Beware. Part 7

The man was gone!

She bolted upright, and studied the sunlit room. He was not there! She swung her legs off the bed, knocking the wadded tape to the floor, and stood up. Dizzy. She grabbed the top of the dresser for support. When her head cleared, she lunged for the doorway.

The door slammed shut. She rushed against it, grabbed the k.n.o.b.

A hand clutched her shoulders and swung her around.

n.o.body there.

She felt hands on both her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They squeezed. She saw depressions the fingers made in her flesh, but not the fingers themselves.

"Get the idea?" the man asked.

"Oh my G.o.d," Lacey muttered. "You're invisible!"

"f.u.c.kin' right."

Reaching to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she touched his hands. Their surface stopped her fingers like a layer of hard air-but air with the texture of skin. She shook her head. "How?"

"A little miracle."

"No, really," she said, trying to sound eager, as if suddenly overcome with curiosity. She touched his hairy wrists, his thick, heavily muscled forearms: he was standing directly in front of her. "Who did it to you? How?"

"If I told you that, you'd know."

"I want to know."

"Then you'd..."

Lacey clenched his forearms and kicked, shooting her leg up high through the s.p.a.ce in front of her. Her instep smacked flesh. The man's arms jerked away and he bellowed. Lacey tugged open the door. She dashed out and across the dining room to her kitchen. Grabbing the k.n.o.b of the back door, she hesitated. What use to run away? How do you hide from an invisible man? You don't. Sooner or later, he'd get her.

She slid a carving knife out of its rack, and dashed toward the breakfast nook. She rushed alongside the table, swinging a chair out behind her to block the narrow pa.s.sage. Spinning around, she shoved the other chair out. Now she stood behind the table, both sides blocked, knife in front of her, ready.

Almost ready.

She opened a cupboard behind her. She lifted out a heavy bag. Clamping the knife in her teeth, she unrolled its top.

With a skidding rumble, the table scooted toward her. She lurched backward. The edge of the counter caught her rump. She leapt, throwing herself backward, drawing up her knees. Her b.u.t.tocks. .h.i.t the countertop, and the table crashed against the cupboards.

Lacey dropped her feet to the table. Lunging forward, she flung out the contents of the sack. A cloud of flour filled the air.

The man dived through it, an empty shape in the white powder.

Jerking the knife from her mouth, Lacey plunged it into his back. He shrieked. His head drove into her belly, slamming her backward. Grabbing his s.h.a.ggy, powdered hair, Lacey tugged away his head. She saw the hazy image of a face, and smashed her fist into its nose. Then she kicked and shoved at the writhing figure until it slid to the floor.

She crawled to the table's edge, and looked down. He was on his knees, head to the floor, growling, reaching behind him with dusty white arms, groping for the knife. His back was half-clear where his blood had swept the flour off.

Lacey jumped, landed beyond him, and fell. Scurrying to her feet, she ran from the kitchen. She grabbed her handbag and keys off the dining room table, and raced into her bedroom. She yanked her bathrobe off the closet hook. Pulling it on, she ran for the front door. Got outside. Sprinted to her car and locked herself inside and shot it backward out of the driveway. She hit the brakes. Shifted to Drive. And sped up the road away from her house and the man and the horror.

My G.o.d, she thought, I did it!

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Lacey rolled a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter at the Tribune office, and rushed through her story:

Tribune reporter Lacey Allen warded off a masked a.s.sailant in her home, Thursday morning, and escaped with minor injuries after stabbing him with a kitchen knife.

According to miss Allen, the attacker likely concealed himself in the trunk of her car the previous night, after brutally murdering Elsie Hoffman and Red Peterson at Hoffman's Market. "Some time during the night," remarks Allen, "he must have sneaked out of the trunk and broken in to my house."

Awakened in the early morning hours, the young reporter was subdued by the intruder and told that he wished to use her home as a temporary refuge. She was warned of severe consequences if she refused to cooperate.

Later in the morning, while preparing coffee at his request, Miss Allen surprised the suspected killer by flinging flour into his face. Wielding a butcher knife, she attacked and wounded the man, enabling herself to escape.

She sped from the scene in her car. Pulled over by Officer Donald Martin of the Oasis PD, Miss Allen blurted out her story. The officer radioed for back up units. Minutes later, officers Martin, Grabowski and Lewis rushed the house, only to find it deserted. A thorough search of the premises and surrounding neighborhood proved fruitless.

Though authorities are baffled by the suspect's disappearance, the incident at Miss Allen's home provides the first clues to his ident.i.ty. Full sets of fingerprints were discovered at the scene, and have been wired to the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., for possible identification. Also, impressions of his bare feet were found on the floury kitchen floor, and photographed for later comparisons.

According to miss Allen, the suspect was a white male in his late twenties, six feet tall, weighing 180 pounds, with long hair. From bits of conversation, Miss Allen feels certain that he is, or has been, a resident of Oasis.

