Watch Them Die

Hannah logged into the customer account records: Hall, Lester.

“Holy shit,” Scott muttered.

Hannah had seen the photograph. But she needed to make certain L. Hollis Hall was indeed Lester Hall.

On the register’s computer screen, the account for Hall, Lester H. came up. Same first and middle initial, and his address was in the Madronna area. Hannah noticed the icon blinking on an “N” in the corner of the screen. It meant there was a note on his account. She pulled up the note: THIS CREEP MUST DIE!

Hannah gasped. “Oh, my God, look what somebody wrote.”

Scott came to her side. “Relax, Hannah,” he said, a hand on her shoulder. “I wrote that last week—right after he had his hissy fit in here.” Scott let out a stunned laugh. “Christ, I didn’t know it would come true.”

Hannah backed away from the register. “First that rude Cindy woman who fell out of her apartment window a couple of weeks back,” she whispered. “And now this Lester Hall is shot. Don’t you see what’s happening?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah, it means I better be nice to you from now on, otherwise I’m dead meat.”

“That’s not funny,” Hannah said. She grabbed the newspaper. “Cover for me, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Hannah hurried out of the store, then started to cross the street toward the mall. Suddenly, a car horn blared, and tires were screeching. “You moron!” someone screamed from his car. “Watch where you’re going!”

Hannah stepped back to the curb. She hadn’t realized she was crossing against the traffic signal. She caught her breath and waited for the “Walk” signal. Her face felt hot. People were staring at her.

The traffic light changed, and Hannah hurried across to the mall. At the phone stations, she dug some change out of her purse, then checked the newspaper again. At the bottom of the article was a blurb about the reporter: David Serum can be reached at DSerum@seattlenews.net or 206/555-0405.

Hannah dialed the number, then counted two ring tones.

“This is David Serum,” he answered. Rock music from the Old Navy next door competed with him. Hannah had to cover her other ear.

“Yes, I have a question about your article today, about that murder in Madronna.”

“Can I get your name, please?”

“I just have a question,” she said. “I need to know if he was shot in the eye.”

“Um, I have to get your name, ma’am.”

“Answer my question, and I’ll tell you my name. Please, it’s important.”

She didn’t hear anything on the other end of the line.

“Are you still there?” Hannah asked.

“Yes, ma’am, but that information is not—”

“Please, tell me. Was he shot in the eye?”

“Yes, Mr. Hall was shot through the left eye. Now, if you could—”

Hannah quickly hung up.

She thought she was going to be sick. She wove through the crowd of shoppers in the mall, and hurried into the women’s rest room.

It was empty. Hannah ducked into the last stall. Bracing herself against the divider wall, she took several deep breaths until her stomach felt a little better.

She kept wondering why this was happening to her. These two people were murdered, and someone was telling her in advance how they would die. But why were they killed? Because they’d been rude to her?

Hannah felt another wave of nausea. Tears welled in her eyes.

Someone else stepped into the rest room. Hannah reached over and closed her stall door. She heard footsteps on the tiled floor. For a moment, she didn’t move. Hannah wiped her eyes with some toilet paper, and took a few more deep breaths. She flushed the toilet paper down the john, then opened the stall door.

The stall next to hers was empty. There was nobody by the sinks, either. She could have sworn someone was in the bathroom with her a minute ago.

Hannah glanced over toward the sinks again and noticed a small black rectangular box on the edge of the counter.

It was a videocassette.

Eight

Hannah hurried out of the women’s room with the video in her hand. Slowing down, she passed several shoppers in the mall: a pack of teenage girls, some women with their children, an elderly couple. She was searching for a man alone; maybe someone from the store or her film class, maybe a total stranger.

She knew he couldn’t be far. He’d been in the bathroom less than a minute ago. He was probably still watching her right now. She kept wondering why he was doing this to her. Did he somehow know that she couldn’t go to the police?

Hannah spotted a man with a sweatshirt, jeans, and curly gray hair. He stood near the food court entrance and stared back at her. He smirked a little, then shoved his hands in his pockets.

She froze. The familiar, almost lecherous way he grinned seemed to invite some kind of encounter—or confrontation. Hannah felt a chill pass through her.

A woman brushed by Hannah, then went to the man and gave him a hug. He kissed her. Arm in arm, they went into the food court together.

Sighing, Hannah resumed her search, scanning the crowd for the person who was playing this lethal game with her. She thought she saw a man staring at her from inside the entrance of Old Navy. But then she realized it was a mannequin. She felt so stupid. She knew her tormenter was watching her right now, amused at her silly mistakes.

She glanced at the videocassette in her hand. There was no label on the tape, probably something recorded live or off a TV. From the tape around the spools, she could see the movie had been stopped at a certain scene. Hannah knew when she put that video in a VRC and pressed “Play,” she would see another murder sequence.

She knew that her secret admirer was planning to kill again. And he wanted her to see how he would do it.

As soon as Hannah returned to the store, she ducked into the break room. She slipped the mystery video in the VCR and switched on the little television.

Audrey Hepburn came up on the screen. She was sitting in a rocking chair, with a walking cane across her lap. She wore a pink sweater. The room was awfully dark, and the poor quality of the video didn’t help matters.

As soon as Hannah saw Audrey talking to Richard Crenna, she figured out that the movie was the thriller Wait Until Dark. She hadn’t seen the film in years, and she didn’t know what came next.

Someone knocked on the break-room door; then Scott poked his head in. “You okay back here?” he asked.

Hannah quickly switched off the video. “Yeah, I was just checking this movie for a glitch,” she said. “Do you need me up front?”

“No, Britt’s handling it,” Scott replied. He stepped inside, then closed the door behind him. “Hannah, are you all right? You seem to be taking it pretty hard about this Lester guy getting shot.”

She wanted to tell him about the videos, but couldn’t. She shrugged uneasily. “It’s just—he was in the store only last week. And pretty much the same thing happened to Cindy Finkelston after she was in the store.”

“Well, it’s just a coincidence. I don’t mean to sound heartless, but I’m not shedding any tears for either of them.” Folding his arms, he leaned against the doorway frame. “So what happened over your lunch date with the dreamboat? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Oh, he’s just really pushy. He got on my nerves.” Hannah sighed. “I’ll be a couple of more minutes back here, then I’ll come help up front. Okay?”

He nodded. “Sure thing. Take your time.”

Scott stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Biting her lip, Hannah pressed the control on the VCR again, and Wait Until Dark came back on the screen. Audrey Hepburn was still talking to Richard Crenna in that dark room; then the scene cut to a parking lot at night. A man in an overcoat was walking across the shiny, wet pavement. They didn’t show his face. Suddenly, a car’s headlights glared into the camera, and tires screeched. It was a big, sleek, metal monster of an automobile from the mid-sixties. The car peeled out of a parking spot and came careening at the man.

Hannah watched in shock as he started to run. The car hit him full force, throwing his body against a chain-link fence. Its engine grinding, the car backed up, then slammed into him once more. His prone, lifeless body bounced against the fence. Its tires squealing, the car slammed into the man again and again.

Just as suddenly as the movie had cut to that harrowing murder in the parking lot, it switched back to Audrey Hepburn in the dimly lit room. Hannah remembered now. It was Richard Crenna’s accomplice, Jack Weston, killed in that parking lot—by the main heavy, played by Alan Arkin.

But Hannah didn’t know who would be killed that way in real life. And she didn’t know the killer.

Hannah ejected the video from the VCR. She kept thinking that she should call the police. But what could she tell them? Someone will be mowed down by car in a parking lot. I don’t know when. I don’t know who it will be. But I’ve been getting videos predicting all these deaths. And oh, yeah, there’s a warrant out for my arrest. I’m wanted for kidnapping and theft.

She pulled the video out of the VRC and stared at it.

Someone knocked on the door again. This time, Britt peeked into the room. “Scott sent me back here to make sure you aren’t slashing your wrists or anything.”

Hannah let out a weak laugh. “I’m fine.”

“Honest?” Britt asked.

“No, I’m not,” Hannah admitted, shaking her head. “Something weird has been going on, and I—I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it.” Hannah sighed. She felt herself tearing up. “Listen, Britt, can you keep a secret? I mean, you really can’t tell anyone about this….”

His head on the pillow, Guy gazed up at her with sleepy eyes.

Hannah stroked his blond hair. “If you hear somebody at the door a little later, it’s Britt. She’s spending the night.”

Guy squinted at her.

“You remember my friend Britt from work, don’t you?”

“She has a pierced ear here and here, doesn’t she?” He pointed to his eyebrow and then his nostril.

Cracking a smile, Hannah nodded. “That’s right. Now, get some sleep.”

She tucked the covers under his chin, and made the choo-choo sound. He nodded off after a few minutes. Hannah left his night-light on, then tiptoed out of his bedroom.

She took some sheets from the linen closet so she could make up the sofa for Britt.

It had been such a relief to finally unload on someone today. At least, she didn’t have to feel so alone in this nightmare. Unfortunately, Britt didn’t entirely understand the situation.

“So—somebody’s leaving these movies where you can find them?” she’d asked a couple of hours ago in the break room. “And it’s like clues to these murders you’re supposed to solve?”

“Well, not exactly,” Hannah tried to explain. “You see—”

“Why is this happening to you?”

“I wish I knew,” Hannah said.

“Well, why don’t you go to the cops?”

“That’s just it. I can’t. Swear you won’t tell anyone, Britt. But I’ve had some trouble with the police, and I can’t go to them without sinking into deeper trouble. It’s something totally unrelated to what’s happening now.”

“What did you do?” Britt whispered.

Frowning, Hannah shook her head. “I can’t say any more about it.”

Britt stared at her for a moment; then she shrugged. “Well, I’ve had a few run-ins with the law too, Han. You’re in good company.” She nudged her. “Hey, speaking of company, how about if I stay over tonight?”

Hannah managed a smile. “Oh, that’s not necessary, Britt. I appreciate the offer—”

“To tell you the truth,” Britt interrupted, wincing a bit. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’d be doing me a favor, Han. Y’know, like the last time when Webb was being a shit-heel, and you let me stay over? I really don’t want to go back home to him tonight. Do you mind?”

Actually, Hannah didn’t mind at all. She’d sheltered Britt a few times in the past when Webb was on the warpath. She sympathized. She’d been down that road herself. Tonight, she welcomed the company. Britt didn’t offer a lot of protection, but there was safety in numbers. Hannah had warned her friend to be careful on the way over.

She was changing a pillowcase from one of her bed pillows, when someone knocked on the front door. She wondered how Britt had gotten past the lobby’s security entrance downstairs.

Hannah checked the peephole before opening the door. She saw a man, tall with broad shoulders. She couldn’t quite make out who he was until he stepped back under the outside light.

“Scott?” She pulled the door open. “What are you doing here?”

“Britt sent me,” he said. He was holding a backpack. “Something came up with her loser-of-a-boyfriend. They were fighting, but now they’ve kissed and made up or something. She said you might need someone to spend the night. Are you going to ask me in, or what?”

Dumbfounded, Hannah stepped aside and opened the door wider. “I really don’t need anyone staying with me—”

“Oh, relax, I’m here,” Scott said. “I can crash on the sofa. I brought along Sixteen Candles. We’ll do each other’s hair and try on each other’s makeup. It’ll be a blast.” He glanced around. “Hey, I like your place.”

He set his backpack on her counter. “Britt said you have a stalker, some kind of weirdo sending you videotapes.”

“She told you?” Hannah asked,

He nodded. “She said you were in trouble with the cops, too.”

“What?” Hannah murmured incredulous. “I swore her to secrecy.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Oh, Britt’s the worst. I thought you knew that. Telephone, telegraph, tell-a-Britt. She sang to me the minute you left work tonight. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I can keep a secret.”

Hannah gave him a wary look. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m in trouble with the police?”

“Do you want to tell me?” he asked pointedly.

Hannah frowned. “No, not really.”

“Fine. It’s none of my goddamn business. I won’t ask. But if you—”

There was a knock at the door. Hannah and Scott looked at each other. “Were you expecting someone else?” he whispered.

Hannah shook her head. She went to the door and checked the peek hole. It was Craig. She was suddenly very grateful for Scott’s company. She opened the door.

Craig stared past her shoulder at Scott; then he looked at her again. “Hi. I know it’s late,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “I would’ve called first, but you never gave me your number.”

“How did you get past the lobby door?” Hannah asked.

“It was open,” Craig said.

“It was open when I came in, too,” Scott volunteered. “But I closed it.” He extended his hand to Craig. “Hi, I’m Scott. I work with Hannah.”

Craig shook his hand. “Hi, yeah. I recognize you from the store.”

Hannah cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I can’t invite you in. Scott and I are in the middle of something.”

“Well, could I talk to you for just a couple of minutes?” Craig asked. “Maybe out here on the balcony?”

Hannah gave Scott a look over her shoulder. She put the door on the latch and stepped outside.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Craig said, leaning against the walkway balcony’s railing. “It’s just, I had to see you and talk to you; otherwise I couldn’t hope for any kind of sleep tonight. I keep thinking about our lunch date today. Did I do anything to upset you?”

“Actually, I was upset about something else.”

“And it had nothing to do with me?”

Hannah rubbed her arms from the chill. “It may have,” she admitted. “That man you threw out of the store, he was murdered yesterday.”

Craig appeared genuinely stunned. “What?”

Hannah nodded. “Somebody shot him. I read about it in the newspaper at lunch today, while you were using the rest room.”

Craig frowned at her. “Do you think I had something to do with it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Hannah, I didn’t even know the guy. The last time I saw him was when I tossed him out of the store. You say somebody shot him?”

“Yes. He was shot in the eye.” She shivered a bit, and rubbed her arms harder. “Craig, how did you find out where I live?”

He seemed stumped for a moment. He stared back at her, then shrugged. “Hannah, I—I’m just trying to help you, for chrissakes.”

“You’ve been following me around, watching me, haven’t you?”

“God, no. It’s not like that at all—”

“How did you get past the door downstairs?” she asked. “Have you done it before?”

“What kind of question is that? Hannah—”

Staring at him, she backed toward the door. “I think you’d better go now.” She opened the door.

“Oh, c’mon, please. Don’t be this way.”

Scott came up behind Hannah. “Everything okay here?” he asked.

“Craig’s just leaving,” she said.

“Hannah, you’re wrong about me,” Craig said, frowning. He shook his head, then turned and stomped toward the stairwell.

“Funny, he’s not so good-looking to me anymore,” Scott said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Plus, he’s wearing sandals with black stretch socks. What was he thinking?”

Hannah stepped toward the railing and glanced down at the sidewalk and the parking lot below.

“Think he’s your stalker?” Scott asked.

Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything anymore.” She watched Craig, three stories below, walking away from her building.

“I’ll bet he saw me coming up here,” she heard Scott say. “He probably wanted to check out the competition.”

“Maybe,” Hannah muttered. She saw Craig head into the parking lot, which was reserved for tenants only. She noticed an old white car that she’d never seen in the lot before: a big, sleek, metal monster of an automobile from the mid-sixties.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

Craig walked in front of the car. Its headlights suddenly went on; high beams. Craig seemed to freeze.

“No!” Hannah cried, grabbing Scott’s arm.

Helplessly, she watched the big car lunge forward. With tires screeching, it plowed into Craig. He seemed to fold over the hood. The car didn’t slow down at all. Carrying Craig’s prone body on its nose, the old automobile barreled into the back of a minivan parked in the lot. Hannah turned away and buried her head in Scott’s shoulder.

“Holy Jesus,” she heard Scott murmur, over the smashing glass and twisting steel. A car alarm went off, blaring in the night. Tires squealed, and the old car’s motor roared once more. There was another loud crash.

Hannah pulled herself away, but still held on to her friend as she peered down at the parking lot. She could see Craig Tollman’s crumpled, broken body on the pavement. He was lying in a pool of blood that looked black in the night.

She knew the automobile would hit him again. Poor Craig was obviously already dead. But the automobile had to hit him three times because that was how it happened in Wait Until Dark.

Its engine grinding, the car lurched toward Craig’s corpse one more time. Hannah automatically turned her head away. Then she heard another crash. When she looked down at the lot again, the car was heading for the street. Its smashed, crumpled front hood was covered with Craig’s blood.

She and Scott were no longer alone on the balcony. Several residents from her building had come out of their apartments, drawn by all the noise. Within a couple of minutes, about a dozen people had gone down to the parking lot. They slowed down to a stop as they approached Craig’s corpse. They seemed reluctant to get too close to him.

Hannah was numb. She wanted to do something, but she couldn’t even move. It was too late to help him. Craig was dead. She just stood there, her hands gripping the railing.

Scott tried to talk, but he couldn’t seem to get any words out. His face was the color of chalk. He kept shaking his head.

“Mom?”

She turned and saw Guy, in his Spider-Man pajamas, coming toward the door. He rubbed his eyes. “What’s all that noise?” he asked.

Hannah rushed toward him before he could reach the door. She scooped him up in her arms. His body felt warm. “It’s only a car alarm, honey,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Nothing for you to see. C’mon, let’s get you back to bed. Say good night to Scott.”

“G’night, Scott,” he said, his arms and legs wrapped around Hannah.

Scott just nodded and gave Guy a pale smile.

Tears in her eyes, Hannah carried Guy down the hall.

“Mom, are you crying?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine, honey,” she lied.

He needed to go to the bathroom, then asked for a glass of water. By the time Hannah got him settled back in bed, she heard the police and ambulance sirens. Through Guy’s bedroom windows, she could see a red whirling light from the emergency vehicles outside, three stories below.

To her amazement, Guy started to drift off within a couple minutes, despite all the noise. Her legs a little unsteady, Hannah wandered out of his bedroom and up the hallway. She wiped her eyes and tried to focus on Scott.

He stood in the doorway, nervously smoking a cigarette. “So—aren’t we going to talk to the police?” he said.

“I can’t get involved,” Hannah said. She felt so ashamed and scared. All she wanted to do was run away—from this murderer, from the police, from everything.

“Your trouble with the cops,” Scott said. “It’s really serious, isn’t it?”

Hannah sighed. “You said you weren’t going to ask.”

“That was before,” Scott replied. He rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, I can’t believe it. He was just standing here talking to us a few minutes ago. Listen, Hannah. I’m not asking about your problem with the cops to be nosey. I’m concerned for you, Han. They’re sure to go through Craig’s pockets, and search his car. He might have your address on him.”

Hannah numbly gazed down at all the people, police, and flashing emergency vehicles in the parking lot below.

Scott took a drag from his cigarette. “Hannah, you’re involved—whether you want to be or not.”

Nine

The parking lot was still a mob scene.

They’d managed to silence the car alarms, but there were still engines idling and people talking over one another. Static-garbled announcements came on patrol car radios, and one loud, very angry cop was yelling at everyone to step back.

About fifty people had gathered at the parking lot entrance. Hannah made her way through the crowd while paramedics loaded Craig’s shrouded body into the back of an ambulance.

Only ten minutes ago, Craig had been talking with her. And now he was a corpse. Hannah still couldn’t quite comprehend it. Who had been driving that old-model white car?

Maybe the police knew. It was a long shot, but Hannah tried to listen to their conversations with one another. So far, she wasn’t having much luck finding out anything.

