A new note was added.

Stupidly Tara went ahead. Not back to the phone. Not out for help. This was her house. Her home. In the guest room she solved the mystery.

Light filtered through the plantation shutters striping the opposite wall, leaving split shadows on the bed beneath it, the man who sat there and the knife held above his head.

His arm came down with amazingly precise rhythm, the blade flashing through the brightest slats of light, dulling in the shadows, disappearing as it was buried in the mattress. Crazily, Tara's first thought was one of relief. Bill had a repet.i.tious streak in him. He hadn't destroyed the entire bed.

Her mother's quilt still lay neatly folded at the foot of it while he reduced the middle of the mattress to an eruption of stuffing and strips of shiny blue fabric.

"Hey there, little lady."

Tara jumped. She had concentrated so hard on the attack, she'd ignored the attacker. Horrified, she looked up wondering why she wasn't invisible.

He had seemed so intent on his task that he wasn't quite real.

Obviously she'd been wrong.

Bill Hamilton was looking right at her, the knife raised and stable above his head. He was smiling.

She almost smiled back until she saw how different he was. His eyes were matte, the gleam was gone.

His head angled, giving his handsome face an oddly elongated appearance. He was no longer defined; his features had been remade by the light and dark of the speckled illumination. He was a man printed slightly out of register on the paper of life. He could take a sledgehammer to a dog or put a gun to a woman's head and pull the trigger or slice a mattress to shreds for no other reason than he felt like it.

Legs quaking, dry in the mouth, Tara moved a step to the right. The backs of her knees touched the small chair beside the door. She sank onto it, hands clasping the seat on either side. Mentally Tara ran through a litany of precautions. No loud noises. No sudden movement. No trying to reason with him. She should remain as still as if he were an animal, wild and unpredictable. Could she move faster than a madman? Could she outrun him, outfox him, outthink him? This was her fault.

There were things she could have done, should have done. But what were they?

Suddenly her mind went blank under a wave of sensory overload. Helplessness and horror were left in its wake. The cool air on her almost bare chest, the feel of the rattan under her palms were exquisitely clear. But not her thoughts. Bill gritted his teeth. The knife came down again. She jumped and the door was shut in her head, leaving only a large, dark and blank s.p.a.ce where the sound of his fury could echo off the walls.

Sweating, Tara turned hot and cold, then hot again, with each flash of the knife. Two fingers had forgotten to curl around the seat of the chair and were stiffened in a half-moon position, painfully still. Thump. Tara's skin tingled. Rip. She closed her eyes, imagining the knife in her. Thud. Her breath had startled him. He saw her again, his attention drawn to her, a more interesting prey.

Thump.

Tara's hand jarred, the chair tipped. The front right leg was slightly shorter than the other three.

It hit the floor with a rap pity-tap that sounded like gunfire in her head. Bill didn't look up from his work.

Thump. Thump. Thump and rip.

This was so wrong. The day was dreary. She wanted a nap. The fire was blazing. She had been kissed and loved and left so warmly only an hour ago. She wasn't meant to die on a day like this, in this house, in this room. She wanted to die quietly, looking out the window from her bed and feeling the cool adobe walls beneath her fingers one last time like her father. She didn't want to fight for her life. She didn't want to beg for it when it wasn't meant to be over. And with those thoughts, she started to fight the hysteria.

She listened for a change in Bill Hamilton's rhythm at the same time tears eased out from the corners of her eyes. They lay upon her cheek before bobbling slowly and gently down her face.

They came one from each eye and Tara found a strange comfort in those two tears. She was alive if she could cry and shake with fear. As long as there was that, there was hope. She closed her eyes and listened. Suddenly it was silent again.

Tara steeled herself. He would come for her now. But the silence lengthened and there was no knife in her chest, no creaking of a heavy body rolling off the bed. Her executioner didn't come teasing and prancing her way, so she opened her eyes, looked past him to the window and saw that the shadows hadn't changed at all, the day hadn't darkened. It wasn't a lifetime since she'd sat in this straight-backed chair; it wasn't even hours. Bill Hamilton still sat cross-legged on the bed looking almost sad and worn out from all his work.

Cautiously Tara manipulated her body. She loosened her grip on the chair, letting the blood flow back into them. Yes! If her hands could work, her legs could too. If her legs, then her mind. Deliberately, her eyes clicked left a centimeter at a time until, finally, they focused on the bed and then on him. She was looking at Bill Hamilton and he was sitting on the bed looking right at her.

He wore jeans and heavy boots. His sweatshirt was pale blue, emblazoned with a spray of flowers, b.u.t.terflies and fairies buzzing around the bouquet.

Tara felt a laugh bubble deep inside her. Donna's last book cover. The sweatshirt giveaways. How absurd, to be killed by a man wearing a children's book cover. But Tara didn't laugh, because the man in the baby blue shirt held a knife that was painful to look at. It was pearl-handled, the blade curved, the edge serrated. It was a knife well worn and used hard; a knife that men used to gut their kill.

