At Risk (24 page)

Pushing open the door, he entered the room. His night-vision goggles made it child’s play to navigate around the furniture to the foot of her bed. She lay sprawled on her stomach amid the tumbled sheets, clad only in a worn green T-shirt and red boxer-type shorts. One slender bare foot protruded tantalizingly from beneath a furry object that he couldn’t identify at first glance. The professor’s nails were painted, but he couldn’t be sure of the shade. Were they pink or red? Surely not blue or black. He hated dark polish on women’s nails. It was too butch.

His gloved hand hovered over the professor’s bare foot. He had the strongest urge to stroke it, to hold it in his hand, but he resisted. He was not a man of impulse. No sexual act could satisfy as greatly as seeing a woman at her most vulnerable, no longer tough or abrupt, speaking to a man as though she were his equal. He performed coitus skillfully enough to please the females he’d had in the past. It was physically rewarding to him, and apparently, he was as good at giving pleasure as receiving it. No one had ever complained.

He’d known the pain and satisfaction of union with his own sex, too. That and self-induced pleasure had been necessary during the years of enforced confinement, but neither of those alternatives were his first choice.

The Game Master liked women. He liked their scent and the texture of their skin. He loved their voices, especially the sighs and squeals they made during intimacy or at the point of death. Yes, he was all man, superior to the majority of his gender, but human. He knew that he was attractive to women; he had been gifted with good genes, regular features, and a powerful physique that he maintained by his vigorous lifestyle. And, contrary to the nature of other males, he continued to evolve.

The furry object moved, and he realized that it was a cat. The animal focused on him, recoiled, and hissed. He hissed back, and the creature flew off the bed and vanished through the open doorway.

A pity. He could have added the cat’s body to that of the German shepherd . . . placed it between the dog’s paws. What a delightful package the two would make. But the cat was gone, and he would have to forgo that bit of fun. There was always later, and cats were much easier to contend with than larger animals. Cats were so . . . so breakable.

He’d experimented with cats as a young boy, often devising clever ways to rid the earth of them. They had outgrown their time and usefulness in the world. No one needed them to catch rats and mice anymore. Poison was much more effective, and it didn’t have to be fed daily, brushed, and taken to the vet for expensive shots.

He really preferred dogs. Dogs knew their place. And no matter what you did to a dog, they never held a grudge.

He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes? Had he really stood here for twenty minutes staring at the professor’s naked foot? Exasperated with himself, he turned away, pulled open a dresser drawer, and inspected the contents. Socks and what appeared to be panty hose and silky short stockings. He tried the drawer directly below that one.

The wood protested.

The Game Master caught his breath. Was the professor deaf, that she didn’t hear the squeak? She stirred, rolling over onto her back, so that her shorts rode up and revealed even more white thigh. If she opened her eyes, he would be forced to end the game here, to overpower her and carry her to the boat.

He waited.

She murmured something and burrowed under a pillow. Her breathing grew more regular.

He glanced at the east window. Soon the sun would break over the horizon and the bay would sparkle with a million diamonds. He had stayed too long. He was in danger of losing all for the sake of small pleasures.

He loved walking the edge. Tonight was proving to be all that he had hoped. Keen arousal made his body taut. Recklessly he slid the drawer open and plunged his hand inside.

The feel of slippery fabric brought moisture to his eyes. His throat tightened, and his heart leaped in his chest. His fingers trembled as he brought the panties to his nose and inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of detergent, fabric softener, and woman.

When he was certain that he’d not missed a single undergarment, he returned the panties to their drawer.

In three minutes, the Game Master was out of the house and crossing the back yard to the dock. He untied his boat, pushed off the mooring post, and let the current carry him away. He’d wait to start the engine until he was out of sight of the bedroom window. There was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.

He wished that he’d thought to place a camera on the back porch. The professor thought she was so safe now that Wayne Boyd was dead. But the best would be when she opened her back door and found his surprise waiting for her.

It would be an expression to die for.

“Wake up, Professor. It’s time to wake up.”

Liz opened her eyes. Sunlight streamed across the painted wood floorboards of her bedroom. Cool morning air wafted in the open window. Beyond, in the big yellow poplar, she could hear a mockingbird singing.

