He was lying. She cocked her head to one side. 'Maybe I could go with you sometime? I wouldn't mind supporting him either. Also, I've never gotten together with Sally Quinlan. I heard she's an aide to a senator.'
'Yeah. Okay, sure. Maybe. We'll see.' She didn't say a word. They were nearly at her town house. There was a quarter moon showing through gothic clouds- all thin and wispy, floating past, making sinister images. It was only eight-thirty in the evening, cool with only a slight breeze. 'You should keep a light on.'
'The FBI doesn't pay me all that well, Dillon. It would cost a fortune.'
'Do you have an alarm system?'
'No. Why? All of a sudden you're worried? You were mocking all my locks just a while ago.'
'Yeah, and I wondered why someone who faced down Marlin like a first-class warrior would need to have more locks in her house than the president has guards.' 'They're two very different things.' 'I figured that. I don't suppose you'll tell me about it, will you?'
'There's nothing to tell. Now, what's all this about an
alarm system?'
'Someone tried to run you down. That changes things, big-time.'
They were back to that. 'It was an accident.'
'Possibly.'
'Good night, Dillon.'
20
LACEY UNLOCKED THE FRONT door and stepped into the small foyer. She reached for the light switch and turned it on. It flickered, and then the light strengthened. She turned to lock the front door-the dead bolt, the two chains. From habit, she looked into the living room, the kitchen, before she went to her bedroom. Everything was as it should be.
She stopped suddenly. Slowly, she lowered the gym shoe she'd just pulled off to the floor. She turned, silent as stone now, and listened. Nothing.
She was losing it. She remembered that long-ago night in her fourth-floor apartment when she'd awakened to hear noises and nearly heaved up her guts with terror. Then she'd gotten a grip and gone out to see what or who was there. It had been a mouse. A silly little mouse, so scared he didn't know where to run when he saw her. And that had been the night she'd changed.
She took off the rest of her gym clothes and went into the bathroom. Just before she stepped into the shower, she turned the lock on the door, laughing aloud at herself while she did it. 'You're an idiot,' she said, unlocked the door, then stepped into the shower.
Hot. Hot water. It felt like heaven. Dillon had nearly killed her, but the hot water was soaking in. She could feel her shrieking leg muscles groan in relief. He'd told her that working out kept his stress level down. It also gave him a gorgeous body, but she didn't tell him that. She was beginning to wonder if he didn't have something about bringing down the stress. For the hour they'd exercised, she hadn't given a single thought to Marlin Jones or to the inconclusive report from Wild Ralph York.
She finally stepped out of the shower some ten minutes later and into the fog-heavy bathroom. She wrapped a thick Egyptian-cotton towel around her head, then used the corner of her other towel to wipe the mirror.
She stared into the masked face right behind her.
A yell clogged in her throat. She froze. She realized she wasn't breathing, couldn't breathe, until air whooshed out of her mouth.
The man said in a soft, low voice that feathered warm air on the back of her neck, 'Don't move now, little girl. I expected you to come home a bit later. You seemed well ensconced at that pizza place with that big guy. What's the matter, didn't the guy push hard enough to sleep with you? I could tell he wanted to, just the way he was looking at you. You told him no, didn't you? Yeah, you're here a little earlier than I expected, but no matter. I had a chance to settle in, get to know you a bit.'
His mask was black. His breathing was quiet, his voice so very soft, unalarming. She felt the gun pressing lightly against the small of her back. She was naked, no weapon, nothing except a ridiculous towel wrapped around her head.
'That's right. You're holding perfectly still. Are you afraid I'll rape you?'
'I don't know. Will you?'
'I hadn't thought to, but seeing you all buck naked, well, you're good-looking, you know? It turned me on to hear you singing that country-western song in the shower. What was it?'
' 'King of the Road.' '
'I like those words-but they fit me, not you. You're just a little girl playing cop. The king of the road goes to Maine when he's all done, right? That's just where I might go once I'm through with you.'
Slowly, very slowly, she brought the towel down in front of her. 'May I please wrap the towel around me?'
'No, I like looking at you. Drop it on the floor. Leave the one wrapped around your head. I like that too. It makes you look exotic. It turns me on.'
She dropped the towel. She felt the gun pressing cold and hard against her spine. She'd had training, but what could she do? She was naked, without a weapon, in her bathroom. What could she possibly do? Talk to him; that was her best chance, for the moment. 'What do you want?'
'I want to talk you into going back to him, all the way back to San Francisco.'
'Did you try to run me down?'
He laughed, actually laughed. 'Do you think I could have done something like that, little girl? Though you ain't all that little, are you?' The hand holding the gun came around and stroked the dull silver barrel over her right breast.
She flinched, leaning back, only to feel him against her back, his groin against her hips.
'Now that's nice, isn't it?' He continued to press the cold metal against her breast, then downward to her belly. She was quivering, she couldn't stop it, her flesh trying to flinch from him. Fear was full-blown now, and she didn't know if she could hold herself together. She gasped out, 'Why do you want me to leave Washington?'
The gun stopped. He drew his hand away. 'Your mama and daddy need you at home. It's time you went back there and took care of your responsibilities. They don't want you here, involved in conspiracies and shooting people, the way the FBI does. Yeah, they want you home. I'm here to encourage you to go.'
'I'll tell you why I can't go back just yet. You see, there's this murderer, his name is Marlin Jones, and he just killed this woman in Boston. He's a serial killer. I can't leave just yet. I'll tell you more but it could take a while. Can't I put on some clothes? We can go in the kitchen, and I'll make some coffee?'
'Hard-nosed little girl, aren't you? It doesn't bother you at all with my dick pressing against your butt.'
'It bothers me.'
He stepped back. He waved the gun toward the bedroom. 'Go put yourself in a bathrobe. I can always take it off you if I want.'
He followed at a distance, not getting close enough for her to kick out at him. She didn't look at him again until she had the terry-cloth robe belted tightly around her waist.
'Take the turban off your head and comb out your hair. I want to see it.'
She pulled off the towel and began combing her fingers through her hair. Had he moved closer? Could she get him with her foot? It would require speed, and she'd have to be accurate or he'd kill her. 'Use that brush.'
She shook her head, picked up the brush, and brushed her hair until he finally said, 'That's enough.' He reached out his hand and touched the damp hair. He grunted.
Keep calm, she had to keep herself calm, but it was hard to do, really hard. She wanted to see his face, to make him human, and real, to look hard at his eyes. The black ski mask made him a monster, faceless, terrifying. He was dressed in black too, down to the black running shoes on his feet. Big feet. He was a big man, big arms, long, but his belly was flabby. He wasn't all that young, then. His voice was low, sort of raspy, as if he'd smoked too much for a long time. Keep thinking like this, she told herself over and over as she walked into the kitchen. Just keep calm.
She watched him from the corner of her eye. He was leaning against the counter, the gun-a small .22-still pointed at her, as if someone had told him that she'd had some training, that he shouldn't just assume that because
