To Forrest Blake, without you, this book wouldn't have been possible.
In tribute to my beautiful mother, Ethel Laverne Taylor
and my latest grandchild, Elle Laverne Taylor.

CHAPTER 1

Thursday, December 23—12:30 Pm.

            Death was waiting, crouched inside the garage of Suzanne Porter's beautiful home. Her shoes slapped against the wet pavement only a few blocks away. The sky had been overcast when she'd left on her daily run. Now it was raining and she was soaked. Because her hair was layered, its thick strands stuck to her face and annoyed her. The only way to tame it was to wear a baseball cap. She didn't like to wear hats, though, as they gave her headaches.

            Trivial things couldn't upset her today. She loved Ventura when it rained. Crossing to the other side of the street, she glanced through an opening between the houses and caught a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean snaking its way along the shoreline, the whitecaps churning. The surfers must be in heaven, she thought, seeing their heads bob­bing in the water as they waited to catch the next wave.

            The town had grown around the historic San Buenaventura Mission, founded in 1782. Suzanne was delighted with her husband's hometown, framed on one side by the sea and the other by the mountains. She felt certain they would spend the rest of their lives here. Her parents were dead and she had become very fond of Ted's mother and father. In addition, they had a wide circle of friends, some who had known Ted since childhood.

            She was filled with anticipation. Several months back, she'd de­cided on the perfect Christmas gift for her husband. Actually, it was a combined birthday and Christmas gift, but she was too excited to wait two weeks to give it to him. Her husband restored cars as a way to relax from the stress of his job. Once a car was finished, it could take months to find a buyer. He was always eager to start on another project, but he couldn't, due to lack of space. Three weeks ago, she had secretly sold off some of the stock she'd owned prior to their marriage and hired a contractor to expand their garage so it would hold four cars. She would show him the plans on Christmas Day. Ted would love it.

            She had spent the last week preparing for the holiday. This was Suzanne's year to have the family over and she wanted everything to be just right. Her sister-in-law, Janice, was a gourmet cook. Rather than take a chance, she'd arranged to have the meal catered by La Orange, one of the best restaurants in Ventura. She'd threatened to tell Ted's mother that he looked at pictures of naked girls on the Internet if Ted told anyone. So what if she was a lousy cook? She could make salads and spaghetti. Most of the time they ate out.

            Before she married, Suzanne had been a bond trader on Wall Street. When, at age twenty-eight, she started seeing her hair turn gray, she knew it was time to shop for a husband. Ted had been in New York on a business trip. He brokered for Merrill Lynch.

            During the holidays, Suzanne always lost her willpower and would eat everything in sight. The night before, she'd wolfed down half a box of Godiva chocolates. Since she'd turned thirty-five the month before, she knew her indulgence would show up on her thighs. Her daily workout consisted of lifting weights for an hour in her home gym, followed by a two-mile run. That morning, she'd forced herself to step on the dreaded scale. She'd expected three pounds, maybe four tops. How could she have gained eight pounds in two months? All her clothes were a size six. She decided to extend her run.

            Crossing the street again, she picked up the pace. By the time she reached her house, she was exhausted. She'd only added one mile. A few years ago, she could run ten miles and hardly break a sweat. She leaned over and clasped her knees, then started up the sidewalk. The rain had eased up, but the weather report had predicted another front would move in by evening. She missed snow. Suzanne had grown up in Connecticut. She remembered the snowball fights in their front yard on Christmas Day, ice-skating on Whitman Lake, and sledding down Black Canyon with her brothers. Sure, the con­stantly sunny skies were nice, but when the average temperature ranged in the seventies, she sometimes forgot what month it was. And it didn't seem like Christmas without snow. At least the rain pro­vided some atmosphere. She laughed, thinking she should throw white sheets on the lawn and turn up the air conditioner.

            Seeing her neighbor's nineteen-year-old son pull into the drive-way, she walked over to speak to him. Rap music blasted through the windows of his black Mustang. His mother had bought it for him on the condition that he only drove his motorcycle on the weekends. Franny was afraid he was going to get killed.

            Suzanne waited until he turned off the car's ignition, then ap­proached him. "Is Franny home from work yet? I'm planning a sur­prise birthday party for my husband and I wanted to invite your parents."

