Time passed so fast. Those young people in the books were gone. Jack was gone for good.

That evening, she took Bruno out for a walk. The houses in the neighborhood seemed dark and silent, drapes pulled against the cold. Valerie waited while Bruno nosed around in the dry leaves at the perimeter of the sidewalk. Only a stray window here and there revealed the warmth of lamplight. She pulled up the collar of her down-filled coat and yanked her stocking cap down around her ears. God, it was cold. Her hips ached from the morning’s exercise with Sunny. A walk would do her good. Yes, it was a good idea to walk even if it was nine o’clock at night and ten degrees above zero and everyone else was snuggled into their warm and cozy homes. She still hadn’t expelled all the anger she felt after the morning’s experience with Neal.

Maggie's house looked dark, but Valerie knew she was watching reruns—the “Golden Girls” were her favorites—and working on her funny sewing machine. What did she call it? A serger? A commercial sewing machine that did edges. That woman would never stop working.

Near the end of the street, the full moon rested on a chimney like a giant globe on a pedestal. The street lamps overhead cast pale circles of gleaming ochre on the slick black road.

Jack would never have allowed her to walk alone at night. Valerie’s eyes burned. Freedom’s just another word…. Bruno raised his head and snorted. Frosty puffs garlanded his huge head. He ambled over to a small round bush, raised his leg, and marked the territory.

Wilson Street was just one block north. Thank heavens the dog was willing to stroll, eager to investigate every strange and fascinating odor. Perhaps he wasn’t as incorrigible as he seemed. What a strange word. Incorrigible. Did that mean Bruno was now ‘corrigible’?

They meandered on. Every few steps, Bruno stopped and pushed his nose into a dark and fragrant recess. A slight breeze chattered the debris in the gutter.

The dog crossed in front of her to check out this development.

She switched the leash to her left hand so he could walk in the street. At the end of the block, she stopped under the street sign. Wilson and Jefferson. The house was two blocks to the east.

“Come on, Bruno. We’ll cross here.” She stepped into the street, felt the strain on the leash as the dog resisted. She tugged. “This way.”

He followed and she smiled. Maybe dogs were like people. There were day people and night people. Bruno just happened to be a night dog.

Maple trees lined both sides of Wilson Street, forming a high lacy arch of black boughs and frosty moonlight. Somewhere on the next street, a cat began a lament that sounded eerily like the wail of a human infant. The headlights of a car, approaching on a side street, lit the intersection ahead. The car, a nondescript old junker, stopped at the stop sign, drove straight across, and disappeared.

Bruno lifted his head, tested the wind, and returned his attention to the rustling detritus in the gutter.

The homes in the first block were similar to the small Cape Cods and saltboxes on her block. She urged Bruno along.

In the next block, two-story frame houses lined both sides of the street. This area was one of the oldest in Cordova. Residents had refurbished many of the houses. The dog nosed ahead of her, snapped at a dry leaf tossed up by the wind.

She recognized the house from the news flash, the trellises on the porch and the two-story garage, obviously an addition. This ordinary place was where Amber-slash-Dominique had died.

A row of low conifers bordered the driveway. Bruno lifted his leg and peed on the one nearest the street.

The windows of the apartment above the garage were dark, of course. Yellow police banners barred entry to the stairs. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. But then, what had she expected? A marquee outlining Amber’s biography? A narrow balcony ran the length of the apartment, a perfect place for someone—a peeper like Mailman Gil, for instance—to stand if he wanted to look in the windows. More to the point, a perfect place for a killer to stand.

The breeze lifted, rasped across her face. She bent her head, squinting against the icy grit. A faint clicking noise sounded from the direction of the porch.

She didn’t see anything. She pulled on Bruno’s leash. The porch was empty. A few low bushes grew close around the foundation. Perhaps a cat prowled in their cover.

The clicking noise again. In the dark shadow at the corner of the house. The glowing red ember of a cigarette.

A blast of frigid air knifed through her coat, raked her arms with cold. She shuddered, tugged on Bruno’s leash, and urged him to a faster pace.

A man stepped out of the shadows and threw a still-glowing cigarette on the ground.

Bruno growled, an ominous rumbling low and deep in his throat.

She jerked his leash and whispered, “Hush.” If they had posted an officer here, she hoped it wasn’t someone who would recognize her. Her heart hammered at her chest. She knew that a killer often returned to the scene.

As the man came closer, she saw that he wasn’t an officer, but a slight, boyish man hunched inside a shapeless overcoat. The brittle grass crunched under his feet. In a moment, they would pass each other.

Bruno, his growl softly menacing, strained against the leash. She held tight and pulled the dog along. Keeping her head down, she watched the man through her eyelashes as he neared. This could be Bruno’s big moment. Do or die. Rather, do, or your mistress dies.

He passed her without a glance.

She let out her breath. Behind her, his footfalls sounded on the ice-encrusted surfaces, first on the grass, and then on the porch.

She recognized him. She had seen him earlier in the news report: the man on the porch with the two elderly Sweet sisters, the man with the cigarette holder. She heard the sound of a door opening and then closing, softly, as if he were trying to make as little noise as possible.

Bruno whined and shimmied with excitement, then looked up at her.

“Relax, boy. Just a man out taking a smoke.”

She walked to the end of the block, crossed the street, and, taking her time, started back. At the end of the block, the junker she’d seen earlier rolled slowly across the intersection. She was glad she had Bruno for protection. The car could very well belong to young hoodlums out cruising, looking for trouble. It had that look. Now that Cordova was growing, she supposed they’d have more troublemakers.

~

I’ve got time, Maggie thought, as she sat down at the serger. I can sew on at least a dozen cuffs before bedtime. Kevin might think she was ready to retire, now that he was making plenty of money and able to hand out three or four hundred dollars every month, but she wasn’t going to idle away her days. It was piecework helped them stretch out the benefits after the mister left. It was piecework paid for Kevin’s bike when he was in junior high. When he was in high school, it was piecework paid for his fancy tennis shoes and jeans. Now, the piecework paid for her monthly wash-and-set at Lyla’s and a face lift next year, the neck at least, and maybe the eyelids too.

Anyway, this was her thinking time, listening to the steady hum of the motor, slipping the material through nice and easy, keeping the seams straight as a plumb line.

Everyone had their own ways of grieving, but Valerie Yates showed no signs of getting on with her life. Maybe Gil, the mailman, had some odd ways but what was Valerie Yates thinking of, arguing with him right there on the front porch, where everyone could see? And hear? What was she thinking of, going out at night alone, as if anyone in their right mind would go strolling in weather like this with a killer running around loose. Now the radio and TV were going crazy. The Rose Killer! Why were they giving this nutcase all this publicity, like he was a rock star or something. She wasn’t going to get to sleep until Valerie was home, safe inside with her doors locked.

Maggie sighed. It wasn’t no use going over there; Valerie had made it clear that she wasn’t putting out the welcome mat. Oh she had her usual bright smile and cheery howdydo, but the heart was gone out of it. There was no reason Kevin couldn’t drop by though. After all he and Valerie had been—what did they call it?—‘dueling valedictorians’ at Cordova, even if he was always saying they were just buddies. He didn’t fool her, not one bit. He’d been talking about giving up his fancy practice out west for years, but it wasn’t ‘til that smart mouth Jack Yates got hisself killed that Kevin put his money where his mouth was.

Jack Yates. He had everybody fooled. Everyone but her, that is. She knew what went on with that one.

She’d never told a soul, but now she was thinking it was time she told Kevin. That’s what she’d do all right. She lifted the finished piece off the serger, and dropped it into the box at her feet.

Chapter 10

The windows were dark of course, up there where he had made her his, where he had purified her forever and for all time. Joy coursed through his body in that rhythm, the joyful rhythm that pronounced him right and true. He deserved this indulgence, this revisiting of his triumph. He couldn’t overdo it, of course; he had to reserve visits for special occasions.

The girl Amber had strayed, and he had saved her. Father would be proud. And Mother? The scent of face powder, flowery and moist and hot. The hands, also moist and hot, but so small and gentle. He leaned against the old car, closed his eyes. Shut it out. Take the moment.

He opened his eyes, brushed away any specks that might have adhered to his coat. The old beat-up car was useful for these ventures, but unpolished, unclean.

A few lights shone in the neighborhood houses, the houses where the ordinary ones lived, the dreary workers with their mundane lives. How little they knew. He chuckled. How frightened they would be if they learned that he was casting an eye on them. That woman, bundled up in her mannish clothes, the one walking with the big dog, if she’d known then that he was no more than a whisper away, she would have screamed and sobbed in terror. In terror, yes. The ecstasy thrilled deep in his throat, roared up into his brain, and for a moment, he forgot where he was, forgot that he had to contain himself, and the moan escaped his lips, climbing and climbing— Stop! He clamped his lips together. Had anyone heard? No porch lights. No rippling drapes. What was that? A curious little rumble. At his feet.

A long, lean cat of multiple, indeterminate hues wound itself round his ankles, purring.

He cocked his head, smiled. “Tyger, Tyger?”

Chapter 11

Sunny Cavanaugh turned to the full-length mirror, mechanically checking her dress, makeup, and hair while she thought about Valerie. They hadn’t talked since day before yesterday, the morning they’d jogged, and Sunny didn’t know if she’d reported the mail carrier to Neal or not. Sometime today, she vowed, she’d find time for a call no matter what.

Clay was prowling around the bedroom, humming in that way he had when he was impatient.

“Be there in a sec, hon,” she called. He hated waiting, but if he wanted her to wow his potential investors, he’d have to be patient. She tugged at the waistline of the red jersey and smiled at her reflection. “You’ve still got it, old girl.”

“Say again?” Clay said.

“Just talking to myself, hon.” The KJT recording by the supposed killer had not done much for Clay’s mood. The rising publicity about the serial killer in Cordova was not a great selling point in his argument. What could he say? We’ve got a great little town, folks. Plan to have your company gatherings here. Just remember to keep armed guards on the females at all times.

He stood at the sliding glass doors that opened onto their balcony, the morning sun glinting off the gray hairs misting his crisp brown hair. He looked great in his expensive gray suit. Clay looked great in everything, football uniform, suit, jeans and T-shirt, stage costumes. She smiled, remembering how dashing he’d looked as Baron Von Trapp.

He was gazing at the construction site across the lake and he looked deadly serious. Then, as she had once joked to Valerie, a man who looks like a poster for Marine recruitment doesn’t need many facial expressions.

She strolled across the room and wrapped her arm around his waist.

In February, Five Mile Lake was smooth, its cerulean blue bannered with gray and gleaming like slate. On the far side, a long stand of evergreen conifers lined the bank, giving the lake the look of an oasis in the spare Kansas countryside. The unfinished dock for the convention center jutted over the water, the construction site behind it like a great, unhealed wound.

Sunny shivered. The water at dock’s end was only a few feet deep, but ten feet out the bottom dropped off sharply. They didn't call it Five Mile Lake because of its length. She couldn’t help thinking about the deep cold water that would gel your blood before the idea of drowning ever dawned on you.

“You’re still going?” His voice had grown deep and suave since high school. She had once accused him of manufacturing it out the airwaves: one-third Murrow, one-third Brinkley, and one-third whazzisname.

“Of course.” She gave him a final hug and went to the armoire.

“Speed it up then, will you?”

“Yazzur, yazzur,” she muttered. “Oh by the way, hon, don’t forget we’re having Valerie for dinner next Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” He turned around, looking pensive. “Dammit, the California boys are coming in next week to talk money. If I want to make this deal, it’s now or never.”

She snapped a belt around her waist. “Valerie will be disappointed.”

“We’ll go to lunch next week. Didn’t you say Kev was back in town?”

“She’s so depressed. You know that girl, the murder victim? Valerie saw her at the store the night of the murder, and even talked to her.”

He snorted. “That upset her?”

“Valerie knew her, in a way. She was one of Jack’s informants.”

“Informant! You don’t have any way of knowing that.”

“Not for sure, but she came to their house once, looking for Jack.”

“Oh,” loading the word with innuendo.

“Oh. What do you mean by ‘Oh’? She was just a kid back then.”

He went to his dresser and retrieved a handkerchief from the top drawer. “Whatever you say.” He tucked the handkerchief into his breast pocket.

He was baiting her. She could tell. He’d never liked Jack Yates. “Have you seen that monster dog?”

“A dog? Seems like a good idea to me, what with a killer running loose.”

“She needs a trained dog, a dog that’s well behaved, not the Hound of the Baskervilles.

He turned to her. “I really appreciate your coming to this lunch.”

She had to smile at his crude way of changing the subject. “High time I learned more about Cavanaugh Real Estate and Development. Keep me busy and I’ll get to see more of you.”

“Counseling those teenage hookers doesn’t keep you busy?”

“Puleese.” She picked up her purse. “They’re not hookers. Pickpockets, shoplifters, dope addicts, runaways, and your general pathetic dregs of society, yes. But not hookers.” She swept some coins off the dresser into her purse and, turning to the door, muttered, “Not all of them anyway.”

She waited for him at the door while he checked the contents of his briefcase. “You want me there at twelve sharp?”

“A little before.” He snapped the briefcase shut. “I’ll drop Brad off at school. You’re going to be late.”

“I’ll see if he’s ready.”

She started out the door. He was behind her and she stopped suddenly, so that he had to bump against her. She leaned back into him. She loved his scent, so clean and manly. “I love you, babe,” she whispered

His lips brushed her hair. “I know,” he whispered, “but you’re still late for work.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got fifteen minutes. Guess what? I’ve got a new client first thing today.” She shimmied in excitement. “Another child to set on the road to happiness and success.”

~

The waiting room of the Youth Center was a zoo like always. Guylene McKenna unzipped her parka. Must have been a dozen kids sitting in the folding chairs lined up against the brick wall. Every head had turned her way.

Sure. Go ahead, check me out. I don’t care.

She made her face go stiff. Where was she going to sit? She saw an empty chair four seats in, but it was next to a dreeb with a shaved head. She wasn’t about to sit next to him. Down at the end though, close to the door that led to the offices, she saw an empty spot.

The nature girl at the reception desk, the one with the frizz of black hair and no makeup, smiled and pushed the sign-in sheet forward. Guylene signed in.

She took a deep breath, fixed her gaze on the painted floorboards, and walked the gauntlet. She felt the eyes of the boys undressing her. Someone hissed, “Strangler comin’ after you, bitch.”

Sighing, she sat down. Grazia, the nutcase, perched birdlike on the chair to her right. “How y’doing?”

Guylene shucked off her coat, and sat down. “Okay. You?”

“They’s sending me to the Hall.”

Guylene laid her coat across her knees. “Bummer.” Grazia’d end up at State, anybody could see that.

The black girl on the other side, a big fat girl, was chewing gum like she couldn’t get enough of it and bawling without making a sound. New. She’d get used to it.

Guylene picked a pill of lint from the knit cuff of her coat. This ache in her gut, she had to do something about it. She was probably getting ulcers. Holding everything in was killing her. If only the counselor turned out to be a real person, but there were only two kinds, at least she’d run into only two kinds, and God knows, she’d seen enough of them. There was the preachy kind: I’ll tell-you-how-you-should-act-look-and-think. And there was the gushy phony kind: I’ll-be-your-very-best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world. Either way, they were soshes, people on the other side.

A woman dressed like a preppy appeared at the end of the room, glanced at a clipboard, and called out a name Guylene didn’t get. The fat girl on the left, the one with the tear-stained face, got up and followed her down the hall.

Guylene turned over her coat and picked lint off the knit collar. Even if the new counselor didn’t pan out, she’d go to three sessions. She owed her mom that much at least.

A woman’s voice called out, “Guylene McKenna?” A tall woman with short, white-blonde hair stood at the open door.

Amber froze. The woman looked like a model. Those clothes. She couldn’t be a counselor.

The blonde woman called her name again.

Guylene jumped up.

The woman flashed a set of perfect white teeth and stuck out her hand. “I’m Sunny Cavanaugh. Call me Sunny.”

Guylene took her hand. The woman had long white fingers with bright red nail polish and that perfume—jasmine maybe and something that smelled like cinnamon.

“Come on back,” Sunny said.

Guylene followed her down the hall.

Five foot eight at least. Maybe 130 pounds. That white blouse, it had to be silk. Suede boots. And that neat name. She tried it out under her breath, drawing out the S in a sibilant whisper. Ssssunny.

In the office, Sunny slid into an overstuffed chair with grace, almost as if she’d had lessons on how to sit. “Have a seat.”

The lemony odor of furniture polish filled the room. The desk by the one window was clean and shining, even though gouges and dents covered its surface. Guylene sat on the lumpy couch, knees and feet together, hands in her lap. She took a deep breath. This Sunny didn’t have the usual phony smile but she was probably full of the same old bullshit. Was that her file there on the corner of the desk?

“You’ve been through this before,” Sunny said. “So you know how it’s supposed to go.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes. I know.”

“We’re supposed to spend some time together. Hopefully, I’ll be some support for you, someone to bounce ideas off, get some feedback from. Or just sound off to if you’re...ticked about something.”

The pot on the desk was nice, and those yellow flowers were pretty. And there was a picture of Sunny with a good-looking old dude and a skinny blond kid.

“Tell me something about yourself. Like, how you spend your time. When you’re not in school, that is.”

“I like the flicks. I like video arcades.”

Sunny laughed, flashed that smile again. “I like movies too, but the video games, I don’t know. I don’t like to lose.”

Guylene laughed. No bullshit. So far.

“How about plays or concerts?”

“I’ve seen plays at school. They’re boring.”

“There’s a couple of semi-professional groups in Wichita that are good.”

“Were you a model?”

“No, but I have performed with one of those theater groups I was telling you about.”

“No shit! I mean, you have?”

“Sure have.”

“I’d love to be an actress.”

“Maybe you should think about drama lessons.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Something on your mind? School or friends or stuff you feel like talking about to a total stranger?” Her smile was gentle.

Guylene laughed. Lady, if you only knew. I could blow your mind. She nodded toward the manila file folder on the corner of the desk. “You know how school’s going ‘cause you’ve got my file.”

“Not too good, I guess. It’s just you and your mom at home, right?”

“Right.”

“Any other family in town?”

A chill covered Guylene’s face, just like the icy-cold of the face cream they bought from the Avon lady. “Just my uncle,” she said. She looked out the window at the dark sky, the rain clouds hanging heavy now over the rooftops. Just my sonovabitching bastard uncle.

Sunny’s voice was soft. “You don’t like your uncle much, do you?”

“He’s okay.” She could feel the sweat on her upper lip. “My mom does try. She tries to make me go to school.”

“When I was feeling insecure, I used to pretend the day was a performance. I’d play Racquel Welch, the most popular girl in school.” She tilted her head and studied Guylene’s face. “You could do Gwynneth Paltrow. You know, cool and under control?”

Guylene nodded, studying the photograph on the desk. A husband and a little boy, so good-looking, so perfect. I like her, for a counselor, she’s okay, but is she really okay? Guylene smiled at Sunny, a big question filling her thoughts, making her gut ache. She could just see all those bright red ulcers down there, burning away.

Would she be able to trust this woman?

~

Sunny stood at the plate glass windows looking out. Paulo’s was located on the fourth and final floor of the Cordova Inn, the kind of luxury hotel/motel Cordova citizens had never expected to see.

The town, laid out as neatly as a child’s city of blocks, satisfied Sunny’s penchant for orderliness. They had a central square called what else but ‘Central Square.’ Streets ran north and south, avenues east and west. Neat little shops, a church on every other corner and nearly as many bars and taverns. South of town, a vast expanse of wheat fields, stubbly and dun-colored in February, spread to the horizon. The twin gray ribbons of the turnpike rolled through the fields. Water towers poked up here and there marking the locations of Andover, Augusta, Towanda. To the north, Five Mile Lake spread out across its eight thousand acres.

The day was gray and a storm was threatening, but she’d had a great day at work. Guylene McKenna young and vulnerable, just ripe for the introduction of a new and powerfully good influence, like one Sunny Cavanaugh.

She turned away from the view, hoping that Clay’s business lunch would go as well. At their luncheon table, the Fat Man caught her eye and smiled.

The three men—she had dubbed them the Fat Man, the Life Guard, and The Game Show Host—seemed properly impressed by the deference Clay received from the staff.

A white-jacketed waiter filled their water goblets. Sunny smiled a thank you, and tried to ease the tension grabbing at her shoulders. She had to call Valerie, remind her about the board meeting. God, and dinner Friday night too. Shit, what was she turning into? Valerie’s keeper?

The Life Guard, a tan, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties, caught her eye. He looked around, nodded his head appreciatively, and said, “Nice place.”

She flashed her best high-kilowatt smile.

Austin, the waiter, cleared his throat discreetly and waited. She gave him a smile and a wink. His mother and hers had been grade school rivals.

Clay ordered for them both. Dry martinis.

She preferred screwdrivers, but it was Clay’s stated opinion that while big-time developer’s wives drank martinis, only bowlers and barmaids drank screwdrivers. For such a sweet guy, he was quite the snob at heart.

She leaned back and listened to the men talk. Clay had gone into his high-roller mode and was expounding on rising property values. He radiated intelligence and self-assurance, with just the right touch of humor to polish off his performance. She never ceased to wonder at his ability to turn it on and off at will.

The Game Show Host, a tight-smiled man in his fifties, was saying something about mineral rights at the lake property.

She should join in the conversation, but feared that her doubts about the project might show through. Five Mile Lake was a good distance from the from the airport. Wichita might be spreading right up to Cordova’s borders, but how could he get that kind of financing for a resort located in a hick town with fewer than 11,000 hicks? The one time she’d asked questions, he’d hinted that she wasn’t being supportive. Of course, she couldn’t help being her usual smart-ass self; she’d gone into a twangy imitation of Tammy Wynette: “Stand by your man.” He’d been working on the Corvette—this was before he found the garage downtown—and when he looked up, the hurt in his eyes silenced her. She never mentioned it again.

The men’s conversation sagged and she seized the opportunity. “The Wichita Eagle had an article about the Resort last week. Very positive.” Her voice, she realized, was just a shade too bright. She’d also referred to the Convention Center as a ‘resort,’ a term they’d dismissed as provincial.

The Fat Man, in a voice of deep concern, said, “Is your martini dry enough, my dear?”

She took a sip and assured him that it was indeed dry enough thank you very much, and flashed a smile around the table, low voltage of course.

Clay’s eyes signaled approval.

She smiled into her martini glass and took a sip of the colorless liquid. Christ, she hated dry martinis.

Clay said something about escrow.

Across the table, the Lifeguard tried to catch her eye.

She excused herself and rose, feeling their assessing glances with every movement.

The dining room was full and noisy with the clink of glasses and cutlery overlaid with big booming voices. Kansas wheat farmers, oilmen, bankers, they were loud talkers and Paulo’s was where they congregated. Poor Royal Farley. His business was down thirty percent, she’d heard.

In the ladies lounge, she sat down next to the ornate gold telephone. The first time she’d seen it, she’d loved this room, so pale and plush it could have been a Thirties movie set. Today, for some reason, it struck her as pretentious, and even faintly ridiculous.

She dialed Valerie’s number and willed her to answer. “Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone.”

Finally, on the sixth ring, she heard the familiar husky voice and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s me. I forgot to remind you yesterday. The Cordova Cultural Association semi-annual board meeting. Tomorrow at ten.”

Valerie sighed. “I’ll go, but only to resign.”

“They’ll fill your place with a conservative. They’ll vote down the funds for the Youth Dance Project.”

For a moment, Sunny wondered if they’d been cut off. Finally, Valerie said. “Tomorrow’s meeting then, but that’s it. After that, I’m through.”

“Tomorrow then. I’ll meet you at the tea shoppe at ten. Don’t forget about next Wednesday either. What time should Clay pick you up?”

Valerie’s sigh stretched across the phone lines. “I’d rather drive myself.”

“But with that killer running loose and all.”

Valerie cut her off. “Give me a break, will you? It’s less than ten miles.”

Lighten it up, Sunny. “Myself, I’m thinking of moving to the boonies, where I can live without ‘the mahvelous mayhem of civilization.’” Would Valerie remember?

A beat, then two. Valerie said, “‘Sojourner.’ Kevin’s first and only play.”

“He dedicated it to you, didn’t he?”

“Oh Sunny. That was twenty years ago. Hey, I’ve got to go. Bruno’s getting into something.”

Sunny listened to the dial tone for a moment and then hung up. Kevin and Valerie. Should she play matchmaker? Would that make her too much of a busybody? She thought about it for a nanosecond. Naaah. All she wanted was what was best for everyone, even if she had to manipulate her loved ones every once in awhile. What Valerie needed was to jump right back into life and she, Sunny, knew at least two men who were standing by, ready and willing.

Chapter 12

The woman’s voice vibrated through his skull. He was searching for his special brand of toothpaste in the rear of Roskum’s Drug Emporium when he heard her. She spoke again. “I am hurrying, Robert.” He cringed at the sound of that hateful grating voice. He was sure Robert had also cringed.

He peered over the display of disposable razors. They, she and the man named Robert, stood in the next aisle, an ordinary middle-class couple in late middle age. She, the owner of the voice, was short with dark curly hair, dressed neatly, conservatively. In her youth, she had probably been pretty and even now, people might consider her attractive if it wasn't for that sour, unpleasant expression. And she had that edge in her voice, that sharp razor’s edge of disrespect.

The man, quite stout, had the beefy red face of a heavy drinker. “Hurry up, Tess. I don’t want to miss the Rockford rerun.”

The whine in her voice was piercing, even more noxious than before. “I want to find the one they’ve been advertising on TV.”

The man’s face swelled alarmingly. “Get your damned mouthwash and let’s go!” He wheeled around and marched toward the front of the store.

The whine became a hiss of loathing and scorn. “You’ve seen those reruns dozens of times,” She grabbed something off the shelf and followed him to the cash register.

Heat pumping in his throat, he watched them pay for their purchase. The woman was all smiles and chatter with the obese male clerk. When they were finished, the man shoved through the door. The woman trailed behind him, probably nattering and complaining every step of the way.

He glanced at his watch. Did he have time? He had plans for the evening, important plans, but yes, he’d take the time. He would make the time. He picked up his toothpaste—a brand that had yet to be polluted with antiseptics and whiteners and who knew what else—and loped to the front of the store. Quickly, he counted out the exact change, got his receipt, and rushed out to the sidewalk.

Yes, there they were, across the street, just getting into an older Prelude. Surely, they lived nearby. He could follow, see where they lived, and still have plenty of time later for the thrill, the excitement, the danger. He would still have time to drive past Amber’s house again. One more time. And then, never again.

Chapter 13

Valerie raised her face to the February sun. Good thing she’d worn her pea coat. She and Bruno had found shelter from the wind in the big arched entryway of the First Presbyterian Church. The dog was skitterish, eager to get moving. “Give me a break,” she said. “You’ve got a good thick fur coat. I don’t.” His black coat in the cold wind made him look as dark and rough as a bear.

She looked at her watch. He should show up any minute now. Was she on a fool’s errand? She hoped not.

“There he is,” she whispered. Bruno slathered her gloved hand with drool.

Down the street, Gil Rydell, stocky and bustling, pushed his mail cart around the corner.

She glanced at her watch again. 11:22. Yesterday, he’d turned this corner at 11:15.

Bruno whined and tugged at the leash. His eyes told her it was time for action

“Come on, then.” She set off, staying half of a block behind Gil. She felt sure he wouldn't spot her. He never looked back.

She followed him through the residential neighborhood for three blocks. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred except that she saw three youths hanging out on a big front porch. They appeared to be close to the age of her friend Wynona, thirteen or fourteen, and should have been in school. A few blocks later, she saw a teenage girl with an older woman. Were the teachers having a conference day?

Gil was nearing the point where he would cross the street and start back to deliver mail to the houses on the opposite side of Baker.

Valerie led Bruno around the block and arrived back at Baker Street just in time to see him pass. He was so puffed up, so bristling with energy and vanity, she felt a brand-new flash of anger.

At the third house on the block, a yellow two-story, he stopped to arrange his cart, all the time peering this way and that.

Valerie squatted down and pretended to examine a weed in the sidewalk.

He delivered the mail and walked slowly away from the porch. Again, he fussed with the contents of his cart while performing his strange peering routine.

What was going on?

He looked around again, glancing up the street and back.

Valerie bowed her head, yanked her shoelace lose and retied it.

He paced quickly across the stiff dry grass in front of the yellow house and peered over the back fence. He gazed into the yard for a couple of minutes, swung around, hurried back to his cart, and continued with his route.

Valerie waited until he reached the end of the block. She stopped just past the yellow house to note down its address. The sound of voices made her turn around. Two adolescent girls stood on the porch, both wearing bulky down vests and sweat pants, one girl dark haired and still plump with baby fat, the other blonde and waif-thin. They kept turning their heads, peeking at Gil the mailman. The dark haired girl said something Valerie couldn’t hear and both girls laughed.

Valerie, Bruno at her side, walked on. Gil Rydell’s perverse behavior seemed to be common knowledge. He was obviously a joke to the young women. She couldn’t go back to Neal but she could learn more about Gil Rydell.

“C’mon, Bruno. We’re going home and get ourselves organized.”

Thirty minutes later, in her basement office, Bruno curled up at her feet, Valerie finished inputting her new information on Gil Rydell, noting the address of the house where he had been peeking. She couldn’t go back to Neal; he probably would shrug this off too; she had nothing concrete. Clearly, this mailman with so much access to people’s homes and families was dangerous.

The phone at her elbow rang. She didn’t recognize the calling number and hesitated a moment before answering. It was Kevin.

“You stood me up and I’m planning my revenge.”

“Something came up.” Had she made plans to meet Kevin? She didn’t remember any.

“This something better be damned important.”

Maybe she could tell Kevin and he could tell Neal. Neal might take a guy seriously.

“Okay.” he said in one of his tough guy voices. “Spill it.”

“It’s my mailman.”

“And what about your mailman?”

“I’ve seen him trying to peek at young girls.”

“You’ve got a pervert on your hands then.”

He sounded concerned. He wasn’t blowing her off. “He’s creepy. He was blathering on and on about the serial killer, like it was a great thing for our town.”

“Call Neal. You’ve got an in.”

“I saw Neal. He thinks I’m.... I’m not sure what he thinks, but every one is acting as I’m off kilter. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it.”

“I know Sunny and my mother worry about you. Everyone grieves at their own pace, Valerie, and you can’t hurry that up. Especially not to please other people.”

“Kevin. Why are you always so sensible and reasonable?”

“For the same reason I’m never the leading man, I guess.”

Laughing, she said, “I still don’t know what to do about Gil Rydell.”

“I can see you’re at a disadvantage. How can you even talk to the parents of the kids he’s peeping at when you’re ever so insidiously being labeled a nutcase? Hey, listen, why don’t we discuss this at lunch. I’ll bring over some pizza.”

She didn’t remember making any pizza date. Kevin was bamboozling her.

After she hung up, she had a sudden thought. Maybe Gilbert Rydell and the Rose Killer were one and the same. Maybe she had stumbled onto something really big. When she told Kevin she was hoping to write an article that would get national attention, she’d been kidding, but it wasn’t a bad idea. A forty-two year old—forty-five if and when she got her BA—had no real chance of being an investigative reporter. Much too late in the game. And the way she was going, she wasn’t going to be doing the social stuff for the Cordova Courier much longer. Brenda was patient but she had limits.

Horrible as it sounded, these murders might give her career a jump-start. She could see her book prominently displayed in Barnes and Noble: The Rose Killer Delivered My Mail.

She chuckled. More likely would be a headline in the Cordova Courier: Mailman sues Housewife for Defamation of Character.

She made a new computer file:

JACK

Her psychologist friends would have a field day with that one and accuse her of retreating, hiding, and all kinds of abnormal actions. Here she was, treating her husband, her marriage, hell, her own life, as just another subject.

So be it. It was time to pursue the man named Tripper, manager of Video Village and who knew what else. She should cover all the bases. There had to be some reason that Jack, who didn’t care for movies, had his telephone number hidden away. She pulled the piece of yellow-lined paper out of Jack’s manila envelope and dialed Tripper’s number. The second time was the charm, wasn’t it?

“Video Village,” said a nasal female voice, the same one that had answered before.

Valerie again asked for Tripper.

“He’s out. Want to leave a message?”

“When will he be in?”

“He comes. He goes.”

“Thanks.” Valerie hung up.

From the manila envelope, she fished out the plastic baggie with the small key. A quick trip to Bernie’s Key Shop should solve this mystery.

“Bruno, you stay home and guard the house, hear?” Bruno followed her upstairs and to the coat closet, tail wagging wildly.

“Sorry, boy. You can’t go this time,” she said as she tied a muffler around her neck.

As she went out the door, she tried to push a disturbing question out of her thoughts. How many of the victims lived on Gilbert Rydell’s mail route?

~

Bernie’s Key Shop was in a tiny street mall not far from the hospital. Harry, the crusty old guy who had been there forever—no one could explain why the place was called Bernie’s—gave her an answer immediately. “Safe deposit box. Looks like the Kansas State branch over on Longfellow.” He turned it over a few times and examined it more closely. “Yup. That’s what it is, alright.”

Thanks, Harry.” Valerie slipped the key back into its envelope and into her purse. Outside, she hesitated. It was too late to go to the bank and the McDonalds was just down the block.

Maybe she’d have a burger for dinner. Just as she made up her mind to head on home, she heard a familiar voice.

“Valerie.” Kevin was coming down the street toward her. “Hi, I was just just getting ready to call you again about our pizza date.”

She laughed. “What is this pizza date anyway?”

“Where’s your hat? Or earmuffs, at least.”

“It’s plain to see you’ve just come from California. Good grief. Overcoat, wool scarf, hat, AND earmuffs?”

He grinned. “It’s damned cold here in Kansas. Honestly, I’d forgotten just how cold.” He tried to blow a ring with his frosty breath but failed. “How about that pizza now?”

“I was just going to McDonalds, but thanks anyway.”

He took her arm. “My treat.”

Valerie tried not to sigh and they started toward the Pizza Palace. He walked briskly and she had to push herself to keep up. She felt enveloped in his energy and it wasn’t at all unpleasant.

“You didn’t answer. What ARE you doing out?”

“I had to get a key made, that’s all, and when did you start being so nosy?”

“You’ve forgotten. I’ve always been nosy.”

When they reached the Pizza Palace, they found only five other people there, all teenagers. They had lucked out, arriving about fifteen minutes after the rush hour. The heated air and the smells of onions and grease warmed them immediately.

Kevin took off his hat and earmuffs and they ordered—a large thick crust, with everything but anchovies.

They picked a booth and shed their coats. After a couple of minutes, the waiter bellowed Kevin’s name and they picked up the food. Valerie sat, bemused by how easily he had maneuvered her into this meal. Kevin was a force, no doubt about it. In school, even though he was short and not exactly the bad-boy type that everyone was gaga over, there were plenty of girls who had crushes on him. He’d gone with Marilyn Barnes for a couple of weeks, but mostly you rarely saw him with the same girl more than once.

A burst of laughter came from the three girls who sat in the back corner. The boys barely turned their heads but Valerie could see one of them throw his head back and mock them.

Kevin divided the food and then set the table with plastic utensils and napkins, and two cups of water. “Help your self,” he said, grabbing a large unwieldy piece.

Valerie sipped her water. “I think I heard that you were married briefly.”

“And you call me nosy?” He took a big bite and, after he’d chewed and swallowed, said, “Yes.”

“Not the right match?”

“Just not you, darlin’.”

Chapter 14

The afternoon sun shimmered through the frosted window, turning the seashells on the shower curtain a gorgeous iridescent blue. Guylene McKenna stood in front of the sink and scrubbed her teeth. Up and down, circle round, every surface twice, but tarnish had dulled the stupid mirror, and it was hard to see her molars in the back.

There, she'd finished the right side. Downstairs, water splashed in the kitchen sink, a pot clanked on the range top, a chair scraped across the linoleum floor. Any minute now, Jonelle would be calling her for lunch.

When did I start thinking of her as Jonelle, Guylene wondered.

She scrubbed the teeth on the left. Up and down, circle round. Today, I’ll tell her today, no matter what. Today, I’ll tell her.

She pulled her lips back and inspected her work. She had Daddy’s gummy smile.

Too bad she hadn’t inherited Jonelle’s teeth. Just her luck to look like him, all pale and bony. Just like that stupid picture, the one she’d saved from the trash when Jonelle went berserk and threw out all the albums. Stupid picture, she was three and he was hugging her tight against his chest and smiling real big. Just a dork. Probably off living like a billionaire somewhere.

She put the toothbrush away and applied Pink Melon lipstick. Good. She liked the look. Understated, yet sexy.

If she told Jonelle, how would she take it? Would she believe her? What if she went nuts again, like that time the guy she was going with—Duane or Wayne or something like that—ditched her?

Guylene washed her hands again, scrubbing until she was satisfied, until her hands, like her lips, were melon pink. She would go to the kitchen. She would talk to Jonelle before she went on the job interview. This was her only chance. Today. She had to tell her.

Guylene marched down the hall.

In the kitchen, the sunlight blasted through the windows. The countertops looked gunky; every little crack, every worn and dirty smudge stood out. Jonelle was at the table, already eating her soup from one of the cracked white bowls. She looked good though, prim and neat in that navy suit she’d bought for fifteen bucks at Value Village, her dark hair all done up in a bun.

On the other side of the table, another bowl of soup waited. Chicken noodle. Not again. Guylene poured a glass of milk and sat. “Thinking about what you’re going to say in the interview?”

Jonelle nodded, flashed her interview smile. “Practice makes perfect, I guess. Eat your soup, Honey. You’re too thin to diet.”

Guylene swished the noodles around, tried to clear away the sickening gray chunks of chicken. She couldn’t tell her now, not right before a job interview, but there was never a time that would be perfect, never a time that would be right.

Jonelle wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and looked up, dark eyes intent.

Guylene bent her head, spooned soup into her mouth as if she couldn’t get enough of it.

Jonelle cleared her throat.

Guylene gritted her teeth. What now?

“Mr. Schneider called this morning. He said that if you have one more absence, you’ll be suspended.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

Guylene shook her head. “Quit worrying, will you. I won’t ditch any more.” She plucked a crumb from the plastic tablecloth and flicked it into the sink. “And besides, Schneider always says that.”

“I think he means it this time. You don’t want to flunk out, do you? Miss out on going to the new high school next year? Won’t that be fun?”

The sound of her mother’s voice so full of hope and other stuff made her eyes feel hot. “Sure. I’ll love it.”

“Besides, I want you at school, not alone here in the house.”

“‘Cause of the strangler?”

Jonelle rose and cleared her dishes. “I’m sure there’s no real danger. But, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Anyway, school’s out this afternoon. Teacher’s Conference.”

Jonelle screwed up her mouth. “Maybe Buddy could come over after he’s through.”

“No,” Guylene said quickly. “Don’t bother Uncle Gil. I’ll go over to the Purcell’s. Okay?”

“Okay. Oh, I made another appointment for you at the Youth Center too. You be there at four o’clock. Hear?”

Guylene tried to groan convincingly. “I hate the Youth Center.” She decided to give her mom a break. “The new counselor’s kind of nice though.”

Jonelle perked up immediately. “Oh, I’m so glad you like her.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to comb my hair and get going. I’m supposed to be at Votrix’s personnel office at one o’clock sharp.”

Guylene picked up her spoon. She waited until her mother had left the room, and then picked out every disgusting piece of chicken and quickly drank the remaining broth. She cleared her dishes and went to the bathroom.

Her mom stood in front of the sink, putting on her lipstick.

Guylene sidled past, closed the lid of the toilet, and sat down. Breathe light and she wouldn’t smell it, all that mold and gunk and who knew what under the tiles.

Jonelle finished off her bow-shaped lips with gloss.

Too dark, Amber wanted to say. You’re an autumn. You need a coral or a peach.

Jonelle ran a comb through her dark curls, plumping them up with her free hand.

Amber knew she had to tell her. There would never be a really right time. It was now or never. She took a deep breath, got a whiff of putrid mold, and gagged.

“You okay?” Jonelle snapped her purse shut.

Guylene nodded.

Jonelle took another look in the mirror. “I’m going to Dillon’s after I get through at Votrix. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. I may not be here when you get home.”

Guylene stood up. “Do good, Mom.”

Jonelle presented a cheek for a kiss. “Thanks, Sweetie.”

Guylene kissed her, catching a whiff of the sweet odor of Youth Dew that made her want to cry somehow.

Her mom glanced at her watch again. “You go right over to the Purcell’s. Okay?”

“Mom?”

“Got to go. See you tonight.”

Guylene trailed her through the living room. At the door, she gave her mother a quick hug “Don’t worry. You’ll do great.”

The big grin made her heart turn over. “Of course.”

Bright red lipstick, a big smile, her mom looked pretty, full of pep. Please let her get this job.

Guylene shoved the bolt into place and rested her forehead against the door. Shit. She shook her head violently. She always chickened out. She'd never get up the nerve. She looked at the clock. Did she have time to brush her teeth again?

She remembered this morning, walking through the halls at Thomas Jefferson Middle School, how hard it was to keep her face stiff and snooty, just in case one of those sosh girls looked at her, how she’d had to listen to old lady Walters lecture her about homework for the two-hundred-millionth time, and how hard she had to swallow when that jerk Mr. Throckmorton sneered at her. She’d wanted to give him the finger.

Back in the kitchen, she switched on the small radio on the counter. The sound of thumping drums, clashing symbols, and screams filled the room. “All right,” she said as she bopped around the kitchen. Serrated Knives, her very favorite group.

She’d have a cigarette, brush her teeth again, and get to work with Comet and Lysol in the bathroom. She had plenty of time to make a good job of it. She could make the one o’clock flick and then check out the video arcade at the new mall. Maybe she’d catch Angie there. Angie’s uncle was on the police force and Angie was full of tales about FBI men coming to town to catch the strangler. Guylene snickered. The doofus cops needed all the help they could get.

Chapter 15

He turned off the water and lay back in the bathtub. He hated the shallow tub, the Motel 6 cheapness, but for clandestine meetings, you had to put up with a lot.

He heard the soft thud of the door. Sheila had gone. He could hear the clack of her spike heels on the concrete walkway.

Sheila. Still a good lay after all these years. Never asked questions about his home life. Never pressured him. A damned good ass too. Too bad her tits were so tiny. What the hell, you can’t have everything.

He relaxed into the warm water, felt the mask slipping from his face. What had his father said? You can have it all, son. A real man can have it all.

He was making it come true. He took what he wanted. Lived life on his own terms. Soon he would triumph again.

The bimbo waitress with the mocking eyes, 36, divorced mother of four, promiscuous. His dark little matron, disrespectful, ungrateful. The know-it-all lesbian. Which one would be chosen?

The phone call to the police had been a brilliant idea. He didn’t want them to think he was slipping. He wanted to churn up the waters a little, keep them confused. Use all that stuff about roses. They thought he was a real psycho.

He caught a whiff of Sheila’s musky perfume

His mother had used a rose-scented cologne. Always had. Father preferred it. He insisted that she wear clothes and accessories that were dainty and feminine. Mother always kept her hair curled, her nails polished. Spoke in a sweet little voice. Coy. Sickening. He sloshed water over his arms. Coincidence, that’s all it was. He had found the rose bath powder at the little redhead’s house. That had given him the idea. The scent of roses had nothing to do with any of the others.

Chapter 16

Janousek waited for Valerie at the side door of the police station. What could Neal want from her? She wondered. She’d returned home after her errands yesterday and found a message on her answering machine: “Can you come to the station tomorrow. Say, ten? Call me if you can’t make it.” She was so wired, she hadn’t been able to sleep and woke up bleary eyed and cranky.

Now, as she hurried toward Janousek, adrenaline surged through her body again. Maybe Neal had information about Amber’s connection to Jack. She might even get a chance to mention Rydell’s latest peeping incident.

Janousek, chatting about the weather, led her to the office. When Neal saw that she had arrived, his eyes lit up. Did he do that for every woman? Was that why, in addition to his good looks, he was so compelling to females?

He rose, tall and solid, very neat in his khaki shirt and tie. “Valerie! Have a seat.” He lifted the edge of his blotter and pulled out a slip of paper. “I wanted to give this to you before you see it in the papers tomorrow.” He handed the note to her. He'd written two words on it: Amber Conklin.

She studied those two words. Amber Conklin. Conklin! She drew in a breath slowly between her teeth, making a hissing sound. She glanced at Neal. If he’d heard, he wasn’t letting on.

“That was her real name,” he said. “Not Downy. I can tell you that she lived in Kansas City, Missouri, before she came here. You’ll read about her in the Wichita Eagle tomorrow. She was associated with prostitutes, pimps, and drug dealers, although she’d never been arrested.”

The adrenaline rush changed to something else and she knew it was fear. “Thanks. Every bit of information helps.” She could hear the strain in her voice and drew a deep breath. “Do you think Amber could have been one of Jack’s informants?”

“I only know that he was devoted to keeping the drug dealers out.”

“So, he even had secrets from you?”

Neal gave her his patient smile. “Informants have to be secret. Otherwise, they’re of no use.”

“But he did have young informants?”

“You know Jack. He was always trying to help somebody out.” He glanced at the phone, fiddled with some papers on his desk.

Why, she wondered, had he asked her to come to his office? He could have given her this information over the phone. She rose. He had to be stressed, what with both the Kansas City and Wichita Police assisting in the investigation and, if the rumors were true, the FBI as well.

She put the slip of paper in her pocket. Think. Think! She couldn’t succumb to the panic yet. “I wanted to mention something more about Gil Rydell.”

“Rydell? The mailman?”

“Yesterday, I noticed him peeking into a neighbor’s back yard. Three young girls were laughing at him, as if they were used to his peeping, as if he were a local joke.”

“I’ll note it in his file.” He rose and walked around the desk. “Call me if you need anything.” He held out his hand. “I didn’t want you to read about Amber in the paper and think I had forgotten you.”

His hand was warm, the grip careful, but she could feel his strength.

“Neal, I know you’ve got your hands full.” She laughed as she realized he was still holding her hand.

“Oh.” He released her. “‘Hands full. I get it.” He laughed nervously and turned back to his desk.

Janousek walked her out and when she said goodbye, he winked at her, as if they had some kind of secret.

Did he know about Tammy Sue Conklin? Tammy Sue and Amber Conklin?

During the drive home, she realized she should mention Tammy Sue Conklin to Neal. He hadn't attended school in Cordova and wouldn’t recognize the name. She kept seeing Amber’s face, that cosmetic mask the girl had presented at the L & N that night. Amber had seemed to expect something from her. But what? What could Amber Dominique Downy Conklin want from Jack Yates’ widow?

At home, she rifled through the medicine chest and then the box of old stuff under the bathroom sink. Where were those tranquilizers Sunny had pushed on her? Finally, she gave up and splashed her face with cold water. She had to get busy. She had things to do, things to find out. What had she accomplished today? Hardly anything. The key man at the mall had told her that the small key in the plastic baggie was for a safe deposit box. She’d gone to Prairie State Bank and learned that they didn’t have safe deposit boxes, but their main branch did. She’d drive to Wichita right now. Wait. She couldn’t get to the bank today, she was due at Sunny’s board meeting.

She threw herself on the bed. Oh, God. What would she find? What on earth would Jack keep in a safe deposit box?

~

Valerie stood on the porch of the old mansion which had been the hub of the town’s social scene early in the century and which now housed the Cordova Cultural Association. Douglas Street was peaceful and the weather had improved, the temperature just above freezing, the sun a stark white disk in the pale gray sky. The board meeting had been over for fifteen minutes and Sunny was still inside schmoozing up the board members. Valerie had gotten through the ordeal by playing a role she knew well, that of the Courier’s social reporter. She chatted people up, took notes. After all, she might get the urge to write her “Happenings” column. Miracles could happen. Everyone expected her to pick up again, right where she had left off. Be sure to mention the date, Valerie. Tell them who’s singing, Valerie. They’ll be expecting Cynthia again.

