She switched on the overhead light in the master bedroom suite. The carpeting was covered with canvas drop cloths, which, in Marcie's opinion, were a vast improvement over the maroon carpeting. In the center of the room were a sawhorse, a bucket to mix plaster in, a sack of plaster mix, another bucket of ceiling white paint, and a pile of rags.
"There was a bad water spot on this ceiling.
I've already taken care of the roof repair.
As you can see, the inside repair isn't quite finished."
He didn't even glance up to see if the work was being done satisfactorily. He didn't ask a question about it. In fact, he showed no interest in the project at all, which was odd since he was usually such a stickler for detail and always found something wrong with every house.
"There are two closets."
Marcie went about her business, refusing to acknowledge her growing sense of uneasiness.
For several months she had been showing houses to Ralph Harrison. His nagging wife had never failed to accompany him. They'd always viewed houses in the daytime. He was a nitpicker. Tonight he was keeping his opinions to himself. Marcie preferred his whining complaints to his unnerving silence.
"One closet is a walk-in. Gladys will like that, I'm sure. The other—" At the small clicking sound, she spun away from the open closet.
Harrison was locking the bedroom door. "What in the world are you doing?" Marcie demanded.
He turned around to face her, grinning eerily.
In a new, yet alarmingly familiar, voice, he said, "Locking the door. So that you and I can be alone at last."
She fell back a step, her spine coming up hard against the doorjamb of the closet. She didn't notice the pain. Nothing registered except his menacing smile and raspy voice. She wasn't so much afraid as profoundly astonished.
Ralph Harrison was her caller.
"What was that all about?" Laurie put the question to Pat, who was frowning at the exit through which Chase had just disappeared.
"Damned if I know." He walked to the spot where Chase had previously been standing and bent down to pick up the computer printout he'd wadded into a ball then dropped.
"Must have something to do with this." Sheriff
Bush spread open the sheet again and
scanned it. "He must have recognized a name on here himself. Someone that Marcie knows."
"Pat, go after him," Laurie urged, giving his shoulder a push. "Catch him before he has a chance to do something crazy."
"My thoughts exactly. Will you be okay?"
"Of course. Go. Go!" Pat jogged down the hallway toward the stairs, unable to move quite as spryly or as rapidly as Chase had moments earlier. "Be careful," Laurie anxiously called after him.
"You bet."
By the time he reached his squad car outside the emergency entrance of the hospital, Chase had disappeared. But Devon's car was no longer parked where Pat had spotted it when he and Laurie arrived. It made sense that since Chase had driven Lucky and Devon from the Tyler place to the hospital, he would still have the keys.
Peeling out of the hospital parking lot, Pat spoke into the transmitter of his police radio and put out an all-points bulletin for Devon's car, describing it as best as he could remember.
"License plate number?" one of his on-duty officers asked through the crackling airwaves.
"Damned if I know," Pat barked. "Just locate the car. Stop it. Apprehend the driver.
White male, dark hair, six four."
"Is he armed and dangerous?" another asked.
"Hell, no!" Then he thought about the .357
he'd returned to Chase about a week ago.
"Possibly armed." He thought of the Tyler temper. When riled, especially when it involved their women, it was more fearsome than any firearm. "Consider him dangerous.
He'll probably resist arrest. Try not to use bodily force. He's got a couple of cracked ribs."
"Sounds like Chase Tyler."
"It is Chase Tyler," Pat replied to the unofficial remark he had overheard one deputy make to another.
"I don't get it, Sheriff Bush. What are we arresting Chase for?"
"Being a hothead."
"Sir, I didn't copy that."
"Just find the car and stop it!"
"Sassafras Street. Sassafras Street," Chase muttered to himself as he headed for the residential neighborhood where he knew the street was located. Sassafras Street. Was it between Beechnut and Magnolia? Or was he thinking of Sweetgum Street? Where the hell was Sassafras Street?
The town he had grown up in seemed suddenly foreign territory to him. He couldn't remember which streets ran parallel and which intersected. Did Sassafras run north and south or east and west?
In his mind he conjured up a map of Milton
Point, but it was distorted and became an ever-changing grid of streets he could no longer remember, like a maze in a nightmare that one could never work his way through.
He cursed, banging his fist on the steering
wheel of Devon's red compact car. Who would have thought that that little weasel, Harrison, had the nerve to terrorize a woman over the telephone? Chase had only met him once, that day in Marcie's office. Harrison had made little impression on him. He couldn't describe him now if asked to do so at gunpoint. He was that forgettable.
