SUSPENSE
BY JOAN HALL HOVEY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eppie
Winner ~ Best Thriller - 1992
SHE
DARED TO CHALLENGE A MERCILESS KILLER
Raised
in an atmosphere of violence and unpredictability, Ellen and Gail
Morgan have banded together, survivors of a booze-fertilized
battleground, forming a fierce united front against an often cold and
uncaring world. When their parents are killed in a car crash, Ellen
becomes the mother figure for Gail.
When
fifteen years later Gail is brutally raped and murdered in her shabby
New York basement apartment, practically on the eve of her big
breakthrough as a singer, Ellen is inconsolable. Rage at her younger
sister's murder has nearly consumed her. So when her work as a
psychologist wins her an appearance on the evening news, Ellen seizes
the moment. Staring straight into the camera, she challenges the
killer to come out of hiding: "Why don't you come after me? I'll
be waiting for you."
Phone
calls flood the station, but all leads go nowhere. The police
investigation seems doomed to failure. Then it happens: a note,
written in red ink, slipped under the windshield wipers of her car,
'YOU'RE IT.' Ellen has stirred the monster in his lair … and the
hunter has become the hunted!
Read an excerpt:
NOT
ALONE
It was nice to be alone. As she brushed her hair, Gail
launched into her favorite fantasy of buying her sister a white
Ferrari. Ellen's birthday was coming up in May; she'd have the car
delivered right up to her door, a big red bow tied on the antenna ...
dream on, girl she told herself, grinning at her reflection in the
mirror.
Tiger padded into the room just then, winding his
sleek, warm body around her bare ankles, purring like an old washing
machine.
I owe her so much, Tiger, Gail said, reaching down to
stroke the cat's soft, glossy fur. If it wasn't for...
Suddenly,
Tiger's back arched under her hand and he hissed. Gail's heart leapt
in her breast and her hand drew back as if burned. "What
the...?" But Tiger, fur standing on end, had already fled the
room. Gail turned in her chair just in time to see his electrified,
retreating tail...
Then she caught a movement from the corner
of her eye. Turning, she froze at the sight of the closet door slowly
opening.Chapter
One
August
6, 1979
The closet door was at the top of the stairs at the
end of the hall. To get to it he had to pass by two doors, one on
either side, both now partly open. He could hear talking, very low.
Farther away, the sound of running away. In three quick strides he
was past the doors and inside the closet. He knew he was smiling. He
felt excited the way he always did when he got past them. Even if
anyone had got a glimpse of him, it wouldn't really matter. He was
invisible. The invisible man.
The secret door was to his
right, just behind the wide rack of musty-smelling winter coats in
varying sizes. He ducked beneath them, and opening the door, let
himself into the narrow, cave-like space.
The space separating
the inside and outside walls went nearly the whole way round the
third floor, stopping abruptly at the wall of the stairwell where he
had to turn around and go back the way he had come. Once, this space
had been used for storage - old bed springs, broken chairs, trunks -
but the doors, except for the one in the closet which he had come
upon quite by luck, and through which he had come again and again,
had long since been replaced by sheetrock and papered over with
rose-patterned wallpaper.
It was pitch black in front of him
and all around him, like he was all alone in the world. He had his
flashlight, but didn't turn it on. He knew the way. Besides, it might
shine through someplace.
As he made his way along the darkened
corridor, breathing the stale, hot air, his progress slowed by the
long, heavy skirt he wore, he had to stoop. At seventeen, though
narrow-shouldered, he was nearly six feet tall.
Sweat was
trickling down between his shoulder- blades, and under the wig, his
head felt squirmy, so he took the wig off and stuffed it into his
pants pocket, under the skirt.
And then he was there. He could
see the thin beam of light shining through, projecting a tiny star on
the wall. It was coming through the place where two Sundays ago, when
they were all at Chapel, he had made a peephole. He'd made it by
simply pounding a nail through, then drawing it cleanly back out so
that there would be nothing detectible on the other side - no more
than a black dot.
