Season Of Strangers

She rolled onto her side, pulling up the covers, plumping her pillow, trying not to think of the work piling up on her desk and hoping the sound of the ocean would lull her as it usually did. Her love of the ocean was one of the reasons she had bought the expensive beachfront property. She had stumbled on to the place while working with Owen Mallory, showing him a series of luxurious homes, hoping he would add one of them to his worldwide collection.

This little house sat next door to the vast estate he had finally chosen, which meant, at his insistence, she had access to a long stretch of private white sand beach.

Julie fidgeted and turned just as the phone began to ring on the nightstand beside the bed. Sitting up quickly, she reached for it with a suddenly unsteady hand. She had always hated late-night calls. They were usually nothing but bad news.

“Julie, are you there?” Her sister’s trembling voice crackled over the receiver. “Julie?”

“Laura, what is it? What’s happened?”

“I-I’m frightened, Julie. I think somebody is outside my window.”

Julie tensed. “Did you call the police?”

“No. The last time I called them, no one was out there. I’m afraid they won’t come if I call them again.”

“Of course they’ll come. It’s their job to protect you. Hang up and call them right now. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

“Julie, don’t hang up. I’m afraid they’ll come if you do.”

Julie’s fingers tightened on the phone. “You’re afraid who will come? The people outside your window?”

“No…I…I don’t know who they are.”

A knot balled hard in Julie’s stomach. Laura had been acting strangely ever since the day they had spent on the beach. Still, her sister lived in a small apartment in an older section of Venice, not the safest place for an attractive single woman. Julie had seen some of the oddballs and riffraff who frequented the zany beach town. She had tried to persuade Laura to move somewhere else, but her sister had refused.

“Listen to me, Laura, do exactly what I tell you. As soon as you hang up, call 911. Make sure the doors and windows are locked, then stay inside until the police get there. I’ll be carrying my cell phone. You can call me if you need to. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” Steeling herself against her sister’s protests, Julie hung up and jumped out of bed. In minutes she was dressed in jeans and Reeboks and a navy blue sweatshirt, racing down the front steps and into the garage.

The powerful engine of her silver Mercedes SL convertible, her pride and joy, fired up when she turned the key. It sat next to a nearly new, four-door Lincoln Town Car she used when she wanted to show property.

Julie grabbed her scarf from the passenger side of the sports car and tied it around her bouncy, just-above-the-shoulders dark red hair. Then she jammed the car into reverse, slammed her foot down on the gas pedal, and peeled out of the driveway. In minutes she was flying down the Pacific Coast Highway, headed toward her sister’s apartment, her heart pounding like a drum inside her chest.

She dialed 911 on her hands-free cell phone, confirmed that her sister’s call for help had been received, and hung up, praying nothing would happen to Laura before she could get there.

Laura Ferris finally opened her front door. The officer on the other side had been pounding, cajoling, trying to convince her he was really with the police department but Laura was too afraid to believe him.

She sagged with relief when she saw his billed cap, dark blue uniform, and the shiny chrome badge that glittered beneath the porch light. “I’m sorry, Officer, I was just so frightened.”

“It’s all right, Ms. Ferris. Why don’t we go into the living room?” He urged her in that direction and Laura let him guide her, feeling weightless with relief.

“Did you see anyone? Did you catch them?” She brushed past the big leafy philodendron that had outgrown its pot, and sat down on the sofa. The orange floral fringed throw was a little crooked so she nervously began to straighten it.

A few feet away, the tall thin policeman stood in front of her, a man in his forties, a man with experience, she thought. A man who could protect her.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Ferris. We saw no sign of an intruder, nothing at all that would indicate a presence outside the apartment.”

Laura frowned. Surely she couldn’t have been mistaken. She glanced up at the sound of the door swinging open and saw her sister rush in, a small bundle of energy beneath a cap of glossy red hair.

“Julie—thank God you came.” Laura shoved a tousled blond curl behind her ear. “This is Officer—” she read the nameplate over his badge “—Ferguson. He says they’ve checked things out but they didn’t find anyone. You’d think the guy would have left footprints or something, but I guess he didn’t. Anyway, I guess he’s gone.”