She yawned and listened. Nothing unusual. She could have sworn she’d heard someone call her name, but she must have been dreaming. Beside her on the bed, Muffin slept, head tucked into her fur, tail wrapped around her.

Liz rose and looked out a window. There were no vehicles in the yard other than her own. The surrounding yard and marsh teemed with birds, rabbits, and other small creatures. If someone was out there, the animals would be more wary. A great blue heron flew up gracefully from the river’s edge and sailed over the house. At the tree line where meadow and woods met, a quail called cheerily, “Bob white! Bob white!”

Odd, Liz thought. She’d been so certain that she’d heard a voice. Still yawning, she left the bedroom and walked down the hall to the back kitchen stairs. The uncarpeted steps were cool against the soles of her bare feet, and the kitchen lay in shadow. She paused at the bottom step and listened again, but—other than the steady hum of the refrigerator motor—the house was quiet.

Automatically, still only half awake, Liz went through the motions of making a pot of coffee and opened two windows to let in the fresh breeze off the river. She ducked into a downstairs bathroom off the kitchen, brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, and ran a brush through her hair before securing it in a short ponytail.

For a long minute, she stared into the age-spotted mirror over the 1950’s sink. “Pretty damn good for forty and not a stitch of makeup,” she proclaimed. Well, not exactly forty, she mused; nearer forty-three. But, hey, she wasn’t being graded on candor here. She wondered if the sparkle in her eyes was the result of her sexual adventures with Jack. She grinned, feeling slightly giddy and not the least embarrassed. After all, wasn’t she a free woman? Entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of the perfect orgasm?

The blessed odor of coffee filled the kitchen. Liz filled a tall cup adorned with a painting of Bob Marley and a palm tree, sniffed the half-and-half to be certain it wasn’t sour, and added just enough. She inhaled the flavor of the coffee, wanting to take a sip but afraid to burn her tongue as she’d done all too often lately. She slipped into one of the comfortable old chairs at the round table. Today, she’d regain her life. Starting this morning, she’d take control and take stock of what was happening to her.

She’d begin by driving down to Port Mahon to see if the migrating shorebirds had arrived. Delaware Bay was one of the premier birding spots in the world, and she and her dad had always made the effort to witness the annual flocks as they stopped to feed on the horseshoe-crab eggs. Donald Clarke hadn’t owned a pair of binoculars. He couldn’t tell a black-necked stilt from an avocet, but he’d taken pleasure in the mid-May event and he’d defended with both fists the rights of horseshoe crabs to come ashore unmolested. “It’s all the same,” he’d say to his daughters, whenever they watched the prehistoric crabs crawling up the sand to lay their eggs. “Horseshoe crabs got a purpose just like every bird, fish, and mussel. Grind the crabs for fertilizer and you might as well do the same to the crabbers and the fishermen. Kills the bay as much as oil spills and chemicals.”

At ten, when Atlantic Books opened, she’d stop and pick up the book she’d ordered before Tracy’s death. And this afternoon she’d take Heidi back to Michael’s and tell him to return the pistol to the gun shop. Giving in to fear and practicing to kill someone went against everything she believed. Now that she had an explanation for everything, she could go back to living her life.

After Heidi was home, she’d stop and buy a new kitchen telephone, one equipped with Caller ID, and then she’d go to Troop 3 and demand to speak to someone about the pattern of harassment she’d faced since the murder. She’d not leave until the police took her suspicions seriously.

As for Jack . . .

Liz sipped her coffee, sighing with delight as the warm liquid slid down her throat. She’d worry about Jack once she’d cleared her desk of her current agenda.

Thinking about Heidi reminded Liz that the German shepherd needed to be fed. She washed out the dog bowl and filled it with the special chow Michael had sent over. He didn’t buy dog food in the supermarket; Heidi and Otto ate only high-protein meal supplemented with chicken, fish, and beef.

Liz unlocked the back door and opened it. “Heidi!” she called. “Here, girl . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw the dog on the porch. “Heidi?”

The bowl of dog chow slipped through Liz’s fingers.

She screamed.