A giggle floated through to him and the
smile froze on his face, his fists clenching involuntarily. No, it
can't be me they're laughing at. They can't see me. They don't know
I'm here. I'm invisible, remember? Calming himself, he slowly brought
his face to the wall.
Eight narrow, iron-framed beds faced
him, each covered by a thin, grey blanket with a faded red stripe
across the top and bottom. Twelve beds in all, but the two at either
end were cut from his view. A few religious pictures hung above the
beds. The one facing him said 'Suffer the Little Children to Come
Unto Me'. It had a picture of a lamb on it. Only three of the beds
were occupied. It was still early. Some of the girls were probably
downstairs watching their alloted hour of T.V. Others would still be
doing kitchen duty. At least one troublemaker would be doing 'quiet
time'. He grinned.
He understood now that the laughter he'd
heard had come from one of the two girls sitting on the edge of the
bed flipping through a teen idol magazine. He'd caught a look at the
cover - some weirdo with a green punk hairdo and a guitar slung
around his neck. The two sluts, heads together, were still at it,
giggling, whispering, low and secretive. He felt a hot surge of
hatred course through his veins. He wished SHE would walk in on them
right now. He knew what they were doing. They were talking about who
they liked, who they thought was 'cute', who they would let do it.
They were thinking and talking about that.
Two beds over, a
fat girl with short brown hair that looked as if someone (guess who?
Ha-ha) had cut it around a bowl, lay on her back with her hands
behind her head, staring at the ceiling. A jagged scar travelled from
a spot between her eyebrows right up into her hairline. He could tell
she'd been crying; her raisin eyes were all red and puffy,
practically disappearing in her moon face. They cried a lot in here.
Mostly in the middle of the night when they thought no one could
hear. It always excited him hearing their soft muffled sobs.
Sometimes, though, it just made him mad like it did when they
laughed. Then he wanted to fix it so they didn't make any sound at
all.
His gaze wandered back to the girl who had first caught
his attention, the one who sat under the lamb picture, and who he'd
wanted to save for last. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a
writing tablet balanced on her knees, her long, pale hair fallen
forward, though some damply dark ends curled against her neck. He
watched as she scribbled a few lines, then frowning, looked over what
she had written. She would chew on her yellow pencil, then write some
more, the pencil making whispery sounds on the paper. He watched her
for a long time, taking in the flushed, shiny cheeks that made him
think, as had the darkly damp curls, that she might just have stepped
out of the bath. Yes, he remembered hearing the water running. He
liked to see them when they just got out of the bath - all that damp
flowing hair, pinkly scrubbed skin, soft necks. Sometimes they
changed into their flannel nightgowns right there on the edge of
their beds, right there in front of him - though of course they
didn't know that.
That was the best part. Them not knowing. It
didn't matter that they dressed so hurriedly and so slickly that he
often didn't get to see much. Though occasionally there was a flash
of white shoulder, a curve of breast.
I'm watching you, he
thought, and had to stifle a giggle of his own.
And then she
raised her head and those clear blue eyes were staring right at him,
stabbing fear into his heart. He couldn't move.
She was
frowning, not in the way she did when she was thinking of what to
write, but with her head cocked to one side, as if she were listening
for something. A terrible thought struck him. What if he hadn't just
almost laughed, but actually done it, right out loud? Adrenaline
pumping crazily through his body, he backed slowly away from the
peephole. Standing perfectly still with his back against the wall, he
waited. When after several minutes there were no screams, no sudden
cries of alarm to alert the other girls - and HER, especially HER -
he began to relax. His heartbeat returned to normal; once more he
brought his eye to the hole. She was back to writing. Of course she
was.
He smiled to himself.
He hadn't laughed out loud,
after all. And she hadn't seen him. Of course she hadn't. His gaze
slid down to her breasts, their shapes round and firm as little
apples under the flannel nightgown.
But you will, he thought.
You will.
Therapist
Melanie Snow is driving to her office when her Honda is struck by a
dark-colored van and sent spinning into a ditch, where it catches
fire. The driver never stops. A passerby pulls Melanie from the car
just seconds before it explodes.
