Part 13 (1/2)
Lacey lay facedown on the living room floor, her shorts around her knees, Scott patting her cut b.u.t.tock with a cool, damp washcloth. ”Not much bleeding,” he said. ”You don't have bandages or anything, do you?”
”Afraid not.”
”Have any sanitary napkins?”
She felt heat flood her face, and wondered if the blush extended to her rump. ”Not with me.”
”Well, it's not much more than a scratch, but...”
”Oh, I think there is a pad in the medicine cabinet. The hotel variety. Right behind some kind of shower cap and shoes.h.i.+ne rag.”
”Advantages of a first-rate hotel,” Scott said, and left her. He returned, seconds later, tearing open the white wrapper. He knelt down, and pressed the soft pad against her wound. ”The tape's on the wrong side,” he muttered.
”Supposed to be. My underwear'll hold it in place.”
”Oh.” He went for her pan ties, and hurried back.
”Thanks,” Lacey said. ”I can take care of the rest.”
While she pulled on her pan ties and shorts, Scott went into the hallway. He came back with a blanket.
He used it to cover the body of Carl Williams. Dots of blood darkened the fuzzy pink blanket, bloomed, and grew together. Lacey turned away.
She got to her feet. Wandering to a far corner of the room, she picked up the can of spray paint. She sat gently on the couch, clutching the can with both hands.
Scott sat beside her. ”I screwed up,” he said. ”I'm sorry. I thought everything was okay until you yelled. Then I couldn't find a target.” Shaking his head, he sighed. ”Christ, what a screwup. I'm sorry about your friend. If I'd just been...”
”Don't blame yourself. n.o.body could've stopped it, at that point.”
”Charlie Dane could've,” he mumbled.
”Charlie would've shot the b.a.s.t.a.r.d when he had the chance,” Lacey said.
”Yeah.”
”The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's out there, now. He's had time to get the blood off.”
”Yeah.”
”Why didn't you shoot him?”
For a long time, Scott stared at the coffee table.
”Scott?”
”I thought we had him. I figured we'd tie him up. I've got a ca.s.sette recorder in my room. I thought...well, I'd get his story. You know, before calling in the cops. Interview him, find out how he got that way, what he's been doing, if there are others like him.”
”Others?”
”If one man can be made invisible, why not more? Christ, can you imagine an army of them? Think what they could do. They could turn the world upside down.”
”I suppose so,” Lacey said. ”But there's only one here, and he's probably figuring a way, right now, to get at us. You aren't going to have much luck writing a book about him if we're both killed, so next time...My G.o.d!” Jumping to her feet, she rushed to the desk and grabbed a straightbacked chair.
”What?”
She ran to the door with it, tipped it backward and braced it under the k.n.o.b. ”Maybe that...” she muttered. She turned to Scott. ”A pa.s.skey. He could get one so easily.”
Scott sighed. ”d.a.m.n, I should've thought of that. Afraid I'm not helping much.” He looked at her with despair. ”Sorry. I'm really not good enough for this kind of thing. Living it isn't quite the same as writing it.” He propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face.
Lacey went to him. Crouching, she placed a hand on his back. ”Hey, it's all right. Don't feel bad. If you hadn't been here, he would've had me.”
Scott raised his head and looked at her. ”Thanks.”
”It's the truth. You saved my life.”
He smiled slightly. ”You're right.”
”Of course I am.”
”But I'm right, too,” he said. His face changed, turning hard and determined. ”This is out of my league. I'm not going to let my inexperience jeopardize you any longer.” He touched her cheek, stood up, and walked toward the desk.
”What are you doing?”
”Calling in reinforcements,” he said, and picked up the telephone. He set his automatic on the desk, then dialed with quick, sure strokes of his forefinger. Eleven numbers.
Long distance?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
The bedside telephone woke Dukane, and he saw a naked woman bending over him in the darkness. Her head jerked toward the phone. In the moments between the clamors of the first and second rings, Dukane realized that the woman-a stranger before he brought her home tonight-had been interrupted in the process of tying his left wrist to the headboard.
He yanked both arms. The headboard shook and a cord bit into his right wrist, but his left pulled free.
The woman grabbed it, tried to force it down.
”Thanks,” Dukane said, ”but I'm not into bondage.”
He twisted his arm out of her grip. As the woman reached for it again, he clutched her neck and thrust her forward, ramming her head against the oak of his headboard. She slumped. He shoved her off the bed, rolled to his right, and picked up the phone.
”h.e.l.lo?”