Double Take - Catherine Coulter [32]
Then suddenly that compelling smooth voice wasn’t talking anymore, but she heard something, not his voice, but— she heard something move, whispery, vague with distance, as elusive as those long-ago feelings that still wouldn’t settle. It wasn’t close yet, but it was coming.
She heard soft creaks in the oak floor in the corridor, coming closer.
What corridor?
Julia jerked awake, her breath hitching, disoriented. She realized she’d been dreaming, felt the old pull of the deadening helplessness, the emptiness she’d felt when she’d stood beside Linc, breathing in the nauseating scent of alcohol and disinfectant that seamed the air itself.
No, I’m not in Hartford, I’m here in San Francisco, at home, in bed. It was the dream, the dream again.
It was a dream she’d had many times over the years, so maybe what she’d heard was simply some new threads woven into the fabric of the dream. Maybe she hadn’t really heard anything—
But she heard them again, slow, soft footfalls—Dear God, someone was here in her house, someone was coming toward her bedroom, coming to kill her. Like he killed Linc. No, he didn’t kill Linc, that was a stupid accident that shouldn’t have happened. But someone killed August and he wanted to kill her too. This time he came to do it right, he’d—
Her terror froze her brain, paralyzed her for a moment. She’d been helpless Thursday night—dear God, only two nights ago— she’d been so surprised by the sudden attack that she’d have died before she understood what was happening. But she wasn’t so surprised this time. And she was ready. She’d rehearsed her movements a dozen times in her mind until her body obeyed without her mind coaching her. She scooted to the side of the bed, quietly slid the side table drawer out, and picked up her pistol, its nitron finish glacier cold, and a second magazine. She’d practiced with it yesterday until it felt perfect in her hand, worked with it until her finger knew exactly how much pressure to put on the trigger. Her heart pounded, but the terror transformed itself into a huge hit of adrenaline that made her shake and feel incredibly powerful.
Her SIG P239 couldn’t stop a dream that kept running at night in her brain, it couldn’t stop a charging rhino, but all she needed from it now was to protect her from a single man. She pulled the covers over a king-sized pillow as she heard another footfall, closer, nearly to her door.
It was very dark in her bedroom; she’d closed the draperies against the bright moonlight. Julia’s bare feet made no sound on her run to the opposite side of the bedroom door. Good, she didn’t want him to hear her. To make it harder for him, she kneeled down, her back pressed against the wall. And waited. She could hear her own heart, pumping fast, but she held steady, slowed her breathing. Another soft footfall, then nothing. He was here, right outside the door, his ear probably against it, listening for any sound. She pictured what would happen, what she would do.
Was it the same man who’d tried to kill her at Pier 39? The man with his glasses, his Burberry coat, and his lovely smile?
The doorknob turned very slowly. He was coming in to kill her, shoot her in her bed, shoot her dead in her sleep, the bastard. Fierce anger punched up her adrenaline again, enough to make her shake, but it didn’t matter. She was ready.
Come on, you creep. I’m not helpless this time. I know my way around in the darkness, and you don’t. Come on in, come on in.
The door opened. She saw a gloved hand first, holding a gun.
She eased down to her stomach and held perfectly still as he walked slowly into her bedroom. He moved gracefully, all his attention focused on her bed. She could make out the faint glint of his glasses, the outline of his dark jacket and dark pants.
When he was not more than four feet in front of her, slightly off to her right, he raised his gun. He