She thought about what Scott had said earlier. Craig must have had her name and address written down somewhere—in his wallet, his pocket, or in his car. Had the police found it yet?

She’d left Scott in the apartment. Someone had to stay there in case Guy woke up again. If that happened, Scott was supposed to flick the living room light on and off a few times.

Hannah kept looking back up at her building. She heard some people talking, and apparently, the police were looking for a white Impala that had been reported stolen late last night.

Then Hannah overheard one officer tell another that the car had been found two miles away. “Somebody torched it,” he said. “Lots of luck getting reliable prints or DNA samples there. Smart SOB. Y’know, I think—”

“THERE’S NOTHING MORE TO SEE!” yelled the cop in charge of crowd control, drowning out his coworkers. “COME ON, PEOPLE, GO HOME….”

Hannah stepped back, and bumped into someone. “Excuse me,” she muttered. Then she looked up at the man and gasped.

“Hi,” Ben said.

Hannah numbly stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced at the other people around them, then winced a bit. “You won’t like this, but I’ve been looking out after you. Did you know this Craig guy?”

“What do you mean, you’ve been ‘looking out after’ me?” Hannah asked.

“It’s hard to explain. I just wanted to make sure nothing bad happened to you.”

The siren began wailing as the ambulance pulled out of the lot. Ben stopped to look at the vehicle speeding down the street. Then he turned to her again. “Did you know him very well?”

“Not very,” Hannah replied, her guard up. She glanced over at the puddle of blood on the parking lot pavement.

“Do you know what he was here investigating?” Ben asked.

“What are you talking about?” Hannah murmured.

“Ronald Craig, the guy who just got killed. Do you know why he was here?”

Hannah frowned. “His name is—was—Craig Tollman.”

Ben shook his head. “I was one of the first people here, Hannah. I saw the police take out his wallet and identification. I heard them. His name was Ronald Craig, and he was a private investigator from Milwaukee.”

“He’s from Wisconsin?” Hannah whispered.

Ben nodded.

She wanted to grab Guy, pack their bags, and catch the first bus or train out of Seattle. No doubt, Kenneth and his family knew where she was now. Their private detective, Craig—or rather Ronald Craig—had probably been sending daily progress reports back to Wisconsin.

“I noticed you and him talking outside your apartment,” Ben said.

Hannah stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Where were you standing that you could see us on the balcony?”

He nodded toward an alley across the street. “Over there.”

“Then you must have seen the car that hit him,” she whispered. “Did you get a glimpse of the driver?”

He shook his head, then pointed to a van parked nearby. “That blocked my view of the lot. I heard it happening, but didn’t see a thing. I only caught a glimpse of the white car as it sped away.” He sighed. “Listen, I think this Ronald Craig must have uncovered something, and that’s why he was killed.”

Hannah edged away from him. “What are you talking about?”

“He was following you. And I think he might have seen someone else who was following you.”

“Someone else?” Hannah said, with a stunned laughed. “You mean, besides you? What? Is half the city of Seattle following me?”

Ben frowned. “I’ve seen two men. One was Ronald Craig. I haven’t gotten a good look at the second guy. But I think he’s videotaping you.”

Hannah shook her head, but she knew Ben was right. There had to be a third person, and he was Craig’s killer. Ben couldn’t have been driving that white car. He’d have had to move awfully fast, coming back to the scene of his crime just minutes after ditching and burning the old white Impala. He didn’t smell of gasoline.

“Who are you?” she whispered, eyes narrowed at him. “Your name isn’t Sturges.”

“No. My last name’s Podowski. I came out here from New York last month, I—” He sighed. “It’s a long story, and I can’t go into it now. Just trust me, Hannah. I’m trying to help you.”

“Craig said he was trying to help me, too.”

Ben shrugged. “Well, do you want to talk with the police?” He glanced at one of the officers by the parking lot gate. The policeman seemed to be staring back at them.

“No, I don’t want to go to the police,” Hannah admitted quietly.

She still didn’t know who Ben Podowski was, or what he wanted. But she figured she had no choice but to let him “help” her, whatever that meant. At least, she’d go through the motions and pretend to trust him. “How exactly do you plan to help me?” she asked.

Ben looked over at the lot for a moment. “When the police went through Ronald Craig’s pockets, they found a hotel room key. I heard them talking. He was staying at the Seafarer Inn on Aurora Boulevard. I’ll go check this place out, do some snooping around. Maybe I can find out who Craig was working for, and how much he knew about this guy with the video camera. It’s a long shot, but might be worth it.”

He sighed, then smiled at her. “Could you do me a favor? Could you phone a taxi for me when you get back up to your place? I’ll be waiting out here. I have no other way of getting to this hotel.”

Nodding, Hannah backed toward her lobby door. “I’ll call a cab for you.”

“Thanks,” Ben said. “I’ll phone you later tonight. What’s your number?”

“555-1007. Don’t you need to write it down?”

“I’ll remember it,” he said. “Thanks, Hannah.”

She unlocked the door, then ducked inside. As Hannah wandered up the stairs, her footsteps echoed in the cinder - block stairwell. She could hardly comprehend any of the events in the last hour. She tried to put all the pieces together.

Hannah could only guess what led Ronald Craig halfway across the country to her. Kenneth and his family probably had detectives tapping her friends’ telephones. Maybe they’d traced one of her rare calls to Chicago and come up with the number of a Seattle pay phone.

However he’d pulled it off, this detective calling himself Craig Tollman had found her.

And now he was dead.

A police car occupied the Seafarer Inn’s “Reservations Only” spot near the front door.

Ben had thought the place would be swarming with cops, maybe even a few reporters. He’d figured he could get lost in the crowd; listen to what people were saying and pick up some secondhand information. That was how he’d learned about Ronald Craig—by hanging around the parking lot of Hannah’s building.

But aside from the solitary patrol car, things looked pretty quiet at the Seafarer Inn. Ben hoped at least the desk clerk might tell him something.

After giving the taxi driver a five-dollar tip, Ben asked him to wait near the edge of the lot. He stopped to check his wallet. He still had Paul Gulletti’s business card from a few weeks ago when he’d first joined the film class. The card had the newspaper’s logo on it, and identified Paul as a “Reporter-Contributor.” Ben slipped the card inside his shirt pocket, then hurried into the small lobby.

Sitting on a brown sofa by the door was a thin, long-legged redhead with dark eye makeup. She looked Ben up and down, then smiled.

Ben nodded politely and stepped up to the front desk.

The lobby was done up in a nautical theme, with old fishing nets draping the walls. Ensnared in the nets were dusty shells, balls of colored glass, starfish, and sea horses. Even the desk clerk looked like an old sea cook. He was stocky, with a weatherworn face and gray mustache. He wore glasses, along with a white shirt and a red vest with anchor emblems all over it.

“What can I do ya for?” he asked with a friendly growl.

Ben took the business card from his shirt pocket. “Hi. I’m Paul Gulletti, and I’m a reporter with the Weekly. I was hoping you could tell me something about one of your guests. He had a—an unscheduled early checkout. His name was Ronald Craig.”

The old desk clerk frowned at him. “Gulletti, that’s Italian, isn’t it? You don’t look Italian.”

“I take after my mother’s side,” Ben replied. “Now, about this guest.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said. “I think your ‘early checkout’ crack was in bad taste. I hope you don’t write that kind of smart-ass stuff in your newspaper. The man’s dead.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the woman piped up. “Give him a break, Walter. He’s cute.”

The old man shot her a look over his spectacles. “Down, girl,” he muttered. Then he glanced at Ben. “What is it you want, Mr. Gulletti?”

“I thought you might tell me something about this Ronald Craig. For starters, I was wondering how long he’s been staying here.”

The gruff old man didn’t respond.

Ben shrugged. “And, of course, you’d know if he made any long-distance phone calls. And maybe you’ve seen him with someone.”

“The police already asked me all that.” The desk clerk cocked his head to one side. “They’re down the hall right now, poking around in Room 29. Why don’t you go talk to them?”

Ben tried to smile. “Well, it’s always tough getting a straight answer from those guys. You look like a smart man. I thought you might know something more than what the police could tell me.”

Stone-faced, the old desk clerk stared at him. Ben could tell that he wasn’t going to get anything from him. He’d thought the slick-reporter angle might give him an in, but no such luck.

“Looks like I’m barking up the wrong tree,” Ben said finally.

“And you’re digging around the wrong yard,” the old clerk grunted.

“Well, good night.” Starting for the door, Ben caught the woman’s eye again. “Thanks for trying to put in a good word. You’re pretty cute, too.”

She grinned and let out a startled little laugh.

Ben retreated outside. He didn’t know what he’d expected to learn from the desk clerk. It wasn’t like the old buzzard would know anything about the Ronald Craig investigation.

Ben glanced around the gloomy parking lot. No sign of the taxi. It had driven off.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He trudged toward the highway and stopped at the curb. The traffic on Aurora was sailing by at about forty-five miles an hour. He tried in vain to wave down one cab, and then another.

“Need a lift?”

Ben turned to see the long-legged redhead from the hotel lobby. Standing, she was nearly as tall as he was. Her black dress hit her at mid-thigh. She held a big purse with a red garment draped over it. She smiled. “You can’t just tell a girl she’s cute, then walk out the door, honey. Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d head home.”

She nudged him. “I’ll give you a ride if you buy me a drink.”

Ben hesitated. A semi truck whooshed by, and he stepped back a bit.

“Well, don’t leave me dangling too long, honey. It’s not very flattering. Plus, I’m cold.” She took the red garment from around her purse strap, then shook it out. She donned a red vest with little anchors all over it. Her name tag was on the lapel: Wendy.

“You work at the hotel?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m Wendy. You were talking to the wrong clerk in there, hon. Grandpa Walter started about fifteen minutes ago. He missed all the excitement. But I’ve been stuck in this dump since two o’clock this afternoon. There’s been a lot of weird stuff going on today, too. I let the cops into Room 29 about a half hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you mention anything back there?” Ben asked.

Wendy shrugged. “Well, that was before you said I was cute.” She turned and strolled to her car, an old red Ford Probe.

Ben followed her. “So—can you tell me anything about Ronald Craig?”

“Hmmm, I have some stuff you might use in your newspaper, as long as you don’t mention my name.” She unlocked her car door. “And as long as you buy me that drink.”

He nodded. “I’ll buy you a whole bottle of champagne if you want.”

Wendy stared at him over the roof of her car. She smiled coyly. “Ha! All of a sudden I’m not so sure I should get into this car with you. Maybe you’re some kind of serial killer or something.”

Ben managed to laugh. “Well, I’m some kind of something.”

Wendy giggled. “Yeah, you’ve got a killer smile, all right. C’mon….”

She ducked into the car, leaned over, and unlocked the passenger door for him.

“I don’t get it,” Scott said. He was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in front of him. “What terrible crime did you commit that you can’t get involved with the cops now?”

“You said you weren’t going to ask.” Hannah stood across the counter from him. She was too wired to sit down.

“It’s just that I can’t see you ever doing anything really bad. How can it be so awful that you’d let these murders go unreported?”

“Scott, please,” she whispered. “I think you’d better go.”

He sighed. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. I’ll stop asking about your deep, dark past.”

“I still need to be alone,” Hannah said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Are you kidding? After what just happened you want to be left alone? I mean, God, look at me. I’m still shaking. We’ve both just experienced something really horrible, Hannah. If you don’t want to go to the police, I think we have to approach this in the only other sensible way. We should both get incredibly drunk.”

Hannah let out a little laugh, but she started to cry at the same time. She held back her tears. “You’re sweet, but I drink too much already. Anyway, you really need to leave. I’m kicking you out.”

Climbing off the barstool, he gave her a wary smile. “You sure that’s what you want?”

Hannah nodded. She walked Scott to the door, opened it, then impulsively hugged him. “Thank you for being a good friend,” she managed to say. “Call me when you get home. Let—let me know you made it back safe.”

She watched Scott retreat toward the stairwell. He turned to glance back her. She waved, knowing that she would never see him again. She would miss him. She’d even miss the stupid video store.

Hannah ducked back inside. She took a napkin from the counter on the way to her bedroom. She wiped her eyes and nose. Opening the closet, she pulled her suitcase from the top shelf. She tried to be quiet about it. She didn’t want to wake Guy—not until she was finished packing.

For now, he needed his sleep. In a couple of hours, they would be leaving Seattle, probably by bus. Hannah didn’t know yet where they were going. But they had a long journey ahead.

“Those tits are fake,” Wendy said, gazing up at the stripper on stage. “Pure silicone.”

Wendy slipped out of her anchor-logo vest, unfastened a couple of shirt buttons, then leaned back in the corner booth.

Ben started to sit down across from her, but she patted the spot next to her and winked at him. “C’mon a little closer. I won’t bite you. That’s for later. Ha!”

Wendy had driven him to a strip joint with the name “CLUB FOXY” in pink neon script above the door. “NIGHTLY SHOWS,” it said on the illuminated yellow sign by the parking lot. “12 BEAUTIFUL PUSSYS & NO DOGS!”

Wendy seemed to know the doorman, and he’d let them in without the ten-dollar cover charge. Apparently, she also knew the stripper, who at the moment wore only a silver G-string. She wrapped herself around a pole at the end of the stage’s catwalk. Despite her sexy gyrations, she appeared bored. She was a trim blonde with a hard edge, and breasts that seemed a bit too perky.

“If you came in this dump about three years ago,” Wendy said, lighting a cigarette, “you’d have seen her as a brunette, and flat as a pancake. Two peas on a breadboard. She says it’s because she had a baby two years ago that suddenly she’s got a rack. But I know a boob job when I see one—or two, rather. Hell, I’ve had a couple of kids, and it didn’t give me a pair of headlights like that. The kids are in high school now, living with their dad.” She cleared her throat, then said in a loud voice. “So, who do we have to fuck to get a drink around here?”

She had chatted nonstop ever since they’d pulled out of the Seafarer Inn parking lot. Ben had tried to ask her about Ronald Craig, but she’d insisted, I’m not talking about him until you buy me that drink, handsome.

A thin, blond waitress sauntered up to their booth. She wore a pink tube top and silver shorts. “Hey, Wendy,” she said, with a tired smile. “What are you having tonight?”

“You mean, besides this tall drink of water?” she asked, nudging Ben. “Ha! I’ll take an Absolut, hon.”

“A light beer, please,” Ben said.

The waitress rolled her eyes, then sighed. “I’m supposed to find out who the hell you are, and what’s going on.”

“Well, tell Rick to mind his own goddamn business,” Wendy piped up. “If it’s okay for him to bang Miss Silicone Tits up there, I can certainly step out for a drink with whomever I please.” She turned to Ben. “Is it whomever or whoever? I can never remember.”

“I think you’re right: whomever,” Ben muttered.

“He’s a journalist,” Wendy pointed out. “You can tell that to Rick. And tell him not to water down my goddamn drink. Thanks, Charmaine.”

Once the waitress stepped away, Ben turned to Wendy. “So I’m here to make your boyfriend jealous. Is that it?”

“Soon to be ex-boyfriend.”

Ben nodded. “Okay. Well, I just bought you a drink a minute ago, so it’s payback time. What can you tell me about Ronald Craig?”

“Put your arm around me,” Wendy said.

Ben complied. “How long was Mr. Craig a guest at the hotel?”

She snuggled up to him. “A little over a week.”

“In all that time, did you ever see him with anyone?”

“Nope. A lone wolf that one was.”

“Did he get any faxes at the hotel?”

Wendy shook her head. “No phone records, either. I saw him walking in and out of the lobby a couple of times, talking on a cell phone.”

“Did you take any messages for him?” Ben asked.

“Nope.”

“Until today, did anything—unusual happen with him?”

“Until today?” She shook her head again. “Not really.”

“Back at the hotel, before we even got in the car, you said there was a lot of ‘weird stuff’ going on today. What did you mean by that?”

“Well, the maid reported that when she went in to clean his room at eleven o’clock this morning, it looked like somebody had broken into the place. The window was open. Someone had screwed with the lock.”

Ben frowned. “Could she tell if anything was missing?”

“There was a laptop carrying case, and a cord, but no computer and no computer discs. He also had a briefcase, but it had been emptied out.” She suddenly kissed Ben on the cheek. “Heads up. Charmaine’s back.”

The waitress set the drinks down. “Rick said these are on him. And he asks you to please come talk to him. He wanted me to be sure to say please.”

“Well, tell him ‘thanks,’ and I’ll think about it,” Wendy replied.

The waitress nodded, then walked away. Ben took a sip of his beer. On stage, the silicone blonde was lying on the floor with her legs in the air, forming a “V.”

Ben put down his beer. “Sounds like Rick wants to make up.”

“Well, let him suffer a bit longer.” She reached for her drink.

“Did you report the break-in to the police?”

She sighed. “Yeah, but all they did was send over some rookie to make a report. When three of them came back tonight, I figured it was about the break-in. But then one of the cops said this Craig fella was killed in a hit-and-run.”

“Did they tell you anything else?” Ben asked.

“No, but I stood in the doorway for a couple of minutes while they went through the room, so I heard a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like he was a private detective, working out of some agency in—um…”

“Milwaukee?” he said.

“Yeah, that’s right. How did you know?”

“I spent some time listening to the cops, too. Did you get the name of the detective agency, by any chance?”

“Huh.” She frowned. “Great Something. It was written on the tag on his computer case…Great Lakes Investigations, that’s it.”

She took another sip from her drink. “Y’know, they must have forgotten about me, because they just started talking like I wasn’t there. One of them said that whoever this Ronald Craig was tailing—or is it whomever?”

Ben quickly shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I get it. Go on. Whoever he was tailing…”

“Yeah, well, apparently this guy’s pretty damn crafty. The cop said everything this Ronald Craig fella had written down—on his laptop, in his briefcase—it all just vanished, went up in smoke. They said where this hit-and-run happened, Craig’s car was broken into and cleaned out.”

“Did you hear anything else?” Ben asked.

“Nothing worth remembering,” Wendy replied. She sipped her drink, then studied her glass for a moment. “Think I should go talk with him?”

“You mean Rick?” Ben asked. “Sure. I need to scram anyway. You can tell him we had a lovers’ quarrel.”

“Ha! I like that,” Wendy said. “You’re good!”

“Thanks,” Ben said. “You sure you don’t remember anything else the cops might have said? Anything?”

She shook her head.

“Did they mention any names? For example, Hannah Doyle?”

Wendy shook her head again. “Sorry.”

“What about the name Rae Palmer?”

“Nope, never heard of him.”

“Rae’s a woman. R-A-E. She was a friend of mine. She’s been missing for about five weeks now.”

Wendy shrugged. “Wish I could help ya, hon.”

“It’s okay, you already have.” Ben stood up, pulled out his wallet, then set a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Next round is on me, okay? Thanks for your help. Hope you and Rick work things out.”

She raised her glass to toast him. “You’re sweet.”

Ben headed out of the strip club. Outside, the cool night air felt good. There was a pay phone at the edge of the parking lot. He called Hannah’s number. After three rings, he wondered if maybe she’d given him a fake number.

Then her machine came on. “This is 555-1007,” Hannah announced on the recording. The voice didn’t sound quite like her. “No one can come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep.”

