NIGHT CRUISING (25 page)

It took everything he
had not to squeal his tires as he backed into the street.

He was going to
Flagstaff. They were headed north. They might be in Flagstaff. He'd
find Molly if he had to scour the state for the next six months.

The frightful image of
the dead man alongside the road in the rain superimposed itself on
the windshield. He hadn't seen the man. He'd been told by one of the
investigating patrol officers what the scene looked like. Fat man,
obese really, a three-chinner. Slumped onto the pavement next to his
car, the door standing open. Neck sliced wide, "looked like a
can opener did it," the officer said. Rain coming down, not bad,
just enough to keep washing off the blood so they could see the raw
neck muscles in their flashlights. The man's son sitting on the trunk
when they drove up. Little kid, about ten. "Wet as a
duck-hunting dog." Wore glasses and they were shattered, but he
still wore them. Couldn't see his eyes. Boy talked in snatches.

"He killed my
dad," he said. "Didn't look in the back seat. I was in the
floorboard just coming to. I felt the car fall down, I guess they
turned it back on its tires. It made my head hurt. I was looking for
my glasses when I heard my dad screaming and crying. He was inside
the car, but I couldn't get up from the floorboard yet. Then when I
did...I saw out the side window this man...and...he grabbed my dad
from behind...and he caught his hair and jerked his head
back...and..."

Mark cringed as the
patrolman repeated the boy's story. He shook his head now to clear it
of visions of dead men.

He had to keep the
radio on, tuned to local stations. He'd call back to Globe every four
hours. They were going to get tired of his harassment before this was
over. They were going to know he meant business.

But
no
body was
going to stop him.

#

It was just east of the
outskirts of Yuma, Arizona, that Molly saw a chance to signal for
help. During the long, tense night Cruise had driven them down from
the forested mountains of Flagstaff to Interstate 8. It was
two-thirty in the morning. Molly had stayed awake without any
trouble. She'd slept as much as she could when tied in the bathtub
the day before. She couldn't sleep anymore when Cruise was awake. He
might decide to get rid of her, and she'd never know until he had the
knife to her throat.

They hadn't talked much
all night. When first leaving Flagstaff Cruise told her about his
Aunt Maddie. When he began berating his sister, Molly spoke up on her
behalf, and that's when she noticed Cruise was in trouble. He kept
feeling his arms as if something were crawling on him. She didn't
know why he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. It was a mild night and
they had driven out of the storm area long since. They had to keep
the windows rolled down for fresh air or they would have suffocated.

Molly thought Cruise
might be keeping something from her, some secret he didn't want her
to know about his arms. He began driving one-handed, touching,
caressing the other with his free hand. Then he'd shift hands on the
steering wheel and rub and caress the other arm.

She was too afraid to
ask him what was the matter. She could tell he thought she wasn't
noticing his actions. But she watched him from the corner of her
eyes, watched his every move, fearing that he would pull the knife
from where he kept it hidden in his hair.

Now she'd not yet
figured that out. How did he keep the knife there? She knew he had
it; she'd seen him whip it out when in the fight with the Mexican.
Did he glue it or something? Did he tie it there with string? Beat
the shit out of her. The important thing was that she knew about it.
She watched for it.

She
didn't
know
what was wrong with his arms. Maybe they ached. Maybe he was having
the first symptoms of a stroke. Didn't the arms hurt before a person
fell down clutching his chest? That's what they did in the TV shows
and the movies.

God, she wished he'd
have a stroke. She wished he'd zonk out and die at the wheel. She was
ready to take over driving if that happened. She kept herself taut,
ready to spring across the Igloo cooler and grab the wheel if he lost
control.

In Phoenix he refilled
the gas tank at a small truck stop off the freeway. Molly looked for
someone who might help her, but the pumps were empty. A trio of
trucks idled in the back lot, the drivers nowhere to be seen. There
appeared to be just one cashier and one waitress inside. She asked to
go to the bathroom again. Cruise walked her through a side entrance.
The ladies' room was right there, too far from the cashier to say
anything. When she finished, Cruise returned with her inside the
bathroom to check for messages she might have left. He was a careful
man. But that's not the way she was going to do it. What the hell,
even if someone found a message, she'd be too long gone to benefit
from it.