The house she had grown up in, where she still taught a few dance classes, was two blocks away. Funny, though she’d grown up there, she still thought of it as her aunt’s house. Aunt Monica had purchased it not longer after she left New York, and her dancing career, for Cordova. Valerie laughed. An agency had contacted her because a rare and antique book dealer wanted to lease the place. She knew Cordova was growing, what with Votrix moving in, but a rare and antique bookstore?

Going back to work meant a little extra money to round out Jack’s pension and her aunt’s trust fund. Of course, there was always the possibility that Jack’s secret safe deposit box at the bank in Wichita was full of cash, or diamonds, or bearer bonds. Nothing would surprise her now. A tremor shimmied up her windpipe. Could she bear to find out what was in that safe deposit box?

Sunny strode out the wide front entrance and flung her cashmere scarf over her shoulder. Bright scarlet lips, a wool tweed suit, and a camel’s hair coat, she was in full rich-bitch costume.

Valerie had to smile at the contrast: She herself was in khaki pants and a parka and the middle of a nervous breakdown.

Sunny took her arm. “See? You had the swing vote. If you resign, the funding for the Youth Dance Program will be flushed.”

“It was your impassioned plea that turned the tide.”

“You’ll love the restaurant at the new mall. Trés trendy. They serve things like won tons with jalapeño jelly.”

Valerie shrugged and they headed for the Dodge parked at the curb. “Royal’s eatery must be losing business like crazy, what with all these new restaurants.”

“I’ve got a new client, Valerie,” Sunny said as Valerie unlocked the door. “She’s still soft and unformed, not hardened like so many of the girls and she’s got smarts and spunk.”

Valerie laughed. “Smarts and spunk, huh? Sounds like someone else I know.” She started the car, gunned the engine, pulled out onto Main, and, following Sunny’s directions, headed west. At Arkansas, two blocks before the Turnpike entrance, she swung the car through the gates of the Cordova Shopping Mall.

The restaurant, Chaz’s, looked like a ranch house, with a long portico across the front, all peeled logs and flowers blooming in sawed-off whiskey barrels. Inside, the rustic decor was awash with a rainbow of color. Looking up, Valerie gasped at the stained-glass skylight centered in the open-beam roof. They followed the hostess to a booth overlooking a small fountain.

“Cordova’s flying high,” Valerie said as they sat down. “New restaurants, a new mall. Wow.”

“Royal is going to remodel,” Sunny said. “Has to. Everyone in town hopes to cash in because of Votrix. Even Clay.”

“How’s the resort going?” She knew how to keep the conversation light, didn’t she?

“You have to call it the convention center now. Clay has handed down orders. Sounds more upscale. Still looking for the rest of the money.”

Their waitress was Valerie’s neighbor from across the street, Wynona’s mother. “Jessie, I didn’t know you worked here.”

Jessie, thin and pretty, threw back her head and laughed. “Thought the pickin’s would be better here. You know how it is.” She winked at Sunny.

“How’s your sister and the new baby?”

Jessie chortled. “Oh, you know Sis. Squat and drop. Back to work.”

As they laughed, Sunny raised an eyebrow to Valerie. She ordered a cactus and pear salad and a screwdriver, Valerie the won tons and a Pyramid.

When Jessie was gone, Sunny asked. “Why does she do that? Put on that hillbilly act?”

“Habit. Wyn hates it.”

“Wyn?”

“Her daughter. My roller-blade buddy. Speaking of my neighborhood, Gil the mailman is staking out new victims.”

Sunny frowned. “What makes you think that?”

“I’m staking him out.”

“Oh shit.” Sunny sat her drink on the table with a thunk.

“What if he’s the killer?”

Sunny picked up the screwdriver and took a big gulp. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Ah yes. The old ‘close your eyes and it might go away maneuver.’ Is that what you learned in shrink school?”

“This is about that girl Amber, isn’t it? The old ‘I can fix everything, all I have to manage is the impossible.’ Right?”

Valerie caught her breath. Don’t go there, Sunny. Not today. “He has a job that gives him freedom during the day. Two of the victims live on his mail route. He has an unhealthy interest in the murders. And, if he isn’t a killer, he’s most certainly a pervert and I want him stopped.”

“You told Neal?”

“Neal’s a male chauvinist. He pretends to listen, then blows me off.”

“Neal? C’mon now. Kansas will freeze over in August before Neal Malcolm blows you off.”

Valerie lifted her eyes to the heavens. “When have I become such a femme fatale that you think all these men are at my feet? Are you trying to live vicariously or what?”

Sunny shrugged her shoulders in an innocent how-should-I-know gesture. “Speaking of—well, whatever it is we’re speaking of—I’m asking Kevin over for dinner Friday night too. We can talk about the old days.”

A piercing squeal rang out. Sunny, startled, sloshed her drink on the table.

Valerie swiveled her head. The sound came from a nearby table, where two couples sat, red-faced with laughter.

“Look at the empty glasses,” Sunny whispered.

Valerie nodded. “Lunch is over. Time to drink the afternoon away. Cordova is going big time.”

One of the men, beefy, middle-aged, and wearing a cowboy hat, shook a thick finger at the fleshy redhead seated next to him. He laughed and said, “I’ll remember you for this.”

She leaned forward, evidently preparing to whisper in his ear, but her voice when she spoke was piercing. “Don’t take it so personally. All I said was that we could be sitting right next to the killer, for all we knew. Votrix brought in all these strangers.”

The other woman, a bone-thin and very tan blonde, laid a restraining hand on her companion’s arm.

The redhead looked around the room, seemed to notice that they were the center of attention. She stood up. “Well, it’s true,” she shouted. “We lock our doors. We never go anywhere alone. What difference does it make? Any one of the men in this room could be the killer.”

The woman sank back into her chair. For a moment, a thick cloud of silence hung over the room.

Sunny raised her eyebrows and took a long swallow of her orange juice and gin. “You recognize them? I don’t.”

“Ingrid Kinder.” Jessie had returned and was standing behind them. Her eyes glistened. “The redheaded woman is Ingrid Kinder’s aunt.”

Valerie shivered. They’d found Ingrid Kinder’s body by the Walnut River in January.

Jessie, shaking her head in disbelief, whispered, “The Rose Killer. Damn him to hell.”

The low buzz of conversation and clinking silverware resumed, like the chatter of birds when the storm has passed.

Chapter 17

He waited in the dingy old truck down the street from her house. She, his Theresa, lived in East Cordova, a neighborhood once solidly middle-class that had declined in tandem with the draining of the oil fields.

All of her friends lived nearby, in houses they carefully tended, trying to “keep up the neighborhood,” trying to serve as examples to their younger, poorer neighbors who had other more pressing demands on their attention. Like working two or sometimes three shifts at fast-food restaurants and keeping the old Mustang running and the kids out of really big time trouble and the old man out of the bar or somebody else’s bed.

He checked his watch. She and the other two, these anachronisms right out of the Eisenhower Fifties, would be leaving any minute now. She would drive—she always did—and the woman with the powdery makeup would sit in the front passenger seat while the one who had let her hair go gray would sit in back.

The door opened and he smiled. He loved her predictability, his dark matron, just as he loved the banality of her life. Too bad she had allowed the maggot of corruption to enter her soul.

The three women chattered and laughed as they climbed into the Ford Taurus and drove away. They would arrive at the library for the book discussion at two o’clock. The subject today was Magic Realism.

Chapter 18

Makeup, one of the tools of illusion stage actors had to master so why, Valerie wondered, was she so bad at it in real life? She applied the finishing touches and went downstairs. The print challis skirt was old but it hid her protruding hipbones and, with the heavy sweater, added a few pounds too. Of course, next to Sunny’s knock-‘em-dead style, she’d still be the ingénue. Not that she’d ever cared. Sunny was Sunny.

God, she was getting social. Pizza with Kevin. A meeting with Sunny, and now dinner with the Cavanaughs, a commitment made more than a week ago. She patted her hair, a thick tangle that badly needed some profession attention. Had she put on lipstick?

If she were honest with herself, she was looking forward to the evening. The meal would be scrumptious. Maybe Sunny’s watercolor, reflexology, and guitar classes hadn’t paid off, but the cooking classes certainly had. She had mastered the cuisines of many countries, including a couple Valerie had never heard of. Sunny was also a whiz at flower arranging and photography.

Valerie still had a few minutes so she went downstairs to her desk. She switched on the table lamp. A pile of notes for the "Happenings" column lay on the left, Jack’s manila envelopes on the right. She picked up both envelopes and dumped the contents onto the desk. She fingered the small key. The safe deposit box would remain virginal for the time being. She picked up the slip with the name and phone number. She had not yet talked to the mysterious Tripper, the manager of Video Village, and didn’t yet know why Jack had hidden away his phone number.

The photograph. Well, she’d think about that another day, preferably in another lifetime. She put the flowery cotton handkerchief aside as well. She had no way of identifying its owner; it would remain forever a mystery.

Finally, she picked up Jack’s notebook and thumbed through the pages until she found the list of initials.

ND 12/20/92

TSC 4/05/93

PRS 3/19/94

HG 8/14/96

TSC could very well be Tammy Sue Conklin, a person she trying not to think about. What was the meaning of the date 04/05/03? She’d have to go make time to go to Wichita for research. She’d to to the Wichita Eagle’s library and look up the editions for each of these dates and try to find names to match these four initials and also the recurring BSC.

She tried to imagine Jack, sitting in his car or in his office, jotting down these notes. If he had hidden them, they must have major significance. Jack and his zippered lip. Jack the inscrutable. Jack. Her lover. She missed his physical presence in bed most of all, the heat, the good sweet smell of him. They’d always been passionate lovers. They could go for weeks exchanging only small talk and still make love every night. Had he been faithful? Had he messed around with Tammy Sue Conklin? Everyone else had. Had she been naive believing him to be true? Wherever this store of hoarded items led, she would follow.

Valerie put the items back into the envelopes and rose. Pondering your dead husband’s possible infidelity was probably not the best thing to do before dining with the Cavanaughs, a golden couple if ever there was one. She had to laugh. Sunny’s campaign to get Valerie out and about was certainly working.

The scene at Chaz’s the other day had shaken her. She hadn’t realized how frightened everyone was, how much turmoil there was. Every man in town was suspect.

How was she going to go around town asking questions about Amber, about Jack, even about Gil the mailman? She knew of only one way to find out what she had to and not appear to be a nutcase. She’d call Brenda in the morning and tell her she’d decided on a series. Murder in a Small Town? Death in Cordova?

She’d wait a couple of days before she mentioned her plan to Sunny. No use spoiling what promised to be a pleasant evening.

~

Valerie lounged in a deep-cushioned chair in the garden room opposite the long wall of glass that looked out over Five Mile Lake. She sipped Chardonnay, luxuriating in the soft tart taste.

Sunny, leonine in a crimson jumpsuit, paced the length of the room, her reflection dancing like flames across the windows.

The dinner had been superb and the house, well, it was a cocoon. Clay, who was late, may have dictated the sleek modern style with its harsh rectangles of glass and natural wood, but the interior was pure Sunny, bold, gorgeous, and just opulent enough to verge on bad taste. Fourteen-year-old Brad had excused himself and gone off to play video games or whatever fourteen-year-olds did these days.

Sunny, hands on her hips, retraced her path. She stopped in front of Valerie, her broad face dead serious. “I’m sick of the publicity they’re giving him. The Rose Killer.” Sunny shuddered. “It’s disgusting. Like he’s some sort of celebrity.”

Valerie smoothed her long skirt over her knees. “The media’s Valentine card.”

Sunny plopped down on the Italian leather couch, the cushion sighing softly. “I asked Kevin to come tonight, but he couldn’t make it.”

“It would have been fun talking about the old times,” she said coolly. “All the plays we did. But, tell me, how’s it going with that new client of yours?”

Sunny gave a wry smile. “Quick change of subject?” She shrugged. “The girl’s still a little stiff and defensive. I can see her sizing me up. But I’m sure we’ve made a connection.” She crossed her legs and then uncrossed them. “That covers me and my brilliant career. How about you? Do you have an action plan yet?”

“For what? The rest of my life?”

“Are you going back to school? Teach dance fulltime, God forbid. Marry the first available man.”

From the doorway came a loud “Ahem.”

Clay, in his shirtsleeves, lounged against the doorframe. “Thought I’d better give you fair warning.”

Sunny rose, rushed to his side, and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “You made it. I was getting worried.”

“I had to give the Vette’s belts a quick check.” He winked at Valerie. “Sunny wined and dined you in her usual royal fashion, I take it?” He stepped out of the doorframe and whisked a bouquet of mixed flowers from behind his back.

“Clay! I thought you’d forgotten.” Sunny took the flowers and disappeared down the hall.

Valerie hadn’t seen Clay in anything but a suit and tie for so long, she was startled to see how young he looked with his shirt open at the neck and his hair tousled. “We had a perfect Valentine’s Day meal.”

Bowing at the waist, he handed her a single daisy adorned with a yellow ribbon.

“You’re such a romantic.” Valerie, eyes burning, ran her fingers over the flower’s soft petals. “And you’re getting me all gushy and mushy.” She wiped away a nonexistent tear.

“What’s a big brother for?” He sat down opposite her, so much himself, always cool and easy. His hands, clasped about one crossed knee, looked red and recently scrubbed and gave off the astringent scent of Lava soap.

Sunny returned, placed the vase of flowers on the coffee table, and went to stand behind Clay’s chair. “We’ve been discussing our life plans.”

He chuckled. “Made any decisions? That is, any you want to tell me about?”

“Sunny Cavanaugh…” Sunny stepped out from behind the chair and curtsied. “…will continue as the perfect wife and mother, indispensable helpmeet in the Cavanaugh family business, and gifted counselor to the young.”

Clay waved her down and turned to Valerie. “And Valerie Yates?”

Valerie folded her hands and looked spinsterish. “Mr. Cavanaugh, sir,” she said in a southern accent. “Ah’m still wearing my widow’s weeds. Such a question is highly improper.”

“If you need a masculine viewpoint to counter mah wife’s very feminine one, my dear, you know your Cousin Clayton is always available.”

Valerie inclined her head in respectful acknowledgement. “Ah just may take you up on that kind offer, sir.”

Sunny coughed. “If you two love acting so much, we can start up the Players again anytime.”

Valerie shook her head. “I’ve got too much on my mind now.”

“Like checking up on your mailman?” Sunny turned to Clay. “Valerie thinks her mailman may be the Rose Killer.”

Clay frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that. These are dangerous times. What did your mother always say, Sunny? Better mind your own beeswax?”

“I’m not doing anything dangerous,” Valerie said.

“Valerie!” Sunny said. “You told me you were staking him out. That sounds dangerous to me.”

Clay nodded. “Is your house secure? My locksmith could put on deadbolts. We could add a security system. I’d be happy to pay for it.”

Sunny leaned forward. “Do you still have that gun?”

Clay’s eyebrows flew up. “Gun?”

“Jack got it for her,” Sunny said.

“I took lessons. Sure,” Valerie said, assuming a tough smirk. “I pack a rod. Don’t go nowhere without it.” She rose. “I think that’s a good line for an exit, don’t you?”

Sunny stood up too. “How about the locksmith?”

Valerie raised a warning hand. “Sunny.”

Clay came to put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll give you a call. Monthly maintenance would be minimal.”

Valerie hugged him. “We’ll talk about it.”

“Will you ignore it like you ignore the cell phone I gave you?” Sunny demanded.

Clay laughed. “You know only unconditional surrender will satisfy her, Valerie.”

Sunny ignored him. “It’s a done deal then.”

Valerie picked up her purse.

Sunny hovered next to her. “Clay will follow you home and check the house before you go in.”

Valerie sucked in her breath. “Sunny!”

She grabbed Valerie’s arm and folded it over her own. “Let’s get your coat and then get your beast off the patio and into your car. Where on earth did you get him anyway? Does he have papers? What kind of dog did you say he was?”

Laughing, Valerie blew a kiss to Clay. “’Nite, brother mine.”

Sunny, her strong pretty face flushed with wine and affection, helped Valerie into her coat.

“Are you satisfied,” Valerie said. “Have I become re-socialized?”

Sunny opened her arms wide and Valerie stepped into a warm, aromatic hug.

They got the dog from the patio and into the car. Valerie climbed in and rolled down her window.

Sunny said, “Lock your doors. Drive in the center lane whenever you can. And call me when you get home, please. I’m not going to sleep until I know you’re home and safe.”

Valerie groaned. Would Sunny never quit?

Before she drove away, Valerie called out, “I hope Bruno hasn’t pee’d all your potted shrubs to death.”

Chapter 19

Valerie led Bruno into the kitchen thinking of Sunny and Clay, how long they’d been her friends. Even though Jack and Clay had had nothing in common, the four of them had dinner together regularly. Sometimes, she’d suffered pangs of envy because Sunny and Clay seemed so happy together. Not that she and Jack hadn’t been happy, they’d just never seemed to have that special connection that the Cavanaughs had. Was it still envy, then, that made her sense more than a little staging tonight? Had Sunny and Clay been putting on a show? She made a vow: henceforth, she’d suppress her feelings of envy.

"Come on, Bruno."

She took Bruno through the security routine, checking the ground floor. Finally, with the dog pushing his nose against her thigh, she headed for the basement door.

She stood at the top of the stairs, gazed down the dark stairwell. This was the part she hated the most. She pulled the string on the bare light bulb and the stairs appeared, harshly angular in charcoal and sickly yellow.

She patted Bruno's head. "Do we have to go down there?"

The dog yawned.

She squared her shoulders, gripped the leash, and descended the stairs. Bruno, claws scraping on the wooden steps, stayed at her side.

She stopped in the rectangle of light at the bottom. The rest of the basement was dark, especially the corner where her office was installed.

She took a deep breath. "C'mon Bruno." She scurried across the floor toward the desk not yet visible in its dark corner. Quickly, she switched on the lamp, which threw a circle of light around the office area. The basement was still full of deep shadows.

Bruno snorted.

What was that? Something or someone moving on the other side of the room?

A woman with a contorted face stared at her. Then, she laughed. Her own ghostly reflection laughed back at her from the long mirror behind the barré Jack had built for her.

“The hell with this.” She sprinted for the stairs, Bruno padding behind her. “I'll tell Sunny we went through every square inch of the house.”

~

Maggie let the curtain drop. Sunny must have talked some sense into Valerie. She was taking that hound through the house again, room by room. 'Course she left a trail of lights on behind her, but that was nothing new. Her electric bill must be sky high.

Maggie sat in the rocker in front of the television, tucked her chenille bathrobe around her knees, and picked up her sewing basket. She pulled out a crochet hook and yarn and went to work on a new dresser scarf. She'd have a tidy little pile to donate to the Ladies Charity Bazaar this Saturday. Kevin was a good son, getting her that TV and she liked the Golden Girls and the old movies but most of the programs were just yelling and shooting and cussing and she couldn't abide them.

She had just gotten her rhythm going when she heard the first snapping noise outside. She stopped rocking, cocked her head, and hearing nothing more, decided that Simone the neighbor's cat must be out prowling. She returned to her crocheting.

The second time she heard the noise she knew the creature that made it had to be good sized. No way a cat's paw could do that; nor a dog's neither. She put aside her work, stood up, and laid a hand on the arm of the rocker to still it.

She walked through the dining room and into the dark kitchen. She eased over to the window, knelt down, and with the tip of her finger pulled the shade aside just a hair.

A black shape flitted past the window.

She gasped and sank down. Sweet Jesus, some body was out there!

She crawled across the kitchen to the back window and peeked out.

The figure, a good-sized man by the look of him, disappeared behind the big yew next to the fence. Police. She'd call 911. Still on her hands and knees, she scrambled the few feet to the kitchen telephone and lifted the receiver to her ear. She froze. She couldn't hear the dial tone. She jiggled the plunger, but still heard nothing.

He'd cut the phone line!

~

Valerie was just hanging up her coat when she heard the sounds. Bruno turned toward the door, ears cocked.

Slap, slap, slap. The noise grew louder, the sound of someone's feet hitting the pavement, someone running.

Bruno lowered his big head and growled.

Whoever it was had turned up her walk and was heading for her front door.

She slipped into the living room and switched off the lamp.

Someone bounded up the porch steps.

Bruno lowered his head and barked, the high wheezing sound more menacing than she would ever have believed possible.

Someone pounded on the front door.

Valerie's heart answered with its own soft thuds.

Bruno, howling as if he’d been raised with the wolves, charged the front door. He skidded to a stop, bounded back to Valerie, and charged the door again.

A female voice screamed, “Valerie! Let me in!”

Valerie relaxed. “Quiet, Bruno. It’s Maggie.”

Wagging his tail but whimpering with excitement, the dog trotted to her side.

She grabbed his collar. “Sit.” She called out to Maggie. “I’m coming.”

Bruno sat back on his haunches, her hulking black beast of a dog, looking so alert he seemed to be astonished.

Laughing, a little giddy with relief, Valerie switched on the lamp and hurried to the front door.

Parka over her bathrobe, fiery red curls escaping the parka’s hood, a meat mallet clutched in one hand, short, stout Maggie looked like a deranged child in a snowsuit. She fell into Valerie’s arms. “Thank God you’re home.” Her hair was cold and prickly against Valerie’s cheek and she smelled faintly of fried onions. “Lock the door. Hurry.”

Bruno growled, a rumble deep in his throat.

“Quiet!” Valerie quickly locked the door. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s out there. I know he’s there.”

She took Maggie’s arm and led her to the couch. “Who’s out there?” she asked, although she feared the answer.

Maggie pulled away and jumped up. “Got to call the police.” She motioned Valerie to follow. “Bring the hound.”

Valerie snapped her fingers and Bruno followed them to the kitchen. When she reached for the light switch, Maggie grabbed her wrist. “No!”

“Maggie! What is it?”

Maggie stared at the telephone, eyes wide. “God-all-mighty. Hope he hasn’t got this one too.” She grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear. “Thank the stars. The phone’s working.” As Maggie dialed 911, Bruno pounced at her feet and pawed the linoleum.

Valerie, adrenaline tingling in her fingertips, pointed to a spot near the fridge. “Down.”

The dog collapsed on the floor at her feet, black eyes hopeful.

She eyed him for a moment. “Close enough.”

Maggie’s voice rose. “This is an emergency. Someone’s prowling my yard. And—.”

She nodded at Valerie. “He cut my phone line!” Confusion clouded her face. “Address?”

“531 Jefferson,” Valerie said.

“531 Jefferson. You will? Good. Please hurry.” She hung up. “They’ll be right over.”

Valerie tried to look calm. Was he really out there? Hiding in the bushes? Watching the house?

Maggie scuttled to the back door and made sure the latch was down. “Where the hell are they?”

“Let me take your things.”

Maggie slipped out of the parka. “I saw him.” Maggie’s lower lip trembled. “Him. The…. You know. Him. He was creeping through the flowerbed next to the house, all hunched over, dressed in black. When I went to call the police, the line was dead.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “If you hadn’t been to home, I’d be dead by now.”

Valerie took Maggie’s rough hand. “Maybe it was just one of the neighborhood kids. Maybe your phone trouble is something mechanical.”

Maggie sank in to the kitchen chair. “I sure as shit hope so. ’scuse the French.”

They turned toward the sound of a car on the street. Maggie leaned forward eagerly, but the car passed by, and she fell back again. A moment later, she jumped up. “Kevin.” She went to the telephone and dialed. “Oh I hope he’s not in the garage working on that damned car of his.”

Her face brightened. “Oh honey, someone’s sneaking around my yard.” She chewed her lower lip as she listened to his response. “I did call the police. They’re on their way. Oh, and Kev, I’m at Valerie’s.”

This time, the sound of a car turning into the driveway was unmistakable. Maggie let out a loud sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the dear Lord. They’re here. Hurry.” She hung up and turned to Valerie. “Kev will be right over.”

Valerie tried not to sigh. This was going to be a long and bumpy night.

The doorbell rang. Valerie, with Bruno and Maggie behind her, marched through the house to the entry.

Valerie opened the front door to two officers, a young woman named Bev Warden, Cordova’s first female officer, and an even younger man named Chris DeMaggio. They were polite and efficient. Officer DeMaggio, slight and blond, seemed barely out of his teens. Young or not, Valerie was relieved to see them.

They interviewed Maggie with gentle gravity. Officer Warden, lanky and easy-going, went outside to have a look around. When she returned, the expression on her face revealed nothing. She turned to Maggie, who was sitting on Valerie’s couch. “Do you have someone who can stay with you?”

Maggie’s eyes flared in triumph. “You found something, didn’t you? I knew it. I knew it.”

“Probably a kid, out looking for trouble. There were fresh prints in the flowerbed on the east side of the house. Your telephone, however, seems to be working properly now. We’ll patrol the street tonight. Do you have someone who can stay with you?”

“My son should be here any minute.” Maggie turned to Valerie. “But Mizz Yates is all alone.”

Valerie spoke quickly. “I’m all right.”

Before she could say more, Kevin arrived, face heavy with concern, hair a boyish tumble of curls.

Maggie hurried to him. “Oh, Kevin. They found footprints.” She grabbed his hand. “We’re going to stay with Valerie tonight.”

Valerie opened her mouth to protest, but no one was listening. Maggie told her story to Kevin. The officers gave last-minute instructions. “If you hear or see anything suspicious, stay inside and call us. If a prowler tries to break in, don’t confront him.”

Finally, the officers were gone and Valerie was alone with the Blackburns.

~

“The tea tastes wonderful,” Maggie said. She’d made a rapid recovery and, sitting at the kitchen table, her bright busy eyes were taking in everything.

Valerie, sitting opposite, smiled. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Wonderful.” He raised his cup to Valerie, eyes glistening, and sipped with feigned delicacy.

Valerie narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay. You and Sunny have been trading stories. But that happens to be fresh tea, Mister Smart Aleck.”

Assuming a face of innocence, Kevin put his teacup down. “The police were great. They didn’t act like you…” he nodded at Maggie, “…were some kind of hysterical nut.” Every button on his flannel shirt was in the wrong buttonhole. Valerie felt a strong urge to smooth his hair, button his shirt, and generally neaten him up.

“They took her seriously.” She was the authority on the police, wasn’t she? “They’ll patrol this street. At least through the rest of the night.”

Maggie’s voice still had an anxious whine to it. “Do you think it was a kid, prowling? Like they said?”

“Most probably.” In her heart, Valerie wasn’t so sure.

The phone rang. Maggie jumped to her feet, then sat down again with a sheepish grin.

Valerie answered the phone.

“Hey Valerie.” It was Wynona from across the street. “What’s going on over there? Are you okay?”

“Hey Wyn. We had a prowler scare. The police came and checked it out. Nothing to report, I’m glad to say.”

“You want to come over and sleep on our day bed tonight?”

“Thanks, but I’m okay. I’ve got friends here.”

Valerie had just hung up the telephone when it rang again.

She could hear Sunny’s strong demanding voice before she got the receiver to her ear. “You didn’t call me. I’ve been worried sick. Your line’s been busy for hours.”

Valerie explained the situation, and listened to a five-minute lecture. “Yes, ma’am.” She gave Maggie a tight smile. Sunny was all for driving over, but Valerie told her that Maggie and Kevin were with her. Finally, Sunny hung up.

Maggie pulled her bathrobe tighter. “I’m not taking no for answer. You’re not spending the night alone in this house.” She lifted her chin and set her mouth. “I’m sleeping in your spare room. Kev can sleep on the couch.”

He gave an apologetic shrug while looking anything but apologetic. “I’m afraid she’s right. We can’t leave you here alone.”

They waited for her reaction, mother and son, their good hearts shining from their faces, their vitality seeming to spring from them like their uncontainable hair.

“I’ll get some bedding for the couch.”

She went upstairs, chuckling. Kevin Blackburn was getting a big kick out of this situation. Truthfully, she was glad they were staying. She wouldn’t want to be alone tonight. She pulled sheets and a blanket out of the linen closet. Thanks heavens she’d done a load of laundry yesterday. The sheets might stand a chance of passing Maggie’s sniff test.

When she returned to the living room, Kevin—apron tied around his slim waist, dishtowel over his shoulder—came in from the kitchen. “I let Bruno out for a few minutes and we cleaned up. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Think you’d have time for the basement and the carport?”

“I mean, I didn’t know if you were making some kind of statement about women’s work or what.” He glanced around the messy house. “You were always such an activist.”

“Those days are over.” She dumped sheets, a blanket, and a pillow on the couch.

Maggie came in from the kitchen.

“Thanks for cleaning up,” Valerie said. She ignored Kevin’s snicker. “I’ve got the spare room all ready. You’ll find clean towels in the bathroom.”

Maggie had a sudden attack of blinking and yawning. “I’ll get on to bed if you two don’t mind. I’m plumb wore out.” She kissed Kevin, strolled to the dining room, switched on the stairway light, and, with a pointed glance at Valerie, switched off the dining room light. “Your electric bill must be a doozy.” Shaking her head, she went upstairs.

Valerie picked up a sheet from the couch. “I’ll make up the couch for you.”

He grabbed one end of the sheet. “What do you mean ‘Those days are over?’ You got married and were transformed into a Stepford wife or something?”

“Or something.”

Working rapidly, they made up the couch.

He smoothed his hair down but it sprang right back to disarray. “Thanks for catering to Mom.”

“She’s scared,” she whispered.

He whispered back. “All this publicity about the Rose Killer has her on edge.”

“I’m certain she saw something. She’s too level headed to make up a prowler out of thin air. What she saw is the big question?”

He glanced down at the watching Bruno and laughed. “That’s quite a dog.”

“Bruno? He came through tonight, that’s for sure.” She patted the dog’s big head. “Everyone thought I was a fool when I took him in.”

“Right now, mucho dog is just what you need. I think this creep isn’t going to stop until he’s in the pokey. Or dead.”

Valerie tossed the pillow on the couch. “Are you going to practice in Cordova? Open an office?”

“I’ve accepted an assistant professorship at Wichita State. I’m doing some consulting too. And volunteer work.”

“Your mom said something about a garage. You’ve got a place?”

“I’m renting one side of a duplex out on Oil Town Road. Haven’t made up my mind about commuting yet.”

Bruno touched a paw to Valerie’s knee.

Kevin leaned over to ruffle the dog’s fur. “Good pooch.” Bruno slathered his hand. “You take care of your mistress, hear?” He straightened. “Well….

“Do you want pajamas? I’ve still got….” Her voice trailed off.

“I’ll just sleep in my jeans. You know, in case I have to jump up and chase the bogey man?”

As Valerie started upstairs, Kevin called after her. “By the way, I didn’t get you a card or flowers or anything, but happy Valentine’s Day.”

Chapter 20

Valerie drew in a long slow breath and folded the covers across her breast. The moonlight, sifting through the sheer curtains, had made the bedroom a den of cobwebs and drawn the silhouette of the big oak in charcoal slashes on the wall. The thick branches shuddered and swayed in the careless night wind.

She turned away from the shadows to Jack’s side of the bed, his smooth plump, uninhabited pillow. She missed his physical presence, his scent, the strong masculine solidness of him in her arms. They’d made love every day the first couple of years, then cooled off a bit. Right up to the end, they would still come together with ravenous passion. Those moments of passion made up for the lack of communication. Communication? Closeness? Something she had expected but that had never happened. The image in the photograph, Jack smiling and happy with Tammy Sue, popped into her mind. How well had she known her husband?

Her eyes burned but the tears weren’t there. She heard a snore from the other room. Maggie. Dear Maggie. Kevin downstairs. She’d known them all her life. She and Kevin always talked so easily. In many ways, she knew Kevin better than she knew Jack. Odd.

Valerie rolled over, closed her eyes, and settled down to sleep.

A rat-a-tat-tat sounded from outside, the wind rippling through the branches of the big oak. She opened her eyes. The oak’s black shadow expanded, contracted, and expanded again, like a great spider tensing and releasing its pipe stem legs.

She thought of the back yard, of how the trees and bushes formed dark shadowy places where someone could hide and, in perfect safety, watch the house. She could see him, dressed in black, crouched behind a bush, a smirk on his belligerent face.

Like streams of lava, anger surged through her body. She threw off the covers and sat up. The killer had turned the town upside down, made everyone paranoid and hysterical. Had he been prowling around her house, peeking in her windows?

She jumped out of bed and marched across the room to the closet. Standing on tiptoe, she stretched out, and felt along the wooden shelf.

The shoebox was still there. She eased it down. Cradling it in her hands, she pattered back across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She lifted the lid, unfolded the blue velvet cloth, and pulled out the Smith & Wesson .25. In the moonlight, with its bluing glinting dully, the revolver looked ominous.

Thanks to Jack, she knew how to use a gun. She shoved in the ammo clip and made sure she'd locked the safety. She held the gun with both hands, aimed at the window, and visualized the man-shaped target from her gun safety classes. A face formed, a thuggish looking man with coarse features. As she steadied the gun, the face morphed, acquiring rosy cheeks, a pugnacious jaw, cunning eyes. She laughed. “Gil Rydell. Don’t mess with me.”

~

Maggie settled into Valerie’s guest bed, sniffed at the pillows, and then relaxed. Valerie used to be a good housekeeper, but since she’d lost her two nearest and dearest, she didn’t give a hoot nor holler.

At least this cloud tonight had its silver lining. She’d been scared shitless. Thinking of the dark shadow in her yard, she laid a hand over her heart to see if it was beating okay. Felt okay. The doc said she had a good pump, but she wasn’t always sure. They’d had a real good scare, but here she was and there was her boy downstairs, settled into Valerie’s house.

Maggie rolled over, thinking of her boy, and then of Valerie up here rustling around her bedroom. Maybe it would happen for him, maybe not. She’d take Valerie in with open arms any time, but it’d be easier if the gal had less baggage.

Maybe she’d have grandkids after all. Valerie and Jack had never had any and she’d never found out whose fault it was. People in their forties had kids all the time now. She knew Valerie had always wanted a family. Jack Yates. Handsome devil. Mr. Glad hander. She’d pick her time. Valerie should know, not waste a minute of her life mourning a sorry bit of man like that.

~

Perspiring and uncomfortable, Sunny threw the blanket back and smoothed the sheet across her body. Kevin Blackburn had already worked his way into Valerie’s house. What a big coincidence. Valerie’s husband dies and—hey folks—a few months later, Kevin Blackburn’s back in town. Some first loves stood the test of time it seemed. He might have a long wait, but what were a few more years to someone who’d already waited so long? They wrote plays and songs about his kind.

She and Valerie had both made their choices early. It was no one but Jack for Valerie, and no one but Clay for her. She eased onto her side, tried to find a good snuggling position. Now, Jack was dead and Clay was out walking along the beach, worrying about business and the convention center. Ever since his mother’s death last year, he'd been acting...acting what? Not depressed exactly, but edgy and preoccupied.

He didn’t have to prove himself anymore. He had the football trophies, the wealth, the perfect lakeside house, the perfect son, and, well, not quite the perfect wife, but sure as hell the best one he’d ever have. She’d perk him up. She always did.

She turned over on her side. How long had it been now? Three weeks? A month? She missed him, missed his slow efficient lovemaking, the routine missionary position. He wasn’t one for experimentation. He was only forty-three. When did a man’s sex drive wane anyway?

She sat up, plumped her pillows, leaned back, and gazed out the big window at the lake. The moon sat low over the dark ridge of trees, its reflection a crystal orb in the blue-black of the water.

She pulled the sheet tighter and took a deep breath, wishing that she knew more country-western songs. The wind shattered the lake’s crystal orb into a dozen silver shards. Surely, Loretta and Tammy and Patsy had dozens of tunes about holding on, about standing by your man.

~

Guylene sat in the dark on a campstool next to the open bedroom window. The moon was out, looking just like a fortuneteller’s big ball on top of the neighbor’s roof. She took a long drag of the cigarette, leaned close to the windowsill, and blew the smoke through a tear in the screen.

She should get up and get a blanket, these peejays were thin and she was cold. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, rocked back, and sucked on the stubby cigarette. These old butts always tasted like crap. The wind was coming from the wrong direction too, 'cause she could really smell the stink of the refinery tonight. She leaned over and exhaled through the screen. The wind shot back into the house. Shit. Oh well, Mom wouldn’t be home for hours yet. Her gut started to ache. God, why did Mom have to get second shift.

We’re lucky I found the work, her mother had said. Lucky to have benefits like health insurance again.

Yeah, Guylene said, we have all the luck, don’t we?

Her mother, who’d been looking young again, turned back to that old, used-up loser and Guylene felt bad about being such a smart ass. Sorry, Mom, she’d said. I’m glad you got the job.

Was that a car out front? She sat very still.

Was it stopping? Was it him?

The chill breeze prickled her skin with goose bumps.

No, the car wasn’t stopping, it was going on down the street. Besides, he didn’t know about Mom working nights, leaving her alone. But it wouldn’t be long. He’d find out and then…. And then?

She remembered the tent house when she was four and they lived in that apartment on the other side of Main Street and she had the funny bedroom, long and narrow as a hall. She’d draped an old sheet between her bed and a chair, climbed in with Rosemary, the doll with the curly auburn hair and the bright glass eyes, played house until, until Uncle Gil slithered in, grinning and sweating, pulling her hand down, making her…. Nausea closed her throat, flooding her eyes with that haze of red.

She leaned forward and rested her chin on the windowsill. He’d find out she was alone at night. What was she going to do? She couldn’t tell Mom, she’d never be able to tell Mom. Could she tell Sunny? She was cool, easy to talk to, but if she told Sunny the truth, confessed what was happening, things might change.

Sunny might not like her anymore.

Guylene took another drag. Should she tell Sunny? She exhaled. The smoke drifted in lazy swirls above her head, curled and roiled until the breeze came and whipped it away.

~

He rested flat on his back, arms at his sides, eyes wide open in the dark. It was too soon, too soon for the tension to build again. He needed more time to prepare. He had to complete the ritual. Tomorrow night, he would open the trunk. For now, he had to be content. He would have to recreate the memory without the help of the precious mementos. He stared at the ceiling until it came, the sweet instant of a memory retrieved.

Her lovely face, eyes rimmed with mascara, appeared in the fog. He sucked in his breath. Her little feet, beating a dull tattoo on the mattress, the sudden hot smell of urine. The feel of her soft red curls.

Pleasure curled round him like smoke. He took it, fed it, but kept it small. He couldn’t let it overcome him. Not now. That would come later.

He breathed evenly and deeply. Control. He had mastered control. The ecstatic moment lingered, dissolved slowly. He could summon it or dismiss it at will.

Which one, he wondered, which one would he honor tomorrow? He let the faces of the women drift through his thoughts. The haughty receptionist with the big brown eyes and the Boston accent. The frumpy matron who sneered at her husband. The bimbo waitress with the mocking eyes. The know-it-all lesbian.

He laughed. Another rose for his bouquet. A touch of genius, that. The papers loved it. It would probably go national. The Rose Killer. He smiled, thinking of the stories he’d read that day. They described him as a madman.

He closed his eyes and conjured up Theresa. His Tess. The day he had first seen her in the pharmacy, his dark matron, old enough to show some wisdom, some humility. He remembered again the contemptuous way she had treated her husband.

Rage filled him again. Bitch. Her husband supported her, for Christ’s sake. She owed him everything, the food she ate, the roof over her head, the very air she breathed.

She reminded him a little of the first one. Phyllis, her name had been. She’d been dark too. Younger, of course, but with the same dogged, antagonistic look about her.

Phyllis. He searched his memories. Yes. She had been a student at some little college near Colorado Springs. He’d taken a trip cross-country during summer break that year. Checked into that dingy little mom-and-pop motel, gone to a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. Rough Riders.

Just as he pulled the car into the parking lot, out she came, rushing through the swinging door all breathless and wild. She’d glared at him and brushed her long black hair off her face. Dark complexion, part Mexican maybe. Not drunk, but high on something. And mouthy. Had that same contemptuous look he’d seen on the face of the one in the pharmacy.

As far as he knew, they’d never found her body.

PART II

Chase after the truth like all hell and you'll free yourself,

even though you never touch its coat-tails.
-- Clarence Darrow

Chapter 21

Valerie tucked the gun, insurance against the unthinkable, into her purse and went downstairs. Now she needed information, more specifics about the killer that she and the rest of the town were up against. Last night, on what should have been a quiet, ordinary Monday evening, fear of the Rose Killer had turned her home into a public meeting place. Luckily, her cupboard was bare and Maggie had taken Kevin home to feed him. She’d begged off.

What had Aunt Monica said? Know everything you can about your adversaries?

She cancelled her beginner’s tap class, brewed a pot of Earl Gray, and gathered the articles she’d copied from local newspapers. Ever the researcher, she labeled a notebook: Investigation.

Wasn’t she the busy one? She had not two but three investigations going: What was Amber’s connection to Jack? What is Gil, the perverted mailman, up to? And now, what could she find out about the hometown psycho? At this point, perverted mail carriers could wait. She turned to her computer and typed a heading: VICTIMS.

1. Pauline Bartlett

On December 23rd, they found Pauline Bartlett’s body in her home near Benton County Community College.

Pauline Bartlett had been 20, a student of the cello, enrolled in the Community College, and working part time at a nursing home near the school. She left behind a mother, a father, and two younger sisters, all of whom lived in Neodesha, Kansas. She looked plain and bookish in her photograph, with little or no makeup and long, straight brown hair.

2. Ingrid Kinder

Twelve days after they found Pauline Bartlett’s body, they found Ingrid Kinder’s decomposing body on the banks of the Walnut River just inside the city limit. The authorities’ best guess was that she had died in September, soon after she was reported missing. Ingrid Kinder had been 53 years old, a waitress at the Side Street Cafe for the past two years. She had moved to Cordova from Salina, Kansas. She left behind three grown children, seven grandchildren, and four ex-husbands. Her photograph showed a handsome, big-haired woman who had a heavy hand with the makeup.

3. Amber (Dominique Downy) Conklin

Amber had been eighteen years old and might have been related to Tammy Sue Conklin, but the records were not clear. She rented an upstairs apartment from the Sweet sisters. She knew Jack Yates and might have been either an informant or a street kid he had been trying to help a few years before.

Ingrid, Pauline, and Amber. Valerie couldn’t see any commonality among these women. She picked up The Mind of the Serial Killer and began reading where she’d left off at Chapter 2. Finally, at eleven a.m., she closed the book, ordered a pizza, returned to her computer

The Rose Killer

Serial killers murdered strangers, although a handful might thoughtfully include a relative or a friend or two. The killers were usually young, white, heterosexual males. A few were black, a few female, and a few homosexual. The killer’s victims were usually of his own race. The Rose Killer, then, was probably a white, heterosexual male, unless, of course, he was one of the exceptions. This was obviously not an exact science.

Many of the killers were loners who lacked social skills, Ted Bundy and William Gacy being notoriously charming exceptions. The killers were usually underemployed, although some had managed successful business careers. Most were single, but some were married with children. Serial killers seemed to represent the general population.

Experts divided killers into two major categories: organized and disorganized. An organized killer planned in advance, selected his victims, and, to avoid detection, disposed of the bodies with care. A disorganized killer was more opportunistic, killing impulsively, letting bodies lay where they fell, scattering clues like a deciduous tree strewing its leaves.

Of course, there were overlaps. Sometimes an organized serial killer disintegrated into a disorganized one. Ted Bundy, for instance, descended into an animalistic frenzy at the end, killing without caution.

In some ways, the Rose Killer could be considered disorganized; he left Pauline and Amber where they would be discovered immediately. Ingrid, on the other hand, he had hidden in the brush to be discovered weeks after her death. Were these women his first victims or were there others? Was Ingrid actually victim number four? Number twelve? Number thirty?

Perhaps he sat somewhere in the middle of a slide from organized to disorganized. He was obviously still organized enough to plan his attacks. He knew how and when to enter his victims’ homes, which indicated that he had them under surveillance.

Maggie’s prowler? Valerie shivered at the thought of the Rose Killer creeping around her back yard.

Not one of the experts could satisfactorily explain why a person turned to exterminating fellow human beings, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. The experts noted that many, but not all, these men grew up in troubled homes, either without a father or with an unstable one. Millions of other human beings went through similar experiences without taking up murder as a pastime.

The doorbell rang and Valerie went upstairs to pay for her pizza, thinking she could have chosen more appropriate mealtime entertainment. The pizza was great, though, with pounds of melted cheese, at least a half pound of sausage, onions, and mushrooms, and a nice tangy tomato sauce. She finished off the slice with a final swig of pop and went back down to continue recording what she’d learned.

He didn’t seem to be simply a cowboy, good at spotting and cutting the weaker calves out of the herd. Ingrid, Pauline, and Amber were his roses. He had selected each one; plucked them, bragged about his exploits in a letter to the paper. Was he a ritualistic killer who chose his victims for specific characteristics obvious only to him and some warped fantasy? Of course, the police would keep any evidence about his signature, if he had one, secret. Was he wreaking retribution on those he deemed sinners? The women chosen didn’t seem to fit into any category.

It was almost noon and Valerie had had enough of mulling over ghoulish questions. She had to get back to her other top priority investigation, the important one. Yeah, what could be more important than a quest to clarify the meaning of an entire existence? If her marriage had been a sham, twenty-plus years were down the drain and she was nowhere, not a cheery thought.

She scrolled up the computer screen to the first heading.

Jack

The two manila envelopes she’d found in Jack’s workshop were still on the bookcase. She dumped the contents of both on the table, fished out the old photograph, and studied it. Tammy Sue Conklin, she thought, what a strange person to be intruding in her life. Could it be possible that Tammy Sue and Felicia, the other girl in the photo, were still friends?

She grabbed the Wichita telephone directory. Someone, sometime, had mentioned that Felicia had straightened up, married a dentist, and now lived in Wichita. Valerie searched through the yellow-page listings of dentists and stopped at the name Mewhinney. Karl Mewhinney. A K. Mewhinney had a residential listing and she dialed the number. An answering machine told her that Karl, Felicia, Jonathon, Bree, and Danielle were not at home, please leave your name and number and one of them would return your call when they could. Valerie left her name and number, and hung up. Felicia would recognize the name.

She noted Felicia’s name, phone number, and the date under Jack, wondering if Felicia would return her call. A respectable dentist’s wife might not want a reminder of her past.

She had to find out how Jack and Amber knew each other. That meant digging and she knew only one way to get the license for the major excavation she had in mind. She took a deep breath and dialed Brenda’s number at the Cordova Courier. When she got the answering machine, she left a message “I’m back, Brenda, but not for the social column. I’m doing a series on the killings. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

She hung up and dialed another number. When she heard Sunny’s husky voice, she said, “We’re legal now, kiddo.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come on over. Oh, and bring your fanciest camera.”

~

Valerie directed Sunny to pull up in front of the Sweets’ house. The yellow police ribbons no longer surrounded the house and yard and a ‘For Rent’ sign stood near the driveway. Dark clouds had moved in from the northwest and the first pings of rain sounded on the roof of the BMW.

Sunny had dressed for the part, wearing subdued makeup and her sensible blue suit, the one she termed her ‘PTA getup.’ Only the blue suede shoes gave her away. In her lap, she clasped the black leather case that held the Nikon. Valerie herself had foregone her usual jeans to wear a sweater and slacks. She’d even pulled her black mane into a respectable ponytail.

Sunny ruffled her already spiky hair. “Let me get the scenario straight. You’re pretending to be a reporter interviewing these people for a series of articles on Cordova and crime?”

“No. I AM a reporter interviewing these people for a series of articles on Cordova and crime.” Valerie smoothed her wool pants across her thighs. In jeans, the weight loss wasn’t so noticeable, but all of the dressier clothes she’d tried on had hung in folds.

