She was being stalked.
Carol Preston could hear the footsteps, echoing hers in the icy night, tapping out words of warning. She hurried along, mindful of the headlines on the newsnet the other day: GLOVE KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM.
The steps behind her increased their pace.
She should never have taken that short cut, she thought, hurrying along. The neighborhood was bad enough during the day, and the chilly, starless night made the boarded up buildings and dirty sidewalks into a playing field for a game of terror. Next time, she'd ignore the cold and take the long way. Next time, she'd take a cab. Next time...
Please, let there be a next time.
She glanced behind her. A man, his face hidden under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, was still following. He wore a tattered brown trench coat, its pockets deep enough to hide any weapon. Any weapon at all.
She thought about breaking into a run, but something stopped her. It was partly the fear of looking foolish, and partly the image of a deer darting off just as the hunter fired.
She looked back again.
The man was gone.
Carol paused, heart pounding. It was ridiculous that she had been so worried.
But she would have felt better if she had seen where he went.
A bright green street sign, defaced with yellow spray paint, said "Kittridge Street." Only one block to the parking lot and safety. She could see the edge of it now, a brightly lit haven.
She took two more steps before the arm snaked out and grabbed her throat.
Her senses on edge, she tried to scream, but a gloved hand was stuffed into her mouth, gagging her. She tried to struggle, but it was no use against the attacker's strength. Even biting down on the hand that violated her did no good.
There were tears in her eyes as another hand pawed her. Please, no, she thought desperately. Please kill me instead....
"Cut!"
The hands let go. As if out of nowhere, men and women emerged from the shadows, some carrying electronic equipment strapped to their backs and shoulders. A curly-haired man with a reedy voice seemed to be leading them.
"Roger," he said, "That stinks."
The man with the gloves looked abashed. "But, Steve, I--"
"What we're selling here is terror," Steve said. His pale blue eyes seemed almost to glow with an inner fire as the light hit them. "Not a cheap feel in the dark. You're supposed to scare the shit out of her."
She stood dumbfounded, watching Steve berate the would-be killer.
"But, Steve--"
"You're supposed to jump out in front of her, you asshole!"
"But I thought--"
"Don't!" Steve pointed his finger at Roger. "Don't ever try to think. That's my job."
She could stand it no longer. "What is all this?"
"Alison, hon, you were fine," Steve said. "You're a professional." He jerked his head at the embarrassed murderer. "Not like some people."
Alison? The name was vaguely familiar, but it wasn't hers. "Could you please tell me what's going on?"
"You know. You're making another cube."
"Cube?" The word gave her a funny feeling, as though her mind ... itched. "Who are you?"
Steve stared at Carol, then turned angrily to a man in his forties who carried a pack of electronics slung over his shoulder. "Didn't you dump in her memories?"
The man paled. "You didn't tell me to, Mr. Coleman. You didn't say 'dump.'"
"You half-witted little prick! Give her the goddamn dump!"
Dump. Memories. More itchy concepts. Along with...
Carol reached for the back of her neck. She felt a tiny chip about the size of her thumbnail stuck there like a leech.
Now, truly terrified, she tore the chip away and threw it into the street.
"Damn it, Allie," Steve said. "What's gotten into you?" He stepped toward her. "Without your recording chip--"
"Go away!" Carol kicked his shin and he yelped. Then she turned and ran.
"Someone go after her!" Steve shouted, but no one pursued her, as though they enjoyed his discomfort.
Coleman cursed. "Allie, goddamn it, come back! You don't know who you are!"
She ignored him and continued her flight.
)
