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NIGHT STALKER
Carol Davis Luce
Sudalu Media
Night Stalker
Copyright © 1990 by Carol Davis Luce
Sudalu Media publication: 2010
1st Printing: Kensington Publishing Corp. 1990
2nd Printing: March 1990
3rd Printing: 1992
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.
This book is dedicated with love to my grandmother. . .
Ethel Katona
and my mother. . .
Helen Christian
Prologue
The paperboard box was covered with a muted blue paper in a tiny primrose pattern. The lid, a grayish white Currier and Ives winter scene, came into focus. Then the papers and documents sticking out from within.
The fit had passed.
His head hurt. The pain, boring into his eye socket, leveled off.
He lay in a fetal position on the floor and clutched the letter.
Sweat drenched his clothes, stung his eyes. He heard the scratching, and almost screamed before he realized it was only the needle aimlessly tracking the final grooves of the records. His knee jerked.
He straightened, grabbed the mattress, and rose part way to the bed before falling back. He pulled himself along the floor to the table that held the cheap record player, rolled over and scooted upward to sit with his back wedged into the corner. Finally, his arm heavy and numb, he reached the stylus and scraped the needle across the record. The song began to play. You are my sun-shine — click— my only sunshine — click. . . .
He dropped the letter, looked down at his hands and arms, touched his face. No fresh bites or scratches. He ran his fingers through his wet hair. No areas of tenderness. His breathing eased.
He trembled when he picked up the letter. It was addressed to her. "Not yet," he whispered aloud. He let it fall and reached for the box. He caressed the soft padded lid with an angry hand.
The box had been hers. Many years ago it had sat on her bedroom dresser, a solitary vanity. She had owned no cosmetics, no perfume or jewelry.
The box was his now. He saw her, smelled her, heard her voice. He shuddered.
He pulled out the document and traced the embossed letterhead with his fingertips. The stiff-parchment, veined in green, rustled crisply. Her name was there. And his. The drill bore into his eye. . . . Please don't — click — take my sun-shine a-waaay. . . .
He snatched up the letter and reread it. He felt his muscles begin to knot. His knee twitched and jerked. He drew his legs up to his chest, dug his heels into the threadbare carpet, and pushed, forcing his body back into the corner. He grabbed his legs and arms, struggled for control. He breathed spasmodically. Don't go, he told himself. Don't go. He wadded the front of his shirt into a ball and bit down on it. The scream stayed in his throat.
Pop. Pop. The pain was gone. He had teetered, but had not gone over the edge. The scratching sounds had not come to turn his bowels into a roiling inferno. The acrid odor of burning hair and flesh had not-come to fill his nostrils. The monsters had been cheated.
He smiled. In place of the fear and pain, he felt a glorious rage. He had stayed in control, mastered it, beaten it. That delicious rage grew, throbbing, intensifying with each beat of his heart. With a fierce sanity, he began to formulate his revenge.
"They'll pay," he whispered. "They'll both pay.”
" . . . and I hung my head . . . and cried.
Chapter 1
Over the persistent scratch, scratch, Alexandra Carlson heard the sizzling sound of disaster. She smelled the acrid odor of something burning.
She crossed the kitchen, flung open the door of the broiler, and watched the last of the toasted garlic loaf blacken. Sitting on her haunches, she pounded a fist against her thigh and sighed.
The scratching went on.
She cursed softly as she fumbled the bread out from under the broiler and dumped it into the garbage.
She brushed her hands against the tails of her oversized shirt, tossed her shoulder-length hair away from her face, and glanced up at the clock. Past noon already? Where had the time gone? With a feeling of urgency and exasperation, she hurried around the breakfast bar to the dining-room slider. Blackie stood at the door, his claws working at the glass, scratching.
"So c'mon, get in here," she said to the tom as he sauntered in, tail twitching peevishly.
No sooner had she closed the door than the cat turned to it and scratched to go back out.
"Ohhh, no you don't, buster. I've no time for that today.” She opened the door wide and left it open. Smoke escaped outside.
Alex went back to the kitchen. As she dumped the ingredients for the devil's food cake into a bowl, she could hear Blackie meowing on the redwood deck—guttural cry that Alex called his bitchy tone. What's with that damn cat now? And where, she wondered uneasily as she switched on the electric mixer, was the other one — Blackie's contrasting sibling, the chalky she-cat?
The whirr of the beaters brought her mind back to the birthday party she was giving Greg that night.
Gregory Ott had turned forty. To show her appreciation for all the times he had been there for her, the times he had escorted her to art function after dull art function, and the times he had just been a good friend and companion, she wanted to reciprocate. She rarely entertained, especially with big affairs like tonight where there'd be a lot of stuffed shirts, but for the past three weeks Greg had been hinting outrageously for a party. It was the least she could do.
Fifty minutes later the cake came out of the oven slightly burned and definitely lopsided. No problem she thought, that's what frosting is for. This cake — all chocolate— was for Greg only. The sheet cake waiting to be picked up at the bakery would serve the party guests.