“Has Brenda okayed this?” Sunny rummaged through her purse and came up with a pen.

“I have to know who Amber Conklin was. I have to know why she knew Jack. And, yes, Brenda wants me back.”

Sunny took a deep breath. “Where do we start?”

Valerie studied the clipboard on her lap. “According to the newspaper, Jade and Pearl Sweet were home the night of the murder, but didn’t see or hear a thing.” She seized the door handle. “Ready? Got your camera?”

Sunny held up the leather case for inspection. “I knew that class in photography would pay off.”

They hurried through the rain to the Sweets’ front porch. Valerie raised her hand to ring the doorbell, but before her finger could make the connection, the door opened.

Two small elderly women, faces puckered with delight, peered out. Twins, less than five feet tall, they wore identical lace-and-chambray dresses. Haloes of white hair floated atop their heads.

Valerie cleared her throat. “I’m Valerie Yates. We spoke on the phone?”

The Sweet on the right said, “We thought you were going to sit out there all day.”

“We’ve heard of you, haven’t we, Jade?”

“Of course we have,” said Jade. “Do come in. Whatever can we be thinking of, to let you stand out on the porch like that?” She opened the door wide.

“The tea should be ready, don’t you think, Pearl?”

Pearl giggled. “Jade put it on when you first drove up.”

Jade, Valerie determined, was the round-faced cherub and Pearl, with her sharper features, the pixie.

The living room, like the twins, was delicate and pastel. It overflowed with Queen Anne furniture, antimacassars, and collections of small glass animals. A faint powdery smell lingered in the air.

The twins motioned them toward a baby-blue velvet couch and scurried out.

Valerie nudged Sunny. In front of them, fanned out on the delicate coffee table, were four white linen napkins.

Jade returned with a large tray of heart-shaped cookies. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Pearl, right behind her, said, “Silly. Valentine’s Day is over.” She carried a silver tray and tea service.

The two tiny women looked at each other, nodded vigorously, and sat down in the high-backed chairs.

“Do help yourself to a cookie,” Jade said.

Valerie brought out her yellow pad while the two women served the tea. “You both must be terribly upset.”

They accompanied their nods with a chorus of hmmmms and mmmm-hmmmms.

“Do you feel insecure now, in this neighborhood?”

The answer was a tinkling of laughter. “Oh no,” said Jade. “Who would ever hurt us?”

Valerie felt rather than saw Sunny shift in her seat. She didn’t dare look at her for fear the amusement twitching the corners of her lips would burble out of control. “Before your neighbor, Miss Conklin, met with her unfortunate end, did you notice anyone taking an unusual interest in her or the neighborhood?”

“Such a pity. A lovely young woman,” Pearl said.

“A real delight,” Jade said.

“So was Tripper, her fiancé.”

Valerie felt a small thrill and jotted down Tripper’s name. “Her fiancé?”

“I think she called him that? We only saw him two or three times.”

“I’m sure they were engaged. They were looking for one of those, what do they call them now? Garden homes?”

“Maybe they had a parting of the ways?” Jade looked at Pearl.

Jade nodded. “But she was going ahead with the garden home, anyway.”

Sunny exchanged glances with Valerie. How could someone as young as Amber Conklin afford to buy a home?

Valerie broke in. “Do you know Tripper’s last name?”

Both sisters nodded. No. “We were never formally introduced.”

“I think,” Pearl said. “Tripper may have been his last name.”

“Can you describe him?” Sunny said.

The sisters didn’t hesitate. “Average.” “Thirty-fivish.” “Not near good-looking enough for Amber.” “Sly.”

After she’d jotted down the description, Valerie asked, “Where did Amber work, by the way?”

Pearl brightened. “She was an actress, working on a movie.”

Jade added, “They were keeping it quiet. You know how it is with movie folks, paparazzi swarming all over them.”

Valerie and Sunny nodded as if yes indeed they were intimately familiar with movie folks, paparazzi, and such.

“Did the movie have a name?” Sunny asked. “Did she have a famous co-star, like Tom Cruise, or Kevin Spacey?”

Pearl and Jade looked puzzled and Valerie realized they’d never heard of either movie actor.

“Nobody we’d ever heard of,” Pearl said. “But then we’re still mooning over Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.”

Pearl may have been the quiet one, but she was very perceptive, Valerie decided. “Did Amber have any problems that you were aware of? Did she have any contact with the authorities?”

The sisters looked at each other. In unison, they said, “Oh heavens no.” As if on cue, they clutched hands and raised their voices in a chorus of woe. “We miss her so much.” “She was such good company” “I gave her combs for her hair.” “Beautiful hair.” “Not like our cousin Lucille’s.” “No, not at all. Not brick red.” “Copper colored. And curly.” “She’d let me brush her hair in the evening.”

Valerie raised an eyebrow at Sunny, whose eyes were suspiciously bright. “Do you know the names of any of her friends?”

“We’re sorry. If she mentioned any names, we don’t remember.”

Pearl sighed. “If only she hadn’t worn the scent of roses. I didn’t know young girls liked flowery perfumes in this day and age.”

Jade tapped Pearl’s hand. “Neither of us can smell a thing any more. Except whiskey breath. Or garlic.”

“Did she mention any family?” Valerie said.

“She was an orphan, poor dear. Both mother and father died young. Such a shame. At least they’re spared the heartache.” The sound of footsteps on the porch stopped the conversation.

A slender man waltzed in, one of those men who look young until they hit sixty and then turn old and withered overnight. Valerie guessed he was in his mid forties. He had coarse hair that looked like it had been red once. He shrugged off his overcoat to reveal a nice sweater and black slacks. The minute he sensed their presence, he straightened, bright eyes darting from her face to Sunny’s.

Valerie recognized him immediately. He was the man she had seen on the television news report and then, later, standing in the shadows the night she walked past this house.

“Martin dear,” said Jade.

“Come meet these lovely young ladies,” said Pearl.

He smiled and Valerie adjusted her estimate. With the wrinkles around his eyes, he had to be at least fifty. The spicy odor of an aftershave mixed with the aroma of a heavy smoker wafted past Valerie.

“Our nephew Martin,” Jade said. “Martin, these nice ladies are journalists. They’re writing a story about our little town and its murders.”

He smiled again, bright eyes darting. “Up to good work then?”

Valerie couldn’t see any sign that he recognized her. ”We’re reporting on the effect of violence on a small town.”

“They want to know the names of Amber’s friends,” Jade offered.

He kept the smile but tensed, like an animal catching the scent of a possible meal.

“Martin’s staying with us for a time,” Pearl said.

“Our brother Oscar’s boy.”

“He’s quite gifted.”

“Really,” Valerie said, hoping her tone wasn’t as phony as his smile. “What do you do, Martin?”

“He sees things,” Pearl said.

Martin affected a humble expression, but his darting eyes flickered with amusement.

Valerie could hear a soft ssssss coming from Sunny. Whistling through her teeth. Valerie steeled herself for a wiseass remark.

“He can predict the future,” Jade said.

Sunny, solemn-faced, said, “We’d love to hear more, but we don’t want to take up all your time. We were talking about Amber’s friends?”

Martin looked sharply at Valerie, then Sunny. “Her friends never came round. You might check the country-western taverns, though. She liked that kind of music.” He cocked his head. “Who are you doing a story for? The local paper?”

Valerie nodded. “That’s right.”

He rubbed his hands together. “My aunties are tiring. Why don’t we step out on the porch?”

“Must they go?” Jade and Pearl said. “It’s been so delightful chatting.”

“Now, my little aunties.” Martin took Jade’s hand, brushed it to his lips. “You know you have to take care, preserve the bloom and all that.”

He ushered Valerie and Sunny outside to the porch. “I didn’t want to speak about Amber in front of them. She had them completely fooled. So naive.”

“You knew Amber well?” Valerie couldn’t imagine such a relationship.

“Well enough. She was a snotty little bitch. Pretending to be so high class, when it was clear that she was nothing but white trash. You can always tell.”

“Why do you say that? Did she do drugs? Hang out with hoods?”

He rubbed his thin hands together again. “I can tell you plenty about Amber. Let’s get together when it’s more convenient. When we can be comfortable and take our time.”

“Tomorrow?” Valerie suggested.

“I’ll call you.”

~

In the car, Sunny fanned herself furiously. “That went well.” With one hand, she held up the white-linen napkin she had been fanning herself with and with the other, the Nikon. “I didn’t snap a single photograph.”

“We’ll come back another time.”

“That nephew of theirs is a real sweetheart. He reminds me of a leprechaun, an evil leprechaun. Didn’t they make a movie about him once?”

“I’ve seen him before. That walk I took? He was skulking outside their house.”

“I bet he was high on the list of suspects.”

“His aunts probably gave him an alibi.”

“Are we going to meet him?”

“He might be able to tell us something. He did give us that lead about the country-western taverns.”

Sunny laughed. “I suppose this means that we’re going to hit every tavern in town. If this gets back to Clay, I’m history.”

“This is Cordova, the heart of the bible belt. How many taverns can there be?”

Chapter 22

The Red Rooster Tavern was a long low structure set back from Central Avenue at the edge of town. It sat in squalid splendor on a blacktopped parking lot. Near the front door, in a patch of dirt, a cedar tree eked out a meager existence.

Valerie didn’t know why, but she felt an edge of excitement. Could this be Amber’s hang out?

“Dis must be d’place,” Sunny said.

“Nine is the magic number. Right?”

Sunny swung the BMW over to the side of the parking lot away from the front door. “Don’t they say you can always tell the quality of life in a Midwestern town by the ratio of churches to taverns?” She parked in front of a billboard advertising a regional cement company. “Cordova will never look the same to me.”

The overcast sky did nothing to enhance the building’s curbside appeal. A vacant lot full of tumbleweeds and discarded cans, tires, and other flotsam bordered it on one side, a large unmown field on the other. Parked out front were a mini-van, a motorcycle, a Ranger, and four assorted pickup trucks. The concrete blocks of the exterior wore a cover of rough, dirty putty as if someone, once, had tried to create the illusion of adobe. A faded mural of a red rooster covered the entirety of one wall.

“Get a load of that.” Sunny pointed at the van parked near the front door. Large orange and purple swastikas blazed forth all over the sides.

Sunny began what she called ‘casualizing,’ unbuttoning the top button of her blouse, removing her earrings and expensive watch, and ruffling her already shaggy hair. She gave Valerie a once over. “Loosen your hair. You look like a nerdy college girl.”

“So what?”

“If we’re going to investigate, let’s do it right. You don’t look like tavern fodder.”

Reluctantly, Valerie loosened her hair and even smeared Sunny’s Classic Carmine on her lips.

They climbed out of the BMW, and Valerie took Sunny’s elbow. “It’s not too bad. There’s hardly anybody here.”

“Yeah, but they’re all named Scar or Snake or Bad Ass or something.”

“Or Tripper,” Valerie noted. “Come on.”

They walked in and stood just inside the door waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. The place smelled of stale beer, perfume, and sweat. Three men dressed in biker gear sat at the bar. A couple swiveled slowly around the dance floor. From the jukebox, came the husky voice of a man croaking out a lifetime of regrets. Two young men in jeans and sweatshirts sat at one of the booths beyond the dance floor.

“Not too bad,” Valerie whispered.

The bartender finished wiping a spill. “Hey ladies. Have a seat. What can I get you?” He was a middle-aged man with a thin goatee hanging from a kewpie-doll face and sprinkles of fair hair clinging to a baby-pink scalp. A real ‘Pinkie,’ she decided.

Valerie chose the bar stool closest to the door. Sunny stood at her elbow. “How about a couple of Pyramids?”

“Would Coronas do?”

“With a slice of lime, please.” Sunny slid onto the stool.

Pinkie set two mugs on the counter and filled each simultaneously, finishing them off with a thin topping of foam.

Valerie could almost feel her nose twitching. If she were a bloodhound, she’d know this was the place.

Pinkie finished with a squeeze of lemon in each glass. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

Valerie cleared her throat. “We’re doing a story on crime in small towns.”

He gave her an elaborate wink. “No crime in here.”

“We’re putting together profiles of victims, so that we can better inform the community. You know, what women should and shouldn’t do? For instance, Amber Conklin. Can you tell us what she was like?”

He shrugged. “A kid on the loose. You could have knocked me for a loop when I found out how old she was when she first started come in. Jesus H. Christ. That’s all I need. A fine for serving underage. You aren’t connected with the police, are you?”

“No way. Did she drink a lot?”

Pinkie glanced at Sunny, tried to catch her eye, but she was watching the dancers. His glance flicked back to Valerie. “She could put ‘em away alright. Never got mean though. Not like her last boyfriend.”

Valerie tried to cover the sound of rising excitement in her voice. “He caused trouble?”

“He got in her face, drug her out of here one night. Yelled that she was ruining her looks.”

“Do you know his name? He sounds like someone the citizens should be aware of.” She nodded at Sunny, trying to look wise and serious.

“Ripper. Or Gripper. Or something like that. He only came in the two times. You’re not going to tell the police she hung around here, are you?”

“No, no. This is all confidential,” Valerie assured him. “You said her last boyfriend. She had one before Tripper, er, Ripper?”

“A sugar daddy. Older. Real nice to her. He’d come in once in awhile.”

“Got a name?”

“Never heard it. Nope. They’d sit way in the back there.” He pointed toward the back of the room, past the pool tables and the dance floor. The table was barely visible in the dim light. “Lover’s Lane.” He flashed a smile at Sunny whose usually reliable radar didn’t seem to be working.

“Did you see anyone else hanging around, or anything unusual?”

He laughed. “Unusual covers a lot of ground around here, but I get your meaning. Didn’t see anyone myself, but Amber did mention this one guy. Said he gave her the creeps, like he was looking down his nose at her.”

“You didn’t see him?”

“Nope. And it was only that one time.”

Valerie felt a tap on her arm and turned. A youth with the sunburned face of a farmer and the heft of a football player stood smiling at her. He was one of the two youths who had been sitting further back. He and his friend wore Butler Community College sweatshirts. He nodded toward the dance floor. “How about a dance?”

“No thanks,” Valerie said.

“Oh go on,” Sunny said. “Maybe he knew….” She rolled her eyes in Pinky’s direction. Let me work on him a while, she seemed to be saying. Her radar was working just fine, after all.

“Right.” She turned to the youth. He was close to Amber’s age. She’d give it a whirl even though she hadn’t danced in years. She rose and walked ahead of him to the dance floor, catching the rhythm of Emmy Lou’s slow sad blues.

He slipped his arm around her waist and, to her surprise, began an accomplished foxtrot. He smelled of a lime aftershave and faintly of sweat.

“You a football player?”

“Used to be,” he said. “I dropped out last semester. What’s your name?”

“Martha.”

“I’m Phil.” He tightened his grip almost imperceptibly. His chest, like his broad shoulder was muscular and firm. She felt a twinge of an old familiar feeling. Jeez, I’m a slut, she thought. She put a hair’s breadth between her breasts and his pectorals “Did you know that woman? The one who was killed?”

“Amber? God, I couldn’t believe it.”

“What was she like?”

“Nice. Real friendly, kind of a tease though.” His grin was sly. Was he hinting that she was a tease?

She forced a businesslike tone into her voice. “Did she ever have trouble with anyone?”

“You know guys. Every once in awhile one of them’d get out of line. But she knew how to handle ‘em.”

“So you never saw anyone giving her a hard time?”

“Nope.” He held her away and looked down at her. “What’s with all the questions? You some kind of undercover cop?”

“Just curious.” Valerie shifted her glance. Sunny was chatting up the bartender, thank heavens. She was even managing to unleash her killer smile.

“Another dance?” Phil said, as the music ended.

“No thanks. My friend and I have to get going.”

He took her arm, walked her back to the bar, bowed slightly, and sauntered away. How had someone so young acquired so much self-confidence? Or, had she just forgotten what young men were like? Before she could sit, Sunny rose. “Let’s go.”

Outside, Valerie turned to her. “Did you find out anything else?”

“Only that Tony the Bartender can be a hell of a nice guy to any gal who’s got the brains to hitch up with a high roller like him and he’d be real proud to take a looker like me to Kansas City next weekend for a real good time at the stock car races.” She opened the car door with a wink. “Just think what I’ve been missing.”

“I’m sure Clay won’t mind you slipping off for a weekend now and then.”

Sunny’s eyes widened. “Just don’t slip up tomorrow at lunch and mention our little outing. Clay would kill me.”

Chapter 23

“You’re exaggerating!” They had been sitting in Royal’s cozy back booth since noon: Valerie, Sunny, Clay, and Kevin. At two o’clock, they had outlasted the lunch crowd and their second bottle of wine held only a golden sip or two. The rich smell of the barbecue ribs that had been the lunch special lingered in the air.

“He’d always lose it,” Sunny said with a sly glance at Clay. “Not once did he lock lips with you. Admit it.” She nudged Clay. “You said it was like incest, remember?”

“Of course we’d break up in rehearsals,” Valerie said. “Everybody does.”

“He misted your lips once.” With thumb and forefinger, Kevin measured a miniscule space. “He got that close.”

Valerie leaned back; she was having a really good time. Of course, a little alcohol didn’t hurt.

Clay accepted the ribbing with equanamity. For the first time in a long time, she could see the Clay of their school days. “It was a tough job kissing Valerie,” he said with a wink. “But someone had to do it.” He’d loosened his tie, and his hair, usually perfectly styled, was as tousled as it’d ever been back in the days when they hung out at Walgreen’s.

Valerie’s eyes misted at the thought of the rowdy after-school crowd at Walgreens. She decided she’d slow down on the wine; tearing up was the first sign she’d had too much.

The lights dimmed and, after a moment, Royal Farley wandered in, big shoulders hunched now with age. He waved and Valerie could see his sharp eyes making the count. How much business had he lost since Chaz’s opened its doors? He went to the jukebox and selected some songs.

“How do you think it was for me?” Sunny said. “Watching my man romancing my best friend. You two were always the romantic leads and” She reached over and tousled Kevin’s curls into a bird’s nest. “Kevin and I were always the comic relief.”

“Begin the Beguine” filled the room with sensuous chords.

“The only time Valerie and I were paired,” Kevin said, “was in that rinky dink production of Music Man. Remember?”

Clay snorted. “I’m sure Valerie remembers that clinch in the third act. You grabbed her and gave her the biggest longest smooch in the history of theatre.”

Valerie, remembering how enthusiastically she’d responded, felt her face grown red.

Kevin lifted his glass and raised a wicked eyebrow. “The audience loved it.”

Sunny sighed. “Too bad we can’t start up the Cordova Players again.”

Clay smoothed his tousled hair. “We have adult responsibilities now.”

“How’s your boy?” Kevin said. “Brad, isn’t it?”

“A true Cavanaugh,” Sunny said.

“Brad’s handsome,” Valerie said. “Bright, and an all-round good kid.”

Valerie stopped, looked at Kevin, and together they chorused, “Not a true Cavanaugh at all!”

Everyone roared. How they always loved trying to get a rise out of cool, calm Clay.

Finally, Valerie leaned back and wiped her eyes. It was like the old days. Except that Clay was now a prosperous businessman, the Golden Boy all grown up. Sunny was, well, Sunny was herself, just more so. And Kevin? He’d always been so easy going and so much fun. No wonder the kids had voted him Most Popular and the girls had vied for his interest.

The first smooth chords of Love for Sale infused the already rich air of the room, blending eroticism with the odors of food and whisky and cigarettes.

Kevin leaned toward Valerie. “How about a dance?”

Valerie took another sip of her wine. Did she dare? “Why not.”

They rose, he took her hand, and they strolled to the center of the floor. Valerie stepped into Kevin’s arms as if the intervening years were only an illusion easily dispelled by a glass of wine.

The song was slow but rhythmic. Kevin was still a good dancer and they danced well together. Jack had always been a little too tall for her, but she and Kevin could mold into a perfect unit for moving with the music.

They finished the dance and sat down.

Valerie’s head buzzed with the wine. “Funny, isn’t it? How the past holds on to us?”

“Those were good times,” Clay said.

“Half of our class still lives here,” Valerie said. “I wonder what happened to the ones who left.”

She knew she shouldn’t, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Like that girl with the bad reputation? What was her name?”

Two beats passed while Kevin and Clay exchanged glances and Sunny studied the witticisms on a cocktail coaster.

“Tammy Sue Conklin,” Clay said. “What made you think of her? Didn’t she go to Kansas City? Become a pro?”

“She’s probably a middle-aged housewife now,” Kevin said, “with a gaggle of kids.”

“How about you, Kev,” Sunny said. “Ever going to settle down and raise a family?”

“Plenty of time. Plenty of time.” Kevin tried in vain to smooth his hair. “Still got all my hair and teeth. Still in my prime.”

Fast and sweet, Valerie thought. They couldn’t wait to change the subject. “You--” She broke off, startled by the appearance of the waiter.

Clay grabbed the check.

Kevin groaned. “You’d think, after all these years, I’d get to play first fiddle once in awhile.”

“Next time,” Clay said.

While the men attended to the bill and gathered up the coats, Valerie and Sunny retired to the ladies room

Inside, as they were washing their hands, Sunny asked, “What was that about Tammy Sue Conklin?”

“Right. Pretend you don’t know.”

Sunny flapped her hands to dry them. “Don’t know what?”

“About Jack and Tammy Sue.”

Sunny rolled her eyes. “You’re baked, kiddo.”

“I found stuff.”

Sunny turned to her, hand on hip, eyebrow cocked.

“He kept a picture of her hidden away with some stuff.”

“Stuff?” Sunny prodded.

“A notebook, some paper.”

Sunny turned to the mirror. “Sounds like a bunch of trash he meant to throw away to me. If you’re getting paranoid, you’d better check in with one of my colleagues.”

Valerie felt her cheeks flame. She had to get out of this conversation, get out of this building. “Oh, forget it. I can’t explain it and it’s not important anyway.

“Kevin looks handsome, doesn’t he?” Sunny was wearing a purple velour pantsuit, a boyish, slicked down ‘do,’ and a new natural look that required even more makeup than usual. She applied a colorless gloss to her lips.

Valerie studied herself in the mirror…hair loose, minimal makeup, baggy sweater. When had she become the country mouse? She washed and dried her hands and said, “I’m going to say goodbye to the boys.”

She stepped into the short hall just in time to hear Clay’s voice. “…vulnerable. Sunny’s too close to her to see it.”

Vulnerable? Were they talking about her? She stopped. Was she paranoid?

“It’s only natural,” Kevin said. “She’s had two severe blows, first her aunt, then her husband.”

“This morbid obsession about these murders is definitely not what she needs right now.”

Morbid obsession? A few books? A question here and there?

“She’s a big girl, Clay,” Kevin said. “All grown up.”

“She suspects her mailman, for God’s sakes. It may be natural, but it’s not good for her.”

Sunny came up behind Valerie. “What’s up?”

Valerie raised a finger to her lips and said “Shhhh” but it came out as loud and as strong as a stage whisper. “Shhhh,” she said in a softer voice. “They’re talking about me. And don’t tell me I’m being paranoid!”

Kevin sounded surprisingly authoritative. “If you’re worried about it becoming obsessive, don’t. Valerie’s getting back into the swing. She’s a journalist at heart. Getting the facts, finding out the truth is part of her make up.”

“You’ve been gone a long time, Kev.”

Clay was, was emphatic, that’s what he was. Valerie turned to Sunny and studied her face as Clay continued. “She’s changed. Just think about it, that’s all I’m asking.”

Sunny gave an exaggerated shrug. Don’t ask me.

Valerie whispered, “I want to talk to you. Later.” Later, when she’d cooled off, when she could speak without shouting and getting red in the face. How could her big bro' Clay do this to her? How could Sunny tell him about the mailman?

“Call me tonight,” Sunny whispered. “About our trip to the mall tomorrow.”

With one last glance at each other, they squared their shoulders and marched out to interrupt the conversation.

“Boys,” Sunny said. “Some of us have to go back to work.” She winked at Kevin.

“Ah yes,” Kevin sighed. “The real world again.”

Valerie kissed him on the cheek before they parted. He, at least, didn’t think she was a nutcase.

~

Maggie poured Kevin a steaming mug of black coffee and pulled out the chair across from him at the kitchen table.

“Can’t stay long, Ma.” He picked up the mug and sipped cautiously. “I’ve already taken the world’s longest lunch break.”

The look on his face matched the weather report, gray and overcast, but he was as fine a looking man as she’d ever seen, even if she did say so herself. Strong honest face, thick shining hair, eyes that showed all his goodness. A son to be proud of, taking after her and, thank the Lord, not that worthless hunk of trash she’d married.

Kevin sipped the coffee “You’ve been sewing again, Ma. You know you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“I’m all growed up, Kev. Guess I’ll do what I think best.”

“You deserve to take it easy.”

“Doing that piece work passes the time. Kind of relaxes me.”

“You taking your medicine?”

“Tranquilizers,” she said with a snort.

“You know what the doctor said.”

“Well, maybe this Shoguns whatchamacallit Syndrome is drying me and my brain up, but I’m just plain against popping pills like some jet setter or something.”

“Sjogren’s Syndrome.” He spelled it out for her. He was trying hard to look stern, but his eyes gave him away.

“I’m wondering what Valerie is up to,” she said.

He hesitated, licked his lips. “What makes you think she’s up to something?”

“She called a while back. Wanted to know if I’d ever seen the mailman doing anything he shouldn’t. Can you beat that? “

“Doing something he shouldn’t? Did she give any particulars?”

“They had words the other morning. Her and Gil.”

He frowned. “Words?”

“Yelling back and forth. All I heard was that she was going to report him.”

He spread his hands in a gesture that said well-there-you-are.

“She ever talk about Jack?”

“Nope. Probably won’t for awhile.”

“Maybe after he got himself killed, she found out he wasn’t no prize.”

Kev frowned and she worried that she’d gone too far. “I mean,” she went on, “he wasn’t no saint. That’s all I meant.”

He stroked his chin in that way he had, like he was some kind of college professor. “Clay did mention he was worried about her interest in these murders.”

Her boy sipped his coffee, eyes brimming with that kind of hangdog look he always got when they talked about Valerie Yates. Too bad about this Rose Killer running around souring life for everybody. Another complication. Jesus, life was full of them.

~

Guylene stood at the kitchen sink, elbow deep in suds, kneading her blue cardigan. The ceramic chicken on the windowsill stared at her, blind blue eyes giving her the creeps like they always did. It was crooked again, facing away from the window. As soon as she dried her hands, she’d set it straight.

She lifted out the sweater and pulled the plug. The water ran down the drain in great gulps. Plenty of time before her appointment with Sunny, time to put the sweaters on her shelf in order, time to clean the shit from under her bed.

One of the kitchen floorboards let loose a familiar shriek and at that same moment, she smelled the stink. Shit! She jerked, the sweater hitting the sink, sending the suds flying. It was him!

She gathered herself to jump aside, but he had her around the waist. Hard hands, strong muscular arms, the sickening smell of his shaving lotion making her want to puke.

“Get the fuck off me!” Him and his goddamn pumped up muscles. Pushing his dick against her back. Sonovabitch!

He squeezed his arms tight around her, so tight she could barely breathe. His voice when he spoke was his nasty voice. “How's things, Guylene.”

“You bastard.” She tried to squirm out of his grasp. “Let me go.”

He pressed his cheek against her hair, his hot breath wafted over her face.

She gagged. Fighting didn’t do shit, never did. She let go, played rag doll, her arms flopping at her sides. The enameled blue eyes of the chicken stared at her. Whadda ya gonna do? Who you gonna call?

“How’s my little Guy?” he asked.

With a sudden sharp movement, she brought her elbows back and down and broke away. “Sonovabitch.”

“Guylene,” he said in mock horror. “Is that any way to talk about your grandma?”

She spun around.

He pushed his big square chin forward, studied her with a mocking smile.

Pig face. Some day she’d kill him. “Get out of here, you bastard.”

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned away, strolled over to the ancient Coldspot, opened it, and peered in. The fridge’s motor creaked to life, rattling the jars and bowls on the shelves. “I just dropped by to talk to your mom. Guess she's still at the mini-mart, huh.”

Guylene felt a thrill of relief. He hadn't heard about Mom working the night shift at Votrix. “She went to the store and she'll be back any minute. So get away from me or….”

He turned back to her. “Or what? I told you what’d happen if you said anything. Nobody'll believe a punk like you, anyway. A juvenile delinquent.” He squeezed his eyes to slits and mocked her, popping out each word like a series of slaps. “Ignorant…dumb…JD…punk.”

His jump was so sudden she gasped, and he had her again, pushing his nose to hers, pursing his mouth for a kiss.

“No, no. no, no.” She flailed away.

Laughing, he caught her wrists with one hand and with the other, rained short fast slaps on her shoulders and arms.

Her brain was on fire. She'd kill him. She'd chop him up and smash his pig face.

The sound of the front door opening stopped him. He stepped back.

She opened her mouth to scream, but bit her lip instead.

He squeezed her wrist so tight she heard it crack. He jerked her up close to him, and hissed in her ear. “Be a good girl now. Or you know what.”

She wasn’t sure what, because Uncle Gil made lots of different threats but it didn’t matter because she knew he’d really do whatever it was, whatever bad thing he talked about. He’d do it. He would make her sorry.

~

Sunny straightened the papers on her desk, giving herself time to get a feel for Guylene’s mood, and giving herself time to relax into professional mode after the ‘luncheon.’ The girl, dressed in meticulously neat sweater, blouse, and jeans, seemed subdued, her usual piquant freshness and vulnerability tuned down to a whisper.

“Today’s a bummer.”

“How so?”

She shrugged. “School’s been better. My mother got a job at Zotriz.”

“You’re probably busting out all over the place with happiness and good cheer then?”

Guylene smiled, smoothed a fingernail with the thumb of her other hand. “Right. Happiness.”

“School’s going well. Mother’s got a job. How about your social life?”

“It’s okay. I’ve got this friend Shawnee. We talk on the phone a lot.” She continued smoothing her pearly pink nails.

“You mentioned an uncle once. Is he a support to your mother?”

“They talk. He comes around.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him.”

A shade of a frown tugged at her brow. “He thinks he’s cool. Someone told him once he looked like James Dean, that old movie star.”

Sunny laughed. “I get the picture. Not much of a father figure then.”

Guylene snorted. “Me and Shawnee are going to start studying together. Try to catch up.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

The girl leaned forward, gathered up her jacket from the arm of the chair. “I gotta go.”

Wan, Sunny thought. Wan, and depressed, and sad. Something had happened. She had to have more time. Draw her out. “Your time isn’t up yet. Tell me more about your uncle.”

Guylene rose. “I just feel punk today. I’m sorry.”

Sunny opened her appointment calendar. “How about next Thursday afternoon? Same time?”

“Okay with me.” Guylene headed toward the door.

“Guylene.” Sunny raised her voice. “What’s your uncle’s name?”

Evidently, the girl hadn’t heard her or was pretending she hadn’t heard. She disappeared down the hall.

Sunny turned toward the window. The sky was pale with that chalky pastel look that promised the end of winter. Guylene was her last appointment of the day. She might as well head out, see if she could catch the end of Brad’s football practice. Maybe they’d go out to eat tonight, if Clay got home at a decent time, that is. Two meals with one’s husband in a single day was a lot to hope for.

She turned back to her desk and Guylene’s file folder. Sunny, you’re getting too involved with this girl, she warned herself. She’d have to watch that. She was on the verge of a breakthrough and she couldn’t mess up.

Sunny added a few notes to the folder, filed it away, and picked up her purse. Guylene had a story to tell and she would bet her best pair of leather boots it had something to do with the uncle. Another sorry tale with a real life villain.

~

Valerie lay on the bed, fully clothed, face buried in Jack’s pillow. She had to get up and take something for her headache. She’d have a hangover tomorrow. She just prayed she didn’t get sick in the night. She should never drink. Jack would have kept her from drinking so much. She pushed her face further into the pillow. Jack, you bastard, why the hell did you do this to me?

She thrashed around in anger, trying to find a comfortable position. She should get up, put on her night clothes, pop a couple of pills, drink some tomato juice. Did she have tomato juice? Of course not. Oh, why had she opened her mouth and brought up Tammy Sue Conklin? Wouldn’t Sunny have told her if she knew? Maybe she hadn’t known. But Clay and Kevin knew, she could tell by their reactions. She should have just come right out and asked them for information. Sure, and everyone would think she was paranoid for sure

Maybe she was. Maybe there hadn’t been anything between Jack and Tammy Sue. She’d rather be paranoid, she decided, if it meant that Jack had been faithful to her.

Chapter 24

The night was coolish and clear and he had a perfect view of Chaz’s, of the door through which Dorothy Beamish would soon emerge, her gray brush of wiry curls alive with neon blue from the sign in the window.

What a woman, he thought. Runs her office, goes out bowling at night, and drinks beer like a truck driver afterwards. Dorothy Beamish, 62 years old, never married, sexually inactive but a lesbian nevertheless.

Dorothy emerged through the door with two of her bowling partners, her ‘buddies,’ as she called them. As far as he could tell, none of these women were lesbians. The little one, Goldie, was a young mother and the other two women had families as well.

Dorothy waved goodnight and laughed raucously, evidently at a comment made by Goldie. He could tell that Dorothy liked Goldie, who was petite, blonde, and bubbly. Perhaps Dorothy had liked someone too much in Dodge City where she’d lived and worked for ten years before making the move to Cordova. Perhaps she’d had to leave Dodge City. Leave Dodge City? Wasn’t there a joke in there somewhere? Oh well, she wouldn’t have to worry about things getting out of hand here, in this town, at this job.

Dorothy threw her bowling bag into the old Thunderbird and climbed in after it. He could see her lips moving and knew she was talking to herself, probably spewing out congratulations for her high score. Good old Dorothy. Did she know that the people in her office called her ‘Dotty’ behind her back?

He’d have to get back to work tomorrow. Slip on his business face and get on with it. Luckily, his superior abilities stood him in good stead. He could almost go through the motions in his sleep. He laughed. Man’s work is never done.

He put the truck in gear and waited, knit cap pulled down against the cold, against the neon glare of the sign, against the night eyes of the town.

Tomorrow night, though, he’d be free again. He would gather more information, perfect his plan, add more control measures. Control. That was what it was all about. Accounting for all of the variables.

Variables. Contingency plans. Preparations for the unexpected, the little flies the ointment always drew, the proverbial moths that couldn’t or wouldn’t stay away from the flame.

He eased the truck onto the street, eyes on the taillights of the Thunderbird at the stop light. He had his Dorothy under control, but what were those two women, those fluttering ineffectual moths, doing at the Red Rooster the other day?

Chapter 25

A mid-week morning at Cordova’s brand spanking new Mall? Valerie hadn’t known what to expect. She knew there wouldn’t be crowds like those at Wichita’s snazzy Towne East. Actually, the idea of such a symbol of conspicuous consumption in her little old podunk town seemed faintly ludicrous, but now that she and Sunny were there, traipsing down the promenade, she had to admit that the vast array of goodies were hard to resist. Dillard’s. Hallmark Cards. Lover’s Knot?

She turned her gaze away from a rhinestone studded garter belt and reminded herself that she and Sunny were there for business. She certainly wasn’t going to bring up yesterday’s carousing at Royal’s and if Sunny did, she’d change the subject.

Sunny’s reluctance to join in the investigation seemed to have gone up in smoke. They’d interviewed the Sweets, checked out The Red Rooster where Amber had hung, and Clay was none the wiser. Sunny seemed almost ebullient at their success.

A young mother pushing a stroller disappeared into PriceCo, two toddlers in tow. The two old farmers who used to sit in front of the Court House were now sitting on a faux marble bench surrounded by potted palms beneath a great skylight.

The farmers looked over Valerie and Sunny with frank gazes of appraisal, Sunny in particular. She was in full regalia: sleek vinyl pants, boots, and a brazenly fake fur topper. Valerie, in blue jeans and a parka, had dressed down deliberately, pushing away an urge to get herself…. How had Aunt Monica put it? To get herself ‘done up.’ Her hangover was minimal but she had applied some foundation and even a little blush.

Sunny winked at the farmers and nudged Valerie. “Video Village is just ahead. Do you want me to do the talking this time?”

“Let’s play it by ear,” Valerie said. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I do know that Jack had to have an important reason for squirreling away that phone number.”

They stopped in front of Video Village. Sounds of battle and carnage reverberated from the Arcade across the way. “I’m going to ask for Tripper and see what happens,” Valerie said.

They gave each other an encouraging nod and strolled in.

The store was narrow and deep. A rack full of copies of the latest Bond movie stood next to the door. Movie posters covered the walls displaying famous faces—Gibson, Streep, Eastwood—alongside faces Valerie didn’t recognize. Harsh synthetic music, punctuated with an unforgiving bass, vibrated through the store.

A young woman stood behind the checkout counter, managing to simultaneously chew gum, chat on the telephone, doodle on a receipt, and twist her single strand of turquoise-colored hair around an index finger. A poster on the wall behind her, featuring a Neanderthal with a guitar in one hand and a machine gun in the other, framed her apathetic face.

Valerie coughed politely.

“Gotta go, Sweetie,” the clerk said.

Valerie used her teacher’s voice, raising it a level above the music. “We’d like to see the manager.”

“He’s busy in back.”

Sunny waved her Nikon. “We’re journalists.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open.

“We’d like to see Tripper,” Valerie said.

A look of relief crossed the girl’s face. “Tripper?” Her gaze shifted to something behind them and they turned.

He sauntered over, just an average guy, not too tall, not too anything, wearing a polo shirt and chinos. Yet, for all of that, he was a lizard of a man, lean and ravenous.

Valerie cleared her suddenly very dry throat. Maybe it was his eyes. They were clear and frosty, quite attractive. Their expression at that moment, however, was anything but attractive.

Valerie cleared her throat again. “We’re doing a story on crime in small towns.”

Tripper stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

“We want to get reactions from the man on the street,” Sunny offered.

His expression didn’t change, but his face darkened.

Valerie glanced uneasily at Sunny. “We’re writing this story for…” She cleared her throat again. “…the Cordova Times.” Why was the music so darned loud?

“Lobina,” he yelled, his gaze never leaving them.

“What?” the girl at the counter answered.

“Who the hell you been talking to?” His voice was a raspy tenor.

“No one, Tripper. Honest.” The girl suddenly sounded like a terrified six-year-old. “Everyone’s talking about Amber anyway.”

His frosty eyes turned the color of grapes and, a moment later, his face followed suit. “Shut the fuck up!”

Valerie, temples throbbing, watched in horror. Was this apoplexy right in front of her eyes? Would the blare of the music never end? She glanced back at the sales clerk.

He spat out, “You goddamned fuckers!”

“There’s no need to be abusive,” Valerie said, her final words swallowed by the clanging of cymbals.

Eyes wide, the clerk shook her head in what was clearly a warning. A small group of shoppers had gathered in the entrance.

He barked, “Just can’t leave it alone, can you?”

Valerie shook off Sunny’s hand on her arm, tried to explain. “You don’t understand.”

He leaned forward, sending out waves of lemony aftershave, toothpaste, and wine. “I understand plenty. Get the fuck out!”

Drums boomed, Valerie and Sunny stepped back, chorus girls surrendering center stage to the star.

He advanced, jabbed his forefinger in the air. “Get the fuck out!”

They turned, pushed past the people crowding around the entrance, and fled into the mall, a buzz of giggles and snickers and the merciless music trailing after them.

The tune ended just as Sunny shouted over her shoulder. “Get a vocabulary, Bub.”

~

Guylene faded back into the recessed entrance to the video arcade and watched Sunny Cavanaugh and the other woman trot down the promenade. Two grownup women practically running, their faces brick red, oh this was too much. The glamorous and sophisticated Sunny Cavanaugh, shit almighty. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

Somebody nudged her shoulder. “The older generation, right?”

He was a thin dude with laughing eyes and longish sandy hair. He wore tight blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a beat-up leather jacket. Neat.

She kept her face from smiling. “Right.” He was at least nineteen, maybe even twenty. And fine. Long eyelashes. Real slim-hipped in those tight jeans.

“You know them?”

“One of them’s my counselor,” she said, without thinking.

He nodded, not looking shocked or turned off or anything like that.

“I see her once in awhile,” she said.

He took a long draw on his cigarette, rounded his lips into a circle, and blew a smoke ring. “Sounds like a drag.”

She smiled. “She’s better than most.”

Guylene was glad she’d worn the pink puffy-sleeved jacket and the ankle-high boots.

She said yeah, she’d like to play a couple of games and picked the Robotrom. He plunked in the coins and she grabbed a joystick. Her stupid hand was trembling. He stood next to her, quiet and composed.

She licked her lips, pressed the button, and tensed for action as six Robots popped up in the Kingdom of Doom. They marched toward the hero-warrior hiding in the Caves of Barkenda. She worked the joystick and the buttons gamely, heart pumping, cheeks flaming. She managed to kill a dozen of the evil soldiers, but in the end, she, the lone defender of the right, was overwhelmed. Flashing lights, an explosion, and the game was over.

She hit the machine with the butt of her hand. “Damn.”

He chuckled. “You did good, Hon.” The rosy glow from the machine tinged his sandy hair with pink like some kind of arty photo. He took her arm, surrendered the machine to a youth in a Grateful Dead tee shirt.

Guylene studied him out of the corner of her eye as he steered her around a group of whooping eighth graders. He reminded her of Shane Chastain, the TV star, only better looking. This was the most wonderful day of her life.

They stepped from the dim arcade into the bright lights of the mall. He stopped and turned to her, pushed that wayward lock of hair out of his eyes. “How about I buy you a coke and you tell me more about yourself and that crazy counselor of yours.”

Two sosh-looking girls walked past, looked him over.

He grinned, and winked at her. “If you got the money, Honey, I got the time.” He took her elbow again. “Smile, why don’t you? That’s a joke.”

“I guess I could go for a Sprite or something.”

He squinted his eyes and studied her. “’Course, if you knew me a little better, you might think twice before going off with me.”

She giggled. “I’ll take my chances.”

He took her elbow again. A thrill of pride shuddered through her.

They took a left and walked past the tee-shirt kiosk. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from the breast pocket of his leather jacket and stopped to face her. “Want a smoke, Hon?”

She took one and raised it to her lips. She liked the way he squinted when he smiled at her and the lock of sandy hair that kept falling over one eye.

He brought out matches, struck one on the heel of his boot, and held it out. “My name’s Bobby Lee.,” he said. “What’s yours?”

She leaned toward the burning match, all the time thinking that this was one mean dude.

Chapter 26

He waited, chuckling, acutely aware that he should continue his surveillance of the two women, but rooted to the spot.

After the women had entered Video Village, he’d found a place behind the potted palms to watch and wait. The two old codgers hadn’t noticed him; they were too busy ogling every woman who passed. They seemed to prefer blonds, hardly giving the dark one a glance.

She, the dark one, was a boring frump. A pretty face to be sure and dark hair that was long and clean and shining, but possessing not one ounce of élan. She was not feminine, neither alluring nor nurturing. Women should try to make themselves attractive to men. As father had often said, the attempt was in itself appealing because it was an act of appeasement.

What had gone on in Video Village? He couldn’t help laughing. The language, the screaming in a public place was unseemly, yet it was humorous. They had run away, red-faced and humiliated.

The girl, this budding Lolita who’d captured him at first sight and who held him still, was a different story. She had the potential to be a perfect woman, a woman like his mother, soft and lovely and compliant. She shouldn't be loitering in a mall by herself. How old could she be? Thirteen? Fourteen?

Punks, seedy little insects, buzzed around places like the Arcade, looking for action, looking for excitement, looking for trouble. Was she the kind of girl who picks up a man at a video arcade? A rhetorical question if ever there was one.

Was she that kind of girl? The kind who asks for it and doesn’t know what it is she so desperately needs? Until he has her alone. Until he tells her, shows her what she needs. He swallowed, subdued the heat, kept the wall stretched tight and strong. Already he could see her on her knees before him.

Yes, girl. Your master is coming.

Chapter 27

After Sunny dropped her back home, Valerie went right to work down in her basement office. She opened the file she called:

The Rose Killer

She was immersing herself in research to blot out the memory of the confrontation with Tripper that morning, not to mention her little scene with Clay, Sunny, and Kevin the previous night.

She was now on Chapter 3 of The Mind of the Serial Killer and had learned a lot. Many serial killers long for mastery. They seek the control they do not have in life. She’d had no idea so much literature on serial killers existed. Of course, she’d had no idea so many serial killers were ‘operating’ in the United States, anywhere from fifty to eighty at any given time. Many of the experts had opinions as to why the United States led the world in the production of these killers, citing everything from our country’s maverick history to today’s transient lifestyles. None of the explanations clicked with her.

Strange how Amber’s name had popped up immediately and how that weirdo Tripper had gone berserk. Obviously, he had some connection to the murder victim that he wanted to keep secret. So what was Jack’s interest? That Tripper was a drug dealer seemed the most likely explanation. Jack had a mission to rescue every kid he knew from the downward spiral of addiction.

Still, she had few solid facts. Jack knew Amber. Jack had saved Tripper’s phone number, hidden it away. Tripper knew Amber.

So what?

She grabbed Jack’s envelopes again and pulled out his notebook. She flipped through the pages of strange notes.

Toward the end, the initials BSC began to appear regularly. Ck BSC where. And BSC???? Stop BSC at...?

Was BSC a person? An organization? A business? Ck BSC where. She pondered possibilities: Where is the check to BSC? Check BSC and find out where?

Frustrated, she turned to the TSC entry. Tammy Sue Conklin. Obviously. Three more entries accompanied it, each a set of initials paired with a date.

PRW 3/19/96

SK6/25/96

YS2/12/97

Something had happened on these dates. Maybe they were the days Jack had met certain people. Maybe he had observed each of them doing something illegal, like passing drugs. She stared at the entries. Birth dates? Anniversaries? Dates of death?

The peal of the doorbell interrupted her concentration. This was Sunny’s day at the Youth Center and she certainly wasn’t expecting anyone else.

Valerie found Neal Malcolm on her stoop and her knees turned to jelly. The memory of that night hit her, the night she had opened her door to him, his face a white mask of pain because he had come to tell her that his friend, her beloved husband Jack, was dead.

“Are you all right?” he asked. The scent of his soap and something else she couldn’t quite place brought her back to the present.

“Neal.” Her voice sounded weightless. “I was just surprised to see you.” She held the door wide so he could enter and led him to the living room.

They faced each other. Tall, Indian dark, and serious, he seemed to fill her living room. “Have a seat,” she said, starting to motion toward the recliner. She stopped, tried to recover by waving at the couch. Not Jack’s recliner. Not now.

“Coffee?”

He shook his head and sat on the couch. “I thought you’d like to know that your mail carrier is okay, definitely not under suspicion.”

She sat in the easy chair. “You checked out Gil Rydell?”

“You didn’t think I would?”

“I wasn’t sure you took me seriously.”

He frowned, but it wasn’t the frown that left subordinates, clerks, acquaintances, the mayor, and every member of the city council vaguely nervous. This was a frown she’d rarely seen. He looked…distressed.

Quickly, she asked, “Do you know a man named Tripper? He works at Video Village in the mall?”

He uncrossed his legs, shifted his position. “Who?”

“I think he knew Amber Conklin.” She started to explain, brain working rapidly. Keep it casual. Don’t give away too much. Don’t bring up the notebook again. She gave him a brief account. Someone, she couldn’t remember who, had mentioned that Amber Conklin frequented Video Village. She’d gone there to check it out. The manager, a man named Tripper, had been visibly upset.

Neal’s dark eyes turned opaque. “You were asking him questions? About Amber Conklin?”

“I’m a reporter, remember? I’m writing a story on how murder affects a small town.”

