Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

recruitment or a chronic womanizer, he sure didn't know when to give up. His cheeks wrinkled when he smiled, like a young Robert Redford in “All The President’s Men.” He’d probably practiced it in the mirror. "I'm pretty busy," she said. “Maybe some other time?"
    "Sure. After you’re married, maybe."
    "It won’t be your problem." She smiled at him, hoping he didn't take it as a sign that she was ready to roll back her sheets and let him slide his lithe, fitness-club physique onto her mattress. She wondered if his moral compass allowed him to seduce another man’s fiancee, and decided most men only followed one compass, and it was the pointy one in their pants. “Thanks for last night.”
    Rick straightened up, seeing something in her eyes, the old cockiness back on his face. "We'll do it again sometime. Real soon."
    After he left, Julia finished her article, downloaded her digital photographs, and drove home. By the time she'd put away her camera and satchel, dusk was still an hour away. She decided to take a walk down the little trail that ran through the woods behind the house.
    Artificial courage. It works for drunks, so maybe it will work for me.
    She locked the door behind her and put the key ring and mace in her pocket. With many of the leaves falling, she'd be able to keep the house in sight along much of the walk. Autumn was her favorite season, and she wasn't going to deny herself the pleasure of it all just because some knife-wielding Creep could be waiting behind a tree.
    The trail ran down to a little creek. There, the forest was more welcoming than threatening. Autumn wasn't just a glorious color show. The season had a taste and a smell. Julia relished the sweet decay of leaves in the air, the late-blooming goldenrod and rust-topped Joe Pye weed, rushing water that was silver clean against the rocks. Away from civilization, with only the wild woods and water and sinking sun for company, she felt perfectly normal and worry free. But the sun always set, and darkness always fell, and she was not alone in the world.
    The other end of the trail bordered Mabel Covington's back yard. Yellow apples lay on the ground beneath a gnarled tree and two quilts hung on the woman's clothesline, airing out for winter. The grass was thick and nearly blue. The aroma of fried chicken came from the kitchen of the large colonial house.
    Mrs. Covington appeared at the door of the screened-in back porch. "Hey there, Julia," she called. "Saw you from the window. How you doing?"
    "Fine, Mrs. Covington. Taking a walk. How are you?"
    "Just dandy. Won't you come in for a piece of pie? I haven't seen you in a while." A gray cat appeared between Mrs. Covington's ankles, its tail brushing the hem of the woman’s dress as it pussyfooted down the wooden steps.
    Julia was about to decline the offer, but Mrs. Covington’s smile radiated from her ice-blue eyes as well. Julia stepped through the low hedge and started across the yard. "Thanks. That would be nice of you."
    "No, just neighborly. With all these outsiders coming in, people don't keep up with their neighbors much anymore. We all got to watch out for each other, especially out here on Buckeye Creek."
    Julia braced herself for a lecture that would condemn anyone who dared to be born somewhere besides Amadahee County, but the woman only held the door open until Julia entered the house. They sat at the wobbly, hand-crafted cherry table in the kitchen, though Mrs. Covington had a large dining room with a beautiful walnut table. The whole house was filled with enough rustic antiques to make a scavenger drool.
    Mrs. Covington set down plates with thick wedges of cherry pie on them, a scoop of vanilla ice cream to the side leaking white into the red filling. Julia accepted a cup of coffee, waited until Mrs. Covington shooed a black cat out of the kitchen, and then they ate together.
    "This is delicious," Julia said.
    "Thank you kindly," the woman said, her false teeth stained by the cherries. "Don't have no call to cook much anymore, with my Archibald dead and the boys living out West. It's nice to have somebody I can fuss over."
    She patted Julia's hand.
    "I only hope this doesn't spoil my appetite for dinner," Julia said, before lifting another forkful.
    "A girl your age ought not worry about what she eats. There's a lot of that going on, I hear, girls throwing up and wasting away because they're scared of getting fat. A real man doesn’t mind a little meat on the