The old woman’s eyes held a pleading look. She smiled, her face creasing into a network of wrinkles.
Deana gasped.
My God, I gotta get outa here!
She turned, made for the door, but with viselike fingers Mommy grabbed her again.
She was incredibly strong.
A hag at the back of the crowd elbowed her way to the front. She stroked Deana’s free arm, then plucked at her sweatshirt sleeve.
“Nice top you got there, young’un. Hey, Martha. Come an’ take a peek at this sweater. Sure ain’t Neiman Marcus, but it’s better’n the one you’re wearin’!”
Martha toddled over, her head shaking with every step. “Why, yes,” she said in a trembly voice. “You’re right there, Betty-Lou. Think I’ll have me this one. Jest my color, too.”
Betty-Lou shrieked with laughter. “Black? You aimin’ to wear it to ya funeral, Martha?”
Deana gasped. They’d take my sweater?
The bastards.
And there’d been a moment back there when I felt sorry for them!
Betty-Lou snatched at her sleeve.
She tore it down.
Exposing Deana’s bare shoulder.
Mommy Dearest hung on to her other arm.
There were whistles. Hoots of laughter. Hands tugged at the flapping black cloth. Deana’s left breast suddenly burst free.
She panicked, tearing herself away from Mommy’s iron grip. “Lemme GO!” she yelled. “HELP!!!”
“Whassamatter, dearie? Don’t ya like it here?”
The hags hadn’t enjoyed themselves so much in ages. Betty-Lou couldn’t stop cackling.
“Remember that time in Vegas, Martha? The night the lights went out at The Sands…”
Tearing herself free, kicking, shoving, knocking Mommy out of the way, Deana charged for the door.
With a triumphant yelp, she reached it, flung it open, and raced out into the night.
“Y’ain’t bein’ very friendly,” Mommy Dearest croaked after her. “Gals here only want a li’l ol’ chat. They get lonesome sometimes…”
“Hey. You like Tyrone Power?” yelled the raucous one. Her voice got carried away on the wind. Deana caught the words “He’s my favorite y’know. Did ya see The Mark of Zorro? Well, did ya?”
“Dear God,” Deana muttered as she ran. “What a madhouse. They plan to eat me alive, or talk me to death—they’ll have to catch me first!”
Way behind, she heard the inmates pile out of the house. They sounded bewildered. Confused. Gabbling to each other in high, tetchy voices. Going quiet as they hit the cool night air…
Deana didn’t stop till she was outside the gates. Only then did she draw to a halt, panting hard, trying to steady her breath.
Wow. I’m outa there.
Goddamn bitch!
Luring me in…
She grimaced.
Resident fuckin’ entertainer at the Zimmer City Rest Home?
Oh yeah?
Eat shit and die, you crazy old bitch!
Deana started to run uphill.
Toward Warren’s house.
THIRTY-NINE
A low growl brought her skidding to a halt.
Her heart lurched.
Sabre.
And Warren, holding Sabre’s lead, being yanked along as the dog rushed forward to greet her.
“Why, if it’s not the midnight runner! Good to see you, Deana.”
“Great to see you, too, Warren. And Sabre—how ya doin’, big boy?” She smoothed Sabre’s forehead. He got excited, danced back, then bounded forward, nudging his wet nose into her hand.
“Sure looks like he’s glad to see you again.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes were curious.
He looked at her torn sweater, at the left side of her bra gleaming white in the lamplight.
She seemed awfully upset.
He took off his fraternity warm-up and draped it around her shoulders.
“What happened to you back there?”
Deana gave a cracked sort of laugh. “Happened? Tell you what happened, Warren. Nearly finished up as entertainer of the year, that’s what happened.”
He frowned, wanting to know more but not asking.
Laughing shakily, she held on to his arm.
“Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”
He guided her to his place, his arm around her waist. She liked the way it felt. His arms around her. His jacket around her. Making her feel warm and safe.
Most of all, safe.
Sabre trotted by Warren’s side, eyes eager and bright, his ears held high.
Guess he is glad to see me, she thought. Could have done with him when I visited the old folks’ home. He’d have come in real handy…
“Anyway, Warren,” she said, quietly, pushing the vision of distressed gentlefolk out of her mind. “Are you glad to see me?”
