The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

Mary Higgins Clark The Man Next Door from The Plot Thickens

The man next door had known for weeks that it was time to invite another guest to the secret place, the space he had fashioned out of the utility room in the basement. It had been six months since Tiffany, the last one. She had lasted twenty days, longer than most of the others.

He had tried to put Bree Matthews out of his mind. It didn’t make sense to invite her, he knew that. Every morning as he followed his routine, washing the windows, polishing the furniture, vacuuming the carpets, sweeping and washing the walk from the steps to the sidewalk, he reminded himself that it was dangerous to choose a next-door neighbor. Much too dangerous.

But he couldn’t help it. Bree Matthews was never out of his mind for an instant. Ever since the day she had rung his bell and he had invited her in, he had known. That was when his growing need to have her with him became uncontrollable. She had stood in his foyer, dressed in a loose sweater and jeans, her arms folded, one high-arched foot unconsciously tapping the polished floor as she told him that the leak in her adjoining town house was originating from his roof.

“When I bought this place I never thought I’d have so much trouble,” she had snapped. “The contractor could have redone Buckingham Palace for what I paid him to renovate, but whenever it rains hard, you’d think I lived under Niagara Falls. Anyway, he insists that whoever did your work caused the problem.”

Her anger had thrilled him. She was beautiful, in a bold, Celtic way, with midnight blue eyes, fair skin, and blue-black hair. And beneath that she had a slim athlete’s body. He guessed her to be in her late twenties, older than the women he usually favored, but still so very appealing.

He had known that even though it was a warm spring afternoon, there was no excuse for the way perspiration began to pour from him as he stood a few inches from her. He wanted so much to reach out and touch her, to push the door closed, to lock her in.

He had blushed and stammered as he explained that there was absolutely no possibility that the leak was coming from his roof, that he’d done all the repairs himself. He suggested she call another contractor for an opinion.

He had almost explained that he had worked for a builder for fifteen years and knew that the guy she had hired was doing a shoddy job, but he managed to stop himself. He didn’t want to admit that he had any interest in her or her home, didn’t want her to know that he had even noticed, didn’t want to give anything about himself away…

A few days later she came up the street as he was outside planting impatiens along the driveway, and stopped to apologize. Following his advice, she had called in a different contractor who confirmed what she had suspected: the first one had done a sloppy job. “He’ll hear from me in court,” she vowed. “I’ve had a summons issued for him.”

Then, emboldened by her friendliness, he did something foolish. As he stood with her, he was facing their semidetached town houses and once again noticed the lopsided Venetian blind on her front window, the one nearest his place. Every time he saw it, it drove him crazy. The vertical blinds on his front windows and those on hers lined up perfectly, which made the sight of that lopsided one bother him as much as hearing a fingernail screech across a blackboard.

So he offered to fix it for her. She turned and looked at the offending blind as if she had never seen it before, then she replied, “Thanks, but why bother? The decorator has window treatments ready to put in as soon as the damage caused by the leaks is repaired. It’ll get fixed then.”

“Then” of course, could be months from now, but still he was glad she had said no. He had definitely decided to invite her to be his next guest, and when she disappeared there would be questions. The police would ring his bell, make inquiries. “Mr. Mensch, did you see Miss Matthews leave with anyone?” they would ask. “Did you notice anyone visiting her lately? How friendly were you with her?”

He could answer truthfully: “We only spoke casually on the street if we ran into each other. She has a young man she seems to be dating. I’ve exchanged a few words with him from time to time. Tall, brown hair, about thirty or so. Believe he said his name is Carter. Kevin Carter.”

The police would probably already know about Carter. When Matthews disappeared they would talk to her close friends first.

He had never even been questioned about Tiffany. There had been no connection between them, no reason for anyone to ask. Occasionally they ran into each other at museums — he had found several of his young women in museums. The third or fourth time they met he made it a point to ask Tiffany her impression of a painting she was looking at.

He had liked her instantly. Beautiful Tiffany, so appealing, so intelligent. She believed that because he claimed to share her enthusiasm for Gustav Klimt, he was a kindred spirit, a man to be trusted. She had been grateful for his offer of a ride back to Georgetown on a rainy day. He had picked her up as she was walking to the Metro.

She had scarcely felt the prick of the needle that knocked her out. She slumped at his feet in the car, and he drove her back to his place. Matthews was just leaving her house as he pulled into the driveway; he even nodded to her as he clicked the garage door opener. At that time he had no idea that Matthews would be next, of course.

Every morning for the next three weeks, he had spent all his time with Tiffany. He loved having her there. The secret place was bright and cheerful. The floor had a thick yellow pad, like a comfortable mattress, and he had filled the room with books and games.

He had even painted the windowless bathroom adjacent to it a cheery red and yellow, and he had installed a portable shower. Every morning he would lock her in the bathroom, and while she was showering he would vacuum and scrub the secret place. He kept it immaculate. As he did everything in his life. He couldn’t abide untidiness. He laid out clean clothes for her every day too. He also washed and ironed the clothes she came in, just as he had with the others. He had even had her jacket cleaned, that silly jacket with the names of cities all over the world. He didn’t want to have it cleaned, but noticing that spot on the sleeve drove him crazy. He couldn’t get it out of his head. Finally he gave in.

He spent a lot of money cleaning his own clothes as well. Sometimes when he woke up, he would find himself trying to brush away crumbs from the sheets. Was that because he remembered having to do that? There were a lot of questions from his childhood, things he couldn’t fully remember. But maybe it was best that way.

He knew he was fortunate. He was able to spend all his time with the women he chose because he didn’t have to work. He didn’t need the money. His father had never spent a cent on anything besides bare essentials. After high school, when he began working for the builder, his father demanded he turn over his paycheck to him. “I’m saving for you, August,” he had said. “It’s wasteful to spend money on women. They’re all like your mother. Taking everything you have and leaving with another man for California. Said she was too young when we got married, that nineteen was too young to have a baby. Not too young for my mother, I told her.”