“I thought you did the social stuff. Not crime, not asking around about a murder victim.”

“Just research. Gathering facts. How about some coffee?”

“Not a good idea, Valerie. It could be dangerous.”

She jumped up. “Coffee?”

“You do that, Valerie. Make a joke. This isn’t a joke.”

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” She perched on the arm of the couch and then rose quickly. Yes, she’d sure as heck keep it in mind, every single time she interviewed somebody, in fact.

His gaze followed her as she went back to the armchair. “Surely you don’t need to work. I know the police pension isn’t huge, but I’d always assumed that your Aunt Monica had left you a sum of money.”

“It’s not for money, Neal. It’s for satisfaction, fulfillment, sense of self worth, pride. You know, all the things you work for?”

His smile was wry as he rose. Evidently, the visit was over. “Point taken. But there’s a dangerous madman out there and he’s not selective. Don’t take risks. Remember that anyone can be a victim, Valerie. Anyone.”

Chapter 28

He must block the girl from his thoughts. The passion she evoked was too overwhelming. It had been so since he first laid eyes on her that morning, standing in front of the Arcade. He couldn’t afford to be careless now. The preparations had to be thorough, nothing left to chance. Like a flash of lightning, the heat surged through his brain again. He moaned. Not yet. He couldn’t take the girl, his little bud of a rose. Not yet.

He settled deeper into the driver’s seat and willed his attention to the entrance of Penn’s Dry Cleaners.

A Russian peasant of a woman came out, followed by a young mother carrying a child. From his position across the street, two storefronts down, he had a clear view and no one would notice or remember the truck. Pickup trucks were omnipresent in Cordova.

The dark matron, the dyke clerk, the rosebud of a girl, each would come to their proper and natural time.

As if on cue, his dark matron, his Theresa, her arms full of plastic-wrapped dry cleaning, emerged from Penn’s. Bob’s pants and sweaters, no doubt. Earlier, she’d had her hair done at Hair Haven and the tight dark curls shone in the sun. Affection flooded over him. In spite of her ugly spells, his Theresa had many good qualities. From what he’d been able to see of her home, she was tidy and clean, an excellent homemaker. But then, if she hadn’t been deserving, he wouldn’t have chosen her.

Chapter 29

Brenda’s office at the Cordova Times was even messier than the last time Valerie had been there. Brenda, hunched over some copy with a pencil, was her usual trim self, gray bob shining, the dark clothes that were her uniform sleek and stylish.

Brenda peered at her over the rims of her granny glasses. “Okay,” she said. “Five hundred words. How to protect yourself when a psycho’s running loose.”

Valerie rose. “Tuesday?”

“Right. Along with “What’s Happening.”

Valerie groaned.

Brenda put down her pencil. “It’s time you quit messing around. I know you feel you owe your aunt ‘cause she gave up her career to raise you, but she wouldn’t want you to give up what you really want to do just to give a bunch of snot nosed kids dance lessons. You’re a damn good writer. I’m telling you straight. Decide what you want to do and do it. Times aflying.”

Valerie nodded. “I hear you.” She’d been prepared to throw in the social column as a bargaining chip, but only if she had to. Now she had to. “And the subject of the second installment is my choice?”

Brenda sighed. “Right.”

Valerie left the office and hurried to the library, a small cubicle partitioned away from the newsroom. Brenda was right. She’d been a dilettante, doing a little of this and a little of that, not getting anywhere where anything. She sat down at the workstation, pulled out Jack’s notebook, and instructed the database to bring up the April 4, 2006, edition of the Times.

Neal certainly couldn’t say this was dangerous or reckless. She felt the warmth in her face again at the memory of Neal in her living room. Was she feeling anger, or anger mixed with embarrassment at her attraction to him. In many ways, he was like Jack. Persistent, dedicated, close mouthed. He’d been good to her since Jack died, obviously feeling responsible for her. Well, she didn’t need a caretaker.

She searched for text that contained the initials TSC or TC, especially in the obituaries. She found nothing.

She turned to the next entry on Jack’s list of initials. PRW. This time, she found it and, as she had guessed, it was in the obituaries. Phyllis Rose Winston died in Newton, Kansas, on March 19, 2004. The Newton Police Department suspected foul play but had no suspects.

Valerie felt a surge of energy. She was on the right track or at least on some kind of track. With growing excitement, she brought up the December 20, 2002, edition of the paper and searched for ND and HG.

Nothing. She scrolled through the pages again. Her exhilaration faded.

Perhaps Phyllis Rose Winston was a coincidence. Phyllis had died in Newton, but according to her obituary, a maternal aunt lived in Cordova. That would explain her obituary in the Cordova Times. Perhaps the others had lived elsewhere. No reason why not. The Wichita Eagle should be her next destination.

~

Valerie found the Turnpike clear, unsurprisingly, since traffic was usually light during a weekday. The drive took only twenty minutes and nowadays the suburbs of Wichita appeared as soon as Cordova’s old oil fields ended. She got off at the East Kellogg exit at 2:30 pm. Five minutes later she was parking the Dodge in the newspaper’s parking lot on East Douglas. The renaissance of the area still startled her. What had been a seedy neighborhood on the outskirts of the business district with cut-rate men’s clothing, pawn shops, and a couple of greasy spoons, was now a trendy uptown center with brick walkways, sidewalk cafes, art galleries, and antique stores.

She hadn’t been in the Eagle’s offices since high school, when she’d been an intern for the Cordova High newspaper. The building, a conservative two-story edifice built of the area’s ubiquitous red brick, was a landmark.

Like the library at the Cordova Times, the Eagle’s library had been updated, back issues archived on computers. In a couple of minutes, she located the April 5, 2003, edition and turned to the obituaries.

There it was. No mistaking that cute, insolent face. Tammy Sue Conklin. TSC. The obituary was short. Tammy Sue Conklin Bartholomew had died in Wichita. Born and raised in Cordova, Kansas, she had graduated from Cordova High School.

Valerie smiled. The family had played fast and loose with the facts, although she couldn’t blame them. Tammy Sue had never graduated, having dropped out in her junior year. The obituary further stated that Tammy Sue had been a runner up in the Miss Wichita pageant two years after graduation. Her survivors included her father, George Brynden Conklin, of Dallas, Texas.

So, Tammy Sue had a father after all. Valerie couldn’t remember him ever being around. Common knowledge had it that her father was a tumbleweed, taken by Kansas winds to who knew where after depositing his seed. A conceive-and-leave, they called it.

A sister, Betty Helen Burgess of Wichita, also survived and a daughter, Amber Conklin.

Amber.

Valerie drew a deep breath and did some quick arithmetic. Amber, eighteen years old at the time of her death, had been born four years after she, Valerie, and Jack had been married.

Valerie looked up the edition for the previous day and scanned the news items. Finding nothing, she turned to the edition for the day before that. Finally, she found what she was seeking. Fishermen had found the body of Tammy Sue Bartholomew on the banks of the Arkansas River. Her death had been ruled a suicide.

What was Jack’s interest in Tammy Sue’s death? Did he question the coroner’s finding of suicide? Had they performed an autopsy? What about the other initials, the other dates?

Valerie brought up the August 14, 2006 edition. One of the obituaries that day was for a Hannah Gurd, Jack’s next-to-final entry. HG 8/14/06. In a few more minutes, she found the obituary for Nicole Derickson.

Valerie copied the article about Tammy Sue’s death, all of the obituaries, and stopped at Tammy Sue’s photograph. She stared at that pretty, sexy face and felt a surge of hatred.

~

Valerie huddled in the Arcade entry, elbow to elbow with kids who looked like they should be in school, her head reeling with the sounds of electronic mayhem. The mall clock read ten to six. Almost closing time. If Tripper didn’t leave Video Village through the front entrance tonight, she’d have to hang around in back with the trashcans tomorrow.

She hadn’t told Sunny, but she’d been thinking that Tripper just might be the man the bartender had seen giving Amber a hard time at the Red Rooster.

She had so many unanswered questions about this mysterious man. Had he been Amber’s boyfriend? Or just her employer? Were the police watching him? Why would Jack save his phone number? Because he was a drug dealer, or for some other more sinister reason?

Then there were all the questions about Jack. How well did he know Amber? How long had he known her? Could he be the older fellow the bartender had mentioned?

Tripper came out the door followed by Lobina whose shank of colored hair was now lime green.

Almost giddy with relief and excitement, Valerie shrank back into the jumble of girls behind her. A girl with a nose ring shouldered her with a mild “watch it.” Then the girl saw Valerie’s mature face and smirked out a “Sorry.”

“Martha!” someone shouted in Valerie’s ear.

Valerie jumped.

A husky youth wearing a plaid shirt and jeans was smiling at her.

Oh my god, the farm boy she’d danced with at the Red Rooster. “Well, hi there, uh, Phil. Just waiting for someone. Good a place as any.” Where was Tripper?

Lobina was locking the door. Tripper was on his way down the promenade, obviously heading for the parking lot.

“I been watching for you at the Rooster,” Phil said.

“That’s great.” She patted his shoulder. “Gotta go now.” She flashed a smile over her shoulder as she started after her prey.

Phil waved. “See you, Martha! I mean it!”

Great. Now she’d have to worry about running into this kid who was so lonesome he was hitting on a woman old enough to be his mother. She could see it now, accidentally running into him when she was with, say, Maggie or Neal or Kevin, and him calling out: Haven’t seen you at the Rooster lately, Martha. That would play well.

She pushed the scene from her mind and concentrated on the man she was after, an average looking man in nondescript clothing, just one of many in the tangle of people a few yards ahead of her. She trailed him out the main entrance and through the parking lot. Out near Central, he climbed into a very dirty SUV.

Valerie ran for her Dodge, parked about five rows and ten cars out. She jumped in, yelped with delight when it started, and headed after him.

He was at the stop light, signaling a turn onto Main. She pulled in to the line, six cars behind him.

Luckily, the traffic was thick at this time of day with everyone heading out for a Saturday night on the town. The sun was low in the sky, dusk just minutes away. She stayed a couple of cars back. He turned South on Bentner, drove past the Red Rooster and the B & D Garage. The traffic was thin on this road, which, once, had been the only route to Wichita. Three miles out of town, he turned left onto a dirt road.

She slowed. The road curved up to a deserted farm.

He parked the SUV in front of a big metal building thirty feet east of the crumbling house.

Valerie parked off the main road, keeping a row of juniper bushes between her car and the building, which she judged to be some kind of workshop. It was at least forty feet wide with a narrow door set dead center. She opened her window.

Tripper knocked on the door, all the while whistling a jumpy tune and glancing around.

Valerie slumped down but he didn’t look her way. Someone let him in, but she couldn’t see enough to tell if the person was male or female, large or small, or even human for that matter.

She took her time getting out of the car. There was still too much light. The vegetation was sparse, a few brittle trees and bushes, almost leafless this deep in the winter. Not much cover. Staying close to the trees, she approached the workshop from the side. Two small windows sat high on the east wall and there was a row of evergreens a few yards away. She could use them as emergency cover. In case, he came out unexpectedly. Her heart thumped at the thought.

Head down, she strode directly down the gravel drive, to the evergreens and thence to the wall.

The windows were too high, and covered by newspapers. But wait, there was a rip in one of the pages. She might be able to see inside after all. If she could find something to stand on.

A few feet away, a pile of empty containers and boxes huddled against a chain link fence. She rustled through them, trying not to breathe in the musty smell of urine and who knows what else, until she found a wooden crate. The size was right, but would it hold her?

Positioning it under the window, she placed her left foot on the reinforced left side of the crate. Great, she was going to perform a balancing act. Hands braced on the cold metal wall, she murmured, “Jeté, Valerie, you’re a frigging Ariel,” and bounced up. So far so good.

She peered through the rip in the newspaper, expecting dim light, expecting to have difficulty seeing anything.

The interior was ablaze, a circus of lights and equipment. Spotlights stood in a circle around what looked like a theatrical set. A bedroom actually. A bed, a bedside table, and a lamp, specifically. What did they call those lights? Klieg lights? For movie making. Where was Tripper?

Three men, two dressed in ordinary clothing and one wearing a bathrobe, stood next to some kind of bar. All three were drinking from either beer or pop cans. A woman came into view. She also wore a bathrobe. Her feet were bare. She took a can from one of the two men who were clothed. Masses of platinum blonde hair hung down her back. She had affixed artificial falls to her own hair, at least five, maybe more. But where had Tripper gone?

The voice sounded suddenly and so close that Valerie almost lost her balance.

"…their names were?”

She braced herself against the building. Someone had come outside and was standing just around the corner, only a few feet away.

“For the paper. Shit, I don’t remember.” She recognized Tripper’s husky tenor voice.

“They knew about Amber?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Lobina blurted it out. If they didn’t know before, they know now.”

“What do you want….”

The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun. The two men, one of whom had to be Tripper, had evidently gone back inside.

Sunny hugged the cold metal of the wall. Porn. In Cordova? Her heart hammered against her ribs. If they caught her, what would they do to her?

~

Sunny closed the door behind the young man, her six o’clock on Tuesdays. She returned to her desk and jotted detailed notes in her journal. Her hopes for the young man had never been high. Obsessive compulsives improved slowly, if at all. She closed the journal. Guylene had been different. All she had to do was gain the girl’s trust, get her talking. Whatever problem the girl had, it was eating her up, and just letting go of it would bring immense relief. Guylene had missed her last appointment and hadn’t scheduled a new one. Should she call her at home?

Before she could reach for the phone, someone knocked at the door. She was just saying, “Come in,” when Kevin’s unusually sober face peered in.

“Got a minute?” He plopped himself down in the chair the obsessive compulsive had just vacated.

Maturity was becoming to Kevin, she decided. His boyishness had matured into manliness. In his sweater and chinos, he was even—dare she think it?—really hot lately. “For you? Anytime. What’s up?”

“Clay’s worried about you and Valerie and your interest in these murders.”

She nodded. Here it was. “Clay asked you to speak to me.”

“Well, I could speak to Valerie, but you know how she is, she doesn’t listen to anyone.”

“I think I’m pissed. What is it with you guys? Are we going back to the olden-not-so-golden days? You want to keep us all under lock and key?”

“I’m just touching base with you. These are dangerous times. We’ve got to look out for each other.”

“Valerie’s working on a story.”

“I think it’s great she’s ready to get back to work, but─”

She studied his familiar face while he seemingly searched for words. It wasn’t like Kevin to be chauvinistic. “She is working on a story, you know.”

“She’s the society reporter. Brenda all of a sudden assigns a crime story?”

“Why not?”

He gave an elaborate shrug. “If you say so.”

“What’s going on here? I thought you were all for Valerie testing her wings.”

“You know, we’ve talked about Valerie’s been seriously depressed.”

“And now she’s coming out of it.”

“With a drum roll and a flourish it seems. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“She put everything aside for years to please Jack and her aunt. She doesn’t have to please anybody now.”

“I hate to bring this up again, but we both know that some individuals who lose their parents at an early age can have some adjustment problems in times of stress.”

“Valerie’s in her forties. She’d have shown signs of it before this.”

“I can’t help worrying about her.”

“I repeat. She’s coming out of a quite natural depression.”

He cocked his head, a curl tumbling onto his brow, banishing incipient middle age in a fraction of a second. “Why was she asking about Tammy Sue Conklin?”

Sunny aligned the notepad and pen next to her telephone.

Kevin persisted. “She thinks Jack and Tammy Sue were involved, doesn’t she?”

She leaned forward, peering into his eyes. This was her chance. Kevin was not a gifted liar. “Were they?”

He flinched, ever so slightly, but a flinch nevertheless. “You heard something?” She jumped up. “You knew something and never said a word?” She grabbed her briefcase and glaring at him, said, “I’m out of here.”

She was charging down the hall when he called came after her. “My motives would have been more than a little suspect, don’t you think?”

~

Valerie waited a few minutes until she was sure the men were inside. Carefully, she eased herself off the wooden crate. She should hurry. Carefully hurry. She took a step then stopped. She had to return the crate to where she’d found it. Painfully aware of every snap, crunch, squeak, rustle, she tiptoed to the fence and placed the box in its original spot.

Was she far enough away to walk speedily to her car? Yes, she decided, better to make tracks and make it at least part way to the car in case they came out again.

Head down, she kept to the edge of the trees, then crunched brazenly across the gravel driveway to her car. Once inside, with the engine running, she released a long breath

Was Jack investigating this porno studio or whatever you wanted to call it? Was Amber one of the performers? Valerie drove home as fast as she dared.

Chapter 30

Valerie sat on her front porch enjoying the warm breezes. Nothing was better than Kansas in the spring. And look, who was that coming up the sidewalk toward her, a small blonde teenager, her daughter. Joy flooded through Valerie’s body and the tears welled up. The doctors had been wrong after all; she had had a child. The girl came closer. Why was she wearing that hard makeup? She looked almost tough, not at all like her beautiful, clean-cut daughter.

The joy drifted away like wisps of fog in a breeze that was cooling, cooling, actually cold. Valerie shivered. This girl smiling at her, coming closer and closer, this girl’s name was Amber. And she couldn’t be here in this place, couldn’t be walking and smiling, couldn’t be anyone’s daughter, because this girl was dead.

Valerie woke up trembling, drenched in sweat. She sat up, dangled her feet off the edge of the bed. Horrible. Dreaming that a dead girl was her daughter. God knows how Sunny would interpret a dream like that. She herself was sure it was from staring at obituaries all afternoon.

She rose and went to the bathroom for a drink of water. She drank it slowly, watching herself in the mirror over the sink. Her face was pale, of course, but looking healthier than she had for a while. Of course, dark hair always made for a harsh contrast. If she’d had a daughter, the girl’s hair would have been dark. Hadn’t she heard that the gene for dark hair was dominant? Of course, Jack’s hair was light, a dirty blond, but blond. She could see him standing behind her as he often had when he was alive. He was smiling and his hooded eyes seemed to have a wry, cynical expression. Fooled you, he was saying. The trembling overtook her again and, feeling ill, she stumbled back to bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She had to get some sleep if she was going to do just what Neal had told her not to do, take some risks. She had a couple of hours before Sunny arrived.

“I can’t believe Kevin Blackburn. Talking like we’re back in the last century. Valerie should stay home. Valerie should be careful.” Sunny paced back and forth in front of Valerie’s desk.

Valerie looked up from the computer monitor. Sunny stood just inside the circle of light thrown by the lamp, the rest of the basement in deep shadow behind her. “Would you stop that? I’ve got to turn this piece in tomorrow morning.”

Sunny paused, rested her hands on the desk, and leaned forward. “Aren’t you pissed?” She looked bushed, her makeup faded and bleary, her platinum spikes so awry they were long past a fashion statement.

Valerie turned a page in her notebook and began typing. “Later.”

“Here I thought Kevin was so, so unchauvinistic. It just goes to show.”

Valerie stopped typing. “What about Clay? He’s the one who started it, put the idea in Kevin’s head after lunch.”

“Clay?” Sunny threw out her hands in supplication. “Give me a break. We know Clay’s an MCP.”

Valerie laughed. “Whoa now. Clay’s always encouraged me, been supportive. All that nonchauvinistic stuff.”

Sunny plopped down in the folding chair. “You’re not married to him. I don’t know where he is half the time. He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

“Didn’t you say he was having trouble getting the financing for the resort, er, the convention center? Worry could account for what you’re describing.”

“But that’s what puzzles me most. He seems to have lost interest in it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was fooling around.”

“Like Jack was fooling around?”

Sunny bent her head. “I didn’t know. I still can’t believe it.”

“Me either. But then I would never have guessed we had a thriving porn industry either.”

“What!?”

“Saw it. I have to tell Neal about it, but he’ll just scold and tell me not to worry my pretty little head.”

Sunny rose, and stood hunched over, chewing her thumbnail, reminding Valerie of the days when they were thirteen.

Valerie shook her head. “But you’re nuts. Just plumb crazy. Clay’s straight arrow.”

“How can you be sure you ‘know’ anyone? You’re telling me Jack was unfaithful and that we have a porn industry in our conservative bible-belt town. You even suspect your mailman of being a serial killer, for God’s sake!”

Valerie studied the computer screen.

Sunny looked around the basement and shivered. “How can you stand to work down here at night? It gives me the creeps.”

Valerie saved her work file and turned off the monitor, the last sentence she’d written humming in her mind, a quote from a conversation she’d had with Jessie who lived across the street. “I’m looking at my neighbor now just like I’d look at any stranger, wondering what he’s thinking about, wondering what he’s like when he’s alone, wondering if he’s out there sneaking around at night.”

Chapter 31

The rays of the mid-afternoon sun, bland in March, streamed through the sheer curtains at the bedroom window, illuminating the dark wood of the dresser top. Pleasure, full blooded and pure, surged through him. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. The room glowed. It even smelled of lemon.

Everything was perfect. Seven days of work and planning. Soon he would have his prize.

On the dresser, five small, silver-framed photographs sat on an embroidered white-linen scarf.

He opened the top drawer. The ghost of a scent drifted up, like flower petals crushed to powder in some century past. She had lined the drawer with a wallpaper splashed with pink, daisy-like flowers. His mother’s face flashed into his mind—China doll eyes, rosebud lips—but he shook her off, smiled as her rouged cheeks cracked and disintegrated into nothingness.

Focus. Focus and control.

The drawer held three piles of neatly folded flannel nightgowns. He plucked one from the middle and shook it out. It was long and full, the material a pink print trimmed with ruffles at the neck and cuffs. He liked it, liked it very much. He refolded it with great care and returned it to the drawer, closed it and opened the one below it.

She’d folded and arranged pantyhose, girdles, and slips in tidy feminine mounds.

The small round clock on the bedside table went into a spasm. He looked at his watch. Three-forty. He listened for the sound of her car in the driveway. He heard nothing. He turned his attention to the pantyhose and finally selected two pair. He stuffed them under his jacket. Licking his lips, he shut the drawer.

The photographs on top of the dresser—he counted seven—displayed the very young faces of children, four girls, two boys, and one who could have been either. Which one of these adored and adorable tykes would be most dear? His gaze settled on a girl about three with a fluff of hair like a dandelion and a smile of reckless delight. He stuffed the photograph in the right-hand pocket of his jacket, next to the crisp rectangle of the handkerchief.

He passed through a short back hallway to the big airy kitchen he’d admired earlier. Pale oak veneered cabinets, chrome molding, it was right out of the Fifties and amazingly bright and polished.

She was a wonder, wasn’t she?

He slipped into the small pantry just off the kitchen. This room was five feet by ten, its floor covered with a red-and-white marbled linoleum so brilliant with wax he could see his reflection. He smiled and slipped his hand into his pocket to finger the handkerchief. She could have been a good woman, she had been taught to be a good woman, but she had chosen otherwise.

Shelves covered with red-and-white checked paper ran the length of the room on both sides. She arranged the canned goods by category: fruits on the top shelf, vegetables on the second, soups and meat products on the third. He noted the variety, the well-known brand names, the way the labels on the cans faced out.

He liked this room. Here he would wait. He would stand in this small room with total control. Motionless. Silent. She would walk into the kitchen, a short matronly woman with very dark, tightly curled hair. With a great deal of sighing, she would walk to the refrigerator to select the ingredients for her husband’s dinner. He could see the back of her head, the thickish neck under the crimped dark hair. And then? Oh yes, then he would step out of the pantry. She would try to turn but he would be on her, with the knife at her throat. Wait.

Was that the scent of roses?

No. Only the dead-flower smell of her fear.

Suddenly, the silence struck him. His vision of the woman faded. He looked at his watch and frowned. Three fifty-five.

Where was she?

He checked the time on the round clock on the wall, shook his head, and stepped back into the gleaming kitchen. She should be home by now. Her book club never lasted past three o’clock. The women had to go home, prepare dinner for their husbands. Something had happened.

Should he chance it and wait? No. Control, total and absolute, had kept him safe all these years. He would come again another day.

He hurried to the back door but just as he reached for the doorknob, remembered something. The photograph of the child. The items. He had to put them back. He loped through the kitchen, through the short hallway, and into the bedroom.

His hand was in his pocket with his fingers closing around the photograph when he heard it, the sound of a car in the driveway. She was back. Was there still time?

He waited in front of the dresser. Outside, the car’s engine died with a cough. A car door slammed. He heard another car door slam and the murmur of voices.

Someone was with her.

Chapter 32

Theresa Findlay tested the door handle, made sure she'd locked the car, and realized she was grinding her teeth again. She remembered her dentist’s instructions, breathed in deeply through her nose, let the breath out with a whoosh through her mouth, and relaxed her jaw. She raised her face to the pale afternoon sunshine, tasted the fresh cold air in the back of her mouth, and repeated the exercise. She ran her tongue over the surface of her molars to assess the damage.

Bob’s glass-sharp voice called out, “Hurry up, Tessie. I’m starving.”

With a sigh, she turned and trudged up the sidewalk.

He waited on the porch, an overstuffed teddy bear in that stupid maroon jacket that was two sizes too small for him. He tapped his right foot on the green all-weather carpet.

She ground her teeth, remembered his words that morning. “If I have to go to the doctor, you’re coming with me. Won’t hurt you to miss one Wednesday. Just a bunch of gossiping women, anyway.” She’d missed her book club today, the one bright spot in the week, all because he was such a big baby.

She stopped in the entry to hang up her coat in the hall closet.

Bob shucked off his jacket, walked past her into the living room, and tossed it over the back of the beige velvet couch.

He waddled over to the big-screen television. All he cared about was the TV.

She took a deep breath.

Relax that jaw. Breathe, relax. Breathe, relax.

She picked up his jacket. “You should take better care of your clothes, dear.” She cringed at the tone of her voice. She sounded just like one of those nagging wives on the sitcoms.

Eyes sharp in his pudgy face, he looked at the jacket and then at her. “I’ve got you for that, now haven’t I?”

He punched a button. The room seemed to explode with the sound of gunfire. On the screen, three soldiers in full combat gear dodged through a wall of smoke. “You don’t mind giving up your soaps for just one day, do you?”

You dolt, she wanted to say, I’ve never watched a soap opera in my life. Instead, she murmured, “No, I don’t mind. I’ll get busy on dinner.”

“Should have had something planned, Tessie.” He punched buttons, changed the channel. Thunderous applause filled the room.

She had to raise her voice above the din. “It’s early. We can still have dinner at the usual time.”

“Should have known I’d be hungry. Damned medical tests. Gotta keep an empty stomach.” He punched another button and soft music replaced the clamor.

“I’ll hurry. Do you want a light meal?”

He stared at the television screen. A shapely woman dressed in lingerie fit for a burlesque queen stood in front of an open closet. A hooded man holding a butcher knife at the ready crept toward her.

Theresa waited.

The woman turned and screamed.

Bob said, “Oh, come on, Tess. I deserve a little better than that, don’t I?” He shuffled to the recliner and sank down. “A man’s gotta have his meat and potatoes if he’s going to get up every morning and do a hard day’s work.” He picked up the remote control from the cherry-wood table and punched some buttons.

The braying music of a rock-video commercial assaulted her ears. She started toward the dining room.

Bob raised his voice above the music. “Doc Billings is going to retire me.”

Her jaw clenched. “What makes you think that, dear?”

“What the hell do you think makes me think that? The doc told me. That’s what makes me think that.”

Theresa went to the bathroom and downed two Tylenol. She faced herself in the mirror.

Who was this hag with the hard and angry eyes, the deep chasm etched between her eyebrows? Whatever had become of sassy little Tess Donovan?

She tiptoed into the bedroom.

A minute of quiet, that’s all she needed.

From the living room came the sounds of gunfire and raw screams. Oh, why wouldn’t Bob wear his hearing aid? What would she do if he retired? He’d be in front of the television all day, day in, day out.

Breathe, relax. Breathe, relax. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Two minutes, that’s all she needed. But what was that on the floor, that white thing in front of the dresser?

She leaned over and picked up a piece of cloth. A man’s white handkerchief. She turned it over. It looked brand new. Bob’s handkerchiefs were of a special brand, made of a fine soft cotton because of his sensitive skin. This wasn’t one of them.

Above the noise of the television, she heard Bob talking to someone in the living room. She recognized the voice of their next-door neighbor, Walt. He sounded excited, his voice unnaturally loud and high-pitched. Why didn’t they turn off the television or at least lower the volume? Handkerchief in hand, she went to the living room.

Bob and Walt were nose to nose. Walt, a wiry ex-navy man with a weathered face, waved his hand in the air and screamed, “Not a thing. Not a goddamn thing. Nobody got a license number. Nobody saw a car. The guy hotfooted it out of here.”

She turned off the television.

The two men turned.

Bob’s sharp eyes glistened. “Somebody was in the house. Walt’s yard boy saw him come out.”

“Damned fool kid,” Walt screamed, “took his time finding me. The sonovabitch is long gone by now. But I sent the kid down the alley anyway.”

She looked from Bob to Walt and back again. “Someone was in our house?”

“A goddamned burglar, that’s who it was,” Bob said. “You’d better check the silver.” He made an impatient get-along-with-you gesture.

She went to the hall cupboard. The silver was safe in its red velvet-lined case and she returned to the living room.

Bob was rummaging through the small desk near the entry. “Did the kid at least get a good look at him?”

Walt waved his bony hand. “All he saw was his back. That trellis on your back porch kept him from getting a clear look. But,” he paused for effect, “he did see that the guy was dressed in blue.” He waited for the news to sink in.

Bob raised a questioning eyebrow.

Walt said, “Like a uniform of some kind. Christ, that should narrow it down.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Theresa asked.

In a simpering voice, Bob mimicked her. “Shouldn’t we call the police?” He slammed the drawer shut. “Of course, we should call the police.”

She remembered the handkerchief. “I almost forgot. I found this in the bedroom. Do you suppose it belongs to the burglar?”

Walt came over to squint at the handkerchief.

Bob jerked open another desk drawer. “What the hell difference does it make? A goddamned handkerchief. They can’t lift prints from that, can they?”

Walt raised an overgrown eyebrow at Theresa.

Bob banged the drawer shut. “Goddamnit, why can’t we get some police protection in this town, will you answer me that?”

“Shut up a minute, will you,” Walt said.

Bob, cheeks aflame, huffed. “Who the hell are you telling to shut up?”

“You, you stupid shithead, that’s who. Don’t you remember what my cousin Jerry told me? You know, the one who works in the files down at the police station? About the handkerchiefs?”

Walt snatched the handkerchief and waved it back and forth. “This is a white handkerchief. A white handkerchief, for Chrissake.”

With a long slow hiss, Theresa sucked in her breath.

Bob stared at Walt’s face, at the handkerchief, at his wife. He stepped forward. Eyes round as a baby’s, he reached out, but just as his fingers closed around the object, he gasped and jerked his hand back. The handkerchief fell to the floor.

Bob edged closer to Theresa and laid his pudgy arm across her shoulders. “Sweet Jesus. It was the Rose Killer. Come to get my Tess.”

Chapter 33

Local woman escapes killer

Valerie tossed the newspaper aside and switched on the television. My God, someone else had almost died, and only two weeks after Amber’s death. The psychopath would not stop, was never going to stop. Luck must have been with Theresa Findlay or else she truly had a guardian angel. At least the authorities now had a description, albeit a poor one, but something was always better than nothing.

She flipped through the television channels, but could find nothing on the Rose Killer. She went back to the newspaper. According to the neighbor who’d seen him fleeing from the Findlay’s yard, he was an athletic man, wearing what could have been a blue uniform.

Valerie paced. Who had provided mailman Gil with his alibis? Were her original instincts about the man on the mark? True, any number of people wore blue uniforms, but how many of them could actually be placed in the vicinity of the murders?

Valerie stopped by the telephone and hesitated; then she called Neal and asked him to lunch. He didn’t have the time of course, but he did agree to meet her in front of the Court House. She pulled on her coat and ten minutes later was sitting next to on one of the hard metal benches under the big Hawthorn tree. The temperature was in the fifties but the sun was bright and warming. A scattering of people were going in and out of the Court House and the shops across the street seemed reasonably busy.

A familiar curly head caught her attention. Kevin was across the street, in front of the pharmacy, and he was with a young woman. Then she saw that the young woman was Jessie, her neighbor, Wynona’s mother, who should be at work at Chaz’s right now. His hand was on her shoulder, steering her.

~

Maggie plunked down a couple of quarters. “Outahere, Frankie,” she called.

The bartender, a sandy haired Scot, was wiping down the counter at the other end of the bar, winked. “See you later, Doll face.”

She laughed. She had at least twenty years on him, but he acted like she was some hot chick. Probably made a fortune in tips. Of course, business was down at Royal’s now, what with the new restaurant at the mall. In fact, the lounge was getting downright boring. She might have to check out Chaz’s or Paulo’s one of these days.

She went to the ladies room to fluff her hair and fix her makeup in the big mirror. She was alone, so she placed her hands on both sides of her face and pulled the skin up. Get that face-lift and she just might take on Frankie the bartender. She ran a comb through her rambunctious curls, refreshed her lipstick, and left the restroom.

Royal was just coming out of his office. “Maggie. What are you up to?”

She smiled politely. Not chasing you, that’s for sure. Royal was still a distinguished looking man, even with his big belly and grey hair. She’d be willing to bet there was still muscle under all that flesh.

She started to push open the heavy glass door, but stopped. Across the street, sitting on a bench in front of the Court House, was Valerie Yates. And who was approaching from the parking lot? Why none other than that big good-looking Chief of Police, no less.

“Hmmmmm.” She stepped back and to the side, crowding the newspaper stand, trying to be inconspicuous. She glanced back. She didn’t want Royal to think she was hanging around to talk to him, but he was nowhere in sight.

Valerie and Neal Malcolm were going to have a little tettatett. What about, she wondered. She could tell from the self-satisfied smirk on his face that he thought he was making points. Maybe tonight at her card game, she could pick up something new about their big strong popular police chief. One of the gals was bound to come up with new gossip. And she’d sure like to know what Valerie Yates was up to now.

~

Valerie couldn’t read either Kevin’s or Jessie’s expression from this distance. Then Neal appeared, blocking her view. In spite of the weather, he was wearing his sheepskin coat. If she hadn’t known better, she would have suspected him of choosing that style because it was so becoming, but the man was devoid of vanity and practical in the extreme.

“How are you, Valerie?”

“Tolerable,” she said with a smile. His direct dark gaze was somewhat disconcerting but at least she’d gotten over feeling sick every time she thought of him.

He returned her smile and the softness in his eyes told her he was relieved, that he’d been worried about their last conversation.

A young voice called out, “Hey, Valerie.”

Wynona, in a car filled with her pals, was waving at her. Did Jessie know Wyn was down town?

Valerie waved back, yelled “Hey, Wyn,” and turned her attention back to Neal. “Have you discovered anything that would help me? Something that would tell me what kind of relationship my husband had with Amber Conklin?”

The expression in his eyes faded. “I’d tell you if I had, Valerie. Frankly, I think this is a waste of your time. Jack’s gone. He was a good husband. You had a good marriage. If I were in your shoes, I’d leave it lie.”

“You’re not in my shoes, now, are you?”

He shook his head. “You know I can’t talk about work.” He reached over and laid a large square hand on hers. “If I thought you were in danger, or that someone posed a threat to you, I’d act immediately. You know that, don’t you?”

His hand was warm, solid. She smiled and withdrew her hand.

“You know that half of the women in town have crushes on you, don’t you?”

He stiffened. “You don’t think I was— I mean, I wouldn’t— Not that I—“

Smiling, she shook her head. It felt good to see him so off balance. “The newspaper said that the intruder was wearing a blue uniform.”

One flicker of surprise and he was again all business. “Nothing that concrete. No blue postal worker’s uniform, if that’s what you’re thinking. I told you the mailman is not a suspect.”

“What about that man who works at Video Village? Tripper.”

Neal frowned, a real honest-to-goodness impossible-to-miss frown. “What about him?”

“I’ve heard rumors that he’s involved in porn.”

Neal’s left eyebrow rose. “Where did you hear that?”

“A confidential source.” Valerie Yates, she thought. If I’m not a confidential source, I don’t know who is.

A hint of a smile played over his mouth. “I think you have to be an employed journalist to use that one.”

“Take me to court then.”

Both eyebrows went up and he laughed. “What’s got into you lately?”

“People are getting murdered. Women are getting murdered. One of the victims had some kind of relationship with Jack, my husband, who, I’d like to remind you, is also dead.”

“Jack was killed by a punk committing a felony.”

She could feel the flush of anger spread over her face and throat.

“Valerie.” Neal shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Open your mouth and let your thoughts come out. That’s what I do.” She rose.

He shook his head again. “You’re not yourself. People are worried about you.”

“What people?”

“Me, for one. Haven’t your friends mentioned it to you?”

“Nope. Nary a soul.” Well, maybe Sunny, and if you want to count people’s facial expressions, a few others, but only a dozen or so. She turned to leave and looked over her shoulder with a smile. “I won’t bother you again.” No, she’d get her information from other sources and Sunny could help her. If he wasn’t interested in Tripper, she was. Funny how people just loved to talk to reporters.

She gazed across the street at the pharmacy and checked the shops along the block. Kevin and Jessie were at a window booth in the Café. Jessie was a couple of years younger than she was and single, of course. Kevin had his hand on her shoulder. She’d never thought about it before but Jessie was a good-looking woman.

She thought about going in to say hello but decided she couldn’t do that. Kevin might think she was checking up on him, that she was jealous. She pushed the thought out of her mind. Why would he think that? Why had she thought that? She put her head down and, swallowing her discomfort, headed for her car. Luckily, Neal hadn’t been able to read her mind or sense what she was about to do. Chances were, he wouldn’t approve of her plan to interview his witnesses later this afternoon.

~

“A handkerchief?” Valerie was puzzled. She waited while Theresa Findlay poured fresh coffee into their cups. Sunny sat next to her on the brocade couch, bristling with disapproval. Her enthusiasm for this little escapade seemed to be waning. Especially, after Valerie had mentioned Neal’s disapproval. Or maybe, it was just because of her worry about Clay.

The Findlay’s living room was clean and comfortable, and except for an over-sized television in the corner, right out of the Fifties. Bob Findlay, a roly-poly little man with mean eyes, sat across the room in a recliner.

Theresa, a trim, dark-haired woman with an attractive face and an unhappy expression, took up her post next to Bob.

“A friend of ours has inside knowledge,” Bob said proudly.

Theresa put her hand on his shoulder. “Now, Bob. Do you think you should be telling all this?”

He gave her a scornful look. “Don’t be stupid. Everybody knows by now.” To Valerie, he said, “This nutcase leaves a white handkerchief at the scene. Puts it right over their faces. Probably can’t stand those staring eyes.”

Valerie recorded the information in her notebook. “Do you have a nickname? Does anyone ever call you Terry?”

“Tess,” Bob said. “That’s what we call her.”

“I didn’t see any rose bushes in your front yard. Do you have any out back?”

Bob snorted. “Roses, huh. No. No roses.”

“Theresa, do you wear rose-scented perfume or cologne?”

“No perfume,” Bob said. “I’m allergic.”

Valerie jotted a note in her book. “And you don’t remember seeing anything unusual around the neighborhood?”

Bob shook his head. “Not a soul. That’s what we told the police.”

“What about a familiar person doing something...unusual.”

Bob shook her head an emphatic no. “What did you say you’re going to do with this report?”

Sunny sighed. “We’re doing an article on how the killings are affecting ordinary citizens.”

“Sounds like a damned good idea to me,” Bob said. “This maniac roaming around. Why when I stop and think about what could have happened. It was just dumb luck you know that I took a day off to go to the doctor. Y’know, we moved here two years ago, wanted to retire near my folk’s old home, the place where I grew up.” He patted Theresa’s bottom. “Now, I am retired, home every day, watching out for her.”

An odd expression appeared in Theresa’s eyes.

“Hmmmm,” Sunny started to say only to pause when Valerie jabbed her. “She’s certainly a lucky woman.”

“Yes, she is,” Valerie echoed. “You have a nice set.” She gestured toward the large-screen television in the corner. I bet it’s great to watch videos.”

Bob snorted. “Waste of money. We spend plenty for cable. No use throwing more hard-earned cash away.”

Yes, thought Valerie. Theresa Findlay is certainly one lucky woman.

Chapter 34

He saw the expression on her face as her superior turned away from the counter. Contempt. She wasn’t tall, but she was stocky and you could see the muscles of her upper arm working under the cotton material of her blouse. He already knew her name because all of the employees wore badges spelling them out. Dorothy Beamish. She had gray hair, cut very short. Yes. She was a lesbian for sure. She turned and winked at the grandmotherly woman pawing through the files. Grandma smiled indulgently and went on with her work.

“Turkey,” Dorothy Beamish said in a voice just loud enough to reach those closest to her. A few snickers followed.

Her superior’s name happened to be Harry T. Durkee.

A young man holding out a file approached Dorothy. He was clearly puzzled and asking questions. She, just as clearly, had the answers. The young man smiled his thanks. Dorothy had his respect, no doubt about that.

She sat down at her desk and with stubby fingers flying, entered something into the computer. Her desk was neat and shining clean. No photos. No plants. No folderol. He smiled his approval.

Yes, he could see it now. Dorothy the pro. Durkee the Turkey.

For a moment, he wondered if she would leave work at four-thirty as usual and if she would stop by the milk barn on her way home again, but then he caught himself. He was, after all, wearing his business face.

Chapter 35

Valerie gestured toward the curb. “Pull over here.”

Sunny pulled the BMW over. “I still don’t think this is a good idea. I was damned uncomfortable lying to the Findlays. Maybe newspaper reporters do it, but it’s certainly not part of a psychologist’s job description. And this guy is a porn king and maybe a serial killer. We’ve lost our collective mind, honey.”

Tripper's SUV had just vanished into a garage.

The small gray house was in an older section of Cordova, off Sixth Street, near the refinery. Oil workers, like Maggie’s long-gone husband, had lived here. Over the years, residents added their own touches—porches, garages, brick fronts, trellises, distinctive paint jobs—until finally the neighborhood had a semblance of quirky charm. In the light of a fading afternoon in March, however, the yards looked desolate, bare and brown, and dead.

Valerie tugged at her headscarf, adjusted the sunglasses that had been Sunny’s suggestion. “I feel ridiculous in this getup.”

Sunny shrugged. “He knows you, remember? Just act natural.”

“Natural?” Valerie gave Sunny a slow once over. She wore black leather boots, skin-tight pants, a black leather jacket, and a black wool beret that hid most of her platinum-blonde hair.

Sunny raised a golden eyebrow. “What?”

“We’re supposed to be inconspicuous, remember?”

Sunny’s green eyes flashed. “Are you trying to tell me this isn’t what a private eye would wear for a stakeout?”

“If you want to turn this into an amusing romp, maybe we ought to quit right now.”

“So you can tiptoe through the shadows all by your lonesome? Not on your life. Clay’s going to go ballistic though.”

Valerie retied her scarf. If Jack were alive, he’d go ballistic too. But Jack wasn’t here and maybe she didn’t care what Jack would have thought.

Sunny cleared her throat. “Seen anything of Kevin lately?”

Valerie rolled her eyes. “Let it alone. I don’t want you playing matchmaker. Jack’s only been gone a year. I’m in limbo right now and I’m not thinking about romance, about men, or, for heaven’s sake, about sex.”

Sunny just laughed. “A simple yes or no would do.”

“He’s next door at Maggie’s half the time. We talk. He’s fun. I’m glad he’s back. Plus, I saw him with Jessie—you know, my neighbor?—today.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Tell me, when you’re having fun with Kevin, do you feel like you’re cheating on Jack?”

“Jack was cheating on me. Anyway, if there’s anyone I’ve had the hots for, it’s Neal.”

Sunny hooted.

Across the street, a front door opened and a thin youth with hair to his shoulders came out. They watched him saunter up the sidewalk toward the intersection.

“You don’t know for sure that Jack was cheating.”

In the next block, a panel truck rumbled toward them. It stopped at the intersection, and turned right. The sun, low and pale above the tree tops, lit Tripper’s square little house. No, Valerie thought, she didn’t know it for sure.

She sighed. Would Tripper never come out? A sudden thought shot a searing pain across her right eyebrow. What if Tripper caught them? She got two Tylenol from her purse and swallowed them. How many had that been?

She slid down in the seat and tried to find a comfortable position. Another few minutes, and then they’d leave.

~

Valerie stirred, rubbed her right arm to get the circulation going, and opened her eyes. It was dark. A light mist was falling. The street lamps cast dusty yellow circles over the road and the windows of the nearby houses glowed amber and orange and eerily blue. She glanced at the clock on the dash. Six-fifty. How could she sleep at a time like this?

She wriggled into an upright position. Light seeped through the front window drapes of Tripper’s house.

Sunny’s pale face glowed in the dim light “Feel better?”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“About an hour and a half. You woke up just in time. Look.”

The front windows had gone dark. A jolt of adrenaline prickled Valerie’s spine.

The garage door swung out and up. Tripper appeared in the opening. A couple of minutes later, the SUV rumbled out into the street. The headlights flashed across their windshield as the car swung around.

“Duck! He’s coming this way,” Sunny squealed.

They squirmed down.

The SUV, gears grinding, roared by.

“He needs a tune-up,” Sunny whispered.

In the rearview mirror, Valerie watched the car’s taillights recede. “Hit it.”

Sunny started the BMW and spun it around. She flicked on the headlights. “Lights.” She clutched and shifted rapidly, pushed the accelerator to the floor. “Camera.” She flashed a smile at Valerie. “Just like the Andretti boys.”

The red taillights moved through a long gray tunnel of trees, became smaller and smaller.

What now? It was dark and the mist had turned into rain. Valerie felt fear nibbling at her resolve. Was Tripper heading for the movie set? Or out for an evening of stalking?

~

Valerie, Sunny at her side, stared up at Clemson Hall, a utilitarian brick building four stories high situated squarely in the center of the Butler County Community College campus. Sunny turned up the collar of her leather jacket against the misty rain. “Do you suppose he’s taking a night class?”

“I don’t know.” Valerie tucked her bangs into her scarf. “But I do know that one of the murders occurred in this area.”

“Is the Psych Department still in Clemson?”

“Fitting, huh? Psychopathic porn czar getting a degree in psychology?” Let’s take a look at his car while he’s inside.”

“Most of these classes are seven to nine, aren’t they?” asked Sunny.

They looked at each other.

Valerie smiled. “We can take a closer look at his car.”

They walked around the Math building and across the Green, passing students loaded with backpacks and satchels. They circled the Hub and the small theater annex, and crossed the roadway to the central parking lot.

Tripper had parked his SUV in the second row, about ten cars in, right next to a street lamp. Valerie peered through the window on the passenger’s side. The back seat held a huge pile of books and papers.

Sunny peered through the window. “Look.”

Valerie looked. A folded newspaper lay on the seat.

Rose Killer claims third victim

Valerie straightened up and looked around. “I’ve had this feeling lately that someone’s watching me.”

“Valerie, you’re spooking me.”

“Let’s go back.”

They hurried back across the campus and used a side entrance to enter Clemson Hall. The hall was wide and the passed under the eyes of grim-faced men in portraits on both walls.

“Wasn’t there ever a founding mother?” Valerie said.

“Nah. Only gloomy old Puritans allowed here.” They reached the rotunda where a huge open staircase rose up on either side.

“If he comes out, he’ll see us,” Sunny said.

“Let’s use the side stairs.”

They left the rotunda and headed on down the hall. At the side door, a poster announced a lecture in Day-Glo yellow and black: Dynamics of Interpersonal Relationships. To their right, a faded gilt sign on a narrow door identified the stairs.

Valerie grabbed Sunny’s arm. “Up we go.”

They climbed one flight to a tiny vestibule. The sign on the door to the second set of stairs said, “Closed for Repairs.”

