shards.
Inside the storeroom, amid mops and slop buckets and other filth, he found a set of master keys.
Every room in the motel was now open to him. But he had an interest in only one.
* * *
A woman’s face.
Elizabeth saw it, and the shock was fresh and vivid, and for a moment she was startled half-awake. Dimly she knew she was in bed somewhere, a room, one of the countless way stations she had visited.
The ocean was gone, and the foam, the seaweed, the mask that had drooped in her hands.
But she saw that mask still. She had seen it for years, in dreams and in memories.
It was the face of a woman she had never known, a woman whose name was a mystery. A young woman, probably, and pretty, or so it seemed.
She might have had a lover, a family, sad moods, secret fears. But all Elizabeth knew of her was the wrinkled remnant she had held so briefly under the flicker of a sixty-watt bulb.
The woman, whoever she was, had meant nothing to Elizabeth , and yet, in a different way, she had meant everything. She had changed Elizabeth ’s life, made her an outcast, taught her fear. She was the reason for all the peril and suffering of the last twelve years. Elizabeth ought to hate her for that, and for the nightmares she brought.
But it was wrong to hate her, of course. She was only another victim.
The first victim. Far from the last.
The dream receded, and Elizabeth yielded to a new and better sleep, a sleep without nightmares.
9
Cray tested three keys on the chain before finding the one that opened the motel room’s door. He eased the door an inch ajar before a security chain stopped him.
Such chains were useless. Any hard impact—a shove or a kick—could snap the chain at its weakest link or pull the anchor bolts out of the door frame. But the noise might wake the woman inside.
Eager to proceed, he was almost willing to take this risk, and then the air conditioner clicked off.
Silence.
He couldn’t break the chain now. She was sure to hear it.
Well, there was another option.
Rummaging in his satchel, Cray produced a bent wire hook. Carefully he inserted the hook in the opening, then snagged the chain and lifted it free of its frame.
No more obstacles.
In his pocket he kept a vial of chloroform, purchased from the same medical-supply house that had sold him the liquid nitrogen. He unscrewed the lid and moistened a washcloth.
With the cloth wadded in one fist, Cray pushed gently on the door and slipped inside. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, a shadow amid shadows, scanning the layout of the room.
A suitcase rested on a folding stand. A television set, glass panel gleaming in the faint ambient glow, was bolted to a counter. Some sort of cheap artwork hung slightly askew on one wall.
All of this was on his left. To his right was the bed, flanked by nightstands with matching lamps, their conical shades dark. Elizabeth Palmer had not bothered to unmake the bed, even to turn down the rumpled spread. She lay across it, supine, her head on a pillow.
Fast asleep. Cray heard her breathing, the sound low and regular.
She did not snore. That was good. He disliked women who snored.
The air conditioner switched on again, the thermostat registering the warmer air flowing in through the open door.
Elizabeth stirred, half-awakened by the machine’s rattle and roar, then settled into sleep again. He heard her low groan, and he knew she was dreaming, and that the dream was unpleasant.
A dream of him, perhaps.
Gently, Cray shut the door.
Like a lover he approached her. He thought of myths. Of Cupid coupling with Psyche in the dark. Of the incubus that hovered wraithlike over its beloved to take her while she slept.
At her bedside he stopped. He stood looking down at her.
She intrigued him. She was a mystery.
He studied her face. Her blonde hair, formerly tied in a ponytail, was loose now, fanning over the pillow. She had a high forehead and soft, gently
Inside the storeroom, amid mops and slop buckets and other filth, he found a set of master keys.
Every room in the motel was now open to him. But he had an interest in only one.
* * *
A woman’s face.
Elizabeth saw it, and the shock was fresh and vivid, and for a moment she was startled half-awake. Dimly she knew she was in bed somewhere, a room, one of the countless way stations she had visited.
The ocean was gone, and the foam, the seaweed, the mask that had drooped in her hands.
But she saw that mask still. She had seen it for years, in dreams and in memories.
It was the face of a woman she had never known, a woman whose name was a mystery. A young woman, probably, and pretty, or so it seemed.
She might have had a lover, a family, sad moods, secret fears. But all Elizabeth knew of her was the wrinkled remnant she had held so briefly under the flicker of a sixty-watt bulb.
The woman, whoever she was, had meant nothing to Elizabeth , and yet, in a different way, she had meant everything. She had changed Elizabeth ’s life, made her an outcast, taught her fear. She was the reason for all the peril and suffering of the last twelve years. Elizabeth ought to hate her for that, and for the nightmares she brought.
But it was wrong to hate her, of course. She was only another victim.
The first victim. Far from the last.
The dream receded, and Elizabeth yielded to a new and better sleep, a sleep without nightmares.
9
Cray tested three keys on the chain before finding the one that opened the motel room’s door. He eased the door an inch ajar before a security chain stopped him.
Such chains were useless. Any hard impact—a shove or a kick—could snap the chain at its weakest link or pull the anchor bolts out of the door frame. But the noise might wake the woman inside.
Eager to proceed, he was almost willing to take this risk, and then the air conditioner clicked off.
Silence.
He couldn’t break the chain now. She was sure to hear it.
Well, there was another option.
Rummaging in his satchel, Cray produced a bent wire hook. Carefully he inserted the hook in the opening, then snagged the chain and lifted it free of its frame.
No more obstacles.
In his pocket he kept a vial of chloroform, purchased from the same medical-supply house that had sold him the liquid nitrogen. He unscrewed the lid and moistened a washcloth.
With the cloth wadded in one fist, Cray pushed gently on the door and slipped inside. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, a shadow amid shadows, scanning the layout of the room.
A suitcase rested on a folding stand. A television set, glass panel gleaming in the faint ambient glow, was bolted to a counter. Some sort of cheap artwork hung slightly askew on one wall.
All of this was on his left. To his right was the bed, flanked by nightstands with matching lamps, their conical shades dark. Elizabeth Palmer had not bothered to unmake the bed, even to turn down the rumpled spread. She lay across it, supine, her head on a pillow.
Fast asleep. Cray heard her breathing, the sound low and regular.
She did not snore. That was good. He disliked women who snored.
The air conditioner switched on again, the thermostat registering the warmer air flowing in through the open door.
Elizabeth stirred, half-awakened by the machine’s rattle and roar, then settled into sleep again. He heard her low groan, and he knew she was dreaming, and that the dream was unpleasant.
A dream of him, perhaps.
Gently, Cray shut the door.
Like a lover he approached her. He thought of myths. Of Cupid coupling with Psyche in the dark. Of the incubus that hovered wraithlike over its beloved to take her while she slept.
At her bedside he stopped. He stood looking down at her.
She intrigued him. She was a mystery.
He studied her face. Her blonde hair, formerly tied in a ponytail, was loose now, fanning over the pillow. She had a high forehead and soft, gently
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