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eased through the gloom with no fear of blundering into furniture。
She was only halfway to the door when she heard approaching footsteps in the second…floor hall。 The heavy； urgent tread was alien to this house。
Unhampered by the interminable second…guessing that acpanied an education in psychology； reverting to the intuition and defenses of childhood； Chyna quickly retreated to the bed。 She dropped to her knees。
Farther along the hall； the footsteps stopped。 A door opened。 She was aware of the absurdity of attributing rage to the mere opening of a door。 The rattle of the knob being turned； the rasp of the unsecured latch； the spike…sharp squeak of an unoiled hinge…they were only sounds； neither meek nor furious； guilty nor innocent； and could have been made as easily by a priest as by a burglar。 Yet she knew that rage was at work in the night。
Flat on her stomach； she wriggled under the bed； feet toward the headboard。 It was a graceful piece of furniture with sturdy galbe legs； and fortunately it didn't sit as close to the floor as did most beds。 One inch less of clearance would have prevented her from hiding under it。
Footsteps sounded in the hall again。 Another door opened。 The guest…room door。 Directly opposite the foot of the bed。
Someone switched on the lights。 Chyna lay with her head turned to one side； her right ear pressed to the carpet。 Staring out from under the footboard； she could see a man's black boots and the legs of his blue jeans below midcalf。
He stood just inside the threshold； evidently surveying the room。 He would see a bed still neatly made at one o'clock in the morning； where four decorative needlepoint pillows arranged against the headboard。
She had left nothing on the nightstands。 No clothes tossed on chairs。 The paperback novel that she had brought with her for bedtime reading was in a bureau drawer。
She preferred spaces that were clean and uncluttered to the point of monastic sterility。 Her preference might now save her life。
Again a faint doubt； the acquired propensity for self…analysis that plagued all psychology students； flickered through her。 If the man in the doorway was someone with a right to be in the house…Paul Templeton or Laura's brother； Jack； who lived with his wife in the vineyard manager's bungalow elsewhere on the property…and if some crisis was unfolding that explained why he would burst into her room without knocking； she was going to appear to be a prime fool； if not a hysteric； when she crawled out from under the bed。
Then； directly in front of the black boots； a fat red dropletanother； and a third…fell to the wheat…gold carpet。 Plop…plop…plop。 Blood。 The first two soaked into the thick nylon pile。 The third held its surface tension； shimmering like a ruby。
Chyna knew the blood wasn't that of the intruder。 She tried not to think about the sharp instrument from which it might have fallen。
He moved off to her right； deeper into the room； and she rolled her eyes to follow him。
The bed had carved side rails into which the spread was tightly tucked。 No overhanging fabric obstructed her view of his boots。
Obversely； without a spread draped to the floor； the space under the bed was more visible to him。 From certain angles； he might even be able to look down and see a swatch of her blue jeans； the toe of one of her Rockports； the cranberry…red sleeve of her cotton sweater where it stretched over her bent elbow。
She was thankful that the bed was queen…size； offering more cover than a single or double。
If he was breathing hard； either with excitement or with the rage that she had sensed in his approach； Chyna couldn't hear him。 With one ear pressed tightly to the plush carpet； she was half deaf。 Wood slats and box springs weighed on her back； and her chest barely had room to expand to acmodate her own shallow； cautious； openmouth inhalations。 The hammering of her pressed heart against her breastbone echoed tympanically within her； and it seemed to fill the claustrophobic confines of her hiding place to such an extent that the intruder was certain to hear。
He went to the bathroom； pushed open the door； and flicked on the lights。
She had put away all her toiletries in the medicine cabinet。 Even her toothbrush。 Nothing lay out that might alert him to her presence。
But was the sink dry？ On retiring to her room at eleven o'clock； she had used the toilet and then had washed her hands。 That was two hours ago。 Any residual water in the bowl surely would have drained away or evaporated。
Lemon…scented liquid soap in a pump dispenser was provided at the sink。 Fortunately； there was no damp bar of soap to betray her。
She worried about the hand towel。 She doubted that it could still be damp two hours after the little use she had made of it。 Nonetheless； in spite of a propensity for neatness and order； she might have left it hanging ever so slightly askew or with one telltale wrinkle。
He seemed to stand on the bathroom threshold for an eternity。 Then he switched off the fluorescent light and returned to the bed…room。
Occasionally； as a little girl…and then not so little…Chyna had taken refuge under beds。 Sometimes they looked for her there； sometimes； though it was the most obvious of all hidey…holes； they never thought to look。 Of those who found her； a few had checked under the bed first…but most had left it for last。
Another red droplet fell to the carpet； as though the beast might be shedding slow tears of blood。
He moved toward the closet door。 Chyna had to turn her head slightly； straining her neck； to keep track of him。
The closet was deep； a walk…in with a chain…pull light in the center。 She heard the distinctive snap of the tugged switch； then the clinking of the metal beads in the chain as they rattled against the light bulb。
The Templetons stored their own luggage at the back of that closet。 Stacked with the other suitcases； Chyna's single bag and train case were not obviously those of a guest in residence。
She had brought several changes of clothes： two dresses； two skirts； another pair of jeans； a pair of chinos； a leather jacket。 Because Chyna was the same size as Laura； the intruder might conclude that the few garments on tne roa were just spillovers trom ttie packecl closet in Laura's room rather than evidence of a houseguest。 If he had been in Laura's bedroom； however； and had seen the condition of her closet…then what had happened to Laura？
She must not think about that。 Not now。 Not yet。 For the moment； she needed to focus all her thoughts； all her wits； on staying alive。
Eighteen years ago； on the night of her eighth birthday； in a seaside cottage on Key West； Chyna had squirmed under her bed to hide from Jim Woltz； her mother's friend。 A storm had been raging from the Gulf of Mexico； and the sky…blistering lightning had made her fearful of escaping to the sanctuary of the beach where she'd retreated on other nights。 After mitting herself to the cramped space under that iron bed； which had been lower slung than this one； she had discovered that she was sharing it with a palmetto beetle。 Palmettos were not as exotic or as pretty as their name。 In fact； they were nothing more than enormous tropic