Thriller (9 page)

the people who propel them. A multi-award-winning author,

continually reaching
New York Times
and
USA TODAY
lists,

she’s glad to work in several venues, including vampire, historical, ghost and suspense. Whatever time or place she’s

dealing in, Graham loves to keep her readers on edge. With

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The Face in the Window
she takes characters from her thriller,

The Island,
and sets them in the midst of an unexpected

storm with unexpected consequences.

Lightning flashed.

Thunder cracked.

It might have been the end of the world.

And there, cast eerily in the window, pressed against it, was a

face. The eyes were red; they seemed to glow, like demon eyes.

There was a split second when it seemed the storm had cast up

the very devil to come for her.

Startled, Beth Henson let out a scream, backing away from the

image, almost tripping over the coffee table behind her. The brilliant illumination created by the lightning faded to black, and

along with it, the image of the face.

Beyond the window, darkness reigned again.

A lantern burned on the table, a muted glow against the shadowed darkness of night. The storm had long since blown out the

electricity as it should have removed other inhabitants from the

area. The wind railed with the sharpness of a banshee’s shriek,

even though the hurricane had wound down to tropical-storm

strength before descending upon the lower Florida Keys.

Instinctive terror reigned in Beth’s heart for several long sec-
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onds, then compassion overrode it. Someone was out there,

drenched and frightened in the storm. She had gone to the window to see if she could find any sign of Keith. He had left her

when their last phone communication with the sheriff had

warned them that Mrs. Peterson—one of the few full-time residents of the tiny key—had failed to evacuate. She wouldn’t leave

for a shelter, not when the shelters wouldn’t allow her to bring

Cocoa, her tiny Yorkie. Okay, so Cocoa could be a pain, but she

and Keith could understand the elderly woman’s love for her pup

and companion, and Beth had convinced Keith they could listen to a bit of barking.

The appearance of the face in the window was followed by a

banging on the door. Beth jumped again, startled. For a moment,

she froze.
What if it was a serial killer?
Normally, she would

never just open a door to anyone.

But the pounding continued, along with a cry for help. She

sprang into action, chiding herself. Someone was out there who

needed shelter from the storm. Some idiot tourist without the

sense to evacuate when told to. And if that someone
died
because

she was too frightened to give aid in an emergency…

And how ridiculous. Sure, the world had proven to be a rough

place, with heinous and conniving criminals. But to assume a serial killer was running around in the midst of what might have

been a killer storm was just ludicrous.

She hurried forward, hand firmly on the door as she opened it

against the power of the wind. Again, compassion surged through

her as the soaked and bedraggled man came staggering in, desperately gasping for breath. He was a thin man with dark, wet hair

that clung to his face and the back of his neck. When he looked

at Beth, his eyes were wide and terrified. He offered her a faltering smile. “God bless you! You really must be an angel!” he cried.

Beth drew the quilted throw from the sofa and wrapped it

around the man’s shoulders, demanding, “What were you doing

out there? How could you
not
have heard the evacuation orders

issued for all tourists?”

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He looked at her sheepishly. “Please, don’t throw me back out,”

he told her. “I admit, I was on a bender in Key West.” He staggered to his feet. “When I realized we were told to go, I started

out, but my car was literally blown off the road. Then I saw light.

Faint light—your place. God must look after fools. I mean…if

you don’t throw me out.” He was tall and wiry, perhaps about

thirty. She realized, when not totally bedraggled, he was surely

a striking young fellow, with his brilliant blue eyes and dark hair.

“I’m not going to throw you out,” she told him.

He offered her a hand suddenly. “I’m Mark Egan. A musician.

Maybe you’ve heard of my group? We’re called Ultra C. Our first

CD just hit the stores, and we were playing the bars down in Key

West. You haven’t heard of me—or us?” he said, disappointed.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“That’s okay, I guess most of the world hasn’t,” he said.

“Maybe my husband will have heard of you. He’s in Key West

often and he really loves to listen to local groups.”

He offered her his engaging grin once again. “It doesn’t matter—you’re still wonderful. You’re an angel—wow, gorgeous, too.”

“Thanks. I can give you something dry to put on. My husband

is somewhat larger than you are, but I’m sure you can make do.”

“Your husband? Is he here?”

She felt a moment’s unease. “Yes, of course. He’s just…battening down a few things. He’s around, close,” she said.

“I hope he doesn’t stay out too long. It’s brutal. Hey, you guys

don’t keep a car here?” he asked.

An innocent question? she wondered.

“Yes, we have a car,” she said, determined not to explain further. “I’m Beth Henson,” she said, and offered him a hand. They

shook. His grip was more powerful than what she had expected.

“Hang on, I’ll get you those clothes,” she said.

She picked up one of the flashlights and headed for the bedroom. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, afraid that

he had followed her. He hadn’t. She went to the closet and decided on an old pair of Keith’s jeans and a T-shirt. Best she could

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do. She brought them back out and handed them to the dripping

man. “Bathroom is the first door on the left, and here’s a flashlight.”

“Thanks. Truly, you are an angel!” he said, and walked down

the hall.

Keith’s friends liked to make fun of him for the Hummer. Hell,

Beth liked to rib him about it, shaking her head with bemused

tolerance as she did so. It was a gas guzzler. Not at all ecofriendly. It was a testosterone thing, a macho thing he felt he had

to have. He mused he could now knock it all back in their faces—

the Hummer was heavy enough to make it through the wind,

tough enough to crawl through the flooding.

So there, guys. Testosterone? Maybe. But Beth had been the

one who had been worried sick about Mrs. Peterson. She had

been worried sick again when he had left to retrieve Mrs. Peterson and the dog. She’d wanted to come; he’d convinced her that

if she was home, he wouldn’t be worried about her in the storm

as well.