            "You have a phone, don't you?" Eric Rittermier said, getting out of the car and slamming the door. He was a tall, brooding young man with pale skin and dark eyes. He had two diamond stud earrings in his left nostril, a blue knit cap pulled down low over his forehead, and he wore a stained gray sweatshirt with low-slung baggy jeans.

            She took several steps backward, watching as he disappeared in-side the house. Maybe Ted was right about having children. She could certainly live without trying to parent some arrogant, moody teen. Babies were adorable, but they didn't remain that way. You never knew if they were going to become criminals or geniuses.

            When she retrieved her mail from the box at the curb, several items fell to the ground. The market was in a slump. That's the way it was in the stock market, feast or famine. Everyone got used to living the high life. They might obsess about their finances, yet they sel­dom changed their spending habits. If you started cutting back, you felt like a failure. In this profession, confidence was essential.

            Reaching her front porch, she bent over and removed her key from underneath the mat. Ted had cautioned her to set the alarm and stop leaving her key where someone could find it. Old habits died hard, though, and she kept forgetting. She'd only been gone a short time. Their former house hadn't had an alarm. The type of se­curity system they had now made it impossible to open a window without setting off the alarm. Every window and door in the house had to be locked before she could arm the system. She refused to be a prisoner in her own home.

            When she unlocked the door, she was greeted by her tan basset hound, Freddy. His excitement was underwhelming but cute as he tried to jump, his legs not strong enough to support his body. He ran toward the door leading into the garage, barking.

            "What's wrong, Freddy?" Suzanne said, clapping her hands. "Let's go upstairs, boy. Mommy's smelly. She's got to get pretty for Daddy."

            She walked over and adjusted one of the animated ornaments on the Christmas tree—a miniature solider beating a drum. Inhaling the delightful scent of pine, she mentally went through her shopping list, confirming that she didn't have any last-minute gifts to purchase.

            She wished they had a view of the ocean instead of the foothills, but she couldn't complain. The money they'd saved had gone into improvements, like her luxuriously appointed cherry closet and the two-story library where she spent most afternoons, reading and sipping tea with Freddy curled up at her feet. Even her ulcer had finally healed.

            Suzanne removed her shorts and T-shirt and draped them over the laundry basket to dry, then stepped onto the cold bathroom floor. Grabbing a plush blue towel with flowers embroidered on the borders, she tossed it over the shower enclosure before she entered. The warm water cascaded over her body, the heat causing the clear glass to fog. Tonight they were going out to dinner with Ted's best friend and his new wife. She hadn't decided what she was going to wear yet, and she wanted to blow-dry her naturally curly hair.

            She dried off and opened the shower door. She heard Freddy barking again. Throwing on her robe, she headed downstairs and found him scratching at the door leading to the garage. When she opened it, she heard a noise near Ted's latest project. Under a car cover was a Jaguar XKE. Did they have mice again?

            She shrieked when someone came out of nowhere and grabbed her from behind. A forearm pressed against her throat. Struggling, she threw an elbow back in an attempt to get away.

            "Calm down or I'll kill you."

            Suzanne craned her head around, seeing a towering figure wearing a black motorcycle helmet with a mirrored eye shield. A gun was pressed against her left cheek. The assailant had her in a choke hold, clasping her left arm firmly through his leather gloves. Her heart pumped like a rabbit.

            She prayed it was the boy next door. "Eric?"

            The intruder remained silent.

            It couldn't be Eric, she decided. His voice was different. She couldn't be certain, though, as the person was outfitted with leather clothing.

            "Don't kill me," she pleaded, tears pouring out of her eyes. "I have almost a hundred dollars in my purse. Take it . . . take anything you want. I won't call the police. I swear."

            "You think I'm a thief?" he said, pressing his arm even harder against her throat.

            Suzanne gasped for breath. The intruder dropped his arm and spun her around. She felt his eyes wash over her. He was going to kill her. She remembered the family that was killed not long ago. The killer was so brutal, he'd murdered a six-month-old baby. The news-paper said he'd also decapitated his own mother. A stream of warm urine ran down her legs.

            Looking down at the puddle on the floor, she saw Freddy whim­pering at her feet. The intruder kicked him through the open garage door, then closed and locked it. She remembered a self-defense tac­tic and locked her fingers on his arm, then dropped her body weight to the ground to break his grip. His arm felt like steel. He looked down at her and laughed.

