Night of the Owl

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  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2004 by Jane Toombs

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  They'd forgotten to leave his door ajar again, so he lay in darkness. His heart pounded in fear; the dark wasn't his friend. And he sensed evil. Despite how frightened he was, he lay quietly. He could do nothing else. Unable to move or speak, he had no way to change what happened to him. Or what happened to anyone else. The evil waited. Not near him, but that didn't matter, because somehow he'd have to see and hear the evil. Nothing could stop it.

  If only his Daddy was here—but Daddy didn't love him anymore.

  Please stop making me know evil, he begged silently. But it was no use. Suddenly he wasn't lying in bed, he was outside in the foggy night, floating above oleander bushes. A man stood among them wiping a bloody knife and there was a lady on the ground beside him. Dead. What he saw scared him, but the worst of all was knowing something awful bad like this was going to happen to someone he liked, someone he loved. ‘Cause sooner or later it always did...

  What They Are Saying About

  Night Of The Owl

  "...fast paced and taut psychological thriller.” 4 Stars—Jill M. Smith

  Romantic Times Magazine

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  Wings

  Night Of The Owl by

  Jane Toombs

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Romantic Suspense Novel

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  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

  Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Christine Poe

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2004 by Jane Toombs

  ISBN 1-59088-330-6

  Published In the United States Of America

  October 2004

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  To my daughter,

  Bobbie Jenke, a very special Special Ed teacher.

  Prologue

  They'd forgotten to leave his door ajar again, so he lay in darkness. His heart pounded in fear; the dark wasn't his friend. And he sensed evil.

  He didn't think they'd closed his door all the way on purpose. One or two were mean, their harsh hands shoving him this way and that when they took care of him. The others, mostly, were nice, even if only one of two of them really cared about him.

  Despite how frightened he was, he lay quietly. He could do nothing else. Unable to move or speak, he had no way to change what happened to him. Or what happened to anyone else.

  He knew he hadn't always been this way. Before, a long time ago, he talked and walked and even ran. But it was dangerous to think about that, and so he tried not to.

  He closed his eyes to shut out the dark. It might not be any lighter behind his lids, but at least this was a dark of his own choosing. Sometimes closing his eyes helped. Tonight it didn't. The evil was still there, waiting.

  Not near him, no, but that didn't matter, because if he was supposed to see and hear the evil, he would. Nothing could stop it.

  If only he had someone who could understand. Not Daddy. Daddy didn't like him anymore, he could tell. And there wasn't anybody else. No one loved what he was now.

  I don't want to see, he screamed inwardly, silently, hopelessly. I don't want to hear, don't want to know. Please stop making me know.

  It was no use. Suddenly he wasn't lying in the bed, he was somewhere else, he was outside in the night. In the fog. Shrouded in gray mist, he floated over dimly glimpsed trees, finally dipping down to hover over a clump of bushes. He recognized a pink oleander flower. Daddy always used to make sure he knew the names of trees and plants and birds—music and painting, too. That's ‘cause Daddy was a teacher.

  But it didn't do any good to try to keep his mind on other things, like that his daddy had taught him oleanders were poisonous. Evil filled the night; he could feel the badness lurking in the fog.

  He dipped lower, among the bushes, and there it was. He couldn't close his eyes to shut out the horror of what he saw, ‘cause when he was away from himself like this he didn't seem to have any eyes. Or any body, either.

  When it first happened, he'd tried to think it was like watching TV, only it really wasn't. TVs could be turned off.

  A man stood among the pink flowers, wiping a knife. At his feet, something, all bloody, lay scrunched up on the ground. A lady. She was dead. He couldn't see the man's face ‘cause of the fog, but he could feel the evil pulsing from him.

  "So long, bitch,” the man whispered.

  The sound of the man's voice chilled him, even though he'd learned by now he couldn't be seen. That's because he wasn't really there, only some kind of invisible part of him was. He didn't understand how or why. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

  What he saw and heard scared him, but the worst of all was knowing that something awful like this was going to happen to someone he liked. Maybe even someone he loved.

  'Cause sooner or later, it always did...

  One

  The fog drifted in from the ocean like a great gray bird, spreading misty wings over the gorges and mesas of Balboa Park. The man crouched among the pink oleander bushes lifted his head to breathe in the welcome dampness.

  Time to go. He eased free of the oleanders and slogged across the grass, his movements heavy and slow, feeling as though he was making his way through thick mud. Not Nam jungle muck but red adobe, California clay made soggy by rain.

  The kind of mud that built up on the soles of shoes but, like Hank used to say, not inside the souls of men. If men had souls. Women didn't, no more than dogs did, he was sure of that.

  Afterward was always the same—the low, the bottomless down. Glancing back toward what he'd left in the fog-shrouded mass of shrubbery behind him, he tried to remember how good it had felt. As usual, he failed. The high never lasted; he could never bring back the feeling. Until the next time.

