'Nearly?'
'Mustn't give you a swelled head.'
'I'm too perfect to be immodest.'
He laughed.
She turned from him and went to the bar at the far end of the living
room.
With a sixth sense of her own, she knew that he stared after her for a
moment before he left the room. Good. just as planned. He was meant
to watch. She was wearing a clinging white sweater and tight blue jeans
that accentuated her waistline and her bottom. If he hadn't stared
after her, she would have been disappointed. After what he had been
through tonight, he needed more than a seat in front of the fireplace
and a snifter of brandy. He needed her. Touching. Kissing.
Making love. And she was willing-more than willing, delighted-to
provide it.
She was not merely plunging into her Earth Mother role again.
Unquestionably, she did have a tendency to overwhelm her men, to be so
excessively affectionate and understanding and dependable that she
smothered their self-reliance. However, this affair was different from
all the others. She wanted to depend on Graham as much as he depended
on her. This time she wanted to receive as much as she gave. He was
the first man to whom she had ever responded in quite that fashion.
She wanted to make love to him in order to soothe him, but she wanted to
soothe herself as well. She had always had strong, healthy sexual
drives, but Graham had put a new and sharper edge on her desire.
She carried the glasses of Remy Martin into the den. She sat beside him
on the sofa.
After a moment of silence, still staring at the fire, he said, 'Why the
interrogation? What was he after?, 'Prine?'
'Who else?'
'You've seen his show often enough. You know what he's like.'
'But he usually has a reason for his attacks. And he's always got proof
of what he says.'
'Well, at least you shut him up with your visions of the tenth murder.'
'They were real,' he said.
'I know they were.'
'It was so vivid ... as if I were right there.
'Was it bad? Bloody?'
'One of the worst. I saw him ... ram the knife into her throat and then
twist it.' He quickly sipped his brandy.
She leaned against him, kissed him on the cheek.
'l- can't figure this Butcher,' he said worriedly. 'I've never had so
much trouble getting an image of a killer.'
'You sensed his name.'
'Maybe. Dwight.... I'm not entirely sure.'
You've given the police a fairly good description of him 'But I can't
pick up much more about him,' he said. 'When the visions come and I try
to force an image of this man, this Butcher, to the center of them, all
I get are waves of ... evil. Not illness, not an impression of a sick