Ten years ago his father died suddenly, and he had been astonished to find that during all those years of penny-pinching, his father had invested in stocks. At thirty-four, he, August Mensch, was worth over a million dollars. Suddenly he could afford to travel and to live the way he wanted to, the way he had dreamed about during all those years of sitting at home at night, listening to his father tell him how his mother neglected him when he was a baby. “She left you in the playpen for hours. When you cried, she’d throw a bottle or some crackers to you. You were her prisoner, not her baby. I bought baby books, but she wouldn’t even read to you. I’d come home from work and find you sitting in spilled milk and crumbs, cold and neglected.”

August had moved to this place last year, rented this furnished and run-down town house cheaply, and made the necessary repairs himself. He had painted it and scrubbed the kitchen and bathrooms until they shone, and he cleaned the furniture and polished the floors daily. His lease ran out on May first, only twenty days from now. He had already told the owner he was planning to leave. By then he would have had Matthews and it would be time to move on. He would be leaving the place greatly improved. The only thing he would have to take care of was to whitewash all the improvements he had made to the secret place, so no one would ever guess what had happened there.

How many cities had he lived in during the last ten years? he wondered. He had lost track. Seven? Eight? More? Starting with finding his mother in San Diego. He liked Washington, would have stayed there longer. But he knew that after Bree Matthews it wouldn’t be a good idea.

What kind of guest would she be? he wondered. Tiffany had been both frightened and angry. She ridiculed the books he bought for her, refusing to read to him. She told him her family had no money, as if that was what he wanted. She told him she wanted to paint. He even bought an easel and art supplies for her.

She actually started one painting while she was visiting, a painting of a man and woman kissing. It was going to be a copy of Klimt’s The Kiss. He tore it off the easel and told her to copy one of the nice illustrations in the children’s books he had given her. That was when she had picked up an open jar of paint and thrown it at him.

August Mensch didn’t quite remember the next minutes, just that when he looked down at the sticky mess on his jacket and trousers, he had lunged at her.

When her body was pulled out of a Washington canal the next day, they questioned her ex-boyfriends. The papers were full of the case. He laughed at the speculation about where she had been the three weeks she was missing.

Mensch sighed. He didn’t want to think of Tiffany now. He wanted to dust and polish the room again to make it ready for Matthews. Then he had to finish chiseling mortar from the cinder blocks in the wall that separated his basement from hers.

He would remove enough of those blocks to gain entry into Matthews’ basement. He would bring her back the same way. He knew she had installed a security system, but this way it wouldn’t do her any good. Then he would replace the cinder blocks and carefully re-cement.

It was Sunday night. He had watched her house all day. She hadn’t gone out at all. Lately she had stayed in on Sundays, since Carter stopped coming around. He had seen him there last a couple of weeks ago.

He brushed away an invisible piece of dust. Tomorrow at this time she would be with him; she’d be his companion. He had bought a stack of Dr. Seuss books for her to read to him. He had thrown out all the other books. Some had been splattered with red paint. All of them reminded him how Tiffany had refused to read to him.

Over the years, he had always tried to make his guests comfortable. It wasn’t his fault that they were always ungrateful. He remembered how the one in Kansas City told him she wanted a steak. He had bought a thick one, the thickest he could find. When he came back he could see that she had used the time he was out to try to escape. She hadn’t wanted the steak at all. He’d lost his temper. He couldn’t remember exactly what happened after that.

He hoped Bree would be nicer.

He’d soon know. Tomorrow morning he would make his move.

“What is that? Bree muttered to herself as she stood at the head of the stairs leading to her basement. She could hear a faint scraping sound emanating from the basement of the adjacent town house.

She shook her head. What did it matter? She couldn’t sleep anyway. It was irritating, though. Only six o’clock on a Monday morning, and Mensch was already on some do-it-yourself project. Some neat-as-a-pin improvement, no doubt, she said to herself, already in a bad temper.

She sighed. What a rotten day it was going to be. She had a lousy cold. There was no point getting up so early, but she wasn’t sleepy. She had felt miserable yesterday and had stayed in bed all day, dozing. She hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone, just listened to messages. Her folks were away. Gran didn’t call, and a certain Mr. Kevin Carter never put his finger on the touch tone.

Now cold or no cold, she was due in court at nine A.M. to try to make that first contractor pay for the repairs she had to do to the roof he was supposed to have fixed. To say nothing of getting him to pay for the damage inside caused by the leaks. She closed the basement door decisively and went into the kitchen, squeezed a grapefruit, made coffee, toasted an English muffin, settled at the breakfast bar.

She had begun to refer to this town house as the dwelling-from-hell, but once all the damage was repaired she had to admit it would be lovely.

She tried to eat her breakfast, but found she couldn’t. I’ve never testified in court, she thought. That’s why I’m nervous and down.

But I’m sure the judge will side with me, she reassured herself. No judge would put up with having his or her house ruined.

Bree — short for Bridget — Matthews, thirty, single, blue-eyed and dark-haired, with porcelain skin that wouldn’t tolerate the sun, was admittedly jumpy by nature. Buying this place last year had so far been an expensive mistake. For once I should not have listened to Granny, she thought, then smiled unconsciously thinking of how from her retirement community in Connecticut her grandmother still burned up the wires giving her good advice.

Eight years ago she was the one who told me I should take the job in Washington working for our congressman even though she thought he was a dope, Bree remembered as she forced herself to eat half of the English muffin. Then she advised me to grab the chance to join Douglas Public Relations when I got that offer. She’s been right about everything except about buying this place and renovating it, Bree thought. “Real estate’s a good way to make money, Bree,” she had said, “especially in Georgetown.”

Wrong! Bree frowned grimly as she sipped coffee. My Pierre Deux wallhangings are stained and peeling. And it’s not wall paper, mind you, not when you spring for seventy dollars a yard. At that price the stuff becomes wall hanging. She frowned as she remembered explaining that to Kevin, who had said, “Now, that’s what I call pretentious.” Just what she needed to hear!

