The silence was pierced by a woman's scream. It was a scream of outrage, not terror, Lizabeth decided, scrambling to her feet. She heard the sound of someone running, and she reached the window just in time to see the flasher sprint into her yard. He stopped short and looked up at Lizabeth, not bothering with his flashlight. The sky was clear and there was enough moonlight to illuminate the man's pale skin. He stood absolutely still for a split second and then he waved. It was a little wave, the kind you do with just the tips of your fingers and your hand held at shoulder level. Dogs barked throughout the neighborhood, a police siren sounded in the distance, and the man took off at a dead run and disappeared into the night.
Elsie rushed into Lizabeth's room. "Did I hear someone scream? Was that pervert back here?"
"He must have frightened some lady down the street. And then he ran through the yards trying to get away. He stopped only long enough to wave."
"You mean I missed him again?"
"Yup."
Elsie pressed her lips together. "Was he naked?"
"Yup."
"Was he dangerous-looking?"
Lizabeth smiled. "No. He wasn't especially dangerous-looking. In fact, he looked quite harmless." And there was something familiar about him, she thought. Something she couldn't put her finger on.
"It's them harmless-looking ones you have to worry about," Elsie said. "This guy could be a killer. He could be a rapist."
Lizabeth pulled the curtains closed. "I don't think he's a killer. He wouldn't have anyplace to hide the murder weapon."
Matt took a firm grip on his coffee mug. "He came back?"
"No big deal," Lizabeth said. "He ran through the yard and waved to me."
"What about the police? What were the police doing?"
Lizabeth leaned her elbows on the kitchen table and sipped her coffee. "The police were chasing him. They waved to me, too."
"This is a great neighborhood you live in," Matt said. "Very friendly. Everyone waves to everyone else."
"No need to get sarcastic."
"I'm not sarcastic. I'm worried. I don't like the idea of some nut-case picking you to be his victim."
"He didn't pick me to be his victim last night. He just happened to run through the yard."
Matt scowled into his coffee mug. She should be more frightened. People were careful when they were frightened. They didn't take chances. Lizabeth was talking about this guy in the same tone of voice she used for stories about Ferguson. Next thing she'd be leaving cookies on the picnic table in case Mr. Peekaboo got hungry while he was exposing himself. "So who was the victim last night? Anyone we know?"
"Mmmmm. Angie Kuchta. She lives two houses down."
"Have you spoken to her?"
Lizabeth studied the contents of the doughnut bag and extracted a Boston cream. "Yes. His MO was pretty much the same. He got her attention by throwing stones at her bedroom window. Then he turned the flashlight on her, and when he turned the flashlight on himself she screamed and woke up the entire neighborhood."
"And the police didn't catch him?"
"Nope." Lizabeth bit into her doughnut, and a glob of pudding squeezed out the back end and dropped onto the table.
Ferguson loped in from the living room and cleaned the pudding off the table with one swipe of his huge tongue.
Lizabeth's upper lip curled back. "Oh, gross!"
"Don't worry," Matt said. "I came prepared this time." He handed Ferguson a second bakery bag and opened the back door for the dog. "I hope he likes sticky buns."
Lizabeth poured Lysol on the kitchen table and scrubbed. When she was satisfied the table was clean she sat down and refilled her coffee mug. "There's something odd about all of this." She looked around to make sure they were alone, and she lowered her voice. "Angle's husband was off on a business trip last night. There aren't many single women in this neighborhood, but the flasher hit a woman alone both times. And another thing: How does he always know the right bedroom?"
Matt raised his eyebrows. "You think he could be one of your neighbors?"
Lizabeth thoughtfully chewed her doughnut. "There was something familiar about him. The way he stood, or the way he waved. I don't know."
"Have you told this to the police?"
"I mentioned it to Officer Dooley, but he said he could hardly go door-to-door gathering up men. Also, we have a problem, because the only part Angie and I would definitely recognize is usually covered up in a lineup."
Matt raised his eyebrows. "That is a problem."
"Mmmm. And to tell you the truth, I haven't seen very many men, but so far they've all looked pretty much alike down there. I might not even be able to recognize the flasher if he were naked in a crowd."
Matt squinted over the doughnut bag. "Lizabeth, exactly how many men have you seen?"
"Two."
"Does that include the flasher?"
"Yup."
He couldn't stop the smile from creeping across his face. "Would you like to see a third?" He was being flip, but he was secretly pleased. He thought it was nice that she was so selective.
"Would you like a knuckle sandwich?"
He tipped back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Maybe you wouldn't need to see that part of the flasher. Maybe you could recognize him from his build or his walk or his wave."
"I don't know. I don't feel very confident about that."
"Suppose we gave a barbecue and invited everyone in the neighborhood. You'd get a chance to scope out all the men."
Lizabeth gestured with her half-eaten doughnut. "You know, a barbecue might not be a bad idea. It would give me the opportunity to meet the rest of my neighbors, and who knows, maybe something would click." She turned her attention back to the doughnut, giving it a look of sublime appreciation. "Yum," she said, flicking her tongue at the chocolate icing.
Matt felt his blood pressure suddenly skyrocket. He'd known his share of women. He'd seen them wallowing in Jell-O, floundering in mud, and dancing on bars… and he'd never had a problem with the fit of his slacks in public. But watching Lizabeth strip a doughnut of its icing had him squirming in his seat.
She finished the doughnut and looked at him expectantly. "Something wrong? You look all flushed."
"I'm fine," Matt said. "Why don't we go over to my house and make plans."
"For the barbecue?"
"Yeah, that too."
"We can make plans right here," Lizabeth said. "I'll go get some paper and a pencil."
He put his hand over hers to stop her from getting up. "I need privacy to make these plans. I need time. Lots of time."
"Matthew Hallahan, you're not talking about a barbecue, are you?"
"Listen, Lizabeth, I'm in a bad way. How close are you to finding yourself? Maybe if we both looked, we could find you faster."
"I don't think finding myself is a group activity."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't assert your independence by asking someone to help you. This is something I have to do by myself. I need time…"
"How much time?"
Lizabeth rolled her eyes. "I don't know how much time! This isn't something I can set a deadline on. Maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe a year."
"A year! I can't wait a year. Ill be dead in a year. I have an incurable disease. You have to help me."
Lizabeth grinned at him. "What's the name of this disease?"
"Infatuation. The symptoms would be a lot less painful if we were alone together in my bedroom." He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed a fingertip.
Lizabeth felt the heat shoot through her. She watched him move onto another fingertip and surprised herself by moaning out loud when he took the finger in his mouth and circled it with his tongue. She immediately snatched her hand away.