The Lake

NINE

“Do you have a plastic bag large enough for this?” Mace asked, looking down at the thick edition of the Sunday newspaper that lay flat on the stoop, tied with string.

“A wastebasket liner?” Leigh asked.

“That’d be perfect.”

“You want to get one for us?” she asked her daughter. The girl went to the door.

“Why do you need the paper?” Leigh asked.

“There’s a good chance your visitor put it here.” He stepped onto the grass, and Leigh followed him along the front of the house. “Maybe he was good enough to leave us some prints.”

“Can you get fingerprints off newspapers?”

“These days, you can get them off almost anything. Our lab people have chemicals that interact with the body oils left by… Look here.” Stopping, he pointed down at the flower bed. The soft soil had been mashed down by shoes.

A glance at Leigh’s feet convinced him that she hadn’t made these impressions. Her feet were too small. And the daughter, who was only a bit taller than Leigh, probably didn’t have feet this large, either.

The footprints led through the flower bed to the guest-room window.

Mace looked at Leigh. She was standing rigid, gazing at the ground, the fingertips of one hand stroking her lower lip.

He felt sorry for her. He could imagine what she must be feeling—scared and vulnerable. The bastard had actually crept right up to her house last night while she and her daughter were inside, maybe fast asleep. Maybe he’d even seen them.

From where Mace stood, he couldn’t spot any damage to the window or frame. “It doesn’t look as if he tried to break in.”

“But he could’ve,” Leigh said, “couldn’t he?”

“It wouldn’t have been too difficult.”

Leigh shook her head slowly. “It’s just getting worse. What do you… Do you think he wants to kill her?”

“Either that or take her. I think I mentioned Friday night that he might have some kind of obsession. Maybe he wants her.”

“God,” Leigh muttered.

“Don’t worry. We’ll see that he doesn’t get another chance.”

They both turned toward Deana as the girl approached with a white plastic bag. “What’s up?” she asked. “Did you find something?”

“He was here,” Leigh said. She pointed to the ground.

Deana looked at the footprints. “Oh, wonderful,” she muttered.

“We should be able to get a good estimate of his height and weight from these,” Mace said.

“Not to mention his shoe size,” Deana added in a quiet voice. She didn’t like the way things were turning out.

Mace led the way to the stoop. Taking the bag from Deana, he crouched over the newspaper and carefully slipped his fingers under one of its strings without touching the “Blondie” comic strip beneath. When he raised it, the paper tilted.

Out of its folds slipped a small, white knob, maybe a bone or a polished rock. It hung at the edge of the newspaper, held in place by a rawhide strip that ran through its center and stayed trapped inside the paper.

With a ballpoint from his shirt pocket, Mace hooked the rawhide and eased it out.

The thong was knotted at its ends. It swung from the tip of his pen like a strange, primitive necklace.

“Mom!”

Mace looked, saw Leigh with her eyes rolled upward, her knees folding. He sprang at her, thrust his hands under her armpits, and slowed her fall as she sank to the stoop, unconscious.