Mentally she reviewed everything she would tell the judge: “The Persian carpet that Granny proudly put on the floor of her first house is rolled and wrapped in plastic to be sure no new leaks can damage it further, and the polish on the parquet floors is dull and stained. I’ve got pictures to show just how bad my home looks. I wish you’d look at them, your honor. Now I’m waiting for the painter and floor guy to come back to charge a fortune to redo what they did perfectly well four months ago.

“I asked, pleaded, begged, even snarled at that contractor, trying to get him to take care of the leak. Then when he finally did show up, he told me that the water was coming from my neighbor’s roof, and I believed him. I made a dope of myself ringing his bell, accusing poor Mr. Mensch of causing all the problems. You see, your honor, we share a common wall, and the contractor said the water was getting in that way. I, of course, believed him. He is supposed to be the expert.”

Bree thought of her next-door neighbor, the balding guy with the graying ponytail who looked embarrassed just to say hello if they ran into each other on the street. The day that she had gone storming over, he had invited her in. At first he had listened to her rant with calm, unblinking eyes, his face thoughtful — as she imagined a priest would look during confession, if she could see through the screen, of course. Then he had suddenly started blushing and perspiring and almost whispered his protest that it couldn’t be his roof, because surely he would have a leak too. She should call another contractor, he said.

“I scared the poor guy out of his wits,” she had told Kevin that night. “I should have known the minute I saw the way he keeps his place that he’d never tolerate a leaking roof. The polish on the floor in his foyer almost blinded me. I bet when he was a kid he got a medal for being the neatest boy in camp.”

Kevin. That was something else. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep him from coming to mind. She would be seeing him this morning, the first time in a while. He had insisted on meeting her in court even though they were no longer dating.

I’ve never brought anyone to court, she thought, and going there is definitely not my idea of a good time, particularly since I absolutely do not want to see Kevin. Pouring herself a second cup of coffee, she settled back at the breakfast bar. Just because Kev helped me file the complaint, she thought, he’s going to be Johnny-on-the-spot in court today, which thank you very much I don’t need. I do not want to see him. At all. And it’s such a gloomy day all around. Bree looked out the window at the thick fog. She shook her head, her mouth set in a hard line. In fact, her irritation with Kevin had become so pronounced she practically blamed him for the leaking roof. He no longer called every morning, or sent flowers on the seventeenth of every month, the seventeenth being the day on which they had their first date. That was ten months ago, just after Bree had moved in to the town house. Bree felt the hard line of her mouth turning down at the corners, and she shook her head again. I love being independent, she thought ruefully, but sometimes I hate being alone.

Bree knew she had to get over all this. She realized that she was getting in the habit of regularly rearguing her quarrel with Kevin Carter. She also realized that when she missed him most — like this past Saturday, when she had moped around, going to a movie and having dinner alone, or yesterday when she stayed in bed feeling lonely and lousy — she needed to reinforce her sense of being in the right.

Bree remembered their fight, which like most had started out small and soon took on epic, life-changing proportions. Kev said I was foolish not to accept the settlement the contractor offered me, she recalled, that I probably won’t get much more by going to court, but I wouldn’t think of it. I’m pigheaded and love a fight and always shoot from the hip. Telling me that I was becoming irrational about this, he said that, for example, I had no business storming next door after that shy little guy. I reminded him that I apologized profusely, and Mr. Mensch was so sweet about it that he even offered to fix that broken blind in the living room window.

Somewhat uncomfortably, Bree remembered that there had been a pause in their exchange, but instead of letting it go, she had then told Kevin that he seemed to be the one who loved a fight, and why did he have to always take everybody else’s side? That was when he said maybe we should step back and examine our relationship. And I said that if it has to be examined, then it didn’t exist, so good-bye.

She sighed. It had been a very long two weeks.

I really wish Mensch would stop that damn tinkering or whatever he’s doing in his basement, she thought, hearing the noise again. Lately he had been giving her the creeps. She had seen him watching her when she got out of the car, and she had felt his eyes following her whenever she moved about her yard. Maybe he did take offense that day and is brooding about it, she reasoned. She had been thinking about telling Kevin that Mensch was making her nervous — but then they had the quarrel, and she never got the chance. Anyway, Mensch seemed harmless enough.

Bree shrugged, then got up, still holding her coffee cup. I’m just all around jumpy, she thought, but in a couple of hours this will be behind me, one way or the other. Tonight I’ll come home early, go to bed and sleep off this damn cold, and tomorrow I’ll start to get the house in shipshape again.

Again the scraping sound came from the basement. Knock it off, she almost said aloud. Briefly debating going down to see what was causing the noise, she decided against it. So Mensch has a do-it-yourself project going, she thought. It’s none of my business.

Then the scraping noise stopped, followed by hollow silence. Was that a footstep on the basement stairs? Impossible. The basement door that led outside was bolted and armed. Then what was causing it?…

She whirled around to see her next-door neighbor standing behind her, a hypodermic needle in his hand.

As she dropped the coffee cup, he plunged the needle deep into her arm.

Kevin Carter, J.D., felt the level of his irritability hit the danger zone. This was just another example of Bree’s total inability to listen to reason, he thought. She’s pigheaded. Strong-willed. Impulsive. So where in hell was she?

The contractor, Richie Ombert, had shown up on time. A surly-looking guy, he kept looking at his watch and mumbling about being due on a job. He raised his voice as he reiterated his position to his lawyer: “I offered to fix the leak, but by then she’d had it done at six times what I coulda done it for. Twice I’d sent someone to look at it and she wasn’t home. Once the guy who inspected it said he thought it was coming from the next roof, said there hasta be a leak there. Guess that little squirt who rented next door fixed it. Anyhow, I offered to pay what it woulda cost me.”

Bree had been due in court at nine o’clock. When she hadn’t shown up by ten, the judge dismissed the complaint.

A furious Kevin Carter went to his job at the State Department. He did not call Bridget Matthews at Douglas Public Relations where she worked, nor did he attempt to call her at home. The next call between them was going to come from her. She owed him an apology. He tried not to remember that after she had gotten her day in court, he had planned to tell her that he missed her like hell and please, let’s make up.

