The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) (36 page)

–
get out of your apartment. Go somewhere with lots of light and plenty of people around – a restaurant or somewhere –
any
where. Stay there until I come and get you – don't talk to anyone – watch out for a guy who looks like Paul Bunyan and anyone else who looks shady –

– and I ran through it again and again in my mind, listening to the phone ringing on the other end. Maybe Swedesboro itself wasn't safe for her right now, because who knew what Mendoza would do to protect himself? He'd acted in desperation when striking that deal with Miles and the thieves. How much more violently would he react now that I had him cornered?

She didn't pick up.

As I listened to her cheerful voice recorded on the machine, telling me to leave a message, that it was important to her and she would get back to me, a heavy hammer fell on my heart, stopping it instantly. My ears rang, my mind raced, my limbs felt cold and numb.

"Jill?" I stammered after the beep, into the perfect silence that followed. "Jill? Are you there? It's Chance – this is important. Are you there? Hello?
Hello
?"

No answer.

No –

"
Shit
!"

I hung up and called her back immediately, swearing more vehemently when I got the answering machine again. I didn't bother leaving a message this time. Instead, I slammed the phone back onto the cradle and – lashing out in pure frustration – punched the wall as hard as I could. Trying to regain control, I bit the knuckles of my left hand –
hard
– and breathed heavily through my nose.

I had to think rationally. Mendoza didn't know where Jill lived. Sure, her number and address weren't unlisted, but would he really be able to find them in time to act? Jill had obviously just slept through my call. Maybe she'd gotten up to use the bathroom, or was watching TV and hadn't heard –

But I was arguing with myself in vain. Somehow, inside, I already knew that Mendoza had gotten to her. Unwitting of Rick's liaison with Mendoza, unwitting of
either
of their involvement, I had called Miles mere hours ago and told him
myself
how close we were. He'd probably lost control and called Mendoza, unsure of what to do –

And what will Robbie stop at to ensure his secrecy?

I packed my 9mm in the chest holster and donned my hat. Tearing out of the house, I raced down the sidewalk to the Anglia, which sat silently, awaiting the journey ahead. I jumped in, turning the ignition with a hand that was as unsteady as the racing of my heart, and tore off into the night.

I'd finally gotten my wish. It was time to be a hero.

Chapter Nineteen

The fifteen–minute drive to 13 Jackson was perhaps the longest ride of my life.

The roads were mercifully empty, wide open before me as I flew. Everything was a blur: the only thing that remained distinct was the road before me. It seemed to elongate, as though I was moving backwards, but I pressed on in desperation – willing myself to move forward. I had never tested the Anglia's top speed before, but the dying little four–cylinder reached somewhere around ninety–six before the engine started sputtering, refusing to go any faster. I was driving like a madman, yet was externally at peace. Someone in the passenger seat would not have sensed any of my distress through body language. It was through my wild eyes that they would have glimpsed my paranoia.

Images floated before my vision – across the windshield, it seemed. Jilly's beautiful face highlighted for but an instant by yellow glow from a street lamp, Mendoza's grizzled leer of bloodlust chasing her smile across the dirty glass, only to be replaced by Miles' innocent shrug, his face momentarily thrown into sharp relief by the headlights from a car flashing past in the opposite direction.

I heard trails of past conversations haunting me, as though the speakers were in the back seat, hissing in my ear.

Red Harris:
I'm going to make sure you pay for this one. Cops ain't supposed to overstep their bounds…

Robert Mendoza:
What if you had asked her? What if she had said 'yes'? I wouldn't want to live the rest of my life asking those questions…

Rick Miles:
I'm an agreeable person – ask my wife, Sandy, she'll tell you…

Kevin Slyder:
It's gonna get put on the back burner – I'll tell you that right now. We've got other things to work on besides a hopeless mystery…

Well, it wasn't hopeless anymore – not if I wasn't too late.

I was gripping the wheel hard enough to completely numb my hands. It was my fear that was driving the Anglia at forty–six miles per hour over the speed limit. Fear of the worst, fear of being too late. Fear of failure. Perhaps this was the moment I'd lived for my whole life. Maybe this was the grand finale, the last scene of the play.

Maybe it was only the beginning.

Either way, I knew fate had brought me down this road. I was a religious man and always had been, yet somehow prayers seemed all but useless. My breath caught in my throat every time I opened my mouth to beseech the Almighty, and in the end, all I could gasp out was: "God…
please
…"

That was it, but I was sure God heard me. I'd never doubted before and wasn't about to start.

At long, long last, I was bearing down upon Jackson Boulevard. The faded sign was suddenly approaching at an alarming rate, looming out of the darkness like a forest–green, rectangular harbinger of doom. Heart in my throat, I rode the brake hard, rolling sharply around the curb and onto Mendoza's street.

There was no activity in the neighborhood as I crunched to a halt on the ice a block away from number 13. The night was illuminated by sentry lampposts and the brilliant reflection of moonlight off the snow. The air was freezing but ghostly still, and each crunching footfall on the snowy sidewalk was magnified to a bazillion times, causing me to wince with every step I took towards Mendoza's house.

The rancher was dark, as silent as the rest of the block. The red Sedan with the smashed driver's window was parked diagonally across the drive – as though Mendoza had rushed in and not bothered to park correctly.

I hesitated on the sidewalk, breathing the sharp winter air through flared nostrils. Adrenaline tightened my hands into fists, rushing through my veins with every frantic beat of my heart. I was ready for action and I was simultaneously terrified because the police were as yet nowhere in sight. I growled low in my throat, reaching into my coat for the 9mm.

Dempsey's probably being a bitch about the warrant. I didn't give Slyder much to go by. Guess I'm on my own for this one.

