Watch Them Die

Hannah had to remind herself once again that Ben was married.

“I hate to be a party pooper,” she announced, rubbing Guy’s shoulder. “But you belong back in bed, honey. C’mon, we’ll make a pit stop at the bathroom first; then I’ll tuck you in.” Hannah adjusted the blanket around him, then lifted him up. “Say good night to Ben.”

“Can he come tuck me in, too?” he asked, yawning.

Hannah threw Ben a smile. “Looks like someone’s taken a shine to you.”

He stood in the doorway while she put Guy to bed. She made the choo-choo sound to lull him to sleep.

They stepped out of his bedroom together. “I’ll get you another blanket,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” he said, stopping. They were standing so close to each other in the dim hallway. For a moment, neither of them said anything. They could hear Guy’s steady breathing in the next room. Ben touched the side of her face “Thanks for all this,” he said. Then he hesitated, and stepped back. “I better turn in. I’ll make up the couch. You don’t have to bother.”

Hannah nodded. “All right. See you in the morning. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Hannah went to bed, but she was too wound up to sleep. The one night in three weeks that she had someone in the apartment to protect her, and she couldn’t drift off. She had another little cry about Britt. Reaching for some tissues on her nightstand, she glanced at the alarm clock: 1:20. Only a half hour had passed since she’d said good night to Ben. It seemed longer.

Hannah climbed out of bed, wiped her eyes, and put on a robe. She padded down the hall to the living room, then peeked around the corner at Ben. He was lying on his side, the sheets wrapped around him. He turned toward her. “Hannah?”

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

He sat up, and the sheets fell down past his hairy chest, and bunched around his waist. He scratched his head. His blond hair was tousled. “I wasn’t really asleep,” he said softly. “You okay?”

Clutching the folds of her robe, Hannah stepped to the edge of the sofa. “Remember you asked me earlier tonight what I planned to do?” she asked, in a hushed tone. “I haven’t really had an actual plan since all of this started. Even if we find this killer, I’ll still have my problems with the police. Ben, I need to ask you a favor, a big favor.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“When we find out who’s behind all these killings and we’re ready to go to the police, can you go alone? I’ll need a head start to move on with Guy. We’ll need to begin someplace else—with new identities.”

“But don’t you think if we went to a lawyer and explained—”

“I can’t risk losing my son,” she cut in. “When the time comes, can I count on you to help me get away?”

“That’s the only option?” he asked.

“Can you think of another?”

He sighed. “If we can’t come up with a better plan, I’ll help you get away, Hannah. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “Good night again, Ben.”

Hannah started back down the hall. Just this morning, she’d been wary of him. She still didn’t know Ben Podowski very well. But now, she had to trust him. She trusted him with her life, and the life of her son.

Fifteen

“Who the hell is this supposed to be?”

Kenneth Woodley studied the photo. He sat at a small table by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Shillshell Bay. At this time of night, the water was black with silver-white ripples. Twinkling lights across the bay marked the start of land again.

Kenneth had heard Ray’s Boathouse was one of Seattle’s finer restaurants, so he’d arranged to meet his private detective in the bar upstairs. He had a late supper date in the formal dining area downstairs immediately following the meeting. The Sunday-night dinner rush had already peaked, but some muted chatter among lingering customers still competed with the Ella Fitzgerald recording piped through the elegant bar.

Kenneth tossed the photograph on the table. “This damn thing is so blurry and far away, it could be a picture of my wife or the goddamn Prince of Wales for all I can tell. Is this the best you could do?”

“I took it last night with a telephoto lens,” explained the private detective, a man named Walt Kirkabee. He was thirty-six, with straight, close-cropped black hair, a goatee, and the solid, husky build of a baseball player.

He offered Kenneth Woodley another photograph. “This guy stayed with her last night,” he said. “I took that shot earlier today.”

Setting down his martini glass, Kenneth snatched up the picture. “Looks like a doofus,” he muttered. “Have you ID’d him yet?”

“Not yet. He left her place—on foot—around ten this morning, and didn’t come back until a couple of hours ago. He was gone all day. But she stayed inside; never stepped outside the apartment.”

Kenneth tossed the photograph across the table at him, then sipped his martini. “So—you wasted the whole day waiting outside her place?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You could have followed this joker around. Maybe he’s the guy who wasted your predecessor. Ever think about that?”

“I can’t be two places at once,” Walt argued. “And Hannah Doyle is the person you hired me to stake out.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his club soda. “You might consider hiring another man to work with me, Mr. Woodley. It’s really a two-man job. We could work in shifts, or split up when we had to.”

Kenneth was shaking his head. “Christ, you guys are milking me dry as it is. I’ve already spent enough on this investigation. You guys aren’t even positive this Hannah Doyle bitch is my estranged wife. All I have to go on is Ron Craig’s last report. She fits the description, and has a kid the right age. She calls him Guy. My wife used to call our son ‘Guy-Guy.’ Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Well, I’ve forked over a lot of money, hoping it’s not a fucking coincidence. You won’t squeeze me for any more. You tell that to your bosses at Great Lakes Investigations, okay, Sherlock?”

Sighing, Walt set another photo down on the table between them. “Take a look at this,” he said.

“What is it?” Kenneth asked, squinting at the picture. The shot was slightly out of focus, and appeared to have been blown up several times.

It was a photo of some bushes by a dumpster, but the detective traced an area of the bushes with his finger. “That’s a man,” he said.

Kenneth realized it was indeed a figure, lurking in the shadows between an alleyway dumpster and some shrubbery.

Walt slapped a similar shot on top of it. In this photo, a dark, phantom shape was skulking behind a tree.

“Someone else is watching her, Mr. Woodley,” the detective said. “I haven’t gotten a good look at him yet. These pictures are the best I could do. He seems to catch on whenever I’ve spotted him. It’s weird. It’s like he knows the camera and how to elude it. I’ve tried to take his picture several times the last couple of days, but those shots are the best I could do.” He set another photo in front of Kenneth. “Check this one out.”

Kenneth stared at a grainy, nighttime photograph of a parking lot. He didn’t notice anything unusual until the detective pointed to a ghostly image hovering behind a minivan. “That’s outside my hotel, Mr. Woodley,” Kirkabee said. “He’s following me too.”

Shaking his head, Kenneth laughed.

“It’s not funny. This could be the man who killed Ron Craig.”

“Maybe he’s working for her,” Kenneth said. He raised his martini glass. “That’s just what I’m after. We need to implicate her in your buddy’s murder. That’s why we’re not busting in on her and the kid right now. I want the goods on this bitch.” He glanced once again at the blurry figure in the photo. “Think this could be the doofus who was screwing her last night?”

Kirkabee shrugged. “I’m not sure. It could be.”

Kenneth smirked. “Well, just keep doing what you’re doing, and watch your ass. Sounds like he’ll be coming to you.”

Walt Kirkabee began to collect the photographs. “Ron was reporting directly to you, Mr. Woodley. We—and I mean the agency—we had no information for the police when they came to us about Ron’s murder. We had to refer them to you.”

Kenneth drained his martini glass. “Yeah? So? Tell me something I don’t know.”

The detective shrugged. “Well, I was about to ask you that same thing. Is there something we don’t know? You told the police that Ron wasn’t having any luck tracking down your wife and son. But you have me staking out this Hannah Doyle woman, and half the time I’m watching her from a parking lot where my predecessor was murdered. You withheld information from the police, Mr. Woodley. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I didn’t tell the cops about Hannah Doyle because I wanted to come here and personally nail her ass. You’ve been hired to help me do that, Sherlock. I’m paying you top dollar.” Kenneth leaned forward. “If you’re too chickenshit for the job, just say the word and I’ll ship your ass back to Milwaukee and hire a private detective with some balls.”

He videotaped the private detective and his client as they stepped outside Ray’s Boathouse restaurant. The client didn’t look too happy. He was talking to the detective, stabbing the air with his finger to make a point. Frowning, the detective nodded, then retreated toward his car.

At the restaurant entrance, the client pulled out a cell phone and made a call. Meanwhile, the detective pulled out of the large parking lot. Some detective. Apparently he had no idea he was being watched.

Neither did the client, who ducked back inside the restaurant.

He waited patiently in the shadows between a parked RV and some bushes. This close to the water, the night air was cool and smelled of fish. He watched people come and go. Someone else was meeting the client. Smart money was on the blonde who arrived by taxi forty minutes after he’d made that cell-phone call.

He was right, of course. An hour after the blonde had sashayed into the joint, she was stepping out with the client. She had a passing resemblance to Hannah, sort of a cheap imitation. Her hair was pinned up in the back. She wore tight silver pants, heels, and a tiny black blouse that was open in front to show off some ample cleavage.

Obviously, the client had picked out a high-class hooker for the evening. They waited for the valet to fetch the rented sports car. The tall, brown-haired guy with the big nose was cracking these jokes, and the prostitute was laughing her head off. The client threw a few dollars at the valet; then the two of them climbed into the sleek car.

Without running any yellow lights or making any sudden moves, he followed the sports car a few miles to a marina parking lot.

Leaning outside the window of his car, he photographed the client and his hooker as they climbed out of the sports car. He could still hear the woman’s high-pitched laughter as they walked down the dock together.

The client had a medium-sized yacht—two, maybe three, rooms on board—moored at the crowded dock. All was quiet this time of night—except for the girl, who kept talking and laughing as the man helped her on the deck. Then the two of them slipped down below.

After a few minutes, he got out of his car. Video camera in tow, he skulked down the dock, past all the other boats. He approached the yacht and found a perfect spot to hide, behind a big, green-painted equipment box. From there, he had a view into the yacht’s oblong, horizontal windows. The client hadn’t bothered to pull the little shades closed.

The video camera framed them perfectly through the first window as they sat at the galley table and did some lines of cocaine together. The blonde unbuttoned her blouse, then dabbed a little bit of cocaine on her nipple and had him lick it off. She let out that loud laugh again. The client kissed her neck, and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she pulled away. Apparently she didn’t do that with her johns.

The camera caught them moving into the next room, where the man peeled off his shirt. He sat her down on the built-in sofa bed. She seemed to stumble a little, or perhaps she was resisting. It was hard to tell. But their movements were clumsy. She stepped out of her heels, then unfastened the top of her silver pants. He started pulling them off, and she gave him a playful little kick, pushing him away. He grabbed her pants again, and—almost violently—yanked them off her legs. She laughed, and quickly wriggled out of her black panties.

The camera zoomed in, lovingly moving up and down her nude body. The client advanced toward her, and she teasingly pushed him away again with her foot. She reached across the sofa for her bag, then pulled out a condom and waved it at him.

He swatted it out of her hand. She looked stunned for a second, then started to chuckle. But he reeled back and slapped her across the face.

She banged her head against the wall in back of the sofa bed. She seemed dazed. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down to the cushions. She let out a shriek. He smacked her across the face once more—this time with the back of his hand.

The camera zoomed in again, catching her startled, horrified expression. He stopped looking through the viewer for a moment to check around him. He was certain others on the water heard her cries. But he didn’t see any lights go on inside the boats. No one came topside to look for the source of the screams. From his spot by the equipment box, he was able to keep taping for the next ten minutes.

The client never had intercourse with her. But at one point, when he had his hand on her throat and seemed to be choking the life out of her, he masturbated.

While she got dressed, he brought her some ice for her face, then pulled eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the money.

The last shot captured that night was of the blonde, the cheap imitation of Hannah, looking shaken and dazed. Despite the ice application, her face was already a bit swollen.

She wobbled a bit as she walked up the dock to a waiting taxi. It was a great last shot before the fade-out.

Hannah knew she had another long night ahead waiting for sleep to come. The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:49. Ben had probably nodded off already. He was on the sofa again—just down the hall. They’d said good night about forty-five minutes ago, awkwardly shaking hands.

He’d spent the day staking out Paul Gulletti. He’d watched him step out for Sunday brunch with his wife. Then, Paul went to his office at the newspaper. He emerged almost three hours later and went to a Starbucks, where he sat at a cafe table. He was met there by a younger man with long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. The younger man carried a camera or binoculars in a case that hung from a strap over his shoulder. Paul gave him some money. Ben was too far away to see how much cash was exchanged.

He told Hannah it was the only encounter he’d witnessed today that raised his interest. “Paul could have owed this guy a couple of bucks. I don’t know,” Ben had admitted. “But those bills could have been hundreds, too. And the red-haired guy carried this camera case. Maybe he’s working for Paul. You said some stranger was videotaping you last Thursday night at about the time class started. Maybe this was the guy.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”

One thing they were both sure about: the video-killer wasn’t working alone. Someone else had been driving that Subaru station wagon when shots were fired from the passenger window at Ben’s apartment.

They had a long talk while she cooked a spaghetti dinner. They ate at her kitchen counter—by candlelight, no less. But the conversation was far from romantic.

Ben had never been in Paul’s office at the college. He asked her if Paul kept video equipment and cassette tapes there.

Nodding, Hannah dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Paul has all sorts of stuff in that office. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Maybe I can get in there and take a look around,” Ben said, reaching for his glass of Merlot. “In the meantime, you’re working beside Seth at the store tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes. He started there today.”

“Keep pumping him about the professor,” Ben said. “And watch out for Seth, too. There’s something I don’t like about that guy.”

“Seth?” Hannah said.

“Yeah, him and his roommate.”

She laughed. “They’re just a couple of kids.”

“So were Leopold and Loeb.”

“You saw where they live,” Hannah pointed out. “Not exactly deluxe accommodations. Whoever is behind these murders has a lot of money and leisure time. The work on that Goodbar tape was very professional. High production values. It was made by someone who can afford expensive video equipment and state-of-the-art editing machines. Those two guys couldn’t even afford a maid.”

“Just the same, I don’t trust him,” Ben argued, pushing his plate away. “He’s suddenly taking this job where he’ll be working beside you all day. That bugs me.”

Hannah figured maybe Ben was a little jealous—or just protective. Either way, she kind of liked it.

They had another faux “family night.” After the candlelit dinner, he read a story to Guy, who was crazy for him. When she and Ben were alone together again, he told her what had happened with his wife.

At around the time Rae Palmer’s e-mails to Ben were reporting the first murder, he got a call from a Mrs. Lyle Seidell. Her husband had just dropped dead of a heart attack, and did Ben know that Lyle had been screwing a certain Mrs. Jennifer Podowski for the last three months?

While his wife was grieving for her dead lover, Ben kept hearing from Rae, who begged him to come to Seattle. Ben decided to leave Jennifer alone with her grief. Every tear she shed was a jab to his heart. At the time, his friend seemed more worth rescuing than his marriage.

As far as Hannah was concerned, this Jennifer sounded like a jerk. But she tried to remain quietly impartial as Ben told his story. Besides, once he found Rae’s killer, he planned to go back to Jennifer and work things out.

In the meantime, Hannah was playing house with Ben Podowski. All through the evening she’d had to keep fighting her attraction to him. Lying there, alone in bed, she told herself that she couldn’t afford to get involved. She was leaving Seattle herself—very soon.

Small wonder she couldn’t sleep.

She wanted a glass of water. Or maybe that was just an excuse, giving herself permission to walk through the living room and check on him. Still, she was thirsty.

Hannah threw back the covers, climbed out of bed, and donned her robe. She felt butterflies in her stomach. The truth was, she wanted something to happen.

Unconsciously fussing with her hair, she tiptoed down the hallway to the living room. She peered around the corner. The couch had been vacated. The sheets were still in a tangle across the sofa cushion. She reached for the end-table lamp; then she looked toward the window and froze.

Ben stood against the wall, by the edge of the curtains. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of jeans he must have put on hastily. The front snap was still open. He shook his head at her, then put a finger to his lips.

Hannah didn’t understand at first. Then she saw the silhouette on the other side of the curtains. At the half inch where the drapes didn’t quite meet, someone was trying to peek inside.

Hannah gasped and accidentally knocked over the lamp. It fell to the floor with a crash.

The figure outside reeled back from the window, then raced toward the stairwell.

Ben headed out after him. “Stay inside,” he told Hannah. “Lock the door.” He ran down the balcony walkway, and ducked into the stairwell.

Hannah watched him from the doorway. Then she retreated inside, closed the door, and locked it. Stepping over the broken lamp, she hurried down the hall and checked in on Guy. Miraculously, he was still asleep.

Hannah went back to the living room and opened the curtains. She watched and waited for Ben. With every passing minute, she grew more and more anxious. She couldn’t help thinking that Ben had been set up, lured outside for his execution. But she would have gotten a video first, a coming attraction for Ben’s death. Then again, maybe all bets were off, now that their last attempt on his life had failed.

Hannah cleaned up the broken lamp, hoping the time would go by faster. It occurred to her that while she was inside waiting for him, Ben could be hurt. She pictured him lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of those cement stairs. She struggled with the idea of going out there and looking for him. But she didn’t dare leave Guy alone.

Suddenly, she heard a soft tapping on the door. Hannah glanced out the window. To her utter relief, it was Ben. She flung open the door.

“I lost him,” Ben announced, out of breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded.

Hannah embraced him, almost collapsing in his arms. She touched his hairy chest, and felt his heart pounding. Her heart was racing, too.

Ben stoked her hair, then stepped back. “I didn’t get a good look at the guy,” he said. “I was trying to catch a glimpse of him when you came in.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I screwed it up, knocking over the damn lamp.”

Ben locked the door again. “He must have used the second floor and taken the back stairs down. I searched everywhere—including the basement. I think he’s gone.”

Hannah stood near the door. She touched his arm. She was still trembling. “Well, can I—get you anything?”

“No, I’m okay,” he said, scratching his head. “I don’t think I’ll fall asleep again right away, but I might as well give it a try.”

“Ben…” She hesitated.

“Maybe you ought to try getting some sleep yourself,” he suggested. He closed the curtains. “You have work in the morning. I’ll be okay out here. You shouldn’t stay up. That guy’s not coming back.” He tried to smile at her. “Nothing more is going to happen tonight, Hannah.”

She sighed. “You’re right. Nothing is going to happen.”

Hannah started back toward her bedroom. She never did get her glass of water.

Sixteen

It was nine-twenty, and only a handful of students still lingered around the third-floor lounge area. The windows on one side had a sweeping view of the Seattle skyline, brightly lit against the cloudy night. Most of the classes were out, and the hallways seemed deserted. Paul Gulletti’s Monday evening class had ended at seven-thirty. But he was still in his office—just down the hall.

The alcove where Hannah and Ben were hiding couldn’t be seen from the hallway. It was tucked behind a corner, partially concealed by the lounge’s vending machines and pay phones. The little niche had room for only a couple of sofa-chairs. Hannah sat in one while Ben stood guard. He peered around the corner, past the vending machines and down the hallway.

For the last two hours, they’d been waiting. Ben had stolen a master key from one the janitors. He’d told her about his discovery of a maintenance-crew lounge and locker room in the basement. This morning, he’d followed one of the night crew janitors down there, then “borrowed” his key ring while he was in the shower. A green plastic doodad around the base of one key set it apart from all the others on the ring. Ben had figured it must be the master. He’d tested it on a few basement doors and it had worked. Ben replaced the key ring before the janitor had finished his shower. Later, the key got him into every office and classroom he’d tried. Ben figured the custodian probably wouldn’t realize his master key was missing until tomorrow.

“You’re pretty good at following people around, aren’t you?” Hannah had said when he’d told her about stealing the key. “I certainly had no idea when you were watching me.”