That's probably why he made obscene phone calls, Chase reasoned. The calls were his only power trip, his last-ditch effort to achieve machismo.
Over the telephone he could be six feet six and commanding. His sibilant vulgarities made his victims gasp and left a distinct impression on them. To a guy like Harrison, revulsion was better than making no impression at all.
"Slimy's.o.b.," Chase said through his teeth.
He remembered how disgusted and devastated
Marcie had looked after each call.
Why hadn't they consulted a psychologist instead of a law officer? Someone who understood the workings of the human mind might have provided them with character profiles that would have pointed them to Harrison. It was crystal clear to Chase now why he was their man. He had an overbearing, critical wife and a low self-image. They should have gone to a head doctor. Harrison was a sicko.
He wasn't a criminal.
Or was he? Maybe talking about sexual perversions no longer satisfied him. Maybe he'd gone over the edge. Maybe he was ready to make good his threats.
"Dammit." Chase stamped on the accelerator.
Marcie's astonishment quickly receded with the onslaught of panic. By an act of will she tamped it down.
He wanted her to be afraid.
She was. But damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.
"So, you're the pathetic individual who's been calling me. Are you proud of yourself?"
"Don't try to fool me, Marcie. I've frightened you."
"You haven't frightened me in the slightest.
Only disgusted me and made me feel very sorry for you."
"If you weren't frightened, why'd you go to the sheriff?"
She tried to keep her face impassive and not let him see her distress. At the same time she was trying to figure a way out of the room and away from the house. Once outside, she could run down the sidewalk screaming, but she had to get out of there first.
If at all possible, she wanted to avoid any physical contact. The thought of his hands on her made her ill.
He didn't have a weapon.
He wasn't exceptionally tall or strong. In fact, he was slightly built. If it came down to a wrestling match, she doubted he could completely overpower her, but he could hurt her before she could fight him off and that was a major concern.
Not that he would take it that far, she reas
sured herself. He wouldn't try to rape her. He only wanted to terrorize her.
"Didn't you think I'd know when they put the taps on your phone?" he asked in the taunting voice of her nightmares. "The first time I called and heard the clicks, I hung up."
"Then you must have done this kind of thing before. To be that familiar with police wiretaps and such."
"Oh, yes. I'm quite good at it. An expert.
The best."
She forced a laugh. "I hate to dash your self-esteem," she said, hoping to do exactly that, "but you're not very original. In fact,
I've had much more, uh, interesting calls than yours."
"Shut up!" Abruptly, his voice rose in pitch and volume, alarming her. His face had become congested with blood and his eyes had narrowed to pinpoints of sinister light. "Take off your blouse."
"No." Maybe if she called his bluff, he would get cold feet and run away.
He took three menacing steps toward her.
"Take off your blouse."
The empty closet was behind her. Could she step into it, shut the door, and lock herself in until somebody missed her and came looking? She felt behind her for the doorknob.
"That door doesn't have a lock, if that's what you're thinking," he said with a cackle she recognized.
Over the telephone it had never
failed to send chills down her spine. She experienced them now.
He was right. The closet door didn't have a lock. She glanced quickly at the window. The sill was painted shut. She could never get it open, and even if she could, she couldn't scramble out without his catching her first.
Her only means of escape was through the doorway leading into the hall. He was blocking her path to it.
She would have to draw him across the room, closer to her, and away from the door.
Swallowing her repugnance and her pride, her hand moved to the top button of her blouse. Why hadn't she worn a suit today instead of a skirt and blouse? A jacket would have been another delaying tactic.
"Hurry up," he ordered. "Take it off. I want to see your skin. I want to see your breasts."
Marcie slowly undid all the buttons. "My husband will tear you apart."
"Not before I've seen your nipples, touched them. Hurry up."
"He won't let you get away with this. He'll find you."
"You won't tell him. You'll be too ashamed to tell him."
"I wouldn't count on that if I were you."
"Take off your blouse!" he shouted nervously.
She pulled it from her waistband and peeled it down her shoulders. As she withdrew her arms from the sleeves, he released a sigh and actually shuddered orgasmically. Marcie thought she might be sick, but she couldn't surrender to the nausea. She had to get out of the room.
As she had both hoped and dreaded, Harrison took faltering steps toward her. "Now the brassiere.
Hurry." He was clutching at his crotch with one hand and reaching out to her with the other.
