Stealing Faces (2 page)

Yet they did not release the beast. They kept it caged and hidden. They hid it even from themselves. They wore masks, all of them, masks of flesh—smiling or frowning masks, as unreal as the stylized faces worn by Roman actors in the last decadent days of Empire.

He saw those masks and yearned to strip them off and see the bare truth beneath, the truth that was blood and fear and a racing heartbeat.

And then he had seen her.

Only fleetingly, a pale face in the swarm.

Blonde hair, a slim neck, white arms.

She was gone almost before he registered her existence. But in the instant of eye contact between them, he had sensed something, a frisson of mutual excitement.

He wanted her.

She was the one.

But she’d vanished. Though he looked for hours, elbowing his way through the masses of strangers, he had not spotted her again.

Until tonight.

The woman in the corner, with the straw hat that almost hid her face ...

A pale face. And beneath the hat, a wisp of blonde hair.

It was the same woman.

He was certain.

He wanted to believe that this second sighting was a coincidence. But to believe in coincidence required faith.

Cray had no faith. He did not believe.

There was, then, no explanation for her presence except the obvious one.

He remembered the glint of chrome behind him on Route 191. The car that had maintained a steady distance from his Lexus, mile after mile.

Her car. It must have been.

She had followed him to the street fair. She had followed him to this resort.

She must be staking out his home and tailing him whenever he left.

She was ...
 
stalking
 
him.

Cray peered into the salt-rimmed margarita glass, turning the thought over and over, marveling at it, fascinated and afraid. It made no sense. The very idea was preposterous, an inversion of the normal order of things.

He knew who and what he was. He was a predator. More than that—the essence of all predators. He was cruelty and stealth, he was hunger, he was quickness in the night. He was rapacity personified, the universal wolf. He hunted and he killed, and to him screams were music.

No one hunted him.

He was not prey. That role was left to others who could play it better. Who had played it again and again on many secret nights, year after year.

Others, like the woman across the room.

He watched her without turning his head, using peripheral vision. At a distance of thirty feet her profile was hard to discern clearly. She had a round, childish face, and her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her small, pale hands fidgeted on the table. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, reached tentatively for her drink and then pulled away.

Nervous. Vulnerable.

A deer at a water hole.

And he—he was the lion in the tall grass.

Yet tonight the deer stalked the lion.

He could almost understand it if she were a cop. But an undercover cop was a professional, trained to shadow a suspect without being noticed. This woman’s technique was clumsy. Twice, on two separate nights, she had looked directly at him and caught his gaze.

She was no cop. She was an amateur.

If she knew or even suspected who he was, then why not call the police, tip them off, let them handle it?

Well.

He would have to ask her, that’s all.

Cray relaxed, his frown of concentration easing into a smooth, unreadable expression again.

Things were fine. No problem. He had needed a victim, hadn’t he? Now he had one.

Before he played with her, he would make her talk. She would tell him everything. Then he would start her running, and he would follow, predator and prey in their proper roles again.

He had not yet touched his second margarita. Calm now, he lifted the glass and licked salt from the rim, then settled back in his chair and mouthed a silent toast to the mystery woman.

To your health.

2

Elizabeth Palmer watched the man at the window table as he finished his second drink. She was relieved to note that he’d looked in her direction only once. If he had noticed her, if he’d recognized her from one of the previous nights, then surely he would have sneaked another glance her way.

Her fingers tapped nervously on the tabletop until she became aware of their senseless drumming and made herself stop.

She was probably safe. Wearing different clothes, her face shielded by a hat, her corner table in shadow, she must look like a different woman to him.

Or maybe she was just kidding herself.

She’d known there was a good chance she would be spotted eventually. She could beat the odds for a while, but not forever. And if Cray was on to her ...

She didn’t like to think about that possibility. If Cray was the man she feared he was, then her fate would be the same as that of the other women.

Elizabeth
 
couldn’t guess exactly what he did with them, what sort of mental or physical torture he inflicted before the kill, but it would be bad, and there would be no escape.

And at the end, of course, he would take his victim’s face.

The thought chilled her. She hugged herself. She had thin, pale, lightly freckled arms prone to goose bumps, and she held them tight against her body, her wrists crossed over her small, shy breasts.

Being in the same room with him was hard. She wanted to get up and run, as she had run from him once before.

Was she crazy to have run so far, and for so long, and now to seek him out and risk everything, merely to confirm a suspicion that might be groundless?

You must be really brave,
 
Elizabeth
, she told herself. Or really, really stupid.

Maybe it would have been better not to enter the bar at all. She could have waited outside, hoping to catch Cray when he left.

But she’d tried that strategy a week ago, after tailing him to a bikers’ bar on
 
Tucson
’s dangerous south side, and when he departed, she’d nearly missed him.

She couldn’t afford to take that risk. Didn’t dare let him out of her sight.

Because, if her suspicion was correct, he was getting ready to try something.

She could almost feel it, sense it, as surely as she could sometimes sense the gathering electricity in the air before a summer thunderstorm.

She touched the purse in her lap, feeling the small hard shape of the most important item inside, simply to reassure herself that it was there.

Surreptitiously she studied Cray. She had not been this close to her quarry at any time since her return to
 
Tucson
.

He had been thirty-four when she’d first known him. He was forty-six now. His profile was sharper, more angular, than she recalled. He’d lost weight, but although lean, he was far from scrawny. His long shirtsleeves did not quite conceal the sinewy muscles of his arms, and his tapered slacks wrapped his strong thighs and calves like a second skin.

Black shirt, black pants. He’d worn the same outfit every time she’d followed him. He was a man in silhouette, a living cutout of the night.