Cruise seemed to know
she wouldn't throw some kind of out-and-out fit, create a scene. She
wasn't nuts. She knew how fast he was with his knife. And he didn't
care who saw him use it.

No. When she found an
opening she wasn't going to scream and run. She meant to be subtle
about it, get attention without Cruise noticing. All she wanted was
for someone--preferably a man--to come over to them to ask some
questions. She figured Cruise wouldn't kill someone right out in the
open where there would be witnesses--unless it was her screaming her
head off. He was too much of a snake to do that.

She saw her chance near
Yuma. Cruise had the CB on listening to the truckers. He was still
doing something with his arms, and that was beginning to worry her
ungodly. He couldn't seem to keep his hands off himself. In the past
hour or so he had even stopped caring if she watched him. He stared
straight ahead at the road, squeezing and squeezing his arms through
the shirt. It set her teeth on edge.

The CB interested
Molly. If Cruise got out of the car to pump gas she might be able to
get the mike and say something over the trucker channel. She worked
it out in her head. She'd say,
I'm Molly Killany and I've been
kidnapped by a man diving a light blue Chrysler. He's killed some
people. Someone call the highway patrol. Tell them he murdered a man
near a lake south of Flagstaff. We're on I-8 headed for California.
Help me, please!

That's what she'd say.
She had it rehearsed in her mind and she was ready. It was like
learning a poem to say before the class in literature. You say it
over enough in your head, you can repeat it in your sleep.

But it wasn't the CB
that presented her chance near Yuma. It was a man dressed in Wrangler
jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat.

Cruise pulled off a
freeway exit and took the feeder lane until he came to an all-night
Pick 'N Save.

"I've got to have
a Coke," he said. "I'll get some to put in the cooler. You
want anything?"

She thought fast. She
hadn't eaten all day. This was the first time since Lannie made
breakfast that Cruise had thought to offer her food.

"They got
sandwiches in there? Those cellophane-wrapped ones?"

"Probably."
He unbuckled his seat belt, had his hand on the door release.

"I want a ham and
cheese. A bag of potato chips. A banana if they have them. Maybe a
doughnut or a package of cookies. I'm pretty hungry."

Before she knew the
real Cruise, before the killing, she thought Cruise would have
grinned at her with his perfect, pretty smile and kidded her about
being a hog, about getting fat eating that way. But now he didn't
crack a smile or make any cute remarks. He shrugged and got out of
the car.

"Don't try going
anywhere," he warned, slamming closed the door.

He had not tied her up
again since they left Lannie's house. She wanted to believe it was
because he felt sorry for her bruised and battered wrists where the
rope had cut into her, but it was no doubt because he felt she was
under his control now. Without him saying it aloud, she knew he
wouldn't hesitate to kill her. Even if he had to chase her first,
he'd kill her.

The Pick 'N Save blazed
with fluorescence. The clerk, an older woman in a green uniform with
white pockets and trim, was alone in the store. Early morning shifts
were the pits in convenience stores. The Stop 'N Robs.

The minute Cruise was
inside hunting down Molly's supper, a red Toyota short-bed pickup
truck drove into the slot next to the Chrysler. Molly looked over and
saw a man in a cowboy hat turn his head and smile at her. He was
about Cruise's age, early forties. Nice face, rugged, the smile a
little crooked as if he had had a few beers. Not as big as Cruise,
but big enough, and just as tall as her captor. His jeans fit so
tight that when he descended from tire truck, her gaze automatically
went to the rounded package in his crotch.

He was no more than two
feet from her open car window. She glanced fearfully to the front of
the Pick 'N Save trying to see Cruise. He must have been on a far
aisle. She looked back at the man and the words jumped out. "Can
you help me?"

The cowboy hesitated
next to her window. He stared down at her, puzzled. "How can I
help a pretty little thang like you?"