Mensch dragged Bree’s limp body through the kitchen to the hallway that led to the basement stairs. He slid her down, step by step, until he reached the bottom; then he bent down and picked her up. Clearly she hadn’t bothered to do anything with her basement. The cinder-block walls were gray and dreary, the floor tiles were clean but shabby. He had made the opening in the wall in the boiler room where it would be least noticed. He had pulled the cinder blocks into his basement, so now all he had to do was to secure her in the secret place, come back to get her clothing, then replace and re-mortar the blocks.

The opening he had made was just large enough to slide her body through and then crawl in after her. In his basement he picked her up again and carried her to the secret place. She was still knocked out, so there was no resistance as he attached the restraints to her wrists and ankles, and, as a precaution, tied the scarf loosely around her mouth. He could tell from her breathing that she had a cold. He certainly didn’t want her to suffocate.

For a moment he reveled in the sight of her, limp and lovely, her hair tumbling onto the mattress, her body relaxed and peaceful. He straightened her terry-cloth robe and tucked it around her.

Now that she was here, he felt so strong, so calm. He had been shocked to find her in the kitchen so early in the morning. Now he had to move quickly: to get her clothes and her purse, to wipe up that spilled coffee. It had to look as if she disappeared after she left the house.

He looked at the answering machine in her kitchen, the blinking light indicating there had been seven calls. That was odd, he thought. He knew she hadn’t gone out at all yesterday. Was it possible she didn’t bother to answer the phone all day?

He played the messages back. All calls from friends. “How are you?”

“Let’s get together.”

“Good luck in court.”

“Hope you make that contractor pay.” The last message was from the same person as the first: “Guess you’re still out. I’ll try you tomorrow.”

Mensch took a moment to sit down at the breakfast bar. It was very important that he think all this through. Matthews had not gone out at all yesterday. It seemed as though she also hadn’t answered her phone all day. Suppose instead of just taking her clothes to make it look as though she’d left for work, I tidied up the house so that people would think she hadn’t reached home at all on Saturday night. After all, he had seen her come up the block alone at around eleven, the newspaper under her arm. Who was there to say she had arrived safely?

Mensch got up. He already had his Latex gloves on. He started looking about. The garbage container under the kitchen sink was empty. He took a fresh disposable bag from the drawer and put in it the squeezed grapefruit, coffee grinds, and pieces of the cup Bree had dropped.

Working methodically, he cleaned the kitchen, even taking time to scour the pot she had left on the stove. How careless of her to let it get burned, he thought.

Upstairs in her bedroom, he made the bed and picked up the Sunday edition of the Washington Post that was on the floor next to it. He put the paper in the garbage bag. She had left a suit on the bed. He hung it up in the closet where she kept that kind of clothing.

Next he cleaned the bathroom. Her washer and dryer were in the bathroom, concealed by louvered doors. On top of the washer he found the jeans and sweater he had seen her wearing on Saturday. It hadn’t started raining at the time, but she had also had on her yellow raincoat. He collected the sweater and jeans and her undergarments and sneakers and socks. Then from her dresser he selected more undergarments. From her closets he took a few pairs of slacks and sweaters. They were basically nondescript, and he knew they would never be missed.

He found her raincoat and shoulder bag in the foyer by the front door. Mensch looked at his watch. It was seven thirty, time to go. He had to replace and re-mortar the cinder blocks.

He looked around to be sure he had missed nothing. His eye fell on the lopsided Venetian blind in the front window. A knifelike pain went through his skull; his gorge rose. He felt almost physically ill. He couldn’t stand to look at it.

Mensch put the clothing and purse and garbage bag on the floor. In quick, determined steps he reached the window and put his gloved hand on the blind.

The cord was broken, but there was enough slack to tie it and still level the blind.

He breathed a long sigh of relief when he finished the task. It now stopped at exactly the same level as the other two and as his, just grazing the sill.

He felt much better now. With neat, compact movements he gathered up Bree’s coat, shoulder bag, clothing, and the garbage bag.

Two minutes later he was in his own basement, replacing the cinder blocks.

At first Bree thought she was having a nightmare — a Disney World nightmare. When she woke up she opened her eyes to see cinder-block walls painted with evenly spaced brown slats. The space was small, not much more than six by nine feet, and she was lying on a bright yellow plastic mattress of some sort. It was soft, as though it had quilts inside it. About three feet from the ceiling a band of yellow paint connected the slats at the top to resemble a railing. Above the band, decals lined the walls: Mickey Mouse. Cinderella. Kermit the Frog. Miss Piggy. Sleeping Beauty. Pocahontas.

She suddenly realized that there was a gag over her face, and she tried to push it away, but could only move her arm a few inches. Her arms and legs were held in some kind of restraints.

The grogginess was lifting now. Where was she? What had happened? Panic overwhelmed her as she remembered turning to see Mensch, her neighbor, standing behind her in the kitchen. Where had he taken her? Where was he now?

She looked around slowly, then her eyes widened. This room, wherever it was, resembled an oversized playpen. Stacked nearby were a series of children’s books, all with thin spines except for the thick volume at the bottom. She could read the lettering: Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

How had she gotten here? She remembered she had been about to get dressed to go to court. She had tossed the suit she had planned to wear across the bed. It was new. She wanted to look good, and in truth, more for Kevin than for the judge. Now she admitted that much to herself.

Kevin. Of course he would come looking for her when she didn’t show up in court. He’d know something had happened to her.

Ica, her housekeeper, would look for her too. She came in on Mondays. She’d know something was wrong. Bree remembered dropping the coffee cup she was holding. It shattered on the kitchen floor as Mensch grabbed her and stuck the needle in her arm. Ica would know that she wouldn’t leave spilled coffee and a broken cup for her to clean up.

As her head cleared, Bree remembered that just before she had turned and seen Mensch, she had heard a footstep on the basement stairs. Her mouth went dry at the thought that somehow he had come in through the basement. But how? Her basement door was bolted and armed, the window barred.

Then sheer panic swept through her. Clearly this hadn’t just “happened”; this had been carefully planned. She tried to scream, but could only make a muffled gasping cry. She tried to pray, a single sentence that in her soul she repeated over and over: “Please, God, let Kevin find me.”

