Among the Missing (25 page)

Bass, on his knees, leaned forward. Looming over Pac so his face appeared upside-down, he grinned at her. "They all think it's Alison's head that got mashed tonight. Don't they?"

"I don't know."

"Sure they do. Alison's the stiff with the missing head. Now they've found it. Nobody'll even think twice. You know what they'll do? They'll bury Alison's body together with Faye's head. Just wait and see." He laughed and said, "Woops! No, I guess you won't have a chance to wait and see, will you? You'll be dead, just like them."

"There's no point, Bass. Killing me won't help."

"Oh, I have to kill you." Reaching down, he gently squeezed her breasts. "I've talked too much. You know everything."

"Let me take you in, Bass. I'll do everything I can to help you. . . ."

"Very generous offer," he said. "But I've got other plans." Leaning far over her, he slid his hands down her ribcage, her belly. At her hips, he shoved the gathered fabric of her dress. But the dress didn't move. "Lift your ass," he said.

"I can't."

"Lift it."

"Why don't you just wait and do this after I'm dead, okay? I'll be a lot more cooperative then."

"A gutsy bitch to the end."

"That's me."

"Pick up your ass."

"Fuck you."

"Do you want me to hurt you, Pac? I'm capable of . . . hurting you very badly. I'd love to do it. I hurt Faye a lot before I killed her. She didn't like it very much, I'll tell you that. Neither will you. I don't care how gutsy you think you are, darling, I'll have you screaming for mercy. Want a taste?"

"No," she muttered. She raised her knees slightly and lifted her back off her tightly clenched fists.

Bass, leaning way over her, gripped her dress with both hands. As he started shoving it down her hips, he lost his balance. He let go quickly with one hand and caught himself. Braced up with his left hand on the garage floor, he dragged the dress down with his right.

Pac shot a knee up. It struck his forehead. His bracing arm collapsed. Even as he started to drop, Pac twisted, throwing herself sideways.

His belt buckle scratched her shoulder as she rolled.

Then she was out from under him.

He lay face-down, barely moving.

Pac kicked off her shoes. She rolled onto her back. Ignoring the pain as the cuffs cut into her, she sat up. On her rump, she crossed her legs. Then she rocked forward and lunged to her feet. The gown slipped down to her ankles. She scowled at it.

No way to put it back on. Not with her hands cuffed behind her back.

So she stepped out of it.

Bass, now on his hands and knees, looked at Pac with dull, half-shut eyes. Then he looked down at the floor. At Pac's pistol near his right hand.

He reached for it.

With a quick sweep of her foot, Pac knocked it skidding away.

Bass grabbed her ankle.

She jerked free, jumped away from him and rushed to the wall.

To the garage door opener.

She rammed her shoulder against its button, but nothing happened. Turning to face the panel, she crouched and shoved the button with her nose.

The equipment let out a thump and hum. Rumbling, the garage door began to rise.

Not fast enough.

Bass was standing, his legs wobbly. He stumbled backward, stopped himself, and shook his head as if trying to clear it.

Pac dropped to her knees and rolled. The concrete was cool and smooth against her skin. The first roll took her underneath the rising door. The second brought her to her knees. With its momentum, she gained her feet and started to run down the driveway.

Running was hard with her arms cuffed behind her back. Hard and slow and precarious.

More than anything, she needed her arms for balance.

In moments, she heard footfalls behind her. She didn't look back. The pounding shoes gained on her.

She almost made it to the end of the driveway before Bass clutched her right shoulder and jerked it. She spun around, falling.

The lawn was wet and she slid when she hit it.

Then Bass was on her.

She screamed.

That's when he punched her just below the ribs and she felt as if her insides were exploding through her skin. As she gagged for air, he picked her up.

"Hey!" someone yelled. "What's going on?"

"Mind your own fucking business!" Bass shouted.

Pac felt herself flop over Bass's shoulder. He started running, his shoulder pounding into her belly like a club.

"What the hell you doing?" the voice called again.

This time, Bass didn't answer. He stopped abruptly. From the brightness of the lights, Pac knew they were inside his garage.

He suddenly bent down and threw her backward.

She expected a long fall and a terrible, jolting blow as she struck the concrete floor.