“Hannah?” he said, after the tone. “Are you there? Okay, well, listen, whoever this stalker is, he covered all his tracks. He broke into Ronald Craig’s hotel room and his car, cleaning out all evidence of the investigation. I don’t think the cops have anything yet. My guess is it’ll take another day before they can—”

He heard an abrupt click on the line. “Hello?” she said.

“Hannah?”

“Yes. I was just down the hall.”

“I’m glad,” he said, leaning against the pay phone enclosure. “I was worried something had happened to you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You said there’s no evidence of Craig’s investigation—at all?”

“That’s right. I’m guessing it’ll take at least another day for the police to get any information from Ronald Craig’s detective agency. Even then, I’m not sure how much help they’ll be. The agency might not even know anything. Craig could have been freelancing. Anyway, I really need to talk with you. Can I come over there?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I can be there in a few minutes,” Ben said. “I won’t stay long.”

“No, I’m sorry. It—it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow in class, okay? We can talk then. We’ll go out afterward. All right?”

Ben hesitated. “Okay, I guess. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Hannah?”

There was a click on the other end of the line. She’d hung up.

Ten

The phone rang, and Hannah felt her insides tighten up like a fist.

For the last several hours, she’d been expecting—and dreading—a call from the police. Perhaps they wouldn’t phone; they’d just show up at her door. Either way, she knew they’d be coming for her eventually. She was living on borrowed time.

The telephone hadn’t rung since Ben’s call around midnight last night. That had been nearly twelve hours ago. At the time, Hannah had thought she’d be long gone by now—on a bus with Guy, on their way to another city.

For every minute she stayed, Hannah knew she was pushing her luck. She risked exposure, arrest, and having her son taken away from her. But the police weren’t her only concern. That maniac was still out there, stalking her, and last night she’d seen what he was capable of.

She stood by the kitchen counter, staring at the phone. Her stomach was in knots.

Joyce was unloading a small bag of groceries. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked, a bottle of Children’s Tylenol in her hand.

Hannah shook her head. “I’m screening.”

The answering machine picked up. Hannah anxiously waited for the beep.

“Hello, Hannah? It’s Britt, calling from work. Are you there?”

Despite her relief, Hannah still couldn’t move. She tried to get her breathing right again.

“I’m wondering how much longer you’ll be, because I’m supposed to get together with Webb today. I really don’t mind filling in, but if you won’t be coming in for another hour or so, I just need to call him….”

Finally, she grabbed the phone. “Britt?”

“Oh, hi. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you—”

“No. It’s okay. You’re a doll to fill in for a couple of hours. I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, Hannah. See you soon.”

Hannah hung up the phone. She crept back to Guy’s room, and poked her head in the doorway. The shades were drawn, and in the darkness Hannah couldn’t see the rash on his face and hands. He was asleep. She longed to hug him good-bye, but couldn’t. She kept thinking this might be the last time she’d see her little boy before the authorities came to take him away.

The knots tightened in her stomach, and she wandered back toward the living room.

“You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.” Joyce handed Hannah her coat and purse. “Would you relax? He’ll be fine. I’ve seen all my kids through the chicken pox—and a lot worse. He’s in good hands.”

Hannah hesitated in the doorway. “You’ll call if anything happens?”

“Yes.” Joyce nodded. “Now, get out of here. You’re driving me crazy with all your worrying.”

“Don’t answer the phone unless it’s me. And don’t answer the door, either. I’ll call you in an hour.”

“I’m sure you will,” Joyce said, giving her a gentle shove. “Now scram!”

Hannah turned and hugged her. Then she started off to work.

She wore a black pullover, black jeans, and her hair was swept back in a loose ponytail. She didn’t have on any makeup, and knew she looked terrible. Plus, her back ached. She’d gotten only three hours of sleep last night, curled up on the beanbag chair in the corner of Guy’s room.

It had started around two-thirty in the morning. She’d just finished packing when she heard Guy coughing. She went to him.

“Mom, I feel kind of cruddy,” he whimpered.

Guy had a fever of 100.9, as well as a rash all over his face and hands. Hannah unbuttoned his Spider-Man pajama top, and gasped at the sight of the little red welts on his stomach and chest.

“Sounds like chicken pox,” Joyce told her over the phone at six in the morning. Hannah had known she’d be up. “I have a dental appointment at nine, but I can be over there by eleven if you need me to baby-sit. In the meantime, you’d better call the doctor.”

An hour later, Hannah got Dr. Donnellan at his home. “If it’s chicken pox, I’d rather you not bring him in. Chicken pox is awfully contagious. I’m on my way to the office; I’ll swing by. What’s your address again, Hannah?”

Dr. Donnellan always struck Hannah as one of those guys who was considered a nerd throughout high school and college—and maybe even medical school. But there was something very cute about him, too. Tall and skinny, he had glasses and curly, receding brown hair. Hannah guessed he was in his early thirties. Having him in the apartment, making a good old-fashioned house call, gave Hannah a sense of relief.

Then came the bad news: Guy did indeed have the chicken pox. He’d have to remain in bed for at least ten days. Dr. Donnellan asked Hannah if she’d had chicken pox as a child.

Hannah remembered that she had.

“Um, listen, my aunt wants Guy and me to visit,” she lied, wringing her hands. She and Dr. Donnellan were standing in the hallway. “My aunt has an extra room. She’d be a lot of help with Guy. I was wondering if it would be okay to move him. Her place is just a couple of hours away by bus. I’d keep him warm—”

Dr. Donnellan was shaking his head. “You might as well take a bomb aboard that bus, Hannah. Chicken pox is highly contagious. Exposure to adults is serious. It can lead to he-patitis, encephalitis, and pneumonitis. Exposure to pregnant women often causes birth defects.” He shook his head again. “You don’t want to take Guy on any bus rides. Just keep him in bed. There’s a risk he could develop scarlet fever if you’re not careful. Guy needs to take it easy. No trips or outings, Hannah.”

Nodding, Hannah tried to smile. So much for her great escape.

She phoned Britt and got her to fill in at work for a couple of hours.

When Joyce arrived, Hannah asked if she and Guy could possibly stay at her place. It was a stupid idea—right up there with wanting her doctor’s permission to infect a bus-load of people. But Hannah didn’t feel safe at home. How soon before the police or her stalker or some goon the Woodleys had hired showed up at her door? Hiding out at Joyce’s apartment seemed like the only option. No one would be looking for her and Guy there.

“Guy could sleep on your sofa,” Hannah heard herself babbling. “I’d be fine on the floor. It would just be a couple of days—until I feel okay about everything. I know it sounds silly, but—”

“It sounds nuttier than a fruitcake is how it sounds, hon,” Joyce broke in. “He’s better off in his own bed. You really shouldn’t move him. If anybody sleeps on a sofa, it’s me. I’ll stay here as long as you want.”

Hannah gave Joyce her purse and sent her to the supermarket for some calamine lotion, coloring books, and other last-minute essentials. “I don’t have any cash,” Hannah said, handing her the shopping list. “The ATM card is the silver one in my wallet, and the code is 1963. Just remember the year Kennedy was assassinated. And get yourself some cookies.”

While Joyce was out, Hannah quickly showered and changed her clothes.

In a strange way, work was probably the best thing for her right now. She could carry on as if nothing was wrong—total denial.

As Hannah stepped into the store, the anti-theft alarm went off.

The loud beeping gave her such a start, she almost lost what little composure she had. Scott and Britt looked up from their registers, and several customers stared at her. Hannah hurried past the sensors. “What was that about?” she managed to ask.

“Probably that metal plate in your head again,” Scott replied. Then he went back to waiting on his customer.

Hannah moved behind the counter. Scott glanced back over his shoulder at her. “How’s Guy doing?”

“I think he’ll be okay,” Hannah muttered. “It’s me I’m not so sure about.”

Britt ducked into the break room, then came out again with her sweater and purse. Sometime within the last couple of days, she must have changed her maroon hair color. It was black again, but she’d added two blue streaks on one side. The ring in her eyebrow now had a blue stone that matched the hair dye.

“This was in my cereal,” Britt said, pulling a cellophane packet from her bag. She handed it to Hannah. “They’re Cap’n Crunch decals and stamps. I saved them for Guy. I figured he could play with them in bed.”

Hannah thanked her. Once Britt hurried out of the store, Scott leaned against the back counter. He plucked the cereal prize from Hannah’s hand, then studied it. “Wish I had something to play with in bed.” He tossed the packet on the back counter, and sighed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m still a little freaked out over last night. I looked for a story about it in the morning newspaper, but I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t even have a chance to look.” Hannah stashed her purse in the drawer below her register.

“Did that good-looking blond guy from last night ever call you? What’s his name again?”

“Ben,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, he called. Apparently, someone broke into Craig’s hotel room and car. They cleaned out everything. So the police don’t know much about Craig or what he was after here—at least, they didn’t late last night.”

“What do you think?” Scott asked. “How does this Ben character fit in? What’s his angle?”

“I really don’t know,” she murmured. She stepped up to the register to wait on a customer.

Scott took a couple of videos from the return bin and checked them in. He waited until Hannah’s customer left; then he leaned against the back counter again. “I was tossing and turning all night,” he said. “I think I figured it out. You’re in your own kind of witness protection program, aren’t you? You’re running away from something.”

She sighed. “Scott, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Does it have something to do with your husband’s death? You never talk about him. Please tell me you didn’t bump him off.”

“That’s a pretty tactless statement,” Hannah muttered. She turned away and noticed some movies in the return bin. Without even a glance at Scott, she started checking them in. She felt herself trembling inside.

“He’s alive,” Scott said. “Isn’t he?”

Hannah tried to appear interested in her work.

“Did your husband—smack you around?” Scott asked with concern. “I’ve often wondered why you’re so tight-lipped about him. I once asked how you got that scar on your chin, and you quickly changed the subject. Did he give it to you?”

Hannah finished keying in the video codes. She still couldn’t look at him. She swallowed hard. “You’re the one who should have been a detective,” she finally said. “He’s from a very rich and powerful family in a small Midwestern town. There was no way I could have divorced him and kept my son. And there was no way I could have stayed.”

“What makes you so sure the police are looking for you?”

“Since I ran away, I’ve talked to a couple of old friends. They’ve been hounded from time to time by a private detective.”

“You mean, this ‘Craig’ fella’?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. When I left town with Guy, I also took some money from the joint checking account. Anyway, this detective told my friends that I’m wanted for grand larceny and kidnapping.”

“Did any cops actually talk to your pals?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, how do you know the police are really looking for you?” Scott asked. “I mean, maybe this private dick—if you’ll excuse the expression—maybe he was just jerking your friends around. If your husband’s family is so rich and powerful, wouldn’t they want to keep the whole runaway thing under wraps—especially if he was beating you up? That’s probably the reason for the private detective—to avoid involving the cops. Hell, the police might not even know anything about you, Hannah.”

“Maybe,” she granted. Scott’s theory gave her a little bit of hope. Perhaps the authorities weren’t really after her. Still, her name was bound to come up when the police asked the detective agency what Ronald Craig had been investigating in Seattle.

“God,” Hannah whispered. “They’ll think I had something to do with it.”

“Something to do with what?”

“Ronald Craig was here investigating me,” she said, glancing around to make sure no customers were nearby. “He was murdered. All evidence of his investigation was stolen. They’ll blame me.”

“No, no, they can’t,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Hannah, I was with you when it happened. You have a witness—me. Craig came over uninvited. You asked him to leave. We saw him get killed together. They can’t pin his death on you—not as long as I’m around—”

Scott seemed to choke on the last word. The reassuring smile faded away from his face. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I’m toast. I’m a fucking dead man.”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“I know too much,” Scott said, running a hand through his moussed hair. “And I’m the only one who can testify you had nothing to do with killing that guy. This weirdo who’s been following you around, he’ll go after me next. I know it.”

Wincing, Hannah shook her head. “Don’t say that.”

He let out an exasperated laugh. “But it’s true! Hell, who’s always one of the first to go in slasher movies? The funny gay best friend, that’s who! It’s a wonder I’m not dead already.”

Despite everything, Hannah rolled her eyes. “Oh, Scott, I wouldn’t worry. You’re not really that funny.”

“Yeah, but I make up for it by being super-gay.”

She actually laughed, then hugged him. “Thanks for making me smile—at least for a second or two.”

“I’m semi-serious, you know,” he said, patting her back. “What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t a damn clue,” she replied, her head on his shoulder. “I’d planned on leaving town this morning. Then Guy got sick. I can’t move him. Chicken pox is serious stuff. We’re stuck. I’m going crazy, just sitting here.”

She clung to a shred of hope that what Scott said was true. Perhaps the police weren’t looking for her. And maybe, just maybe, Ronald Craig hadn’t yet reported anything about Hannah Doyle to the Woodleys.

It was a good scenario, but not very likely. She was second-guessing everything. In the meantime, all she could do was maintain this awful, idle holding pattern for the next ten days until Guy recovered.

She held Scott at arm’s length. “Listen, please don’t tell anyone else about Guy’s father or any of this.”

He smiled. “Hannah, I didn’t come out to a soul until I was twenty-three. And as long as can I remember, I knew I was a great, big homo. So I know how to keep things under my hat. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Hannah hugged him again. She held him tightly—until she heard someone on the other side of the counter, chuckling “Hey, you two, either cut it out or get a room!”

“Oh, Ted, you’re such a pain in the ass,” Scott groaned. “I was just about to get to second base with her, too. Hold on, I’ll take care of you.” Scott went to his register to wait on one of their regulars. He glanced over his shoulder at Hannah. “Don’t forget Britt’s toy for Guy.”

Nodding, Hannah grabbed the cereal toy off the counter, then opened the drawer below the register and reached for her purse. She started to put the toy in her bag, but suddenly froze up. “Oh, no,” she murmured. “No, no, no…”

For a moment, she just stared at the video stashed in her purse. She wondered how and when it had gotten in there. Had someone been following Joyce around at the supermarket this morning when she’d had Hannah’s purse?

After a minute, Hannah felt Scott hovering behind her. “What is that?”

“It’s another ‘special delivery,’” she heard herself say. She took the video out of her bag.

“It’s one of ours,” Scott pointed out. “The store sensor tag is still on it. That’s why you set off the alarm when you walked in here.”

Hannah straightened up, then closed the drawer with her foot. She looked at the label on the cassette. It was Tape B of Casino.

“He didn’t give you the box,” Scott muttered. “And only one tape. Just a sec…” Scott hurried around the counter and started toward the back of the store.

Hannah could see that the tape was wound to a certain spot near the end of the spool.

Scott came back with the box for Casino. “It was on the shelf like this,” he said, showing her the double-cassette box with only one tape. “I don’t understand how he got the video out of here undetected. You’d think he would have ripped off the sensor tape and made it easier to steal. But he left it on. I wonder why.”

“To show me how clever he is,” Hannah replied numbly. She studied the videocassette. “I haven’t seen Casino. What happens near the end?”

Frowning, Scott shrugged uneasily. “It’s really violent, Hannah,” he said. “A lot of people die.”

“Everything’s fine here,” Joyce told her over the phone. “I just put some calamine lotion on Guy’s rash, and he’s playing with the puzzle book we got him this morning. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Yes, put him on, please,” Hannah said. She stood behind the counter at the store. Scott was helping a customer; otherwise they weren’t too busy. Hannah waited for to Guy come on the line.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

“Hi, honey. How are you? How are your chicken pox?”

“The chicken pox are fine,” he answered. “Joyce put pink stuff on them. It looks like Pencil Bismal.”

“Pepto-Bismol. That’s calamine lotion. It’ll stop the itching. Are you being a good boy?”

“Yes. Here’s Joyce.”

“Well, bye—” Hannah barely got the words out before Joyce was back on the line.

“Not one for long conversations, is he?” Joyce said. “Listen, you got a call a while ago. I let the machine take it. Ben Somebody. He left a number.”

“Do you have that number handy?”

“It’s right in front of me. Ready? 555-3649.”

Hannah scribbled down the number. “Got it. There haven’t been any other calls or hang-ups?”

“He’s the only one.”

“Listen, Joyce, have you noticed anyone hanging around outside or anything?”

“No, honey.”

“You’re on the cordless, right? Could you check outside for a second? And be careful. I just need you to see if there’s anyone out on the balcony—or down in the parking lot.”

“Sure, Hannah. But what the heck is all this about?”

In the background, Hannah could hear the door opening. She bit her lip and waited. Some static came on the line. “Joyce? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, honey. No one on the balcony, and nobody down in the lot either.”

“Okay, don’t forget to lock the door when you step back inside. And that front window needs to be closed and locked.”

“Hannah, what is going on?”

“Um, I’m—still worried about that break-in from a couple of weeks ago. Plus—well, did you notice anyone following you around the store this morning? Did someone bump into you or brush against you by accident?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you have my purse with you in the store?”

“No, I took your wallet and left the purse in my car. But I put a sweater over it and locked the car doors. Why? Was something missing from your bag?”

Hannah cracked an ironic smile. “No, nothing was missing, Joyce.” She sighed. “Anyway, thanks. Listen, give me a call if anything—”

“Call you if anything happens, yeah, honey, I’ll call,” Joyce cut in. “We’re fine. What’s that expression? Take a chill pill? Relax. We’re all locked up, and I have the pepper spray in my bag. We’ll be fine. First sign of trouble, you’ll hear from me.”

“Thanks, Joyce.”

Hannah hung up the phone. She glanced at Scott, who met her gaze, then eyed the Casino tape on the back counter. “Are you going to look at it?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I pulled up the last rental record,” he said. “It was checked out and returned three days ago. So he must have ripped it off within the last couple of days.”

For all she knew, Hannah might have been in the store when her “secret admirer” stole the tape.

She took the cassette and went into the break room. Scott followed her. She switched on the TV and inserted the cassette.

Scott stood behind her, at the break room door.

The sound and picture came up on the little TV screen. “The House of the Rising Sun” churned over the soundtrack while a drugged, zombie-like Sharon Stone stumbled down the hallway of some seedy motel. Every few steps, she stopped and rested her blond head against the wall. Hannah recognized Robert De Niro in the grim voice-over, explaining that Stone’s character, Ginger, had been given a “hot dose.” He said they never found out who gave Ginger the drugs that killed her.

“So explain to me again,” she heard Scott say. He sounded a bit scared. “Why would this guy want you to see this particular scene?”

“He’s telling me that he’s ready to kill again.” Hannah nodded at the screen, at the dazed, depleted Sharon Stone, staggering though that barren corridor. “And this is how the next one will die.”

“Hannah, can I call you right back?” Britt asked, on the other end of the line. “I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call in two minutes, I promise.”

“All right,” Hannah said.

“Okay, bye.” Britt replied; then she hung up.

Sitting at the desk in the break room, Hannah replaced the receiver on its cradle.

Scott was behind the counter, minding the store. He and Hannah had tried to figure out whose death the Casino scene forecast. If the pattern stayed consistent, the next victim would be a woman—like the victim in the video.

“It sounds crazy,” Scott had said. “But I keep thinking of Britt. She’s a sweetie pie, and I love her dearly. But Britt has a drug problem, and she’s just dumb enough to end up dead from an overdose in some fleabag hotel.”