Waking
from the coma nine days later, she is devastated to find she is
blind.
As
Melanie struggles to cope with her new reality, life as a blind
woman, her fragile state of mind is further threatened by a madman
who is stalking and strangling disabled women. The first two victims
were mentally challenged and Detective Matt O’Leary, who carries a
torch for Melanie, (even though Melanie is engaged to someone else)
tells himself she is not the killer’s targeted prey. But then a
woman who lost a leg to cancer is murdered, and another physically
disabled woman is stalked. Even with a whole town in terror, Melanie
refuses to live her life in fear and reopens her practice in the
basement of her home. She has a living to earn.
And
Detective Matt O’Leary must find a way to keep Melanie safe until
the monster is caught. But how? Her door is now open to the public
and the killer can just walk through anytime he chooses.
And
he does.
Read an excerpt:
It
was mid-afternoon, overcast, and The East End Mall in Kingsdale was
crowded with shoppers. The Eraser, as he liked to think of himself,
sat at one of the molded plastic tables by himself, nursing a Pepsi
and eating fries from a small cardboard plate, and people watching.
It was one of his favorite things to do, especially in nice weather
when the girls wore shorts or tight jeans, some with their tanned
midriffs bare, skimpy tops that showed off their boobs and skinny
jeans that accentuated their tight little butts. Why not? He was a
normal guy, he told himself. He avoided looking at the ones with
flab hanging over their waistbands. He had girlfriend once or twice,
but it didn't last. The last one said he was weird and just stopped
returning his calls. Well, to hell with her.
His
eye strayed momentarily to the big screen monitor advertising Nike
sneakers. Then it changed to a rent-a-car commercial and on to
something else, but he'd already looked away. Idly dipping a French
fry in the small pool of ketchup on his plate, he popped it in his
mouth and went back to girl-watching. They did little for him today.
His hand moved to cover the scratch that the retard left on his
cheek, though it was fading now. That Polysporin ointment was good
stuff.
Music
played over the sound system, competing with the jabbering of
shoppers, nothing he recognized. Probably supposed to keep people
shopping, buying junk they didn't need. His gaze narrowed ever so
slightly as a young girl with a silver ring in her lower lip and
wearing black eyeliner got up from a table not far from him and
limped heavily to the waste bin and dumped in the remainder of her
meal, a half-eaten hamburger, fries. She sat the tray on top of the
stack. Behind her, someone called out, "Hey, Lana," and the
girl turned in his direction and took a step forward so he could see
her full-length; she looked past his shoulder and waved. He felt his
heartbeat rev up, his throat go dry.
She
had short dark hair, and was wearing a khaki skirt and cream-colored
blouse. Her dimpled smile, the gleam of white, even teeth barely
registered on him. He didn't even glance behind him at the woman who
had called out to her. He had no interest. As he had no genuine
interest in the woman who returned the wave, really.
No.
It was her foot in its big brown shoe that drew and held his
attention. Not brown exactly, but like tea when you put milk in it.
Taupe. Yes, that was what his mother called that color. It was all he
could see when he looked at her: that big clunking shoe. So ugly it
offended him, as deformities of any kind offended him. Even horrified
him. A chill had crept down his back. He had to work extra hard to
keep the disgust and pity from his face. She was a mistake. A blight,
a tragic spawn. She must be erased. Like when you're a kid and you
draw a picture of something and it doesn't come out right. You just
erase it. Or rip out the page, and start again.
He
was the eraser of mistakes. The good Lord had chosen him to do this
work. Not that he was blaming God. No, there was no blame to be
handed out here. Some small voice told him his reasoning was flawed,
that that wasn't why they had to die. But he wasn't listening. As
people were born of sin, women carried the faulty limbs, twisted
features and minds within them. Carriers. As his mother had been a
carrier, her womb spewing forth a defective, barely human—thing.
