Implicit in those words was the admission that her childhood and
adolescence had been difficult at best, confirming a suspicion Ben had
harbored for months.
She seldom spoke of her parents or of her school years, and Ben believed
that those formative experiences had been so negative as to leave her
with a loathing for the past, a distrust of the uncertain future, and a
defensive ability to focus intently upon whatever great or meager joys
the moment offered.
He wanted to pursue that subject now, but before he could say anything,
the mood abruptly changed. A sense of imminent danger had hung heavy in
the air upon their entrance, then had faded as they progressed from one
deserted white room to another with the growing conviction that no
intruder lurked within the house. Rachael had stopped pointing the
pistol ahead of her and had been holding it at her side with the muzzle
aimed at the floor.
But now the threatening atmosphere clouded the air again when she
spotted three distinct fingerprints and a portion of a palmprint on one
arm of a sofa, etched into the snowy fabric in a burgundy-dark substance
which, on closer inspection, looked as if it might be blood.
She crouched beside the sofa, peering closely at the prints, and Ben saw
her shiver. In a tremulous whisper she said, “Been here, damn it.
I was afraid of this. Oh, God.
Something’s happened here.” She touched one finger to the ugly stain,
instantly snatched her hand away, and shuddered. “Damp. My God, it’s
damp.
“Who’s been here?” Ben asked. “What’s happened?”
She stared at the tip of her finger, the one with which she had touched
the stain, and her face was distorted with horror. Slowly she raised
her eyes and looked at Ben, who had stooped beside her, and for a moment
he thought her terror had reached such a peak that she was prepared, at
last, to tell him everything and seek his help. But after a moment he
could see the resolve and self-control flooding back into her gaze and
into her lovely face.
She said, “Come on. Let’s check out the rest of the house. And for
God’s sake, be careful.”
He followed her as she resumed her search. Again she held the pistol in
front of her.
In the huge kitchen, which was nearly as well equipped as that of a
major restaurant, they found broken glass scattered across the floor.
One pane had been smashed out of the French door that opened onto the
patio.
“An alarm system’s no good if you don’t use it,” Ben said. “Why would
Eric go off and leave a house like this unprotected?”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “And doesn’t a man like him have servants in residence?”
“Yes. A nice live-in couple with an apartment over the garage.
“Where are they? Wouldn’t they have heard a breakinT’ “They’re off
Monday and Tuesday,” she said. “They often drive up to Santa Barbara to
spend the time with their daughter’s family.”
“Forced entry,” Ben said, lightly kicking a shard of glass across the
tile floor. “Okay, now hadn’t we better call the police?”
She merely said, “Let’s look upstairs.” As the sofa had been stained
with blood, so her voice was stained with anxiety. But worse, there was
a bleakness about her, a grim and sombrous air, that made it easy to
believe she might never laugh again.
The thought of Rachael without laughter was unbearable.
They climbed the stairs with caution, entered the upstairs hall, and
checked out the second-floor rooms with the wariness they might have
shown if unraveling a mile of tangled rope with the knowledge that a
poisonous serpent lay concealed in the snarled line.
At first nothing was out of order, and they discovered nothing
untoward-until they entered the master bedroom, where al} was chaos.
The contents of the walk-in closetshirts, slacks, sweaters, shoes,
suits, n.es and more-lay in a torn and tangled mess. Sheets, a white
quilted spread, and feather-leaking pillows were strewn across the
floor.
The mattress had been heaved off the springs, which had been knocked
halfway off the frame. Two black ceramic lamps were smashed, the shades