"Oh, my God."

Sarah had stopped for a downtown Austin traffic light when an unexpected movement drew her attention to the edge of the crosswalk. She almost screamed.

She gawked through her windshield, stunned, at a face from her worst nightmare.

The man stood amid a group of sweltering pedestrians in the Texas July heat, his eyes fixed on the traffic signal above Congress Avenue. He wiped his sweaty brow on one arm and rotated his head once again in a circle above his shoulders, then quickly replaced his baseball cap and sunglasses.

Sarah's fingers cramped from gripping her steering wheel so tightly. It couldn't be. What she saw wasn't possible. Yet there he was, straightening now and starting directly toward her.

She jammed her foot against the accelerator and shot across the intersection, oblivious to right-of-way concerns, screeching tires, and blaring automobile horns. Her only impulse was to escape. She had traveled less than thirty feet when she slammed on her brakes to avoid a scruffy, bent-eared dog that darted across the street. The instant the animal was safely across, Sarah sped away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was too frightened to risk a glance in her rearview mirror.

Moments later Sarah frantically explained to the motorcycle policeman who pulled her over.

"Scott Corbin," she said, still breathing hard. "The Chameleon. He's right back there and he has murdered six women. He's a convicted serial killer."

Back at the intersection minutes later with the patrol officer, Sarah anxiously scanned a horde of office workers scurrying to and from lunch-hour errands. No Scott Corbin.

The young officer took a quick inventory of Sarah Hill -- brunette, about thirty-two, five-five, no wedding band, driving a well-tended dark blue '98 Honda Accord. She could be attractive if she made herself up and displayed her figure more, he thought. Even as upset as she was, she had kind eyes that sparkled a startling green.

The policeman not only questioned what Sarah had said; he cited her for running a red light and reckless driving.

Sarah's hands trembled as she drove off, frustrated, angry, and still frightened. She was suddenly overwhelmed with an awareness of being all alone in the world. Other than coworkers at the office and acquaintances at the animal shelter, she had no one to turn to. Even Phyllis, her one close friend, had moved away three months earlier. Sarah's entire family consisted of herself and Margot -- her beautiful little cat.

She blinked back her tears and groaned aloud, aware of how vulnerable she really was. Why had she ever been so foolish as to testify at that man's trial? Now he would track her down and kill her.

The main question Sarah had, however, was, How could she possibly have seen Corbin today? He was dead.

Scott Corbin had been executed by lethal injection six months earlier at the state prison in Huntsville, Texas.

Still shaky when she arrived at Integrated Systems Inc., Sarah hurried to her desk and sat, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to control their trembling.

Amanda Stowe came into Sarah's office almost immediately. Blessed with bouncy blond hair, an enviable figure, and a friendly disposition, twenty-six-year-old Amanda carried a perpetually surprised expression on her face.

"Are you all right, Sarah?"

"Oh, I... I suppose so. I've just had a very frightening experience."

Amanda's expression went from surprise to concern. "I knew something was wrong when you didn't stop at the front desk. It's the first time since I started here that you haven't said something nice to me on your way in. What happened?"

"Well, I..." Sarah didn't care to go into the details just now. She really needed to phone the police. "A little dog ran out in front of my car and I almost had an accident. Plus, I got a traffic ticket."

"No wonder you're so upset. I know how much you love animals. Is it all right?"

Sarah assured the receptionist that the dog was safe. The instant Amanda left, Sarah phoned the Austin Police Department. She forced herself to sound collected when she asked for Det. Robert Garding.

"Sorry, ma'am," she was told. "Detective Garding retired almost a year ago. Can someone else help you?"

Sarah tried to hide her disappointment. She had come to know and trust Detective Garding five years earlier. She eventually gave a description of the man she'd seen to Det. Harry Wilkes.

"He's thirty-four years old," she began, "six feet tall, medium build with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Approximately a hundred and seventy-five pounds, perhaps a little less now. Black hair combed straight back, with a widow's peak. Brown eyes so pale they're almost yellow, and always moving... like they're constantly watching for something or somebody. Strong cheekbones and chin. A straight nose with a high bridge and sculpted tip."

As she spoke, Sarah flashed on Scott Corbin sitting across from her in a crowded Mexican restaurant nearly six years ago. Their first date. Well, it wasn't really a date -- she had met him for lunch one day. She recalled how she had delighted in studying his strong features each time he'd looked away that afternoon. Less than a month later she had discovered what a monster he was.

