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  Snapped his head forward.

  He was standing in a dip.

  He saw only the road.

  From the noise, the car was speeding.

  And he knew.

  He’d been slow—he should’ve guessed it the instant he saw the car sitting there, vulnerable, in front of the restaurant.

  Your van is totaled, you’re on foot and hurt, you spot an unattended vehicle…

  Heart racing, mouth gone dry, Jake Corey snatched out his .38, planted his feet on each side of the faded yellow centerline of the road, lowered himself into a shooting crouch, and waited.

  He aimed at the road’s crest fifty yards away.

  “Come on, you mother.”

  Jake wished he had a .357 like the one Chuck carried. With that, he’d be able to kill a car.

  Jake would have to go for the driver.

  He had never shot anyone.

  But he knew this was it. He couldn’t let the bastard get away.

  Six slugs through the windshield.

  That should do it.

  The car burst into view, bounced on loose shocks as it hit the down slope, sped toward him.

  Wait till he’s almost on you, blow him away, dive for safety.

  Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Brakes shrieked. The car skidded, fishtailed, and stopped thirty feet in front of him.

  Jake couldn’t believe it.

  “Let me see your hands!” he yelled.

  The driver, a thin and frightened-looking man of about thirty, stared at Jake through the windshield.

  “I want to see your hands right now! Grab the steering wheel right now!”

  The hands appeared. They gripped the top of the wheel.

  “Keep ‘em there!”

  Jake kept his revolver pointed at the man’s face while he approached the car. The head turned, eyes following him as he stepped to the driver’s door.

  No one else in the car.

  Jake pulled the door open and stepped back. Crouching slightly, he had a full view of the man.

  Who wore a blue knit shirt, and Bermuda shorts, and who didn’t appear to be injured in any way.

  “What’s going on, Officer?”

  “Place your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers.”

  “Hey really…”

  “Do it!”

  Why are you keeping this up? Jake wondered. Because you don’t know. Not yet. Not for sure.

  The man put his hands on top of his head.

  “Okay. Now climb out.”

  As he followed orders, Jake got a look at his back. No blood or sign of injury there, either.

  “Turn around slowly.” Jake made circular motions with his left forefinger. The man turned. Jake looked for bulges. The knit shirt was skintight. The only bulge was at the rear pocket of his shorts—a wallet. Good. Jake didn’t want to frisk him.

  “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  Jake holstered his weapon.

  “Could I see your driver’s license, please?”

  The man took out his wallet. He knew enough to remove the license from its plastic holder. Probably been stopped for traffic violations.

  Jake took the card. His hand was trembling. It reminded him of Celia’s shaking arm. The name on the license was Ronald Smeltzer. The photo matched the face of the man in front of him. The home address was on Euclid, in Santa Monica, California. “Thank you, Mr. Smeltzer,” he said, and returned the license. “I’m sorry about stopping you that way.”

  “A wave would’ve sufficed.”

  “I was expecting trouble. I assume you’re the new owner of the Oakwood.”

  “That’s right. Could you tell me what’s going on? I realize I was taking the road a bit fast, but…” Smeltzer shrugged. He was obviously upset, but showing no belligerence. Jake appreciated his attitude.

  “I was on my way to speak with you—to warn you, actually. We just had an incident over on Latham Road.”

  “We were wondering. We heard the sirens.”

  “On your way to investigate?”

  “No, no. As a matter of fact, we haven’t got ice. My wife and I have been working all day, trying to get the place in shape. No refrigerator, yet. It’s supposed to be delivered tomorrow. We thought we’d relax over cocktails for a while, but…” He shrugged. He looked as if he felt a little foolish. “No ice. What can I say?”

  “Your wife is back at the restaurant?” Jake asked. The man nodded. “I don’t think you want to leave her alone just now. We’ve got a situation. Give me a lift to your restaurant and I’ll explain.”

  The two men climbed into the car. Smeltzer turned it around and headed back up the road at a moderate speed.

  “Pick it up,” Jake told him. “I know you can do better than this.”

  Smeltzer stepped on the gas.

  As the car raced toward the restaurant, Jake explained about the attempt to run down Celia Jamerson, the blood behind the van, and his search for the injured passenger. Smeltzer listened, asking no questions but shaking his head a couple of times and frequently muttering, “Oh, man.”

  The car lurched to a stop at the foot of the restaurant’s stairs. Smeltzer flung open his door. At the same moment, a door at the top of the stairs swung wide.

  A woman stood in the shadows. She stepped out onto the porch as Smeltzer and Jake climbed from the car. Her perplexed expression altered into a frown of concern—probably as she realized that Jake was a cop.

  She had nice legs. She wore red shorts. This is my day for beautiful women in red shorts, Jake thought. The front of her loose gray jersey jiggled nicely as she trotted down the stairs. The jersey had been cut off, halfway up. Any higher, Jake thought, and he’d be seeing what made the jiggles.

  “Ron?” she asked, stopping in front of the car.

  “Honey, this is officer…” He looked at Jake.

  “Jake Corey.”

