Beware (4 page)

She refused to run. Back in the market, she had run and he’d taken her down from behind. It was a mistake she would not repeat.

Cautiously, turning to check every side, she made her way to the front door. She stood against its cool wood, the handle near her hip, and reached behind her with the key. It clicked and skidded against the lock-face. Finally, it slid in. She turned it. The lock tongue snapped back.

Through the bushes to her left, she saw a quick pale movement. She jerked her revolver toward it. The shape rushed clear of the bushes and appeared in the open ahead of her, just across the lawn.

A man. Cliff Woodman. Out for a run.

He glanced toward Lacey, waved, and suddenly stopped.

“That you, Lacey?”

“It’s me.”

“Is that a gun?”

“Yeah.”

“Trouble?”

“I don’t know.”

Lacey stepped away from the door and lowered
her revolver as Cliff jogged toward her. She immediately felt better. Cliff, a gym teacher at the high school, was forty years old and an ex-marine. To night, in his running shoes, shorts, and a bandanna knotted around his head as a sweatband, he looked almost savage.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“I think I’ve got a prowler.”

“Where?” He squinted at the bushes in front of the house.

“I don’t know. I think he was in my car.”

“Your car?” Cliff strode toward it, hunched slightly, arms away from his sides like a wrestler about to do battle. Lacey hurried after him. He jerked the handle of the passenger door.

Thank God it’s locked, Lacey thought, hoping he wouldn’t discover her torn bra and pan ties.

He tugged open the back door. “Nobody there now,” he announced, and flung the door shut. “I’ll look around the back.”

Lacey held out the revolver. “You’d better take this.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” He took it, and started up the driveway toward the rear of the house.

Lacey followed. “I’ll go with you.”

He nodded.

She hurried forward until she was beside him. “You’ve got to know, Cliff,” she whispered. “I think he’s a murderer.”

“For real?”

“I just came back from Hoffman’s Market. Elsie was killed there to night. So was Red Peterson.”

Cliff’s heavy brows lowered. “Fella that offed Red’s dog?”

“I guess so. I think he hid in my car when I left there.”

“Maybe he high tailed it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if he’s around here, we’ll get him.” Cliff grinned. “Save the taxpayers the expense of a trial.”

They followed the driveway past the back of the house. Cliff stared ahead at the garage.

“It’s padlocked,” Lacey said. “The laundry room’s open, though.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Walking near the front of the garage, Lacey scanned her yard, the lounge chairs and barbecue, the hedge along the far side.

Cliff took her arm. He pushed her against the wall, close to the laundry room door. “Don’t move,” he whispered. He knelt in front of her. Reaching up, he slowly turned the knob. He threw open the door and leaned forward to peer in. Then he rose to his feet. He entered the laundry room, crouching. Lacey stepped in after him.

“Do you want the light on?” she asked.

“It’d wreck our night vision.”

He went to the far end, then hurried back. Together, they cut across the yard. They walked singlefile through the narrow space between the side of the house and the hedge. Then he led her to the front door.

“Any chance he got inside?”

“No, I don’t…”

Cliff opened the front door.

“Oh no,” Lacey sighed. “I unlocked it just as you came along.”

“I’d better have a look.”

“Yeah, please. Damn, that was stupid.”

They entered the house, and she locked the door. Cliff walked ahead of her, glancing behind furniture, lifting draperies. In the lamplight, his back was glossy. The band of his gray shorts was dark with sweat, and Lacey caught herself wondering what—if anything—he wore beneath them. She suddenly became very aware of her own nakedness inside her jeans and flimsy blouse, a body beaten, soiled by another man’s filth.

She tried not to think about it.

She followed Cliff around the dining room table, and into her bedroom. The lamp was still on, the nightstand drawer still open. She stood against the door frame, watching him. On the far side of the bed, he dropped to his knees and lifted the coverlet. Then he got to his feet again, and came back. His eyes met Lacey’s, and he smiled as if to reassure her. When he looked toward the closet, Lacey lowered her gaze. His chest was muscular, his belly flat. His shorts hung low on his hips. They fit snugly. She glimpsed his bulge, and quickly looked away, a warm thickness of revulsion in her stomach.