Valerie felt uneasy. The building was too empty, too quiet. She gestured toward the swinging doors that opened on to the second floor. “Let’s take a look”

Sunny made a sweeping bow. “After you, my dear.”

“One for all and all for one?”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, chuckling. Sunny reached out her right arm. “Go.” They pushed through, the doors squealing in protest then immediately swinging shut behind them with a squawk. Total darkness engulfed them.

Valerie clutched Sunny’s coat sleeve. “Get the light.”

Sunny’s leather coat rustled. After a few moments, she nudged Valerie. “Can’t find the switch. Wait, here it is.”

In the charcoal haze, details emerged. They were standing at the edge of a large two-story lecture hall. Rows of desks reached to the back wall high above them. Below, the rows ran down to a small stage with a podium. Before them, a wide aisle the width of the room divided the sections into two tiers. The air was dead and dry, as if the room had been empty and unused for years.

“This is the lecture hall,” Valerie said. “Jeez, I’d forgotten about it.”

Sunny’s giggle echoed in the silence. “Look. Across from us.” The outline of another set of swinging door was visible.

“Should we go back?” Sunny sounded less than enthusiastic. “I mean, what if he really is the killer?”

“There are two of us and, as I recall, you took a course in karate. We might as well play out the rest of the scene.”

“Right.”

Valerie started forward with tentative steps, the dead dark air engulfing her. When Sunny came abreast of her, she stepped up the pace. Toward the middle, Sunny took her arm.

The doors were only a few feet away. Valerie raised her hand, ready to push through. God, she had to get out of this mausoleum.

Her shove met with resistance. The door wouldn’t budge.

Sunny tried the other door. “Shit.”

Reluctantly, they turned around. More detail was visible now as their eyes adapted to the dark.

Below them, a wall of curtains covered the back of the stage from ceiling to floor. Valerie shivered. Was it her imagination, or were they swaying, ever so slightly. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sunny touched her arm. “Listen.”

At first, all Valerie could hear were Sunny’s soft exhalations. Then she heard a thud. Then another. Then silence. Another thud. Footsteps! Slow, halting, but definite footsteps.

Sunny pressed close to her. “Someone’s coming up the stairs.”

The rhythm of the footsteps changed from largo to allegretto to a brief surge of allegro, then silence.

Whoever it was had reached the landing and now stood in the hallway just outside the double doors on the other side of the lecture hall where they had entered.

Valerie gathered Sunny’s cold clammy hand into hers. “It couldn’t be Tripper.”

“I don’t see how he could have spotted us.”

They edged back. Valerie’s back molded itself against the locked door behind her. Sunny’s hand felt cold and clammy.

“We’re trapped,” Sunny hissed.

Valerie pointed at the stage. “There has to be a door down there,” she whispered

The screech stopped her.

On the opposite side of the room, one of the doors swung open.

The blaze of sudden light in the lecture hall blinded Valerie. She saw nothing but a mottled blood-red haze. She fought back the sour taste of panic. Sunny was squeezing her hand so hard she knew the tiny bones would soon give way, but she didn’t care. She had to see who had pushed through the door.

Across the lecture hall stood a big brawny woman. Of indeterminate age, she wore a pair of blue coveralls and held a push broom in her right hand. Mouth agape, she stared at them.

Valerie felt rather than heard Sunny’s long sigh of relief. It was only a cleaning woman. Tripper wasn’t stalking them after all.

Like a veil passing over her face, the woman’s look of surprise became one of suspicion. “Hey,” she shouted.

Sunny dropped Valerie’s hand. “Oh shit.”

“You’ve got the wrong room, dearies. Only class in this building tonight is on the fourth floor.”

Valerie wanted to laugh. The woman thought they were clandestine lovers.

Sunny punched her arm and hissed, “Let’s get out of here.”

Valerie tried to be nonchalant as they walked across the room.

The cleaning woman muttered, “Damned kids. Don’t have a lick of sense.”

The door swung shut behind them.

Sunny, eyes glittering, clamped a hand over her mouth. Hysteria tinged her voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

They hurried down the stairs and rushed out into the cool night air. Valerie stumbled across the grass, Sunny grabbing at her coat sleeve. In the middle of the Green, they came to a halt.

“She—” Sunny broke off with a laugh, covered her mouth with her hand. “She thought we were lesbians.”

Valerie patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you into this.”

Sunny nodded and laughed all the harder.

“We’d better get home,” Valerie said and doubled over with a fresh burst of laughter.

Finally, Sunny wiped her eyes. “It’s only— “She stopped, her gaze locked on something behind Valerie.

Valerie turned. The building was dark, except for a ribbon of light wrapped around the third floor. A movement caught her eye, a shuffling on the sidewalk near the building. A chill breeze knifed through her parka, set her teeth on edge.

About fifteen feet away, Tripper, face expressionless, stared at them. “Mrs. Yates, isn’t it?”

She managed a weak nod, grabbed Sunny’s arm.

He nodded, as if he understood, as if they shared a secret.

Face burning, she turned away.

They headed across the Green toward the parking lot.

Tripper hadn’t moved. Valerie was sure he was watching. She resisted the impulse to glance back. “Slow down,” she whispered to Sunny. “We don’t want him to think we’re running from him.”

The walk across the campus seemed endless. They passed a young man on rollerblades. A group of giggling girls hushed and shuffled off the sidewalk into the dead grass to let them pass.

Finally, safely inside the BMW with the doors locked, Sunny throttled up the engine.

Valerie scanned the perimeter of the parking lot. She couldn’t see him, but she knew that he was there.

Sunny coughed delicately. “I don’t want to alarm you, Valerie, but that man just called you by your name.”

Chapter 36

It took him three minutes to reach the car. He started the engine, sat unmoving while he concentrated, tried to soothe his jangled senses. A thin layer of dark clouds obscured the moon. He liked the dark. Silence, blackness, complete cessation of feeling. That was what he needed now.

What were the two bitches up to? He would have to schedule more time for them, leave nothing to chance. No more complications. Not after losing his dark-haired Theresa.

Worse still, was the tension. The pump had been carefully primed, the anticipation almost more than he could bear, and it had all gone wrong. Desire clouded his brain. He had to be careful, stay in control. The flood, the power would come, but only at his command. He had to go back over every step and find the flaws, the impurities. He would perfect the plan, but please Father, he had to do it quickly.

~

Moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, stenciling a path across the threadbare rug. The trophies on the white dresser glimmered in the dim light. He brushed his fingertips across the golden figure of a woman poised in full backswing, ready to fling her tiny bowling ball down an invisible alley. He smiled.

Her winning strike.

He liked the plainness of the room. Her bed, covered by a plaid-cotton bedspread, looked like the bottom half of a kid’s bunk bed set. Next to that, a painted nightstand stood on rickety legs; it held a cheap black clock. At the window, short drapes in a matching plaid framed venetian blinds. A wicker clothes hamper squatted in the corner next to the closet. The only ornaments were the bowling trophies and a photograph of a bowling team on the wall above the dresser. She of all people wouldn’t bother with doilies or perfume or any other feminine accouterments.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the woman. Bulky and broad-shouldered. Ugly. Gray bristling hair, cut short like a man’s. No makeup. A dyke.

He knelt in front of the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. His breath caught in his throat. Girdles, garter belts. Disgusting rubbery things.

Surely, he would find something here, something that would make the perfect memento. He unfolded a pink girdle. The metallic garter tabs flailed at the air, like those pink and blind creatures that live their lives burrowing through the dirt. He unfastened one of the garter tabs and tucked it into his back pocket.

Perfect.

The bathroom was long and narrow with stark white walls and cabinets and a green-tile floor. He blinked at the acrid odor. Lysol? The counter around the chipped white sink was bare. He opened the cabinet underneath.

What was that?

A hot water bottle. He ran his fingers across the rubber surface, stopped at the edge of a tube. Heat rushed into his face. He grabbed the counter and held on until his head cleared.

Should I take the nozzle?

He slammed the cabinet door. No. He could barely stand to look at those pathetic female things much less put his hands on them. And her, acting as if she knew it all, sneering at her superior behind his back.

He returned to the bedroom. The clock on the table next to her bare sexless bed told him it was ten forty-five. Almost time. The arrhythmic murmur of voices floated in from outside. Most probably the teenaged girl who lived next door, just home from a movie with her jock of a boyfriend. A door slammed with a thud and all was quiet again.

The people, the activity outside, did not worry him. She barely nodded to most of her neighbors, socialized only with an older couple who lived in the house to the west. Every other Saturday night, she went next door and drank their expensive liquor. She was in fact so regular, so predictable in her habits, it had taken him only two weeks to complete his preparations.

Now, he must decide where to wait.

He stepped onto the rug’s moonlit path. Gingerly, one step at a time, pleased at the pattern stippled across his running shoes, he followed the path to the door. With a smile, he slipped into the hall.

~

Dorothy Beamish chuckled. A perfect ending to a perfect day. The night was clear, traffic was light, bowling had been great, and she’d upped her average to 183.

Ahead of her, she saw an SUV. She’d get her one of those too, but she wouldn’t drive it like she was in a funeral parade like this bozo. She tromped down on the accelerator of the old Thunderbird and swung out in the left lane to pass.

“Sixty-two years old and I can still outscore them.”

She laughed at the sound of her voice.

Talking to myself again. Well, I’ve been at it for years. Can’t stop now.

At first, she’d spoken aloud only when she was alone. She’d carried on hundreds of conversations where she had the first and last word, where she vanquished every pip-squeak who ever tried to get the upper hand. Lately, she’d been forgetting. She’d talked out loud when she was with other people—on the job; sharing a Scotch-rocks with her neighbors, the Tyrells; and, just an hour ago, at the bowling alley, surrounded by her teammates.

“The public never knows,” she’d said as she bent over to remove her bowling shoes. The women exchanged glances over her head. Dotty was at it again. Was she losing control of her one eccentricity? Was Dotty becoming truly dotty? Even she wasn’t sure.

She chuckled again. “What a game. A 288.” She leaned back and rested her right arm on the back of the seat.

“Great bunch of gals.” Manipulating the steering wheel with her fingertips, she changed lanes again. “That Goldie’s a real hustler. Make a great bowler. One of these years.”

All in all, it had been a great day. She’d had a hard time keeping it in. She just wanted to laugh out loud, especially this morning with Durkee standing in front of her desk, whining. “Where do I find the ‘93 figures, Dotty?”

“Durkee’s going to shit his pants.”

She accelerated, pulled up close behind the Toyota ahead of her, and swung into the left lane to pass.

She chortled as she pictured Harry T. Durkee, the county bigwig and her boss, universally referred to behind his back as ‘Harry d’Turkey.’ She imagined the scene. She’d slam her letter of resignation down on his desk. His potato face would turn red; his pink eyes would get that rabbity look of panic.

She chortled. “He’ll shit his pants.”

Serves him right. She’d walked into the office and taken his measure, him and his cowboy hat and boots, and that grin like he was a maharajah or something. She checked him out, of course. “He’s been no closer to a cow than I’ve been to an engagement ring,” she said to the young couple in the Toyota behind her.

She swung into the right lane.

“I overhauled the procedures, He got the commendation for the savings.”

Everyone knew that if they wanted anything done, they had to come to her.

“Everybody knows who runs that office.”

She grimaced. Harry d’Turkey had the title. Harry d’Turkey took home twice the money.

Dorothy jammed her foot down on the accelerator. She’d get home and look at the deed again, relive the thrill she’d felt this afternoon.

“Well, old girl, you’re now the proud owner of a first-rate sporting goods store.”

She, Dorothy Beamish, would be in business at Lake O’the Hills, a resort in the Ozarks. Paradise.

She braked hard at the stop sign, and turned left on Fifth. She lifted her chin. All those penny-pinching years. She wasn’t going to be stuck as head clerk forever, forced to hold the hand of every incompetent pip-squeak she ran into.

The street stretched ahead of her, row after row of strip malls. Not a car in sight. She tromped down on the accelerator. She’d scraped together every cent she could.

“I gave up everything.”

Everything except bowling. Now her day had come. She’d have her own respectable little business. Shoot the bull with lots of nice folks, fish in her off hours for bass and perch. And Harry T. Durkee would drown in the sea of his own incompetence.

“He’ll be out of a job within six months.”

Dorothy turned the Thunderbird, tires squealing, onto Clyde, and in a few minutes, pulled into her driveway. The porch light was out.

“Damn. They just don’t make things to last anymore.”

She pushed the button on the garage-door opener and the door began its slow and bulky ascent.

“At least something still works.”

~

He stood in the dark kitchen next to the door, listened to the rumble of the garage door. He still had a few minutes. She always took her time, waited until the garage door reached the cement apron. He held a finger to his neck and felt the beat of his strong and steady heart.

The kitchen was in deep shadow. He took pleasure from his knowledge of its cleanliness, the plain and efficient whiteness of it. No frills or gimmicky gadgets here.

It was time to go to the waiting place.

He went back to the dining ell, to the dark corner by the window where the full-length drapes gave him partial cover. She never bothered to turn on the dining room light.

He faced the living room, went over the layout. The front door, locked. She had no entry hall, no coat closet. The room held with a plain couch against the south wall, a frail coffee table, a floor lamp. Across from the couch, a dumpy chair. Suddenly it dawned on him, the reason he liked the house so much. It reminded him of his small apartment in the dorm when he’d been in school. His sanctuary after—

Stop. Don’t think of that. Focus. On her.

He filled his mind with the image of her ugly face, her habitual expression of smug self-satisfaction. That look would vanish soon. He could see her faded blue eyes bulge with terror, her big mouth open in a silent scream. The fire burned in his belly.

What was that? That odor, so out of place in this sterile room? Was that the scent of roses?

Stop, he commanded. Control yourself.

He could hear her in the garage. She opened the car door. She was collecting her things, talking to herself all the time in that loud and steady monotone.

He flexed his fingers, pulled the plastic of the gloves tight across his hands. A hot, glorious tremor climbed his throat. He wanted to raise his head, sound his primeval call across the world. But, instead, he sucked in a cooling breath, and swallowed the heat. He had one more quick check to make. The knife? In place. To be used only to inspire terror, to keep her submissive. The pink garter tab? Yes. The handkerchief. The terry-cloth tie from the bathrobe. And last, but not least, the sturdy and utilitarian pair of support hose.

~

Dorothy Beamish chuckled as she reached for the doorknob. She couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“Goddamn turkey. Harry d’Turkey is going to get his. And about time too.”

With a snorting laugh, she opened the door, stepped into the kitchen, and hit the light switch.

“A Scotch-rocks would really hit the spot.”

She took off her jacket and went to the fridge. The cabinet over the refrigerator held her cherished bottle of Black Label. She had only a couple of shots left.

“Better not. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

She opened the fridge instead, grabbed a quart of orange juice, and drank from the bottle. She wiped her mouth, and put the bottle back on the shelf.

“Time to get some shuteye.”

Instead of heading for the bedroom, she paused. Something was not quite right. Something was different.

She turned and studied the kitchen. Nothing was out of order. The sink was empty. Nothing sitting on the countertop. She turned to look into the dining ell. The kitchen light threw a rectangle of light across the worn carpet and up the wall. Everything looked normal.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. She turned to the door that led to the garage. Had she left her bowling gear in the car? Her bowling bag was still in the trunk, but that was okay. Her jacket was on the chair and she could see the bulge of the purse beneath it.

“I’m imagining things.”

She lifted her head and sniffed. What was it? She turned toward the dining ell and sniffed again. An odor, like disinfectant, and something else, another scent that she couldn’t quite place. She moved toward the ell, sniffing. She stopped. She moved forward again, raising her head, testing the air. Where was it coming from?

Just inside the dining ell, she paused. What the hell was it?

A sigh, soft as her own breath, to her left. In the shadow, in the corner.

The short hairs on the back of her neck bristled. She took a step back. “Jesus Christ,” she roared. “A man’s stinking aftershave.”

A hand, lustrous in its plastic glove, emerged from the shadows. “Dorothy,” he sighed. “I’m here for you.”

Chapter 37

Valerie scrambled out of the BMW.

“I’ll come in and help you check out the house,” Sunny said. They’d had little conversation during the drive home from the college.

Before Valerie could answer, Sunny was out of the car.

“I’ve got Bruno and besides, Tripper couldn’t have arrived before we did, no matter how fast he drove.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Sunny returned to the car and they chatted awhile about the evening, laughing again at their discovery by the cleaning lady.

Finally, Valerie trotted to the front door. Inside, she switched on the light, and turned to wave good-bye to Sunny. “Everything’s fine,” she called. “Drive carefully.”

Sunny waved and backed out of the driveway.

Valerie watched until she could no longer see the taillights of the BMW. Inside, she locked the door and turned around to greet the dog.

“Bruno?”

She pulled off her parka and tossed it. God, what a night. That Tripper was one scary man.

“Bruno!” she called again.

She’d be lucky if Sunny didn’t quit on her. She went through the dining room to the kitchen. Where was that dog? She hadn’t left him in the basement, had she?

Was Tripper at the college recruiting girls for his movies? Could a porn king also be a serial killer? She opened the basement door and pulled the light chain. “Bruno?”

Silence and the dark at the bottom of the stairs answered her.

Where the hell was that dog?

“Bruno!”

He had to be here. He couldn’t have gotten out of the house. She started at the top of the house and, half an hour later, ended up in the basement, at her desk. She sat down, crossed her arms across the desktop, and laid her head down. No Bruno. Tripper had spotted her. Kevin might be interested in another woman. This was not a good night. She hoped Sunny was having a better reception at home than she was.

~

Sunny thrust her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket, narrowed her eyes, and leered her imitation of Tripper. “You should have seen him. It was hysterical.”

Clay sat on the edge of the bed, his short terry-cloth robe revealing his splendid thighs.

She acted out her impression of Tripper for his sober gray eyes.

“Let me get this straight. You and Valerie followed the guy who runs Video Village?”

Uh oh, she thought. She was beginning to regret this moment of truth. They had arrived home at the same moment, her in her red BMW, him in his white Corvette.

“It was a blast. We screeched around corners.” She leaned forward, shifted the imaginary gears of the BMW, shifted again. “Just call me Sunny Andretti.” I’ve got to stop, she kept telling herself, but she was on a roll, and couldn’t put on the brakes.

“Valerie fell off her seat. It’s a miracle he didn’t see us.” Sunny twirled an imaginary steering wheel.

“Then we crept along the hall in that dark building just like Kinsey Milhone.” Sunny tiptoed across the room. She stopped every few feet to peer over her shoulder.

“We looked back.” She paused dramatically. “And there he was, a dark looming figure who watched our every move.”

Clay snorted.

She flopped down on the bed beside him, crumpling the satin coverlet.

He got up without a word, wrapped his robe tighter, and went to the dresser in the corner. He pulled out a pair of pajamas and disappeared into the bathroom.

She jumped up, peeled off the jacket, and threw it on a chair. She moved to the three-way mirror and examined her face. She traced the line of a carefully penciled eyebrow, touched the corner of her bright mouth. Finally, she went to the bathroom door.

He was leaning over the sink, brushing his teeth.

“I’m just placating Valerie,” she said. “At least, she’s out of the house.”

He rolled his eyes, spat a foamy glob into the sink, and reached for a towel. “Valerie has an excuse. She’s grieving, but what’s yours? You’re acting like one of those ghouls who have to gape at auto accidents.” He turned to face her. “Excuse me, please,” he said and shut the door.

Sunny felt the storm rising. Goddamn him. “Thanks a lot, Buster.”

She walked over to the bed and flopped down. An adrenaline brush fire still surged through every synapse, intense and alarming.

He came out of the bathroom and, face unreadable, walked over to the chest. Carefully, he took his watch and keys from the top of the chest and placed them in the top drawer.

She tried to suppress the wild beating of her heart. Stay calm, old girl. Stay calm. “I don’t know why you’re so damned pissed.”

He shook his head, looking contemptuous and disbelieving.

She had to do something, or explode. She remembered the playful fights they’d had in their early years, how these tussles always seemed to break the ice. She’d do Maggie the Cat. He’d always wanted to play Brick. She lunged off the bed and threw herself against him.

Astonishment lit his stolid face. He staggered back and fell across the bed.

She jumped on the bed, threw a leg across him, and straddled him. “Fight fair,” she said. “Quit being the Big Daddy. I’m not your little girl.” She thumped him on the chest.

She thought the corners of his mouth twitched, but his eyes still looked cold.

He pushed her off and struggled to a sitting position. “Not this time, Sunny. Sex might make me forget tonight, but tomorrow, I’d feel the same way.”

“I worry about Valerie going out alone. At least, if I’m with her, I have a little control of the situation.”

“Babe, you can’t manage everyone. What is it you say? People own their own lives?”

“If you feel strongly about it, I’ll stop. Okay?”

He nodded.

She moved closer, until her breasts pushed against his shoulder. “Okay?”

He smiled then, and his eyes softened. “You don’t have an ounce of shame, do you?”

She laughed and bent down to kiss him.

The sound of the bedroom door opening made her look up.

Brad, tousled with sleep and looking puzzled, stood in the doorway.

“Oh honey,” she said. “Did we wake you up?”

“You guys fighting or something?”

“We were disagreeing, yes,” Clay said. “But it’s okay now. Go back to bed.”

Brad turned and shuffled down the hall. Clay got up and closed the door.

The phone on the nightstand rang.

Sunny jumped, grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

Valerie’s voice was thin and strained. “Bruno’s gone. I’m coming over.”

Chapter 38

Sunny lay quietly next to Clay, listening to his even breathing, aware of the solid bulk of him next to her. He’d been sympathetic to Valerie when she’d arrived. She’d warned him to keep his lip zipped and he’d been great. Not one insinuation that Valerie had brought this on herself. And maybe she’d accidentally let Bruno out and just didn’t remember. It was scary all the same.

Truthfully, she was sick of sneaking around with Valerie. Especially now that she knew Valerie’s main motive wasn’t any big career jump-start. She really wanted to get dirt on Jack and it looked like she was succeeding. If she were Valerie, she’d rather not know.

Sunny turned on her side. Clay’s back was to her. He was so damned busy lately. Everybody was calling, looking for him. She reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulder blade. Good, strong, dependable Clay.

Things seemed different lately. He still made love to her. Regularly. But it was like his dick was present and he was somewhere else. Was that dick making its presence known elsewhere?

She felt the knot in her throat. Shit, she was about to cry. Over nothing. Well, hell. She didn’t know if her husband was faithful; she was getting nowhere with Guylene; and her best friend was miserable, sneaking around town, stirring up dirt. On top of that, a maniac was running around town, killing people. She’d recommend a good cry to anyone else, so why not herself?

She tried to stifle the sob, but then decided to let it go. Clay would sleep through anything.

~

Valerie burrowed under the sumptuous bedding on Sunny’s guest bed. Sunny had decorated the room in colors of violet and lavender. It even smelled like lavender. What was she doing here? She had panicked, no doubt about that. Heck, Bruno was probably at her door right now, wanting back in the house. How could she ever be an investigative reporter if she couldn’t take a few things in stride, like following sinister people and studying obituaries? And losing her dog and her— Kevin was her long time friend, that was all. Sunny was planting ideas in her head, that Kevin had always loved her and that he was there for the taking. Even Maggie seemed to be implying that they would somehow end up together. Stop. Don’t go there, she told herself. There were more serious things to consider.

Like a large number of bodies. Amber Conklin. The Rose Killer’s two other victims whose names she could barely remember. Ingrid Kinder and Pauline somebody? Tammy Sue Conklin. The four other women on Jack’s list. Jack.

Valerie thrashed around until the covers were a tousled pile at the foot of the bed. Luxury could be a burden, she could see that. She got up and went to the bathroom, her own private guest bathroom. Very pretty, all lavender and gold. Jeez, Sunny loved opulence. How could two women be so different and still be such good friends? She got a drink of water and went back to bed.

Neal had been quick with a comeback when she’d reminded him that someone had killed Jack. Too quick? She hadn’t intended to imply anything. Of course, a punk, a ‘perp’ who was still at large, had killed Jack. We’ll catch him, Neal had told her. He’s probably a transient, but sooner or later, we’ll get our hands on him, that’s what he’d said. There couldn’t have been any connection between Jack’s killer, who was still at large, and a man who was killing women as if he were on some kind of schedule? Could there?

And Jack’s list of dead women? Valerie sat up. That was it. Dead women. All of the women on Jack’s list were dead, victims. He had been tracking a killer for a long time, long before Ingrid Kinder's murder. Jack had been investigating murders and tracking a killer and now there was no doubt in her mind that he had been tracking the Rose Killer.

~

Everyone in the town was asleep now, except for those few who could not or would not sleep. Through the window, he could see the haze of clouds drifting eastward. Too many women. One by one, they screamed for attention; they floundered in the ocean of their need, begged for mastery. He was the only one who could give it. The Italian waitress at Chaz’s with her dyed red hair; she chewed her gum with a violent grinding motion while she took his order. The clerk at the Photo-Mat, a Scandinavian blonde; she slapped his change down on the counter with a sullen expression on her beautiful face. The slim brunette with the cold blue eyes that seemed to look right through him. The girl. His little pet. So many of them. So little respect.

He wanted to touch the tape on his chest again, but did not. Who would have thought the old battle-ax would have fingernails long enough to do such damage? Could he have made a mistake with her? No. He had seen her true face. Dorothy was chosen. No mistake there. The problem was that he had been careless in the planning.

He shut his eyes, remembering. Not clean and controlled, but messy and chaotic. He shook his head, tried to clear away the memory, but it persisted. He was in that sterile dining room again. He reached for her, that big ugly woman with the butch haircut. When she saw him, her eyes flared red and she jerked away with a roar like an angry and startled lion. He could still smell the burnt-match odor of her breath. She fought like a man. No tears, no pleas, no snuffling sobs like the others. She bared her big ivory teeth and punched him on the jaw.

In the end, he had to use the knife.

Dismiss it, he told himself. An anomaly. Next time would be perfect. In the dark he would find her, his budding flower. How he loved the dark, slipping through the shadows, one of the shapeless ghosts glimpsed for a fraction of a second and then dismissed as a trick of the eye. Of course, the women had not seen him, those two who were so curious, even if the dark one had felt his presence. Earlier, outside the girl’s big ramshackle house, no one had seen him there either. The other houses bordered hers closely, but the area was old, rundown, and overgrown shrubbery and trees formed impenetrable barriers. No one ever saw him.

He had been so close to her, his girl. Not quite a woman. Her breasts were nubbins, hard little knots on her frail chest. He listened to his heart, the strong steady pulsing. How strangely the thought affected him, the idea that this child was already on her way to whoredom. Fire erupted in the pit of his stomach; excitement ran through his body, a current of synapses fired one after the other.

The girl. She was a pale pink bud, so close to flowering. He would prepare for her and then pluck and preserve her in this state of absolute perfection. He would save his Guylene and then he would transform her.

PART III

From error to error, one discovers the entire truth.

-- Sigmund Freud

Chapter 39

“I can’t tie my shoes.”

Valerie smiled down at Wendy, the most helpless little girl she’d ever run into in any of Aunt Monica’s dance classes. Six years old and Mommy still helped her dress. “I’ll help. Unless you want to practice tying them yourself? This would be a good chance, don’t you think?”

Wendy’s eyes filled with tears and Valerie immediately knelt down and tied the little girl’s oxfords.

Wendy’s tears disappeared. “Thank you, Missus Yates.” She turned and skipped off, a pudgy little girl in a black leotard and tights and large clunky shoes.

Wendy’s mother, looking like a pudgy little girl herself, came in the door. The front of Aunt Monica’s house, once the living and dining rooms, made up the dance studio. Her aunt had converted the small parlor just behind the living room to an office. Behind the office was the large old-fashioned kitchen.

Valerie waved to Wendy’s mother and then busied herself putting away tapes and checking for forgotten items. The kids were always leaving something behind, toys, sweaty socks, mysterious scraps of paper. Today, it was a green plastic hair clip in the shape of a chubby troll. She tossed it in the lost-and-found box.

She had to get out of here and put up lost dog signs. She’d ask Wyn to help her. She’d search the neighborhood around her house. Bruno would be hard to miss. Surely, someone had seen him.

The male voice startled her. “Hey. It’s Maria Tallchief. In person.”

Kevin. Hair slicked back for once, shirt open at the collar, he looked carefree and confident, but then, didn’t he always?

“And you’re Rudolf the gorgeous Nureyev, I take it?” She became suddenly aware of how the leotard and tights exaggerated her thinness and remembered Jessie’s trim figure.

He arched his arms over his head and did a gross plié. “None other.”

He was such a fool, she couldn’t help laughing. “I’m just finishing up. Thank heavens.”

“What a coincidence. I just finished up too. Want to catch a movie?”

Before she could answer, the phone rang. She picked it up. “Monica’s Dance Studio.”

Kevin raised a questioning eyebrow and Valerie shrugged. The studio would always be Aunt Monica’s.

The man’s voice was unctuous. “Is this Valerie Yates?”

“It is,” she said.

“This is Martin Sweet. Remember? We met when you were interviewing my aunts for your little article?”

Martin Sweet! “Yes, Mr. Sweet.”

“Call me Marty. I have some information you might find interesting. Can we meet?”

“What kind of information, Marty?”

“I don’t want to talk about it over the telephone. Call me paranoid, if you will, but I think it’s best if we talk in person.”

His voice was wheedling and she felt strong misgivings. “All right. How about tomorrow morning at eleven? Side Street Cafe?”

“I’ll see you there.” He hung up.

She turned to Kevin. He was standing in a confrontational posture, hands on his hips, legs apart.

“What?” she said.

“What kind of information? Who’s Marty?”

“Just an old neighbor of the girl who was killed. No big deal.”

He snorted. “I’ll go with you.”

“Like, big strong man protects small ditzy woman? Et tu, Kevin?”

His cheeks blazed with color and he stepped closer and looked directly in her eyes. “This is serious stuff. A madman’s loose. I don’t want you hurt.”

He was too close. She felt her hands trembling. “And we’re supposed to stay locked up behind closed doors… while, while you big men take care of things? You’re carving yourself quite a load, taking care of needy women!”

He flung up his hands. “That’s way off the topic. Can’t we talk about this?”

Valerie felt her jaw clenching. She wanted to talk to Kevin, but she didn’t dare.

When she didn’t answer, he shook his head. “I thought we could talk about anything. Why can’t you talk about this? Does this have something to do with Jack?”

Suddenly, she felt panicky and almost sick. “I’m just sick…of people telling me what I should…and shouldn’t do.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and his eyes softened. “Listen. We’ll talk later. Okay?”

He started for the door, then turned and stared at her intensely. “You have heard, haven’t you, that they’ve found another victim?”

~

Guylene sat next to Bobby Lee in his friend’s Camaro and peered through the big plate glass window. The parking spots were filling up fast. Everybody hung out at the Town and Country drive in now that the weather was better. Teenagers filled the cars outside and adults filled the inside booths. She couldn’t see any of her mother’s friends inside so she was okay.

Bobby Lee adjusted the rake of his cowboy hat and gave her his squinty smile. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

Guylene, embarrassed, giggled and shook her head. “I have an appointment with Sunny later.”

A carhop wearing red pedal pushers and a white shirt sauntered over to their window. She leaned over and peered at Bobby Lee. “What’ll it be, folks?”

“A Coors and a…” He looked at Guylene questioningly.

“Cherry coke.”

“Make that a Coors and a cherry coke, Hon.”

Guylene smiled to herself. Bobby Lee was a real gentleman. Last night, he’d let her pick the movie just like he always let her pick the game at the arcade. And he kept his hands to himself, and told her over and over how sweet she was, good looking, how nice.

She smoothed her hair. Was he just putting it on? Or did he really mean it?

Bobby Lee grabbed the steering wheel and, straining, looked over his shoulder.

She didn’t see what was so interesting. There wasn’t anything back there but a bunch of apartments and a couple of cars parked at the curb.

He settled back. “Relax, Hon. Old Bobby Lee ain’t going to eat you.” He laughed. “Not this afternoon, anyway.”

She felt her cheeks go pink. “Your friend’s car is nice.”

“I’m going to get me some real wheels soon as I save enough money.”

“What do you do at Chaz’s?”

“Grunt work. You’re going with a lowly dishwasher, Hon, but not for long.”

“What do you want to do?”

He laughed. “Don’t much care. As long as I’m rich. And free.”

“I want to be a model.”

“You sure have the looks for it, little blondie. Say, listen. Why don’t you and me catch a movie this afternoon? I don’t have to be to work ‘til five.”

“I’m meeting Sunny. Remember?”

“So?”

“So. I want to keep my mom off my back. Anyway, Sunny’s different. I like her.”

“Counselors. Principals. Cops. They’re all the same.”

“She isn’t like the rest of them.”

He studied the view in the rearview mirror. “Do me a little favor, will you? Take a look and tell me whether that blue Chev is still parked over yonder.”

She studied the row of cars parked on the street behind them. “There’s a blue car. I think it’s a Chev. Third car down.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Somebody you know?”

“You might say so. Yes, you might.”

“One of your buddies?”

He snorted. “I knew I picked me up a tail, back there at the mall.”

“A tail?”

“Yeah. Old Bobby Lee’s got hisself in a tiny bit of trouble a while back and now they hassle me whenever they can. But never you mind, I have my ways of getting them off my back.”

She giggled. He was such a kidder; she never knew when he was serious. “What kind of trouble?”

He gave her his squinty smile. “Hon, it’s best you don’t know nothing ‘bout that.”

~

Sunny looked at her watch. One forty-five. Clearly, Clay was not going to show up. Oh well, she thought, and took another sip of her Chablis. She’d try his phone again in a few minutes.

Royal’s was quiet now that the lunch crowd was gone. Business had dropped off, substantially. Poor Royal Farley. He was old enough for retirement, but if there was ever any man who loved his work, he was that man. Meeting and greeting everyone, shooting the bull, Royal was the perpetual host.

She took another sip of the soft buttery wine. Nice. Soft music, a medley of rock songs from the Sixties, wrapped sinuous arms around her. Hey Jude, don’t let me go. Maybe she’d just spend the whole afternoon here. Across the room, Horst lined up ashtrays and candles on long tables. He was a big man, with a handlebar mustache, much too old to be waiting tables.

The soft murmur of a conversation drifted in from the bar just behind her, a woman’s voice dominating, a man’s voice adding an occasional counterpoint.

She drained her wineglass. Three glasses had fogged her brain. What was up with Clay anyway? He had always been so reliable. Even if something came up in the way of business, he would give her a call. Shit. He’d been acting, not strange, but, yes, different, that was it. He wasn’t quite the steady calm backbone of her life and hadn’t been for a while. He seemed jittery, business associates called trying to find him. Not often, but just enough to make her think something was up. The conference center, that was it just like Valerie had suggested. The deal must be in trouble.

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

She relaxed deeper into the soft cushions. Face it, old girl. For a psychologist, you’re making a huge mess of things. Clay stands you up, won’t confide in you. You encourage Valerie in potentially dangerous and destructive activity. Tramping around town, talking to strangers about murder. Clay was right. It had to end.

She licked her lips, the raspberry taste of her lipstick at odds with the bite of the alcohol. What more could she do? She’d tried to get Valerie to a counselor. But what good would a counselor do anyway? She was a counselor and she couldn’t even help a thirteen-year-old girl like Guylene, much less her best friend.

She stared at Horst, willed him to look her way. On cue, he glanced up. She raised her hand to signal him, but then thought better of it. She couldn’t sit here and drink the whole afternoon away. She would talk to Valerie and be honest. Clay didn’t want her doing it and she really didn’t think this investigation was a good idea anyway. She pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse, tossed it on the table, and hurried out into the sunlight. She saw the headline on the newspaper rack just outside the door.

City employee victim number three

~

Valerie arrived home, tired and confused. Was Marty for real? He was obviously a con man of some kind but he was in a position to have information unknown to the police. She threw her coat and hat on the couch and went upstairs to get out of her rehearsal outfit. She had too much to think about. The last thing she needed was some kind of involvement with Kevin. He would interfere, of course. The hell with him, she decided, and with Neal Malcolm too.

She cooled down with a quick shower and had just finished pulling on a sweater and a pair of jeans when the phone rang. It was Sunny. She wanted to stop by before she went to the Youth Center for her afternoon session.

“I’ll be downstairs in my office,” Valerie told her. “Just come on in, but you’d better not nag me, because I’m sick of it.”

“Who’s nagging you now?”

“Kevin Blackburn.” Valerie hung up, went down to her desk and her computer, and brought up the draft for her next article “Paranoia?” Ten minutes later, Sunny arrived, sleek as a panther in a black leather vest and pants. She ruffled through the pile of papers on Valerie’s desk for a moment, stood in front of Nelly Bly’s photo for what seemed like ten minutes, and then went to the barré.

“Another woman has been killed. She worked in the licensing department downtown.”

“I know. I remember her. She hadn’t been there that long and she was, well, she was very mannish so I remember her. Dorothy Beamish.”

“You had a fight with Kevin,” Sunny said, gripping the barré and lifting her chest. “Well, last night I had a fight with Clay.” She performed an awkward plié. “And he just stood me up for lunch.”

Sunny seemed a little off balance, Valerie thought, in every sense of the word.

“What was your fight about?” Valerie leaned back in her chair and watched her struggle, wondering idly how much Sunny already knew about her argument with Kevin. “You’re pickled.”

Sunny managed a leg lift, but couldn’t maintain it. “Two small glasses of wine. I’m entitled. Clay doesn’t want me following people around.”

“You told Clay about following Tripper?” How could Sunny be so stupid.

“Stupid me. I thought I shouldn’t keep secrets from my husband.” Sunny groaned as she swung a leg out and around. “You don’t have to worry about Kevin. He’ll always come back.”

“Let’s go upstairs. Have a cup of coffee.”

Sunny turned to stare at her, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“It’s fresh. C’mon. Exercising in leather pants always gives you a rash.”

Sunny followed her upstairs to the kitchen table. “Did you find the dog?”

“Not yet. I’ve put out flyers and advertised and I’m still looking.”

Valerie sat down opposite Sunny.

Steam from the coffee blurring her face, Sunny said, “I can’t help you with your investigation anymore. I had to tell you face to face.”

“Clay put his foot down and you’re kissing his big toe?”

“I’m sorry, but this is a big thing with Clay. He stood me up! Clay!”

Valerie sighed. “If I were in your place, I’d probably do the same thing.”

“Some women’s libbers we are. What happened to us?”

Valerie gave a harsh laugh. “Reality.”

“I’d feel better about this,” Sunny said, “if you’d promise not to go out alone.”

“I don’t have a husband to mollify.”

“You know, the boys are right in a way. It is risky, what you’re doing. Especially alone.”

“It’s my job now. Officially. I’m writing a series.”

Sunny put down her coffee. “Better,” she said, referring to the coffee. “Not quite up to your old standards yet, but much improved.” She rose. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Are you in good enough shape to drive?”

“Moi?” Sunny said, feigning astonishment.

After Sunny downed another cup of coffee, Valerie walked her to the door. “What was that thing we did when we were kids? Not Cross my heart and hope to die but Cross my eyes and hope to fly? Something like that.”

Sunny giggled.

“You’re going to have one hell of a headache.” Valerie turned Sunny around to face her. “Cross my eyes and hope to fly, I’ll be as careful as...” she fumbled for a rhyme but ended lamely with “...my Aunt Monica.”

Sunny laughed hysterically anyway. Whomever she was treating that afternoon at the Youth Center was in for one hell of a session.

Chapter 40

After Sunny let herself out, Valerie sat at her desk for a while, staring at the computer screen, unable to concentrate, the names of the dead women running through her mind. Amber Conklin. Dorothy Beamish. Ingrid Kinder. Tammy Sue Conklin. Frederika Bartlett. Phyllis Rose Winston. Hannah Gurd. Nicole Derickson.

She had to talk to Neal again. Would he listen to her? Things weren’t going well, she had to admit. She wasn’t exactly on a winning roll. She and Kevin had had words, Sunny had deserted her, and Bruno was gone.

She picked up the phone and called Neal. She got Janousek. Chief Malcolm was busy, he told her; the story had finally hit the national media and news people were overrunning his department. Valerie asked him to relay a message. Briefly, she told him about Jack’s notes and his list of dead women. He promised to relay the message.

Bruno. She had to go out and look. No one had responded to her advertisements or to her flyers. She couldn’t stand the thought of the stupid dog roaming the streets, tired and hungry. She went upstairs but before she could get her coat, the phone rang.

“Hello.”

It was Neal. “Valerie. I know all about what Jack was doing. Basically, I told him to lay off. He was chasing ghosts. I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to worry about this anymore. Please. I’ve got to go now, but we’ll get together later. I promise.”

“Sure. If you say so, Neal.”

She hung up. Chasing ghosts? Did he mean the ghost of Tammy Sue Conklin? How many people knew about Jack and Tammy Sue? She turned to leave but the phone rang once again.

“Hello!”

She sensed the hesitation at the other end of the line and realized her voice had been angry. “Hello,” she offered again, softening her tone.

“Is this Valerie Yates?”

“The one and only.”

“You left a message for me. This is Felicia Mewhinney.”

The voice was cautious and neutral. With good reason, Valerie thought. They’d never been friends in school. Quite the opposite.

“Hi Felicia. What a nice surprise. I’d about given up on hearing from you.”

“Is this about a class reunion?”

“No, it’s about…. Oh, heck. There’s no easy way.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you heard, but Jack, my husband Jack, died a few months ago?” Jack’s smiling face in the photo on the lowboy beamed approval. Valerie turned her gaze away.

“I did hear something about it. I’m sorry.”

“You knew that Tammy Sue Conklin died last year?”

Did the silence that followed mean Yes? Valerie plunged ahead as if it had.

“You’ve heard about the recent murder in Cordova? I think the girl that was killed was Tammy Sue’s daughter.”

Valerie heard no intake of breath, no murmur, no response of any kind.

Finally, Felicia answered. “I guessed as much. Why did you call, Valerie?”

Valerie took a deep breath. Maybe an honest approach would work. Felicia sounded cautious, not hostile. “The truth.”

“About Tammy Sue?”

“Yes.”

Felicia’s voice grew soft. “And Jack?”

Valerie had trouble getting the next word out. “Yes.”

“Maybe you and I have both reached the stage where the truth matters. Where the truth hurts less than living a lie.”

Valerie felt relief of a sort. Felicia had grown up. They could talk. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Jack was going behind your back in school. He was sleeping with Tammy Sue regular. Tammy Sue said he was crazy about her. She’d get mad though because he was still going with you. They’d break up for awhile. But he kept coming back, begging. Even after school. Even after you guys got married. Shall I stop now?”

Valerie laughed, short and harsh. “I can take it.”

“Remember, I only heard Tammy Sue’s version,” she warned. “Jack wanted to be chief of police. Tammy Sue’s reputation, well, you know Tammy Sue’s reputation. He thought she’d be a millstone around his neck.”

Valerie’s eyes burned. Her throat felt so constricted she wasn’t sure she could speak again.

“I’m sorry,” Felicia said.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“I know it’s painful.”

“Sounds like you have a nice family. I’m glad to hear everything’s turned out all right for you.”

“Thanks. I hope things will get better for you soon.”

“And about that reunion,” Valerie said with a laugh. “You show up at the next one, hear? And we’ll both pretend we haven’t spoken a word since high school.”

~

Valerie was thankful that it wasn’t raining. In fact, the weather had done another Kansas turnaround and was almost spring like. At least, Bruno wouldn’t be wet. She pushed the conversation with Felicia out of her mind, but she had a funny sick feeling in her throat.

She’d already covered the neighborhood east of her house. This time, she’d head west, toward town. She passed Maggie’s house and stopped at the end of the block.

“Bruno.” She waited. “Bruno,” she called again. She whistled and waited. Nothing. She walked another half block and repeated the ritual. Again, she had no response. In the middle of the next block, she ran into Mr. Jefferson, Wynona’s grandfather.

He gave her a courtly bow, even though he was now as bent as the cane he carried. “I’m keeping my eye out for your pooch, Valerie.”

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Jefferson,” she said as she passed. The elderly gentleman had been in retirement for thirty years and had taken a walk every single day of those thirty years.

She took a zigzag course toward the business district. Several people spotted her, waved, and wished her luck. Her flyer was on almost all of the telephone poles. Wynona and her friends had done a good job.

She turned the corner onto Main Street. The lunch crowd had thinned out at the T & C. Peg, the carhop, waved at her. “No luck, yet,” she yelled.

Valerie ran in and bought the super size order of French fries. Clay’s office was in the next block. Maybe she’d drop in, see if he was there, she thought, chomping on a salty handful of potatoes. She might be able to talk him out of grounding Sunny. Funny, how she and Clay and Sunny and Kevin had banded together. Each an only child, they had become each other’s sibling stand-ins. She and Clay especially. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d cried on his shoulder.

She decided to check behind the stores on the way to Clay’s office. She doubled back and turned into the alley behind the dry cleaners. She stopped behind Dunkin’ Donuts and called for Bruno. A dog would seek out food, she reasoned. She whistled a couple of times and looked around at the garbage cans. Did Bruno like sweets? Hell, Bruno liked everything. She tossed her empty bag into an open garbage can.

Clay’s building was just past the print shop. She’d go on to the end of the block and come around front. Then she saw something that stopped her cold.

About thirty yards in front of her, a man and a woman were standing in the alley next to a small yellow car. She didn’t know the woman but the man was Clay. Right, she’d forgotten that Clay had a back door next to his private office. The two were facing each other and the woman was talking, gesticulating with great energy. Valerie edged closer to the garbage cans, trying to minimize her presence.

The woman was young, slender, stylishly dressed. In yellow, no less, to match the car. Miss Yellow Bird’s movements and gestures were fascinating. Valerie, with a lifetime of dance behind her, recognized a mating dance when she saw one.

Valerie couldn’t move another inch without toppling a garbage can, but they were too busy to spot her. From the look of them, it would take an earthquake to get this pair’s attention. What on earth was Clay up to?

As if to answer her question, the two embraced. Valerie’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle a shout. Embrace? Hell, they were in an old-fashioned clinch.

The familiar choking feeling rose in her throat and tears stung her eyes. She had to get out of there, before she screamed, before she started throwing things.

As if on cue, the woman climbed in her little yellow car and Clay went in the back door.

Suddenly, a man carrying an empty box exited the back door of Dunkin’ Donuts. “Hey, Valerie,” he said as he tossed the box. “Don’t cry. We’ll find your doggie.”

Valerie wiped her eyes and turned to Wally the donut man. “Thanks, Wally.”

She walked slowly back the way she had come. She would go in and beat some sense into Clay. Was the man going through some kind of midlife crisis? Could there be some kind of explanation for what she had seen?

By the time, she had walked around the block, she knew that it would be a mistake to confront Clay. Exactly why it would be a mistake, she wasn’t sure, but something was wrong, very very wrong.

~

The Cavanaugh Building stood out, no doubt about it. The other businesses on Main Street were plain brick or wooden structures. Clay, never one for the subtle touch, had chosen a severe modern architectural style: white stucco walls, glass blocks, and no ornamentation whatsoever. A parking lot surrounded the office like a moat.

Valerie passed “the Rock,” an ordinary average-sized rock lying in the mulch by the dwarf pine near the front door. What distinguished this particular rock from the dozens of others was the fact that it sat upon a key, a spare for Shirley the receptionist who was forever forgetting hers. Sunny thought it was a hoot. Clay, of course, knew nothing about it.

Valerie muscled aside the amazingly heavy glass door. Passing through the outer entry, she wiped her mouth free of salt, moistened her lips, and prayed that her eyes weren’t noticeably red.

Shirley, tightly sweatered and carefully made up, sat in the reception area behind the great black melamine cube that served as her desk. She was deeply engrossed in something in her desk drawer, one of her interminable romance novels, no doubt.