  “I ran into him on my way out. Almost literally.” He gave Jake a sheepish glance.

  “Some kind of trouble?”

  Jake let Smeltzer explain. His wife nodded. She didn’t say, “Oh, man,” after each of his sentences. She didn’t say anything. She just frowned and nodded and kept glancing over at Jake as if expecting him to interrupt. “Is this true?” she finally asked him.

  “He covered it pretty well.”

  “You think there might be a killer hanging around here?”

  “He didn’t kill anyone today, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Have either of you seen anyone?”

  She shook her head.

  “But we’ve been working inside,” Smeltzer added.

  “You folks have a home in town, don’t you?” Jake asked. He seemed to remember hearing that they’d bought the Anderson house.

  “I was on my way there,” Smeltzer said, “for the ice.”

  “It’s certainly your decision, but if I were you, I’d close up here for today and go on back to your house. There’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.”

  Husband and wife exchanged a look.

  “I don’t know,” Smeltzer said to her. “What do you think?”

  “We’ve got to get this place in shape before they bring in the equipment.”

  “I guess we could come in early tomorrow.”

  “It’s up to you,” the wife said.

  “This guy does sound like he might be dangerous.”

  “Whatever you say, Ron. It’s your decision.”

  “You’d rather stay,” Ron said.

  “Did I say that?”

  “I think we’d be smart to leave.”

  “Okay. It’s settled, then.” She smiled at Jake. It was a false smile. See? You got your way.

  Hey lady, he wanted to tell her, sorry. Just thought you might want to know there’s an asshole in the neighborhood and maybe you’re his type. Forgive me.

  Smeltzer turned to Jake. “Could we give you a lift?”

  “Yeah, thanks. I could use a ride back to the road.”


  “Fine. We’ll just be a minute. We need to lock up.”

  He and his wife headed up the porch stairs.

  Jake glanced at the woman’s rear end. He didn’t find it especially interesting. She was a fine-looking package, beautifully wrapped, but Jake had the idea that he wouldn’t like what he found inside.

  So much for lust.

  They were inside the restaurant for longer than Jake expected. At first, he assumed they were probably delayed by a heated discussion about leaving ahead of schedule. Then he began to worry.

  What if the guy from the van was in there and got them?

  Not very likely.

  But the possibility stayed with Jake. He counted to thirty, slowly, in his mind.

  They still weren’t out.

  He went for the stairs, took them three at a time, and reached for the door handle.

  The door swung away from him.

  “Sorry it took so long,” Smeltzer said. “Had to use the john.”

  “No problem.” Jake turned away, not even trying for a glimpse of the wife, and trotted down the stairs.

  From behind him came her voice. “This really is the pits.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Smeltzer said.

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A few classes were still in session and Bennet Hall had terrible acoustics that seemed to magnify every sound—especially on the stairways—so Alison climbed to the third floor with excessive caution, holding onto the old, wooden banister to keep herself steady.

  Alison knew she was early.

  She couldn’t help it.

  She’d tried to stay away until four, but Chaucer let out at two and she had no classes after that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it just isn’t easy, killing two hours. The walk home only used up ten minutes. Neither of her roommates were there. Too bad. A conversation with Celia or Helen would’ve been good for making the time pass.

  She’d tried to study, but couldn’t concentrate. Not on the book, anyway. Just on the clock, the minute hand of which seemed to move one space every ten minutes. If she could just take a nap and wake up at a quarter to four…So she set her alarm clock and stretched out on the bed. Sure, sleep. She shut her eyes, folded her hands on her belly, and tried very hard. It was no use. She couldn’t even lie still, much less sleep. Finally, she gave up on the idea, folded her waitress uniform into her flight bag, added a paperback, and left.

  She had reached Bennet Hall at 3:20. That was early, even for her—a whole fifteen minutes earlier than her arrival time on Tuesday. So she took her usual seat on a concrete bench that encircled the broad trunk of an oak tree, and tried to read. Watched a squirrel eat a nut. Watched a couple of yelling lower classmen, probably frosh, toss a Frisbee around. Watched Ethel Something stroll toward the library holding hands with Brad Bailey. Tried to read. At last, it was ten till four. She couldn’t wait any longer. Besides, she told herself, the class might let out early.

  So she entered Bennet Hall and made her way as quietly as possible to the third floor. The hallway was deserted. She heard the slow tapping of a typewriter from a faculty office, and a few faint voices drifting into the hall from open classroom doors.

  She stopped near the open door of the last classroom on the left. The students were out of sight, but her position gave Alison a clear view of Evan.

  She’d been with him only last night, but she felt as if far too much time had gone by since then. Too much time with a hollow ache in her chest. The ache didn’t go away. It seemed to get worse.

  Come on, Alison thought. Dismiss the class.

  Apparently, Evan hadn’t noticed her arrival. He was looking forward, probably at the student who was asking about a minimum length requirement for the term papers.

  “It should,” he replied, “be like a young lady’s skirt—short enough to keep one’s interest but long enough to cover the essentials.”

  A few of the students chuckled.

  “But how long does it have to be?” the voice persisted.

