Sleeping Beauty

Chapter One

Ashley Spencer’s childhood ended the night her father died; the moment before she fell asleep was the last time she experienced unadulterated joy. Ashley and her best friend, Tanya Jones, were still pumped up from their 2-1 victory over F.C. Oswego, a perennial state soccer power. Both girls had scored, and the victory would give them a shot at the top seed at the State Cup. They had gotten into bed after watching a video, then talked in the dark until a little after one o’clock. When Tanya went to sleep, Ashley closed her eyes and pictured her goal, a header that had boomed past Oswego ’s All-State goalie. She was smiling as she drifted off.

Ashley had no idea how long she’d been asleep when a sudden movement on Tanya’s side of the bed woke her. Tanya was sitting up, staring at the open doorway. Ashley, groggy and not completely certain she was awake, thought she saw someone walking toward Tanya. She was about to say something when Tanya grunted, twitched, and toppled to the floor. The man turned as Ashley leaped out of bed, extending his arm like a duelist. Ashley’s muscles spasmed as a bolt of electricity surged through them. She fell sideways onto the bed, confused and unable to control her body. A fist smashed into her jaw, and she tottered on the brink of unconsciousness.

Tanya’s head rose over the far side of the bed. The intruder was on her instantly. Ashley saw his fists and legs moving. Tanya fell back on the floor and out of Ashley’s sight. A roll of gray duct tape appeared in the man’s hands. He tore off several strips and knelt next to Tanya. Moments later, he walked around the bed. A black ski mask covered his face. He wore gloves and dark clothing.

A vise-like grip closed on Ashley’s throat and her pajama top was ripped open. She made a feeble attempt at self-defense but she couldn’t control her muscles. A leather-covered hand squeezed Ashley’s breast until she screamed. The man hit her hard before sealing her mouth with a strip of tape. The intruder rolled Ashley onto her stomach and taped her wrists and ankles together. His face was close to her and she could smell his breath and body odor.

Once she was bound, the man slipped his hand inside her pajamas and caressed her buttocks. Ashley bucked and received a blow for resisting. She tried to squeeze her legs together but stopped when he grabbed her ear and twisted. A finger slipped inside her, probing, rubbing. Then the finger disappeared and he lowered himself onto her. Ashley’s body trembled violently for a moment more. Then the sexual assault stopped and the oppressive weight disappeared. Ashley turned her head and saw Tanya being dragged into the guestroom that was next to her bedroom.

Ashley strained to hear what was going on. Bedsprings squeaked. Tape sealed Tanya’s mouth but Ashley could still hear her friend’s muffled scream. Ashley was gripped by a fear different from any she had ever known. It was as if a stifling gray fog had settled over her, cutting off her air and paralyzing her limbs.

There were more moans and screams from Tanya, but the man who had invaded her home worked in silence. Ashley’s heart was pumping furiously and she couldn’t get enough air through her nose. She tried not to think about what was happening to her best friend and concentrated on breaking her bonds. It was impossible. She wondered whether her father was dead and the thought galvanized her. If Norman was dead then she couldn’t count on anyone to rescue her. She would have to save herself.

In the next room, the man uttered a primal roar of release and Ashley shuddered. He’d finished raping Tanya; next he’d be coming for her. For a moment, the only sounds from next door were Tanya’s muffled whimpers. Then Ashley heard an animal snarl and the sound of a blade slamming into flesh. Tanya made a strangled cry that was followed by silence. The stabbing continued. Ashley was certain that Tanya was dead.

The door to the guest room slammed shut and the intruder emerged, ghostlike, out of the darkness. Only his eyes and lips showed through his ski mask. Ashley’s breath caught in her chest. The man savored her terror. Then he whispered “See you later,” and walked downstairs.

Ashley collapsed from relief, but the feeling was short-lived. “See you later” meant that he was coming back to kill her. She struggled to sit up and scanned her room for something she could use to cut her bonds. Downstairs, the refrigerator door opened. The thought that he was going to eat something horrified Ashley. How could he eat after what he’d done? What kind of thing was he? The refrigerator door closed. Ashley grew desperate. She was going to be raped and killed if she couldn’t get away.

A sound from the doorway brought her around. Something covered with blood was dragging itself across the floor. With a great effort, the thing raised its face and Ashley almost blacked out.

Norman Spencer crawled toward his daughter. There was stubble on his bloodstained cheeks and his hair was in disarray. In his right fist was his Swiss Army knife, the long blade out. Ashley fought the nausea and horror that threatened to disable her and rolled onto the floor. She turned her back to her father and presented her bound wrists. Norman had almost no strength left and he did not speak as he sawed at the tape with feeble strokes. Ashley wept as he worked the knife. She knew that she could not save her father and that he was using all that was left of his life to save hers.

The tape parted. Ashley grabbed the knife and freed her ankles. Then she ripped away the tape that covered her mouth and started to speak. Norman shook his head and jabbed weakly toward the hall to warn her that the intruder might hear. There should have been fear in his eyes since his death was certain, but he looked triumphant as he touched her lightly on her cheek. Ashley shook with silent sobs as she knelt beside her father. She held him. Norman whispered, “I love you.” Just the effort of speaking cost him dearly. He coughed blood and a shiver went through him.

“Daddy,” Ashley moaned. She felt so helpless.

A plate rattled against the kitchen table. “Go,” Norman said, the words barely audible. Ashley knew she had to flee or die. She cried as she kissed her father’s cheek. His body trembled, he closed his eyes, and stopped breathing.

Another sound from the kitchen brought Ashley to her feet. If she died, her father would have given his life for nothing. She wrenched open her bedroom window. Wood screeched against wood. To Ashley, it sounded like she’d set off an alarm.

Feet pounded up the stairs. It was a two-story drop to the ground, but Ashley had no choice. She crawled into the chill night air and hung from the ledge. The drop terrified her. A broken ankle would leave her helpless. She felt the strain in her arms. Then she heard a bellow of rage from her room and she let go.

The impact with the ground stunned her. Ashley lay on her back in the wet grass. A masked face stared down at her from her bedroom window. Ashley’s eyes locked with the killer’s for a moment. Then she was up and running, her breath slamming in her chest, legs pumping, running faster than she ever had before-running for her life.

Ashley sat in Barbara McCluskey’s kitchen. Despite a borrowed sweat suit and the heat in the house, she hunched forward as if chilled to the bone. Her eyes, bloodshot from crying, stared blankly at the tabletop. She was so numb that she didn’t feel the bruises and cuts that a medic had treated a short time before. Every once in a while she would raise a mug of hot tea to her lips. Sipping the tea took every ounce of strength she could muster.

Ashley’s flight had taken a random route through the neighborhood and ended in the bushes in the McCluskeys’ backyard. The cold and rain had eventually driven her to pound on her neighbor’s back door. While she was hiding, Ashley tried to imagine ways in which she could have averted the horrors that had befallen her father and her best friend. In every scenario the outcome was the same: if she stayed behind she ended up dead. Yet that didn’t stop her from feeling guilty for running away.

A policewoman sat beside Ashley. There were other officers in the McCluskey home. Logic told Ashley that the man who had murdered her father and her best friend was long gone. She also knew that she would fear his return every minute of every day as long as he was at large.

The police had set up barricades on either side of the Spencer home to keep away the neighbors and the reporters who stood behind them, staring at the officers moving through Ashley’s yard and in and out of her house. Every once in a while, the short, intermittent bark of a siren would signal the arrival of another police vehicle that was working its way through the crowd. Ashley paid no attention to anything that was going on outside. She had too much going on inside her head.

The policewoman stood up. Ashley caught the motion out of the corner of her eye and jerked back violently. She was holding the mug, and tea splashed on the tablecloth. A man was standing next to her. She had been so self-absorbed that she hadn’t noticed him enter the kitchen.

“It’s okay, Miss Spencer. I’m a detective,” he said, holding out his identification. The detective’s voice was calm, and he had a pleasant face. He was dressed in a brown tweed jacket, gray slacks, and a striped tie. Ashley had only seen detectives on TV, and he did not fit the stereotype. He wasn’t handsome or rugged-looking. He just seemed ordinary, like her teachers or her friends’ parents.

“May I sit?”

Ashley nodded, and the detective took the chair the policewoman had vacated.

“My name is Larry Birch. I’m with Homicide and I’m going to head the investigation into…into what happened at your house.”

Ashley was touched by the detective’s consideration.

“We’ve called your mother and she’s on her way home. She’ll probably be here by dawn.”

A wave of sadness overwhelmed Ashley as she pictured the life her mother was about to lead. Her parents were still in love. Sometimes they were like teenagers, displaying a closeness around her friends that often embarrassed Ashley. What would Terri do now?

Birch saw Ashley’s chest heave as she fought to control her tears. Gently he placed his hand on her shoulder, then went to the sink and returned with a glass of water. She was grateful for the kindness.

“I’d like to talk about what happened tonight,” Birch said after a moment. “I know that’s going to be rough for you. If you don’t want to discuss it, I’ll understand. But the more I know, the faster we’ll be able to arrest the person who did this. The longer I have to wait for information, the better the chance that this man will get away.”

Ashley felt sick. So far, no one had asked her to discuss her ordeal in detail. She did not want to remember her father covered in blood or Tanya’s screams. She wanted to forget the sound of the intruder’s shuddering orgasm and the way he’d eyed her from the doorway of her room. But she owed it to Tanya and her father to help the police. And she wanted to be safe and would only feel safe when Detective Birch caught the monster that had destroyed her family.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything you remember. For instance, who was in your house tonight before everything happened?”

“Dad was home and Tanya was with me. Tanya Jones. Is she…?” Ashley asked, irrationally hoping that her friend had somehow survived.

Birch shook his head. Ashley started to cry again.

“She was my best friend,” Ashley said with such despair that the detective had to fight to keep his composure. “We were teammates.”

“What sport?” Birch asked to distract her.

“Soccer. We both played varsity for Eisenhower and we started for our club team. The team is doing really well. We have a chance to get to the Regionals in Hawaii. Tanya’s never been to Hawaii. She was really excited.”

“She was good?”

Ashley nodded. “She scored the winning goal today. Her mom said she could sleep over. That’s why…why she’s dead.”

Ashley’s shoulders shook, but she choked back her tears.

“We fell asleep,” she continued after a moment. “I know it was around one. Then I woke up. He was in the room.”

“What did he look like?” Birch asked.

“I don’t know. It was dark. He never turned on the lights. And he was wearing dark clothes, a ski mask, and gloves.”

“Could you tell his race? Was he Caucasian, African-American, Asian?”

“I don’t know, really.”

“Okay, what about height? How tall was he?”

Ashley thought about that. Most of the times she’d seen him she had been on her back and he’d seemed like a giant, but she knew the angle had distorted her perspective. Then she remembered that she’d been standing when the killer shot her with his stun gun. She closed her eyes and pictured the scene.

“I don’t think he was very tall, like a basketball player. I’m five-foot-seven. I’m pretty sure he was taller than me.”

“All right. That’s good. That’s something.”

Birch made a note on a small spiral notebook he had opened.

“Can you tell me the color of his eyes?” he asked next.

Ashley strained to remember but it was no good. “I saw them but it was dark and…” She shook her head. “I can’t remember the color.”

“That’s okay. You’re doing fine. Tell me what happened after the man entered the room.”

Ashley told Birch how the killer had used a stun gun to subdue her and Tanya and how he had beaten and bound them before taking Tanya into the guest room. Then she described the sounds that told her that Tanya was being raped, then murdered.

“Did he do anything to you after that?” Birch asked quietly.

“No. I was certain he would but he didn’t. Not then. He would have. I know he would have. But he…he…”

Ashley shuddered.

“What, Ashley? What did he do?”

“He went down to the kitchen. I couldn’t believe it. He’d just raped her and killed her. I could hear it. And he went to get something to eat. How could he do that?”

“How do you know he ate something?” Birch asked, working hard to hide his excitement.

“I heard the refrigerator door open. Later I heard a dish clatter on the table.”

“Okay, Ashley. This could really be important. You know what DNA is, right?”

Ashley nodded. She watched detective shows and read crime novels. And they’d covered genetics in biology class.

“We can get a person’s DNA from bodily fluids like saliva. If he ate some food in your kitchen he may have left something on a fork or a glass. Now let me ask you, was anyone at your house last night other than you, your friend, and your father?”

“No.”

“And you ate dinner at home?”

“No. There was a pizza party to celebrate our win. My dad came to the game, ate with us, then took Tanya and me home.”

“Did you, Tanya, or your father eat anything at home?”

“I don’t think Dad did. He’s on a diet. Mom would have been pissed that he ate three slices of…”

Ashley stopped. It was too much. Mom was always getting upset when Dad sneaked a cookie or a bowl of ice cream. Now her father was dead and there would never be any more playful bickering about his diet.

“I know this is going to be tough for you, Ashley,” Birch said after an appropriate silence, “but I’d like you to come back to your house…”

Ashley looked up, alarmed.

“You won’t have to go anyplace upstairs. Just the kitchen. I have to know if you can identify something this man ate, or a glass he drank from, a utensil he used. If you can, we may be able to get him. Do you feel up to it?”

Ashley nodded. It was a chance to do something. The policewoman was Ashley’s size. Detective Birch asked her to give Ashley her heavy coat and to pull a car into the McCluskeys’ driveway. He wanted to protect Ashley from the elements and the press.

When the car was as near as it could get, Birch led Ashley out a side door. A few reporters noticed the exit but Ashley was in the car before they could bother her. The policewoman turned on the bubble lights and used the horn and siren during the short drive to the Spencer home.

It was still raining, and Birch opened an umbrella over Ashley.

“I won’t see the bodies, will I?”

“We’re just going in the kitchen,” he assured her.

Birch had been in the house earlier and he knew the way to the kitchen, which was adjacent to the stairs that led to the second floor. A photographer was snapping shots of the area. Birch shooed him out of the room.

“Take your time, Ashley,” the detective said. “Look around all you want.”

Ashley stood in the center of the room and turned slowly before focusing on the kitchen table. There were two folded paper napkins and a small spot of milk. She walked over to the sink. Then she opened the dishwasher.

“This is wrong,” Ashley said.

“What’s wrong?”

“When we got home Dad emptied the dishwasher. Mom was gone and he wanted the place to be clean when she got back, so he ran a wash before he came to the game. Then he put the dishes and glasses in the pantry.”

“Okay.”

“Tanya and I had some chocolate cake and milk when we watched this movie we rented. Mom made the cake. Our dirty dishes and stuff are in the dishwasher. We put them in after Dad went to bed. But there’s nothing in the sink and no other dishes or glasses or forks in the washer, and I know he ate something.”

“Maybe he didn’t use a plate or fork,” Birch said. “Maybe he ate with his hands.”

“No,” Ashley said adamantly. “I heard a plate hit the table. It’s why I…I left my dad. I knew he was done downstairs and was going to come for me. So, where is the plate?”

Birch scanned the room. He noticed that the door to a cabinet under the sink was ajar. The detective was wearing latex gloves but he used a pencil to open the door. A box of garbage bags was lying on its side, and the tip of a new bag was visible. Birch squatted in front of the cabinet, thinking. After a moment, he stood up.

“You’re certain that you heard the refrigerator door open?”

Ashley nodded. Birch opened the refrigerator. “Check it,” he said. “See if you can figure out what he ate.”

Ashley looked inside. A transparent plastic milk container was up front. She studied the level of the milk. Then she looked back and forth among the shelves, searching for something.

“The cake is gone. He took it all and the plate it was on. And I’m certain he poured some milk from this container. It was three-quarters full when we were done. And look. There’s some milk on the table. I wiped the table after we ate.”

“Good girl. This is terrific detective work.” Ashley smiled for the first time since her ordeal started. “I’m betting our man put the plate, the cake, everything that could give us a DNA trace, into one of these trash bags and took it with him.”

Ashley stopped smiling. “Does that mean you won’t be able to find him?”

“No, Ashley. It just makes our job a little harder.”

Chapter Two

March had been unseasonably cold. April made up for the rainy gray days with a profusion of multicolored flowers and vibrant greens that were so bright in the sharp sun they seemed unnatural. Ashley saw very little of the change of seasons. She had loved her father, and the fact that he had died to save her was devastating. The horrible way that Tanya Jones had died compounded Ashley’s grief.

Right after the murders, Ashley’s coaches, some of her teammates, and several of her friends had stopped by or called. The conversations had been awkward and painful for Ashley. Everyone meant well but they did not know what to say after “I’m so sorry,” “We love you,” and “Are you okay?” After the first few visits and calls, Ashley stopped seeing or talking to anyone. A few friends persisted for a while before giving up.

The reaction of Todd Franklin, Ashley’s boyfriend, had been especially difficult for her. Todd was the captain of the boys’ soccer team, which did not do nearly as well as the girls’ team. Sometimes Ashley thought that Todd resented the recognition she received. They had started seeing each other early in the year, but Ashley wasn’t sure she wanted to keep dating Todd.

They went out mostly with other friends, but they had been alone at parties and a few times at her house after her parents had gone to sleep. She liked making out with Todd. He was gentle and he made her laugh, but he also got mad when she didn’t let him go all the way. Ashley just wasn’t ready to make love to anyone yet. She thought she would do it with the right guy. Todd just wasn’t that boy.

Todd had come over to see her a few days after the attack. The meeting had been awkward from the start. Everyone knew from the stories in the media that Tanya had been raped before she’d been killed, but the same reports had been silent about what had happened to Ashley.

Terri had left Ashley and Todd alone in the den. They’d sat on the couch where the two of them had made out on several occasions. Usually, Todd was all over her as soon as the door closed. This time, he had kept a space between them and made no move to touch her. He hadn’t looked at her directly for more than a second or so, and his conversation was monosyllabic. He made her feel like a leper, and she thought that he’d come to see her out of a sense of obligation, but would rather be anywhere else. Not that she wanted to be touched. Any thought of sex evoked memories of the killer’s probing finger and his sour odor. Still, it would have been nice if Todd had shown some sign of affection instead of sitting next to her as rigid as a rabbit poised for flight. After that meeting, Todd had not visited or called again.

Since the tragedy, Ashley had refused to return to school. She stayed in her room or sat in the recliner in the family room watching mindless television shows. Terri Spencer told her daughter that no one was accusing her of being responsible for Tanya’s death, but Ashley was certain that her classmates would demand to know why she had lived and Tanya had died.

On the second Friday in April, at four in the afternoon, Terri returned from a meeting with the principal of Eisenhower High School. Ashley’s mother was five-foot-three, with large brown eyes, a dark complexion, and straight black hair she wore in a short, practical cut. She had competed in cross-country in college and still had the slender, wiry build of a long-distance runner. When Terri walked into the family room there was a talk show on the tube. She watched her daughter from the doorway for several seconds. Terri was certain that Ashley was using the show as a narcotic and would not be able to tell her a thing about it if she quizzed her.

Ashley’s self-imposed exile was frustrating and painful for Terri, who had raised a self-sufficient, confident young woman and now lived with an insecure young girl who had nightmares that kept her up at night and left her so exhausted that she slept away a good part of the day. She had suggested therapy, but Ashley refused to discuss the murders with anyone. Terri was having a hard time dealing with her own grief, but she did not have the luxury of withdrawing from the world. She had to take care of Ashley and earn a living.

Ashley was dressed in sweats, and her hair was uncombed. It took all of Terri’s self-control to keep from throwing her into a cold shower. She prayed that her news would break Ashley out of her funk. She attracted her daughter’s attention by switching off the set.

“I’ve got two pieces of good news,” Terri said. Ashley eyed her warily.

“I just finished talking to Mr. Paggett. He’s going to let you finish your junior year without going back to school. You won’t even have to take any exams. He’ll give you the grades you’ve gotten to date. They’re pretty high so that’s okay.”

A look of relief spread across Ashley’s face, but Terri showed no reaction. Ashley had always confronted her fears; she was strong, a born leader. That she wanted to hide in her house saddened Terri.

“There’s something else. Last week, I received a letter from the Oregon Academy. I didn’t want to discuss it with you until I’d talked to Mr. Paggett and the people at the Academy. I met with both of them today.”

Ashley sat up. The Oregon Academy was a perennial powerhouse in girls’ high school soccer. The private school had repeated as state champion this year and was ranked nationally. Eisenhower had lost to them in the state quarterfinals, but Ashley had scored two goals.

“The Academy wants you to go to their school for your senior year,” Terri said, keeping her tone neutral so that Ashley would not see how desperate she was for Ashley to take this opportunity. “They’re offering a full scholarship. We…we don’t have much money. I told them I couldn’t afford to send you if I had to pay. But they really want you. You impressed them at States. And playing for the Academy would increase your chances of getting into a top college. The school is A-one academically, and there would be a lot more athletic scholarship offers if you played for a nationally ranked team.”

For the first time since the tragedy, Ashley looked interested in something. Terri pressed on.

“And it would be a new start, a change of scenery. You could even board at the school, if you want to. You’d be out of the house, on your own. It would be a little like college.”

Terri stopped and held her breath. She knew that she would be terribly lonely if Ashley roomed at the Academy, but she was willing to make any sacrifice to help Ashley heal.

“When…when would I start?” Ashley asked.

“The school year begins in September but they have a soccer camp there in the summer. Some of the girls help out. The person I talked to said that you might be able to do that. I think some members of the Olympic team are going to be there.”

