Part 3 (1/2)

”I will.”

Rex Barrett drew a thumb along the handlebar moustache that he'd raised since becoming chief of the Oasis Police Department. To Lacey, it made the lean lawman look like a twin of Wyatt Earp. She often suspected that he'd grown it for that reason.

”You'll be writing this up for the Trib?” he asked.

”Yes.”

”I'd appreciate your not mentioning specifics about the way he did Elsie.”

”Fine,” she said, leaning back against the counter. There were other specifics she planned not to mention.

”Now, if I were you, I'd drag my doctor out of bed for a quick onceover. You took some good knocks to night and you just never know, with a head injury.”

”I'll do that,” she lied.

”I would, if I were you.”

”Is it all right if...?” Two men wheeled a stretcher down the aisle. One hurried ahead to open the door. She looked at the body bag. The contours of the black plastic resembled a human. Had they pieced Elsie back together?

Shutting her eyes, she tried to think about something else. Her shoulder was touched. She flinched and snapped open her eyes.

”It's okay,” Barrett said. He squeezed her shoulder.

”Sure.”

”You go on, now. See your doctor. Get a good night's sleep.”

”I will. Thanks.”

Outside, she saw the stretcher being slid into the rear of the coroner's van. She hurried past Red's pickup, and opened her car door. The ceiling light came on. As she started to climb in, goose b.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled her skin.

She snapped her head sideways. n.o.body in the backseat.

But she couldn't see the rear floor.

Silly, she thought. Like a kid checking under the bed.

Silly or not, she had to make sure n.o.body was hunched out of sight behind the front seats. Planting a knee on the cus.h.i.+on, she grabbed the headrest and eased herself forward. Her breast hurt as it pushed against the vinyl upholstery. She peered over the top of the seat. n.o.body down there.

Of course not.

But she'd had to make sure.

She twisted around, sat down, and pulled her door shut. She locked it. With a glance to the right, she saw that the pa.s.senger door wasn't locked. Stretching across the seat, she jabbed the b.u.t.ton down with her forefinger. She checked the rear doors. Their lock b.u.t.tons looked low and snug.

She sighed. With a slick, sweaty hand, she rubbed the back of her neck. Then she pushed the key into the ignition, and started the car.

A cigarette. She wanted a cigarette. A little treat for herself, an indulgence, a comfort that didn't have to wait till she reached her home on the outskirts of town. The drink and the bath had to wait: not the cigarette.

She opened her handbag. With a glance around the parking lot to be sure no one would see, she pulled out her ruined bra and pan ties. She tossed them onto the pa.s.senger seat. Then she reached into the bag, looking down into its darkness, hoping to find her pack of Tareytons without touching the sodden wads of tissue. Her body jerked as she fingered a cool, slippery ball and gagged. The pack of cigarettes was beneath the mess. She pulled it out, gagging again as her hand came out wet and sticky. She rubbed her hand on her jeans.

”G.o.d,” she muttered.

Her whole body ached, as if the pressure of the spasms had burst open all her injuries. She pressed her legs together, and held her b.r.e.a.s.t.s gently until the pain subsided.

Then she shook out a cigarette. She held it in her lips and lit it, staring at the glowing red coils of the car's lighter. The smoke was as soothing as she'd hoped. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on the headlights and backed her car out of the parking s.p.a.ce.

The coroner's van was gone. Three police cars remained, as did Red's pickup. She supposed the pickup would be towed away before morning.

The road was deserted. She turned her radio on, and listened to a country station from Tucson. Ronnie Milsap was singing ”What a Difference You Made in My Life.” When his song ended, Anne Murray came on with ”Can I Have This Dance?” Nice of them to play a couple of her favorites. The songs helped to soothe her shattered nerves.

As she reached her block, she took a final, deep drag on her cigarette. She held the smoke in, stubbed out her cigarette, and let the smoke ease out of her mouth.

From behind her came a m.u.f.fled cough.

Her eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. A slice of ceiling. The back window. The empty road.

Had it been the radio?

No, the cough had come from behind. She was sure. It sounded like someone in the backseat. Impossible. She'd looked so carefully.

The m.u.f.fler? A simple backfire? No.

Lacey swerved across the road, shot up her driveway, and hit the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. She shut it off. Grabbing her handbag, she threw open the door and leapt out. She slammed the door.

Fighting an urge to run, she stepped close to the rear window and peered inside. n.o.body there. Of course not.

Under the car? Could a man hang on, down there? It seemed impossible. But now that the idea had entered her mind, she had to check. She dropped to her knees, planted her hands on the cool concrete, and lowered herself until she could see under the carriage. She scanned the dark s.p.a.ce.

n.o.body.

The trunk? She stood up, brus.h.i.+ng off her hands, and stared at the trunk's sloping hood.

How could anyone get in? Pick the lock? Child's play, probably, for someone who knew how. And if he could get in, he could get out just as easily.

What if it's not even latched?

Holding her breath, Lacey stepped softly toward the rear of the car. The edges of the trunk's hood were not perfectly flush with the bordering surfaces. Slightly higher. Less than a quarter of an inch, though. Maybe that was normal.

Maybe not.

Maybe the killer, the slug who raped her, was hunched inside the trunk, holding it shut.