She was a bit irritated with him today. This morning, they’d been eating breakfast together when Joyce had shown up. She pulled Hannah aside. “Wow. He sure is cute,” she whispered. “You hold onto him.”

But holding onto him was impossible. Hannah had gone off to work feeling horribly depressed. And it wasn’t just Ben either. It was everything. She couldn’t stop thinking about Britt, and what she might have done to prevent her death. She hated leaving Guy’s side while he was sick—and while this maniac was out there. Hell, she hated constantly looking over her shoulder. And as much as she had to, she dreaded having to run away again, starting over in a new city with a new name.

At the video store, her plans to obtain more information from Seth went down the drain. Paul’s assistant wasn’t working at the store today.

Later, when Ben came by to tell her that he had the key to Paul’s office, Hannah insisted on coming with him. Ben had never been in Paul’s office. He wouldn’t know what to search for. He’d never met Cindy Finkelston, Lester Hall, or Britt. Hannah was the one who would recognize possible souvenirs from those killings.

From the store that afternoon, she’d called Joyce, saying she wouldn’t be home until after eight. But now it was nearly nine-thirty, and they hadn’t even started searching Paul’s office yet.

“So what do you think?” Hannah asked Ben while she dug some change out of her purse. “Did he fall asleep in there, or what? I better call Joyce again.” She got to her feet. “Huh. You’d think one of us would own a cell phone.”

Ben peeked around the corner. “Coast is clear.”

Hannah stepped up to the pay phone and dialed home.

“You’re going to loathe me,” she said when Joyce answered on the other end. “I’ll be another hour—at least. Does that screw you up?”

“Yes, hon, I have a date with Robert Redford tonight. He’s picking me up at ten. Ha, don’t sweat it. Everything’s copacetic here. In fact, want to say good night to my pal here? I’m taking the cordless into his room.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah saw Ben urgently signaling to her. She glanced over her shoulder. Paul Gulletti came down the hallway with a folder tucked under his arm.

Hannah swivelled around so her back was to him. She could see his reflection in the darkened window across the lounge. He was coming at her.

“Hi, Mom,” she heard Guy say on the other end of the line.

“Hi, honey,” she whispered, shrinking away as Paul Gulletti drew closer. “Um, how are you feeling?”

“The chicken pox itches a lot today,” he whimpered. He sounded groggy. “Is Ben spending the night?”

“Yes, but—um, you’ll be asleep by the time we come home.”

Paul passed her, and continued down the corridor to the elevators.

“Why aren’t you guys home now?” Guy was asking on the other end of the line. “I want to see Ben.”

The elevator arrived for Paul, and he stepped aboard. Meanwhile, Ben gave her a secret wave; then he hurried up the hallway and turned the corner to Paul’s office.

“Mom?”

“You’ll see Ben in the morning, honey,” Hannah said into the phone. “I love you. Now, give the phone back to Joyce, and get some sleep.”

In the background, she heard Joyce talking to him. The four students who were in the lounge all left together, slowly moving toward the stairwell. One girl’s laughter echoed in the hallway.

“Hi,” Joyce said, back on the line. “As you can tell, someone’s a little cranky. I think he’ll be down for the count after a session with Dr. Seuss.”

“Well, I should be home sometime around ten-thirty,” Hannah said. “I’m sorry to screw up your whole evening like this.”

“I’ll see you when I see you. And if you’re with that tall drink of water from this morning, please don’t rush home on my account.”

Hannah let out a sad laugh. “That’s not how it is with us. But thanks anyway. See you soon, Joyce.”

She hung up the phone, then turned around in time to see Paul Gulletti step out of the elevator. Hannah froze. She wondered why the hell he was back so soon.

They were the only two people in the corridor. Paul started toward her. The closer he got, the more he smirked. “Well, hello, stranger,” he said at last. He looked her up and down. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Hannah explained, forcing a smile. “I was just about to leave a message at your office.”

“Well, I walked by here only two minutes ago,” Paul said. “I didn’t see you, Hannah. It’s been too long. You know, you missed my last class.”

“Yes, I’m—sorry about that.” She glanced down the other corridor toward Paul’s office. “It’s um—one reason I wanted to see you, Paul,” she said loudly. “Also I wanted to ask what you thought of the notes I e-mailed. You know, the ones about the blacklist?”

He laughed. “What are you shouting for?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I’m sorry. I have a little of that inner ringing in my ear. It’s gone now.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Come to my office with me. I forgot something in there earlier. Now, I’m glad I did.”

She hesitated, then started walking with him. “So—about the notes, Paul?” she asked, a bit too loudly again.

“I haven’t gotten around to them yet.” He smiled. “But it doesn’t mean you haven’t been on my mind, Hannah.”

She started talking about the content of her notes, babbling really. All the while, she hoped Ben could hear them approaching.

Paul unlocked the door, stepped inside, and switched on the overhead light. Hannah glanced back at the hallway, half-expecting to see Ben hiding in one of the other doorways. But there was no sign of him.

She walked into the office, where Paul circled around to the other side of his desk. He lifted up a miniature fake Oscar that served as a paperweight, then grabbed a key hidden beneath it and unlocked his desk drawer.

Standing near the door, Hannah took in the office, her eyes darting back and forth. She wondered how Ben could have escaped without so much as a sound.

Paul pulled some reading glasses from the desk drawer, locked it, then returned the key to its place under the ersatz mini-Oscar. He looked up at her and smiled. “You know, standing there in that black sweater with your blond hair, you look like a Hitchcock leading lady.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so. But thanks.”

“I’m not sure if you look more like Grace Kelly or Eva Marie Saint,” he said, slipping the glasses in his breast pocket. “You’ve got that kind of classic beauty, Hannah. I’ve always thought so. I was very disappointed last week when you turned down my dinner invitation. Maybe you’ve reconsidered. Is that what this little visit is about?”

“Sort of,” Hannah replied. “I’d like to go out with you, Paul. I just haven’t had any time recently. But—” Hannah stopped in mid-sentence.

Something in the tall picture window caught her eye. The sill was a couple of feet off the ground, and Paul had a stack of film books on one end. On the other end, Ben stood motionless behind the folds of the open beige curtain. His back pressed against the glass, he gazed down at her.

She shifted her eyes back to Paul. “Um, I have a sick little boy at home. I—I can’t see you this week. Maybe next week?” She let out a nervous laugh. “I guess what I’m saying is I’d like a rain check on that date, if the offer still stands.”

Grinning, Paul came toward her. “You bet it does,” he whispered. “And I’m holding you to it.” He kissed his fingertip, then touched her lips.

Hannah managed to keep smiling. She stole a glance up at Ben again. “Maybe we should go,” she said to Paul. “They’ll probably be locking up soon.”

He took her by the arm and led her out of the office. Paul switched off the light, then closed and locked the door. “Speaking of Hitchcock and his blondes, we’re showing The Birds in class this Thursday. I hope you’re not planning another no-show.”

“I’ll try to be there,” Hannah said, starting down the hall with him. Their footsteps echoed in the vacant corridor. “I, um, haven’t seen The Birds in a while.”

“Remember the scene near the end of the movie, when Tippi Hedren hears the wings flapping somewhere on the second floor of the house? She grabs a flashlight and goes up to the bedroom to investigate. Remember?”

Hannah nodded. “She gets attacked by all those birds.”

Paul rang for the elevator. “Do you know what kind of special effects they used for that scene?”

Hannah shook her head. She was having a hard time following his conversation. She wondered how she was going to get rid of Paul. She didn’t feel safe alone with him. As the elevator door opened, she balked.

He took her by the arm again, then led her inside. She quickly pressed the button for the first floor. Paul’s shoulder rubbed against hers. The elevator door shut.

“They used real ravens and gulls in that scene, Hannah. Two stagehands in thick gloves spent hours and hours hurling birds at Tippi Hedren. It took three days to shoot that scene. The poor girl had a nervous collapse at the end of it.”

He slowly maneuvered his body so that he was standing between her and the elevator doors. “What do you think of that, Hannah?”

She shrugged uneasily. “Sounds pretty—harrowing.”

“But Tippi was Hitchcock’s discovery, don’t you see? She may have suffered, but it was for his artistic vision. How far would you go for the sake of realizing an artistic vision?”

“I don’t think I’d go that far,” she replied, shaking her head.

The elevator door opened. Hannah brushed past him and ducked out to the corridor. It was as if she hadn’t been able to breathe in there. She glanced up and down the hallway.

Except for a janitor wheeling a garbage pail and two students lingering by the main entrance, Hannah didn’t see anyone else in the area. She caught a couple of breaths, but she tensed up again when Paul came up to her side.

“That’s going to be the topic of discussion after the movie,” he said. “How much power should a director have over his leading lady? How much intimidation and control—for the sake of art?”

“Ought to make for a stimulating discussion,” Hannah said, with a weak smile.

She remembered Seth talking about how Otto Preminger badgered Jean Seberg during the filming of Bonjour Tristesse. He’d made the same point as Paul about a director’s right to unlimited power over his actors—especially a leading lady he’d “discovered.” She wondered if perhaps Seth had picked up that notion from one of Paul’s lectures. Or did they simply think alike? Maybe Ben was right, maybe Paul and Seth were working together, and she was their unwitting leading lady, their discovery.

“You seem tense,” Paul said, placing his hand on the back of her neck.

“No, I’m all right.”

“I give a terrific neck rub, you know. You’d love it.”

“I—I better take a rain check on that, too,” she said, edging away from him, toward the main doors.

“Well, at least let me give you a lift home,” he suggested.

“Actually, I have someone coming to pick me up. But thanks anyway.” She pushed the heavy door and stepped outside. The chilly October night air felt good.

Paul came up to her side once more.

“You don’t have to wait around,” she said. “I’m fine here. I’ll see you in class Thursday. By then, I’ll know when we can get together for our dinner date. I’m really looking forward to it, Paul.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “Who’s coming to pick you up? Is it that Ben Sturges character? I know you’ve been seeing him.”

“How would you know that?” Hannah asked.

“I just know,” he replied. “You disappoint me, Hannah.”

“Well, don’t be disappointed,” she said, staring him in the eye. “Because you’re wrong about Ben What’s-his-name. I barely know him. The person who’s picking me up is a friend of my son’s baby-sitter. His name is Lars, and he’s sixty-seven years old. Any more questions or objections?”

He laughed, then kissed her on the cheek. “You can’t fool me. I know you better than you think. Good night, Hannah.”

Hannah watched him walk toward the parking lot, then disappear around the corner.

She shuddered, and wiped his kiss from her cheek.

Hannah didn’t step back inside the school right away. She waited until Paul drove by in his Toyota. She gave him a little wave, and watched the car continue down the street.

Only then did she duck back inside the college. On her way to the stairwell, she didn’t see anyone in the main corridor. Hannah hurried up the stairs to the third floor. Stepping out to the hallway, she discovered someone had switched off most of the overheads. Only a few spotlights at the exits illuminated the way.

She headed down the dark corridor, past the lounge. The lights inside the vending machine cast strange shadows across the deserted study area. Everything seemed so still. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw some movement near the window. Hannah stopped.

It took her a moment to realize the phantom motion was merely headlights from passing cars below. Hannah told herself that she was alone here. If someone else was on this floor, she would hear footsteps. Every little sound seemed to reverberate in the empty hallway.

She continued on toward Paul’s office. She saw a line of light at the threshold under his door. Hannah tried the knob. Locked. “Ben?” she called softly. “Ben, it’s me.”

The door opened. “Are you okay?” Ben asked. “Did he make a pass?”

Hannah sighed. “Mostly, he just gave me the creeps.” She stepped inside, then quietly closed the door behind her. “I never figured he was capable of murder, but now I’m not so sure. Something he said has me wondering about Seth, too.”

Ben nodded. “I told you I didn’t trust him.”

He moved over to an old wooden file cabinet. The bottom drawer was open. “I’ve already been through the other drawers,” he said, searching the files. “Nothing so far. Ditto the coat closet. But I saw some videos on the shelf. He’s labeled each tape Such and Such a Lecture, and the date. We should take them back to your place tonight and have a look. I can return them here in the morning.”

Hannah walked around the desk.

“I tried there,” Ben said, looking up for a moment. “It’s locked.”

Hannah pulled the key from under the mini-Oscar paperweight, and unlocked the top right-hand drawer. Ben smiled at her. He finished with the file cabinet, then circled around to the desk.

They each took one side of the desk, and looked through the drawers. Hannah found paper clips, old receipts, and loose change in the top drawer. Just junk. The next drawer down held old lecture notes, clippings of his newspaper reviews, and a couple of spiral notebooks. Hannah paged through one of the notebooks. She read the start of an incomplete screenplay he’d written, called Love in Equinox. The opening scene was of a couple making love. All the while the man talked about how much he hated his dead father. It was pretty terrible.

“I found his old class lists,” Ben announced, shuffling through some papers. “Names, addresses, phone numbers. Here’s Rae. Huh, Angela Bramford is on this page. I wonder if anyone else listed here died from unnatural causes.” Grabbing a pen and legal pad from the desktop, Ben started copying down the list.

Hannah went back to flipping through Paul’s rough draft of Love in Equinox. He must have realized how god-awful it was, because there were only twenty-three pages. Hannah noticed that the young heroine stayed naked through most of it, and there was a scene with her masturbating. “You should read how sleazy this script is,” Hannah said. “He—”

Ben held up his hand, then shushed her.

Hannah fell silent, and she listened. Footsteps. Someone was coming down the corridor.

Ben hurried toward the door. He quietly turned the lock and switched off the light. He remained with his back to the wall. They listened to the footsteps becoming louder, closer. Hannah held her breath. She waited until the person outside passed the office. The footsteps grew fainter. Hannah let out a sigh. Ben flicked the lights back on, and he darted back to the desk. “We’d better hurry,” he muttered, sitting on the floor.

Hannah checked the next drawer down. She noticed a folder hidden beneath some more clippings of his reviews at the bottom of the drawer. She pulled it out and opened it up.

Several pieces of paper were clipped together. Hannah studied the first page: a montage of slightly grainy photos of a seminude Diane Keaton. The pictures had been taken off a TV set. It was the end scene of Looking for Mr. Goodbar. The second page had the stabbing sequence.

“Oh, my God,” Hannah murmured.

Paper-clipped to the montage from Looking for Mr. Goodbar were three candid photos. The pretty blonde in the pictures seemed unaware that she was being photographed. The snapshots were all taken on the street, most likely at a distance, then blown up.

Hannah passed the batch of photos to Ben. “Is this Rae?” she whispered.

He stared at the snapshots and the stabbing scene from the movie. “Yes, that’s Rae,” he said, his voice strained. “And that’s how he killed her, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Ben.” Hannah squeezed his arm. Then she glanced down at the next “murder sequence” in the folder.

Again, the first page showed a series of images photographed from a TV screen. This time, Marilyn Monroe was being chased up a stairwell in a dark, austere-looking building. One photo revealed that the location was an institutional bell tower of some sort. On the second page, Marilyn’s stalker caught up with her. There was a close-up of Joseph Cotton as he put his hands around her throat. The last shot showed Marilyn, dead on the cement floor.

Attached to the Marilyn death sequence were two photos of a striking redhead in her late twenties. Again, the woman didn’t seem aware of anyone taking her picture.

“This must be Angela Bramford,” Hannah murmured, giving the photos to Ben. “The pictures of Marilyn are from Niagara.”

“I don’t get the connection,” Ben whispered. “Wasn’t Angela Bramford found strangled somewhere around the Convention Center?”

“The bells,” Hannah whispered. “The Convention Center has bells by the stairway to the second-floor terrace. He strangled her under the bells, like Marilyn in the movie.”

Hannah glanced in the folder. Nothing but a blank piece of typing paper.

“Shouldn’t he have something about Rae’s friend, Joe?” Ben asked. “And the girl, what’s her name? The Floating Flower…”

“Lily Abrams,” Hannah said. She looked in the drawer. There weren’t any other folders. “I don’t know.”

There should have been photographs of those two rude customers, and Ronald Craig, and Britt. Baffled, Hannah gazed down at the class lists that Ben had left on the floor. Then she stared at the two separate batches of murder montage photos and candids.

“It’s only the two women who took his class,” she said. “Maybe the others don’t matter to him. Maybe he only cares about these two women—the way he now cares about me.”

“I don’t understand,” Ben said.

“First Angela Bramford, then Rae, and now he’s working on me. The seduction, the intimidation, pulling the strings and putting them through the paces until the death scene is carried out.”

Hannah slipped the photos back in the folder and closed it. “I think I know what he’s doing,” she whispered. “One after another, he’s made each one of us his leading lady.”

Seventeen

“Well, hello there, Hannah, you sorry bitch,” Kenneth Woodley muttered. He studied the photograph taken the day before by his private detective, Walt Kirkabee. It was clearly his Hannah standing outside a store with her tall, blond-haired doofus boyfriend.

“That’s in front of the place she works,” Kirkabee said. “Emerald City Video, it’s called.”

Nodding, Kenneth looked up from the photo long enough to grab the plastic coffee pitcher and refill Kirkabee’s cup for him. “Nice job,” he said.

They shared a corner booth in Denny’s, where the bar wasn’t yet open, so the waitress wouldn’t give him a Bloody Mary. Kenneth had to settle for coffee. Kirkabee was picking at his Grand Slam breakfast.

From the picture, it looked as if Hannah had lightened her hair a bit. She’d lost some weight, too.

“Have you seen the kid yet?” he asked.

Kirkabee shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve been watching that place for the last four days, and I haven’t laid eyes on him. There’s a fat old broad who comes and goes every morning and night. I’m guessing she’s the baby-sitter.”

Kenneth shifted in the booth, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s kind of a cheap-ass apartment complex, isn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t be too tough breaking in there and grabbing the kid.”

Kirkabee put down his fork; it clanked against his plate. “Hey, I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“I know, I know, relax.” Kenneth chuckled. “I’m just thinking out loud. I mean, if we stole the kid right from under her, she couldn’t do a damn thing, could she? Would serve her right.”

“So—you want to break into her apartment and abduct your own kid?”

He smiled. “I’m not getting my hands dirty. You don’t have to be involved, either. I’ll hire a couple of guys to do it—while she’s there.”

Kirkabee was shaking his head. “Hey, a million things could go wrong. Do you really want to entrust a couple of baby-snatchers-for-hire with the life of your son? You have the law on your side. You’ll get him back. Why take stupid chances? Is it really worth the risks involved—just to stick it to your wife?”

Kenneth nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It sure as hell is.”

“Can I take your coat?” Britt’s older sister asked.

“Thank you very much,” Hannah said. It was stuffy in the funeral home. Hannah quickly took off her trench coat and handed it to the thin brunette who looked like a conservative, slightly homelier version of Britt.

Hannah started to explain that she was a coworker of Britt’s, but the sister was called away.

There were two distinct camps of mourners at Britt’s service: her estranged, white-bread, upper-class family; and her current friends, most of whom resembled homeless drug addicts. The family members seemed uncomfortable with the unabashed display of emotions from the pierced-and-tattooed gothic types mingling among them.

“You’re Hannah,” said a pale, tiny young woman with dyed jet-black hair, gobs of mascara, and a ring pierced through her lower lip. She wore a black hooded sweatshirt and army fatigue pants.

“Hello,” Hannah said, managing a smile. She remembered seeing the girl in the store a few times. “How are you holding up?”

The girl embraced her. She stank of cigarette smoke. “Britt was fuckin’ crazy about you, Hannah,” she said. “You were like—her personal goddess. She thought you were so fuckin’ cool. She said you got her through a lot of shit.”

