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    break the nightbyanne stuartCHAPTER ONELizzie Stride pushed her hair away from her face, leaving a streak ofred paint across her high cheekbone. It was too hot in her studioapartment, but she couldn't afford to turn up the air-conditioning.She couldn't open any windows, either--the rain had been-fallingnonstop for days now, and even her skin felt moldy. Running thedehumidifier already ate up about half her electricity allowance--shecouldn't afford to crank up the air conditioner besides.As long as her work survived, she could sit there and suffer. No onemelted from a little heat and humidity, even if it felt as if shemight. What mattered was the mask beneath her hands as she smoothedand shaped the red-tinged clay over the heavy eyebrows. If anything,the weather was good for it, keeping the material pliant for a longerperiod of time. Long enough for~ her to decide exactly how she wantedto shape this one. How to perfect it.She took several deep, calming breaths. Surely she could lower hersteamy body temperature by meditating. The mind was infinitelypowerful--she just hadn't learned how to harness hers. She could hearKate Bush on the radio, singing something eerie, a fitting counterpointto the face beneath her fingertips. It had turned evil beneath herhands, as her masks had done far too often of late. She didn't tend towaste 'much time analyzing her work.Each face grew on it's own beneath her long, deft fingers. Sometimes aclown, all garish colors and absurd features, sometimes a diva withostrich feathers and jewels. And sometimes a fiend from hell.Unfortunately, the monsters sold better than the other, more frivolousmasks.It was no wonder, she thought, shoving her hair back yet again. Theworld was full of human monsters, and L. A. had more than its share.They'd found the sixth body two days ago in a Dumpster in Venice, andwithin hours~ she'd been trapped at the police station once more,trying to make sense of a random savagery that should have had noconnection to her at' all.Except for the fact That each victim was wearing one of her masks whenthe body was found.The Venice Ripper, they were calling him. Fortunately, the newspapersdidn't know about the masks, or about the truly horrifying details ofthe medically accurate butchery of the prostitute-victims. Lizzie wasstill anonymous enough, an innocent pulled into the horror by her artand by a madman's random appreciation.When the police had traced the second mask to her, she'd stoppedworking for a while--too horrified by the piece of evidence she'didentified. The blood-soaked papier-m~tch6 had once been a Kewpie-dollface, and the knowledge that the killer had used her masks during hisbizarre killing spree made her feel sick inside, like an unwillingaccessory to the madman.But stopping her work, hiding in her apartment when she wasn't makingends meet as a waitress at the Pink Pelican cafe, did no good at all.She'd made a lot of masks in the two years she'd been in the LosAngelesarea. And sold a fair number. And the killer seemed to have aninexhaustible supply.She sat back, staring at the mask beneath her fingers. The red streakslooked like blood, the mouth was open in a silent, hideous scream, andsomewhere a killer waited--one of her masks in his murderous hands.Kate Bush stopped singing. The news came on, a muffled voice, one shedidn't want to hear. The Ripper had claimed another victim, the bodyfound dumped behind a building near the beach.And Lizzie brought her fists down on the mask, crushing it beneath herstrong hands.Damien stood at the window overlooking the gray, endless city, his longfingers wrapped tightly around a mug of coffee. He'd lost weight inthe past couple of months, more than was good for him. And it was nowonder--he subsisted on a diet of black coffee, straight tequila,Cigarettes and fast food. When he remembered to eat. Most of the timehe forgot.It was all right, though. He'd grown soft in the past few years. Lifecould do that to you. Too many awards, too much money, and things gota little too easy.Not that they were easy for him now. He'd left his job at theChronicle after the second Ripper murder. After the secondnightmare.Left his Pulitzer and his retirement fund and his beautiful,intelligent research assistant who'd let him know she was interested indoing more than his legwork, left behind the toughest, fairest editorin the' business Left behind a weekly paycheck, and his only connectionto sanity.None of that mattered. None of the safe, comfortable things he'dworked for made any difference to him any longer. He was a manpossessed, driven, with only one need in life. To find the Ripper. Andstop him.He looked at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. Gaunt,unshaven cheeks, dark, tormented