Adam Cramer’s fingers burned across her breasts. But she could not stop him. And she found that she did not want to stop him, either. Something inside her said, It mustn’t happen, and something else said, soothingly, If it does, it won’t be your fault. You told him not to. But he didn’t stop.

Everything blurred for Ella then. Her mind became a wash of fear and hunger and shame, all bright pain and new feelings she’d never dreamed; but mostly it was the hunger, the scared wanting for the ugliness to happen.

At the height of the pain, the night stopped. Adam Cramer pulled away and slumped back against the seat of the car. He was breathing heavily, and he was trembling, also.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a pinched voice. “Ella, I am.”

Ella sat perfectly still, trying to shut out the thoughts.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far. Will you forgive me?”

She still felt the touch of his fingers against her naked flesh, the perspiration, the longing that squeezed her heart.

“It won’t happen again,” he said. “I promise.”

Still she said nothing.

He started to touch her, then drew back. “I just wanted you to like me, Ella,” he said, and she’d never heard that particular tone in his voice before. “That’s all.”

“Why did you stop?” she said suddenly. She hadn’t meant to say it.

“I had to,” he whispered.

“Why?”

She saw his fingers pull together and become fists; in the moonlight, his face appeared to harden.

Without speaking, he started the engine and drove back onto the highway.

14

14

It had been the identical pattern, the identical story, exactly, and he cursed himself for hoping it might be different. It was this sort of stupidity, he thought, that ruined the finest plans. Of course he felt the same overwhelming pain, the same fury at his body for betraying him; but he was also glad that it had happened. Now the girl would become infatuated with him, perhaps. Which would be a help.

He walked into the lobby of the Union Hotel. Mrs. Pearl Lambert sat alone in the big room, statue-still, eyes fastened to the flickering television screen.

“Is it a good one?” he asked cheerfully.

The old woman glanced up, startled; and grinned. “This couple moved into a haunted apartment because the man is a writer,” she said. “He writes mystery novels. So they moved there to get atmosphere! Then the wife found a body in the bathroom, only it vanished. The husband won’t believe her. He thinks she’s just imagining things, y’see? But the killer knows the woman seen the body and— Sit down.”

“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Lambert, I’m kind of tired. I thought I might get to sleep early.”

“You been working hard?”

“Pretty hard, yes.”