“Oh, well, um, thanks a lot,” Hannah replied, at a loss for anything else to say.

The girl went to talk to one of her pals. Hannah glanced towards the other side of the room. The closed casket was on display between two potted palms. It was hard to imagine her friend Britt in that mahogany box. Hannah felt such a sadness swell within her that she ached. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, then ducked back into the cloakroom.

She kept thinking she could have prevented Britt’s death. Trying to warn her hadn’t been enough. She could have done more. If she’d taken her chances and gone to the police, there wouldn’t be a funeral for Britt today.

Tish had given her the day off to attend the service. Hannah didn’t plan on going to the cemetery. She was tired and emotionally drained. She’d hardly slept at all last night.

After they’d left the college, she and Ben had returned to her apartment with the stack of videotapes from Paul’s coat closet. Bleary-eyed, they watched the videos—mostly at fast-forward speed—until two in the morning. The tapes were indeed film lectures, just as they’d been labeled.

While suffering through those videos, Hannah and Ben wondered about Seth’s possible culpability in the murders. Hannah went to bed, resolving to dig deeper with Seth when they worked side by side on Wednesday.

She had another resolve. Nothing was going to happen between Ben Podowski and herself. That evening, she’d caught Ben gazing at her several times. She pretended not to notice the look of longing in his eyes. It didn’t mean anything. He was just lonely, discouraged, and far away from home.

Ben had left in the morning to return the lecture tapes to Paul’s office. He planned to keep tabs on Paul for the rest of the day.

Walking to the funeral parlor, Hannah had the feeling she was being watched again. She was also struck with a strange thought. What if Ben wasn’t really following Paul? He could have been following her. He might have slipped that folder of photos inside Paul’s desk drawer last night. He’d had plenty of time to do it. What if he was friends with that man who had been trying to look through her living-room curtains the night before last? Ben had disappeared for over ten minutes, then come back with his story about trying to chase down that elusive prowler. And she’d believed him.

Hannah shook off the notion. Ben couldn’t be one of the killers. He’d barely escaped becoming one of the victims. She just wasn’t thinking right. Too little sleep.

Perhaps that explained her extra-fragile emotional state at this funeral service. Having a breakdown in the cloakroom, no less.

“Hello, Hannah.”

The handkerchief clutched in her hand, Hannah turned around. “Oh, hi, Ned,” she replied, clearing her throat.

Ned Reemar stood in the cloakroom doorway. He wore his usual brown shirt with Snoopy over the pocket, jeans, and sneakers. But he’d added an ugly tie to the ensemble. It looked like a clip-on. He carried a windbreaker over his arm.

Wiping her eyes, Hannah edged past him. “I’ll get out of your way here,” she said. “It’s awfully sweet of you to come.”

“A lot of freaks attending, aren’t there?” he said, hanging up his coat.

And you win the prize, Hannah thought. But she merely shrugged. “It’s a diverse group. I didn’t know Britt had such a wide range of friends.”

“Well, I hate to say it,” Ned muttered, smoothing back his greasy hair. “But I used to see her hanging out with some of these weirdos when she wasn’t working. Talk about the wrong kind of crowd. I could have told you she’d end up dying young.”

Hannah frowned, but didn’t say anything.

Ned came up beside her. “How’s your son?” he asked. “Gotta be careful with chicken pox. Do you think Scott caught the chicken pox from Guy?”

“No, I—I think they were both exposed to it around the same time,” Hannah replied. It was unsettling how Nutty Ned always knew what was happening with everyone in the video store. Still, Hannah managed to smile. “But both patients seem to be doing all right, Ned.”

She glanced toward the casket and saw Webb standing near one of the potted palms. Tall and crudely handsome, he had a five o’clock shadow and a perpetual sneer that someone must have once told him was sexy. He wore a leather jacket, jeans, a black shirt, and a bolo tie. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he leaned against the wood-paneled wall and glared at her.

“Hannah, do you know if the store will be carrying any of the old Twentieth Century Fox classics in DVD?” Ned was asking. “There’s a whole bunch coming out next week, but they didn’t say if the DVDs will be in the original screen ratio from CinemaScope. I was reading about it—”

“Um, Ned. I really don’t know,” Hannah gently interrupted. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of not in the mood to talk about work-related stuff right now. You understand, don’t you?”

He frowned. “Oh, well, okay, sure. See you later.”

Hannah watched Ned retreat into the crowd; then he stopped in front of the casket. She watched him touch the coffin, running his hand over the polished wood. Ever so casually, Nutty Ned poked his finger in the crevice between the coffin and its lid. Like a curious child, he must have been wondering if the casket was sealed shut.

Dumbfounded, Hannah stared at him.

Suddenly, someone shoved her, almost knocking her down. Hannah grabbed on to a chair to keep from falling, then swiveled around to see Webb.

“Because of you,” Webb growled, “I have the police on my ass. You fucking ratted on me.”

Glaring back at him, Hannah caught her breath. “I simply told them Britt was with you last weekend. That’s the truth, isn’t it? She was with you, wasn’t she? Or did you ditch her someplace?”

“I didn’t ditch her that night,” Webb muttered. “She ditched me.”

“Well, good for Britt,” Hannah replied, keeping her voice down. “Too bad her timing was off. She should have ditched you ages ago.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snarled.

“I’m talking about all the times you beat her, Webb.” Hannah shook her head at him. “That poor, sweet girl. At least she won’t be getting smacked around and hurt by you anymore, you low-life creep.”

He grabbed her arm. “You listen to me, you stupid—”

Hannah wrenched free of him. “Don’t you touch me,” she hissed. “If you ever lay a goddamn hand on me, I swear I’ll have the police down on you so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

He grinned defiantly. “Oh, really?”

Hannah suddenly realized people were staring. Her eyes wrestled with his. “You can count on it, you son of a bitch,” she said under her breath.

“You’re gonna sic the cops on me?” Webb chuckled. “That’s a good one. You wouldn’t dare. You’re in trouble with the police. Britt told me. Hell, you never would’ve talked to the cops at all if they hadn’t tracked you down at the store after Britt OD’d.”

Hannah took a step back from him. “What?” she murmured.

He nodded. “Yeah, they told me they came to you. I’ll bet you were pissing in your panties, you were so scared.” He raised his voice. “What kind of trouble are you in with the police, Hannah? Britt said you must be in some pretty deep shit.”

Hannah turned away. She stiffly edged through the crowd to the cloakroom. She couldn’t look at anyone. Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick. She hated shrinking away, leaving him with a smirk and the last word.

Hannah fetched her trench coat. She was still nauseous and shaking inside as she left the funeral parlor.

The chilly autumn wind whipped at her as she hurried down the sidewalk. Hannah threw on her coat. She felt something slightly bulky in the left pocket, something that hadn’t been there before.

Hannah stopped dead. She shoved her hand in the pocket and felt the plastic box. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

She knew what it was.

“Wasn’t he one of the doctors on St. Elsewhere?” Ben asked.

Gazing at the TV screen in her living room, Hannah nodded. “William Daniels, he was also Dustin Hoffman’s father in The Graduate.”

They sat by each other on the floor, watching William Daniels and Warren Beatty on the screen. In the scene, Daniels and Beatty were in the galley of a small yacht, discussing a photo that had been taken at the Space Needle. The film was The Parallax View, a political thriller from 1974. It had been years since Hannah had seen it. But she had watched this particular scene just a few hours ago. The tape had been set to start there.

The next two minutes of footage was wordless, just Beatty and William Daniels aboard the yacht, with a third man at the wheel. “He’s a bodyguard, I think,” Hannah explained to Ben.

At a certain point, Beatty moved to one end of the boat; then he watched Daniels and his bodyguard at the stern. The camera pulled back for a long shot of the yacht gliding along the water’s choppy surface. Suddenly, the stern and aft sections of the boat exploded, shooting flames, smoke, and debris up in the sky. Beatty dove into the water just as a second blast ripped the boat in half.

“Jesus,” Ben murmured. The light from the TV cast shadows across his handsome, chiseled face. He sat on the floor with his long legs in front of him. He wore jeans with a white T-shirt, and was barefoot.

“So someone you know is going to die like this,” he murmured. “In a boat explosion?”

Sitting beside him, Hannah took the remote and switched off the TV. “I’ve been racking my brain for the last couple of hours.” She sighed. “I can’t think of anyone I know here who owns a yacht.”

“Maybe a customer at the store?” Ben asked. “A sailing enthusiast?”

“No one comes to mind. I’m totally clueless.” Hannah stood up. “Do you want some wine?”

He smiled up at her. “Yeah, thanks.”

Without thinking, she reached down and mussed his hair. As she moved toward the kitchen, she felt a little flushed. It was a silly little gesture. But she’d wanted to touch him. She was so grateful to have Ben at her side. Watching the video wasn’t quite as awful this time, because Ben was with her. She didn’t have to face it all alone.

She poured them each a glass of Merlot, then returned to the living room. She might have been more comfortable on the sofa. But she wanted to be near him. He looked so unself-consciously sexy—with his bare arms and bare feet. She handed Ben a wineglass, then settled down next to him on the floor.

“Thanks,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who might have plans to go sailing this weekend?”

Hannah shrugged. “Nobody. The only person I know who’s a big sailing nut is my husband, Kenneth. And he’s in Wisconsin.”

Ben frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, do you think it’s possible he’s here in Seattle?”

Automatically, Hannah started to shake her head, but she stopped herself. Of course he was in Seattle. She’d known that sooner or later someone would be coming after Ronald Craig. She just hadn’t expected Kenneth. Obviously, he was having her watched. Or maybe he was watching her himself, just waiting to make his move—whatever that might be.

Ben caressed her arm. “Are you okay? You look pale all of a sudden.”

“I think you’re right,” she said. “If Kenneth knew for sure I was here, he couldn’t stay away. He’s vindictive; I know him. He wouldn’t leave it up to the police or some private detective to settle the score.”

“And you think he’d take a pleasure cruise while he’s here in town?”

Hannah sipped her wine, then nodded. “He couldn’t resist.”

She stared at the blank, dark TV screen, and imagined Kenneth dying in a boat explosion. For a fleeting moment, she thought about how much easier her life would be if Kenneth were dead.

“So this killer is going after your husband now,” Ben remarked. “It’s the Ronald Craig situation all over again. Kenneth’s private investigators probably spotted your stalker; maybe they’ve even identified him.” Ben sipped his wine. “This video-killer got more than he bargained for when he went after you.”

Hannah sighed. “So it’s only a question of who’ll get to me first: Kenneth, or this maniac. They both want the same thing. They both want to see me die.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Ben whispered. His hand came up behind her neck, beneath her hair. His fingers massaged the taut nerves there.

Hannah let out a grateful little moan, and she started to cry. “This murderer, he’ll kill you too if you’re in his way. Or maybe he’ll kill you because he can see how much I care for you, Ben.” She shook her head. “You should just go home to your wife. Every day you stay here with me, you’re risking—”

“Shhhh,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving you, Hannah.”

He pulled her toward him and gently kissed her cheek. It was moist with her tears.

Hannah touched his handsome face, then ran her fingers through his hair. She felt his strong arms around her, and she started to melt inside.

Ben’s lips slid over to her open mouth. He kissed her deeply. She tasted the wine on his lips. No one had kissed her like this in years. Her head was swimming. She felt a rush of warmth coursing through her, all the awakened desire. She was actually moaning. It embarrassed her, but she couldn’t stifle herself.

Hannah clung to him, and they gently reclined on the floor. She wrapped her legs around his, their bare feet entwining.

He kissed her again, then pulled back to gaze at her. “So beautiful…”

She could feel him trembling. She loved the way he kissed her. He was such a handsome, sexy man. And all he wanted to do was protect her and make love to her.

Ben’s lips brushed against her neck. Did he have any idea what that was doing to her? Arching her back, Hannah pressed against him. She could feel his erection stirring through his blue jeans. She stroked him, and listened to Ben’s breathing become heavier.

He unbuttoned her blouse, kissing each section of exposed flesh. His whisker stubble grated against her skin, a tiny delicious pain.

She ran her hands down his strong back. Hannah found the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it up to his shoulders. Then her hands roamed down his spine until her fingers wedged under the top of his jeans, beneath his undershorts. The skin at the start of his buttocks was cool and baby-smooth. She longed to be naked with him.

Ben must have been reading her mind, because he drew back from her, then pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. She sat up and started to kiss his hairy chest. She glided her tongue against one of his nipples, grazing it with her teeth. Ben shuddered, then suddenly recoiled.

A hand over her mouth, Hannah numbly stared at him. “Oh, God, I—I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I hurt you? Was that—too weird?”

Blushing, he shook his head. “No, actually it was—um, pretty hot. But I think we ought to move this into your bedroom. Don’t you?”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, I think so,” she said, catching her breath. “I think so—very much.”

Ben was a wonderful lover; tender, sweet, and passionate. He actually held her afterward. Snug in Ben’s arms, Hannah rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat.

And there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell she’d fall asleep like that. After years of solitude, Hannah had become way too accustomed to sleeping alone.

She nodded off for a few moments, but woke up again. Comforting and stimulating as it was in Ben’s arms, she eventually wriggled out of his embrace. She waited a few minutes to make sure he hadn’t woken. Sleeping, he looked like a little boy.

Hannah carefully crept out of the bed. She adjusted the blinds and peered out her bedroom window. She wondered if Kenneth or one of his bloodhounds was out there somewhere watching the apartment right now. Or was her secret admirer keeping vigil alone tonight? Despite all the evidence against Paul Gulletti, she still felt uncertain about his part in these murders.

What is it that Ben had said? This video-killer got more than he bargained for when he went after you. The same could be said about Kenneth—if indeed he was in Seattle. Did he have any idea his life was in danger?

“Wow, what a beautiful thing to wake up to,” Ben muttered.

Hannah turned to see him sitting up in bed, giving her a sleepy grin. Blushing, she smiled back at him, then grabbed her blouse off the back of the chair and put it on.

“Oh, rats,” he said. “You know, it was like a vision, seeing you there naked with the moonlight coming through the blinds. I’m serious.”

She was still blushing. He made her feel so self-conscious.

“You still look pretty damn good,” he said. “What are you doing way over there?”

She glanced out the window again. “I was just thinking about my estranged husband.” She sighed. “This killer—whoever he is—he might be doing me a big favor by blowing Kenneth to bits.”

“Oh, Hannah, no,” he whispered. “It would only make things worse for you. The police might think you had something to do with his death. And if we don’t try to prevent it from happening, we’d be just as guilty as this killer—”

“Relax,” Hannah said, sitting on the end of the bed. She let out a sad laugh. “I really don’t want Kenneth dead. I couldn’t live with myself if I just sat back and let him get killed. I mean, Good Lord, in a few hours, by the light of day, I’ll have a hard enough time trying to rationalize sleeping with a married man. My guilt plate is already full.”

Ben leaned over and kissed the side of her cheek. “Jennifer and I are more or less separated, if that’s any help.”

She shrugged. “I guess it helps—more or less. So what are we going to do to prevent this son of a bitch from getting blown to bits?”

“We’ll have to get in touch with him,” Ben said. “I know Ronald Craig worked for a place called Great Lakes Investigations. I’ll call them, for starters. Do you still have your in-laws’ phone number?”

Hannah frowned. “You want to call my in-laws?”

“Yeah, if the detective agency won’t help. In fact, I might try your in-laws first. I’ll call from a pay phone, of course. We need to find out if he’s here in town and how to get in touch with him.”

Hannah was shaking her head. “I don’t like this. A call from a Seattle pay phone? They’ll know I’m here.”

“Well, they probably already know that, Hannah. Don’t you think?” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Listen, if we can get in touch with Kenneth—or his private detective, we might be able to straighten some things out, maybe even persuade them to drop the charges.”

She rolled her eyes. “Huh, dream on.”

“Well, at least we might get a description of our video-killer. They’re sure to have seen him.” He kissed her again. “I’ll figure out how we can do this, Hannah. We’ll come up with a plan in the morning. C’mon, let’s get back under the covers.”

“I want to check on Guy first,” she said, kissing his shoulder. She put on her robe and crept out of the bedroom.

When Hannah peeked into Guy’s room next door, she could see him curled up in bed, sucking his thumb. But his eyes were open, and he looked back at her.

Hannah sat on the edge of his bed. There were still little abrasions on his face. She felt his forehead. “Can’t you sleep, sweetie?”

“I heard Ben talking,” Guy said. “Is he awake?”

“Oh, he’s just gone back to bed. But you’ll see him in the morning.” She smoothed back his blond hair.

“Can Ben be my dad?” he asked.

Hannah tried to smile. “I don’t think that will happen, honey. But he’s our friend, and that’s important.”

He yawned. “My dad’s in heaven, isn’t he?”

Hannah hesitated. “Um, yes.”

“Joyce says he’s watching over us. Is he?”

Hannah kept stroking his head. “Yes, honey,” she said, swallowing hard. “Your father is watching us.”

Eighteen

They were using the pay phone by the abandoned little grocery store a few blocks from Hannah’s apartment, the same pay phone from which she’d called the Green Bay police department a few nights ago.

But this time, Hannah wasn’t alone. And the surroundings seemed a lot more innocuous on this crisp, sunny Wednesday morning. Though she wouldn’t be talking to anyone, Hannah still had a lot of trepidation about this call.

Ben had stepped out earlier and bought a phone card. He’d been gone most of the morning, then returned with Starbucks coffee and a cinnamon roll for her, as well as a coloring book for Guy.

An hour later, as they’d left her apartment building together, Ben had taken hold of Hannah’s hand. She’d told herself it shouldn’t matter if anyone saw them, but it did. Someone was watching and judging, maybe even getting a little angry that she was happy with another man. Before they were halfway down the block, Hannah muttered, “Excuse me.” Then she causally pulled her hand away to move her windblown hair out of her eyes. She didn’t take hold of his hand again.

She felt extra anxious about leaving Guy and Joyce alone—especially today. There was no reason for the increased apprehension on this particular morning. Maybe it was the Catholic schoolgirl in her. She almost expected to be punished for giving in to her desires last night. Whatever the rationale, she dreaded being away from Guy today.

She would be working alongside Seth at the store. It was a chance to talk with him more about Paul Gulletti—and about certain theories on film directors and their leading ladies.

For now, Ben would be doing the talking. Hannah had mixed feelings about this whole venture. Part of her wished she could hear what was said on the other end of the line. Another part of her hated making any kind of contact with her in-laws. The idea of reconnecting with them—even through a third party—made Hannah sick to her stomach.

As Ben punched in the Woodleys’ number, then the phone-card code, Hannah stood behind him, wringing her hands. With the receiver to his ear, Ben smiled reassuringly at her. Then, he suddenly looked away. “Yes, hello,” he said into the phone. “Is Mr. or Mrs. Woodley there, please?”

Biting her lip, Hannah stared at him.

“They don’t know me. This is in regard to their grandson,” Ben said. “I think they’ll want to talk to me…. Yes, thank you. I’ll wait.”

He covered the mouthpiece. “I got the maid.”

Hannah nodded. “Sylvana. She’s very sweet. She—”

Ben turned his back to her. “Yes, Mrs. Woodley, hello,” she heard him say. “Yes, that’s right. I have information regarding the whereabouts of your grandson. I need to get in touch with your son, Kenneth, but I can’t reach him. Do you have a number I can call?”

