Texas! Chase #2 (26 page)

He hung up. For a moment he stared at the phone, weighing his options. Marcie usually checked in with her office before going home.

Surely, one way or the other, she would get his message to come to the hospital. In the meantime he would try at intervals to reach her at home. She would never forgive herself for missing the birth of Devon's baby.

He redialed their home number. After getting no answer, he hung up impatiently, retrieved his quarter, and turned away. When he did, the computer printout Pat had given him drifted to the floor. He bent down and picked it up.

As he made his way toward the nursery, where Pat and Laurie were waiting at the large window for a first glimpse of Lucky's daughter, he scanned the sheet.

It was printed in dot matrix. The fluorescent tubes overhead almost bled the letters out. The names were in alphabetical order.

He had almost reached the midway point when his feet came to a standstill.

He gripped both sides of the sheet and raised it closer to his face so that there would be no mistaking the name. Then he crushed the paper between his hands and roared. The feral cry came up through his soul.

"No!"

Laurie and Pat whirled around, their faces registering astonishment. The bloodcurdling noise stopped a rushing intern in his tracks.

All up and down the corridor, heads turned, sensing disaster.

"Chase?" his mother asked worriedly.

Pat said, "What the hell, boy?"

Chase didn't acknowledge them. He was al

ready tearing down the corridor, knocking aside a metal cart and a nurse's aide who was dispensing fruit juice and Jell-0 to the maternity patients.

He didn't even consider taking the elevator.

It would be too slow. When he reached the door to the stairwell, he shoved it open with the heels of his hands and clambered down two flights at a run, taking several stairs at a time, hurdling the banister at every landing, his heart racing, his mind refusing to consider that, in spite of his haste, he might already be too late.

The house on Sassafras Street set well away from the street. Marcie commented on that amenity as she and her client approached the front door via a stone walkway.

"You'll notice some lichen on these stones, but plain laundry bleach kills it.

Personally, I like it. Maybe Mrs. Harrison will too," she said hopefully.

"Yeah, maybe."

Because this house had a large yard, Marcie hadn't suggested it to the Harrisons. A few weeks earlier the expansive lawn of another

house for sale had prompted a dispute between the couple. When Ralph Harrison had called and asked to see this house, Marcie had cited the yard as a possible drawback. To her surprise he had reversed his previous opinion on taking care of a large yard.

"The yard would be no problem," he had told her.

Now Marcie pointed out that even though the yard was generous, it would require minimal care. "As you can see, there's very little grass to mow. Most of it is ground cover, front and back."

"That's why I noticed the house as I passed it today. I liked it and wanted to see it right away."

"It's a shame Mrs. Harrison couldn't join us."

"She wasn't feeling well. But she was real excited about the house when I described it to her. She told me to go ahead and preview it. If I like it, she'll come see it tomorrow."

Things were looking up, Marcie thought.

This was the most cooperative the Harrisons had ever been with each other.

It was dark inside the entry alcove, but it was dry. Marcie shook out her umbrella and propped it against the exterior brick wall.

The gloom was so pervasive, she had to try the key several times before successfully opening the lock.

As soon as she cleared the front door she reached for a light switch. The chandelier in the front foyer had a bubbled, amber glass

globe that she found distinctly offensive. It cast weird shadows on the walls.

She didn't like showing houses at night.

Only rarely did a house show to its best advantage after the sun went down. For the Harrisons, however, she had made this exception.

So much time had already been invested in them, she was in so deep, she couldn't afford to stop accommodating them now. The law of averages was bound to catch up with her soon. She would sell them a house.

"The living room is spacious," she said.

"Nice fireplace. Lots of windows. Lots of natural light. Of course, you can't tell that now.

But tomorrow when Gladys comes with you, you'll see." She opened the drapes.

"I liked it better the other way," he said.

You would, she thought. She drew the heavy drapes together again and led him through a narrow dining room into the kitchen. "The garage is through that door," she told him.