Last Saturday, shadowing Cray in the hectic downtown streets, catching glimpses of him in the crush of people, she’d seen the way he carried himself—the long, liquid strides, the loose swing of his wide shoulders, and always his head turning slowly from side to side as he scanned the crowd.

He had reminded her of a panther, sleek and black and lethal, a hungry animal on the hunt. She’d imagined he was sniffing the air, picking up the scent of prey.

But of course she could be all wrong about him. That was the thing to keep in mind. John Bainbridge Cray might never have killed anyone.

In the whole time she had watched him, he’d done nothing worse than make a few forays to
 
Tucson
 
nightspots. On such outings he was always alone, which was unusual, and he kept to himself in crowded places, never seeking company.

But aloofness was no crime. Eccentricity was no crime.

Even what he’d done to her, so many years ago ...

No, even that was not a crime. Or, if it was, it was a crime for which there was no name, a crime that could never be proved.

Her fingers were drumming the table again. She stopped herself. Her hands were always doing that, fidgeting and worrying at things. Restless, undisciplined hands.

She supposed they suited her. She was always on the move too, wasn’t she? And always nervous, always on edge.

She felt someone looking at her and glanced up, afraid that it was Cray, but it was only the bartender, yards away, polishing a glass. He’d smiled at her when she entered, inviting conversation. She had ignored him, anxious to take her seat before Cray saw her. Apparently her indifference had left him undeterred.

She couldn’t imagine why he was interested in her. She had never thought of herself as particularly attractive. Her eyes were pretty—men liked blue eyes—but her mouth was too small, and her cheeks were too round, and she had too many freckles.

At nineteen she’d been cute, she supposed. Justin had thought so when he married her. Still, nineteen had been long ago. She was thirty-one now and felt older, and whenever she looked in a mirror, she wondered just who it was she saw.

Her gaze shifted away from the bartender. She glanced at Cray again.

He had half turned in his chair, reaching behind him, his hand in his back pocket, and she realized he was taking out his wallet. Apparently he wasn’t staying for dinner. He meant to pay for his drinks and leave.

To follow him would be too obvious. She had to exit first.

Elizabeth
 
fumbled in her purse, found a bill that was either a five or a ten, dropped it on the table. If it was a ten, she was overpaying by a rather serious margin for her glass of ginger ale, but there was no time to worry about it. No time, even though ordinarily she would almost rather die than throw away money, having so little to spare.

She eased her chair away from the table, afraid to scrape the legs on the bare floor and draw Cray’s attention. Then swiftly she crossed the room to the exit, merely nodding at the bartender when he waved good-bye.

On the TV behind him, the football game continued. The Panthers were slaughtering the Saints. Not a good sign.

Elizabeth
 
entered the lobby, then paused, pretending to adjust her purse while she glanced over her shoulder. Through the glass door she saw Cray rising from his chair, scattering bills on the table.

He would be out here in a moment.

Once in the lobby, he might leave via the front door, which led to the driveway, or via the rear door, which opened onto the terrace. There were other possibilities. He might go to the gift shop or find a rest room. She had to wait and see, but she would be too conspicuous just standing here.

“Help you, ma’am?”

The question startled her. She glanced at the front desk and saw the clerk watching her with a courteously unreadable expression.

Cray must be approaching the exit. He would be right on top of her in seconds.

She had to do something.

“Yes,” she answered. “At least I hope you can.”

She walked quickly to the desk, having no idea what she was about to say.

The clerk smiled. “We’re here to serve. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was just wondering ... Does the hotel have a tennis club? I mean, a private club for local residents to join?”

She wondered where that inquiry had come from. She’d never played tennis in her life, and there was no private club of any kind that she could possibly afford to join.

The clerk nodded. “As a matter of fact, we do. I may have a brochure here someplace.”

He shuffled through some documents, and she leaned close, averting her face from the door to the bar.

When she heard a rustle of displaced air, she knew the door had opened.

Cray was in the lobby with her. She forced herself not to look up, not to betray the slightest concern.

“Sorry,” the clerk said. “I seem to have mislaid it. But you can get the information at the tennis center. They’re open until nine.”

“I’ll do that.”

At the edge of her vision, the door to the rear terrace opened, and a figure in black passed through.

He’d gone outside.

Once he left the immediate area, he could go anywhere on the resort’s spacious grounds, and she might never track him down.

She stepped away from the desk, saying a quick thank-you.

“Do you need directions?” the clerk asked.

“I think I know where to find it.” Hurrying for the terrace.

“That’s the wrong way, ma’am.”

“I can find it.” Move, move.

“But that’s the wrong—”

She pushed open the door and emerged onto the terrace, and at the desk, the clerk shook his head slowly.

He was not actually a clerk. His proper title was night manager. He saw all sorts of people come and go. Sometimes he thought of writing a book about it. He had a degree in English literature from the
University
 
of
 
Arizona
, for all the good it had done him.

Most of the people who stopped at the desk could be sized up easily enough, but the woman in the straw hat intrigued him, and not just because she was pretty and her voice was the type he liked—hushed and shy and faintly smoky, a bedroom voice.

She had been lying, of course. She had no interest in the tennis club. He doubted she could afford it. She was wearing a yellow blouse and a white skirt, a summer outfit not quite appropriate for late September, even in the desert heat. The blouse was faded, and the skirt had begun to fray at the hem.

He was a writer, or at least he liked to think so, and he had been told that writers noticed such things.

But none of that was the reason she intrigued him.

It was some quality in her eyes, her face, something that lay behind her quick smile and bright demeanor. Something like ... desperation.

And as he recalled from one of his many English classes, the root word of
 
desperation
 
was
 
despair.