Blackie rubbed against her legs making strange throaty sounds.
"Where's Winnie, huh, boy? Is she getting better chow at another establishment?" Alex bent down and scratched Blackie's head. His meow was low and forlorn.
Alex checked the time again. She had a few minutes before she had to leave for the bakery.
"Okay, let's go have a look."
Just as she passed the wall phone, it rang. She snatched up the receiver impatiently.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Is this the Carlson residence?" a man asked.
"That's right," she said, looking beyond the deck to scan the hillside for a small white form.
"Alex?"
"Yes?"
"Hello, Alex," the speaker sounded hesitant, unsure. "It's David Sloane. Maybe you don't remember me. I used to work with your husband at Norday Investments before I got transferred to Dallas. Joe and I played racquetball together on Saturday mornings."
"Oh, yes . . . Dave." A vague image wove in and out of her mind. "Yeah, sure. How are you?"
"Couldn't be better. Is Joe around?"
Alex laughed uneasily. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Joe and I were divorced three years ago. He lives in California now"
"Oh."
"I could give you his number if you like?"
There was a pause, then, "No, that's all right. It's just that . . . well, I'm in Reno for a couple days and I don't seem to know anyone here anymore." He cleared his throat and continued in a light tone. "So you and Joe are divorced? Alex, if I'm not being too forward —last minute and all that — perhaps we could get together tonight. Dinner? A movie? Coffee?”
"Uh . . . well . . ."
"You're married again?"
"No:"
"Really? Well then, if you don't have plans . . ."
"I do have plans. I'm sorry.”
There was a long pause. Then, "Don't be sorry. Hey, you don't know me, so why should you go out with me? Look, I'll survive. Thanks anyway.”
It was true, she didn't know him. But hell, she was having a party. A large party. So what difference would one more person make? And what better way was there to meet someone than at a social event with lots of people.
She invited him. He accepted.
As she hung up, she felt a tingle of excitement. He sounded pleasant enough. And, God knows, the only male companionship she'd had in a long while was Greg—but he didn't count, at least not in that way.
Gregory Delaney Ott, Esq., had stepped into Alex's life twelve months after her divorce. They'd dated several times. She liked him He certainly seemed to like her. Just as she had been about to succumb to Greg's overt advances, she'd discovered he had a roving eye and a weakness for any attractive female with an IQ above fifty. His secretary of three years worked overtime with her boss two nights a week— the bulk of the work being conducted on the office couch. And ex-wife number four cleaned his house, washed his clothes, and shared his bed one night a week. Although Greg worked diligently to seduce Alex, she managed to keep their relationship platonic. Greg, thrilled by the challenge and not likely to give up short of victory or death, was enjoying the chase immensely. He could be crude and obnoxious at times— that was Greg's way — but Alex knew him for what he was; a warm, loyal, caring person.
Blackie meowed.
A noise overhead made Alex look up. Winnie on the roof? Had to be. Often the cats climbed the apple tree, leaped onto the low-hanging wood shakes of the roof and stalked the birds nesting in the eaves.
She glanced at the clock. Damn. There was so much to do yet:
In a hurry to finish in the kitchen, she frosted the still-warm cake. The chocolate frosting peaked proudly
Alone in the house now, Blackie paced fitfully, his tail twitching in spasmodic bursts. He jumped onto the counter, jumped down. He scratched at the glass of the slider, meowing. Suddenly he stopped, his body stiff. With ears pointed and alert, he looked upward, listening. His tail bristled. Then, even more agitated, he resumed his scratching at the glass door.
Alex spritzed mineral water on her face to set her makeup, then dabbed Opium at her temples. She stood back and, looking in the full-length mirror on the closet slider, adjusted the hip belt on her new dressy outfit.
Her long, dark brown hair lifted up and away from her ears showing off silver and emerald earrings. The brilliant green stones intensified the green of her eyes.
Not bad for an old broad with a grown kid, she thought, turning one last time. Satisfied, she turned off the light and left the room.
Bob and Margie Meacham were the first to arrive. The Meachams along-with their two sons, Junior and Stevie, and Gypsy, the big sheepdog with one blue eye and one brown eye, were Iike family to her. At thirty-six, two years younger than Alex, Margie glowed with the youthfulness of someone who was pampered by an older, doting husband, and loved every minute of it. Her bright blue eyes were set in a face of eggshell skin that had somehow escaped the freckling characteristic of her Irish lineage. Her short curly hair was the color of an old penny.
Margie steered Bob to the wing-chair rocker in the living room, pushed him down, handed him the TV remote unit and a bowl of mixed nuts, and said, "Stay out of our hair." She joined Alex in the kitchen.
"Almost bought that outfit myself," Margie said.
"Really? You approve then?"
Margie stared at Alex reflectively.
"What?" Alex frowned, looking down at herself.
"Lord, when I think back to the Alex Carlson I met fifteen years ago, I can't believe that this woman standing before me now could actually be the same person. Remember her?"