Ashley shifted in her seat. Terri could see that she was thinking hard.

“You don’t have to make up your mind right away. We could visit. You could see if you like the place, maybe meet some of the girls on the team. It’s only thirty minutes away,” Terri said, desperate to keep the conversation going. “What do you say? We could take a drive out there tomorrow. The weather is going to stay nice. The school is in the country. It would be fun.”

“Okay,” Ashley said in a voice so small that Terri wasn’t certain she heard her correctly.

“Good. I’ll call right now and see when they want us.”

“That’s fine.”

Terri nodded, when she really wanted to cry from relief. Ashley was going to shower, dress, and leave the house. After everything that had happened, this was more than she’d hoped for.

Chapter Three

The Van Meters had built Glen Oaks, their country estate, in the late 1800s by clearing several acres of oak, maple, and Douglas fir that ran up to the banks of the Willamette River. A stone wall guarded the perimeter of the estate. On the other side of the wall the road ran through a further buffer of forest that soon gave way to well-tended lawns and flower gardens bordered by pruned hedges. Then the road forked. To the left was an elegant stone mansion. A wide lawn separated the house from the road.

“That’s Henry Van Meter’s home,” Terri said as she took the right tine of the fork. “He founded the Academy. We’re meeting with his daughter, Casey. She runs the school.”

A boy and a girl on bicycles rode by, and Ashley saw a group of girls sitting on the grass, laughing. The Academy was pastoral and idyllic, the way she imagined one of those English universities like Oxford or Cambridge might be.

They passed some boys and girls playing tennis. Beyond the courts was a large outdoor pool, and beyond the pool was a modern steel-and glass gymnasium. Behind that was the soccer field. The team was practicing. Ashley stared with longing at the running, shouting girls.

On either side of a grassy quadrangle that was shaded by well-spaced elm trees were three-story brick buildings with white columns and peaked roofs that housed the classrooms of the Academy. Students were talking on the quadrangle and walking back and forth between the buildings. Everybody seemed happy and engaged.

The administrative offices were in another brick building at the far end of the quadrangle. Terri parked next to it in a small lot. The admissions office was on the first floor, and the dean’s office was above it. Upstairs, Terri gave the receptionist her name while Ashley looked at pictures of the school that hung on the waiting-room wall. One of them was a black-and-white photograph of a straight-backed, stern-looking man in a business suit standing in the middle of a construction site.

“That’s my father, Henry Van Meter.”

Ashley turned. A tall, thin woman with clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a wide forehead was standing in the doorway of the dean’s office. She was dressed in a white silk shirt, a blue pinstripe jacket, and matching skirt. Her straight blond hair fell to her shoulders, and a pearl necklace graced her slender neck.

“He started the Oregon Academy in this building.” She pointed at the picture Ashley had been looking at. “That’s what everything looked like during the first week of construction.”

The woman held out her hand. “I’m Casey Van Meter. You must be Ashley Spencer.”

Ashley hesitated, then shook Casey’s hand.

Casey smiled. “Actually, I didn’t have to guess who you were. I saw you score those goals against us in the quarterfinals of the state championships. I go to all the girls’ games. You’re very good-but you know that.”

Ashley flushed and looked down, embarrassed. Casey laughed. “And modest, too. That’s a trait I admire. We don’t encourage prima donnas at the Academy.”

Casey turned her attention to Ashley’s mother. “Hi again, Terri. I’m glad you two decided to look over the campus.”

“It was Ashley’s decision.”

Casey nodded. Then she fixed Ashley with a sharp gaze that was impossible to avoid.

“What do you see yourself doing five years from now, after you’ve graduated from college?” the dean asked.

“I like science. I was thinking of medical school, but I’m not sure.”

Terri was thrilled to hear her daughter talk about the future and she admired the way Casey Van Meter had shifted Ashley’s attention there so easily.

“Well, we’ve got a top-flight science facility. It’s the first building you passed when you drove down the quad. We designed it to look like the older buildings but, inside, the labs are state-of-the-art. Would you like to take a look at it?”

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m tired of sitting inside on a day like this. We can look around the grounds and end up at the gym. If you’d like, I can introduce you to some of the girls on the soccer team.”

“That would be okay,” Ashley answered nonchalantly, though her body language revealed her excitement at the possibility of meeting the girls on the Academy team.

Casey held open the door. “Shall we stroll?”

The dean walked beside Ashley as they descended the stairs and left the building. Terri followed, listening to Casey’s exposition on the history of the Academy and the school’s goals. The dean cut across the quadrangle, stopping her monologue occasionally to say hello to some of the students they passed. They were almost to the street that separated the quad from the academic buildings when a man in a tweed sports jacket and gray slacks hailed the dean.

Joshua Maxfield wore his reddish-brown hair stylishly long and had emerald-green eyes. He was lanky, a little less than six feet tall, and looked trim and fit. Ashley would not have been surprised if someone told her that Maxfield had played tennis in college or ran for exercise.

“Joshua!” Casey said with an enthusiastic smile. “I want you to meet Terri and Ashley Spencer. Ashley is a junior at Eisenhower High School and a top soccer player. We’re hoping that she’ll attend the Academy for her senior year.

“Terri, Ashley, this is Joshua Maxfield. He’s our writer-in-residence and he teaches creative writing. He’ll be your instructor if you take the course.”

“Joshua Maxfield,” Terri said, half to herself. Then she asked, “Did you write A Tourist in Babylon?”

Maxfield beamed. “Guilty as charged.”

“I thought it was terrific. I’m a big fan.”

“Well, thank you.”

“I remember Babylon so well. When Marion died from the overdose I cried. That scene was so powerful. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s music to my ears, Mrs. Spencer. A writer tries to create real emotions in his readers but we rarely know if we succeed.”

“Well, I did cry and I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was a very moving book. Are you working on another?”

Ashley thought that Maxfield looked uncomfortable, but it was only for a fraction of a second. Then he was smiling modestly.

“Actually, I am.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’d rather not say at this point. I’ve just started it. I will tell you that it’s a departure from my previous books.”

“I won’t press you. I’m working on my own novel and I don’t like talking about it, either.”

Ashley hid her surprise while she watched this exchange. Her mother was usually so businesslike. Now she was gushing the way some of Ashley’s friends did when they talked about a hunky TV teen idol.

“How far along are you?” Maxfield asked.

“About halfway. I’m a reporter for the The Oregonian. They keep me pretty busy. I grab a few hours here and there to work on it. Weekends mostly. It must be great to write full-time.”

“I’m very fortunate. You know, when you feel that you’re well enough along, I do critique manuscripts for a small fee.” Then he paused and pointed a finger at Terri. “Better yet, this summer I’m running a writing group on campus. It’s for serious writers who haven’t published yet but are working on something.” Maxfield fished out his wallet and handed Terri his card. “That’s my number, if you’re interested. I’m trying to keep the group small. Two people have signed up already so don’t wait too long to decide. I’d hate to have to turn you away.”

“Thanks,” Terri said, as she put the card in her purse.

“Joshua, what did you want to ask me?” Casey asked. Ashley thought she sounded a little sharp.

Maxfield smiled at the dean. “Nothing that won’t keep. I’ll catch you later.” The author turned to Terri. “It was nice meeting you.” Then he focused on Ashley. “I hope you’re thinking seriously about the Academy. It’s an excellent place to go to school.” He paused and his smile widened. “Maybe I’ll get you in my class.”

Maxfield walked off and Casey led Terri and Ashley across the street to the science building.

“Joshua Maxfield,” Terri said, smiling. “Have you read his books?” she asked Casey Van Meter.

“Of course.”

“A Tourist in Babylon was so great.” She paused. “How long has it been since it came out?”

“About ten years,” Casey answered.

“That’s what I thought. And The Wishing Well was published the next year. I wonder why he’s taken so long to write his third?”

“You can ask him if you decide to join his group. That sounds like a great opportunity for someone working on a novel, to get advice from a published writer.”

Casey turned to Ashley. “That’s why we asked Joshua to join our faculty. We want our students to have opportunities they don’t get in public school. He lives on campus. If you develop an interest in writing, like your mother, you’d be able to consult with him whenever you wanted to. Joshua is very approachable. He loves working with our students.”

Chapter Four

Terri Spencer parked in the visitors’ lot of the Oregon Academy. It was the second week in June, and the weather was as sunny as her mood. Ashley had decided to attend the Academy in the fall and the decision had started the process of healing. During the summer she was living in the dorm and working as a counselor in the school’s nationally respected soccer clinic. Terri was going to have lunch with her at noon, but she had something important to do first.

Joshua Maxfield’s writing group was going to start in two weeks, and Terri had joined it. The members were supposed to submit a writing sample that Maxfield and the group would critique. Terri had brought her partially written manuscript for Maxfield to read. She still could not believe that the author of one of her favorite books was going to help her with her writing.

The Academy had a building for pre-school through fifth grade, another for the middle school program, and two buildings-one for science and the other for liberal arts-for the high school. Joshua Maxfield’s office was in the middle of the hall on the third floor of the liberal arts building. The door was closed. Terri knocked.

“Enter,” Maxfield said.

This was the first time she had been in a published novelist’s work-place, and Terri was uncharacteristically nervous. She opened the door and took a quick look around. Maxfield’s office surprised her. A mug of coffee, a half-eaten doughnut, and a neatly stacked manuscript were the only things on his desk. There were no family photographs, no literary journals or books, not even an ashtray.

The rest of the office also had the feel of temporary occupancy. A bare coatrack hid in a corner, and a glass-fronted bookshelf, with very few books, stood near it. The four walls were devoid of decoration except for framed covers of Joshua’s two novels, a favorable review of A Tourist in Babylon from the New York Times, and framed awards that the book had garnered. Other than Maxfield’s desk, the bookshelves, and some chairs, the only other furniture in the room was a small table upon which sat a coffee pot. A few mugs, packets of powdered creamer and sugar, and an open box of doughnuts kept the pot company.

Maxfield was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a tight black T-shirt that stretched across his chest and showed off his well-defined biceps. He looked amused.

“If you’re searching for the tools of my trade-the quill pen, the parchment, my smoking jacket-they’re in my cottage. That’s where I create my masterpieces. I’d never get anything accomplished if I tried to write here. Too many interruptions and distractions.”

Terri looked embarrassed.

“Don’t worry. You’re not the first person to have that reaction. I’ve never felt comfortable in an office. Makes me feel like an accountant. You’d like my cottage. It’s on the school grounds down by the river. I don’t have any animal head trophies hanging from the walls à la Papa Hemingway but the cottage is much closer to the stereotype of a writer’s digs, very cluttered and untidy. Maybe I can show it to you someday.”

That sounded like a pass, and Terri hid her surprise. If Maxfield noticed her discomfort he didn’t show it. Instead, he pointed at the manila envelope Terri was clutching with both hands.

“Is that your magnum opus?”

Terri blushed. “Yes.”

Maxfield flicked his fingers, beckoning for the manuscript.

“Let’s have it.”

Terri handed over the envelope. “It’s hard to part with,” she said. “Especially when you know that strangers are going to rip it apart.”

“No one is going to rip your baby apart. My critique groups are very civilized. And you should look forward to criticism, even when it’s negative. One of the rules of good writing is that no one is perfect. Everyone screws up. That’s why we have editors. The good ones catch our mistakes before the public sees them in print.” He paused. “And not everyone is going to be a stranger.”

Terri looked surprised. “Do I know someone else in the group?”

“I was referring to myself. We’ve been formally introduced. I hope you don’t still consider me to be a stranger. Sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

“Thanks,” Terri said, taking one of two chairs that faced Joshua’s desk. Maxfield walked over to the coffee pot and filled a mug for Terri.

“Cream, sugar?” he asked.

“Black is fine.”

“Can I tempt you with a doughnut? I’m addicted to sweets.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

When Maxfield set the mug in front of Terri, he looked down at her and smiled. It was a warm smile, but something about his proximity made her uncomfortable. She’d received many friendly smiles from men while she was married, but she had not received one from a single man since Norman died. Terri wasn’t sure how to respond. She wanted to be friendly, too, but showing any kind of interest in a man made her feel as if she was being unfaithful to Norman. That made no sense but it was the way she felt. She had really loved Norman; she still loved him. You didn’t stop loving someone just because they were dead.

“Your daughter…Alice?” Joshua asked when he was back on his side of the desk.

“Ashley.”

“Right. Has she decided to come to the Academy?”

“Yes,” Terri answered, relieved to be discussing a safe subject. “Actually, she’s here now. She’s a counselor at the soccer clinic.”

“I thought I saw her around.”

“She’s living in the dorm. I miss her at home, of course, but we talk on the phone a lot. She chatters nonstop about the Olympians she’s met, the other counselors, and the children she teaches. Working with the young kids has been very good for her.”

“I’m glad to hear it. She seems like a very nice young woman.”

“She is. It was horrible right after her father died.” Terri’s voice caught for a moment. Maxfield looked concerned and surprised.

“Was this recently?” he asked.

Terri nodded because she was unable to speak.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry. I still…” She stopped and shook her head.

“I hope you don’t think I’m insensitive, but I really didn’t know.”

Maxfield reached in his drawer and pulled out some Kleenex.

“I’m okay,” Terri assured him.

“I’m glad working at the clinic has helped Ashley deal with her grief,” Maxfield said. “Maybe she’ll take my creative writing class and I can get to know her better.”

Ashley had enjoyed eating lunch with her mother. Terri had been so excited about being in Mr. Maxfield’s writing group. It was good to see her happy again. She had been so sad since Norman ’s murder. Ashley knew that she hadn’t helped matters by being depressed. She felt bad about the way she’d added to her mother’s problems. Terri was always asking how she felt, checking to see if she was sinking back into despair. It could get a little annoying at times, but Ashley knew her mother asked because she cared.

After lunch, Ashley worked with a group of girls age eight to ten on basic skills. She really liked working with the little kids. They were very eager to learn, and so cute. When the clinic ended, she and Sally Castle, her roommate and an Academy starter, slipped into their swimsuits and headed for the Olympic-size outdoor pool.

Sally was a stocky brunette who was always happy. She and Ashley had played on the same club team when they were in middle school, and they were being courted by some of the same colleges. It was possible that they would be college teammates.

Sally’s folks had Ashley over for dinner at their big house in the West Hills shortly after they started rooming together. Back at the dorm afterward, Ashley had apologized for being so quiet during dinner. She told Sally how much it hurt to be around a happy family. The laughter and good feeling had reminded her of the way things used to be at the Spencer family table when her dad was alive. Sally had been very understanding, and the two girls had been tight ever since.

Half of the pool had lane lines for lap swimming. The other half was for fun. Ashley and Sally dove in the unlined section and paddled around to cool off. It had been very hot all afternoon, and the water felt great. Some of the boys from the soccer camp showed up, and the play became rowdy. Ashley and Sally didn’t enjoy the roughhousing, so they swam closer to the lap swimmers. That’s when Ashley noticed a man squatting on the edge of the pool and Casey Van Meter stroking smoothly down the center lane toward him. The man was deeply tanned and wore his long black hair in a ponytail. His black silk muscle shirt and tight-fitting jeans looked out of place among the cheap T-shirts, baggy shorts, and swimsuits that everyone else was wearing.

“Uh-oh,” Sally said.

“What’s the matter?”

“See that guy at the edge of the pool?”

Ashley nodded.

“His name is Randy Coleman. He’s married to Dean Van Meter.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Here’s the good stuff.” Sally dropped her voice. “I heard that she met him last year in Las Vegas at an education convention. Supposedly, they had a wild fling and got married in some Elvis chapel.”

“Dean Van Meter! Gosh, she seems so…so sophisticated. And that guy looks so greasy.”

“Well, she did drop him about a month later but he followed her to Portland. We’re members of the country club where the Van Meters go, so my mom is on top of all the good gossip. She says that Coleman is bugging the dean to come back to him because Henry Van Meter had this real serious stroke and he’s still sick. If he dies, the dean and her brother will be loaded and Coleman wants a piece of it. And get this, Coleman’s supposed to be a professional gambler with ties to the mob.”

Casey reached the wall. Coleman tapped her shoulder. She stopped in mid-turn and looked up.

“What are you doing here?” Ashley heard Casey ask. She sounded annoyed at having her workout interrupted.

“We have to talk,” Coleman said.

Something about his voice was familiar, but Ashley was certain they’d never met.

“If you received the papers you know that there’s nothing to talk about,” Casey said coldly.

“Yeah, I got them, but this is all wrong. We belong together, baby.”

Casey took a quick look around. A number of the students were watching.

“I’m not going to discuss this here, Randy. In fact, I’m not going to discuss it at all. You can have your lawyer call mine if you’ve got questions.”

Casey turned her back to Coleman and positioned herself to start swimming away from him. When she raised her arm, Coleman grabbed her wrist. Van Meter glared at her husband.

“Release me at once.”

“I said we have to talk.”

A movement to her right distracted Ashley. Joshua Maxfield was strolling toward the pool.

“Hey, Randy, let her go.” Maxfield sounded friendly, not threatening.

“Fuck off, Maxfield. This is between me and my wife.”

“Get your hands off me,” the dean commanded angrily.

Coleman turned his face toward Casey Van Meter and said, “Listen, bitch,” but he never finished the sentence because she lashed out with her free hand and smacked him hard. Coleman reared back to punch Casey but Maxfield was on him before he could strike. Everything happened fast after that, and the action ended with Coleman on the ground, his arm twisted behind him at an odd angle.

“This isn’t helping anyone,” Maxfield said, still calm and completely in control of the situation. He stood and forced Randy to his feet.

“I’ll get you, you fuck,” Coleman gasped, obviously in pain.

“Now, now. I’m the last guy you want to threaten, Randy. I had demolition training in the Rangers. Make me nervous and you’ll be even more nervous every time you start your car or open your apartment door. Do you want that? I don’t think so. So why don’t you calm down and leave while the only aches you have to nurse are a sore wrist and injured pride.”

Coleman looked unsure of himself. Maxfield inched up Randy’s arm until he was forced to stand on his toes.

“What do you say, old chap?” Maxfield asked. “I’ve got nothing against you but there are kids around here. It’s not good for them to see this.”

Coleman grimaced with pain and nodded.

“I’m going to let go. Okay? No sneaky punches, promise?”

“Let loose, damn it,” Coleman gasped. Maxfield released his hold. Randy cast a furious look at Casey.

“We’re not through,” he threatened before stomping off.

“Thanks, Joshua,” Casey said as she watched her attacker walk toward the parking lot.

“No problemo. These marriage things drive people crazy.”

Casey studied Joshua. She didn’t look angry anymore, just curious.

“Do you really know how to rig a car?”

Joshua threw his head back and laughed. “Hell no. Remember, I’m a novelist. I lie for a living.”

Suddenly, Maxfield and the dean noticed the gawking teenagers. Maxfield held up his hands.

“Everything’s cool. You can return to your regularly scheduled programming.” He turned to Casey. “Let’s go.”

“Did you see that?” Sally Castle said, awestruck. “I didn’t know Mr. Maxfield knew that Jackie Chan stuff. That was so cool.”

Suddenly, Sally noticed her friend’s ashen complexion. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Ashley answered, but she was lying. The violence had made her flash back to the attack in her house. And there was something else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Was it Coleman’s voice? She’d thought that it sounded familiar when she first heard him speak, but now she wasn’t so certain she’d heard it before. But Coleman was about the same height as her father’s murderer. No, that was ridiculous. A lot of men were the same size as the killer. Mr. Maxfield was the same size, too, and he didn’t make her nervous.

Chapter Five

Terri Spencer rushed up the stairs to the second floor of the liberal arts building, then walked down the hall slowly so she could catch her breath. It was the first day of the writing group, and she was late. When she entered the schoolroom, Joshua Maxfield waved her onto a chair next to a heavyset, bearded man who was seated on the side of a conference table nearest the door. Next to him was an older woman with long gray hair. Across the table were two middle-aged women and a young man.

“Sorry I’m late,” Terri apologized. “The traffic was horrendous.”

“It’s not a problem,” Maxfield assured her from his position at the head of the table. “We just got settled. All you missed was a chance to get some coffee and doughnuts and I think we’ll still let you do that. What do you say, group?”

Everyone laughed, including Terri. “I’m fine, thanks,” she told Maxfield.

“Then we’ll get started by introducing ourselves. And I’ll begin by telling you a little about myself. I went to community college in Boston after I was expelled from high school. I began A Tourist in Babylon in my English class as an essay. My professor encouraged me to turn it into a novel. I thought he was crazy-I honestly didn’t think I had any talent-but I decided to give it a try. I transferred to the University of Massachusetts and finished the novel while getting my BA.

“Tourist was rejected by several houses before an editor at Pegasus Press was wise enough to discern its merits. The rest, as they say, is history. My first novel was nominated for all of the major literary prizes and was a bestseller. So I know a little about crass commercialism as well as literature.

“The Wishing Well was published a year or so later. I taught creative writing at a college in New England for a while but I decided to come west a few years ago and dedicate myself to working with younger students. I’ve enjoyed my two years at the Oregon Academy tremendously but I like to work with older writers for balance, which is why I conduct these seminars.

“But enough about me. Terri, why don’t you tell everyone who you are, where you work, and why you’re here?”

