CHAPTER 28
WHEN BELLE’S HOUSE came into view, the memory of her mysterious intruder returned. While she gazed thoughtfully at the silent windows, Rosco’s expression grew equally perturbed.
“Do you think … Just for tonight, I mean …?” he began after they’d entered the house, and he’d scanned the foyer and living room with a quick, appraising eye. “What I mean is, wouldn’t it be a good idea for me to stick around … Sleep on a couch or something?”
“No,” Belle responded too quickly. They’d moved into her office, and she masked her abruptness by shuffling a pile of papers lying on her desk.
Rosco said, “What happened on the island won’t happen again. I swear.”
“That’s not why I’m refusing your offer.”
“It was totally unprofessional, and I apologize.”
“I’m not sorry it happened, so you needn’t apologize.”
The awkwardness of the situation held them in place. Belle began toying with a battered Italian dictionary; Rosco found himself gripping the back of the canvas chair.
“I’m not in the habit of stealing other men’s wives.”
“I know you’re not.”
“I’m worried about your safety, that’s all.” The chair rocked under Rosco’s heavy grasp.
“I’ll be fine … I will. Look, I realize I seemed upset earlier, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have been for a long time.”
Neither spoke for several weighty moments.
Rosco was the first to break the silence. “Belle, I’m not disagreeing with you … It’s just that in my line of work I’ve seen a lot of unpleasant situations.”
“Garet made certain this house has almost as many locks as Fort Knox.”
“I’d like to take a look-see before I go. Check out possible entrances … if that’s okay?”
“If it will make you feel better.”
“It will.”
“And then you’ll leave?”
“If that’s your decision.”
Rosco’s search was painstakingly thorough; he opened closet doors and paced through the basement while Belle followed at a distance. She could see him struggling to find an explanation for their kiss, but was relieved he didn’t reintroduce the subject.
“I’m an adult, you know,” she said when at last he walked out the front door. “I can handle myself … Emotionally and physically.”
“Will you call me if there’s a problem?”
“There’s not going to be a problem.”
“But you’d call me if there were?”
Belle didn’t answer, but when he’d left, she double-locked the door.
Alone, she munched distractedly on leftover meat loaf, then decided to treat herself to a can of anchovies, but neither they nor the four licorice sticks she added for dessert seemed to have any discernible flavor. She deeply regretted the ruined eggs and mayonnaise. At eleven, she was in bed and asleep almost immediately.
At one-thirty, the phone rang. For some reason she expected the caller to be Rosco; prepared with a witty retort on her Amazonian powers, she lifted the receiver, but no one responded. Whoever had called simply hung up, and Belle assumed that it was a wrong number and drifted off to sleep again. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. This time she detected breathing on the other end of the line, but again no one spoke.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, but the caller hung up without replying.
The phone rang three more times during the night; each time the caller followed the same routine: a few shallow and measured breaths that remained on the line for less than ten seconds. On the final call, however, at five A.M., she was startled by the addition of a low, vindictive laugh. It seemed to pulse through her fingers as she held the receiver, but Belle was unable to discern whether the mysterious voice belonged to a man or a woman.