Late Tuesday afternoon Kevin received a worried phone call from the agency where Bree worked. Had he heard from her? She never showed up for work on Monday, and she hadn’t phoned. They thought she might have been stuck in court all day yesterday, but now they were concerned.

Fifteen minutes later, August Mensch watched through a slit in his front window drapery as Kevin Carter held his finger on the doorbell to Bree Matthews’ town house.

He watched as Carter stood on the front lawn and looked in the living room window. He half expected that Carter would ring his doorbell, but that didn’t happen. Instead he stood for a few minutes looking irresolute, then looked in the window of the garage. Mensch knew her car was there. In a way he wished he could have gotten rid of it, but that had been impossible.

He watched until Carter, his shoulders slumped, walked slowly back to his car and drove away.

With a satisfied smile, Mensch walked down the foyer to the basement steps. Savoring the sight that would greet him, he descended slowly, then walked across the basement, as always admiring his tools and paints and polishes, all placed in perfect order on shelves, or hanging in precise rows from neatly squared pegboard.

Snow shovels hung over the cinder blocks that he had removed to gain entry into Matthews’ basement. Beneath them the mortar had dried, and he had carefully smeared it with the dry flakes he had kept when he separated the blocks. Now nothing showed, either here or on Bridget Matthews’ side. He was sure of that.

Then he crossed through the boiler room, and beyond it, to the secret place.

Matthews was lying on the mat, the restraints still on her arms and legs. She looked up at him and he could see that underneath the anger, fear was beginning to take hold. That was smart of her.

She was wearing a sweater and slacks, things he had taken from her closet.

He knelt before her and removed the gag from her mouth. It was a silk scarf, tied so that it was neither too tight nor caused a mark. “Your boyfriend was just looking for you,” he told her. “He’s gone now.”

He loosened the restraints on her left arm and leg. “What book would you like to read to me today, Mommy?” he asked, his voice suddenly childlike and begging.

On Thursday morning Kevin sat in the office of FBI agent Lou Ferroni. The nation’s capital was awash with cherry blossoms, but as he stared out the window he was unaware of them. Everything seemed a blur, especially the last two days: his frantic call to the police, the questions, the calls to Bree’s family, the calls to friends, the sudden involvement of the FBI. What was Ferroni saying? Kevin forced himself to listen.

“She’s been gone long enough for us to consider her a missing person,” the agent said. Fifty-three years old and nearing retirement, Ferroni realized that he’d seen the look on Carter’s face far too often in the past twenty-eight years, always on the faces of those left behind. Shock. Fear. Heartsick that the person they love may not be alive.

Carter was the boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. He’d freely admitted that he and Matthews had quarreled. Ferroni wasn’t eliminating him as a suspect, but he seemed unlikely and his alibi checked out. Bridget, or Bree, as her friends called her, had been in her house on Saturday, that much they knew. They had not been able to locate anyone who saw or spoke to her on Sunday, though, and she hadn’t shown up for her court appointment on Monday.

“Let’s go over it again,” Ferroni suggested. “You say that Miss Matthews’ housekeeper was surprised to find the bed made and dishes done when she came in Monday morning?” He had already spoken with the housekeeper, but wanted to see if there were any discrepancies in Carter’s story.

Kevin nodded. “I called lea as soon as I realized Bree was missing. She has a key to Bree’s place. I picked her up and she let me in. Of course Bree wasn’t there. Ica told me that when she went in on Monday morning she couldn’t understand why the bed was made and the dishes run through in the dishwasher. It just wasn’t normal. Bree never made the bed on Monday because that was when Ica changed it. So that meant the bed had not been slept in Sunday night, and that Bree could have vanished any time between Saturday and Sunday night.”

Ferroni’s gut instinct told him that the misery he was seeing in Kevin Carter’s face was genuine. So if he didn’t do it, who did that leave? Richie Ombert, the contractor Matthews was suing, had had several complaints filed against him for using abusive language and threatening gestures toward disgruntled customers.

Certainly the renovation business caused tempers to flare. Ferroni knew that firsthand. His wife had been ready to practically murder the guy who built the addition on their house. Ombert, though, seemed worse than most. He had a nasty edge, and for the moment he was a prime suspect in Bridget Matthews’ disappearance.

There was one aspect of this case Ferroni was not prepared to share with Carter. The computer of VICAP, the FBI’s violent criminal apprehension program, had been tracking a particular pattern of disappearing young women. The trail started some ten years ago in California, when a young art student disappeared. Her body showed up three weeks later; she had been strangled. The weird part was that when she was found she was dressed in the same clothes as when she had disappeared, and they were freshly washed and pressed. There was no sign of molestation, no hint of violence beyond the obvious cause of death. But where had she been those three weeks?

Shortly afterwards the VICAP computer spat out a case in Arizona with striking similarities. One followed in New Mexico, then Colorado… North Dakota… Wisconsin… Kansas… Missouri… Indiana… Ohio… Pennsylvania… Finally, six months ago, there in D.C., an art student, Tiffany Wright, had disappeared. Her body was fished out of a Washington canal three weeks later, but it had been there only a short time. Except for the effect the water had had on her clothes, they were neat. The only odd note was some faint spots of red paint, the kind artists use, still visible on her blouse.

That little clue had started them working on the art student angle, looking among her classmates. It was the first time there had been any kind of stain or mark or rip or tear on any of the women’s clothes. So far, however, it had led nowhere. Odds were that the disappearance of Bridget Matthews was not tied to the death of Tiffany Wright. It would be a marked departure in the serial killer’s method of operation for him to strike twice in one city, but then maybe he was changing his habits.

“By any chance is Miss Matthews interested in art?” Ferroni asked Carter. “Does she take art lessons as a hobby?”

Kevin kneaded his forehead, trying to relieve the ache that reminded him of the one time in his life he had had too much to drink.

Bree, where are you?

“She never took art lessons that I know of. Bree was more into music and the theater,” he said. “We went to Kennedy Center pretty frequently. She particularly liked concerts.”