Hannah could almost picture Britt repeating Sharon Stone’s Casino death scene in a hotel corridor. She suddenly realized how her stalker worked.

He had to be watching her constantly. No doubt, he saw or heard those confrontations with Cindy Finkelston and Lester Hall. As much as he stalked her, he must have kept surveillance on his intended victims, too. He must have decided to push Cindy Finkelston out of that fifth-floor window when he saw she lived in a tall apartment building. The killer was a film buff. He sent Hannah a sneak preview of Cindy’s murder with the Rosemary’s Baby tape cued on the scene with the fallen corpse splattered on the pavement. He had to know about Lester Hall’s massages before he furnished her with that murder-on-the-massage-table scene from The Godfather. And how long had he been following around Ronald Craig before deciding to mow him down with a stolen car in the fashion of that scene in Wait Until Dark?

His next victim would be a woman with a drug habit, most likely someone from the store, someone just dumb enough to end up dead from an overdose in some fleabag hotel.

When the phone rang, Hannah grabbed it. “Hello?” Then she realized it could be a customer. “Um, Emerald City Video. Thanks for calling.”

“Hannah? It’s me, Britt. Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. I was in the middle of something. What’s going on?”

“Well, remember I told you how someone was giving me these videos?” Hannah said. “They were cued to just the spot when a murder takes place.”

“Oh, yeah. Did you ever find out who was doing that?”

“No,” Hannah said. “But the thing is, after I got each video, someone was killed a couple of days later in the same way the characters in each of the movies died.”

“I don’t get it,” Britt admitted.

Hannah tried to explain it again, but she could tell Britt wasn’t grasping the seriousness of the situation. She sounded a bit foggy in her responses. Hannah figured Britt must have been getting high when she’d called her a few minutes ago.

“Anyway, the video I just got was Casino,” Hannah continued, a bit exasperated. “It was set to a scene with Sharon Stone in this crummy hotel, and she’s dying of a drug overdose, or a ‘hot dose.’”

“Oh, Sharon Stone was so good in that movie,” Britt said.

“That’s not the point, Britt,” Hannah replied, an edge creeping into her tone. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’ll end up dead from a bad dose of some drug. It might not be your fault. You might not know.”

“Oh, Hannah,” Britt said with a little laugh. “You act like I’m this major addict or something. I just get high once in a while. God, stop worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m great. I have the next two days off. I’ll be with Webb practically the whole time, so I’ll be safe. We’re just gonna kick back. So don’t sweat it.”

“Listen, Britt. Will you promise me something? Will you call me if you find yourself alone for a while? I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Sure, but like I said, Webb will be with me,” she replied.

“And promise to be careful, okay? I know you’ll probably want to get high, but please don’t take any chances. I don’t want you to end up with a bad dose. Do you understand?”

Britt laughed. “Sure, whatever you say, Hannah. Listen, I gotta go. Webb’s here, and we’re headed out.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. “But promise me you won’t take any chances.”

“All right already,” Britt replied, giggling again. “God. Hannah, I’m not Sharon Stone in Casino. I wished I looked like her, but I’m not her. Listen, I need to motor. I’ll call you later, okay? And hey, mellow out. Remember, it’s only a movie.”

Hannah heard the click on the other end of the line.

She figured her coworkers hated her right about now. After coming to the store nearly four hours late this morning, she’d spent most of the afternoon in the break room. She’d been tapping into the computer for rental histories on Wait Until Dark and Casino. But she wasn’t coming up with any names that matched.

Hannah began looking for patterns elsewhere. She charted out a timetable of the events since all of this started:

3rd Week September (approx)—Video dropped off at store.

Wed-10/9—Run-in w/Cindy F. Took GOODBAR video Home. Break-in.

Thurs-10/10—2nd break-in. ROSEMARY’S BABY tape left in VCR.

Sun-10/13—Cindy Finkelston killed.

Tues-10/15 (or Mon?) Run-in w/Lester Hall.

Sat-10/19—GODFATHER video left in shopping cart.

Tues-10/22—Lester Hall is killed.

Wed-10/23—Found WAIT UNTIL DARK tape in public restroom. Craig killed.

Today-10/24—CASINO video in purse.

There was no consistency in the time lapse between her receiving a video and the subsequent murder. The first two victims were each killed three days after she got the videos forecasting their deaths. But Craig had been mowed down within hours of her finding the Wait Until Dark video in that lavatory. She couldn’t hope to predict when the Casino-style murder would take place.

Hannah felt like she was banging her head against a wall. The only pattern she saw was the obvious one: someone was making her a reluctant, silent accomplice in a series of murders. He slipped her videos of Hollywood death scenes as a preview of his lethal handiwork.

The homemade Goodbar tape was the exception. That was no preview. It was a real murder, caught on tape; she had no doubt about it now. Had the other deaths been captured on videotape as well? Did he have an accomplice filming Cindy Finkelston’s fall? Was someone else lurking in the parking lot last night, and did he have a video camera to shoot the Wait Until Dark reenactment? How had they filmed Lester Hall’s death?

On that first night, October 9th, she’d thought she saw someone videotaping her from an alley.

She kept coming back to Paul Gulletti, with his knowledge of film and his unhealthy interest in her. When she’d first met him, he’d claimed he was planning to direct his own movie. Was it the Goodbar homage?

She’d been selected to see that video. The cassette hadn’t been dropped off at the store by accident. Someone knew she would take it home and look at it.

Hannah remembered her first day in Paul’s class last semester. Each student had to stand up, introduce themselves, and talk about their interest in film. Hannah mentioned working in a video store. Paul got a laugh when he jokingly asked if anyone ever dropped off their homemade sex tapes at the store by accident.

“Well, I haven’t seen any,” Hannah had replied. “And I’m the only one who ever takes home the wrong-returns and looks at them. No one else cares. Guess I’m just curious.”

The Goodbar cassette had been in the store for over two weeks before Hannah had brought it home. How she must have stretched his patience while he waited for curiosity to get the best of her.

He must have been watching her that whole time. Somehow, he must have been listening, too.

Three different men had been following her, so Ben Podowski claimed. If she were looking for patterns, there were a few common denominators with two of those three men. Both Ben Podowski and Ronald Craig had lied to her about their true identities. Yet each man professed a desire to help her. She wondered if Ben—like Ronald Craig—had been hired to spy on her by her estranged husband. Ronald Craig had been murdered because he’d seen too much. Ben could die for the same reason. Maybe he would be the next victim, dying from a “hot dose” in some hotel. Her stalker could have taken liberties with the locale in Casino. If Ben Podowski died from an overdose in that tenement, no one would blink an eye.

Hannah stared at his phone number—among all the notes and lists she’d been making. She picked up the phone and dialed. While it rang, she wondered if her husband, Kenneth, was somehow behind all these killings. Thanks to Ronald—and perhaps, Ben—he might have tracked her down. Maybe he was playing some sort of sadistic game with her for revenge.

There was a click on the other end of the line, then a recording: “Hello, this is Ben. I’m not home right now, but—”

Hannah hung up. She wanted to warn Ben. But for all she knew, he could be the killer or an accomplice.

“Shit,” she muttered, staring at the phone. She didn’t know what to think or whom to trust. If she was compelled to make a phone call, it should be to the police.

Someone knocked on the door, and she jumped a bit. “Um, yeah? Do you need me up front?”

Scott poked his head in. “No, in fact, it’s dead as Planet Hollywood out there. C’mon, step outside with me while I grab a smoke. Cheryl can take over for a few minutes. You need some fresh air. It’s really pretty out.”

Scott was right. Orange and pink streaks slashed across the twilight sky. Along the sidewalk, leaves scattered in the cool, autumn breeze. Hannah and Scott leaned against a bicycle rack outside the store. He lit up a generic-brand cigarette.

“Scott, you understand my situation,” she said. “I have no business asking you to do this. But could you—maybe contact the police for me? You can say all this has been happening to you. Tell them about the videos, and the deaths that followed.”

He exhaled a puff of smoke and gave her a deadpan stare. “So—I’m supposed to tell them I found this latest video in my purse?”

“Okay, say it was in your backpack,” Hannah retorted. “The important thing is someone—maybe Britt—could be in trouble. Maybe the police can do something. Maybe they can catch this guy before he does any more harm.”

“You want them to follow Britt around? Hello? Hannah, they’ll pick her up for possession. And hell, I’ll bet good ol’ Webb is dealing. They’ll throw his sorry ass in jail, too. I don’t give a crap about him, but I couldn’t do that to Britt.”

“Would you rather see her dead?”

“Of course not. But I won’t get her—and myself—in trouble because you want me to tell this story to the cops for you. Hannah, you need to do it yourself.” He took another drag off his cigarette and shook his head. “The cops would have all sorts of questions for me that I couldn’t answer. I’ll back you up, but I can’t be your beard here.”

“You’re right.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

If she hoped to prevent another murder, she would have to go to the police with her story. But once they found out who she really was, she’d be as good as dead.

“What are you thinking?” Scott asked quietly.

“I’m thinking I’m screwed,” Hannah replied.

They got swamped with customers in the store. Hannah worked an extra hour to make up for all her time in the back room. She didn’t clock out until six-fifty. On a regular Thursday evening, that would have given her ten minutes to get to film class, but she wasn’t going tonight. She felt bad enough that work took her away from Guy while he was sick. She needed to be with him tonight.

But she had an errand to run on her way home. She’d bought two rolls of quarters at the store. It made her purse a bit heavier as she started to take a roundabout way home.

There was a phone booth outside a little mom-and-pop grocery store four blocks from her house. It was on a quiet street; in fact, so quiet the little grocery store had recently closed from lack of business. Of course, maybe their charging $1.59 for a can of Coke had something to do with it.

Tonight, Hannah was sorry they were closed. There was something sad and creepy about the boarded-up store. The light from its RC Cola sign used to illuminate that section of the sidewalk. Hannah had made calls to Chicago friends from this phone booth, but never when it had been this dark. The light above the phone was dim and flickering.

She took out her rolls of quarters and dialed directory assistance for Green Bay, Wisconsin. She asked for the non-emergency number for the Green Bay police. Hannah dropped fourteen quarters into the slot, and was automatically connected to her party.

“Green Bay Police, City Precinct,” the operator answered.

“Um, yes,” Hannah said. “I have a question about a potential missing person.”

“One minute while I connect you with a detective.”

While she waited, Hannah glanced around. The sidewalk was deserted except for a cat lurking around a dumpster halfway down the block. Most of the trees had lost their leaves. It was so dark it seemed more like midnight than seven P.M.

“This is Detective Dreiling,” a gravel-voiced man piped up on the other end of the line. “Can I have your name, please?”

“Yes, I’m Deborah Eastman,” Hannah said, using the name of a favorite customer from the store. “I’m on vacation here on the West Coast. And yesterday, I ran into someone in San Francisco who I think might be a missing person from Green Bay. Her name is Hannah Woodley. I think she was supposed to have disappeared a while back or something.”

“One minute, please,” he said.

Hunched inside the phone booth, Hannah could hear a keyboard clacking faintly on the other end.

“Can I have your phone number, please?” he asked.

“Where I am now, or my home phone?” Hannah asked. “Because I’m in the middle of moving, a divorce really. I can give you a number where I’ll be tonight. I’m staying with some friends—”

“Ma’am,” he interrupted. “I need a number where we can contact you—”

“Well, I can give you one,” Hannah replied, talking fast and trying to sound a bit agitated. “But I really don’t want to waste any more of your time or mine if they aren’t looking for Hannah Woodley. This is a long-distance call, you know. I heard something about her disappearing a while back, and I’m just trying to help out.”

“Ma’am, yes, she and her son are listed here as missing persons. Mrs. Woodley is also wanted for questioning in connection with reported kidnapping and larceny charges. Any information as to her whereabouts would be appreciated. Now, can I get your phone number?”

Hannah felt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. She knew the Woodleys had probably brought up charges against her, but Scott had convinced her there was a chance they hadn’t. Now, as she listened to the police detective read off those charges, she felt so doomed.

“Ms. Eastman?” the detective said. “Are you there?”

Hannah quickly hung up the phone.

She hoped she hadn’t been on the line long enough for them to trace the call. She sagged against the inside of the booth. A couple of moths flew around the flickering overhead light. Hannah had to remind herself that she wasn’t really any worse off than she’d always figured. She just didn’t like hearing it.

Sighing, Hannah grabbed what was left of the torn-up roll of quarters on the little shelf under the phone. She started to step out of the booth, and gasped. The coins fell out of her hand.

He stood halfway down the block, by the dumpsters. He was filming her with a video camera. She couldn’t see his face, just a tall, shadowy figure silhouetted by a streetlight in the distance behind him.

Hannah backed into the booth and hit her shoulder against the edge. Desperately, she glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby. No one. She was alone. She quickly dug into her purse for her little canister of pepper spray. Then she looked toward the dumpsters again.

He was gone.

A car drove by. Hannah raised a hand to flag it down, but it kept going. Its headlights swept against the dumpsters and an alley behind them. She didn’t see him, but she had a feeling he was still there, watching.

Hannah found the pepper spray. Clutching it in her fist, she dared to take a couple of steps down the sidewalk—toward the dumpsters and the mouth of that gloomy alleyway. She hoped he didn’t notice she was trembling.

She got to a point and suddenly couldn’t move any further. Her legs froze up on her. She stood in the middle of the block.

Wide-eyed, she gazed down the line of cars parked along the curb. He didn’t seem to be hiding behind any of them. There was no sign of him by the dumpsters. Even the cat from a few minutes before had disappeared.

Hannah kept absolutely still. She could hear a very faint mechanical humming. Was it his video camera?

“Who’s there?” Hannah finally called in a shaky voice. “What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?”

No response. Then, as muted as that mechanical hum, she thought she heard a man chuckling.

A chill passed through her. She took a step back.

A woman screamed in the distance behind her. Hannah swiveled around to see a young couple weaving down the sidewalk across the street. They were coming toward her. The woman’s scream turned to high-pitched laughter. She leaned against her boyfriend and kissed him.

Hannah moved to the middle of the street. She ran in the direction of the young twosome. Passing them, she raced another two blocks toward home.

She kept running, and didn’t look back.

Eleven

Paul Gulletti strolled into the classroom. He sat back on the edge of his desk and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I don’t think all of us are here yet,” he announced. “But let’s get started anyway….”

Ben was seated behind Hannah’s empty desk. Since phoning her this morning, he’d left another message offering to walk her to class. She hadn’t returned either call.

Yesterday evening, Hannah had said she would see him during class tonight. Was that her way of brushing him off? He wasn’t sure if he should be worried, or annoyed, by her absence.

Still, he kept hoping that she’d show up. Paul Gulletti must have felt the same way. Ben noticed that as he spoke about tonight’s movie, Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Avventura, Paul kept looking at the classroom door. He also seemed preoccupied with the vacant chair in front of Ben. Paul even locked eyes with him, then frowned and looked away.

“I lost track of what I was saying,” Paul admitted, rubbing his chin.

His assistant, Seth, cleared his throat. “You were talking about the missing girl,” he said, with a half-smile. “In the movie, Monica Vitti’s friend, who disappears…”

Paul nodded. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, visibly annoyed. After stealing another glance at the door, he lectured for a few more minutes; then he cued Seth to start the film.

While Seth dimmed the lights, Paul gathered up his notes and folder. He came down the aisle toward Ben. He turned and sat at the desk next to Hannah’s vacant spot.

About ten minutes into the movie, Ben gave up hope that Hannah might arrive late. He decided he’d leave during intermission, then walk over to Hannah’s place and check in on her.

“Do you know where she is?”

Paul Gulletti caught him off guard. Ben blinked and stared at the teacher. Turning in his desk chair, Gulletti was leaning toward him—almost in a private huddle. “I’m sorry, what?” Ben asked in a hushed tone.

“Do you know where Hannah is tonight?” Paul whispered.

Ben shook his head. “Why are you asking me?”

“I thought you two were friends or something. Last couple of classes, I saw you talking with her.”

Ben frowned at him. “Well, we might have been talking with each other. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Really? Seemed to me the two of you were getting along pretty well.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had an audience,” Ben replied. “In any event, I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I don’t know where Ms. Doyle is.”

“Well, thank you, Mr.—um, I’m sorry. I forgot your last name.”

“Sturges,” Ben said.

Paul nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Sturges,” he said coolly. Then he turned forward to watch the movie.

At the break, Ben grabbed his notebook and jacket, and started out of the classroom. He passed by Seth, who was leaning against the doorway.

“Man, he sure hates your guts,” Seth remarked, with a lopsided grin.

“What’s that?” Ben asked.

“The Prof,” Seth said, peering over the top of his glasses toward the front of the classroom. Paul was once again seated on the edge of his desk. “He thinks you’re horning in on his girlfriend,” Seth said.

“You mean Hannah? I didn’t know she was his girlfriend.”

“Neither does she. But Paul is working on it. And in most situations, what the Prof wants, the Prof gets. What’s with you? Are you taking off?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a headache.”

“Well, take care,” Seth said. He glimpsed over his shoulder at Paul once more. Ben followed his gaze.

Paul Gulletti was glaring back at him.

“Huh, ‘if looks could kill,’ right?” Seth whispered, smirking.

Ben just nodded, then moved on down the corridor.

“Read it again, Mom,” Guy said. He was sitting up in bed with a pillow behind his back. He took the Dr. Seuss book from Hannah’s hands and opened it to the first page. “Here, Mom. Do it again….”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so tired,” she groaned, pushing the book away. Seated on the edge of the bed, she slouched against the headboard. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. You read to me for a change. Tell me what’s in the pictures, and see how fast I fall asleep. We’ll pull the old switcheroo.”

“Okay,” he said. His brow wrinkled as he studied the book in front of him. With his rash and the remnants of calamine lotion, Guy’s complexion was a bright pink against his blond hair. “The first pitcher is of this yellow guy in a big balloon, and he’s singing….”

“Hmmm, that’s nice,” Hannah murmured.

She was so tired. Yet as Hannah closed her eyes, she could once again see that man from earlier tonight, standing by the dumpsters, videotaping her. She tried to convince herself that she was safe now—with Guy at her side. The door and the windows were all locked. There would be no intruders tonight—unless, of course, the police paid her an unexpected visit.

She was on borrowed time with them, and considered hiding out in some cheesy little hotel until Guy recovered.

The thought of a cheesy hotel reminded her again of that scene from Casino. She was still worried about Britt ending up dead in some such place. Hannah had called her an hour ago. Britt had reported that she was fine: “I told you before, I’m spending the weekend with Webb. Jeez, quit worrying about me!”

But Hannah couldn’t trust Britt to look out for herself. She didn’t trust Webb, either.

Any notion of going to the police had been shot down by that detective on the phone three hours ago. That was just the tip of the iceberg, too. In addition to kidnapping and larceny charges, she’d forged documents and committed fraud. She was also implicated in three murders that she’d failed to report.

All she wanted to do was run away. Maybe then the killings would stop. The police and the Woodleys’ private detective wouldn’t know where to look for her. But she had a sick little boy who had to stay at home in his own bed. Doctor’s orders.

Besides, someone was out there, watching her every move. How did she expect to slip past him? Even if she moved to a tiny little desert town or a major city on the California coast, how could she be sure he wouldn’t follow her there?

