David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

Briefly the blisters on her arms and hands stung. Then the pain went away, and she settled back, enjoying the heat rising deliciously past her hips, her groin, her stomach, her breasts. Only when the water came close to the overflow drain did she reluctantly grope forward to shut off the taps. Her cramped muscles gradually relaxed.

But she didn't feel contented. As she stared at the soot that clung to the soap bubbles bobbing on the water, she asked herself, frowning, Why was I so insistent? Why didn't I want Mrs Caudill to phone the police?

Dear God, my mother was killed. Two servants were killed, I was almost killed. For sure, whoever set fire to the house won't give up. They'll keep hunting me. Whatever their reason, it's serious enough that they're prepared to go to any lengths to get at me.

Jesus, why !

Is it something to do with the photographs that man tried to steal from me? What did I see in Joseph's apartment that they don't want me to know about and presumably anyone else to know about?

Tess shuddered at the memory of the bas-relief statue on Joseph's bookcase. Grotesque. Repulsive.

What did that statue mean ? What kind of sick mind could possibly have designed it? And why was Joseph attracted to it?

What did it say about his mind? Clearly he hadn't been the good-natured, gentle man that he seemed, not if he had a habit of whipping himself until he bled and then going to sleep with that thing brooding down at him from the bookcase. And now, Tess reminded herself, Joseph's apartment had been burned, the sculpture had been stolen, and the only evidence of its existence was the photograph in her bulging purse.

She trembled so forcefully that the soot-filmed bubbles on the water rippled. The first thing I should have done when I got inside this house was call the police. I need help!

So why don't I want Mrs Caudill to phone them?

The answer came with startling urgency. Because I don't want anyone to know where I am . Whoever's hunting me will make the assumption that I'll get in touch with the police.

So they're probably monitoring police communications. If I phone the police, word will get out. The killers will scramble to get here before the police. And this time…

Tess shuddered.

They're so determined I don't think they'd fail. They'd kill all of us.

The butler.

Mrs Caudill.

Me.

Tess imagined Mrs Caudill screaming as blood spurted from bullet holes in her body.

No! I can't have their deaths on my conscience! And I can't depend on the police to protect me! I need time to think! I have to keep hiding! Until I'm absolutely sure I'm safe! Lord, help me! What am I going to do?

With greater anxiety, Craig paced his one-room apartment. In the background, he barely heard the swelling voices of an opera, Puccini's Turandot , that by habit he played when he was nervous. Phone, Tess! Please! If you're all right, for the love of God, phone!

But the longer he waited, the more despondent he became. Something was very wrong.

He frowned at his watch and realized that he should have been at the office an hour ago. Immediately, in mid-stride he froze, struck by a sudden thought. The office? Maybe Tess figures that's where I am. Maybe that's where she'll try to get in touch with me.

If she tries to get in touch with me.

If she wasn't killed in the fire and her body hasn't been found yet.

No, don't think like that! She's all right! She's got to be all right!

Craig grabbed the phone and pressed the numbers for his office. Impatient, he heard a buzz.

Another buzz.

'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.

Tony, it's Bill. I - '

'Jesus and Joseph. Finally. Miracles never fail. Where the hell have you been? The phones keep ringing. We've got eight new cases, and the captain's grumbling about everybody goofing off.'

'I promise, Tony. I'll be there soon. Listen, have I had any messages?'

'Plenty.'

Craig's heartbeat sped. 'Is there anything from Tess Drake?'

'Just a minute. I'll check. But… Who's that woman shrieking in the background? Opera? Since when did you become Italian?'

'The messages, Tony. Check the messages .'

'Yeah, okay, here, I've got them. Give me a chance to… Bailey. Hopkins. Nope. Nothing from any Tess Drake.'

Craig slumped against the kitchen counter.

'Speaking of messages, the captain got a call a while ago from the police in Alexandria, Virginia. They claim you phoned them. Something about a fire. They say you sounded a little strange. What's going on?'

'I'll explain when I get to the office. Tony, this is important. If Tess Drake calls for me, make sure you get a number where I can reach her.'

Craig hung up the phone. While Pavarotti's rich voice soared toward the peak of an aria, Craig stared at the kitchen counter. With a curse, he roused himself into motion, turned on the answering machine, and shut off the stereo. Compelled, he snapped his holstered revolver to his belt, put on his suitcoat, and hurried from his apartment, locking its two deadbolts behind him.

As Craig rushed up the ten steps from his basement apartment and emerged on the noisy street, the morning smog irritated his throat and made him cough again. Near a row of garbage cans, he stopped at the curb, didn't see a taxi, hunched his shoulders in frustration, and broke into an awkward jog toward Seventh Avenue. The sudden effort made him breathe heavily.

Tess is right, he thought. I let myself get out of shape. I need to start exercising.

Tess. The urgent thought of her triggered a flood of adrenaline into his stomach. Sweating, he jogged faster, desperate to find a taxi.

Behind him, near Craig's apartment on Bleecker Street, two nondescript men bent down from the curb to examine the engine of a disabled car. When they noticed Craig start to jog toward Seventh Avenue, they slammed down the engine's hood, scrambled into the small Japanese vehicle, made a tight U-turn, and hurried to follow him.

Farther down the street, inside a van the sides of which were marked with perfect copies of telephone-company insignia, a somber man picked up a cellular phone while his equally somber partner adjusted dials on a monitor and continued to listen to earphones.

The first man, aware that cellular broadcasts were capable of being monitored, spoke indirectly.

'Our friend has left the ballpark. A few teammates are going with him. The opposite team? It seems they're not ready to play. At least, we haven't seen them. But our catcher is worried about his girl friend's health. He hoped she'd phone him at the clubhouse. She didn't. He believes she might call him at his office. Meanwhile we've got some time, provided the opposite team doesn't arrive. So we'll do our catcher a favor and hang around the clubhouse, just in case his girl friend finally does call and wants to leave a message. I take for granted that someone will be at his office? Good. After all, if his girl friend needs help, I'd hate for our catcher to be alone.'

Appallingly, the water in the tub was so filmed with soot that Tess had to drain it, rinse the tub, and refill it. Even after her second bath, she still didn't feel clean and finally had to use the shower, washing her tangled hair three times.

She couldn't find a blow dryer, so she simply combed her hair, which thank God was short and easy to manage, and which now was finally blond again, not blackened with ashes.

She used the first-aid kit to put antibiotic cream on her burns. They didn't seem deep, although clear liquid seeped from them and they'd begun stinging again. She was tempted to bandage them, but she'd read somewhere that it was important for air to get at burns as long as they weren't serious, and she hoped these weren't. At the moment, though, her burns and bruises were the least of her problems.