Just Take My Heart - Mary Higgins Clark [78]
It was 8:45 p.m. when he got back to his neighborhood. He looked over at Madeline Kirk's home. He could tell that the nosy old lady's house had the same layout as his, which meant that the light that was on was coming from her den next to the kitchen. She's probably watching television, he thought, maybe waiting for Fugitive Hunt to come on at nine o'clock.
I wonder if they'll do an update to last week's segment about me? I wonder if they'll talk about tips that have come in?
Zach's feet were turning up his own driveway. But then he stopped. If Kirk did watch the show last week, she couldn't have called in a tip yet because the cops would have been all over me. But if she did watch and she wasn't sure about whether to call, see?ing an update tonight might push her to do it. You never know . . .
He had to be sure. But first he had to get gloves from his house so that there would be no fingerprints. He hurried inside, took tight-fitting leather gloves from his hall closet, and put them on.
It was fairly dark on the street, making it easier to slink along the overgrown hedges that separated Kirk's property from her neighbor without being seen. He crouched as he reached the side window that looked into the den, then cautiously raised his head above the level of the sill.
Wearing a bathrobe and nightgown, the slight figure of Madeline Kirk was settled in a threadbare armchair with an afghan over her lap. He saw a phone, a pencil, and a small writing pad on the wooden end table next to her.
He had a good view of the television and the volume was so high that he could catch most of what was being said. It was a couple of minutes before nine and he heard the promo telling viewers to stay tuned for Fugitive Hunt.
He was certain that his instincts were correct. He couldn't wait any longer to see if she would write down the tip telephone number. If he stayed outside and she did begin to dial the number, he might not be able to stop her in time.
There could be an unlocked window or door somewhere, he thought. As he slithered around the outside of the house, he saw no evidence of wiring on the windows that would indicate an alarm. On the other side of the house, he found what he was looking for, a ground-floor window that was slightly raised. When he looked inside, he could see that it led into a small bathroom. A lucky break, he thought. And the door is closed so she won't be able to see me climbing in. Or hear me. With the television on so loud, she's prob?ably almost deaf.
He used his pocketknife to cut away the netting of the screen. The old window's peeling frame shed paint particles that fell to the ground as he placed his gloved fingers in the small opening at the bottom and pushed upward. When he had it raised as far as it would go, he leaned his body forward, stood on his toes, grasped the sill with his hands, and hoisted himself through the opening.
With noiseless steps he made his way down the short hall to the den. Madeline Kirk's chair was positioned so that he was behind her.
Fugitive Hunt was in progress and the host, Bob Warner, was pre?senting an update on Zach. “We've received dozens of tips since last week's segment, and so far none of them has panned out. But we're still on his trail.”
The computer-enhanced pictures of him, including the one that looked frighteningly similar to him now, were flashed across the screen. “Take a close look at them again,” Bob Warner urged. “And remember, this guy likes to plant yellow mums around his home. And here again is our tip number.”
As the telephone number appeared on the screen, Zach heard Madeline Kirk say aloud, “I was right. I was right.”
As she reached to grab the pencil and pad, Zach tapped her on the shoulder. “You know what, old girl? You were right. Too bad for you.