Desperately, her vision dimming, Candra threw herself forward, away from that searing blade. “No no no,” she heard herself babbling. She lurched to the side, trying to throw herself over the back of the sofa to gain some time, but she was clumsy from shock. Her elegant high heel caught on the carpet and her ankle turned with a sickening wrench that almost overrode the pain in her back. The shoe twisted off, and she fell on her hands and knees. Another tongue of cold fire pierced her, below her right shoulder blade. And again, farther down in her side.
The pain convulsed her, drew her body tight with agony. She couldn’t even scream. Her mouth gaped open in a silent battle for air, but her lungs refused to cooperate. Somehow she rolled again, gained her hands and knees, and crawled. The effort was superhuman, and yet she knew it wasn’t enough. She knew.
She toppled over onto the thick carpet and feebly kicked out. Through a dark haze she saw the blade flashing down again, and she managed to raise her left arm. She felt the shock of the blow, but no pain. Then there was another thud, this time in her chest; her ribs gave under the force of the impact. Another blow, into the soft flesh of her belly.
She gasped, flopping on the carpet like a landed fish. Time slowed to a feeble crawl, or perhaps it only seemed as if a long time passed. The terrible pain ebbed, to be replaced by a growing lassitude. Something must have happened to all the lamps; all she could see was a faint glimmer of light coming through the darkness. She needed to move . . . The knife . . . but the knife wasn’t there anymore. She could just lie there, in the dark, feeling an odd coldness spread through her body, feeling her heartbeat slow. . . slow. . . slow. . . stop.
Her assailant watched the moment of death. The disgusting release of bladder and bowels was somehow pleasing; the bitch deserved to be found in her own embarrassing waste.
The scene had already been set. The apartment had been thoroughly searched, but no interesting packet had turned up, damn it. That was a problem, a big one. It was a good thing they had been smart enough to take precautions.
Thank God for the phone call warning that Candra had left the party early and was on her way home, otherwise the outcome could have been very different. What money Candra kept in the apartment, as well as her jewelry, had been gathered. The refrigerator door was open, which would suggest a burglar had been in the kitchen when Candra surprised him. That would also explain the use of one of the knives from the expensive set Candra kept next to the cutting board: a weapon of opportunity.
The gloved fingers opened, let the knife drop to the floor beside the body. The knife belonged here; it couldn’t be tied to anyone but the victim.
A screwdriver was taken from a hip pocket. A few minutes at the door with the tool made the lock look as if it had been carefully jimmied. No real damage done, not enough for a woman coming home to a dimly lit hallway to notice, but the police certainly would. An unforced entry would mean she either opened the door herself, which would imply she knew the person, or that a key had been used. A forced entry would indicate a stranger.
The money and the jewelry—mostly jewelry, very little cash—were in a small black bag. That bag would be put in a very, very safe place—just in case it were ever needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sweeney left her bed a little after three A.M. She made the trip through the dark apartment without stumbling or hesitating. Her expression was calmly distant; she scarcely blinked. Her heartbeat was slow and regular.
When she reached the unfinished painting, still propped on the easel, she stood before it for a long time with her head slightly tilted, as if listening to some unseen voice.
Her movements were slow, dreamy, as she mixed a rich brown pigment and then darkened it with black. When the shade was that of dark, lustrous mink, she began to paint, her precise brushstrokes re-creating a fan of dark hair, spread in disarray across an oatmeal carpet.
The face was much more difficult, the expression not one she had ever seen. The late summer dawn crept closer as she painstakingly filled in a lovely face that had turned ashen, dark eyes open and glazed in death, lipsticked mouth slack. The studio was already filling with light when she methodically put her brushes into a can of turpentine, capped the tubes of paint, and returned to bed as quietly as she had left it.
The sun was streaming brightly in the window when Sweeney woke. She was huddled in a tight ball, her arms wrapped around herself in an unconscious effort to conserve heat. The chill was incredible, colder and deeper than it had ever been before. She was shaking so violently the bed trembled.
Richard. She needed Richard.
Whimpering, she managed to crawl to the side of the bed. The red numerals on the digital clock were dimmed by the bright light, but they were undoubtedly a one, a zero, a three, and a four. Ten-thirty-four.
Why hadn’t Richard called?
He should have called. If she didn’t call him, then he called her. How fast their routine had been established! She had come to rely on him even faster. His absence shook her, rattled a newborn security that she was just beginning to believe.
“Richard,” she whispered, as if she could call him to her. Her voice was thin and weak.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, she thought. She could do this. She wasn’t likely to die, she reassured herself; she just thought that she would. Whatever weird rules governed this psychic stuff, she had never heard that practicing it killed off the practitioner. Not that she’d had time to research clairvoyance or anything like that; she had concentrated on ghosts. Maybe a psychic only got one shot, like a male praying mantis.
Call Richard. Maybe he overslept. He had probably been out late on that business dinner.