Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

She wiped her hair from her eyes, and her fingers came away moist with sweat. She tried to cover her jumpiness with a lie. "I just ran through the house, I heard the phone ring, and I thought I heard somebody at the door, and—well, look at me, I'm just a babbling mess."
    He looked, a few seconds longer this time. Then he cast his gaze down to the porch. "Well, ma'am, I guess I should have hollered when I saw the door was open."
    "Don't be silly." Julia hated herself for her panic. "I just wish Mr. Webster had told me you were coming."
    "He said he left a message on your answering machine."
    She nodded again, feeling as wooden as the blocks that were scattered across the floor. "Why don't you go ahead? I've got to go back to work in a little bit."
    "Won't take long." He was around thirty. His hair was brown and just long enough to curl a little at the ends. His muscular hands bore several scars, but the skin on his face was smooth under his short beard. He didn't have the beaten expression worn by many people who worked with their hands, though the shadows of his face harbored a hint of sadness and darkness. He didn't look like the sort who would play pranks with wooden blocks.
    Then again, they never did.
    "Come on in." She stepped aside so the handyman could enter. His tool belt jangled as he passed. He went to the front windows, flipped back the locks and slid them up. A draft of forest-flavored air wended across the room.
    Julia left the door open and crossed to the sofa, sat where she could see him, and pretended to thumb through Psychology Today . Her hand gripped the mace tightly. The landlord had seemed overly eager to rent this place. How many keys did Webster have for the house?
    "These are fine," the handyman said, sliding the windows closed. "Anderson windows are built good. Double panes. Ought to really help on your heating bill."
    "I'll be burning wood," she said, turning the magazine page to an article entitled "Precious Memories: How To Preserve Your Family’s Past." She kept looking past the magazine to the blocks on the floor.
    "Good for you. Cheaper and you get a little exercise. Where you from?" he asked without turning around, his screwdriver creaking as he tightened a curtain rod hanger.
    "Memphis."
    "You're in for a treat. We get about eight or ten snows every year. Don't get much down there, I reckon."
    "Just once in a while. It melts before you even get to pack a dirty snowball."
    "Can't stand to be in the city myself. Breaks me out in a sweat. People piled on top of each other like Japanese beetles on a cherry leaf."
    Julia said nothing. She wasn't used to loquacious carpenters. In Memphis, skilled laborers did their work in silence. She was used to her own crowd, other reporters, artists, Mitchell's lawyer friends. In the city, strangers kept to themselves. Unless they wanted flesh, blood, or soul.
    "How long you been in Elkwood?" he asked, not pausing in his work.
    "Four months," she said.
    "That figures," he said. "I did some work here at the start of summer. House had been empty for a couple of years."
    "I wonder why. It's a cozy little place."
    "Hartley used to live here." The handyman said "Hartley" as if spitting out the name of an old enemy.
    “Don’t tell me I’m living in a haunted house,” she said.
    “No ghosts here. Just bad memories.”
    He gathered his tools and moved into the kitchen. Julia remained where she was, slipping the mace into her pants pocket and browsing the magazine.
    After several minutes of the windows sliding up and down and tools rattling, the handyman appeared at the end of the hall.
    "Okay if I go in the bedroom?" he asked.
    He probably found some embarrassing things in his job. He went into private places, patched things where secrets hid. But Julia had no secrets there, not much to blush about in her bedroom. No ceiling mirrors, no bedside sex toys, no leather straps or chains dangling from the bedposts.
    Just a crazy clock that was stuck on 4:06.
    "Go ahead," she said. "Can I make you a cup of coffee?"
    "No, thanks, ma'am. I don't want to put you to no trouble."
    "It's no trouble. I'm going to make some anyway. I only want a cup or two, though."
    "Well, in that case, I'd appreciate some to go. I got my thermos out in the Jeep."
    Julia busied herself in the kitchen, whistling as she filled the pot. She didn't glance over her shoulder, even though the urge was strong. With the water running in the sink, he could sneak right up behind, reach out his