The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(23)

She slept.

Not for long. It felt like only a minute or two. She could have slept all night, but something disturbed her. She awoke with a start, feeling anxious. Her heart raced. She’d been dreaming about something bad, but the dream vanished in an instant, and she had no memory of it. When she checked the clock, she saw that an hour had passed. She was still alone. Jason was one of those people who needed little sleep himself, and he was always working.

What awakened her?

Frankie looked around the bedroom, and nothing felt amiss. The curtains were open, letting in the San Francisco glow. Sometimes hawks or gulls struck their high windows, so loudly she was sure the glass would shatter, but she didn’t think it was one of their collisions that had jarred her awake.

She looked at her nightstand. And she knew.

Her phone.

Frankie unlocked the screen. A new e-mail waited for her. The date stamp was only seconds earlier. She saw the address of the sender, and it was the same person who had stalked her at Zingari.



[email protected]



Her skin rippled as if someone had stroked it with a fingertip. She shivered at the chill. Normally, hate mail didn’t bother her, but this was different. These messages had a quiet menace. Just like his name suggested, he felt like a bird of prey, hiding in the darkness. Instinctively, she tugged the sheet over her bare chest, as if he were somewhere among the city lights, behind the long eye of a telescope, watching her. I see you.

She almost deleted the message without reading it, but she had to know. She tapped on the e-mail with her fingertip.

The message, like the others, was a single line.



I’m going to watch you die.





11


The room was white.

Shimmering white. Fluorescent white. Blinding white. As her eyes blinked open, the woman named Christie felt lost in the whiteness. She was at peace, drifting nowhere and everywhere. The atmosphere was warm and perfectly silent. She lay on her back on a chaise so soft and comfortable it practically enveloped her. Wherever she was, time had no meaning here. A minute could be an hour; an hour could be a minute. She had no sense of anything but bliss.

Her body felt oddly heavy. When she went to lift her arm, it wouldn’t move. The same was true of her legs. Soft bonds held her firmly in place. She couldn’t turn her head from side to side or lift her torso off the cushions. And yet it didn’t matter. Her mind wandered freely, untethered from her frozen body, floating with a faint breath of air. Her mind was a bubble, lazily exploring the white, windowless world.

Nothing could ever be wrong in that world. Nothing at all. She could stay there forever.

Only one strange smudge of darkness disturbed Christie’s peaceful visions. Far away, farther than her mind could see, something was missing. There was a memory she could no longer grasp, a blank space as white as the walls. When she reached for it, it darted away. The memory teased her with its emptiness. It was like a sailboat hovering on the far edge of an ocean horizon, dotting up and then disappearing. She could hardly be sure it had ever been there at all.

But she knew it had.

She had a sixth sense that whatever was behind that blank space was worse than anything she’d known in her life. Behind that blank space was terror. Behind it was madness. She knew—she knew—that if she had to stare at it again, her mind would shatter like glass. She could feel herself sprinting to get away from it. Running without looking back at whatever terrible thing was behind her. Pleading. Praying. Screaming.

No.

Right now, that seemed impossible. Nothing so empty, so far away, could frighten her. She was as warm as sunshine. The room was as white as the sand on an endless beach. She never wanted to leave.

Christie’s lips folded into a smile. Her eyes sank shut again, and she slept. Beautiful dreams filled her mind, as if a voice outside her brain could tell her what to see: meadows in bloom, with a gentle wind she could feel on her face; a mountain lake, waveless and deep blue, scented by pine; a porch swing, empty, creaking, with a rumble of thunder in the distance.

Whatever the voice told her to see, she saw.

The voice. It controlled her.

Suddenly, it told her to awaken. It said her name in a high-pitched, singsong way, like a child playing a game: “Christie, Christie.”

She didn’t want to wake up. Her dreams were too perfect. She knew she would awaken in the white room. It had all happened before. She didn’t know how many times it had happened, but this wasn’t the first time.

“Christie, Christie.”

The voice sang in her head like a nightingale, but there was nothing happy about the song. She had a memory of asking: Who are you?

And she had a memory of his singsong reply.

“The Night Bird . . . that’s who you heard.”

She was awake now, and she could feel him close to her. His breath was loud and scented with something sweet. She kept her eyes closed, because she didn’t want to see him, but he plucked one eyelid between his fingers and lifted it open like he was peering under a window shade.

“Peek-a-boo, I see you!”

His face was nothing but a mask, leaning over her, inches away. The mask had a grotesque plastic smile, with bloodred lips stretching to his ears. Ghost-white skin. Huge eyes—the eyes of a bug. Not eyes at all. The mask grinned at her, and behind it, the voice sang.

“It won’t be long,” he warbled. “Time for the song!”