Night moves By Heather Graham
Prologue
Lee was as one with the night.
His tread upon the damp earth was as silent as the soft breeze that cooled the night, and as he moved carefully through the neatly manicured foliage, he was no more than shadow.
A distant heritage had given him these gifts, and that same distant heritage had taught him to move with the grace of the wild deer, to hunt with the acute and cunning stalk of the panther, and to stand firm in his determination with the tenacity of the golden eagle.
Yet that distant heritage had nothing to do with his secretive stalk of this dark evening. Nor with the clothes he wore, black Levi's jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.
And black Adidas sneakers.
Black, which could be swallowed into the night.
Hunched down and balanced on the balls of his feet, he watched the house patiently for half an hour.
Then he began to move, circling around it within the shelter of palms and hibiscus.
No light shone from within. All was silent. Not even the trailing fingers of the pines gave off a rustle.
Puzzled, he relaxed somewhat, then began another stealthy walk to circle the contemporary dwelling once more.
Near the rear of the house he paused, hearing nothing, but sensing movement on the air. And then he did hear it.Footsteps.Padding cautiously, slowly.
A silhouette appeared against the pale glimmer of the moon.
A figure, also clad in black from head to toe.
Black jeans.Loose-fitting, bulky black sweater.And a black ski mask that hid the wearer's features, rendering it sexless, an intruder with one intent: to get into the house.
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The slender form paused as if strung upon the air, something like a young doe, seeming to sense danger.
But there was no tangible danger, and so the form moved again, scurrying this time, rushing from the cover of the foliage to a double-paned window.
He waited tensely as he watched the figure struggle for several seconds to lift the window. A cloud suddenly slipped over the moon, dimming the meager natural light of the night until it was almost nonexistent. There was nothing but pure shadow, a mist of blindness, and even the shadow was sensed rather than seen.
The figure continued to work at the window. At last it gave, and the form leaped nimbly to the sill, paused again,then disappeared within.
Only then did he move himself, silent as the shadow of the night once more, his steps making no sound.
He peered through the window. A small, furtive light gleamed, the beam of a small flashlight. It moved across the room, disappearing past a white framed doorway that momentarily caught its reflection.
Swiftly, smoothly, he hopped to the sill and eased himself over.
He followed in the wake of the flashlight, past several doors, until he came to a large and spacious room.
He paused in the darkness of the hallway, watching as the light was played quickly about. A modular sofa, strewn with colorfulafghans , was comfortably arranged in one corner; a piano set upon a dais, and bookshelves lined opposing walls. Where there was space, attractive Western prints were hung; there was a rifle rack, and also a display of antique bows, arrows and spears.
Far to the left, past a tiled foyer, was another raised section, separated from the main room by a handsome wrought-iron rail from which hung curling ivy.And within the enclosed section sat a large teakwood desk.
It was here that the figure had stopped.
The flashlight was set on top of a leather framed blotter; busy hands began hurriedly pulling at the drawers and rifling through them. With narrowed eyes he watched the action for a moment, and then, with the stealthy tread of a panther, he began to close in.
A desk drawer slammed.Too loud. The intruder froze for a moment and sent the light flashing nervously around.
He ducked behind a section of the sofa and waited until he heard the sound of riffled papers once again.
Now...now he was ready to strike.
Like a rush of wind he moved across the room, his movement fluid as he plucked an arrow from the wall, sprang over the ivy covered railing and clamped an arm about the stunned intruder's throat.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled, pressing the arrow point threateningly to the intruder's ribs. "And what the hell do you want?"
He felt the cold rush of terror that flooded through the intruder, the rigid, frozen stance.
"I--" The tremulous whisper was choked off almost immediately. He relaxed the pressure of his hold somewhat and dropped the arrow as he realized his enemy's weakness.
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"We'll get some light on the situation," he finally muttered dryly, releasing his victim altogether and moving confidently toward the desk.