Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

up.
    "What's it this time?" he'd said.
    "Someone under my bed," Julia said, already feeling foolish.
    The cop had nodded wearily, waited until she unlocked the door, and brushed past her. He went into her bedroom, rummaged around in her closet for a moment, peeked into the bathroom, and waved Julia into the apartment.
    "I . . . I swear I heard him. I came in and—"
    "All clear." He glared at her. "Same as last time. Did you have the door locked?"
    She nodded.
    "Then how's a burglar or rapist or whatever going to get in ?" He flipped the lock on her sliding glass door and removed the security bar, slid the door open on its track, and stepped onto the small balcony. He looked out over the Wolf River four stories below.
    "I heard him. I swear."
    "Sure you did. I checked on my way over. This is the fourth call since last July. I don't know what you're after. Some like the attention, some are cop groupies"—he’d given her a leer that made Julia want to push him over the railing—"and some just want to screw the system. Whichever reason is yours, filing a false report is a crime."
    "I really heard him," Julia said, near tears but not allowing herself to cry in front of that monster.
    "Yeah, well, next time, do us a favor and call a private investigator," he said. "We got people out there with real problems."
    After he left, Julia cried for a half-hour. She never again called the police, even when she was trailed while walking two blocks home one evening, even when she found scratch marks near the lock as if someone had tried to jimmy open her door. And she was determined not to start the same sort of thing in Elkwood. When she called the cops to her new place, she wanted some solid proof to show them.
    Except, even in Memphis, you were never really SURE that you heard anything, or that you were followed, or that some Creep had a hot-drool thang going for you. How are you going to convince anyone else when you can't even trust your own mind?
    Julia's fear slewed into anger. She slammed into the kitchen, washed the dishes with a great deal of rattling and water-sloshing, and took a shower. She walked nude into her bedroom without bothering to see if the curtains were still closed. She read Spence until he put her to sleep.
    She dreamed of bones again.
    This time, she was lifting the boards from the floor, prying them up with a long sharp tool. The floor insulation was like yellow cotton candy and had been pushed to the side. She lowered herself between the floor joists to the dirt below. The soil was dark, soft and dry.
    Julia dug into the ground with the tool. The first bone was several inches beneath the surface. She cleared it away with her fingers, and held it to the strange, amber dream-light. It was a femur, long and pitted with nicks and cuts, the color of bleached ivory. She placed it on the floor and dug again, coming up with a skull this time.
    She picked it up and held it as if she were Hamlet about to reflect on Yorick's demise. She stared into the skull's empty eye sockets. The dark blank eyes had just begun staring back when she awoke.
    Lasers of the sun sliced through the trees into her window. Julia blinked against the sudden light, confused, lost in that wasteland between dream and dawn. It was late. Her alarm should have woken her just before the sun crept over the horizon.
    Heavy with sleep, she rolled over and reached for the clock. Her hand froze inches away from it.
    4:06.
    Red digits, simultaneously ice cold and hell hot.
    A minute passed, one in which Julia breathed only twice.
    Another minute, and still the clock stood at 4:06.
    Julia peered over the edge of the bed. The clock was plugged in. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillow.
    A malfunction, that's all. Something in that idiot digital brain has a hang-up about 4:06. Throw the damned clock out and buy another one instead of worrying about it.
    She reached out, found the plug, and jerked it free of the wall socket. She didn't look at the clock as she shoved it into the wastebasket. She was afraid those same numerals might still be glaring, even without electricity.
    After she dressed, she called George Webster and told him the wiring had been acting up. She described what had happened with the clock and the VCR. Nothing major, but she just thought he might like to know. Maybe ought to get it checked. Webster said he'd send somebody around to check it that afternoon, and asked if she would be there.
    Yes, she would be there,