No Sanctuary

Doesn’t prove anything, she told herself. The body , might’ve gone down in between the rocks.

Some were the size of refrigerators, others the size of cars. They were all tilted and tipped every which way, with big shadowy gaps between their edges. A body could fall into one of those crevices, Gillian thought, and never be found.

She felt a trickle of joy.

But over the years she had lived like a thief in sixty-six houses and she had never been caught until this time. Luck, she knew, had been a factor in that. But the main factor was her mind. She’d gotten away with her intrusions because she was smart. She didn’t let herself run on luck, hoping for the best. She studied the possibilities, foresaw the dangers, took precautions, and was always creative and quick enough to keep herself safe.

So now, in spite of her thrill at the thought that Holden lay broken and lifeless among the rocks below, she warned herself not to count on it.

You don’t see his goddamn body. Therefore, he isn’t dead.

If he isn’t dead, what’s he doing?

For some dumb crazy kind of reason—why, at a time like tbis?-she was back in the white stucco house on Silverston. The deco place. If ever she made it back to LA in one piece, which, let’s face it, doesn’t seem too likely, the memory of the hot tub she’d taken that day would live on in her mind forever.

What happened afterward, though, in number 1309, almost put paid to her illustrious career. Of intrusions, house-sittings, that is. ,

Finito. Full stop.

She wished that it had. Then she wouldn’t be here now, halfway up this bastard mountain, bare-ass naked and a murdering psycho after her hide.

Back to the house that time forgot ...

She’d lain there, soaking up the sheer luxury of that tub, breathing in lilac perfume, like she was in some mystical Garden of Allah.

Then the bathroom door blew ajar. That’s right, a puff of wind opened the door.

She remembered thinking, Holy shit ...

And sitting up with a start, arms wrapped around her breasts, shivering in the cold draft. Faint, familiar music wafted through the door. So faint, it was hardly there at all.

Then, the weirdest thing. She’d had this powerful urge to get up out of the tub, wrap herself in one of those thick white towels hanging over the towel rail and walk out the door.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her, she padded across the marble landing. No ideas as to where her feet were taking her. In a kind of dream, she let them have their lead. They took her to a white door which had the name A-L-I-C-E printed on it in silver letters. ALICE?

Alice who?

Looking at those letters made her feel like she’d stumbled across somebody’s private place. Somebody’s very private place.

A special place.

The old familiar buzz tugged at the pit of her stomach. It melded into an ache, setting her mons alight with longing.

“Here goes,” she breathed. She’d invaded a lot of private space in her time. One more wouldn’t hurt.

Her breath came out in huffs, quick and shallow. Not knowing what she would find behind the door, she opened it, slowly, and peeped into a tiny room that was straight from the past.

Chintzy flowered drapes, a doll’s cradle, a rocking chair.

And a big, brown teddy bear sitting in the far corner. The bear wore several bald patches and stared across at her with beady eyes. She imagined it saying, Who are you? You’re an intruder. You don’t belong here.

Her eyes turned to the small single bed. Not much more than a cot, really. Floral drapes were drawn around it. Not knowing why, she knew that she must open them. It was as if she’d come to this house specifically to discover what lay behind the drapes.

Stepping forward, she did just that. Slowly. Drawing back the fabric with tentative fingers. A gasp broke from her lips. Wide-eyed, she stared at a small wizened figure, prostrate on the bed. It was no more than four feet ten at the most.

Little Bo Peep in a long floral dress, matching poke bonnet and a shepherd’s crook by her side. Little Bo Peep with a drunken monkey face and bright rouge spots high on her cheeks. And ludicrously red, cupid bow lips.

The large blue eyes, ringed with thick mascara’d lashes—false, they had to be, they were so long and curly—gazed curiously into Gillian’s face.

She gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. She felt the warm towel swish down her legs and fall around her ankles.

My GOD!

This is it. Curtains. I’ve been caught out. No more intrusions for this baby. Hello, real world—LAPD here I come ....

“I’m sorry ...” she began. Then clamped her lips together, hard. Something was up. The blue eyes weren’t moving.

Slowly, carefully, Gillian reached out and lifted Little Bo Peep’s thin, blueveined hand. The bony fingers sparkled with clusters of gold and diamond rings. The hand was ice cold. Stiff. Gillian let it fall back onto the white lace bed sheets.

She exhaled slowly, gratefully. A huge feeling of relief built up inside her. The initial shock over, she looked down at the figure on the bed and felt a brief surge of pity.

No more sheep for this Little Bo Peep, she murmured to herself.

Gillian got out of there. Fast. Checking first, making sure she’d left no trace of her presence behind. Nothing that could involve her with Bo Peep’s death. She touched her Minolta, briefly, and grimaced. Yuk. No. No photographs for her files this time.

Anyway. Cases like these, you can’t be too sure. Film could get lost, or stolen. Unless the finder was either a weirdo or somebody seriously interested in nursery rhymes, the film could easily end up in the wrong hands.

For a full three months after that, intrusions were out. Gillian had to admit, though, there were days back there when she’d been sorely tempted. She’d resisted, but it hadn’t been easy. When she’d felt like giving in, she had only to remember that strange shrunken figure lying dead in its cot.

Yeah. The memory of that house on Silverston still haunted her like some terrible dream.

Would’ve made a spooky movie, though.

One day, she reckoned, she was gonna meet up with real trouble. Find herself doing time, no sweat. So she quit. No more house-sitting, she promised herself. That last time at Creepy Hollow had scared the shit clean out of her.

Then the old urge, that all-consuming desire, need, came flooding back. As inviting, as seductive as ever.

Yeah, Mr.-Fat’n’sassy Shrink. I’m hooked on other people’s private places. I coulda told you that ...’n saved myself a whole heap o’ money in the process.

If she’d been into visiting shrinks, that is.