Liked? he thought. Why am I using the past tense? No, God, no!

Ferroni consulted the notes in his hand. “Kevin, I want to go over this again. It’s important. You were familiar with the house. There may be something you noticed when you went in with the housekeeper.”

Kevin hesitated.

“What is it?” Ferroni asked quickly.

Through haggard eyes, Kevin stared at him. Then he glumly shook his head. “There was something different; I sensed it at the time. But I don’t know what it was.”

How many days have I been here? Bree asked herself. She had lost count. Three? Five? They were all blending together. Mensch had just gone upstairs with her breakfast tray. She knew he’d be back within the hour for her to begin reading to him again.

He had a routine he followed rigidly. In the morning, he came down carrying fresh clothing for her, a blouse or sweater, jeans or slacks. Obviously he had taken the time to go through her closet and dresser after he had knocked her out. It appeared that he had only brought casual clothes that were washable.

Next he would unshackle her hands, connect the leg restraints to each other at the ankles, then lead her to the bathroom, drop the clean clothes on a chair, and lock her in. A minute later she’d hear the whir of the vacuum.

She had studied him closely. He was thin but strong. No matter how she tried to think of a way to escape, she was sure she couldn’t manage it. The ankle restraints forced her to shuffle a few feet at a time, so she clearly couldn’t outrun him. There was nothing that she could use to stun him long enough for her to get up the stairs and out the door.

She knew where she was — the basement of his town house. The wall on the right was the one that they shared. She thought of how upset she had been about the stained wallpaper on that wall. No, not wallpaper — wall hanging, Bree reminded herself, fighting back an hysterical wave of laughter.

By now the police are looking for me, she thought. Kevin will tell them how I accused Mensch of causing the leak in the roof. They’ll investigate him, then they’ll realize there’s something weird about him. Surely they can’t miss that?

Will Mom and Dad tell Gran that I’m missing? Please God, don’t let them tell her. It would be too much of a shock for her.

She had to believe that somehow the police would start to investigate Mensch. It seemed so obvious that he must have kidnapped her. Surely they would figure it out? But, of course, trapped here in this cell she had no idea what anyone outside might be thinking. Someone would have missed her by now — she was certain of that — but where were they looking? She had absolutely no idea, and unless Mensch radically altered his routine, there would be no opportunity to let them know she was here. No, she would just have to wait and hope. And stay alive. To stay alive she had to keep him appeased until help came. As long as she read the children’s books to him, he seemed to be satisfied.

Last night she had given him a list of books by Roald Dahl that he should get. He had been pleased. “None of my guests were as nice as you,” he told her.

What had he done to those women? Don’t think about that, Bree warned herself fiercely — it worries him when you show that you’re afraid. She had realized that the one time she broke down sobbing and begged him to release her. That was when he told her that the police had rung his bell and asked when the last time was that he had seen Miss Matthews.

“I told them I was on my way back from the supermarket Saturday, around two o’clock, and I saw you go out. They asked what you were wearing. I said it was overcast and you had on a bright yellow raincoat and slacks. They thanked me and said I was very helpful,” he said calmly, in his sing-song voice.

That was when she became almost hysterical.

“You’re making too much noise,” he told her. He put one hand on her mouth, while the other encircled her throat. For a moment she thought he was going to strangle her. But then he hesitated and said, “Promise to be quiet, and I’ll let you read to me. Please, Mommy, don’t cry.”

Since then she had managed to hold her emotion in check.

Bree steeled herself. She could sense that he’d be back any moment. Then she heard it, the turning of the handle. Oh, God, please, she prayed, let them find me.

Mensch came in. She could see that he looked troubled. “My landlord phoned,” he told her. “He said that according to the contract he has the right to show this place two weeks before the lease is up. That’s Monday, and it’s Friday already. And I have to take all the decorations down from here and whitewash the walls and also the walls of the bathroom and give them time to dry. That will take the whole weekend. So this has to be our last day together, Bridget. I’m sorry. I’ll go out and buy some more books, but I guess you should try to read to me a little faster…”

At ten o’clock on Friday morning, Kevin was once again in Lou Ferroni’s office in the FBI building.

“Thanks to the publicity, we’ve been able to pretty much cover Miss Matthews’ activities on Saturday,” Agent Ferroni told him. “Several neighbors reported they saw her walking down the street at about two o’clock on Saturday. They agree that she was wearing a bright yellow raincoat and jeans and carrying a shoulder bag. We know the raincoat and bag are missing from her home. We don’t know what she did on Saturday afternoon, but we do know she had dinner alone at Antonio’s in Georgetown and went to the nine o’clock showing of the new Batman film at the Beacon Theater.” Bree had dinner alone on Saturday night, Kevin thought. So did I. And she genuinely likes those crazy Batman films. We’ve laughed about that. I can’t stand them, but I had promised to see that one with her.

“No one seems to have seen Miss Matthews after that,” Ferroni continued. “But we do have one piece of information that we find significant. We’ve learned that the contractor she was suing was in the same movie theater that night at the same showing. He claims he drove directly home, but there’s no one to back up his story. He apparently separated from his wife recently.”

Ferroni did not add that the contractor had mouthed off to a number of people about what he’d like to do to the dame who was hauling him into court over what he termed “some silly leak.”

“We’re working on the theory that Miss Matthews did not get home that night. Was she in the habit of using the Metro instead of her car?”

“The Metro or a cab if she was going directly from place to place. She said trying to park was too much of a nuisance.” Kevin could see that Ferroni was starting to believe that Richie Ombert, the contractor, was responsible for Bree’s disappearance. He thought of Ombert in court this past Monday. Surly. Aggravated. Noisily elated when the judge dismissed the complaint.

He wasn’t acting, Kevin thought. He seemed genuinely surprised and relieved when Bree didn’t show up. No, Ombert is not the answer. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He suddenly felt as though he were being smothered. He had to get out of here. “There are no other leads?” he asked Ferroni.

The FBI agent thought of the briefly considered theory that Bree Matthews had been abducted by a serial killer. “No,” he said firmly, then added, “How is Miss Matthews’ family? Has her father gone back to Connecticut?”

