"No," said Alison. Because there was one thing more that she had to know from Pam, and she had to know it before Seven Yellow Moons released her, before she had time to pull herself together again, think protector.

"Where-"

But Seven Yellow Moons leaped in, almost shouting now. "He doesn't like women, Pam. He doesn't like lesbians. That f.u.c.king Sharon and his G.o.dd.a.m.n mother saw to that." Pam's lips moved, and though no sound came out, Alison knew that she was trying to deny it, trying to say he loved her. But there's always an exception for Mother, isn't there? For a moment Alison had a stab of sympathy for the child who had been told that the women who had mothered him were wicked and sinful, bound to burn in h.e.l.l, that their caring had all been a joke voided because of their s.e.xuality. What must it have cost for him to hang onto that love for Pam in the midst of it? Then she shook her head. The boy was a man now. Two women were dead, and it didn't matter whether he had killed in an attempt to save Stacy from herself, or merely to eliminate the compet.i.tion.

Seven Yellow Moons was still ranting. "There's no other reason that he would want to be friends with that poor woman, not unless he was setting her up to be another Candy, a better mother. And G.o.d help her if...."

The bouncer, not at all convinced by Alison, attempted to thrust a shoulder between the two, no mean task because Seven Yellow Moons had dragged Pam half across the table, was holding her as tight as logistics would permit and was starting to shake her. She brushed the bouncer away like a fly and the smaller woman's lips tightened in anger. She gestured over the heads of the crowds. Alison put her own hand in, prepared to duck. But, whether she respected her right in some strange way, or whether she had simply come to the end of her spiel, Seven Yellow Moons did not strike out.

"Where is he, Pam?" Alison asked the question quietly, and then, when the woman simply stared, she asked again. "He wanted you to come out tonight, didn't he? He encouraged you to come, even though he usually wants you to stay home. Where is he tonight?" Her mind went back to the phone message, to the few petulant words she had heard before Stacy's phone had started to buzz. Had he spoken to his mother that way, giving her one last try, the night before the fire had started?

"Where is he?" she said again, almost shouting herself, and she could not, for a moment, understand the look of relief that crossed Pam's face before she answered.

"Glennwood Springs," she said. "He had to go down for a photo session."

If he was in Glennwood Springs he could not be here, could not be waiting for another woman, could not be with Stacy. Alison wanted to believe it, but her instincts told her differently. She barked a quick order to Seven Yellow Moons. "Look for him," she said. "He may be around here."

"What's the problem?" Reinforcements had arrived, and they were women who had been picked because of their size, women who looked as if they were positively dying to mix it up a little. The crowd tensed and suddenly Alison knew that she was about to be caught in the middle of a scene, caught by the crowd and held, because there wasn't a d.y.k.e in the whole world who could mind her own business and whatever Seven Yellow Moons did, even if it were merely releasing Pam gently and brushing her off, there was bound to be interference, protests from the bouncers and the audience in every possible combination and permutation. Already she could see that women from the main hall were flowing out to join in the commotion, and the front door was barely visible.

If she were stuck in the crowd she would not be able to check on Stacy. f.u.c.k it that Pam had said he was out of town. She wanted to hear it with her own ears, wanted to hear Stacy's sweet voice telling her that of course she was okay, she was just a little late, and why was she asking? She had to get to Stacy, and quickly.

"Excuse me," she said, hoping that Seven Yellow Moons would understand why she was being abandoned. There was almost a solid ma.s.s of women in front of them, but the tables had kept them out of the booths, so she ducked beneath the rope that separated them from the photographer, and beneath the rope that defined the potter's s.p.a.ce. Voices were being raised as she came to the T-shirt women, who stared at her as if she were an alien but made no move to stop her. She thought she might have heard the smack of a fist and hoped, if violence could not be avoided, that at least the dreadful c.u.n.ts would be destroyed in the brawl.

"Yes, who is it?" It was almost a let down to hear Stacy's voice calling calmly from the window. Alison had to struggle for breath before she could answer. It had seemed to make more sense to run the block and a half rather than fighting to reach the phone. She had been grateful, her skirts hoisted up around her knees, that she had clung to the tennis shoes instead of the heels Janka had suggested. Her legs felt leaden, worse than they should have, and in the middle of her concern, an unrelated thought stood out like a jewel: she wasn't as fit as she needed to be for her job and she was going to have to make that appointment with the specialist her doctor had recommended after all.

