Now You See Her Linda Howard(34)

In the silence of the night her sudden cessation of breathing was as noticeable as her gasping had been.

For a long moment she lay utterly still, then breath returned on a long, slow, gentle inhalation.



She opened her eyes and sat up. Pushing the heavy cover aside, she got out of bed and walked soundlessly through the apartment. When she reached her studio, she put a blank canvas on an easel, stood for a moment with her head cocked to the side as if pondering her next step, then selected a tube of paint and began.

It was the cold that woke her. She huddled under the covers, wondering if her electric blanket was malfunctioning. Even so, the nest she had made for herself should have contained the heat. She fought her way out of the tangle of blankets and rolled over until she could see the blanket control. To her surprise, the little amber light was on, so the blanket should have been warm. She found a coil and pressed her fingers to it. She could feel the heat, but it didn't seem to be transferring to her.

Next she looked at the clock and lifted her eyebrows in surprise. It was almost nine, and she seldom slept past dawn. She didn't have any appointments, though, so it was the cold, not urgency, that drove her from the bed. She paused to turn the thermostat up as high as it would go, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, setting the water as hot as she could bear it. By the time she stripped off her pajamas and stepped under the spray, she was shuddering with cold.

She stood with the hot water beating down on her head and back, warming her spine. The shudders stopped, the fading tension unlocking her taut muscles as it drained away. Maybe there was something physically wrong with her, she thought, almost sagging as her body relaxed. The chills had started about the same time the other stuff had started happening, but that didn't mean they were related. She wouldn't have to tell a doctor everything, just that she was cold all the time. The realization that she was actually considering seeing a doctor startled her.

As she toweled off, her skin roughened as another chill seized her. Swearing under her breath, she hurriedly got dressed. Getting her head wet hadn't been the brightest idea, she thought, because she didn't own a hair dryer. One disastrous attempt at blow-drying her hair, which resulted in something resembling a hairy explosion, had persuaded her to let her curls dry naturally rather than outrage them with heat. Wrapping a towel around her head, she went into the kitchen for that first cup of coffee.

The light on the coffeemaker wasn't on, but the pot was full. Frowning, she touched the pot and found it cold. "Damn it," she muttered. The coffee had brewed right on time, but she hadn't been up to drink it and the heat pad turned itself off after two hours, one more example of a manufacturer trying to protect itself from lawsuits by careless or forgetful customers who left their coffeemakers turned on and perhaps caused fires.

She poured a cup of coffee and popped it into the microwave, then dumped the rest of the pot down the sink and put some fresh coffee on to brew. By the time she finished that, the buzzer on the microwave had sounded. The warmed-up coffee tasted terrible, sort of like old socks, but it was hot, and at the moment that was more important.

The apartment wasn't getting any warmer. She'd have to call Richard about getting the heating system repaired, she thought desperately. She leaned down and held her hand over the vent, and felt the warm air pouring out. Okay, so the heating system was working. She went to the thermostat to check the temperature; it was already eighty-two degrees, and the thermostat registered only up to eighty-five.

She would just have to tough it out until her hair dried, she thought. That was what was making her so cold this morning. She was loath to unwrap the towel covering her head, but common sense told her that the heat in the apartment would dry her hair much faster if it wasn't wrapped in a towel. Gritting her teeth and bracing for the chill, she ditched the towel. The air on her wet head didn't feel cold, though. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Taking the cup of coffee with her into the bathroom, she sprayed some detangler on her curls and then finger-combed them, noting that most of the moisture had already evaporated. The mirror reflected a face that was white and pinched with cold. Her teeth chattered. "What a lovely sight," she told her reflection.

She poured more coffee and went into the studio. Her hands were shaking so much she wouldn't be able to paint, but the habit was ingrained, so she went.

There was a new canvas on the easel.

Sweeney stood just inside the door, dread congealing in her stomach like cold grease. Her body felt leaden. Not again. Not another one. Who had she killed this time?

No, she thought fiercely. She hadn't killed anyone. Her painting hadn't caused the old vendor to die, rather his death had caused the painting. But if this only happened when someone she knew had died…

She didn't want to see who was in the painting this time; she didn't want to lose someone else she liked.

What if—what if it was Richard?

She was unprepared for the violence of the pain that seized her chest, freezing her lungs, constricting her heart. Not Richard, she prayed. Dear God, not Richard.

Somehow she made her feet move, though she wasn't aware of crossing the floor. Somehow she steeled herself to walk around the easel, positioned so the bright morning light fell directly on the canvas. And somehow she made herself look.

The canvas was almost totally blank. She stared at it, the relief so sudden and total she almost couldn't take it in. Not a death scene, then. Not Richard. Maybe… maybe this meant her supposition had been totally wrong, that the sleepwalking and painting didn't necessarily have anything to do with death.