Chapter One
Fifteen years later
Wake up.
Julie Carlson's eyes blinked open. For a moment she lay
still, heart racing, staring groggily into the darkness,
not sure what had awakened her or why she felt so
frightened. It took only a moment or so for her to realize
that she was lying in her own bed, in her own bedroom,
listening to the familiar hum of the air conditioner as it
kept the sweltering heat of the July night at bay and
smelling the comforting aroma of her own smooth clean
sheets. Her potbellied teddy bear, a poignant memento of
her late father, sat stolidly in its accustomed spot on
the bedside table. She could just see the comforting shape
of it by the faint glow of the alarm clock.
She must have had a nightmare. That would explain why she
was curled up in a tight little ball under the bedclothes
when she usually slept sprawled on her stomach; it would
account for the now-slowing thud of her heart; it would
explain her sense of -- there was no other word for it --
dread.
Something's wrong.
Although the words were distinct, the urgent whisper was
in her head. She was all alone in her bedroom, all alone
in the whole huge upstairs of her house. Sid, the dog, was
obviously spending another night in the guest room.
At the thought, Julie felt her stomach knot. She had gone
downstairs around eleven, to find her husband sitting on
the couch in the den watching TV.
"I'll be up after the news," he'd said. Not wanting to
start a fight -- all they did lately was fight -- she'd
crossed her fingers and gone back upstairs to bed without
uttering so much as a cross or demanding word. But here it
was -- she focused on the clock -- at two minutes after
midnight, and she was still alone in their bed.
Maybe -- maybe he was still coming. Maybe he was watching
Letterman. Maybe tonight Leno had an especially
fascinating guest.
Get real, she told herself, uncurling her arms and legs as
anger edged out fear. And maybe the Pope was a Protestant,
too.
Listen.
Her attention immediately refocused. Trying not to be
creeped out, Julie put out a hand, groping for the switch
to the bedside lamp.
Then she heard it, and froze.
The distant sound -- vibration really -- of the garage
door going up made her eyes widen and her fists clench.
Her heart gave an odd little leap. Her stomach heaved. She
forced herself to take a pair of deep, calming breaths.
Despite all her hopes, all her prayers, it was happening
again.
Oh, God, what should she do?
Julie Carlson didn't know it, but she had less than an
hour left to live.
Other than a single light in a downstairs room, her house
was dark. It was a big house in an exclusive gated
community just west of Charleston, and, if all went
according to plan, in a few minutes she was going to be
all alone in it.
Then he would emerge from the shadows beneath the rustling
palmettos in her side yard, break in through her back
door, and creep up the stairs to the first door on the
left. That door opened into the master bedroom, where she
should already -- it was a few minutes after midnight --
be sound asleep.
Surprise, surprise.
Roger Basta allowed himself a small smile. This was going
to be fun. The thought of what he was going to do to Julie
Carlson made his breathing quicken. He'd been watching her
for weeks, getting the household schedule down, making his
plans, anticipating. Tonight he got to enjoy the fruits of
all that labor.
Sometimes, and this was one, he loved what he did for a
living.
The light went out downstairs. The house was now totally
dark.
Just a few minutes more.
He fingered the snapshot in his pocket. It was too dark
for him to be able to see it, but he was nearly as
familiar with the image on it as he was with his own face
in the mirror. Julie Carlson in a white bikini, slim and
tanned and laughing, poised to dive into the swimming pool
in her own backyard.
He'd taken it himself three days before.
One of the quartet of garage doors that faced his position
rose, and seconds later a big black Mercedes purred
silently down the driveway. The husband was leaving, right
on schedule.
The garage door closed again. The Mercedes turned left at
the end of the driveway, and drove away toward the
interstate some five miles distant. The house was once
again dark and quiet.
Everything was going down as expected.
The burglar alarm would be off, which made his job just
that much easier. He had a window of maybe three and a
quarter hours to get in and out before the husband
returned. He would need far less.
Although he might want to linger over this one.
Remembering the picture, he smiled. He definitely wanted
to linger over this one.
Julie Carlson was a babe.
His instructions had been to make the hit look like
anything but the professional, targeted job it was.
His reply had been, Can do.
