Free Blind Pursuit by Michael Prescott Page A

visiting Erin on weekends.
    What was her name? Mrs. Williams. Right.
    Might be necessary to talk with her later, but for now Annie simply sketched a wave through the glass as she hurried to the elevator. She pressed the call button, and the doors parted at once.
    As she was traveling to the top floor, she realized suddenly that she should have checked the carport to see if Erin’s Taurus was in its reserved space. That way she would already know if Erin was home.
    But of course Erin wasn’t home. She hadn’t answered the intercom, after all.
    Unless she couldn’t answer.
    A seizure would pass in a few minutes, Annie reminded herself. And it wouldn’t be fatal.
    But suppose Erin had been in the shower when she collapsed—suppose her prone body had obstructed the drain, and she’d drowned in six inches of water. Suppose ...
    The elevator let her off on the penthouse floor. She ran for Erin’s apartment, propelled by panic.
    At the door she hesitated, then knocked loudly.
    “Erin?”
    No response.
    She inserted the key—no, wrong, that was the lobby key, try the other one. Got the door open finally and peered in.
    Again: “Erin?”
    Still nothing.
    Slowly she stepped inside.
    The lights of the apartment were off, the windows darkened by drawn curtains with blackout liners to hold back the desert sun. She found the wall switch and brightened the living room. It looked orderly and normal, almost magically clean, as always—and Erin was nowhere in sight.
    From the bedroom, a faint sound. Music. Some classical composition. Rippling piano keys and a weeping violin.
    Annie darted into the bedroom, briefly thrilled by hope—a thrill that died when she found the room similarly unoccupied, the clock radio on the nightstand playing to no audience.
    The alarm feature was set to switch on the radio at 7:15. Apparently there was no automatic shut-off. Strange, though, that Erin hadn’t turned it off herself before leaving.
    The bed was unmade, another oddity. Erin, the neatness freak, invariably fluffed her pillows and smoothed the bedspread upon arising. Loose, tangled sheets were not part of her world.
    Her purse was gone, but nothing else of value that Annie could see.
    In the bathroom, she found the shower stall dry. She fingered the towels on the racks. They were dry, too.
    Into the kitchen, where a few plates soaked in the kitchen sink under a lacy film of liquid soap. Dinner dishes, streaked with tomato sauce and spotted with the remnants of salad greens. No cereal bowl, no spoon.
    Den, balcony, hall closet—nothing. No signs of intrusion or disturbance, no furniture or valuables missing, and no Erin anywhere.
    She’d left no note, and the only messages on her answering machine were from Marie at the clinic, asking Erin where she was.
    Still no answer to that question, and now Annie was finding it harder to shake the cold fear that clutched the base of her spine.
    Erin had to be all right. Annie simply wouldn’t permit her to be injured or sick or—worse.
    “It’s not allowed,” Annie said softly, as if in challenge to the empty rooms around her. “You hear me, Erin? You’re not allowed to be in any trouble.”
    There was still the parking lot to check. Annie locked the apartment and descended to ground level.
    At the side of the building, under one of the carports, she found Erin’s assigned parking space. Empty.
    The Taurus was gone. Erin had left.
    In the strong sunlight Annie stood unmoving, oblivious of heat and glare, thinking hard.
    The bed had been slept in, and her purse taken. Presumably, Erin had gone to work as usual.
    But why had she been in such a hurry? Why hadn’t she found time to shower, eat breakfast, make the bed, even switch off the radio?
    There was another possibility. Suppose a patient had phoned her in the middle of the night with an urgent problem. It happened. Erin would have gone to her office for an unscheduled session. That scenario would fit the facts quite well.
    But where was