Beware (6 page)

Lacey rolled a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter at the
Tribune
office, and rushed through her story:

Lacey reread her story, then got up from her desk and took the two typewritten pages to Carl Williams. She handed them to the lanky editor, and hiked up her loose corduroys. The rest of the clothes fit no better. Somebody might’ve at least asked her sizes before sending Alfred out for a new wardrobe. At the time, she’d been too upset to care.

Carl finished reading the story. He rolled back his chair, and frowned. “Left something out, didn’t you?”

“Do
you
believe the guy was invisible?”

“That’s what you told me. And the police.”

“But do you believe it?”

He sighed, and rubbed a hand through his short curly hair. “Hell no,” he said. “I don’t believe it. Not for a second.”

“You figure I imagined it.”

“Well Lace, you’ve gone through a lot of…”

“Slipped a cog or two?”

“I’m not saying that. But it’s not unusual for someone—in a car accident, say—to lose her memory of what happened. Goes on all the time.”

“I remember everything.”

“I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying that, under the circumstances, your sense of reality might’ve taken a beating.”

“Okay, and that’s basically what the cops thought. And it’s what our readers will think, too. I have to go on living in this town, Carl. If I claim this guy was invisible, I’ll be a joke.”

“Word’ll get out, anyway.”

“It’ll only be rumor, if it does. I can deny it. But I can’t deny something in a story I’ve written for the
Trib
. Besides, it’s not really a lie; I’m pretty sure my description is accurate—as far as it goes. I just can’t admit he’s invisible, though. I can’t. Not in public.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his face. “Guess it wouldn’t do the
Trib
’s credibility any good, either. Can’t have a reporter who
sees
things—or doesn’t, as the case may be.” He gave her a weary smile. “We’ll run it this way.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll give me a call when you get to Tucson?”

“Right away.”

“Fine Take care of yourself, Lace. I’ll keep you posted on any new developments.”

“Thanks. See you in two weeks. Sooner, if they get him.”

Lacey went out the rear door to the
Tribune
’s small parking lot. After the airconditioning, the heat outside felt like the breath of an oven. Too bad Alfred didn’t buy shorts instead of these corduroys. Squinting against the brilliant glare, she stopped at the rear of her car.

Her stomach fluttered a bit as she opened the trunk. She swept a hand through its emptiness, touched her spare tire, her towel, her flares. Then, satisfied, she shut the trunk and went to the driver’s door. She unlocked it, opened it, and reached around to flip up the lock button of the back door.

She opened the door. Crawling over the seat, she reached down and ran her hand along the floor. Then she climbed out, locked and shut the door.

She slid in behind the steering wheel, and locked herself in. Leaning sideways across the seat, she raked the floor with her fingertips.

Okay.

No passenger.

She started the car, and drove from the parking lot. Her tank was full. She drove for two hours, and didn’t stop until she reached the Desert Wind hotel in Tucson.

“Alfred, go on over to Harry’s and pick me up some lunch.”

With a nod, Alfred fumbled among half a dozen pens safely clipped inside his plastic pocket shield. He plucked out a Bic, and slipped a notepad from his trousers. “What’ll it be?”

“Pastrami on a sourdough roll, hold the onions. Fries, and a Bud.” Carl waited for the young man to finish scribbling, then gave him a five-dollar bill.

“Want a doughnut or something?”

“Nope.”

“Back in a jiff.”

“No hurry.” Carl followed him outside, watched him start down the sidewalk toward the deli three blocks away, and called after him, “Don’t forget to bring me back some ketchup.”

“Oh, I’ll remember.”

He watched Alfred slip the notepad out of his seat pocket. He stepped back inside the office. He shut and locked the door, then hurried through the deserted room to his desk. His hands were sweaty and trembling. He wiped them on his pants legs. He took a deep breath, and picked up the telephone.
On the first try, his finger slipped and he had to dial again.

At the other end, the phone rang six times before it was picked up. A woman’s pleasant voice said, “Spiritual Development Foundation, Miss Prince speaking.”

“This is Carl Williams, number 68259385.”

“Just a moment, please.”

He waited for her to punch the code number into her terminal.