"It has a built-in workbench I know you'll enjoy."

"I'm not much of a handyman."

"Hmm." She searched for something that would pique his interest. So far, he'd walked through the rooms, following closely on her heels as though he were afraid of the shadows in the vacant house, and displaying little reaction either positive or negative.

Not wanting this to take any longer than necessary, she seized the initiative and asked him point-blank,

"What do you think of the house so far, Mr. Harrison?"

"I'd like to see the rest of it."

She nodded pleasantly, but she was secretly gritting her teeth. "This way."

It was the kind of house that Marcie personally abhorred, with long, dark hallways and small enclosed rooms. But because she had wisely realized years ago that tastes were as varied as people, and because Sassafras

Street was tree lined, gracious, and underpopulated, she had aggressively gone after this listing for her agency. Maybe for the very reasons she disliked the house so much, the Harrisons would admire it.

She switched on the overhead light in the master bedroom suite. The carpeting was covered with canvas drop cloths, which, in Marcie's opinion, were a vast improvement over the maroon carpeting. In the center of the room were a sawhorse, a bucket to mix plaster in, a sack of plaster mix, another bucket of ceiling white paint, and a pile of rags.

"There was a bad water spot on this ceiling.

I've already taken care of the roof repair.

As you can see, the inside repair isn't quite finished."

He didn't even glance up to see if the work was being done satisfactorily. He didn't ask a question about it. In fact, he showed no interest in the project at all, which was odd since he was usually such a stickler for detail and always found something wrong with every house.

"There are two closets."

Marcie went about her business, refusing to acknowledge her growing sense of uneasiness.

For several months she had been showing houses to Ralph Harrison. His nagging wife had never failed to accompany him. They'd always viewed houses in the daytime. He was a nitpicker. Tonight he was keeping his opinions to himself. Marcie preferred his whining complaints to his unnerving silence.

"One closet is a walk-in. Gladys will like that, I'm sure. The other—" At the small clicking sound, she spun away from the open closet.

Harrison was locking the bedroom door. "What in the world are you doing?" Marcie demanded.

He turned around to face her, grinning eerily.

In a new, yet alarmingly familiar, voice, he said, "Locking the door. So that you and I can be alone at last."

She fell back a step, her spine coming up hard against the doorjamb of the closet. She didn't notice the pain. Nothing registered except his menacing smile and raspy voice. She wasn't so much afraid as profoundly astonished.

Ralph Harrison was her caller.

"What was that all about?" Laurie put the question to Pat, who was frowning at the exit through which Chase had just disappeared.

"Damned if I know." He walked to the spot where Chase had previously been standing and bent down to pick up the computer printout he'd wadded into a ball then dropped.

"Must have something to do with this." Sheriff

Bush spread open the sheet again and

scanned it. "He must have recognized a name on here himself. Someone that Marcie knows."

"Pat, go after him," Laurie urged, giving his shoulder a push. "Catch him before he has a chance to do something crazy."

"My thoughts exactly. Will you be okay?"

"Of course. Go. Go!" Pat jogged down the hallway toward the stairs, unable to move quite as spryly or as rapidly as Chase had moments earlier. "Be careful," Laurie anxiously called after him.

"You bet."

By the time he reached his squad car outside the emergency entrance of the hospital, Chase had disappeared. But Devon's car was no longer parked where Pat had spotted it when he and Laurie arrived. It made sense that since Chase had driven Lucky and Devon from the Tyler place to the hospital, he would still have the keys.

Peeling out of the hospital parking lot, Pat spoke into the transmitter of his police radio and put out an all-points bulletin for Devon's car, describing it as best as he could remember.

"License plate number?" one of his on-duty officers asked through the crackling airwaves.

"Damned if I know," Pat barked. "Just locate the car. Stop it. Apprehend the driver.

White male, dark hair, six four."

"Is he armed and dangerous?" another asked.

"Hell, no!" Then he thought about the .357

he'd returned to Chase about a week ago.