Citizens are urged to exercise extreme caution until the suspect has been apprehended.

Lacey reread her story, then got up from her desk and took the two typewritten pages to Carl Williams. She handed them to the lanky editor, and hiked up her loose corduroys. The rest of the clothes fit no better. Somebody might've at least asked her sizes before sending Alfred out for a new wardrobe. At the time, she'd been too upset to care.

Carl finished reading the story. He rolled back his chair, and frowned. "Left something out, didn't you?"

"Do you believe the guy was invisible?"

"That's what you told me. And the police."

"But do you believe it?"

He sighed, and rubbed a hand through his short curly hair. "h.e.l.l no," he said. "I don't believe it. Not for a second."

"You figure I imagined it."

"Well Lace, you've gone through a lot of..."

"Slipped a cog or two?"

"I'm not saying that. But it's not unusual for someone-in a car accident, say-to lose her memory of what happened. Goes on all the time."

"I remember everything."

"I'm not saying you don't. I'm just saying that, under the circ.u.mstances, your sense of reality might've taken a beating."

"Okay, and that's basically what the cops thought. And it's what our readers will think, too. I have to go on living in this town, Carl. If I claim this guy was invisible, I'll be a joke."

"Word'll get out, anyway."

"It'll only be rumor, if it does. I can deny it. But I can't deny something in a story I've written for the Trib. Besides, it's not really a lie; I'm pretty sure my description is accurate-as far as it goes. I just can't admit he's invisible, though. I can't. Not in public."

"Yeah." He rubbed his face. "Guess it wouldn't do the Trib's credibility any good, either. Can't have a reporter who sees things-or doesn't, as the case may be." He gave her a weary smile. "We'll run it this way."

"Thanks."

"You'll give me a call when you get to Tucson?"

"Right away."

"Fine Take care of yourself, Lace. I'll keep you posted on any new developments."

"Thanks. See you in two weeks. Sooner, if they get him."

Lacey went out the rear door to the Tribune's small parking lot. After the airconditioning, the heat outside felt like the breath of an oven. Too bad Alfred didn't buy shorts instead of these corduroys. Squinting against the brilliant glare, she stopped at the rear of her car.

Her stomach fluttered a bit as she opened the trunk. She swept a hand through its emptiness, touched her spare tire, her towel, her flares. Then, satisfied, she shut the trunk and went to the driver's door. She unlocked it, opened it, and reached around to flip up the lock b.u.t.ton of the back door.

She opened the door. Crawling over the seat, she reached down and ran her hand along the floor. Then she climbed out, locked and shut the door.

She slid in behind the steering wheel, and locked herself in. Leaning sideways across the seat, she raked the floor with her fingertips.

Okay.

No pa.s.senger.

She started the car, and drove from the parking lot. Her tank was full. She drove for two hours, and didn't stop until she reached the Desert Wind hotel in Tucson.

CHAPTER NINE.

"Alfred, go on over to Harry's and pick me up some lunch."

With a nod, Alfred fumbled among half a dozen pens safely clipped inside his plastic pocket shield. He plucked out a Bic, and slipped a notepad from his trousers. "What'll it be?"

"Pastrami on a sourdough roll, hold the onions. Fries, and a Bud." Carl waited for the young man to finish scribbling, then gave him a five-dollar bill.

"Want a doughnut or something?"

"Nope."

"Back in a jiff."

"No hurry." Carl followed him outside, watched him start down the sidewalk toward the deli three blocks away, and called after him, "Don't forget to bring me back some ketchup."

"Oh, I'll remember."

He watched Alfred slip the notepad out of his seat pocket. He stepped back inside the office. He shut and locked the door, then hurried through the deserted room to his desk. His hands were sweaty and trembling. He wiped them on his pants legs. He took a deep breath, and picked up the telephone. On the first try, his finger slipped and he had to dial again.

At the other end, the phone rang six times before it was picked up. A woman's pleasant voice said, "Spiritual Development Foundation, Miss Prince speaking."

"This is Carl Williams, number 68259385."

"Just a moment, please."

He waited for her to punch the code number into her terminal.

"Level?" she asked.

"Red."

"Very good. What can we do for you, Mr. Williams?"

"I have an urgent message for section three."

"Just a moment, please. I'll put you through to the section three coordinator."

Carl heard the faint ringing of a phone. Then a strong male voice said, "Farris, here. What have you got for us?"

"This is Carl Williams, publisher of the Oasis Tribune. That's Oasis, Arizona."

"Right." He sounded impatient.

"We've had a series of incidents here that I suspect might be related to the SDF-a couple of nasty murders and an a.s.sault on one of my reporters, a Miss Lacey Allen."

"I see. And what makes you think they may be connected to SDF?"