“Level?” she asked.

“Red.”

“Very good. What can we do for you, Mr. Williams?”

“I have an urgent message for section three.”

“Just a moment, please. I’ll put you through to the section three coordinator.”

Carl heard the faint ringing of a phone. Then a strong male voice said, “Farris, here. What have you got for us?”

“This is Carl Williams, publisher of the
Oasis Tribune.
That’s Oasis, Arizona.”

“Right.” He sounded impatient.

“We’ve had a series of incidents here that I suspect might be related to the SDF—a couple of nasty murders and an assault on one of my reporters, a Miss Lacey Allen.”

“I see. And what makes you think they may be connected to SDF?”

“Oasis is the home town of Samuel Hoffman. Also, Hoffman’s mother was one of the murder victims.”

“You think Hoffman may have been the perpetrator?”

“My reporter, Miss Allen, claims that her attacker was invisible.”

“Sounds like our man,” Farris said, sounding pleased. “Any knowledge of his present whereabouts?”

“Miss Allen wounded him this morning—about four hours ago—at her home here in town. The police couldn’t find any trace of him, but I imagine he isn’t far from here.”

“Excellent.”

“I may be wrong about this, sir, but I think he’s still after the Allen woman. While she was his prisoner, he threatened to hunt her down if she ever escaped.”

“I see. Where is Allen now?”

“She’s on her way to Tucson. She took his threat seriously, and plans to hide out there for a while.”

“Her exact location?”

“I don’t know. She’s promised to give me a call, though, once she’s found a room. I suspect she’ll check into a hotel.”

“Very good. I’ll alert our Tucson personnel. Now. This Allen woman, does she trust you?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as she gives you her location, I want you to do two things. First, inform me immediately. Second, drive to Tucson and meet her. Stay with her, and keep us informed of her movements. If Hoffman goes for her, we want to be there.”

“What if…suppose he attacks while I’m there?”

“Any sacrifice you make on our behalf will be rewarded.”

“I mean, do you want me to kill him?” “Laveda would prefer him alive. It’s a moot point, however; you probably couldn’t kill him if you tried.”

A quiet, rumbling sound entered Dukane’s mind. He realized, vaguely, that the sliding glass door to his balcony was being opened. Suddenly alarmed, he tensed and opened his eyes.

It was morning. He stared at the nightstand, thought about jerking open the drawer and grabbing his automatic. Then he remembered bringing a woman home last night from the bar at La Dome. Rolling over, he saw that the other side of the king-size bed was empty.

“Cindy?” he asked.

“Out here.”

He crawled across the bed, climbed off, and saw her standing naked on the sunlit balcony. Her back was toward him, her hands on the railing. He stepped out. The sun felt warm on his bare skin. She looked around and smiled. Kissing her cheek, Dukane pressed himself lightly against her back. He slipped his hands up the smoothness of her sides, and held her breasts.

“It’s a lovely day for a swim,” she said.

“If you’re planning a dive from here, don’t. I tried it once. Broke my ankle.”

“Yuck. I guess I won’t.”

“It’s farther than it looks, and the concrete is very hard.”

“Were you drunk?”

“When I jumped? Cold sober.”

She sighed as he fingered her rigid nipples. She squirmed, her buttocks rubbing him. Then she turned around. She leaned back against the railings. “Right here,” she said.

“A bit awkward.”

“Consider it a challenge.”

“I’m always up for a challenge.”

She gripped the railing with both hands and spread her legs. Dukane clutched her hips. Crouching slightly, he found her wet slit. He thrust upward into her. Her head went back and she moaned.

When they were done, they left the balcony. Cindy disappeared into the bathroom. Dukane put on his robe, and went downstairs. He started to prepare coffee. As its thin stream trickled into the pot, Cindy entered the kitchen. She was wearing one of his shortsleeved plaid shirts, and nothing else.

“Okay if I borrow this?” she asked, raising her arms and turning around.

“Wish it looked that good on me.” As he spoke, he remembered Alice wearing one of his spare shirts before he bought the dress for her. He wondered how Dr. Teri Miles was faring with her. He didn’t envy the woman, spending days alone with the little bitch. Thinking about it, a familiar worry whispered in his mind. He pushed it away. They’re all right, he told himself.

