Keeping Watch. Jan Hambright

focus locked on the subject, he opened the car door and climbed out. He didn’t shut it, but instead left it open a crack. If the subject heard a car door latch, he’d take off like a shot.

      He took a low profile, crossed the street and sagged into the shadows next to the sidewalk.

      Pausing at the head of the alley, he took cover next to a fence. Royce eased his head out and stared into the darkness. At the other end, a block away, he spotted a car parked at an odd angle under a streetlamp. Did it belong to the Peeping Tom?

      Agitation rocked his body and coated his nerves. He pulled back, took the radio from his belt and relayed the location of the vehicle to the uniforms in a low whisper. If it did belong to the suspect, they’d have him before he had a chance to run, or they’d have a plate number to track him with.

      Somewhere in the thick night air, he heard an engine turn over. He listened, but couldn’t dial in its location as the hum mingled with the tune of the city streets.

      The hair on the back of his neck bristled. Warning bells sounded in his head, but it was too late, he’d already stepped out into the open mouth of the alleyway.

      The roar of the speeding car’s motor sliced into his awareness just as he caught a glimpse of its dark, sleek body fifty feet from where he stood and closing in like a rocket.

      Royce lunged for the other side of the alley, the forward momentum driving him onto the asphalt inches from the kamikaze car.

      It passed close by, so close it ruffled his hair.

      Royce rolled over, pulled his gun and took aim just as the driver of the car tapped his brakes, released and barreled into the distance and out of range.

      He’d like to believe that was random, but it didn’t stick. Frustrated, he lowered his weapon and came to his feet. He’d gotten the first two numbers on the licence plate, 32, and he recognized the taillight configuration of a Mustang.

      He radioed the car’s direction of escape and the partial plate number before turning his focus on the lit window as he came around the end of the fence and stepped into the yard, staying in the cover of the bushes.

      Surprise rippled his nerves and rooted him in place. The subject still stood in the same spot peering into Adelaide’s studio window, his forehead resting on the bottom right-hand pane.

      How was that even possible? How did he not hear the commotion from the alley seconds ago and get spooked? He’d heard of fixation, that locked-on tunnel vision in which nothing exists outside the focus, but he’d never seen it in action, not until tonight.

      Damn scary. He raised his weapon and edged out of the trees. “Police. Turn around and show me your hands.”

      The startled subject raised his hands and took a couple of calculated steps back.

      Caution ran along Royce’s nerves. Only seconds existed between surrender and pursuit, with nothing in between but bullets and mayhem.

      Was the Peeping Tom armed and dangerous? He couldn’t be sure. “NOPD. Turn around.”

      The man bolted.

      Royce rushed toward him, closing the distance in quick strides, but the suspect dove for the ground at the corner of the house, crawled around it and disappeared out of sight.

      He reached the side of the house and flattened against it. Gun raised, he slid along the wall, stopping only briefly to glance in the studio window at what the subject had seen moments ago through the two-inch crack at the bottom of the window shade.

      Adelaide was lying on the floor of her studio among a smattering of sketches. He looked for blood, and saw none.

      Somewhere in the dark, he heard bushes rustle, followed by running footsteps. Royce pushed away from the house and charged for the backyard. There he found an opening in the foliage and stepped out into the alley. A block over he heard a motor start up and the engine rev.

      He bolted to the corner in time to see a flash of the car’s taillights, and then it was gone. Pulling the portable radio off his belt, he alerted the squad car to the vehicle’s exact direction of travel. With any luck they’d get the plate number and a description of the car.

      Royce hurried for the house. Had Adelaide somehow been injured while he sat outside in his car? If so, the subject would have had to be able to walk through walls.

      Key…key…under the front mat.

      Hurrying up the steps of the front porch, he flipped up the mat and picked up the key. He shoved it into the lock and opened the door.

      Was she okay? Had he somehow blown his mission to keep her safe? The string of unanswered questions all ran together in his brain as he rushed down the hall and into the studio.

      He dropped to the floor next to her and reached out, touching her warm body.

      “Adelaide. Adelaide.” He listened to her suck in a startled breath and realized he’d just awakened her.

      Her eyes flicked open and she pulled back for an instant. Tears flooded the brim of her lower lashes. She reached out for him.

      He pulled her against him, feeling her body tremble.

      “Make them stop, Royce. Make them stop.” A sob shook her, and he settled into a rocking motion, trying to comfort her.

      “What, Adelaide? What do you want me to stop?”

      She didn’t answer as he stroked the nape of her neck, feeling her go pliant in his arms. Streams of heat entered his body and burned in his veins. There it was again, that inexplicable hypnotic edge of desire present every time he touched her.

      “Tell me. You’ve got to tell me if you want my help.”

      “It’s here…it’s all around me.”

      Now she was talking in riddles, riddles he couldn’t understand. Crazy talk, and as much as it pained him, he let her go and sat back, not breaking contact where he held her bare shoulders between his hands. Was she still half-asleep?

      “Make sense, Adelaide. You’ve got to make sense.”

      She swallowed hard and met his gaze. The veil of drowsiness lifted, and she visibly straightened, shoulders back, chin up.

      “It’s here.” She motioned to the drawings on the floor with a slight tilt of her head. “They wake me up from a dead sleep and I’m compelled to come down here and draw these…these…”

      “Pictures?”

      “Yes.” She looked away and shook her head. “But they’re becoming more detailed, more intense. Tonight I was able to give her a face.”

      For the first time, Royce looked down at the drawings spread out around them.

      His mouth went dry and he released her to pick up the nearest one, trying to conceal the creeping layer of revulsion that the sadistic image churned in his gut.

      “They’re horrific, and I can’t get them out of my head.”

      Glancing up at her, he watched a tear zigzag down her cheek and tried to imagine how the woman in front of him could draw a murder scene that included a posed female body.

      “Please, you have to understand. I don’t know where they’re coming from, they just come.” She turned misty green eyes on him and he couldn’t resist.

      He reached out for her and pulled her against him, feeling the silkiness of her skin under his fingers. Smelling the sweet, spicy scent of her hair. He closed his eyes for an instant to absorb the sensations, but the only thing he saw was the image of a disturbing murder.

      What was going on?

      He didn’t know, but he needed to find out, that was, if he could reconcile the ugly drawings around them with the beautiful woman in his arms.

       Chapter Three

      Adelaide fidgeted