“He had to. We’re in constant touch, but Bree’s grandmother had a mild heart attack Tuesday evening. One of those horrible coincidences. Bree’s mother is with her. You can imagine the state she’s in. That’s why Bree’s father went back.”

Ferroni shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I thought we’d get good news.” He realized that in a way it would have been better if they thought the serial killer had Matthews. All the women he had abducted had lived for several weeks after disappearing. That would at least give them more time.

Kevin got up. “I’m going to Bree’s house,” he said. “I’m going to call every one of the people in her phone book.”

Ferroni raised his eyebrows.

“I want to see if anyone spoke to her on Sunday,” Kevin said simply.

“With all the publicity these last few days about her disappearance, any friend who spoke to her would have come forward, I’m sure of that,” Ferroni told him. “How do you think we traced her movements on Saturday?”

Kevin did not answer.

“What about her answering machine? Were there any messages on it?” Kevin asked.

“Not from Sunday, or if there had been, they were erased,” Ferroni replied. “At first we thought it might be significant, but then we realized that she could have called in and gotten them just by using the machine’s code.”

Kevin shook his head dejectedly. He had to get out of there. He had promised to phone Ica after his meeting with Ferroni but decided to wait and call her from Bree’s house instead. He realized he was frantic to be there, that somehow being around her things made him feel nearer to Bree.

Her neighbor, the guy with the ponytail, was coming down the block when Kevin parked in front of the house. He was carrying a shopping bag from the bookstore. Their eyes met, but neither man spoke. Instead the neighbor nodded, then turned to go up his walk.

Wouldn’t you think he’d have the decency to at least ask about Bree? Kevin thought bitterly. Too damn busy washing his windows or tending his lawn to give a damn about anyone else.

Or maybe he’s embarrassed to ask. Afraid of what he’ll hear. Kevin took out the key Ica had given him, let himself in to the house, and phoned her.

“Can you come over and help me?” he asked. “There’s something about this place that’s bugging me. Something’s just not quite right, and I can’t figure out what it is. Maybe you can help.” While he waited, he stared at the phone. Bree was one of the few women he had ever known who considered the phone an intrusion. “At home we always turned off the ringer at mealtime,” she had told him. “It’s so much more civilized.”

So civilized that now we don’t know if anyone spoke to you on Sunday, Kevin thought. He looked around; there’s got to be a clue here somewhere, he told himself. Why was he so sure that the contractor wasn’t the answer to Bree’s disappearance?

Restlessly he began to walk around the downstairs floor. He stopped at the door of the front room. The contrast to the cheery kitchen and den was striking. Here as in the dining room, because of the water damage, the furniture and carpet were covered with plastic and pushed to the center of the room.

The wallpaper — or wall hanging (as Bree had insisted it be called) — a soft ivory with a faint stripe, was stained and bubbled.

Kevin remembered how happy Bree had been when all the decorating was supposedly finished three months ago. They’d even talked around the subject of marriage, in the same sentence mentioning her town house and the marvelous old farmhouse he had bought for Virginia weekends.

Too damn cautious to commit ourselves, Kevin thought bitterly. But not too cautious to have a fight over nothing. It had all been so silly.

He thought about sitting with her in that same room, the warm ivories and reds and blues of the Persian carpet repeated up in the newly reupholstered couch and chairs. Bree had pointed to the vertical metal blinds.

“I hate those damn things,” she had said. “The last one doesn’t even close properly, but I wanted to get everything else in before I choose draperies.”

The blinds. He looked up.

The doorbell rang, interrupting his train of thought. It was Ica. The handsome Jamaican woman’s face mirrored the misery he felt. “I haven’t slept two hours straight this week,” she said. “Looks to me as though you haven’t either.”

Kevin nodded. “Ica, there’s something about this house that’s bothering me, something I ought to be noticing. Help me.”

She nodded. “It’s funny you should say that, ’cause I felt that way too, but blamed it on finding the bed being made and the dishes done. But if Bree didn’t get home Saturday night, then that would explain those things. She never left the place untidy.”

Together they walked up the stairs to the bedroom. Ica looked around uncertainly. “The room felt different when I got here Monday, different from the way it usually feels,” she said hesitantly.

“In what way?” Kevin asked quickly.

“It was… well, it was way too neat.” Ica walked over to the bed. “Those throw pillows, Bree just tossed them around, like the way they are now.”

“What are you telling me?” Kevin asked. He grabbed her arm, aware that Ica was about to tell him what he needed to know.

“This whole place felt just — too neat. I stripped the bed even though it was made because I wanted to change the sheets. I had to dig and pull the sheets and blanket loose, they were tucked in so tight. And the throw pillows on top of the quilt were all lined up against the headboard like little soldiers.”

“Anything else? Please just keep talking, lea. We may be getting somewhere,” Kevin begged.

“Yes,” lea said excitedly. “Last week Bree had let a pot boil over. I scoured it as best I could and left a note for her to pick up some steel wool and scouring powder; I said I’d finish it when I came back. Monday morning that pot was sitting out on the stove, scrubbed clean as could be. I know my Bree. She never would have touched it. She told me those strong soaps made her hands break out. Come on, I’ll show it to you.”

Together they ran down the stairs into the kitchen. From the cupboard she pulled out a gleaming pot. “There isn’t even a mark on the bottom,” she said. “You’d think it was practically brand new.” She looked excitedly at Kevin. “Things just weren’t right here. The bed was made too neatly. This pot is too clean.”

“And… and the blind in the front window has been fixed,” Kevin shouted. “It’s lined up like the ones next door.”

He didn’t know he had been about to say that, but suddenly he realized that was what had been bothering him all along. He had sensed the difference right away, but the effect had been so subtle, it had registered only in his subconscious. But now that he had brought it into focus, he thought of the neighbor, the quiet guy with the ponytail, the one who was always washing his windows or trimming his lawn or sweeping his walk.

What did anyone know about him? If he rang the bell, Bree might have let him in. And he had offered to fix the blind — Bree had mentioned that. Kevin pulled Ferroni’s card from his pocket and handed it to lea. “I’m going next door. Tell Ferroni to get over here fast.”

