Climbing off the bed, Dana felt her soreness.

That's from Warren, she told herself.

Is it?

She wanted to turn on a light. She wanted to take off the split nightshirt and study herself in a mirror.

But two strides away from the bed, her bare left foot kicked something heavy and hard.

She cried out in pain.

The kicked object spun across the floor and vanished behind a corner of the dresser.

Hurt foot up, Dana hopped backward on her good foot and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She sat there, face contorted, throat tight, toes throbbing. Very quickly, however, the pain subsided.

Then she scooted sideways on the mattress, reached out and turned on the lamp. Three of her toes looked red. So did a dozen or so scratches on her legs and belly and breasts. And several mouth-shaped blotches.

The toes got that way from smashing against that thing on the floor.

The scratches all came from roaming the bushes behind Tuck's pool last night. Probably.

The blotches all came from Warren's mouth. Probably.

Warren really wracked me up, she thought. I won't be the same for a week.

Neither will be.

Smiling slighty, she decided nobody else had been tampering with her body.

Probably.

Maybe she bad torn the nightshirt herself. Maybe got carried away, dreaming.

As a kid, she'd sleepwalked a few times.

Maybe it was something like that.

But what the hell did I kick? she wondered. A shoe?

I don't think it was a shoe.

She stood up: Her injured toes ached, but not too badly.

Trying to keep the pressure off them, she limped over to the dresser.

And stepped past it.

On the floor in front of her feet was an expensive-looking camera with a telephoto lens.

She crouched over it.

A Minolta.

She reached for it.

She grabbed the thick lens, but it felt moist and sticky.

She jerked her hand away.

And stared at the red stain across her palm and fingers.

"Oh, shit," she muttered. Then she yelled, "Tuck!"

Seconds later, Dana heard racing footsteps.

Thank God she's all right.

If that IS Tuck.

Better be.

Suddenly, Tuck lurched through the doorway. She wore a blue pajama shirt. Though only two of its buttons were fastened, it apparently hadn't been torn open. Her hair was mussed. She was breathing hard. She held the huge, stainless steel magnum in her hand. "What happened?" she gasped.

"Somebody...look." Dana brushed her fingertips against the torn edges of her nightshirt.

"Huh? How'd that happen?"

"I don't know. I woke up and..." She shook her head.

"Somebody must've done it while I was asleep."

"You think so?"

"I don't think I did it. Did you do it?"

"Not hardly."

"And look at this." She stepped over to the camera and nudged it with her right foot.

"A nice one."

"But whose is it? It's not mine."

Tuck's mouth tilted crooked. "Is now, huh?"

A laugh escaped from Dana. "Yeah, sure."

"It's a beauty." Crouching, Tuck reached for the camera.

"Better not touch it. You'll get blood on you."

"Huh?"

Dana held out her stained hand.

"Oh, yuck. That's from the camera?"

"Yeah."

"Shit." Tuck stood up and took a step backward. Frowning, she looked from the camera to Dana's exposed body. "Whose blood?"

"Not mine."

"Then it must be his." She looked down at the carpet, her gaze roaming. "I don't see any more." She held out her revolver toward Dana. "Why don't you hold on to this and I'll call Eve."

Dana took the weapon.

Tuck stepped over to the telephone extension on the nightstand. She tapped in three numbers. Then she said, "Malcasa Point...The number for Eve Chaney. C-h-a-n-e-y...Right."

Seconds later, her fingers scurried over the keys, entering Eve's telephone number.

Then she stared at Dana and listened.

She made a face. "Answering machine."

"Maybe she screens her calls."

Tuck nodded, waited, then said, "Eve? This is Lynn Tucker. Pick up if you're there, okay? Eve? Yo, Eve! Pick up! I'm sorry to be calling at this hour, but we've had another problem over here. Somebody was in Dana's room. He cut open her nightshirt, maybe took some pictures of her. We don't know if he's still in the house. His camera is. And it has blood on it. He might've cut himself with whatever he used on Dana's nightshirt. I don't know. Where the hell are you? Anyway, give me a call when you can." She hung up and said, "Shit."

"Heavy sleeper," Dana suggested.

"Who knows."

"I hope she got home all right."

"Like we don't have enough to worry about."

"Should we call 911?"

"About us or Eve?"

"Us. I think it'd be a little premature to call the cops about Eve."

"I don't want to call them period-have one of those assholes like Cochran show up in half an hour or so. You start telling him what happened, he'll get himself a fuckin' boner." She held out her hand, and Dana gave the revolver to her. "You get your gun and we'll take a look around. The bastard's probably long gone, but you never know."

Dana's purse was hanging by its strap from the closet door.

She walked over to it, reached in, and pulled out the pistol Eve had loaned to her.

"How do you suppose he keeps getting in?" she asked.

Tuck shook her head. "No idea. But I know he'll never get in again. Not if we find him. I'll blow his ass off."

Chapter Forty-six.

OWEN'S BAD NIGHT They were chasing Owen over a sunny, deserted stretch of beach.

He was terrified, but he didn't know why. They were Dana and Lynn and the beautiful stranger from the Jacuzzi. They looked great. They were golden in the sunlight. Except for their cowboy hats and western boots, they were naked They'll never catch me, not in those shit-kicker boots.

But they were gaining on him!

If they get me...

He wasn't sure what would happen if they caught him, but he knew it would be horrible.

They'll do me like they did Cromwell.

He wasn't sure what they'd done to John. All he knew was that his friend had been running just behind him down the beach and then he was gone.

What'd they do to him?

Something monstrous.

And they'/l do it to me if they catch me.

He glanced back.

They were so much closer than before!

He felt a scream rising in his chest.

And suddenly he heard the vroom! of a car engine. Speeding straight toward him, sand blooming behind it, was John's old blue dune buggy.

He's coming to the rescue!

"Hurry!" Owen yelled.

It raced closer, closer.

Glancing back, he saw the women stop running.