Double

And all at once I was wide awake, sitting up in bed. Then I was out of it, out from under the mosquito netting and into my pants and on my way through the quiet villa. There were lights on in the living room: Ferguson and Nancy Pollard were still up, sitting in front of the terrace windows, sipping a last snifter of brandy before bed.

They were surprised to see me up again, and even more surprised when I said to Nancy, “That man you saw in Lauterbach’s building Sunday morning. You said he spoke to you after you collided outside the elevator. Something like ‘Excuse me, dear,’ or ‘sweetheart,’ you said. Do you remember the exact term he used?”

She blinked at me. “No, not exactly...”

“Was it dear? Or sweetheart?”

“Neither one. Something that sounded like one or the other.”

“Dearheart?”

“That’s it,” she said. “Dearheart. ‘Excuse me, dearheart.’ Does that mean something to you?”

I nodded. I’d only heard the term used once that I could remember, and that had been last Friday afternoon in the Cantina Sin Nombre, by the man who had been annoying Elaine Picard.

Woodall. Rich Woodall.

35: McCone

I ran to the door, turned the knob frantically. It wouldn’t budge. I rattled it, then pounded and shouted.

“Let me out of here!”

Silence on the other side of the door.

“Let me out, dammit!”

Nothing.

Then I heard a sound that might have been the key being dropped on the floor, and footsteps going away. They were ponderous, heavy. I kicked the door, shouting again, but the footsteps faded and were gone. I was alone. Alone with Karyn Sugarman’s corpse.

I let go of the knob. And then I began to shake. The shakes turned into body-wrenching shudders. I grasped my midsection and bent over, knowing I was on the way to a real attack of hysterics if I didn’t get myself under control. Finally the near-convulsions subsided and I sat down on the floor. The bloody light cast weird shadows and I closed my eyes to block it out.

Someone else must have been in the house all along — or arrived immediately after I came in here. Who? In all likelihood, Sugarman’s killer.

But who?

That didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting out of here.

I crept back to the door and crouched, listening. There was no sound out there. Had the person left, or was he in some other part of the house? Would he leave me here to starve? Or come back and kill me? There was no way of knowing. I had to chance trying to pick the lock on the door.

That type of lock wasn’t going to yield to my favorite implement, the credit card. I looked around for something to use, wishing there were some way to tone down that blood-red glare without plunging myself into total darkness. Then I noticed that — quite incredibly — I still carried my purse, hanging now from the crook of my elbow rather than my shoulder. I thought of the Swiss Army knife Don had given me a couple of months ago — a decidedly unromantic gift by most people’s standards, but one that suited both of us — and I reached inside the rear pocket of the bag. The knife caught on something and I gave it a vicious tug to get it out. Then I went to work on the latch.

After what seemed like an hour, I had to admit there was no way I was going to pick the lock. I flung the knife down in frustration, got off my knees, and started to pace the room — avoiding the ell where Sugarman’s body hung.

In any other house there would have been some way out besides the door. Other houses had windows, heating ducts, air vents. But this place defied all normal concepts of construction. Or did it?

I began at the door and worked slowly toward the outside wall, tapping against the vinyl stones with the hilt of the knife. It was a large room and it took me a long while to cover it; I became accustomed to my surroundings and even the red light ceased to bother me. I tapped exhaustively, everywhere I could reach, but each tap struck solid adobe. There were no hollow-sounding spots, no open spaces that had been covered over by the wallpaper.

My lack of success only made me more determined. I went on, even along the wall where Sugarman’s body hung. When I went by it, I kept my eyes averted.

What if I were stuck in here for days? I thought. Sugarman’s killer hadn’t come back; there was no reason to suppose he would now. What if nobody ever came and I died in here?

My stomach lurched again, and I fled the ell for the other part of the room. I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, breathing hard. I sat there for a long time before I roused myself and looked at my watch.

It seemed an eternity since I’d started tapping the walls, and indeed it was after ten. When had I been locked in here? Five o’clock? Six? I’d lost all track of time.

After a moment I told myself I had to resume tapping in the ell; it was the only chance I had. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to get up off the floor and go back in there by the body.

Look, I told myself, your life depends on this.

And somewhere inside me, a voice replied: I can’t do it.