  Evan arched an eyebrow. Alison smiled. He was so cute, acting the pedant. “Fifteen pages minimum.”

  “Is that typed?” inquired a different voice.

  “Typed. Black ink. White paper of the 81/2-by-11-inch variety. Double-spaced. One inch margins all around. If possible, refrain from using erasable paper—it makes my fingers sticky.”

  They were freshmen. Probably taking notes on his every utterance.

  Evan folded his arms. He was standing in front of his desk, its edge pressing into his rump. Taking off his wirerimmed glasses, he asked, “Any more questions?” While he waited, he wiped the lenses on a lapel of his corduroy jacket. Without the glasses, his face looked bare and somehow childlike. He put them back on and became the scholar again. “No? Your assignment is to read pages 496 through 506 in Untermeyer and come to class on Tuesday prepared to astonish me with your knowledge of Mr. Thomas’s craft and sullen art. You are dismissed.”

  Alison stepped away from the door. There was no stampede to leave the classroom. The students took their time departing, some coming out alone, others in groups of two or three. The bell rang. More students wandered out. Alison waited impatiently, then peeked around the door frame.

  A girl in the fourth row was still in the process of stacking her books on top of her desk. Finally, she stood, cradled the precarious pile, and strolled toward the front. “Have a nice weekend, Mr. Forbes.”

  He grinned. “I shall spend the weekend continuing my quest for naked women in wet mackintoshes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Have a nice weekend, Dana, and Friday, too.”

  Alison entered the room. The girl stepped around her and was gone.

  “Naked women in wet mackintoshes?” Alison asked.

  Evan grinned. He slipped a book into his briefcase. “A line borrowed from Mr. Thomas.”

  “Your friend Dana will think you’re daffy.”

  “Daffiness is expected from English instructors.”

  Alison shut the door and went to him. He latched his briefcase, turned to her, and stared into her eyes.

  “How you been?” she whispered. Her throat felt tight.

  “Lonely.”

  “Me, too.” She eased herself against him, arms moving beneath his jacket, head tilting back, lips waiting for his mouth.

  He kissed her. He pressed her body closer and she snuggled against him. This was what she wanted, what she had longed for since last night—being with him again. If it could only go on and on. If they could only go from here to his apartment and be together, make love, eat supper, spend the evening and the night. But it couldn’t be that way, and the knowledge was a whisper of regret that tainted the moments in his embrace.

  Alison ended the kiss.

  She pressed her mouth to the side of his neck, squeezed herself hard against him, then lowered her arms and slipped her hands into the rear pockets of his corduroy pants. “It feels so good,” she said.

  “My ass?”

  “Just holding you.”

  “The clothes get in the way.”

  “It’s still nice.”

  “Nicer still would be naked on the floor.”

  “Undeniable.”

  “How about it?” His hands went to her rump. They cupped her buttocks through her skirt, squeezed.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “The door doesn’t have a lock.”

  “Aside from that.”

  She smiled up at him. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “A minor detail.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “It would be well worth the risk.”

  “No way, pal.”

  “A coward dies many times…”

  “And discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “Methinks the lady doth not want to screw.”

  With a laugh, Alison pushed herself away from him. “Walk me to work?”

  “Well, I
don’t know. One good turn deserves another, and…” He shrugged.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nobody’s going to come in here.”

  “How do you know?”

  Evan reached out and opened the top button of her blouse. He started for the next button. Alison took him by the wrists and pushed his hands away. “I said no. I meant it. This isn’t the time or the place.”

  He pressed his lips into a tight line and breath hissed from his nostrils. “If you say so,” he muttered.

  Alison looked into his eyes. His gaze, which before had seemed so deep and searching, now had a blankness to it as if something inside him had shut down and he no longer saw her at all.

  He turned away. He opened his briefcase and took out a fat manila folder.

  “Evan…”

  “I guess I’ll stay here for a while. I’ve got some papers to grade. Besides, I want to see if anyone comes in during the next half hour or so. Call it curiosity.”

  Alison stared at him a moment longer, not wanting to believe he was doing this to her. Then she walked to the door.

  “Come on, Alison, what’s the big deal?”

  She didn’t answer. She left.

  In the corridor, then on the stairs, she expected Evan to hurry after her. He would apologize. I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have brought it up.

  By the time Alison pushed her way through the main door, she knew he wasn’t going to run after her. He’d meant it. He was staying. Still, she kept glancing back as she crossed the lawn.

  How could he do something like this?

  Evan had walked her to work almost every day during the past two weeks. A couple of times, he couldn’t do it because of meetings or something. But this—this was just spite.

  A punishment.

  Because she wouldn’t put out.

  Put out. What an ugly term.

  Put out or get out.

  All day, she had been looking forward to seeing him. A hug and kiss in the classroom, holding hands as he walked her to the restaurant. Talking, joking, just being with him. And both of them knowing that he would meet her after work, that they would walk to the park or back to his apartment and then he would be inside her.

  Not today, folks.

  The sidewalk was blurry. She wiped her eyes, but they filled again.