Part 9 (1/2)

The traffic light at the intersection with Ventura Boulevard was red when they reached it. Cindy leaned across the seat, kissed Dukane quickly on the mouth, and sprang from the car.

It took him three freeways and twenty minutes to reach the Lincoln exit in Santa Monica. The traffic on Lincoln was heavy. He finally reached Rose, turned right, and sped up the street for several blocks. He parked on Rose. He ran to the other side, then walked.

Approaching Dr. Miles's house, he saw that the gate of its low picket fence stood open. His stomach knotted.

Maybe the mailman had left the gate open.

Wishful thinking.

They got to Alice's parents, found out where she was being kept. No telepathy necessary. No magical powers. Just a check of their rec ords, a visit to the girl's home, an interrogation.

s.h.i.+t! He'd known, d.a.m.n it, that something like this could happen. He should've insisted on staying. He'd let the lady talk him out of it, he'd gone against his better judgment, and...

The front door stood ajar. Grabbing his automatic, Dukane toed it open. The foyer, the hallway, were deserted. The house was silent.

With his elbow, he eased the door shut. He stepped forward, silent except for the groan of the hardwood floor. At the edge of the living room entry, he stopped. He listened, but heard nothing. Holding his breath, he peered around the corner.

The naked, headless body of a woman was sprawled on the floor, her flesh carved, a fire poker protruding from between her spread legs.

Alice smiled at him. ”I knew you'd come,” she said. She sat cross-legged near the body, her face and yellow sundress smeared with blood. The head of Teri Miles lay in her lap. She lifted it with both hands. The wire-rimmed gla.s.ses were in place, one lens webbed with cracks. The eyes were open, staring. Alice grinned.

From behind the couch and easy chair, three figures rose into view.

”These are my friends. I told you they'd find me.”

”Drop your weapon,” said the man behind the chair. He wore a three-piece suit and a confident smile. In his hand was an automatic, probably.25 caliber, small enough to be concealed easily in a pocket. Too small for much accuracy.

Neither of the others held a gun.

The one on the left, a fat bearded man dressed like a biker, climbed over the back of the couch. He stepped down, his belly swinging, and waved a b.l.o.o.d.y bowie knife in front of his smile.

The one on the right stepped around an end of the couch. He wore grease-stained coveralls. He held a pipe wrench.

Dukane took a step into the living room.

”I told you to...”

”You drop yours,” he said, raising his.45. ”Mine's bigger.”

The man's eyes flicked to the side. Catching the movement, Dukane whirled around, flung up his left arm, and blocked the knife. The woman wielding it hissed and jerked the blade back, tearing open his forearm. Dukane swung his heavy Colt. It slammed across her cheek and she stumbled backward, grabbing her face.

Dukane started to turn. He heard a quick flat bam like a screen door slamming shut. The bullet punched through his jacket sleeve, but he felt no hit. The clean-cut man tried again as Dukane brought up his automatic and fired. The man's chin dissolved in a burst of red.

Even as the gun bucked, the biker chopped down with his knife. He missed Dukane's wrist, but the powerful blow against the barrel knocked his pistol free. Alice grabbed his ankles. He fell backward as the huge knife slashed at his belly. Hitting the floor, he jerked a foot free. Alice reached for it. His heel smashed her face aside.

He kicked out at the legs of the biker, but the bulky man lunged forward, kicking back, slas.h.i.+ng at his s.h.i.+ns.

The grease monkey, at the biker's side, hurled the wrench down at Dukane's head. It almost missed. It numbed his ear and brought tears to his eyes. Dukane grabbed the wrench. He sat up, swinging it to keep away the knife. It clanked against the blade. Before the knife could slash back, he leaned far forward and hammered the man's knee. With a cry of pain, the biker hobbled and fell.

The mechanic was bending down, reaching for Dukane's automatic. Dukane threw the wrench. It bounced off his shoulder, knocking him off balance. As he dropped to one knee, Dukane scrambled toward him. He saw the man pick up the gun, swing its barrel toward him. His fist cut upward. Hit the man's hand. The barrel jumped with the impact, tipped high and blasted a hole through the mechanic's upper teeth. The bullet exited the top of his head, splas.h.i.+ng gore at the ceiling.

Dukane jerked the pistol from his dead fingers. He stood as the biker limped toward him, snarling, waving the knife like a pirate's cutla.s.s.

He shot the man in the chest.

The woman who'd caught Dukane's barrel with her cheek was on her hands and knees, spitting blood and bits of broken teeth. She was wearing a tennis dress. Across the seat of her pan ties was printed ”DON'T POACH.”

Alice lay on the floor, curled up, blood spilling out between the fingers holding her face.

Dukane went to her.

He snapped a handcuff around her left wrist and dragged her across the floor. He cuffed her to the tennis player.

Then he searched for a telephone and called the police.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Lacey was awakened by maids giggling and chattering in the hallway. They spoke Spanish, a language she had picked up as a child in Oasis. She grinned as she listened.

Two of the women had gone on a double-date to the drive-in, last night. Infuriated by their drunken boyfriends, they'd insisted on sitting together. The boyfriends climbed out of the car and went stumbling away, at which point the girls grandly drove off.

Lacey wondered who owned the car.

She flung the sheet aside, and groaned as she sat up. All over her body, her muscles ached with stiffness. She felt better than before, though. Waking up in the hotel room yesterday morning, she'd felt like the loser in a scrimmage with the Dallas Cowboys. Today, by comparison, was great.

Getting off the bed, she hobbled into the bathroom. She studied herself in the full-length mirror. Though her hair was a mess, her face had lost its haggard, haunted look. The bruises mottling her body had turned a sickly, greenish yellow. Hard ridges of scab had formed on her scratches.

”Won't be posing for a centerfold,” she muttered. ”But not bad.”

She took a shower in the huge, gla.s.s-sided stall, then dried herself and got dressed in the same baggy clothes Alfred had bought on Thursday.

This was Sat.u.r.day.

Escape day. Thursday and Friday, she'd been afraid to leave her room. She'd sat around reading paperbacks from the hotel gift shop, watching television, smoking, indulging herself in incredibly expensive food and wine from room ser vice. After two days of it, she was ready to get out. More than ready.

She intended to buy several items, but the sun felt wonderful so she left her car in the hotel parking lot and walked. Three blocks away, in a sporting goods store just off Stone, she found most of what she wanted: a web belt to hold up her corduroys, a tank top and gym shorts, a one-piece bathing suit, suntan oil, a pocket knife, and a sheath knife with a sixinch blade. After purchasing the items, she shut herself into a dressing room and changed into the shorts and top.

She wandered the downtown area, enjoying the feel of the sun, pleased but slightly nervous with the stares of pa.s.sing men.

Near noon, she entered a hardware store. She bought a spray can of ”aluminum”-colored paint. She ate lunch at a McDonald's, then returned to her hotel.

She put on the swimsuit. With its high neckline, it concealed the worst of her injuries. Scratches and bruises showed on her thighs, her shoulders, her arms. But that couldn't be helped. She was determined to use the pool, no matter how she looked. Turning, she studied her back. The suit left it bare almost to the rump. Her back, at least, looked reasonably unmarred.

She emptied her handbag on the bed, and filled it with what she needed: suntan oil, an Ed McBain paperback, the can of spray paint and her sheath knife. With a bath towel draping her shoulders, she left the room.