He stared at her quizzically, a broad smile spreading across his features. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’m very glad to see you again.”
“Came to ask if you’d like to have dinner with Mom and me sometime.” Adding, “Mom would really like to meet you.”
“Think I’d pass the grade?”
“What’s up, Warren? Running scared? You did say you’d like to see me again. And I said I might be out one night and that we could arrange something?”
He scratched his head. “Yep. I believe I do recall something along those lines…”
“Warren—are you coming to dinner at my house, or what?”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Deana. But why not use the phone? Would’ve been easier than running up here in the dark…getting…”
Mauled by Mommy Dearest’s buncha geriatric weirdos? You’re not kidding…
“’Cause I like running. Especially at night. Developed quite a taste for it, as it happens.”
“Deana. Does your mom know you’re out?”
“Get to the point, why don’t you, Warren? Matter of fact, she doesn’t. It’s just that it seems so exciting for us to meet in secret like this.”
“Mmmm,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Guess I feel a hot chocolate coming on. How ’bout you?”
“You bet,” she said, and smiled.
FORTY
Sitting in Warren’s kitchen, nursing a mug of his yummy chocolate drink, Deana relaxed. It felt good to be here in Warren’s home—especially in his friendly, slightly untidy kitchen.
Sabre retired to his den under the sink. He lay there, checking out Deana’s movements. Then, snuffling into his paws awhile, he closed his eyes.
But his ears stayed alert.
Like sentinels on guard.
Good old Sabre. Some dog, that. She smiled.
Then frowned slightly.
If only I knew what to tell Warren.
How much to tell him.
Or how little.
And not only about tonight, either.
She thought about Mace.
Warren deserves to be put in the picture.
What picture?
Dammit. There’s so much to say…
Oh God. If only things weren’t so complicated.
“Anybody home?” Warren watched her, his brows raised.
“Sure. Can you keep a secret?”
“Try me.”
“Well, you’re right, Warren. Mom doesn’t know I’m out tonight. She doesn’t know about the other nights, either. Jesus. She’d go hairless if she did know.”
It was a start, anyway…
“I see. Go on.”
“Something happened to us. To Mom and me. About ten days ago. I can’t explain it yet. But trust me it’s been a horrible experience. People died. Violently. It’s been bad, Warren.”
He hugged his chocolate, stared into its creamy depths. Giving her time to choose her words.
“Mom’s been concerned for my safety—and I for hers, come to that. We’ve both been in danger.” Deana stopped, then carried on, more cheerfully this time. “But in the end, it turned out okay. Thing is, I don’t want Mom worried about me going out at night. She’s been through such a lot.
“I told her I met you when I phoned your store for a book.”
Warren looked up sharply.
Deana smiled.
“Get Shorty by Elmore Leonard. Is modern gangster stuff something you stock?” He nodded. She went on. “So, Warren, I’d be really grateful if you’d keep our…nighttime assignations to yourself. Oh, also your visit to the house.”
“I see. Had an idea there was more. I have a nose for mysteries.” He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “Murder She Wrote was a favorite show of mine.
“Okay,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll go along with that. But let me tell you here and now, I don’t like unsolved mysteries. And I don’t go for subterfuge, either. Especially where Mom and daughter are concerned. So maybe, least said, soonest mended, huh? Give you time to sort things out with Mom.”
Deana nodded. For a moment there, she’d been about to confide in him.
Give him the works.
Tell him her feelings about Mace.
But now was not the time to mention Mace.
Later. Maybe.
Pity.
She’d have dearly liked to discuss him with Warren.
But maybe later. Much later.
Get too heavy and Warren might cry off.
“So.” Warren smiled at her encouragingly. “I’m invited to dinner, am I?”
“Sure are.”
“Best bib and tucker?”
“Mmmm…Not necessarily. Smart casual, I think. Mom’s kinda casual herself.”
“Ah.”
“So how about evening after tomorrow? You doing anything that night?”
“Er…Let me see.” Warren took his time. Humming a little. Studying the ceiling, as if checking out the evening after tomorrow. He looked at his wristwatch. It showed 12:14.
“Let’s get this straight. It’s already tomorrow, so does that make our date tomorrow evening or the one after that?”