“You’re related to Ms. Ferris?” the policeman asked.

“I’m her sister. I’m Julie Ferris.”

“Could I speak to you a moment? In private?”

Julie glanced at her slightly disheveled sister, noticing the pallor of her skin and the tic that had surfaced beneath one dark brown eye. “Yes, Officer, of course.” They made their way into the cozy little kitchen, dodging potted plants and ducking behind the red beaded curtain that clattered in their wake.

“You weren’t able to catch the man?” Julie asked worriedly.

“There was no man, Ms. Ferris. Are you aware this is the fifth 911 call we’ve received from your sister in the past two weeks?”

“No…I…I had no idea. She mentioned that she’d called once before, but I didn’t know there had been others.”

“The dispatch says each call’s the same. Your sister’s frightened voice coming over the phone claiming someone is trying to break into the house.”

“Maybe someone is trying to get in and you’re just not here quickly enough to catch him.”

“Prowlers leave traces, Ms. Ferris. Footprints, loosened window screens, tire tracks—something. There’s nothing of that sort here. I hate to have to ask this, but has your sister had any kind of psychiatric problems?”

A tightness pinched in Julie’s chest. “She’s been to counseling. Her childhood was extremely difficult. She had occasional bouts of depression, but she’s never seen a psychiatrist. Are you implying my sister may be suffering from some sort of mental disorder?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m simply telling you that no one is trying to break into this apartment. It seems to me your sister may need psychiatric help a lot more than police assistance.”

Julie mulled that over. Laura had been acting strangely. “I’ll speak to her, Officer. It was my fault she called you again tonight. I didn’t realize she had done it four times before.”

“No problem. Besides, it’s always better to play it safe. At any rate, good luck with your sister.”

“Thank you.” They returned to the living room. The policeman said his goodbyes to Laura, and Julie sat down beside her on the sofa.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes…much better. I’m glad you came.”

Julie reached over and clasped Laura’s hand, gave it a comforting squeeze. “The officer says this is the fifth time you’ve called the police.”

Laura straightened a little on the sofa, began to fidget with the cord of her blue velour robe. “I-I didn’t realize I had called them so much.”

“Want to tell me about the other times?”

Laura sagged back against the sofa, resting her head against the top, catching her long blond hair beneath her shoulders. “I thought I heard something, that’s all. I thought someone was trying to break in.”

“You heard noises, something that frightened you?”

“Not noises exactly, more like just a feeling. It was terrifying, Julie. I’m sure someone was out there. I didn’t know what else to do.”

For a moment Julie said nothing. “You always said you liked living alone. You never used to be afraid.”

“I know. It’s just that lately…I don’t know what it is…I just feel scared all the time.”

Julie rubbed her temple, praying the slight nag of pain wasn’t the start of another headache. “You haven’t been frightened like that since we were children. When did all of this start?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not that long ago. Sometime after the day we spent together out at your place.”

“The policeman assured me no one was trying to break in, but if you’re frightened, maybe you should come home with me, spend a few days in Malibu lying on the beach.”

“I’d rather stay here. Besides, I can’t take time off from work.”

“It’s only a part-time job.” Laura worked in a little boutique called The Cottage down on Main Street, one of a dozen different jobs she had had since she dropped out of college. “You could always drive in to work from my house.”

Laura chewed her bottom lip. “Yeah, I guess I could.” She glanced at the door and then at the window. “Maybe if I just stayed there until the weekend. By then Jimmy will be back in town—”

“Jimmy Osborn? I thought you weren’t seeing that creep anymore.”

Laura straightened, pulling her hand away. “He isn’t a creep.”

“He hit you, Laura. If you want to be frightened of something, you ought to be frightened of him.”

“He just lost his temper, that’s all. He promised it won’t happen again.”

“He’s bad news, Laura. Forget about Jimmy Osborn, pack a bag and let’s go.”

