The Midnight Tour

But this was too early for starting the day.

I’ll take a pee, she thought. Then I’ll get nice and cozy and try to grab a couple more hours of sleep.

Flopping onto her back, she swept the top sheet away and sat up.

Then gazed down at herself.

She’d gone to bed last night wearing a white cotton nightshirt.

She still wore it.

But now it hung from her shoulders, ripped wide open down the front.

“Uh-oh,” she muttered.

What the hell’s going on?

She stared at her nightshirt’s ragged edges.

I didn’t do it, did I?

If didn’t, who did?

She recalled the strange sound she’d heard yesterday just after waking up—a door sliding shut as if an overnight intruder were sneaking out of the house.

She suddenly felt crawly.

Goosebumps prickled her skin.

Take it easy, she told herself. Maybe I did it in my sleep.

Not likely, but possible

And maybe not quite as farfetched as the idea that a prowler was in here and ripped it open.

If be ripped it oven, what else did he do?

What if he messed with me?

Climbing off the bed, Dana felt her soreness.

That’s from Warren, she told herself.

Is it?

She wanted to turn on a light. She wanted to take off the split nightshirt and study herself in a mirror.

But two strides away from the bed, her bare left foot kicked something heavy and hard.

She cried out in pain.

The kicked object spun across the floor and vanished behind a corner of the dresser.

Hurt foot up, Dana hopped backward on her good foot and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She sat there, face contorted, throat tight, toes throbbing. Very quickly, however, the pain subsided.

Then she scooted sideways on the mattress, reached out and turned on the lamp. Three of her toes looked red. So did a dozen or so scratches on her legs and belly and breasts. And several mouth-shaped blotches.

The toes got that way from smashing against that thing on the floor.

The scratches all came from roaming the bushes behind Tuck’s pool last night. Probably.

The blotches all came from Warren’s mouth. Probably.

Warren really wracked me up, she thought. I won’t be the same for a week.

Neither will be.

Smiling slighty, she decided nobody else had been tampering with her body.

Probably.

Maybe she bad torn the nightshirt herself. Maybe got carried away, dreaming.

As a kid, she’d sleepwalked a few times.

Maybe it was something like that.

But what the hell did I kick? she wondered. A shoe?

I don’t think it was a shoe.

She stood up: Her injured toes ached, but not too badly.

Trying to keep the pressure off them, she limped over to the dresser.

And stepped past it.

On the floor in front of her feet was an expensive-looking camera with a telephoto lens.

She crouched over it.

A Minolta.

She reached for it.

She grabbed the thick lens, but it felt moist and sticky.

She jerked her hand away.

And stared at the red stain across her palm and fingers.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered. Then she yelled, “Tuck!”

Seconds later, Dana heard racing footsteps.

Thank God she’s all right.

If that IS Tuck.

Better be.

Suddenly, Tuck lurched through the doorway. She wore a blue pajama shirt. Though only two of its buttons were fastened, it apparently hadn’t been torn open. Her hair was mussed. She was breathing hard. She held the huge, stainless steel magnum in her hand. “What happened?” she gasped.

“Somebody...look.” Dana brushed her fingertips against the torn edges of her nightshirt.

“Huh? How’d that happen?”

“I don’t know. I woke up and...” She shook her head.

“Somebody must’ve done it while I was asleep.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t think I did it. Did you do it?”

“Not hardly.”

“And look at this.” She stepped over to the camera and nudged it with her right foot.

“A nice one.”

“But whose is it? It’s not mine.”

Tuck’s mouth tilted crooked. “Is now, huh?”

A laugh escaped from Dana. “Yeah, sure.”

“It’s a beauty.” Crouching, Tuck reached for the camera.

“Better not touch it. You’ll get blood on you.”

“Huh?”

Dana held out her stained hand.

“Oh, yuck. That’s from the camera?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” Tuck stood up and took a step backward. Frowning, she looked from the camera to Dana’s exposed body. “Whose blood?”

“Not mine.”

“Then it must be his.” She looked down at the carpet, her gaze roaming. “I don’t see any more.” She held out her revolver toward Dana. “Why don’t you hold on to this and I’ll call Eve.”

Dana took the weapon.

Tuck stepped over to the telephone extension on the nightstand. She tapped in three numbers. Then she said, “Malcasa Point...The number for Eve Chaney. C-h-a-n-e-y...Right.”

Seconds later, her fingers scurried over the keys, entering Eve’s telephone number.

Then she stared at Dana and listened.

She made a face. “Answering machine.”

“Maybe she screens her calls.”

Tuck nodded, waited, then said, “Eve? This is Lynn Tucker. Pick up if you’re there, okay? Eve? Yo, Eve! Pick up! I’m sorry to be calling at this hour, but we’ve had another problem over here. Somebody was in Dana’s room. He cut open her nightshirt, maybe took some pictures of her. We don’t know if he’s still in the house. His camera is. And it has blood on it. He might’ve cut himself with whatever he used on Dana’s nightshirt. I don’t know. Where the hell are you? Anyway, give me a call when you can.” She hung up and said, “Shit.”