What in God’s name made her think she could nod off while her mind was going in a dozen different directions? She’d never felt so tired and on edge at the same time.

Guy’s storytelling had diminished to some snoring.

When Hannah opened her eyes, he was asleep with the book in his lap. She carefully climbed off the bed, stole the book from under his hands, then tucked him in. Just as she was switching off his nightstand lamp, someone buzzed from the lobby.

Hannah flinched. Immediately, she thought of her stalker, and then, the police. For a moment, she couldn’t move.

Guy stirred a little, but he didn’t awaken.

The buzzer sounded again. Hannah hurried to the intercom. She glanced at her wristwatch: 9:40. This was no casual call. She pressed the intercom switch. “Hello?”

“Hannah? It’s Ben Sturges.”

Hannah let out a little sigh. At least it wasn’t the police. Still, she was perturbed. “Don’t you mean Ben Podowski?” she said into the intercom.

“I can explain that—if you’ll let me come up.”

She hesitated. The last person to drop by unannounced was Ronald Craig on the night he was murdered.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said.

“Couldn’t I see you for just a few minutes?” he asked.

Hannah bit her lip. She didn’t feel safe letting him in while she was alone with Guy—and at night. “Listen,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I’ve already gotten ready for bed. If you need to see me, drop by the video store tomorrow. I take my break at two.”

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I didn’t see you in class. I was worried.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just didn’t feel like going tonight, that’s all.” Then she remembered something. “Um, Ben? Was everyone else there—at class? Paul didn’t come late, did he?”

“No, he was there on time. Why?”

“I’m just curious. Was anyone else absent—or late?”

“Well, I didn’t notice anybody else. I was mostly concerned about you. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m okay, thanks,” she said vaguely. She was thinking about that man videotaping her tonight. It had happened just around the time class was starting. If that figure in the shadows wasn’t Paul Gulletti or someone from the class, who was he?

“Hannah? Are you still there?”

“Listen, Ben, why don’t you come by the store tomorrow? I want you to.”

“I’d like that,” he replied. “In the meantime, take care, okay?”

“Good night.” She switched off the intercom. After a moment, she unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. She folded her arms against the chill. The wind whipped through her hair. She gazed down at the lone figure heading down the street, away from her building.

Ben didn’t look back over his shoulder.

Hannah wondered if she’d done the right thing, sending him away. The lives of everyone around her suddenly seemed so tentative. She watched him walking in the distance, and she couldn’t help thinking he might be dead by tomorrow.

“I hate to bug you on your day off, Tish,” Hannah said into the phone. “But I’m here alone.” She stood behind the counter at Emerald City Video. It was almost one o’clock in the afternoon.

“Where’s Scott?” the store manager asked on the other end of the line. “Wasn’t he supposed to start at eleven today?”

“Yeah. I’ve tried calling his place. I can’t even leave a message. I keep getting this stupid recording on his answering machine that says ‘Memory is full.’” Hannah tried to control the little tremor creeping into her voice—without much success. “Anyway, Tish, I think something’s happened. I’m really worried. Do you have another number we can call for him?”

“No. We better get someone else to fill in.”

“I tried Britt, but she’s spending most of this weekend with Webb. So I’m not surprised she isn’t answering. Cheryl and Victor are both due in at two.” Hannah sighed. “I’m okay here by myself for now, but I’m really worried about Scott.”

She kept thinking about what he’d said the day before: I’m toast. I’m a fucking dead man…He’ll go after me next, I know it.

“Well, we can’t be short a person today,” Tish said. “Not on a Friday. It’ll be N-U-T-Z, nuts. I’ll drag my ass over there. In the meantime, don’t worry about our Scott. He’s a big boy. Bet you a latte you’ll hear from him or he’ll show up before I make it to the store.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Hannah replied. “And hope I lose.”

Two hours later, they got the word from a friend of Scott’s that he was in the hospital.

Tish gave Hannah the rest of the afternoon off so she could visit him at Group Health Hospital. The doctors estimated that Scott would be in isolation there for ten days.

In the hospital gift shop, Hannah bought him some flowers and magazines. Before entering the corridor to Scott’s private room, she had to check in with a nurse stationed at the desk. The woman made her sign a form, then gave her a disposable smock and surgical mask to wear.

When Hannah stepped into the small, dimly lit, beige room, Scott was curled up on top of the unmade bed. He wore one of those hospital gowns, the kind that make even the healthiest person appear sickly.

Hannah cleared her throat. “Scott?”

He lifted his head up, then squinted at her. His handsome face was flushed and covered with tiny red welts.

“Oh, Jesus,” Hannah whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault you’re in here. I should have been more careful washing up after being with Guy—”

“Oh, relax,” he groaned. “Neither you nor Guy gave me the damn chicken pox. The doctor told me chicken pox has like a twenty-day incubation period. I was exposed a while back.” He sat up. “Speaking of exposed, can you see up my gown?”

“My eyes are avoiding that area,” Hannah admitted. She set the magazines and flowers on a side table. Her mask seemed to be slipping, and she adjusted it. “I got you Vanity Fair, GQ, and People.”

“Thanks,” he grunted, with a tired smile. “You’re sweet. I’m going out of my mind here. I can’t believe I have to stay in this place for another ten days. I guess it’s serious stuff when an adult gets the chicken pox.”

Hannah glanced down at her hospital smock and pointed to her mask. “Tell me about it. Do you know how you might have been exposed?”

As Scott moved over to the window, Hannah noticed the small abrasions on his arms and legs. The blinds were drawn, and he fiddled with the cord. “I think Guy and I caught them at the same time,” he said. “Remember about three weeks ago, that Saturday afternoon you brought him to the store? That lady with the Eeyore voice had her brat with her, and he was wearing pajamas. She said he was sick, and she wanted to get him some videos….”

Hannah nodded. She recalled the little boy throwing several videos on the floor. Scott was picking up after him, and Guy tried to help. At the time, Hannah hadn’t been too alarmed about Guy being exposed to anything serious. People were always coming into the store to rent videos when they were sick. She didn’t think a mother would be stupid enough to bring in a kid with chicken pox. Of course, she was one to criticize. She’d been ready to take Guy on board a bus until her doctor put the kibosh on it.

“Anyway, I think Guy and I got chicken pox from that little creep,” Scott went on. “So if you see that lady and her kid again, give them both a swift kick in the ass for me. The only good thing about all this is there’s a real cute intern here, and I think he plays on my team. Soon as this rash clears up, I’ll see if I can get him to give me a sponge bath.”

“Too much information,” Hannah said. “Besides, that’s something a nurse or an orderly would do, not an intern. I know—from a couple of lengthy hospital stays.”

“Did it freak you out when I didn’t show up at work today?” he asked.

She nodded soberly. “A little.”

“You thought I’d pulled a Sharon Stone in Casino, didn’t you? So what’s the plan? Are you going to the police?”

Hannah shrugged and adjusted her mask again. “I can’t. I checked last night. It’s official. I’m wanted ‘for questioning’ in connection with kidnapping and larceny charges. They’re ready to throw the book at me. Anyway, no police. I’m on my own in this—especially now that you’ve been sidelined.”

“Yeah, guess I’m not much use to you in here. Sorry to let you down.”

“Oh, skip it. Just get well, sweetie.”

“Would you do me a favor, Han?” Scott asked. “Could you check on Britt for me? My buddy has left her a bunch of messages since early this morning, and he hasn’t heard back from her.”

“Well, I talked with her around nine o’clock last night, and she was all right. She’s supposed to be with Webb, the Wonder Creep. I might have his number. I’ll check, and keep you posted. I’m pretty concerned about her myself.”

“Thanks, Hannah.” He scratched his arm and frowned. “Listen. There’s something you should know. After you left last night, a woman came into the store, wanting to rent Psycho. When I went to get it for her, the case was there, but the tape was missing. Someone ripped it off, just like Casino.”

Gazing at him, Hannah slowly shook her head.

“It could be nothing,” Scott said. “But I figured you’d want to know. Be on your guard, okay? Your—um, secret admirer might soon be sending you another video valentine.”

Outside Scott’s room, Hannah shed the smock and the surgical mask, then dumped them in a waste bin labeled “Biohazard.” Starting down the hall, she saw someone by the nurse’s desk, and she stopped dead.

Ben put up his hand in a sort of half wave.

Hannah took a deep breath and walked up to him.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding glumly. “I followed you here from the store.”

“Do you have any idea how creepy that is?” Hannah asked pointedly.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Can we please talk?” He pulled out a folder he had tucked under his arm. “I have something I want to show you.”

Hannah just sighed and started toward the elevator.

Ben came up beside her. “I’ll go away and not bother you again if I’m wrong,” he said. “When that man was murdered the other night, did you know in advance something like that was going to happen?”

Hannah stopped. Her eyes searched his.

“Did you see it happen beforehand—in a video?”

Hannah kept staring at him. She swallowed hard. “Where do you want to talk?” she asked.

The woman in the picture was blond and pretty, with a round face and large blue eyes. Hannah guessed she was in her late twenties. Ben Podowski had his arm around her in the photo. They stood in front of a reservoir. Ben hadn’t aged much since the snapshot was taken. His golden hair was now a shade darker and not quite as curly.

The girl in the photo was Rae Palmer. Ben said the picture was six years old. He’d taken it with a self-timer in Central Park one afternoon. It had been the last time he and Rae had seen each other.

“I think I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I’ll be damned if I can figure out where.” Hannah handed the photograph back to Ben.

They sat at a window table in an upscale bohemian coffeehouse called Victrola, down the block from Group Health Hospital. Ben had the folder open on the little cafe table between them.

“Rae and I were together for eight years,” he explained, gazing at the photo with a trace of sadness in his eyes. He tucked the picture under the papers in his folder. “We started dating in college. She was a good person, very conscientious—socially and politically. She was arrested at least a dozen times while we were together—always some protest march or demonstration to help the downtrodden. She was a champion for the underdog. And underdog, underachiever describes me during my first few years out of college. Then I became an overachiever, and we didn’t really need each other so much anymore. Anyway, in a hundred words or less, that explains Rae’s and my relationship. We stayed friends after the breakup. In fact, since then, she never really got serious with anyone else.”

Hannah stirred her latte. “Are you trying to tell me you’re irresistible?”

With a strained smile, Ben shook his head. “No. I just want you to understand that we stayed friends. I felt responsible for her, and I know Rae pretty much considered me one of the most important people in her life—even after I got married, and she moved away.”

Hannah shifted in her chair. “Are you still married?”

“That’s a whole other story,” he replied, frowning. “Anyway, Rae and I kept in touch, mostly phone calls and e-mails.”

“How did your wife feel about that?” Hannah asked.

“Well, she didn’t feel threatened or anything,” Ben said, fingering the straw to his Italian soda. “It wasn’t as if Rae and I were corresponding every day. It was more like every few weeks. Rae had her own life in Seattle, working as a hotel events coordinator.” He took some of the papers from his folder. “Before I came here last month, I pulled some of her e-mails from my computer records and printed them out. I think you should see them.”

Ben handed her a printout. He’d circled the date on top: 1/27/02. He’d also drawn brackets around the paragraph he wanted her to read:

I met someone & I know you won’t approve, Ben, because he’s married & totally unavailable. I decided to take a film class last fall, & he’s the professor. His name is Paul Gulletti. I think every woman in the class has a crush on him. He’s very sexy & charismatic. We started dating in December. It was really sweet. He helped me pick out my Xmas tree & for my present, he gave me roses & we spent the night at a ski lodge. Very romantic. I’m trying not to get too serious, but I think I’m falling in love with him. Don’t be mad, Ben…

Frowning, Hannah handed the piece of paper back to him. “Why did you think I’d be interested in this?” she asked. “I told you already that I’m not in any way involved with Paul Gulletti.”

Ben gave her another printout. “Just keep reading, okay?”

The date on the next e-mail was 4/16/02. Again, he’d marked the section he wanted her to see:

You’ll be proud of me, because I told Paul I don’t want to see him anymore. In fact, I dropped out of his film class. It was kind of embarrassing. Everybody in the class knew we were seeing each other. Paul doesn’t want to let go, and we’ve had some fights. It’s weird. He keeps saying he’s going to leave his wife for me, but I’ve never asked him to. Anyway, you were right about him. It’s been rough, Ben. I hate the idea that I’ll be alone again…

Hannah could tell this woman was still in love with Ben, from the way she kept seeking his approval.

“I’m sorry.” Shrugging, Hannah set down the sheet of paper. “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

Wordlessly, Ben gave her another e-mail to read. This one was dated 6/7/02:

Someone keeps calling me & hanging up. I’m convinced it’s Paul. The breakup was so dragged out & I know he’s bitter. Then again, perhaps he has moved on. It’s been a while since we actually talked, so maybe it’s not him. Don’t think I’m paranoid, but someone has also been following me & watching me. I even caught a glimpse of this person videotaping me last week. That’s right, I have a stalker. For the last few years, ever since we broke up, Ben, I’ve always thought nobody cared enough about me. Now I have someone who cares too much. It’s very weird. I can’t prove it, but I have a feeling he’s been in my apartment…

Neither Ben nor Hannah said a word. He just handed her the next e-mail, dated 6/19/02:

I took your advice and changed my phone number. It’s been a major pain. I had to tell practically everyone I know about the new number, which, of course, defeats the purpose, especially if this stalker is someone I know. Anyway, the good news is that the calls and hang-ups have stopped.

Now for the bad news. The strangest thing has happened & it has me very scared. I almost called you about it, but I feel funny calling, especially when I get Jennifer on the phone. She’s perfectly sweet, but I just feel strange.

Anyway, last week someone broke into my car—in the parking garage at work. They didn’t take anything. They left something. It was a video of that old Hitchcock movie, Strangers on a Train. Have you seen it? I took the video home. It was set to start on this scene that takes place at an amusement park. There’s this boat ride to a little island. Robert Walker follows this pretty woman with glasses to this place & he strangles her. Her glasses fall off & we see her being murdered in the reflection of her glasses.

I didn’t know what to think. I suspected Paul again, but now I’m not sure. I reported the break-in to the police. Since nothing was stolen & no damage was done to the car, they didn’t think much of it. Of course, it’s no help that they checked on me when I reported this. They mentioned that I’d been arrested four times in the last five years, twice for participating in antipolice demonstrations. I was like, “Well, duh!” Anyway, I guess I’m labeled a troublemaker and a kook. After a few days, nothing else happened & I managed to put it behind me. I’d nearly forgotten about it.

Then, two days ago, a coworker at the hotel, Lily Abrams, didn’t show up for work. I didn’t give her absence much thought. I’ve never been too fond of her. She’s always been kind of snotty to me. But that doesn’t matter. I found out yesterday that she was murdered. Someone strangled her. They found her body floating in Lake Washington, right by a little patch of land called Foster Island. It’s part of a nature trail near the university district. Lily wore glasses. They found them right near the water’s edge.

Do you see what happened? Lily got strangled on a little island, just like the woman in the movie. I tried to tell this to the police, and they’re acting like I’m crazy…

Hannah set down the e-mail printout.

Ben dug another sheet of paper from his folder. “One of the first things I did when I got to Seattle was go to the library and look up a few things. My wife kept saying Rae was making all this up so I would come out here, but Rae’s not that scheming. Still, I needed to make sure about what she was telling me.”

Across the table, he slid a copy of a newspaper article, dated June 18. The headline read: “WOMAN FOUND STRANGLED IN ARBORETUM AREA.” There was a map of the nature trail near Seattle’s Arboretum, with an X marking off the tip of Foster Island. Beside it, a casual, blurry photo of Lily Abrams, a thin-faced brunette with glasses and a slightly impish smile.

Hannah scanned the article, which revealed a bit of inside information that must have embarrassed the police. Among the baffled authorities, Lily Abrams had become known as “the Floating Flower.” The name, Lily, had something to do with that epithet, as did, apparently, the position of her body when it was discovered. Lily’s bracelet had gotten caught on some pilings in the shallow water off Foster Island, and she remained there, floating within a few feet of the shore, a floating flower.

The article also revealed that Lily’s glasses were discovered on Foster Island, not far from the water. The police also found Lily’s purse inside her unlocked car, parked a block away from her apartment building in Seattle’s Eastlake neighborhood. They were examining the possibility that she’d been abducted there and taken to the Arboretum area, where she was strangled.

“Did you hear about this case?” Ben asked.

Hannah shook her head. “You’d think I would have.”

“I looked at the articles. The press made a big thing out of that Floating Flower business. For a week, they made it out like another Black Dahlia case. Rae mentioned in one of her e-mails that the police must have written her off as one of the many nuts that were calling them with inside information about the Floating Flower. They basically blew her off. Anyway, they never solved the case.”

Hannah set down the newspaper article, then sat back. “What happened to Rae?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m still trying to find out,” Ben replied. He gave her another document from his folder.

Hannah stared at the e-mail printout, this one dated 8/3/02:

Thanks again for calling me back the other night. I’m really sorry I woke up Jennifer. I totally forgot about the time difference. Anyway, thanks for caring, Ben.

I took your advice & went out with Joe Blankenship again. So we’re kind of dating now. He’s a nice guy & so what if his kisses don’t send me to the moon? He really seems to care for me. Besides, I don’t want to be alone right now. This stalker person is back. I’ve seen him videotaping me again. I haven’t seen his face. He’s always too far away. I think I figured out what kind of car he drives—a wine-colored Volvo. He paid me a visit last night.

The TV woke me up around one A.M. I got scared & grabbed this baseball bat I’ve been keeping near my bed lately. (OK, I know you’re thinking I’m a major loon, but having it there makes me feel safer.) Anyway, I recognized what was on TV before I even reached the living room. It’s one of your favorites, On the Waterfront. As soon as I realized no one was in the apartment, I figured out that the movie was cued at a scene near the beginning when the mobsters throw Eva Marie Saint’s brother off the roof & he’s killed. The character’s name was Joey.

My Joe lives in a eleven-story apartment building, and I’m certain the same thing will happen to him. He thinks I’m imagining things or vying for more of his attention. He’s almost as bad as the police. He just won’t take me seriously.

I went to Paul Gulletti, because I figure someone with a film background is behind all this. I confronted him, Ben. He tried to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about. But I could tell he was covering something up, or lying. Unfortunately, I can’t prove anything.

Ben, I feel so helpless & scared…

“She called me a few days later,” Ben said, sliding a copy of yet another newspaper article in front of Hannah. It was dated August 8. She glanced at the headline:

SEATTLE MAN PLUMMETS TO HIS DEATH FROM HIGH-RISE

Police Probe Rooftop Fall:

Freak Accident or Suicide?

Hannah skimmed over the article, which suggested that the victim, Joe Blankenship, had been indulging in some illegal substances at the time of his demise.

“Did she try talking to the police again?” Hannah asked.

“Yeah,” Ben said, frowning. “It was pointless.”

Hannah imagined how the police must have reacted when Rae Palmer once again approached them saying this drug-induced freak accident had been forecast to her in a video.

“This is the last e-mail,” Ben said, handing her another printout. It was dated 8/29/02:

You haven’t returned my message from a couple of days ago. I hope I haven’t become a total pain, Ben. It’s just that I have no one else to turn to.

