around in the darkness, she understood: she was in the tub of her private bathroom. What was she doing here? It felt as if she’d been asleep for hours. But no — the wall clock above her sink read ten minutes to one. She’d only been out for a couple of minutes. She tried to move — and realized she had been bound, hand and foot.
That was when the memory of what had happened came rushing back, falling upon her like a dead weight.
Instantly her heart accelerated, pounding hard in her chest. The rag was still in her mouth. She tried to spit it out, found she could not. The tight rope chafed at her wrists and ankles. Crime-scene photos she’d seen came into her mind, flashing quickly by in a terrible parade.
A home invasion.
But it was all so horribly stealthy — so diabolically calculating. First Sarah, now her…
…
At this thought, stark panic bubbled to the surface.
She struggled violently, jaw working, tongue pushing against the cloth wedged into her mouth. She tried to rise up, and an agonizing pain that almost caused her to faint lanced through her legs. She saw that her kneecaps had been beaten like her sister’s, white edges of broken bone jutting up through torn, bloody flesh. She remembered the baseball bat clutched in one black-gloved hand, and she moaned in fresh panic, thrashing against the bottom of the tub despite the awful pain in her knees.
All of a sudden, sounds of fighting erupted from down the hall: her father yelling, her mother crying out in fear. Jenny listened in unspeakable horror. Furniture was overturned; there was the sound of breaking glass. Her mother’s screams spiked in volume. A heavy thud. Abruptly, her father’s shouts of anger and alarm changed to cries of pain. There was an ugly crack of what sounded like wood on bone, and his voice was abruptly cut off.
Jenny listened to the dreadful silence, whimpering under the gag, her heart beating even faster. And then, a moment later, came another sound: sobs, running feet. It was her mother, racing down the hall, trying to escape. Jenny heard her mother go into Sarah’s room; heard her scream. And now a heavier tread came down the hall. It was not her father’s.
Another cry of fear from her mother; the sound of feet pattering down the stairs.
The unfamiliar tread, faster now, went stomping down the steps.
Heart in her throat, Jenny listened as the sounds grew fainter. She heard her mother’s step, running toward the kitchen and the master alarm panel. There was a cry as she was apparently cut off. The thunk of an overturned chair; the sound of glassware and dishes crashing to the floor. Jenny, struggling against her bonds, could hear it all, could follow the chase with dreadful articulation. She heard her mother’s footsteps, running through the den, the living room, the library. A moment of silence. And then came a low, cautious sliding sound: it was her mother, quietly opening the door to the indoor pool.
All of a sudden there was a series of brutal crashes — her mother gave out a single, sharp scream — and then silence.
No…not quite silence. As Jenny listened, wide-eyed, whimpering, the blood rushing in her ears, she could make out the unfamiliar tread again. It was moving slowly now, deliberately. And it was getting closer. It was crossing the front hall. Now it was coming back up the stairs: she heard the squeak of the tread her father kept saying he’d get fixed.
Closer. Closer. The steps were coming down the hall. They were in her bedroom. And now a dark figure appeared in the doorway of her bath. It was silent, save for labored breathing. The clown mask leered down at her. There was no longer a baseball bat in one of the hands. It had been replaced by a plastic squeeze bottle, glowing pale gold in the faint light.
The figure stepped into the bathroom.
As it came closer, Jenny writhed in the tub, heedless of the pain in her knees. Now the invader was hovering over her. The hand holding the squeeze bottle came forward in her direction. As the figure began silently squeezing the liquid over her in long, arc-like jets, a powerful stench rose up: gasoline.
Jenny’s struggles became frantic.
Painstakingly, Clown Mask sent the looping squirts of gasoline over and around her, missing nothing, dousing her clothes; her hair; the surrounding porcelain. Then — as her struggles grew ever more violent — the invader put down the bottle and took a step back. A hand reached into the pocket of the leather jacket, withdrew a safety match. Holding the match carefully by its end, the figure struck it against the rough surface of the bathroom wall. The head of the match flared into yellow life. It hovered over her, dangling, for an endless, agonizing second.
And then, with the parting of a thumb and index finger, it dropped.
…And Jenny’s world dissolved into a roar of flame.
12
Corrie Swanson entered the dining room of the Hotel Sebastian and found herself dazzled by its elegance. It was done up in Gay Nineties style, with red velvet flocked wallpaper, polished-brass and cut-glass fixtures, a pressed-tin ceiling, and Victorian-era mahogany tables and chairs trimmed in silk and gold. A wall of windowpanes looked across the glittering Christmas lights of Main Street to the spruce-clad foothills, ski slopes, and mountain peaks beyond.
Even though it was close to midnight, the dining room was crowded, the convivial murmur of voices mingling with the clink of glassware and the bustle of waiters. The light was dim, and it took her a moment to spy the solitary figure of Pendergast, seated at an unobtrusive table by one of the windows.
She brushed off the maitre d’s pointed inquiries as to how he could help her — she was still dressed from jail — and made her way to Pendergast’s table. He rose, extending his hand. She was startled by his appearance: he seemed to be even paler, leaner, more ascetic — the word
“Corrie, I am glad to see you.” He took her hand in his, cool as marble, then held out her seat for her. She sat down.
She’d been rehearsing what she would say, but now it all came out in a confused rush. “I can’t believe I’m free — how can I ever thank you? I was toast, I mean, I was up shit creek, you know they’d already forced me to accept ten years — I really thought my life was over — thank you,
A raised hand stopped the flow of words. “Will you have a drink? Wine, perhaps?”
“Um, I’m only twenty.”
“Ah. Of course. I shall order a bottle for myself, then.” He picked up a leather-bound wine list that was so massive, it could have been a murder weapon.
“This sure beats jail,” said Corrie, looking around, drinking in the ambience, the aroma of food. It was hard to believe that, just a few hours ago, she’d been behind bars, her life utterly ruined. But once again Agent Pendergast had swooped in, like a guardian angel, and changed everything.
“It took them rather longer than I’d hoped to complete the paperwork,” said Pendergast, perusing the list. “Fortunately, the Sebastian’s dining room is open late. I think the Chateau Pichon-Longueville 2000 will do nicely — don’t you?”
“I don’t know jack about wine, sorry.”