Ben paused and shot a look toward Hannah for a moment. “My name wouldn’t mean anything to him—or to you…. Uh-huh. Well, Mrs. Woodley, I don’t have time for a lot of nonsense, either. I need to talk to Kenneth about your grandson, Kenneth Woodley the Third. I know where the boy is, but I don’t know where Kenneth is. So here’s what I’m asking you to do, Mrs. Woodley. Do you have paper and pencil handy?”

Ben sighed. “Yes, I can wait—for about fifteen seconds; then I need to hang up…. Oh, really? Well, I could hang upright now. Then you can forget any chance of ever finding your grandson, lady. I’m just trying to help here…. Yes, well, I thought so.”

He covered the mouthpiece, and frowned at Hannah. “God, what a pain in the ass.”

“I had two years of her,” Hannah whispered. “And compared to her husband and son, she’s Mother Teresa.”

“Yes, Mrs. Woodley,” he said into the phone. “I’m still here. Tell your son to contact me at this e-mail address. Are you ready? Ralph-at-eight-oh-nine-oh-three-dot-net.”

Hannah listened to him repeat and spell it out. She wondered whose e-mail address he was using.

“Tell your son to contact me today,” Ben was saying. “Because after tomorrow, he won’t be able to get ahold of me at all. Do you understand, Mrs. Woodley? Fine, then. Good-bye, Mrs. Woodley.”

Ben hung up the phone and let out a long sigh.

“Where did you get that e-mail address?” Hannah asked. “What if they trace it?”

“Just a second,” Ben said, glancing at a scrap of paper with notes scribbled on it. “I want to get this other call out of the way.”

Hannah stood by while Ben dialed the second phone number.

“Great Lakes Investigations?” he said. “Yes, I’m calling in regard to one of your detectives, Ronald Craig, now deceased. I need to get in touch with the client who hired him, a Mr. Kenneth Woodley. I believe he’s in Seattle at the moment…. Hello? Hello? Are you talking to me? Excuse me…. No, I can’t hold. Let me give you an e-mail address where Mr. Woodley can contact me…. No, I’m sorry, I need to hang up soon. Believe me, Mr. Woodley will want to contact me. The e-mail address is—Well, I don’t care. Scratch it in your arm if you have to. It’s Ralph-at-eight-oh-nine-oh-three-dot-net.”

Ben repeated the e-mail address, then hung up without saying good-bye. “Damn, that was weird,” he said. “The receptionist was trying to stall. I could hear someone on the other end whispering at her to keep me talking. They were probably trying to trace the call.”

Wiping his forehead, Ben put the scrap of paper away. Then he pulled out his sunglasses and put them on.

“So—whose e-mail address is Ralph-at-eight-oh-nine-oh-three-dot-net?” Hannah asked.

He glanced down at the pavement and shuffled his feet. “Well, I set that up this morning with Jennifer.”

Hannah stared at him. “You mean, your wife Jennifer?”

“Yes. She knows computers. I couldn’t think of anyone else.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I explained the situation to her. She set it up so they can’t trace us through the e-mail address. In fact, by tonight, that e-mail address will no longer exist. In the meantime, your husband has a way of contacting us. We have a line of communication, but he won’t be able to track us down.”

Hannah squinted at him. “When did you do all this?”

“Early this morning, after I stepped out,” Ben explained. “I called her from a coffee shop. Jennifer was at work. The East Coast is three hours ahead of us.”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of the time difference. What I don’t understand is how you could call up your wife and ask her for a favor this morning when you slept with me just last night.”

Ben frowned. “Like I told you, she’s the only person I know with computer smarts.”

“My God,” Hannah murmured, shaking her head. “Ben, how can you cheat on her, then turn around and expect her to do you a favor? In fact, you’re having her do something for me, the woman you just had sex with. Christ, that’s even worse. Did you tell her about us?”

“No, Hannah,” he sighed. “Though I probably will—eventually.”

“Well, I don’t understand you. What, is it okay for you to call her now and act like everything is fine, because you evened the score last night? Is that it? She cheated on you, and now that you’ve had sex with me, everything’s copacetic?”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that. What happened with us last night has nothing to do with my marriage. Jennifer and I are separated, but we’re still talking. We’re still trying to work things out.”

“Oh, and did you think sleeping with me would help?” Hannah asked pointedly.

“Like I said, last night had nothing to do with my marriage. It was about you and me, Hannah. It was about us.”

“Well, how much of an ‘us’ is there when you’re trying to work things out with your wife?”

He sadly shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the one who wants a head start running away to another city. My guess is you don’t see any future for an ‘us.’”

Biting her lip, Hannah took a step back. She couldn’t look at him. He was right, of course.

“How’s this e-mail thing supposed to work, anyway?” she asked finally. “Do we just wait to hear from Kenneth, or what?”

“Yeah, we wait,” Ben said, nodding. “Jennifer will keep checking for a response. I gave her your numbers at work and home. She’ll call when Kenneth sends an e-mail.”

“Your wife’s calling me? What if she asks about—us?”

“Well, she didn’t ask me this morning,” Ben said. “But if she tries to put you on the spot, tell her to talk to me.”

“Let me get this straight,” Hannah said. “She’s our link in communicating with my vindictive-as-hell husband. And you’ve given her my work and home phone numbers. What makes you so certain she won’t totally screw us here?”

“I trust her,” Ben replied.

“You trust her? Wasn’t she fucking this guy behind your back for three or four months? And you trust her? Are you nuts?”

He smiled a little. “It might seem that way. But I know Jennifer would never do anything to betray me again.”

Hannah frowned. “Yeah, just wait until she figures out about us last night.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’ll be late for work,” she muttered. “We’d better get going.”

They crossed the street together. Ben took her arm, and Hannah awkwardly pulled away.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. They both kept walking.

“Hannah, I looked it up in the computer, and I couldn’t find anything,” Seth said. He was working on the register alongside her. “Maybe you know. I have this lady on hold right now. She was asking for inspirational videos by Mr. T.”

“As in I pity the fool?” Hannah asked. “That Mr. T?”

“Yeah, believe it or not. She says he has a series of inspirational videos, and she’s looking for them. Do you think it’s a joke?”

“Or a cry for help,” Hannah replied. Then she shrugged. “Either way, we don’t carry them.”

Hannah watched him handle the woman on the phone with a polite, professional air.

She’d been working with Seth for about three hours now, since he’d started at eleven. So far, Hannah was impressed. He knew movies, and the customers seemed to like him. With his black V-neck, the designer glasses, and his wild hair, he was very avant-garde handsome. Some of the gay clientele clearly noticed, and Hannah watched Seth tactfully dodge a couple of overt passes. “Same thing happened yesterday,” he’d muttered to her, after weathering the second flirtatious overture. “Five different guys came on to me. Maybe I ought to wear a sign: I AM STRAIGHT.”

“We’ll fix you up one,” Hannah had offered. “Like one of those vanity plates, I-M-S-T-R-and the number eight.”

He had a decent sense of humor, and he seemed to master the job very quickly. Hannah couldn’t find anything wrong with him.

Tish was pleased with him too; so she’d told Hannah when she phoned the store this morning. “Talk about a fast learner,” she’d said. “This kid caught on to the layout of the place like you wouldn’t believe. I’m serious, he was in the door only two hours on his first day, and already he was telling customers where to find such and such a video.”

“Maybe he’s been in the store before,” Hannah had offered. “And we just didn’t notice.”

“Well, something about him is a little familiar,” Tish had allowed. “Maybe that’s it. Whatever, I’m glad you recommended this kid, Han. Unless he suddenly turns out to be a total psycho, he’s a keeper.”

After hanging up with her manager, Hannah had looked up Stroud, Seth in the computer. She’d figured he might have been a customer at one time. He was in the system; only he’d just opened up a new account two days ago.

Seth chose a video to play in the store: Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt. Hannah used the movie as a segue into a line of questioning.

“Hey, speaking of Hitchcock,” she said as she Windexed the countertops. “We’re seeing The Birds in class tomorrow night. I ran into Paul at the college the other night. He mentioned something, and it reminded me of a conversation you and I had earlier.”

“Oh, yeah?” Seth replied, checking in returned videos.

“Yes. He said that for discussion period we were going to talk about a director’s power over his leading actress, like Hitchcock putting Tippi Hedren through the paces. The courtship, the molding and controlling. It made me think about what you said.” Hannah kept wiping off the counters. She peeked up at Seth. “You know, the way Otto Preminger picked on Jean Seberg while making Bonjour Tristesse. Svengali and Trilby. Remember that conversation?”

Seth was shaking his head. “Oh, brother. Paul Gulletti doesn’t have an original bone in his body. I wrote a paper for him on that subject two years ago. He got it published, practically word for word, in a book of film essays. The SOB put his own name on it. I’d have sued, only the book hardly made back its printing costs. It had a bunch of contributors, all these egghead film critics. Just didn’t seem worth the hassle of raising a stink with him.”

Hannah had stopped working to stare at Seth. “That’s awful.”

“Well, that’s Paul Gulletti,” Seth grunted. “He mentioned you were writing something on the Hollywood blacklist for him. Don’t be surprised if your work turns up someplace with his name on it.”

“What’s this book called, anyway?” Hannah asked. “I’m interested in reading what you had to say, Seth. Even if Paul grabbed the credit.”

He blushed a little. “Well, thanks. It’s called Darkness, Light, and Shadows: Essays on Film, published by one of those small university presses.”

“I’ll look it up in the library,” Hannah said. She was telling the truth. She very much wanted to read what Seth Stroud had to say on the subject of certain film directors and their obsessions with leading ladies.

Hannah put away the Windex and dust rag. “Paul’s kind of a sleazoid, isn’t he?” She leaned on the back counter. “The other day, when you were telling me about that Angela woman from his class, the one who was strangled, you hinted that Paul might have had something to do with it. Were you serious?”

Seth chuckled. “Not really. He’s sleazy, but he doesn’t have the guts to actually kill anyone. Ha, though if he did, he’d probably copy someone else’s murder.”

Seth laughed, then smiled at Hannah.

She stared back at him. She tried to laugh too, but she couldn’t.

“Hannah, line one is for you,” Seth announced, as they wound down from a rush. “It’s Jennifer Somebody. Says it’s personal.”

It was unusual to have a swarm of customers descend on them at three-thirty, and, of course, the phone had started ringing off the hook at just the same time. But Seth and she had sailed though it without incident. Tish was right; unless Seth turned out to be a total psycho, he was a keeper.

Both Hannah and Seth were just finished up with her last customers. She spotted Nutty Ned approaching the register, smiling at her. “Seth, can you cover for me?” she said, moving around the counter. “I need to take this call in the break room. Hi, Ned.” She bypassed him, then called back to Seth. “Give me a shout if it gets crazy again!”

Hannah ducked into the break room, stepped over to the desk, and stared at the blinking light on the telephone. She needed a moment before saying hello to Ben’s wife.

She finally picked up the receiver. “Hello, this is Hannah.”

“Hi, Hannah. It’s Jennifer Dorn calling.”

“Dorn?”

“I kept my name,” she explained. “It’s a bit easier to carry around than Podowski.”

Hannah let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sure.” She sat down at the desk. “Um, listen, Jennifer, I want to thank you for helping us—or helping me, actually. It’s very nice of you to do this for a total stranger.”

“Well, Ben asked me,” she replied. “Anyway, ten minutes ago, I got an e-mail on that account I set up this morning. It’s from W-KIRK-A-BEE-at-G-L-I-dot-web. I did a trace on that, and it’s someone named Kirkabee at Great Lakes Investigations in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But the e-mail was sent from the Pacific Coast, according to the send time.”

“Ben was right,” Hannah said. “You are good.”

“Thanks. Are you ready for the message?”

“Yes.”

“It reads: Who the fuck are you? and it’s signed K. Woodley. That’s all, short and not-so-sweet. Do you want me to respond?”

Dumbfounded, Hannah was at a loss for a moment.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’ll respond,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead,” Jennifer said.

“Okay, here goes: Mr. Woodley—Someone else is following her. If you or Mr. Kirkabee—” Hannah paused. “Is that the name?”

“That’s right. Kirkabee, go ahead.”

Hannah continued. She could hear the faint clacking of fingers on a keyboard as she dictated. Jennifer was taking it all down. “If you or Mr. Kirkabee have seen this man, please furnish a description or identification at this address as soon as possible. He is dangerous. Be advised, he may be responsible for the death of Ronald Craig, and could target you next. Avoid sailing or boating. There is a high risk of sabotage to a sailboat or yacht.”

“Is that it?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Hannah replied, with a sigh of relief. Yet she was still gripping the receiver a bit too tightly.

Jennifer read the message back to her. It sounded all right. With the note mentioning both Ronald Craig and the new detective, Kirkabee, by name, at least Kenneth would know to take it seriously.

“No changes? I’m about to send it,” Jennifer said.

“Go ahead. Thanks.”

“Okay, it’s sent, Hannah,” she said. “I’ll call you when I get a reply. What time will you be home tonight?”

“Around six.”

“All right. Is—um,” she paused. “Is Ben going to be there?”

“He might be,” Hannah answered carefully.

Jennifer didn’t say anything.

Hannah let out a skittish laugh. “This sure is awkward, isn’t it?”

“Ben asked me to do this for him,” Jennifer said. “That’s why I’m doing it, Hannah. I want my husband back.”

“I understand,” Hannah murmured.

“So I’m not asking any questions I don’t want to hear the answers to. I’ll call you when I get a reply here.”

“Thank you, Jennifer,” Hannah said.

She heard a click on the other end of the line.

“Darkness, Light, and Shadow: Essays on Film, edited by Brendan Leonard,” said the librarian at Seattle’s downtown branch. The wiry, middle-aged black man stood behind the counter at his computer terminal. Hannah could see the computer screen reflected in his glasses. “That’s checked out right now. Went out today, in fact.”

“Today?” Hannah asked. “Does it say what time today?”

He nodded. “About two hours ago; four twenty-three P.M., to be exact.” He started typing something. “And I’m sorry, but that’s the only copy we have in the whole system. The current due date is November twelfth. Would you like to put it on hold?”

Hannah sighed. “Thanks anyway. You couldn’t tell me who checked out the book, could you?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

Hannah worked up a smile. “I understand. Maybe you could help me with something else. Does it say there in your computer when the book was previously checked out?”

With a sigh, the librarian started typing on the keyboard again. “Yes, the book was last checked out on February sixteenth of this year.”

“So—it just sat on the shelf for eight months, up until two hours ago?” Hannah said.

“At four twenty-three,” the man said, nodding.

“Just a little over an hour after someone told me about the book.”

“Funny coincidence,” the librarian said. “But then, isn’t that the way it always is?”

“It’s no coincidence,” Hannah murmured.

She thanked the man, then turned away.

Ben was waiting to walk Joyce home, while Hannah helped her on with her raincoat.

Joyce paused in the doorway and peeked inside her purse. “Oh, my keys…” She smiled at Ben. “Could you be a dear and check Guy’s room? I think I left them there.”

Ben nodded. “No sweat.”

Once he started down the hall, Joyce pulled Hannah out to the walkway. “Honey, I don’t mean to be a buttinski,” she whispered. “And if it’s none of my beeswax, just say so. But I don’t want to see you get hurt—”

“What is it?” Hannah asked in a hushed tone.

Joyce grimaced. “Oh, Hannah, I hate to tell you, but he’s married. His wife called here tonight.”

Hannah quickly shook her head. “It’s okay, Joyce. I know he’s married. He’s separated. In fact, I talked with his wife today myself.”

“Oh, I see,” Joyce replied, her brow wrinkled. “Kind of.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Hannah said, taking hold of her hand. “In fact, it’s pretty messed up, but I think it’ll work itself out. At least, I hope so.”

“All right, honey.” She squeezed Hannah’s hand. “You’re like my own daughter; you should know that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Hannah kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Joyce.”

Ben came from the hallway, empty-handed. “Sorry, no luck…”

Joyce pulled her keys from her purse. “Oh, silly me,” she announced. “They were here all the time. I must be getting senile. Thanks, handsome. C’mon, walk me home. I’m liable to lose my way.”

Hannah watched them leave; then she stared out at the city and the Space Needle. She would have to leave Seattle very soon. It’ll work itself out, she’d told Joyce. Her packing up and skipping town with Guy was the only way it could work out.

She went to check on him. He was dozing. His chicken pox seemed to be clearing up. Joyce said he was on the mend. All this week, he kept talking about how he wanted to be better in time for Halloween. He would probably be spending the holiday in a motel someplace—away from his friends, and Joyce, whom he adored. He was becoming too fond of Ben as well.

Hannah grabbed a sweater and walked back out to the balcony. She saw Ben emerge from the stairwell. Smiling, he came up to her and kissed her on the mouth.

Hannah carefully pulled back. “I hear Jennifer called tonight,” she said. “Joyce told me.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “In fact, Joyce is worried. While I was walking her home just now, she said I’d better not break your heart.”

“She’s a little late,” Hannah murmured. The chilly night wind kicked up, and she rubbed her arms.

Ben leaned against the railing. “Are you still sore at me for calling Jennifer this morning?”

Hannah shrugged. “Maybe not so sore as I am confused. I don’t understand how you can be so—cool about it.”

He smiled sadly. “The thing is—staying with you and Guy these past few nights has been pretty terrific. It would be easy to fool myself into thinking we have a future together, Hannah. But we don’t. You made that clear to me early on. Anyway, this morning, it hit me—my future is with my wife.”

He gazed out at the cityscape, and sighed. “So—I went out this morning, had a cup of coffee, and called her from the pay phone in Starbucks. And I asked for her help. You know, you can’t be mad at someone and ask them to help you at the same time. It’s impossible.”

“That’s very nice,” was all Hannah could say.

Ben touched her shoulder. “But it doesn’t change how I feel about you. For me, last night was wonderful. I realize we have to go in separate directions. But you know something? If I never see you again after tomorrow, I won’t ever forget you—or the past few nights with you.”

Hannah started to cry. She turned away from him and clung to the railing. “What did your wife call about tonight?” she asked, her voice strained.

Ben sighed. “She was relaying another message. Kenneth and this private detective, Kirkabee; they’ve seen your stalker. They even have a couple of photos of him.”

She gazed at him. “Really?”

“Well, we still need to find out if Kenneth is on the level. I’m meeting him tomorrow night at Duke’s restaurant.”

Hannah started shaking her head. “No, you can’t. It’s probably some kind of trap—”

“Hannah, he’s agreed to show me the photos of this stalker. We could put an end to this nightmare. And maybe I can work something out with Kenneth, get him to drop the charges. You won’t have to spend the rest of your life on the run—”

“You don’t know him,” Hannah said. “He’d never give me a break. He’s going to take Guy away. He’ll follow you back here. He’ll break in, and take Guy. I’d have no recourse—”

“Hannah, I’m pretty certain he already knows where you live,” Ben said. He motioned with his arm toward the parking lot where Ronald Craig had been mowed down. “Hell, Kenneth or one of his detectives is probably out there right now, watching us. Isn’t it crazy? We’re communicating through my wife in New York and her e-mail account, while they’re right out there. HEY!” Ben yelled, “SEE YOU TOMORROW AT DUKE’S! FIVE-THIRTY!”

“Stop it!” Hannah hissed. She quickly pulled him inside and shut the door. She broke down and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, everything’s so screwed up,” she cried. “I don’t want to hurt your marriage, but I can’t stand losing you, either. Don’t take any chances tomorrow. Kenneth might try to hurt you, and whoever is behind these murders—he, well, if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Ben kissed her forehead and rocked her back and forth in his arms. “Hush now,” he whispered. “It’s okay. We’ll get these guys before they kill anyone else. Quit worrying about me. Everything’s going to work out…”

Hannah held onto him. She didn’t believe a word. Still, she held onto him.

