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Authors: Michael Prescott
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stream of images would unwind in his mind throughout the day, persistent as a migraine, unless he did something to push the memory away.
He knew what was necessary. The photo. His special picture.
Quickly he rose from bed and threw on a robe, belting it to hide his body from himself. Barefoot, he left the bedroom and proceeded down the hall to the den at the far end.
The den contained just three sticks of furniture—a writing desk he’d salvaged years ago from a retiring professor’s office, the desk’s swivel chair, and a steel file cabinet. Dust dressed everything in a dull gray coat.
At the back of the file cabinet, in an unlabeled manila folder, he kept the photograph.
Carefully he took it out, then sat in the desk chair and studied it in a band of light filtering through a gash in the curtain.
The photo’s corners were dog-eared, the edges worn from repeated handling. It had been crisp and new when he’d obtained it. But since then, nearly every night, he’d found himself drawn to the picture, gazing at it sometimes for hours.
The picture calmed him, as it always did. He lost himself in it and felt the world slide away.
Relaxed now, the dream banished, he could examine his own feelings more objectively.
Yes, his ugly impulses were stirring. But he could control them. He could hold off the need to take action. He could refrain from taking Erin outside the ranch, to the arroyo. He could stop himself from ending her life in a shout of flame.
He was certain of it.
Almost certain, anyway.
14
Late.
Annie checked her watch for the fifth time.
She sat alone at a table for two, a menu in her hands, the table’s umbrella unfolded to shelter her in shadow. Around her, bright noon sunshine fell in ribbons of glitter through a scrim of fluttering banners and rippling leaves, the sun rays shifting with the wind.
Voices murmured over the clink of silverware. At a table across the courtyard, half a dozen women in power suits laughed at a shared joke. Nearer to Annie’s table, two men pursued an intense discussion of the upcoming NFL draft.
Pleasant here, in this courtyard restaurant in the heart of Tucson’s downtown. Ordinarily, Annie could relax in a place like this as easily as slipping into a warm, soapy bath.
Today, foreboding overlay her impressions of the restaurant, the bright sun, the blue sweep of sky. Foreboding—and a memory of her insomnia last night.
She had sensed danger to Erin. A premonition, irrational and no doubt groundless. Yet even now she couldn’t shake it.
And Erin was late.
The two of them had made a lunch date for twelve o’clock. Annie had been waiting fifteen minutes already, and she’d arrived ten minutes late to begin with.
Her sister was maniacally punctual, always had been. Whichever gene was responsible for tardiness had been omitted from her complement of chromosomes. For her to be this far off schedule was simply unheard of.
Possibly an unexpected crisis had come up in her practice. Suicidal patient, say.
Or maybe something had ... happened to her.
Traffic accident.
Random violence.
Medical emergency.
Hell, anything. Anything at all.
Really, though, it was silly to get all worked up. The simple truth was that Annie had almost certainly misunderstood the arrangements she and Erin had made. Probably she’d gotten the time, the date, or the location wrong—very possibly all three. She’d done it before.
Her sister could remember every detail of her schedule without strain. Annie had trouble enough just remembering to get up in the morning.
Most likely Erin was still at her office, expecting to have lunch at one o’clock—or she was waiting at a different restaurant entirely and wondering how scatterbrained Annie had managed to screw up again.
Of course. It had to be something like that.
I’ll just call her office, Annie thought, and—
“Still waiting?”
The male voice startled her. She looked
He knew what was necessary. The photo. His special picture.
Quickly he rose from bed and threw on a robe, belting it to hide his body from himself. Barefoot, he left the bedroom and proceeded down the hall to the den at the far end.
The den contained just three sticks of furniture—a writing desk he’d salvaged years ago from a retiring professor’s office, the desk’s swivel chair, and a steel file cabinet. Dust dressed everything in a dull gray coat.
At the back of the file cabinet, in an unlabeled manila folder, he kept the photograph.
Carefully he took it out, then sat in the desk chair and studied it in a band of light filtering through a gash in the curtain.
The photo’s corners were dog-eared, the edges worn from repeated handling. It had been crisp and new when he’d obtained it. But since then, nearly every night, he’d found himself drawn to the picture, gazing at it sometimes for hours.
The picture calmed him, as it always did. He lost himself in it and felt the world slide away.
Relaxed now, the dream banished, he could examine his own feelings more objectively.
Yes, his ugly impulses were stirring. But he could control them. He could hold off the need to take action. He could refrain from taking Erin outside the ranch, to the arroyo. He could stop himself from ending her life in a shout of flame.
He was certain of it.
Almost certain, anyway.
14
Late.
Annie checked her watch for the fifth time.
She sat alone at a table for two, a menu in her hands, the table’s umbrella unfolded to shelter her in shadow. Around her, bright noon sunshine fell in ribbons of glitter through a scrim of fluttering banners and rippling leaves, the sun rays shifting with the wind.
Voices murmured over the clink of silverware. At a table across the courtyard, half a dozen women in power suits laughed at a shared joke. Nearer to Annie’s table, two men pursued an intense discussion of the upcoming NFL draft.
Pleasant here, in this courtyard restaurant in the heart of Tucson’s downtown. Ordinarily, Annie could relax in a place like this as easily as slipping into a warm, soapy bath.
Today, foreboding overlay her impressions of the restaurant, the bright sun, the blue sweep of sky. Foreboding—and a memory of her insomnia last night.
She had sensed danger to Erin. A premonition, irrational and no doubt groundless. Yet even now she couldn’t shake it.
And Erin was late.
The two of them had made a lunch date for twelve o’clock. Annie had been waiting fifteen minutes already, and she’d arrived ten minutes late to begin with.
Her sister was maniacally punctual, always had been. Whichever gene was responsible for tardiness had been omitted from her complement of chromosomes. For her to be this far off schedule was simply unheard of.
Possibly an unexpected crisis had come up in her practice. Suicidal patient, say.
Or maybe something had ... happened to her.
Traffic accident.
Random violence.
Medical emergency.
Hell, anything. Anything at all.
Really, though, it was silly to get all worked up. The simple truth was that Annie had almost certainly misunderstood the arrangements she and Erin had made. Probably she’d gotten the time, the date, or the location wrong—very possibly all three. She’d done it before.
Her sister could remember every detail of her schedule without strain. Annie had trouble enough just remembering to get up in the morning.
Most likely Erin was still at her office, expecting to have lunch at one o’clock—or she was waiting at a different restaurant entirely and wondering how scatterbrained Annie had managed to screw up again.
Of course. It had to be something like that.
I’ll just call her office, Annie thought, and—
“Still waiting?”
The male voice startled her. She looked
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