Night Hunter (5 page)

At her elbow was Leo’s last manuscript, finished except for final editing and typing, which Regina had been working on in her spare time. She’d promised the editor it would be on his desk by the end of the month.

Regina turned on the small lamp on Leo’s desk. The phone rang just as she was in the process of reaching for it to call Corinne, a task she dreaded with every fiber of her being.

It was Donna.

“
Reggie, you don’t have to call Corinne, I’ve already done it.”

“
Nolan didn’t trust me.”

“
Reg, that’s not—” After a pause there was a drawn-out sigh. “Please don’t take it personally. You know how he can be sometimes.”

How well she knew. So Nolan had again pulled the rug out from under her. The funny part, the really outrageously hilarious part, was that Nolan had less status and authority than either his wife or Regina. His was a token position, insisted upon by Nolan himself, and inadvertently achieved because of his marital status to Donna. For him, producer of ‘City Gallery’ was little more than a title. Ten years ago, Nolan — as an assistant producer and on shaky ground at the station —had gotten Donna the job, married her, and had then proceeded to crawl up her back to perch dogmatically on her shoulders.

“
Reggie, he’s not the chauvinist you make him out to be.”

Regina bit her tongue to keep from saying what she really thought, and that was that all women, to Nolan, had a definite place in the business—at the bottom, without status or power. Except for Donna. But she was merely an extension of his ego. “So, how’d it go with Corinne?”

“
I think she’ll show,” Donna said. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Gotta go now, bye.”

With a sense of disquiet, Regina slowly replaced the receiver.

The phone rang again. A woman asked for Kristy.

“
Kristy’s not in.”

“
Are you her mother?”

“
Yes.”

“
Oh, Mrs. Van Raven, I’m so eager to meet you. My name is Marianne Nash. I’m Kristy’s appointed chaperon for the Miss Golden Gate Model Search.”

“
Chaperon?”

“
I’m afraid it’s necessary since she’s under eighteen. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have this opportunity to look after such a stunning child as your daughter.”

“
The Miss Golden Gate what?” Regina repeated in a dull tone.

“
You know, of course, that she’s a candidate in the contest?”

Silence.

“
Mrs. Van Raven?”

“
Oh good god,” Regina said under her breath. Her former disquiet doubled.

CHAPTER 7

Marilyn Keane tucked her feet under her and shifted the receiver to her other ear.

A branch snapped outside. She paused only briefly before resuming her conversation.

The ivory-skinned, twenty-two-year-old, ecstatic beyond words to have made the first cut in the Golden Gate Model Search, talked to her mother in nearby San Francisco.

Another branch snapped. She heard a faint screeching sound, like that of fingernails on a blackboard.

She shivered, drew her knees up to her chest, and divided her attention between the voice of her mother and the rustling sounds coming from somewhere at the back of the house. A dog or cat in the garbage, she told herself.

In the kitchen, the pair of finches began to set up a racket, thrashing about the cage, squeaking incessantly like children’s squeeze toys.

Her pulse accelerated. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, tasted acrid.

“
Sssh,” Marilyn hissed into the mouthpiece.

“
What is it, dear?”

“
Mom,” she whispered, “I think someone’s trying to get in the house.”

“
What?”

Except for the television screen the room was dark. She heard a rattling sound, then something crashed to the floor.

“
Someone’s in the house.” The shrillness of her own voice frightened her.

“
Marilyn, who’s there?”

A finch flew through the kitchen doorway and circled the living room, frantically ricocheting off one wall and then another above her.

“
Marilyn ...!”

She gaped at the bird, her fingers gripping the phone, her heart pounding maniacally in her chest. She looked back at the doorway to see a dark figure coming toward her. There was no relief in the blackness rushing at her. The intruder was sheathed from head to toe in black. No, not everything was black, she realized dully, there
was
a relief in the inky void. Yes, something glittered. Something long, catching a sliver of light from God knows where, flashed metallic.

She felt a light object drop onto her lap. With a shudder Marilyn pushed the other bird, now bloody and headless, away. She tried to scream and managed only a pathetic cry and the word “Momma.”

In her ear she heard her name over and over.

The blade came down, slashing across one side of her face and then the other.

It was a mistake. It wasn’t meant for her. She had too much to live for. Through the gushing roar of a panic pulse in her brain, she heard words spoken. Words she understood, yet could not relate to. Curses.

The blade came down again.
Not my face,
she thought with a sick horror.
Oh God, not my face.
Her hands came up to cover her face and she felt the blade cut into the soft flesh of her upper torso.

Like a moth paying homage to the light, the tiny bird continued to flutter above her with a papery crunching sound as its delicate wings batted against hard, pitiless objects. She held tight to the receiver.

“
Marilynmarilynmarilyn. . .”

As the blood gushed out, as she surrendered to the violation of her body, words from long ago came back to her:
A bird loose in the house forebodes ill will ... forebodes death ...

Her last conscious thought was of the bird. She prayed it would rot in hell.