She hesitated only a moment, then she got up from the couch and went into the other room. A few minutes later she returned with a small vinyl suitcase, enough clothes to last through the end of the week. She wouldn’t stay longer than that, Julie knew. Laura liked being on her own too much, and even if she didn’t go back to dating Jimmy Osborn, there were a dozen more men standing in line to take his place.

As they walked out to the car, Julie caught a glimpse of Laura’s strained, wary expression. Her sister glanced over her shoulder, looking right and left, then finally climbed into the passenger seat.

What was the matter with Laura now?

She’d always had a tendency to illness, both real and imagined, but this was something else. Julie wondered if the policeman might have been right, and silently vowed to find the name of a good psychiatrist.

Three

Julie walked out of her office, heading toward the front door at the opposite end of the room.

“Always in a hurry.” Seated at his desk, Fred Thompkins chuckled. “I told you what my doctor said about that.”

She paused beside his chair and smiled down at him. “He said you have high cholesterol and a heart condition. That you had better learn to slow down. You said that also applies to me, that I should stop and smell the roses. I believe you’ve mentioned that, Fred.”

“Maybe I have…a couple of dozen times.” He was an overweight retired math professor who wore funny little paisley bow ties. He grinned above the starched white collar that cut into the folds on his neck. “Unfortunately, you never listen.”

“That’s because I don’t have high cholesterol and I’ve got bills to pay.” More next month, she thought grimly, when Dr. Heraldson’s psychiatric bill came in. She just hoped the sessions would be of some help to her sister.

“You still looking for Patrick?”

“I’m always looking for Patrick, for one thing or another. He hasn’t come in yet, has he?”

“He’s never here before noon. You know that as well as I do.”

“He said he’d work on the Rabinoff deal. We’ve got to get that escrow closed.”

“Shirl said he was driving out to Flintridge to see his dad. He’s supposed to be in later.”

Julie’s heart tugged painfully. “I hope Alex is feeling better. He looked pretty bad when I saw him last Saturday.” Patrick’s father was confined to a wheelchair, the left side of his body paralyzed by a stroke, his speech impaired, one side of his once-handsome face now drooping.

It was tough on a strong, imposing man like Alexander Donovan, and yet he would not give up. Instead, he’d had a therapy room installed in his lavish Mediterranean style mansion. Daily he worked with nurses and equipment to rebuild his aging, ravaged body into something that resembled the powerful figure he had once been.

“He’s a good man,” Fred said. “This place was really something back when Alex was running it. There wasn’t a real estate man in town who could shine his shoes.” He shook his head, the lamp on his desk gleaming on the bald spot in the center, fringed by his thinning gray hair. “This place hasn’t been the same since he’s been gone.”

It could be, Julie thought morosely, if Patrick would put as much effort into his work as he did getting laid. He was smart enough, and certainly he was savvy enough about business if he would only apply himself.

Instead he was driving the company further and further into debt. Several people on the sales staff had already quit. Babs and Fred would like to leave, but they stayed on for Alex’s sake, just as Julie did. She loved that old man. She wasn’t about to abandon him, no matter what kind of a jerk his son turned out to be.

“I’ve got to run, Fred.” Julie started walking.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Julie waved at him over one shoulder. “I’ll talk to you later.” And then she was out the door, heading off to Spago to meet Jane Whitelaw for lunch.

Evan Whitelaw, Jane’s husband, was a big-time movie producer. Six months earlier, he had listed his home on Burton Way and it had finally sold last week. Now his wife was ready to start searching for a larger place to live. An estate in Bel-Air, she’d said, but Julie knew better than to listen to what a client said they wanted. You had to listen past what they said, learn to look inside and discover their secret yearnings. That was how she’d made so many sales—listening for wishes, instead of just meeting needs.

She had just reached the outside wall of the restaurant when Patrick’s black Porsche pulled up to the curb. There was office parking in the rear of the building, but Patrick liked the valet to take care of it for him personally.

The pudgy youth opened the passenger door as Patrick unwound his tall frame from the driver’s side of the car, and a long-legged, willowy blonde stepped out on the sidewalk.

