Now You See Her (15 page)

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It was the cold that woke her. She huddled under the covers, wondering if her electric blanket was malfunctioning. Even so, the nest she had made for herself should have contained the heat. She fought her way out of the tangle of blankets and rolled over until she could see the blanket control. To her surprise, the little amber light was on, so the blanket should have been warm. She found a coil and pressed her fingers to it. She could feel the heat, but it didn't seem to be transferring to her.

Next she looked at the clock and lifted her eyebrows in surprise. It was almost nine, and she seldom slept past dawn. She didn't have any appointments, though, so it was the cold, not urgency, that drove her from the bed. She paused to turn the thermostat up as high as it would go, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, setting the water as hot as she could bear it. By the time she stripped off her pajamas and stepped under the spray, she was shuddering with cold.

She stood with the hot water beating down on her head and back, warming her spine. The shudders stopped, the fading tension unlocking her taut muscles as it drained away. Maybe there
was
something
physically wrong with her, she thought, almost sagging as her body relaxed. The chills had started about the same time the other stuff had started happening, but that didn't mean they were related. She wouldn't have to tell a doctor everything, just that she was cold all the time. The realization that she was actually considering seeing a doctor startled her.

As she toweled off, her skin roughened as another chill seized her. Swearing under her breath, she hurriedly got dressed. Getting her head wet hadn't been the brightest idea, she thought, because she didn't own a hair dryer. One disastrous attempt at blow-drying her hair, which resulted in something resembling a hairy explosion, had persuaded her to let her curls dry naturally rather than outrage them with heat. Wrapping a towel around her head, she went into the kitchen for that first cup of coffee.

The light on the coffeemaker wasn't on, but the pot was full. Frowning, she touched the pot and found it cold. “Damn it,” she muttered. The coffee had brewed right on time, but she hadn't been up to drink it and the heat pad turned itself off after two hours, one more example of a manufacturer trying to protect itself from lawsuits by careless or forgetful customers who left their coffeemakers turned on and perhaps caused fires.

She poured a cup of coffee and popped it into the microwave, then dumped the rest of the pot down the sink and put some fresh coffee on to brew. By the time she finished that, the buzzer on the microwave had sounded. The warmed-up coffee
tasted terrible, sort of like old socks, but it was hot, and at the moment that was more important.

The apartment wasn't getting any warmer. She'd have to call Richard about getting the heating system repaired, she thought desperately. She leaned down and held her hand over the vent, and felt the warm air pouring out. Okay, so the heating system was working. She went to the thermostat to check the temperature; it was already eighty-two degrees, and the thermostat registered only up to eighty-five.

She would just have to tough it out until her hair dried, she thought. That was what was making her so cold this morning. She was loath to unwrap the towel covering her head, but common sense told her that the heat in the apartment would dry her hair much faster if it wasn't wrapped in a towel. Gritting her teeth and bracing for the chill, she ditched the towel. The air on her wet head didn't feel cold, though. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Taking the cup of coffee with her into the bathroom, she sprayed some detangler on her curls and then finger-combed them, noting that most of the moisture had already evaporated. The mirror reflected a face that was white and pinched with cold. Her teeth chattered. “What a lovely sight,” she told her reflection.

She poured more coffee and went into the studio. Her hands were shaking so much she wouldn't be able to paint, but the habit was ingrained, so she went.

There was a new canvas on the easel.

Sweeney stood just inside the door, dread congealing
in her stomach like cold grease. Her body felt leaden. Not again. Not another one. Who had she killed this time?

No,
she thought fiercely. She hadn't killed anyone. Her painting hadn't caused the old vendor to die, rather his death had caused the painting. But if this only happened when someone she knew had died . . . She didn't want to see who was in the painting this time; she didn't want to lose someone else she liked. What if—what if it was Richard?

She was unprepared for the violence of the pain that seized her chest, freezing her lungs, constricting her heart.
Not Richard,
she prayed. Dear God, not Richard.

