“Do it faster than that,” Dane said, iron in his voice.
“I’ll try. Depends on when a patrolman gets free.”
Dane hesitated, reluctant to leave Marlie alone for that long, but his job was to be on the crime scene, copycat or not. The detectives who had worked the other scenes had to make the call, decide if it was the same perp. He had given her his pistol, and a patrolman would be there soon. She would be okay.
He told himself that for several miles, but finally pulled to the side of the street and stopped. This didn’t feel right, damn it. Something was wrong. He felt a sense of dread that had grown stronger with each passing mile and minute, but he couldn’t pin down the cause.
It was a copycat killing, no doubt about that. It wasn’t unusual; they had already had one. But something was wrong.
He keyed the mike. “Dispatch, this is Hollister. Has a patrolman gotten to my house yet?”
“Not yet. A car is on its way.”
Frustration welled in him. “Any further information on that knifing that was just called in?” “No further—wait.” Dane listened to static, then dispatch came back on the air. “That’s affirmative. A squad car is on the scene, and the patrolman just radioed in. It looks like a false alarm.”
Dane’s sense of dread increased. His mind raced as he went through the angles. “Dispatch, was it a male or a female who called in the initial report?”
“A male.”
“Shit!” He keyed the mike again. “Dispatch, contact the stakeout immediately! Verify that everything is okay. The false alarm may have been deliberate.”
“Affirmative. Stand by.”
Dane waited tensely in the dark car, sweat rolling down his face. Within a minute his radio crackled. “No problems at the stakeout, Dane. Everything’s as quiet as a graveyard.”
He shook his head. There was trouble and he knew it. But where? Where?
The false alarm had been deliberate, in an effort to draw off Marlie’s protection. But Beverly had taken Marlie’s place, and the ploy hadn’t worked—
He froze, horror exploding in his brain. It had worked all too well. Marlie!
More glass shattered as he punched the window again. Desperately Marlie pictured the door, pictured the vision pressing against it, all black, loathsome evil. She pictured herself shoving against the door, forcing it shut, closing out the vision. She had to control it; she would die if she didn’t. Her only chance was to control it, as she had the knowing.
She was stronger now than she had been before. She could do it.
The pistol. It had been beside her on the couch. She opened her eyes and lurched in the direction of the couch, but the vision had already sapped her strength, and her legs gave way beneath her. She fell heavily to the floor, but her outstretched hand brushed the couch, and she forced herself to her hands and knees, crawling to it and groping along the cushions for the pistol.
There it was, cold and heavy, reassuring in her hand. With wildly trembling fingers she fumbled the safety off.
—He was in. It wouldn’t be long now. The knife glinted in his hand, long and lethal, the blade honed to a razor’s edge—
The door! Mentally she slammed it shut once more. Keep him out. She had to keep him out.
She could hear her own breath coming in strangled sobs. Quiet. She had to be quiet. Weakly she crawled toward the corner, to put a wall at her back so he couldn’t come at her from behind. The darkness in the house was almost total, with the blinds closed. She had the advantage there; she knew the house, knew where she was. He had to hunt her. She had to be very, very quiet.
Keep the door closed.
But where was he? She couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears, deafened by the thunder of her own blood racing through her veins.
She used both hands to steady the heavy pistol. Dane. Dane, who never went anywhere unarmed. Thank you, Dane, for this chance. I love you.
Where was he?
She closed her eyes and mentally opened the door a crack.
—Where was she, the bitch? He could turn on the flashlight, but not yet, not yet. So she thought she could hide, did she? Didn’t she know how much he enjoyed the chase? Of course she did. Sweet bitch. Was she in the bathroom? He pushed the door open. The white fixtures gleamed in the darkness like enamel ghosts. No bitch here—She slammed the door. She could feel the pressure of his mental energy, pushing against her. She opened her eyes and forced herself to look toward the hall where the bathroom was. Don’t stare, Marlie. Don’t let yourself stare. You won’t see him if you do. Keep your eyes moving, don’t let them fix. You’ll see his movement.
Was that him? Was that a darker shadow, coming toward her? She didn’t dare open the door again, not now. If it was him, he was too close. He would be on her before she could react. But was he really there, or was it her imagination?
A bright light exploded in her face, blinding her, and a ghastly voice crooned, “Well, hellooo there.”
She pulled the trigger.
Several cars converged on the house almost simultaneously. Dane had given orders for them to go in with lights flashing and siren blaring, hoping against hope that they would be in time and scare him off. He drove like a maniac, praying as he had never prayed before. He didn’t care if they missed this chance to catch him. Please, God, let them scare him off. Don’t let him be in the house. Don’t let him have already been and gone. God, please. Not Marlie.
He slammed the gear into park, the car rocking violently on its springs. He was out and running before the motion stopped. The house was dark. God, no.