Julie’s chest went a little tight, but she forced herself to ignore it. It always bothered her to see him with a woman. Silly. Stupid, beyond belief. Yet she couldn’t seem to stop the twinge she always felt watching Patrick squire one of his many one-night stands.

Ignoring the woman, she stopped him before he reached the curb, which gave her the advantage of looking straight into his eyes, the brightest shade of blue she’d ever seen. “I’m sorry to bother you…I can see you’re busy…but I have to find out if the Rabinoff escrow is going to be closing on time. Were you able to get those documents drawn?”

Patrick smiled and looked over her head. “Julie Ferris meet Anna Braxston. Anna is a model with the Ford Agency. Julie is one of my top sales associates.”

Julie forced herself to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna.” She returned her attention to Patrick, who looked rested for a change, his tan slacks and navy blue sport coat immaculate as always. “I have to know, Patrick. Will the escrow be able to close by the end of the month, the way it’s supposed to?”

He grinned, a slash of white in a suntanned face that would give Tom Cruise a run for the money. “Relax. I told you I’d take care of it. The docs will be ready on Friday. Get the Rabinoffs in to sign them, and the escrow can close exactly the way you planned.”

She sagged with relief. “Thank God.”

“You worry too much, you know that?”

“And you don’t worry enough.”

He frowned at her words and for a moment she wondered if he was more aware of his financial problems than he let on.

She smiled faintly at the woman. “Nice to meet you, Anna. Patrick, I’ve got to run.”

“I’ll see you back at the office,” he said. Julie waved and hurried off toward the posh, high-walled interior of her favorite lunching spot.

Sometimes she imagined he watched her, though why he would when he was with a woman as beautiful as the blonde she couldn’t guess. Sometimes she pretended he was different, that he was more like his father, more like the man twenty-year-old Julie Ferris had once believed he was.

He wasn’t. He never would be and both of them knew it. As always the thought made her sad.

Laura lay awake in the guest room of her sister’s Malibu beach house. The antique iron bed had been painted a dull brick red and an old-fashioned quilt served as a spread. Throw rugs covered the hardwood floors, and a wall of windows led out to a deck overlooking the sea. Before tonight, Laura had envied her sister this house on the beach, envied the privacy afforded by the hundreds of acres of the exclusive Mallory estate next door.

Now she leaned back against her pillow, thinking tonight she wished the house was sitting on a lot in the center of the city. That it was surrounded by dozens of people, that it was the middle of the day instead of so late in the evening.

A series of waves, loud as gunshots, crashed against the shore outside the window, but they couldn’t quite block the dense dull hum Laura could barely hear above the roar of the ocean, a noise that had settled like a weight around the two-story batten-board structure. She tried to tell herself it was only her imagination, tried to concentrate on the pounding of the surf and the old Kirk Douglas movie on the television screen, though the volume was turned so low she couldn’t really hear it.

It was three o’clock in the morning, dark outside, a cloudy night with no moon. She had always liked staying in Julie’s guest room, but tonight the ceiling seemed lower than it usually did, the walls a little closer, the sound of the waves more irritating than soothing. Her palms were sweating, her pulse beating faster than it should have.

“Julie’s right next door,” she told herself, speaking the words aloud. “All you have to do is call out and she’ll come running.” Perhaps her sister would come even without the call. If anything was wrong, Julie seemed to sense it. Her sister had a way of doing that. Julie would protect her. Just like she always did.

Then the television set went off and the night light on the wall near the bathroom dimmed and finally sputtered out. Laura swallowed against the fear that was building in her chest.

A whispering noise sifted down from somewhere above her. She tried to cry out, but the sound lodged tight in her throat. She tried to get up, tried to swing her legs to the side of the bed, but her body was rigid, completely unwilling to move.

It was dark in the room, but now the darkness lifted and a blinding light filled the bedroom. Laura’s eyes slammed closed against the stab of brightness shooting into her skull. Her muscles strained to move so hard she quivered all over and arched up off the bed.

