“Of course. If I were on first shift and he worked nights, I wouldn’t like it either,” Grace said, her eyes twinkling. “However, being an intelligent man, he hasn’t made the mistake of demanding that I quit work or try to arrange my hours around his.”
“He’s doing better. We mentioned the word ‘marriage’ several times last night, and you couldn’t see the white around his eyes.”
Grace considered the matter. “His eyes did look rather like those of a panicked horse, didn’t they?” she said judiciously. “I keep reminding him that it was his idea, and he can change his mind any time he wants. Then he thinks that I must not be sold on the idea myself, so he tries to convince me it’s the right thing to do and convinces himself instead.”
“Dane may have to prop him up at the altar.”
“I expect he’ll be steadier by then. I hope so, anyway. It’s just that it happened so fast between us. Things were out of control from the first time we went out together. Alex likes to be in control, so it’s driving him crazy.”
Tactfully Grace didn’t ask about Marlie’s relationship with Dane, and Marlie was grateful. There was nothing settled between them, no hint of permanence despite their living together, and she was too tired to try to explain. She liked Grace a lot, but she had never had the comfort of a confidante, nor had she grown up spending long hours giggling with other girls her age while they dissected every detail of their lives. Until Dane, she hadn’t really spent a lot of time just talking with anyone.
“Do you want to shower while I’m here?” Grace asked. “That will clear out a few of the cobwebs. Trammell said that they’ll want you to work with a police sketch artist as soon as possible, to get the killer’s description out.”
Marlie shoved aside the memory of his face. She couldn’t let herself dwell on it right now. “I’d love a shower. I’ll hurry, so you won’t be late.”
Grace left her alone, and Marlie got out of bed. She felt stiff and uncoordinated, her muscles weak. She had made an effort with Grace, but things still hadn’t quite clicked back into their proper places for her. She would have to make an even greater effort to concentrate, later on, so the sketch would be accurate.
She kept the shower brief, and as cold as she could stand it. After dressing and drinking more coffee, she felt more in control. Grace was reluctant to leave, but Marlie shooed her on her way, then forced herself to walk around rather than lying down as she wanted.
How long would Dane be gone? Would he immediately take her to headquarters, so they could get started on the sketch? She paced until she was dragging, then stretched out on the couch. Sleep came almost immediately, but right before the dark curtain dropped, she had one last, very clear thought:
How long would it be before she no longer saw that face every time she closed her eyes?
21
THE SKETCH ARTIST WAS A SHORT, PLUMP REDHEAD NAMED Esther. Esther had small, quick, ink-stained fingers, shrewd eyes, and a voice like Tinkerbell’s. Her age could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty; her hair was liberally salted, but her skin was smooth and fresh. Like most artists, she wore whatever was at hand. In this case, it was a pair of cutoff sweatpants, one of her husband’s shirts, and sneakers but no socks.
With a cup of coffee in her hand to sustain her, Marlie sat beside Esther and worked through the details of the killer’s appearance. It was a painstaking chore, involving endless variations of eyebrows and noses, size of eyes, width and thickness of lips, slant of jaw, jut of chin. She could close her eyes and picture the face, but duplicating it on paper wasn’t easy.
Dane didn’t interrupt but was always close by, frequently refilling Marlie’s coffee cup. It had been close to six when he had gotten home and roused her from the couch, where she had been sleeping. Though he had been solicitous of her, his mood had been grim as he drove her to police headquarters.
“The bridge of the nose should be higher,” Marlie said thoughtfully, examining the latest effort. She’d done work with police artists so many times in the past, she knew what they needed from her. “And his eyes were a bit closer together.”
With a few deft strokes of her pencil, Esther made the changes. “Is this better?”
“Better, but still not quite right. It’s the eyes. They’re small, hard, and close together. Sort of deep-set, with a straight browridge.”
“Sounds like an ugly son of a bitch to me,” Esther drawled, making more minute adjustments.
Marlie frowned. She was very tired, but forced herself to concentrate. “No, he really wasn’t, not physically. I suppose he could have been called attractive, even with a bald head.”
“Bundy was a handsome devil, but he wasn’t anyone’s dream man. Just shows that you can’t tell by looks.”
Marlie leaned forward. This time Esther’s corrections had brought the sketch closer to the face in her memory. “That’s good. Make the forehead a little wider, and taper the skull more. His head wasn’t that round.”
“More like Kojak, huh?” Deft pencil strokes changed the shape of the head.
“Stop. That’s good.” Seeing the face on paper made her feel a little queasy. “It’s him.”
Dane came over to stand behind Marlie and look at the finished sketch, staring hard at it. So that was the bastard. Now he had a face. Now he would be hunted.
“Thanks, Esther,” he said.
“Any time.”
Marlie stood and stretched, vaguely surprised at how stiff she felt. Trammell, who had been waiting patiently in the background, came forward to stand beside Dane and examine the sketch. “I’ll get this circulated,” he said. “Take Marlie home and put her to bed before she collapses.”