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  Turning around, she embraced Jack and kissed his open mouth. He held her tightly. Then his arms loosened and Dani stepped back. She stood motionless while he closed her robe and adjusted the belt.

  ‘You have a nice way of saying good morning,’ she whispered.

  ‘When my hands are clean.’

  ‘Two eggs?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Will you stay?’

  ‘Let’s see how well you cook.’

  ‘No, really. I . . . I mean, aside from just plain wanting you here, I . . . I guess I’m chicken. That guy worries me.’

  ‘I’ll stay. At least for a while. We’ll see how it goes.’

  Jack swabbed up the last of his egg yellow with a chunk of toast. As he finished chewing, he rubbed his mouth and whiskers with a napkin. ‘Well, that was real good. I’d better get going, now. Want to come along?’

  ‘No, you go ahead. I’ll try to finish the machete work, and then we can have the rest of the day free.’

  She gave him a key to the front door, and kissed him good-bye. When he was gone, she cleaned up the kitchen. Then she returned to her bedroom. Her chest tightened as she reached for the curtain cord. She hesitated, then pulled. The curtains skidded open, letting sunlight fill the room, and she quickly looked out.

  Nobody there.

  Of course not.

  The back yard was deserted, the pool’s surface pale blue and motionless, nothing on the diving board. Breathing more easily, she made the bed. She hung her robe on the closet door, cleaned herself up in the master bathroom, then got dressed in cut-off jeans and a baggy, sleeveless sweatshirt. She slipped into thongs, and made her way through the silent house.

  The aroma of bacon lingered in the kitchen. She glanced out the window. Her Rabbit stood alone on the driveway, as if abandoned. Other cars were parked on the street.

  No hearse.

  She stepped to the side door, entered her garage, and turned on the overhead light. Shutting the door, she wished for a way to lock it from this side.

  If he broke into the house . . .

  She realised that none of her doors locked from both sides. You could lock someone out of the house, but not inside. You might secure yourself within a bathroom or bedroom, but there was no way to seal the doors from the other side.

  Dani saw the workings of a benevolent, misguided hand.

  No, no, no, thou shalt not lock thy child in his bedroom.

  And thou shalt not take refuge in thy garage.

  Probably a goddamn law against it. Probably in the building code.

  Screw it, she thought. I’m gonna put a bolt on that sucker.

  She would have to buy one, first.

  Today.

  But not just now. The first priority was business. Dani stepped over to her workbench and picked up the foam latex face of Bill Washington. He was to be the second victim, nonchalantly drinking a beer when the maniac leaped from the porch roof and whacked him across the forehead with a machete.

  Jack would be wielding the machete, swinging it with enough force to penetrate the forehead of the appliance. The catcher’s mask beneath would cushion the blow for Bill.

  Dani pulled up a stool. The glass eyes seemed to watch her, as if mildly curious, as she fitted the face over the metal cage of the catcher’s mask. She determined where it needed more padding. With an Exacto knife, she cut pieces from a mat of foam rubber. She glued them inside the chin, the cheeks, behind the eyes. She pushed blood-bags behind the forehead, then glued a patch of rubber over them. When the face fit snug against the tubing of the mask, she glued it in place.

  With calipers, she measured the width of the forehead at the angle they’d decided the machete would strike. She marked off the distance on a sheet of poster board, and snipped out a crescent. She tried the cut-away cardboard on the face. The cut was too shallow. She took off another quarter inch, and again pressed it to Bill’s brow.

  Fine.

  Stretching over the workbench, she picked up the two machetes. They looked identical, vicious weapons with worn wooden handles. But one weighed only a few ounces while the other dragged her arm down. Except for the handle, taken from a real machete, the lighter of the pair was constructed of balsa wood. Jack had done a good job. The paint gleamed like steel, shiny in the same places as the other, mottled with rust near the hilt, a few nicks on the edge.

  A work of art.

  Dani hated to tamper with it.