Alex smiled, nodding.
"Not a lick of makeup. That gorgeous dark hair hacked off in a shag. I'd bet you didn't own one piece of jewelry. And those things you called clothes — good God, they dressed snazzier at the state Woman's Correctional Center."
"I owe it all to you." Alex curtsied.
"It was all there, begging to come out. I felt like the fairy godmother in Cinderella."
"So where's my prince charming?" When Margie turned and shot her a disapproving glance, Alex added. "Never mind. Don't answer that."
Margie lifted the sheet cake from the box. "How many are you expecting for this shindig?"
"About twenty. Mostly friends of Greg's. Lawyers, judges, politicians. I don't know half of them."
"Ahhh." Margie's brows worked up and down. "Perhaps he invited someone you might take a fancy to."
"Perhaps."
"If you weren't so persnickety, that is."
"Me? Persnickety? Well, it just so happens I invited someone tonight. A man. A very nice man."
"Who?"
"You don't know him."
As Alex reached for the cocktail toothpicks, she knocked over a box of dry cat food. Suddenly her stomach knotted tightly. She had forgotten about Winnie. Winnie was out there somewhere. Something was wrong. The cat had never stayed away this long.
The doorbell rang.
"That's probably the birthday boy,” Margie said. "I won't be a bit surprised if he's wearing his birthday suit."
"Hey, c'mon. Greg's raunchy, but he's not that raunchy."
"Hah."
Alex went downstairs to the foyer. Instead of Greg, she opened the door to a tall, trim, blond-haired man with a mustache. David Sloane. In one hand he held a bottle of wine, in the other a half-dozen red roses.
"Hello," he said quietly. "Am I early?"
Alex swallowed and said, "No, not at all. Come in." He handed her the roses and stepped inside. "Thank you. They're beautiful.”
"I didn't know you lived on a mountain. Do you have it all to yourself?"
"It's not quite a mountain. And no, I share it with a few others.
He looked around the foyer, down to the lower level, then up into the living room, and finally straight down the hall to her bedroom.
"Unusual layout,” David said. "Tri-level?"
"Uh-huh. My father was the architect. As you can see he shied away from the norm.”
"I remember now Joe called it the 'upside-down' house. It's fantastic. You must be crazy about it.”
Alex tried to smile. It came off weak, nebulous. "Come on up. I want you to meet some good friends of mine.”
As she led the way upstairs, she wondered how she could have forgotten what he looked like. He was gorgeous.
The party was in full swing when Greg Ott, leaning over Alex's shoulder as she pushed a garage bag into the trash barrel on the back deck, whispered in her ear, "Who is he?"
"Who's who?"
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply as he looked into the dining room where Margie and Bob were talking to the tall, fair-haired man in the blue suit.
"You mean David Sloane? I could've sworn I introduced you two."
"Correct. But who is he?"
"A friend of my ex-husband."
"That's some endorsement. So how come he's at my party?"
Alex turned and stared at him somberly. "I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't think you'd mind. He's in town, alone, and I thought —"
Greg held up a hand. "Honey, don't dignify that moronic remark with an answer. I'm jealous and I hate him, but that's my problem, not yours." As he stared at Sloane, he ran a hand through his full, yet prematurely gray, hair. "Now that I'm forty, maybe I'll color my hair."
"I like it just the way it is."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Greg smiled. "Go on in and talk to them. Margie's trying to get your attention."
"I baked a cake for you to take home. Promise me you won't laugh,” Alex said as she stepped through the slider.
Bob, a real-estate broker and a native Nevadan who harbored a fierce love for every rock and pinion tree in the state, was talking with Sloane when Alex joined them.
"Ah, our illustrious hostess. Lovely party, Alex,” Margie said. She turned to her husband and straightened his string tie. "Daddy, will you get me another drink?"
"I could use another one myself. I'm not used to being around all these courthouse folks.” Bob took Margie's glass and wandered off toward the bar.
"So, David, you and your wife used to play tennis with Alex and Joe?" Margie said, avoiding Alex's eyes.
"It was racquetball . . . with Joe." Sloane's eyes met Alex's. He gave her a knowing look. "There's no wife."
Margie smiled and forged on. "Alex, David was telling us he has friends in the building trade."
David turned to Alex. "You're thinking of building something?"
She nodded. "Adding on. An art studio above the garage. It's something I've always wanted. Y'know, elbow room, high ceiling, north light. Then, instead of driving to the art center three days a week, I can give my painting classes right here.”
"Anything I can do,” David said, smiling. "I'll be more than happy to be of help.”
"How long will you be staying?" Alex asked.
"Oh, didn't I mention I've been transferred back to the Reno office."
"I thought you said you were in town for just a couple of days?"
"No. You must've misunderstood. I said I've been in town for two days.”
"Oh?"
"I do have friends in the building trade. I might be able to get you a deal on labor and materials."
"These friends, they live in Reno?" Something worried at her subconscious.