"It's Alison," she finally panted. She moved out beneath the street light so that Stacy could see her.

The window flew up and Stacy leaned out, looking more beautiful than ever before, especially because she was safe. Her shoulders were bare, and her dark hair had been twisted up in a French knot and then glittered silver. She perched one hip, clothed in dark purple velvet, on the till.

"Ooo-eee," she called out into the night, long and low and s.e.xy, "I think I'm in love." She threw a kiss, and Alison's heart bounded. "I was just on my way over. Why don't you come on up? You're not too mad, are you?"

Alison had run over many possible scenarios on the wild dash, scenes that, to be truthful, she had seen more on TV than in the line of duty, and it had occurred to her that if Mark were in the apartment he might force Stacy to say that she was okay. But she could not for one moment believe that under those circ.u.mstances, Stacy would be flirting out a second story window.

Still, she had the revolver out when she reached the door of the apartment. She pushed Stacy brusquely to one side and made a quick scan. Stacy had been having a quick snack, as evidenced by a partial loaf of French bread and tub of margarine that were sitting on the windowsill. He was not there. He was not there. She had arrived in time. She wanted to cry and laugh at once, wanted to sweep Stacy off her feet in a joyous celebration of being alive.

"Uh, Alison." Stacy was eyeing the gun nervously. "That's a little too kinky even for me."

"No, that's not it." The broad smile splitting her face was keeping her from explaining as she tucked the piece back into Janka's bag. She dropped it on the table. "That's not it at all. I was so worried...I'm so glad...." She put her arms around the other woman, planning to hold her close, to hold her gently, but suddenly she was swept up in that wave of pa.s.sion that always seemed to be lurking for her lately. She struggled for a minute and then rode the crest, for she could feel Stacy against her being similarly swept.

Stacy's gown was soft beneath her hands, and for a moment she felt that it was enough, that she could be happy forever running her hands over the yards and yards of thick velvet while she kissed Stacy hard on the mouth, and then drew back and nibbled lightly, teased with her tongue. It was hard to find the woman beneath all that velvet. She was surprised by sudden flashes of firmness beneath, by the thrust of Stacy's hard thigh between her own, by Stacy's hip pressing into her belly. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were more accessible, and as Alison eased them anxiously out of their casing of sequins she wondered how much dance finery would be similarly discarded later that night. She had a quick picture of the hall, of women dancing in sequins and velvet and lace, and overlaid a hundred smaller pictures of those same women coupling joyfully, discarding boas and shawls and high heels and c.u.mberbunds. She was filled with a joy so intense that she almost removed her mouth from Stacy's to tell her, to shout that she loved d.y.k.es, that she loved being a lesbian. Then that general love shrank and spun within her, becoming a focused circle within a circle, and in that smaller orb were the women close to her- Mich.e.l.le and Janka and her old friend Zori who lived in California and her friends out on the land-all the women she felt that were her family, for whom she would care forever, and this intense love was flowing out of her and onto Stacy, as if she were the cloth beneath a horn of plenty, as if she were the cup into which the everfilling pitcher in fairy tales poured. She wondered, burying her mouth in Stacy's hair, and then pulling at it with her lips, if this was how people felt before they spoke in tongues. She imagined herself capable of it, imagined that she might fall to the floor to shout unknown words of praise were she not able to express the feeling inside her by making love to a woman. For a moment she was sorry for everyone in the world who was not a lesbian. She was sorry for Nancy Reagan and Howard Hughes and Raquel Welch and her mother, and then that feeling was swept along because there was no room for it in the tidal wave that washed over her as she lowered her mouth to Stacy's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She sucked gently at first, flicking her tongue teasingly over first one nipple and then the other. Then she was gulping greedily, pulling hard with just a hint of teeth, listening to Stacy's moans as if they were an aria from an opera, sound that told the audience that now the love scene was about to happen.

She lifted her head because the feeling was simply too intense for her to handle. She felt as if she were plummeting headfirst down a roller coaster and when the ride ended it was not going to pull tamely into the station at all, but would start all over again before she even had time to catch her breath. She looked into Stacy's face, but her eyes were glazed. She was at that place Alison had been the night before, where she had all but cried, "Take me, take me!" and given herself up to the other woman.

