Part 15 (1/2)

”Please,” Clifford said, and, ”Oh, G.o.d-”

”Don't start that again. Unless you want to look like our friend here, you'd better shut up until I tell you different.”

I gave the iron box a little shake as punctuation, and Whistler's head seemed to nod in agreement. Rakes retreated to the far corner of the gutted bed, gasping like a hyena on nitrous oxide.

I didn't care. I wasn't going to cut him a bit of slack. He'd compared me to Charles Manson. He'd accused me of bedwetting and animal mutilation. And he'd done it on national television.

”Please,” he said, one more time, and I came around the bed and hit him hard with the pommel of the knife.

”I told you to shut up.” I dropped Whistler's head on the night table. ”It won't do you any good to talk to me, anyway. You said so yourself-there's no reasoning with a sociopathic religious avenger. That was the profile, right? You can't talk sense to a human juggernaut. You can't cut a deal with Charlie Manson.”

Clifford's lips quivered. He opened his mouth. He couldn't help himself. He wanted to try.

”No, Clifford,” I warned. ”I make the deals. You go along with them, or else I'll use the other end of my knife. I'll add your head to my trophy case. I've always got room for another Philistine journalist, you know.”

That did it. A sour stench rose from the waterbed as fear emptied Clifford's bladder and bowels. He pursed his lips tightly, his face flushed with embarra.s.sment, and didn't say a word.

”You've got to calm down now,” I said. ”I mean, really. What would Barbara Cartland say if she saw you like this?”

He gasped. ”How do you know about that?”

”I did a little profiling of my own, Clifford.”

I tossed his wallet at him, and recognition flared in his eyes. ”You're the guy from the pay phone-”

”Now you know me.”

Clifford stared at me for a long moment. He'd screamed and carried on. He'd even s.h.i.+t himself, but now he was getting a little bit of a handle on the situation. The wheels were turning upstairs. After all, he was starting to think of money. If he looked at it right, a situation like this could mean a cash bonanza. Crime writer faces down serial killer...like that. He'd be set for several weeks on Geraldo, if nothing else.

”But why come here,” he asked. ”Why-”

”No, Clifford. It's my turn to ask the questions. I only have one for you, really. For your sake, I hope you can answer it. Do you want to try?”

He nodded.

”Good.” I lifted Whistler's head off the night table and stared at it. ”I got to thinking about what you said on television. About trophies...and completion.”

Clifford nodded some more. h.e.l.l, he hadn't stopped nodding.

”I've decided that you're right,” I went on. ”About completion, I mean.”

”You did?”

”Yes. Whistler's head isn't enough. I won't be happy until I have the full set. That's why I want you to tell me where they're keeping the old man's body.”

Clifford sighed in relief. This was obviously a question he could answer. ”None of the local mortuaries would handle it,” he blurted. ”Their reputations, you know. They thought that they'd lose business and-”

”Don't give me the MacNeil-Lehrer version. Keep it short, like Headline News.”

Now I was speaking his language. ”Okay,” Clifford said. ”There's a guy south of here in a little town called Owl's Roost. Whistler's people really twisted his arm, and he took the job. He told a stringer for the Enquirer that he was going to hit them for a good chunk of change and-”

”How far is Owl's Roost?”

”About thirty miles south. Maybe thirty-five.”

”Good boy.” I smiled. ”Now, there's just one other thing we need to talk about.”

”What's that?”

”I don't like the things you've been saying about me, Clifford. It's as simple as that. You hurt my feelings. I think you need to develop a lower profile.”

”W-what do you mean?”

”Just this-if I ever see your face on television again, I'll find you, and I'll kill you.”

”You can't be serious-”

”I'm dead serious. Remember that, Clifford.”

I hit him again, and this time he went out like a light.

He splashed down in the gutted bed. Water poured from the frame. The carpet was already a soggy mess. Soon the bed would be empty, and the floor would be a swamp.

I stood over Clifford. Killing him would be easy.

If I hurried, I could drown him in the gashed mattress...or I could simply cut his throat.

But if I did that, Clifford Rakes might come back to haunt me.

Literally.

It wasn't much of a decision. I tied him up instead.

2.

Through midnight drizzle, I pushed Janice's Explorer for all it was worth. The coastal roads were narrow and wet, and when I came to the inevitable landslide I punched the gas pedal and tore past a knot of traffic and a s.h.i.+vering highway patrolman who was flagging for a late-night road crew.

If the cop tried to follow me I never knew about it. As it was, I didn't care about anything in the rearview mirror. What I wanted lay ahead of me, and anyone who tried to keep me from it was going to end up dead.

I was buckled in tight. Diabolos Whistler wasn't-the Explorer's seatbelts weren't designed for severed heads. Whistler's mortal remains bounced around in the padlocked iron box as I tore over potholes and hugged hairpin curves, but the old man didn't seem to care.

”Still dead and quiet as an empty grave,” I said. ”That's the way I like you best.”

And that was the way he was going to stay, if I'd read the situation correctly.

Owl's Roost Road came up without warning, and I nearly spun out trying to make the turn. But make it I did, with a quick footwork duet on the brake and the gas that sent Whistler's iron prison tumbling to the floor, and when I was on the road and racing into the dark redwoods beyond I stuck to the gas.