  But if she didn’t, Jack would have to take time when he returned. He’d be glad to have it done.

  So she pressed the cardboard cut-out against the blade, and traced its crescent with a pencil. Carefully, she whittled down to the line. The machete looked as if a large bite had been taken out of it.

  She pressed it, at an angle, against the mask’s forehead.

  It fit well.

  After the real blow, the mask would be removed, the balsa machete glued to Bill’s own forehead, and makeup applied. Cameras rolling again, he’d quiver and shake and slump.

  End of effect.

  With the proper camera angles, lighting and editing, it should look like poor Bill actually caught a blade in the face.

  Smiling, Dani brushed the balsa curls off her sweatshirt.

  She was out by the pool, stretched on a chaise longue with the sun pressing warm on her back, when the sliding door from the bedroom rumbled open. Her stomach jumped. She raised her head and saw Jack come out.

  ‘Sorry it took so long.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  He walked forward, his swimming trunks hanging low on his hips, a towel under one arm. ‘Had a couple of errands to run.’

  ‘I just got out here. Finished up with Bill and the machete.’

  ‘How do they look?’

  ‘Just great.’

  ‘So we’re all set for tomorrow?’

  ‘All set. The rest of the day is for play.’

  With a grin, he flopped his towel onto the patio chair beside Dani. ‘How’s the water?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  8

  ‘BLESS MY soul! How are you, honey?’

  ‘Just fine,’ Linda said, nodding pleasantly to the buxom, grinning woman behind the counter.

  ‘Mighty good to see you up and around.’

  ‘Thank you, Elsie.’ She turned to the paperback rack, scanning the covers.

  ‘You look real good. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Good as new, almost.’

  ‘We were all just worried to death about you. ’Specially when we heard you was in one of them comas. I read me a book about a fella in a coma. He was dead to the world, oh, ’bout ten years.’ Elsie leaned over the counter, her eyes widening. ‘When he come to, he could see in the future. Gave him no end of trouble.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ Linda said.

  ‘More a curse than a gift, you ask me.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t happen to me, so I guess I’ll never know.’ She slipped a book from the rack and carried it to the counter.

  Elsie picked it up. ‘Oh dear, that’s a scary one. Did you read the other?’

  ‘I sure did.’

  ‘Them Bradleys, they had no end of trouble.’ Elsie rang it up. ‘You hear the news about our own haunted house?’

  ‘The Freeman place?’

  ‘Got burnt to the ground last night. Elwood Jones was in for his Post, told me all ’bout it. He’s on the volunteers, you know.’

  Linda nodded. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself.

  ‘Yessir, burnt to the ground. That’s three seventy-eight, with tax.’

  Linda opened her purse. Her hands trembled as she took out her billfold.

  In a hushed voice, Elsie said, ‘There was two bodies in it, burnt to a crisp.’

  ‘My God,’ Linda muttered.

  ‘They figure one’s Ben Leland’s boy, Charles. Couldn’t tell by looking, but he’s turned up missing and they say he takes his girlfriends in there for some foolishness – though, Lord knows,
you wouldn’t catch me in there after dark. Nor in broad daylight, neither.’ She took the bills from Linda and counted out the change. ‘Elwood, he says they don’t know who the gal is yet. Larson, down by the morgue, he’s gonna have to go by her teeth.’ Elsie slipped the book and receipt into a bag. ‘Real bad business, but that’s what comes of fooling where you don’t belong. Least the Freeman place is gone, now. That’s a blessing.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Linda said.

  ‘You have a good day, now, and don’t make yourself a stranger.’

  ‘Thanks, Elsie,’ She took the bag. With a wave, she turned away and headed for the door.

  Outside, the heat wrapped her like a blanket. She stayed close to the store fronts, welcoming the shade of their awnings as she walked up the block.