Alison's heart was pounding as she took Stacy by the shoulder and laid her back on the work table. There was part of her still functioning rationally, and it scanned quickly for pins and needles and scissors, and swept the sheathed cutter to one side, but she was not even aware of it. She was too busy cucking the great joyous feeling away, squeezing it down to a bundle that she could hold in her heart without being in danger of bursting into tears. She knew that crying was not the only danger, that if she continued in this matter she would certainly fall in love, that she would want to move in with Stacy and share everything with her, and she did not want to repeat that instant marriage again. Deliberately she slowed her heartbeat, moving her hands just enough over Stacy's b.r.e.a.s.t.s to keep her aroused, to rea.s.sure her that it was just a breather, not a crisis.

In her relief her fantasy kicked in, a new one, in which she was the one who held power.

Alison waited a little anxiously as she felt the familiar cameras beginning to roll, bending her head again to Stacy's breast, hoping that a sequel to last night was not in the wings. This time she wanted to top, and she couldn't imagine Prudence in that position, even if the Mistress of Storm's Head would allow such a thing.

But she was able to heave a sigh of relief only a few seconds later. She should have trusted her director, that gifted award-winner who was now focusing on their two skirts bunched up together. The camera panned over the rich purple velvet almost covered by the black satin, catching the shimmered threads of silver, until the viewer wanted to reach out and touch them, wanted to stroke the textures with the same intensity that Alison now wanted to stroke Stacy's velvet opening. She was not ready yet to touch her there, that must be savored, but she did take a long look. Stacy was wearing black stockings again, and the black and red garter belt that was by now looking familiar. Doesn't this women ever wear panty hose like a normal person? Alison wondered. She wasn't even sure where one bought garter belts. It was not, however, a puzzle that weighed long on her mind. Alison lifted Stacy by the thighs, pulling her up close so that she could feel that heat against her belly, through her satin skirt.

Then, much to her dismay, Alison felt a tiny voice that seemed to speak to her from an entirely different part of her brain than the part so occupied with the sensation of Stacy locking her ankles behind her back. The director shot Stacy's sleek black spike heels, strapped across the instep, then slid the camera up her leg and lingered for a moment on the gold-edged top of a stocking. She caught just the shadow of Alison's hand as, unable to resist any longer, she played two fingers across Stacy's swollen c.l.i.t. The shot traveled up to Stacy's breast and the sequined bodice crumpled beneath them. Alison dropped to her knees on the floor, pulling Stacy's a.s.s to the edge of the table, but even as she winced beneath Stacy's spikes on her shoulders, the little voice was continuing to drone in the background in a tone that was hard to ignore. It was saying, 'What about Mark?' and 'This isn't safe.', and 'How could he be in the Springs if you heard him on the phone earlier?' Alison wanted to ignore it. She had pulled Stacy's lips wide apart so she could admire every little fold, so the director could pan lovingly over the tight opening, the creamy wetness that sparkled under the lights. This was not a time for reason, this was a time to cover Stacy's c.l.i.t with her entire mouth and suck it in...

Forget it, a.s.shole! Desperately, the small voice had called in backups, and the backup was using a voice that sounded distressingly like Mich.e.l.le's. A voice that in a minute would be saying, 'I told you this kinky s.h.i.t would get you in trouble.', and 'You've been acting like a madwoman when you're around her.', and 'You don't even f.u.c.king recognize when you're in danger anymore....' Regretfully Alison drew her mouth away from temptation and got to her feet.

"Fist me," moaned Stacy, unaware of the struggle Alison had just lost to reason, and for a moment she just held her. "Fist me, now-"

How was she going to tell this luscious, dripping woman that whatever scene playing in her head was not in the cards tonight, more so, that someone Stacy regarded as a friend had murdered brutally-twice?

"I've got to talk to you," she said gently. Stacy's eyes flew open as if she had been slapped in the face. She gave Alison an incredulous look and slid her own hand down between her legs as if to perform a reality check-We were just getting ready to f.u.c.k, right, I didn't just imagine that?

"Really," insisted Alison, turning her head so she wouldn't be distracted by the sight of Stacy touching herself. She tried to take Stacy's hand to help her to her feet, but Stacy brushed it frostily aside and stood unaided. Major p.i.s.sed, and Alison couldn't blame her. It wasn't a tease. It was like the lights had gone out in the middle of an erotic movie. No warning, no picture, no sound.