By the time the state trooper—a tall, muscular young woman—arrived, Liz had dressed, thrown up her first cup of coffee, and drunk a second to fortify herself. She’d called Michael before she called 911 but had gotten no answer.

The officer, who identified herself as Trooper O’Neal, took down Liz’s statement in a matter-of-fact manner. “And you say the animal was running loose last night.”

“Yes,” Liz agreed, “but she’s . . . she was a guard dog. She wouldn’t leave the vicinity of the house. Someone has been stalking me. I’ve made several other complaints.”

“It’s illegal for dogs to run loose.” Trooper O’Neal examined Heidi’s collar.

“That’s true,” Liz said, trying to answer calmly. “But only if the property is less than twenty acres. This is a farm. I own much more than twenty acres.”

“I see that her license and rabies are up to date. This is your dog, Dr. Clarke?”

“No, it’s my neighbor’s, Michael Hubbard,” Liz explained. “He’s a retired captain, Delaware State Police.” She knelt beside the dog’s body and stroked her head. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell him. He adored her.”

“Then Captain Hubbard’s dog was off his property?”

“No, that’s not it at all. He lent me Heidi.”

“Captain Hubbard should be making the complaint if the animal is his. You say that you found it on your porch?”

“Look, Officer, why don’t you call your desk sergeant? I’m sure there will be a record of a break-in here less than two weeks ago. Someone is stalking me. And . . . and please contact Detective Tarkington. I’m the one who discovered the murdered college girl at Somerville College. I’ve been trying to reach Detective Tarkington myself. I’m afraid there might be a connection between the attack on Tracy Fleming and what’s happened here.”

Trooper O’Neal wrote a few more words on her report, returned to her car, and made a call, presumably to the troop.

Liz waited, arms folded. The kitchen phone began to ring, but she ignored it. Whoever it was could wait.

“Yes,” Trooper O’Neal said. “Clarke. Dr. Elizabeth Clarke.” She gave the address. After a minute, the officer nodded. “Yes. This time it’s a dead dog, possibly poisoned. No, that’s not definite.” The conversation continued, but Liz couldn’t make out the rest of it.

“Well? Did they find my last complaint?” Liz asked when Trooper O’Neal approached the porch a second time.

“Yes. I received confirmation that you are a witness in a recent murder at Somerville College, and that Detective Tarkington is in charge of that investigation.”

“That’s correct,” Liz said. “I didn’t witness the crime, but I was the first one to discover the dead girl. In my office.”

“In your office,” Trooper O’Neal repeated. “And do I understand that you feel that several unexplained incidents have occurred here at your home since the day of the crime?”

“Yes,” Liz replied, exasperated. “Someone, perhaps even my ex-husband, has been trying to frighten me—or worse.”

Trooper O’Neal frowned. “Your ex-husband?” She examined her report. “And his name is?”

“Russell. Russell Montgomery. I’ve just found out that he tried to take out a large life-insurance policy on me.”

Trooper O’Neal snapped her ballpoint back on the clipboard. “I would suggest that you take the animal to your vet, or have Captain Hubbard do that. Then, if it’s certain the dog was poisoned, we can continue the complaint. You really should discuss all this . . .” She shrugged. “Your suspicions that someone is stalking you, this insurance matter. You should tell that to Detective Tarkington.”

The phone rang again.

Trooper O’Neal replaced her hat. “If you find out that the dog was poisoned, you can contact the troop again. Or Captain Hubbard can. It might be better if he did, since you say the animal is really his. But I don’t know that we will have much luck in finding out who poisoned the dog. It’s a rotten business. I have an Airedale myself. But my yard is fenced. As I said, it’s an infraction of the law to let dogs run loose in the county.”

The phone continued to ring.

“Thank you for your trouble,” Liz said. “Be sure I will take this up with Detective Tarkington, provided I can ever reach him.”

“I’m sorry,” Trooper O’Neal said. “There really isn’t anything more I can do at this time.” Her voice grew warmer. “Have you thought of having someone come to stay with you? Finding a dead body must be a terrible shock. It was for me, my first time. You might think about seeking professional—”

“Thank you,” Liz said. “I’ve already considered that option. Sorry to take up your time.”

“No problem, that’s what we’re here for.”