“Hi Shirl.”

Shirley shut the drawer quickly, looking up with her professional face of greeting. The smile quickly turned into a real honest-to-goodness grin. “Oh hi Valerie. Gosh, I’m glad to see you. It’s been forever. You’re getting out and about now, I guess.” The scent of her perfume swirled around Valerie.

“Is Clay in?” Clay, the cheating, lying, sonovabitching husband, friend, and big brother.

“Why he sure is. You just happened to catch him.” She picked up a phone and punched a button. She nodded at Valerie, indicating Clay had answered. “It’s Valerie. Mrs. Yates.”

Shirl hung up. “Go on back, but be sure to stop by before you leave and tell me what’s going on with that dance school of yours and everything. I loved your story in the paper.”

“I’ll do that, Shirl.”

Valerie headed down the hall. The office was very quiet. All the better for clandestine meetings, she supposed. She would feel him out, try to get some sense of where he was. Somehow or other, she would keep her mouth shut about what she had seen.

The door to his office was open and Clay was sitting at his gleaming walnut desk. One lone file lay in front of him. He was born for this role; he exuded confidence and his costume was perfection itself, expensive suit, silk tie, casually styled hair. He seemed delighted to see her and immediately rose and stepped toward her with open arms.

Valerie forced a smile, praying that she could contain herself. She flopped down into one of the big leather chairs in front of his desk, the leather sighing as she settled. Photographs of Sunny and Brad adorned his desk as well as one of the Cordova Players the four of them in full costume for “Twelfth Night.”

Clay, looking a little puzzled, lowered his outstretched arms but kept the smile. He walked past her, shut the office door, and returned to his chair. “It’s been a long time since you dropped in. What’s up?”

For a moment, his familiar comforting presence blurred the sordid image so fresh in her mind. This was Clay, her oldest friend, her big brother. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. Then, again, maybe not.

Clay rose again, this time to go to the bar and get a glass of water. The long table on that side of the room held an architectural replica of what she guessed to be the Conference Center. Five Mile Lake looked noxiously blue next to the badly mown fake grass. He placed the water on the desk in front of her, pressing his hand on her shoulder as he did so. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t find my dog. I had a fight with Kevin.”

He raised his eyebrows, signaling a combination of surprise and curiosity. How well she knew him. How well they knew each other. Not true, she thought, with a pang. Not true at all. She wanted to jump up, run out of the room.

She managed to speak calmly. “What’s going on? You and Kevin have this pre-arranged? On cue, you both turn into knights in shining armor, protecting us helpless maidens?”

He nodded in understanding, leaned back, and steepled his hands. “Don’t you think I’ve got a right to protect Sunny?”

“She’s an adult and a damned smart reasonable adult, at that.” His shirt collar was immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted.

“You don’t think running around town at night is dangerous? At a time like this?”

“Clay. The man kills women in their homes. We’re safer on the streets. Think about it.”

He chuckled. “It’s me, Valerie. I’m the one that’s being childish and irrational. I get anxious when I think about her out at night, talking to strangers, following people around.” He peered up from lowered brows. Right?

“Sounds reasonable, the way you say it, but Kevin doesn’t have that prerogative.”

He smiled and cocked his head. “Did you ever stop to think that he might want that prerogative?”

Valerie snorted. “I wish you and Sunny would get off that horse. Kevin and I are like brother and sister.”

“If you say so.”

“I guess that’s it, then. Sunny’s going to protect you from your anxiety, although personally I think you’ve reverted to the middle ages. Myself, I have a series of articles to write.”

He opened his mouth to speak but evidently thought better of it and they sat looking at each other. Valerie glanced at the door. She couldn’t stay there; sixty more seconds and she’d crack. “I’d better get going. I’m trying to find my dog. I just came in for a drink of water.” She glanced at the door again. “I’ve been walking the streets looking for that damned dog.”

He didn’t skip a beat. If, for an instant, he wondered where she had been walking and whether she had seen anything, the questions didn’t register in his expression. “Can I help?”

She rose. “Just keep an eye out for him. He’s big, dark, and stupid.”

He winced, and she pretended to join him in laughing as he took her arm. He walked her to the reception area. Was there a difference in his posture, his attitude? Sunny had always said you couldn’t read his face. Funny, she’d never thought much about that comment before. Now, it seemed terribly significant.

She waved goodbye to Shirl, wondering how much the girl knew about the ins and outs of the back door.

Clay’s final words to her were, “Remember, even if we don’t always agree, your old big bro’ is always here for you.”

He looked as stalwart and straight arrow as ever, her lovable old Clay, a perfect knight in anyone’s book. He held out his arms and she stepped into them, the scent of his after-shave so familiar she wanted to cry.

Outside, she set off down the street. After a couple of blocks, she stopped in front of Buddy’s Barber Shop and called out “Bruno.” She waited, but she didn’t really expect an answering bark.

~

Back home, she shrugged off her jacket and plopped down on the couch. She’d rest a little, then see what else she could dig up about Amber and the Sweet sisters before her meeting with little old Marty tomorrow. Thank God, she wouldn’t be seeing Sunny until the weekend. She’d have time to think.

“Oh Jack,” she said, addressing his photograph. “I barely knew ye.” Closing her eyes, she leaned back to rest her head on the plump back of the couch.

How could it be that both she and Sunny had chosen husbands who—How would Sunny phrase it?—husbands who dicked around? It’d been hard to hear the bald truth from Felicia, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t already known. Known, but hadn’t known. Actually, if she were honest with herself, the moment she had seen that old photo of Jack with Tammy Sue, she had known. Learning about Clay like this was a shock.

If it hadn’t been for Amber Conklin, she’d still be the good Widow Yates, in mourning, hiding in her house, avoiding people. Wouldn’t that have been wonderful, to be able to stay inside, to never have to go out? To never know anything more about Clay, about Jack, about Tammy Sue, about Tammy Sue’s daughter. Jack’s….

The knot in her throat burst and tears rolled down her cheeks. She pulled up her feet and curled into a fetal position, blotting her face in a pillow. She’d work on her research tomorrow. She’d found out what she needed to know about Jack but she wasn’t finished. Jack had been looking for a killer; she’d tried to tell Neal but he wouldn’t listen to her. She’d go meet Marty Sweet tomorrow. She’d look for Bruno again tomorrow. God, yes. If she could just find that stupid dog, everything would be all right.

Chapter 41

A gray sheet of rain streamed over the plate-glass window of the Side Street Cafe. Valerie sat in a booth opposite Martin Sweet, tried not to stare at his busy hands, busy hands which were not much larger than hers. He probably didn’t weigh much more than 140. He was giving the hefty and very bored waitress his order for tea and toast in complete and specific detail, with much gesturing, smiling, and winking. It was Saturday morning and the cafe was bustling. The day had darkened and behind the counter, the weather-beaten cook switched on the lights.

Valerie’s head ached. Last night, she had cried so long that she had dried up. Funny, once she had looked the truth about Jack right in the eye, it wasn’t so bad. She was, in fact, mad as hell and determined to go the course.

She took a deep breath and concentrated on Marty. He wore a white shirt under a v-neck sweater and looked collegiate. What vital piece of information could he offer, she wondered.

“That’s it?” the hulking waitress wanted to know.

He nodded. “That’s it, sweetheart. For now anyway.”

Valerie took a deep breath. “Mr. Sweet. What is it you have to tell me?”

“Marty. Call me Marty. I’m offering you the opportunity to perform a real service for Cordova, a lovely little community if I do say so. I have vital information for the police.”

“Then you should talk to the police.”

“I’ve tried. But they have these narrow-minded preconceptions about the world of extra-sensory perception.”

She tried to hide her irritation. “Your information is based on ESP?”

“I had a vision.” He smacked his lips in triumph, eyes twinkling. “Now, Mizz Yates. I can see from your expression that you’re falling into the same line of thinking as our illustrious police force. You’re not a believer in the powers of the mind?”

“No.”

A small bead of perspiration appeared on his pale forehead and he leaned forward and whispered, “I saw him.”

In spite of herself, Valerie’s pulse quickened. “You saw who?”

“The Rose Killer.” He leaned back, looking smug and serious and something else she couldn’t name but that pricked her sensibilities.

She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “You actually saw him?”

“I saw him in a vision. My visions have proven to be quite accurate. I can show you the clippings. I even have a license number.”

“Let me get this straight. You saw the Rose Killer in a car. In a vision. And you remember the license number of the car?”

“He was with her. The little redhead. I saw her get out of his car. It’s someone the police know nothing about.” He raised his arched eyebrows.

She asked softly, “What makes you think it was the Rose Killer?”

“I saw him one other time. Creeping about. In another vision, of course.”

“Yes.” She leaned forward, forced a friendly, confidential tone. “Tell me. What does the killer look like?”

“An athlete, a fine, strapping—” He stopped.

“Athletic, you say?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not saying another word. You have to get me in to speak to the chief.”

“I’ll help, of course. But I have to be sure I’m not wasting my time or theirs.”

“Amber was a beautiful little thing. The redhead. Did you see her picture? He liked to look at her too.”

Too? “Go on.”

“Now, you’re not going to try to steal my show, are you?” He started to rise.

She leaned forward. “Wait. Don’t go.”

He shrugged. A white paper napkin clung to his trouser leg and he whisked it off. “Get me in to see the Chief and you’ll get all the answers. I promise you.” He headed for the entrance.

She turned to watch him leave. At the front door, he turned and waved. From this distance, he looked like a boy.

And then he was gone.

The waitress placed a plate of toast and two cups of tea on the table and then, her square face expressionless, laid the check at Valerie’s elbow.

~

Sunny bustled around her sun-filled kitchen, her head still buzzing from yesterday’s wine. “Would you like a coke? Or maybe some ice tea?”

Guylene, school-girlish in a white blouse and pleated skirt, sat primly at the kitchen table. “Ice tea would be nice.”

Sunny poured the tea, noticed Guylene sneaking another look around the room. Sunny became painfully aware of the large windows, the view, the marble countertop, the imported appliances. To someone like Guylene, the house would seem a mansion. At their session yesterday, the invitation had popped out of Sunny’s mouth without a thought. Even then, she had known she was overstepping her professional bounds.

“Tell me about this new boyfriend of yours,” she said as she plucked the long spoons for the tea out of the silverware drawer.”

“You know Shane Chastain, the TV star?”

A parade of puerile young faces from television flitted through Sunny’s mind “That good looking?”

“And he’s sweet.”

“What’s his name?”

Guylene looked shy and pleased. “Bobby Lee.”

Sunny placed the tall glasses on the table and sat. “Let’s eat.”

Guylene picked up the glass and took a sip.

Sunny couldn’t remember ever being as vulnerable as Guylene seemed, even at thirteen. “That’s crab salad, one of my specialties.” She took a big bite. “And this is delicious, even if I do say so myself.”

Guylene laughed politely and raised a tiny forkful of crab to her lips. “It’s wonderful.”

Sunny watched her poke at the salad. Something was up. Guylene’s expression had suddenly changed from one of delight to one of anxiety.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Guylene speared a small piece of tomato. “I went to school every day last week. I’m playing a role, just like you suggested.”

Sunny felt a warm buzz of happiness, but tried not to gush. “That’s good to hear.”

“I pretend that I’m Kristen Stuart, you know. Real quiet and cool.”

“Perfect. Maybe sometime you could try Amy Adams, warm and happy.”

“Maybe.” Guylene stirred the salad, seemingly fascinated by the artichokes and tiny chunks of feta. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell my mother?”

“Sure. Unless you’re planning on committing a felony, like auto theft or grand larceny.”

“You’re going to think he’s too old for me.”

“Bobby Lee? It sounds to me like you’re the one who’s worried about that.”

“I met him at the arcade. That day you were there, in Video Village.”

Sunny gasped. “Oh no. You saw me at Video Village?” She remembered the day, how ridiculous she and Valerie had felt, the people staring as they practically ran out of the store. “Hmmm. How can I possibly explain?”

“I thought you and your friend were doing something on a dare. Like you weren’t even grownups. It was cool.”

“Not so cool, as it turned out.” Sunny said. “You met Bobby Lee that day?”

“He makes me feel like I’m something special. And he’s not fresh at all. I feel...safe with him.”

An opening, Sunny thought, her adrenalin rising. “Safer with him than with somebody else you know?”

Guylene stared down at her plate, pushed some arugula aside.

Sunny felt a pang of affection. This girl was so young, so naive.

Guylene picked up her fork, put it down again. “Do you ever hear any really bad things? From some of the other girls at the center?”

Sunny’s heart was hammering. She patted her lips with the napkin. Stay cool, now. “I’ve heard just about everything.”

The girl looked up. The fork trembled in her hand. “You’re the only one—” The sound of a car in the driveway stopped her dead.

Sunny tensed. Oh God, no. Guylene had been on the verge of confiding in her. And wouldn’t it just have to be Clay. He wouldn’t be pleased to find her breaking the rules, bringing Guylene into her personal life, especially right now. He’d given her an excuse for not showing up for lunch the day before, but he’d seemed to be forcing a nonchalant facade. “That’s just my husband. I’m sure he won’t stay long.”

Guylene sat up straight, smoothed the napkin on her lap.

In a moment, Clay, tall and solid, face unreadable, loomed in the doorway. He halted at the sight of Guylene.

Sunny smiled. “Hey Babe. I’m glad you’re here. I want you to meet Guylene.”

He cast a questioning look at Sunny. The question was: Is this who I think it is? Some lowlife from the Center? He turned to Guylene. “Nice to meet you.”

Sunny realized her smile was theatrical, but she couldn’t find the turnoff point. Guylene looked stunned. Clay hadn’t sounded like it was ‘nice’ at all and he had immediately turned away and gone to the sink. He stood there, his back to them while he ran a glass of water.

How could she cover up his rudeness? She turned to Guylene. “These men. Always a million miles away, thinking about business. I hope you’ll forgive him.”

Guylene’s eyes were bright. She wiped her mouth carefully with the napkin. “I have to go.” She rose awkwardly, knocking over her chair. It clattered to the floor.

“My husband is…” Sunny started to say but stopped as Guylene looked at her. Pain, pride, anguish, anger. The girl thought Clay was ‘snobbing’ her. And she was right.

Guylene slowly shook her head, turned, and stumbled to the door.

Sunny started after her. “Guylene!”

Clay grabbed Sunny’s arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh.

She tried to pull away. “Let go.”

“Give it up.”

“I’ve got to drive her back to town.”

Clay released Sunny’s arm. “Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you?” He let her go and strode out of the room.

She grabbed her coat and purse in the hall and ran for the front door. She had to catch Guylene.

Wait. Where were her car keys? She ran back into the house. She didn't see Clay anywhere. She searched her coat pockets and finally found the keys on the kitchen counter. She ran out to the driveway.

Guylene was gone. She must have walked up to the highway.

Sunny jumped in her BMW and sped up the gravel road. She brought the car to a screeching halt, just past the stop sign at the highway. Guylene couldn’t have gotten much farther than this. Then she saw the bus about a quarter of a mile to her left. It was just pulling away from the side of the road. Should she follow?

“Hell, I’ll never catch her now.”

She made a U-turn, headed back down the road toward the house. A cloud of dust appeared in the distance. She couldn’t believe the pace at which it was moving. In a second or two, it would be abreast of her.

The white Corvette roared past.

Fanning away the dust, Sunny stared after it.

She swallowed hard. At the wheel of the car, Clay had been sitting stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead.

Sunny went back to the house and looked up Guylene’s home phone. No answer. Of course. Her mother would be at work. Sunny hammered her fist down on the counter top in frustration. She’d come so close to a break through. The girl was ready to confide in her and then…. Damn!

She paced across her kitchen floor, watching the clock. After fifteen minutes, she picked up the telephone and dialed Guylene’s number again. This time she counted ten rings before she punched the Off button.

If Guylene hadn’t gone home, then where had she gone? It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Where would a teenaged girl go? And, for that matter, where the hell had Clay gone?

Sunny stopped, hot tears blinded her. The hell with him. She was going to find Guylene. She’d start with Guylene’s house and after that hit every punk kids’ hangout she could find. She grabbed her purse off the counter.

If Guylene wasn’t home, she’d hit the mall. The video arcade, wasn’t that where she said she met her cool new dude?

Thirty minutes later, Sunny pulled the BMW into the parking lot at the front entrance of the mall. Three-thirty. She scrambled out of the car, held her purse over her head, and ran through the rain to the entrance.

She walked briskly, dodging a young woman trailed by two tall kids, passing a chunky youth carrying an out-of-date boom box. “If ya goin’ downtown, ya goin’ down.” She had expected the mall to be almost empty, but passed at least a dozen people.

Two hulking youths blocked the entrance to the video arcade. They looked up as she approached, their narrow eyes flashed a message: We’re not moving for you, bitch.

She pushed her way through. “How’s it going, guys?”

One of the youths guffawed. The other muttered something she couldn’t quite hear, though she had no doubts that it was obscene.

The arcade glowed with surrealistic light from the machines. Sunny passed three young women, each one dressed in expensive black, each one with her scalp shaved above the right ear. The sound of tracer bullets pinged around her, the swooshing sound of a rocket. She sauntered on, descended into the depths of the arcade. Clearly, if you wanted to live in hell, you didn’t need to die. And what was that odor? Did these people bathe in incense? Just call me Orpheus, folks. It would make a good story later.

Wait, was that Guylene, blonde head bent over a game near the back of the room?

Sunny rushed forward.

The girl turned to call to a friend, revealing harsh black-and-white makeup.

Disappointed, Sunny slowed her pace. What she wouldn’t give to see Guylene’s sulky little face right this minute.

She made her way deeper into the arcade, until finally she reached the back exit and the doors to the restrooms marked Dudes and Chicks. She sighed. She would have to check out Chicks.

She pushed the door open, blinked at the glare of lights.

A small girl with a great cloud of curly red hair stood in front of the polished metal mirror.

Sunny walked past her to the trio of stalls, and bent down to peek under the doors.

“They’re all empty,” the redhead offered.

“You don’t happen to know a girl named Guylene, do you?”

The girl shook her head.

“No, I didn’t think so.” Sunny pushed through the restroom door and stood just outside until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. She retraced her steps back through the arcade.

No Guylene.

Back in the mall, she hesitated. Should she go back to Guylene’s house? Call again?

She found the telephone kiosk and dialed Guylene’s number. No one answered.

She hung up, wondering what she should do next. Where the hell was that kid? There was no getting around it. She would have to go to Guylene’s house. This time she would pound on the door until someone answered.

~

Valerie sat at the kitchen table, the telephone receiver cradled on her shoulder, listened to the phone ringing at the other end of the line. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger, studying the white indentation in her skin.

Odd that there was no answer. The Sweet sisters rarely left their house any more. Perhaps they were napping. She hung up.

She kept running her meeting with Marty Sweet through her mind, trying to remember his exact words, the nuances of meaning. Sweet was lying, but yet— His expression, it had turned sly when he first mentioned his vision. She drew in her breath with a shiver of excitement. Sweet wanted to win a reputation for his psychic powers, put himself in the public eye. Of course, he hadn’t had a vision. He had actually seen someone. And that someone might have been the Rose Killer!

She jumped up. If he was withholding information from the police, Neal should know about it. And she was the one who was going to give him this information? Right. He’d never believe her.

She grabbed the receiver and dialed Sunny’s number. Maybe Sunny could come up with a strategy for relaying the information to Neal. Clay hadn’t forbidden them to talk about the investigation. The phone rang four times before Sunny’s recorded voice took over.

Valerie slammed down the receiver. “Damn you, Sunny. Where are you when I need you?”

She had to do something. But what? She’d started out trying to find out the truth about Jack. Now she had it. Of course, she had come to feel like she was also tracking the killer because Jack had been tracking the killer, but it was more than that. As terrible as some of the truth had been—Jack and Clay, for instance—there was something even more terrible out there. Maybe she couldn’t trust any man. Maybe they were all hiding terrible things. Naaah. Kevin, and Neal too, they were good guys. The best. The thought of Kevin gave her a little pang. She didn’t like fighting with Kevin.

She scratched at her ring finger. She’d been fiddling with the ring so much, she’d inflamed the skin underneath it.

She returned to her desk and her computer. What had she missed? She brought up Amber’s file.

AMBER CONKLIN aka Dominique Downy

Jack Yates—-Helping Amber? Using her as an informant?

Jade Sweet—Elderly landlady, twin sister of Pearl

Pearl Sweet

Elderly landlady, twin sister of Jade

Martin Sweet—Jade and Pearl Sweet’s nephew

Tripper—Manager of Video Village, possibly employed

Amber as an actress in porn films.

Tammy Sue Conklin—Attended Cordova High School,

Amber’s mother.

She updated Jack’s entry.

Jack Yates—Helping Amber? Using her as an informant?

More likely, helping his lover Tammy Sue’s daughter.

She shuddered, minimized the screen so she couldn’t see it. Jack and Clay. Jack and Tammy Sue. Jack and Amber. Jack and Tripper. Marty Sweet. What was she going to do about Marty Sweet? She seemed to have come to a dead end, unless she wanted to send Neal an anonymous note. Martin Sweet knows more than he’s telling. Give him the third degree.

Was Tripper the man Marty Sweet had seen with Amber?

The dark sky had turned black. Looked like the end of their nice weather. She pulled the drapes across the basement windows and tried to call Sunny again. No luck.

She plucked at her wedding ring. The irritated skin was raw and red. She pulled off the ring and tossed it in the bottom drawer of her desk, then she grabbed her purse and ran up both flights of stairs to her bedroom. She went to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. The lumpish object still rested there, cocooned in its velvet covering.

She reached in, pulled out the gun, and unwrapped it. Tripper was dangerous and clever. Last time, he had doubled back on her, caught her unawares. That was last time. Tonight, no matter what happened, she’d be ready.

Chapter 42

Guylene strolled into the video arcade praying that she would find Bobby Lee and there he was, hanging next to the Robotron, waiting to play. She almost smiled at that, him at that machine, the first game they’d played together. He turned his head, he actually felt that she had come in, and took one look at her tear-stained face and led her out to his friend’s Camaro, parked on the out edge of the mall parking lot. Rows of cherry trees lined the driveway, bare-limbed and black in the fast-darkening afternoon. A storm was coming in.

Bobby Lee seemed real worried about her. “I don’t got much time, Hon. You better tell me what’s going on.” He leaned across the gearshift and tapped her arm with his forefinger. “How come you’re so bummed out?”

The tears welled up again and she shook her head.

“C’mon now. Something must have happened.”

She looked out the window. “I stayed up too late last night is all.”

He rested his arm on the steering wheel and leaned closer. “Yeah? Then how come your eyes are all red like you’ve been crying? I knew you shouldn’t have gone over there.”

His blue eyes under the heavy fringe of eyelashes just melted her heart, nobody had ever looked at her like that. “It’s not Sunny.”

“Did she come down on you or something?” He screwed his mouth up to show his contempt. “They’re all alike, the fuckers.”

“It’s her husband. He hates me. He took one look at me and hated me on sight.”

“Why should you give a shit what some old dude thinks?”

“‘Cause she won’t invite me to her house again. And, maybe he’ll make her quit seeing me.”

“Yeah. Well. I can see that could be a bummer. But, tell me what happened. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Oh shit no. He just looked at me as if I was trash that needed taking out.”

He slammed the steering wheel with his hand, hard and she couldn’t help jumping.

He said, “That motherfucker needs a lesson in manners.”

She grabbed his fist. “Don’t talk like that. You scare me.”

He gathered her hand in his. “Chill out, Hon. I’m not going to rush off half cocked. Bobby Lee Hickerson ain’t no dumb ass, y’know. I have my ways.”

The first soft plinks of raindrops spattered on the roof of the car. She squeezed his hand, which felt surprisingly large, big boned, and hard. She wondered again, about how old he was. Sometimes, like just now when he was mad, his face was full of harsh lines and shadows, and he looked older. But it felt natural sitting there with her hand in his. She was glad he was ‘pissed off.’ He cared about her, he really did

“Y’know,” she said softly. “You’re a really nice guy.”

He grinned, squinting and looking young again. “Nice? It’s been a spell since anybody called me nice.”

“Well, I think you’re nice and most guys are jerks, if you know what I mean.”

He looked so pained that for a moment she thought he was going to jump out of the car, but he leaned forward instead and brushed her lips with his. He tasted of cigarette tobacco and mouthwash.

He drew away and she tried to figure out his expression. Was it love? Was he just trying, like all the guys, to get a little? She would go crazy if she didn’t find out.

“You’re one sweet baby, Hon.”

Her heart was so tight it would burst. She leaned forward to offer her lips.

His mouth, soft and searching, covered hers.

The rain came, hard and sudden, assaulted the driver’s side of the car, pounded the roof. Guylene, tucked inside Bobby Lee’s hard thin arms, felt warm and sheltered and safe.

~

Valerie eased the Dodge through the rain-filled gutter and pulled up close to the curb three driveways down from Tripper’s small gray house. Rain fell steadily, played a delicate tattoo on the roof of the car. Close to suppertime, the neighborhood looked warm and cozy, lights glowed at the windows of the modest homes. Across the way, in an open garage, three youths tinkered with a stripped-down car. Two blocks down, she could see flashes of red and blue neon; a stream of headlights passed through the intersection.

Tripper’s house looked closed up tight. If there were any lights on, she couldn’t see them. He had left the garage door closed.

She turned off the engine, peeled off her gloves, rolled the window down a notch, and settled in. She would wait, no matter how long it took. And if it took all night, who would miss her? She didn’t even have Bruno now. She shuddered. Maybe somebody had taken him in and he was warm and well fed.

If she went to Neal again, she had to have something concrete. If Tripper was the killer, she had to catch him in action, stalking his next victim or breaking into a house. Maybe she could use herself as bait.

Fear laid a cold hand across her mouth, her lips went numb. She could never, ever, be that brave.

Maybe she could find a murder weapon? No, he used pantyhose or scarves he found at the scene. Suddenly, she remembered Kevin saying, in his best professorial tone, “They like to take mementos. Something they can use to relive the moment later. More bang for the buck, you know.”

A memento. What if he collected mementos? She leaned forward to get a better view of the house. It seemed quiet, unremarkable. If she wanted to find anything, she’d have to go into this house and look for it.

If she were caught? The humiliation would be unbearable. How could she face Neal?

Tripper seemed a perfect suspect.

Opportunity. He could come and go as he pleased at his job.

Proximity. All of the murders had occurred in areas not far from the mall. Of course, everyone in Cordova had proximity.

Witness descriptions. The Findlay’s neighbor saw a man running away, dressed in blue. Tripper wore a blue jacket and pants, almost a uniform. Bertrand Sweet, who had probably spotted the killer, described him as athletic looking. She had to admit to herself that Sweet had also described him as good looking. Looks are all in the eye of the beholder. Some people might find Tripper attractive, she supposed. But then, some people kept reptiles as pets.

Personality and character. Tripper made pornographic movies which indicated a hatred of women and he had a temper. She had witnessed that much at the video village.

The sudden rattle of a garage door brought her to attention. Tripper was home after all.

He backed the Volkswagen van onto the driveway.

What should she do? Follow him? Try to catch him “in the act?” Take this opportunity to search his house? She might find crucial evidence. Chances were that Tripper would be gone for hours and this could be the only chance she’d have.

He got out of the car and yes, he was wearing his blue jacket and pants again, and closed the garage door.

He climbed back in the van and backed it out to the street. Valerie watched the van turn the corner. Should she wait a few minutes and then break into his house? Another minute and the chance to follow him would be gone.

What if he came back and caught her? Could she use the gun?

She thought of Amber. She thought of Frederika Bartlett. Of the other women. Yes. Oh God yes. If she had to, she would take out the gun and shoot him dead.

~

Valerie followed him to the college yet again. She turned the car into Lot A, the one designated for college visitors. She had missed her chance, but why kid herself? Breaking and entering just wasn’t her style. She wasn’t a basket case yet, no matter what Sunny and Neal and Kevin thought.

Street lamps were few and far between and the lot was dark. In the daytime, it overflowed with cars, but now, at night, it was only half-full. She couldn't see Tripper’s Volkswagen van anywhere.

She drove slowly up the lane between the first and second row of cars. She had to find him. Otherwise, it was all a waste. She reached the end of the lane.

She turned the car and cruised down another lane and then another, but still no SUV. She’d lost him.

Finally, she pulled into an empty space near the center of the lot and parked.

She got out, pulled her scarf tight against the damp air, and headed for Clemson Hall. He had gone there once, the night she and Sunny had followed him. Maybe she would find him there again.

The campus looked quiet and serene. She didn’t see anyone as she hurried up Center Path. Between classes, probably. From the direction of Thurston Hall to her left, a violin wailed through the tall oak trees. Across the Green to her right, she could see the glow of windows in the math building. Unbidden, a scene from a slasher movie ran through her mind: the heroine entered a dark alley where anyone with any sense would know the villain was lurking. She chuckled. And here she is, folks, walking across a dark deserted campus, looking for a killer.

She reached Clemson Hall and strolled through the corridors on the third and fourth floors, but the classrooms were dark. No Psych classes on Wednesdays. She decided to give up and go back to the car.

At the perimeter of the parking lot, she hesitated. She had parked in the center of the lot so her car would be inconspicuous, but which row? The parking lot, from this perspective, looked exactly like one of those thriller movie sets. She didn’t like the look of it, not at all. Chilled, she turned up the collar of her coat.

She decided on the lane to her right and heading in, passed a string of compact Japanese cars. Up ahead, to her left, she saw an SUV, but it wasn’t Tripper’s. This one was bulky and plastered with signs. Her throat tightened. She edged to the right, as far away from the van as possible, and hurried past.

Valerie drew a deep breath. Wasn’t that the tail end of her Dodge about six cars up?

From somewhere behind her, she heard the scrunch of gravel. A voice boomed out. “Mrs. Yates.”

She gasped and whirled around.

Tripper stood not ten feet away, a knapsack slung over one shoulder, his eyes shiny marbles in the streetlight.

A current of fear skittered down her spine. “Ah...hello,” she managed.

“I’m halfway pissed, lady.” He looked her up and down, as if he were amused. “You don’t want to get me all the way to really pissed, do you?”

“What?” A nerve throbbed, fear trickled down her arms, turned her fingers into sticks of ice. “I’ve got a class.” She wiggled her fingers, willed her legs to move, turned, and walked away. Her heart tripped against her ribcage. One more step and she would burst.

He yelled. “Hey!”

She heard the rapid crunch on the gravel behind her. Before she could jump aside, his hand closed around her arm, hard. “Now, I’m really pissed.”

The scream rose in her chest, froze at her throat. The gun. She had to get the gun. Her fingers fumbled at the clasp on her bag. She thrust in her hand. There. No, that was her billfold. Where was the gun?

He was still talking. “...wrong person. I don’t...” His grip on her arm had tightened, pulling her, dragging her.

Her grasping fingers touched her cosmetic case. Finally, she felt cold hard metal. Heart pounding, she palmed the gun, snapped the safety. Her finger curled round the trigger. She tugged. She couldn’t pull the gun free of the purse! Was it caught on the lining?

Valerie raised the purse, the Smith-Wesson .25 aimed chest high, and turned.

Chapter 43

Every molecule in Valerie’s body focused on Tripper, on the painful grip on her arm as he growled at her. She could smell his wine-sweet breath. Her finger trembled on the trigger of the gun in her purse.

A voice from somewhere behind her yelled. “Get away from her!” The sound of running feet. Relief surged though her body.

She clutched the purse against her chest and backed away.

Tripper bared his teeth. “Stay away from me, you crazy bitch.” He was gone in a flash, disappearing between two parked cars as the man running toward them burst into the open.

“Kevin!”

Panting, he took her by the shoulders and looked around for Tripper. “Are you all right?”

“All right? What are you doing here?”

He gulped some more air. “Would you believe I just happened to be driving by?”

She stared at him, at his familiar face, at that sweet cocky grin, and burst into tears.

She was in his arms, held tight against his sturdy chest. He smelled of soap and salt, but mostly of Kevin and she wondered why she knew that. “I almost killed him.”

The hiss of surprise was in her ear. “Almost killed him?”

“I have a gun in my purse.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned into her ear. “Little darling. Playing Annie Oakley.”

At the sound of an approaching car, they both tensed. The headlights caught them full in the face and he dragged her aside. The Volkswagen van passed in a spray of gravel.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kevin said.

He took the car keys from her trembling fingers and they locked themselves in the car.

Valerie drew a long steadying breath. A lone drop of rain pinged against the roof of the car, followed by a chorus of raindrops. The painful pounding against her ribs eased.

“I’m out of control,” she said. “All of you—Neal and Sunny and you too—you were all right about me.”

Kevin patted her knee. “You’re being a trifle hard on yourself, I think.”

“I almost shot him. I almost shot that man.”

“In the circumstances, shooting seemed an appropriate response. He had his hands on you.”

“I’ve been following him. Some might even say I’ve been harassing him.”

Kevin snorted. “Get a grip. The man’s a slime ball.”

“How do you know?”

He leaned over until his face was a few inches away from hers. “Honey, what you know, I know.”

Her senses seemed to be on alert. She was aware of him, the coarse unruly hair, his square hand on the steering wheel, his mouth. “How long have you been following me?”

“All your life,” he said.

His eyes were frank and, faced with his emotion, she wanted to look aside, but she didn’t. And his lips were so close.

She wasn’t sure how it happened, who made the first move, but his mouth was on hers and she was kissing him back. He tasted so good and felt so good, it was as if she had been hungry for him forever.

Finally, their lips parted and they sat quietly, barely touching foreheads, breath mingling.

“I’m temporarily schizoid,” she whispered. “Although I’m not sure why.”

“I know why,” he said softly.

“What’s your theory?”

“You’re mad as hell, Sweetheart. And doing something about it.”

She nodded in agreement, kissed his lips lightly, and asked, “Are you coming home with me?”

“Hell, yes. But I’ll have to sneak in the back door. Mom watches you like a hawk.”

~

Valerie and Kevin pushed through the kitchen door and, laughing, fell against the refrigerator. The small light over the stove cast the room in shadows. They kissed again, with more intensity.

Kevin pulled off his pea jacket and tossed it toward a chair. Too hot,” he said and they were laughing again. Valerie pushed him away, tore off her coat, and, pulling him behind her, raced through the dark house. They collapsed on the sofa and he was on top of her, his erection pressing against her thigh. She’d never wanted anything more than she wanted their naked bodies pressed against each other.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “Take off your clothes. Take off my clothes. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Wait a minute.” He scooted to one side so his full weight wasn’t bearing down on her. “I mean…you mean…Jack’s bed?”

“My bed,” she said. “I want you in my bed.”

“Well, when you put it like that.” His kiss was soft at first and then harder and searching. She loved his mouth. His scent was richer than Jack’s and sweet.

He rose and just as he was pulling her to her feet, someone knocked on the front door.

They stood, hand and hand in the dark, and stared at each other.

“Your mother.” Valerie laughed. “She’s the only one who won’t use the bell.”

“Christ! It’s like we’re thirteen!”

“If I don’t answer,” Valerie said. “She’ll call the police.”

“So? I hide until she’s gone? This is ridiculous.”

She reached over and gently touched his lips. “I won’t be long.”

Kevin took off for the kitchen and Valerie switched on the lamp on the table next to the couch. She managed to smooth her hair as she walked to the door. She jerked it open just as Maggie began her third round of knocking.”

“You okay?” Maggie asked. “Nothin’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Valerie said as Maggie hurried into the house.

Maggie, hunched in her bathrobe, auburn curls awry, obviously on the alert, looked ready to fight off any intruder. She jerked the closet door open and poked at the coats, then closed it. “You drove up but then your lights didn’t come on. I thought maybe somethin’ had happened.”

“I was just having a moment of quiet,” Valerie said. “I’m sorry you were worried.” She took Maggie’s arm and steered her back to the door. “You go on home now, and get to bed.”

Maggie straightened her back. “Okay then. Yes. I guess I was just seeing trouble where there wasn’t any.”

Maggie shuffled out and down the steps and glanced back as she reached the sidewalk. “These are crazy times, aren’t they?”

Valerie waved. “Sleep tight.” She waited a few minutes until she could be sure Maggie was gone. She knew what she was doing was irresponsible. She didn’t know why Kevin had changed his mind about her investigation but she didn’t care. Maybe she was just horny. Maybe she was just angry at Jack. Maybe she was in shock from the confrontation with Tripper. She didn’t care about any of it. She shut the front door.

Kevin had returned and, before she could turn around, he had wrapped his arms around her. “We’re bad,” he whispered. “There’s no getting around it.”

She wriggled out of his embrace. “Race you up the stairs.”

They climbed together and at the landing, she pushed him into her room.

They sank onto the bed together and Valerie began to unbutton her blouse. Raindrops were now pounding steadily on the roof.

“Let me,” he said. “I’ve dreamed about unbuttoning your blouse since I was thirteen.” He managed to slip off the blouse. “And slipping straps from your shoulders.” He gently pulled one bra strap down and then the other and kissed her shoulder. In a moment, she was naked above the waist.

“And putting your hands on me?” she whispered.

He cupped one breast in his hand and buried his head against her breasts. She wrapped her fingers in his curly hair and pulled him closer. Then he was sliding her jeans and panties down. He rose slightly and slipped off the rest of his clothes.

They had a natural rhythm just as they had in dancing but Valerie couldn’t stop herself. Her “Oh” came as a quick note of surprise and the “Ohhhhhhhhh” that followed seemed to go on forever.

Her climax set Kevin off and, after a moment of thrashing and more “Ohs” and “Ahs,” they had finished.

Kevin rolled over onto his side and she turned her head so she could look at him. Their laughter was soft.

“We’ve set some kind of record,” he said.

She turned toward him and touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “It was wonderful.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m going to love loving you, Valerie Jean Stanton.”

~

The next morning, Valerie smiled to herself as she dressed. The sun had come out and, for March, the day was fine. Last night seemed like a movie she had seen, with both comic and romantic scenes. They had awakened early and made love again, this time, slowly and exquisitely. Somehow, it didn’t seem real. Together, they had slunk out of her house about one in the morning and she had taken him back to his car at the university parking lot. They had kissed goodbye just like the high school sweethearts they had never been. What was she doing? How could she fall in love with Kevin after all these years?

She went down stairs and had just reached the living room when she realized she was humming “I’m as corny as Kansas in August.” She shook her head in amazement.

After a quick breakfast, she did an even quicker neatening of her house, and went down to her basement office. She really didn’t feel like working on the ‘investigation,’ so she went over her finances. After a few minutes of sorting and reading, she leaned back in the chair.

“Wow!” She was loaded. What with Jack’s pension and the income from the inheritance from her aunt, she was saving a lot more than she was spending, a whole lot more. Maybe she should buy some new clothes, go to the salon Sunny was always recommending. She hadn’t trimmed her hair in over a year. She might even go today.

Valerie went back upstairs and just as she reached the living room, heard a tapping on her door. Sunny.

Sunny, conservatively dressed for once, stormed in with what Valerie could only describe as a speculative look and Valerie felt herself blush. Sunny knew. Somehow, some way, Sunny had found out.

Sunny looked her up and down. “I knew it!”

Valerie turned and went to the kitchen. Sunny was at her heels. “Knew what?”

“You know what. Kevin looks like he’s about to climb the stairway to heaven and you, for God’s sake, are blushing.”

Valerie poured cold coffee into two coffee mugs and stuck them in the microwave. “So what.”

Sunny sat down. “You’re giving me warmed over coffee?”

“I drink it all the time.” She leaned against the counter until the microwave buzzed, pulled out the mugs, and set them on the table.

Sunny picked up the mug with a distressed expression, studied the Kansas State Fair graphic, and took a sip. She set it back down. “I don’t know what to say now.”

Valerie laughed as she sat opposite. “You are speechless? Is it the coffee or the whatever-you-think-you know?”

Sunny shrugged. “The coffee’s not bad. I just thought you’d call me up and tell me.”

“Sunny. We’re not in high school. We’re over forty! And anyway, I’m not sure I know what to think about it all. In fact, I’m afraid talking about it will jinx it.”

“Are you serious about him? You’re not just sloughing off your widow’s weeds?”

“I’m confused, is what I am. I’ve figuring some things out, about Jack, and about Kevin. You know I was really attracted to Kevin when I was about thirteen but my aunt was always warning me about boys and about sex. I felt so guilty.”

Sunny threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Give me a break. I never noticed much guilt where Jack was concerned.”

“I’ve thought about that. I was attracted to Jack, of course, but I felt like I had more control where he was concerned.”

Sunny nodded. “That’s interesting, ver-r-ry interesting. I’m going to have to think about that.”

Valerie took a big swig of her coffee and leaned back. “You’re subdued today. Is something going on?”

Sunny shook her head slowly. “I screwed up things with that girl I’m counseling and I don’t know what to do.”

“You got too involved?”

“And how. I’m thinking about going to her house to explain.”

“But, if you’re too involved, won’t going to her house make it worse?”

Sunny sighed.

Valerie had never seen her so worried. “You and Clay are all right? Right?”

Sunny slammed her cup down. “How the hell should I know?” She rose. “I’m going over and make things right with that girl. I’ll talk to you later.”

And with that, Sunny was off and out the door and burning rubber as she took off up the street.

Chapter 44

Guylene ran up the sidewalk toward her front porch. She’d said good-bye to Bobby Lee at the mall only an hour ago, but it seemed a lot longer. Afraid of going home, she’d walked around town and now she was soaked. Rain ran down her face in rivulets. Her jacket and the sweater underneath had soaked up about thirty gallons of water; rain had plastered her hair to her skull.

She reached the porch just as the telephone rang inside the house.

Don’t hang up. Don’t hang up.

She slipped on a worn floorboard, grabbed the doorknob and saved herself from falling. As she closed the front door, the telephone fell silent.

The living room was dark, of course. She hadn’t planned on coming home so late or she would have left on a light. The overhead light in the entry way had been broken since the day they’d moved in, who would fix it anyway. She peeled off her jacket and took off her pumps and cold wet socks.

The voice came from the vicinity of the couch. “Hi there, Sugar Face.”

Her heart did a giant cartwheel. Even before she turned, even in the dark, she knew who it was.

She turned to the living room, toward the sound of her uncle’s voice. The day was full of March rain and dark sky. Someone, probably Uncle Gil, had pulled the blinds down. In the dusky shadows of the room, she could just make him out.

He switched on the table lamp and, yeah, there he was, sprawled across the worn green couch, trying to look like a dude in his Royals sweatshirt and ragged jeans. He had a can of Bud in his hand. Lots of other beer cans were lined up like tin soldiers on the braided rug. Five cans. God, he was really drunk this time.

Carefully, she flipped open the lock on the door. She’d have to move fast. She had one Nike in her hand; she’d have to leave the other one behind. Where could she go?

Lazily, he turned his big head and smiled. He swung his feet to the floor, sat up and yawned, stretched his hairy powerful arms over his head, letting her see his big bulging chest.

The fly of his jeans was open; she could see his jockey shorts.

She edged closer to the door.

He smiled again, his eyes glittered like a snake’s. Oh, she had to get out of there. He was disgusting; she hated him like she’d never hated anyone.

He lumbered to his feet, took his time hitching up his pants. “Hey Guy.” His voice was dusky, low.

“How did you get in here?” He looked straight into her eyes and she couldn’t look away.

“Your mom gave me a key.” He pursed his lips, tried on that James Dean expression. “She thought it might come in handy, now she’s working nights. What do you think, Guy? You think it might come in handy?”

She had to look at something else. “I think you ought to get out of here.”

“Aw, c’mon over here and give your old Uncle Gil a little hello kiss.”

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let those snake eyes get her, pin her to the floor. Why couldn’t she scream?

“Go to hell.” She grabbed the doorknob, but it was too late.

Three bounding steps and he reached her, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her in the air. “Give your poor old lonesome uncle a kiss.”

She beat at his head with the shoe. “Let go of me. Let go.”

He squeezed her with his wrestler’s arms until she thought her ribs would crack.

“Stop,” she gasped, and dropped the shoe.

Laughing, he spun her around. “God, you’re wet. That turns me on.” He pressed himself against her. “Can’t you tell?”

He stank of sweat and stale beer. She reared back and screamed again. “Let go.”

“Sure.” He hoisted her up to get a better grip and staggered toward the couch. “In a minute,” he panted. “When I’m through.”

He heaved her onto the couch, and straddled her.

Whimpering, she wrapped her arms tight across her chest.

He tore them away and fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. “You’re so wet.”

“No,” she screamed, fists flying. “Get off me. Get off me.”

He swatted her hands away. “Oh, you wanna play, do you? Uncle Gil loves to play with his little Guy.”

He caught both her wrists in one hand, fell on her, and fastened his mouth onto her neck.

Slick and rubbery. His mouth. Something slick, running down her cheek. She gagged.

The doorbell shrilled. Oh God, thank God.

For one long frozen moment, he didn’t move, his hot breath ragged on her neck. A drop of sweat hit her cheek, ran behind her ear.

She screamed, “Bobby Lee.”

He jumped off the couch.

She rolled to the floor, landed on her hands and knees, and scuttled across the rug. She clambered up. Where were her shoes? Her coat? She stumbled out the front door.

She didn’t see the woman on the porch until the screen door hit her in the face. The woman gasped and jumped back.

“I’ll kill him,” Guylene screamed. It was the Avon lady, a big fat hot air balloon in her red raincoat. Guylene stuffed her bare feet into the tennis shoes.

Behind her, the woman clucked. “Are you all right? Can I help?”

Fuck her. Fuck them all.

She bounded off the porch and ran through the yard. The wet spongy grass grabbed at her shoes.

“I swear I’ll kill him.”

~

Guylene stood outside Chaz’s Lounge. God, her feet in the running shoes felt like raw hamburger. A row of cafe curtains covered the bottom half of the windows and she couldn’t see inside, couldn’t see if Bobby Lee was anywhere around. She stood on tiptoes, pressed her fingers against the glass for balance.

The lounge looked like one of those artsy-fartsy movies, the lights were so dim and yellow. People sat in pairs at every table, grinning and talking, grinning and guzzling wine.

She caught sight of her reflection then and, startled, fell back from the window.

Shit, she looked like one of those street kids you see on TV. She couldn’t walk into the Chaz’s looking like that. No way.

Bobby Lee was in there somewhere, back in the kitchen, washing the dishes dirtied by all those rich, grown-up soshes. She wanted to see him real bad but if she got him in trouble with his boss, he’d be pissed.

In the mall, a gang of girls lounged on one of the benches, drinking pop and laughing it up. A woman with two tall kids passed by the bench, then stopped to look in the window of the jewelry store.

Wasn’t there a phone right around the corner, near the jewelry store? She’d call Sunny. Yes, Sunny could help her. She’d know what to do.

Guylene headed toward the phone, painfully aware of the squishing sounds coming from her ruined shoes. The bench and the gang of girls were just ahead. She bent her head and searched through the pockets of her jacket. She needed a quarter for the phone call. She counted out the coins. From somewhere within the mall, the faint sound of a familiar rap song echoed.

Seventy-five cents.

The telephone kiosk was empty. She dialed Sunny’s number and waited. The telephone rang four times, then she heard the click of the answering machine taking over and the familiar sound of Sunny’s husky voice. “You have reached….”

Guylene hung up. Dammit. Where was Sunny? What was she doing?

Behind her, the girls on the bench snickered. The rap music sounded louder now, boomed out angry words. “Whadda ya want with white chicks? Whadda ya do with white chicks?”

She blinked tears back, straightened her sodden jacket, and raised her chin. She didn’t have enough money to play the machines, but maybe she’d hang out at the video arcade for a while, just until she could decide what to do.