"I'm sorry," she said, as Stacy tried to push past her. She caught her shoulder. She had to make her hear. She had to lucking call Jorgenson. She really should have taken the earrings, she thought, insecurity beginning to creep in. Suppose Pam had decided to toss them? Maybe she hadn't handled things the right way, rushing off like that. But, playing the scene back in her mind she couldn't see a way to change it. She had been wrong; Stacy had been perfectly safe. But what if her premonition had been right? What if Mark had been here and she had stayed in the hall collecting statements?

"I've got to talk to you," she said. She wanted to slip her arm around Stacy's waist and pull her close, but Stacy was standing stiff as a board, adjusting her dress. Alison had to content herself with resting her hand on the small of her back.

"Look," she began. She was never to finish the sentence. Later she couldn't tell if there had been a sudden silence, if, remarkably, there had been no cars or jets outside just as the conversation lulled, or if it had just been some trick of acoustics that had made the sound as sharp and clear as a shot. Either way, it didn't matter. Alison stopped in midsentence when she heard it-the click of a key in a lock. And then, as drawn out as if it were lifted off the soundtrack from a horror flick, a slow creak, creak, creak as the front door of the apartment was pushed open. The sleigh bells shook slightly.

Alison did not know that she could react so quickly, not until after her hand was already clamped over Stacy's mouth, pulling her to her. She could see by Stacy's dark eyes that she thought at first it was a game that Alison wasn't playing particularly well. She wasn't even f.u.c.king worried, thought Alison in despair. Stacy was probably like dozens of d.y.k.es she knew who had pa.s.sed out more keys than they could count. s.h.i.t, look at her own situation. Mich.e.l.le and Janka both had keys, as did her dad, Robert, and, unfortunately, Lydia. But Alison knew that this wasn't just a neighbor or an old girlfriend. Knew even before the voice.

"Stacy?" A young man's voice, but a little boy's whine. "Stacy?" More demanding this time.

d.a.m.n, Alison swore to herself, how could she have been so complacent, have stayed here and let both of them become completely vulnerable just on his word to Pam? He had lied to Pam countless times before, and yet Alison had let relief and l.u.s.t overcome common sense. How easy for him to take Pam's keys any time he wanted to get in. Another clue that she had seen far too late. Flipping the lock behind her had been as effective as leaving the door wide open.

Stacy raised her eyebrows and motioned with her head. Come on, we can't let him catch us half-naked in the kitchen. She was still more worried about embarra.s.sment than anything else. Alison's mind was darting. Her heart felt as if it had stopped, and then started again only with reluctance. She again located her purse in her mind's eye. It was on the coffee table two rooms away, dammit, on the coffee table and no amount of wishing could change that. She had no choice but to confront him unarmed. She tried not to think of how one-sided it might be, tried to hope that he had returned only for comfort, and not to kill. At the very least she must alert Stacy so that she would stay out of the way, not slow her with 'What are you doing, Alison?' and, 'Mark's my friend'.

She put her hand over Stacy's mouth, and then brought her lips to Stacy's ear, so close that they brushed it as she spoke in her softest tone, "Mark gave Pam Tamara's earrings." It was not the sentence she would have chosen, had she been sitting safely at her own table attempting to condense the evidence. Now, under pressure, unrelated words and phrases flew through her head as she struggled to make Stacy understand in the s.p.a.ce of seconds, before he became suspicious, entered the kitchen and any advantage was lost. His mother...fire...jealous...police record...knifing...mental hospital...all came to her in a flash, complete with pictures. She saw, as if a slide carousel had been shaken and dumped, and then put back together in any old order, the snapshot from Pain's fridge, the police photo of Melanie Donahue, the miniature picture of the Crusaders-Mark beside Sharon, the picture of Tamara Garrity at the bar, her head thrown back as she flirted. All in the s.p.a.ce of a second, and all condensed to one sentence. "Mark is the killer."

Just as she had feared Stacy's eyes widened with disbelief, her mouth moved in protest beneath Alison's palm. Again the collage of phrases ran through her head-Seven Yellow Moons...Sue...the picture...the earrings...all the pieces that she knew fit neatly to form the puzzle. But she didn't have time to explain. Desperately she gave Stacy a shake, touching her much harder than she had in play.

