EXCERPT FROM STORM OF VISIONS

Napa Valley, California

Jacqueline pulled her backpack out of her employee locker and headed out the back door to her car, parked under the broad branches of the two-hundred-year-old blue oak that had given the winery its name. The little Civic started right up, and she headed south on Highway 29, the windows wide and the wind ripping through her hair.

The color was like the shimmer of moonlight . . . or so she'd been told. She realized now she should have cut it, and dyed it black, or brown, or purple, or any color besides this freakish platinum. The blonde was too distinctive, too easy to spot. More than once, she glanced behind her, watching for a strange vehicle with the strange guy in it, but everything seemed normal. Then, as she pulled into the little town of San Michael, she spotted a black Mercedes SL550 with dark tinted windows, and that chill rippled through her.

Was it him? Was it Mr. Aggressive?

Not necessarily. But if it was . . . she couldn't outrun him. She had to outsmart him.

Rather than going to her apartment, she drove until she found a parking spot beside the old-fashioned town square. It was crowded here, part of the downtown renaissance. Quaint shops faced out on the park filled with grand live oaks and benches where tourists lolled in the shade. Directly across the way stood an old red brick courthouse complete with white trim and a cupola. She scanned the park, looking for Mr. Aggressive. She saw nothing.

Plucking her cell out of her backpack, she called the winery.

Her co-worker picked up on the first ring. "Blue Oak Winery, where the hell are you, Jacquie?"

"I didn't like that guy, and you did, so I left."

"All he did was ask questions about you, and about the time I realized you hadn't come back from the back room, he put the glass down and walked out. What a loser."

No wonder Jacqueline was uneasy. "Okay. Thank you." She got out of the car. Locked the doors. Slung her backpack over her shoulder. And started walking.

In Hills' sales window, a pair of red heels with the diamond buckles caught her attention. She stopped, stared -- and at that moment, she caught her first glimpse of him, a dark reflection in the glass. The other people on the sidewalk hurried past, but he stood still, a little to the side, and when she glanced at him, the way you do in a crowd, without really looking at him -- he was watching her.

Tall. Lanky. Dark-haired. Blue, cold eyes, with the look of a hunter.

She turned quickly away from the window and hurried down the street. Okay. This wasn't her imagination. He had followed her. He was there, part of the impersonal crowd that gathered by the crosswalk. No one else was looking at her, that was for sure. Just him.

The light changed. The crowd surged forward. She surged with them.

The heat rose from the sidewalk and through the soles of her running shoes, and in the odor of the hot asphalt, she could almost smell the flames of hell. Hell . . .

For a moment, the colors around her faded, turned pale and sepia-tinted, and the world stood still . . .

She staggered and went down on one knee, and the pain brought her back.

She couldn't afford to do this now. She would not allow herself to do this now.

Bending her head, she pretended to tie her shoe, and when she stood, Mr. Aggressive had moved on. She darted into the quilting shop and walked toward the back.

The lone, elderly clerk said, "Hi, I'm Bernice. May I help you with your quilting needs?"

"I'm passing through." Jacqueline paused, her attention captured by the row of scissors hanging from hooks on the pegboard wall. She grabbed an eight-inch, fifteen-dollar pair, and flung it on the counter.

Bernice bustled forward. "That pair is good as all-around scissors, but if you're going to be cutting much material, you'd be happier with the slightly more expensive, chrome plated, Heritage Razor Sharpe sheers."

Jacqueline dug out her wallet and flung a twenty on top of the scissors. "I'm going to stab somebody with them."

Bernice tittered, then as she stared into Jacqueline's face, her smile faded. "Well . . . then . . . I suppose they'll do."

She backed toward the counter and the cash register so slowly, Jacqueline knew she couldn't wait. She had about a minute before Mr. Aggressive realized he'd lost her, retraced his steps, and picked up on her trail again. Grabbing the scissors, she put them in her pocket, said, "Keep the change," swerved around the sales counter and out the back door. Taking a left, she ran hard for the next street. At an opportune moment, she dashed across traffic and ducked into another alley. She hid behind the dumpster, a hot, filthy metal bin that smelled like rotting Mexican food. She opened zippers, dug down to the bottom of her backpack, looking for her baseball cap. She found it, tucked up her hair, and ran again, away from the crowds, and toward home.

Her apartment was two blocks away. If she could reach the old house, she'd be safe. Her stalker would be behind her. She'd have time to figure out what to do.

Like call the police? Not even.

Pack her bags and get out of town? No way.

Hide under the bed? Yeah, maybe.

She turned onto her quiet street, with its massive oaks and shady yards, slowed to a walk, and looked around, searching for any sign of him.

Nothing, or rather, no man disturbed the even tenor of the neighborhood.

So she was hot and sweaty, but triumphant. Mr. Aggressive might be the world's all-time best tracker, but she'd lost him. That would teach him to terrorize young, single women.

She climbed the wooden steps onto the wide porch and checked her mailbox. A catalogue and a bill. She used her key to let herself in the side door and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The old house had been divided into four apartments per floor. She was one of the lucky ones; she had her own bathroom.

She tried the knob; her apartment was locked. She pulled the scissors out of her pocket, inserted her key, swung the door wide, and looked inside. The living room and kitchen were empty. Damn him. He really did have her on edge.

But better safe than sorry. Swiftly now, she shut the door behind her. She slid her scissors back in her pocket, set the deadbolt, dropped her backpack and, peeling off her t-shirt, headed for the bedroom -- and paused. She could hear water running -- and it sounded like it was in her apartment.

She walked through the bathroom door, and the steam hit her in the face.

She'd left the shower running.

This morning she'd been in a hurry, distracted by that sickening sepia world that hovered close to the edges of her consciousness. Closing her eyes, she touched the mark on her palm to the place on her forehead between her eyes.

Quickly, she took her hand away.

She didn't want to acknowledge the ache that plagued her there. If she could ignore it, it would go away. It always had before . . .

The shower. She'd left the shower running.

How could she have been so careless? She had her hand on the green plastic curtain when the word echoed in her mind.

Careless . . .

And she realized . . . someone was in there.

Flinging the plastic curtain open, he pulled her inside.

Buy this book at: Amazon | BarnesandNoble.com | Borders | Walmart

<< Previous Excerpt | Next Excerpt >>