Not the defective's fault either. But since the flaw couldn't be
repaired, the whole issue had to be erased. The burden lifted. The
Eraser held that kind of power; he could end suffering, change lives
for the better. He remembered well the very moment he had changed his
own life but no time for that now. She was heading for the exit
doors. He rose casually from his chair, tossing the remainder of his
own fries and drink into the trash, dropped his tray on top of hers,
and followed. He was really following the 'shoe'. His eyes were
riveted on the shoe. It filled his vision, his consciousness. That
big, ugly shoe that rose and fell, rose and fell, her left hip
dipping in sync, the shoe dragging it downward, seeming an entity in
itself. When she stepped through the automatic doors into the grey,
drizzly day, he was right behind her. Close enough to touch her. He
buried his hands deep in his pockets to stifle the urge.
The
bus pulled up with a hiss of air brakes and a belch of exhaust, and
she hitched herself up onto the step. He followed, paid his fare. His
bike was chained and locked in the parking lot; it would be fine. She
took a side seat near the driver, and he sat himself two seats behind
her and pretended to look out the window.
In
the grayness of the day, his reflection in the glass was faint, but
almost at once he could see his reflection begin to morph into that
of another, as she had once been. A raindrop ran down the window and
caught one corner of her mouth like the drool he remembered, couldn't
forget, and he could not tear his eyes away. The small voice in his
head spoke to him, sending the familiar chill through him, as if his
heart had just received an infusion of ice water. The voice could
form words now, where once it was capable only of mindless gibberish.
"You know it's me in there, don't you. I'm watching you. I've
come back. I'll always come back. I'll never leave you."
"No!
No!"
Fearing
he had cried out, he jerked his head around in sudden panic, but no
one on the bus was looking at him. One man was reading a newspaper. A
woman was talking and smiling at her little boy. Relief swept through
him, but he was trembling just the same. A Chinese man seated across
from him turned the page in his paperback, paying him no mind.
The
girl had put earphones in her ears and her lips were moving to a song
only she could hear. Her legs were crossed, the shoe swinging in
time, mocking him.
Praise
for Joan Hall Hovey’s Books
“…suspense
that puts her right up there with the likes of Sandford
and Patterson..." Ingrid
Taylor for Small Press Review
"...Alfred
Hitchcock and Stephen King come to mind, but JOAN HALL HOVEY is in a
Class by herself!…" J.D.
Michael Phelps, Author of My Fugitive, David Janssen
"…CANADIAN
MISTRESS OF SUSPENSE…The
author has a remarkable ability to turn up the heat on the suspense…
great characterizations and dialogue…"
James
Anderson, author of Deadline
"...a
gripping style that wrings emotions from everyday settings. Oh and by
the way ...is your door locked?" Linda
Hersey - Fredericton Gleaner
"...will
keep readers holding their breath until the very end..."
inthelibraryreview,
Melissa Parcel
"This
one is a chiller - you won't be able to put it down - guaranteed!"-
Rendezvous Magazine
"If
you are looking for the suspense thriller of the year-look no
further…you will find it in Nowhere To Hide..."
Jewel Dartt Midnight Scribe Reviews
AUTHOR
Bio and Links:
In
addition to her critically acclaimed novels, Joan Hall Hovey's
articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications
as The Toronto Star, Atlantic Advocate, Seek, Home Life Magazine,
Mystery Scene, The New Brunswick Reader, Fredericton Gleaner, New
Freeman and Kings County Record. Her short story Dark Reunion was
selected for the anthology investigating Women, Published by Simon &
Pierre.
Ms.
Hovey has held workshops and given talks at various schools and
libraries in her area, including New Brunswick Community College, and
taught a course in creative writing at the University of New
Brunswick. For a number of years, she has been a tutor with Winghill
School, a distance education school in Ottawa for aspiring writers.
She
is a member of the Writer's Federation of New Brunswick, past
regional Vice-President of Crime Writers of Canada, Mystery Writers
of America and Sisters in Crime.
Joan
will award one randomly drawn commenter a $50 gift certificate for sunglasses
at Sunglasses Shack (US/Canada only). Follow the tour for more chances to win!