“What’s your drothers for breakfast?” Cindy asked. “I make a mean Spanish omelet, if you’ve got the makings.”

“Hmmm?”

“Spanish omelet. Hello? You tuned in?”

“Yeah. That sounds great. There’re chilis in the refrigerator.”

“Cheese, eggs?”

“Them too.Yougo ahead and get started, I’ll bring in the paper.”

“
News
paper?” She wrinkled her nose. “How dreary.”

“I just read the funnies.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire.”

“Not at the moment.”

With a laugh, she pulled open the refrigerator. She bent over, the tail of the shirt riding up. Dukane glimpsed her pale rump, then turned away.

Outside, he spotted the
Times
halfway up his long drive way. He crossed the lawn, its grass cool and dewy under his feet. The driveway felt pleasantly warm and dry. He picked up the paper. Heading back to the house, he pulled off its plastic ribbon.

The bold letters near the bottom corner of the front page made his heart lurch. KABC anchorman and wife slain.

He stopped in the wet grass:

He didn’t read more. He ran to the front door, flung the paper down in the foyer, and raced upstairs. In his bedroom, he grabbed his trousers. He tugged his wallet from the rear pocket, flipped it open, and searched the bill compartment. He pinched out a business card: Dr. T. R. Miles, MD. At the telephone beside his bed, he dialed.

The phone rang fifteen times before he hung up.

In less than a minute, he was dressed. He rushed downstairs.

Cindy was on her knees, reaching into a cupboard, when he entered the kitchen. He patted her bare rump. “Come on.”

“Huh?”

He held out her pan ties and skirt. “Put’em on, quick. I’ve gotta get somewhere fast.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just hurry.”

Looking puzzled and worried, she started to get dressed. “Where’re we going?”

“Venice. I have to check on someone.”

She zipped the side of her skirt and followed him to the side door. “My shoes.”

“You can stay in the car.” He rushed into the connecting garage, climbed into his Jaguar, and pressed the remote button to raise the door. Cindy slid onto the passenger seat as he gunned the engine to life.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and sped backward up the driveway.

“That’s a hell of a note.”

“It’s business. It’s dangerous. You’re better off not knowing.” He glanced back to make sure the road
was clear, then swung onto it, hit the brakes, and shifted to first gear.

“Then why are you taking me with you?”

“Wouldn’t be safe to leave you behind.”

“Safe for who?”

“You.”

“Oh wonderful.”

“It’d probably be all right,” he said, “but I don’t want to take the chance, so it’s better if you just stick with me for now.”

“God, what’ve I got myself into?”

“Consider it an adventure.”

“Maybe you could just drop me off at my apartment, huh?”

“No time.” He sped down the wooded hillside, stopped at Laurel Canyon Boulevard to wait for a break in the traffic, then shot out.

“Look, I’m really not up for an adventure.”

“I’m sorry. Believe me, I was looking forward to your Spanish omelet, a day of swimming and lying in the sun, passionate embraces…”

“Me too, damn it.”

“Things go wrong.”

“Yeah. How about letting me out?”

“Barefoot and purseless?”

“Just stop down here at Ventura, and I’ll hop out.”

“That’s a long hike to Hollywood.”

“I’ve got a girlfriend. She’s only a few blocks away. I’ll be fine, thank you.”

Dukane thought it over. He didn’t like the idea of dumping her out, but he saw no point in dragging her to Venice, possibly into danger. Steering with
one hand, he slipped the wallet from his pocket. He gave it to her. “Keep that until I get your purse back to you. Collateral.”

“Oh Matt, that’s not necessary.”

“There’s some cash in it. Use what ever you like.”

She laughed. “Are you joking?”

“Not at all. Pick up a pair of shoes, treat your friend to lunch, what ever. I’ll get your purse and stuff back to you to night. You’ll be home?”

“I’ll be there.”

“The address on your driver’s license, right?”

“Yep.”

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.

Shit!
He’d known, damn 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 glasses 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 bloody 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, slashing at his shins.

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, splashing 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 cutlass.

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.