"You're so fair. I knew your skin would be fair. Beautiful. Soft." His fingertips glanced her chest just above her bra. She recoiled. He took another lurching step toward her. She could feel his rapid breath landing humid and hot on her skin.
"Fondle yourself," he panted.
"No."
"Do it."
"No."
"I said to do it!"
"If you want me fondled, you do it." Her blue eyes haughtily challenged him. "Or are you man enough?"
As she had hoped, he lunged toward her, his hands and fingers forming a cup to seize her breast. She flung her blouse into his face, parried quickly, and ducked under his arm.
She scooped the empty bucket from the floor and threw it up at the overhead light fixture, then clambered toward the door at a crouch to avoid the breaking glass that was raining down.
In the sudden darkness she groped for the doorknob. The darkness was to her advantage because she was more familiar with the house than he. She would know how to find her way back to the front door. But first she had to get past this barrier. Having located the doorknob, her fingers had turned to rubber. She couldn't get it unlocked!
From behind, Harrison grabbed a handful of her hair. Her head snapped back. She screamed. He covered her hand and wrested it off the slippery doorknob. They slapped at each other's hands in a battle over control of the lock.
Marcie heard whimpers of fear and draining energy and realized they were coming from her. She had minimized the real threat he could pose to her safety, but had obviously miscalculated. His breathing was the short, choppy panting of a madman. He was stronger than he appeared. Had insanity imbued him with inordinate strength?
She renewed her efforts to escape him, but he gripped her arm so hard that tears started in her eyes.
"Let me go," she screamed.
He flung her away from the door and back toward the center of the room. With so much momentum behind her, she reeled forward, stumbling in the darkness over drop cloths, broken glass, and the sack of plaster mix and falling against the sawhorse. It caught her at waist level, and she doubled over it. It toppled over with her, spilling the bucket of paint.
She blinked away the descending blackness of unconsciousness and struggled to her hands and knees. Harrison, bending over her, with his hand on the back of her neck, held her down.
"Bitch, bitch," he said raspily. "I'll show you how much of a man I am."
"Milton seven?"
Pat responded. "Yeah, come in."
"This is Milton five. I've just sighted a red vehicle, license number and make unknown at this time, traveling west on Sycamore at a high rate of speed."
"Close in and apprehend."
"Not a chance, Milton seven. He's driving like a bat out of hell."
"Then follow him. I'm three minutes away.
Keep him in sight and let me know any changes of direction."
"Ten four."
"Other units, please converge on that area."
To a chorus of acknowledgments, Pat dropped the transmitter and concentrated on navigating the dark, rain-slick streets.
Chase took the corner close to fifty. Sassafras
Street at last! What number? Leaning over the steering wheel, he peered through the darkness, cursing the driving rain and his inability to see beyond the hood ornament.
He sped right past Marcie's car before noticing it. He braked, skidded, and fishtailed, then shoved the automatic transmission into park and opened the car door. The for sale sign bearing her agency's logo was in the front yard. Chase hurdled it in his dash through the pelting rain toward the front door.
He paused in the entrance hall, his blood freezing in his veins when he heard her pitiful cries. But thank God, she was alive. His moves through the unfamiliar rooms and hallways resembled those of a running back going through a horde of defensive players. For every five yards he gained, he had to backtrack two, until he finally reached the closed and locked bedroom door.
He tested the doorknob only once before putting his boot heel to it and kicking it in.
From the hallway behind him, light spilled into the room and across the floor, casting a looming, hulking shadow that alarmed him until he realized it was his own.
He dashed inside. Harrison, still crouched over Marcie on the floor, whipped his head around and stared up at Chase with an animal fear so intense Chase could smell it.
"I'm gonna kill you, Harrison."
Reaching from his towering height, he yanked the man up by his collar and shook him like a dog with a dead rat. Harrison squealed. Chase, enraged and unthinking, slung him against the wall. Harrison would have slid down it but for Chase's fist, which slammed into Harrison's midsection, then pinned him to the wall like a nail through his gut. Nose to nose, his lips peeled back to bare his teeth, Chase glared at his wife's tormentor.
"Chase, let him go!" Pistol drawn, Pat Bush shouted the order from the splintered doorway.
"Chase!" He had to repeat his name three times before Chase heard him through a fog of murderous outrage.
Gradually Chase withdrew his fist. Harrison, emitting a wheezing sound like an old accordion, collapsed to the floor. One of Pat's deputies rushed forward to see to Harrison while Chase bent anxiously over Marcie. She was lying on her side, her knees drawn protectively up to her chest.
"Chase?" she said faintly.