But the fall was brief.

She didn't hit the floor.

For a moment, she was glad. Then she felt Bass pushing her legs, and she suddenly knew what had broken her fall.

She opened her eyes in time to see Bass fling down the lid of his Pontiac's trunk.

When it pounded her upraised knee, she passed out.

Chapter Fifty-one

The Chase

From his speeding patrol car, Rusty saw the red Pontiac shoot backward out of Bass's garage. A bald man rushed into the driveway, shouting. The car struck him and threw him tumbling through the air.

"Fuck!" Bill blurted from the passenger seat.

In the back seat, Merton said nothing.

Rusty mashed the accelerator. As his car surged forward, he recognized Pac's car parked by the curb. His eyes shot back to the Pontiac in time to see its tail drop into a dip where the driveway met the road.

Its trunk lid sprang open.

Rusty saw an upraised knee inside.

He hit the brake pedal. His tires grabbed pavement. His headlights reflected on the polished red of the Pontiac's side and he saw Bass hunched behind the steering wheel.

"Watch out!" Bill yelled.

The headlights of Rusty's car shattered against the Pontiac's side. Rusty threw open his door and jumped out, drawing his revolver. Crouched behind the door, he aimed the .44 magnum at Bass's head. "Climb out!"

Bass ducked below the window. His car darted forward, sparks bursting as it scraped the front of the patrol car.

Rusty glimpsed the dented door. Its metal looked like crumpled paper. He followed it briefly in his sights, then squeezed the trigger. The pistol blasted and bucked. Its bullet punched a hole through the door. He heard Bass yelp with pain and anger. But the car gained speed. Just in front of the garage, it swung onto the lawn. The open trunk shielded its rear window.

"Get out!" Rusty snapped at Bill.

The boy, holding his head, looked at Rusty with confusion. "What?"

"Get out! Get out!" Rusty slammed his own door shut as Bill pushed open the passenger door.

"How about me?" Merton asked from the back seat.

"You stay." He fastened his seat belt and stomped on the gas pedal.

Ahead of him, the Pontiac was angling across a neighbor's lawn, speeding toward the street. It tore through a hedge, raced across the sidewalk and leaped from the curb. When it hit the street, the trunk bounced almost shut and flew open again.

Rusty picked up his mike. "Car One to headquarters."

"Car One go ahead."

"Hit and run at four three two Malfi. Send ambulance. A man is down. Suspect vehicle is a red on red Pontiac Grand Prix, Charles-William-David eight four three. I'm in pursuit."

For a long time, the siren screamed in Pac's mind. She thought she was home in bed, and tried to reach out for Harney. Her arm wouldn't move out from under her. It felt asleep. Both arms were asleep and ached with a numb tingle when she tried to move them. She attempted to straighten her legs and pain shot through her left knee. Something blocked her feet. A sudden claustrophobic fear shocked her fully awake.

Above her, the trunk lid bobbed, bright with light from the spinning flashers of the patrol car that was obviously pursuing them.

But she could feel a cool touch against her right shoulder. A touch of skin that vibrated and bounced with the car's motion.

Finally, she turned her head and looked.

In the darkness, it took several moments to recognize the shape pressing against her shoulder.

Faye's knee.

Faye! Oh, God!

She turned her eyes away.

And remembered Bass taunting her. That is Faye. Minus a few parts. Like her fingers. Like her tongue. Like . . .

NO!

She turned her eyes away and stared at the lights flashing on the bottom of the trunk lid, at the dark treetops, at the sky. If stars were out, she couldn't see them. She looked hard, trying.

Trying not to think about the dead knee against her shoulder. Trying not to think about the other places where parts of Faye were touching her bare skin. She clenched her teeth. Trembling. Trying to hold her scream inside.

"If it makes a quick stop," Merton said from the back seat, "you'll make a lovely impression on the bitch in the trunk."

Rusty didn't answer. He'd already thought about the consequences of a rear-end collision.

Probably, the person in the trunk was already dead.

He couldn't be sure, though. Maybe he should drop back even farther.

He eased off the accelerator and watched the gap widen.

The bare knee, he was certain, belonged to a woman.

