Cold Target Part 8

She walked around in a daze, first through the living room, kitchen, and dining room on this floor, then through the two bedrooms and office on the second, careful not to touch anything. All had been trashed. Her computer was gone from her office. Her printer and copy machine had been smashed to the ground.

Morris followed her soundlessly. She was aware of him standing at the door as she regarded what was left of the office.

"We need a list of anything that's missing," he said.

Still speechless, she simply nodded as she looked at the shambles. All she wanted was a drink and bed. She couldn't cope with any more tonight. No, she numbly corrected herself. This morning.

"The beds are pretty well torn up. I would suggest a hotel or another residence until you get those locks fixed. I would also recommend a security system." He paused. "You have anywhere you can stay?"

She could go to her parents' home. But she wasn't prepared to tell her father what happened tonight. He would tell her it was because of the type of people she had as clients and once more demand she join his corporate law firm. She simply wasn't up to it. Not this morning. And Sarah's apartment was too small for a guest.

"A hotel," she decided.

"I'll take you to one. Do you need to get any clothes?"

She nodded. Then a thought struck her. "I want to call the night watchman at my office building. I want to make sure no one has tampered with my office computers."

She dialed the emergency number at the office. All her backup files had been in her home computer. There were records and memos in there that she wouldn't want in the wrong hands. Addresses. 'Dear G.o.d that was the real disaster'.

Archie was the security guard who was usually on duty overnight. She knew him well, since she often worked late. He answered immediately.

"This is Meredith Rawson," she said. "My home has just been ransacked. Will you check on my office?"

"No one here but the cleaning people, Ms. Rawson."

"Just go look for me," she said.

In a few moments--they seemed like hours--he was back. "Nothing disturbed there. Least not so I can see."

"Keep a special eye on it for me ... please, Archie."

"You bet, Ms. Rawson. You can depend on me."

"I know I can, Archie. Thanks." She hung up the phone and turned to the detective. "I'll have to warn some people. I had files on my hard drive that included addresses. Clients hiding from their spouses."

Morris waited patiently as she called four women, waking them up and warning them that their addresses might be compromised. She suggested they either keep someone with them or move to a different location.

There were no protestations. They had all been through the kind of fear she felt tonight.

When she finished, Morris looked at her steadily. "Could it be one of their husbands?"

"I don't know."

"We'll need your client list."

She hesitated. "I can't give you that without their permission."

He looked exasperated. "At least a list of anyone who has threatened you. That wouldn't be privileged."

She nodded. "I'll get some clothes."

She entered her bedroom. It looked as if a tornado had hit it. The painting she loved had been slashed. The mattress was cut open and linens littered the floor. Drawers were pulled out, her clothes scattered.

She swallowed hard. Despite the weariness that almost overwhelmed her, she yearned to start the cleanup process, to cleanse the room--her room--of a foreign, malevolent presence.

Suitcases. She needed a small suitcase. Three of various sizes were in the back of the closet. When she opened the closet door, a new shock ran through her.

Her clothes had been torn from the hangers. Some had been slashed. One suitcase had been ripped. She grabbed the smallest one. It was intact. Apparently her intruder had tired of his destruction.

Frissons of new fear ran through her. Someone really hated her to tear up her clothes like that. She tried to dismiss the thought as she found a pair of good black slacks that had survived the carnage, along with a cotton shirt and a silk blouse. They were wrinkled but whole.

The next stop was her bathroom for a few toiletries. It was the least ransacked, probably because there was little of value there. She located necessities--toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant--and threw them into the bag. She always carried makeup in her purse.

Shutting the bag, she returned to the living room, where she had left her purse. She met the gaze of the detective.

"The lock ..."

"Didn't keep anyone out. I'll return after I get you to a hotel. I have some work to do here anyway. I've ordered a crime scene technician." He hesitated, then offered, "I know a locksmith who is on call twenty-four hours a day."

"Please call him."

He nodded. She looked at him for the first time. He had that rumpled, overworked cop look. He was older, probably nearing retirement age, yet he had not hesitated to go inside her apartment to look for an intruder.

"Thank you," she said. "You've been more than kind."

He gave her a long, searching look. "I don't think I have to tell you to be careful."

"No," she said.

"Most women would be in hysterics after being nearly killed and seeing a mess like this."

"I've never been good at that."

"I know. You had a reputation in the DA's office."

She wasn't surprised. Though she'd left the office two years ago, she was very aware that the police often discussed members of the district attorney's office. Some they liked. Some they dreaded. She'd been told she had been put in the "dreaded" category. She'd always been hard on the police officers. She hadn't liked losing cases because they didn't dot the i's and cross the t's. Or worse.

"I'm surprised you didn't let me come home alone," she said wryly.

"I was on your side," he said with a slight smile. "You didn't plead out cases as others did."

"That was usually the DA's decision."

"And that depended on how well the case was prepared. Some of us appreciated it."

It was a brightener on what had been the worst night of her life. "Thank you."

"I'll bring the key to the new locks over to the hotel and leave it at the desk," he added.

"I'm forever grateful."

He just nodded and opened the door for her to leave.

She walked outside and turned to look back. All the lights were on, though they looked diffused by the rain. She swallowed hard at the thought of the destruction inside.

Tomorrow. Like Scarlett, she would think about that tomorrow.

But tonight she knew she would think about who hated her enough to try to run her down and then destroy everything dear to her.

And when would he, or she, strike again?

*Chapter Six*

'BISBEE'.