Nineteen

“Say cheese!” Tish called, aiming her Polaroid camera at them.

Seth put his arm around Hannah. She tried not to tense up. “Cheese,” they said in unison. The flash went off, blinding her for a moment.

“All right, now I want just Seth in this next one,” Tish declared. “Oh, and take off your glasses.”

Hannah stepped toward Tish, who handed her the undeveloped photo.

Seth removed his glasses, then smiled self-consciously for the camera. “I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” he said.

“It’s for my personal Rogue’s Gallery,” Tish replied from behind the Polaroid camera. “I put all the newbies through this. Now, say cheese.”

“Havarti,” Seth said. Then he blinked as the flash went off.

“Okay, customers in the store,” Tish announced. “Back to work.” She plucked the first photo out of Hannah’s hand, and started for the break room.

Seth put on his glasses and stepped back behind his register.

Hannah followed Tish. “We need to talk about next month’s schedule,” she said, ducking into the break room after her. Hannah closed the door.

Tish gave her the Polaroid photos. “Okay, so why did I have to bring in my camera this morning?” she whispered. “What’s with the photo session?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Hannah said. She glanced at the two Polaroid photos. The images were starting to emerge.

“I want you to take a look at these pictures for me,” Hannah said.

Scott was sitting up in his hospital bed. His chicken pox seemed to have cleared up—at least on his face. He frowned at her. “Well, that’s a fine greeting. No Hello, how are you, how are your chicken pox? Just a very brusque Take a look at these pictures for me. Sweet.”

Hannah figured he couldn’t see her smiling behind the surgical mask they’d made her wear along with the disposable smock. Scott was still in isolation. “Mea culpa, mea culpa,” she said, stepping up to the foot of his bed. “So—how are you? How are your lousy chicken pox?”

“Well, I must be okay,” he said. “Because they’re springing me from this joint day after tomorrow. And remember that cute intern I liked? Guess what?”

“He’s straight?” Hannah asked.

“No. Gay as a Maypole—and a resident, not an intern. We have a dinner date next week. Can you feature that? I’m going to be the wife of a doctor.”

“Well, that’s fantastic. So—you’re not holding out for Nutty Ned?”

“No, Ned’s all yours, babe,” he replied. “I know you’ve had your eye on him. So what’s going on with you? I haven’t talked to you since the day before yesterday—”

“The day after Britt’s funeral,” Hannah said soberly.

“Yeah,” Scott muttered. “Well, we’ve managed to avoid the obvious. What about this video-killer? Do these pictures have anything to do with him?”

Hannah nodded. “Maybe. This is the teacher’s assistant in my film class. He just started working at the store. We had a strange discussion yesterday about an essay he wrote for my film professor. It’s kind of hard to explain, but I think he could be involved in these murders somehow. Anyway, this morning I had Tish take these snapshots. I thought you might recognize him from hanging around the store.” She pulled the Polaroids out of her purse and started to hand them to him.

“You have to show them to me, Han,” Scott said, leaning forward. “I can’t handle anything yet.”

“Oops, sorry.” She walked around to the side of the bed and held up the photos for him to see. “Does he look familiar?”

Scott squinted at both pictures. “Oh, yeah. He used to come into the store a lot. It was a while back—before you started working there. The glasses are new. Is he a pal of yours?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, he’s the new guy at work. He took over for Britt.”

“Well, that’s gonna suck.”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“It’s gonna suck working with him. He’s an arrogant SOB, if I remember correctly. The guy had attitude up the wazoo.”

“Does the name Seth Stroud ring a bell?”

Scott shook his head. “Nope, that’s not it. I mean, if he’s who I think he is. This guy went by some other name.” He shrugged and sat back against the bed pillows. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

“Well, Tish thought he looked familiar, too.”

“She always works the day shift. I doubt she would have seen this guy very much. He usually came in at night. He was a real film buff, and snotty about it, too. I remember him taking off on me one afternoon because I mispronounced Akira Kurosawa. Very big deal.”

Hannah frowned. “That sounds like Seth.”

“Well,” Scott said, settling back. “When I knew that SOB, his name wasn’t Seth Stroud.”

Ben was late.

They were supposed to meet in the hospital’s little courtyard. Hannah had been waiting on a park bench for the last ten minutes.

The notion that she’d never see Scott again hit her hard. Somewhere down the line, she might call him from a pay phone from another city, but that was all she could hope for. This quick visit had been the last time she would ever lay eyes on Scott. What a shame she couldn’t even hug her friend good-bye.

Hannah fought off the pangs of premature homesickness. She dug the photos of Seth Stroud out of her purse, and studied them. She wondered why he’d changed his name, and what he was hiding.

She glanced up from the Polaroids to see Ben approaching. He wore a denim shirt, jeans, and a tan jacket. His face was flushed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, catching his breath. “I practically ran up the hill here.” Despite a late-autumn chill in the air, he was perspiring.

“Well, I’m due back at work—two minutes ago,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch. “Want to walk back down the hill with me?”

He nodded again. “Fine. Sorry to hold you up. You had a visitor this morning. And I was following him—up until about ten minutes ago.”

“A visitor? Where, at my apartment?”

“Gulletti,” Ben said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “C’mon. I’ll tell you on the way back to the store.”

They started down a residential street, past piles of fallen leaves along the sidewalk.

“I followed Gulletti from his house, to Seattle’s Best Coffee, to the college,” Ben explained as they strolled. “Then, something must have happened, because he suddenly tore-ass out of his office. He tried to hail a cab in front of the college, but without any luck. So he hoofed it to your apartment building. He buzzed, and I guess Joyce gave him the heave-ho. She wouldn’t let him up. So he went to the video store. He didn’t stay long. I could spot Seth in there through the window. I didn’t know what to make of it, but they both seemed surprised to see each other.”

“Seth didn’t want Paul knowing that he was working there with me,” Hannah explained.

“Maybe that’s it,” Ben said. “Anyway, something weird was going on between them, I could tell. Then Paul went back to the school—and his office. That’s where I left him.”

“I wonder what Paul wanted,” Hannah murmured. “By the way.” She dug into her purse, then took out the two Polaroids and handed them to Ben. “Here are the pictures of Seth. Do you have a photo of Paul?”

Studying the photographs while they walked, Ben nodded. “Yeah, the portrait from his review column in the newspaper. This one is cute of you.”

Hannah plucked it out of his hand. “You know, the picture of Seth alone should be enough—even without the glasses. I don’t want Kenneth seeing any current pictures of me.”

“Well, they claim they have photos of your stalker. They probably have photos of you already, Hannah.”

“Just the same, I’d rather not give them any.”

“I understand,” Ben said, shoving the photo in his jacket pocket. “I can always draw a pair of glasses on this picture of Seth—if they don’t recognize him without the specs.” He looked toward the store, just a block away. “You be careful. I hate the idea of you working alongside of Seth Stroud all afternoon.”

“If that’s his real name,” Hannah said.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she replied. “Besides, he’s probably gone already. He only works half a day today. Paul’s class is tonight.”

She wrapped her arm around his. “You’re the one who needs to be careful. You’re taking all the risks this afternoon. I don’t trust Kenneth. Just get in and out of there as quickly as possible.”

He nodded. “I know, I know. We already went over this last night. Three things: one, I warn him about the boat explosion; two, I get a description of your stalker; and three, I set up a meeting between you and Kenneth for Saturday night.”

“By which time, Guy and I will be long gone,” Hannah added, staring straight ahead. “At least, I hope.”

A Seahawks game was broadcasting over three strategically located TV sets in Duke’s Chowderhouse. The Happy Hour crowd in the bar seemed rather sedate, and the restaurant area was just starting to fill up. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunset cast an amber haze over the Lake Union marina.

Ben sat down at a small table near the window. Hannah didn’t have any pictures of her estranged husband, so Ben had no way of recognizing Kenneth Woodley. But Kenneth and his detectives had been watching Hannah for several days. They knew him, they had an advantage. Ben imagined they were staring at him this very moment.

He ordered a Lite beer, and sat there, waiting to be recognized. He glanced over at the different men at the bar. One of them was smirking back at him. He had black hair, a goatee, and wore a tight, gray, long-sleeve T-shirt that showed off his brawny physique. Ben wondered if this was Kenneth, or the detective, or maybe just some gay guy who found him attractive.

Ben looked away, toward one of the TVs. His beer arrived and he paid for it. After the waitress left, he glanced again at Mr. Tight T-shirt, who was still staring at him.

Ben turned away again. Gazing out the window, he sipped his beer.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ben glanced up at the Tight T-shirt Man. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

The man chuckled, then slid into the chair across from Ben. He sipped his martini, then sat back. “Maybe you’re waiting for me, buddy.” He glanced out the window. “You know, for somebody who’s so full of gloom and doom about sailboats, it’s pretty weird you agreed to meet here.”

Ben looked at all the boats docked just outside the restaurant. “It was your suggestion. I’ve never been here before. Are you Kirkabee?”

The man with the goatee smiled. “I might be. Who are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” Ben said.

“That’s true. You don’t matter to me at all.”

Ben gave him an ironic smile. Someone sat down in the chair directly behind him, and Ben inched forward. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I want to explain my warning in that e-mail. There’s someone else following her, and he’s responsible for several murders—including the hit-and-run of your pal Ronald Craig. This killer likes to give my friend videos illustrating how he plans to murder his next victims—and it’s always someone she knows. In the last video, there was an explosion aboard a yacht.”

The man shook his head and chuckled. “Pretty incredible.”

“Before Ronald Craig was killed, my friend received a video showing someone repeatedly mowed down by a car.”

The man stopped smiling. “Yeah?”

Ben nodded. “In your response to my e-mail, you said you’ve seen this stalker. You said you have surveillance photos of him.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, maybe we can identify him. He murdered Ronald Craig. I’d think you’d want to see this killer brought to justice.”

The man stared at Ben, and his smile returned. “Funny. Bringing someone to justice is exactly why I’m here. Speaking for my client, most fathers don’t appreciate having their sons stolen out from under them.”

“We can get to that in a minute,” Ben said. “For now, I’d like to see these photos you have of the stalker.”

“Why?” the man asked. “You already know who this stalker-killer is. And so do I.” He sat back. “You can cut the bullshit. We both know—it’s you.”

Hannah went through the last of the kitchen drawers. She’d managed to fill two tall trash bags with junk. One drawer had been full of finger paintings and art projects Guy had made at Alphabet Soup Day Care. She didn’t want to part with them. At the same time, someone planning to skip town couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

She’d sent Joyce home. Guy was feeling better. He sat in bed, playing with an Etch A Sketch that Ben had brought for him earlier today.

The doctor had told her the recovery time for chicken pox was ten to fourteen days. By Saturday, it would be ten days. She didn’t want to take chances with Guy’s health. But they couldn’t risk staying on any longer. They had to leave Saturday. They’d take a cab out of town, stay in a cheap motel, then catch a bus or train heading south, maybe Phoenix, Tucson, or San Diego.

Hannah worked the bottom drawer back in its opening, then glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly six. If all was going smoothly, Ben was wrapping up the meeting with Kenneth right now. But, she knew from experience, things never went smoothly with Kenneth.

She opened the cupboard, and took out a canister of bread crumbs and a packet of elbow macaroni. She was baking a macaroni and cheese souffle tonight, one of Guy’s favorites. She’d let him put on his robe and socks, and eat at the kitchen counter; his first meal out of bed in over a week.

The intercom buzzer went off, startling her. It was too soon for Ben to be here already.

Hannah hesitated before picking up the intercom phone. It buzzed again, then again. Whoever was outside must have started leaning on the button, because the buzzer droned continuously.

“Mom?” Guy called from his bedroom.

“It’s all right, honey,” she called back. “I’ve got it!”

She snatched up the intercom phone. “Yes? Hello?”

“Hannah? It’s Paul,” he said anxiously. “Paul Gulletti. I need to see you. Could you buzz me in? It’s important.”

“Well, I—ah, have people here, friends of mine,” she said. “I’ll meet you out on the balcony. All right? Come up the stairwell to the third floor.”

Hannah pressed the entry button, then hung up the phone. She stepped back into the kitchen. Opening the top kitchen drawer, she pulled out a small steak knife and carefully slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. She untucked her pullover to cover up the knife handle. Then she grabbed the cordless phone, stepped outside, and closed the door.

Paul came from the stairwell with an envelope in his hand. The customarily laid-back, confident professor now seemed rattled. He was out of breath from running up the three flights. As he came toward her, Hannah instinctively backed away.

“Don’t you have class in fifteen minutes?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m double-parked outside. You want a ride there?”

She shook her head. “No, I—as I told you, I have company.” She showed him the phone in her hand. “Plus, I’m expecting an important phone call. So—now really isn’t a good time, Paul.”

“Hannah, listen. I came here because I’m worried about you. I think someone might want to—hurt you.”

“Who?” she asked, stealing a glance toward her neighbor’s window. No one seemed to be home.

“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “Someone broke into my office last night, or maybe early this morning. They left these photos of you on my desk.”

Paul pulled three black-and-white photographs out of the envelope. Hannah tucked the phone under her arm and studied the pictures. They were shots taken without her knowledge. It was unsettling to view her stalker’s handiwork. In two of the photos, she was in front of the store; the third caught her stepping out the lobby door of her apartment building.

“This has happened twice before,” she heard Paul say. “Both times with students of mine, women I—women with whom I’d become involved.”

Hannah gazed up at him. Paul shrugged. “The first girl was an artist I was seeing named Angela Bramford. Not long after we broke up, I found two photos of Angela on my desk at the college. A couple of days later, someone slipped an envelope under my office door. It had a series of snapshots taken off a television….”

Hannah didn’t interrupt him as he described the photos of Marilyn Monroe’s death scene from Niagara.

“The day after I got those pictures, Angela was strangled. Her body was found near one of the entrances to the Convention Center, beneath three big bells….”

Paul then told her about Rae Palmer, and the next group of candid portraits he’d received. If he was the killer, he was giving away an awful lot.

“The day after I found the pictures of Rae in the pocket of my jacket—hell, I still don’t know how they got in there—another envelope was slid under my office door. Seth was with me at the time. I remember having to wait until he left. In the envelope was this horrible murder sequence from Looking for Mr. Goodbar.”

“What happened to Rae Palmer?” Hannah asked, though she already knew the answer.

Paul frowned. “I have no idea. She disappeared without a trace. But I’m pretty convinced she died like Diane Keaton’s character in Goodbar. God knows what happened to the body.”

“Why haven’t you called the police?”

He sighed. “Hannah, I’m a married man. I’m also a professor. I have a newspaper column. I’ve had books published. I’m a respected man….”

That’s not entirely true, Hannah wanted to say. I don’t respect you. But she kept her mouth shut and continued to study him. She wanted to see if he was lying.

“When I found those photos of you this morning, it scared the hell out of me. I’m worried about you, Hannah. I’ve been running around like a crazy man today. I tried to get ahold of you earlier. I stopped by here—and the store. I’m pretty sure someone was following me.”

Hannah said nothing. Apparently, Paul had felt Ben’s presence.

“Listen,” he said. “Do whatever you have to do; buy a gun, or leave town, or get police protection. I’d go to the police myself, but I can’t get involved in this. I have a marriage and a reputation to protect.”

Hannah bit her lip. She couldn’t very well criticize his reluctance to go to the police. “You don’t have any idea who might be behind these murders?” she asked finally. “None at all?”

Paul shrugged.

“Well, what about Seth?” Hannah asked. “He knew both victims. He knows me. And he knows movies. He’d have access to your office, too.”

“But he was in my office when the Goodbar photos were slipped under the door.”

“So? His roommate probably delivered the pictures. They’re probably working together on this.”

“What roommate? Seth doesn’t have a roommate.”

“Yes, he does,” Hannah argued. “I’ve met him.”

Paul frowned. “That’s news to me. I was sure Seth lived alone.”

Hannah glanced at her wristwatch, then tucked the photos in her back pocket. She felt the knife there. “You’ll be late for class,” she said. “Could you do me a favor? Can you get me a copy of that book you helped write, Darkness, Light, and Shadow? I want to read your essay. Seth claims he wrote it.”

Paul put on an indignant look and started to shake his head. “Seth merely contributed a few notes,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. “That’s my essay. I wrote it.”

Hannah studied him. For the first time tonight, she could see he was lying. Did that mean all the rest of it was the truth?

“Could you just get me a copy of that book as soon as possible?” she heard herself say.

“Is there anything else you want?” he asked. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Yes, let me know when you get the next series of photos,” Hannah steadily replied. “I’d like to know how I’m supposed to die.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ben asked.

The man with the goatee took another sip of his martini. “We know it’s you out there, watching her every move—and watching us. And when you’re not doing that, you’re doing her. You’re fucking her, aren’t you? Don’t you ever sleep? She’s got you jumping through hoops, doesn’t she, buddy?”

Ben shook his head. “Listen, you’re way off base.” He glanced around at the other people in the bar, then lowered his voice. “I’m no murderer. Hell, I contacted you and set up this meeting to warn you. I’m trying to prevent another murder from happening.”

“Seems more like a threat than a warning,” the man retorted.

“Have you actually seen this guy?” Ben asked. “You said you have surveillance photos of him. Well, let’s see them. Show me some pictures of me stalking her.”

The man with the goatee just shook his head.

“He still hasn’t denied that he’s fucking her.”

Ben turned in his chair to stare at the man seated behind him. With his thin face, prominent nose, and receding wavy hair, the man’s looks were borderline ugly. He wore a sweater that looked expensive and imported. He gave Ben a cocky grin.

“You’re Kenneth Woodley,” Ben murmured.

Kenneth got up and brought his chair to their table. He dropped a few photographs in front of Ben, then took his martini and sat down. “Well, you’re not quite as stupid as you look,” he told Ben. “Though you misspelled rendezvous in your last e-mail, doofus.”

Ben looked at the photos. They were all taken at night. In each one, there was a phantomlike figure that couldn’t be identified. The pictures reminded him of those photos Kennedy assassination experts showed of the grassy knoll, with blurred objects that could be killers lurking in the bushes.

“This isn’t me in these pictures,” Ben muttered. He reached into his pocket, then pulled out the Polaroid of Seth—along with Paul’s photo from his review column. “Here. Do either of these guys look familiar?”

Kenneth glanced at the photos for a moment, then shoved them across the table to his private detective friend.

“The younger guy just started working with her at the video store,” Kirkabee explained. “The other one I don’t know about.”

“So tell me the truth,” Ben said. “Have you ever gotten a good look at this stalker?”

Kenneth smirked. “No, you’ve managed to elude us until now.”

“Goddamn it,” Ben hissed. “I’m not the guy.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Kenneth went on. “The only reason I responded to your threatening e-mails was mere curiosity—”

“That wasn’t a threat,” Ben cut in. “It was a warning that—”

“I wanted to meet you and see just how far that sorry bitch has sunk,” Kenneth continued. “Nice arrangement, huh? She spreads her legs for you, and you do her talking for her. I was going to say you do her killing for her, but now that I’ve met you, I don’t think you have the balls or the smarts to pull off a good hit. She probably hired someone else to mow down Ron Craig, didn’t she?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ben muttered. “You’re delusional. Haven’t you listened to a word I’m saying?”

