Blind Pursuit (25 page)

48

The van’s dashboard clock read 8:25 when Gund parked at a red curb, alongside a hydrant, yards from his apartment’s front door. He didn’t give a damn about a parking ticket.

The photo. That was his sole concern. He had to get the photo.

Before tonight he had never grasped its full significance. Now he knew why it had transfixed him, how he’d lost himself in the picture for hours at a time. He knew, and the knowledge sickened him.

Staring at their faces, their beautiful faces, staring hour after hour, night after night ...

When the dream would wake him, when he found himself getting hard, then he would take out the picture and study it. He had found it soothing, or so he’d told himself.

The truth was uglier. The picture had not soothed, but stimulated.

He wondered if he had even ...

While staring at it, had he ...?

No. He couldn’t have.

And yet ...

Suppose, while gazing at the photograph, lost in contemplation, oblivious to everything around him and within him ... he had touched himself.

He had no memory of it. But he had blanked out his awareness of so much else that mattered. He had shut his inner eyes to so many truths. Why not to one more?

A shudder racked him. He threw open the van door. Crossed a strip of weedy grass to the paved walkway. Keys jingling nervously in his fingers, the flap of his jacket swirling, the gun in his pocket thumping against his hip.

Even if he was right in his supposition, even if the photo had served that ugly purpose for him, it would serve a very different purpose now.

He would destroy it. Touch a lighter to it and set it aflame. And by burning the photograph, symbolically burn the two women whose images it captured.

That might be enough—just enough—to suppress the impulses threatening to overwhelm him.

It would have to be.

He fumbled the key into the keyhole. The door swung open, and he lunged into his living room, flicking on the lights.

* * *

Annie gazed, frozen, at the photograph.

Did he take it from Erin’s apartment? she wondered blankly. Go back for it when he returned for the Tegretol?

No, that couldn’t be the answer. This photo had not spent the past six months in a frame, under glass. It had been handled, roughly and repeatedly. The edges were worn, the corners dog-eared.

She thought back to the day last November when she’d picked up her order from the portrait studio—multiple copies of the photo in different sizes. She’d returned to her shop with the envelope, but she hadn’t had time to count the prints until that night, when she’d found only three eight-by-tens, not four as requested. The studio, apologizing for the oversight, had supplied an additional print at no cost.

But it hadn’t been the studio’s error. Sometime during the afternoon, when the envelope was in her office at the rear of the shop, Gund must have taken one of the prints. Hidden it, and carried it home with him that evening.

He’s had it ever since, she thought as a wave of cold seeped slowly into her bones. And he’s been ... looking at it. Holding it. He’s—

From the living room, the groan of a door.

The floorboards trembled.

Gund was back.

And coming this way. Coming fast.

She pushed the cabinet drawer shut, grabbed the desk lamp’s pull chain, yanked it savagely. The room went dark.

Footsteps in the hall. Closer.

Under the desk. Get
under the desk
.

Groping blindly, she shoved the swivel chair out of the way, went down on all fours, crawled into the kneehole between the desk legs. Seized the chair and wheeled it back into position, then huddled behind it.

Sudden harsh glare from above. The ceiling light had come on with a flick of a wall switch.

Gund’s pants brushed past the desk as he hurried to the file cabinet. She heard the slide of a drawer.

Instantly she guessed what he was looking for. The photo, of course.

The photo still clutched in her left hand.

* * *

Gund found the manila folder at the rear of the drawer, plucked it out of the cabinet, flipped it open.

Empty.

All the breath hissed out of him, and he stared at it, just stared.

It couldn’t be gone. He always kept it in this folder. Always.

Unless this morning he’d forgotten. Left it in the bathroom or the bedroom ...

No. He remembered returning it to its hiding place. Would never leave it in plain sight. After all, what if someone were to break in and find it—

Break in.

Annie.

The skin at the base of his spine tightened. The muscles of his shoulders bunched up with new tension.

She’d followed him earlier tonight. Had she come here afterward? Had she gotten in somehow and gone through his things? His most private, most personal things?

His gaze, ticking restlessly, stopped on the desk lamp.

The pull chain shivered, as if still vibrating from a violent tug.

Slowly he reached out, touched the unlit bulb.

His finger jerked away.

Hot.

That lamp had been on just seconds ago.

He shut his eyes, his last tissuey strand of self-control shredding, unraveling under irresistible pressure.

His hand dipped into the side pocket of his jacket, closed over the grip of the Taurus 9mm pistol.

He removed it. The blued barrel gleamed in the harsh glare of the overhead lamp.

The safety, when switched off, made a distinct click, loud in the room’s stillness.

* * *

A sob rose in Annie’s throat. She choked it back.

That noise she’d heard—it was a gun, wasn’t it? She didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, but the sharp click reminded her of the sound a gun made on TV when the actor prepared to fire.

If he was armed ...

Even weaponless, Gund ought to be more than a match for her, but she might have an outside chance. She’d watched Erin perform some defensive moves learned in that martial-arts class. Might be able to duplicate one or two of the simpler maneuvers.

But if he had a gun, a loaded gun—well, she couldn’t fight that. Could only plead or scream, and somehow she didn’t think either response would save her.

