Chapter 37

Saturday, July 10, 11 a.m.

Christopher Louis Phelps had returned to Twin Rivers -- more or less. He had decided, as a precaution, to stay in a motel east of Twin Rivers, near the ocean in a small neighboring town that bordered the Marine base. He was close enough to Twin Rivers to visit it with convenience, and to visit the construction site of his future home to review progress.

He felt somewhat safer, however, away from his original hotel. He missed the Hilton Riverside, however. His suite there had been somewhat more upscale than the relatively humble surroundings in which he now found himself.

Still, there was some diversion to be had here. From his second-story window he could look down upon the motel pool, where frequently he could inspect at his leisure the numerous attractive young women -- probably visiting Marine wives and girl friends -- who frequented his hotel. During the working day, the pool stayed busy, and was occupied almost exclusively by young women, some accompanied by small children.

The surrounding town, Irwinsville, was typical of small towns near military installations. It was a crude conglomeration of fast-food restaurants and a miscellany of ramshackle retail stores. Compared to this parasitic creation of the Department of Defense, Twin Rivers seemed almost a major center of culture.

Phelps did not really believe he was in danger of detection. Although the body had been discovered, there had been no suggestion in the newspaper that the local constabulary had any clue concerning the violent death of the unfortunate Emma Majeski. Still, it was wise to be discreet.

Permanent departure from Twin Rivers, Phelps believed, surely would be unnecessary. Lying low a mere twenty miles distant wasn't difficult, and just made good sense. The resources of the local Sheriff obviously were limited; in a short time, the Majeski investigation would come to nothing, and be forgotten, if it had not been already.

Unfortunately, Phelps needed access to his boat. His financial papers, his computer, his cellular phone and FAX equipment, all were aboard and, with increasing frequency, he felt the need for them. Phelps had noticed a small riverside marina less than a mile distant from his present location. The sensible thing to do would be to move his boat from Twin Rivers to the nearby facility. The move would have the additional virtue of eliminating another possible link between him and his earlier stay in Twin Rivers.

On Saturday morning, Phelps drove to the Hilton Riverside in Twin Rivers and parked his rental car in the hotel lot. He had arranged for the rental of a slip at the Marina back in Irwinsville. The car he would leave in Twin Rivers until he could return by taxi to pick it up.

At the Hilton, he explained his intentions at the desk, paid the charges for his boat, and closed his account. On his way to the hotel marina, he passed the pool.

"My God!" he thought. The woman lounging on the far side near the water was truly stunning. She was lying face-down on a flattened lounge chair, the neck strap of her suit untied and the ends of it draped over the chair's edge. Her stylishly cut one-piece maillot emphasized her slender form and long, long legs. Her hair was dark and luxurious, and her sculpted, prominent cheekbones and suntanned skin gave her the appearance of an Indian princess.

Phelps was hit hard. Since the incident at the lake, he'd indulged his fetish for beautiful women only in the most subdued fashion. He had not encountered any woman whose erotic appeal screamed at his psyche and tugged at his groin the way this one did. He struggled to retain outward control, carefully looking away lest his overwhelming interest become too readily apparent to the woman, or to others.

She was scarcely twenty feet away. Walking slowly, Phelps forced himself to continue down the sidewalk leading to the hotel marina. The paved walkway took him very near to where the woman, her upper body stretched out in the direction of the path and the marina, seemed to be dozing, her head resting on her right arm. As subtly as he could manage, Phelps drank her in. Luckily, her eyes were closed. Only when he reached his boat and boarded did he venture a quick direct look back, where the stunning creature had raised up her head, but showed no sign of noticing him.

But Madeleine wasn't dozing. Through almost-closed eyelids, she had observed Phelps' as he was observing her. He was trying to look as cool as he could, but it wasn't working. As he had approached her, his pace had slowed to a crawl. When he continued out of her field of vision, moving toward the marina, Madeleine waited for a couple of beats, then slowly, casually, shifted until her head was raised and facing forward. She saw him board a nearby cruiser. From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn to look at her again.

The descriptions she'd received from Mumford and Wallace were racing through her mind. The two witnesses been poor on physical detail, but both had been strong on impression, on describing the essence of the man.

This guy. This could be the guy.

Entering the cabin, Phelps seized his binoculars and, from the security of his hidden position, focused upon the woman once again through a tiny vented window. Ah, God. This one was superb! Who was she? Was she alone at the hotel? The woman's bathing suit was tasteful, even understated, but her behavior at the pool had seemed subtly seductive. There were no men nearby who could be seen admiring her, but Phelps knew that behind the darkened plate glass windows near the pool the hotel's restaurant might contain dozens of admirers. In all likelihood, the woman at the pool knew this as well. Her movements were slow and sensuous, well-calculated to attract.

Phelps' blood was stirring. He couldn't just sail away to his temporary hole in the wall twenty miles downriver. This woman was too exceptional to ignore.

He would have to explore the possibilities.

"The creepy son of a bitch," Madeleine thought. "He's in there, looking at me, right now." She couldn't see him, but she knew. No longer pretending not to look toward his boat, Madeleine stared squarely into the nearest of the cabin's windows. Abandoning caution, she raised herself from the waist with her elbows, allowing the top of her suit to be left resting on the chaise. Her eyes and her breasts were directly focused upon the big cruiser, third from the left, where the man had gone. If this was the man, he'd damned well remember her.

Phelps, startled, let the binoculars fall to his waist and flinched away from the tiny window. Alone in the cabin, he blushed violently. She couldn't have seen him. She couldn't have!... But maybe she'd seem him when he walked by. Maybe she had picked up on his interest.