"You have to believe me now," she whispered, a whisper that wanted to be a shout. "You have to stay out of my way. He might be armed. He might be dangerous. He tried to kill me, Stacy, me, not Carla." That was it. There was no more time for her to add to or edit the story. All she could do was hope that her feeling of helplessness, her knowledge of truth, had been carried across in those five lines.

She didn't know what it was. Maybe her absolute desperation. Or maybe unconsciously Stacy had been putting her own puzzle pieces together in the dark and it had just taken a flick of Alison's light for the picture to be illuminated. Either way, she could see suddenly from the horror in Stacy's eyes that she did believe. Alison dropped her hands. Four separate fingermarks were outlined in red along Stacy's cheek and jaw.

"Get back," she whispered, nodding towards the kitchen wall. There was a frying pan, dirty, of course, sitting on the stove, and Alison picked it up by the handle, trying to plot her moves. He would probably be surprised to see her. Unless, of course, he had been watching the house, a trap with Stacy as the bait. Unless he had come specifically for her.

"Stacy?" he said, closer, more petulant this time. Alison took a deep breath. One step forward. Another. Then suddenly Stacy grasped her arm. With one hand she jerked open the door to the playroom, and then propelled Alison backwards into it.

She caught Alison completely off guard, but still, they were much the same size and strength, and it might not have worked if she had struggled. She didn't simply because she thought, as she was flying backwards, that Stacy must have some plan she had overlooked. The back door! Of course, they could hightail it out the back without injury and send in someone armed to take him.

Not until too late did Alison realize this was not what Stacy had in mind. Not until she was tumbling back on her a.s.s and she saw the wedge of light from the kitchen suddenly getting much smaller, did she remember the lock and the key that was hung by the front door and the mad rush through the house that had preceded her last back exit. She jumped up and reached out for the k.n.o.b, nearly catching her fingers in the crack. But it was too late. Already she could hear the bolt on the outside of the door being sent home.

For a moment, as she stood there in the dark, Alison was totally unable to take in this new information. She couldn't have...she hadn't been wrong about Stacy. They were not in this together, Stacy and Mark. She would not believe it, not after the way she had held her and laughed not fifteen minutes before. And Ted Bundy was supposed to be a charming man, said a relentless little I-told-you-so voice. A small stream of light was funneling through the old fashioned keyhole, and Alison dropped to her knees in front of it. It was a straight shot through the kitchen and into the next room. What she saw strengthened her trust. It was not a woman consorting with a co-conspirator.

"What are you doing here, Mark?" Stacy was smoothing her dress around her. Could he hear the fear she was trying to hide in her voice, see her hands trembling? "I thought you were going out of town."

"I had to see you." His voice was still pouty, childlike, and Alison drew a breath in, then another, when she realized that the first had been an audible gasp, that she might have given herself away. What was he playing with in his hand, flicking back and forth?

"I'm glad you came back." Stacy's voice was no longer shaky. She was an actress, Alison remembered, and now she might be acting for her life. "Now we can go out for something to eat. I decided that I didn't want to go to that dance." She did not quite glance back over her shoulder at the closed door, she was too good for that, but she gave a little quarter turn, just a twitch, but enough so that Alison knew she had been right. Stacy had locked her in the playroom to protect her, in the hopes that she could lure Mark away. What had convinced her so quickly of Alison's danger? Had it been something Mark had said before she arrived?

"You said you were going with that woman," Mark said accusingly. "I don't like her at all." Now that his guard was down Alison found it hard to believe that she had ever looked anywhere else. But, then, he was a good actor, too. He'd had to be.

Where was the G.o.dd.a.m.n light switch? Alison ran her hand up and down the wall looking. There. The bulb was red and even in the midst of crisis, she regretted being in this room a second time without a chance to look at it closely. She had seen Lawrence emerge twice with a vacuum cleaner. She couldn't imagine that it sat out in the middle of a scene, which led her to believe that there was a supply closet. If that closet was anything like the one at her house it might have something in it which could be used to open the connecting door.