            Suzanne's teeth were chattering. She bit the inside of her mouth, tasting the salty blood. "Help me!" she screamed, hoping someone would hear her. "Call the police!"

            The assailant used the end of the gun, moving her robe aside in order to expose her naked body. Her stomach muscles twitched as she recoiled in terror. "'Take me to your bedroom," he said.

            Suzanne climbed the stairs, the gun pressing against her back. Why hadn't she set the alarm? When they reached the master bedroom, her eyes went to the phone on the end table. She had to stall him, find a way to call 911.

            "Put on your bra and panties."

            He must be a sadistic pervert who got turned on seeing women in their underwear. Maybe that was all he wanted. She yanked open a bureau drawer and pulled out a white push-up bra, snapping it in the front, then turning it around so she could shake her breasts into it. Next she found a pair of lacy T-back panties and quickly stepped into them.

            The assailant was standing perfectly still. The gun fell to his side. She could see his chest rising and falling. She didn't care if he raped her, as long as he didn't kill her. Her mother had taught her to imag­ine the worst thing that could happen, and then everything else would seem insignificant. She wiped her eyes with her hand, then straightened her back. She had to be strong. He might be one of those men who couldn't get an erection unless the woman was submissive. He couldn't rape her without an erection. If he didn't get what he wanted, though, he might kill her. She made the decision. She'd take an aggressive stance and pray he would back down.

            "Why don't you take off your clothes?" she asked, trying to sound seductive. "Then we can party. I bet you're a better lover than my husband." She forced a smile. Rotten bastard, she thought. You're going to burn in hell. "My husband loves pretty underwear, too. I have drawers full of this kind of stuff. I can model it for you if you want." She grabbed a handful and tossed it in his face, then threw herself in the direction of the phone.

            The intruder was too fast. She felt him on her back as she slammed face first onto the floor. "Stupid woman," he snarled, grab­bing a handful of her hair and pulling hard until her face was visible. "You should have never opened the door to the garage."

            "Jesus, help me!" Suzanne cried, seeing him pull a plastic wrapped syringe out of his leather jacket. "What are you going to do to me? Oh, God ... please ... my husband can get you big money, thousands. . . . Let me go and I'll call him. He can be here in fifteen min­utes."

            The assailant placed the gun in the waistband of his pants, then used the toe of his boot to roll her onto her back. Bending down, he clasped both of her hands and dragged her to the bathroom. Her fear was so great, her entire body stiffened. Propping her up near the toilet, he grabbed her left arm and then slapped his gloved hand against her forearm.

"I'll do anything," Suzanne pleaded. "I'll suck you off ... anything." She felt a stick and a stinging sensation.

            She saw her husband's face, smiling at her on their wedding day. Then she spun further back in time. She was with her mother at the park down the street from their house. She was swinging. The sky was beautiful, filled with puffy white clouds. She wanted to swing high enough to touch it. The tree beside her was full of birds. Their chirps sounded like a secret language. Her mother was sitting on a bench across from her, wearing a white sundress. The wind whipped through her glossy dark hair and exposed the delicate skin on her neck. The next thing she knew, she had flown off the swing and landed in the dirt, her right arm bent backward. She heard her mother's voice . . . soft and comforting "You'll be fine, honey. Be a big girl now and stop crying. After Dr. Lewis fixes your arm, I'll take you for an ice cream."

            Suzanne looked down and saw the needle slide out of her vein, wondering why it didn't hurt. There was a trickle of blood, but her mother dabbed it with cotton. Warmth spread throughout her body. She felt as if she were floating in a sea of pleasure, so intense that she couldn't bear it. Her vision blurred. Her head rolled to one side. Everything was beautiful and peaceful. She wanted to stay in this place forever. Her mother was holding her, stroking her.

            Her stomach suddenly rose in her throat. She was choking on her vomit when she felt someone push her head down into the toilet. Her skin felt as if it were on fire. "It's just the flu, sweetheart, " her mother's voice said. "Once your stomach settles down, I'll give you some aspirin for the fever. "

            Everything would be fine, Suzanne thought, the warm, comfort­ing sensation washing over her again. She could go to sleep now. Her mother would take care of her.