After Midnight (15 page)
In my mind, I heard the engine start. I heard it kick over again and again, roaring defeat at me.
But I didn’t hear it for real.
Not yet.
Dashing over the crest of the hill, I saw the vague shape of the car in the darkness ahead.
No sign of Judy.
Of course not. She was already behind the wheel, concealed in darkness behind the windshield, reaching for the ignition.
I dodged a picnic table and sprinted toward the car.
With every stride, I expected the headbeams to shoot out and blind me.
But they didn’t.
The engine didn’t turn over.
The headlights stayed dark.
Nothing happened.
Staggering to a halt, I ducked down a little and peered through the open window of the driver’s door.
Nobody there.
Nobody in the back seat, either.
With the last of my energy, I jogged in a circle around the car to make sure it was safe. Then I slipped the .22 into my pocket and pulled open the driver’s door. The car filled with light. Squinting, I dropped into the seat. The key was in the ignition. Judy must’ve left it there when we set out to search for Tony. I jerked the door shut and the light went out.
For a while, I just sat there streaming sweat and gasping for breath.
I could barely put my thoughts together, I was so pooped.
But I knew I’d lucked out. I’d gotten to the car first. Judy had lost her chance to drive away.
My skin itched from the heat and sweat. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I rubbed myself with the shirt. It was still wet. It felt cool and wonderful.
I started feeling better about things.
Nobody ever said it would be easy, I told myself. It’s a tricky business, trying to get away with this sort of thing. There are bound to be setbacks.
By and large, I’d handled matters fairly well so far. I would’ve met with complete success if I hadn’t gone to Judy’s apartment by mistake.
Pretty big damn mistake.
Bigger for her than me. She’d be dying because of it.
I rubbed my face and chest again, then leaned sideways and used the shirt to wipe off the interior handle of the passenger door. I also did the window sill and dashboard. Then I sat up straight and wiped the steering wheel.
As I did that, I realized that one of my shoes was gone.
Gotta go find it.
Time’s a-wasting.
I pulled out the ignition key. With the key case in one hand and my shirt in the other, I climbed out of the car. Again, the light came on. In its glow, I saw the strap of Judy’s purse on the floor. She’d apparently shoved her purse underneath the driver’s seat.
I started to reach for the strap, then stopped myself.
What do I need her purse for? Just have to get rid of it later, like Tony’s wallet.
I would’ve been better off if I’d never touched Tony’s wallet.
That’s what got me into this.
Finding that paper with the wrong address.
So I decided to leave Judy’s purse untouched.
Standing in the V of the open door, I did some more mop-up with my shirt. Then I shut the door and wiped its outside handle.
I dropped Judy’s keys into a pocket of my cut-offs, then went around the car to take care of fingerprints I might’ve left on the outside of the passenger door.
The surface of the parking area was pavement littered by old leaves and twigs. I doubted that my bare foot was leaving any tracks. To make sure, though, I opened the passenger door. The interior light came back on, and spilled a yellow glow onto the pavement. I did a couple of tests with my bare foot. Nothing showed, so I shut the door and wiped it again and took off.
I headed back to the scene of Judy’s escape.
She’ll be down there, somewhere. Maybe trying to crawl away, or hiding in the bushes.
Maybe watching me.
About halfway down the slope, I found my shoe. I slid my foot into it. Then I put the shirt on. It stuck to my skin. I left it unbuttoned so air could get in.
About the next step I took, my shoe slipped on the wet grass. I started to drop backward, but caught my balance in time and stayed on my feet.
Close call, I thought. What if I’d fallen and really hurt myself? Bumped my head on a rock, or something, and got knocked out cold? Then
I’d
be the one in big trouble. Judy could come up here and finish me off. Or take her car keys and escape. Lucky thing…
Would she?
What if she saw me fall, tumble down the slope, and not get up? Would she come out of hiding?
She might.
Or she might figure it’s a trick.