She looked away from the knife and into his eyes. The sliced light had appliqued his face. One eye was dark, the other opaque, one cheek hollowed by shadow, the other highlighted, one side of his hair shimmered, the other was dark and flat.

Donna wouldn't recognize him if she was there.

But Tara was alone. So she opened her mouth ever-so-slightly. She wanted to talk. But Bill lay his head in his hands, the knife blade pointing heavenward, his eyes down. A shuddering sigh quivered his shoulders, and then he was quiet.

Tara waited and watched. When he didn't move, she scooted forward, raised her heels so that her weight was on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, and looked toward the door. That was when there was one more rip. Tara froze, closed her eyes briefly, then chanced a look his way. Bill sat quietly, considering what he'd done. What was it he saw there? Was it the woman at Circle K he imagined? Donna? Tara?

Any woman? She could speculate all day; she could also wait for him to turn on her. It was now or never.

Half crouching, Tara swung herself into the doorway. She held out her arms, steadied herself, lifted up, and stepped into the hall, moving through the exceptional silence like a whisper. She hoped her legs would hold her up. She wished she could hear the sound of the knife once more. But all was silent. Decisions would have to be made in the void.

The nearest phone was in her bedroom.

The front door was only a sprint from there.

Raising a phone was quieter than opening a door.

The telephone could bring help.

The door could bring freedom.

He wouldn't know who she was talking to.

He knew these acres almost as well as she.

Suddenly she found herself sitting on her own bed, receiver in hand, with no idea how she got there. She was halfway home, but the numbers on the phone were jumping like fleas and it was hard to focus.

"Stop." She half sobbed, half prayed.

"Stop."

There they were. Three across. Four down. She could see them all.

One. Four. Five. Nine. Each number popped up, begging to be pushed. But the order had to be right. Please, please, what numbers should she push?

Her head fell back, heavy hair lay across her shoulders, her skin itched. It was d.a.m.n hot. Help. She listened. Thump. Bill Hamilton was still playing.

With no room for error, she dialed. Seven numbers. The ring. The click. The greeting.

"Ben. Oh no*" Tara screamed the last words. Bill Hamilton was on her, his hand tangled in her hair so tight it pulled her against his broad chest. She could smell him, musky and manly. He smelled of madness. They looked like lovers, but the arm he wrapped across her chest was tight and the hand that lay against her shoulder still clutched the pearl-handled, curve bladed knife.

Her breath caught, her neck was at an angle that would either break the bone or suffocate her should she move to escape. In the intimate recesses of her body Tara felt a swelling and breaking, a clutching of muscle that stroked her to fearful o.r.g.a.s.m. The knife glinted just out of her view, sending a rainbow of light toward the wall opposite her.

His chest rose and he sighed. Tara's hand fell to her lap and she prayed that Bill would talk and Ben would listen. The spirits were watching. Bill spoke. He drawled. It was the only thing a tired cowboy could do.

"I thought I could trust you, sugar. Told you my secrets, asked for help. Hard thing for a man to do, Tara, to ask a woman for help."

His face moved into her peripheral vision. He was a.s.sessing her, his eyes roaming over her face.

Tara closed her eyes. He shifted, trying to get comfortable.

His hand tightened in her hair. He held a hank to his face and breathed in.

"d.a.m.n pretty hair. Dark. Donna's not a real blonde. Guess you knew that." His chest quivered again. What was this? What did this mean? Ben, are you listening?

"Bad girl, Tara. You told the paper about me. You're playing with me and I trusted you." His arm tightened over her chest but it seemed he held her in desperation instead of anger.

"Tara, I'm so alone. Feel so d.a.m.n alone. I wish I could find my mama.

d.a.m.n, don't I wish that."

Suddenly the arm across her chest was flung out and his fist came down on the bed with such force it shook. His fingers twisted again in her hair and he jerked her head back so that she was looking up at him. His face was pale with fury, then he was moving, scooting back to sit cross-legged on the pillows. She was free. Tara lay there for a moment, then said: "I didn't tell anyone anything, Bill. I promise."

Bill seemed as startled as she that she'd spoken.

Tara took advantage of his surprise. She sat up a little straighten The sound of her voice hadn't driven him to a rage, hadn't made him leer at her, hadn't made him raise the knife. She was still in control. She was the parent, he the child. If only he let her talk.

"I've ruined friendships for you," Tara offered, hoping this sacrifice would be acceptable.

"You've been trying to tell Donna I'm bad for her," he shot back.

"I've been trying to warn her that she might not be safe. Would you want to hurt her. Bill? Would you?"

He shook his head. Did he care? Probably. He'd cared for Paula. Another point for her side. Encouraged, she went on. The receiver was still in her hand, slippery with sweat. She lay it on the bed beside her, half covering it with her flexed leg.

She hoped Ben was no longer listening but acting.

The cops would be on their way. In the meantime, she was in control.

Please Lord, was she in control?

