Shadowfires

stayed close at her side, warier than he had been.
    In the large master bedroom, there was more destruction, though it
was not as extensive or as indicative of insane fury as the damage in
the kitchen. Beside the king-size bed of black-lacquered wood and
burnished stainless steel, a torn pillow leaked feathers. The
bedsheets were strewn across the floor, and a chair was overturned.
One of the two black ceramic lamps had been knocked off a nightstand
and broken, and the shade had been crushed. The shade on the other
lamp was cocked, and the paintings hung askew on the walls.
    Benny stooped and carefully lifted a section of one of the sheets
to have a closer look at it. Small reddish spots and a single reddish
smear shone with almost preternatural brilliance on the white
cotton.
    “Blood,” he said.
    Rachael felt a cold sweat suddenly break out on her scalp and
along the back of her neck.
    “Not much,” Benny said, standing again, his gaze traveling over
the tangled sheets. “Not much, but definitely blood.”
    Rachael saw a bloody handprint on the wall beside the open door
that led into the master bedroom. It was a man's print, and large-as if a butcher, exhausted from his hideous labors, had leaned there for a moment to catch his breath.
    The lights were on in the large bathroom, the only chamber in the
house that had not been dark when
they'd reached it. Through the open door, Rachael could see virtually everything either directly or in the mirrors covering one wall: gray tile with a burnt-yellow border, big sunken tub, shower stall, toilet, one edge of the counter that held the sinks, bright brass towel racks and brass-rimmed recessed ceiling lamps. The bathroom appeared deserted. However, when she crossed the threshold, she heard someone's
quick, panicked breathing, and her own heartbeat, already trotting, raced.
    Close behind her, Benny said, “What's wrong?”
    She pointed to the opaque shower stall. The glass was so heavily
frosted that nothing could be seen of the person on the other side,
not even a tenebrous form. “Somebody' s in there.”
    Benny leaned forward, listening.
    Rachael had backed against the wall, the muzzle of the thirty-two
aimed at the shower door.
    “Better come out of there,” Benny said to the person in the
stall.
    No answer. Just quick, thin wheezing.
    “Better come out right now,” Benny said.
    “Come out, damn you!” Rachael said, her raised voice echoing
harshly off the gray tile and the bright mirrors.
    From the stall came an unexpectedly woeful mewling that was the
very essence of terror. It sounded like a child.
    Shocked, concerned, but still wary, Rachael edged toward the
frosted glass.
    Benny stepped past her, took hold of the brass handle, and pulled
the door open. “Oh, my God.”
    Rachael saw a nude girl huddled pathetically on the tile floor of
the shadowy stall, her back pressed into the corner. She looked no
older than fifteen or sixteen and must be the current mistress in
residence, the latest-and last-of Eric's pitiable “conquests.” Her slender arms were crossed over her breasts more in fear and self-defense than in modesty. She was trembling uncontrollably, and her eyes were wide with terror, and her face was pale, sickly, waxen.
    She was probably quite pretty, but it was difficult to tell for
sure, not because of the gloominess of the enclosed shower stall but
because she had been badly beaten. Her right eye was blackened and
beginning to swell. Another ugly bruise was forming on her right
cheek, from the corner of the eye all the way down to the jaw. Her
upper lip had been split; blood still oozed from it, and blood
covered her chin. There were bruises on her arms as well, and a big
one on her left thigh.
    Benny turned away, clearly as embarrassed for the girl as he was
alarmed by her condition.
    Lowering her pistol, stooping at the shower door, Rachael said,
“Who did this to you, honey? Who did this?” She already knew what the
answer must be, dreaded hearing it, but was morbidly compelled to ask
the question.
    The girl could not respond. Her bleeding lips moved, and she tried
to form words, but all that came out was that thin grievous whining,
broken into chords by an especially violent siege of the shivers.
Even if she had spoken, she would most likely not have answered the
question, for she was obviously in shock and to some degree
disassociated from reality. She seemed only partially aware of
Rachael and Benny, with the