"I changed my mind." Much eerier than watching them was listening to their disembodied voices float through the keyhole. It took all her resolve not to run back and plaster her eye to the patch of light. Bingo. She'd hit pay dirt on the first door. The closet held the vacuum, a broom, a mop; Lawrence must have arranged the shelves, for everything was tidy and lined up in place.

"She's been here, hasn't she?" His voice sounded strange, as if it had been created by a synthesizer, by something without a soul. "You've been doing it again. Don't deny it. Your clothes are all over the floor. Doing it like pigs."

Allison had gone through string, tape, paper bags, everything one could hope to find in a well stocked pantry. Everything but a tool chest. She was almost sobbing with frustration. Okay, calm down, freaking out won't help anyone. She tried to take deep breaths, tried not to focus on the pictures that she could not keep from sliding through her head. Stacy, her chest stained with blood as Melanie Donahue's had been beneath her blouse; Mark quietly opening the door to the playroom, the red knife shining in his hand.

"Don't talk to me like that!" Stacy spoke a.s.sertively. Good girl, don't show him you're afraid. Allison had gone through everything in the closet. Maybe the next one.

"I asked you nicely," Mark was talking dreamily. "I asked you nicely to stop seeing those women. I told you that you would go straight to h.e.l.l if you didn't. But you didn't listen, did you? I asked you and asked you, and as soon as I left, you had that b.i.t.c.h back in here. I know. I watched her come in."

The second closet was full of clothes. Stacy's costumes. Allison leaned her head against the doorframe, ready to weep. No, pull yourself together. Think, Allison, think.

"And I realized you were right." Stacy was trying to sound sincere, but her voice was starting to crack under the strain. Allison could only hope that the effect was better in person. "I realized that everything you said was right. That's why I sent her away. I knew I had to talk to you again so you could tell me the right thing to do."

Lawrence must have also arranged the clothes closet, for everything was hanging neatly, skirts with skirts, blouses with blouses, jackets with jackets. Allison recognized the zippers on the sleeve of one of the jackets. It was the one Stacy had worn the night she had grilled her, the night she had changed in front of her. Now, as she flashed back to that night, Allison realized that Stacy had been afraid that Krista had somehow told her about her appointment with Melanie right before her death. Now she couldn't even tell Stacy that she had found the check, couldn't parade that bit of detecting in front of her. But there was something about the jacket that was more important to remember. Alison strained for it, crossing the room again to the keyhole.

"You didn't send her away." They were standing now with the worktable between them, and Stacy was touching its surface as carelessly as if he were anyone, a customer, a friend dropped by to chat. But Alison knew that there was nothing on it that could be used for a weapon, not even a pin. Hadn't she swept it carefully before she had laid Stacy on it?

"She never came out. I would have seen her."

The knife. That night, as she had teased Alison, Stacy had taken a Swiss army knife out of the pocket of her jacket, trimmed a hangnail, and replaced it. Her pouch had contained exactly the things she had put in that night at the bar. Perhaps it was a habit not to empty her purse, her pockets. Swiftly Alison returned to the closet and began searching the jacket. It had so f.u.c.king many pockets, inside, outside, breast pockets, pockets within pockets. It seemed as if it was taking hours instead of less than a minute. There. Her hand closed on a familiar shape, but for a moment she did not pull it out, afraid that somehow she was wrong, that under her eyes it would turn into something useless.

"She's still here." Was that all the time it had taken, just the s.p.a.ce between Mark's dreamy sentences? "I'll find her. I'll make sure she doesn't bother you again. I'll make sure she doesn't lead you into temptation."

Now Alison was scanning the blades. Scissors, awl, bottle opener. There was what she had been looking for. The screwdriver. Back she dashed, light-footed, to the door.

"Don't be stupid." Again Stacy was trying to be authoritative. "I'm too hungry to deal with this s.h.i.t. I want to get dressed so that we can get something to eat. And didn't you say that your church had a meeting tonight? Could we go to that?" The lure flashed. For a moment Alison thought that he would have to bite it, and she heaved a sigh of relief as she attacked the first screw. If Stacy could get him out into public, surely she would be safe. She could excuse herself to go to the bathroom and call the police, she could...she was clever, she would think of something. The first screw on the bottom hinge, one of three, fell out onto the floor.

"No" Mark's voice was regretful, but firm. "It's too late. I gave you a chance. I begged you. I offered to play with you. And you told me to get the f.u.c.k out. Everything is polluted. It's even flowing from your mouth."