Sarah shuddered, then continued her description to the policeman. "He had a neatly trimmed short brown mustache today," she said, "but didn't used to. He has this strange habit of rolling his head around over his shoulders sometimes, as though he's held his head in one position too long and his neck is stiff. He wore blue jeans and black work boots and a short-sleeved blue work shirt. Aviator-type dark sunglasses. A tan baseball cap with a brown-and-green emblem and writing on the front. I couldn't read what it said. Oh, yes, he carried his left arm at a funny angle as he started toward me."

"Was he carrying something under the arm?"

"It was more like he'd slept on it wrong or something. He might have been wearing a shoulder holster, with a gun under that arm. He always carries a gun. And a knife. Usually more than one knife."

"How do you know that?"

"It came out at the trial."

A significant silence followed; then Detective Wilkes asked, "Ma'am, are you talking about the same Scott Corbin who killed all those women a few years back? The serial killer?" The officer's voice had gone rigid. He was familiar with the man Sarah described.

"Of course that's who I'm talking about," Sarah responded, struggling to contain her frustration. "The Chameleon. How many Scott Corbins are there?"

Silence. Then, cautiously, "Ms. Hill, you must be aware that Scott Corbin is dead."

"That's what I thought... until today."

"Oh, no, ma'am, there's no doubt about the Chameleon's being dead... the state executed him last January." The officer's voice had become totally flat. "You did not see Scott Corbin today. You saw somebody who looked like him."

"I know what I saw, Detective Wilkes. He may have lost weight and grown a mustache, but he's very much alive."

Unable to convince the officer over the next several minutes, Sarah asked again how she might locate Det. Robert Garding.

Detective Wilkes didn't have that information.

Sarah's office at ISI was one of several ten-by-ten-foot cubicles within a high-ceilinged room. Sound-dampening gray partitions provided ample privacy in the cubicles, both for sound and sight, yet the cubicles remained bright and airy.

Her desk sat near a north-facing window, and was metal with a manufactured mahogany top housing her computer station. Sarah saw to it that her office remained organized and uncluttered, as it was today. Virtually all her work was performed via telephone or computer, and all records stored on the computer's hard drive, backed up on floppy disks.

ISI created and sold software systems for banks. Their systems not only expedited internal banking procedures and data storage, but enabled bank customers to interact via telephone or computer with information about their account balances, auto loans, home mortgages, and so forth. On-line-banking customers could also pay monthly bills and transfer funds securely between their accounts from anyplace in the world where they had access to the Internet. Sarah's job as support manager entailed troubleshooting company installations, a task she generally accomplished without leaving her chair. She was, in fact, generally acknowledged as one of the top troubleshooters in the industry.

Sarah queried Southwestern Bell's information service for Austin and surrounding areas. Two Robert Gardings were listed, but neither turned out to be the retired detective. She sat silently at her desk for several minutes after the second call, organizing her thoughts. Then she instituted a nationwide computer search.

The bucolic scenes along Highway 290 between Stonewall, Texas, and the historic German farming community of Fredericksburg made Sarah feel that she had entered another world. Far removed from the hot, flat terrain of her childhood outside Abilene, this was the Texas Hill Country. Rolling green hills, lazy rivers, and lush pastures were interspersed with immaculately manicured peach orchards. Whitetailed deer seemed to roam wherever they liked. The idyllic setting almost relegated her concern about a malignant serial killer to fantasy. Almost.

After driving past the George Bush Gallery, the Admiral Nimitz Museum, and the Marketplatz in Fredericksburg, she followed Highway 16 and eventually parked in a gravel drive under a giant white oak.

Retired detective Robert Louis Garding came around the side of the old stone farmhouse. He wore faded jeans and mud-crusted work boots instead of a detective's suit and tie, but he hadn't really changed at all. Tall and rangy, in his late fifties, Garding had iridescent blue eyes beneath thinning white hair, a quick smile, and an easy manner that belied the carbon-fiber core Sarah had come to respect when they had worked together to put Scott Corbin away.

Inside, Sarah commented on how inviting his living room was, with its stone walls and rough-hewn beams. The furniture was hand-carved and gnarly, but comfortable, not unlike its owner. She shuddered at two heavily antlered heads mounted over a stone fireplace. How could people do that to such magnificent animals? She chose a leather-backed chair facing away from their pleading eyes, tugged her skirt down over her knees, and crossed her ankles. At least there were no guns in sight.

"Notice how cool it is in here?" asked Garding. His voice was masculine, but carried a slight nasal intonation, and one side of his mouth opened wider than the other when he spoke, as if talking around an imaginary cigarette. A hint of a drawl suggested an East Texas or Louisiana upbringing. He took a seat opposite Sarah on a worn leather sofa.

Copyright © 2002 by Charles Smithdeal