Probably Faye. God, I hope it's Faye's knee. Not Pac's. But that was Pac's car in front of the house. So it might be Pac.

Don't let it be Pac. Please.

Suddenly, the Pontiac's brake lights flashed on.

"Watch out!" Merton yelled.

Rusty had already hit the brake pedal.

He bore down on the Pontiac's tail, watching the upraised knee, ready to swerve away if a crash seemed imminent.

Just as he was about to wrench the steering wheel right and take his chance with the road's shoulder, the Pontiac made a quick left turn. Rusty didn't try to follow. He shot past it, braked to a stop, shoved the shift lever to reverse, and started backward.

It was then that he saw the sign pointing up to the narrow rising road taken by the Pontiac.

The sign read, INDIAN POINT, 1 MILE.

The abrupt slowing had flung Pac against Faye's body, but the turn had pulled her back almost at once. She heard the sound of the siren fade. Opening her eyes, she stared at the bobbing lid of the trunk. The flashing red light was gone.

Then the car started to climb.

Something heavy rolled against her hip.

She lifted her head to see what it was.

Then she sat up screaming.

With both his headlights smashed, the only light Rusty had to steer by was the red of his flashers. The eerie hue turned the road and enclosing woods into a weird nightmare of crimson.

Finally, rounding a curve, he saw the twin red eyes of the Pontiac's taillights. And he saw the pale brightness that its headlights cast into the darkness ahead.

He sped up. The gap diminished.

As he drew closer, he saw a human shape inside the open trunk. His flasher caught it, left it dark, and caught it again, coloring the skin red as blood. "My God," he muttered.

"Know her?" Merton asked.

Rusty said nothing.

"Bet you like those jugs."

"Shut up."

"At least she has headlights."

"Shut the fuck up."

Merton laughed.

Rusty wiped the sweat off his upper lip.

Pac. My God. What am I going to do?

What if he kills her?

He's got no reason to kill her, Rusty told himself. Things had already gone too far. Hitting the guy in the driveway and kidnapping Pac, Bass had dug his hole too deep. No way out. If Rusty didn't get him, someone else would. Tomorrow, next week, next month. It was already the end for Bass. He'd already lost.

What if he isn't trying to get away?

What if he's already admitted defeat?

Bass was driving toward Indian Point.

Toward Loser's Leap.

Rusty went cold and tight inside.

"Oh Christ," he muttered.

He picked up the mike. "Car One to headquarters."

"Go ahead, Car One."

"We need assistance up here. Indian Point. Send backup and an ambulance."

The horror left Pac as if startled off by the noise of her scream. Her mind seemed clear. She watched Rusty's car. It appeared to be about twenty or thirty feet away.

Doesn't he know what'll happen if he rear-ends us?

Sure he knows.

He knows, all right.

He'll just make damn sure he doesn't do it.

The road opened. In the flashing lights, the area looked familiar to Pac. At first, she couldn't place it. Then she recognized the curving line of trees along the back of the paved area.

The Indian Point parking lot.

He was speeding straight across the lot toward Loser's Leap.

Shit!

"Rusty!" she yelled. "Drop back!"

But he didn't. He apparently couldn't hear her.

And she couldn't wave him off -- not with her hands cuffed behind her back.

The patrol car sped closer, closer.

"Get away!" Pac shrieked.

As if he'd heard, Rusty suddenly swerved to the left, picked up speed and raced ahead.

Pac drew in her knees, thrust upward and rolled sideways. The edge of the trunk scraped her hip. Then she was falling. The pavement battered her bones and tore at her bare skin, mauling her as she skidded and rolled.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Merton shouted, his voice ragged with panic.

Rusty floored the gas pedal, drawing alongside the Pontiac.

"You're gonna kill us!"

"Bail out," Rusty yelled.

The headlights of the Pontiac reached the walkway and the stone parapet at the far edge of the parking lot; The wall, less than a yard high, blocked and held the lower halves of the bright beams. Their upper halves continued far ahead, reaching into the night's emptiness.

Rusty pulled ahead of the Pontiac. He flicked his head sideways for a glance. The car was slowly dropping back. Too slowly for a stop. In moments, it would smash through the parapet and make a long, tumbling dive for the lake. Taking Pac with it.