Kenneth nodded to his private detective, then got to his feet. Kirkabee gathered up the photographs.

“You’re the one who’s going to listen to me,” Kenneth whispered, leaning over the table. “Next time you fuck that bitch, it’ll be a conjugal visit in a federal penitentiary. So long, doofus.”

The two men headed for the front door. Ben threw a few dollars on the table, then hurried out after them. A gust of cold night air hit him. The restaurant was right on the water. Kenneth and the private investigator were walking ahead, winding toward the parking garage on the land side.

“Are you actually going to press charges against her?” Ben called out. He caught up with them. “Do you want it coming out in court that you beat the hell out of that woman? She ran away to protect herself—and her son.”

Kenneth whispered something to Kirkabee. They stopped and turned to look at him in front of the garage entrance.

“No jury would convict her,” Ben continued. “There are hospital records. She’s got scars. I’ve seen them. Listen, she’s willing to meet with you on Saturday and talk this out. You’ll have a chance to see your son—”

“Shut him up,” Kenneth muttered to his private investigator.

All at once, Kirkabee slammed his fist across Ben’s jaw.

Ben reeled back against the garage wall. The searing pain rushed over his face. He was blinded, and for a moment all he saw was white. But he heard Kenneth say “I’ll see my son tonight. As for Hannah, she might just chalk up another stay in the hospital.”

Ben felt someone step behind him and grab his arms with a talonlike grip. Still blinded by the sucker punch, he tried to struggle. He had just started to see again when Kenneth Woodley came into focus. He slapped Ben across the face with the back of his hand. Then he stepped forward and shoved his knee up into Ben’s groin.

“Let him go,” he grumbled.

Ben collapsed to the pavement. He couldn’t breathe. Lying on his side, he curled up in a fetal position. He watched Kenneth Woodley and his detective friend heading back toward the water, down to the marina.

He realized one of the boats docked outside the restaurant was theirs.

Ben finally caught a breath, and then another. Lifting his head from the pavement, he felt something warm trickling down his face. He realized his mouth and nose were bleeding. He pulled himself up and staggered a few feet until the dizziness overpowered him. He grabbed onto a post and tried to focus on Kenneth Woodley and the private investigator.

They were on the deck of a yacht, with Woodley at the helm, barking orders at Kirkabee. They started to move away from the dock.

“NO! DON’T!” Ben yelled.

Frustrated and helpless, Ben watched the boat arc around the restaurant toward the open water.

He backtracked toward the garage and ran through the parking lot near the marina. He tried to follow the course of Kenneth’s yacht as it glided across the silver-black water. He figured they must have been headed for another dock off Lake Union.

Ben didn’t try to call to them. They were too far away. But he could still see Kenneth at the wheel and Kirkabee sitting near him, pulling at the rope lines. Ben could see the white and blue sail starting to ascend against the dark horizon.

Then he saw the flash, the first spark.

The explosion seemed to light up the sky. Flames and debris shot fifty feet in the air. Smoke plumes belched from the center of the yacht.

Ben’s ears rang from the loud detonation, yet he thought he heard a bloodcurdling scream. He saw someone aboard what was left of that yacht, and the man was on fire. It might have been Kenneth. Ben wasn’t certain. That burning, flailing figure was like a ghost amid the flames.

A second blast ripped through the boat, tearing the scorched, sinking vessel into pieces—along with its two passengers.

Twenty

Hannah hadn’t expected to cry.

But after Ben had called from a gas station and told her about the boat explosion, she hung up the phone and burst into tears. She kept wondering why she was crying over the death of someone who had made her so miserable for so many years. Kenneth was a son of a bitch, but she hadn’t wanted him to die.

Maybe she was crying for herself—for the poor, stupid waitress/actress who had just lost her father, and who had fallen for a cocky, charming man she’d known was all wrong for her. She’d had such great hopes back then, such potential. Perhaps Hannah was finally allowing herself to mourn for that young woman, and everything Kenneth Woodley had done to her. Whatever the reason, she wept for almost an hour, stepping out to the balcony much of the time so Guy wouldn’t hear.

Ben came back around eight o’clock. Hannah gasped at the sight of him. One side of his handsome face was swollen, and his shirt was splattered with blood.

While he was washing up, Hannah went into Guy’s room and told him that Ben had fallen off a bicycle. That didn’t stop Guy from cringing—then crying—when he saw Ben’s battered face a few minutes later. Ben stayed with him a while and managed to calm him down.

Hannah retreated to the kitchen, where she warmed up some of her macaroni and cheese souffle. She also loaded two Ziploc bags full of ice; one for Ben’s face, and the other to assuage the pain from a strike below the belt. Typical Kenneth.

“He’s sleeping,” Ben announced, coming from the hallway. He winced a bit as he sat down at the counter.

“Here,” Hannah said, handing him the impromptu ice bags. “One’s for your face, and the other one’s for your—whatevers.”

“My whatevers thank you,” Ben said, putting one ice bag between his legs, then holding the other to his jaw. “I tried that choo-choo-train routine with Guy, the one you do to help him fall asleep. And it worked. He’s really sweet, Hannah. Rest assured, there’s none of his dad in him.”

Hannah removed a saucepan from the burner. “I have vegetables steaming,” she said. “They need a few more minutes. I’ll get lost, go clean the bathroom or something. Why don’t you call your wife?”

“Did Jennifer call here?”

“No,” Hannah said. “But you should call her. She helped you set up that meeting. She knows it was dangerous. She’s probably worried.”

“You don’t mind?” he asked.

She took the cordless phone out of its cradle and handed it to him. “Call her.”

Hannah headed down the hallway. She went into Guy’s room and tidied up while he slept. She could hear Ben talking on the phone, but tried not to listen. In a strange way, she was glad he hadn’t thought to call his wife. It gave her a chance to be noble. After playing house with Ben Podowski for the last two nights, this was a good reality check for both of them.

Still, a couple of minutes later, as she tossed some things in the bathroom hamper, Hannah couldn’t help catching part of his conversation with Jennifer.

“No, I can’t,” Ben was saying. “Not for few more days. It could even be a few more weeks…. No, she’s leaving town very soon, but I need to stay. I’m involved in this now…. I’ll know more later. Either way, I can’t leave, honey…. Well, I know, but I’m not going anywhere until I find out who’s responsible for Rae…. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Get some sleep, honey. Thanks again—for everything.”

Hannah felt a little tug at her heart. She’d wanted a reality check, but hearing him call Jennifer “honey” was a little too real.

Clearing her throat, Hannah started up the hallway. She turned the corner in time to see Ben put down the cordless phone.

“You were right,” he sighed. “Jennifer said she was freaking out over this meeting. She was hoping I’d call.”

Hannah walked around to the other side of the counter. “It’s nice to have someone to worry about you at times,” she said, serving up his dinner. She set the plate in front of him. “Think you can chew without it hurting?”

“I’ll give it a try,” he said, putting aside the ice bag and picking up his fork. “Thanks, Hannah. This looks great.”

She poured each of them a glass of wine. “After all the phoning and e-mailing back and forth, now there’s this boat explosion. They’re going to think I arranged it.” Hannah sighed. “How much time do you think we have before the police are banging on that door?”

“There wasn’t much left of the boat,” Ben said, frowning. “It might take a few hours to connect the yacht to Kenneth—and then to Kirkabee. Chances are pretty good Kirkabee already gave his agency your name and address, Hannah.” He took a sip of wine. “My guess is we might be okay here tonight. But you’d be pushing your luck to stay on any longer than noon tomorrow.”

“God,” she murmured. “Everything’s closing in at the same time.” Hannah reached on top of the refrigerator, where she’d stashed the photos Paul Gulletti had given her. She set them near Ben’s plate. “I think these pictures mean he’s very close to killing me.”

Ben studied the pictures.

“Paul came by tonight and delivered those,” Hannah said. “He found them on his desk this morning—”

“You let him in while you were alone here with Guy?” Ben asked. “Hannah, you shouldn’t have taken a chance like that—”

“I don’t think it’s Paul,” she cut in. “He told me about the photos we found in his desk. Someone has been leaving those pictures for him in weird places—under his office door, in his coat pocket. It’s a pattern. First come the candid shots of the girl; then, a day or two later, the pictures from a movie murder. And after that, it happens for real—to the girl in the candids.”

“So why didn’t he call the police?” Ben asked.

“He’s married, Ben. He’s afraid. He was involved with the first two victims.”

“So you think it’s Seth?”

She frowned. “I want to read this essay he wrote for Paul. Maybe I can figure out his way of thinking. I have a hunch the other murders—those two rude customers, Ronald Craig and Britt, Kenneth and the other private detective, even the attempt on your life—I have a feeling those people were killed as part of some weird manipulative game he was playing with me.”

“I don’t understand,” Ben said, putting the ice pack on his cheek again.

“I think the explanation might be in this essay Seth wrote and Paul ripped off. It’s in a book called Darkness, Light, and Shadow. Paul said he’d try to get me a copy.”

“I don’t think you’ll have time for that, Hannah. You need to leave here tomorrow.”

Hannah started to refill his wineglass.

Ben shook his head. “No more for me, thanks,” he said. “In fact, I could use some coffee—if you don’t mind making it. I need to step out again.”

“Where are you going?”

He glanced at his wristwatch. “There’s still another hour of class. Seth won’t be home for a while. His roommate could be out, too. This might be a good time to take a look at that garage apartment of his. Maybe Seth has a copy of the book you’re talking about.”

Ben lowered the ice bag from his face. “And I’d also like to check out his collection of home videos.”

He stopped to catch his breath as he stood in front of the Tudor estate on Aloha Street. Ben started down the long driveway toward the garage. He could see his breath in the cold night air. Most of the trees surrounding the estate had lost their leaves already, and the old mansion seemed rather sinister against the indigo sky. There was a light in one of the upstairs windows, but it didn’t look like anybody was home. It was so deathly quiet, he could hear the wind whistling through those naked trees.

All at once, a dog started barking. Ben froze for a moment. He glanced over at the main house. A light went on over the front door, and Ben quickly ducked into some bushes at the side of the driveway. The dog’s incessant yelping continued.

Ben waited, and watched the front of the house. After a couple of minutes, the dog finally shut up. Ben crept out of the bushes, but then two cars—one after another—sped down Aloha Street. He almost jumped back into the shrubbery, yet his feet stayed rooted on the pavement.

Ben made his way down the driveway, hovering close to the bushes. He studied the darkened windows on the side of the house. He kept expecting to see a figure standing in one of them—or perhaps a curtain moving. But he didn’t notice anything.

In the mansion’s shadow, the garage area was dark. Ben glanced over his shoulder at the back of the house. He saw lights in three of the upstairs windows, but no sign of life.

He grabbed hold of the stairway bannister on the side of the garage. “Shit,” he muttered. Small wonder Seth didn’t break his neck going up and down the rickety stairs in the dark.

Each step squeaked as Ben made his way toward the landing at the apartment’s entry. It was too much to hope for an unlocked door, but he tried it anyway. No luck. Pulling his credit card from his wallet, he worked it around the lock area. He thought a burglar alarm might go off at any moment, but apparently Seth and his roommate felt they had nothing worth stealing.

Ben gave up and put his Visa back in his wallet. He stopped to stare at a window about three feet from the other side of the landing’s bannister. It had been left open a crack.

He moved over to the edge of the landing, then threw one leg over the railing. The bannister let out a loud creak. As Ben tried to grab at the windowsill, he felt the railing give way beneath him. He quickly pulled back and braced against the door.

Another car sped by on Aloha Street, and for a moment its headlights swept across the driveway, down toward the garage.

Shaken, Ben didn’t move. He peered back at the house again. It occurred to him that they were probably used to a certain amount of noise back here. Two single men in their twenties lived in this garage apartment. The two roommates probably came and went at all hours. How many times had they locked themselves out? Or did they have an extra key someplace?

Ben reached up for the ledge above the doorway, patting the length of it. Nothing. And there wasn’t a key under the doormat. Frowning, Ben glanced down the stairs. By the bottom step was a flowerpot with a dead plant in it.

He crept down the creaky stairs. Each squeak underfoot seemed amplified in the still night. He finally reached the bottom of the stairs. He moved aside the heavy flowerpot, and found a key.

Skulking back up the steps, Ben prayed the key would open Seth’s door.

It worked.

The apartment was warm, and a bit smelly—like a poorly vented locker room: sweat, testosterone, and dirty clothes. Closing the door behind him, Ben waited for a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

He stood in the living room. A newspaper was strewn on one end of the Salvation Army sofa, and a couple of beer cans littered the coffee table, along with copies of Premiere magazine and Entertainment Weekly.

Ben saw a stack of videos by the TV. He checked the boxes. Six videos had Emerald City Video labels on them, and two of these were porn movies. There were store-bought, slightly beat-up copies of Goodfellas and Apocalypse Now. Three unlabeled videos rounded out his collection.

Peering out the window, Ben checked the house and the driveway. He decided to take a chance, and switched on one of the living-room lamps. He had stay low now; he couldn’t afford to be seen in the window. He switched on the TV and turned the volume to mute.

Popping the first unlabeled video into the VCR, Ben wasn’t sure what he’d see; perhaps some surveillance of Hannah, or maybe Rae’s death, or even someone else’s murder.

What Ben saw was an old Seinfeld rerun. He pressed fast-forward, then stopped in several places on the tape. All he came up with were a couple of other old sitcoms and part of a Saturday Night Live.

Ben found more of the same with the other two unlabeled tapes. He spent over a half hour reviewing them. But he didn’t just watch the TV. He also checked the brick-and-board bookshelf for more videos and the book Hannah had wanted. No luck. He unearthed an envelope full of photos, but none of Hannah or Rae; no surveillance shots. They were snapshots of Seth and his roommate—on a hike with some other guys, and at the beach with a cute girl who seemed to be the roommate’s girlfriend. Ben also searched the front hall closet and kitchen cabinets, but he didn’t find anything.

Switching off the television, he went into the bedroom. There was only one bed for the two of them. Ben didn’t think they were gay. The porn tapes from the store indicated that the two roommates weren’t lovers. And if there was any room for doubt, when Ben checked under the bed, he uncovered several Playboy and Hustler magazines. He figured one of the guys must sleep on the sofa.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was past ten-twenty. Seth might be home at any minute.

Still, Ben kept looking—in the dresser drawers, the closet, and the built-in linen cabinet in the bathroom. If Seth Stroud had a secret collection of videos, camera equipment, and photographs, they weren’t here in this apartment.

Ben switched off the overhead in the bathroom, then returned to the living room. All at once, a beam of light swept through the windows. Ben heard a car.

He quickly ducked down. He could hear loose gravel and pebbles crunching under tires as the car came up the drive. His heart racing, he stayed crouched near the floor. There was no other way out, except for those stairs. He’d break his neck if he tried to climb out the bedroom window.

The dog started barking again.

Ben could hear muted music on the car radio, some oldies station; then the engine stopped purring. The headlights died. A car door clicked open. Then another door.

“Well, I don’t want to walk him,” a woman was saying. The car door shut. “Besides, Kaiser will only do a number two for you, honey.”

“Yeah, I bring out the best in him,” the husband replied. Another door shut. “You don’t suppose Phoebe or Chad walked him, do you?”

“Huh, dream on…”

Their voices faded as they walked up the driveway toward the house.

Ben let out a sigh. He wanted to get out of there before Seth or his roommate came back. But now he had to wait for that man to walk his dog and return home. Maybe then they’d turn off the front light.

With a shaky hand, Ben reached up and switched off the lamp in the living room. He would wait on the floor, in the dark. He’d already searched the place. He wasn’t going to find anything. He had a feeling they were wrong about Seth Stroud.

Hannah was in her bedroom, packing a second suitcase. She planned to leave tomorrow morning.

She’d called Dr. Donnellan, explaining there was a family emergency in Portland. And did he think—after nine days, and no residual fever or symptoms—that Guy was all right to travel? He’d given a cautionary okay for the commute, so long as Guy was kept comfortable, warm, and as isolated as possible. Hannah had decided to take a cab down to Tacoma. She’d lay low in a cheap hotel for a couple of days. Then they’d take a train to Portland or Eugene, maybe even further south. Guy liked trains.

The intercom buzzed. Ben had been gone for over ninety minutes, and she hoped it was him. She wasn’t expecting anyone else—unless the police worked even faster than she and Ben had figured.

Hannah grabbed the intercom phone. “Yes, hello?”

“Hi, it’s Paul. I brought that film book you wanted. Can I come up?”

Hannah hesitated. “Ah, sure. Just a sec.” She pressed the entry button, then hung up the phone. Retrieving the small knife from the kitchen drawer, Hannah hid it in her back pocket again. She unlocked the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind her.

Paul came from the stairwell. He looked more relaxed this time around, and even had a confident stride to his walk as he approached her. Hannah noticed the book in his hand.

“Do you still have company?” he asked, handing her the book.

She nodded. “Yes. Thanks for bringing this, Paul.”

“I missed you in class tonight,” he said. “You know who else wasn’t there? That Ben What’s-his-name.”

She shrugged. “Well, thanks again, Paul.” She reached for the door.

He stepped toward her, then glanced in the window. “Could I come in for a drink? I’d like to meet these friends of yours.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “Now’s not a good time.”

He smiled. “You don’t really have people over, do you?”

Hannah hesitated.

“Are you afraid of me, Hannah?” He smiled. “I just want to help you.” He reached over and touched her face.

She backed against the door. “Paul, I do have someone here right now. He’s—um, spending the night.”

He frowned. “Is it that Ben character?”

“That’s really none of your business,” she said quietly. “Anyway, thank you for the book—”

“Hannah, I wouldn’t trust him if I were you—”

“I’m all right,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay, Paul? Good night.”

Shaking his head, he turned and started for the stairwell.

Hannah ducked back inside, and locked the door. She slipped the knife out of her back pocket and set it on the kitchen counter. She glanced at the book’s cover. Darkness, Light, and Shadow: Essays on Film was emblazoned across a series of celluloid strips. Hannah anxiously flipped through the book until she found the piece Paul had stolen from Seth. It was on page 216: Objects of Obsession: Directors and Their Leading Ladies, Essay by Paul Gulletti.

Hannah began reading:

In Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Vertigo, Scottie Ferguson’s (James Stewart) unquenchable obsession for the blond, enigmatic Madeleine (Kim Novak) leads to a Kafkaesque courtship, ultimately realized in Madeleine’s apparent suicide, her resurrection through a surrogate—the shop girl, Judy (Novak again)—and finally Judy’s death. It is one of Hitchcock’s most personal films, and a parallel to the director’s own obsession with certain leading ladies.

Hitchcock is unquestionably not alone in this phenomenon. Observe, among others, Chaplin, Von Sternberg, Bunuel, Preminger, and Polanski in their personal as well as cinematic relationships with particular actresses, especially those whom they have discovered, groomed, and introduced in their films. Master puppeteers pulling the strings on their beautiful marionettes, these master directors…

Hannah shook her head and sighed. “God, what a snooze.”

Somewhere, amid the heavy-handed writing and paragraph-long sentences, was a possible explanation for what was happening to her. She read on, and found something in the fifth paragraph:

Just as Marilyn Monroe was known to “make love to the camera,” the greatest directors use their camera to make love to their leading ladies. They are the voyeurs, guardians, and manipulators of these screen goddesses. Often, they became executioners as well, killing off the objects of their obsession in their movies….

Hannah grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled down the words voyeur…guardian…manipulator…executioner.