“I’m Terri Spencer, I’m a reporter at The Oregonian. I know all reporters are supposed to be writing the Great American Novel in their spare time. It’s a terrible cliché but it’s true in my case. I don’t know about the ‘great’ part but I am halfway through a book and I thought it was time to get some professional help.”

“ Harvey,” Maxfield said, nodding to the bearded man sitting to Terri’s left.

Harvey Cox told the group that he was a biotech researcher who had published one science fiction short story and was looking for help with a science fiction novel he was writing. Lois Dean, the older woman, had run across a set of diaries written by an ancestor who had followed the Oregon Trail in the 1800s. She wanted to turn them into a historical novel. Mindy Krauss and Lori Ryan were housewives and bridge partners who were trying their hand at a mystery, and Brad Dorrigan was a computer programmer who had majored in English Lit and spoke earnestly about the coming-of-age story he had been working on for several years.

“Okay, great,” Maxfield said. “Well, we certainly have a diverse group. That’s good. It means that we’re going to get different opinions when we critique each other’s work. And that is one of the things we are going to do here.

“Now let me talk about criticism for a moment. Each week I’m going to read something that someone in the group has submitted and each of you is going to be painfully honest with your opinions. That doesn’t mean that you are going to be mean or spiteful. The only type of criticism I expect here is constructive criticism. It’s perfectly all right to dislike something, but I want you to tell the writer why you don’t like what he or she has written and I want you to suggest how the work can be changed for the better. So think before you speak.

“My job will be to moderate these proceedings but I’m also going to give you tips that I hope will improve your writing. When we start each class I’ll spend some time talking about character development, outlining, and other aspects of the writer’s craft. Now, I don’t like talking to hear myself speak. I assume you’re here because you are motivated to improve your craft. So, ask questions. Remember, in this group there is no such thing as a stupid question.

“And with that introduction, unless there are questions, I’m going to start our first session with a brief discussion of the method I use to develop story ideas.”

They took a break after the first hour, and Terri talked to the other members of Maxfield’s class. Except for Brad Dorrigan, who took himself a little too seriously, the other aspiring writers were a pleasant group.

“Okay, back to the grind,” Joshua Maxfield said when fifteen minutes had passed. Terri carried a cup of coffee to her place. While everyone got settled, she checked the notes she’d taken about developing story ideas.

“I said that we’re going to spend a portion of each meeting critiquing each other’s writing,” Maxfield said. “Tonight, I’m going to read a chapter from a work in progress and everyone will comment.”

Terri was nervous that her manuscript would be the subject of the first critique. The other students looked just as worried. Maxfield squared up a short stack of paper that lay in front of him. He picked up the first sheet.

“I am a God. Not The God. I am from one of the lesser pantheons but a God nonetheless. I don’t make a practice of announcing the fact, and those that discover my powers never tell. On a balmy spring evening in mid-May I introduced myself to the Reardons of Sheldon, Massachusetts.

“I chose the Reardons because they were so ordinary, the type of people who occupy space while alive and are not missed when they die. Our experience together would be, by far, the most amazing event in their boring lives.

“Bob, a short, overweight man who was losing his hair, was an accountant. Margaret sold makeup at a department store on Main Street. I imagine that she had once been attractive. She still worked hard to keep her figure, but her skin was beginning to wrinkle and her legs were marred by cellulite. Their only daughter, Desiree, was seventeen, a junior in high school. She was of normal intelligence, and her looks were average, but she was physically advanced. I’d caught sight of her when she visited her mother at work. Her tight shorts showed off her taut buttocks and long firm legs. Her T-shirt was cut to display her flat, tanned tummy and sensual navel. Oh how I desired to lick it.

“With my appetite whetted by my first sight of Desiree, I laid my plans. Entering the Reardon home was easy. They were living from month to month and could not afford a security system.

“The master bedroom was down the hall from Desiree’s room. I subdued her parents with ease but I did not kill them. I had no interest in Bob but I wanted him to know who had taken his life force. Gods should not work in anonymity. I taped Bob’s mouth, hands, and ankles and arranged him on his side so he could watch me play with his wife. After Margaret was bound and gagged, I stripped her naked. Then I left them to contemplate their fate and went to Desiree’s room.

“The object of my desire was lying half-covered by a thin sheet. Because of the heat, she wore only a pair of bikini panties and a thin cotton top that revealed her taut nipples and the tops of her firm breasts. I wanted her to experience sheer terror, the appropriate response of a mortal in the presence of a God. I approached her stealthily. Then I clamped my gloved hand across her mouth. Her eyes sprang open and she stared at me with pure horror. The reaction was very satisfying. Her body actually arched off of the mattress as if electricity had coursed through her. I bound her quickly. She was small and no match for my supernatural strength. My arousal was immediate but I restrained myself, rejecting immediate gratification so that our experience would be more intense.

“After caressing various parts of her nude body, I left Desiree and returned to her parents. As Bob watched, I slowly dismembered his wife. He struggled and wept through it all. She screamed as I heightened her pain. It was wonderful and, as a prelude to the main course, thoroughly satisfying. With Margaret on the edge of death, but still conscious, I turned my attention to Bob. His eyes widened when I spoke to him of the journey he was about to take to the next plane of existence. I explained how birth began with pain and how pain was a necessary part of the transition he was about to make.

“My knife was very sharp, and I wielded it slowly and with precision. Each cut would have pleased the most skilled surgeon. Bob stayed conscious even after I opened his belly. He was screaming still when I began to remove his internal organs. It was only when I crushed his beating heart in my gloved hand that he passed from this life to the next.

“I returned to Margaret. Her transition was quicker and less satisfying. She slipped away after I had drained no more than a quarter of her psychic energy. There was an armchair in the room, and I sat on it to gather myself. I had been thinking of Bob and Margaret’s passage from life to death as I worked, but now my attention turned to my corporeal body. It was exhausted from its exertions, and I was hungry. I did not want to undertake the most exciting part of my adventure in this condition. I did walk down the hall to check on the sweet Desiree. I could hear her weep from frustration as I approached her door. I assume she’d tried to free herself and found the task impossible. The weeping stopped abruptly when I entered her room. She grew rigid with fear. I watched her from the door, exploring the curves and valleys of her body with my x-ray eyes. Then I stroked her forehead and told her that I would be returning to her soon. After planting a kiss on her cheek I left her room and went to the kitchen. I was famished and prayed that the Reardons liked to snack. I was in luck. In the back of the refrigerator I discovered a carton of cold milk and a slice of apple pie.”

Maxfield read with his eyes on the page but every once in a while he would focus on one of the students to gauge their reaction. The faces of the others varied from fascination to horror. Terri had grown pale during the reading, and when Maxfield read the part where the killer ate the snack in the victim’s kitchen, she nearly threw up.

“Any comments?” he asked the group when he finished. Terri tried to compose herself, terrified to show her true emotions.

“That was…very gruesome,” Harvey Cox managed. “I mean, if the writer was trying to gross me out he succeeded.”

“Why he?” Maxfield asked.

“It’s got to be a man,” Cox said, casting a quick glance across the table at Brad Dorrigan. “Women don’t write like that.”

“That’s not true,” Lori Ryan protested. “Some of today’s women authors write very grisly scenes.”

“Let’s get back to your comment, Harvey,” Maxfield said. “Was this really gruesome? Does the writer describe his murders in detail or leave the details to the reader’s imagination?”

Lois Dean raised her hand.

“Lois?”

“Before I say anything, I’ve got to tell you that I don’t like books like this. I don’t read them. So I’m biased against it. But I see your point. There are a few graphic parts but most of the violence isn’t spelled out.”

“Is that good or bad?” Maxfield asked.

“Good, I think,” Mindy Krauss answered. “It’s like in Psycho. You don’t really see Norman Bates stab the woman in the shower but you’re sure you did see her stabbed. Hitchcock makes you use your imagination.”

Maxfield nodded and looked at Terri Spencer.

“What do you think, Terri, more details or less detail? Do you prefer it when the writer leaves nothing to the imagination or when the writer forces you to be part of his fantasy?”

Terri had all she could do to keep from racing out of the room but she made it through the rest of the class, even supplying intelligent answers on the two occasions she was asked a question.

As the discussion droned on, Terri tried to make sense of what had just happened. She told herself that the incident in the chapter was a coincidence, but she knew that was impossible. Milk and cake, milk and pie. It was too close to real life. But there was one possible explanation. Some writers fictionalized real events to make their stories seem authentic. Maybe the person who wrote the scene had read about the killer’s snack and used the incident because it was so horrifying. For a moment, Terri felt relieved. Then she remembered the newspaper accounts of her tragedy that she had read. She didn’t recall the snack being mentioned in any of them. Had the police held back that information? She had to know.

And who had written the scene that Maxfield read? She was pretty certain that Lois Dean was not the writer. Dean was working on a historical novel based on her ancestor’s diaries and she had told the class that she didn’t like graphic serial killer books. Mindy Krauss and Lori Ryan were working on a mystery novel, and Lori Ryan had not been upset by the grisly nature of the scene. Lori was even acquainted with women authors who wrote this style of book. But Terri leaned toward one of the men as the author. Which one, though? Harvey Cox had told the group that he was writing science fiction. That left Brad Dorrigan.

When the class ended, Terri waited for the computer programmer. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt. He was also thin and, Terri guessed, only five-six or seven-much shorter and less muscular than the killer Ashley had described.

“Interesting class,” Terri said.

“I expected more,” Dorrigan replied disdainfully. “I assumed that we would be discussing theory, certainly something more advanced. Outlining, where we get our ideas from-drivel. Maybe Maxfield was a one-shot wonder, like the critics say.”

Terri was aware that Joshua’s second novel, The Wishing Well, had received poor reviews and sold dismally. She thought it was okay but nowhere near the quality of A Tourist in Babylon. Joshua Maxfield had been hailed as a new voice of his generation when his first novel was published. Within a year of the publication of his second novel it was rare to find any mention of him.

“What did you think of that excerpt Mr. Maxfield read?” Terri asked.

“Talk about unmitigated crap. Garbage like that is destroying literature. Publishers don’t want to read anything with depth and characterization anymore. They’re all looking at the bottom line. Dismember a naked woman and they’ll give you a million dollars, but write about the soul of man, what makes us human…forget it. You should see some of the rejection letters I’ve gotten from those morons in New York. Do you think Camus, Sartre, or Stendhal would get a book contract today?”

Terri forced a laugh. “I guess you didn’t write that bloodbath, then?”

Dorrigan looked appalled. “I wouldn’t use those pages to wipe my ass.”

Terri caught up with Lori Ryan and Mindy Krauss in the parking lot. “What did you think of the first class?” Terri asked.

“It was great,” Mindy answered. “I took so many notes my hand cramped.”

“He’s such a terrific teacher,” Lori gushed.

“That wasn’t your mystery he read, was it?” Terri asked.

The women laughed. “Ours is set in a bridge group,” Mindy told her.

“Someone is murdering the members and leaving a card pinned to the bodies,” Lori said.

“The clue is so clever,” Mindy said. “If you make a hand out of…”

“Don’t tell the ending,” Lori jumped in. “It will spoil it for her.”

“You’re right,” Mindy sighed, frustrated at not being able to reveal the clever solution to their mystery.

Terri said good-bye to the women and got in her car. She started it just as Joshua Maxfield left the building. He was carrying a briefcase and strolling toward his cottage as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Terri felt sick. She was fairly certain that none of the members of the class had written the excerpt. Maxfield had told her that he critiqued manuscripts for a fee. The chapter could have been from a manuscript that he was editing. But Maxfield had also said that he was working on a new book. And he lived on the Academy grounds. Terri looked toward Ashley’s dormitory. She wanted to run to her daughter and take her away from the Academy and Joshua Maxfield, but Ashley was doing so well. If she took Ashley home she would have to explain why, and that could undo all of the healing that had occurred. No, Terri decided, she would not act until she had investigated more thoroughly. She was a reporter. She knew how to develop a lead into a story; she knew how to nail down facts.

Chapter Six

The Detective Division of the Portland Police Bureau took up one side of the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center, a modern, sixteen-story building located across the park from the Multnomah County Courthouse. Each detective had a workspace separated from the other detectives by a chest-high divider. When the receptionist told Larry Birch that Terri Spencer was in the waiting room, he came out to the front counter and escorted her to his cubicle.

“Sit down,” Birch said, gesturing toward a chair that sat next to a gunmetal-gray desk piled high with reports, correspondence, and depart-mental memos. A picture of Birch with a woman and two small children stood on one corner.

“How are you, Mrs. Spencer?” he asked when Terri was seated.

“I’m okay,” she answered, but Birch didn’t think so. He thought that she looked drawn, pale, and very nervous.

“How’s Ashley doing?”

“Fine. She’s going to a new school, the Oregon Academy. I thought the change-you know, starting over in a new place-would help her.”

“It sounds like a good idea. And it’s working out?”

“She doesn’t start classes until the fall, but she’s a counselor at a soccer clinic out there, teaching young children. She seems to enjoy it.”

“She’s a top player, right?”

“All-State. Several colleges are looking at her.”

“Well, that’s great.”

All the time she’d been talking Terri had been shifting nervously in her seat. Birch waited patiently for her to tell him why she wanted to see him.

“I was wondering if there was any progress. If you have any idea who…”

Terri’s voice trailed off. Thinking about what had happened to her husband was too hard on her.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Spencer, we have made some progress but we’re nowhere near an arrest.”

“What does that mean?”

“We asked the FBI in on this and they came up with something.”

“What?”

Birch hesitated for a moment. Then he looked Terri in the eye. “You’re a reporter, right?”

“Not where my husband’s murder is concerned.”

Birch nodded. “Okay. But I need to know that you will absolutely not tell anyone else what I tell you.”

“Of course.”

“The FBI thinks that the person who murdered your husband and Tanya Jones has committed other crimes in several states over the past few years.”

“A serial killer?”

“That’s what they think. But they have no clue to the killer’s identity.”

“Why do they think it’s a serial killer? What are the common threads?”

“Duct tape was used to bind the victims instead of rope. The FBI has established that the same company manufactured the duct tape used in all of the crimes and they’ve made a physical match between the duct tape used in a case in Michigan and another in Arizona. For obvious reasons, this is something we’re not telling the public.”

“Are there any other clues you’re keeping from the public?” Terri asked, fighting to keep her tone neutral.

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I don’t want to leak anything unintentionally.”

“You know the killer ate a piece of chocolate cake at your house?”

Terri nodded.

“He ate a piece of pie during a murder in Connecticut.”

Terri felt the blood drain from her face. She averted her eyes. “So only the investigators know about the snack at our house? You haven’t released the information to the public?”

“That’s right.”

“Are they keeping the snack a secret in Connecticut too?”

Birch nodded.

“Where were the other murders?”

“They started in New England about five years ago. Then there were a few in other parts of the country.” Birch listed the cities.

“What…what does he do?”

“They’re like your house, Mrs. Spencer. There’s always a teenage daughter. He murders the adults and rapes the daughter before killing her. Ashley is a very lucky young woman. She’s the only person who has survived his attacks.”

Ashley stayed after the clinic session ended to help a seventh-grade girl with her passing skills. The kid was good, and she would get better because she cared about technique. The girl’s mother had waited patiently while Ashley and her student put in an extra twenty minutes. When they were through, she thanked Ashley for taking the extra time to help her daughter. The praise felt good. On the way out of the gym Ashley was wondering if she wanted to teach or coach as a career when a man’s voice interrupted her reverie.

“It’s Ashley, right?”

Ashley looked up. Joshua Maxfield was standing in front of her. He was dressed in a T-shirt and athletic shorts and looked like he’d just finished a workout.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt any great thoughts,” the teacher said. “You looked like you were in a trance.”

Ashley blushed. “It’s okay,” she mumbled.

“I’m Joshua Maxfield. I teach creative writing. We met when Dean Van Meter was showing you and your mother around the school.”

“I remember.”

Maxfield gave her a warm smile. “Your mother’s in my critique group. She says you’ve decided to come to the Academy in the fall.”

Ashley nodded.

“Well, that’s terrific. I hope you’ll think about taking my class. Your mother’s work is very good. Do you do any creative writing?”

“Not really. I mean, I had assignments in school but I don’t do any on my own. I’m pretty busy with soccer all year.”

“That’s right. You’re a counselor at the summer clinic. You must be pretty good. Our girls have a good team, don’t they?”

“Yeah. They won state’s the last two years.”

“Are you going to start?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said, smiling. “Well, I’m going to hit the shower. It’s nice seeing you again.”

Chapter Seven

Terri was shown into Casey Van Meter’s office a little after four. The dean was wearing an elegantly tailored black silk suit, and her hair and makeup were perfect.

“Sit down, Terri. I’m glad you dropped by. I’m getting glowing reports about Ashley.”

“Thank you. She’s having a great time. Living in the dorm with the other girls and working with the children has been a wonder cure.”

“I’m glad to hear that. So, what brings you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about one of your teachers but I don’t want the teacher to know that I’ve been investigating.”

“Investigating? That sounds serious.”

“It is. But before I tell you anything more I want to make sure that you’ll treat the inquiry confidentially.”

“I’m not certain that I can do that without knowing why you’re asking. The welfare of our students is paramount.”

Terri wasn’t sure how to proceed. She had promised Detective Birch that she would keep his confidences but she needed to know more about Joshua Maxfield, and Dean Van Meter might have some of the information she needed.

“I’m in a funny position,” Terri explained. “I have suspicions about one of your faculty but I don’t want to tell you why, right now, because I don’t want to get this person in trouble if I’m wrong.”

“Whom are we talking about?”

“Joshua Maxfield. I’d like to know if there’s anything in his background that’s…suspicious.”

The dean sighed. She even looked a bit relieved. “You’d find out anyway with a little digging, and I don’t want you to think that the Academy is hiding anything. Joshua did not leave his teaching position at Eton College voluntarily. He was forced to resign.”

“What happened?”

“His first novel did very well but his second book was a failure both critically and financially. Then Joshua developed a terrible case of writer’s block. He’d been given an advance for another novel but he couldn’t write it. A conglomerate bought his original publisher. The new owners demanded that Joshua meet his deadline or return his advance. Unfortunately, he’d spent the money. He was desperate for a job. Eton College was looking for a creative writing teacher. He applied. Joshua’s name was still golden in academic circles but he didn’t know that so he made an unfortunate decision.”

“What did he do?”

“He doctored his résumé. It was totally unnecessary but Joshua wasn’t thinking clearly. He claimed that he had an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop when, in fact, he had attended for less than a semester.”

“How did the school find out?’

“Joshua was under tremendous pressure to repay the advance. The publisher was threatening a lawsuit. He started drinking and acting erratically. He was depressed, not writing, that sort of thing. He missed classes. Then there was an incident with a student…”

“What sort of incident?”

“She claimed he offered to give her an A if she slept with him. During the inquiry the school discovered the discrepancy on his résumé. He was given the choice of resigning or being fired.”

“Why did you hire him if you knew all this?”

“Joshua came to us more than a year or so after he left New England. He was completely open with us about his problems at Eton. He admitted propositioning the coed. He said he did it when he was drunk and depressed after getting another letter from a lawyer about the advance. We felt that it was worth the risk to have a writer of Joshua’s caliber on our faculty. To our knowledge, he has not betrayed our trust.”

“What I’m concerned about is a lot more serious than lying on a résumé.”

Casey looked confused. “Please be more specific.”

Terri hesitated. Her evidence was far from overwhelming.

“Will you promise to keep what I tell you between us?”

“All right, but I’m only agreeing because I need to know if there is any possibility that our students might be affected.”

“I’m taking Joshua’s writing class. We’re supposed to submit something we’re working on. Each week, he’s going to read our submissions, then the class critiques the work.”

“Yes?” Casey asked impatiently.

“He read a very disturbing piece at the first class. It was in the first person. It was about a serial killer and it went into detail about the rape and dismemberment of a girl Ashley’s age and her parents. It was horrible and very graphic.”

“I can see how that would be disturbing but…”

“Anyone who could write something like that has to be sick.”

“Joshua is a novelist, Terri. There’s a book featuring a serial killer on every bestseller list. Do you think those authors are murderers?”

“You don’t understand. Maxfield knew things that happened in my house when Ashley was attacked that the police never released to the public.”

Casey’s look was halfway between shock and amusement, as if she was unsure if she was the butt of a practical joke. Terri looked grim.

“You’re serious?” the dean said.

Terri told Casey Van Meter about the snack. The dean paid close attention. When Terri was through, Casey shook her head.

“I’m not convinced. How do you know that Joshua was reading something he’d written?”

“I know it wasn’t written by any of the other students. I talked to all of them. And he told me that he’s working on a new book.”

“Yes, but…” Casey stopped. She shook her head. “I find this very hard to believe. I know Joshua…”

“You think you know him. I’ve been reading about the pathology of serial killers. People assume that it would be easy to spot the type of person who could…could kill my husband and attack two helpless teenage girls but you can’t tell just by looking at them. Ann Rule worked side by side with Ted Bundy on the rape hotline in Seattle while she had a contract to write about the murders he was committing as soon as the case was solved. She never suspected that she was a friend of the man who would become the subject of her first bestseller. And think about the usual reaction of neighbors when they learn they’ve been living next door to someone like John Wayne Gacy. They can’t believe that the nice guy they’ve chatted with about mundane things like their lawn or a favorite TV show could be a monster.”