Somehow she made her feet move, though she wasn't aware of crossing the floor. Somehow she steeled herself to walk around the easel, positioned so the bright morning light fell directly on the canvas. And somehow she made herself look.

The canvas was almost totally blank. She stared at it, the relief so sudden and total she almost couldn't take it in. Not a death scene, then. Not Richard. Maybe . . . maybe this meant her supposition had been totally wrong, that the sleepwalking and painting didn't necessarily have anything to do with death. That one time had been a coincidence, just one more part of the weird stuff that had been happening to her.

She had painted shoes. Two shoes, one a man's and the other a woman's. The man's shoe was the most complete, and it looked as if she had started on the foot inside it. She hadn't finished the
woman's shoe, a high-heeled pump from the look of it, stopping before she got to the heel. There was no background, no sense of location, nothing but shoes. Just shoes.

She laughed softly, giddy with relief and happiness. She had let all this funny business get to her, make her imagination go wild. She had almost made herself sick, thinking that Richard was dead when she had no reason to jump to such a hysterical conclusion.

Humming, clutching her coffee cup with both hands in an effort to warm her fingers, she went back into the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast and drink more coffee. Surely she would be warm soon, and then she would get some work done.

But the chill intensified, shaking her so violently she barely managed to eat a slice of toast and it became dangerous to try to drink the hot coffee. She
hurt,
her muscles were so tight. She grabbed a blanket and sat down on one of the vents, making a tent with the blanket to trap the warm air around her.

Why was this happening again? Why now, why not yesterday morning? The only other time the chill had been this intense was the morning after she had done the death painting of the old vendor. No, this was worse. This was the coldest she had ever been in her life.

It had to be linked to the sleepwalking episodes. Once could be coincidence, but not twice. She couldn't imagine what she could be doing to trigger such an extreme reaction, but at the moment all she cared about was getting warm. Afterward she would worry about the why and hows.

A vicious cramp knotted her left thigh. Sweeney moaned, folding double with the agony as she massaged the muscle. She got the muscle unknotted, but moments later another cramp hit. She panted as she rubbed it out, then gingerly stretched out her legs. The constant shivering was causing her muscles to knot. She ached in every joint now, every muscle.

Miserably she began to cry. She felt like a weak crybaby for doing so, but she hurt so much she couldn't help it. She hadn't known being cold was so painful. Why didn't the tears freeze on her cheeks? She felt as if they should, even though she knew the room was warm.

Richard had gotten her warm before. She couldn't bear the pain much longer; with everything in her, she wanted him here with her now.

Keeping the blanket around her, she crawled to the phone and lifted the cordless unit from its stand. She was surprised at how much energy it took to move, how sluggish she was, and she felt the first twinge of fear that her condition was truly serious, rather than being just a major inconvenience.

She didn't know the number. She had never called Candra at home, and she vaguely remembered being told the private line was unlisted. Richard's business line was listed, though, and unless he had an appointment somewhere, he should be in his office now. She wrestled the heavy white pages into her lap and clumsily flipped through to the
Ws.
“Richard Worth, Richard Worth,” she mumbled to herself. In a city the size of New York there were a lot of duplicated names, but she could pinpoint her
Richard Worth with his address. Ah, there it was. She punched in the numbers, then huddled deeper into the blanket.

A female voice answered and recited the number. “May I help you?” she pleasantly inquired.

“May I speak to Richard, please?” Maybe she should have called him Mr. Worth instead of Richard.

“Your name?”

“Sweeney.”

“S-w-e?—

“S-w-e-e-n-e-y.” Her name wasn't difficult, she thought irritably. Why would anyone have any trouble spelling it? Of course, her teeth were chattering so hard she might be difficult to understand, so she gave the woman the benefit of the doubt.

“Sweeney.” Richard's voice sounded in her ear only a few seconds later. “What's wrong?”