I took a few more strides, then pretended to trip over a rock or something. Yelling, “AHHH!” as loud as I could, I windmilled my arms, stumbled a couple of times as if trying to regain my footing, then plunged headlong.
I wanted it to look real.
It suddenly was real.
I slammed against the ground. It knocked my wind out and seemed to kick me into the air. I flipped over. The ground kept battering me, shoving me along. I twisted and rolled and flopped, arms and legs flying, all the way to the bottom.
Like Judy after her fall down the same slope, I came to rest on my back.
History repeats itself.
At least I hadn’t been shot in the head.
I felt plenty bruised and scratched and battered, though. And I’d lost
both
shoes.
Plus the pistol.
I should’ve been able to feel its weight against my right thigh, but the pocket had an awful lightness.
So much, I thought, for another brilliant idea.
Now what?
I had two choices. Either forget the trick and go looking for the pistol, or stay on my back and pretend to be unconscious.
I felt vulnerable without the gun. But I could get along without it for a while. I didn’t need artillery for handling Judy.
Just stick with the plan for ten or fifteen minutes, I told myself. See what happens.
It might be a waste of time.
On the other hand, searching for her in the dark woods would probably be a waste of time, too. If she’d found herself a good hiding place, and didn’t make any noise, I’d hardly stand a chance of finding her. Unless I tripped over her, or something.
This way, at least, was restful.
Just don’t fall asleep, I warned myself.
There probably wasn’t much danger of that. Though I was worn out, I didn’t feel sleepy. I was too tense for that. And too uncomfortable. The tumble down the slope had bruised and scratched me. I felt small pains in a dozen places, and I itched in about a dozen more.
I ached to rub my injuries, scratch my itches.
But I couldn’t do it.
Judy might be watching.
Or so I thought, anyway, until she shrieked,
“No!”
into the night somewhere far away.
Either Judy, or someone else.
It had to be Judy, though. A woman’s voice, and coming from the right direction. Who else
could
it be?
If it was Judy, she’d missed my tumble down the slope and she wasn’t watching me now. My fall had roughed me up, but accomplished nothing. I got to my feet, wincing a couple of times.
Standing there, I searched my pockets. Tony’s wallet was still in my back pocket. I still had all the keys, too. Apparently, nothing had fallen out except the gun.
I wiped the sweat off my face and rubbed my hurts and itches and stared into the woods.
Nothing to see.
I heard the trees whispering quietly with the breeze. Birds and crickets and other forest sounds. But not another outcry.
Okay, I thought. What’s going on?
She’d shrieked like someone scared witless, or hurt, or both.
So, was it real or fake?
If fake, she must be trying to lure me into a trap. A gutsy move. A crazy move. Hell, I was bigger and tougher than Judy. I’d already beaten the snot out of her. And I had a gun. Her only real chance of survival was to
avoid
me.
But you never know with people. They do weird, stupid stuff sometimes. Especially when they’re scared. Maybe Judy thought she could out-smart me.
Maybe she’d figured out a great, flawless trap.
On the other hand, she might be in real trouble.
Either way, I didn’t have a choice. I had to go looking for her. And finish her off, unless somebody’d already saved me the trouble.
I wasn’t going anywhere, though, without the pistol.
I wanted to find my shoes, too, but they didn’t matter much. The .22 mattered plenty.
Turning away from the woods, I searched the grassy area around my feet, looking for the gun. I’d been aware of losing my shoes early in the fall, but didn’t have a clue as to when the gun had slipped out of my pocket.
It didn’t seem to be nearby, so I began to study the route of my fall. For the most part, the slope was clear of trees. A lot of moonlight got through. Before even starting to climb, I picked out half a dozen chunks of darkness. A couple of them would probably turn out to be my shoes. I saw nothing that might be the pistol, though.
