But Eric had also murdered Terry.

And he had taken Sandy by force and made her pregnant, and caused all that She had to kill him. For what he'd done to Terry. For what he'd done to her and what she'd bad to do because of it. But she still loved him. She would never be able to stop loving him, no matter what he might do, but she had to kill him nonetheless.

He probably isn't here, anyway, she told herself.

But maybe he is.

Something had scared the kid in the attic.

While still in the spa, Sandy had decided to try the attic first.

She left the kitchen and walked slowly along the narrow passage to the foot of the stairway. Then she stepped around the newel post and began to climb the stairs. She made no attempt for silence. Her western boots clumped against the wood. The old planks creaked and moaned under her weight.

The noises seemed very loud in the silence. Sandy figured they could probably be heard throughout the house-except perhaps in the attic and cellar.

They might warn Eric of her approach.

Good.

Be smart and run for your life, honey. Momma's here to gun you down.

At the top of the stairs, she turned to the right and walked heavily down the hallway. She stopped at the attic door.

It was shut. With her left hand, she unhooked one end of the cordon and let it fall. Then she gave the knob a twist. The door wasn't locked. She swung it open.

The stairway to the attic was as black as a mine shaft.

Sandy switched her flashlight on. Its beam drilled through the darkness, slanting upward all the way to the shut door at the top of the stairs.

She changed the flashlight to her left hand.

With her right hand, she unholstered her 9 mm Sig Sauer semiautomatic. A hollow-point in the chamber and the hammer down, the double-action pistol was ready to fire. A pull of the trigger would do it.

The bright beam trembling on the attic door, Sandy began to climb the stairs. The stairwell was hot and stuffy. She panted for breath. She blinked sweat out of her eyes. She could feel her T-shirt clinging to her back. Sweat dribbled down her inner thighs. The moist seat of her jeans pressed against her buttocks as she climbed.

Don't let him be up here, she thought.

Please, God, I don't want to kill him. But I will. You know I will. If you don't want me to, don't let me, find him, At the top, she clamped the flashlight between her thighs.

Then she used her empty hand to turn the knob and shove the door.

It swung open, hinges squealing, and the beam of her light tunneled into the attic.

Reaching down, she pulled the flashlight free. She held it low and off to the side as she stepped over the threshold. Just inside the doorway, she began to move the flashlight slowly. The pale beam, aswirl with specks like miniature snowflakes, drifted at hip level from one side of the attic toward the other.

It lit the steeply slanted roof, thick support beams, the broken-faced mannequin of Officer Dan Jenson...

The kid didn't run into any beast, just caught a glimpse of poor Dan!

Mystery solved.

Though Sandy felt her tension start melting away, she continued to move her light across the attic. It revealed old steamer trunks and suitcases, cardboard boxes, dummies of the two Zieglers, framed paintings stacked against a wall, a few rolled rugs, an ancient wheelchair, a tattered sofa, a rocking chair, a pedestal table and other odds and ends of old furniture.

Then her flashlight illuminated a hunched, furry creature with wild eyes and teeth bared in a mad snarl.

Vincent, the stuffed monkey. A Nineteenth Century umbrella stand, it used to reside in the foyer.

Sandy smiled, recalling how it often freaked out the kids.

Maybe that's why Janice stored it away.

Though Sandy had been in the attic several times, on her own and with the Midnight Tour, she hadn't seen Vincent in years. Not since her old days as a guide.

She smiled at the hideous monkey. "How you doing, Vincent old pal?" She stepped closer to him and squatted down-grimacing as her buttocks and crotch pushed against the sweaty denim of her jeans. "You're looking a bit the worse for wear," she said.

His short brown fur looked a lot more ratty and filthy than she remembered. If she dared to pat him on top of the head, a cloud of dust would probably rise.

He seemed to be glaring into her eyes.

In the old days, to test her courage, Sandy used to dare herself to insert her forefinger into his open mouth. She'd always been sure that Vincent, though dead and stuffed, wouldn't miss the opportunity to bite her finger off. She'd also known that he couldn't. He was dead and stuffed. If he tried to bite her finger, his jaw would probably break off.

Still, she'd never been able to do it.

Sandy hadn't feared the fangs of living beasts, but the teeth of poor old Vincent always terrified her.

"You don't scare me now," she whispered.

She set her pistol on the floor.

"You wouldn't bite your old friend, would you?"

Vincent glared at her.

"You better not," she warned him.

Then she eased her forefinger into his mouth.

And gasped out a yelp of fright as she was clutched from behind by her crotch and neck and jerked high. The flashlight flew from her hand. Her head pounded against a roof heam. As the light blinked out, she felt herself slam against the attic floor.

Chapter Forty-five.

RUDE AWAKENING.

Dana woke up feeling chilly. She was curled on her side, covered only by the top sheet. She supposed she must've thrown off the blanket.

The bedroom was gray with early morning light.

She glanced at the clock.

6:20.

Mmm Great. I can go back to sleep. If I can just get warm.

Straightening her left leg, she tried to feel the blankest.

There seemed to be nothing down there except the lightweight sheet.

Her blanket must've fallen off the end of the bed.

Only one way to retrieve it-by getting up.

Dana groaned.

She didn't want to move. Even though the sheet that covered her to the shoulders felt unpleasantly cool, the mattress underneath her body was cozy and warm.

She imagined Warren being in the bed, too. Asleep on the other side of it.

If only, she thought.

His side of the bed would be nice and warm. She would roll toward him and squirm closer until she could feel his heat. Then she would rest her face on his shoulder, curl an arm across chest, swing a leg over his thighs. She would stay on him like that, and fall asleep.

What's he wearing? she wondered.

Soft, flannel pajamas.

In the morning, she would wake up fust. And watch him sleep for a while. Then she would sneak her hand into the open fly of his pajamma bottoms...

Moaning, Dana rolled toward the other side of the bed It was empty.

Of course.

Warren's probably fast asleep in his own bed right now.

Maybe he's lying awake, the same as me. Wishing he could turn over and take me in his arms.

If I don't go on the tour, she thought, we can be together tonight.

The tour'll be fun.

Anyway, I promised Tuck.

Would she really mind if I missed it? Dana wondered. She'll still have Eve with her. It's not like she has to have an entourage.Why don't I just tell her that I'd like to see Warren tonight, but I'll go on the tour with her next Saturday?

Not a bad idea, she thought.

She imagined herself stepping up to the window of the snack stand, Warren smiling out at her. He would say, "You look wonderful this morning, Dana."

And she would say, "Guess what! I can see you tonight, after all. I decided to bag the Midnight Tour."

"Great!"

Excited by her plan, she no longer felt drowsy or chilly.

But this was too early for starting the day.

I'll take a pee, she thought. Then I'll get nice and cozy and try to grab a couple more hours of sleep.

Flopping onto her back, she swept the top sheet away and sat up.

Then gazed down at herself.

She'd gone to bed last night wearing a white cotton nightshirt.

She still wore it.

But now it hung from her shoulders, ripped wide open down the front.

"Uh-oh," she muttered.

What the hell's going on?

She stared at her nightshirt's ragged edges.

I didn't do it, did I?

If didn't, who did?

She recalled the strange sound she'd heard yesterday just after waking up-a door sliding shut as if an overnight intruder were sneaking out of the house.

She suddenly felt crawly.

Goosebumps prickled her skin.

Take it easy, she told herself. Maybe I did it in my sleep.

Not likely, but possible And maybe not quite as farfetched as the idea that a prowler was in here and ripped it open.

If be ripped it oven, what else did he do?

What if he messed with me?