  Charles Leland. He’d been two years ahead of her in school, and she knew him only slightly. He wasn’t the one who’d come after her with the ax, though. Not unless he’d been wearing weird makeup or a mask. That was too bad. She would’ve liked to burn up that man along with the house.

  She realised she ought to feel guilty. Maybe she would, if she’d known him. But Elsie was right: he had no business being there. It was his own damn fault. Nobody to blame but himself.

  Must’ve used a key from his father. That’s why the back door wasn’t locked.

  Linda hoped the girl wasn’t anyone she knew.

  At the corner, she slipped the paperback out of its bag. She crumpled the bag and receipt, and tossed them into a trash bin marked KEEP CLAYMORE BEAUTIFUL.

  Walking along, she creased the book’s cover. She opened it to the middle and flexed the halves backwards. Turning to other sections, she bent the book again and again. By the time she reached the corner, the spine was streaked with white veins as if the book had been read more than once.

  For good measure, she turned down a point of the cover. Then she slipped the book into her purse.

  She turned at Craven Street. Passing Hal’s house, she kept her eyes on the sidewalk.

  If he’d shown up at the library that night . . .

  But she couldn’t blame him. He had no way to know she was waiting for him, wanting him.

  A door banged shut and she halted, her heart racing. He’d seen her pass by! I’ve wanted you so long, Linda. His embrace would wash her clean and take away all the pain and she would be as she was before the Freeman house.

  ‘Hi Linda.’

  She whirled around. Hal’s smile pierced her. He was tanned and handsome in his T-shirt and faded cut-offs, a lock of golden hair falling across his forehead. ‘Hi Hal,’ she said.

  ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  With a wink, he turned away. He hurried around the front of his Z car, and climbed in.

  Linda’s smile fell off.

  The car lunged away from the curb. At the end of the block, it turned left and vanished.

  Linda took a deep, shaky breath. She gritted her teeth to stop the trembling of her chin. The sidewalk blurred. She wiped the tears out of her eyes, but new ones came.

  ‘Who needs him,’ she muttered. She’d hardly given him a thought since the accident. If she hadn’t been stupid enough to walk by his house . . .

  He could’ve stopped all this.

  He doesn’t know. He’ll never know.

  Linda wiped her eyes dry and put on her sunglasses.

  Two blocks later, she reached Tony’s house. She turned up its walkway. A cat hopped onto the porch glider, setting it into creaky motion. From the back yard came the chatter of a lawn mower.

  She walked in the shade between the side of the house and its garage. The air smelled of cut grass. She plucked her clinging blouse away from her back, but it stuck again. She wiped a hand on her skirt, then took the paperback from her purse.

  From the rear corner, she saw a young man striding behind a mower. He appeared to be about twenty. He was taller than Tony, lean but not emaciated. His bare torso was glossy with sweat. His jeans hung below the band of his white underwear, and looked as if they might drop off.

  Turning the mower for another sweep, he briefly faced Linda. His frown changed to a look of vague curiosity. He finished the turn and started away, his head swiveling to keep an eye on her.

  Linda waved the book. ‘Hey!’

  He shut off the lawn mower, but didn’t let go of it. He squinted at Linda over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m looking for Tony,’ she called.

  ‘He ain’t here.’ Turning away, he bent down and grabbed the starter cord.

  ‘Wait,’ Linda said.

  With a shrug, he straightened up. He watched Linda approach as if she were an odd species he couldn’t quite identify. Before she got too close, he sidestepped to put the lawn mower between them.

  ‘You’re Tony’s brother, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. His gaze lowered to the front of her blouse.

  ‘I’m Beth Emory.’

  He continued to stare.

  ‘Tony let me borrow this book of his,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see that he gets it back.’

  ‘He ain’t here.’

  ‘I know. I heard he left town right after graduation.’

  ‘Hasn’t come back.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  The man’s tongue darted out, lapped speckles of sweat from over his lip. ‘Huh-uh.’

  ‘If I had his address, I’d mail it to him.’