CHAPTER 8

At seven o’clock Saturday morning, Donna reached over to find Nolan’s warm body close to hers in the king-size bed. She shifted over, nuzzled her head in the hollow of his shoulder and began to rub his chest, running her fingers through the triangle of dark hair. His eyes were closed and his breathing was controlled, not the regular breathing of slumber. When he didn’t speak or move away, she let her hand burrow under the covers and traverse downward to his groin. He was beginning to swell. He murmured softly, finally reaching up to caress her shoulder while she tenderly stroked him to a full erection. He turned over and, kissing her throat, cupping a breast, he pushed inside her. There was some resistance, she wasn’t fully lubricated yet, but within moments he was gliding in and out with ease. She hoped he wouldn’t hurry. There was no reason to rush. It was her birthday and they had all the time in the world.

She felt the lovely tingling and knew she would make it this time if there were no interruptions and if he’d just go slower. It had been so long. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been sexually fulfilled. It wasn’t Nolan’s fault, it just took her so long. But this morning would be different.

Her breathing became shallow, heavy. Please, she said to herself,
please.
So close ... almost there ... almost ...

He stopped abruptly. Nooo, not yet. She felt him stiffen, and knew that it was over for him. Then he was leaving her, and all erotic feelings seemed to evaporate with the void.

He patted her shoulder, smiling. “Happy Birthday, Luv.” He rolled over and climbed from the bed.

A half hour later. Donna critically studied her face in the mirror. She was thirty-nine today. Did she look any older? Completely devoid of makeup, she noticed fine lines around her eyes and mouth. When she smiled they deepened. Her skin had begun to look splotchy over the cheekbones. And was it her imagination, or did her eyes and mouth seem to get smaller with age? One day last week, as she and Nolan viewed the videotape, Nolan had said, “Try to watch how you hold your mouth when you’re not talking, it looks pinched —see there,” he said, pausing the play and nodding at the TV screen.

Now, looking in the mirror. Donna moved her lips; a smile, then repose. Before Nolan’s remark she hadn’t been conscious of that pinched look. Now it was with her all the time, everywhere. She found herself lifting the corners of her mouth to soften the line, wondering if she looked younger to those around her, or just plain simple-minded?

Just that morning Nolan had asked her what she thought of cosmetic surgery. Sometimes, unfortunately, he could be so much like her father.

Reminding herself that her father was coming today to take the boys to a tennis tournament at his club, she abandoned the scrutiny of her face and hurried to get ready.

An hour later Donna sat on the shaded deck, drinking coffee. Nolan cooked breakfast and the boys served it. He made her a mimosa, and even poured a small amount of champagne in Junior’s and Nigel’s glasses of orange juice.

After eating she opened her gifts. Junior’s present was a bottle of Evening Jasmine bubble bath. Nolan presented her with a generous gift certificate for Neiman Marcus, and announced that he’d reserved a table — with a view of the bay — at Angelino’s in Sausalito.

Nigel ran into the house and returned a moment later with a single pale pink geranium —the same color as the ones in the pot on the front porch — and a small tissue-paper package heavily laden with transparent tape.

“
Did you wrap this yourself?” Donna asked with a tender smile.

He nodded.

She carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a stone with a high gloss appearance. On one side was a painted ladybug.

“
It’s just an everyday rock,” Nigel said, “but I polished it with my rock polisher. Then I painted it.”

“
It’s beautiful,” she whispered, turning it over in her fingers. “I’ll make it my good luck stone.”

He seemed to beam. “Happy Birthday, Momma.” He threw his arms around her, hugging tightly. “I love you.”

Donna felt tears spring into her eyes. Nigel had a way of doing that to her. He was so sweet, so compassionate. Somehow his lovable nature made her feel a strange void.

Nolan unfolded the morning newspaper. “Donna, my shirts should be ready at the cleaners. Before you take any more in, call around and get some prices. I think they’re screwing us.”

“
I could do them myself.”

“
We’ve been through that before. You have enough to do at the station. In fact, I wish you’d look into getting help around the house. I don’t want my wife having housemaid hands and knees.”

“
I’d rather do it myself. Really. I’ll wear gloves.”

“
Amelia recommended a cleaning service. Why don’t you get the number from her.”

Donna inhaled deeply, but said nothing. How could she find fault with a man who wanted her to have more leisure time? He pampered her, spoiled her, made her feel important.
If only Daddy—
her
thoughts were interrupted by a deep baritone voice.

“
Greetings,” Stanley Cragg, Donna’s father, called out as he stepped through the slider, his arms filled with gift-wrapped packages.

Nolan quickly stood, went to his father-in-law, and heartily shook his hand. “Good to see you, sir. Can you stay a bit? We have champagne for a mimosa.”

“
Not for me. You go right ahead though.”

Donna felt a surge of elation. He had brought her birthday presents. Making an effort to hide her eagerness, she crossed to him and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Dad, you remembered.” She touched the bow on the top package.

“
How could I forget my grandsons. Sort of a belated Easter. Men,” he said to Junior and Nigel, “come and see what your grandfather picked up for you in New York.”

Donna dropped her hand, rubbed the palm along the side of her cotton slacks as she shifted uneasily from one foot to another.

The boys raced to their grandfather. The old man handed out the gifts and tousled their hair. “We’d better be going, men. We don’t want to miss the first match. Open your presents in the car.” He steered the boys ahead of him through the door.

“
Oh, Dad,” Donna said. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but don’t forget brunch here on Father’s Day.”