He opened the closet door and looked inside.

“So far,” he said, “so good.”

Lacey backed out of the doorway. She followed him into the kitchen. He walked through, glancing to each side, ducking to peer under the heavy wooden
table that barely fit into the breakfast nook, opening the utility closet door and shutting it again after a quick inspection. He checked the back door. Locked.

Glancing at Lacey, he shook his head.

He had, she realized, a dangerous face: deep-set, dark eyes, jutting cheekbones, thin lips, a blocky jaw. A somewhat handsome face, but not a face to inspire any special feeling of tenderness.

He stepped past her, his arm brushing against her breast. She flinched away from the unwanted contact. Had he done it on purpose? Staying farther away from Cliff, she followed him around the corner and into her study. He walked past its bookshelves, checked behind an easy chair, and looked in the closet.

“I really appreciate your helping me like this,” Lacey said.

“Glad I came by when I did.”

“I guess it’s just a wild-goose chase.”

“Not yet,” he said, stepping toward her. She quickly backed out of range. He went past, pulled open the linen closet door, then entered the bathroom and turned on its light. He walked past the toilet and sink. At the tub, he slid back the frosted glass door. Then he turned to Lacey and smiled. Not an open friendly smile: it was guarded and sardonic. “
Now
,” he said, “it’s a wildgoose chase.”

“Well, thanks an awful lot.”

“I’m just sorry we didn’t bag him. For your peace of mind. If you’d like me to stick around for a while, I’d be happy to.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll be all right.”

“Suit yourself.”

He handed the revolver to Lacey. “If you ever have to use this, go for the torso and don’t settle for one hit. Put three or four in him, but save a shot or two, just in case.”

Lacey nodded. Strange advice, she thought, but coming from Cliff it sounded perfectly natural.

“And remember I’m just three houses away, if you need me. Let me give you my number.” He wrote it on a pad by the kitchen telephone. “If you have any trouble, give me a ring. I can get here a lot quicker than the cops.”

“All right.” She walked ahead of him to the door.

“Sure you won’t feel better if I hang around for a bit?”

“I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” She opened the front door for him. “Have a good run.”

He jumped off the stoop, and raced across the lawn.

Lacey shut the door and locked it, relieved that he was gone. Had it been intentional, touching her breast? Probably. He’d been so insistent on staying. More than likely, he’d hoped she would fall into his protective arms and…

Hell, he was just being a good neighbor.

She tried to push the revolver into her waistband, but the jeans were too tight. She shoved its barrel down a front pocket. It wouldn’t go in past the cylinder, so she pulled it out and carried it into the kitchen and held it while she poured herself a glass of pinot noir. She took the revolver and wine into her study and sat at her desk.

Her back felt exposed. Turning her chair, she could see the open door. That was better, though she still felt vulnerable. She placed the revolver on her lap. With a trembling hand, she lit a cigarette.

Then she sipped her wine and picked up the phone. She dialed.

On the other end, the phone rang twice.

“
Tribune
,” said James, the night editor.

“It’s Lacey. I’ve got a story for you. There were two killings at Hoffman’s to night.”

“Ahhh.” He sounded disgusted. “Okay, you want to give it Tome?”

“
Tribune
reporter Lacey Allen last night discovered the mutilated body of Elsie Hoffman and fatally injured Red Peterson when she entered Hoffman’s Market shortly before closing time.”

“
You
found them?”

“Afraid so.”

“Christ!”

“Before she could summon authorities, Miss Allen was herself assaulted and rendered unconscious by an unseen assailant. Paragraph. Police, arriving on the scene, found that Red Peterson had succumbed to his injuries. A thorough search of the premises revealed that the killer had fled.”

For the next five minutes, she continued to tell her story to James and the
Tribune
’s tape recorder, filling in details, never mentioning her rape or the specifics about the killings or her suspicion that the assailant had escaped in her car, finally recapping the earlier incidents at the market. “That about
does it,” she finished. “Except for one thing. I’d like some time to recuperate. Tell Carl I won’t be in tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure thing. You all right?”

