11

Sunset woke him. Garreth scrambled gratefully out of sleep and stumbled out of bed. In the bathroom a note on the mirror greeted him: Maggie tonight. Don't forget this date.

As though that would save the relationship. True, she had been friendly enough when he saw her Saturday and Sunday, but there had been a certain reserve.

At least he had done better with her than with Duncan. An attempt Saturday to smooth things over with the other officer when he found Duncan parked in the Schaller Ford lot had met a chilly reception. "So the department is too small to afford a feud?" Duncan snapped. "Too bad." Gunning his car, he pulled away in a scream of tires.

Then there had been Sunday and Julian Fowler. Garreth found the writer in Anna Bieber's livingroom when he arrived after dinner to take her to evening mass. The fact that the writer accompanied them to church did not bother Garreth. As usual, he found the service soothing, quite the opposite from the physical agony which Lane, raised in a strict faith, had experienced around religious objects. Afterward, though, having tea at Anna's, Fowler kept asking questions about Lane. What had Mada been like as a child? How had she changed when she finally came home again? Did she ever mention the names of friends in Europe or fellow performers she worked with? Did Anna save letters from her? Did she remember the return addresses and postmarks?

Cold crawled down Garreth's spine. The man asked questions like a detective. In the right quarters, the answers were likely to bring him too much knowledge . . . too much for Garreth's safety and peace of mind.

"You sound like you're planning a biography," he had said. "I had no idea you had to know so much to write fiction."

Fowler smiled. "Oh yes. I have to make it sound realistic, after all."

Garreth had spent the evening sidetracking Anna into reminisces of Lane's childhood and come home exhausted.

And today had one strike against it already. After two days of feeling no hunger, thirst burned in his throat with a fierceness that the entire remaining contents of the thermos scarcely blunted. The cattle blood tasted even thinner and more unsatisfying than usual.

He surveyed himself wryly in the mirror on the closet door . . . black turtleneck shirt, tan corduroy sport coat and slacks, mirror-lensed trooper glasses to protect his eyes. What the well-dressed vampire wears to a goodbye date. Saluting his image, he turned and left to wait at the station for Maggie to get off duty.