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He didn t have the luxury of barring himself from the poker game. Questions would be asked, she would ferret out the answers, more damage would
be done. Once a week, he would be reminded of his crimes, sitting across a card table from Edward Slope.
And he could not confess to Riker either, not without the web spreading. He only wished he were a practicing Catholic so he could confess to
someone.
The pattern of his web had become too intricate. Sleep was lost in the tangle of the weave. But finally, sleep did come for him, all in visions of a little
girl running in the dark, pursued by things which were darker still and might be spiders. And when she slipped in the blood of his dreams, he
snapped awake.
His mind flooded with music to kill the images and thoughts created by a night of lies, and now his penance was in the room with him. He shut his
eyes and tried to end the music. But he could hear the light steps of Amanda s feet all around his bed.
Interesting, isn t it, said Amanda. She was able to pretend sleep while another child was being murdered.
No, please, I don t want to think about that.
Oh, Charles, you ll never stop thinking about that. It wasn t the reaction you d expect from a small child, was it?
Since when was Mallory predictable?
He kept his eyes closed, in hopes of minimizing the damage to his mind. He didn t know how to send her away. Perhaps the delusion would pale
without the reinforcement of sight.
But no. She continued to pace, footsteps growing heavier, waiting on her answer as a solid woman would do.
Addressing his words to the ceiling, he said, It wasn t Mallory s mother who was killed in the film. You were wrong about that angle.
Was I? Amanda s pacing stopped for a moment. She never moved the entire time a child was being tortured. She played dead.
She might only have been paralyzed with fear. There are no facts to support
Logic and facts have failed you, Charles. You had a qualified medical examiner as a witness to the film. She was playing dead. Where did she
learn that? Maybe she d had some practice witnessing another bloody murder. Maybe that s what happened to her mother, and to Justin s mother.
He rolled over to face her, this woman who was not there, yet he kept his eyes closed. Amanda, this is ludicrous. Justin s mother died of a heart
attack. That s a fact. Now the aspect of child abuse makes more sense. That s what Mallory would see in the boy. She would recognize the signs of
an abused child. Even Mallory could not divine a murder through the boy s eyes.
Strains of the concerto meandered through his brain. He recited the Greek alphabet in a whisper. The music fled; Amanda remained to pace the
floor around his bed. Her footsteps were heavier now. He opened his eyes to faint moonlight and the stronger light of street lamps pouring through
his bedroom window. He turned his face to the opposite wall, where his ultimate nightmare was moving across the wallpaper. Amanda had learned
to cast a shadow.
CHAPTER 7
26 December
She had been unsuccessful in her efforts to bully the maid. Perhaps it was true that Betty Hyde was not at home this morning. And neither was Eric
Franz answering his telephone. But the judge was in, and so was Harry Kipling.
She picked up the plastic evidence bag and held it up to the camera to visually record the chain of evidence written on the seal, and then the
breaking of the seal. She pulled out the cap gun and set it down on the table in the front room.
Back in the den, she ran a test of the camera equipment which had just made her visual record of the evidence. On her way to the front door, four
gilded wall mirrors caught the swift passing reflection of her T-shirt, shoulder holster and jeans. She was pulling on the new brown cashmere blazer,
a twin to the garment Amanda Bosch had been wearing when she died. The tailor had reproduced it exactly. Not that most people would
appreciate the detailing.
She had been tempted to re-create the cigarette burn on the sleeve, but the ghost of Helen Markowitz wouldn t let her do it. And Helen would have
been the first to comment on the bulge the gun made in the line of the blazer. Mallory stopped at the mirror in the foyer, checking the giveaway bulk
with a critical eye.
She called the cat to her, and it came. She snapped her fingers, and the cat made a leap into her arms and nuzzled her neck. She looked back to
the mirror. No, it wouldn t do. The squirming cat wouldn t hide the bulge of the gun unless she killed it first and pinned it on like a furry corsage.
She dropped the animal on the floor at her feet, shrugged off her blazer and removed the shoulder holster. She slid the gun into the drawer of the
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