Free Agnes Hahn by RICHARD SATTERLIE Page A

some tea?”
    He didn’t want anything, particularly tea. But it might help get her to talk. “Would coffee be too much trouble?”
    “I don’t have coffee. Only tea.”
    “Tea would be fine.”
    She disappeared into the kitchen.
    Jason pulled the drapes aside and caught a glimpse of the Ford across the street. Wilson had moved to the passenger side, and sat sideways in the seat, feet up. A pillow propped his head against the window. He guzzled from a green beverage can.
    Jason turned and sank into a claw-footed chair. The clinking of china brought his mind back to the house. A low-pitched whistle ascended a musical scale and gained volume, then screamed to silence. The house was cold. He hadn’t noticed that before. A warm drink would be welcome. Even tea.
    Agnes entered, carrying a large tray with two cups and saucers, a board of cheese surrounded by a leaning stack of crackers, and a too-large knife. Jason stood. It looked like a steak knife, with a serrated edge.
    The coroner’s reports said the type of blade used in the murders was extremely sharp and smooth, like a scalpel. Or a straight razor. He shuddered. He had played with a straight razor once when he was a teen. The blade was paper-thin, but sharp enough to dive deep into flesh by just resting it on skin, from its own weight. His stomach churned like it had back then. It was the kind of churn he always got from a double Ferris wheel when the chair crested the zenith and nothing was between his feet and the distant pavement. His forehead tickled with sweat again.
    Agnes placed the tray on a coffee table and sat in an opposite chair.
    “I put sugar in for you. Two cubes.”
    To hide something else?
    She tilted her head like a curious dog. “Was that all right? You look angry. People who don’t drink tea usually like it sweetened.”
    Jason gazed at the ceiling and then back down. “I’m sorry. That’s fine. I’m not used to being waited on.” He looked in her eyes and she lowered them. She had fine features, a pretty face. With a little makeup, styled hair, and some feminine clothes, she would be pretty. And she didn’t look a thing like Eugenia. Didn’t act like her. In fact, she was as far from Eugenia as any woman he’d ever met.And it triggered an impossible sensation. Was he attracted to her?
    She folded her hands in her lap. “What do you want to know about Lilin? I can’t tell you much.”
    Her sudden bluntness startled him. He cut a slice of cheese and put the knife down with the handle facing his way.
    “If you’ve never met her, how do you know she’s out there?”
    “I think she talks to me.”
    His eyes burned into her. Anthony Hopkins.
Psycho.
“Has she always talked to you?”
    “No. Just recently. Before that, I had a feeling she was there. That’s the best way I can explain it. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
    Bats in the belfry. But her shy sincerity said otherwise. An urge swept over him. To pull her close. To comfort her. He shook the thought from his mind. Keep track of her hands. “No. Not to me.” The reporter elbowed in. “When she talks, what does she say?”
    “Not much. A word here and there, then nothing for a long time.”
    “Has she told you anything about the murders?”
    Agnes shifted in her chair. “She doesn’t tell me anything. Just words.”
    “Like what?”
    She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “Like ‘yes’ and ‘no.'”
    He leaned forward a little. “She hasn’t told you any thing beyond that?”
    “Just one thing.”
    Farther forward. “What’s that?”
    Agnes paused and bit her lower lip. “That you aren’t one of the good ones.” Her eyes met his for an instant and returned to the floor. She sipped her tea.
    “Not one of the good ones? What does that mean?”
    “Most men aren’t good. Only some are.”
    A slight relaxation; he felt a bit of a flirt coming on. “How do you know I’m not one of the good ones?”
    Agnes gripped her hands together. “I don’t know