“That may be true, but I’m sure you’re wrong about Joshua.”

“There was the incident with the female student at Eton College.”

“He didn’t murder her, Terri. He made an indecent proposition. That’s very different from serial murder.”

“Then how did he know about the snack?”

Casey remembered what Maxfield had said when she asked him if he really knew how to plant a bomb in a car.

“He’s a writer of fiction. He’s very creative. He earns his living by making up scenes that we could never conceive because we don’t have his imagination.”

“No, I don’t buy it. That would be too much of a coincidence.”

Casey paused. She looked upset. “Why did you come to me, Terri? Let’s assume that you’re right, that Joshua is a killer. What do you expect me to do?”

“You have access to Maxfield’s personnel file. There have been other murders in New England, the Midwest, Montana, and Idaho. Maybe there’s something in his file.”

Casey looked concerned. “You’re so emotionally involved that I don’t think you’ve thought this through clearly. Have you told your suspicions to the police?”

“No.”

Casey took a deep breath. “Thank goodness. Think of the harm you’d do to this school’s reputation if one of our teachers was wrongly accused of any kind of crime, let alone being a serial killer who preys on children the same age as our students.”

“I don’t intend to talk to anyone about my suspicions until I’m certain I’m right. That’s why I’ve come to you. Let me take a look at Maxfield’s file…”

“Certainly not.”

“Then you review it. Now that you know what I’m looking for, something you thought was unimportant may look totally different.”

Casey hesitated for a moment, then made a decision.

“All right. I can see how concerned you are about this. I’ll take another look at his file. If I find something I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me that you won’t go any further with this unless you have hard evidence. The damage to the Academy and Joshua would be irreparable.”

“I don’t want to hurt Joshua if he’s innocent but I’ll do everything I can to put him in prison if he killed my husband.”

Waves of doubt assailed Terri during the drive home. Was she jumping to conclusions because of a work of fiction? Was she right to break her promise to Larry Birch? Would there be consequences to the police investigation because she had revealed the information about the snack to Casey Van Meter? Should she take Ashley out of school immediately? If Joshua Maxfield was a serial killer, her daughter was in grave peril.

Terri heard the phone a moment after she opened the front door to her house. She rushed into the kitchen and picked up on the fifth ring.

“Terri, thank God I caught you,” Casey Van Meter said. She sounded short of breath and very tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to talk to you. I went through Joshua’s file. There’s something in it.”

“What?”

“I can’t talk now. Can you come to the school, tonight?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to meet in my office. Do you know how to get to the boathouse by the service road?”

“No.”

“Go a quarter of a mile past the main entrance. There’s a gravel road that follows the river and ends at the boathouse. Meet me at eight.”

Terri started to ask another question but the dean said she couldn’t talk and hung up. Terri sat down at the kitchen table. Energy coursed through her. If Casey Van Meter had discovered something solid, she could take it to Larry Birch. There was no way that Maxfield’s arrest could bring Norman back, but Ashley would be safe if his killer was behind bars. Terri looked at her watch. It was almost six. In two hours she would know if she was closer to putting her husband’s killer in prison.

Chapter Eight

Ashley had been serious about soccer since she was in elementary school, and she always put in the extra effort it took to be the best. In addition to the daily workouts at the soccer clinic, she ran every night around eight. Sally Castle ran with her on most evenings, but her roommate had an upset stomach tonight and had begged off.

Ashley liked running along the shaded paths that twisted through the forest on the school grounds, because the thick canopy kept the route cool even on warm days. Tonight there was an extra spring in Ashley’s step. After the morning session, the Academy coach had pulled her aside and told her that there was an excellent chance that she would be the starting center forward in the fall. Ashley knew that she was better than the other Academy girls who played that position but it was nice to hear the coach say that it was hers if she worked for it.

Just when her spirits were highest, Ashley remembered that her father wouldn’t see her play this year. Ashley had started to climb out of her depression after visiting the Oregon Academy. As soon as she moved to the dorm and began working as a counselor there were large parts of the day when she was actually happy. But there were dark periods, too; moments when she would remember Tanya’s muffled screams or recall her father’s death. On occasion, these moments would be more than memories. Ashley would re-experience the events as if they were happening now. Her heart rate would accelerate; she would break into a sweat and grow dizzy. Only force of will kept her from being paralyzed by sorrow.

As soon as she thought about Norman Spencer, Ashley’s energy slackened and tears pooled in her eyes. She didn’t want this to happen. She told herself that her father would be happy if he learned that she was going to start on a nationally ranked team. She had vowed to dedicate her senior year to his memory.

Norman had tried to be at every one of her games, but he had missed a few. Ashley was in second grade the first time that happened. She had been very upset until Terri told her that her father’s spirit was always with her, even when he wasn’t rooting for her on the sidelines. Ashley had felt him inside her during the game, urging her to do her best, and she had scored three goals. Now she conjured up Norman ’s spirit. She took deep breaths as the good feeling filled her. When she smiled, the anxiety dissipated and she knew Norman was still with her.

Ashley ran through the quadrangle and down the road to the large parking lot where one of the trails started. Shadows dappled the forest floor, and a light breeze caressed her arms. The air smelled of pine and wildflowers. Within minutes, Ashley settled into a rhythm that moved her forward with a loose and practiced stride.

After a while the path turned parallel to the river, and she could see the water rolling by through breaks in the trees. The air was still, and there was a blanket of silence broken occasionally by the songs of birds. Something moved in her peripheral vision. Ashley turned her head and saw Joshua Maxfield walking in the direction of the boathouse. Then the trees thickened and she lost sight of him. She was not surprised to see Mr. Maxfield. All the girls knew that he lived in a cottage near the river. Many of them had a crush on the handsome novelist. There were stories about girls he was rumored to have seduced, though Ashley doubted they were true.

Ashley remembered the way her mother had acted around the writing teacher on the day they toured the campus. Terri’s reaction had surprised and upset her. Ashley didn’t like her mother showing an interest in a man so soon after her father’s death, but sometimes people acted silly around celebrities, and Mr. Maxfield was a famous writer.

A high-pitched scream tore through the silence. Ashley froze in mid-stride. A second scream forced her backward off the trail. The screams were like the light in the second before sunset-riveting and scarlet for one second and gone without a trace the next. Silence blanketed the forest again. The screams had come from behind Ashley, in the direction of the boathouse. She strained to hear anything that would give her a clue to what had just happened. She battled with herself as she waited, terrified by the screams but compelled by her conscience to find the person who had made them.

Ashley forced herself to jog toward the boathouse. She moved cautiously, alert for the slightest sound or movement. When she caught sight of the rectangular wooden building between breaks in the trees she left the path and crept through the forest. There was a narrow gravel road that followed the river and stopped on the east side of the building. The south side abutted the river and the forest came up to the west wall. A pale light bled out of one of the windows on the north side.

Ashley heard a high-pitched shout that was muffled by the boathouse walls. She kept low and darted to the closest window before rising just high enough to see inside. The windowpane was coated with dust and the interior was dark. A flashlight rolled back and forth on the floor next to one of the boat slips. Its beam cast a pale glow that illuminated the legs and torso of a woman who was slumped against one of the thick oak columns that supported the roof. She was not moving. Standing over her was Joshua Maxfield.

Ashley gasped involuntarily. Maxfield swiveled toward the window. He was holding a hunting knife with a serrated blade that was soaked with blood. Maxfield’s eyes bored through the glass and into Ashley. She stood up. Maxfield took a step forward. A motorboat bobbed at anchor in its slip.

Next to the boat was a second body.

Ashley tore through the woods. She heard the boathouse door smack against the wall as it was flung open. Maxfield was fast, but so was Ashley. She had to be in better shape. She worked out hard all the time.

Twigs snapped and branches broke as Maxfield crashed through the trees. Ashley decided that her only hope was to reach the dorm. There was a security guard and other people there. The light was starting to fail. In moments it would be dark. Ashley strained to see the path that led to the main campus. She spotted it and broke out of the woods. Adrenaline fueled her headlong plunge down the trail. It curved, and Ashley saw the parking lot. She gritted her teeth. The dorm was so close. Her running shoes pounded the asphalt. She slashed across the quadrangle searching for another human being, but the school was deserted except for the counselors and the students in the soccer clinic.

Ashley rounded the side of the science building. The dorm was at the other end of a narrow parking lot. Moments later, she was through the door and screaming for help. The guard jumped up from his post and ran to her.

“He’s behind me. He’s got a knife.”

The guard gripped Ashley’s arms and stared over her shoulder.

“Who’s behind you?” he asked.

Ashley turned. There was no one there.

As soon as she realized that she had escaped from Maxfield, Ashley broke down. The guard summoned Laura Rice, a graduate student who was the summer dorm proctor. Sally Castle and some of the other summer residents were drawn to the lobby by Ashley’s cries. The proctor shooed them away but Sally insisted on staying with her roommate. Rice saw the wisdom in letting Ashley have a friend for company and she led the two girls to her office.

“Tell me what happened,” Rice said as soon as Ashley calmed down.

Ashley told her about the screams and what she’d seen through the boathouse window.

“You’re certain that the man who chased you was Joshua Maxfield?” Rice asked, fighting to hide her incredulity from her terrified charge.

“He looked right at me through the window.”

“But it was dark,” Rice argued, still finding it hard to picture the charming teacher as a murderer.

“Miss Rice, Joshua Maxfield killed those women.”

“All right, I’m not saying you didn’t see him but…”

“I saw him walking to the boathouse and seconds later I heard the screams. He was holding a knife. There was blood on it. He chased me.”

Ashley was starting to get hysterical again. Rice held up her hand.

“It’s okay. I believe you. Could you see who the women were?”

“No. It was very dark in the boathouse. I only saw them for a second. The flashlight beam stopped halfway up one woman’s body so I couldn’t make out anything above the bottom of her blouse. The other woman was curled on her side and she was facing away from me. She was in the shadows. I could just make out her body.”

“Give me your home number, Ashley.”

Rice turned toward the security guard.

“Arthur, call the police. I’ll call Dean Van Meter and Ashley’s mother.”

Rice dialed the dean, but there was no answer. The proctor left a message on her machine before calling Terri Spencer. She didn’t answer, either. Ashley heard Rice leave a message on her mother’s machine. If her mother wasn’t home, where was she? Probably working, Ashley told herself.

“I’m going to the lobby to wait for the police unless you want me to stay with you,” Rice said.

“No, that’s okay. Sally’s here.”

The door closed. There was an awkward silence for a moment. Sally felt it was her duty to stay with her friend, but she’d seen TV reports about the murders at the Spencer house, and they frightened her. She stared out into the night through the office window.

The first squad car arrived a few minutes later. A uniformed officer talked with Ashley long enough to understand what was going on. A short time later, Larry Birch checked on Ashley before heading to the boathouse.

The girls waited in the dorm proctor’s office while the police collected evidence from the boathouse and searched the grounds for Joshua Maxfield. Half an hour after Birch’s visit the door to the office opened. Ashley looked up expectantly, hoping it would be her mother. Instead, Detective Birch entered and pulled up a chair next to Ashley. He seemed to be under a terrible strain.

“I have a question I need to ask you,” the detective said.

“Okay.”

“Your mother came to see me yesterday. She was very agitated. Do you know why she came?”

“No. I didn’t even know she talked to you.”

“Okay.” Birch took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.”

“Has Mr. Maxfield escaped?” Ashley asked, not wanting to think about another possibility that she’d considered and quickly rejected in order to preserve her sanity.

“We haven’t found him on the grounds and his car is missing. We have an all-points bulletin out for him. He won’t get far.”

“That’s good.”

Birch took hold of Ashley’s hands and looked into her eyes. Ashley tried to stop all of her thoughts.

“We know who was in the boathouse with Joshua Maxfield.” Ashley tensed. “One of the women was Casey Van Meter.”

“Is…is she…?”

“No, she’s alive but she’s not conscious. She’s been taken to the hospital.”

“Who was the other woman?” Ashley asked. Her voice sounded far away to her, as if someone in another room had asked the question.

“She’s dead, Ashley.”

Ashley could not understand a word Birch was saying. The room spun around and Ashley passed out.

Birch had foreseen the possibility that Ashley would collapse and had made sure that a doctor was available. Everyone waited outside the office while the doctor saw to Ashley. After she came to, she couldn’t stop crying. The doctor gave her a sedative and helped her to her room. Birch followed Ashley upstairs. He waited until she was under the covers. The poor kid, he thought. No one should have to go through what she’d experienced.

Birch left Ashley with the doctor as soon as a guard was posted outside the door. Terri Spencer had been stabbed to death, and so had the victims at the Spencer home. Birch was not a big believer in coincidence. If Maxfield was the man who invaded Ashley’s home, he’d succeeded in killing everyone in the Spencer family except Ashley. Birch had no idea why he would do such a terrible thing-there might not be a rational explanation-but the guard was in the hall in case Maxfield made another attempt on her life.

A policeman was waiting in the lobby with a summons from Tony Marx, Birch’s partner. He escorted the detective along a path that led down to the river. The klieg lights that had been set up around the boathouse turned the night into day. Birch had been in the boathouse earlier. It had been a grim scene. Ashley’s mother had been the victim of a savage attack. Birch would have to wait for the autopsy report to find out how many times Terri Spencer had been stabbed. There had been too many wounds for him to count.

Casey Van Meter had not been stabbed at all. Birch believed that Ashley had saved her life. She had been struck forcefully on the jaw. The blow had driven the back of her head against the roof support, and she would have been unconscious when Ashley distracted Maxfield and forced him to flee. Attempts to revive Casey had been unsuccessful, and she’d been rushed to the hospital.

Birch’s escort led the detective past the boathouse. A minute later they arrived at a stone cottage. The path was close to the river, and Birch could see a narrow deck in the back. The setting was idyllic. The detective imagined himself sitting peacefully on the deck at dusk with a glass of scotch, watching the sunset. Maxfield wouldn’t be doing much of that anymore after they caught him.

The inside of the cottage looked lived-in but tidy. There was no television in the front room, but there were many books lying about. Birch glanced at some of the titles. He recognized a few from his college literature courses. There were also several books about creative writing. A shout distracted Birch.

Tony Marx was a chubby African-American with salt-and-pepper hair, ten years older than Birch. Marx had seen it all during his career, so Birch was surprised by how excited his partner seemed.

“Larry, you’ve got to see this,” Marx said as he grabbed his partner’s arm and dragged him into a room that opened off a narrow hall. It was obvious that this was where Maxfield wrote. A comfortable armchair was stuck in a corner of the room. A lamp stood behind the chair, next to an end table. On the table was a pen, some Post-its, a steno pad, and a stack of paper that looked like a manuscript.

A window looked out at the river. In front of the window was a desk dominated by a computer monitor. Beside the monitor was another stack of paper covered in type. Marx smiled when he saw where Birch was looking. He handed his partner a pair of latex gloves like the ones he was wearing. Birch picked up the top page and started to read.

“I smiled when Martha screamed. Her pain was a symphony more beautiful than any Beethoven had ever composed. I held her ear by the edge and began to slice slowly to prolong her agony…”

Birch looked up. “What is this, Tony?”

Marx’s smile widened. “A novel Maxfield was writing. He was kind enough to put his name at the top of each page so we wouldn’t think that another psycho killer wrote it. He’s only about one hundred and seventy pages in but there’s enough there to hang him.” Marx threw a thumb over his shoulder that pointed at the manuscript on the table by the armchair. “That’s more of the same. Probably an earlier draft, because it doesn’t have his name on it. But I spotted several similar scenes.”

“Didn’t you say that this is a novel?”

“Yeah.”

“The DA can’t use this. Maxfield’s lawyer will argue it’s make-believe.”

Marx grinned. He looked like a child who had just been given a really great toy for Christmas.

“I didn’t give you the good part. Take a gander at this scene.”

Birch took the new pages. At first he didn’t get it. The scene was pretty gruesome but it was still only a scene in a novel. When the murderer tied up the parents and the teenage daughter with duct tape, Birch got a funny feeling in his gut. Then he reached the part where the serial killer went to the kitchen. When the killer selected a piece of pie and a glass of milk to ease his hunger, Birch stopped reading.

“We’ve got him,” Birch said. Involuntarily, his lips began to mimic his partner’s triumphant smile. Then he remembered Ashley Spencer and the smile faded, and his features hardened into a look of grim determination.

Chapter Nine

Ashley was awake but lightly medicated when the door to her room opened. Detective Birch stepped aside and an old man limped to Ashley’s bed with the aid of a stout walking stick. He was over six feet tall, with thick, stooped shoulders. Behind him was a male version of Casey Van Meter, dressed in a rumpled suit with his tie askew.

“Ashley,” the detective said, “this is Henry Van Meter, Dean Van Meter’s father.”

Henry Van Meter was rarely seen anymore except at official functions or on occasional walks around the Academy grounds when the weather was warm. He had been a vigorous man until he suffered a stroke that almost killed him. Ashley had seen him a few times from a distance, strolling slowly through the campus, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

Van Meter’s sad blue eyes peered at her through the thick lenses in a pair of old-fashioned, wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was snowy white. His skin was sallow and sagged at the jowls. He wore brown corduroy pants and a bulky wool sweater, even though the outside temperature was in the mid-eighties.

“And this,” the detective said, pointing to the younger man, “is Miles Van Meter, Dean Van Meter’s brother. He’s just arrived from New York.”

Miles nodded. He looked terrible.

“They came here directly from the hospital after visiting the dean,” Birch said. “They insisted on seeing you.”

There was no reaction from Ashley. Birch felt awful. The doctor told him that she had been talking about wanting to die. He prayed that she would put those thoughts behind her, and he was furious that a sweet kid like Ashley would ever have to feel that way.

“We want you to know how sorry we are about your tragedy,” Henry Van Meter said. His speech was slurred because of his stroke.

Ashley turned her head away so they wouldn’t see her cry.

“My sister means the world to me, just like your folks meant the world to you. Casey isn’t dead but she might as well be.” Miles’s voice sounded hoarse and on the edge of a sob. “The doctors say that she may never come out of her coma. So we’ve both lost people dear to us in the same insane act.”

Miles stopped, unable to go on.

“We will do everything we can for you,” Henry said. “You must tell us if there is something you want, something that will help you survive this terrible ordeal.”

“Thank you,” Ashley mumbled. She knew they meant well but she wanted these people out of her room.

Birch saw Ashley’s distress and touched Henry Van Meter on the arm.

“The doctor said we shouldn’t exhaust Ashley.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed. “We’ll leave you. But we are very sincere. We want to help you.”

“God bless you,” Miles said as he followed his father into the corridor.

Birch waited until the door closed before pulling a chair next to Ashley’s bed.

“Doctor Boston told me that you were talking about killing yourself.”

Ashley looked away but she didn’t answer.

“I’m a homicide detective, Ashley. Do you want to know the worst part of my job?” Birch waited a heartbeat to see if Ashley would answer. “It’s not the bodies or the bad guys, it’s dealing with the people who are left behind. So many of them feel like you do, like there’s no reason to go on anymore. I’ve never felt that way but I’ve talked to so many people who have that I think I have some understanding of the way you feel. They tell me it’s like being a living dead person-you’re walking around but there’s no feeling inside. They say they feel like they’re empty and they’ll never get filled up again.” Ashley turned her head toward him. “Before the murder they had all these good feelings. They loved and they were loved. And then the person who loved them disappears and it’s like those feelings are sucked out of them and they can’t get the person or the feelings back. If you give into that kind of despair you’re rewarding Maxfield. He lives to make people suffer, he feeds on suffering.”

“I don’t care about Joshua Maxfield,” Ashley whispered.

“You have to, Ashley. You have to hate him for what he did. You have to make yourself feel something, anything. You can’t give in to the sadness. You’re too good a person. You’re the kind of person who makes a difference. Look at how much you’ve done already. There are your soccer accomplishments and your grades in school.”

“That doesn’t mean anything now.”

Ashley started to cry. Her body shook. Birch touched her on the shoulder.

“You are special, Ashley. You are unique. Your parents were so proud of you. Don’t do this to them. Don’t let them down.”

Birch watched her cry. He didn’t know what else to do. He’d wanted to bring her back and he’d failed. He stood up, utterly defeated.

“We’ll catch Maxfield,” Birch whispered. “I will bring him to justice.”

Ashley turned her tearstained face toward the detective. “What good will that do? My parents are dead. Catching him won’t bring them back.”

Larry Birch felt horrible when he left Ashley. He had a daughter. She was much younger than Ashley Spencer but he could imagine how she would feel if her parents were taken from her in such a horrible way, one after the other. Birch killed the sick feeling inside him by smothering it with anger. He knew that it was unprofessional to take a case personally but he hated Maxfield and wanted him dead. The detective liked Ashley. She was so decent, so innocent. Maxfield had murdered her too, just as surely as he’d murdered Norman and Terri Spencer. Maxfield had cut out Ashley’s heart and trampled her spirit to dust, and Birch swore that he’d make Maxfield pay for that.

But why had he murdered Tanya Jones and the Spencers, and beaten Casey Van Meter into a coma? Birch’s partner, Tony Marx, opted for the simplest explanation. He believed that there was no rational explanation for Maxfield’s crimes. He saw Maxfield as a psychopath whose motives made sense only in the killer’s twisted mind.