I started trudging up the slope, taking it slowly, hunched over, my knees bent and my arms swaying. I must’ve looked like a kid playing elephant. It was a nice, relaxing posture. But I was too tired and hot to be comfortable. My shirt stuck to my back with sweat. My eyes stung. My face and chest itched with trickles of sweat.
I started out thinking the pistol would be the real problem. Because it was flat and so much smaller than the shoes, it might disappear in the grass. I even worried that I might not be able to find it at all.
But I found it first, only about fifteen feet up the slope. The way I was bent over with my arms swaying, I almost brushed it with my fingertips before seeing it. The pistol lay nestled in the thick grass. In the moonlight, its stainless steel finish looked gray like dirty snow.
I snatched it up.
Then I rubbed it against the front of my cut-offs to wipe off the dew from the grass.
Afraid of losing it again, I kept it in my hand.
A few minutes later, I came across one of the loafers. I slipped my foot into it and went looking for the other.
One shoe off and one shoe on…
“Help!”
This time, I recognized Judy’s voice. Or thought so, anyway. It’s how she might’ve sounded, squealing out a plea to be saved.
She’s gotta be in deep shit.
Or else a great actress.
But my guts told me this wasn’t faked.
So did my skin. Though burning hot and slick with sweat, I felt goosebumps spreading up my thighs and belly and breasts. The hairs on my arms stiffened. Prickles scurried up my back and the nape of my neck. My nipples tingled and got hard. Goosebumps crawled over my cheeks, my forehead. My scalp crawled.
It’s pretty much what happens every time I get a strong case of the creeps, the willies, the heebie-jeebies.
And I had them now.
Something about the sound of Judy’s cry for help, maybe. Or what it triggered in my imagination.
Something awful had happened to her.
Or someONE.
Something or someone worse than me.
Turning around slowly, being careful not to slip on the wet slope, I stared at the woods. There was nothing to see.
Judy’s cries had come from deeper in. The first had sounded nearer than the second. Was she running away from a pursuer? Or was she already caught, and being carried?
If he kills her, I’m in business.
But killing her was
my
job. It gave me a queer feeling to think of it being done by someone else.
Who? My prowler?
I hurried to find the other shoe. No more cries came from the woods while I hunted for it.
Is she already dead?
Did she get away?
This might sound odd, but I didn’t want either to be true.
Finally, I found the loafer. I slid my foot into it, then turned around and started making my way down the slope again—carefully. I’d found out the hard way that the slope was tricky and not as gentle as it seemed.
Safe at the bottom, I broke into a run. And ran like crazy until I came to the picnic table. There, I stopped and listened. Mostly, all I heard were my heartbeats and my hard breathing.
What’s he doing to her?
The sick bastard.
I thought about what he’d done to the glass door.
Might not even be him.
I stepped past the end of the table, took my usual route to the creek, and knelt in the water. Then I twisted around and sat down on the bottom. A tricky thing to pull off, one-handed. But I managed to do it and keep the pistol high and dry.
No, not because I was afraid of getting my ammo wet.
As a fan of mysteries and thrillers, I’ve read enough to figure out that most people who write them don’t know squat about firearms. (That goes double for the people who make movies and television shows.) One thing I know, and some of them don’t, is that ammo won’t get hurt by a little dip in the creek.
The reason I kept the pistol high was in case I needed it fast. I didn’t want to shoot it and find out, too late, that I had a barrel full of water. I wasn’t sure about a .22, but some guns can blow up if you pull a stunt like that.
(Anyway, I just wanted to make that clear. I don’t want you to read my book and think I’m one of those idiots who worries about a little water wrecking my ammunition.)
Okay.
So there I was, sitting in the creek and holding my pistol overhead while I rested and cooled off. The water sure felt good. Cool and smooth. With my left hand, I cupped some of it into my mouth.
And there I sat.
Not really wanting to move.
The water felt great, rushing against me. And it tasted great, too. Fresh and woodsy.
But I was wasting time.
Scared to move.