Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

television on, food in the fridge, like he just up and walked off the end of the earth. His car was sitting in the driveway for three weeks, never moved, when I finally called the police. I reckon they've still got him down as a missing-persons case. That was about two years back, if I remember right. About the time that little girl got killed."
    Julia wondered why Mr. Webster hadn't told her any of this. Maybe he was scared she would have backed out of signing the lease. And the fate of the previous tenant wasn't the type of thing one usually inquired about when house hunting. Julia didn't believe that houses could be haunted, whether the ghosts were dead things or only memories. The house had been a good choice, solid and cheap, despite these revelations. Just enough peace to allow her time to think, and just enough people around to avoid a sense of total isolation. Even if the neighborhood boxer enjoyed spreading little land mines around.
    She scooped up the last of her dessert, a bit of crust softened by the ice cream. "You don't think he's missing, do you?"
    Mabel Covington's eyes flicked left and right. "I hear things myself, sometimes. When it's dark, people coming through the woods. See, I think they stashed some drugs or money or something, and they want to get it back. Only they don't want to get discovered by having somebody file breaking and entering charges, so they're waiting for the right time. I got a feeling Hartley likes to be missing."
    And I thought I was paranoid. Maybe SHE could use an hour or two in Dr. Forrest's office.
    Julia wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "Thank you for the pie," she said. "That was the best I've ever had."
    "You do my heart glad," the old woman said. "I won't even share no credit with the corporation that boxed it up."
    Julia made a show of checking her watch. "Well, I'd better run. I've got some work to do."
    Plus it will be dark very soon. And even though my house is only fifty yards away . . .
    Mrs. Covington walked Julia to the door. "Didn't mean to scare you none. About Hartley and all that. It's just best to be informed."
    "Yes, ma'am," Julia said. She reached down and petted the cat that rubbed against her leg.
    "You come on back any time."
    "Thank you, Mrs. Covington."
    "And call me 'Mabel,' hear?"
    Julia nodded, waved good-bye, and headed across the grass. The sun was large and golden in the west, just touching the blazing mountainsides. A sudden gust rattled the leaves like paper skeletons. The hint of coming frost rode on the wind.
    Julia crossed the woods into her own yard and circled back behind her house, just to set her mind at ease. Not because she really expected to find anything.
    Below her bedroom window, on the ground, was a set of footprints.
    Her heart crawled into her throat. She ran blindly for the front door, found her key, rammed it home, and burst inside. She slammed the door closed behind her and stood with her back against it, chest heaving, as daylight ebbed inside the house and every creak was like the lifting of a coffin lid.

 
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Call the police?
    The phone waited across the room.
    Think, think, think.
    Julia tried to calm her breathing, tried to slice through the crippling blackness that enwrapped her brain like a sheet shrouded a mortician's meal ticket.
    A Creep had walked up to her window. Maybe peeked in. The tracks outside had looked fairly fresh, though a couple of leaves had covered part of one heel print.
    But a Creep is the least likely culprit. Because Creeps don’t exist, remember?
    Who else had business that might have brought him to the rear of the house?
    Think, don’t panic .
    The electric meter was on the side of the house, clearly visible from the drive. Whoever read the meter wouldn't need to look around back. Same with the phone line. The water supply came from a well at the rear of the property, so there was no water meter.
    Then she remembered Walter.
    The handyman had probably checked the outside of the windows as well. The prints looked as if they were made by boots with a thick tread, someone with a large foot. Walter was well over six feet tall.
    That was it. Sure.
    She relaxed against the door, her muscles limp.
    No Creeps, no calls to the cops.
    The Memphis police had responded to her calls four times in the last year before her moving. All false alarms. They were always patient, except for the fourth call, when the same thin, sneering cop from her first call had shown