A slam of metal from the corner of the room punched through her thoughts. For a disoriented second she was sure it was a gunshot, but no, of course not, it hadn’t been nearly loud enough.

The cabinet drawer banging shut. That was what she’d heard.

Then silence, filled only with Gund’s rapid, shallow breathing, audible to her even under the desk.

He must have discovered that the photo was missing.

What next? Would he search for it? And if he did, would he start here or in another room?

Uselessly she pressed herself tighter against the desk’s rear panel.

A soft thud. The floor shuddered.

He’d moved the file cabinet to look behind it. Which meant he
was
searching the den first.

The desk was the only other hiding place in the room. He would look here next.

She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to cry, but suddenly she was certain she would die in a few seconds.

Gund’s shoes marched into view, directly before the swivel chair.

The chair was pulled away.

Teeth clenched, eyes squeezed nearly shut, Annie watched through a blur of tears as Gund began to kneel.

From the bathroom next door, a shatter of glass.

Gund grunted—a subhuman interrogative sound—then bolted upright and pounded out of the room.

Annie started breathing again.

A reprieve. She didn’t understand it, but she’d been granted a reprieve.

She dived forward, wriggling out from under the desk.

* * *

Gund had her now.

Hiding in the bathroom, the stupid bitch. The next place he would have looked.

His hand was hot, the pistol icy against his fingers.

Two quick strides, and he pivoted into the doorway, hit the light switch.

On the floor, a bar of soap and a spray of glass shards.

Perched on the counter, fur bristling, an alley cat.

No Annie in sight. Just some damn stray that had jumped through the open window and knocked the glass soap dish off the counter—

The open window.

But that window didn’t open, ever. It was sealed shut.

Gund blinked, then realized the glass had been removed from the frame.

Annie had gotten in that way. Maybe escaped that way, too. Maybe heard him coming and left as he entered via the front door.

With a snarl he lunged for the window. The cat hopped onto the toilet tank with a frightened screech, then slipped outside.

Gund thrust his head into the passageway, glanced up and down its length, the pistol extended before him and ready to fire. He would shoot her regardless of the consequences, shoot to kill even though the noise would bring a dozen cops to the scene.

In his mind he pictured himself placing a single, perfectly centered bullet between her wide, terrified eyes.

“Filth,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

But she wasn’t there. No one was there. The passage was empty save for the cat, gazing up at him curiously, a furred ink spot with a green luminous gaze.

Gund swung the pistol toward the stray, almost enraged enough to waste a shot on that worthless target, and the cat, sensing danger, wheeled abruptly and vanished into the shadows.

Gone. Like Annie herself.
Gone
.

* * *

Annie struggled to her feet, stuffed the photo in her pocket—evidence, she thought vaguely—then padded to the window of the den.

She unlocked it, tugged it open a few inches. The friction of the stiles against the casting produced a teeth-jarring squeal that froze her in terror.

Helpless, she waited for Gund to pound back into the room, drawn by the noise.

He didn’t appear. Hadn’t heard, obviously. But if she forced open the window any farther, he was sure to come running.

The only other exit was the door to the hallway, and Gund was out there.

But maybe the hall was clear. She had to chance it. No alternative.

Soundlessly she crossed the room, then peered past the door frame, shaking in expectation of the gunshot that would take her head off like a clay target in a shooting gallery.

No shot. No Gund. The corridor was empty.

In the bathroom, a snarl of anger.

That was where he’d gone.

All right, then. Down the hall. Now, while she had an opportunity.

She stepped fast but lightly, urgency balanced with caution. The hallway was carpeted—some cheap short-nap stuff, but thick enough to muffle her footfalls.

A screech from Gund’s lavatory. Cat noise. Absurdly she wondered if Stink was in there, if he’d come to rescue her, like Lassie.

Not Stink, of course. The alley cat. Must have slipped in through the window, broken something, diverted Gund.

At the bathroom doorway now. She would have to cross in front of the open door. That was bad, very bad. Gund couldn’t help but see her.

Risking a peek inside, she felt a rush of hope. Gund’s back was turned to her as he stared out the window into the passage.

Go.

Past the doorway in a silent flash of motion, and then she was safely on the other side, hugging the wall.

From the bathroom another enraged growl, terrifyingly close, followed by an explosive crackle of glass.

Thud of footsteps. He was coming out.

Ahead of her, an open door. She ducked into Gund’s bedroom and prayed he wouldn’t come this way, prayed he would return to the den and give her time to escape.

* * *

Gund spun away from the window, animal growls erupting from his throat, fury and shame overriding a last effort at restraint.

He struck out with his fist. Smashed the bathroom mirror. Cymbal crash of impact. Cascade of silvered shards. A hundred reflections of himself spilling to the floor.

Out of the bathroom, bellowing. Down the hall to the den. Was she under the desk? No.

Where the hell
was
she?

Wait. The window. Open a crack.

It had been closed a half minute ago, when he’d left the room.

She must have tried to get out that way while he was distracted by the cat. But she hadn’t succeeded, obviously. She was still somewhere in the apartment.