“Just one more book. That’s all we’ll have time for. Then you’ll leave me again, Mommy. Just like she did. Just like all of them did.” In the two hours she had been reading to him, Bree had watched Mensch regress from adoring to angry child. He’s working up the courage to kill me, she thought.

He was sitting cross-legged beside her on the mat.

“But I want to read all of them to you,” she said, her voice soothing, coaxing. “I know you’ll love them. Then tomorrow I could help you to paint the walls. We could get it done so much faster if we work together. Then we could go away somewhere together, so I can keep reading to you.”

He stood up abruptly. “You’re trying to trick me. You don’t want to go with me. You’re just like all the others.” He stared at her, his eyes shuttered and small with anger. “I saw your boyfriend go into your house a little while ago. He’s too nosy. It’s good that you’re wearing the jeans. I have to get your raincoat and shoulder bag.” He looked as if he was about to cry. “There’s no time for any more books,” he said sadly.

He rushed out. I’m going to die, Bree thought. Frantically she tried to pull her arms and legs free of the restraints. Her right arm swung up and she realized that he’d forgotten to refasten the shackle to the wall. He had said Kevin was next door. She had heard that you can transfer thoughts. She closed her eyes and concentrated: Kevin, help me. Kevin, I need you.

She had to play for time. She would have only one chance at him, one moment of surprise. She would swing at his head with the dangling shackle, try to stun him. But what good would that do? Save her for a few seconds? Then what? she thought despondently. How could she stop him?

Her eyes fell on the stack of books. Maybe there was a way. She grabbed the first one and began tearing the pages, scattering the pieces, forcing them to flutter hither and yon across the bright yellow mattress.

I must have known that today was the day, Mensch thought as he retrieved Bree’s raincoat and shoulder bag from the bedroom closet. I laid out jeans and the red sweater she was wearing that Saturday. When they find her it will be like all the others. And again they will ask that same question: Where was she for the days she had been missing? It would be fun to read about it. Everyone wanting to know, and only he would have the answer.

As he came down the stairs, he stopped suddenly. The doorbell was ringing. The button was being held down. He laid down the pocketbook and the coat and stood frozen momentarily with uncertainty. Should he answer? Would it seem suspicious if he didn’t? No. Better to get rid of her, get her out of here fast, he decided.

Mensch picked up the raincoat and rushed down the basement stairs.

I know he’s in there, Kevin thought, but he’s not answering. I’ve got to get inside.

Ica was running across the lawn. “Mr. Ferroni is on his way. He said to absolutely wait for him. Not to ring the bell anymore. He got all excited when I talked about everything being so neat. He said if it’s what he thinks it is, Bree will still be alive.”

It seemed to Kevin that he could hear Bree crying out to him. He was overwhelmed by a sense of running out of time, by an awareness that he had to get into Mensch’s house immediately. He ran to the front window and strained to look in. Through the slats he could see the rigidly neat living room. Craning his head, he could see the stairway in the foyer. Then his blood froze. A woman’s leather shoulder bag was on the last step. Bree’s shoulder bag! He recognized it; he had given it to her for her birthday.

Frantically he ran to the sidewalk where a refuse can stood waiting to be emptied. He dumped the contents onto the street, ran back with the can, and overturned it under the window. As Ica steadied it for him, he climbed up, then kicked in the window. As the glass shattered, he kicked away the knifelike edges and jumped into the room. He raced up the stairs, shouting Bree’s name.

Finding no one there, he clattered down the stairs again, pausing only long enough to open the front door. “Tell the FBI I’m inside, Ica.”

He raced through the rooms on the ground floor and still found no one.

There was only one place left to search: the basement.

Finally the ringing stopped. Whoever had been at the door had gone away. Mensch knew he had to hurry. The raincoat and a plastic bag over his arm, he strode across the basement, through the boiler room, and opened the door to the secret room.

Then he froze. Bits of paper littered the yellow plastic. Matthews was tearing up the books, his baby books. “Stop it!” he shrieked.

His head hurt, his throat was closing. He had a pain in his chest. The room was a mess; he had to clean it up.

He felt dizzy, almost as if he couldn’t breathe. It was as if the mess of papers was smothering him! He had to clean it up so he could breathe!

Then he would kill her. Kill her slowly. He ran into the bathroom, grabbed the wastebasket, ran back and began scooping up the shredded paper and mangled books. His frenzied hands worked quickly, efficiently. In only minutes there wasn’t a single scrap left.

He looked about him. Matthews was cowering against the mattress. He stood over her. “You’re a pig, just like my mommy. This is what I did to her.” He knelt beside her, the plastic bag in his hands. Then her hand swung up. The shackle on her wrist slammed into his face.

He screamed, and for an instant he was stunned, then with a snarl he snapped his fingers around her throat.

The basement was empty too. Where was she? Kevin thought desperately. He was about to run into the garage, when from somewhere behind the boiler room he heard Mensch howl in pain. And then there came a scream. A woman’s scream. Bree was screaming!

An instant later, as August Mensch tightened his hands on Bree Matthews’ neck, he felt his head yanked back and then there was a violent punch that caused his knees to buckle. Dazed, he shook his head and then with a guttural cry sprang to his feet.

Bree reached out and grabbed his ankle, pulling him off balance as Kevin caught him in a hammer grip around the throat.

Moments later, pounding feet on the basement stairs announced the arrival of the FBI. One minute later Bree, now in the shelter of Kevin’s arms, watched as Mensch was manacled with chains at his waist and hands and legs, looking dazed.

“Let’s see how you like being tied up,” she screamed at him.

Two days later, Bree and Kevin stood together at her grandmother’s bedside in Connecticut. “The doctor said you’ll be fine, Gran,” Bree told her.

“Of course I’m fine. Forget the health talk. Let’s hear about your place. I bet you made that contractor squirm in court, didn’t you?”

Bree grinned at Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, Gran, I decided to accept his settlement offer after all. I’ve finally realized that I really hate getting into fights.”