~

He sat in the front seat of the old beat-up pickup and watched the girl run. His sparrow. Run, Guylene, run. The heat rose in his mouth. His tongue swelled with excitement.

She was almost at the end of the block when she slowed. Poor dear. She plodded down the street like a waif, little shoulders slumped with dejection. Had her mother kicked her out? Seen the signs? Smelled the powerful scent of fresh sex, and kicked her out?

She had been had by the cowboy, he was sure of it. He swallowed hard, savored the scene as he imagined it. The punk pawed her, uncovered and pinched her tiny breasts, put his hand between her legs.

He gripped the steering wheel hard, excited and disgusted. Poor dirty little girl. Used and discarded. First, the disrespect, now this.

She was the one.

He closed his eyes, remembered the moment when he had known. Her Lolita face had turned mean and ugly. Hatred had flared from those beautiful eyes. He had recognized her for what she was, a travesty of womanhood.

Outrage welled up in his throat and he swallowed again. Well, he wouldn’t allow it. Just as Daddy never allowed it. He lifted his hands from the steering wheel, spread the fingers wide, and willed them to stop trembling. He must use control now. Establish the rhythm. Keep the ritual pure.

First, he had to find out who else was in the house. That meant watching it for days, maybe for weeks. His throat swelled and closed. He grabbed the steering wheel again. He couldn’t wait! Not now.

He took a deep breath, fought and won the battle for control.

Guylene turned the corner.

Time to go. He pulled the car away from the curb. Would his sparrow fly to a friend’s house? Who were his friends? Did she baby sit? Did she belong to clubs? So many things he had to find out.

At the corner where Guylene had turned, he eased the car to a stop.

She stood at the bus stop, pulling on her down jacket.

He drove across the intersection and around the block. He parked near the corner of the cross street.

She stood with her head bent, hands clasped in front of her, her fluff of blonde hair hanging in wet ringlets.

He studied the childish profile and his jaw tightened. So young and yet already defiled, already corrupt. He closed his eyes and imagined her on her knees, tiny hands held high in supplication. The thrill fluttered in his chest, no bigger than a gnat at first but growing and spreading until it was an eagle clawing at his heart.

She was the one.

~

He watched her walk away from the kiosk and savored his amusement. Had she really considered entering Chaz’s? Obviously, her phone call had been unsuccessful. She looked anxious, confused.

Was she coming his way?

He pretended a consuming interest in the wall hangings inside the hardware store. The quartet of teenaged harpies still postured on the bench. But even above their shrill laughter and the music from the approaching adolescent ne-er-do-wells, he could hear the spattering of rain on the skylight high above his head. A cold and rainy April night, bad for them, good for him.

Yes, she was well past him now. He could turn away from the window. Was she going to leave the mall? Hands in his pockets, he strolled past the teenage girls.

His little sparrow passed the fabric store, then the candy shop.

He stayed a discreet distance behind her, glanced in the store windows, certain that anyone who happened to look his way would see an aimless shopper killing time at the mall.

She stopped just outside the video arcade and peered in the door.

He waited at the entrance to the candy shop, engrossed in the display of sickening sweets. Even from this distance, he could see the tension in her hunched shoulders, the jerky movements of her head. His poor baby.

She turned and looked in his direction, but didn’t see him, of course. He had the gift. He could become the invisible man whenever he chose.

Which direction will you choose, Guylene? Not that it makes any difference. In the end, you will come to me. The tension rose, simmered in his brain. Along with the heat of desire, he detected the alien surge of anxiety. She was unpredictable, swept in this direction and that, like a leaf in the wind. She would inject an additional element of danger into his game. Was she worth the risk? He must be very careful now, not let himself be carried away again. Stay in control.

She headed toward the entrance. She was going home.

His forehead felt tight. Stop now, he told himself. Go back to the truck and drive home. Find another one, an easier one. The beating of his heart sounded a refrain. Danger, it whispered. This girl is dangerous.

But above the whispered warning, he could hear his father’s voice, a voice very much like his own. Blindly, he obeyed. He left the shelter of the store window and followed Guylene out of the mall. He didn’t care if anyone noticed him now.

As he walked, the thought came again, a hollow echo in his head, but clear and powerful.

She is the one.

~

Sunny, driving fifteen miles an hour, peered through the windshield of the BMW and tried to make out the house numbers. Why the hell had she waited so long? She’d never had good night vision and now with the mist and everything, she was flying blind. At least it wasn’t pouring down rain.

She hadn’t been in this part of town for years, but it was just as she remembered it. Fifty years ago, the big frame houses, with their wide porches and beveled windows, had sheltered Cordova’s bankers and politicians. Then the oil wells dried up, the rich moved elsewhere, and the neighborhood had gone into the dumpster.

She wondered if the situation at Guylene’s house was any better, now that her mother had found work at Votrix.

She passed one of the boarding houses, which, like most of the others in the neighborhood, sported jerrybuilt additions and a patchwork of exterior staircases. The numbers tacked onto the porch railing were large. 1025. She was close. The house should be in the next block.

Guylene’s house was like the others, hardly a shred of paint left on its weathered siding. It must have been a dream house in its heyday, right out of Ladies Home Journal, what with those cupolas and that wraparound front porch.

Sunny parked out front and took a deep breath. It was show time. She had already waited too long. The kid needed reassurance.

She got out, hurried up the sidewalk to the sagging front porch, and rang the doorbell.

She waited a moment and rang again. No one was home. Or else Guylene was doing her adolescent turn, giving her a hard time.

She backed away from the door, studied the dark window to her right. “Guylene,” she called.

Nothing.

“It’s me. Sunny. Open the door.”

Finally, she went back to the car.

What now? Where do you go, Guylene, when you want to forget? She tried to remember if Guylene had mentioned any friends or relatives, but no particular names came to mind.

She turned on the car lights and put the car in gear. The mall it was then.

~

Guylene approached the corner of Tenth and Franklin. The rain had stopped but a covering of dark clouds remained, and the temperature had dropped. She zipped her jacket and turned up her collar.

It would be safe at home now. She was sure Uncle Gil had a poker game on Thursday night.

At the corner, she walked through the circle of yellow light cast by the street lamp, and out again. She felt as if the black velvet night had swallowed her whole.

Oh God, please let him be gone.

She hurried on. God the street was so dark in the rain you couldn’t see anything. She finally reached her house. The porch light had burnt out, of course, and the porch, so familiar in the daytime, was a collection of strange dark shapes. She slowed her pace, strained to see into the shadows. Uncle Gil would sometimes hide and jump out at her. Finally, she yanked the keys out of her coat pocket, and ran up the steps.

She unlocked the door as fast as she could.

Please, don’t let him be there.

She felt sick, weak. How could she go on? Oh, why had she mentioned Bobby Lee’s name to Uncle Gil? If Uncle Gil took it in his head to talk to him. If Bobby Lee found out, he’d spit in her face, and never see her again. She stumbled through the front door into the dark house. Sunny. She’d call Sunny. She’d tell her everything. Sunny would know what to do.

Eyes blind with tears she turned to the living room.

Chapter 45

He drove slowly, searched for a parking place on this quiet street of big, older homes. The pickup truck was undistinguished but still, he had to make sure no one would remember seeing it near her house. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he would find a raised blind at her house or a curtain askew. He would be able to see his sparrow in her little nest.

He would be meticulous in his routine, allow at least two weeks more for surveillance. He was in control now. Surely, he could wait two weeks. There could be no mistakes now. The fire in the pit of his stomach erupted again. Desire flowed like lava through his veins.

Five blocks east of Guylene’s house, he found the boarded-up grocery store with the alley running behind it. Perfect. No one on the street could see the car, especially on a night like this. He parked close to the back of the building. He swallowed hard and pressed his hand against the fire in his stomach, and then climbed out of the truck. Control. He must maintain control. What was the next step?

He had solved the parking problem. And now, yes now he had to plan the surveillance. How was he going to get close to the house without attracting attention?

Do what you usually do. Become one with the night, a shape slipping through the alleys, a stray breeze wafting between the houses, a shadow floating past the windows. He laughed softly and excitement slipped up his throat like the blade of a knife

He followed the alleyways until he reached the back yard of the house opposite Guylene’s. The fence seemed solid, but there had to be a gap somewhere. There was always a gap.

Yes, there it was. He had a clear view of her front porch.

He stood motionless, listening. It was a very quiet night. Even the dogs were silent. As always, the fates were kind to him.

For a moment, as he studied her house, he was puzzled. The windows were dark, the house looked empty, even though it was well past time for someone, for her mother surely, to be home from work.

It was possible that the mother worked nights. Votrix had a second shift and many of the unemployed had found work there. And, didn’t he know that the mother worked nights? Wasn’t the knowledge buried somewhere in his consciousness?

Yes, he was positive. Guylene was alone in the house.

Heat flooded over him. Quiet. Stand still, breathe quietly until it passes.

He breathed in and then out, let the excitement subside. But it had been a sign. Like the others. The moonless night. The silence of the dogs.

The girl, alone in the house.

He must take care. Stay in control. The ritual was important.

What more did he need to know? She lived with her mother and her mother was at work.

The heat rose again, in waves he couldn’t quell. His tongue snaked out to wet his parched lips.

She was young, a baby. He thought of her fair, fine skin and soft yellow hair. He had never had a young one before. He would purify her!

He felt it coming, his blood shimmered with the heat. It was more than he could bear.

But then he remembered. The handkerchief. He had to have the handkerchief.

Disappointment washed over him in cold and sickening waves. But, wait. Hadn’t he placed a brand-new pack in his briefcase just recently? Day before yesterday? Or, was that right before the other one, the bitch of a butch who had marked him up? He couldn’t remember now. He would have to go back to the truck and see.

If the handkerchiefs were there, that would be the ultimate sign.

~

Guylene, in pajamas and a light cotton housecoat, shivered as she put her rain-soaked clothing in the washing machine. A draft of icy air slashed through the back porch utility room.

She poured in a cup of detergent and flipped the dial to start the wash cycle. She checked the back door and made sure the rusty old latch was down, in the locked position. She didn’t want Uncle Gil sneaking in and catching her off guard. If he tried to unlock the door, she’d hear him; she’d have enough time to run upstairs and lock herself in the bathroom.

She stepped into the kitchen and closed the door to the laundry room behind her.

Now that Mom was working again, the cupboard was full of canned goods: green beans and corn, chicken and dumplings, Franco American spaghetti, a half-dozen cans of soup. A steaming bowl of tomato soup sounded good and there was an unopened box of Ritz crackers on the top shelf. She’d cut a slice of sharp cheddar to go with the crackers.

As she opened the can of soup, she noticed that the blind at the side window was not pulled all the way down. Anyone who was tall enough could stand outside and see right in the kitchen. And Uncle Gil was certainly tall enough. She hurried over, tried not to look at that scary black space between the blind and the windowsill, and pulled the blind down.

She poured the soup and a can of milk into a pan on top of the old range. Tomorrow, everything would be better. Why should Bobby Lee ever have to know? All she had to do was keep him away from Uncle Gil.

A bubble plopped up in the soup and then another. She moved the pan to another burner. She went through the cupboard.

How did everything get so messed up all the time? I’ll have to straighten out these shelves tomorrow. Oh, there was the blue bowl, the one without a crack.

She used a hot pad to protect her hands and poured the steaming soup into the bowl.

Bobby Lee was so good-looking.

She placed two slices of cheese on one side of the bowl and six Ritz crackers on the other.

And he was sweet too, not like some of those creeps at school.

She carried her supper in to the living room, turned on the television, and found the new show, the one with Lance Bigelow. The wind gently rattled the front window and she pulled her housecoat tighter. They could afford to turn the heat up now, but she decided against it. Better save the money for something else, something more important. She went to the coat closet, pulled out her mother’s old cable-knit sweater and pulled it on over the cotton housecoat. She grabbed a wool scarf off the shelf and wrapped it around her neck.

She turned to the couch. The image of Uncle Gil’s nasty pig-face flashed into her mind. For a moment, the thick, sweet smell of the soup made her stomach flop around. She sat and pictured Bobby Lee, his crooked grin, his soft smile. Her stomach settled down.

Tomorrow, she’d talk to Sunny. Tomorrow, everything would be fine.

~

He leaned over the tool chest, which he’d left in the passenger seat, and unlocked it. Taking a deep breath, he raised the lid. Behind which door would he find the tiger?

He trembled from the thrill of it. Yes, there it was, tucked in the top tray, the two-pack of pristine white handkerchiefs, still in their plastic wrapper.

He split the wrapper with his fingernail, removed one of the handkerchiefs, and put it in his jacket pocket. Carefully, he rewrapped the remaining handkerchief and returned it to the tray.

Perfect. Everything was perfect. The night was moonless. The dogs were silent. She was alone. The handkerchief was ready. She had been chosen. What could he do but obey? His waif, his sparrow.

With a sense of wonder, he raised his head and caught the sweet illusive odor. How could it be that this frosty April night carried the scent of roses?

~

Guylene changed channels. The new Lance Bigelow show was about a drug bust, a real drag. But she didn’t want to watch a Law and Order either. She flipped to another channel, found a Battlestar Galactia rerun. She switched back to Lance and the dingy streets, the steady bursts of gunfire, settled in to eat her soup and crackers.

Maybe she’d ask Bobby Lee to go to the basketball game Saturday night.

The soup tasted good. She wolfed it down and carried her dirty dishes out to the kitchen sink.

She’d call him tomorrow and ask him to go to the game. Better wait until noon, give him a chance to sleep in. She’d give Sunny a call first thing in the morning.

She poured a capful of Joy in the sink, waited while it filled with hot water, tried to think of an opening line. “Sunny, I’m in trouble.” No, that sounded like she was pregnant. “Look, somebody’s got to do something about my Uncle Gil.” No, she had to warm up to the subject first.

She dunked the soup bowl into the suds. “Sunny, you remember watching Oprah and—”

What was that sound?

Guylene turned toward the back door. The washing machine?

Soapy water dripped from the bowl in her hand onto the linoleum, but she stood motionless. Was that someone on the steps?

Was it Uncle Gil? Oh God, what was that?

Her stomach turned over. Glass, breaking. Someone had broken the window in the back door.

Uncle Gil wouldn’t do that, never in a million years. What was that?

With a sudden rush of acid in her throat, she knew what it was. Someone had flipped the rusty latch. The bowl slipped from her hand.

It couldn’t be Uncle Gil, it had to be someone else.

She drew in her breath and held it.

The doorknob, was it turning?

The door moved slightly, then stopped.

Him? Him?!

“Mama!” Out of here, have to get out of here. “Mama!”

She plunged through the kitchen into the dining room, jammed her knee against a chair, and kept on running.

Oh God, it’s him. It’s him.

At the front door, she fumbled with the lock.

Have to get out. What’s the matter with my fingers. Oh no.

She turned around, arm raised as a shield. “Mama!”

~

Sunny had a hard time keeping the BMW under the speed limit. She eased her foot off the accelerator. What she didn’t need right now was another speeding ticket. At least the rain had stopped. Up ahead, she saw the green glow of the video store that marked the corner where she should turn.

She’d catch Guylene before she went to bed, get everything straightened out.

She felt sure Guylene would be home now and her heart lightened. She turned the corner.

A scraggly dog raced along a chain-link fence that edged the sidewalk, but it was too small to be Bruno. She remembered Clay, their argument, his cold eyes, and, later, how she’d felt when he hadn’t shown up at Royal’s.

The light hopeful feeling faded and she felt drained, exhausted. Who was she kidding? She could drive around all night, but what difference would it make? She couldn’t help Guylene. She couldn’t help Valerie. She couldn’t even help herself.

Tomorrow morning. She’d call Guylene first thing.

She stretched her eyes wide to better see through the blur of tears, slowed the car, and turned the corner, heading for home.

PART IV

You never find yourself until you face the truth.

--Pearl Bailey, American singer

Chapter 46

After the rainstorm, Valerie’s neighborhood glowed. Grass, maple trees, laurel bushes, white picket fences, all seemed vivid brush strokes in a watercolor landscape. Valerie turned away from the window. Sunny, in a plaid shirt and jeans, looking like a teenager without her makeup, sat on the couch clutching her cell phone

“Why don’t you try Guylene’s number again?” Valerie suggested. “She can’t talk all day.”

“My batteries are dead. Sunny tossed the phone on the table as she rose, strode passed the soundless television set and its Saturday morning cartoon, and sat at the oak desk in the corner and picked up Valerie’s land phone. She dialed Guylene’s number.

Valerie plopped down on the couch. On the television screen, a girl with Brillo-pad hair skated through a crayon-colored universe, unaware of the dangers that lurked in every corner. Primal drama for the pre-school crowd.

Sunny hung up. “A busy signal is a good sign, isn’t it?”

“You know teenagers. You’re stewing and she’s forgotten all about it. How about Clay? Has he seen the error of his ways this morning? “

“Possibly. But I have no way of knowing.”

“He didn’t come home last night?”

“Nope.”

Guilt rushed over Valerie. She had pushed her knowledge about Clay from her mind because it was so painful, but she’d never before kept secrets from Sunny. She had to tell her about Clay and that girl. Sunny deserved to know what she was dealing with.

She began slowly, planning to work up to the confession. “Yesterday was loony tunes. Clay, of all people, being rude. Guylene storming out. You chasing after.” She paused, and in a casual tone of voice, added, “And Tripper trapping me in the college parking lot.”

“What!? You went out alone?”

“I’m afraid I did. I came close to shooting him.”

Leaning over with a moan, Sunny cradled her head in her hands. She came out with a muffled, “You’re carrying Jack’s gun.”

“My gun, but you’re right. I have no business carrying it around. Anyway, that’s when Kevin showed up.”

Sunny lifted her head and smiled, as Valerie had known she would, that suggestive just-as-I-suspected smile. “Right.”

“The whole incident got me thinking. Maybe I have been acting impulsively."

Sunny did her comic routine of shock and amazement. “You? Impulsive?”

“Kevin’s been worried about me. In fact, this wasn’t the first time he’s followed me.”

“Kevin would do anything for you, don’t you know that? Why do you think his marriage survived only a year? He’s a one-woman man. And you’re that woman.” Sunny’s mouth flew open as if Valerie had actually spoken some horrible truth but she was looking at the television. “Hey!” She collapsed onto the couch next to Valerie and grabbed her arm. “That looks like Guylene.”

The photograph on the television screen had the look of an official school portrait, too formal to be a snapshot but not polished enough to be a studio portrait.

Valerie turned up the sound. A newscaster spoke in a deep portentous voice.

Hand at her throat, Sunny leaned forward.

“...late last night. The authorities have confirmed that Guylene Jackson, a student at Cordova Junior High, is the latest victim of the Rose Killer. Chief Malcolm also announced that they are seeking a person of interest. Our sources informed us that this person of interest is a young man seen recently with Miss Jackson. A massive manhunt is now under way.”

Valerie sank onto the couch next to Sunny and grabbed her hand, their fingers intertwining.

Guylene’s eager-to-please young face disappeared. The crisp, sincere face of the newscaster took its place.

Once again. Thirteen-year-old Guylene Jackson died last night at the hands of the Rose Killer. Tune in the twelve o’clock news for Chief Malcolm’s press conference.

The news report ended and the cartoon reappeared.

Sunny jumped to her feet. “I almost stopped last night, but then I decided not to.” She faced Valerie, wringing her hands. “If only I’d stopped.” Her voice had risen alarmingly. Tears were pouring out of her eyes.

Valerie tried to take her in her arms, but she pulled away. “Oh, God, What will I do? I don’t know what to do.”

Valerie laid a hand on her arm. “Take a deep breath, honey. Sit down on the couch and remember all of your relaxing techniques. I’m calling Clay.”

Sunny sat, but immediately jumped up. She walked closer to the television. In the cartoon, the purple monster reached out a pillowy arm to catch the girl with the Brillo-pad hair.

Valerie called Clay’s office, but Shirl said he was out. She promised to page him immediately.

Valerie gave Sunny a valium and convinced her to lie down. “Clay’ll be here soon,” she said. And he’d damned well better be here.

After she got Sunny settled, she hurried downstairs and stepped out on to her porch only to find Maggie hurrying up the sidewalk. “Did you see the news?” Maggie talked as she walked. “I was on the phone with Kev and he saw her picture and said she was one of Sunny’s kids. Is that right?”

Valerie took her arm and ushered into the house. “How did Kevin know that?”

“He’s seen her at the Center. You know.”

Valerie didn’t know. “I wonder if you’d stay with Sunny awhile. I have something I have to do.”

“Happy to. Anything. What do you have to do?”

Valerie grabbed her coat. “Convince someone that I’m not a nutcase.”

~

Valerie had only been gone about fifteen minutes, when the doorbell rang. Maggie peered through the peephole. A tall grim-jawed man was glaring at her front door as if his eyes could burn a way through. He was a handy looking fellow, broad shouldered, clean cut, and all duded up in a business suit. Wiping her hands on her apron, she sighed. Clay Cavanaugh. Wasn’t it just her luck, him showing up now. She opened the door.

He smiled, showing all his good white teeth. “Mrs. Blackburn. Where’s Sunny?”

“She’s laying down upstairs.”

He headed for the stairs.

“She just had a valium, so she’s a little shaky.”

He was already bounding up the steps.

Maggie heard some murmuring and, in a couple of minutes, footsteps heading down. Clay Cavanaugh, the picture of a doting hubbie.

Sunny gave her a weak wave. “Hey, Maggie.”

Between the two of them, they got Sunny bundled up in her coat. Maggie followed them to the door.

“Remember,” she called after them. “She’s already had some zanrac. Don’t you be giving her anything more.”

“Heard you the first time,” he called back. Sunny raised an arm and waved over her head. Wow, she was higher than a kite.

She watched them cross the lawn and climb into the car. Sunny waved again. Maggie waved back and shut the door. What should she do now? Did Valerie have her keys? Heck, she’d just stay here and watch the TV.

She grabbed the remote and settled into the recliner. Should be one of them moan-and-groan shows on about now.

That Clay Cavanaugh sure took after his ma. Not in size, cause Frannie Cavanaugh had been a little bitty thing. Like a scared little rabbit. But he had her beautiful green eyes and her smile. She could remember the smile from school. Frannie hadn’t smiled much after she married the old sourpuss.

Chapter 47

Valerie hurried in the front entrance and was surprised at her reception. Brickers, the desk sergeant, called Janousek who showed up in a minute or so. Neal was supposed to be so damned busy, how did she rate? She passed several men and women who must have been reporters. She had no idea who they were and they looked at her curiously as she passed.

“Here, you are, Mrs. Yates,” Janousek said, polite and pleasant as ever. Uneasy about all this pleasantness, she went in the office, not knowing what to expect.

Neal’s eyes lit up when he saw her. Thank heavens for that. After all their arguments lately, she thought she’d be the last person he’d want to see.

He ran a hand over his thatch of black hair. “Valerie. Good to see you. I was going to call you.”

She laughed. “What a great politician you’d make.”

He laughed. “I mean it. I am glad to see you. I’ve wanted to talk to you, but with this latest business. God.” He shook his head in frustration.

“I heard the news about the girl this morning.”

A cloud passed over his face. “The girl. Yes. What kind of monster goes after a thirteen-year-old girl?”

“Sunny Cavanaugh was Guylene Jackson’s counselor at the Youth Center. I thought you should know. She’d only been seeing her for about six weeks, but they’d become very close. “

“Mrs. Cavanaugh is upset?”

“She collapsed.”

“I’ll talk to her later, when she’s feeling better.”

“The news said you had a person of interest.”

He smiled. “You know I can’t talk about suspects.”

“I have to read it in the newspapers? Hear it on the evening news?”

He hesitated. “He hit town right before the first murder and took up with the Jackson girl two weeks ago.”

“He fits the profile?”

“Close. Male. Drifter. Loner.”

“Isn’t he younger than you’d expect? I mean, if he was going out with an adolescent girl.”

He nodded, acknowledging his respect of her research. “Only a few years. Profiling isn’t a rocket science, you know.”

Valerie rose. “I know you’re busy and I really appreciate all the time you’ve given me.”

“My pleasure. Oh, by the way. A man who said he was a close friend of yours came by. Martin Sweet.”

“Martin Sweet! He’s no friend of mine. What did he want?”

“He got in to see me because he said you were in danger. I remembered him, of course, after Amber Conklin’s murder. He seemed fairly harmless. Then he said you had suggested he talk to me. About his ‘visions.’”

She buried her face in her hands. “Jeez. What an idiot.”

“Not your fault, Valerie.”

“Neal. I want to give you Jack’s notebook and my notes.”

He came around the desk to her side. “No need. I’m sure we’ve got what we need.”

The expression in his eyes stopped her. He was so positive she couldn’t help him with anything. He was so happy to be protecting her. She turned to go, then stopped. “Are you taking care of yourself, Neal? Getting enough rest?”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Of course not. But thanks for asking. It means a lot to me. When this is over, I hope we can have a real conversation. There’s something important I want to discuss with you.”

Valerie drove home, fuming over Martin Sweet. What gall. She wondered if, in spite of what Neal had said, the authorities had ever suspected him of the murders. Well, if they had, they’d checked him out. She just had this nagging feeling, like she’d overlooked something, some bit of information so vital that if she didn’t unearth it, and unearth it soon, someone else would die at the hands of the Rose Killer. Talk about grandiosity. Sunny would have her on a shrink’s couch in a second.

~

Valerie returned home and found Maggie sitting in Jack’s recliner.

She got up, straightened her skirt. “Wasn’t sure you had your keys.”

“How’s Sunny?” Valerie slipped off her coat and tossed it on the couch.

“Clay Cavanaugh came by and got her. I told him she’d had a pill so he wouldn’t give her no more.”

“Good. He must have heard the news. Sunny can use some support. Thanks for staying, Maggie. I appreciate it.”

Maggie stood in front of the chair, looking uncertain.

“What’s bothering you?”

“You know that Sunny’s husband plays around, don’t you?”

“I don’t like gossip much.”

“Since when? Lots of people know it. Mr. Big Shot Cavanaugh’s been sleeping with his receptionist for a couple of years. They meet at motels out of town. It’s no secret.”

“Shirl?” Not Shirl. Not nice, friendly girl-next-door Shirl. Valerie plopped down on the couch and buried her head in her hands. “This damned town is nothing but ugly secrets.”

Maggie looked rueful. “More than you know.”

Valerie looked up. “Now what?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Maybe I know it already.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“Any more secrets to spill? Who else lives behind a facade? Neal? Sunny?”

“Me. My old man didn’t desert us. He left because I had an affair with Royal Farley. He got drunk, took the truck out, and got hisself killed. Kevin doesn’t know it.”

Chapter 48

He dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of the old metal trunk. Finally, the tasks of the day were behind him. He could take time for himself, enjoy a few moments of pure unadulterated bliss. He fingered the gold chain that hung around his neck, slid his fingers down its length, claimed the key, and unlocked the trunk.

The interior resembled a huge jewelry box, filled with racks, each one divided into multiple compartments, each hinged for easy access to those beneath. He had plenty of storage, more than enough to hold mementos for all the years to come. He resisted the impulse to count the contents. No need. He knew exactly how many he’d tucked away, each wrapped in lavender tissue paper, or, if it held particular meaning for him, a square of black velvet.

He lifted one of the objects and peeled away the tissue. The charm bracelet had been delicately wrought, the chain forged of slender links of pure silver. He touched one, an oval engraving of a small girl’s face, and remembered the woman. She who cared for nothing but her child, her rose garden, and her flirtations. She who neglected her husband, he had taught her the folly of her ways. He closed his eyes, clutched the bracelet against his heart. It would have been so good. Last night, oh that would have been the night. Taking the sparrow. A delicious buzzing began in his head. She’d been terrified, of course. He sighed, remembering her tiny bones, her frail, match stick arms. When the moment had finally come, when the voluptuous game of cat-and-mouse was reach its apex. Nausea rose in his throat. Father! I’m so sorry. So sorry.

He reached in his pocket and brought out the tube of lipstick. Melon Pink. Memento number 38. He rose, went to his chair, and sat. He unzipped his pants and plucked a paper towel from the roll sitting on the end table. Bringing the unopened tube of lipstick to his mouth, he closed his eyes. Blonde hair spread out on the couch like a fan around her head. The thin frail neck.

It took him only a few minutes, a few hot and delicious minutes, and when he had finished, when he had cleaned himself and fastened himself back up, he returned to the trunk. There, he selected a square of black velvet. With great care, he folded the cloth around the tube of lipstick, and placed it in the compartment he had set aside for it.

Pretender. Fake. He had known taking her would be risky. He had not prepared properly. He had lost control. Losing control could lead to destruction. He would take care with the next one. He would know her habits and her habitat better than she did. He would execute the ritual in full and marvelous detail. Yes, he would pluck his new rose and wipe out the corruption. Corrupt she was, a travesty of a woman. He could see her narrow arrogant face now.

A thin whisper of a warning interrupted his fantasy. Was she, perhaps, too close to home? Was he breaking one of the rules? The fantasy materialized again, and he knew he could not resist it. He stood, happy in the thought that tomorrow he would be able to add more details to the plan.

He went up the half-flight of stairs to the kitchen, biting his lip until the image of the rose—intense and elegant—faded, until he was again his public self.

The boy was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a peanut butter sandwich. The baby sitter from the agency, a stout older woman with dyed-black hair, was at the sink.

“Dad,” the boy said, his face pale under the freckles. “Mom’s friend got hurt. Did you hear about it?”

He erased the lingering image of Valerie’s face from his mind and, putting on his Daddy smile, went to greet his son.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” the baby sitter said. “Can I fix you something to eat?”

Chapter 49

Sunny took off her shoes, sat down on her bed, and buried her face in her hands. Clay had convinced her to lie down, but now that she was up, she was too tense. Guilt-ridden, as they say. Shit, she felt like she’d killed the girl herself. She and Valerie. Deep down, she felt that their morbid little games had led the killer straight to Guylene. How irrational could she be?

The smooth monotonous wail of some modern jazz group wafted up from the lower level. Clay had seen her to the bedroom, asked her if she needed anything, and then set off for his den. For a moment, she had seen something in his face that made her uneasy. Something that told her he was acting, playing a part. Yes, the man of the house doing what was expected of him, saying the right things, performing the little husbandly duties, bringing her a soft drink, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, gazing into her eyes, and pretending that he cared. Was he involved with someone else? Doing the dirty? Did Valerie know?

She pulled the pillow up over her ears, blocking out the hypnotic sound of the saxophone. Acting. Clay was a wonderful actor. A memory from their youth, long forgotten, returned. She’d just turned fourteen and she wanted to be Clay Cavanaugh’s girl friend more than life itself. He invited her over to his house one evening.

She watched Clay and his father play chess on the oak table in their huge, immaculate kitchen. Clay had inherited his height and his strong classic features from his father. She was in awe of both of them, flattered that they had accepted her into the heart of the family. Clay’s mother, a curled and perfumed confection of a woman, was upstairs sewing or performing one of the other housewifely tasks that seemed to occupy every moment of her day. So Sunny assumed.

Then, she’d heard the thumping. Clay and his father didn’t seem to notice. She said nothing. The sounds continued. They seemed to be coming from the pantry a short distance down the hall. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped as Clay and his father exchanged glances. They continued with their game. She remained silent, not willing to risk embarrassment, not willing to risk spoiling her future with Clay.

Clay’s parents were both dead now and she hadn’t thought of that evening in years. How odd. Because now she knew without any doubt who had been making those sounds, and why Clay and his father had ignored them. It had been Clay’s mother pounding on the pantry door and it had been Clay’s father who had shut her up in there.

A sound, the soft shush of the sliding glass door moving in its tracks, stopped her reverie short. Holding her breath, she looked up. A young man in jeans and cowboy boots stepped in from the deck and stood just inside, grinning at her. Lifting a silencing finger to his lips, he pushed the slider shut. He had stubble on his cheeks and dark shadows like bruises under his eyes. Even so, he looked easy and careless as he strolled across the room, heading straight for her bed.

She knew who he was, of course. Hey, why should she be surprised? She didn’t think anything or anyone could ever surprise her again.

“Bobby Lee,” Sunny said. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

The young man in the jeans and cowboy boots stood casually at the foot of her bed, biting his lip, a hank of sandy hair hanging over one eye. “Can’t leave yet, Miss Cavanaugh. Can’t leave until they find the sonovabitch, ‘scuse my French.”

He pushed his hair back and sat on the edge of the bed, looking as comfortable as if sitting on her bed was something he did every day of his life. She could see why he would be irresistible to someone like Guylene. The image of the girl’s pretty, hopeful face brought stinging tears to her eyes.

He blinked rapidly. “I know they think I’m the one that done it. She thought a lot of you, Miss Cavanaugh, and I wanted you to know. I’m a sorry excuse for a man and I had no business messing around with her, but I wouldn’t have done nothing to hurt that little girl. She’s, well, she’s special.”

“She is special, isn’t she?”

“Not just good looking, but sweet and good. Even though she tries to hide it.”

“I know just what you mean. She puts on that tough front and underneath, she’s like a delicate flower. Something’s tearing her apart, Bobby Lee. She tried to tell me about it, but...someone interrupted. Has she ever talked to you about her family?”

“No ma’am. She apologized once. ‘Cause she didn’t want her mom to know about me. Guess you can see why.”

“You’re too old for her.”

“Twenty-two come next June.” He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “And if all the facts be known, a pretty beat-up, wore out twenty-two at that.”

She studied his thin handsome face. “I’m glad you came. I mean, I think it’s dangerous for you. My husband and son, my babysitter, are downstairs.”

“I can see why Guy took to you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Bide my time. Bobby Lee Hickerson has his ways of laying low.” He stood. “I wanted you to know. Now I better be going.” He headed for the sliding glass doors.

He pushed open the slider and turned to her. “I’d take it right kindly if you’d give me ‘bout an hour ‘fore you call someone.”

“Do you need some money?” She grabbed her purse from the nightstand, pulled out a wad of bills, and held them out. “This is all I’ve got.”

He flashed that squinty-eyed grin, came back, took the money, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I do appreciate it.”

He went out swiftly, left her staring at the sliding glass doors, wondering why she had given him the money, wondering why she believed him, wondering how much of a head start she’d give him before she called Neal Malcolm, and, finally, wondering if she could get away with not reporting his visit at all.

~

Sunny woke up, wondering how long she’d been asleep. Seven o’clock. She’d slept for hours. She got up, went into the bathroom, hid her hair under a turban, and applied a layer of cosmetic armor. Her theatrical reflection stared at her. Hey folks, this gal is ready to fight all comers.

She hauled herself to the kitchen where the light from the hall stamped a white trapezoid across the gleaming surfaces. She didn’t bother turning on the kitchen lights, just poured herself a cup of coffee and pulled a chair up to the table.

Bobby Lee hadn’t tried to kill Guylene. No way. And she wasn’t to blame either. She and Valerie had never come close to that psycho killer; they hadn’t led him to Guylene. What a joke to think that their ridiculous “investigation” had accomplished anything, other than making them look like fools. And, even if she had returned to Guylene’s house that night, it would have been too late.

Now if my head could only convince my heart. She sniffed. What we’ve got here, folks, is a problem in communication.

She took another sip of the bitter, oily coffee.

Clay. Damn him and his patronizing words, his glib performance. Acting as if everything was perfectly normal when all the time he was probably jumping somebody else’s bones.

She realized then that the house was silent. No background noise. No jazz.

Elvis has left the building.

She sipped the coffee.

What have I ever been to him? A mannequin to parade around, to show off. Just another trophy.

Hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with the sash of her robe.

Just another trophy. God, she was getting maudlin.

She slammed down the cup, sloshed coffee across the table. She jumped up, pulling the satin robe tighter, and propelled herself down the half flight of stairs to his den.

Damn him to hell!

The room was handsomely paneled, very masculine, and, like everything of Clay’s, meticulously neat and clean. Several tall trophy cases stood against the back wall.

The trophies, like magnets, drew her across the room. Silver- and brass-plated figures leaped and cavorted, a chorus line of testosterone. Some were bronze replicas of footballs. Instead of baby shoes, men bronzed their toys.

She opened one of the cases, grabbed the largest of the silver cups and two of the smaller ones, and ran back up the stairs to the entry hall. She dropped the trophies on the quarry tile floor. She hurried back down to the den, the clattering of the trophies ringing in her ears.

It took her twenty minutes to empty the trophy cases and to strip the plaques from the walls.

Clay Cavanaugh, Most Valuable Player. Clay Cavanaugh. High School Athlete of the Year.

That was the year of their graduation, the year they had first made love, stretched on a blanket beside the lake. She would never forget his words. “Now you belong to me.” Her heart had dissolved, just like one of those stupid heroines in some hokey romance novel.

No. Don’t think about that.

Kansas Athlete of the Year.

They had been in college and officially engaged by then. He had slipped the engagement ring on her finger the night of the fraternity dance.

Angrily, she fought back the tears. She was sure there were more trophies somewhere. Ah, yes. He had packed away some in his fitness room.

She raced down past the den, another half flight of stairs to the room behind the garage. This was his domain. No women, no children allowed. The room contained a rowing machine and, behind the single easy chair, a stationary bicycle. Rackets for tennis and racquetball hung on the wall next to jump ropes and Indian clubs. A cabinet in the corner held various types of balls and gloves. A set of barbells rested in another corner.

The closet, that was where he stored the other trophies.

She pulled open the folding doors. Jogging suits and overalls hung neatly from the wooden rod. She pushed them aside.

What was that?

At the back of the closet. A brown-metal trunk the size of a toy chest. A large metal padlock hung from the hasp.

A padlocked trunk, hidden away in the closet. Shit. She’d never find the key.

She turned and ran to the garage. Clay had arranged his tools like abstract art on several sheets of pegboard tacked to the walls. It took her only a minute to find what she needed.

She returned to the trunk, knelt down, grasped the handle of the ax with both hands, raised it over her head, and swung. The ax glanced off the padlock, striking sparks. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead.

She swung again and again, and again. The hasp and the padlock fell to the floor.

She dropped the ax, used the back of her hand to wipe the perspiration from her eyebrows. Grunting, she raised the lid of the trunk.

What the hell was this? She was expecting trophies.

Chapter 50

Clay parked the ‘73 Mustang, another Phoenix he had raised from the ashes, at the curb in front of the vacant house. He looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. At eight-thirty and then at every other fifteen minute interval, he must remember to glance at his watch again. If anyone should happen to notice him, which was unlikely, they would assume he was meeting someone who was late in arriving.

In the middle of the block, lights blazed out of every window in Valerie’s house. Her Dodge, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Was she out making a fool of herself with her pathetic attempts at identifying him? Or was she gathering information for the banal little column she wrote. Even now, with her husband dead, she would never reach any great career heights. She was truly mediocre. He could see her now, sitting in her living room with its dowdy country decor, wearing some abominable lounging outfit, like a sweat suit or a pair of Jack’s pajamas. Her and her superior attitude, she was no more a real woman that one of those dummies in a store window.

The moment when he confronted her, oh that would be the finest moment of his life. The expression on her face, the shock in those blue eyes. Stop. He couldn’t think of that. He must put that away for later. He must stay in control. Follow the ritual step by step. Hadn’t there been times, lately, when he had come close to losing control? A pain like an electric needle deep in his chest jolted him upright. He pushed the thought of the Little Sparrow from his mind, massaged his chest, and took several slow deep breaths.

Perhaps he could speed up the ritual a little. Reconnoiter, try again to get close enough to the house to see through the windows.

There were obstacles. The old woman next door was nosy. That loser, Kevin Blackburn, was dogging Valerie’s steps. The best thing was that the husband was gone.

His heart raced, a drumbeat in his ears. He must not think of that, that could not dull what was to come.

Nothing could stop him.

He could stand undetected outside Valerie’s window and watch her whenever he pleased, for as long as he pleased. She would eat, scratch, doze, laugh at the television. He would see it all. She would never know.

Yes, he knew enough about Valerie already. He’d been studying her almost all of his life, hadn’t he? He could step up the pace. There was nothing he could gain by waiting. The electric jolt sliced down his chest again, only this time it was a blaze of ecstasy. With it came the scent of roses, clear and strong and so unbearably pure he thought he would faint.

Chapter 51

Sunny studied the array of objects in Clay’s trunk. They rested in individual compartments in what were obviously custom-designed racks. He had wrapped most of them in tissue paper, a few in black. She picked up one and carefully peeled away folds of paper.

A miniature glass antelope. A glass menagerie? Maybe he had saved some of his mother’s things. At this point in her life, she was ready to believe anything. A doll-shaped object caught her eye. She loosened the delicate paper and found an old-fashioned doll, about twelve inches long, dressed in the satin hoop skirt of a southern belle. Little girls collected dolls like this, displayed them on shelves in their bedrooms.

What the hell was this? Clay didn’t have a sister.

If the antelope and the doll were family heirlooms, she’d never seen them before. She put the doll aside and picked up an object encased in black velvet. She pulled away the folds.

A pink-rubber garter tab. Sunny sat back on her heels. Why would Clay keep something from one of his mother’s girdles? There was a name for that kind of thing and she was sure she didn’t want to remember what it was.

She dropped the garter tab, grabbed another object out of the trunk, and tore away the tissue paper. A gold cigarette case. She felt queasy. Were these objects mementos of love affairs? Presents from a girl friend? Or from multiple girl friends? Souvenirs of his conquests?

The telephone across the room on the small desk rang shrilly and she jumped. Cigarette case in hand, she went to answer it.

She was surprised to hear Chief Malcolm’s gruff voice. “Neal Malcolm here. Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Cavanaugh, but I’m trying to locate Valerie.”

Sunny put the case down and switched on the high-beam lamp. “Maybe she’s out with Kevin Blackburn.”

She listened to his silence. Aha, the strong silent officer of the law was capable of jealousy.

“Any idea where I could find her?”

The gold of the cigarette case gleamed under the light. Idly, she turned it over. “Have you tried the dance studio? Royal’s?”

“That’s all right. I’ll try her again in the morning. Sorry to have troubled you.”

Sunny hung up. Under his exterior of polished steel, beat a heart full of passion. She was sure of it. He and Jack had been very close. It was only natural for him to worry about Valerie.

She noticed an oily smudge on the cigarette case. Her fingerprints? She used the sleeve of her robe to rub away the spot and then turned the case over. Someone’s initials had been engraved on the cover.

Sunny’s heart hesitated mid beat, and then convulsed with a hammering thump that left her gasping. The bicycle, the rowing machine, everything spun around. She squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them.

AC

There was no doubt about it. Did AC correspond with Amber Conklin? It was probably just a coincidence. He couldn’t have been having an affair with Amber Conklin. That made no sense.

She dashed back to the trunk, tossed the cigarette case to the floor, and dropped to her knees. She could hear herself panting, feel the funny tripping of her heart. She grabbed another object from the trunk and ripped off its tissue paper wrapping. A lace headscarf. Back in the Forties, they called it a ‘fascinator.’ She dropped it, grabbed another object. A tube of lipstick. Coral Pink.

She reached into the trunk again. A silver charm bracelet, each of the six oval charms engraved with the face of a child. Her stomach churned. Six charms. Six children.

The oily taste of the coffee rose at the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, turned to retrieve the cigarette case from the floor.

The initials gleamed: AC

She held the case against her breast and, eyes closed, rocked back on her heels. She raised her head and moaned, a low growl rising, rising in her throat to a keening wail.

She stopped, looked down at the objects lying on the floor, stretched out a hand toward the tube of lipstick.

What had he taken from Guylene?

She snatched her hand back.

Sunny gagged. She tucked her chin down against her chest, fought the nausea.

No good. She dropped the case, jumped up, and ran for the bathroom.

~

At home again, Valerie knew she should call Sunny, see how she was doing, but she was loath to do so. She should have answered when Neal called too but she had just talked to him. All these secrets were straining the old friendships. All of these secrets were straining everything. Maggie and Royal Farley. Hell. What next?

She decided to work for an hour or so and then search for Bruno again. She went downstairs to her basement office and spent fifteen minutes reading the newspaper clippings again. When she had finished refreshing her memory, she brought up the spreadsheet she’d created on the computer. She had organized every available fact about the victims. She studied the charts methodically, beginning with the age of the victims and working her way past employment, marital status, length of time in Cordova. She had just reached the column that listed immediate relatives when she realized that it was getting dark. She switched on the desk lamp and went back to her work.

Finally, she leaned back in frustration. She couldn’t find anything. Except for gender and the fact that they all lived in or around Cordova, these women had nothing in common.

What had she expected? According to Kevin and many of the experts, a serial killer had a secret agenda, picking his victims for reasons that were often obscure, even to him. Where had he first seen these women and why had he noticed them? Not the place of employment. She looked down at her charts again. Charlotte was a barmaid, Frederika was assistant manager of a music store, Dorothy worked at the County Assessor’s office; Amber was buying a townhouse.

She held her breath. Every single victim had moved to Cordova recently. Here, if you stretched it a bit, was a connection. New residents had to sign up for utilities and phone service. Wait! First, they had to find some place to live. Real estate. The County Assessor’s office connected to a real estate sale connected to a─ Was this the hangnail that had been driving her crazy? Hurriedly, she looked through her notes again, tried to find another connection.

Nothing. She didn’t have enough information.

Where should she start? Martin Sweet, of course. He was withholding facts. And it was the Sweet sisters who had told her that Amber was buying a garden home. She found the Sweet sisters listing in the telephone book.

The telephone rang once and a chirrupy voice said, “Sweet residence.”

“This is Valerie Yates from the Cordova Courier. I stopped by your house a few weeks ago?”

“Miss Yates. So nice to hear from you. Do you want another interview?”

Who was speaking? Jade or Pearl? “I’d like to speak to your nephew, Martin. Is he there?”

“Why no. I’m sorry. Marty’s out right now. Can I help you with something?”

“I’m not sure. Which Miss Sweet is this, by the way?”

“This is Pearl. And I’d be happy to help you any way I can.”

Like a ghost whispering in her ear, she heard a dog barking, a dog with a high-pitched wheezing bark. There was no mistaking it. “Miss Sweet,” she said slowly. “Do you have a dog?”

“Why yes, we do. Black Jack came to live with us just recently.”

Martin Sweet was a little shit! When she could speak, she controlled her voice. “How thoughtful of your nephew to bring home a dog for your protection.”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it? Marty can be such a dear sometimes.”

Valerie cursed dear sweet Marty Sweet under her breath. She tried to imagine the expression on the little weasel’s face when he found the Chief of Police at his door, charging him with dognapping.

“Do you have a dog, my dear?” Pearl was asking.

“Yes, but that’s not why I called.” Valerie hesitated. Was there any more information she could squeeze from this Miss Sweet. “I was wondering. Did you and your sister see Amber with any men? I mean other than her ex-fiancé? Perhaps a repairman or a salesman or...” She hesitated, and ended the question with a tight voice. “...A real estate salesman?”

“You mean the agent?”

A chill of excitement ran up Valerie’s spine. “Yes, exactly. The real estate agent. Did you see him?”

“Oh my yes. A middle-aged man. Looked a little like Uncle Arthur. Round and bald as a billiard ball.”

“Did you mention him to the police?”

“Why no, dear. Do you think I should have? They asked about boyfriends or suspicious characters. And he only came by that one time.”

“Did Martin see him? Or your sister?”

“Jade didn’t see him, but I know Marty did. He made a rather rude remark. Marty sometimes shows his upbringing, you know. Amber was a nice girl.”

“You didn’t catch the agent’s name, did you?”

“No,” she said, a note of uncertainty in her voice. “But I remember the name of his company. There was a sign on his car. I remember it clearly, because my old beau in high school, his name was Cavanaugh, Cavanaugh Thorpe.”

~

After her phone conversation with Miss Sweet, Valerie tried to call Neal. He was out of the office so she left a message with Janousek. Martin Sweet told me he’d seen Amber Conklin with a man that he’d never mentioned to the police. The SOB also stole my dog.