I found another video, this one in my desk drawer at work. I don’t know how he got in there. This time the movie is Looking for Mr. Goodbar, and it was cued to start up near the very end, the scene where Tom Berenger is having sex with Diane Keaton & suddenly he pulls out a knife and stabs her to death.

I know a woman named Diane who’s in payroll. But I don’t know her that well. Yet I feel I should warn her. It’s crazy. I don’t know why this is happening. I wonder who could be doing this & I keep coming back to my ex, Paul. But I can’t prove anything.

Meanwhile, I know sometime soon some woman I know will be stabbed to death in bed.

I wish I could just run away someplace. I know it’s a lot to ask, but could I come out there & stay with you for a while? Or maybe, better still, you could come out here? I could even put you & Jennifer up at the hotel, give you two a suite at a ridiculously low rate. In fact, I’d pay for you guys. I feel so alone, Ben.

Anyway, please, think about it & get back to me.

Hannah set down the e-mail sheet. Her eyes met Ben’s. “Did you find out the identity of this Goodbar victim?” she asked.

He slowly shook his head. “I tried calling Rae afterward, but there was no answer. I kept trying—on and off—for over a week. Then I came out here.” He straightened the pile of papers and tucked them back inside the folder.

“Can I see Rae’s picture again, please?” Hannah asked.

Ben found the photo, then handed it to her.

She studied Rae’s eyes. Weren’t they the same blue eyes with the dead stare in the Goodbar homage? It had been over two weeks since Hannah had seen the grisly video. She didn’t think she’d ever forget that woman’s face. Obviously, she had—for a while. But looking at Rae Palmer’s picture helped her remember.

She handed the photo back to Ben. “Do you mind if we get out of here?” she asked quietly.

“Not at all,” he said, leaving a tip on the table. “Are you okay?”

“I just need some air,” she said, getting to her feet.

Hannah headed for the door, with Ben right behind her.

She’d been right earlier. She had indeed seen Rae Palmer before.

She’d seen her die.

Twelve

He videotaped them sitting at the window table of the coffeeshop. Due to a reflection on the glass, he caught only a few, fleeting, usable close-ups of her with his zoom lens. Still, he knew he had some beautiful shots of Hannah in that twenty-five minutes of footage.

He put his video camera away as he followed them out of the coffeeshop. He watched them through the trees. Walking side by side, the two of them looked like a couple of lovers. Even from across the street, he could see Hannah was smitten with Ben. The son of a bitch.

Of course, he knew it would happen. Hell, he’d made it happen, orchestrating their every move. He was pulling the strings.

Still, he’d expected more from his leading lady. He’d thought she would hold out a bit longer before succumbing to Ben’s charms. He was disappointed in her. Hannah still fascinated and aroused him, but she’d lost his respect.

He’d been through this before with the others. Once a leading lady fell out of favor with him, he became all the more anxious to realize her death scene.

Hannah’s demise had already been planned—down to the last detail. Now it was time to put the plan in motion.

He stopped, and watched Ben and Hannah move on together.

He smiled, even laughed a little to himself.

Poor Hannah: so beautiful, so stupid.

And doomed.

“You never heard from Rae again after that last e-mail?” Hannah asked.

“No,” Ben replied, walking alongside her. “Like I said, I wasn’t able to get ahold of her. I wish I’d come to Seattle earlier, but I was having problems at work—and at home.” He sighed. “Anyway, I came out here the second week in September. But I think I may have been too late.”

Hannah didn’t say anything.

They were strolling down the sidewalk by a busy residential street across from Volunteer Park. Through the trees they could catch a peek at the park’s water tower, the art museum, conservatory, and a playground.

Ben said that when he arrived in Seattle, one of the first things he did was go to the hotel where Rae worked. They hadn’t seen or heard from her in over a week. It was more of the same at Rae’s apartment building, where Ben interviewed her neighbor and the building manager. Rae seemed to have just disappeared.

Ben knew Paul Gulletti reviewed movies for the local weekly. He tore Paul’s picture out of the paper and showed the photo to Rae’s coworkers and neighbors. Nearly all of them recognized Rae’s married boyfriend, but no one had seen him for months.

Ben went to the police and reported Rae as a missing person. “It was incredibly unspectacular,” he told Hannah. “You’d think I was applying for a fishing license or something. I tried to tell this cop at the desk what had been happening to Rae the past few months, and he didn’t seem to give a crap. So I filled out a form, and gave them a photo of Rae which I really kind of cherished. The cop said they’d contact me if they came up with anything. In other words, Don’t call us, we’ll call you. And guess what? Big surprise, they haven’t called.”

He ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “To be fair, the cop pointed out that they have hundreds of new missing persons on file every week.” Ben squinted across the street at the entrance to Lakeview Cemetery. “I didn’t know there’s a cemetery here.”

Hannah nodded. “Bruce Lee is buried there. His son Brandon’s grave is right beside his.”

They reached a curve in the road, and a small, scenic overlook park with a view of Lake Washington, the University’s Husky Stadium, the floating bridge, and the Cascade Mountains. They sat down on a wooden bench built around a tree at the edge of a huge ravine. With dusk creeping over the horizon, many of the cars on the bridge had their headlights on. The little sailboats glided on darkening silver-blue water.

As Ben gazed out at the view, Hannah allowed herself to study his handsome profile and the sadness in his beautiful eyes. She still felt a bit cautious around him, and had to fight her attraction for this lonely man who was away from home.

And she had to tell him that his onetime girlfriend was dead.

He turned to her, and Hannah quickly looked away—toward the lights across the lake. “So,” she said, “what kind of job do you have that allows you to pick up and go to Seattle for a month?”

“A former job, I think,” he said. “I’m not sure I still have it. I’m in advertising. Do you know Gustov bottled water?”

“‘The champagne of seltzer waters’?”

He nodded. “I came up with that—and the advertisements about it being easier to open than champagne. If you hate those commercials, blame me.”

“Actually, I think those ads are very funny.”

“Thanks.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I took a leave of absence without pay. They hadn’t really approved it yet when I left. So I’m not sure the job will be waiting for me when I get back.”

“Your wife doesn’t mind that you went to Seattle for a month? And you’re chasing after an ex-girlfriend, no less. Jennifer—isn’t that her name? She must be very understanding.”

Frowning, Ben gazed out toward the bridge. “I’m not sure if she’ll be waiting for me when I get back, either.” He sighed. “It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll bend your ear about it sometime, but not now.”

Hannah nodded. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Hannah thought about his former girlfriend, Rae Palmer. Every concern Rae expressed in those e-mails was familiar to Hannah. In the last e-mail, when Rae mentioned wanting to run away, it scared Hannah that she’d had exactly the same reaction. Rae had admitted that she slept with a baseball bat at her bedside. Hannah had kept a hammer by her nightstand ever since the break-in. She remembered the Goodbar video, with the bloodied bed sheets and Rae’s dead gaze.

“What happened to Rae is happening to me now,” Hannah whispered.

“I know,” he said. “It took a while to figure out. I hadn’t planned on staying here in Seattle this long. But once I realized Rae might be lost to me, I couldn’t go back to New York. So I rented this cheap, dumpy studio apartment and signed up for Paul Gulletti’s film class. I registered under the name Ben Sturges in case Rae had ever told him about me. Sturgis, Michigan is where I’m from originally. I just changed the spelling a little. Anyway, I asked around in class, very casually of course, but nobody had heard of Rae Palmer. Apparently, no one in this current class has been taking Paul’s course for more than three semesters.”

“You didn’t ask me,” Hannah said.

“Well, I figured out pretty quickly you were Paul’s favorite. People said you two were an item. I kept thinking you must be Rae’s successor. When I heard you worked at a video store, I thought you might know something. But I couldn’t approach you about it; at least, not directly.”

“So you started following me around?” Hannah said, not smiling.

“Yeah,” he whispered, nodding. “I know that gives you a major case of the heebie-jeebies, and I don’t blame you. But I’m glad I did start following you, because I noticed someone else was watching you, too. That’s when I realized that this…this video stalker must have moved on from Rae to you.”

“Do you think it could be Paul?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve never really gotten a good look at the man following you. I thought Ronald Craig might have. That’s why I went to his hotel the other night. I was hoping Craig had left behind some information about this man. I thought Craig might be tailing you for the same reason I was. He was a private detective out of Milwaukee. I don’t think Rae knew anyone from Milwaukee. She had no family left. So I don’t know who hired him, or why. I can’t figure that out.”

Hannah said nothing.

“Gulletti’s married. Maybe his wife is from Milwaukee. Maybe she hired Craig to investigate you.”

Hannah gave an awkward shrug. “You know, I spotted a man videotaping me last night,” she said steadily. “It was around the time film class started. You said Paul was there, so he couldn’t be the man following me.”

“Well, maybe it’s someone working for Paul. He’s involved in this somehow. I feel it in my gut. Maybe it’s his assistant.”

“Seth? Why? Wasn’t he in class last night?”

Ben rolled his eyes and nodded. “Of course, yeah. He was there. I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“He might be a good one to talk with about Rae,” Hannah suggested.

“Well, I didn’t approach him because I thought he was pretty tight with Paul. But Seth talked with me last night, and I guess he’s not Paul Gulletti’s biggest fan. If he’s been working with Paul since last December, he’ll remember Rae. I’m sure he can tell us something.”

Hannah gently took the folder from his lap, then opened it up. She studied Rae Palmer’s photo again.

“If only I had one definite lead about her,” she heard Ben say. “Someone doesn’t just disappear.”

“Did Rae ever mention to you getting a homemade video?” Hannah asked carefully.

“What do you mean?”

“The same way she was getting those other videos, only this one would have been homemade—with someone being murdered on it.”

Squinting at her, Ben shook his head. “I’m sure Rae would have mentioned it.”

“Such a video was dropped off at the store about a month ago. I think it was meant for me. It was a homemade, copycat version of the ending to Looking for Mr. Goodbar. It was the scene Rae described in her e-mail. A woman was being stabbed in bed. I couldn’t see the man who was stabbing her. But I saw the woman.” Hannah reached over and took hold of his hand. “Ben, I think the woman was Rae. I—I’m so sorry.”

His eyes searched hers for a moment, as if he didn’t believe her. Then he got to his feet. Hannah stared at his back. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“I’m not absolutely positive,” Hannah admitted. “But I’m pretty sure. I don’t have the video anymore. It was stolen.”

Hannah noticed his head bobbing a little along with the tremors in his slightly hunched shoulders. She realized he was crying. She wanted to reach out to him, console him. But she held back and stayed seated on the little wooden bench.

Ben finally turned to face her. His blue eyes were bloodshot and a bit puffy. He took a deep breath. “Do you know Seth’s last name?” he asked.

“Um, Stroud,” she said. “Seth Stroud.”

“Well, let’s go find him and talk to him,” Ben said.

There was a “1/2” behind the number address on Aloha Street for Stroud, Seth. Hannah and Ben had returned to the coffeeshop and borrowed the phone book to look him up. Hannah thought it might be a basement apartment, and Ben guessed he lived over someone’s garage.

It was within walking distance. They didn’t say much on their way to the Aloha Street address. Hannah could tell Ben was still numb over the news of his friend’s death. She slid her arm around his. At the end of a couple of blocks, Hannah gently pulled away.

“That was nice,” he murmured. Then he didn’t say another word until they reached Seth’s block.

Ben had been right. It was a garage apartment at the end of the driveway to a large, slightly neglected Tudor estate. Though the lawn was mowed and the leaves were raked, the place still had a seedy grandeur. Water stains marred the yellowing wall to the Tudor-style garage. The stairs to the second-floor apartment were on the side.

Hannah and Ben climbed up the rickety steps and knocked on the door. Through the window in the door, Hannah could see someone coming. She saw his tall, lean build and the wild, wavy dark hair. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t Seth.

A stranger opened the door. He was about Seth’s age, with olive-colored eyes, a large nose, and a goatee. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. Those eyes shifted back and forth from Ben to Hannah. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

“Does Seth Stroud live here?” Ben asked.

“Seth?” the young man said. “What did you want to see him about?”

“We’re in his film class,” Ben replied. “I’m Ben Sturges.”

“Hi.” Hannah reached out her hand to the young man. “I’m Hannah.”

“Oh, well, hi.” He smiled and shook her hand. “I’m Richard Kidd, Seth’s roommate. Um, he’s not around right now. You want to leave a message?”

Hannah nodded. “Yeah, we really need to talk with him.”

“Wow, sounds urgent. PDQ. Is it an emergency?”

“Let’s just say it’s important,” Ben chimed in.

“Then, hell, man, we’d better write it down. Hold on.”

While Richard Kidd retreated to another part of the apartment, Hannah and Ben remained on the outside landing at the top of the stairs. She caught a glimpse of their living room: brick-and-wood bookshelves, furniture from garage sales and Pier 1 Imports, a big poster for La Dolce Vita on the wall, and clothes and newspapers strewn about. The two of them could have used a maid.

Richard returned to the doorway with a notepad and a pen. He handed them to Hannah. “Why don’t you write down the message yourself? I might be stepping out. I’ll leave it where he’ll be sure to see it.”

Hannah scribbled on the pad:

Seth:Could you call me tonight (Friday) at 555-1007, or stop by the video store some time before 7 P.M. tomorrow? It’s important I speak with you.Thanks, Hannah Doyle

As they left Seth’s place together, Ben stopped at the end of the driveway. “Well, that was kind of a bust,” he said.

Hannah patted Ben’s arm. “We’ll just have to wait,” she said. “I think he’ll call. Seth likes me. If he knows something, he’ll tell us.”

Ben nodded glumly. “Listen, can I walk you home?”

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

Aloha was a dark, winding, tree-shaded street. Fallen leaves blanketed patches of sidewalk. A few houses already had Halloween decorations out. Hannah was glad for Ben’s company. She thought about taking hold of his arm again, but decided against it.

“Did you recognize him?” Ben asked. “Did he look familiar to you?”

“Who? The roommate?”

“Yeah, Richard Kidd.”

“No, I didn’t recognize him. Did you?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

She brushed her arm against his. “You’re like I was when this whole thing started. I suspected everyone.”

“Including me?” he asked lightly.

“Especially you,” she admitted.

“And now?”

“Now, I know you better,” she carefully replied. “And I like you, Ben.”

“I like you, too. But you didn’t really answer my question.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

Patting her shoulder, he nodded. “It’s all right if you still suspect me a little. You’d be crazy not to.”

When they reached her apartment building, Ben asked if he could come up. “I’d like to be there if Seth calls tonight,” he said. “I could also use a drink. If you could spare a glass of wine, I’ll buy you a pizza dinner—or Chinese.”

Hannah hesitated.

“It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be offended.”

She worked up a smile. “Quit giving me permission to not trust you. It makes me—not trust you.”

He chuckled. “All right. To tell you the truth, I’ll be hurt if you turn me away.”

Hannah sighed. “My little boy’s sick, and I want to spend some time with him. I also need to track down a coworker friend who could be in trouble. If Seth calls me, I’ll get in touch with you right away, Ben. I’m filling in for a coworker tomorrow. Why don’t you stop by the video store? I take my break at two.”

“Okay,” he muttered, looking crestfallen. “See you tomorrow, Hannah.” He seemed ready to hug her for a second, then drew back and awkwardly shook her hand. “Well, um, good night.”

Hannah opened the lobby door.

She wanted so much to let down her guard and invite him in. But she turned and started up the cold, cinder-block stairwell by herself.

“What a miserable fuckhead,” Britt muttered, as she stormed out of a dance club called The Urinal. The loud, pulsating, pounding music still echoed in her ears.

Everything had been terrific when she and Webb first went into the place. They’d both been a little high. He had a couple of deals he needed to make there, so she’d expected to be ditched for a few minutes. She could handle that. She looked pretty damn good tonight in her favorite black jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt with a blue thunderbolt on the front. The blue matched exactly with the streaks in her hair and the stone in her eyebrow ring. She caught several guys checking her out as she stood alone at the bar. She didn’t mind waiting for Webb.

But he was gone forty-five minutes, for God’s sake. She finally discovered him by the rest rooms. He had his tongue halfway down the throat of this skanky bitch with orange hair and a black bra for a top.

That was when Britt ran out of The Urinal.

Halfway down the block, she started crying. She began to think of all the awful things Webb had done. The most recent was earlier in the week, when she’d gotten a phone bill for three hundred bucks and change because he’d made a bunch of 1-900 sex-line calls on her phone. They’d fought. He punched her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her. By the time she could breathe normally again, Webb was crying. So she forgave him.

Now she was the one crying. She was through forgiving him. The miserable prick wasn’t worth all this aggravation.

Britt was freezing as she hobbled down the sidewalk. Mascara streaked down her face. She didn’t see any cabs. She was wondering how the hell she’d get home when, just ahead, a burgundy Volvo pulled over to the curb.

Britt stopped. She watched a man step out of the car. He leaned on the roof of his car, his chin in his hand. It took a moment for Britt to recognize him from The Urinal. He’d been one of the guys checking her out.

“Do you need a ride, sad lady?” he called softly.

She took a few steps toward the car. “I know you,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m a friend of Hannah’s,” he said. His face was almost completely swallowed up by shadow.

“Hannah?” she repeated. Britt was about to tell him that she’d seen him in The Urinal. “You know Hannah?”

“Yeah, get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks,” Britt said, reaching for the door.

“You look real, real sad,” he remarked as she climbed into the car. “I have something that will make you feel a lot better.”

Britt leaned back in the passenger seat. “Sounds good,” she muttered, wiping her eyes.

He got behind the wheel, then shut his door.

The burgundy Volvo drove off.

Hannah had to wait through one verse and the chorus of The Beatles’ Good Day, Sunshine before Britt’s recorded voice finally came on: “Hey, this is Britt. Guess what? I can’t come to the phone. You know what to do!”

Beep.

“Hi again, Britt. It’s Hannah. I was hoping the third time tonight would be the charm. Call me. And you’ve got to change that message. If I never hear Good Day Sunshine again, it’ll be too soon. Anyway, call me at home. It doesn’t matter how late. I have Guy’s door closed. Talk to you soon—I hope. Bye.”

Sara Middleton threw back the covers, switched on the nightstand lamp, then squinted at the digital clock: 2:43 A.M.

If she nodded off within ten minutes, she would still catch about four and a half hours of sleep. She would still be able to function and look halfway decent for her big presentation in the morning.

She’d been trying to fall asleep for the past ninety minutes. What she needed was a shot or two of bourbon to take the edge off. She’d packed a pint of Jack Daniel’s in her luggage for that very purpose. Lately, she’d been under a lot of pressure with her job. At thirty-one, she was the youngest executive manager at her company—and one of only three women in upper administration. With all her responsibilities came insomnia. She was becoming a slave to the bourbon-at-bedtime habit. Tonight she’d been determined to go without.

Well, screw that. Right now she was desperate for sleep—however she could get it.

Sara liked her bourbon on the rocks.

If she were staying at the Westin with the upper-upper management boys, she could have just picked up the phone and had room service bring her a bucket of ice. But the Best Western Maritime Inn was all her expense account could afford. She had to get her own ice.

