The Maze

head, and lurched against the stove.

    "I know a lie when I hear it," he said in that low, soft voice of his and quickly stepped back out of her reach. "This guy butcher your sister? Yeah, sure. Hey, you're bleeding. Scalp wounds bleed like stink, but you'll be okay. Tell me the truth, tell me why you really want to stay here or I'll hit you again."

    She suddenly heard an accent. No, her brains were scrambled, she was imagining it. No, wait, the way he'd said "bleed like stink." It was faintly southern; yes, that was it. And wasn't that phrase southern as well?

    He raised his arm. She said quickly, "I'm not lying. Belinda Madigan, the fourth victim of the San Francisco String Killer, was my sister."

    He didn't say anything, but she saw the gun waver. Hadn't he known? No, if he didn't know, why else would he be here? He said finally, "Keep going."

    "Marlin Jones said he didn't kill her. That's why I've got to stay. I've got to find out the truth. Then I can go home."

    "But he did kill her, didn't he?"

    "Yes, he did. I wondered and wondered, then I even had some tests done on the wooden props used in all the murders in San Francisco, the hammering and screwing techniques, stuff like that. There's an expert in Los Angeles who's really good at that sort of thing. But his results were inconclusive. Marlin Jones killed her. He must have realized who I was and lied to me, to torture me. Who are you? Why do you care?"

    "Hey, I'm a journalist." He laughed again. He was big into laughter, this guy. She felt blood dripping off her hair onto her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

    "Yeah, I'm a journalist and I like to know the inside scoop. You guys are so closemouthed that none of us know what's going on. Yeah, I'm with the Washington Post. My name's Garfield." He laughed. He was really enjoying himself.

    Then just as suddenly, he straightened, and she knew that if he weren't wearing that mask, she'd see that his eyes had gone cold and dead. "Is that all, little girl?"

    "Yes, that's all," she said now, her voice shaking with fear. No, she thought, it wasn't enough. More shaking, more show of fear. "But why do you care whether or not I go home? Or does the person who sent you want me to leave? Why? I'm no threat to anyone." Marlin Jones was in her mind. Was he somehow behind this?

    The man was silent for a moment, and she knew he was studying her, weighing his options. Who was he?

    He said finally, reaching out his hand to touch a clump of bloody hair, "You know what I think? 1 think that just maybe old Marlin didn't kill your sister. You're like a little terrier, yanking and jerking and pulling, but you won't find anything.

    "Now I believe that's all I need to know. I'll tell you just one last time. Leave Washington. Stay with the FBI if you want to, but transfer. Go home, little girl. Now, let's have us

    a good time."

    He walked toward her, the gun aimed right at her chest. "I want you to march your little butt to the bedroom. I want you to stretch out all pretty-like on the bed. Then we'll see."

    She knew pleading wouldn't gain her anything. She turned and walked out of the kitchen. He was going to rape her. Then would he kill her as well? Probably. But the rape, she wouldn't take the rape, she couldn't. He'd have to kill her before she'd let him rape her. Who had hired him?

    What to do? He didn't think Marlin had killed Belinda? Why did he care? What was going on here?

    "Please, who are you?"

    He just motioned the gun toward the bed.

    She was standing now beside her bed, not wanting to lie down, hating the thought of him being over her, of him in control.

    "Take off that bathrobe."

    Her hands were fists at her sides. He raised the gun. She took off the bathrobe.

    "Now lie down and open those legs real wide for me."

    "Why don't you think Marlin killed my sister?"

    "Business is over. It's party time. Lie down, little girl, or I'll just have to hurt you real bad."

    She couldn't do it. She couldn't.

    He took a step toward her, the gun raised. He was going to hit her with the butt again, probably break her jaw this time. She had to do something.

    The phone rang.

    Both of them stared at it.

    It rang again.

    "It might be my boss," she said, praying harder than she'd ever prayed in her life. "He knows I'm home. He said he might call. There was an assignment he wanted to talk to me about."

    "That big guy who brought you here? That's your boss?"

    She nodded and wished again that she