Crouching, Basta set the small black satchel he carried on
the carpet of golf-course-quality grass that covered the
lawn and unzipped it. The steamy July heat, complete with
swarms of hungry mosquitoes and a faint fruity scent,
wrapped uncomfortably around him. It reminded him that he
was wearing long pants and a cotton turtleneck, both
black, on a night that cried out for shorts and not much
else. A quick rummage through the contents reassured him
that everything he might need was in the bag: burglary
tools, duct tape, a small flashlight, a thin nylon cord
and a pencil to use as a garrote, a box of surgical
gloves, another of condoms. He touched his knit cap,
making sure it fit tightly around his head and over his
eyebrows. He'd shaved his body completely so as not to
leave telltale hairs at the scene, but shaving his head
and eyebrows would, he feared, make him too memorable to
those who might be questioned in the aftermath of the
crime. The last thing he wanted was to be memorable.
Besides, his thinning gray hair gave him an innocuous
look, he felt. Countless people usually saw him in the
days before a hit -- neighbors, passersby, convenience-
store clerks, trash collectors -- but nobody ever
remembered him, because he looked like a fifty-something
Joe Average. DNA notwithstanding, the cap worked. The
first two hadn't had time to dislodge it before he'd had
them duct-taped into immobility, and Julie Carlson
wouldn't either.
He was that good.
Sliding the flashlight into his pocket, he rezipped the
bag, picked up his pistol, stood up and headed around to
the back of the house. The swimming pool sparkled in the
moonlight. Lush pots of tropical flowers gave off a heady
scent. Cicadas and crickets and tree frogs sang.
South Carolina would be one of his favorite states, he
thought, if only it wasn't so damned hot and humid in the
summer.
The back door, the sliding one opening onto the stone
patio and the swimming pool, was his target.
In a matter of minutes he'd be inside.
Piece of cake. The alarm was off, the locks were
laughable, the woman was alone, and they didn't even own a
dog. Might as well hang out a sign: Come and get me.
A light came on downstairs.
Basta froze in his tracks in the act of reaching for the
doorknob, frowning at the window that was suddenly glowing
warmly from within. This was unexpected. He retreated a
few stealthy paces to the concealing shadow of an enormous
magnolia, his senses on high alert. He'd been casing the
house for three weeks, and she'd never once turned on a
light after her husband was gone. Was she sick? Did they
have company? No, he couldn't have missed that.
What gave?
The light went off as suddenly as it had come on, and the
house was dark and still once more. He stared meditatively
at the looming facade, the shiny black windows, the two
doors that he could see, probing the darkness for her with
every instinct he possessed. He was so attuned to her now
as predator to victim that he fancied he could almost hear
her breathing through the brick walls.
Where was she?
A sound made him turn his head sharply. It came from the
side of the house where he'd waited until just moments
before. Alert as a dog on the hunt, taking care to stay
deep in the shadows, he retraced his steps until he once
more stood beneath the palmettos. His eyes widened as he
saw that another of the garage doors was open now.
His pistol came up, but there was no way he could use it.
He could do nothing but watch as Julie Carlson's silver
Jaguar nosed out of the garage, gathered speed going down
the driveway, then turned left at the street and vanished
like a bat into the night.
Just as quick as that.
He was left to look blankly back at an empty house as,
with a barely audible thump, the garage door closed again.
She was gone. It took a minute or so for that
incontrovertible fact to sink in. When it did, he felt
empty, cheated. A surging anger at having his careful
plans disrupted threatened to swamp his previously good
mood.
Could she have somehow known he was there? Basta looked
quickly around, wary of a trap. Given the group he worked
for, a double-cross was never beyond the realm of
possibility.
Then good sense reasserted itself. There was no trap; he
was too valuable to the organization for that. And she
could not possibly have known he was there unless she was
psychic.
The most logical explanation was that some sort of
emergency had arisen. What, he didn't know, but then, he
didn't need to know. The pertinent thing was that, sooner
or later, she would be back.
And he would be waiting.
The certainty of that was calming. Glitches of this sort
happened even to consummate professionals such as himself.
Acknowledging that, Basta felt better. Circling back
around behind the house, he even began to hum. When he
realized what the song was, he felt a spurt of amusement
at the sheer appropriateness of it.
"Ti-i-ime is on my side...."
Copyright © 2001 by Karen Robards