Molly looked at the
glass windows of the store again. Where was Cruise?

"Listen, I have to
tell you fast. The man in the store has a knife, he hides it
underneath his long hair. He's killed two people and he has me
prisoner. I think he's going to kill me too." It came out all in
a rush, words tumbling together, syllables running together.

"You what?"
the man asked, leaning over a little to better understand.
"Somebody's kidnapped you?"

"Please. Listen.
He's dangerous, he's a killer. If he knew I was telling you this he'd
kill you too. You've got to have some kind of weapon. Don't you
understand? I'm being held against my will. I'm going to die if
someone doesn't help me."

"Motherfucker."
The man stared at her a few seconds longer as if weighing her honesty
on an invisible scale. He turned to the truck bed and leaned in. He
returned with a metal baseball bat in his hand. "Where is that
motherfucker? We'll straighten this out before you can say
jack-shit."

Molly pointed toward
the store. Now that she'd told someone she was shaking all over. She
wanted to open the door, get out of the car, stay close to her
rescuer, but she couldn't get moving. It was like when she was scared
in the Mexican graveyard and Cruise grabbed her. She couldn't stop
shaking to save her life.

The man had left her as
soon as she indicated Cruise was in the store. He was over the curb
and halfway to the door before Molly heard the voice calling him
back.

"Hey, you!"

Cruise!
He
wasn't in the store any longer. He was somewhere behind Molly's head,
she hadn't seen him come out. It must have been when the man went for
the bat. She leaned out the car window to see. There he stood at the
back bumper all coated in white fluorescent light. He looked deadly
grim. Without looking directly at her he said, "You caused this,
Molly. And I know you knew better."

The cowboy had turned
at the voice. He stood on the sidewalk hefting the bat. "Little
lady there says you're the motherfucker holding her against her will.
That true?"

"I'm the
motherfucker. Come and get me."

That was all the cowboy
needed. He was moving down the curb, between the vehicles, heading
for Cruise at a pace that would have frightened most normal men. All
Cruise did was back away from the bumper a few steps so the cowboy
could clear the passageway.

Molly got her hand on
the door release and jerked it up.
Locked!
When had she locked
it? She felt for the lock button and lifted it. She heard them
talking behind the car, but couldn't hear what they were saying. She
had the door open. Had her feet on the pavement, was standing free of
the car when the battle began.

The cowboy swung the
baseball bat so hard it whistled through the air above Cruise's head.
He had ducked, danced back another few steps. They were in the middle
of the parking lot. Molly turned and ran for the store. She hit the
door so hard it crashed loudly against a stack of boxed l0W-40
Penzoil and sent some of the loose cans tumbling and rolling across
the floor. The female clerk came up from behind the counter where
she'd been crouching to cut into a carton of cigarettes. Her eyes
were wild with sudden alarm.

"What is it?"

"Fight outside.
Call the cops quick."

The clerk dropped the
box-cutter. It clattered on the tile floor."Uh...uh..."

"Do it now!
Where's the phone, for God's sake, let me have it!"

The clerk was too
petrified to speak. She glanced to her left. Molly came around the
end of the counter and found the phone sitting behind a display of
gum. She had the receiver in her hand, her finger on the nine button
to call nine-one-one when Cruise came through the door for her, his
knife hand dripping the cowboy's new blood.

"Put down the
phone, Molly."

"No!"

Cruise vaulted the
counter and had the clerk around the neck before Molly could glance
down at the phone to push the one-one that would connect her to
emergency services.

The clerk screamed and
the screeching of her panic filled the empty store with a sound that
reverberated from the shelves.

"Drop the goddamn
phone."

Molly let the receiver
fall from her shaking hand. "Don't hurt her, Cruise, she didn't
do anything."

"I won't hurt
her," he said, breathing hard from his exertion. "I'm going
to kill her. And baby, it's all your fault."

Molly lurched forward,
reached for the woman's out-stretched hands, saw the woman's pleading
eyes.