Part 20 (1/2)

”That's not what Graham seems to think.” Aaron began to pat his pockets, hunting for cigarettes.

”Well, Graham is wrong, and so are you. And don't you dare smoke in here. Go outside.”

”Not unless you get up.” His dark eyes held a spark of irritation now. ”I mean it. If you want a bodyguard, you've got to feed him.”

”I don't want a bodyguard!”

”Well, what do you want?” He stood up, rifling his pockets in earnest.

”I want you out of my bedroom. And then-”

The phone rang, which was just as well since I didn't really know how to finish my sentence. And then what? Hide out from Lester Foy forever? Aaron left the room and I grabbed the receiver.

”Ms. Kincaid? Graham. There was another s.e.xual a.s.sault last night, right near the Sims woman's building.”

”Not a murder?”

”Not this time. We've got a chance to make an arrest today, so I can't spare the time for your...”

”My hunch?”

”Exactly. Just take sensible precautions, and stay in touch with my office, all right?”

”Of course. Lieutenant, about last night, I really appreciate-”

”Got to go.” And he hung up.

When I emerged from the bedroom, dressed but still cranky, Aaron was out on the deck in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, grinding one cigarette underfoot while he lit another. Last night's rain had emptied the lower clouds, and the sky showed a high, faded blue streaked with fast-moving mares' tails. His khaki windbreaker was lying on the couch, so I carried it out to him, holding it distastefully with two fingers.

”This smells of smoke.”

”Excuse me for living. Who was that on the phone?”

”None of your business.”

”Come on, Stretch, I can read you like a book. Something's happened.”

I related Graham's call about the rapist downtown, and as I did, I felt a sneaking qualm of doubt to go with the queasi-ness in my stomach. Was I wrong about Skull after all? Maybe Angela's death was unrelated to Mercedes'.

”You see?” said Aaron triumphantly. ”That's who killed Angela Sims, not your phantom Dracula. And I bet I was right all along about Corinne. She was telling tall tales again, looking for sympathy.”

”But she saw Skull in the Market!”

”No law against being in the Market. Maybe he's a big fan of vegetables. Come on, let's get going.”

”I'm not going anywhere,” I said stubbornly. ”I... I'm not feeling well.”

I went back inside and he followed, his thin East Coast voice raised in protest. ”Look, Stretch, don't be embarra.s.sed. You just got carried away with your serial-killer theory, that's all. This kind of violence would make any woman paranoid. You'll feel better with some food in you.”

”I'm not paranoid!” I snapped. ”And I don't want any food.”

”Well, I can't just leave you here.”

”Why not? According to you, I'm not in any danger, I'm just a hysterical, paranoid woman.”

”Calm down!”

”I am calm!” I shouted. ”Stop patronizing me, and go get your d.a.m.n breakfast.”

”Fine.” He shoved his arms into the tangled sleeves of his jacket, got one arm stuck, struggled a bit, and yanked the jacket off again, glaring all the while. Then he stalked through the kitchen and out the front door, banging it behind him and leaving me with the world's worst headache.

”Fine!” I said to the door. Then I flipped the dead bolt and glared around the kitchen. That pineapple smells perfectly nice, I thought defiantly. I returned to the living room, sniffing the air. The reek of cigarettes was even stronger than I thought. Where does he get off complaining about smells- ”Who the f.u.c.k is Angela?”

The reek was coming from Lester Foy, who was standing just inside the gla.s.s door to my deck. He wore motorcycle leathers and ma.s.sive boots looped with silver chains, and his face held an expression of such brute malevolence that meeting his gaze felt like warding off a blow.

I opened my mouth, but nothing emerged except a feeble gasp. Then last night's omelet tried to follow the gasp out, and I felt the cold sweat of nausea on my face. The room seemed to tilt.

”Answer me!” His voice was harsh and raw. ”You got Mandy so p.i.s.sed off-”

I may scare easy, but I don't scare for long. The room straightened out, the omelet stayed put, and I inflated my lungs like bellows and shrieked for all I was worth.

”Get AWAY-Y-Y!!”

”Jesus!” said Foy I fled into the kitchen, meaning to grab my chef's knife, but when I heard Foy's boots clumping behind me, I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the next best thing and whirled to face him.

”Don't touch me!” I warned, brandis.h.i.+ng the pineapple. Granted, it wasn't much of a threat, but it made him hesitate. Then came a shout and a rattle at the front-door k.n.o.b, and Foy retreated back to the living room.

”Aaron!” I hollered. ”He's in here! Help!”

Still clutching my tropical weapon, I unlocked the front door, but no one was there. Aaron must have gone around to the back. I rushed into the living room with the vague notion of catching the intruder between us.

Foy was standing outside on the narrow wooden deck. The weak winter sun, reflecting off the water, illuminated the dark designs on his skull and the backs of his hands. I could see the bat wings above his left ear as he faced the south end of the deck, the way he had come. But he wasn't moving, and his jaw was agape in astonishment.

I ran to the gla.s.s and saw, not Aaron but the beautiful, the glorious Buckmeisters, surging around the corner like the flying squad of some good-natured, unstoppable football team. Foy spun on his heel to flee the other way, then stopped again, stymied. My deck doesn't run all the way around; it dead-ends at the north corner. He turned back to glare at me, with murder in his eyes. I knew I'd never get the sliding door closed in time, let alone fumble the mop handle into place.

So I launched the pineapple.

It sailed heavily through the open doorway, losing alt.i.tude fast and coming in at knee level. Foy deflected it with one grimy hand, and with the other flicked open a wicked-looking knife. But those precious seconds brought Buck Buckmeister bearing down on him like vengeance itself in a red bandanna. Snarling obscenities, Foy backed away from this new opponent and raised the knife.

Unfortunately for Lester Foy, he backed up one step too many. He seemed to hang suspended for a moment, and then fell, spread-eagled and howling, into Lake Union. The enormous splash he sent up spattered the Buckmeisters and sent an arc of drops rat-a-tatting across my windows. I fell into Betty and Bonnie's solicitous arms while their patriarch stared down into the water, breathing hard.

”Who is this b.a.s.t.a.r.d?” Buck demanded. ”Did he touch you? By G.o.d, I'll kill him.”

”I don't think you have to, Daddy,” said Bonnie. ”I think he's drowning.”

”Serves him right,” rumbled Buck. ”Probably faking it.”