Despite its small size and seedy condition, Holly took pleasure in the small house. It was 'hers'. Sort of. More, certainly, than any other place she'd lived.

She loved the desert sunrises and sunsets. She loved taking Harry for walks, carrying with her a book of flowers and plants she'd found at the library. She didn't have to meet anyone's expectations but her own.

Still, fear was never far away. She flinched at the sight of a large car and dreaded what was becoming her daily pilgrimage to the library to check Louisiana newspapers. Her heart always pounded faster as she searched for her name in headlines.

'Nothing'. She could find nothing about a murder in her house. Nothing about a search for a murder suspect. Nothing about the missing wife of a prominent politician and daughter of a state supreme court judge.

The silence convinced her that her husband had indeed planned her murder and was now covering the murderer's death.

She knew he wasn't protecting her. Having a wife as a murderer would hurt his career. So might embarra.s.sing questions.

How had she ever thought him charming?

She shivered in the hot air as she sat on her stoop and watched her son play with Caesar. The two were inseparable.

She'd bought him some jeans, shorts and T-shirts, clothes he'd never been allowed to wear before. He'd been particularly delighted with the jeans. He was a cowboy now.

Holly took a flyer from her pocket and smoothed it out. It advertised riding lessons for children. She wished she could afford them, but money was too tight at the moment. Perhaps later, when she sold some of her sculptures. She'd already been able to place two on consignment in a small Main Street gallery.

To make enough to support them, though, she had to increase her output.

To her relief, Harry was so intrigued by the dog and his new surroundings that he had not asked for his father. But then Harry had been more a possession to Randolph than a person to be loved unconditionally. Approval had been based on exemplary behavior.

But the questions would come. Like any little boy, he loved his father. He wanted his father's praise and approval, though she knew he sensed that something was lacking. She wished she could give him an easy world with a dad who adored him. She wished he could have more than she would be able to give him. She was a fugitive, and their lives would be peppered with lies and deceptions.

'If they' managed to evade Randolph.

For the briefest of moments, she wondered whether her son would be better off with someone else. But that thought quickly fled her mind. There was no one. Her mother had died five years ago, still believing Holly had a fairy-tale marriage. Her mother had never seen what she didn't want to see. Her father was as controlling as Randolph. She did not want her inquisitive, generous and kind little boy growing up to be like his father, to have those kind of values. Nor did she want him to grow up as she had grown up: a hothouse plant protected from everything real in life.

If she hadn't grown up that way, she might have recognized Randolph as the monster he was.

She sighed, then called Harry, delighted when he immediately ran into her arms and gave her a hug. Caesar jumped around them, wanting Harry's attention back.

"Go inside," she said. "You can draw while I work."

"Cookie?" he said with a four-year-old's penchant for blackmail.

"Yes, indeed. Maybe even two," she said, pleased that he wanted them. She had baked her first batch of cookies two days ago. They had been terrible. This batch, though, was edible. More than edible.

He beamed. "Caesar wants one, too."

"Caesar can have a dog cookie."

"Okay." Harry followed her into the small kitchen and waited patiently as she poured him a gla.s.s of milk and handed him two cookies. Caesar frantically wagged his tail until she gave him a dog biscuit.

She turned on the television. The combination TV/VCR was new, one of her few purchases. She'd taken enough from her son. She couldn't take his favorite cartoons, too. Besides, it gave her a link to the outside world, even though the local channels didn't offer much in the way of world news.

She watched as Harry settled on the lumpy sofa. Caesar followed him, lifting first one paw, then another before crawling up as if he were putting something over on her. She had no objections. She gloried in the sight of the two of them cuddled together, a happy smile on her son's face.

Once Harry's attention was glued to a cartoon, she started to work on some pieces of copper sheeting she'd purchased at a home improvement store in Tucson. A ladybug this time, she thought, designing it in her head before she started cutting the metal. Then a dancing pig. She'd sold two turtles this past week, an event to celebrate.

They hadn't brought in that much. Only sixty dollars each, and out of that she paid for materials, along with a commission. But it was a start toward independence. Toward a new life.

She wasn't sure how long she could stay here. Not long, she feared, even though she was becoming attached to the odd little town where houses perched on a mountainside.

She'd found a poem at the library that kept running through her head.

'We realize fully we've a very queer town,'

'Where it's not up, it's certainly down,'

'Our houses all perch on the sides of the hill'

'There's no building laws, we place them at will.'

She smiled whenever she thought of it. The town was an outlaw, a little like herself. Remnants of its old, somewhat seedy history remained in Brewery Gulch, once the home of free-for-all bars and houses of prost.i.tution. Bars remained but they were of the more sedate kind, attracting tourists rather than minors.

Bisbee was both charming and quietly seductive. The sunsets and sunrises were glorious, and the nights so clear she could see a million stars.

She had gone out each night and sat on the porch, gazing upward. She was always reluctant to go to bed. Nightmares haunted her. She often woke up wringing wet, cringing. Even worse, she woke one night to hear her son calling for her. Apparently her cries had awakened and frightened him.

The sound of creaking stairs, the image of the intruder crumpled on the floor were with her always. So was the fear that her husband would find them and take Harry away from her. He was the dearest person in her life. He 'was' her life. . . .

The ladybug, destined for someone's garden, took shape under her fingers.

The doorbell rang and she froze as the now familiar terror seized her. She had to force herself to go to the window. She looked outside and saw Marty, the woman who owned both her house and Special Things, the craft shop that displayed her work.