Those were the roles her secret admirer had taken on with her. He made love to her with his camera. And that camera would be focused on her when he carried out her execution.

Hannah started reading again. But the intercom buzzed once more, catching her off guard. She put down the book. Without thinking, Hannah grabbed the intercom phone. “Ben?”

“Hannah, it’s me again, Paul,” he said urgently. “Let me in.”

“What?”

“It’s important! C’mon, buzz me up.”

“Paul, I told you—”

“Hannah, please,” he said. “Something just happened, and I need to talk with you now. We can meet out on the balcony again. I don’t care. Just buzz me in, goddamn it.”

“All right,” she said. Against all her better judgment, Hannah pressed the entry button. She ran down the hall to Guy’s room to make sure he was asleep. Then she hurried back toward the door, stopping for a moment to grab the knife off the counter. She concealed it in her back pocket again.

Paul was already halfway down the balcony walkway when she stepped outside. He was frazzled, and breathing hard. Hannah noticed he had some photos in his hand.

“What’s going on?” she whispered. “You know, my neighbors just called to complain about us talking out here—”

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, interrupting her lie. He showed her the photos. His hand was shaking. “I found these in my car just now.”

Hannah numbly stared at the pictures, two high-quality photocopies on card-stock paper: a series of shots off a TV screen, about forty smaller images in sequential order showing Janet Leigh being stabbed in the Psycho shower. Hannah remembered Scott telling her early last week that the store copy of Psycho had been stolen.

“I think he’s out there now,” she heard Paul say. “I locked my car earlier. I don’t know how he got in. I was only up here talking with you for—what, a couple of minutes?” Paul glanced down toward the parking lot. “I’ll bet you anything he’s watching us.”

Hannah was gazing at one of the small photos: Janet Leigh wincing as she tried to fight off her attacker, the knife just a blur in front of her.

“You realize what this means?” Paul asked, pointing to the photos. “Once he gives me a photo of the movie murder, it’s not long before…” He trailed off.

“Before I end up dying just like this,” Hannah murmured. “But no one will know—except maybe the girl after me. He’ll videotape my murder in the shower, then make sure his next leading lady sees it.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, snapping Hannah out of her stupor. “What girl? Whose leading lady?”

“I’m talking about the next girl you’ll be screwing around with, Paul,” she replied, frowning at him. “Your next ‘favorite student,’ my replacement. Can’t you see the pattern? These are women you’ve been involved with—or, in my case, a woman you wanted. We’ve all become his leading ladies, his victims, Objects of Obsession.”

He shook his head. “Hannah, I’ve had nothing to do with any of this—”

“No, you just keep moving on to the next one,” Hannah said. “And you don’t look back. If no one found out, it didn’t happen, right?”

He was still shaking his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. But listen, if you don’t want to go to the police, maybe you should pack up and get out of town, go stay with some old friends, someplace where you know you’ll be safe.”

She backed toward the door. “Thanks, Paul. You can go now.”

“Hannah, please—”

Ducking inside, she closed the door on him, then locked it.

Her back to the door, Hannah suddenly realized that she was stepping right into her killer’s trap. Tomorrow she would leave Seattle a fugitive, and stay the night in a cheap roadside motel.

It was just what Janet Leigh had done in Psycho.

Crouched down at the foot of the stairs, Ben put Seth’s key back under the flowerpot. He had watched the owner of the house, a stocky man with red hair, return from walking the dog. Now, only two of the windows were lit up in the big house. It was almost eleven o’clock.

Ben started up the driveway, past the car, a Dodge Caravan. He glanced over his shoulder toward the garage, and stopped. He wondered if the family let Seth store anything in their garage. They didn’t seem to use it for parking their car.

Skulking back toward garage, Ben found the side door, and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. He stepped into the dark two-car garage. It was crammed with so much junk there was no room for a car. A dim shaft of light came from a window on the opposite wall. Ben could make out silhouettes of bicycles, a lawnmower, rakes, brooms, a broken chair on top of a table, old lawn furniture. But he couldn’t see anything else.

Ben noticed the light switch by the door. There was no window along the wall where he stood. No one from the house would know the garage light was on. He decided to take a chance, and flicked on the switch.

All at once, he heard a click, then a loud mechanical humming noise. The light went on, and the garage door started to yawn open.

“Jesus,” Ben murmured, flicking the switch again. The gears shifted noisily. The light from the garage had already spread out to the driveway. But the descending door started to block it out again.

Ben knew he would have to make a run for it. He quickly glanced around the garage while the light was still on, taking everything in before it became dark again. He saw an old kiddie pool, more lawn equipment, old cans of paint stacked up; but no file cabinets or mysterious boxes—nothing where somebody might be storing some secret videotapes or photographs. No one would leave expensive video equipment in such a dusty, unkempt place.

The garage light went out.

Ben opened the door a crack and peered back at the house. No change: the same two windows with lights on. Everything was quiet again.

Slowly he opened the door and stepped outside. In the distance, he could hear a siren. He crept around to the front of the garage. Looking up at the house again, Ben noticed someone at one of the windows. He ducked behind the car.

The wail of the police siren grew louder, closer.

Ben carefully peered above the hood of the Dodge Caravan. He could still see someone in the window. It was the stocky, red-haired man, and he seemed to be looking out toward the garage. He finally turned away, then disappeared from view.

Staying low, Ben darted from behind the car to the bushes at the side of the driveway. It sounded as if the police car or fire truck was coming up Aloha Street. He glanced back to see if he could escape into the neighboring yard. A tall chain-link fence divided the properties.

The siren was deafening now. The trees and houses along Aloha were bathed by a swirling red strobe. He held his breath as the squad car sped past the old Tudor mansion, then continued up the block.

He waited another minute. Staying close to the tall shrubs at the side of the driveway, Ben hurried to the street. Then he started back toward Hannah’s.

She hadn’t quite fallen asleep, but she felt herself drifting off. Hannah was lying on the sofa with her head resting on Ben’s lap. He’d covered her with a blanket. From his breathing, just a decibel away from snoring, she guessed he’d nodded off an hour ago. They were both still dressed. It might have been more comfortable in her bed, but she didn’t feel right about that. At the same time, she needed to be with him. Perhaps they were meant to be uncomfortable tonight, a reminder that he was going back to his wife, and in a few hours she would be leaving town.

Ben had been upset with her for letting Paul come by a second and third time tonight. Having found no evidence whatsoever in Seth’s apartment, Ben was now convinced that Paul was the killer.

Perhaps he was right. Though Seth claimed to have written the essay, it was Paul’s name on the piece.

The article kept focusing on the director’s courtship-by-camera with the objects of his obsession. Once again, the author mentioned four stages to this type of fixation, with the director as voyeur, protector, manipulator, and finally, executioner.

Ben had said it was a bit far-fetched to assume someone would commit a series of murders based on some theory about film directors.

“What about Charles Manson basing mass murder on the Beatles song ‘Helter Skelter’?” Hannah had pointed out.

Ben had been worried about her going off alone tomorrow, repeating all of Janet Leigh’s movements in Psycho. He’d mentioned possibly accompanying her—or at least following her to make certain she was safe.

Hannah wondered whether or not it would be easier for the three of them to “disappear” together. Part of her felt the need to end things with Ben now, and just move on. She and Guy had already become too attached to him. She was used to being alone—even when it was scary.

Hannah listened to Ben’s breathing. There was a comfort to that sound, and she felt herself drifting off.

Suddenly, a loud banging jolted her awake. Startled, Ben nearly knocked her off the sofa.

“My God, what’s happening?” Hannah whispered. It took them both a moment to realize someone was pounding on the door.

All at once, Guy let out a shriek.

Hannah bolted off the couch and ran down the hall to his room. She flicked on the light switch.

Guy was sitting up in bed. He’d already thrown back the covers. He was still screaming.

Hannah ran to him, and took him in her arms. Hugging her son, she anxiously glanced around the room.

The pounding outside had stopped.

“What happened, honey? Are you okay?” she asked, trying to get her breath.

Guy pressed his face against her stomach. “A lion was chasing me,” he cried, the words muffled.

Hannah heard the locks clicking on the front door. “Ben?” she called nervously.

“I’m just checking things out,” he answered.

Her hand trembling, Hannah stroked Guy’s hair. “You just had a bad dream, honey. That’s all.” She waited until she heard the front door close, the locks clicking once more. “Ben?” she called again.

A moment later, he appeared in Guy’s doorway. He held up a videocassette in his hand, the label turned in her direction. “They left this,” he whispered. “It’s Vertigo.”

It was another forty-five minutes before Guy was asleep once again. Hannah had taken his temperature: 98.5. Ben had read him some Dr. Suess. Then Hannah had fallen back on her standard choo-choo routine to lull him to dreamland.

Hannah switched off the light in Guy’s room. Ben picked up the Vertigo tape, which he’d left on the floor in the hall, outside Guy’s door.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Didn’t you tell me that Gulletti showed you the shower scene from Psycho? Why is he giving us a tape of Vertigo?”

Hannah shrugged. “Maybe he showed me those pictures to throw me off. I don’t know.” Hannah switched on a light in the living room. “That essay in the film book kept mentioning Vertigo again and again. Maybe this is his way of making a point to me about something.”

Ben frowned. “It was weird, him pounding on the door like that. It’s as if he wants us to see this now—right away.”

“He did something like this before when he tried to kill you. You know, the Bugsy reenactment? He even phoned to tell me it was about to happen.” Hannah took the video from him. “This has that same kind of urgency to it. I think this murder will happen very soon. And I’ve seen Vertigo. Someone will die in a fall.”

Hannah put the Vertigo cassette in her VCR. The tape was cued to start with James Stewart chasing Kim Novak up the stairs of a church bell tower.

Hannah knew the movie, and she knew the scene. Stewart wouldn’t make it to the top; he couldn’t save her. And the object of his obsession would plunge to her death.

Twenty-one

“I know you sometimes go to church before you come over here,” Hannah was saying into the phone. “I was just wondering if you were planning to do that this morning.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, honey,” Joyce replied. “My, you’re calling awfully early. You’re up with the roosters. Is everything okay there?”

“Well, actually, I’m a little worried. I got a strange phone call. I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t go out this morning. Let Ben come over and walk you back here, okay?”

“Good Lord, Hannah,” she sighed. “I’ll be safe for a half a block in broad daylight.”

“So—humor me, okay?”

Hannah couldn’t think of any women friends besides Joyce or Tish who might have been tagged for Kim Novak’s Vertigo death. At the same time, both Tish and Joyce were heavyset women, and she couldn’t quite imagine anyone successfully dragging either one of them up a church tower staircase with a hundred-plus steps.

“All right, I’ll stay put,” Joyce agreed. “I didn’t have a lot of social plans set before seven-thirty this morning anyway. Tell Dreamboat Ben I’ll be here—waiting for him.”

After Hannah hung up, Ben asked if she really needed Joyce to baby-sit today. “Aren’t you leaving in about two and a half hours?”

“Oh, I forgot.” Hannah rubbed her forehead. Then she poured herself another cup of coffee. “Force of habit. Well, I want Guy to say good-bye to her anyway.”

“A lot of good-byes this morning,” Ben remarked.

He’d tried to talk Hannah into letting him go with her. But Hannah’s mind had been made up. She and Guy were traveling by themselves. They needed to cut all ties and disappear.

Nevertheless, Ben had made her promise to contact him tonight and let him know that she and Guy were okay. She could call or leave a message for him at the Best Western Executive Inn, where he’d made reservations for the evening.

They watched the local six A.M. news for an update on Kenneth’s death. It was the fifth featured news story. “Police investigators are still baffled over the cause of a yacht explosion last night on Lake Union,” the pretty anchor-woman announced. In a box behind her, Seattle police were shown on a tugboat, raking in bits of floating debris. “So far, investigators have recovered the remains of two passengers who were aboard the yacht. The boat was a twenty-nine-foot Sloop rented from a Westlake marina chartering company. According to KING-Five News sources, police are very close to identifying the victims. But the cause of the blast is still a mystery. Stay with us for continuing coverage….”

Hannah was leaving town just in time. If all went well, by this afternoon she would be in another city, checked into a hotel under a different name. She might even persuade Guy to take a nap, and catch a little shut-eye herself.

Guy woke up at seven-fifteen. He had no fever, and not even a remnant of chicken pox on him. He was brushing his teeth when Ben left to pick up Joyce.

Hannah stood in the bathroom doorway and watched him on his tiptoes at the sink. He wore a plaid robe over his pajamas.

“Honey, we’re going on a trip today,” she said, folding her arms. “It’ll be fun, kind of an adventure.”

“Is Ben coming too?” Guy asked, his mouth full of Colgate.

“No, honey. Ben has to stay here and work. It’ll just be you and me.”

Hannah watched him overfill the bathroom tumbler with water and rinse out his mouth. Some of it got down the front of his robe and on the bathroom floor. Hannah took a hand towel and wiped him off. “Now, we’ll be in a taxicab for a while today,” she explained, crouched down in front of him. “So I want you to tell me if you’re feeling tired or sick or anything. Okay?”

He rubbed his eye. “Okay, Mom.”

“Joyce is coming over in a couple of minutes, and I think you’re well enough to give her a big hug. Make it a great big one, because you won’t be seeing her for a while.”

Guy was still in his pajamas and robe, sitting at the kitchen counter and eating his Capt’n Crunch, when Ben returned with Joyce. She made a fuss over the fact that Guy was out of bed and looking well again. Then she noticed the suitcases in the hallway. “What’s this?” she asked. “Is somebody going on a trip?”

“C’mon, Guy,” Ben cut in. “I’ll help you get dressed.”

Hannah waited until Ben took Guy back into his room. “Actually, Guy and I are taking off for a couple of weeks,” she explained, pouring herself more coffee. “Some friends of mine in Yakima wanted us to come visit—”

“Well, do you think it’s okay for him to travel, honey?” Joyce asked, setting her purse on the counter.

“The doctor said Guy should be all right as long as he takes it easy. What do you think, Joyce? I mean, you’ve had kids with chicken pox. He looks pretty healthy now, doesn’t he?”

“I suppose he’ll be okay,” she muttered, obviously confused. “Isn’t this all rather sudden?”

“Yeah, it’s been crazy,” Hannah said, walking around the counter. She retrieved a large box she’d loaded and set beside the suitcases in the hallway. “I was cleaning all night. I do that before taking a trip. Anyway, I want you to have these things, sort of a thank-you for working overtime this week.” Hannah placed the box on the sofa.

Mystified, Joyce started to shift through the items, which included, among other things, a quilted blanket she adored and always pulled out on cold nights, a framed photo of Guy, Hannah’s tea kettle, and a Waterford vase she clearly coveted.

“I can’t take any of this,” Joyce said, her eyes welling up. “Honey, I’ve told you before, this is Waterford. It’s worth at least three hundred dollars.”

“And I’ve told you, I got the vase for twenty at a flea market. I know you like it, Joyce. Make me happy and take it, okay?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.”

“Well, force yourself,” Hannah said, setting the vase back in the box.

Joyce stopped to glance around the living room. “Where are all the family pictures?” she asked.

“Oh, I—put them away,” Hannah answered. “I didn’t want them to get sun-faded.”

Joyce studied her for a moment with her sharp, old eyes. “You’re not coming back, are you?” she whispered. “You’re on the run again. You have to move on.”

Hannah numbly stared back at her. “What—what are you talking about?”

Joyce smiled sadly. “I’ve been taking care of Guy for nearly two years, honey. I pretty much had it figured out the first week. You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?”

Hannah couldn’t say anything.

Joyce put a hand on her cheek. “It’s none of my business what it’s about. I know you couldn’t have done anything really bad.” Her eyes were tearing up again, and she let out a sad laugh. “Y’know, I’ve always been afraid you’d suddenly have to leave—for whatever reason. Oh, shoot. This sure crept up on me pretty fast. Well, I’m glad you gave me a chance to say good-bye, sweetie.”

Hannah didn’t try to deny it or argue with her. She just hugged Joyce, and whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

Ben and Guy reemerged from the bedroom. Guy was dressed in jeans and a rugby shirt. He didn’t seem to understand why Joyce was crying. But at Hannah’s urging, he gave her a hug and a kiss.

Carrying the box of keepsakes, Ben left with Joyce to escort her home.

Hannah switched on the TV for Guy. Then she retreated down the hallway to the bathroom. She closed the door, sat down on the edge of the tub, and cried.

The three of them took a cab to the bank. Hannah had a little over fourteen hundred saved up. She didn’t expect to run into any trouble closing the account, but the teller had to check with the manager about something. Hannah waited, and nervously tapped her fingers on the countertop.

Ben was supposed to stay in the taxi with Guy. But after a minute, the two of them walked in and went up to one of the other teller windows. Holding Ben’s hand, Guy waved excitedly at her. Smiling, Hannah waved back at him. The two of them looked like father and son.

She continued to wait, and began to wonder why it was taking so long. Had they discovered that her driver’s license was a fake? It had never stopped them before. Then again, she’d never emptied out an account with them before. What if they were calling the police on her?

Finally, the teller returned to her window. He made her sign something to close the account, then counted out her money.

Ben finished up at his window a minute later, and they started back to the parking lot, where the taxi was waiting for them. Guy was happy because the teller had given him a lollipop.

“Well, I’m set for the week now,” Ben said, as they started toward the taxi. “How much did you get?”

“Fourteen hundred and change,” Hannah murmured. She rolled her eyes. “Kind of kills my plans to spend tonight in a suite at the Four Seasons.”

Later, as the taxi turned down her block, Hannah almost expected to see police cars in front of her apartment building. But there were none.

Ben paid the driver and asked him to wait. He carried Guy piggyback up the three flights of stairs. Guy ran inside ahead of them. Ben stopped her in the doorway. “Don’t forget,” he whispered, taking hold of her arm. “I really need you to call and let me know you’re okay.”

She nodded. “I will, I promise.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s two thousand. I wish it were more. And don’t give me a goddamn argument, because you and I both know you need it.”

Hannah took the money and slipped it into her purse. She let out a cry and tried to turn it into a laugh. “Why couldn’t I have met you five years ago?” she said, her voice cracking.

“Because I was busy getting married,” he said.

“So was I,” Hannah whispered. Then she kissed him.

For a moment, they held each other in the doorway. Hannah didn’t want to let go.

“The taxicab’s waiting,” Ben said, finally.

Guy came from his room. “Ben, do the ex-a-sketch with me!” he cried.

“Well, why don’t you get started on a picture, then show me?” he said, stepping into the apartment. “You and your mom have to leave pretty soon.”

Guy perched on the sofa, set the Etch A Sketch on his lap, and furiously started working the dials.

Hannah took one long, last look at the living room, and she fought the tightness in her throat.

“If you leave a message at the Best Western for me,” Ben whispered, “don’t forget to give the name you’re registering under at your hotel. If you think someone’s been following you, I’ll come out there and stay with you and Guy; whatever we need to do.”

Hannah just kept nodding.

“I’ll be following Gulletti again today,” Ben said as he moved the suitcases near the door. “He’s probably camped out at Starbucks right now. That’s his Friday morning routine. I’ll know if he starts to follow you.”

The phone rang. Hannah wasn’t about to pick up.

“Guy, honey,” she spoke over her own greeting. “We have a long drive ahead. So why don’t you go tinkle? Even if you don’t have to, give it a try.”

Too wrapped up in his Etch A Sketch, Guy wasn’t listening.

And Hannah wasn’t listening to the answering machine—until she recognized Tish’s voice.