Help me! Julie, help me! But the words remained locked in her throat and the silent scream never emerged. Then the light began to fade. She heard a noise on the stairs leading up to the deck. Small, scampering footfalls that paused outside the door.

A strangling sensation engulfed her, a terror so great it throbbed through her body in great tormenting waves. She tried to move, but only her eyes responded, rolling in their sockets, darting wildly around the room, then fixing on the door. They were coming for her. She could feel it in every nerve ending, every fiber and cell in her body. They would take her as they had done before, strip her naked, use their cold metal projectiles to invade her body. Until now she hadn’t remembered.

Help me! she silently screamed, thrashing like an animal caught in a trap, yet her body never moved on the bed. Julie, where are you? But maybe her sister was also ensnared, caught as readily as she. Fresh terror speared through her. She remembered the pain of before, the humiliation she had felt, and prayed it wouldn’t happen again. Prayed that if it did, she would be able to endure it.

The shuffling continued outside. They were coming, just as she had feared. When the door slowly opened and she saw them, her mouth formed a stark O of terror and the bile rose in her throat.

Seconds passed. She blinked and they appeared all around her, lining the sides of the bed. Her terror inched deeper, long thin tentacles reaching down into her belly. Circles of blackness whirled, clouding the edges of her mind, carrying her toward the safety of unconsciousness. Finally the darkness overtook her, freeing her from the fear, sealing her mind from what was to come. Laura welcomed the descent into oblivion.

A deep blue glow resonated up from the floor of the examining room, lighting the rounded girders along the curving walls behind his back. A bank of diodes, dials and gauges spread across the console down at one end, and air hissed through vents in a pulsing rhythm that matched the bleeps of the heart being monitored on the glowing blue screen.

Val Zarkazian stared down at the subjects lying on the table. Their scanty night clothes had been removed, and the younger woman had already been examined.

It was the second woman, the one with the dark red hair, who had brought him out from behind the monitors of his research laboratory down the hall.

He surveyed the nude figure tossing restlessly on the stark blue surface of the table, her small hands clenched so tightly the muscles in her forearms quivered. A tongue block had been inserted, but not before she had bitten into her bottom lip, leaving a slight trace of blood.

He studied her with the same objectivity he had used on a dozen subjects before, noting the woman was smaller than average but well-developed, and in healthy physical condition. She was a normal female, except that she was far more resistant to any sort of mental intrusion than most of the larger male specimens who had been brought in for study.

The woman shifted restlessly on the table, fighting the tests with the same fierce determination she had shown on her visit several weeks ago.

He glanced down at a short thin figure in dark blue protective covering, one of the lab technicians, who stood beside the table studying the subject with puzzlement and concern. Behind him, just outside the door, several soldiers milled about, members of the team who had brought the women aboard.

They were troubled by her reaction and rightly so. The first time the study had been done, she had resisted so strongly they thought they were going to lose her.

This time they had done only cursory testing, nothing intrusive into the body, and only the mental scanning that could be done without a probe. He looked at the monitor at the end of the table. The subject, a healthy female in her twenty-eighth year, had suffered normal childhood diseases—what was known here as measles, mumps and chicken pox; a broken wrist at the age of eight; minor scars and healed abrasions.

Her vital signs were strong, but just as before, they had begun to shut down the moment they started their assessment of the brain.

A row of symbols came across the glowing blue screen. Is it happening again? The message came from the viewing area where senior officers and staff watched the proceedings.

He confirmed it was so and watched the corresponding symbols pop up on the screen. The last similar case had occurred six months ago, an artist taken from the hills outside Santa Fe. Over the years, there had been quite a number, from a variety of different backgrounds. Neither race nor gender seemed to be a factor in the degree of resistance, which could result in the subject’s mental incapacitation or death.

More questions appeared on the screen, one in regard to the proceedings.

Yes, he replied, the tests have been stopped. We don’t want to lose another subject.

He turned to the short lab technician and ordered him to finalize the tests on the younger sibling, to complete the external examination of the older, and return them both to the point of origin.