Deeper Than the Dead

84

“Dr. Crane,” Anne said, surprised to see him, but not that surprised. She had just been thinking about him. She had spent the evening with him. It wasn’t so strange he would show up at her door, she rationalized.

He smiled sheepishly. “Anne, I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“No, no, not a problem.”

Her mother had raised her to welcome guests, to be courteous. Of course she stepped back from the door, and allowed him to come in. Why wouldn’t she? He had been her hero earlier in the evening.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Hostess with the most-est. That had been her mother’s role.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I don’t want to interrupt your evening more than I already have. What a lovely home you have. Is it original?”

Charming, disarming. Half the women in town would have killed to have him in their foyers.

“Nineteen thirty-three,” she said. “Renovated, of course.”

“But very true to the architecture,” he said, looking around, taking in the Craftsman detail . . . and seeing that she was alone.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Crane?”

Again the self-deprecating smile. Very Tom Selleck without the mustache. “This is a little awkward, but it’s about the gift Tommy gave you.”

“Oh?” The necklace she had tucked in her pants pocket before she opened the door. The necklace only graduates of the Thomas Center program owned.

Peter Crane had been the last person to see Karly Vickers before she disappeared.

“You can’t possibly think he’s involved,” she said to Vince. “He’s the nicest man.”

“Have you, by any chance, opened it?”

Something was not quite right. Anne couldn’t have put her finger on it. She couldn’t have described the feeling in a way that wouldn’t have sounded silly.

Without exactly knowing why, she opened her mouth and lied. “No, not yet. I haven’t. Is there a problem?”

He stepped a little farther into the house, very casually taking it all in.

“I’m afraid I have to ask for it back,” he said, perfectly apologetic, and yet goose bumps chased down her arms. “Tommy . . . misunderstood . . .”

“No, really, you don’t have to explain,” Anne said, her heart tripping over itself. “I left the box in the kitchen. I’ll just go get it.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his gaze sliding to the right, toward the living room, where the contents of her purse lay scattered on the big leather ottoman in the middle of the room . . .

“Not a problem.”

. . . with the small box and scraps of wrapping paper strewn over the pile . . .

“I’ll just go get it,” Anne said.

Her heart was beating like a drum in her chest as she turned and walked toward the kitchen. She would go through the swinging door and just keep on going. Her car keys were on the kitchen counter by the phone. She would pick them up and be out the back door. Her car was parked in the driveway.

Even with the alarms sounding in her head, there was still a part of her that told her she was overreacting, that she was just spooked by everything that had happened that evening . . .

She remembered what Vince had said to her about trusting those instincts.

Her step quickened just slightly as she pushed open the heavy, swinging door.

One word exploded in her brain: RUN.

Even as she bolted, he was charging through the door, slamming it back against the wall as he closed the distance between them.

Anne tried to grab for her car keys, her hand just brushing them, sending them skittering down the counter and onto the floor.

Peter Crane swatted at her with one hand, trying to catch hold of her shoulder. Anne dodged away, already reaching for the back door, for the deadbolt. She had locked it to keep intruders out, not to trap herself in.

He caught a handful of her hair and yanked her back toward him. Anne swung backward with an elbow, connecting with some ribs, earning a guttural sound from deep in his belly. She jabbed him again, got loose, grabbed the tea kettle off the stove, turned and hit him with it upside the head as hard as she could.

Crane’s head snapped to the left, blood spraying from his nose onto the white cabinetry.

Anne lunged for the back door, turned the lock, pulled it open, tried to throw herself through it. Instead the tremendous force of his body hit her from behind and she went down onto the porch floor, face-first, her arms trapped at her sides as he tackled her.

The air left her lungs in a painful gust. Stars burst before her eyes. But she kept her legs moving, kicking, trying to push herself out from under him. Squirming, twisting, she gained an inch, got one arm free, grabbed for whatever she could.

Her fingers closed on a small concrete relic, a painted green frog a little bigger than her fist. Her other arm came free. She pulled herself out from under him, twisted over.

In that split second she saw his face, she knew what it was. Even in the dim yellow light of the back porch she recognized the thing that wasn’t quite right. His eyes—as flat and cold as coins. His face was no longer handsome. It was the face of a monster.

She slammed him in the jaw with the frog.

He punched her full in the mouth, and her consciousness dimmed.

He held her down with a knee on her chest, his left hand pressing down on her throat, choking her. He fished for something with his right hand in his jacket pocket and came out with a small tube.

The glue.

Anne doubled her efforts, thrashing, scratching, snapping her head from side to side to keep from letting him get it into her eyes. She slapped the tube of glue from his hand and heard it land away from them on the porch floor.

His knee slipped from her chest. Her knee came up and connected with his groin. His body contracted in on itself, and Anne rolled out from under him.

She half ran, half fell down the porch steps, hit the lawn on all fours and kept scrambling. If she could get around the corner of the house—If she could make it to the neighbor’s—If someone would drive by—

“Fucking bitch!”

The words were harsh and hot on the back of her neck as Crane caught her and slammed her into the side of the house. She tried to scream, and couldn’t, the sound catching dry and raw in her throat. He punched her in the stomach and she doubled over.

Somewhere in the dim reaches in the back of her mind, she was aware they were right below her father’s bedroom window. If she could just make a sound—If he could hear her enough to wake up—

But she couldn’t and he didn’t.

And then it was too late.