“I THINK Stucky may have taken my neighbor, too.”

“Come on, Maggie. Now you’re just sounding paranoid.” Gwen sat in Maggie’s recliner, sipping wine and petting Harvey’s huge head. “By the way, this wine is very nice. You’re getting good at this.”

A gourmet cook, Gwen enjoyed fine food and wine. When she had called earlier, offering to bring over dinner, Maggie had rushed out to Shep’s Liquor Mart to search the aisles. The clerk, an attractive but overly enthusiastic brunette named Hannah, had told Maggie that the Bolla Soave was “a delicious semidry white wine with touches of floral spiciness and apricot.” Hannah assured her that it would complement the chicken and asparagus en papillote that Gwen had promised.

Wine was much too complex. With Scotch she didn’t need to choose from merlot, chardonnay, chablis, blush, red or white. All she needed to remember was Scotch, neat. Simple. And it certainly did the job. Though not this evening. The tension strangled her muscles and tightened her rib cage, squeezing and causing her chest to ache.

“What do the police say about Rachel’s disappearance?”

“I’m not sure.” Maggie flipped through the files Tully had given her, but couldn’t find what she was looking for. “The lead detective called Cunningham and complained about me barging in on his territory, so it’s not like I can just call him up and say, ‘Hey, I think I know what happened with that case.’ But my other neighbor gave me the impression everyone, including the husband, is treating it as though Rachel just decided to leave.”

“That seems odd. Has she done this sort of thing before?”

“I have no clue. But doesn’t it seem odder that the husband wouldn’t want the dog?”

“Not if he thinks she ran off with someone. It’s one of the few ways he has left to punish her.”

“It doesn’t explain why we found the dog in the condition we did. There was a lot of blood, and I’m still not convinced it was all Harvey’s.” Maggie noticed Gwen stroking Harvey’s head as though administering therapy. “Who names a dog Harvey?”

He looked up at Maggie’s mention of his name, but didn’t budge.

“It’s a perfectly good name,” Gwen declared.

“It was the name of the black Lab that David Berkowitz believed was possessed.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Now, why is it that you think of that immediately? Maybe Rachel is a Jimmy Stewart fan and named him after Harvey the six-foot invisible rabbit.”

“Oh, right. Why didn’t I think of that?” It was Maggie’s turn for sarcasm. The truth was, she didn’t want to think of what might have happened to Harvey’s owner, or was still happening to her.

“Why the hell isn’t the husband the prime suspect?” Gwen suddenly sounded irritated. “That would be a logical explanation.”

“You’d need to meet Detective Manx to understand. He doesn’t seem to be approaching any of this logically.”

“I’m not so sure he’s the only one. Here you are jumping to the conclusion that Stucky kidnapped her because… Let me get this straight. You think Stucky kidnapped Rachel Endicott because you’re sure he killed this pizza girl and you found candy-bar wrappers at both scenes.”

“And mud. Don’t forget the mud.” Again Maggie remembered the mud with sparkling flecks on Rachel Endicott’s stairs. But what if Manx hadn’t bothered to collect it? And even if he had, how would she be able to compare the two? It wasn’t as if Manx would hand over a sample.

“Okay,” Gwen said. “The mud I can understand, if you can make a match. But finding candy-bar wrappers at both houses? I’m sorry, Maggie, that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Stucky leaves body parts in take-out containers just for fun, to toy with people. Why wouldn’t he leave candy-bar wrappers, sort of his way of thumbing his nose at us? Like he was able to commit this inconceivably horrible murder and then have a snack afterward.”

“So the wrappers are part of the game?”

“Yes.” She glanced up. Gwen didn’t buy it. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Did you ever consider they could be a necessity? Sometimes people with diabetes keep candy bars to prevent fluctuations in their insulin intake. Fluctuations possibly caused by stress or an injection of too much insulin.”

“Stucky’s not diabetic.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, quite certain, then realized their lab analysis of Stucky’s blood had never been tested for the disease.

“How can you be so certain?” Gwen persisted. “About a third of people with Type 2 diabetes don’t even know they have it. It’s not something that’s routinely checked unless there are symptoms or some family history. And I have to tell you, the symptoms, especially the early ones, are very subtle.”

She knew Gwen was right. But she would know if Stucky had diabetes. They had his blood on file. No, she couldn’t imagine Albert Stucky being susceptible to anything other than silver bullets or maybe a stake through his heart.

“How about the victims?” Gwen suggested. “Maybe the candy bars belonged to the victims. Any chance they’re diabetic?”

“Too much of a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“No, you’d much rather believe that Albert Stucky has kidnapped your neighbor, and took a real-estate agent simply because you bought a house from her. I have to tell you, Maggie, it all sounds a bit ridiculous. You have absolutely no proof that either of these women are even missing, let alone that Stucky has them.”

“Gwen, it’s no coincidence that the waitress in Kansas City and the pizza delivery girl had both come in contact with me only hours before they were murdered in the same manner. I’m the only link. Don’t you think I want to believe that neither Rachel nor Tess were taken by Stucky? Don’t you think I’d rather believe they are both on some secluded beach sipping piña coladas with their lovers?”

She hated that her voice could get so shrill. She went back to the pile, shuffling through the folders and trying to make sense of Tully’s disorder. She could feel Gwen’s eyes examining her. Maybe Gwen was right. Perhaps the paranoia skewed her rationality. What if she was blowing all this out of proportion?

“If that’s true, then it would mean Stucky is watching you, following you.”

“Yes,” Maggie said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

“If he’s choosing women he sees you with, then why hasn’t he chosen me?”

Maggie looked up at her friend, startled by the flicker of fear she thought she saw in the otherwise confident eyes. “He only targets women I come in contact with, not women I know. It makes his next move less predictable. He wants me to feel like an accomplice. I don’t think he wants to destroy me. And hurting you would destroy me.”

She went back to her search, wanting to close the subject and dismiss the possibility. Fact was, she had thought about Stucky moving on to those who were close to her. Nothing would stop him from doing so if he wanted to up the ante.

She dug out a brown manila envelope and started extracting its contents. It was the report from the airport authority and a police impound notice for a white Ford van. “Here it is. This is it. This is what’s been nagging at me.”

“What is it?”

Maggie stood and began pacing.

“Susan Lyndell told me that the man Rachel Endicott may have run off with was a telephone repairman.”

“So what’s your proof? Her phone bill?” Gwen sounded impatient.

“This is an impound notice. When the police found Jessica Beckwith’s car at the airport, they found a van parked alongside it. The van had been stolen about two weeks ago.”

“So Stucky stole a van and abandoned it when he was finished with it. What does that have to do with your missing neighbor?”

“The van that was recovered belonged to Northeastern Bell.” Maggie waited for Gwen’s reaction, and when it was less than satisfactory, she continued, “Okay, it’s a long shot, but you have to admit, it’s too much of a coincidence and—”

“I know, I know.” Gwen raised her hand to stop her. “And you don’t believe in coincidences.”