  The fog slithered along the city streets as he left the park. Tonight's full moon, visible in the eastern-most suburbs near the desert, couldn't be seen in this vast park so close to the ocean. He lived on the park's east side and counted on the fog as a part of his life. As a friend. He hadn't had many.

  Hadn't had any friends, really, until Nam and Hank. Now he had none. Except for the fog. And, sometimes, the dogs. But they were expendable. They had to be expendable or they were of no use to him.

  Concealed within the fog's embrace he slipped into the alley leading to his rear apartment, relishing the feeling of invisibility. No one saw him; no one knew him. He moved as silently as the fog, as stealthily as an owl drifting o
n the night wind.

  Inside, the shower drained what meager vitality he had left and he fell into bed. If he was lucky tonight the dreams wouldn't plague him. Sometimes, afterward, he didn't dream for as long as a week.

  With his left hand he fingered the golden heart on the gold chain around his neck and with his right he rubbed his left upper arm, stroking the tawny owl needled into his skin. Night's heralds, Hank used to call owls. Before he'd met Hank he always thought guys who talked fancy were showing off. But not Hank.

  Better stop thinking about Hank or he'd be risking a nightmare. Sleep, he needed sleep. He was depleted, nothing left of him. Way down, too spent to even look up, much less climb out. It was all over—the search, the excitement of the chase, the careful collection of a specimen without being caught, the juggling of each detail so everything would be perfect. Then the final ecstatic rush of release.

  He needed to rest now, needed to prepare himself for the time he'd find it necessary to begin the hunt again.

  Two

  Sara Henderson crossed the dark parking area toward the lighted school buildings, not quite running. She'd almost decided not to come. The UCSD extension class was at a junior high school close to Balboa Park, right next to the zoo. And spring was still months away; this time of year the dark came early. But she'd convinced herself it was silly to worry about being attacked every time she went out alone at night. Or almost convinced herself.

  She glanced to each side as she hurried, unhappy about the large hibiscus bushes lining the sidewalk. Impossible to spot someone hiding behind or between them. Fallen eucalyptus leaves crunched under her feet, covering the sound of possible footsteps behind her.

  Increasing her pace, she resisted the urge to turn her head for a quick scan behind her. She wouldn't be here if Dr. Zimmer hadn't urged her to find a way to make contact with other people. Easy for him to say, he wasn't a woman. Wasn't a red-haired woman. He didn't have to worry about anybody stalking him on a foggy autumn evening. Or any other time.

  But it was partly her own fault. If she'd been on time she might have found others to walk with. Instead, she'd dithered about going or not going until almost too late.

  She was breathless by the time she opened the door to Room 24 and slid into a seat. No way was she going to walk back to that parking lot alone after the class was over.

  Sara wasn't certain why she'd chosen a mythology course. An introduction to computers would've taught her a useful skill. Or she might have taken a refresher in her field of special education. What good would mythology be when she dredged up the courage to go job hunting?

  "We all practice procrastination, Sara,” Dr. Zimmer had said, “but reality can't be postponed forever."

  Her lips curled in wry amusement. Perhaps she'd chosen mythology because he stressed reality.

  Why were the others in the room with her taking this class? She was looking them over when a man in a brown corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves came up the aisle and leaned on the lectern.

  "I'm Ralph MacDuffy,” he announced, running a hand through his ginger hair, artfully disarranging the curls. His smile seemed a deliberate attempt to call attention to the contrast of even white teeth against tanned skin—to say nothing of the dimple in his right cheek.

  Sara looked up at him with mixed appreciation and cynicism. There was certainly no question of his good looks or his awareness of them. Still, he seemed young to be an assistant professor, so he must have something going for him other than being a gorgeous hunk.

  As she listened to Ralph MacDuffy extol the heroes of myths around the world, she grew more and more uncertain of her subject choice. Did she really want to wallow in legendary heroes after trying to live with one for seven years and failing miserably?

  Sara shrugged. Heroes were the vaunted men in all civilizations, no one bothered to laud losers. Certainly C.W. had gotten his share of adulation—so much so that he came to believe he truly was as heroic as the media claimed he was.

  "...and, of course, we must not neglect the Kalevala of the Finns,” MacDuffy went on. “Longfellow, one of our early American moralists, thought it good enough to steal from for his Song Of Hiawatha. Meter, cadence—a direct theft.” He raised his left eyebrow engagingly and paused for effect. Though competent in her own area, Sara had never felt herself to be an expert in any field whatsoever but she did know the Kalevala—Grandpa Saari used to recite it in Finn, yet—and she knew something about Chippewa Indians because she'd gone to school with them when she was growing up in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

  She raised her hand. “Mr. MacDuffy?"

  "Ralph—we're contemporaries, after all."