"Possibly armed." He thought of the Tyler temper. When riled, especially when it involved their women, it was more fearsome than any firearm. "Consider him dangerous.

He'll probably resist arrest. Try not to use bodily force. He's got a couple of cracked ribs."

"Sounds like Chase Tyler."

"It is Chase Tyler," Pat replied to the unofficial remark he had overheard one deputy make to another.

"I don't get it, Sheriff Bush. What are we arresting Chase for?"

"Being a hothead."

"Sir, I didn't copy that."

"Just find the car and stop it!"

"Sassafras Street. Sassafras Street," Chase muttered to himself as he headed for the residential neighborhood where he knew the street was located. Sassafras Street. Was it between Beechnut and Magnolia? Or was he thinking of Sweetgum Street? Where the hell was Sassafras Street?

The town he had grown up in seemed suddenly foreign territory to him. He couldn't remember which streets ran parallel and which intersected. Did Sassafras run north and south or east and west?

In his mind he conjured up a map of Milton

Point, but it was distorted and became an ever-changing grid of streets he could no longer remember, like a maze in a nightmare that one could never work his way through.

He cursed, banging his fist on the steering

wheel of Devon's red compact car. Who would have thought that that little weasel, Harrison, had the nerve to terrorize a woman over the telephone? Chase had only met him once, that day in Marcie's office. Harrison had made little impression on him. He couldn't describe him now if asked to do so at gunpoint. He was that forgettable.

That's probably why he made obscene phone calls, Chase reasoned. The calls were his only power trip, his last-ditch effort to achieve machismo.

Over the telephone he could be six feet six and commanding. His sibilant vulgarities made his victims gasp and left a distinct impression on them. To a guy like Harrison, revulsion was better than making no impression at all.

"Slimy's.o.b.," Chase said through his teeth.

He remembered how disgusted and devastated

Marcie had looked after each call.

Why hadn't they consulted a psychologist instead of a law officer? Someone who understood the workings of the human mind might have provided them with character profiles that would have pointed them to Harrison. It was crystal clear to Chase now why he was their man. He had an overbearing, critical wife and a low self-image. They should have gone to a head doctor. Harrison was a sicko.

He wasn't a criminal.

Or was he? Maybe talking about sexual perversions no longer satisfied him. Maybe he'd gone over the edge. Maybe he was ready to make good his threats.

"Dammit." Chase stamped on the accelerator.

Marcie's astonishment quickly receded with the onslaught of panic. By an act of will she tamped it down.

He wanted her to be afraid.

She was. But damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

"So, you're the pathetic individual who's been calling me. Are you proud of yourself?"

"Don't try to fool me, Marcie. I've frightened you."

"You haven't frightened me in the slightest.

Only disgusted me and made me feel very sorry for you."

"If you weren't frightened, why'd you go to the sheriff?"

She tried to keep her face impassive and not let him see her distress. At the same time she was trying to figure a way out of the room and away from the house. Once outside, she could run down the sidewalk screaming, but she had to get out of there first.

If at all possible, she wanted to avoid any physical contact. The thought of his hands on her made her ill.

He didn't have a weapon.

He wasn't exceptionally tall or strong. In fact, he was slightly built. If it came down to a wrestling match, she doubted he could completely overpower her, but he could hurt her before she could fight him off and that was a major concern.

Not that he would take it that far, she reas

sured herself. He wouldn't try to rape her. He only wanted to terrorize her.

"Didn't you think I'd know when they put the taps on your phone?" he asked in the taunting voice of her nightmares. "The first time I called and heard the clicks, I hung up."

"Then you must have done this kind of thing before. To be that familiar with police wiretaps and such."

"Oh, yes. I'm quite good at it. An expert.

The best."

She forced a laugh. "I hate to dash your self-esteem," she said, hoping to do exactly that, "but you're not very original. In fact,

I've had much more, uh, interesting calls than yours."