red nightgown. It had been one pain-in-the-ass thing after another since they'd let the maid go last week for stealing a bracelet from his wife's bureau. Just can't trust people anymore, Henry thought groggily as he padded across the tiled floor of the foyer.
'Who is it?' he called, and then mumbled in the same singsong voice, 'You annoying asshole.'
He looked through the peephole and saw nothing, then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Nothing. A bird called out twice from its perch in a tree and Henry relaxed and inhaled deeply, stretching his arms. He bent over and picked up the newspaper.
As he walked back down the hallway to the bedroom, the doorbell rang again.
'I thought I told you to get the door,' his wife screeched from the bedroom. Henry winced at the sound of her voice, raising his shoulders above his neck as if to block out the noise.
'I got it. Just go back to sleep.' He walked back to the door muttering to himself. He leaned forward to check the peephole again; there was a tinkling sound as the glass from the peephole broke. Henry convulsed and slumped forward. His body seemed to hang on the door from his head.
Allander pulled the awl back out through the peephole. Poised in his other hand was the hammer he had used to force the awl through the small hole and into Henry's eye. The door shuddered softly as Henry collapsed to the floor. His body showed no visible sign of violence except for the small puncture in the iris, through which the awl had entered his brain.
Allander pushed the door open, shoving against the weight of Henry's body.
Vanity breeds contempt, Allander thought. If you hadn't wanted the white castle on top of the hill, you'd still be dreaming of breakfast.
He crept softly toward the master bedroom, holding the hammer tight in his fist.
A familiar sensation invaded him, filling him slowly, leaving him with a tingling in his stomach-the ecstasy of the kill. Somehow, he knew that it was what he was made to do. And he didn't feel angry. In fact, it was the only time he didn't feel angry.
The woman's form under the blankets was barely visible from the doorway, yet Allander could sense the inconsistency of her femininity. It scared him, the inconsistency. It always had.
He approached her slowly, his knees trembling. His left foot came down on a lipstick cylinder and it cracked like a walnut.
The woman rolled over in bed and saw Allander's sickly, pale skin covered with sand trails and dried seaweed. The white mask over her face opened to emit an enormous scream. Allander backed up, momentarily fearful, bumping against the cabinet.
Throwing the covers aside, the woman grabbed the phone from the nightstand and hurled it at Allander's head. She screamed her husband's name over and over: 'HENRY! HENRY! GET THE CHILDREN! HENRY!'
The phone hit Allander in the face and split open his upper lip, spilling blood over his mouth. He cowered until he tasted its richness, then he felt himself energized.
The white mask was out of bed and running for the door. As she passed him, Allander stepped forward and swung the hammer's pointed end at the back of the woman's head. It struck her in the soft nape of her neck and stuck. He jerked it back and swung again, lodging it firmly in the wound.
The woman fell as if in slow motion, jolting momentarily on her knees before pitching face first to the carpet.
Her final scream reverberated within the room, then there was quiet. The silence was broken by the distant crying of children.
A young boy's voice sounded from around the corner, 'Mommy? Are you all right? Daddy?' It was a beautifully pitched voice, a soprano full of prepubescent innocence. It trembled delicately, like a feather approaching the blades of a fan.
Allander was the man of the house now. He had established that.
He wiped the blood from his lips and headed for the door.
PART TWO
THE TRACKER
Chapter 12
' Stay back, you fuck! Don't even think about it,' Jade Marlow yelled above the scream of bullets that ricocheted off the pavement and the open car door that shielded him.
'But I think I got it! I think I got an angle to the door,' Dave Patrick said excitedly, his eyes fixed on the second-floor window of the Lilliputian Day Care building, behind which a team of gunmen held three children hostage.
Jade peered cautiously around the car door. The late-morning heat made the yellow window frame waver and distort, its peeling paint seeming to vibrate in the heavy air. A wooden sign was staked in the middle of the browning lawn. 'For Growing Sirs and Madams,' it announced in impressive lettering.
'You don't! You don't have it, and you're my cover. Don't fuck me on this! I'm the lead here, so stay put.'
Dave glanced at Jade nervously, his blue eyes filled with more bravado than intelligence. 'I got it. I got it, Jade!' With that he leaped to his feet and ran out from behind the car, sprinting for the building.
'No, you stupid fuck!' Jade hit the door angrily with his elbow, then quickly turned and fired several shots at the second-story window. The gunman upstairs stayed put.
As Dave neared the door, it swung open and he found himself facing a fat man with a goatee, a shotgun braced beneath his jiggling chins. Panic crossed Dave's face. He tried desperately to skid to a halt while raising his gun, instead losing his footing and landing on his ass. Before he could blink, Goatee had unloaded two quick shots into his chest, splattering his policeman-blue shirt with blood.
Jade pivoted around the car door and put one bullet neatly through Goatee's neck, dropping him before he could retreat. As he toppled over backward, another man scurried around the body and slammed the door shut again.
Rising slightly from his crouch, Jade peered at Dave's body. His longish blond hair, brushed by the wind, was the only thing that moved. Poor dumb guy, Jade thought, an ex-high school running back who'd never learned to separate the playing field from the world that fenced it in. He was definitely dead. At least you got us one kidnapper, he thought.
The door opened slightly and the downstairs gunman showered bullets all over the front of the car door. Jade flattened himself against the ground; as he got ready to return fire, the door slammed shut again.
Peering through the shattered remains of his driver's-side window, Jade noticed a mail slot toward the bottom of the thick oak door. He raised his gun, holding it firmly while he aimed. He fired once. The mail slot pinged open and shut like a throwing game at an amusement park.
Hearing a scream, he rolled from the safety of his car and sprang to his feet. He ran toward the door, firing over his head to keep the gunman upstairs at bay.
As Jade got to the base of the steps leading to the door, he planted his foot on Dave's chest and leaped over the four steps in a single motion.
The gunman lay across Goatee's body, his shoulders propped up by the wall. He was crying silently and holding his knee, his gun on the floor a few feet from him. Dark streams of blood spurted from between his fingers. When Jade kicked open the door, the man scrambled for his gun, but Jade stepped on his hand and fired once into the top of his head. The bullet blew out part of his jaw as it exited.
The foyer was a large room with smooth beige carpeting. A curved staircase swept up to the second floor, which was set off by wood railings. An elaborate chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. Elegant, though slightly rundown, the Lilliputian Day Care building was a converted mansion. It provided day care for the more affluent families in Pacific Heights.
Jade assessed his position: lower location, limited sight-extremely vulnerable. Either turn back or bulldoze