"I don't want you to hurt Donna either. And she was my friend long before you were my client. But look who I chose. Look what I did for you. I didn't tell her what you did to that woman at the Circle K." Tara thought of Paula, Paulette, and Vera and let them lie. Who knew what he might do if he found out Tara had spoken to the women in his life?

"I didn't break my promise to you even though she is my best friend. I chose you!" Bill shuffled and put the knife in his other hand. He looked at her quickly, then away just as fast. He tossed the knife again. This time it clattered to the floor. She talked faster as he bent to pick it up.

"And what about the DA? I told him only what you gave me permission to tell him. Nothing else.

Have I tried to convince you to go in, have your fingerprints taken? No. I've protected you because that's what you asked me to do. I haven't even tried to convince you to give me permission to do that, have I? That would have made my life a h.e.l.l of a lot easier, but I stuck by you."

Tara scooted farther to the side of the bed. One foot was on the floor and with this small triumph her voice rose. She sounded too excitable. That wasn't right. Not with Bill. He would hear the hysteria.

She tipped her head and blew out the bad air. When she looked at him again he was off the bed, leaning against the wall, watching her as if he, an audience of one, was waiting to see how the play would pace.

"I could have used any one of your pranks against you. I could have said you were threatening me, or Donna, or both of us with that blouse thing. What about Shinin's tail? The meat? You tried to make me think you'd killed him. I could have had you arrested for breaking and entering."

"n.o.body'd believe you." He rolled his head in disbelief and disgust.

"I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't leave any evidence. You tried it once. You tried to make the cops believe you."

"I could make someone believe it. Bill. Those two at Donna's house were just patrol cops. I could have made the DA listen. He'd listen to anything about you, he wants you so bad. Don't ever doubt that." Tara's voice was strong now, her belief in her own competence stronger than his madness.

"I could make them believe that you meant to harm me and that is a threat. I know this system.

I know how to use it, for my own benefit and for yours, too. If I used it for my own, I'd be done with you now." Tara hit her words hard, hoping he understood how little power or compa.s.sion she had.

"I want to make sure you get to a hospital and not a jail. You don't want any screwups. You don't want me to mess up when we're so close.

But I can't do it all myself, Bill. I need you to help, and you aren't helping. You're messing things up because I don't know where you're coming from. So how am I going to convince anyone that you need help when you're walking around here like you're the Marlboro Man?"

That got his attention. He swung his head back to her and there was a twinkle in his eye. He swung his head up and looked down his perfectly shaped nose at her. He looked euphoric.

"What did you say?"

Ben drove fast, but not quite fast enough to attract the attention of a cop. It wasn't as if there was a cloud of dust billowing after him. This was speed in fits and starts. He shot forward to make the lights, only to slam on the brake a minute before he ran the red. He could kill someone if he did that. Tara could die if he didn't. He ran the next light.

The fifteen minutes between Tara's home and Ben's was whittled to seven. He hit the floor bolt release and the wheelchair's motor at the same time, intending to whip toward the back of the van, but his timing was off. The lock was still engaged, the chair's motor energized with nowhere to go. Ben remained stationary, the bolt now locked. He rolled down the window. Nothing. No sound at all from the house. Ben counted to ten, letting the mechanisms reorient themselves. But the seconds felt like hours, and he was convinced they were the last moments of Tara's life on earth.

It took everything he had not to scream out for her. Ben got to eight on the countdown and gave it another try, forcing himself to release the bolting mechanism before pushing forward on the chair. It worked.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and shivered in the cold as the door opened and he wheeled onto the lift. The ride down was interminable, long enough for Ben to think himself as insane as Bill Hamilton. He should have called the police.

Bill Hamilton was full of anger in a whole body; he was Ben Crawford, full of fear in half a one.

He was on the ground and moving forward, wishing for the first time in a long while that he could walk*run*dash forward and get there just that split second sooner. But he couldn't and he had the presence of mind to understand that.

Slowly Ben pushed open the door. The fire burned steadily but low in the deserted living room. He wheeled forward on manual motion, past Tara's shoes in the hall. Desperately he tried to sense Tara's presence.

"Nice to see you. Doc." Ben's head snapped left as he stopped, frozen by a sense of fear so deep he could feel it in his toes.

Bill Hamilton stood in the doorway of Tara's bedroom. Smiling and grinning and happy to have someone else to play with. Ben's eyes flicked to the knife. A clean blade. A good sign, he hoped, for Bill had proven to be meticulous in his mischief.

They locked eyes again.

"Bill." Ben nodded and his voice was calm.

"Tara in there?"

"Yep. Got her all nice and comfy on the bed.

You want to see?"

Bill stepped back, motioning Ben in with one hand. Ben went down the hall as far as the doorway, his heart falling to his stomach when he looked in. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone still off the hook and her looking like the devil. White skin, black-smudged, red-rimmed eyes. Her jaw was tight and her blue eyes were dull. She was fine. They would all be fine.

"Hey, Tara," Ben said quietly.