At first, Birch thought that Marx was probably right. Then, shortly after returning to the Justice Center, he received a call that led him to believe there was a rational motive for the crimes Maxfield had committed in the boathouse.

“This is Detective Birch.”

“Are you the detective who’s investigating the attacks on Dean Van Meter and Terri Spencer?” a woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Cora Young, Dean Van Meter’s secretary.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I only found out about what happened at the school this morning. I would have called sooner but it was such a shock. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Do you have some information that will aid the investigation?”

“I’m not sure, but yesterday afternoon, around four, Mrs. Spencer met with the dean at the school.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, but she seemed tense when she was waiting for the dean. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you. It might be important.”

“There’s something else. Joshua Maxfield had permission to use one of our classrooms for a writing group he was teaching. The class had nothing to do with the school. It was for adults. Terri Spencer was one of his students. They had their first meeting the night before Mrs. Spencer met with the dean.”

“Bingo!” Birch thought. The secretary had provided a connection between Maxfield and Terri Spencer, and Spencer and the dean.

“Am I speaking to Lori Ryan?” Birch asked after dialing the first name on the list of the writing students Cora Young had given him.

“Yes?”

“I’m Larry Birch, a detective with the Portland Police Bureau. I’d like to talk to you about Terri Spencer.”

“I’m so glad you called. Actually, I was going to call you. I read about the murder in the morning paper. Do you think Joshua Maxfield killed Terri?”

“He’s a suspect.”

“Did he really run away?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s…well, unbelievable. I knew both of them. We were together in the same room, just the other day.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I wanted to learn a little about Joshua Maxfield’s writing class. What exactly was the class for?”

“To help unpublished writers with their work.”

“I understand that there were six students?”

“Yes. We all had books we were writing. Mindy Krauss and I took the class together because we’re working on a murder mystery. I don’t know what Terri’s book was about.”

“And Maxfield helped you with your books?”

“Yes. We gave him our manuscripts and he read parts of them to the class. Then we critiqued what he read. That’s why I was going to call you. I thought that you should know about something that happened during the first class that upset some of the students, including Terri.”

Ryan told Birch about the chapter that Maxfield had read at the first meeting. He recognized it as one of the chapters in Maxfield’s manuscript that he had read at the cottage.

“I was sitting across from Terri when Maxfield read the part where the killer tortures those people. She looked terrible. I thought she might pass out. After I read the paper this morning it all made sense. The scene was so similar to what happened at her house.

“Terri was looking at Mr. Maxfield in a very peculiar way all the time he was reading. After the class, she questioned Mindy and me to find out if we’d written the chapter, and I think she asked one of the men in the class about it, too. I’m sure she suspected Maxfield of writing the piece and was eliminating the rest of us. I think she suspected Maxfield of writing about something he’d done.”

Birch talked to Lori Ryan a little longer before phoning the next person on the list. He got through to two of the other members of the writing class. They didn’t add anything to what Lori Ryan had told him but they confirmed her observation that Maxfield’s reading had disturbed Terri Spencer.

Birch was certain that he knew what had happened between the class and the attacks in the boathouse. Maxfield’s story raised a red flag for Terri. She’d come to see him to find out if the information about the snack had been released to the public. Once she discovered that it had not, she would have continued investigating Maxfield. Terri was a trained reporter. Talking to Maxfield’s employer would be a natural step. Casey Van Meter’s phone records revealed a call from the dean to Mrs. Spencer after their meeting. That’s when they would have arranged to meet at the boathouse. Maxfield must have discovered why they were meeting and attacked Spencer and Van Meter to keep them from telling the police about Terri Spencer’s suspicions.

“Larry.” Birch looked up and saw Tony Marx standing in the entrance to his cubicle.

Marx sat down. “I spent all morning reading Maxfield’s book and making notes on the different murders he describes. Then I called the FBI and read the descriptions of the murders in Maxfield’s novel. Remember how the killing in the novel is different from the killing in the Spencer house but there’s the snack and the duct tape?”

“Go on.”

“Well, the murders in the book don’t match any of the real murders that the Feds have linked to this guy, but they do contain details from the real murders, like the snack, that were never released to the public.”

Marx leaned forward. Birch could see the excitement in his eyes. “He can claim that the details are a coincidence, that he made them up. Maybe his lawyer would get away with that if there were only one, but we’ve got three gems, Larry. We’re gonna nail him. Joshua Maxfield is going to go down.”

Chapter Ten

Three days after her mother’s murder, sunlight streamed through the window in the Academy dormitory and woke up Ashley. She lay still, listening. Something was different. There was no noise-no early-morning hustle and bustle as there had been during the soccer clinic. Everyone connected with the clinic had gone home. Ashley was still in the dorm because no one could figure out where she should stay. Her house was out, because Joshua Maxfield was still at large. She didn’t want to stay there anyway. It would be a terrible place to be by herself. Too many ghosts, too many empty rooms.

Detective Birch had asked about relatives who might take her in but Terri and Norman were only children whose parents had passed away. Detective Birch had mentioned a foster home. That had made Ashley hysterical. Then Henry Van Meter stepped in. He said Ashley could stay in the dorm or move to his mansion. Either way, she was to consider the Academy her home until she decided what she wanted to do.

Ashley sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Straight ahead, taped to the wall, was Sally’s poster of Brandi Chastain ripping off her shirt after scoring the winning goal against China in the World Cup. Sally had left that poster and another of Mia Hamm, Ashley’s favorite soccer player. Sally wanted to stay with Ashley in the dorm, but her parents had taken her away. Sally called every day, but it wasn’t the same as having her friend with her.

Ashley studied the poster of Brandi Chastain. Chastain looked so powerful, so invincible. Ashley had felt like that on occasion. She remembered last year’s game against Wilson for the Portland Inter-scholastic League championship. It had been tied up with a minute to go when she had raced downfield with the ball, ready to set up the winning goal. Everything had been perfect until she slipped. When she saw her go down, the Wilson goalie stopped dead and straightened up, thinking that the threat was over.

When Ashley felt her legs go out from under her she’d kicked the ball into the air. Her back had slammed into the ground but she’d tucked her chin. Her eyes had stared forward and she watched the ball fall. To this day Ashley had no idea how she’d had the presence of mind to turn on her hip and kick the awkward shot that had skipped past Wilson ’s stunned goalie. In her room in the Academy dormitory, she re-experienced that feeling of pure joy and she smiled-her first smile since her mother’s death. A second later, she sobered, but something had changed inside her. She was still sad but she knew she didn’t want to die. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, and there were things she had to do, like taking care of her mother’s funeral. The thought made her tear up. She knew she could break down if she didn’t fight, so she took a deep breath and inhaled the rancid odor of days-old sweat.

Ashley’s nose wrinkled. Her body odor hadn’t bothered her before. She had not had the energy or will to bathe anyway. But this morning the smell repelled her. Ashley stared at herself in the mirror over her dresser. She looked awful. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, she’d lost weight, there were dark shadows under her eyes.

The shower was in a communal women’s bathroom near the stairs. Ashley remembered the police guard. She put on her sweats, grabbed her toiletries, said hello to the guard, and shuffled down the hall.

The hot shower helped. It was short because she did not feel right luxuriating in it with her mother and father dead. Guilt would keep her from enjoying a lot of things for a while. But she could not avoid the pleasant feeling of being clean and having smooth, untangled hair.

Ashley returned to her room. She had just dressed in a fresh Eisenhower High T-shirt and shorts when the police guard knocked on her door. The knock was tentative. Everyone was still walking on eggs around her.

“Miss Spencer?”

“Yes?”

The door opened a crack and the policeman stuck his head in. “There’s a Mr. Philips here to see you. He says he’s your lawyer.”

Ashley didn’t know anyone named Philips and she was certain that she did not have a lawyer, but she welcomed the novelty of a visitor. The policeman stepped back and a young man slipped past him. He was about Ashley’s height and slender, with pale blue eyes and shaggy light brown hair. The lawyer was wearing a business suit, white shirt, and tie, but Ashley thought he could still pass for someone in high school.

“Miss Spencer, I’m Jerry Philips. I’m an attorney.”

Philips held out a business card. Ashley hesitated before crossing the room to take it. The lawyer gestured toward a chair. “May I?”

“Sure, okay.”

Ashley sat on the bed and examined the business card. Jerry Philips sat down and balanced his briefcase on his knees.

“I want you to know how sorry I am about your folks.” The young lawyer looked down and Ashley saw him swallow. “My mother died a few years ago and my father died shortly before your father…passed away. So I have an idea of what you’re going through.”

Now it was Ashley’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

Philips smiled sadly. “That seems to be the opening line for a lot of people I’ve met since Dad passed away. I’m sure you’ve heard it a lot, too.” He laughed self-consciously. “I just said ‘I’m sorry,’ didn’t I?”

Ashley was growing impatient. The lawyer seemed like a nice person but she didn’t want to discuss the death of her parents or hear about his tragedy.

“Mr. Philips, why are you here?”

“Right. I should come to the point. Did your mother or father ever mention my father, Ken Philips?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He was a lawyer, too. He was partially retired and living in Boulder Creek in central Oregon. Your mother and father were two of the clients he was still handling. Dad wrote their wills.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you’d like to know how you stand financially.”

Ashley suddenly realized that she had no idea how she would feed herself or whether she could afford a place to stay once she left the Academy. While her parents were alive, Ashley had the luxury of going to school, playing soccer, and having a good time without worrying how to pay for anything. All that had changed.

“Another thing.” Philips looked uncomfortable again. “I talked to Detective Birch. He said you could bury your mother now.” Philips didn’t tell Ashley that there had been an autopsy. He didn’t want her thinking about her mother lying on cold steel as a stranger made incisions in her flesh and unemotionally dictated findings about cause of death. “I can arrange the funeral, if you want me to.”

“Yes, if you could,” Ashley answered, relieved that someone would take the burden of organizing the funeral from her shoulders.

“Okay.” Philips took out a yellow pad and made a note. Then he took out some papers.

“We don’t have to get into details today. We can do that at your convenience. I can tell you that you’re going to be okay financially if you watch yourself. You’ll inherit some money and both of your parents had good life insurance policies. The money will probably last a while if you’re careful. I can suggest a financial adviser when we get together.”

Ashley wanted to know how much money she would inherit but she could not bring herself to ask. She didn’t want Philips to think that she was greedy, and it felt wrong to think that she had profited from her parents’ deaths.

“You should also think about selling your house,” Philips continued.

Ashley took an involuntary breath.

“It’s hard, I know. I sold my dad’s place and it broke my heart. It’s where I grew up.”

“I know I’ll have to let it go.”

“The market is good now. With the life insurance, what you’ll get for the house, and the other money, you should be fine.”

Ashley wiped a tear from her eye. Philips stood up and handed her a handkerchief. He spotted a glass on her night table.

“Do you want some water?”

“I’ll be okay. It’s just so hard to…”

Ashley bit her lip. Philips looked down. “Anyway,” he continued self-consciously, “I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements. Do you want to set a time to meet so we can go over all of the financial stuff?”

“Anytime is okay,” Ashley said sadly. “I don’t have anything else except the funeral.”

“Do you have any questions?” Philips asked.

“Not now. I’ll call you about the meeting. And thank you for coming to see me.”

“It’s my job,” Philips answered with a kind smile. He stood. “See ya.”

“See ya,” she answered.

As soon as Jerry Philips left, Ashley realized that she was famished. She had barely eaten anything in the past few days. Someone had brought meals to her room while the school cafeteria was open for the soccer clinic but she only picked at them, leaving most of the food. Laura Rice’s duties as dorm proctor had ended with the soccer clinic. After she packed, Laura visited Ashley to say good-bye and to deliver a message from Henry Van Meter, who had invited Ashley to take her meals in the Van Meter mansion.

Ashley pulled on a pair of sneakers and cut across the campus toward the mansion. Her bodyguard followed her at a discreet distance. The morning was spectacular. The sky was bright blue and decorated by fluffy white clouds, the air was fresh with the smell of pine and roses and birdsong filled the air. The very perfection of the morning was pure torture for Ashley. Every bird that sang, every heavenly scent, and every multicolored flower garden made her remember what she had lost.

Ashley heard the hum of a lawnmower, and the mansion came into view. A crew of gardeners was mowing the grass, edging the bushes, and tending the flower gardens. To get to the kitchen Ashley walked between a pool and a large flagstone patio furnished with lounge chairs and glass-topped tables shaded by sturdy umbrellas. Ashley caught a glimpse of the main dining room through a leaded-glass window. It was paneled in dark woods, and a crystal chandelier hung over a polished oak table that looked as if it could seat her soccer team.

Ashley knocked on the kitchen door, and a woman dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, khaki slacks, and an apron let her in. The woman was in her forties and her brown hair was starting to streak with gray.

“I’m Mandy O’Connor. I cook for Mr. Van Meter. You must be Ashley. Come in.”

“Thank you.”

The kitchen was huge and dominated by a cooking island over which hung racks of copper pots and pans and cooking utensils. To one side was a table already set for two.

“Sit down while I fix you something. I can whip up oatmeal, a batch of pancakes, or bacon and eggs with some toast. What would you like?”

Ashley was ravenous and just the mention of the food made her mouth water.

“Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast sounds great.”

“Milk, coffee, orange juice, tea?”

“ Orange juice and milk, please.”

Ashley sat at the table, where she found a copy of the morning paper. The headline was about a crisis in the Middle East, but there was a story about the manhunt for Joshua Maxfield below the fold. Ashley turned over the paper so she couldn’t see that story and searched for sports. In the back was an article about a summer league soccer playoff. Ashley had been on the winning team last year. She could only read part of it before she had to stop.

The door connecting the kitchen to the interior of the house opened and Henry Van Meter shuffled in. He was not using his cane, and each step looked tortured. He spotted Ashley and smiled.

“Miss Spencer, welcome,” he said, his speech slurring slightly. “You are joining me for breakfast?”

Ashley stood. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Van Meter. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You have been in my thoughts constantly for the past few days.”

It seemed to take an eternity for Henry to reach the table. Ashley pulled out his chair and he sat down slowly, with a great effort.

“My usual, Mandy,” Van Meter said. Then he looked at the page in the sports section that Ashley had been reading.

“You would be playing today, no?”

Ashley was surprised that he knew that. She nodded. He patted the back of her hand. His touch was cold.

“You will play again. You are young, so this tragedy consumes you, you believe that you will be as sad for the rest of your life as you are now, but time will make your pain fade. Trust me. I have suffered tragedies and outlived the pain. Nietzsche said, that which does not kill us makes us strong. I have lived the truth of that philosophy. The strong survive and you are strong.”

“How can you know that?” she asked.

“There is one unalterable fact. Life goes on whether we wish it or not. I was wounded in the war, in my leg. Badly wounded. The doctors amputated it.”

Ashley’s lips parted, her eyes widened. Henry laughed.

“You are shocked. It’s the right leg below the knee. They do wonderful things with prosthetics nowadays. But back then…” Henry shook his head.

“Can you imagine, twenty-two years old and looking at life as a young man with one leg? What girl would have me? I would be a cripple, the subject of pity. But I woke up one morning and accepted the fact that I was a man with one leg. Some people had bad eyesight, others were uncoordinated or stupid-I had one leg. So be it. I never let my grief overwhelm me again. I rejected self-pity. When I returned home I courted and married the most beautiful and talented woman in Portland society, I improved the business that my father started, I traveled to far-off places instead of sitting in the dark, brooding.” Henry tapped his temple. “It is force of will. You must make your will like iron. It is the only way to conquer life, which can be unremittingly cruel at times.”

Henry’s words stirred Ashley. She remembered how different she’d felt this morning when she made her decision to get out of the bed in which she had been hiding and do something as simple as taking a shower.

Mrs. O’Connor laid a plate of crisp bacon, steaming eggs, and hot, buttered toast in front of her. The smell banished all thoughts except those connected with food. Henry ate a bowl of oatmeal. Ashley took a drink of orange juice and dug in. Henry watched her eat. He smiled.

“Have you thought about what you will do with your life?” Henry asked.

“I was planning on college, if I can afford it,” Ashley answered. She was still uncertain about her financial situation despite Jerry Philips’s assurances.

“Ach, college. That is something you will not have to worry about. I have seen your grades, young lady. I know about your athletic scholarship possibilities.”

Ashley looked surprised.

“This is my school. My daughter is the dean,” he said, as if Casey were still in her office, hard at work, “but I know everything that goes on here. So you have no worries where college is concerned. I am talking about after college. What will you do with your life?”

Ashley’s tragedy had made it hard to think beyond the day. The rest of her life seemed as far away as the jungles of Africa.

“I don’t know. I was interested in medicine, I’d like to travel,” she answered vaguely.

“Travel! That is important. To see things, to have experiences. My trips gave me some of my best memories.”

Ashley had visions of Saharan pyramids and snow-covered Himalayan peaks.

“Where did you go?”

Henry began his answer but a knock on the kitchen door interrupted him. Detective Birch walked in with a determined look on his face.

“Mr. Van Meter, Ashley, I have good news. We caught him.”

“Joshua Maxfield?” Van Meter asked.

Birch nodded. “They ran a piece on the case on the national news. The Omaha police got a citizen tip and picked him up in a motel. Maxfield has a court appearance in Nebraska, tomorrow. If he waives extradition he’ll be in custody in Oregon by the end of the week.”

Ashley had been badly frightened while Joshua Maxfield was at large. She felt relieved now, knowing he was in custody. But she didn’t feel joy. Her mother and father were still dead and nothing the state did to Joshua Maxfield would bring them back.

Chapter Eleven

Before Barry Weller entered the jail reception area, he went to the men’s room in the Justice Center to calm his nerves. As he washed his hands, Barry studied himself in the mirror. His reddish-brown hair had been cut two days before and was neat and crisp, and his suit hung just right from his lanky frame. Behind his contacts his eyes were a piercing and decisive green. When he left the restroom Barry believed that he was the very picture of a successful and dynamic attorney.

Weller had barely been able to contain his excitement during the crosstown walk from his law office to the jail at the Justice Center, a sixteen-story concrete-and-glass building a block from the Multnomah County Courthouse. The jail took up the fourth through tenth floors of the building, but the Justice Center was also the home of the central precinct of the Portland Police Bureau, a branch of the Multnomah County district attorney’s office, several courtrooms and, currently, Joshua Maxfield, the country’s most notorious serial killer.

Two years ago, Weller had left the public defender’s office after five distinguished years to go into private practice. It had been rough sledding the first year, but business had finally started to pick up. Weller had been in court yesterday with one of his clients when Maxfield was arraigned. He was certain that the famous defendant would hire one of Portland ’s big-name criminal attorneys. When his secretary told him that Joshua Maxfield was calling from the jail, visions of Mercedes began dancing in Weller’s head.

Barry showed his bar card to the corrections officer who was manning the reception desk in the jail, then passed through the metal detector. The jail elevator let him off in a concrete corridor painted pastel-yellow. He rang for the guard and waited nervously in front of a thick steel door. The guard let Weller into another narrow corridor and opened the door to one of the contact visiting rooms in which attorneys met their incarcerated clients.

“Ring when you want out,” the guard said, pointing to a black button affixed to an intercom that was built into the wall. Then he locked the door behind him.

Weller sat on one of two plastic chairs that were separated by a small circular table secured to the floor by metal bolts. He was arranging his note-pad and composing his thoughts when the steel door to the corridor that led to the cells opened. A moment later, Joshua Maxfield entered the contact room.

Maxfield was about Weller’s size. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and his hands were manacled, but he didn’t seem to mind. The corrections officer unlocked Maxfield’s chains and motioned Joshua onto the empty chair.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Weller,” Maxfield said as soon as the door closed behind the guard.

“Call me Barry,” Weller responded with a smile.

Maxfield smiled back. “Barry, then. I must tell you that I was flattered when you took my call. Everyone in the jail speaks so highly of you that I assumed you’d be too busy.”

Weller tried to conceal his surprise and pleasure. He’d had some modest successes but he had no idea that his reputation had grown so fast.

“I’m never too busy to take calls from the jail. I know how isolated a person feels when they’re locked up.”

“That’s true. I’ve never been in a situation like this. It’s very unnerving to be totally at the mercy of other people.”

Weller thought Maxfield looked anything but unnerved. In fact, he seemed remarkably composed for a man who was almost certain to face the death penalty.

“Are they mistreating you?”

“I’m fine. Actually,” Maxfield said with a smile, “I watch a lot of crime movies and I was a bit disappointed when no one brought out a rubber hose.”

Weller laughed. Good, he thought. A client with a sense of humor.

“What about when you were arrested?”

“The police were all holding guns and yelling but they calmed down when I told them I wouldn’t resist. Since then, everyone has been a perfect gentleman.”

“Have you been questioned by the police?”

“A little.”

Weller had lost count of the clients who had convicted themselves by talking too freely to the police. He hoped the damage wasn’t irreparable.

“Where was this?” the lawyer asked.

“In Nebraska, after my arrest.”

“Who interrogated you?”

“The two detectives who flew me back to Portland.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Not much. They wanted to know what happened in the boathouse. I told them I didn’t do it.”

“How long did this conversation with the detectives go on?”

“Not long. We just talked for a bit. Then I got suspicious that they were trying to get me to say something incriminating, so I asked for a lawyer and they stopped questioning me.”

“From now on, you don’t discuss your case with anyone, understand?”

“Of course. I’m not stupid.”