eyes, hair long and shaggy. TheRipper probably looked a great deal like him. Haunted. Hunted.Driven.Damien leaned his forehead against the grimy window, staring out intothe bleak twilight before he shut his eyes. Only to see the blood oncemore, and hear the scream. of the dying woman. The sound that wouldliv~ in his mind forever. And he smashed 'his forehead against theglass, once, twice, until he heard the window crack.The apartment was still and silent hours later when L'~zie let herselfback in, locking the door behind her. She'd turned off theair-conditioning before she left, and the accumulated heat and dampnessswept over her like a wave. She lear fed against the door, notbothering to turn on the light.She could smell the clay from the smashed mask, the bitter, oily odorfrom that morning's coffee, m~ed with the men loW of yesterday's pasta.She almost wished for the hot, dry desert winds to sweep through,clearing away the constant, heavy rain."We'll be glad to give you police protection," Detective FinlayAdamson, the middle-aged,~ coffee-guzzling,. avuncular policelieutenant working on the Ripper case, had told Lizzie when he droveher back to her apartment late that afternoon. This time they'd kepther only three hours, going over the same old unanswerable questions."I don't think you're in any par-ticu[ar danger--this psycho only goesforprostitutes, and he'd have no reason to hurt you. For what it'sworth, the police psychiatrist thinks he considers you some kind ofally, and" -- "Please, don't!" Lizzie had begged him, the nausearising."It's not my fault that some monster uses my masks.""Calm down, Miss Stride. No one's blaming you," Adamson said in hispatient voice."But can't you see, I'm blaming myself? As far as I know, no one'sbought more than two or three masks of mine. I've asked everyone whosells them for me, and no one remembers making any more sales thanthat. Are you certain you've checked all the galleries and giftshops?""You wouldn't believe how many times we've checked," Adamson saidwearily."The kind of place that carries your stuff isn't great on keepingrecords.We're just lucky we found you in the first pla6e. A reporter happenedto recognize one of the murder masks as yours.Apparently he has a couple of them himself. " The sick feeling inLizzie's stomach didn't subside. "A reporter who collects masks? Who'scovering the Ripper murders? Doesn't that strike you as a little toocoincidental? Are you sure... ?""Don't do my job for me, Miss Stride. Everyone's a suspect in thiscase, even the most unlikely people. In-eluding, yourself We haven'tdiscounted Damien, even if it doesn't seem possible.""Damien?""Used to write for the Chronicle. J. R. Damien. He quit a few monthsago to concentrate on the Ripper murders. Apparently he's writing abook about them." Adamsoh's tone of voice made it clear what hethought of such ghoulish behavior."He still does most of their coverage of the Ripper murders. We'rejust lucky he's kept quiet about the masks. Reporters aren't known fortheir cooperation with the police, but Damien's been decent enough sofar.Now don't go getting paranoid about all this. We think the Ripper'sgot enough masks to keep him busy for quite a while--you said that lastone you sold more than a year ago, so he must have been planning thisfor a while.Just keep your doors locked and your guard up. " "I do anyway. Thisis southern California, r~member?" Lizzie said, with a delicate littleshudder."How could I forget?" Adamson had Said."Give us a call if anything seems unusual."Lizzie stared around her dimly lit apartment for a moment, willingherself not to imagine murderous shadows where none existed. Sheshouldn't have been so quick to turn down police protection. Sheshouldn't have been so quick to take Adamson's word for it that she wassafe.She flicked on the light, kicking off her sandals and crossing therough wooden floor to stare at her ruined mask. She was safe, shereminded herself. No one knew who she was, presumably not even theRipper. He sun ply had an affinity with her masks.She shivered at the horrible thought, moving on into the kitchen areaof the small, spare apartment and reaching for a bottle of fruit juice.She needed to get away from here. If only she had family, money, somekind of escape.Her family was long gone, her father no more than a name on a birthcertificate, her mother dead by the time Lizzie was in college. As formoney, that had always been a scarce commodity, and working as a craftsperson in an overpopulated area like L. A. didn't lend itself tofinancial solvency.Her friends, mostly actors, writers and the like, were even moreimpoverished than she was. None of them could lend her the money to... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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