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“As a matter of fact, I'm on my way, but I decided to stop by here for a few hours to see how you're doing.”
“Is Dallie with you?” She surreptitiously scanned the crowd behind Holly Grace.
To Francesca's relief, Holly Grace shook her head. “I decided not to say anything to him. He's playing in a tournament next week, and he doesn't need any distractions. You look like you're about ready to pop.”
“I feel like it, too.” Once again she tried to rub the ache from her back, and then, because Holly Grace looked sympathetic and she was feeling very much alone, she added, “The doctor thinks it'll be another week.”
“Are you scared?”
She pressed her hand against her side where a small foot was pushing up. “I've been through so much this past year, I can't imagine that giving birth could be any worse.” Glancing toward the KDSC tent, she saw Clare waving wildly toward her, and added wryly, “Besides, I'm looking forward to lying down for a few hours.”
Holly Grace chuckled and fell in step next to her. “Don't you think it's about time you stopped working and took it easy?”
“I'd like to, but my boss won't give me any more than a month off with pay, and I don't want to start the clock running until the baby's born.”
“That woman looks like she eats hardware for breakfast.”
“Only the screws.”
Holly Grace laughed, and Francesca felt a surprising sense of camaraderie with her. They walked toward the tent together, chatting awkwardly about the weather. A gust of hot air plastered her loose cotton dress to the mound of her stomach. A fire siren went off, and the baby gave her three hard kicks.
Suddenly a wave of pain ripped across her back, the sensation so fierce that her knees began to buckle. She instinctively reached out for Holly Grace. “Oh, dear—”
Holly Grace dropped her Popsicle and grabbed her waist. “Hang on.”
Francesca moaned and leaned forward trying to catch her breath. A trickle of amniotic fluid began leaking along the insides of her legs. She leaned into Holly Grace and took a half-step, the sudden wetness squishing into her sandals. Clutching her abdomen, she gasped, “Oh, Natalie... you're not acting... much like a... lady.”
Over by the calf pens, cymbals clashed and the boy with the trumpet once again turned the bell of his instrument into the blazing Texas sun and played for all he was worth:
I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Yankee Doodle do or die,
A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam,
Born on the Fourth of July....
Lighting the
Lamp
Chapter
22
He pressed himself flat against the wall, the switchblade clenched in his fist, his thumb next to the button. He didn't want to kill. He found no pleasure in drawing human blood, especially female blood, but the time always came when such a thing was necessary. Tilting his head to the side, he heard the sound he'd been waiting for, the soft ding of the elevator doors opening. Once the woman stepped out, her footsteps would be absorbed by the thick melon-colored carpet that covered the hallway in the expensive Manhattan co-op building, so he began to count softly to himself, every muscle in his body tense, ready to spring into action.
He brushed the pad of his thumb over the button of his switchblade, not hard enough to trigger it, but merely to reassure himself. The city was a jungle to him, and he was a jungle cat—a strong, silent predator who did what he had to.
No one remembered the name he had been born with— time and brutality had erased it. Now the world knew him only as Lasher.
Lasher the Great.
He kept counting, having already calculated the time it would take her to reach the turn in the hallway where he had flattened himself against the subdued paisley wallpaper. And then he caught the faint scent of her perfume. He poised himself to spring. She was beautiful, famous... and soon she would be dead!
He sprang forward with a mighty roar as the call for blood raged in his head.
She screamed and stumbled backwards, dropping her purse. He flicked the button on his switchblade with one hand and, looking up at her, pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose with the other. “You're dead meat, China Colt!” Lasher the Great sneered.