“You don’t have to be stupid to say something that can hang you. Even the most innocent statements can be misinterpreted.”

“That couldn’t possibly happen to my statements, Barry. I’m completely innocent.”

Weller smiled but the smile was forced. Before coming to the jail, Barry had demanded discovery from the DA who was handling Maxfield’s case. What he’d read was not good. But before he discussed the facts of the case there was an important matter that Weller had to get out of the way.

“I want to get to the nuts and bolts of your case, Mr. Maxfield…”

“If I’m going to call you Barry, you should call me Joshua.”

“Joshua it is. If we’re going to work together it’s good to be on a first-name basis. But before we decide whether you want me to represent you, you need to know how much my representation is going to cost.”

“Ah, business. Let’s get it over with.”

“I always get the money part out of the way first, so I can concentrate on your case and not get distracted.”

“Terrific.”

“Let me be frank with you. The state is going to go for the death penalty. And we’re talking about more than one murder charge and possibly more than one set of murders.”

Maxfield looked puzzled. “When I was in court the other day all the judge talked about was the murder of Terri Spencer and an assault on Casey Van Meter. What else could there be?”

“The DA has a theory that you’re a serial killer.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“It’s based on a confession they found in your bungalow.”

“What confession?”

This was the first time that Maxfield had displayed any emotion since the interview started. The sudden outburst convinced Weller that the thread that was holding Maxfield together was very thin.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves here, Joshua,” the attorney said. “We need to agree on a fee first. Then we can discuss the DA’s case and our strategy.”

Maxfield seemed anxious to ask more about the confession but he regained his composure.

“What is your fee?” he asked.

“Investigating a capital murder case is not like investigating any other kind of criminal case. A death case is divided into two trials. Every other murder case only has one, the trial to decide guilt or innocence. In a death case, there is a second trial to decide the penalty if the defendant is found guilty of a type of murder that has death as a possible sentence. This second phase starts right after a guilty verdict, so I can’t wait until you’re convicted to prepare for the penalty phase. I have to start that investigation immediately even if we have a strong defense. So we’re really talking about two complex investigations instead of one and, in this case, I may have to investigate a number of murder allegations in Oregon and in other states.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Barry. What is this going to cost me?”

Weller’s stomach churned as he prepared to state a fee that was far greater than all the fees he’d collected in his two years of private practice.

“I’ll need an immediate retainer of $250,000, but the final amount could be much higher.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“That’s great,” Weller said, hiding his surprise.

“In fact,” Maxfield said, “you can count on collecting far more than a quarter of a million dollars.”

Weller looked puzzled. Maxfield grinned. “I’m thinking you’ll end up with at least a million dollars, win or lose. But you’ll have to do a little extra work to earn it.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I’ve heard that top criminal lawyers have a knack for cutting good deals with prosecutors. Are you a good negotiator?”

“I’d say so.”

“Excellent. You’re going to need your skills as a negotiator to maximize your fee.”

“You want to plead guilty?”

“Definitely not.” Maxfield folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. He looked intense. “What do I do for a living, Barry?”

“You’re a writer.”

“A best-selling writer. How much money do you think my publisher will pay for a firsthand account of the trial of the century written by a best-selling author accused of serial murder?”

“You’re going to write a book about your case?”

“I heard that you were quick,” Maxfield said with a big smile. “Let me tell you how a writer is paid. When you ink a contract with a publisher you receive a chunk of money called an advance. Getting a quarter million for my story will be easy. If you’re a good negotiator, you might get a publisher up to a million or more.

“But that’s not all. The advance is technically an advance against royalties. My contract will guarantee me a certain percentage of the cover price on every book that sells. Let’s say that the royalties are ten percent, the book goes for twenty-five dollars and it sells one million copies. Do the math, Barry.”

“That’s two million, five hundred thousand dollars.”

“On the hardcover. There’s also a paperback edition and foreign sales and movie rights and books on tape, and you will be collecting half of everything I receive if you take my case whether you win or you lose. How does that sound?”

Barry was having trouble breathing. “You’ll split everything down the middle?” he managed.

“What choice do I have? I need your help and this is the only way I can get the money to hire you. Is it a deal?”

“I’ll have to give it some thought,” Weller said, regaining some of his senses. “I’ve never done business like this.”

“That makes two of us. Before you leave I’ll tell you how to structure the contract and the name of my editor. He’s in New York. With all this publicity he might even call you when he learns you’re representing me.

“Now, do you feel comfortable telling me what you found out about my case even though you haven’t formally accepted my offer?”

“Sure. Most of what I’m going to tell you was in the papers, anyway. The indictment focuses on the murder of Terri Spencer and the assault on Casey Van Meter. As best I can make out, Ashley Spencer, Terri’s daughter, is the key to the state’s case. She says that she was jogging in the woods at the Oregon Academy when she saw you walking toward the boathouse. Shortly after she saw you she heard two screams from the direction of the boathouse. She looked in the window and saw you standing over Casey Van Meter, who was stretched out on the floor with her head against a wooden beam. You were holding a knife and the blade was covered with blood. She also saw her mother lying on the floor. Spencer says that you saw her and chased her.”

“Poor kid.” Maxfield shook his head. “She’s telling the truth.”

“You killed Spencer’s mother?” Weller asked, surprised.

“No. I didn’t hurt anyone,” Maxfield said. “I was in the boathouse but Terri was dead and Casey was unconscious when I got there. I’m innocent. But I can see why Ashley thought I killed Terri and attacked the dean.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I often take a walk around the grounds in the evening. That’s why I was near the boathouse. It’s on the way to my cottage. I heard the same screams that frightened Ashley. Like I said, the women had already been attacked when I got there.”

“What about the knife?”

“It was lying on the ground near Terri. I picked it up because I thought that the killer might be hiding in the boathouse and I was in fear of my life. Ashley looked in the window a second after I got it. At first, I thought she was the murderer. I probably made an aggressive move toward her because she startled me. Then I recognized her. She must have been as scared as I was and she rushed off. I chased her to explain that I hadn’t hurt anyone but she was too fast for me and I never caught up. Then I realized how everything looked and I panicked and ran.”

Weller made some notes. Maxfield waited patiently.

“Tell me about the confession,” Maxfield said, when Weller looked up.

“It’s not exactly a confession but the police are viewing it as if it was. It’s your novel about the serial killer. You read a section of it to your writing class.”

“So?”

“There have been murders in different parts of the country that the police believe were committed by a serial killer. In several cases the police held back evidence from the public. Your book contains scenes that have this evidence in them. For instance, when Ashley Spencer’s father was murdered and her friend was killed, the murderer went into the Spencer kitchen and ate a piece of chocolate cake. At another murder the killer ate a piece of pie. In the scene you read to your writing class your killer eats dessert before raping and killing a victim.”

Maxfield looked incredulous. Then he laughed. “You’re not serious?”

“The DA is very serious.”

“It’s a novel. I made up everything.”

“The state’s position is that the details about eating the food are too grotesque to be a coincidence.”

“They’re wrong. Life imitates art all the time. Jules Verne predicted submarines, Tom Clancy had terrorists crash a plane into the White House.”

“That’s true, but in those cases the fictional incident preceded the real one.”

“What does that matter?” Maxfield was very upset now. “They can’t hang me because I have a good imagination.”

“They’re going to claim that you weren’t imagining anything, that you were writing what you know. Isn’t that what they tell you in writing classes?”

Maxfield looked like he was ready to explode. Then, as suddenly as he’d become unhinged, he calmed down.

“Write what you know,” he repeated. Then he laughed. “Write what you know. Wouldn’t it be hysterical if that old cliché put me on death row?”

The author stared into space for a moment. Then he smiled at Barry.

“You certainly have your work cut out for you. Are you up to it?”

“Definitely,” Weller answered.

“The money should motivate you to do your best. Let me tell you the ABCs of negotiating my book contract.”

Barry had planned to ask about something in the police reports that bothered him, but he forgot about the case as Maxfield taught him how to become a literary agent. One million dollars, two million dollars, three million dollars. Thinking about the money made it tough to concentrate on something as mundane as murder.

Chapter Twelve

Deputy District Attorney Delilah Wallace had grown up in the poorest neighborhood in Portland and cleaned houses to pay her way through school. She couldn’t help gawking at the Van Meter mansion’s entry hall, which looked as big as the house she’d grown up in. The hall was paneled in dark wood and decorated with shields, maces, swords, battleaxes, and a massive tapestry portraying unicorns and the ladies of a medieval court cavorting in a copse of trees. Suspended from the ceiling was a gigantic iron chandelier originally designed to hold candles but wired for electricity. A suit of armor stood on either side of a grand stairway that swept upward to the second floor.

As the Van Meters’ houseman led the way down a drafty corridor toward the library where Miles and Henry Van Meter waited, Delilah turned to Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney.

“This place looks like the Oregon branch of Buckingham Palace,” she whispered.

Stamm laughed because he’d had the same reaction the first time he set foot in the Van Meter home.

“The Van Meters started as dirt-poor loggers and built a timber empire,” Stamm whispered back. “I guess they felt they earned the right to live like emperors.”

The Multnomah County DA was a rail-thin bachelor with thinning brown hair and blue eyes. His deputy was a big-boned, ample-breasted, African-American woman with arms as wide around as a steel worker’s. Delilah dwarfed her boss and Dr. Ralph Karpinski, a dapper dresser in his early sixties, who brought up the rear. As they walked toward the library, Delilah took in the artwork and museum-quality antiques that decorated the hallway. The library was what she expected, another massive space with a huge stone fireplace, more wood-paneled walls, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Henry Van Meter was sitting in a high-backed armchair next to the fireplace, which had a fire roaring in it despite the summer weather. Miles Van Meter walked over as soon as they entered the room. He was wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit, a maroon tie, and a white silk shirt with French cuffs secured by gold cufflinks. Miles shook Stamm’s hand.

“Thank you for coming, Jack,” he said.

The Van Meters had always been big contributors to Jack Stamm’s political campaigns and there was never any question that he would respond to Miles’s request for a personal update on the Maxfield case.

“It’s no trouble, Miles. I can only imagine how hard this has been on both of you.” Stamm turned toward his companions. “This is Dr. Ralph Karpinski, an expert on comas. We’ve been consulting with him about how to proceed with our indictment. And this is Delilah Wallace. She’ll be prosecuting Joshua Maxfield.”

“Do you have any experience with murder cases?” Henry Van Meter asked, eying the black woman suspiciously. The question was really a challenge, but Delilah simply smiled.

“Yes, sir, I do. My brother was killed in a drive-by when I was in high school, so I take my murder cases personally. They’re my specialty and I haven’t lost one yet. And I’m definitely not what you’d call soft on crime. I’ve tried five death cases and there are five men sitting on death row today because I asked the jury to put them there. I intend to make Mr. Maxfield number six.”

“Delilah won’t let you down, Henry,” Stamm assured him. “She’s the best I’ve got and she’s already putting in long hours on the case.”

Everyone sat down and Stamm continued the conversation. “I wanted Dr. Karpinski to update you on Casey’s condition so you’ll understand why we’re going ahead with her case now as an assault instead of waiting to see if she passes away so we can try Maxfield for murder. Then Delilah has some questions she wants to ask.”

Karpinski had a head of white hair and a patrician air. He dressed as elegantly as Miles Van Meter. The doctor straightened his cuffs as he began to speak.

“Mr. Van Meter, your daughter is in a coma. That means that she is alive but unaware of herself and her surroundings. To be blunt, a coma is a type of living death.”

Henry took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

“So you can better understand what’s wrong with Casey, let me explain why a coma occurs. The cerebral cortex is the part of the brain that is ultimately responsible for processing all sensory input, motor output, and integrative functions of the nervous system. The reticular activating system, or RAS, is the core of neurons in the center of the brainstem that projects into the cerebral cortex and wakes up the cortex so it can process the information it’s getting and do something about it. To put it another way, the RAS is like an alarm clock. If it doesn’t go off, the cerebral cortex stays asleep and doesn’t do its job, so you stay unconscious.”

“Will Casey come out of her coma?” Miles asked.

“That’s hard to say. There is a slim chance that she will. More likely, she will probably stay asleep for years. She may never regain consciousness.”

“But there is a chance that she’ll come back to us?” Henry asked.

“That’s not something you can count on. Let me explain. There are three types of coma. In the first category, widespread areas of the cortex are damaged by causes such as severe trauma, absence of blood flow for more than seven to ten minutes, or advanced meningitis. In the second category, processes like prolonged seizure activity, intoxication and alcohol withdrawal, or liver and renal failure alter the ability of the brain tissue to function normally. In the third category, things like tumors, strokes, or compression of the brainstem damage the RAS.

“When a coma falls into the first two categories, meaningful neurologic recovery isn’t possible. With the first type, even if the patient regains consciousness, they’re severely incapacitated because of the widespread brain damage. In the second, say where there’s liver failure or prolonged seizures, the patient dies if the metabolic cause of the coma isn’t corrected quickly.

“Fortunately, Casey became comatose because of trauma damage to the brainstem RAS that occurred when she struck her head with a lot of force against one of the timbers that support the roof of the Academy’s boathouse. Traumatic damage was done to the lower posterior portion of the skull just above the top of the neck. This covers the brainstem and cerebellum. The area that was damaged was the locus ceruleus, a section of the RAS. What’s good about this is that people in a prolonged comatose state caused by damage to the RAS can spontaneously recover consciousness. In theory, recovery can also be induced pharmaceutically, though no one has done it yet.”

“Are you saying that a drug exists that can wake up my sister?” Miles asked.

“No, but scientists are working to develop one. Theoretically, yohimbine, which has been around for years, should do the trick. The problem is that it causes extreme elevations of blood pressure even at relatively small doses. There have been attempts to develop a drug that will block the peripheral effect of yohimbine on the heart and blood vessels. That would allow us to administer high doses to the locus ceruleus and reverse the coma. The greatest success has been achieved by using a drug that is similar to carbidopa, which is used to treat Parkinson’s disease, but the pharmaceutical companies are far from the point where the FDA will approve such a drug for use on living patients.”

Miles struggled to maintain his composure.

“If I understand you correctly, Dr. Karpinski, Casey will wake up spontaneously, or a miracle drug, which does not currently exist, will bring her out of her coma. Otherwise she will stay a vegetable for the rest of her life. There is no other alternative.”

Karpinski nodded. “Unfortunately, under the present state of our knowledge, those are the alternatives.”

“That’s why we’re going after Maxfield for assault, Miles,” Stamm said. “But we’re also prosecuting him for Terri Spencer’s murder, so he will receive the severest punishment the law allows.”

Miles’s hands curled into fists. He glared at Jack Stamm. “I want that bastard dead, Jack. I want him dead.”

“We’re going to convict him, Miles. We’re going to send him down,” Stamm assured him.

“Mr. Van Meter,” Delilah asked Miles in a calm voice that sought to defuse his hatred, “can you help us with any information about Joshua Maxfield or your sister that could help my prosecution?”

Miles took a deep breath and regained his self control.

“I don’t think so. The night Casey was attacked, I was in New York City with two other members of my firm negotiating a deal for a client.”

“How well did you know Joshua Maxfield?”

“Not well at all. I’m an attorney with Brucher, Platt and Heinecken. I don’t have much to do with the Academy. I did meet Maxfield briefly at a fund-raiser for the school, and I had dinner with him when he was hired. Casey wanted me to meet him. She thought we might get along, but we really had little in common.”

Delilah turned to Henry Van Meter. “Sir, did you have any contact with Joshua Maxfield?”

Henry looked very tired. He shook his head wearily.

“Almost none. Like my son, I met him at a few functions but we never talked much. I have not been well these past few years. My daughter handled the day-to-day operations of the school.”

“I’m not going to take up any more of your time today,” Delilah said, “but I may need one or both of you to testify at Maxfield’s trial about Casey. The jury needs to see her as a human being, and family members-loved ones-can do that better than anyone. Would it be okay if I came back to talk to you about Casey?”

“Certainly,” Miles said. He handed Delilah his business card. “You can call me at my office anytime. If you don’t have anything more for my father, I’ll walk you out.”

As soon as they were far enough away from the library so Henry Van Meter could not hear, Miles turned to Jack Stamm and Dr. Karpinski.

“Thank you for coming to the house. I know how inconvenient it is to travel out here, but my father really isn’t well.”

“Glad to do it, Miles,” Stamm said. “I only wish we could be more encouraging about your sister’s chances.”

“That’s up to God and science, Jack. All Father and I can do is pray.”

Miles turned to Delilah. “You have my card, Ms. Wallace. If there is anything I can do to put Maxfield on death row, just ask.”

Chapter Thirteen

The preliminary hearing in State of Oregon v. Joshua Maxfield was scheduled for one in the afternoon, but Delilah Wallace had been working on her preparation since seven in the morning. She’d let herself into the district attorney’s office with her key, first in as usual, turning on the lights as she walked past the empty offices.

Delilah was always first at everything she did; she’d been first in her high school class, first in her college class, and first in her law school class. Delilah was smart but she also worked as hard as she was able on everything she did; she didn’t know any other way. She could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t working. Her father had walked out on the family when she was born, and her mother had supported her and her brother with minimum-wage jobs because she had no education and no skills except the ability to push herself to exhaustion and beyond. That meant that Delilah worked, too, from the time she could work, to help pay the rent and put food on the table. She had been an adult long before she was one legally.

Religion and music had been Delilah’s salvation. The church choir had given her purpose and pride in an ability to sing that was unique. Her voice had kept her in high school while her friends dropped out. Her solos put her in a spotlight that she came to cherish, and had pointed her toward trial work where she could continue to be the center of attention. There was no bigger spotlight than the one the press and public shone on a trial lawyer who was seeking the death penalty.

At eight A.M., someone knocked on Delilah’s doorjamb. She looked up from a stack of police reports to find Tony Marx standing in her doorway with a smile plastered on his face and a small notebook in his hand.

“What is the reason for your shit-eating grin, detective?”

“My excellent detection skills. You have some time to hear what I’ve discovered about Joshua Maxfield?”

Delilah glanced at her watch. “I’m not prepping Ashley Spencer until eleven, so I can spare a few minutes. What have you got?”

Marx took a chair in front of Wallace’s desk, which was completely covered with law books, police reports, crumpled scraps of paper, and legal pads.

“How the hell do you ever find anything?” Marx asked as he opened his notebook.

Delilah tapped her temple. “It’s all up here. Come on now, what have you got?”

“Our boy is definitely not what he seems. First, Maxfield isn’t the name he was born with. That’s Joshua Peltz. Mr. and Mrs. Peltz belonged to some fringe Christian sect in Massachusetts that subscribed to a spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-child philosophy. When Joshua was eleven, he was truant from school for a week. A caseworker found him chained in a closet. He was emaciated, dehydrated, and covered with cigarette burns. My guess is that he was subjected to some really sick shit. The state must have thought so, too, because it terminated the Peltzs’ parental rights and put our client in foster care.”

“I just read Maxfield’s first book, A Tourist in Babylon,” Delilah said. “Now I know how he can write so realistically about a classic abused childhood.”

“He’s also pretty knowledgeable about crime,” Marx said. “Our boy developed quite a juvenile record. He set fire to his first foster home and spent time in juvenile detention for arson; there are several assaults in elementary and middle school, quite a few expulsions, too. The only consistent thing in his life was judo. One of his foster parents thought the discipline would do him good, but he only used his skills to bully kids. He was expelled from high school when he was a senior for breaking a boy’s arm. After that, he bummed around for a year, then went back to school.”

“When did Peltz become Maxfield?” Weller asked.

“His last foster family was named Maxfield. He had his name changed legally when he went to college at the University of Massachusetts. I guess Maxfield does sound classier than Peltz. He used to tell people that he was from a wealthy family in California.”

“He wrote his big bestseller in college, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he started it in community college and finished it his senior year at U. Mass.” Marx looked up from his notes. “I got a lot of his writing history from book reviews and interviews he gave when Tourist hit the big time. The story is that he wrote an essay about his childhood in an English class, and the professor suggested he expand it. There was a big-bucks advance, literary prizes, bestseller lists, the whole nine yards. Maxfield was on top of the world, a genuine boy wonder. The problem was that he used up all the material he’d accumulated from his miserable life in his first novel and couldn’t write a decent follow-up. His second book tanked, and he hasn’t written another one since.”

“Unless you count his serial-killer opus.”

“A point well taken.” Marx paused. “You don’t think he killed to get material for the book, do you?”

“Now that’s an idea.” Delilah stared into space for a moment. “I’m gonna think on that.” She refocused on the detective. “You have anything more for me, Tony?”

Marx told Wallace what he’d found out about Maxfield’s reasons for leaving Eton College.

“Can we get the name of the woman he hit on?” Delilah asked.

“I’m working on it.”

“Any luck tying Maxfield to any of the out-of-state murders?”

“The FBI is working that angle and I haven’t heard from them yet.”

“Okay, good job. Now let me get back to work so I don’t mess up this afternoon.”

Ashley’s nightmares were less intense after Joshua Maxfield’s arrest. Boredom replaced fear as her preeminent emotion. She started exercising again, because it gave her something to do. One afternoon, Ashley kicked a ball around the soccer field and tried a few shots on goal. The next day, she practiced again. It felt good to be back on the pitch where her only problem was getting the ball in the net. On Saturday, Sally Castle drove Ashley to the mall where they saw a movie and ate pizza. Leaving the Academy campus made Ashley feel like a prisoner freed from solitary confinement.