“How did you know?” she asked weakly.

“That something was wrong? Why else would you be calling me?”

She tried to laugh but couldn't. “I'm cold,” she said, and was appalled to hear a whimper in her voice. “Oh, God, Richard, I'm so cold I think I might die.”

“I'll be right there.” His tone was quiet and calm. “You'll be okay.”

Because he had said it, she clung to the idea while she waited for him. She would be okay. He would arrive soon and get her warm with that miraculous body heat of his. “I'll be okay,” she whispered, though her legs began cramping again and she
couldn't even crawl back to the vent. Tears wet her face again, and she dried them with the blanket. She didn't want to be crying like a sissy when he got here.

She would have to unlock the door. She tried to get up and fell back with a cry when her thigh seized in a cramp. She knew she should wait until he arrived, that it was dangerous to leave an entry door unlocked, but damn it, what if by then she wasn't able to move at all? She massaged the knotted muscle, digging her fingers deep in a savage effort to buy herself a few relatively comfortable minutes. One minute would be enough, just long enough for her to get to the door and unlock it.

If she couldn't walk, she could crawl. If she couldn't crawl, she would drag herself on her elbows. She
would
get to the door.

She drew her right leg beneath her, pushing herself up, and breathed a sigh of relief when it didn't cramp. Her entire body was trembling violently, both from the cold and in reaction to the incessant shivering. She was unbelievably weak. How could shivering be so debilitating? Wasn't it the body's means of producing heat?

She couldn't stand. Even though her legs weren't cramping at the moment, she simply didn't have the energy to get to her feet. She crawled a few feet, then collapsed on her side, breathing hard from the exertion. After a few moments she rolled, blanket and all, like a large human sausage. If babies could use rolling as a means of locomotion, so could she.

She laughed aloud at the picture she must have
made, and then cried because she ached so badly in every muscle. When she reached the door, she stretched to reach the doorknob, then hauled herself up on her knees. In that position she could reach, just barely, the two dead-bolt locks on the door. She fumbled them open, then curled into a ball beside the door to wait for Richard.

C
HAPTER
    N
INE

T
he ringing of the doorbell, when it came, startled her. She had no idea how much time had lapsed. “R-Richard?”

The bell rang again, and she realized her voice had been too weak to penetrate the wood. She took a deep breath, holding it to buy herself a few seconds free from shivering. “Richard,” she called, not letting herself think what she would do if someone else was at the door.

“I'm here. Open the door.”

“It's u-unlocked.”

He opened the door, looked down, and saw her curled on the floor and said, “Shit,” in a very quiet, very controlled tone. He closed and locked the door, then bent down and effortlessly lifted her in his arms.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked as he swiftly carried her to the couch.

“S-since I woke up. A-about n-nine.”

“It feels like the Sahara in here,” he said grimly. He placed her on the couch and unwrapped the blanket, then with sure, brisk movements unfastened her jeans and stripped them down her legs.

“H-hey!” Sounding indignant and outraged was difficult when your teeth were chattering, she discovered.

“Don't argue,” he said, and pulled her sweatshirt off over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, because she never did when she was at home. Her nipples had pinched into tight little points. She started to cover her breasts with her hands, then abandoned that idea in favor of wrapping her arms around herself to conserve heat. Her eyelids drooped heavily.

“Don't let yourself go to sleep,” he ordered.

“I w-won't,” she promised, and hoped she wasn't lying.

He left her socks on and went to work on his own clothes. He wasn't wearing a suit today, she noticed, just slacks and a silk shirt. He unbuttoned the shirt, his fingers moving swiftly, and dropped it to the floor. He kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt at the same time, stripping himself as efficiently as he had her. His pants hit the floor, he jerked off his socks, and then he was with her, wrapping her in his arms and all but crushing her against the back of the couch. “Easy,” he murmured, feeling her convulsive shaking, and pulled the blanket over them.