“Just beat up a little. I’ll be in Friday.”

“Fine. Great work, Lacey.”

“Just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

“I detect a note of irony.”

“Only a note?”

“Take care of yourself, kid.”

“I will. Night, James.”

“See ya.”

She hung up. With the revolver and empty wineglass, she returned to the kitchen for a refill. Then she went into the bathroom. She shut the door and thumbed down its lock button. A feeble mea sure. Any pointed instrument turned in the keyhole, she knew, would pop open the lock. But the little precaution was better than none at all.

She set her pistol and glass on the floor beside the tub, and started the water running. When it felt hot enough, she stoppered the drain.

She turned to the medicine cabinet mirror. The face looking back at her was a bad copy of the one she was used to: slack and pallid, dark under the eyes, the eyes themselves wide and vacant. Turning her head, she fingered back the hair draping her right temple and studied the patch of swollen, red-blue skin. The ear, too, was slightly puffed and discolored.

“A shadow of her former self,” she muttered. It
brought a slight smile. Part of the strangeness left her eyes.

She took off her blouse. Then she unfastened her jeans, tugged them down, and kicked them off. She tossed the blouse and jeans into the hamper.

She looked down at herself. Fingers had left redblue impressions on both her breasts.

Must’ve grabbed them and squeezed.

The teeth indentations had disappeared, but her nipples were purple. She touched one and winced.

Her body was seamed with fingernail scratches: her shoulders and upper arms, her sides, her belly, her thighs. At least he hadn’t raked her breasts, and none of the scratches would show when she was clothed—the silver lining.

She tested the water with a foot. Hot, but not burning. She climbed in and slowly lowered herself, clenching rigid with pain as the water seared the raw lips of her vagina. The pain faded, and she let herself down the rest of the way. She gritted her teeth as the water scorched her torn thighs. But that pain soon faded, like the other. She took a deep breath. Leaning forward, she turned off the faucet.

The house was silent except for the slow plop of water drops near her feet.

Bracing herself against the shock, she splashed water onto her scratches. At first, it felt like lava running down her open flesh. Then it wasn’t so bad. After a sip of wine, she lathered herself with soap and rinsed.

She picked up her wineglass again, and lay back. Head propped against the rear of the tub, she sipped the wine. It felt warm and good going down.
Holding the glass in one hand, she reached down with the other, down through the hot water between her open legs. Tenderly, she fingered herself.

He must’ve chewed her there, too.

Filthy bastard!

At least he didn’t kill me—another silver lining?

Fuck the silver linings.

Lacey blinked tears away, and reached for the bar of soap. She rubbed herself gently.

And the bathroom lights went out.

She threw herself against the side of the tub. She clawed the rug, trying to find the revolver.

Where
was
it?

Then she touched its cool steel. She picked it up by the barrel, found its handle, and gripped it tight.

She stood up. She lifted one foot out of the water and stepped over the tub’s wall. With that foot firm on the rug, she leaned out. In the vague light from the window, she searched the bathroom. She saw no one. The door appeared to be shut.

Must be shut. Still locked. I’d have heard the button pop…

Okay, maybe the bulbs in the fixture blew.
Three
bulbs? Fat chance. How about a general power failure? Sure thing. No, it had to be the fuse box.

He’s in the house!

Slowly, she raised her other foot out of the water. She stepped clear of the tub and stood aiming at the door.

Naked and wet, she felt more vulnerable than ever before in her life. She backed up, and knelt beside the hamper. Switching the pistol to her left
hand, she reached in. She pulled out her jeans, her blouse.

The blouse was easy. She got it on without letting go of the gun. But she needed two hands for the jeans. She set the pistol on the counter by the sink, within easy reach.

Stupid, she thought as she fumbled with her pants. This is just the moment he’ll choose to bust the door in. But she heard nothing. Only a car speeding along, somewhere far away. If he’d just hold off for a few seconds, she would be dressed and ready for him. She had to be dressed.

She was bent over, balanced on one leg, her other foot high and pushing into the jeans, when she felt fingers clutch her ankle and jerk it out from under her.