Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood by Alex Archer Page B

buried by the passage of time, so, too, do detectives sift through the evidence to find out who committed the crime and why.
    She knew the police were hoping someone would see the press conference, recognize the woman’s picture and call to tell them who she was. But that could take days, maybe even weeks, and Annja was convinced the killer would strike again, and soon. Better to act now than to wait for information to come in on its own timetable.
    When Annja arrived in the village of Čachtice, she parked in the town square. Taking the photograph of the dead woman with her, she began knocking on doors, asking those who answered if they knew the woman in the picture.
    She had spent some time with her English-Slovak phrasebook and memorized a few key phrases, such as “Do you speak English?” and “Have you seen this woman?” Combined with the words for “yes” and “no”—
ano
and
nie
, respectively—Annja had all the Slovakian she needed to make a little headway into the subject of the murdered woman should anyone be willing to talk with her.
    Unfortunately, she soon discovered that they weren’t.
    Time and time again Annja would knock on the door and be greeted pleasantly enough by the home owner, only to have that same individual shake their head and withdraw the moment she pulled out the victim’s photograph. Several times those of the older generation took one look at the picture and gave her the sign of the horns to ward off evil—a hand gesture formed by extending the index and little fingers while holding the ring and middle fingers down with the thumb—before slamming the door in her face.
    Annja put their reactions down to their not wanting to talk about the dead with a stranger, but she had to admit to a certain amount of unease each time it happened. She knew it was crazy, but it still made her wonder just what these people knew that she didn’t. The hairs on the back of her neck would stand at attention every time they forked their fingers at her.
    She wandered down street after street, knocking on every door she found but getting nowhere. It was long past dark by the time she decided to call it quits. Tired from being on her feet all day and frustrated at the lack of results, Annja headed back to her car. She glanced over her shoulder and thought she saw something duck out of sight behind one of the buildings about thirty yards away.
    Probably just a dog, she thought, and kept walking.
    But after a few more minutes an itch began to form between her shoulder blades. She’d had the feeling often enough to know what it meant. Someone was watching her.
    She stopped, turned and scanned the road behind her.
    It was empty.
    Or, at least, it appeared so, but Annja knew it wasn’t. She might not be able to see whoever was back there watching her, but she could feel the weight of their stare.
    Nothing about it felt friendly, either.
    Annja turned back and continued on her way, her thoughts churning along at a furious pace as she analyzed the situation.
    The streets were deserted at this hour, since the rural residents of this community synchronized their lives with the rise and fall of the sun. The road she was on was lit only by dim lamps spaced about a hundred yards apart, creating large stretches of shadow that were dark enough to hide anything.
    To get to her car, which was still at least half a mile away, she was going to have to brave that gauntlet and hope whoever was behind her didn’t catch up before she reached the safety of the rental.
    A head start would be nice...
    And she knew just how to create one.
    She looked back over her shoulder, betting that whoever was following her would duck out of sight, just as they had before. Her guess proved correct; she caught the barest flash of movement as her tail slipped behind a parked car.
    It was the break she was looking for.
    The moment her tail went to ground, Annja took off running, the hard rubber soles of her boots pounding out a rhythm against