CHAPTER EIGHT
Lacey rolled a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter at the Tribune office, and rushed through her story:Tribune reporter Lacey Allen warded off a masked assailant in her home, Thursday morning, and escaped with minor injuries after stabbing him with a kitchen knife.According to miss Allen, the attacker likely concealed himself in the trunk of her car the previous night, after brutally murdering Elsie Hoffman and Red Peterson at Hoffman’s Market. “Some time during the night,” remarks Allen, “he must have sneaked out of the trunk and broken in to my house.”Awakened in the early morning hours, the young reporter was subdued by the intruder and told that he wished to use her home as a temporary refuge. She was warned of severe consequences if she refused to cooperate.Later in the morning, while preparing coffee at his request, Miss Allen surprised the suspected killer by flinging flour into his face. Wielding a butcher knife, she attacked and wounded the man, enabling herself to escape.She sped from the scene in her car. Pulled over by Officer Donald Martin of the Oasis PD, Miss Allen blurted out her story. The officer radioed for back up units. Minutes later, officers Martin, Grabowski and Lewis rushed the house, only to find it deserted. A thorough search of the premises and surrounding neighborhood proved fruitless.Though authorities are baffled by the suspect’s disappearance, the incident at Miss Allen’s home provides the first clues to his identity. Full sets of fingerprints were discovered at the scene, and have been wired to the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., for possible identification. Also, impressions of his bare feet were found on the floury kitchen floor, and photographed for later comparisons.According to miss Allen, the suspect was a white male in his late twenties, six feet tall, weighing 180 pounds, with long hair. From bits of conversation, Miss Allen feels certain that he is, or has been, a resident of Oasis.Citizens are urged to exercise extreme caution until the suspect has been apprehended.Lacey reread her story, then got up from her desk and took the two typewritten pages to Carl Williams. She handed them to the lanky editor, and hiked up her loose corduroys. The rest of the clothes fit no better. Somebody might’ve at least asked her sizes before sending Alfred out for a new wardrobe. At the time, she’d been too upset to care.Carl finished reading the story. He rolled back his chair, and frowned. “Left something out, didn’t you?”“Do you believe the guy was invisible?”“That’s what you told me. And the police.”“But do you believe it?”He sighed, and rubbed a hand through his short curly hair. “Hell no,” he said. “I don’t believe it. Not for a second.”“You figure I imagined it.”“Well Lace, you’ve gone through a lot of…”“Slipped a cog or two?”“I’m not saying that. But it’s not unusual for someone—in a car accident, say—to lose her memory of what happened. Goes on all the time.”“I remember everything.”“I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying that, under the circumstances, your sense of reality might’ve taken a beating.”“Okay, and that’s basically what the cops thought. And it’s what our readers will think, too. I have to go on living in this town, Carl. If I claim this guy was invisible, I’ll be a joke.”“Word’ll get out, anyway.”“It’ll only be rumor, if it does. I can deny it. But I can’t deny something in a story I’ve written for the Trib. Besides, it’s not really a lie; I’m pretty sure my description is accurate—as far as it goes. I just can’t admit he’s invisible, though. I can’t. Not in public.”“Yeah.” He rubbed his face. “Guess it wouldn’t do the Trib’s credibility any good, either. Can’t have a reporter who sees things—or doesn’t, as the case may be.” He gave her a weary smile. “We’ll run it this way.”“Thanks.”“You’ll give me a call when you get to Tucson?”“Right away.”“Fine Take care of yourself, Lace. I’ll keep you posted on any new developments.”“Thanks. See you in two weeks. Sooner, if they get him.”Lacey went out the rear door to the Tribune’s small parking lot. After the airconditioning, the heat outside felt like the breath of an oven. Too bad Alfred didn’t buy shorts instead of these corduroys. Squinting against the brilliant glare, she stopped at the rear of her car.Her stomach fluttered a bit as she opened the trunk. She swept a hand through its emptiness, touched her spare tire, her towel, her flares. Then, satisfied, she shut the trunk and went to the driver’s door. She unlocked it, opened it, and reached around to flip up the lock button of the back door.She opened the door. Crawling over the seat, she reached down and ran her hand along the floor. Then she climbed out, locked and shut the door.She slid in behind the steering wheel, and locked herself in. Leaning sideways across the seat, she raked the floor with her fingertips.Okay.No passenger.She started the car, and drove from the parking lot. Her tank was full. She drove for two hours, and didn’t stop until she reached the Desert Wind hotel in Tucson.