The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [147]
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Epilogue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE MAZE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1011-9162-0
A Berkley BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
Jove and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): September 2001
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WHENEVER I hear writers brag about how their editors don’t require any changes to their manuscripts, I’m honestly floored. It’s an editor’s job to be the reader’s representative and thus make the manuscript better. And believe me, a manuscript can always be made better.
I’ve got to be the luckiest writer ever. I don’t have just one editor, I have a three-person hack-and-maim team, and all three of them give me very timely feedback, all with an eye to making my novels the best they can be. My ongoing thanks to Stacy Creamer, Leslie Gelbman, and Phyllis Grann.
I’d also like to thank my husband, Anton, for getting back into the editing saddle after a ten-year hiatus. He’s the Editor from Hell (in the good sense).
And finally, my continuing thanks to Karen Evans with the red Babylonian harlot hair. Without her incredible mental energy, enthusiasm, and support, I would soon find myself in a sorry state.
Life is good.
1
San Francisco, California
May 15
IT WOULDN’T stop, ever.
She couldn’t breathe. She was dying. She sat upright in her bed wheezing, trying to control the terror. She turned on the lamp beside her bed. There was nothing there. No, just shadows that kept the corners dark and frightening. But the door was closed. She always closed her bedroom door at night and locked it, then tilted a chair against it so that its back was snug against the doorknob. Just for good measure.
She stared at that door. It didn’t move. It didn’t so much as rattle in its frame. The knob did not turn. No one was on the other side trying to get in.
No one this time.
She made herself look over toward the window. She’d wanted to put bars on all the windows when she moved in seven months before, but at the last minute she decided that if she did she would have made herself a prisoner forever. Instead she’d switched to the fourth-floor apartment. There were two floors above her and no balconies. No one could come in through the window. And no one would think she was crazy because she lived on the fourth floor. It was a good move. There was no way she could continue living at home, where Belinda had lived. Where Douglas had lived.
The images were in her mind, always faded, always blurred, but still there and still menacing: bloody, but just beyond her ability to put them in focus. She was in a large dark space, huge, she couldn’t see the beginning or the end of it. But there was a light, a narrow focused light, and she heard a voice. And the screams. Loud, right there on her. And there was Belinda, always Belinda.
She was still choking on the fear. She didn’t want to get up, but she made herself. She had to go to the bathroom. Thank God the bathroom was off the bedroom. Thank God she