Sara slept in panties and a white tank top. She’d be damned if she got completely dressed again for a trip down the hall in the middle of the night. She stepped into a pair of sweatpants, grabbed her room key and the ice bucket, then started down the dimly lit corridor.

She was so tired and frayed she didn’t care if someone saw her—barefoot, with her nipples practically poking through the flimsy tank top. The damn hallway was cold—and a bit creepy too.

Then Sara suddenly realized how vulnerable she was. When she’d booked the hotel two weeks ago, a friend back home in Santa Rosa had said this place was in an “iffy neighborhood.” Anybody could wander in from the street and hide in one of the shadowy doorways or alcoves.

Just a minute ago, Sara had been fearless. Now she couldn’t wait to go back inside her room and lock the door behind her.

She hurried toward the ice room. Sara figured once she got some ice in the bucket, at least she’d have something to throw at an attacker. She could scream and wake up half the hotel.

A few steps from the ice room door, Sara stopped in her tracks. Straight ahead, a man came around a corner and started down the hallway toward her. The light was in back of him, and for a moment all she could see was this tall, shadowy thing coming at her.

“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” she heard him say.

He stepped under a dim overhead light, and Sara noticed his tie and the hotel badge with his name on it. She also noticed him shyly checking out her breasts. She crossed her arms in front of her and almost dropped her ice bucket.

“Have a nice night,” he said, passing her.

“Thanks, you too,” she whispered.

Sara watched him continue down the hallway. She had to laugh a little. She put her hand over her heart and felt it pounding away. No doubt about it now, she really needed her Jack Daniel’s tonight. She’d catch four hours of sleep and take some aspirin in the morning.

Sara pushed open the ice room door. She gasped, and dropped the ice bucket.

The thing splayed on the tiled floor seemed to be staring back at her. The dead girl was so white her skin appeared chalky and translucent. Dark red blood was smeared around her nose and open mouth. The blue jewel in a ring that pierced her eyebrow was the same color as the streaks in her black hair; the same color as those unblinking eyes.

Sara screamed and screamed. She would wake up half the hotel.

That night—or what was left of it—Sara Middleton wouldn’t sleep at all.

Thirteen

The uniformed driver stood near the American Airlines terminal’s security checkpoint, holding a sign: KENNETH WOODLEY. Arriving Seattle passengers filed past the husky, middle-aged Arabic man on their way to baggage claim. Ari held the placard a bit higher. There were a half dozen other chauffeurs waiting around with signs. One by one, they met up with their fares. Ari was beginning to think Kenneth Woodley hadn’t made his plane from Chicago.

He didn’t see him coming. The lean man in his mid-thirties wore a Polo sportshirt and carried a duffel bag. His dark eyes seemed very intense, and there were traces of gray in his wavy brown hair. He was talking on a cell phone. Without a word or a nod of recognition, he unloaded his bag on Ari, then kept moving toward the escalator. Startled, Ari chased after him with the duffel and the sign.

“No, listen,” Kenneth Woodley was saying into his cell phone. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You don’t think she’s caught on to you yet, do you?”

Ari hovered behind him as the escalator carried them down to baggage claim.

“Well, she might not be letting on that she’s wise to you. Watch out for her. She’s a crafty bitch. Have you seen the kid yet? What? Well, what the fuck is wrong with you? How long have you been on the job?”

He stepped off the escalator and headed toward the baggage carousel. Ari was a step in back of him.

“Well, if we can, I want to pin Craig’s murder on her. I don’t care what you say. You stick with her long enough, and we’ll come up with something. One way or another, I’ll see she gets what’s coming to her. So—keep doing what you’re doing. I gotta go. You’re breaking up here.”

With a flick of the wrist, he folded up the tiny phone and shoved it in his pants pocket.

“Excuse me?” Ari piped up finally. “You’re Mr. Woodley?”

Kenneth Woodley turned and laughed. “No, I’m fucking Santa Claus. Who do you think I am?” He handed Ari his ticket envelope. “A black suitcase with a royal blue stripe down the center. Think you can remember that?”

“Yessir,” Ari replied. “We’re going to the Four Seasons Hotel, sir?”

Kenneth chuckled again. “I’m going to the Four Seasons. I don’t give a shit where you end up. Only, along the way, I want you drive me to someplace where I can lease a yacht. I might be here a few days. I may as well get some sailing in.”

“The fishing here is excellent, too, Mr. Woodley,” Ari offered.

“I don’t give a damn about that,” he replied. “I’m not fishing here. I’m on a hunting expedition. Now, get the suitcase, okay? I gotta take a leak.”

Neither of them had finished their lunch. Hannah’s chicken was gnarly and hard. All she could do was pick at her rice.

Tiptop Teriyaki was new to the mall’s food court, and not likely to last very long. Hannah and Ben were the only customers seated at the counter bar that curved around Tiptop’s nearly vacant eating area.

Over their inedible meal, Hannah told Ben about the other murders, and the videos forecasting them. She didn’t have to explain much. He was already familiar with the pattern. She told him about finding Casino in her purse, and her concern for her coworker.

Britt hadn’t shown up for work today, and she hadn’t answered any of Hannah’s phone messages since the night before last.

“Anyway,” Hannah sighed, pushing her plate away. “I’m worried she might be next.”

“What do the police think?” Ben asked.

“Well, I—I haven’t talked to them,” Hannah answered. “I haven’t contacted them about any of this.”

“What?” Ben squinted at her. “Why not?”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “Listen, I need to get back to work. You want to walk with me?”

They headed back toward the store.

“I can’t believe you haven’t talked to the police,” Ben said, as they crossed the street. “You know, after that deliberate hit-and-run the other night, it struck me as weird you never approached the police about Craig. I mean, he’d been there to see you. Why didn’t you say something?”

Hannah hurried toward Emerald City Video. She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I was scared, confused.”

“Well, why don’t you talk to the police now? Between the two of us, we have enough information—”

“Ben, I’m going to be late for work,” she cut in, pausing in front of the door. “Maybe we can talk tonight. Okay?”

“Well, wait a minute—”

Hannah opened the door, stepped inside, and stopped dead.

Two uniformed policemen and a third man—heavyset with a tie, and badge on his windbreaker—stood by the front counter. At the register, Cheryl seemed confused. Tish stared back at Hannah with tears in her eyes. A slapstick comedy was showing on the store’s TVs.

“Ms. Doyle?” the plainclothes cop said.

Hannah took a step back, and almost bumped into Ben. She’d known this was coming, yet they’d still caught her off guard. They were here to arrest her. “Where’s my son?” she heard herself ask.

Tish approached her. “Honey, it’s not Guy. It’s Britt. Something happened.”

Wide-eyed, Hannah shook her head.

Tish hugged her, then whispered in her ear, “Oh, Han, they found her this morning in some hotel….”

“She was seeing this man named Roy Webster,” Hannah explained while shelving videos and DVDs. She moved from aisle to aisle with a stack of movies. The husky detective was following her around the store. He held a little recorder in his hand.

“He goes by the nickname ‘Webb,’” Hannah went on. “Britt was spending the weekend with him. As I said, I just talked with her the night before last, and she was fine.”

Hannah stayed as busy as she could around the plainclothes cop. That way, she could avoid looking him in the eye.

As she ran around the store, Hannah caught an occasional glimpse of Ben, browsing in New Releases. She could tell he was studying her, probably waiting for her to say something to the detective about the video murders. But she couldn’t. She could barely get through this casual interrogation without almost giving herself away. Fortunately, Ben had kept his mouth shut—so far.

He’d been in the store for about twenty minutes now. Ben had waited, along with the three policemen, while Tish and Hannah had ducked into the break room.

“Listen, honey,” Tish said, once they’d had a good cry in the little closet of a room. “I could send you home, but it would kill us here. I hate to ask, but could you hang in there and finish off your shift? You can take tomorrow off. I’ll fill in for Britt.”

Hannah hunted for a Kleenex in her purse. Her heart ached as she pulled out the packet of Capt’n Crunch decals Britt had saved for Guy. She began to cry all over again.

Tish handed her some tissues from her own bag, and suggested maybe she should go home after all.

“No, I’ll stick it out here,” she’d managed to say. “It’s best I keep busy for the next few hours.”

The two uniformed policemen left. Tish took to the register with Cheryl, while Hannah darted around the store, filing away returns.

“Were you aware that your friend had a drug habit?” the detective asked her, in the Documentaries section.

“That’s a side of her I don’t know much about,” Hannah answered steadily. “The person you should really ask is Webb. He’s the one you ought to talk to.”

“Britt had a couple of priors for possession,” the detective said, following her to the Sci-Fi section. “Do you know any of the people she might have—um, partied with?”

“No. As I said, that was a part of her life she didn’t share with me.” Hannah’s voice began to quaver. “She was really a sweet person, with a kind heart.” She paused and took a couple of deep breaths. Standing there among the Sci-Fi videos, she didn’t want to cry in front of this man. She just wanted him to go.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you,” she finally said, her voice raspy. “I wish I knew more, but I don’t. I’m very sorry.”

When the detective finished questioning her, Hannah had to give him her home phone number and address. She felt sick to her stomach, telling a policeman how to reach her.

The cop asked Tish if there were any other employees who knew Britt very well. Tish turned to Hannah. “Do you think Scott could tell them anything, Han?”

She quickly shook her head. “Not really. He didn’t know any of her friends. Plus he’s been in the hospital since yesterday morning.”

Tish turned to the detective. “His name is Scott Eckland,” she said, “In case you want to talk with him, he’s at Group Health Hospital—”

“I don’t think we need to bother him,” the detective said, slipping his little recorder in the pocket of his windbreaker. “But thank you anyway.”

After watching him step outside, Hannah wanted to retreat to the back room and have another breakdown. Instead, she stepped behind the counter. Tish came up to her and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“It just dawned on me,” she whispered. “Scott doesn’t know about Britt yet. Who’s going to tell him?”

“I can do it,” Hannah murmured, gathering up another stack of videos. “I’ll put these away first, then call him from the back room.”

As she came around the counter, Ben started following her.

“Hannah, what’s going on?” he whispered. “You told me over lunch you thought your friend was going to die like that—and she did! Why didn’t you say anything to that cop?”

Hannah couldn’t respond. She filed some movies in the Classics section.

“Listen, don’t pull the same shit with me you pulled with that detective,” Ben hissed. “I want you to stop and look at me and explain why you won’t go to the police about any of this.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” was all Hannah could say. She hurried down the aisle. “Can we please talk about this later?”

In the Children’s section, Tish stepped up to them and cleared her throat. “Sir? Can I help you with anything?”

Ben shook his head. “No thanks. I’m just talking to Hannah.”

“Well, we’re awfully busy right now,” Tish said, very cool and businesslike. “Hannah has work to do. I’m sure you understand.”

Ben turned and frowned at Hannah.

“I’ll talk to you tonight, Ben,” she said.

“Will you call me if you hear from Seth?” he asked.

She sighed. “Of course. I’ll talk to you later either way.”

Tish waited until Ben walked out of the store. “I hope I did the right thing chasing him away. Was he a friend of yours? He’s kind of cute.”

“He’s also married,” Hannah said.

“Then I say avoid him like the plague.”

Hannah shook her head. “It’s not like that.”

“Well, here.” Tish collected the stack of videos from her. “I’ll put these away. Why don’t you go in the back and call Scott? Get it over with.”

Hannah nodded and reluctantly started for the break room.

“Jesus, no,” Scott whispered. “It was like in the movie, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. The police were here.” Hannah was on the phone, hunched over the desk in the tiny room. She had a Kleenex in her hand.

“I don’t think they’ve talked with Webb yet,” she continued. “I doubt if he could tell them anything. I mean, you and I know what really happened.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “Scott, I didn’t tell the police anything. I saw them here when I came back from my break, and I got so scared. All I could think about was saving my own skin. If I tell the police what’s happening, they only have to run a check on my name to know I’m a fraud….”

Hannah paused. She heard a strange, strangled rasping on the other end of the line. “Scott?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replied, his voice strained. He coughed a little.

She realized he was crying. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Well, at least you don’t have to worry,” he said finally, a tremor in his voice. “Once they talk to a couple of Britt’s burnout friends, they’ll just chalk it up as an overdose. You’re safe for now. The cops won’t be bothering you anymore.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. Did that sound snotty? I didn’t mean it that way. What are you planning to do, Hannah? How’s this gonna work itself out?”

She didn’t have an answer for him. Her only “plan” had been to run away. And for the time being, she couldn’t even do that.

“Hannah, I’m really worried about you,” he continued. “I hate knowing you’re alone in all this. I wish you had somebody to help you out.”

She thought of Ben. “There may be someone, a guy from my film class. But I’m not sure yet if I can completely trust him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Hannah said. “Only now, I think I’d better take a chance on him—before it’s too late.”

“Hannah?”

She was just leaving the store. She turned to see Seth Stroud coming up the block. It had been dark for a couple of hours and the streetlights were on, but Seth still wore sunglasses. He also had on a black jacket, black jeans, and a gray T-shirt. He always looked very cutting-edge.

“Hey, another minute and I’d have missed you,” he said. “I heard you and some dude stopped by yesterday. Was it Marlboro Man?”

Hannah didn’t understand at first, then she nodded. “Oh, yeah. I was with Ben.”

“I didn’t get the message until this morning. Anyway, I’m glad I caught you. In fact, it’s funny you stopped by last night, because I wanted to get ahold of you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was wondering if they have any openings for a part-timer here at your store.” He nodded toward the storefront, then took off his sunglasses and replaced them with the designer glasses he usually wore in class. “Money’s a little tight lately, and I was just wondering….”

Hannah let out a sad, ironic laugh. “Well, yeah, we—we’ll be hiring for sure. Why don’t you stop in tomorrow morning? The manager will be there. Her name’s Tish.”

“Cool. Thanks. Could you put in a good word for me?”

She nodded. “Sure thing. Listen, do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Sure. There’s a bar in the Mexican joint down the block. You look like you could use a drink. Can I buy you one?”

“Actually, I need to get home. Would you mind walking with me? We could talk along the way.”

He shrugged. “Sounds cool.”

Hannah moved away from the storefront and its lights. Seth strolled beside her, his hands in his pockets. “By the way,” he said. “Please don’t tell Paul that you’re helping me get a job here. Otherwise, you’ll find my body parts in Puget Sound.” He laughed—until he glanced at Hannah.

She squinted at him. “Is it really as bad as that?” she asked. “Because that’s what I wanted to ask you about. The other day, you said Paul was ‘obsessed’ with me—or words to that effect. Does he talk to you about me?”

“God, no,” Seth replied, shaking his head. “Paul doesn’t confide in me about his personal life. But I know him. I’ve seen how he is when he wants a woman. Believe me, he’s got it bad for you. And Paul’s used to having his way. He gets pissed when that doesn’t happen. And FYI, he ain’t a very happy camper lately.”

They crossed the street together, toward a block where two new condominiums were being built. Hannah never walked down this block alone at night. It was too dark and creepy—with the tall, skeletonlike frames to the buildings, the piles of wood and steel rods, and the portable outhouses. Hannah should have felt safe with Seth at her side, but what he was saying frightened her.

“You’re right not to get involved with him,” he continued. “He’s bad news. I’ve seen how he treats the women he’s with—and the ones he’s had.”

“So there have been a lot of women, huh?” she asked. “Students like me?”

“No one like you,” he said, a strange warmth in his voice. “But yeah, they were students. He must have a thing for blondes. The last was a blonde named Rae Palmer.”

Hannah stopped walking for a moment. Seth stopped with her. “What? Do you know her?”

“I’ve heard the name,” Hannah said, walking again. “What can you tell me about her?”

“Well, let’s see,” Seth said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit one up with a disposable lighter. “Rae was in the class for two semesters. If I remember right, she started in September of last year, and dropped out in April. Hands down, she was the prettiest one in the class, and I could tell ol’ Paul was interested in her from the get-go. Anyone could see it. I can’t say exactly when they started up, but they seemed pretty hot and heavy by Christmastime. It had definitely cooled down when she dropped the class. It might have gone on a little longer after that, I’m not sure.”

“Did you ever see her again? Did Paul ever talk about her?”

He took a long drag of his cigarette. “No on both counts.”

The wind kicked up, and Hannah adjusted the collar to her jacket. She crossed her arms in front of her. “So—you don’t know what became of her?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Seth exhaled a cloud of smoke; then he paused. “I was surprised Paul waited so long after Rae to set his sights on you. Hell, it took him only a few weeks between Rae and the one before her. Can you believe that? You’d think Paul would have been freaked out enough to swear off sleeping with his students for a while.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The girl before Rae was Angela Bramford, and she was murdered.”

Hannah stopped under a streetlight on the corner at the end of her block. “When was this?” she whispered.

Seth took a last drag from his cigarette and tossed it away. “She was a summer semester fling, this very beautiful redhead, like a young Piper Laurie. She was an artist, very earthy. It only lasted a few weeks, from early June until—well, she’d dumped him before the end of the month. He was really bitter. She kept coming to class after, and it just drove Paul up the wall. Finally, she dropped out. About three weeks later—it was mid-August, she was killed.”

“How did it happen?” Hannah asked.

“They found her early in the morning, on the second-floor patio area of the Convention Center downtown. She was over by some steps. Somebody had strangled her. I remember reading about it in the newspaper. What a shame. She was so pretty.”

“Did they ever find out who killed her?”

Seth shook his head. “I always thought the cops should have had a nice, long talk with Professor G., but they never even approached him.” He glanced up and down the dark side streets. “Which way? Down there?”

Hannah nodded. As they crossed toward her block, Seth glanced over his shoulder.

“Do you really think Paul had something to do with this Angela Bramford’s murder?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Seth said. “He just pisses me off sometimes. He’s probably too much of a wimp to bump someone off. Still, I think the police should have at least talked with him. Like the weasel he is, he got out of that one unscathed. Then, a month later, he started chasing after Rae.”

Hannah stopped in front of her building. “This is me,” she said, pulling her keys from her purse. Again, she noticed the Capt’n Crunch decals Britt had saved for Guy.

“You okay?” she heard Seth ask.

She nodded. “Yes, I—I’m fine. Listen, does Paul have any male friends? I mean, have you seen him hanging out with anyone in particular?”

“Not really,” Seth said. “Then again, he might have a buddy or two at the newspaper where he writes his crummy reviews. I don’t really know.” Seth gave her a sidelong glance. “Why all the questions about Professor G.? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Hannah shrugged. “Oh, I was just curious. You said he likes me.”

Seth grinned. “And Ben? What did he want?”

Hannah was stumped for a moment. “Oh, he—he was just coming along with me. There’s nothing going on with us. Anyway, thanks for the talk. I’ll call Tish at the store tomorrow. She’s the manager. With your knowledge of film, you’re a shoo-in. She’ll probably want you to start right away.”

Hands in his pockets, he rocked on his heels. “Thanks, Hannah.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You know, I don’t mean to freak you out or anything, but I’m pretty sure someone has been following us since we left the store.”

“What?” Hannah stepped back and bumped against the door.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” Seth explained. “I think he’s gone now. Just the same, I’ll wait here until I know you’re inside.”

Hannah glanced down the darkened street for a moment: at the shadowy trees and the unlit recesses between the houses and buildings. She didn’t see anyone.