  ‘Don’t know where he went to.’

  ‘Does your mother know?’

  ‘Huh-uh.’

  ‘Is she home now?’

  His head shook slowly from side to side, his gaze remaining on Linda’s breasts. ‘Mom, she’s been dead ten years this August.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘You wanta leave that book, it’s all right. Maybe he’ll come back. You don’t never know, with Tony.’

  ‘I have to know where he is,’ Linda said. She felt a sickening tightness in her chest, but didn’t let it stop her. With trembling fingers, she flicked open the top button of her blouse. ‘You can tell me.’

  His shallow chest rose and fell. A hand went up to wipe his mouth.

  Linda opened the next button. ‘You know where he is, don’t you?’

  ‘Go ’way,’ he whispered.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ He shook his head sharply.

  Linda opened the button at her belly, and spread the blouse wide. She squeezed the stiff cups of her bra. ‘Tell me. Tell me and you can see.’

  ‘He . . . he’s in California.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Hollywood.’

  ‘What’s his address?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  She unhooked the front of the bra and lifted it away. ‘Tell me. Tell me, and you can feel.’

  He stared. He licked his lips. ‘I don’t knooow.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ She caressed her breasts, squeezed them.

  ‘I . . . oh, oh! Go away!’ Doubling over, he turned away and fell to his knees. He grabbed his groin. His forehead pounded the grass.

  Linda stared, astonished and disgusted.

  Clutching her blouse shut, she ran.

  9

  DANI ADDED a splash of milk, and set the pot back onto the barbeque grill. She stirred the creamy potatoes with a wooden spoon. After a few strokes, the heat became too much. She backed away, rubbing the hot skin of her belly.

  ‘That hungry?’ Jack asked.

  ‘That burnt.’

  He swung himself off the lounger, stepped up beside her, and sipped his vodka and tonic as he peered into the pot. ‘Looking good,’ he said.

  ‘They’re a real calorie bomb, but what the hell? We deserve it, right?’ A few bubbles plopped to the surface. Dani reached out and stirred, the heat curling against the underside of her arm. ‘I think we’re about ready for the steaks.’

  ‘I’m more than ready.’

  ‘You want to keep an eye on this? Just
stir it a bit.’

  With a nod, he took the spoon in his free hand.

  ‘Refill while I’m in?’

  ‘Sure, thanks.’ He tilted his glass back. The cubes broke loose from the bottom and dropped against his face, splashing him. He gasped with surprise. ‘It fights back,’ he said. He backhanded a drip off the tip of his nose, rubbed his wet mustache and beard.

  ‘What poise,’ Dani said.

  ‘My specialty.’

  She took his glass, picked hers up from the tray, and slid open the screen door to the living room. The carpet felt good after the rough concrete. The house was cool, almost chilly against her sun-heated skin.

  She slid the glasses to the other side of the bar counter and wiped her wet hands across her belly, leaving dark trails on her skin. Rarely had she felt so fine: light and compact, glowing with the sun and two vodkas and her new closeness with Jack.

  She stretched, sighing at the luxury of her aching muscles. They were tight and vibrant from so much swimming and from the long love-making earlier in the afternoon. The feel of Jack was still inside her.

  Makes a lasting impression, she thought, and smiled.

  Then she stepped around the counter to fill the drinks. She was carrying ice cubes when the telephone rang. She dumped the cubes into the glasses, flinched as she wiped her cold hands on her sides, and hurried to the end of the bar. She grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Danielle.’ The voice sounded young and ugly and almost familiar.

  It made her stomach tighten. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know who this is?’

  ‘Not offhand,’ she said, wondering if he were an acquaintance trying to be funny. ‘Want to give me a clue?’

  ‘Last night,’ he whispered. In the pause, she heard him breathing. ‘The restaurant. The death buggy.’

  A cramp seized her stomach, and her legs went weak. She hunched over the counter, elbows bracing her. ‘Who . . . who are you?’