He enjoyed losing himself in the memory of that special night, eight
years ago, when he had been twelve and had changed forever, but he was
tired now and wanted to sleep. Maybe he would dream of the woman named
Lindsey. Maybe he would have another vision that would lead him to
someone connected with her, for somehow she seemed to be part of his
destiny; he was being drawn toward her by forces he could not entirely
understand but which he respected. Next time, he would not make the
mistake he had made with Cooper. He would not let the need overwhelm
him. He would ask questions first. When he had received all the
answers, and only then, he would free the beautiful blood and, with it,
another soul to join the inanimate throngs beyond this hateful world.
4
Tuesday morning, Lindsey stayed home to get some work done in her studio
while Hatch took Regina to school on his way to a meeting with an
executor of an estate in North Tustin who was seeking bids on a
collection of antique Wedgwood urns and vases. After lunch he had an
appointment with Dr. Nyebern to learn the results of the tests he had
undergone on Saturday. By the time he picked up Regina and returned
home late in the afternoon, Lindsey figured to have finished the canvas
she had been working on for the past month.
That was the plan, anyway, but all the fates and evil elves-and her own
psychology conspired to prevent the fulfillment of it. First of all the
coffee maker went on the fritz. Lindsey had to tinker with the machine
for an hour to find and fix the problem. She was a good tinkerer, and
fortunately the brewer was fixable. She could not face the day without
a blast of caffeine to jump-start her heart. She knew coffee was bad
for her, but so was battery acid and cyanide, and she didn’t drink
either one of those, which showed she had more than her share of
self-control when it came to destructive dietary habits; hell, she was
an absolute rock!
By the time she got up to her second-floor studio with a mug and a full
thermos besides, the light coming through the north facing windows was
perfect for her purposes. She had everything she needed. She had her
paints, brushes, and palette knives. She had her supply cabinet She had
her adjustable stool and her easel and her stereo system with stacks of
Garth Brooks, Glenn Miller, and Van Halen CDs, which somehow seemed the
right mix of background music for a painter whose style was a
combination of neoclassicism and surrealism The only things she didn’t
have were an interest in the work at hand and the ability to
concentrate.
She was repeatedly diverted by a glossy black spider that was exploring
the upper right-hand corner of the window nearest to her. She didn’t
like spiders, but she was loath to kill them anyway. Later, she would
have to capture it in a jar to release it outside. It crept upside down
across the window header to the left-hand corner, immediately lost
interest in that territory, and returned to the right-hand corner, where
it quivered and flexed its long legs and seemed to be taking pleasure
from some quality of that particular niche that was apprehensible only
to spiders.
Lindsey turned to her painting again. Nearly complete, it was one of
her best, lacking only a few finishing touches.
But she hesitated to open paints and pick up a brush because she was
every bit as devoted a worrier as she was an artist. She was anxious
about Hatch’s health, of course-both his physical and mental health.
She was apprehensive, too, about the strange man who had killed the
blonde, and about the eerie connection between that savage predator and
her Hatch.
The spider crept down the side of the window frame to the right-hand
corner of the sill. After using whatever arachnid senses it possessed,
it rejected that nook, as well, and returned once more to the upper
right hand corner.
Like most people Lindsey considered psychics to be good subjects for