Ashley looked forward to her meals with Henry Van Meter. She enjoyed Henry’s stories about his travels, Oregon history, and interesting things he’d accomplished. By contrast, her life seemed dull. The only time she’d traveled was when her parents took her on vacations to Mexico and Aruba, but they had stayed at resorts with other Americans, and the places hadn’t seemed as foreign as she expected.

Sometimes Miles joined Ashley and his father for a meal. He was as kind to her as his father, and she felt comfortable in their company. The Van Meters encouraged Ashley to think about her future. She resisted at first, but they assured her that she could attend the Academy for free in the fall and they mentioned the soccer team from time to time. There was a plan to send the girls on several trips out of state where they would test themselves against other nationally ranked powers.

Ashley’s recovery took a step backward on the morning of the preliminary hearing. She woke up frightened and nauseated, passing on a morning run because nerves and fear sapped her energy. She had gone to the mansion for breakfast but she could only eat toast and tea. As usual, Henry Van Meter tried to distract her from her troubles with tales of far-off places, but she only half-heard him. None of his stories could stop her from imagining what it would be like to face Joshua Maxfield later in the day.

Detective Birch picked up Ashley from the Academy dormitory at nine and drove her to the courthouse. He asked her how she was feeling and she told him that she was nervous, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him how truly frightened she was at the thought of being in the same room with the man who had killed her parents and come within moments of murdering her. Birch said that it was natural to be nervous, and he assured her that Delilah Wallace was a nice woman who would make sure that her ordeal was as painless as possible. Ashley pulled into herself after that, and there was very little conversation during the rest of the ride.

Jerry Philips was sitting in the reception area with his nose in a book when Ashley entered the DA’s office. He smiled and stood up when she came in. Birch placed himself between Ashley and the attorney.

“Do you know this gentleman?” the detective asked Ashley without taking his eyes off of Philips.

“Yes. He was my parents’ lawyer.” She looked at Jerry. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your lawyer, too, Ashley. I’m here because I thought you might need some moral support. I’ve already spoken to Ms. Wallace. She seems very nice, and she’d prefer to talk to you alone, but I’ll go with you if you’d feel more comfortable with me sitting in. She has no objection.”

“That’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”

“Okay. I’ll be out here when you’re done.”

Ashley was very tense at the start of the interview, but Delilah calmed her down in less than five minutes. Delilah told Ashley that she would not keep her on the stand for long. She was only going to ask questions about what Ashley had seen in the boathouse. Maxfield’s lawyer would have a chance to cross-examine, but Delilah did not expect him to ask her anything that would embarrass her. And Delilah assured her that she would be right there in the courtroom to object if Maxfield’s attorney got out of hand.

“Will I have to see Mr. Maxfield?” Ashley asked.

“You’ll be in my office until I call you, so you won’t see him until you testify. When you’re in court he’ll be sitting across from you at the defense table, but there’s going to be extra security, so you don’t have to worry. I picked my meanest officers to guard you. They’ll beat Maxfield to a pulp if he so much as breathes in your direction,” Delilah said sternly. Then she broke into a smile. “And I’ll sit on that weasel when they’re through, and really put the fear of God in him.”

The thought of this massive woman crushing Maxfield under her tremendous weight made Ashley laugh. She covered her mouth, embarrassed, but Delilah broke out laughing, too, and, for a moment, they were girls together, giggling over a private joke.

Delilah spent the rest of their time together going over the questions she was going to ask Ashley and listening to her answers. Every once in a while, the prosecutor would comment on an answer and suggest different phrasing, but she never tried to make Ashley say anything that wasn’t true. Finally, Delilah subjected Ashley to a mock cross-examination. She told Ashley that the best way to handle cross was to tell the truth. She advised her not to rush, to listen to each question before answering and to make her answer to the point and as short as possible.

“Admit you don’t know an answer if that’s true and don’t be afraid to say that you aren’t sure,” Delilah instructed her.

After the mock cross, Delilah told her that she had held up pretty well. By the time the interview was over, Ashley was less frightened and she was convinced that she would get through her ordeal.

When Delilah escorted Ashley back to the reception area, Ashley’s lawyer was still waiting for her.

“Mr. Philips,” the deputy DA said, “Ashley will be my second witness so I’d like her at the courthouse, ready to go, at one-thirty.”

“Not a problem. I’ll get her some lunch and have her there on time.”

“Thank you.” Delilah turned to Ashley and put a hand on her shoulder. “You feed yourself, girlfriend. You ain’t got enough meat on your bones.”

Ashley smiled. She felt safe around Delilah. The DA smiled back, turned and walked down the hallway to her office.

“Are you hungry? Shall we get something to eat?” Philips asked.

Ashley hadn’t eaten much for breakfast and she was famished, but she’d seen lawyer shows, so she felt she had to ask Philips something.

“Are you going to be with me this afternoon?”

“Would you like me to be?”

“Yes, but I know that lawyers charge a lot and I can’t pay you. I don’t have any money.”

“Actually, you do. Remember I told you about the insurance, and there’s been an offer on the house. We’ll discuss that at lunch. But you don’t have to worry about my fees for today. It’s on the house.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“We’re both in the same boat, remember? I know how alone I felt when Dad died, so I have some idea how you’re feeling. I just don’t want you to go through this alone.”

Chapter Fourteen

A guard let Barry Weller into the visiting room in the courthouse jail, a cramped, broom closet-sized cubicle divided in two by a grille through which attorney and client talked. Weller wanted Maxfield to wear a business suit for the preliminary hearing. The jail commander had refused because no jury was present, so Joshua was wearing an orange jail jumpsuit. Weller expected his client to complain. Most clients wanted to be dressed nicely if their hearing was going to be in open court and TV cameras and photographers were going to be present. Maxfield didn’t seem to care how he was dressed. The only thing he’d insisted on was a haircut, which Weller had been able to arrange. Maxfield had cut his hair short. It dawned on Weller that he and his client looked vaguely similar.

“Ready for the prelim, Joshua?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. What do I do?”

“Nothing. Most of the time only the state puts on witnesses at a prelim.”

“Why is that?”

“The arraignment is the court appearance where the judge tells you your charges. It’s held in district court, where misdemeanors-the less serious crimes-are prosecuted. Murder is a felony. Felonies can only be tried in circuit court. A preliminary hearing gives the DA an opportunity to convince a judge that there’s enough of a case to warrant a trial in Circuit Court.”

“And when will the trial take place?”

“In a couple of months.”

“Why don’t you try to win the case today? Then we wouldn’t have to go to trial.”

“It doesn’t work that way. At the preliminary hearing the prosecution doesn’t have to convince a judge that you’re guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, like she does at a trial. Delilah just has to show that a reasonable person would conclude from the evidence that the crime of murder had been committed and that there is a reasonable possibility that you committed the murder. That’s not much of a burden. It’s not even fifty percent.

“What’s great about a prelim is that we get a chance to cross-exam the state’s witnesses under oath before trial. We could put on witnesses if we wanted to, but that wouldn’t make sense because it would give the DA a chance to do the same thing.”

“So we’ll probably lose,” Maxfield said, “and I’ll have to sit in jail for months waiting for the trial?”

“Yes.”

Weller expected Maxfield to ask about bail, but he didn’t. Instead, his client asked about Weller’s progress with the book deal.

“Howard Martin called me yesterday,” Weller answered excitedly, naming the man who had edited Maxfield’s two novels. “He’s not with your old publishing house anymore. He’s editor in chief at Scribe.”

“I thought I read something about that in Publishers Weekly.”

“He really wants the book. We’ve only had a preliminary discussion but he’s talking seven figures already.”

Maxfield smiled. “I guess this is how the outlaws in the Old West felt when they read a Wanted poster and saw that there was a big reward for them.”

Weller laughed. “Big isn’t the half of it. I’ve gotten calls from movie producers, and several television news shows are clamoring for interviews.”

“Good job, Barry. I knew you’d come through for me.”

Weller was about to go on when the guard told them that it was time for Maxfield to go to court. Weller waited in the jail near the elevator while the guards brought out his client. Weller, Maxfield, and two guards rode down to the third floor in silence. As soon as the elevator door opened, they were bathed in the glare of the TV lights. Weller shielded his eyes and rushed to keep up as the guards hustled Maxfield through a barrage of questions and flashbulb explosions. The noise didn’t stop until the courtroom doors closed behind them. Weller followed Maxfield and his guards through the packed courtroom to his counsel table. Henry and Miles Van Meter were sitting in the front row of the spectator section. Weller couldn’t tell what Henry was thinking, but Miles Van Meter’s hatred of his client was obvious.

Delilah Wallace was already going over her notes at the prosecution’s table. Delilah took no notice of the commotion caused by the entrance of Weller or his infamous client.

“Morning, Delilah,” Weller said.

Delilah looked up with a welcoming smile. “Barry Weller! As I live and breathe. What are you doing here?”

Barry laughed. He got a kick out of Delilah. “I was going to have my client cop a plea but you looked so busy I’ve decided to wait.”

Delilah burst out with a belly laugh that made her huge body rock.

“I always enjoy locking horns with you, Barry. You were one of the few public defenders with a sense of humor.”

Weller took his seat next to Joshua. The bailiff rapped for order, and the Honorable Nancy Stillman limped into the courtroom with the aid of a cane. Stillman was a plump, gray-haired, motherly-looking woman who had been appointed to the bench two years before, after spending twenty years as a litigator with an insurance defense firm.

“This is the time set for the preliminary hearing in State of Oregon versus Joshua Maxfield,” the bailiff intoned.

“Is counsel ready?” Judge Stillman asked.

Delilah struggled to her feet like a mountain forming. “As always, Your Honor, the people of Oregon are ready to proceed.”

Stillman couldn’t help smiling. “Mr. Weller?” the judge asked.

Weller stood. “Ready for Mr. Maxfield.”

“Call your first witness, Ms. Wallace.”

“Before I do that, Your Honor, I want to inform the court that for purposes of this hearing only, Mr. Weller and I have agreed to stipulate that the medical examiner’s report can be submitted in lieu of her testimony with regards to the cause of Terri Spencer’s death.”

“Is Ms. Wallace correct, Mr. Weller?” Judge Stillman asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“We’re also stipulating, again for purposes of this hearing only, that Mrs. Spencer was stabbed to death by a hunting knife with a blade similar to Exhibit 3, which was discovered on the grounds of the Oregon Academy and that, if called to testify, a forensic expert would tell the court that blood on the blade of Exhibit 3 is identical to Terri Spencer’s blood.”

“You’re agreeable to that as well, Mr. Weller?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Finally, Judge,” Delilah continued, “and also for purposes of this hearing only, the parties have agreed to stipulate that, if called to testify, Dr. Ralph Karpinski would tell the court that Casey Van Meter is in a coma due to a brain injury that occurred when the back of her head struck a roof support in the boathouse on the Oregon Academy grounds, and that bruises on the victim’s face are consistent with a blow to the face.”

Weller agreed to the stipulation, and the judge made several notes on a yellow pad. When she was done, Judge Stillman nodded at Delilah and told her to call her first witness.

“The State calls Lawrence Birch.”

An hour later, Delilah’s secretary entered her boss’s office and told Ashley that it was time to testify. Ashley turned pale. Jerry Philips squeezed her hand.

“Hey, you’ve had more pressure on you than this. You’re a big-time athlete,” he said, trying to loosen Ashley up with a smile, but she was paralyzed by the thought of being in the same room with Joshua Maxfield. She remembered the heat of his body and the way he smelled when he’d pressed down on her and rubbed his sex against her buttocks. She thought she might throw up.

Jerry put a hand under her arm and helped her stand. Her legs trembled. Her breath caught in her chest. She felt dizzy.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Ashley whispered, on the edge of tears.

Philips turned her toward him. He gripped her shoulders and made her stare into his eyes.

“You must do this, Ashley. This is for your mom and dad. Maxfield is a terrible person.”

Now Ashley was crying. Philips held her. The secretary looked on, almost in tears herself.

“Can you get Miss Spencer a glass of water?” Jerry asked. The secretary walked away. When she returned, Ashley was still shaky but calmer. Jerry stood back and held out a handkerchief. He waited while Ashley wiped her eyes and drank some water. She knew Jerry Philips was right. She had to do this for Terri and Norman. She was the only one who could stop Joshua Maxfield, and she was going to stop him.

“Let’s get this over with,” Ashley said.

Philips squeezed her shoulder and they started down to Judge Stillman’s courtroom.

The walk from the courtroom door to the witness box seemed to take a lifetime. Ashley looked straight ahead and did not see Jerry Philips slip into a seat in the last row. She kept herself rigid and turned her head away from the defense table so she could see Delilah Wallace but not Joshua Maxfield. There was a low wooden barrier that separated the spectator section from the front of the courtroom. Delilah smiled warmly and pointed toward the gate that opened into the bar of the court. Just before Ashley pushed through the gate she saw Henry Van Meter. He smiled at her and the smile helped to steel her for her ordeal.

Ashley’s legs felt heavy as she walked past Barry Weller. She kept her back to the defense table when she took the oath, but there was no way that she could stop herself from casting a quick glance at Joshua Maxfield once she was in the witness box. The most difficult thing for Ashley to accept was that Maxfield had not changed into a monster. He still looked like the friendly instructor of creative writing who had chatted on the Academy quadrangle with the young girl he had tried to rape and murder and the woman he would soon stab to death. At the moment their eyes met, Maxfield smiled. His smile was as warm as Delilah’s. How could evil be so undetectable?

“Miss Spencer,” Delilah said, “for purposes of this hearing I am going to confine most of my questions to the events that took place on the evening of June 24 of this year. But I will ask you a few other questions, so Judge Stillman can put those events in context.”

Ashley was glad that the questioning had started so she had an excuse for staring at the DA and away from Joshua Maxfield.

“You are between your junior and senior years in high school, are you not?”

“Yes,” Ashley answered, remembering Delilah’s instructions to keep her answers short.

“And you’ve spent your high school years at Eisenhower?”

“Yes.”

“Have you played any sports at Eisenhower?”

“Soccer.”

“Do you also play on an elite club team when the high school season is over?”

“Yes.”

“Have you done well in your sport?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the judge a few of the honors you’ve won as a soccer player.”

Ashley started with her honorable-mention all-state designation as a freshman and went on to list her other achievements.

“Is the Oregon Academy a private school?”

“Yes.”

“Does it have a nationally ranked women’s soccer team?”

“Yes.”

“Were you offered a full scholarship to the Academy for your senior year in high school?”

“Yes.”

“Were you planning to accept that offer?”

“Yes. I had told them that I would go in the fall.”

“Now, Ashley, please tell the judge what you were doing on the Academy campus on June 24.”

“The Academy runs a summer soccer clinic. Kids come from all over the country. Some of the instructors are members of the Olympic team and some are top collegians. I was hired as a counselor.”

“Where did you live during those two weeks?”

“In the dorm with the kids and the other counselors.”

“So you were on campus on the evening of June 24?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the judge what happened after dinner.”

Ashley had trouble answering the question. She had blocked all thoughts of her mother until now, but she could put them away no longer. She took a sip of water to stall for time so she could gather herself. Judge Stillman knew what had happened to Ashley, her father, and Tanya Jones, because of Larry Birch’s testimony. She gave Ashley a smile of encouragement.

“I like to run in the evening,” Ashley said. “My roommate, Sally Castle, usually ran with me but she wasn’t feeling well that night so I went alone.”

“Where did you run that evening?” Delilah asked.

“There’s a lot of woods on the Academy grounds with trails through them. I ran on the trails.”

“Does a river run alongside the Academy land?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a boathouse on the river?”

“Yes.”

“Did your route take you near the boathouse?”

“Yes it did.”

“How was the light when you started out?”

“Good.”

“When your route took you near the river and the boathouse, did you see anyone you knew?”

Ashley hesitated. She took a breath. “I saw Mr. Maxfield.”

“Ashley, I know that this is hard for you…”

“Objection,” Weller said. “That’s not a question.”

“Sustained,” Judge Stillman said. “Just ask your question without preamble, Ms. Wallace.”

“Yes, Judge. Ashley, please face the defendant.”

Delilah had told Ashley that this moment would come, but she was still not prepared. As her head turned toward Maxfield, she clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing hard enough to cause pain.

“Is that the man you saw in the woods near the river and the boathouse on the evening of June 24?”

Ashley’s eyes locked on Maxfield’s. His smile was gentle and not threatening. He seemed to be making her task easier. Ashley nodded and looked away.

“We need a verbal response, Miss Spencer,” the judge said.

Ashley took a deep breath and let it out. Delilah had told her how important it was that she make a positive identification without hesitation. If Maxfield was going to be punished for what he’d done to her, her family, and her friend, she would have to tell the judge that he was the man she saw at the boathouse.

“I saw Joshua Maxfield that night.” She pointed at Maxfield. “He is the man sitting in the courtroom with his lawyer.”

“Let the record reflect that Miss Spencer has identified the defendant, Joshua Maxfield,” Judge Stillman ordered.

“What was the defendant doing when you saw him that night for the first time?” Delilah asked.

“He was walking along the river toward the boathouse.”

Delilah paused and consulted her notes. Ashley wished they could stop now but she knew that they couldn’t.

“Ashley,” the prosecutor asked, “did anything unusual happen shortly after you saw the defendant walking toward the boathouse?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the court what happened and what you did.”

“I heard a scream. Actually, there was more than one.”

“How many screams did you hear?”

“Two.”

“Was there time between the screams?”

“Yes, but not much.”

“Could you tell who was screaming?”

“A woman. It was a woman’s scream.”

“What did you do when you heard the scream?”

Ashley looked down. Her voice dropped when she answered.

“I got scared. I froze. I thought about hiding.”

“Did you hide?”

“No.”

Ashley choked up. She reached again for her glass of water.

“What did you do after the second scream?”

“I went through the woods toward the boathouse.”

“Why the boathouse?”

“It sounded like they came from there.”

“Did you hear or see anything else before you arrived at the boathouse?” Delilah asked.

“No.”

“How close did you get to the boathouse?”

“I was right next to it. I went to one of the side windows and looked in.”

“Did you hear anything from your position?”

“Just before I looked in the window I heard a woman shout.”

“What did she say?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Why do you think a woman, not a man, shouted?”

“It was high-pitched.”

“How soon before you looked in the window did you hear the woman shout?”

“A few seconds.”

“What did you see when you looked in the window?”

Memories came flooding back: the body on the floor sprawled against the timber that supported the roof, the body curled into a fetal position on the floorboards. She wobbled in her seat and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Do you want to take a break?” Delilah Wallace asked, alarmed by Ashley’s pallor.

“No,” Ashley answered in a voice bereft of strength. “I want to get this over with.”

“You’re certain, Miss Spencer?” the judge asked. “We can recess.”

“No,” she answered more forcefully. “I can answer the question.”

Ashley turned to face Maxfield. She pointed at him.

“He was standing over Dean Van Meter. He was holding a knife. There was blood on the knife. I must have made some sound because he turned toward the window and stared right at me. Then he moved and I saw…I saw my…my mother.”

“Now, let me clarify this point. Did you know the identity of the two women then?”

“No. I couldn’t see their faces. It was dark in the boathouse.”

“But you could see the defendant?”

Ashley felt stronger now. She glared at Maxfield. “Definitely. It was him. He was very close to the window, holding the knife. There was blood all over it.”

“What happened next?”

“I ran and he chased me. I got to the dorm and told the security guard. He called the police.”

Delilah checked her notes. She had covered everything she wanted to bring out from Ashley for purposes of the preliminary hearing. The medical examiner’s report and the stipulations established that Terri Spencer had been murdered and that Casey Van Meter was in a coma because of an assault. Ashley had placed Joshua Maxfield at the scene of the murder and the assault moments after Ashley had heard two screams. She had also established that a woman had shouted something inside the boathouse seconds before Ashley had seen the defendant holding the bloody knife that had been used to murder Terri Spencer.

“No further questions,” Delilah said, regretting that Ashley would now be at the mercy of Maxfield’s attorney. She had seen how hard even the friendly questions had been for her witness. Barry Weller was a decent sort. Delilah hoped that he would not be too rough on Ashley.

“Any cross, Mr. Weller?” Judge Stillman asked.

Weller started to say something, but Joshua Maxfield touched him on the arm and whispered in his ear.

“May I have a moment to consult with my client, Your Honor?”

“Of course,” Stillman said.

Weller leaned toward Maxfield.

“We need to talk,” Maxfield said.

“I’ll ask for a recess after I cross.”

“No, now. We have to talk right now,” Maxfield insisted.

“Look, Joshua, Spencer is rattled. I don’t want to give her time to get her legs back under her.”

“Cross won’t be necessary, Barry. I want to change my plea to guilty.”

“What!” Weller said in a tone loud enough to attract attention. He looked around briefly. Everyone in the courtroom was staring at him. Barry lowered his voice.

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“If you plead, it doesn’t mean you’ll avoid a death sentence. You understand that the DA can demand a sentencing hearing if she still wants to go for death?”

Maxfield looked over his shoulder at the spectators. Miles Van Meter caught his eye for a moment and Maxfield looked away.

“People are listening to us,” he said nervously. “Can we go someplace where we’ll have some privacy?” He pointed at the door to the jury room. “Is that a place we can talk?”

