Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [0]
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Bantam Books by Kay Hooper
Copyright Page
This one is for Jeff and Tommy,
my shopping buddies.
Mostly because they didn't believe
I'd put them in a book.
Hey, guys!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This time out, Bishop and his Special Crimes Unit owe even greater thanks than usual to the fantastic Team Bantam, whose members worked above and beyond the call of duty to put this story into your hands.
A grateful author wishes to thank Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib, Bill Massey and Andie Nicolay, Kathy Lord, and all the other hardworking professionals in production who made this book possible.
Words aren't enough, but they'll have to do.
Thanks again.
PROLOGUE
THE VOICES WOULDN'T leave him alone.
Neither would the nightmares.
He threw back the covers and stumbled from the bed. A full moon beamed enough light into the house for him to find his way to the sink in the bathroom.
He carefully avoided looking into the mirror but was highly conscious of his shadowy reflection as he fumbled for a drinking cup and turned on the tap. He drank three cups of water, vaguely surprised that he was so thirsty and yet . . . not.
He was usually thirsty these days.
It was part of the change.
He splashed his face with the cold water, again and again, not caring about the mess he was making. By the third splash, he realized he was crying.
Wimp. Spineless coward.
“I'm not,” he muttered, sending the next handful of water to wet his aching head.
You're afraid. Pissing-in-your-pants afraid.
Half-consciously, he pressed his thighs together. “I'm not. I can do it. I told you I could do it.”
Then do it now.
He froze, bent over the sink, water dribbling from his cupped hands. “Now?”
Now.
“But . . . it's not ready yet. If I do it now—”
Coward. I should have known you couldn't go through with it. I should have known you'd fail me.
He straightened slowly, this time looking deliberately into the dim mirror. Even with moonlight, all he could make out was the shadowy shape of his head, dark blurs of features, faint gleam of eyes. The murky outline of a stranger.
What choice did he have?
Just look at yourself. Wimp. Spineless coward. You'll never be a real man, will you?
He could feel water dripping off his chin. Or maybe it was the last of the tears. He sucked in air, so deep his chest hurt, then let it out slowly.
Maybe you can buy a backbone—
“I'm ready,” he said. “I'm ready to do it.”
I don't believe you.
He turned off the taps and walked out of the bathroom. Went back to his bedroom, where the moonlight spilled through the big window to spotlight the old steamer trunk set against the wall beneath it. He knelt down and carefully opened it.
The raised lid blocked off some of the moonlight, but he didn't need light for this. He reached inside, let his fingers search gingerly until they felt the cold steel. He lifted the knife and held it in the light, turning it this way and that, fascinated by the gleam of the razor-sharp, serrated edge.
“I'm ready,” he murmured. “I'm ready to kill her.”
The voices wouldn't leave her alone.
Neither would the nightmares.
She had drawn the drapes before going to bed in an effort to close out the moonlight, but even though the room was dark, she was very conscious of that huge moon painting everything on the other side of her window with the stark, eerie light that made her feel so uneasy.
She hated full moons.
The clock on her nightstand told her it was nearly five in the morning. The hot, sandpapery feel of her eyelids told her she really needed to try to go back to sleep. But the whisper of the voices in her head told her that even trying would be useless, at least for a while.
She pushed back the covers and slid from her bed. She didn't need light to show her the way to the kitchen,