The Maze

sort of obsessed nut.

    But she was. That monster had taken everything from her and left her with a fear she'd managed to control, but it was there still, deep inside of her. No, it wasn't just for her. She just wanted to get this scum off the streets. She wanted to shoot him herself.

    "Lacey? What do you mean, you're going to catch him? You're not involved. Leave it to the professionals."

    "That's what I am, Dad."

    "No," he said, angry now. "No, you're not. You're a scared little girl. I think you should come home now. Listen to me. Your sister's been dead seven years. Seven years, Lacey. Douglas told me what you were doing, but I didn't want to believe it. We all know you've given up the last seven years of your life. It's way beyond time to let go of it. Forget it. Come home. I'll take care of you. You can play the piano again. You enjoyed that, and it sure as hell won't get you killed. I won't say a word about law school. Come home."

    Forget it? Forget what that butcher had done to Belinda, to her? She drew a deep breath. "How is Mom?"

    "What? Oh, your mother. She had a quiet day. Her nurse, Miss Heinz, told me at dinner that she ate well and she watched television, The Price Is Right, I believe it was, with seeming understanding."

    "I'm not like my mother."

    "No, certainly you're not. But this has got to stop, Lacey."

    "Why?"

    "Let the police catch that madman."

    "I am the police. The highest police in the land."

    He was silent for a very long time, then he said quietly, "Your mother began this way."

    "I must be going, Dad. I had hoped you'd be pleased that I have a shot at catching this monster."

    Her father said nothing at all.

    To her shock, a soft whispery voice came on the line. "Is that you, Lacey?"

    "Hello, Mom. You sound great. How do you feel?"

    "I'm hungry, but Nurse Heinz won't get me anything from the kitchen. I'd like some chocolate chip cookies. You always liked chocolate chip cookies when you were small, I remember."

    "I remember too, Mom."

    "Don't try to catch the man who murdered Belinda. He's too dangerous. He's insane, he'll kill you and I couldn't bear that. He's-"

    The line went dead, then the familiar dial tone.

    The phone rang again immediately. It was her father. "I'm sorry, Lacey. I was so agitated that I dropped the phone. Listen, I'm scared. I don't want anything to happen to you."

    "I understand, but I must try to catch him. I must."

    She heard him sigh. "I know. Be careful."

    "I will." She looked at the receiver a moment, then gently laid it back in its cradle. She looked at the lovely Bentrell paintings on the stretch of white wall. Landscapes-rolling hills, some grazing cows, a small boy with a bucket on either end of a pole, carried across his back and balanced over his shoulders. She slowly lowered her face into her hands and cried. She saw her father's face from seven years ago, silent and still, no expression at all, just the silence of the grave, and he'd leaned down and whispered very softly in her ear, just after Belinda's funeral, when she'd been so blank, so hollow, but not quite yet utterly terrified, "It's over, thank the good Lord. You'll survive, Lacey. She was only your half sister, try to remember that."

    And she'd just stared at him as if he were crazier than her mother. Only her half sister? That was supposed to mean something? It had only been three days later when the first nightmare had come in the deep of the night and her grief had become terror.

    When the doorbell rang, she nearly shrieked, memories from the past overlaying the present. It was the doorbell, that was all, just the doorbell. Still, where was her gun? She looked frantically around the living room. There was her purse. She always carried her Lady Colt in her purse, in addition to the holster with her SIG.

    She grabbed it, feeling its cold smoothness caress her hand like a lover even as the doorbell sounded again. She moved to stand beside the door.

    "Sherlock? You there? Come on, I see the lights. Open the damned door!"

    She nearly shuddered with relief as she shucked off the two chains, clicked back the dead bolt, and unlocked the door.

    He was standing there in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and running shoes. A pale blue sweater was tied in a knot around his neck. She'd seen male models in magazines dressed like that-with the knotted sweater-and thought it looked ridiculous. It didn't on him. He was frowning at her.

    He stepped inside, still frowning. "That's quite