As she hung up the phone, she thought again of what the Sweet sister, she couldn’t remember which one, had told her. Cavanaugh Real Estate and Development. A fat bald man. That description didn’t bring anyone to mind. Of course, the description was second hand, probably originating with Martin Sweet. Had the police eliminated old Marty as a possibility? Evidently, they’d settled on Guylene’s boyfriend, someone she didn’t know.

She put the last dish away, dried her hands, and went downstairs. She switched on the lamp on her desk and stared at the blank computer screen. A slender thread connected some of the women. Some of them were new residents. Guylene, of course, had always lived in Cordova.

Unless, the connection was through Sunny! Of course. That would mean that Sunny herself had come in contact with the killer. The only link seemed to be through Cavanaugh Real Estate and Development. If not the fat bald agent, one of the other agents that Clay employed.

She jumped up. Sunny could be in danger. She had to warn her. She dialed Sunny’s number but got only the answering machine. She sat down again.

A rustling at the window caught her attention. The hydrangea bush, she’d have to remember to trim it when the weather was better.

Right now, she needed to find a real estate agent. She couldn’t ask Clay for help.

She stood up again. She didn’t have to ask Clay. She knew where Shirl had hidden a key to the front door.

True, there would be a code to disable the alarm, but Clay always used the same code for everything: his birth year. Funny the things you know about a person when you’ve known that person almost all of your life.

Valerie bundled up and headed for the carport. In the middle of the kitchen, she stopped. She glanced down at the big black purse that hung from her hand, the big, black purse that, because of its weight, was almost dragging on the floor.

She still carried the gun. The image of Tripper in the parking lot, the Smith and Wesson pointed at his chest, flashed into her mind. She had come so close to shooting him. She couldn’t take that chance again.

She’d leave the weapon at home. But where? In her nightstand in the bedroom? No. She ran down to the basement and stashed the gun in the desk’s bottom drawer, next to her wedding ring.

Chapter 52

The night was overcast, moonless, the streets of Cordova quiet. A benign breeze ruffled Valerie’s hair as she studied Cavanaugh Real Estate and Development. Lucky for her, the borders of pyramidal cedars effectively shielded the building from the businesses on either side. The building itself looked dark and unoccupied.

She walked the perimeter of the parking lot, staying close to the trees. No signs of anyone else. She went back to the entrance and took a final look around.

Was it breaking and entering if you just happened to know how to find an extra key? She pried the key from under the rock where Shirley the receptionist had secreted it. The key turned easily in the lock and Valerie slipped into the vestibule. She had to remember to replace the key before she left.

Valerie pushed through the swinging glass doors into the reception area. A sconce on the wall behind the black melamine cube that served as the receptionist’s desk illuminated the area in a pearly light. Tall palms stood like ceremonial guards in the corners.

She spotted the shining red dot of the alarm. Quickly, she entered the year of Clay’s birth.

The red light blinked out.

So far, so good.

In the pale light, the waiting area with its plush white couches, gleaming tables, and fat white lamps looked strangely unfamiliar, almost like a movie set. She decided she’d check the premises first.

She slipped past the receptionist’s desk into the corridor and stopped. The building was quiet and dark. She flicked on her flashlight and played the beam across the walls. The placards and photographs announcing awards and accomplishments looked surreal.

Cautiously, she proceeded down the hall.

She passed the restroom. The door to the office next to the restroom was ajar. A black metal desk, four upholstered chairs, and a tall cream-colored file cabinet furnished the room. The next two offices, one on the left and one on the right, were identical to the first.

The fourth office contained a small table, four folding chairs, and a long bank of cream-colored file cabinets. After she finished checking the building, she would come back to those files.

Snap! The sound, a sharp metallic click tapped an icy finger on her spine. She told herself to become a statue and then laughed. Some statue, sweating like a Trojan. She ignored the streams tickling down her ribcage into the waistband of her jeans. Had the sound come from the rear? She turned and the moon of the flashlight danced across the floor. Quickly, she switched off the light and flattened herself against the wall.

The clicking noise, Valerie decided, had come from the rear of the building. Another sound caught her attention, a soft and steady whirring. A whisper of warm air wafted across her face.

She chuckled. The furnace had switched on, that was all. Nothing sinister.

She turned on the flashlight and resumed her search.

The door to Clay’s office stood open. The desk gleamed as the light crossed its surface; the miniature of the convention center looked like doll town. Everything seemed to be in perfect order, Clay’s polished tidy little world.

She went back up the hall and returned to the office with the bank of file cabinets. Of course, someone had labeled every cabinet and she found what she was looking for quickly. Would Amber have used the name Downy or the name Conklin? She tried the drawer labeled Christiansen–Dayton and found a file for Amber Conklin.

Amber had been looking for a garden home. Valerie didn’t recognize the name of the agent, but it should be easy enough to meet the man.

A quick look through the rest of the paperwork revealed nothing more of interest. Amber had made good money, saved quite a bit of it, and had a good credit rating. Small town girl makes good in porn.

Of course, any of the agents employed by Cavanaugh Real Estate could have worked with Amber. In fact, now that she thought about it, she remembered Sunny mentioning a multiple listing service. Darn. Any agent in town could have met with her and showed her garden homes. She stuffed the file back in the drawer. She was wasting her time here.

She was just replacing the file when she heard the noise. She faced the door. The furnace hadn’t made this noise; it was different, a click followed by a squeak. It seemed to have originated in the rear of the building, near the back door and Clay’s office.

Her heart lurched. Could it have been the soft click of a mortise lock opening, the mouse-squeak of a door moving on its hinges, the sound of someone coming in the back door?

Valerie flattened herself against the wall, inches away from the open door. Sweat poured down her sides and her back. Should she run? Was the person who had entered the building aware of her presence?

She willed herself to stand motionless, to be silent. She heard nothing. She decided to wait one more minute, sixty long seconds. Silently, she counted: one chimpanzee, two chimpanzees…. Her countdown ended. Maybe she should get out of the building; she would have a heck of a time explaining. Just thought I’d drop by on the off chance that my good friend Clay was working late. Sure.

The hair on the back of her neck bristled. Was that a soft inhalation just outside the door? An odor? Was it simply the displacement of air in the corridor? She breathed softly and evenly through her nose.

Someone was there, moving very slowly, very quietly in the hall, moving without a flashlight.

The intruder reached her open door and stopped, a shapeless object inhabiting the shadows. He was so close, she could have stretched her hand through the opening and touched his sleeve.

She held her breath, wondering about the strength of her scent. How did perspiration mingled with terror smell? The seconds passed. The figure was motionless. She knew he was listening, waiting for a sound.

Her lungs were tight. She had to risk taking a silent breath or gasp.

She let out her breath carefully and slowly, drew it in even more carefully, even more slowly. If he stepped into the office, she would be lost.

The figure gathered itself and, like a storm cloud, floated past.

She stayed put. When he reached the reception area, he’d start back, she was sure of it. He would stop and wait at every door. A game of nerves. He was trying to force her to make a break for it. Who was he? A security guard? One of the real estate agents?

He was coming back!

She tried to melt into the wall. From this angle of approach, she would be easier to see.

Again, he stopped just outside the door. All he had to do was step inside. Surely, he could hear the pounding of her heart.

He passed by the door.

The noises, the infinitesimal clues to his location stopped. Had he gone into Clay’s office? The tension was getting the better of her. She wanted to laugh, or shout. Ladies and gentlemen, has he left the building or hasn’t he?

She had to get out of there, blow the joint, become history, whatever they called it now, she had to do it. If he were a security guard, he would surely be calling the police.

She took one deep breath, got a strong grip on her flashlight, and charged out the door. She ran, down the corridor and through the reception area, hit the first set of swinging doors, and then the heavier exterior ones. The night air stung her face. The outer door squealed shut behind her. He, whoever he might be, couldn’t miss that sound.

She had to get to her car.

Maybe he knew where she had parked, knew her car. He might expect her to head straight for it, God knew she wanted to.

Get off the street. She ran in the opposite direction, past the parking lot, past the donut shop.

Which way?

The slap slap slapping sound of her shoes sounded like a jackhammer. She angled across the parking lot of a dental clinic, turned the corner. Sprinted across wet grass.

The slapping sound! Someone else’s shoes were pounding down the sidewalk. After her.

Faster. Don’t look. Run faster.

Lungs on fire, she sprinted across an alley.

Which way?

There. An opening in the fence.

She was in someone’s back yard. Was he still behind her? She didn’t dare look back. Her lungs were hurting.

She raced across a street, up a driveway. A residence. Should she pound on the front door? No. The house could be empty. If someone was home? She’d look like a lunatic. And he just might be a security guard.

In another back yard now. Didn’t the Kidwell’s live around here somewhere? What was that?

A tool shed. Next to it, a big woodpile covered with a tarp. Instinctively, she ran to the space between the shed and the woodpile. Heart hammering, she knelt and huddled close to the wall of the shed.

A thumping noise, the sound of running feet. Someone racing across the grass.

Oh, God he was almost there!

She bowed her head.

He was in the back yard.

She pressed closer to the cold metal wall. What could she use as a weapon? The firewood? She slipped a hand under the plastic tarp that covered it. Too tight. She couldn’t get the wood out.

Thump, thump, thump, thump. He was almost on her.

She leaned forward, balanced on the balls of her feet, tensed to spring.

Thump, thump, thump. He was there!

The pounding of running feet reached a crescendo. He was there!

The sounds receded.

She let out her breath. He had passed by.

Would he be back? When he didn’t spot her in the alley, would he return?

She strained forward, aching for some telling sound.

Silence. He must have stopped. She pictured a dark nondescript figure peering up and down the alley. Please, please let him go away.

Finally, she heard the sound of his feet slapping down the alley, away from her.

She settled in, drew several deep breaths, her lungs expanding painfully. Sweat soaked the waistband of her jeans, ran in rivulets down her sides.

What the hell was she going to do now? She couldn’t return to the car. He might be waiting for her there.

The night was cool but she was warm enough in her jacket. She’d just stay there, how did they put it? Gone to ground.

Chapter 53

All these Cape Cods and Colonials, it was as if the developer had imported a Boston suburb into the heart of Cordova. A slight breeze drifted through the open window of the Mustang and cooled Clay’s hot face. He lifted his head and tested the wind. Clouds covered the sky, the night was perfect.

He loved the night.

He patted down his pockets, made sure everything was in place…the handkerchief, the knife, the gloves.

He slipped out of the car, closed the door gently, and strolled up the street until he came to a house with dark windows. The occupants were either out for the evening, or in bed. He turned in at the driveway, walked casually to the back of the house, and slipped through the backyard to the alley.

In the dark of the alley, feeling safe, he began to jog.

She thought she was clever. She thought she’d escaped. She’d cower in her hiding place until she was sure that he was gone. Then, she’d come home.

He would already be there.

The last one—the girl—had been good, oh so good, but the beginning had been distressingly messy. He had a sudden flash of a soft pink mouth gaping in its silent and eternal scream.

He needed the smooth flow of the ritual and he needed it soon. He had to follow the plan, stay in control. Control was everything. He would enter Valerie’s house, decide on the place of ambush, and then calmly and patiently wait for her to come to him.

Chapter 54

Valerie peered from her hiding place between the tool shed and the woodpile. The cold had seeped into her bones and she was sure she’d be walking on her knees all the way home. How long had she been here? Twenty minutes? Ten?

She couldn’t read her watch; the night was too dark. The house in front of her was quiet. The only light came from a flickering porch lamp next to the back door. The occupants—not the Kidwells, but some other family—had probably gone to bed, sleeping peacefully, unaware that a sweating middle-aged woman hunkered down behind their woodpile.

She got up slowly, knees and ankles registering loud and bitter complaints. She stretched her arms over her head and stepped in place to get her circulation going. She thought about her car, parked on the street a few blocks away. Did she dare go back to it?

No. If someone had reported a break-in, the police might be watching the area. She hadn’t heard any sirens and she strongly suspected her pursuer was not a security guard, but an intruder. An intruder chasing an intruder.

She would find a telephone booth and call…. Call who? Sunny wasn’t home. Kevin?

She picked her way carefully through the back yard, up the driveway toward the street. Head down, hands stuffed in her pockets, she hurried toward a small shopping strip six blocks north. She found a telephone booth outside a Gas 'n Go. For the first time, she wished she had a mobile phone.

She dialed Kevin's number. His answering service came on. Then she remembered. Kevin had gone to a meeting in Wichita. A psychologists’s something-or-other.

Was it safe to go home?

She was relatively sure the person who’d pursued her had never been close enough to recognize her.

The telephone directory was missing from the booth, of course. She dialed information and got the number of Hudson’s taxi service, the only one in town.

Chapter 55

Someone was on the porch, at the front door. The heat burned in Clay’s throat. She was here. She had left her hiding place and she had come home, come home to him. Soon she would be climbing the stairs. He clenched his fists, pressed back against the wall.

She would walk into the bedroom, thin and agile, head held high in that arrogant manner of hers. The training in dance, that was what gave her that look, like a deity picking her way through a crowd of mere mortals. She would walk over to the nightstand. She’d remove her watch, step out of her shoes.

He would wait until just the right moment. He would push the door shut and step forward. Then he would….

~

Maggie let the curtain drop and went to the kitchen to peer through another window. What in blazes was going on over there? She was sure she’d seen something moving over there. Maybe she should call Kevin.

She pushed her nose against the glass. The window screen was filthy. She couldn’t see a thing. All the lights on, but that was normal. Valerie had seemed real broken up hearing about her and Royal, but that was probably ‘cause it was better to feel broken about someone else than to feel broken up about your dead husband. Neither of them, Jack Yates or Clay Cavanaugh, were worth spitting on.

Now, here she had that message from Royal, asking her to call. Call him! After all this time. He had his nerve.

Maggie went back to the living room and pulled the curtain aside. Valerie’s house looked okay. She was just getting too spooked.

She went around the house, testing the doors, and the windows, picked up the phone to make sure it was working, and then set herself down to watch some TV.

~

The light from the hall illuminated only a portion of her bedroom. The bed itself was a disgrace, top sheet, blanket, and quilt pulled up loosely over the pillows. If he looked under the bed, he'd probably find dust whorls and God knows what else.

He peered out the second-story window. An overgrown back yard, the black outlines of the peaked roofs of the houses on the next street. No lights in any of the windows. All was quiet. The April night was serene, pleasant, almost perfect. He’d remember it forever. The fire in his belly, so fierce now, distracted him. He couldn't think clearly. The need consumed him, burned like a fever in every cell of his body.

What next? The search? Yes, the search.

He went to her dresser, pulled open a drawer, tested the embryonic thrill he experienced. Underwear. He grabbed a handful of panties. A mixture of pretty lace and plain cotton. The bras were the same. He hated utilitarian under garments. He yanked open another drawer and found cotton and flannel nightgowns. Boring. Untidy. She had probably tossed the pretty ones after Jack He slammed the drawer shut and pulled open the top drawer.

Pantyhose.

Where was the power? Why didn't it come?

Now what? Oh yes. Pantyhose. He would need the pantyhose. He stuffed two pair in his pocket.

The memento, that should come next, but where to look. Why bother. It would come from her person. As it had from Amber. As it had from many others.

Was that Father speaking?

He stood motionless and listened.

Just an echo. His own thoughts perhaps? Where should he wait? The closet was too small, too cramped. Behind the bedroom door?

Clay slipped behind the door and pulled it back until it grazed his chest. She’d never notice. Not until it was too late.

Yes, it would do.

His right calf ached. He flexed his leg, opened his mouth, tasted the heat on his tongue.

Where was she? She had to come now. He couldn't wait here forever. Stop. Concentrate.

He saw her face. Thin. Startling blue eyes. Arrogant expression. She would become a rose, soft, pink, and perfect, as nature intended. Was that the scent of roses? Suddenly a twinge of panic made him wince. She wouldn't smell of roses. She would be tart and lemony.

Where was she? Why didn't she come? If she didn't come soon, desire would incinerate him on the spot. Desire would….

Focus. That elegant face, the knowing look fading from those blue, blue eyes. Her eyes would glisten with fear. She would beg. The desire was still a fledgling. He would have to be strong, as he had been with Jack. As he would have to be soon with Shirley. In this dark perfect night, he would do what was necessary.

Ah, Valerie. April is the cruelest month.

The hot tightness in his chest.

If she didn’t come soon…. He’d have to go out and find...another.

Another! That would be madness.

Dangerous thoughts. Control. Always maintain control. A man isn't a man unless he's in control. That's what Daddy said.

He licked his dry lips, tasted the salt of his sweat.

Daddy knew how to handle women. Mother catered to them, the men of the family. If an expression of revolt so much as flickered on her face well, dear old Dad just let her have it. Even after Daddy died, she was still the same respectful little mouse, only too happy to serve with that smile plastered all over her face. That phony smile. When Dad was there. The other smile, the real one, for him alone. He never looked at her if he could help it. Never looked in her soft, yearning blue eyes. The scent, he couldn't get away from her flowery scent.

Roses.

He examined the grass stains on his round-toed running shoes. From a neighbor's yard across the way, a dog yipped a nervous warning.

She would come. She had to come soon.

Clay flexed his fingers, warm and powerful in the surgical gloves. Then it came. The power. The joy thrilled in his chest, rose high and tight. So high, so tight this time, he could barely stand the pain.

Control. Stay in control.

He breathed in and the pain, the fire subsided, not much, but enough. Enough.

Where is she, where is my thin, patrician rose?

He breathed in through his mouth; the cold air nipped at his burning tongue. This was a test. He had to court patience or he would soon be nothing more than an alley cat, prowling in the night. He closed his eyes.

She would come. She would walk into the bedroom, go to the closet. He would step out, put his hands on her thin, fine bones. She would pull away but he would hold firm. He would release her, let her turn. Stricken blue eyes. Pale luminous face.

His heart hammered at his ribcage.

He raised his head and took the scent. Roses. Everywhere. Roses. She would call out his name. Clay? What are you doing here?

Very slowly and very clearly, he would tell her.

Chapter 56

Valerie emerged from the taxicab, paid the driver, and jogged up her sidewalk, cursing herself for not replacing the light bulb on the porch.

She’d let everything go to pot. Kevin had fixed the fence and the screen door, and installed a new lock, but she had to take some responsibility for her own home. She’d go to the hardware store tomorrow, buy some light bulbs, pick up cleaning supplies and tools.

She unlocked the door thinking of Kevin, how warm and deep his brown eyes were. Why had she taken so long to see what had been there all along. Making love with him was not like making love with Jack. Not at all. Heck, it was more fun. They cuddled and laughingly molested each other. She sighed, wishing that Kevin were waiting for her right now.

Would she tell him about her escapade? What could she say? Hey Kev, I partook of a little B&E tonight. Nope, got away with it. Not cleanly, but I did get away. And, by the way, somebody is after me. I’m pretty sure it isn’t that little girl’s punk boyfriend either.

Inside the house, she locked the door behind her and hung up her coat. Her house, with all its old-fashioned homey touches didn’t seem quite as homey as it used to.

She thought longingly of Bruno, his cold wet nose and the reassuringly earthy smell of him. She headed for the bedroom stairs. She’d go over to the Sweets first thing in the morning, get her dog, and bring him home.

Valerie stopped at the foot of the bedroom stairs, her hand on the banister. Marty Sweet had described the man he’d seen the night of Amber’s murder as handsome and athletic. She’d heard that description from someone else. From Theresa Findlay’s husband? No, the neighbor who spotted him running away had described him as athletic and, and what?

She’d go down and check it out, she decided, but when she stood at the top of basement steps, she hesitated. Looking down at the gaping black pit of the stairwell, anxiety and dread filled her up like mercury in a thermometer. She steeled herself. She had to go down, she had to work this out tonight. Tomorrow might be too late.

She’d be so glad when Bruno was back.

She pulled the chain on the bare bulb and ignited the raw light. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from its assault. Everything seemed normal. She started down.

At the bottom, she stopped and surveyed the basement. The stairwell light illuminated the space just in front of her, but her desk in the far corner sat in darkness. She crossed the basement, taking care to avoid the support post in the center.

At the desk, she switched on the lamp, pulled up the chair and sat. Where were her interview notes? Had she entered everything into her computer? Probably not. She flipped through the stack of file folders until she found the name. Findlay.

The Findlay’s neighbor had described the man he’d seen as quick and athletic. She was missing something. She thought back over the events of the past few weeks: the meeting with Marty Sweet, the conversations with the bartender and the patrons of the tavern that Amber had frequented; the interviews with the Findlays and the Sweet sisters.

~

Behind the bedroom door, Clay stirred restlessly. What was she doing? She’d been in the house for at least twenty minutes. She should have come upstairs by now. Deep in his gut, the hot coal flickered. He moaned.

Bitch. Why didn’t she come?

Control. Stay in control. He licked his lips. If she were in the living room watching television, he’d be able to hear the sound. Perhaps she was in the kitchen. He eased out from behind the door and strained forward, trying to hear a telltale sound.

Still, he heard nothing.

The heat flared, filled his mouth with ashes, and he coughed on the hot dry dust.

Teach her. He would teach her. How a woman should behave.

He hurried down the stairs and stood at the edge of the dining room. The living room was empty, the kitchen dark. Had she gone next door? He switched off the overhead light in the dining room.

He went into the living room and turned off the lamp on the end table. Then he saw it. The glow of a light in the entry. He laughed. A welcome mat of light, how appropriate, how truly wonderful. He hurried to the entry. The door to the basement stood open. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling by a chain, the light so harsh it was almost painful.

All was still.

Wait, there was something, a slight rustle, like someone handling papers. Yes! There it was again. She was in the basement, at her desk.

Should he go back upstairs to the bedroom and wait? Should he go down?

If he turned off the light, he would have to feel his way down the bare wooden steps. She would hear him, of course. Would she panic? Would she use her head and turn off the desk lamp? She would be frightened, but yes, she would try to escape. She would pant and sob and snuffle. In the basement, he would play a game. Hide and seek. He had the advantage. He liked the dark, he loved the dark.

He reached up and loosened the bulb from its socket, welcoming the sting of the hot glass. Here I come, Valerie. Ready or not.

He grasped the handrail and planted one foot firmly on the first step. As he expected, it let out a loud creak. His heart beat a cheerful tattoo.

~

Valerie lifted her head from her reading. What was that?

The stairwell light was out. She was positive she had left it on. Otherwise, she would have been walking through the basement in the pitch black. Had it burnt out?

A creaking sound. A wooden step. Someone was on the stairs!

She switched off the desk lamp, plunged the basement into total darkness. He’d followed her after all. He wasn’t a security guard or a real estate agent or any of those other things she’d been telling herself.

And he was after her.

The steps creaked again.

She inched the chair back, away from the desk. Her knees were as weak as old rubber bands. Somehow, she got to her feet, took one step to the right, then one step back.

The sound came again, unmistakable, wood creaking from the pressure of someone’s foot.

She took another step back.

She leaned forward, extended her right hand, and swung it back and forth until she found the desk and the telephone. No dial tone; he’d cut the wires. She felt her way to the lower-right drawer. She hesitated. He was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He would hear the sound of the drawer opening.

She jerked the drawer open, fumbled for the gun. Her fingers found cold metal, smallish, her wedding ring. She slipped it into her pocket, rather than risk it rattling in the drawer. She fumbled through the drawer again until she found it. The gun. She palmed it, took a deep breath, and slipped toward the stairs. He wouldn’t expect that. She fingered the gun, looking for comfort or familiarity, and positioned her finger on the trigger. With her other hand, she found the safety catch.

She stood still. She was centrally located between the foot of the stairs and her desk, seven feet to the stairs at eleven o’clock, seven feet from the desk at five o’clock.

Could he hear the thunderstorm in her chest?

She hadn’t heard a sound for at least a minute. Nothing.

Maybe the noises she’d heard were the mice. Maybe the light bulb had burnt out.

There it was! Rustling. Pants legs swishing against each other. Ever so faint. Close to the foot of the stairs. Moving away from her.

She released the safety, held the gun out, shoulder high. Edged to her left. Toward the stairs.

Watch for the storage boxes. Jack’s things were sitting there somewhere. She extended her foot to the left. Touched the side of a box. She would have to move to her right, around the stack. She waited, listening.

Nothing.

What was that odor? In front of her. A slight hiss. An inhaling of breath.

He was directly in front of her.

Valerie bit back her scream. He was right in front of her! She scrambled backward.

Something breezed past, fanning her hair. He was striking at her! She lurched back again. She had to do something! She reached into her pocket, pulled out the ring, and tossed it across the room.

It clanged against the wall and she moved to her right again, in front of the desk.

She heard him, shuffling, an inhalation. It had worked. He had gone toward the sound.

Aiiiihhhhhh! The cry came from in front of her, a snarling howl, the monster from her darkest dreams.

She misstepped and fell forward, landing on her knees.

Aiiiihhhhhh! The howling filled the basement. Was he to her left? No! Behind her! Roll away! She felt another rush of air as something passed her ear.

She clutched the gun in her armpit and scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. Don’t drop the damned gun! If she could get to the stairs, if she could— Her head crashed into something, something hard. A slight moan escaped her lips as pain ricocheted through her skull. She gritted her teeth. She’d forgotten the damned center post. Reclaiming the gun, still low to the ground, she positioned her back against the post.

Where was he? Make a sound, you bastard.

The howling began again, a babble of high-pitched animal cries and curses. What was happening? There were new sounds now. Was someone calling her name? Yes, there was another person in the basement. Was she hallucinating? The phone was ringing! Could she get to it?

He was coming! She felt his forward motion, stumbled to her feet, and staggered back.

The babble of sounds went on and on, coming from all directions. Where the hell was he? Close. Very close. She had to...move!

She sidestepped, felt the rush of air.

A knife?!

She raised the gun.

A flurry of sounds—footsteps, scuffling, wheezing, the ringing of the phone—and the howls, the cries, the babble filled her head.

A woman’s shrill scream rose above the guttural yowls.

Valerie lost her balance. A brilliant flash of light. An explosion. She reeled back. Again, the gun exploded in her hand.

A yelp and then a moan. Had she hit him?

She veered to the right. Crouched and zigzagged back, pointed the gun from side to side, moved behind the post.

Moaning, deep and rumbling, issued from a place somewhere near her desk. The phone had stopped ringing.

From across the room, came the sound of creaking wood. Someone was climbing the basement stairs.

Chapter 57

Valerie waited in the dark. The sounds—the banging screen door, the steps pounding across the porch—faded.

A moaning sound, soft at first, then louder, came from somewhere in front of her. The sound of a woman.

Valerie crept across the room in a crouch, gun aimed low toward the center where someone was down, where someone moaned in a monotonous cadence. She circled, turning as she moved so that the gun stayed pointed toward the sound.

The moaning stopped.

She edged backwards until she bumped against the edge of the desk. She switched on the lamp.

Maggie lay sprawled on the floor. A dark stain spread across the lapel of her robe.

Valerie raised the gun high and examined the dark corners of the basement. Deep shadows, but she was sure they were alone.

She knelt beside her fallen friend. In the light, it was hard to tell, but Maggie’s face was definitely ashen. She looked bad. A bloody knife rested on the floor next to her knees, and a few feet away, some kind of steel mallet. A meat tenderizer, of all things.

Valerie bit her lip. Maggie. How brave she was.

She put two fingers on the older woman’s neck, felt for a pulse.

Yes, there it was. Steady and sure.

Valerie took off her shirt, folded it, and pressed it against the wound in Maggie's side. She used the belt from Maggie's bathrobe to hold it in place.

She smoothed the older woman’s stiff curls. “Hold on. I’m getting help.”

After another glance around the basement, she darted for the staircase.

At the foot of the stairs, a cold rush of air stung her sweaty face. Above her, the front door stood wide open. The street light threw gray-and black-shadows down the steps, over the walls. She raised the gun and started up.

Near the top, she slowed, placed one foot on the landing, and plunged into the entry.

What was that noise? On the porch?

Valerie stepped outside. Suddenly she heard a snuffling cough just to her left.

Watch it!

She rolled across the porch onto her back and raised the gun.

A black shadow lurched up the steps.

Valerie’s finger trembled on the trigger.

The shadow panted and snuffled, shambled toward her. A familiar wet-dog odor filled her nostrils.

“Bruno!”

The laugh startled her and she looked up. The dog pushed his nose against her hand, swiped it with his warm wet tongue.

“Hey Val, I found your—Holy shit! Is that a gun?”

Wynona, from across the street. Valerie lowered the gun. “Call an ambulance. And the police. There’s been trouble”

Wynona stared at her. “What….”

“Hurry. Maggie’s been hurt.”

At that, the girl turned and raced toward her house.

The wail of a police siren filled the air. Bruno gave a quick “Whuff.” The wail grew louder. The police were already on their way.

Chapter 58

“Bitches. Stupid bitches.” Clay clutched his chest with one hand and steered the truck with the other. His breathing, a shallow rapid hiss, didn’t sound good. Didn’t sound good at all. He tried to ignore the sounds he was making, the pain.

Stay in control. Stay in control. Stay in control.

Sweat ran down his cheeks. His hands felt like blocks of ice.

He passed under a street lamp and glanced down at his chest. The dark stain glistened wetly, cutting a narrow ribbon down his jacket.

I’m losing too much blood, too much.

He pressed his hand harder again the wound and moaned. He was sure the bullet had fractured a rib. “Bitches.”

At the corner, he yanked the steering wheel, turned, and headed for the highway.

Couldn’t go home. Couldn’t go to the office. He’d go to the convention center site. Stop this bleeding. Get some rest. Decide what to do.

He moaned again. Women everywhere. That bitch Valerie, not whimpering in terror at all, but moving through the basement like an assassin. And the other one, short and dumpy and...and old, flinging herself at him, grappling with him.

Lucky he always carried the knife. One good thing. One good…thing

Watch out! The turn’s right there.

He turned onto the highway. Only one other car on the road, a couple of miles ahead. They’d called the police by now. He hoped they weren’t out, already patrolling. He was driving erratically. They’d stop him for sure.

Sunny on the porch, in his way as usual. Someday, they would all pay. He didn’t think anyone had seen him clearly. He would concoct a story. Take a vacation. Recuperate. He would be back. He hoped the old woman wasn’t dead. He wanted the pleasure of….

His chest burned. Hot coils of pain unfolded, expanded and contracted. He groaned.

Stay in control. Stay in control.

He forced himself to silence. The turnoff to Five Mile Lake was just ahead. A good thing. He couldn’t go on much longer. He slowed the truck, turned onto the road that paralleled the highway. Only a hundred yards to go.

The access road to the construction site was hard to see in the dark, but he watched for the small white sign.

Here. It should be just...here.

He tried to slow the truck but his foot didn’t seem to belong to him anymore. The truck turned, plowed onto the rough dirt road, and hit the first rut. Waves of pain shot through his body. When the truck hit the second rut, he screamed.

Control!

Sweat poured down his face, stung his eyes. He sucked in air, swallowed what tasted like old soured vomit.

The construction site loomed. To his right, he could make out the excavation for the main building, ahead of him the area of graded earth that would eventually become the parking lot. Beyond that, he could see the dock that jutted out over the water.

Where was the lake?

He had to lift his foot. He had to lift his foot off the accelerator. Hit the brakes.

Where was the lake?

He couldn’t move his arms or legs. The truck roared across the parking area, bounced over the first plank at the edge of the dock.

Lean on the steering wheel, you fool. Turn. Veer away. The lake is out there, hiding in the dark.

The truck plowed on.

Clay saw Five Mile Lake then, black and opaque, blacker even than the terrible night. The scent of roses filled the cab of the truck, cloying, suffocating.

The truck left the outer edge of the dock, airborne, sailed out over the black water, and seemed to hang for a moment. Inevitably, it descended in a perfect, gentle arc. The front wheels hit, he could see the splash, but he didn’t hear it. Through the windshield, he saw white foam splayed over the hood. He could see it all, as if from a great distance, as if he had become one, finally, with the powerful night.

He tried to scream. “Mama.”

The truck sank rapidly in churning, gurgling froth. Black water, flecked and roiled with white, closed over the tailgate. For a few moments, concentric waves rolled out from the epicenter. Smooth, gently splashing at first, they rolled in ever widening circles. Ever more gently, ever more quietly, they subsided, until Five Mile Lake was smooth once more, black and placid in the moonless night. Everything was black. The pain, the fever, left him. Clay smoothed the fresh white handkerchief across her soft pink skin, and, peacefully, thankfully, drowned in the rose-rich scent of his mother’s breast.

Chapter 59

Valerie crawled forward, swinging the flashlight first left and then right. The tile Jack had installed on the floor didn’t have much cushioning and her knees were starting to ache. Where was that darn ring anyway? She crawled closer to the barré and searched along the seam between the mirror and the floor.

There it was. A miracle. Two and half months it had been lying there, forgotten. She picked it up, sat back on her haunches, and examined it. “Sorry, Jack.”

She rose from her kneeling position and walked over to her desk. The computer screen was gray; she’d already finished her column and her final article. She pulled open the desk drawer where she had kept the ring before that night, that terrible night. Then she closed it. Jack may have been a cheater but then, no one is perfect. She went upstairs to her bedroom, noting how bright the sun was this fine June day. June. Hard to believe that two whole months had passed

She placed the ring in her jewelry box. She’d finally driven to Wichita, to the bank, and opened Jack’s safe deposit box. In it, she had found a friendship ring and a letter testifying that Amber Conklin was Jack Yates’ daughter. She’d also discovered that Jack had been extremely thrifty, thrifty enough to eke out a couple of hundred dollars a month for Amber. Keeping that secret had been simple. He maintained their checking account. She had a separate account for her earnings from Aunt Monica and from the Courier.

He’d been a good husband in his way, but she didn’t know him at all, of that she was sure. The sunlight streamed through the window. The day was perfect for working in the yard.

The young man on the water skis was a novice. He couldn’t seem to lock his knees. Every few minutes, a wave would slap his bottom and, for one long tantalizing moment, boost him upright. Then his knees would buckle and he’d end up squatting on the skis again.

Sunny sipped her tea and watched with amusement. The neighbor girl had a new boyfriend. Every June some lucky fellow learned how to waterski.

On the far side of the lake, the raw remains of Clay’s resort stood like a stunted monument. Ironically, the call from the investors had come two days after Clay’s disappearance.

The boat was nearing the middle of the lake, approaching the spot where she had gone out in the rowboat one night, a spot almost exactly halfway between her dock and the unfinished dock of the resort. Now, they were passing directly over it, the spot where she had dropped the trophies and the “objects” overboard. All wrapped in their tissue and velvet covers like thirty-eight little presents. She held her breath.

They passed over the spot without incident. Nothing had surfaced.

Why had she covered up for Clay? Hidden the evidence? Because of Brad?

She gave a short, harsh laugh. Every night, the women in her dreams—Guylene, Amber, the others—told her she was full of bullshit.

She would tell them today, shit yes, today would be the day.

The boat roared by the landing and the girl at the wheel waved at Sunny.

Sunny waved back. All she had to do was tell Valerie. Valerie would tell the chief. Today, she would open her mouth and confess.

The boy clung desperately to the rope handle, and bounced and bobbled past.

So young. She couldn’t remember being so young. She could remember Clay, of course. Even in her memories of their high school years, he didn’t seem young. He had always been hewn from smooth hard stone. An Adonis. A perfect man.

She thought of the first time they made love. It had been very much like the last time. He had efficient hands. They moved over her body like a machine, stroking her buttocks, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples.

Sunny raised her face to the sun. It was hot for June. The summer would be a scorcher.

Clay knew what to say in bed too. He used erotic phrases she was sure he had learned in the movies. I love your creamy white thighs. You’re so hot, baby. Once in awhile he would say something really crude, make her wonder. That didn’t happen often. He would never let her be on top. She tried to remember the smell of him. The smell of sex, sex mixed with the scent of his musky after-shave.

She tried to remember his penis. Good-sized, unremarkable except for its unflagging reliability. Clay’s smooth, curved tool with its purplish knob.

What was he doing with it now? Where was he?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

~

Valerie smoothed the dirt around the roots of the rose bush and leaned back on her haunches.

Good luck, bush. My thumbs are sickly and yellow, but they’re all I can offer.

The voice came from behind her. “What are you raising now, Valerie? No more Cain, I hope.” Neal, looking younger in his summer issue, loomed over her.

She stood. “You’ve turned into a regular Rodney Dangerfield.” She leaned over and brushed the dirt from her denim-clad knees

Bruno bounded around the corner of the house, stopped dead at the sight of Neal, lowered his bear-like head, and offered a jaw-aching howl.

“Bruno, hush up,” Valerie said. “This is a friend.” She leaned down, rumpled the fur on the dog’s broad brow

“I hear your neighbor’s recuperation is still going well.”

“Maggie? Yes, she’s up and about. Still needs a lot of rest.”

“And your friend Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

“Sunny’s doing all right. Taking it easy.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” He shook his head. “Clay Cavanaugh. What on earth would get into a fellow to go off and leave his wife and kid like that? And with his receptionist. She always seemed like a nice sort. Do you have any ideas?”

Her heart jumped. There was something about the way he had asked about Clay. Was Neal finally looking into Clay Cavanaugh as a suspect? “I’ll never understand Shirley,” she said. “Shirley and Clay? Jeez, that conjures up strange images.”

Neal crooked his head and studied her for a moment. “I just hope he’ll see the error of his ways and come home soon.”

Valerie nodded. The day hell freezes over would be soon enough.

“How about you? What are your plans?”

“I’m going back to school this fall, to finish my degree.” She decided not to tell him about the novel.

“Not going to join the Cordova Police Department?”

Valerie cringed. “You’re getting to be a mean old man.”

“Marty Sweet thinks so too.”

“That little pervert. Creeping around the neighborhood, peering in windows. I’m glad he got caught.”

At the sound of someone whistling, they both looked up.

Gil Rydell, short and stocky, strode jauntily up the sidewalk.

Valerie watched his cocky approach. Maybe he wasn’t a killer, but she still didn’t like the man.

Rydell, ruddy-cheeked and full of bounce, recognized Neal immediately and hurried over. “Hey, you’re Chief Malcolm, aren’t you? Head of the task force?” He handed a bundle of envelopes to Valerie.

Neal nodded.

Rydell stuck out his hand. “I’m Gil Rydell.” His jovial expression faded. A mournful frown took its place. “My niece, Guylene Jackson, was one of the victims.”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Neal said.

Valerie nodded. “Terrible thing.”

Rydell nodded impatiently. “What’s your expert opinion? Has the Rose Killer left town?”

Neal shrugged. “Hard to say.”

“I’d sure as hell hate to think he’s gotten away clean. The bastard should be fried.”

“You’ll get no argument here.”

“It was a terrible blow, Guy’s death. My sister will never get over it. But every cloud has, you know….”

“We all hope so,” Neal said.

“The tragedy in the family showed me what’s really important in life.” He pulled out his wallet. “I want to show you something.” He flipped open the wallet and displayed a photograph in a plastic sleeve. “My fiancée. This old bachelor is going to be a family man.”

Neal leaned forward. “Nice. You’re a lucky man.”

With an odd expression on his face, Rydell held out the photograph for Valerie’s inspection.

The woman in the photograph was thin and blonde. Pretty, Valerie decided, but with a face too hopeful, too eager. She was standing at the entrance to the municipal park, a child on either side of her. The boy, about seven or eight, was darker than his mother, and sullen looking. Rydell would have his hands full with that one. The girl, about nine or ten, was a beauty, with long fair curls and the sweetly composed face of an adolescent movie star.

“Nice looking kids,” Valerie said.

“It’ll happen for you too.” His voice dripped with insincerity. “There’s someone for everyone.” He put the wallet away. “Better get busy. Rain or shine, Gil Rydell delivers.”

Mouth open, Valerie watched him stride away.

Why that egotistical jerk. All this time, he’d been under the impression she was pursuing him, that she had a romantic interest in him!

Neal looked at her curiously. “What’s so funny?”

“You had to have been there.” She paused. “Anything happening with the investigation now?”

“The killings may have stopped, but the investigation goes on.” He peered at her. “A lot of people seem to have left our little town.”

His X-ray vision pinned her to the spot and she tried to control her breathing.

She nodded. “That kid that was dating the girl. You know, Guylene told Sunny all about Bobby Lee. He was pretty decent to her. Didn’t try to put the make on her or anything like that. Sunny believed her.” She was babbling.

“It’s just a matter of time before he shows himself. We’ll get him.” He paused. “Whoever he is.” He half-turned away, obviously eager to end the conversation. “Take care.”

Valerie, Bruno at her side, waved at him as he drove away. He had come close, once, to saying that he had had expectations, that someday he and she would get together. He’d come close, but he’d never said it. Just as well. He was too much like Jack, a very private person. She needed someone she could really know. Someone she really did know. Like Kevin.

Arms folded, she surveyed her neighborhood, with its squares of green lawn and small well-kept houses. It looked so peaceful, so conventional. She couldn’t help thinking of the Kansas prairie and how after a storm, after the chaos had subsided, there was still a palpable tension in the air. The terror and hysteria had crested and fallen in Cordova. Everyone wanted to believe that the Rose Killer had left town, that the police were hot on his trail. But they were waiting for something more to happen.

What did Valerie believe?

She would never get the memory of that night out of her mind, the dark basement, the sense that she knew the intruder, the faint scent of the harsh hand cleaner, the same scent she had noticed on Clay.

The law was looking for Guylene’s boyfriend, this Bobby Lee. Was the law looking for Clay too? Or, as Maggie would put it, Mr. Big Shot Cavanaugh. Valerie gasped. Big Shot Cavanaugh. Some of the boys had called him that behind his back in school. BSC. Jack’s BSC? Despite the sun, she felt a chill. Deep in her heart she knew. Did Sunny know? Would she stay silent because of their son?

She raised her head. Somewhere in the trees behind her house, the house she and Jack had treasured so, birds were warbling. She could detect the songs of at least three different species, clear, tremulous, and joyful. It was time to clean up and drive over to Sunny’s. First, she’d check in on Kevin and Maggie.

~

Valerie didn’t have a chance to knock on Maggie’s door. Kevin swung the door open and grinned at her.

Something constricted under Valerie's ribs and she was sure her cheeks had flamed. A crush in middle age. The last thing she’d expected.

She walked past him into Maggie's cozy house, breathed deeply of its familiar scent, a combination of fresh baked bread, fried onions, lemon, and harsh lye soap. “How's your mom today?”

“A little tired but otherwise doing well. She's asleep now.” He smiled. “She's had a hard morning reading her press clippings again. And talking to Royal on the telephone. You know, I don’t quite know how to handle my mom having a suitor.”

Valerie sat on the Early American couch, leaned back against a crocheted scarf. “I’ve said it before, but she deserves every good thing that comes her way. I’ll never get over her going down in that basement that night. Armed with a meat tenderizer, no less.”

He dropped down next to her, eyes intent. “So, how're you doing? Haven't seen you for awhile.”

She caught her breath. She could smell him, the fresh soap he used, the sweet rich smell of his skin. Hormones, mind your manners. “You saw me yesterday and I'm fine. I just wanted to say hello to your mom, but if she's resting, I won't disturb her.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. He brushed back a rowdy curl that had strayed to his forehead. “You didn't come to see me?”

“No way.”

He moved an inch closer. “Yes, you did.”

Valerie looked down at her hands.

He moved another inch closer. “How about dinner at Angelo’s?”

“Not tonight. I'm spending the evening with Sunny.”

His arm was touching her arm. “There’s a new play opening at the Cordova Civic Theater. All about this young woman who’s an amateur sleuth.”

“Whatever.” She folded her arms across her chest.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Don't like the premise?”

She shook her head.

“How about a movie tomorrow night? Have you heard about the one at the Crown? This young woman—”

She reached over and put her hand across his mouth. “Why don’t you just come over to my place?”

He caught her wrist, turned over her hand, uncurled the fingers, and kissed her palm.

She laughed and withdrew her hand. “Tomorrow night then.” She rose. If she kissed him, she’d never leave.

At the door, she turned. “The movie I'm dying to see is about a psychologist. Seems he was such a smart-aleck, obnoxious, know-it-all, he lost his….”

He reached out, and gently touched her arm. “Lost his woman? That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Valerie smiled over her shoulder, and shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to find out, won’t you?”

~

Valerie watched Sunny hose off the patio. She was wearing her summer costume: a tank top, a pair of cut-off jeans, and the ever-present dark glasses. She had let her hair grow out to its natural dark blonde. She was more striking now than she’d ever been with all her careful makeup and glamour. She put the hose away and came back to the table.

Valerie lifted the pitcher of iced tea and poured them both fresh glasses.

The evening was tranquil, with that lovely balmy air that comes early in June and never quite eases anyone into the torrid Kansas summer. The lake itself was placid, only slightly ruffled by the light evening breeze. At its northern end, a boy paddled a canoe. The smoky odor of charred meat from a neighbor’s barbecue drifted through the air.

Sunny removed the sunglasses. The expression in her eyes was serious. “Valerie.” She leaned forward.

Valerie tensed.

Sunny put the glasses back on and sank back in the chair. “Brad called. He and Mom are going to the Epcot Center.”

“Sounds like fun.” Valerie sipped her tea. Sunny had almost worked up her nerve again. It wouldn’t be long now.

Faint strains of music punctuated the silence, then faded. Valerie crunched a sliver of ice from her drink.

Sunny sat up suddenly and leaned forward. “Something is going on over there, by Clay’s convention center.” She pointed across the lake toward the building site.

Three boats were idling in the water directly in front of the dock. A group of people had gathered on shore.

Valerie stood up and walked to the deck railing. “It looks like they’ve found something in the water. I hope no one has drowned.”

“It can’t be a drowning. I’ve been sitting here all afternoon. No one’s been near that area. There are signs posted everywhere.”

Valerie returned to her chair. “Maybe they caught someone dumping trash in the lake.”

Sunny put her glass down. “I should go over there. It’s our property, after all.”

“Don’t go now. It may be nothing. No sense in buying trouble.” Trouble might be coming soon enough if Neal was really investigating Clay.

Sunny leaned back. “You’re right. Why buy trouble if you don’t have to? Let them ring me and tell me what they’re doing on my property.”

Valerie lifted her glass. “Here’s to a long, lazy summer.”

They laughed softly, and sipped their tea.

Valerie relaxed. Surely they could put the ugliness behind them, enjoy a quiet and uneventful summer. The faces of the victims would be with them forever, of course. Amber. Guylene. She tried not to think of the other faces, the faces of the missing. Billy Lee. Clay. “Look at that sunset.”

The sun clung to the horizon with gold and flamingo tinged fingertips. They sat quietly, drinking it all in.

“Valerie.” Sunny’s voice was little more than a whisper. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

The sun gave up its hold. A luminous glow behind the treetops was all that remained, that and a dozen pink-and-gold sprites shimmering across the water. Valerie could hardly bear to tear her gaze away from the beauty of it. She wished with every cell of her being that this moment would not have to end, that she would not have to hear what Sunny was about to tell her.

“Yes,” she said, and turned to face her friend.

Finis

To the reader: If you like this book, write a review on Amazon and encourage others to read it. Thank you.

Pat

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pat Gragg

patagragg@gmail.com

http://www.patgragg.com

Pat grew up in Wichita, Kansas, and now lives in the Seattle area with Josie and Misty, her two cats. She studied creative writing at Wichita State University where she was lucky enough to work with several fine writers. She has been a writer and editor most of her life and has published three non-fiction books, all on some aspect of writing. She also writes poetry and paints in watercolor and acrylics. Her large family lives in the area and she counts many local writers among her friends. She is wrapping up another suspense novel, No Way Home, the first in the Lady Lou mystery series.

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART II

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

PART III

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

PART IV

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59