  "Well, about ‘Hiawatha.’ Don't you think Longfellow might have been struck by the resemblances in the myths of the American Indians and those of the Finns? Both emphasize magic and trickery. Perhaps he felt it was fitting to borrow the same method to tell about an Indian hero."

  "My dear—what is your name?"

  "Sara Henderson,” she murmured, already sorry she'd spoken.

  "My dear Sara, ‘Hiawatha’ is a fake from beginning to end. Gone With The Wind gives us a truer mythology of the Old South than ‘Hiawatha’ does of the Chippewas. Even the name of the hero comes from the Iroquois—deadly enemies of the Chippewa. Longfellow created a fake hero and coupled him with a direct steal from the Kalevala for his cadence. I'm sorry if it shocks you to think of him as a thief."

  Some of the younger members of the class tittered and Sara felt her face burn. She shook her head and looked down at her hands, unable to defend her position but unwilling to agree. She'd never had any defense against ridicule. Her ex-husband, the famous, the wonderful Charles William Gallion, had discovered that fact early in their marriage.

  "If you don't want to be trampled on, stop being such a doormat,” he'd say, while at the same time knocking her down verbally every time she tried to stand up to him. C.W., the legend in his own time.

  "...a point here.” Sara belatedly realized the voice didn't belong to MacDuffy and raised her head to see who was speaking.

  "I'm no authority on either the Finns or the Indians,” the man went on, “but if they both used magic and trickery to explain the ways of nature, then how can you arbitrarily say Longfellow stole from the Kalevala? No reason the man couldn't have borrowed a primitive verse form. Maybe he thought his readers would be smart enough to see why he'd used the meter and cadence and they'd praise his cleverness."

  MacDuffy threw his arms heavenward in a dramatic gesture. “Unfortunately, he's up there now, so we can't ask, can we?” And he went on to other lands and other heroes. Sara eyed the tall man in the gray sweater and faded jeans who'd spoken for her. Championed her cause. He glanced her way and she managed a faint smile before she ducked her head again. Ridiculous to be so flustered at being put down by that ginger-haired egotist. After all, she'd been put down far more expertly in the past.

  Never again, she told herself. No more being chivvied through life by an ex-pro halfback who had to trample down all competition on or off the field. Never again. MacDuffy was no C.W. but he was of the same breed. Weren't all men if given half a chance?

  She owed the man in the gray sweater, though. At the break she caught up to him on the way to the coffee machine. “Thanks for the support,” she said.

  He slowed and spoke without looking at her. “Our Ralphie is full of crap. Knows his stuff, they tell me, but demands center stage at all times. Don't let him bother you. Besides, I think you were right.” He glanced at her and smiled briefly. “I'm Ian Wilson."

  "You've heard my name. It's Sara without the ‘h'."

  He raised his eyebrows slightly but said nothing.

  She examined him more carefully. Rather an ugly man, actually. A few years older than her twenty-eight, face hilled and furrowed, nose slightly askew, possibly broken once. Defenseless brown eyes looked out at the world, at her. Eyes that didn't seem to belong in the dour, craggy face. Sara turned away, consciou
s of staring.

  "How do you like your coffee?” His voice was pleasant, almost soothing.

  "Sugar only, thank you."

  "You aren't related to MacDuffy, are you?"

  Sara was astonished. “Me? Good grief, no."

  Ian waved an apologetic hand. “Well, your hair's the same color as his. And there's a general resemblance."

  She blinked at him, rather dismayed at being linked with Ralph MacDuffy.

  Ian handed her a coffee and asked, “Are you an English teacher like most of us?"

  "No. That is, I'm a teacher—though not of English—but I'm not working at the moment.” Involuntarily she touched her ringless finger, reminded of how C.W. refused to hear of her keeping her job once they were married.

  "Don't tell me you're taking the class for pleasure."

  Sara half-smiled. “I hadn't thought of it as pleasure.” More as therapy, though she wasn't about to admit it. “Where do you teach?” she asked.

  "I'm on a sabbatical until next fall.” He answered readily enough but she had the impression her question had disturbed him and she wondered why.

  She noticed the groups around the coffee machine were breaking up and thought, now or never.

  "Please don't think I'm crazy.” She spoke quickly, wanting to get it all said before he had a chance to respond. “I'm really nervous about walking to the parking lot after class is over. Because of the strangler. We're so close to the park and it's so dark in the lot and I don't know anyone to walk with yet. Would you mind—are you parked there, too?"

  "Yes. I'll walk with you.” His words were abrupt, even begrudging.

  Back in class, she fumed at herself. He must think she was coming on to him when, God knows, it was the last thing she intended. She should have asked one of the other women to walk with her.

  "Get out of the house,” Dr. Zimmer had said. “Find an outlet."

  "The shrinks are crazier than the people who go to them,” C.W. had insisted. “And you have to be pretty damn nutty to go to one in the first place."