“Are you there?” Tish was saying. “Han, it’s kind of an emergency. I can’t believe this is happening—”

Hannah stood frozen for a moment. She imagined her video-killer making good his Vertigo threat, using Tish as his Kim Novak.

She snatched up the phone. “Tish? Are you okay?”

“I’ve had better mornings. Listen, Han, I don’t know what’s going on, but we lost Seth this morning.”

“He quit?”

“No, honey,” Tish said. “I mean, we lost him. He’s dead.”

“What?” she whispered.

“He didn’t show up for work this morning,” Tish continued. “So I called his place, and got a cop. When I explained who I was, he told me what had happened. He wanted to know if I could help them out with next of kin. It looks like Seth killed himself.”

“My God,” Hannah murmured. “How did it happen?” She already knew, yet she heard herself asking.

“He broke into that church a few blocks up the hill from here. It happened early this morning. He went up into the bell tower, then jumped.” Tish sighed. “Christ on a crutch, what’s going on with this store’s employees lately? First Scott gets sick, then Britt dies, and now this new kid—it’s crazy.” She paused. “Hannah, are you still there?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a stupor. “I—I’m here,” she managed to say.

“Okay,” Tish said. “Well, call me heartless, but I need you to fill in for him today. I know, it’s awful of me to ask, and you’re not supposed to come in until eleven. But I’m here alone with a stack of new videos and DVDs I have to catalogue. There’s no one else. You’d really be saving my ass, Han.”

“Um, I’m sorry, I can’t,” Hannah said. “In fact, I was about to call you. I can’t come in at all today. Guy’s sick, and his baby-sitter just phoned. I have to stay put.”

“Oh, no,” Tish groaned. “I wish I were in hell with my back broken. Well, I hope Guy feels better. Try to get another sitter, and come in if you can—even for just a little bit. Oh, crap. I have people lining up. Gotta go.”

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

“What was that?” Ben asked. “Did something happen?”

She turned to Guy. “Honey, were you listening to me? I want you put down the Etch A Sketch and go to the bathroom. Now!”

Guy scowled at her. Setting aside his game, he hopped off the sofa and stomped down the hall. He slammed shut the bathroom door.

Hannah rubbed her forehead. “Seth is dead,” she whispered. “Just like Vertigo. It happened early this morning at that church near where he lived. They seem to think it was a suicide….”

She relayed to Ben everything Tish had told her. “So—ah, the cops are in his apartment right now?” he finally asked.

Hannah nodded. “They were there when Tish called a while ago.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe they have a lead. I’ll go see what I can find out. Seth’s roommate could be there. He might know something.” Ben glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s nine-thirty. Do you want to stick around for another forty-five minutes? I might come up with something concrete. I understand if you want to hightail it out of here. It’s your call.”

Hannah bit her lip. “All right,” she said finally. “You go on. I’ll stay a little while longer.”

The taxi that had been waiting for Hannah was now letting Ben out at the big Tudor house on Aloha Street. Ben had expected to find a couple of police cars parked in the long driveway. There were six of them. Dozens of onlookers stood in front of the mansion, many of them craning their necks to get a peek at the garage. Ben couldn’t imagine an apparent suicide attracting so much attention. Seth hadn’t even died on the premises.

Ben wondered about the roommate. Was he dead too?

He threaded his way through the crowd. “Do you know what happened?” he asked one young woman, who looked like a college student.

She shrugged. “This guy offed himself or something.”

Ben felt someone nudge him. He turned to face an overweight, middle-aged man with copper-colored hair and a hint of eye makeup. He had a miniature schnauzer on a leash. “The young man who lived above the garage there killed himself this morning,” he whispered. “He jumped from the tower of that church up the block, you know, Sacred Heart?”

Ben nodded.

Touching his arm, the man looked Ben up and down. “But that’s only part of it,” he said. “Looks like he videotaped a bunch of people, then murdered them.”

Ben frowned at him. “What?”

The chubby man nodded conspiratorially. “I hear he kept photos and videotapes of his victims, women mostly. The police found it all in the garage apartment back there—along with some video equipment and God knows what else. Can you imagine? Right here in our neighborhood?”

“No, I—I can’t believe it,” Ben murmured.

“Do you live around here?” the man asked.

“Excuse me,” Ben said. He made his way toward the mouth of the driveway, where a husky, mustached patrolman kept the people back. The cop was talking to a stocky man with red hair. Ben recognized him from last night. He owned the Tudor house.

“Did something happen to Seth Stroud?” he asked loudly.

The cop turned to frown at him. “Who are you?”

A few other people were looking at him, too. “Um, my name’s Jack Stiles,” he lied. “I’m in Seth’s film class at the community college.”

The man with the red hair squinted at him. “Film class?”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, he’s a teaching assistant for a film class over at the community college.”

“Well, that’s news to me,” replied the owner of the Tudor house. “Seth worked at Bourm’s Lock and Key on Fifteenth.” He turned to the cop. “I don’t understand this. One of you guys said this morning that his boss from the video store called him. Something’s screwed up here. I was his landlord. I know how he made a living.”

“What about his roommate?” Ben asked. “Have you talked with him?”

“What roommate?” the man said. “You must have the wrong guy.”

Bewildered, Ben stared at him. None of it made sense. He’d searched every inch of that garage apartment just last night, and hadn’t found a thing. And now it seemed Seth Stroud was two different people.

The cop took hold of his arm. “Listen, Mister—ah—Stiles,” he said. “I need you to stick around. One of our detectives will want a statement.”

Ben quickly shook his head, then took a step back. “Hey, you know, you’re right. I must have the wrong guy.”

“Just the same, I need you to stay put, Mr. Stiles—”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Ben said, giving him a curtailed wave. Turning away, he weaved through the crowd. All the while, he thought someone might grab him. He finally broke free from the swarm of people and walked at a brisk clip. He kept expecting to hear a police whistle or someone yelling at him to stop.

Ducking into an alley, he cut through someone’s yard, then ran several blocks. Ben looked over his shoulder. No one was following him; at least, he didn’t see anybody. He spotted a pay phone in the window of a coffeehouse, and hurried inside.

Catching his breath, he dug into his pocket for change. No quarters. There was a line at the counter. He stepped up to the front. “Could I just get change?” he asked.

“End of the line, bub,” the skinny young man at the espresso machine said, barely glancing up.

Ben pulled a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Look, five bucks,” he said, still out of breath. “I’m exchanging this for two quarters.” He dropped the bill in the tip jar, then took out two quarters.

“That’s pretty cool,” the young man said, nodding.

Ben hurried to the phone, put in his money, and dialed Hannah’s number. While the phone rang, he glanced out the coffeehouse window. A cop car came down the block. Ben stepped away from the window. He heard Hannah’s machine click on, and her recorded greeting. As he waited for the beep, he watched the squad car continue down the street.

“Hannah, are you there?” he asked. “Can you pick up?”

There was another click. “Ben? Where are you?”

“In a coffeeshop not far from you.”

“Well, that narrows it down to about fifteen places. Did you find out anything more about Seth?”

“Something’s really screwy here, Hannah. Apparently, the cops found video equipment, tapes, and photographs—all linking Seth to several murders.”

“Which murders? You mean Britt—and Rae and—”

“I wasn’t able to find out for sure,” Ben replied. “But it looks that way. The thing is, none of that stuff was in the apartment when I searched it last night. Somebody set this up. And according to Seth’s landlord, he worked in a lock and key place. The guy didn’t know anything about the film classes or the video store.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hannah said. “Tish just talked to one of the police there this morning—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “They mentioned that. I guess it threw them for a loop.”

“What about the roommate?” Hannah asked.

“According to the landlord, Seth Stroud lived alone.”

“Then who was that guy we talked to at Seth’s apartment?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Do you remember his name?”

“Oh, just a sec. Um, Something Kidd…Michael…no…”

“Richard,” Ben said. “That’s it, Richard Kidd. Hold on.” Cradling the receiver against his ear with his shoulder, Ben pulled the phone directory out of a little nook below the pay phone. He quickly paged through it. “I’m looking him up right now. Here we go, Kidd…Randall, Robert, Roy… shit, nothing.”

Ben heard a click on her end of the line. “Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s my call-waiting,” she said. “I don’t know if I should take it. Oh, what the hell. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

Guy was mesmerized in front of Sesame Street, and sitting too close to the TV. Four suitcases and a box of toys sat by the front door. And Hannah stood at the kitchen counter, the cordless phone in her hand. She pressed the call waiting button. “Um, hello?” she said warily.

“Hannah, it’s Tish again.” She sounded anxious and rushed. “I hate to keep bugging you when you have a sick child at home. Any luck in getting another sitter?”

“Oh, Tish, I’m sorry, no,” she said, picking up the Vertigo cassette, then frowning at it.

“Well, I wouldn’t call, but I’ll have to close the store if you can’t come in. They want me at the East Precinct to answer a bunch of asinine questions. I’m supposed to be there now.”

“What kind of questions?” Hannah set the video back on the counter.

“Oh, seems they don’t think Seth was really working at this store. Right. Hello? He opened a new account his first day here. Same address, same phone number, same birthday, and the same social security number on his W-2 form. What more do they want? I think they may ask me to identify the body, and believe you me, I ain’t up for that. God, listen to me. I’m awful. The poor guy’s dead. It’ll hit me tonight and I’ll have a total breakdown. Anyway, Han, I just thought I’d try you again. Any chance you can get a neighbor to come over and look after Guy—just for a couple of hours?”

“I’m sorry, Tish. I really can’t.”

“Well, on the off chance you get away, you have your key to the store, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I honestly don’t think I can do it, Tish.”

“Okay. Just thought I’d try. Take care, Han.”

“Bye,” Hannah said. She pressed the flash button. “Ben, are you there?”

“Yeah, what took so long?”

“My boss at the video store. She’s frazzled.”

“Well, have her join the club. I still can’t figure out what’s going on. We were both there when Richard Kidd told us he was Seth’s roommate. Did Seth confirm that to you?”

“Yes. I remember him saying later My roommate told me you came by, or words to that effect.”

“So how come no one else knows he had a roommate?” Ben said. “It’s like Seth Stroud was two different guys.”

Hannah stared at the Vertigo tape on the counter.

“Are you there?” Ben asked.

“Two different Seth Strouds,” she said. “You know, in Vertigo, Kim Novak’s character was pretending to be someone else for the first half of the movie.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She was pretending to be a woman named Madeleine,” Hannah explained. “And when she jumped from the church tower, it was faked. The real Madeleine was thrown from the tower instead, and Kim’s character just went back to being her old self—until Jimmy Stewart rediscovered her.”

“Hannah, I still don’t understand. It’s been a while since I saw that movie.”

“I’ll explain later. I have a feeling Richard Kidd is behind all this. And he might be in our customer files at the video store. If so, his address would be in the computer at work. Listen. How far are you from store?”

“A few blocks,” Ben said.

“Meet me out front,” Hannah said. “Guy and I are leaving right now. We’ll see you in five minutes.”

“Take a cab,” Ben advised. “I’d feel better knowing you have someone with you. Besides, you can bring my duffel bag.”

“Will do,” she replied.

“See you soon,” he said. “Be careful, Hannah.”

Twenty-two

TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO EMERGENCY

We’ll Reopen by 2:30 Today (Friday)

Sorry About the Inconvenience

Tish had left the sign on Emerald City Video’s door. The lights were switched off inside, and the door was locked.

Hannah had brought her key. She paid the cab driver and asked him to wait. Guy jumped out of the taxi and ran to hug Ben.

Hannah pulled out her key and unlocked the door. “C’mon, hurry up, guys,” she urged, stepping inside. “I need to turn off the alarm.”

She locked the door behind them, then made a beeline for the break room, and punched in the alarm deactivating code.

With the cold, gloomy, overcast morning, not much light came through the store window. Hannah switched on one set of lights in the store—over the children’s section. She planted Guy in front of the shelf of kids’ videos. “Okay, you know the drill, honey,” she told him. “Look all you want, but don’t make a mess.” She pointed to the break room. “Ben and I will be right over there. Okay?”

“Can we watch Monsters, Inc., Mom?” he asked.

“Only for the fifteenth time? I don’t think so, Guy. Not tonight.” She felt his forehead, then mussed his hair and hurried to the break room.

Tish had left the computer on. Sitting at the desk, Hannah began to type. She pulled up the customer file. Ben looked over her shoulder.

She typed in Kidd, Richard. What came up was the closest name to it: Kidman, Andrew.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered. “He’s not in here.”

“Back it up,” Ben suggested. “See if there’s another person with the last name Kidd.”

Hannah scrolled back to the previous customer: Kidd, Matthew…Kidd, Lawrence…Kidd, Laura…Kidd, Eustace (Richard).

“That’s him,” Hannah said. The birth date listed made Eustace Richard Kidd twenty-five. Hannah clicked on the Related Customer icon to see if he had anyone else on his account: Stroud, Seth.

“Bingo,” Ben muttered, grabbing a piece of paper and pen from the desktop. “What’s the address listed?”

“1313 East Republican Street,” Hannah read from the screen. “It’s not far from Seth’s place.”

Hannah clicked into his rental history file. “It’s all here,” she said. “Angela’s the first victim we know of, right? Seth said she was Paul’s summer fling last year. She was killed in late August; strangled under the bells at the Convention Center, like Marilyn Monroe in Niagara. Look at the rental dates. He checked it out twice.”

Hannah pointed to the listing:

NIAGARA-V0901-Rented: 8/8/01 Rtrn: 8/11/01NIAGARA-V0901-Rented: 8/20/01 Rtrn: 8/22/01

“Guy, are you okay out there?” Hannah called, while scrolling down the alphabet.

“Can we watch Charlie Brown Great Pumpkin?” he yelled back.

“It’s It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown,” Hannah corrected him. “Not tonight, honey.” On the screen, she pointed to another rental listing:

ON THE WATERFRONT-V1122-Rented: 7/14/02Rtrn: 7/16/02

“That’s a week or two before Rae’s boyfriend fell off the roof,” Ben said. “Like Eva Marie Saint’s brother in On the Waterfront.”

“They were boning up on how to do it like the movie,” Hannah remarked. She scrolled to the S’s:

STRANGERS ON A TRAIN-V0205-Rented: 6/7/02Rtrn: 6/9/02STRANGERS ON A TRAIN-V0205-Rented: 6/11/02Rtrn: 6/13/02

“That’s before they killed the woman in Rae’s office. Lily, the one who was strangled on that island near the Arboretum.”

“The Floating Flower,” Ben murmured. “What about Looking for Mr. Goodbar?”

Shaking her head, Hannah scrolled back to the L’s. “I don’t think so, no. It’s not here. I must have already been targeted as Rae’s successor by then. They probably didn’t want to take any chances renting it here.”

“You keep saying they. You mean Richard and Seth?”

She nodded. “Didn’t we pretty much establish that two people have been behind all these killings? You said one was driving and another was shooting at you the other evening. Right?”

Ben scratched his head. “So—the theory is, for one reason or another, Richard turned on Seth and killed him last night. Or are you saying maybe Seth really isn’t dead?”

Hannah cleared the computer screen. “No, I think Seth is dead, all right. The real Seth Stroud. We only met him once.”

Hannah turned around in the chair to face him. “It’s why Seth’s fall from the bell tower copied Vertigo. I started to tell you on the phone. Kim Novak’s character was pretending to be Madeleine during the first half of the movie. Jimmy Stewart was led to believe she’d killed herself by jumping from the church tower. But it wasn’t a suicide. It was the real Madeleine’s murder.”

He nodded. “I remember. But what does it have to do with—”

“The Vertigo clip we saw was a fake suicide,” Hannah interrupted. “The woman Kim Novak pretended to be was murdered. Last night, the real Seth Stroud was murdered. The person we’ve known as Seth was just pretending to be him.”

“What makes you so sure?” Ben asked.

“The film clip. He’s never misled me before.”

“So—you’re saying the person who has been calling himself Seth Stroud is really—”

“Richard Kidd,” she said, handing him the scrap of paper with Richard Kidd’s address written on it. “He was friends with Seth Stroud. We know that. Remember when you and I went to the garage apartment, looking for Seth?”

“Sure, yeah. Of course,”

“When that young man answered the door, at first glance, I thought he was Seth, because they looked so much alike. Remember before he said anything, we asked if Seth Stroud lived there?”

Ben nodded.

“His response was something like ‘What do you want to see him about?’”

“And we told him we were in Seth’s film class,” Ben finished for her. “Then he said he was Seth’s roommate, Richard Kidd.” Ben gave her a wary, sidelong glance. “You think he was lying?”

“Yeah.” Hannah got to her feet. “I think he was Seth Stroud. He was the one killed last night. He lived alone in that garage apartment, and worked at a lock and key store. That must have come in handy when he and Richard Kidd broke into several of their victims’ homes.”

Ben frowned at her. “But why would they switch identities?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe part of some game. They were into playing games, manipulating people.”

“I don’t understand how Richard Kidd could be employed at the community college—and here at the video store—under the name Seth Stroud. What about his Social Security number, his paychecks, his bank account?”

Hannah sighed. “I don’t know, maybe he’s independently wealthy, and doesn’t need the money. We know he used his friend’s Social Security number. Maybe he gave his paychecks to the real Seth—for the use of his name. I said it before. This killer must own some pretty expensive, sophisticated equipment to have put together that Goodbar video. Hell, those glasses Seth—or rather, Richard—wears are designer, at least a cool thousand. He dresses pretty nicely for a part-time teacher’s assistant and video-store clerk.”

Shaking his head, Ben folded his arms. “I still don’t understand why they switched identities.”

Hannah shrugged. “Well, maybe it wasn’t a total switch. When we met the real Seth Stroud, we put him on the spot. My guess is he only lied that one time about who he was—when we came knocking on his door. Maybe Richard Kidd borrowed Seth’s name and identity for certain things—and certain reasons.”

“Well, what reasons?” Ben pressed.

“I don’t know, dammit!” Hannah said, exasperated. “I’m trying to make sense of this too, same as you.”

“Mom, you said dammit!” Guy called from the next room.

Hannah let out a weak laugh. “Um, sorry, honey!” she called back. She gazed at Ben. “I keep thinking of something you said a couple of days ago. You said this killer ended up with more than he bargained for when he started stalking me. He got in over his head, killing a couple of private detectives. Things are closing in on him. He had to cut all his ties and move on. I certainly know how that feels. He’s kind of like me in that sense.” She shook her head. “It’s weird to find I have something in common with a serial killer. Anyway, maybe that’s why he killed his friend. He must have—”

A sudden pounding on the store’s glass door cut her off.

“Mom!” Guy yelled.

Hannah and Ben hurried out of the break room. She ran to Guy and hugged him. Glancing over at the video store door, she saw the cab driver. “It’s okay, honey,” she assured Guy, with a skittish laugh. “It’s just our cab driver. He thought we’d forgotten about him.”

Ben was signaling to the driver, holding up two fingers. “Two more minutes!” he yelled to the man on the other side of the glass.

The driver waved back at him, then ambled back his taxi.

Guy had left a pile of videos on the floor. Hannah started returning them to the shelf. Ben crouched down to help. “So—you think Richard—um, took care of his friend; then he went to the garage apartment with enough evidence so it would appear the late Seth Stroud was—alone—responsible for these—unfortunate incidents?”

She gave a cautious glance at Guy, who wasn’t picking up on any of their conversation.

“Can we watch this one tonight?” he whispered, handing her a copy of Aladdin.