"You were right, Mark. I've had time to think about it. Remember, it says in the Bible that if your brother sins against you and then asks for your forgiveness you must forgive him, even if it happens seven times seventy." Stacy's stint as a preacher's wife was serving her well.

"f.u.c.k that!" Mark was no longer talking dreamily, reasonably, he was roaring, the voice of a little boy who has been offended time and time again, and suddenly finds that he has power beyond his years, power which can give his tantrums a whole new meaning. One of the few quotes Alison remembered from several half-hearted years at Sunday school was the one about fearing the wrath of the Lord. She thought now, frantically attacking the third screw, that they should also have warned her to fear the wrath of one who sees himself as the Sword of G.o.d, who revenges his own slights in the other's name. "I forgave you again and again. You told me, you promised when you took me away that it would be just the two of us, just you and me. But there was always someone else. You'd have her in your bed and then when she left you'd cry and pray and ask me to forgive you. Well, not any more!" Stacy was silent. What could she say?-He was listing the sins of a woman dead ten years. "I stopped it all once." His voice had changed, he sounded less like the mouthpiece of a harsh Lord, almost as if he were close to teats. "I stopped it all. I cleansed the place. Why did you have to come back, Mother? Why did you have to make me believe you loved me again?"

"Mark, that wasn't me." She had to try, even though it sounded to Alison as if he had gone off the deep end. "You can't blame me for something I didn't do!" Want to bet? Alison thought grimly, as she struggled with the fourth screw. It wouldn't budge, rusted maybe. In her quick once-over Alison had seen a bottle of ma.s.sage oil. Back across the room, cursing the screw. She doused the whole hinge and tried to move the screw again.

"Souls are reborn again sometimes, Mother. Why is it always the evil ones?" He sounded genuinely sad and puzzled. "I suppose it's because our Lord wants to keep the good ones with him. Maybe next time help will arrive sooner for you, Mother, and you'll be saved. Think of it that way," he said pleadingly.

"If you think you're going to kill me, you've lost your mind." Stacy's voice was crisp, so a.s.sured that for a moment, Alison envisioned her brushing past him, just walking out in indignation. Which would leave him alone with her. She tried not to think of it, tried only to hope that it would work, that Stacy would escape safely.

There was a sudden scream followed by another in a lower voice, and she dropped the knife in her haste to get to the keyhole. They had moved beyond its limited theater, and she almost cursed aloud in her desperation. What had happened? Was Stacy all right? Then, suddenly an arm, dripping blood, was flung back angrily into her view and she bit her lip to keep from calling out.

"You cut me." Mark's voice was filled with disbelief. The sleeve of his shirt was split from cuff to shoulder and blood was dripping from the perfect cut beneath it. "You cut me." Then the disbelief changed to anger, changed to bull rage and he screamed, "You're going to die for that, b.i.t.c.h!"

He lunged and Stacy, dodging, pirouetted back into the picture. In a spilt second Alison took everything in. Stacy was holding the metal roller, the rotary cutter with which she could slice so effortlessly through five layers of material. He must not have recognized it as anything which could be used for a weapon when she picked it up.

But she was also bleeding. The bodice of her dress was stained and ugly, growing black.

Then Alison was on her feet, yelling as she pounded on the door. "I'm the one that you want, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Come for me!" She didn't know what she would use for a weapon if he complied, how she would defend herself, just knew that she could not bear to watch the shaft of the knife again sink into Stacy's flesh. Stacy gave the door one despairing glance, as if she had truly thought that Alison would remain silent and save herself.

He didn't even turn. Not even so that he could call the words over his shoulder. He spoke them, instead, as if he were speaking to Stacy. "Don't worry, I will." He sidled to the right, the table between them, and Stacy moved an equal distance the same way. Her face was white as if she were close to fainting. "She wanted to be with you. Now she will be. Forever."

Alison yelled again, words that might have been senseless or provoking, she had no idea. This time he didn't even bother to answer. He lunged suddenly towards Stacy and just as suddenly she used both hands to bring her chair up between them, hitting him in the chest. For a moment hope bloomed again within Alison. He was no longer between Stacy and the door. If she could keep him off those twenty yards....

