Now You See Her Linda Howard(55)

"The United States Army," he said, amused again. She could almost see his lips curving. "But I was in a special unit. I was a Ranger."

She knew about forest rangers. She knew about the Lone Ranger. Other than that, her memory bank was empty of information on rangers. "My military experience is kind of limited. What do Rangers do?"

"They wear really snazzy black berets."

"Other than that."

"Rough stuff. It's a specialized infantry organization."

"Specialized in what?"

He sighed. "Raids."

"Raids."

"You sound like a parrot."



"You were a commando, weren't you?" Her voice rang with astonishment. She had known nothing but gentleness from him. No, not gentleness. That was the wrong word. Tender was more accurate. But determined, too. And she had seen firsthand how he could affect people with just a look, seen how easily he dominated Senator McMillan.

"That's one term for it, yes. Honey, I'm thirty-nine years old. I've been out of the army for fifteen years.

What I did back then doesn't matter."

"In a way it does. You knew what blunt-force trauma to the head looked like, knew to ask questions.

Knowing Mr. Stokes was murdered gives me a different view of what I'm doing now. I think the murderer is standing looking down at her."

He followed her thoughts with ease. "Because of the way the man's shoe is positioned?"

"If he were there to help her, or investigate, wouldn't he be crouched down? A bystander wouldn't stand so close. I'm going to try working on the painting while I'm awake, see what happens. I don't think she's dead yet; I think I'm picking up on something in the future and that's why I'm doing just a little at a time. If I can finish it, see who she is, then maybe I can stop it from happening."

He said, very gently, "I don't think you'll be able to finish the painting until it's too late."

His concern furled around her like tender arms. "But I have to try," she whispered, her throat suddenly tight. She swallowed. She refused to cry in front of him again. When she cried, she wanted it to be about something real important, like being cold.

"I know. Got a pen?"

She reached for the pen and pad beside the phone. "Got it."

"Here's my cell phone number." He rattled it off. "I'll have the phone with me tonight. Call me if anything happens and you go into shock again."

"How many numbers do you have?" she muttered. "That's three. "

"Well, there's the fax number, too, if you want it."

"I don't think I'll be sending you any faxes."

He chuckled, then said, "Take care of yourself. The last few days have been rough on you. Don't let this get the upper hand."

"I'll be careful," she promised, and went back to the studio warmed by the ease with which they communicated, the sense of being linked. No matter how upsetting this situation got, she wasn't alone.

She stared at the painting for a long time. Assuming she was looking at a murder scene changed her perspective. Picking up a stick of charcoal, she lightly sketched in the logical position of the woman's body, given the position of her legs. And if the man's right foot was here, then his left foot would be here. No, that was wrong. The angle was too severe. She needed a more direct angle, not exactly head-on but close to it.

She knew instinctively when she got it right. Her fingers moved rapidly over the canvas, sketching a rough outline of two people around the details she had already painted.

When she finished, she was trembling, as exhausted as if she had worked for days instead of—of however long she had worked. Glancing out the window, she saw night had fallen. She had no idea what time it was, but her stomach growled a warning that it was a long time past supper. She was a little chilly, but nothing unusual. Her efforts hadn't triggered that scary, bonedeep cold, at least not immediately. She had no idea how she would feel in a few hours.

She rubbed her eyes, then remembered her hands were black with charcoal. Muttering under her breath, she went into the bathroom and peered in the mirror. The black smudges all over her face weren't a surprise. She washed her face and hands, then went into the kitchen.

Soup was always good. It was fast and hot. She opened a can of chicken noodle soup and nuked it.

What did Richard eat at business dinners? she wondered. More to the point, would he ever expect her to eat with him at those business dinners? The prospect wasn't a pleasant one. She would manage, she decided. If necessary, she would even buy some high heels.

Good God, this was serious. She should be running as far and fast as she could. Instead she sipped her chicken noodle soup and smiled a little at the lengths to which she was willing to go for Richard, should he ask.

She showered and went to bed, and woke a little after dawn feeling warm and relaxed. She was almost disappointed; lying in Richard's arms wasn't exactly a hardship, no matter how cold she was.

She lay there for a while, enjoying the warmth. An electric blanket wasn't as good as Richard, but she would have to make do. She daydreamed for a while, smiling, before noticing that the sunlight wasn't getting any brighter.

She sat up and looked out the window. Fog pressed against the panes, white and a little luminous, as if it were just thin enough to allow a little sunshine through. The light was strangely reflective, filling all the shadows in the room the way sunshine on snow did.