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In the meantime, she worked at the Canine Palace, a posh full-service inn for dogs, located in Tribeca. She handled everything from long-term boarding to doggy day care. Her time there had reinforced what she already believed: dogs were far easier and more delightful to deal with than their owners.
She commuted from Hoboken, a short ride on the PATH train that she could do in her sleep. With her credentials, she could easily have gotten a job closer to home, but she was too attached to her regular “clientele” to make a move.
Her hours were long. Sometimes she didn’t get back to her apartment until after eight, especially when busy executives were picking up their pups after a very full day. But it wasn’t a problem, since her boyfriend was an architect whose hours were as crazy as hers. Whoever got home first either cooked or bought dinner.
This particular night had been an exceptionally long one. A slew of professionals showed up to pick up their furry friends from doggy day care, and an equal number of folks had arrived to reunite with their pets after a week’s or two-week vacation. Even that strange guy who’d been coming in every other day for a month to buy toys for a dog Maura had never seen showed up, examining the squeaky latex animals for an hour before he chose two of them to purchase.
By the time she got out the door, Maura’s red hair was sweaty and stuck to her neck, and she was more exhausted than usual. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower, put something in her stomach and crawl off to bed.
She didn’t pay a damned bit of attention to her fellow PATH train riders, nor did she glance around as she took the shortcut to her apartment. Her boyfriend hated when she went that way. It took her right by the sketchiest section of town. He’d rather she took a taxi. But she wasn’t waiting around to hail one. Her sole focus was on getting home.
She was halfway by the projects when she got the eerie sense that she was being followed. She halted, turning to scrutinize the area behind her. No one. She was just being paranoid. Too many warnings from her boyfriend and too many TV shows.
Still, she picked up her pace. Commuting time was over, it was dark and she couldn’t shake the creepy feeling in her gut.
Rough hands grabbed her from behind, and an arm hooked around her neck. A handkerchief was forced over her nose and mouth. The blade of a knife dug into her abdomen, just shy of piercing her body. Struggling wildly, she flung down her purse, hoping her assailant would take it and run off.
He didn’t.
She fought harder, trying to shove away the knife blade as she thrashed her head, struggling for air. She’d watched enough cop shows on TV to recognize the sickeningly sweet odor of chloroform. She had to escape before the dizziness took over.
It was useless. Her assailant was too strong.
He began to drag her off.
In a last-ditch effort, she raised a leg and kicked him as hard as she could with the heel of her shoe.
He swore violently and stabbed the blade into her waist—not enough to kill her, but enough. Maura cried out in pain, but her cries were silenced by the handkerchief.
“You’re not dying here,” he muttered. “Not until I’m done with you.”
He crammed the handkerchief into her mouth, pinching her nose closed and forcing the chloroform to do its job.
Blood soaking through her clothes, Maura collapsed against him, unconscious.
* * *
Claire was in her apartment, trying to relax. Sitting in the lotus position on her bed, she was taking deep cleansing breaths, letting the calming energy flow through her.
All of that ended in a surge of blinding panic, and a vision that was all too familiar. The same. Different. Terrifying.
Dear God, it was happening again.
Patrick. She had to reach Patrick.
Chapter Ten
Casey had just stepped out of the shower and was towel-drying her hair when her cell phone rang.
She picked it up cautiously, glancing down at caller ID. Her gut clenched when she saw that the number was blocked. Still, she wouldn’t allow herself to freak out. Lots of people preferred to have their cell phone numbers unidentifiable.
She punched on the cell. “Casey Woods.”
“Hello, Red.” The tinny scrambled voice sent chills up her spine. “Stop searching. That body is cold. There’s a warm one with your name on it.”
Casey sank down on the edge of her bed, trembling but determined to find out all she could before this psycho hung up on her.
“What cold body?” she demanded.