She refused to think about the long hall and the stairs and the fact that no one else in the building was home. As Stacy pushed him again, holding the chair by its padded back, the two silver p.r.o.ngs which held it slid forward, just as they had when Alison had picked it up on Tuesday. The body of the chair crashed to the ground and before Stacy could recover, before she could even comprehend what had happened he was over it and had her again. Only by the foot, because he had caught his own in the works of the chair, but that was enough, because he was slashing with the blood-covered knife, trying to pull himself up on her body. Alison stayed long enough to see Stacy land one perfect goalie kick on the side of his head, and then she was back at the hinge with a frenzy and intensity she had never in her life thought would be a.s.sociated with using a screwdriver. Because that was the only way that she could help, if she could get out of the d.a.m.n room. He could not be distracted from where she was. He would kill Stacy, and then he would come for her.

The sixth, the last screw was yielding, and she tried not to worry about the bolt on the outside of the door. It was a cheap one, put on to prevent prying, not prowlers, surely its little screws would rip out the first time she hit the opposite edge of the door. Tears of frustration were pouring down her face. There was another outraged scream from him, and a smashing sound, like a ripe melon dropped on the sidewalk. She hoped Stacy had caught him right in the face, in the belly.

The last screw dropped and she threw herself against the door, wishing she were as big as Robert, as Seven Yellow Moons, that she was like the cops in movies who could smash right through any locked door the first time they put shoulder to it. The door yielded just a little, and she prepared to hit it again.

Then there was another sound, one which brought her back to the keyhole. Voices.

She thought, she prayed, that perhaps it would be the cops, that someone had heard the disturbance and called them, even though her mind told her that it was unlikely. She was totally unprepared for what she actually saw- Mich.e.l.le stepping into the room, followed by Seven Yellow Moons. For the first time Alison remembered that she had left Mich.e.l.le at the dance without explanation.

Perhaps it was her astonishment that sent a rush of adrenaline rippling through her. At any rate, the next slam was the one that thrust the door forward. It was still hanging from the hinge of the bolt, but there was a s.p.a.ce big enough for her to crawl out.

Alison caught her breath as she straightened. Across from her, the other two women were standing as still as statues, their eyes big and round. She wondered, as if it made a difference, how they had gotten into the building. It was just something to take her mind off Mark, not more than ten steps in front of her, of the sight of him clutching Stacy to him like a shield, his knife resting lightly on her neck. She had fainted, or perhaps she just knew that a dead weight was harder to handle. Either way, blood-stained, bleeding from at least one new slash in the chest, she lolled against him, her head to one side. She had only fainted, she was not.. .no, she had fainted. But she was losing blood at an alarming rate.

"Call the police," Alison shouted across to Mich.e.l.le, "call an ambulance."

"Don't." One word, no threats, all the authority in the world. "Don't even think about it. Just step out of the way." He turned almost casually towards Alison. "Don't you think about it, either."

She stood without speaking. There was a table between them; she would never be able to reach him, disarm him, before he killed Stacy.

Seven Yellow Moons and Mich.e.l.le had moved obediently away from the door, and she saw that the latter had her eyes fixed, not on the unfolding drama, but the coffee table. She turned her head a fraction of an inch towards Seven Yellow Moons and her lips moved soundlessly. The other woman began to speak.

"Mark, you-"

"Shut up! You never came to see me, not once after she took me! You never visited me in the hospital!" Now Alison realized what Mich.e.l.le was looking at. Her bag, into which she had watched her place the gun earlier.

"You know your mother wouldn't let me. We've been over this a hundred times!" Seven Yellow Moons took two steps, not to the front, but to the side, drawing his attention away from Mich.e.l.le who was slowly drawing the gun out of the purse.

"You said I was bad." His face clouded darkly at the memory. "You said that I couldn't come to your house."

"I didn't say you were bad. I said the things you were doing were bad. And they were. I wasn't going to let you act that way in my house. Not just for my sake, Mark, for your own good."

"Always for my own good. Drop it, b.i.t.c.h," he said almost conversationally, still looking at Seven Yellow Moons. Perhaps because of that Mich.e.l.le was a bit slow to respond. Expressionless he lifted the knife from Stacy's throat and plunged it into her shoulder.

"Drop it," he said again, removing as if for another thrust, and immediately the gun went skittering across the floor. He went on as if there had been no interruption. "How can you call me bad when..."