With both hands, she clutched the front of the woman white T-shirt. "Calm down!"

"Let go of me!"

"You cannot go around hitting people," Dana said.

Or spitting on them, she thought.

And she smelled the woman's spit on her shirt. Felt it against her skin, and smelled it. It smelled like jasmine. It smelled like sneeze.

She suddenly gagged.

"Let go of me, or I'll..."

Dana felt it suddenly coming. She had time to turn away. But she chose not to. She kept her grip on the mother's T-shirt and lurched forward and threw up in her face.

For lunch, she'd had a Red-Hot Beastie Weenie, Beastly Chili Fries with cheese, and a strawberry flavored milkshake called a "Bucket of Blood."

Chapter Thirty-three.

SANDY'S STORY-July,1992 The sight of Terry's badge seemed to freeze Sandy's mind.

She gaped at it.

For God's sake, don't faint! Don't scream and run! Just act normal.

Sure thing.

Keeping her eyes on the badge, she tried to sound like Cagney as she said, "So, you're a copper?"

"Right. Fort Platt Municipal Police Department."

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

"If I'm not a cop, I've got a mighty fine shield and i.d. Look at that photo. That's me, rights She stared at the i.d. photo. "Yep."

"So I'm either a real cop or a really slick bad guy. But that isn't the point." He flipped the police i.d. over. Underneath it was his driver's license. "Look. See the address there? Fourteen Beach Drive? That's my cottage. If you follow me over, you can check the address before you even get out of your truck. If they don't match up, you can just drive on."

"I guess I could do that," Sandy said.

She felt numb.

"Sure," she said. "Why not?"

"Great!"

She smiled and nodded and resumed her grocery shopping.

Dazed.

Oh, my God. Oh, God. A cop. He's a cop. What'm I gonna do?

Go over to his place and kill him?

No, no, no. Can't do that. He's a nice guy. I like him.

I can't kill him.

Can't?

Okay. I could.

But even if I wanted to, all these people are seeing us together. I'd never get away with it.

Just play along. See what happens.

In the checkout line, a couple of customers greeted Terry and he responded as if they were his good friends. The cashier knew him, too. Her name tag read, MARGE. She said, "Hey there, Ter. Whatcha up to?"

"No good, as usual."

"Haw!"

As Marge slid the groceries across the scanner, Sandy said to her, "Is this guy really a cop?"

"Oh, I'll say. He's a regular terror. Ain't you, Ter?"

"That's me."

"You gonna handcuff her?" Marge asked him.

"Gonna try."

A few minutes later, he beat Sandy to the shopping cart.

She decided not to fight him for it. Outside, she walked beside him. "You're a popular guy around here," she said.

"For a serial killer."

"Well, I guess you aren't one of those."

"They do impersonate cops, sometimes. You can't be too careful."

"Well, I'm convinced."

When they reached her pickup truck, Terry unloaded the shopping cart for her. He even put the milk, butter, eggs and meat into the ice chest she'd brought along to keep them cold during the long trip home. After thanking him, she said, "You lead the way."

"You won't ditch me, will you?"

"If I do, I guess you can just run a make on my plates or something, huh?"

"I could. But I wouldn't. I probably wouldn't."

"See you in a while," she said. Then she climbed into her pickup, started the engine, and waited. After Terry's car went by, she backed out of her space and followed it.

A cop. He's a cop.

What if he does run the license?

He would find out that the vehicle was registered to Harry Matthews. And the computer would give him Harry's address-Sandy's address.

She had that covered, at least. During the past few years, she had managed to acquire the paperwork to back up four different false identities-including Ashley Matthews.

A girl named Ashley Matthews, born two years before Sandy, had died in an apartment fire at the age of nine.

Ralph had dug up her name-and the others. He did such things for a living, and he was good at it.

Thank God for private eyes, she thought as she turned left and followed Terry's car onto Fort Platt Boulevard.

And thank God for Blaze. If not for the large amounts of money coming in from the paintings, she never would've been able to afford Ralph's services.

So if Terry does check on me, she thought, I shouldn't have any trouble. No reason for him to think I'm not Harry's niece.

If he asks about Harry, I'll say he's on a trip.

Everything'll be fine, she told herself.

Unless he comes over for a visit.

I can't let that happen.

How can I stop it?

Ahead of her, Terry's turn signal began to flash. He slowed down, then swung to the right.

I could just keep on going, Sandy thought.

But he'll know where to find me.

We'd have to get our stuff together and leave. Right away.

Today. And find ourselves a new place to live.

Move in with Blaze?

Shaking her head, she made the turn and closed in on Terry's car. It had slowed down to wait for her. As she approached, it picked up speed and led her onto Beach Drive.

The quiet, one-lane road ran parallel to the ocean. Along both sides were wood frame cottages and house trailers. One of the trailers had a swing set on its side yard. A boy in a swimsuit was standing on the middle swing, making it sway from side to side. A German shepherd wearing a red bandana around its neck was roaming down the side of the road. A woman was squatting down, planting flowers in front of her cottage.

An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs, one reading a newspaper, the other a paperback. A teenaged boy was busy with a hose and sponge, washing an old green Pontiac.

It looked like a nice place to live.

A lot nicer than a hideout in the woods.

Sandy felt a pull of regret.

Can't have everything, she told herself. Be happy with what you've got.

Just ahead of her, Terry slowed down and turned left onto a gravel driveway. It seemed plenty long enough for her car to fit in behind his. As she made the turn, she glanced at the mailbox: 14 Beach Drive.

It was Terry's place, all right.

She parked, climbed out of her pickup and walked toward him. "I won't be able to stay long," she said.

"Long enough to come in and have a drink?"

"Not sure I'd better come in."

"That'll be fine. We can relax out back on the sun deck."

Sandy followed him around the side of the car port. About a hundred yards ahead, the ocean rolled into Shore. The beach stretched all the way to the rear of the cottage.

She pulled off her shoes and carried them. The dry, hot sand shifted under her feet.

At the bottom of the deck stairs, she stopped and watched Terry climb. He had fine, golden hair on the backs of his legs, and curly down just above his belt. His wallet made the left seat pocket of his shorts bulge. The other side of his shorts curved nicely against his buttock.

She felt a little funny about staring at his rear.

Normally, she wasn't much interested in such things.

She wondered what he was wearing under his shorts.

Get a grip, she told herself. The guy's a cop. I can't have anything to do with him.

Then what am I doing here?

"Coming up?" he asked.

"Sure." She climbed the stairs. The sundeck had a redwood railing on three sides. On the fourth side, the deck joined the cottage. Which seemed to be made mostly of glass. Draperies were shut, however, so she couldn't see inside. The deck was furnished with a round glass table, a few folding chairs, two loungers with fabric pads, a couple of TV trays, and a barbeque grill.

"What can I get you?" Terry asked.