Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

commanded. Julia stared at her.
    "She's worse off than I thought," Dr. Forrest said to Snead.
    "It's not me that's crazy, it's all of you ." Even as she said the words, she realized that was exactly the kind of thing a crazy person would say.
    "Julia!" shouted Dr. Forrest. Snead moved after her, but she was already gone, through the office door and out of the building, into the reeling gray world outside, into her car and then forward into the mad, strange future.

 
     
    CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
     
    The climb up the winding road to her house was treacherous, the Subaru's tires squealing with each curve. The asphalt was covered with damp leaves, and a film of mist clung to the surface of the road and the windshield. Julia's panting fogged the window, so she wiped a clear circle with the bottom of her fist. She peered into the thickening gloom ahead, occasionally glancing into the rearview mirror, expecting Snead to come rocketing up behind her with bar lights flashing.
    Why are you running? They know where you live. HE knows where you live.
    She didn't have any kind of plan. All she wanted to do was get home, slam and lock the door, huddle in the house. But that wasn't an escape. Because, wherever she went, she was always inside her own head. She couldn't outrun the rising tide of shadows.
    When Julia drove up, Mabel Covington was on the porch of her big house, leaning on her wooden walking stick, cats prancing around her ankles. The old woman waved frantically with a trembling hand. Julia slowed the car and pulled along the edge of the woman's yard. The apartments were quiet, their tenants off at school or work. Unless the Peeping Tom had his binoculars at the curtain's edge.
    Julia rolled down the passenger window as Mrs. Covington hobbled over to the car.
    "What is it?" Julia asked, looking down the drive to see if Snead was after her.
    "He's here," Mrs. Covington said, her face nearly as white as her thin hair.
    "Who's here?"
    "He come back." The woman leaned against the door, wheezing as she put her head inside the car.
    "The Peeping Tom?"
    "Hartley. The one that used to live in your house."
    The old woman had gone as mad as the rest of the world. "I'm sorry," Julia said. "I'm in a hurry."
    "You don't understand. He was here . He was messing around your house. I called the cops, figuring he come back to get something he left."
    "Why would he come back here?"
    The woman's eyes narrowed, as cold and clouded as marbles. "Didn't nobody ever tell you, child?"
    "Tell me what?"
    "Oh, Lordy." The old woman backed a few steps away. "You don't know, do you?"
    "Tell me what happened," Julia said, suddenly remembering the murder of the little girl that Rick had mentioned. That name, Hartley, struck a dismal note of recognition.
    "You must have found out something. I was hoping and praying they'd leave you alone."
    "Maybe we'd better go inside."
    The old woman shook her head, the weathered flesh of her neck quivering under her chin. "They told me to stay out of it. I done said too much."
    Mrs. Covington turned and struggled across the yard and levered her way onto her porch, planting the walking stick before her with each step. The wooden knocking was swallowed by the silence of the shrouded forest. Then the woman disappeared into her house. Julia rolled up the window and parked in front of her own house.
    Hartley was here. What did that mean? Was he really the one that had killed that girl two years before? A crime like that must have sent seismic shock waves through this little community, and Rick O’Dell probably would have woven it into his pet conspiracy theory. Why hadn't Walter told her about it? Walter, the man she thought she could trust?
    Julia tiptoed around the side of the house, wishing she had the Louisville Slugger with her. One hand was tucked in her purse, ready to draw the mace, but the spray would have little effect if someone really intended to harm her.
    No one was behind the house. She thought of checking around her bedroom window for footprints, to confirm that someone had actually stood there last night and called to her. But more leaves had fallen, covering the ground in a damp carpet of dying color.
    The trees somehow seem closer today, surrounding the house.
    She almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought. But she was afraid that if she started laughing, she might never stop.
    Nothing stirred in the woods, and through the thick autumn mist came the soft gurgling of the creek. She glanced toward