She turned to Seth. “I don’t feel good, leaving you to walk all the way home alone. Let me phone a taxi for you. I’ll treat.”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m cool. It’s only—what—seven-thirty? Besides, I have some errands to run back up on the main drag. I’ll be okay.”

Hannah unlocked the door, then impulsively kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Seth. Be careful, okay?”

“You bet. Good night, Hannah.”

She hurried inside and ran up the stairs. Catching her breath, she stepped out on the third floor and started down the balcony walkway. As Hannah came closer to her door, she stopped abruptly. The keys dropped out of her hand.

She gazed at a padded envelope, balanced between the doorknob and the door frame. She didn’t have to guess what was inside the little package.

She knew.

Fourteen

“Well, I made it home in one piece. So you can relax.”

“Good,” Hannah said, talking into her kitchen phone. “And you didn’t see anyone lurking around outside?”

“Not a creature was stirring, honey,” Joyce said. “I don’t know why you need me to call and report in every night now. It’s only eight o’clock. And I’m just a couple of doors down, for Pete’s sake.”

“It makes me feel better, that’s all,” Hannah replied.

“Well, phone me tomorrow if something comes up. And honey, again, I’m really sorry about your friend.”

“Oh, thank you, Joyce. G’night.”

Hannah hung up the phone. She stared at the envelope on the kitchen counter. She hadn’t opened it yet.

She checked the front door again to make sure it was locked. She checked the living-room window, too. Then she started down the hall to Guy’s room.

He was sitting up in bed, using a crayon to connect the dots in a kids’ game book. He was biting down on his lip in deep concentration. His chicken pox looked a little worse today.

“I ought to connect the dots on you,” Hannah said, mussing his hair. “Do they itch a lot, honey?”

“Kinda,” he murmured, not looking up at her.

“Sorry I couldn’t stay home with you today,” Hannah said. She felt like the worst mother in the world, leaving her son with a sitter while he was ill. He adored Joyce. But he was sick, and he needed his mom there with him.

“Honey, did you hear me?” she asked, glancing down at the top of his head. “I said I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you company today. They needed me at the store.”

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, still not looking up at her.

She stroked his hair. “What do you think that picture is going to be?” she asked.

He studied his rendering. “A nellophant,” he muttered.

The telephone rang. Hannah gently patted his shoulder. “Can I see when you’re done?”

“Uh-huh,” he replied, focused on his work.

With a defeated sigh, Hannah headed for the kitchen. She grabbed the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello?” she repeated.

More silence. Then a click. They’d hung up.

Hannah replaced the receiver on the cradle. She stopped to stare again at the unopened envelope on the kitchen counter.

The phone rang once more, and gave her a start. She snatched up the receiver. “Yes, hello?” she said.

Silence.

“Hello…” she said, angrily this time.

“Hannah? Hannah, how’s it going?”

She hesitated. His tone was warm and friendly, but she didn’t recognize the voice at all. “Fine…”

“Great to hear it. How’s Guy?”

“He’s all right,” she answered. “Um, I’m sorry. I—”

“You sound a little strange,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

“Um, yeah. I just don’t—”

“Well, you probably haven’t opened up my present yet,” he said. “Because then you’d know things aren’t okay at all. Why don’t you open it, Hannah?”

A chill swept through her. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Take a look at the video, Hannah. It’s going to happen tonight.”

There was a click on the other end of the line.

Hannah hung up the phone, then quickly picked it up again and pressed *-6-9. A recorded voice told her that the number dialed was blocked and could not be reached.

She hung up the phone again, then grabbed the envelope and tore it open. The video fell out on the counter. She remembered Scott reporting a couple of days ago that the store’s copy of Psycho was missing. But this wasn’t one of their videos. The cassette didn’t come with a cover, but it had a Blockbuster label on it. It was a movie from the nineties that she still hadn’t seen, Bugsy.

Her hand shaking, Hannah switched on the TV, then inserted the tape into the VCR. As with the other videos, this was cued to a specific scene.

On the TV screen, Warren Beatty, with his hair slicked back and looking dapper in a thirties-style suit and tie, stood in a darkened room in front of a sofa and a large picture window. He was watching a black-and-white movie of himself on a home projector. He picked up a newspaper and glanced at it.

Hannah flinched at the loud pop and shattering of glass. Beatty’s newspaper was suddenly punctured with a bullet hole. Dazed, he looked down at the blood on his chest, and he seemed to realize that he’d been shot. Another shot pierced through that picture window, then another. Beatty recoiled and twisted as he took each bullet.

Hannah quickly grabbed the remote and turned down the volume so Guy wouldn’t hear.

The bullets hailed through the splintered front window now, hitting Beatty and several art deco items in the room. He finally sank back on the sofa, bleeding and stunned.

Hannah gasped as a final, fatal shot hit him from behind and passed through his forehead. He lurched forward, then flopped back.

Numb, Hannah switched off the set.

Someone she knew would be executed like that. Tonight, he’d said.

Breathless, Hannah went to the window and peered outside. She didn’t see anyone below. She pulled the drapes shut, then hurried back to Guy’s room.

He’d fallen asleep with the crayon still in his little hand and the game book in his lap. Hannah padded to his window and quickly closed the blinds. She pried the crayon out of Guy’s grasp, then set aside the game book. She switched off the nightstand lamp.

Hannah glanced toward his window again. On the third floor, they were probably too far up for anyone to shoot at them from the street. Someone else had been targeted for tonight, someone who had a first-floor apartment or a house with big windows.

Ben.

She remembered his place in that tenement, the bars on the large picture window just slightly above street level. This time of night, if he had the lights on, anyone could see him from outside. He was an easy mark.

She rushed down the hallway to the phone. She hunted through her purse for his number. “Please, God,” she whispered, unable to find the scrap of paper upon which it was written. Finally, she dumped the entire contents of her purse on the counter. She saw the piece of paper and snatched it up.

Grabbing the phone, Hannah dialed Ben’s number. It rang only once; then his recorded voice came on the line: “Hi, this is Ben. Leave me a message after the irritating beep. Thanks.”

“Shit,” Hannah muttered. She could tell from the way it picked up so fast that he was on another line. She waited for the tone. “Ben?” she said. “As soon as you get this, go to your window and close the drapes. I think someone outside your window might try to shoot you. I’ll explain later. This is Hannah. I’ll keep trying you.”

She hung up.

She couldn’t think of anyone except Ben. Joyce’s apartment was on the third floor. Seth lived above a garage. Tish’s house had bushes all around the first floor, and it was impossible to see inside. Scott’s hospital room was on the second floor and had small, narrow windows.

It was Ben. She’d been with him most of yesterday and part of today. They’d been seen together. And as much as she fought it, she had feelings for him. Perhaps her stalker could see that as well. So Ben had to die.

She would wait another couple of minutes, count to one hundred and twenty, then call again. Maybe she’d get the operator to interrupt.

She wondered whom he might be talking to, and if he was standing in front of that window right now.

“I can’t come back, at least not for a while,” Ben said into the cordless phone. “Don’t ask me to.”

He sat on the edge of the old, beat-up desk, his back to the big picture window. From the streetlight outside, the vertical burglar bars cast shadows on his living-room wall.

He heard the call-waiting tone, and chose to ignore it. If it was important, they’d leave a message.

“Well, do you have any idea when you’ll return home?” she asked.

“No, not really.”

“In other words, you’re not finished punishing me yet,” she said. “Is that it? You know, I go to bed crying every night.”

“You were doing that before I left. You were crying for him, Jennifer. How do you think that made me feel? It’s one reason I decided to leave. You can’t expect me to be there and comfort you while you grieve for this Lyle guy.”

“I know I hurt you,” she replied. “I’m not just crying for Lyle. I’ve been crying for you, too—and for us.”

“Well, I’m glad I figure somewhere in your grieving,” he muttered.

A car passed by with its windows open and rap music cranked up to full volume. Ben moved over to the picture window and glanced outside.

“This is really your fault, Ben,” she said.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t give Lyle his goddamn heart attack. In fact, when his widow told me about you and him, she said he had high cholesterol, problems with his weight, and he smoked—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jennifer hissed.

“Christ, if you had to cheat on me, why did you pick this guy? He sounds like a mess—”

“He paid attention to me, and you didn’t, goddamn it,” she replied, her voice cracking. “You were so busy trying to get ahead at work.”

“Do you know how much we owe on the house?” he countered. “Jennifer, I don’t give a crap about getting ahead at that place. I merely want to get out of debt. And that means focusing on the job, giving them what they want.”

“And do they want you in Seattle on a leave of absence without pay?” she argued. “How’s that going to get us out of debt, Ben?”

“You know why I left,” he said glumly.

From the window, Ben noticed a man coming up the street. He wore a bulky jacket with the collar turned up and a hood pulled down almost over his eyes. His hands were shoved in the pockets of that jacket.

He heard the call-waiting beep again. “Listen, Jennifer, that’s my other line,” he said. “I should—”

“It can’t be more important than what we’re discussing right now,” she interrupted. “Can it?”

Outside, the man with the hood stopped. He seemed to stare back at Ben with those shrouded eyes, almost as if he wanted a confrontation. There were guys like that, roaming the streets of this neighborhood, intent on stirring up trouble. Then again, maybe this one was merely looking at the building.

“Ben? Are you listening to me?”

He turned away from the window. “I hear you,” he said tiredly. “But I don’t know what’s left to discuss—unless you want to know about Rae. She’s the main reason I came out here, and you haven’t even asked about her yet.”

“All right, how is Rae?” she asked.

“I think she’s dead,” he answered soberly. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure someone murdered her.” Ben sighed, then glanced over his shoulder—out the window. The hooded man had moved on. The sidewalk was empty.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” she whispered. “I truly am. Isn’t that all the more reason for coming home? There’s nothing you can do for her now.”

“The police still show her as missing. I have no actual proof that she’s been murdered—”

“Let the police take care of it,” she said. “And let me take care of you. We’ve both lost someone dear to us. Come home, Ben. I know what you’re going through. We need each other right now.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, rubbing his forehead. He began to pace in front of the window. “Are you trying to draw a parallel here? You were screwing this guy behind my back for three months before he dropped dead of a heart attack. I’ve known Rae half my life. She was my friend.”

“She was still in love with you,” Jennifer argued.

“You had nothing to be jealous about, and you know it.”

“She made you feel important. I was jealous of that. Maybe if you’d made me feel a little important, I wouldn’t have needed Lyle.”

Ben watched a car slowly pull up the street. He sighed. “Maybe,” he granted, pacing again. “Listen, even if I wanted to come home right now, I couldn’t. The same thing that happened to Rae is now happening to someone else. And she’s all alone. I’ve got to do what I can to help her.”

“I’m all alone, too,” Jennifer whispered.

He said nothing.

“Is she pretty?” she asked.

Ben heard another call-waiting beep. At the same time, he noticed the car, a beat-up, red Subaru station wagon, had stopped in front of his building. He sighed. “Yeah, Jennifer, she’s very pretty,” he grumbled. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Ben? I’m really sorry about Rae. I’m sorry about everything. Okay?”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Take care.”

He hung up, and the phone immediately started ringing. “Oh, fuck off,” he muttered. “Goddamn telemarketers won’t give up.”

Ben decided to let the machine answer it. While his recorded greeting clicked on, he remained at the window, gazing out at that car. Someone on the passenger side slowly rolled down the window.

“Ben? Are you there?” Hannah asked urgently. “Ben? It rang more than once. You must be off the phone. Please, pick up!”

He reached for the phone on the edge of his desk.

“Ben, listen—”

“I’m listening,” he said into the phone. “What’s going on?”

“Are you by the front window? Are the drapes open?”

“Yeah. Why?” He moved toward the window. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Ben, don’t—”

He couldn’t see who was in the passenger seat of that old Subaru. But he noticed something pointing at him from the car window.

Hannah heard him on the other end of the line: “Oh, God, no!”

“Ben, what’s happening?” she cried. “Ben?”

The sound of the first shot made her jump. Hannah heard glass shattering, then another loud pop. There was a sudden thud on his end of the line, and she realized Ben must have dropped the phone. Helplessly, she listened to him cry out. His voice was muffled.

The gunshots came one after another, so close together. Each discharge made Hannah recoil. She clutched the phone to her ear. “Ben?” she cried.

There was another round of gunfire, and glass splintering. A hollow ping resonated, perhaps a bullet hitting one of the bars across his window.

Then silence.

Hannah thought she heard gasping. He sounded like he was dying. “Ben? Are you there?”

In the distance, she could make out some screeching wheels, maybe a car peeling down the street. A woman screamed. It seemed far off, maybe on the sidewalk outside Ben’s apartment.

The receiver on the other end of the line knocked against something. Hannah winced. Someone was moving the phone. “Ben? Is that you?”

“Hannah?” he said, his voice raspy. “I guess”—he took a breath—“you were trying to warn me, huh? You saw it coming?”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’ll survive,” he said, still breathing heavily. “I just got a little cut-up from flying glass. But I’m okay. So th—this was on a video?”

“Yes, Bugsy. Warren Beatty’s character gets shot several times, standing in front of a picture window in his home.”

“Huh, I think saw that movie,” Ben muttered. “Yeah.”

“I just got the tape less than an hour ago. I was by your place once, looking for you. I—I remembered the front window.”

She could only hear his labored breathing on the other end, and far away, the sound of a police siren.

“Ben, are you still there?”

“Yeah, until the cops arrive,” he replied. “They’ll probably take me to the hospital first, then maybe the station house. I don’t know where I’ll end up tonight. This place is a wreck.”

“You can come over here, Ben,” she heard herself say. “Doesn’t matter how late. I’ll fix up the couch for you.”

“Thanks. That would be nice.”

Hannah listened to the siren, louder than before. It sounded like the ambulance or police car was right outside his place.

“Ben?” She hesitated. “I—I’m in trouble with the police. It’s pretty bad.”

“I figured as much,” he replied. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Listen, they’re coming. You take care. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll wait up,” Hannah said.

Ben called from the lobby at 11:35, and Hannah buzzed him in. She quickly checked on Guy to make sure he hadn’t woken up, then stepped out to the walkway balcony. She waited by the front door.

Ben emerged from the stairwell. Despite a few tiny cuts on his face, and clothes that were soiled and stained with blood, he still looked handsome. Tall and lean, Ben ambled up the walkway, carrying a duffel bag.

Hannah was so grateful to see him alive, she hugged him. “Thank God you’re okay,” she whispered.

He returned the hug, patting her on the back almost paternally.

Hannah gently pulled away. “Listen, I almost forgot to tell you. My little boy is sick. Did you have the chicken pox when you were a kid?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I had them. I’m immune.”

“Well, come on in,” she said. “Would you like some wine?”

“More than anything else right now, I need a shower and a change of clothes.” He hoisted his duffel bag. “Would that be okay?”

While Ben took his shower, Hannah pulled some sheets and a blanket out of the linen closet. She had a strange, schoolgirl thought: He’s just on the other side of the bathroom door, naked, standing in my shower. She had to remind herself that he was married, and that she was no schoolgirl.

She made him a grilled-cheese sandwich, which he ate at the kitchen counter.

Ben reassured her that he hadn’t told the police anything. They’d questioned him in the emergency room at the hospital. He’d given them a description of the car, but couldn’t offer them much else. The police said the previous tenant in his apartment had been a prominent gang member. As far as the local authorities were concerned, Ben had been the innocent victim of a gang-related drive-by shooting.

“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about the police connecting you with what happened tonight,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do that got you in trouble with the law? You indicated it was kind of serious.”

Hannah was at that sink, washing the griddle. She hesitated before responding. “My husband used to beat me up,” she said. “He even put me in the hospital once, for an extended stay. He was from a very rich and powerful family in Wisconsin. There was no way I could have left him and kept my son. So—I withdrew some money from our joint account. I took my son, left Wisconsin, changed my name, and moved here. That detective, Ronald Craig, must have been hired by my husband or his family. Remember, he was from Milwaukee? Anyway, I’m wanted for kidnapping, grand larceny, and I don’t know how many other charges. Since—Mr. Craig’s demise, I’ve been living on borrowed time.”

Ben didn’t say anything for a moment. He moved his plate aside. “It’s kind of weird,” he finally remarked. “Even though he was probably covering his own tracks, this killer did you a big favor when he absconded with all the paperwork from Craig’s investigation.”

“Yes. But it’s only a matter of days—or hours—before they send in another investigator, maybe even the police.” She took his empty plate. “See what I mean, ‘borrowed time’?”

“Maybe all you need is a good lawyer,” Ben offered.

“My husband and in-laws would buy a better one,” Hannah replied. She rinsed off his plate.

“So—what are you going to do? Just keep running?”

“I can’t right now, not with Guy sick.” She shut off the water, then dried her hands “But as soon as he’s well, we’re out of here—that is, if this maniac, the police, or my husband’s family don’t get to me first.”

Hannah put the plate away, then took another sip of wine. “By the way, I spoke with Seth Stroud tonight. He remembered Rae. Apparently, Paul Gulletti was seeing another student before Rae. Her name was Angela Bramford, and she was found strangled on the second-floor deck of the Convention Center.”

“What do you suppose that’s patterned after?”

Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know. But according to Seth, our esteemed professor wasn’t even questioned about the murder, which has remained unsolved—big surprise.”

“I’d say the case against Paul is piling up,” Ben remarked. “You know, when I first got out here, I spent several days following him around—his home, his office at the newspaper, the college. I didn’t notice anything unusual.” He sat back on the barstool. “Maybe I’ll start tailing him again tomorrow. Did Seth have anything else to say?”

Hannah recounted her conversation with Paul’s assistant. She and Ben moved to the sofa, each with their glass of wine. It was well past midnight when Ben glanced past her and announced, “We’re not alone.”

Hannah peered over her shoulder at Guy, standing behind her in his pajamas. “Honey, what are you doing up?” she asked, getting to her feet. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I’m thirsty,” he replied.

Ben handed her the folded blanket she’d set out for him.

“Thanks,” Hannah said, wrapping it around Guy. She felt his forehead, then smiled. “Guy, this is Mr. Podowski….” She shot Ben a look and started to laugh. “But you can call him Ben.”

“Hi, Guy,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

Hannah retreated to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Guy squinted at him. “Do you have chicken pox too?”

Ben touched one of the little cuts he’d gotten from the flying glass. “No, I was near a window that broke and some glass cut me.”

Guy sat down next to him. “Does it hurt? Did you cry?”

“A little. But don’t tell anybody. Okay?”

Hannah returned with the glass of water, then handed it to him. “All right, let’s get you to the bathroom, then back in bed. It’s awfully late.”

Guy gulped down some of the water. “Can I sit up with you guys?”

“Well, just a couple of minutes,” she said, sinking back on the sofa.

Ben asked Guy what he planned to be for Halloween. Guy wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a ghost or a pirate. He started rattling off what each of his friends at Alphabet Soup Day Care planned to be for trick or treat. Hannah sat back and watched the two of them. It felt good to have a man in the apartment. She could almost fool herself into thinking they were a family. She’d never had anything like this—certainly not with Kenneth. She wondered if this kind of quiet intimacy was routine for some families, the type of thing they took for granted.