He fiddled with the knob on the radio again, trying to get

something to come in. At last, he did. He expected the news stations in the south of the state to be carrying nothing but storm

coverage—even if the storm had lost momentum.

“…serial killer on the loose. Authorities suspect that he

headed south just before evacuation notices went into effect…”

Static, damn! Then, “Parker managed to disappear, ‘as if into thin

air,’ according to Lieutenant Abner Gretsky, prison guard.

Downed poles and electrical failures have made pursuit and apprehension difficult. John Parker was found guilty in the slaying of Patricia Reeves of Miramar last year. He is suspected of the

murders of at least seven other women in the southeastern states.

He is a man of approximately—”

Keith couldn’t believe it when another earful of static slammed

him instead of statistics on the man. Headed south?

Not this far south.
Only a suicidal maniac would have at-
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tempted to drive down into the dark and treacherous keys when

a storm of any magnitude was in gear. Still, it felt as if icy fingers

slid down his throat to his heart.

Beth was alone at the house.

He was tempted to turn back instantly. But Mrs. Peterson’s

trailer was just ahead now. All he had to do was grab the old

woman, hop back in the Hummer and turn around.

The first thing he noted was that her old Plymouth wasn’t in

the drive.

He hesitated, then reached in the glove compartment for the

.38 Smith & Wesson he was licensed to carry. He exited the car,

swearing against the savage pelting of the rain.

“Mrs. Peterson!” he roared, approaching the trailer. Damn, the

woman was lucky the thing hadn’t blown over yet. He could hear

the dog barking. Yappy little creature, but hell, it was everything

in the world to the elderly widow.

“Mrs. Peterson!” He pounded on the door. There was no response. He hesitated, then tried the knob. The door was open.

He walked in. Mrs. Peterson’s purse was on the coffee table.

Cocoa could be heard but not seen. “Mrs. Peterson?”

The trailer was small. There was nowhere to hide in the living room or kitchen. He tried her sewing room, and then, not

sure why, he hesitated at the door to her bedroom. He slipped

the Smith & Wesson from his waistband, took a stance and

threw open the door.

Nothing. No one. He breathed a sigh of relief, then spun around

at a flurry of sound. Cocoa came flying out from beneath the bed.

The small dog managed to jump into his arms, terrified. As

Keith clutched the animal, he heard a noise from the front, and

headed back out.

A drenched man in what was surely supposed to be a waterproof jacket stood just inside the doorway. “Aunt Dot?” he called.

The fellow was about thirty years old. Dark hair was plastered

to his head. He stood about six feet even. He saw Keith standing with the gun and cried out, stunned and frightened.

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“Who are you?” Keith demanded.

“Joe. I’m Joe Peterson. Dot Peterson’s nephew,” he explained.

“How did you get here?”

“Walked.” The fellow swallowed. “My car broke down.

Um…where’s my aunt?” he inquired.

“You tell me,” Keith demanded warily.

“I…I don’t know. I was on my way down here…the car gave

out. Man, I went through some deep flooding…walked the rest

of the way here. Um, who are you and why are you aiming a gun

at me?” There was definite fear in his voice. “Wait, no, never

mind. I don’t want to know your name. Hey, if you’re taking anything, go ahead. I’ll just walk back out into the storm. I’ll look

for my aunt.”

“We’ll look for her together,” Keith said.

He indicated that Joe should walk back out. The fellow hesitated uneasily and then voiced an anxious question. “Aunt Dottie…she’s really not here?”

Keith shook his head. “Move.”

Joe moved toward the door. “Back out into the storm?” he demanded.

Keith nodded grimly. Outside, he put the dog in the car, stuck

the gun in his waistband and opened the driver’s side. “Get in,”

he shouted to Joe Peterson.

“Maybe I should wait here,” Peterson shouted back.

“Maybe we should look for your aunt!”

They both got into the car. Cocoa scampered to the back seat,

whimpering. Keith eased the Hummer out of the drive. “Search

the sides of the road, see if she drove off somehow!” Keith commanded.

“Search the side of the road?” Peterson repeated. He looked

at Keith so abruptly that water droplets flew from his face and

hood. “I can’t see a damn road! It’s all gray.”

“Look for a darker gray blob in the middle of the gray then,”

Keith said.

The windshield wipers were working hard, doing little.

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But then he saw it. Something just barely visible. Peering forward more closely, he saw the Plymouth. It had gone off the road

heading south.

Keith stared at Peterson, drew out the gun and warned the

man, “Sit still.”

“Right, yeah, right!” Peterson said nervously, staring at the gun.

Keith stepped from the car. He sloshed through the flooded

road to the mucky embankment. He looked in the front and saw

nothing.
Why would the old lady, who always held tight to her hand-

bag, have left the purse on the table when she was taking off in her

own car?

Fighting against the wind, he opened the front doors and the

back. No sign of a struggle, of a person, of…anything.

Then he noted the trunk. It was ajar. He lifted the lid.

And found Mrs. Peterson.

“So…you live out here, year-round?”

“No. This is just a vacation home.”

“Lonely place,” he said.

Beth shrugged. “We live in Coconut Grove, but actually spend

a lot of time down here. My husband is a diver.”

“A professional diver?”

Beth could have explained that Keith’s work went much further than simple diving, that his contracts often had to do with

the government or law enforcement, but she didn’t want to explain—she wasn’t sure why. Her uninvited guest had changed his

clothing. He was warm and dry. She had given him a brandy, and

he had been nothing but polite and entirely circumspect. The unease of having let someone into her house hadn’t abated, although she didn’t know why. This guy seemed to be as benign

as a hibiscus bush.

“Um, yes. He’s a professional diver,” she agreed.

“Great,” he said, grinning. He pointed a finger at her. “Didn’t