and sleeping pills. Before you know it, you ‘II be pacing the floor all night long....
Through the living room windows, a sudden orange glow.
The porch light had snapped on.
Annie sat up, blinking.
The light was wired to an electric eye beamed at the driveway. It was a system installed by the townhouse’s previous owners; personally she’d never felt much need for such protection in this part of town.
What would make the light come on now?
An intruder seemed unlikely. In the three years she had lived in this neighborhood, there had never been a break-in.
A coyote was more probable. Or a band of javelinas. The hairy desert peccaries sometimes ventured out of the dry washes in search of food.
She swung off the sofa and pulled aside the curtains, peering out at the driveway and the front walk.
Nothing was there. The light shone on her mailbox and the tangled clump of cholla at its base. The cholla’s needles glowed like moonlit fur.
If there had been an animal, perhaps it had continued down the street. She walked to the door, intending to look, then paused.
Suppose it wasn’t an animal. Safe as this neighborhood was, a trespasser was always possible.
Her nose wrinkled in irritation. She was scared of her own shadow tonight.
Decisively, in defiance of her fears, she opened the door and stepped outside.
Faintly she heard the crunch of gravel. Footsteps, retreating fast.
Coyote. Had to be. Scared off by the light.
They were timid creatures, despite their unwarranted reputation for aggressiveness. To her knowledge, none had attacked an adult human being.
She padded along the driveway, slippers scuffing the macadam, and peered down the street in the direction of the noise.
Nothing. And the footsteps were no longer audible.
Must have just missed him. Too bad. Encounters with desert animals were among her prime reasons for living on the outskirts of town.
Oh, well. Next time.
She returned to the house. As she was about to shut the door, another sound reached her. The rumble of an engine.
At first she thought it belonged to some passing vehicle on Pontatoc Road. But no, the source was closer than that. Within the townhouse complex.
She listened as the noise diminished, the vehicle—a truck or a van, it sounded like—speeding off into the night.
Maybe what she’d heard hadn’t been a coyote, after all. Maybe it had been the vehicle’s driver, taking a brisk predawn walk before heading to work. Nothing unusual about that.
So why was she afraid?
She couldn’t say. She knew only that the muscles of her shoulders and back were flinching under the caress of a sudden chill.
Erin, she thought abruptly. Please be all right. I’m scared for you ... for both of us ... and I don’t know why.
12
Erin delayed looking at the contents of the manila folder as long as possible. She was quite sure she wouldn’t like what she found.
Finally curiosity won out over apprehension. She picked up the folder, seated herself, and opened it.
The first clipping had been ripped from an inside page of the Milwaukee Sentinel , dated February 16, 1980. An article headlined Stevens Pt. Woman Reported Missing disclosed the disappearance of Marilyn Vaccaro, twenty-four, last seen leaving a midnight church service. A photo showed a smiling dark-haired woman with large, alert eyes.
Erin stared at that photo for a long time. What did he do to you, Marilyn?
Slowly she turned to the next article in the file.
Hikers Find Skeletal Remains . Subhead: Victim May Be Missing Stevens Pt. Woman .
The date was June 3, 1980. Marilyn had disappeared in February. Erin thought of the hard winter her relatives and friends must have endured, awaiting this grim news.
She hoped the woman’s death had been quick, at least.
The article, bare of details, didn’t say. Yet odd hints suggested the worst: “apparently ritualistic murder ... evidence of sadism ... even veteran investigators are
Through the living room windows, a sudden orange glow.
The porch light had snapped on.
Annie sat up, blinking.
The light was wired to an electric eye beamed at the driveway. It was a system installed by the townhouse’s previous owners; personally she’d never felt much need for such protection in this part of town.
What would make the light come on now?
An intruder seemed unlikely. In the three years she had lived in this neighborhood, there had never been a break-in.
A coyote was more probable. Or a band of javelinas. The hairy desert peccaries sometimes ventured out of the dry washes in search of food.
She swung off the sofa and pulled aside the curtains, peering out at the driveway and the front walk.
Nothing was there. The light shone on her mailbox and the tangled clump of cholla at its base. The cholla’s needles glowed like moonlit fur.
If there had been an animal, perhaps it had continued down the street. She walked to the door, intending to look, then paused.
Suppose it wasn’t an animal. Safe as this neighborhood was, a trespasser was always possible.
Her nose wrinkled in irritation. She was scared of her own shadow tonight.
Decisively, in defiance of her fears, she opened the door and stepped outside.
Faintly she heard the crunch of gravel. Footsteps, retreating fast.
Coyote. Had to be. Scared off by the light.
They were timid creatures, despite their unwarranted reputation for aggressiveness. To her knowledge, none had attacked an adult human being.
She padded along the driveway, slippers scuffing the macadam, and peered down the street in the direction of the noise.
Nothing. And the footsteps were no longer audible.
Must have just missed him. Too bad. Encounters with desert animals were among her prime reasons for living on the outskirts of town.
Oh, well. Next time.
She returned to the house. As she was about to shut the door, another sound reached her. The rumble of an engine.
At first she thought it belonged to some passing vehicle on Pontatoc Road. But no, the source was closer than that. Within the townhouse complex.
She listened as the noise diminished, the vehicle—a truck or a van, it sounded like—speeding off into the night.
Maybe what she’d heard hadn’t been a coyote, after all. Maybe it had been the vehicle’s driver, taking a brisk predawn walk before heading to work. Nothing unusual about that.
So why was she afraid?
She couldn’t say. She knew only that the muscles of her shoulders and back were flinching under the caress of a sudden chill.
Erin, she thought abruptly. Please be all right. I’m scared for you ... for both of us ... and I don’t know why.
12
Erin delayed looking at the contents of the manila folder as long as possible. She was quite sure she wouldn’t like what she found.
Finally curiosity won out over apprehension. She picked up the folder, seated herself, and opened it.
The first clipping had been ripped from an inside page of the Milwaukee Sentinel , dated February 16, 1980. An article headlined Stevens Pt. Woman Reported Missing disclosed the disappearance of Marilyn Vaccaro, twenty-four, last seen leaving a midnight church service. A photo showed a smiling dark-haired woman with large, alert eyes.
Erin stared at that photo for a long time. What did he do to you, Marilyn?
Slowly she turned to the next article in the file.
Hikers Find Skeletal Remains . Subhead: Victim May Be Missing Stevens Pt. Woman .
The date was June 3, 1980. Marilyn had disappeared in February. Erin thought of the hard winter her relatives and friends must have endured, awaiting this grim news.
She hoped the woman’s death had been quick, at least.
The article, bare of details, didn’t say. Yet odd hints suggested the worst: “apparently ritualistic murder ... evidence of sadism ... even veteran investigators are
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