They burst out laughing. Deana felt relieved. She’d been feeling quite tense, talking about the stuff she and mom had gone through these last few days.
She was glad to relax a little.
“Tell you what, Deana. Ask your mom which night is okay, and give me a call—at the store or at home. Phone’s on answer when we’re out at work.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.” She felt good and warm inside. Things were so easy with Warren.
“Anything else I should know? Subjects to avoid—current political situation, weather in Florida, stuff like that?” He threw her a warm smile. Then, turning serious, he added, “Given that you’ve both gone through a sensitive time just lately.”
His gaze held hers. It was as if he were telling her not to worry. Things would turn out okay. That he’d be there for her.
“Nope. Just talk books. Sports, like swimming and tennis, Mom loves those. And movies—seventies stuff. Oh, and food. Compliment her on the food.”
“Your mom likes to cook?”
“Sort of. She owns the Bayview Restaurant in Tiburon.”
FORTY-ONE
Sheena studied the redwoods out back.
Not really seeing them, because her mind was elsewhere. She’d gone way back; saw her ten-year-old self in class. Big for her age, awkward, alone. Writing wasn’t her strong point, but here she was, struggling with an essay on the life of a fuckin’ sperm whale. She looked at her spidery joined-up writing, all blotchy with ink.
Then, behind her, the fuckin’ teacher said in that cold, icy voice of hers, “Sheena Hastings. I do declare, the standard of your work gets worse. See me after class!”
All eyes turned toward her. Mary Jo Hassler sitting in the row behind, sniggered. Titters rose in waves from the rest of the class.
Her head jerked back.
Mary Jo. Tugging at her long dark braids.
She remembered how her eyes had watered up, how ashamed she’d felt…She’d never been much good at writing.
Christ. She’d hated her childhood. And school most of all. Who fuckin’ said schooldays were the happiest days of your life?
Whatever goddamn motherfucker it was, they wanted to come up with one more thing like that and then go blow their fuckin’ brains out.
But all of that was a long time ago. Those lousy schooldays; her lousy childhood. Only thing kept her going was beating the hell outa them kids on the sports field. Yeah. She was the greatest at sports in those days.
THE BEST.
Was then, is now.
Pumping iron in the gym, judo, karate, kickboxing, you name it. She’d done it all—and better than most men, too. She knew all about the pain barrier. Going through it, stretching her muscles to the max. Almost passing out. She’d been there. Done that.
And when she figured her body could take no more—there were plenty of other ways to feel pain.
Oh yeah, other ways.
Sheena’s lips curved in a triumphant smile.
In the early days, only one other person understood her. Really knew what made her tick.
Kat Tod, her partner.
Kat knew about pain; she’d had a cartload of it herself. Bad childhood. Bad marriage at thirteen years of age.
All of them, painful experiences.
Kat had gotten herself killed last October. Memory of it still hurt Sheena. It’d had been a bad business. S & M, the cops called it. Okay. That’s what they called it. But she knew Kat was following her own path of redemption.
Redemption?
Self-destruction, more like.
Yeah.
Ended up a mess a’ bloody ribbons in some shitty back alley…
Jesus. What a gal. She’d gotten mixed up with a real bad crowd. Rented herself out. An’ paid for it in full that one last time…
Sheena turned away from the window. Contemplating her “insight.” Her gift for premonition, whatever. She hated it, yet loved it, all at the same time.
It was part of her.
What she was.
Love it or loathe it, that gift was an important part of Sheena Hastings. Life as a kid hadn’t been a whole lotta fun, but she sure knew that her special talent—and her sporting prowess—set her way above the rest.
In the bad times, she held on to this.
Mom and Dad had tut-tutted her claims that she “knew about things before they happened.” They’d chastised her. Called in the local priest. Encouraged her interest in sports.
Finally, there’d been the psychiatrist.
He’d prescribed Prozac. Why the hell Prozac, for godsake? She was happy the way she was. Only person who understood that was Warren. They trained together. They talked together. She was a few years older, but she hung around with him most of the time.
Warren understood her. Like now. He knew she was happy at Pacey’s Place. Among her own kind. Problem people. Misfits. Weirdos. They got together, understood each other. No questions asked.