“Let me ask the judge.”

Weller stood. “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?”

The judge summoned the attorneys to the dais. As soon as Delilah joined him, Weller leaned toward the judge.

“Your Honor, my client and I need to discuss an important matter in private. Could we take a brief recess? Perhaps we could use the jury room.”

“This young woman is barely holding on, Barry,” the judge said. “I want to get her out of here as soon as possible.”

“Without revealing any confidences, Judge, I can tell you that the outcome of our conversation might benefit Miss Spencer.”

Judge Stillman looked puzzled.

“I have no objection, Your Honor,” Delilah said. She thought Ashley could use a break.

“Very well. You can use the jury room.”

The judge called over the court guards and told them that she was going to let Weller confer with his client during the break. Two guards escorted Weller and Maxfield to the jury room while another corrections officer left the courtroom to watch the door that opened into the hallway.

Judge Stillman ordered a recess and left the bench. The spectators filed into the hall or stood chatting at their seats. Delilah walked over to the witness box.

“How you feeling?” she asked Ashley.

“I wish it was over.”

“Me too, but you were good up there and you’ll handle Weller’s cross just fine if you remember my simple rules.”

“Think before I answer, always tell the truth, don’t be afraid to say that I don’t know an answer, and always ask Mr. Weller to explain his question if I don’t understand it.”

Delilah beamed. “A-plus, young lady. You’re ready for law school right now. Come on down out of that chair and stretch your legs for a while.”

Ashley and Delilah walked over to the counsel table. Larry Birch, Tony Marx, and Jerry Philips joined them. The Van Meters asked the DA how she thought the proceedings were going. Delilah said that she had no doubt that Maxfield would be bound over for trial. She complimented Ashley again for doing so well during her direct examination.

“What are they doing in the jury room?” Ashley asked Delilah.

“I don’t know.”

Wallace did have a hunch but she didn’t want to get Ashley’s hopes up. The DA suspected that Ashley’s testimony had convinced Maxfield that he would lose at trial. She hoped that he was asking his lawyer to negotiate a deal.

“Do you think…?” Before Philips could finish his question, a man in an orange jumpsuit staggered out of the jury room. The guard stepped back, startled, before grabbing him. Delilah stared at the prisoner’s face.

“That’s Weller, the lawyer,” she shouted at the guard as she crossed the courtroom. “Where’s Maxfield?”

The guard looked confused.

Delilah pointed at Weller. “This is the lawyer. Your prisoner changed clothes with him. He’s escaping.”

The guard took one more look at the man he was holding and finally figured out what was going on.

“Watch Ashley,” Larry Birch told his partner as he rushed toward the jury room. Delilah was already inside. A conference table that seated twelve dominated the long, narrow room. The guard who had been posted in the hallway was sprawled on the floor between the table and the corridor door. Larry Birch raced past Delilah and checked the guard for a pulse. He was breathing.

“Get a doctor up here,” he told Delilah as he pulled his gun and entered the corridor outside Judge Stillman’s courtroom. Two women gasped and moved against the wall. A muscular construction worker had the opposite reaction-he looked ready to take on the armed detective. Birch held up his badge.

“I’m a police detective,” Birch said. “Did you see a man in a suit leave this room?”

The man shook his head without ever taking his eyes off Birch’s gun. The detective ran down the hall toward the wide marble stairway that led to the courthouse lobby. He held his gun at his side to avoid a panic. Most people rode the elevators. The detective guessed that Maxfield would take the stairs where there was little traffic. The few people he passed were concerned about their cases, or courthouse business, and paid no attention to him. They wouldn’t have paid attention to Maxfield, either.

Metal detectors had been set up in the lobby at the front of the courthouse. A number of security guards were screening the lawyers, employees, and litigants who were entering the building. No one was paying any attention to the people who were leaving. Birch walked outside into a crisp, cool afternoon. A summer rain had fallen a short time before, but the sun was shining now and the air was heavy with ozone. He looked up and down the street and across Fourth to the park. There was no sign of Joshua Maxfield.

When Larry Birch returned to the courtroom, Barry Weller was seated at the defense table, surrounded by Judge Stillman, the Van Meters, Delilah Wallace, Tony Marx, Jerry Philips, and Ashley Spencer.

“I walked into the jury room and put my briefcase on the table,” Weller was saying. “Maxfield was behind me. Before I could turn, he put on a chokehold. It was so tight I couldn’t shout or breathe. He wrestled me to the floor and wrapped his legs around me. It was some kind of wrestling hold. I struggled for a few seconds and passed out. When I came to, I was dressed in Maxfield’s jumpsuit and my clothes and briefcase were gone.”

“Do you have any idea where he went?” Tony Marx asked.

“No. He never said anything that made me think he’d try something like this. He was planning on writing a book about the case. He seemed resigned to going through a trial.”

Marx spotted his partner. “Any luck?”

Birch shook his head. “Did you put out an alert?”

“Yeah. It sounds like Maxfield’s been planning this for a while. Weller thinks he was hired because he looks a lot like Maxfield.”

Birch studied the lawyer for a moment. “Damn. That never occurred to me.”

“Or me,” Weller said sheepishly.

A doctor came out of the jury room followed by the guard who had been attacked. The guard looked shaky but he was walking on his own. The doctor spotted Weller and walked over to him.

“Let me take a look at you to make sure you don’t need to go to the hospital.”

Everyone moved away to let the doctor work. Delilah noticed how pale Ashley looked.

“It’s okay,” Delilah assured her terrified witness. “We’ll protect you.”

Ashley sank onto a chair. Her breathing was shallow.

“He’s going to run, Ashley,” the DA said. “The first time he was captured he was in Nebraska. Maxfield doesn’t want to be anywhere near you. He wants to get as far away from Oregon as he can.”

Ashley looked like someone who had seen her own death. “Maybe he’ll run now,” she said in a voice devoid of energy, “but he’ll come back for me. He’s killed everyone I love and he’s tried to kill me. I don’t know why he wants me dead but he does and he won’t stop.”

Chapter Fifteen

Larry Birch stopped at McDonald’s to get Ashley dinner before driving her to the dorm. By the time they arrived, a policeman was sitting outside her room. Birch told her that another officer was patrolling the grounds.

Ashley did not like being the only person in the dorm. After Maxfield’s arrest, she was lonely and bored. With Maxfield on the loose, the empty building felt threatening. It was old and musty, with dark wood paneling and little natural light. Without the noise made by the students, Ashley could hear the eerie whine the wind made when it slipped through cracks in the wall. The building creaked, and Ashley was certain that she’d heard scuttling sounds in the walls.

Before she went to bed, Ashley turned out the lights in her room and stared out the window. The dormitory was next to the science building, and the front faced the quadrangle. Ashley’s room was at the rear of the building and faced the woods. Streetlights illuminated a lot of the campus, but there were no lights in the dense forest. When the dorm was full, ambient light from the rooms cast a glow over the trees. The rooms were deserted now, and the only light came from the dim glow of a quarter moon.

Ashley watched the trees sway in the wind. She looked up at the stars. Where were her mother and father? She hoped that there was a heaven or some kind of afterlife where they were together and happy. She wanted to believe that they weren’t simply decomposing; that there was something more than rotting flesh and naked bone to mark their time on Earth. A friend of hers was into New Age stuff. She spoke of auras and spiritual energy left behind by the dead. Ashley remembered how she used to feel her father’s spirit inside her when she was little and he could not make it to her soccer game, but the brutal murders that had taken her parents from her had also murdered her belief in magic. Ashley had searched for some trace of her parents-their spirit, a soul that lived on when the body was gone-but all she felt was an absence; a cold, hollow feeling that was the opposite of life.

Ashley closed her shades and got into bed. She cried silently as she pulled up the covers. She used to say a prayer at bedtime, but she had not been able to since her father died. Now she just hoped that she would sleep without dreams.

The bedside clock read 2:58 when Ashley woke up. She had finished off a large Coke at McDonald’s and had to go to the bathroom. It was hot, and she’d slept in panties and a T-shirt. She remembered the guard and pulled on sweatpants.

The policeman who was guarding her room stood up when he heard the knob turn. He was in his mid-twenties and wore his blond hair in a crewcut. He looked strong. He had been reading Sports Illustrated, and Ashley caught him trying to hide it.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said, a little embarrassed about having to discuss her toilet habits.

“Okay,” he said. Then he smiled. “I’ll be here all night.”

Ashley closed the door behind her. Low-wattage bulbs created a pattern of shadows and dimly lit spaces on the floor as she shuffled groggily down the hall. The bathroom was just beyond the stairs. Still half asleep, Ashley went into one of the stalls and peed. She was wiping when she heard a noise. It was so quiet in the dorm that she could hear sounds from any place on the floor. She had no idea where this one had come from, but it unnerved her because it sounded like a gasp of pain.

Ashley told herself that she was being paranoid but that wasn’t true. She had a lot of justification for her fear. She decided to wait before flushing. If someone was out there she didn’t want him to know where she was. She opened the bathroom door wide enough to let her peek into the hallway. Ashley could see the hall outside her room. The guard was still in his chair but he was slumped sideways at an odd angle as if he was sleeping, which made no sense. She had just talked to him. He knew that she was only going to be gone for a few minutes.

Ashley was attracted by a red glow to the left of the police officer. It took a moment to figure out that she was seeing the digital clock on her nightstand. That meant that the door to her room was open. She was certain she had shut it. The digital glow disappeared then reappeared. A shape had passed in front of the clock. Ashley’s heart raced. Joshua Maxfield had killed the guard and he was in her room.

Ashley had to fight to keep from racing down the stairs. She forced herself to move quietly. Halfway to the second-floor landing she heard the sound of her closet door slamming against the wall. She moved faster. Moments later, footsteps pounded along the third-floor landing toward the bathroom.

Ashley stopped in the shadows in the entry hall. Maxfield was going to figure out that she wasn’t on the third floor and come looking for her. She could try to hide in the deserted dormitory but it would be easier for Maxfield to trap her in a confined space. There were many more places to hide outside. And there was the officer who was patrolling the grounds! She’d find him and he would radio for help.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs from the third floor. Ashley ran into the night and around the side of the dormitory. Her feet came out from under her and she sprawled on the ground. When she rolled over to stand up she found herself staring into the dead eyes of the other patrolman. His head lolled to one side. The material in the front of his shirt was ripped open where the officer had been stabbed repeatedly. There was also a red gash that started at one side of his neck and ended on the other side.

Ashley fought the urge to throw up and struggled to her feet. Maxfield would be coming fast. She had to run. Ashley raced toward the woods, which were dark and offered many places to hide. When her guards didn’t check in someone was bound to come to find out why. Maxfield would not hunt for her all night and risk being discovered. If she stayed concealed until morning she would be safe.

A path led into the woods. Ashley did not take it. She ran along the edge of the forest for several steps then disappeared between two trees. She was just in time. A figure darted across the front lawn of the dormitory and stopped on the quadrangle. He passed under two streetlights and Ashley got a good look at him. He was wearing a ski mask and gloves. Ashley couldn’t see his face but he had the height and build of Joshua Maxfield and he looked identical to the man who had killed her father.

The man turned slowly in a circle. He stopped when he faced the woods. He seemed to be staring right at her. Ashley held her breath. She prayed that he would not come searching for her. Her prayers were answered. As Ashley watched, the intruder disappeared into the night.

Ashley suddenly remembered Henry Van Meter and the other people in the mansion. She had to warn them about Maxfield. Ashley was barefoot, and the forest floor had done some damage to the soles of her feet. Fortunately, the Academy was a field of green with lawn everywhere. She hugged the buildings and crept along the side of the dormitory until she reached the dead policeman.

Ashley gagged, squeezed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath. She could not afford to panic. She knelt down and searched for the officer’s radio. It was missing. If she was going to warn Henry Van Meter she would have to go to the mansion.

Ashley was hidden by the shadows at the side of the dorm but she would be in the glow of the streetlights if she took even a few steps. She couldn’t risk crossing the quadrangle, so she ran behind the dormitory and followed the backs of the school buildings to the end of the quadrangle. She peeked around the corner of the building closest to Administration. She didn’t see Maxfield anywhere.

Ashley took a deep breath and sprinted across the open ground to the rear of the Administration building. Now she was on the same side of the quadrangle as the gym, and there was another building to shield her. If Maxfield hadn’t seen her sprint to the Administration building, she would be safe.

Ashley reached the rear of the gym when she heard a sound. There was a hill at the back of the building that led down to the soccer field. Ashley dove over the edge and pressed herself against the cold grass. Sneakers scraped against the cement path that circled the gym. Ashley peered over the edge of the hill. A man opened the door to the gym and slipped inside.

Ashley was about to make a run for the mansion when headlights illuminated the street in front of the gym and a police car moved into view. Ashley leaped from her hiding place and raced to the car. She waved and screamed. The car stopped.

“Maxfield’s here,” she yelled. “He killed my guards. They’re both dead.”

A muscular black patrolman got out of the car, gun drawn, after telling his partner to radio for backup.

“He’s in the gym. I just saw him go in. He has a knife. He cut their throats.”

The driver stared at the gym and hesitated. The second officer, a stocky Latino, came around the car after finishing his call for backup.

“She says he’s in the gym, Bob.”

Bob nodded toward Ashley. “What do we do about her?”

“Don’t go in alone,” Ashley said. “He already killed two policemen tonight.”

“How many exits are there to the gym?”

Ashley was about to answer when they heard sirens. The two officers relaxed. A second police car raced onto the Academy grounds seconds later. Several other patrol cars were close behind.

“You have to send someone to the mansion,” Ashley said. “Mr. Van Meter is there.”

The officers left her at the car and conferred with the other policemen. Moments later, Ashley was driven to the mansion. She looked out the back window of the car as she drove away and saw several armed men walking around the side of the gym.

Henry Van Meter was standing in the entryway of his home when Ashley arrived. He had heard the sirens and had just finished dressing. After Ashley explained what had happened at the dormitory, Henry told her to wait in the den while he talked with the authorities, and had ordered Mrs. O’Connor to bring Ashley a pot of tea and something to eat.

An hour after she entered the den, Larry Birch told her that Joshua Maxfield had not been found in the gym or anywhere else. That was all she needed to know to come to a decision. As soon as Birch left, Ashley walked over to the phone. Jerry Philips had given Ashley his home phone number and she’d called him there last week to discuss the sale of her house. Philips sounded groggy when he answered the phone.

“Ashley, what time is it?”

“Five twenty-eight.”

“Has something happened?”

“Maxfield tried to kill me tonight.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I have to talk to you.”

“Where are you?”

“At Mr. Van Meter’s house at the Academy.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Ashley hung up. She sat in the armchair near the fireplace and closed her eyes. She knew she had drifted off, because Jerry Philips was sitting across from her when she opened her eyes.

“How long have you been here?” Ashley asked.

He smiled. “About an hour.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“We all thought that you could use the sleep,” Philips said. “Do you want something to eat, some coffee?”

Ashley shook her head. She remembered why she’d summoned Philips, and she was suddenly scared to death.

“You’re my lawyer, right?”

“Sure.”

“On TV what a client tells the lawyer is private…”

“Confidential.”

“Confidential. What does that really mean?”

“The law protects conversations between an attorney and his client so the client can talk freely about her problems without being afraid that someone else will learn what she’s said. It encourages full disclosure by the client, so the attorney will have all the facts and be able to give his client good advice.”

“So anything I tell you is protected?”

Philips nodded. “Now what is this about?” he asked.

“How much money do I have?”

“I don’t have the exact figures, but with the sale of the house, the insurance… I’d guess around five hundred thousand dollars.”

“Could you set up an account for me that I could draw from if I wasn’t in the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Could it be in another name?”

“Ashley, what are you thinking of doing?”

Ashley sat up. Her back was straight and her hands were folded in her lap.

“I’m going away.”

“Where?”

“Out of the country.”

“Where out of the country?”

“I don’t want you to know where. I don’t want anyone to know.”

“I’ll keep anything you tell me confidential. That doesn’t mean I can’t give you advice. That’s why you have a lawyer. Now, where are you planning to go?”

Ashley looked down but did not answer.

“Do you know anyone where you’re going?”

“No.”

“Do you speak any foreign language?”

“Spanish. I have three years of Spanish.”

“What are you going to do when you get where you’re going?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her lap. “I just know that I can’t stay here. They can’t protect me and I can’t live like this, locked up, surrounded by guards.”

Ashley looked up. “Maxfield won’t look for me where I’m going because I don’t even know where I’m going. I’ll change my name. I’ll live cheaply. I’ll contact you by email. If they catch him I’ll come back.”

“This is crazy. I can understand why you’re afraid. Your life has been hell. But you’re not making sense. Let me see if I can get you in the witness protection program. Maxfield has killed in different states. Maybe I can get the Feds to help you.”

“I don’t trust them.”

“You’re frightened now. I can’t imagine what you went through tonight and those other times. But you’re not thinking straight.”

Ashley’s hands tightened on each other. “This is what I want to do. If you won’t help me I’ll find another lawyer.”

“Ashley…”

“No, my mind is made up. I have a passport. I’ll book a flight over the Internet. All I need is for you to set up an account for me so I can get money to live on.”

“This is crazy.”

“My life is crazy. Maxfield wants to kill me. He’s murdered my family. If I stay here I’ll never be able to live a normal life. It will be like I’m the criminal. I’ll be locked up, surrounded by guards. I won’t be able to go to school. I won’t have friends. And I’ll be afraid every minute. Don’t you see? I have to get away from him.”

Chapter Sixteen

Ashley Spencer has disappeared,” Larry Birch said as soon as he walked into Delilah Wallace’s office.

“She what?!”

“She’s been living at the Van Meter mansion. Henry Van Meter moved her over from the dorm and hired a team of private guards. This morning, after breakfast, she slipped out. No one has seen her since. Mr. Van Meter called me as soon as he was certain that she was really gone.”

“Did Maxfield…?”

“I don’t think so. Van Meter has the estate looking like an armed camp. I doubt Maxfield would try to take her from there again.”

“So you think she’s running away?”

“That’s my guess. She definitely took steps to evade the guards. But none of her clothes are missing, and her toothbrush, hairbrush, stuff like that, are still in her room.”

Delilah sat back in her chair and shook her head slowly. She looked sad.

“That poor, lonely kid. How frightened she must be. I can’t imagine.”

Delilah’s intercom buzzed. “There’s a Jerry Philips at the front desk,” the receptionist said. “He wants to talk to you about Ashley Spencer.”

“Send him back.”

Two minutes later, Jerry Philips was shown into Delilah’s office. He looked embarrassed and could not meet the DA’s eye.

“Where is she, Mr. Philips?” Delilah demanded. Jerry noticed that she was not calling him by his first name as she usually did.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Listen, Jerry,” the homicide detective said, “Ashley is a material witness in a murder investigation and she’s in great danger…”

“You don’t understand,” Philips interrupted. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. Believe me, I tried to find out, but she wouldn’t tell me where she was going.”

“Then why are you here?” Delilah asked.

“Ashley instructed me to come. She didn’t want you to worry that Maxfield had her. She wanted you to know that she’s safe.”

“Did you help her get away?”

Jerry looked down at his shoes. “My conversations with Ashley are covered by the attorney-client privilege. I can’t tell you what we talked about.”

Larry Birch had rarely seen Delilah angry, but she was angry now. She levered her two-hundred-fifty-plus-pound bulk up from her chair and stared at Ashley’s lawyer. He avoided her eyes.

“We are talking about a frightened young girl, Mr. Philips. She is a child and she has no business being out in the world on her own.”

“I really can’t tell you,” Jerry mumbled. “You know I’m forbidden by law to reveal client confidences.”

“Don’t you care about her?” Delilah asked.

Philips looked miserable. “Of course I do. Don’t you think I tried to talk her out of this? But she’s terrified.” He gathered his courage and looked first at the DA then at the detective. “And you couldn’t protect her.” Now it was Birch and Delilah’s turn to look uncomfortable. “That’s why she ran. She doesn’t think you can stop Maxfield. She’s convinced that he will kill her if she stays in Oregon.”

Delilah sat down. “Do you know how to get in touch with her?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

Delilah started to get angry again but she checked herself.

“If she does contact you, will you ask her to call me or write me? We need to get her back, Jerry. She may think she can hide, but Maxfield will find her if he wants to.”

Ashley looked out the window of the plane and felt as if she was floating among the clouds that surrounded her. She was free for the first time since the night Maxfield invaded her home. The feeling was exhilarating and left her giddy with relief. Each mile the plane traveled put another mile between her and her former life. Her fear was fading and hope was building. Before her stretched a future filled with adventure and exotic sights, sounds, and experiences, a future free of terror and despair.

Jerry Philips had tried to get her to change her mind from the moment he met her on the service road that led to the boathouse until he dropped her off at the airport. He hadn’t given up until he’d handed her the dufflebag full of clothes and toiletries she’d told him to buy, and five thousand dollars. Ashley’s plane ticket was electronic, and she already had her passport.

Ashley’s plane would land in Frankfurt, Germany. Then she would take a train to a destination she would decide on in the airport lounge. By operating with spur-of-the-moment choices she hoped to avoid leaving a trail based on her past. She had no favorite places anyway. Everywhere she went would be new and exciting. And every place she went would be free of Joshua Maxfield.