Part 68 (2/2)

She shook her head, trying to find a way to end the sentence, so I ended it for her.

”An error in judgment?” I suggested.

She looked up at me and said, ”An error in judgment? What a cheap way to sum up a life.”

I was trying to think of a way to tell her about Sam Donleavy, but I didn't have a chance to get around to it.

”I can't stay here, Jake,” she said, staring at the pictures on the wall. ”Every place I look I see him.” She looked at me. ”Drive me out to Windsong, will you, please? Get me out of here.”

”Let's go,” I said. I could tell her on the way out.

She did whatever women do before they leave the house-it seemed like an eternity of puttering around-then we left and walked back to my car. We didn't say anything but she clung to my arm so hard it hurt.

The security guard flagged me down as we drove toward the island.

”You got somebody waiting for you?” he asked.

”Why do you ask?”

”There's this black sedan down to the right. Pulled up just after you went in. He's been down there ever since.”

I squinted through the dark and could see the car, half a block away, sitting on our side of the street. It could have been one of Dutch's hooligans, but I didn't recognize the car.

”Can you tell how many there are?”

”Just the one,” he said.

”Maybe he's sleeping one off,” I said.

”Yeah, well, just thought I'd mention it,” the guard said.

”Thanks. ”

”My pleasure.”

I pulled out of the security drive and turned left, away from the parked car. It pulled away from the curb without showing any lights and fell in behind us. I drifted, letting it pull closer. As usual, my gun was in the trunk.

”Hook up,” I told Doe.

”What?” she said.

”Your safety belt. Hook it up, and hang on.”

She groped for the belt and snapped it across her lap.

”What's the matter?” she asked, urgency creeping into her voice.

”We've got company,” I said, hooking up my own belt. ”Just hang on. It'll be like the old days in the dune buggy.”

I waited until the car was ten feet behind me, then slammed down the gas pedal and twisted the steering wheel. The car leaped forward, its tires tortured by the asphalt, and then spun around. I hit the brakes, straightened it out, and left rubber all over Palm Drive as I headed in the other direction.

The other driver was faster than I figured. He swerved and hit my left rear fender. I lost control for a moment, spun wheels, hit gas and brakes trying to get it back, leaped over the banquette, missed an alcove of garbage cans and Dempster Dumpsters, and wasted about thirty feet of the fence surrounding the compound. My car came to a halt, its ruined radiator hissing crazily.

I fumbled with the keys, got them out of the ignition, jumped out, and ran back toward the trunk. The other car did a wheely and headed back toward me, stopping ten feet away. I was still struggling with the trunk latch when I heard Turk Nance say from behind me: ”You need driving lessons.”

While we were looking for him, Nance had followed me.

Doe was out of the car beside me.

”Get back in the car,” I said as quietly as I could.

”What's going on?” she squealed.

Too late. Nance was standing in front of me, his Luger at arm's length, pointed at my face, his reptile eyes dancing gleefully, his tongue searching his lips.

I reacted. Without thinking. Without figuring the odds. Without thinking about Doe.

It was like an o.r.g.a.s.m, a great flood of relief. All my frustrations and anger boiled up out of me into a blind, uncontrollable rage. Nance was more than just a psychotic who had killed people I knew and who'd tried to kill me. He was every broken promise, every shattered dream, every p.i.s.sed-away value in the last twenty years of my life.

I didn't think. I grabbed the gun by the barrel and twisted hard, heard the shot and felt the heat surge through the barrel, burn my hand, and howl off down the street. I hit him, knocked him into the alcove of garbage cans, hit him again, kneed him, thrashed him back and forth, from one wall to the other, and then hit him again and kneed him again. He started to fall and I held him up and kept hitting him. I could hear Doe screaming my name hysterically but I couldn't stop. Every punch felt good, every kick. He started screaming, trying to get away from me. His s.h.i.+rt tore and he fell to his knees and scrambled toward the street like a crab. I slammed my foot down on his ankle to stop him, twisted it, and hit him in the back of the head several times with my fist until my hand was burning with pain. I dragged him up and kicked him in the small of his back and he vaulted in a clean diver's arc into the garbage cans.

It wasn't enough. I s.n.a.t.c.hed up a garbage pail lid and slammed it down on his head, three, four, five times, until it was a mangled wreck, then threw it away, dragged him to his feet, and jammed my knee into his groin again. I grabbed a fistful of his s.h.i.+rt, held him, and hit him half a dozen more times, short, hard shots, straight to the face. I hit him until he was a b.l.o.o.d.y, limp rag.

Doe was leaning against the wall, her hands stifling her screams, her eyes crazy with fear and shock.

”Stop it, Jake, for G.o.d's sake, please stop it!” she cried.

I dragged him up and threw him across the hood of the car, picked up his Luger, and jammed it into his throat.

The entire exhibition had taken about thirty seconds.

”You f.u.c.king Mongoloid!” I screamed in his ear. ”That's three strikes. You're out.”

”No, no, no!” Doe screamed.

The security guard was in the street, blowing his whistle, not sure whether to pull his gun or not.

”Call this number,” I yelled to him, and barked out the number of the Warehouse. I repeated it.

”You got that?” I demanded.

”Yes, sir!”

”You call it now, tell whoever answers that Jake Kilmer wants company and not to waste time getting here.”

”Yes, sir.” He dashed back inside the security house.

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