In the back of my mind, I knew I could get in serious trouble for going in without that precious invasive scrap of paper on my person, but I pushed that rationale away. There was no time to wait, waste, or sacrifice – not when the life of an innocent bystander depended on immediate action. Besides, I've always been a responsible man: I'd answer for my actions if it came to light.

With effort, I took my first step towards the house.

When I tried the front door, it was locked – unsurprisingly. I was frustrated regardless and swore softly as I leaned over the handrail to peer in the big living room window. Mendoza had drawn the curtains, but I could see through the gaps in the blinds that all was blackness inside. I wouldn't have been able to make out much anyway.

The garage,
I thought.
The lock's broken.

"But it still opens fine," Robbie's voice added helpfully in my mind.

Perfect,
I replied,
but does it open
quietly
?

This time the hunter did not reply, but I'd already descended the stairs and picked a careful path to the garage. My options were as limited as my time.

Crouching in the snow, I worked numb fingers beneath the lip of the metal door and – screwing up my face in preparation for the worst – heaved upwards. After some initial resistance, the door came up smoothly, rattling a little, but remaining – for the most part – silent. No shriek of metal on metal, no grinding of rusty gears, no Robert Mendoza ready to blow my face off with a shotgun as I ducked beneath the door and into the pitch–dark garage.

The musty air smelled familiarly of oil and it was already cold enough inside for me to see my breath. I could feel the frigid breeze at my back, creeping in from outside to fill the cramped interior. Leaving the door halfway raised, I stole quickly across the cement floor towards the door to the adjacent house. I couldn't see much, and I didn't have a flashlight on me, but I felt my way along the wall until I saw the thin strip of light glowing from the crack between the door and doorframe.

It was ajar.

I hesitated with my shoulder posted against the doorframe, heart thumping, and then edged the door open a crack, pointing the Beretta through the opening.

Nothing.

The vacant hallway was dark, but there was light was coming from a room around the corner – perhaps the library where I had first spoken with Mendoza, but I couldn't be sure. I stepped softly inside, leaving the door open behind me for the police to follow. The sharp tang of leather immediately assaulted my nose as I proceeded softly towards the sitting room – a smell I didn't remember from my previous visitation. I recalled it hanging faintly in the air then, but not as pungently.

Don't be stupid,
I reassured myself shakily.
He hasn't turned Jill into a jacket. Yet.

The kitchen to my right was dark and empty, so I moved silently to the sitting room. "Lit" was probably too strong an adjective to describe the trophy room: the pitiful remnants of a fire were smoldering beneath the hearth, barely providing enough light to make out the rest of the room. However, compared to the darkness cloaking the rest of the house it was almost blinding. And in that dim lighting, the countless animal heads mounted on Mendoza's walls seemed to follow me with their eyes, leering at me ominously.

I found myself momentarily hypnotized by their glassy gazes.
Shouldn't take long to question them all and cross–reference their responses, get some additional dirt on Robbie. I'm sure they'd be happy to talk.

There was another hall that met up with the previous passage through which I'd entered, forming a T. I turned left down this new corridor, saw a sparsely illuminated bedroom straight ahead and what appeared to be an adjacent bathroom.

Still no activity.

Leading with the 9mm, I crossed slowly into the bedroom, keeping my back pressed to the wall. There was nothing of interest in the room – checkered wallpaper, a TV on a nightstand, a couple jackets thrown over the bed, transparent curtains drawn over the tiny window, a landscape on the wall. All that and a closet to my right – or, what appeared to be a closet. A thin beam of light stretched from beneath it, illuminating the shag rug and my scuffed Rockports.

My heart was pounding again, causing me to breathe heavily through my nostrils, which – in turn – made me notice the scent of leather all the more clearly. It was almost overpowering, and I was sure it was coming from behind that door.

So this is the workshop, then. God, how does he
sleep
with that smell right here?

But there was no time to wish that Robbie had just been asphyxiated in his bed months ago – preempting all this trouble. I reached for the doorknob, felt the cold metal on my palm almost as an electric shock, and carefully pulled open the door.

The descending stairwell beyond was so narrow I almost felt claustrophobic just looking at it. The ceiling was barely four feet high, nothing but cardboard tiles concealing the insulation above. The light came from beyond the lower landing, which opened into the basement on the right–hand side. I could feel a cool draft as I crouched at the top step, listening for any signs of activity below, considering my options. It seemed idiotic to enter the lion's den alone, but I had no inkling of how long it would take Slyder to assemble a B&E team and get their asses over to 13 Jackson. Besides, acting now, I had the element of surprise on my side.

The second step creaked so loudly that I retreated back to the top immediately. I took a long moment to calm myself down – utter a few disjointed prayers and collect my thoughts – and then I started down the steps again, skipping the second step and continuing on from there. This time, I picked my path cautiously – stepping only where I could see the nails connecting the steps to the support beams beneath. That kept the creaking to a minimum and reassured me that my approach went unheard. Besides, the central heating unit somewhere below was thrumming loudly enough that any sound I made was covered anyway.

At the bottom step, I paused with my back against the wall facing the entrance to the cellar to collect my wits, then leveled the 9mm in front of me and stepped out into the open.

The room was large enough, but the ceiling was low. Cracked cement floor, shelves lining every wall, a 60 watt bulb swinging back and forth from an unsecured line, cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, dusty grey ductwork overhead, and – most importantly – no sign of anyone. I almost swore aloud in utter despair, but then I saw the rickety wooden door at the far right corner of the room, diagonally across the room from the entrance I had just come through. The room beyond would most likely be directly beneath the front sitting room.