Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (24 page)

When he pulled the knife, my mental processes thawed like the snowpack at Tahoe. If I hadn’t been able to think before, suddenly I couldn’t stop. It occurred to me to tell Rob I loved him before I died. Then it occurred to me to save my breath. Then I remembered to whistle—and then to do it again and still again—but with the door closed I didn’t think Chris could hear me.

Several possible plans of action came crowding in at once, including the notion of jumping out the window.

But it was closed and besides, the bed was between me and it.

One plan stood out from all the others; but there were serious flaws in it. And yet—was it really impossible? If I could time things right, maybe not.

Mean-Mouth stepped toward me. As he did I dropped and rolled under the bed.

“Come out or I cut him.” I imagined Mean-Mouth holding the knife at Rob’s throat, and it was far from a pretty picture, but I could bear it—the thing just didn’t have the impact it would have if I’d actually been watching. I took time to fumble in the Sportsac for the two things I needed, put one between two fingers so it couldn’t be seen, and put the other in my jeans’ pocket.

Then I rolled out from under the bed on Miranda’s side. She stared at me with terrified eyes. I didn’t dare look at Rob. Mean-Mouth said, “Come over here.” Which was exactly what I wanted to hear. I walked around the bed, making as wide a circle as I could so that, when I reached the foot, I was also near the wall with the door—and the light switch.

With my left hand I turned the light off, at the same time reaching in my pocket with my right. I pulled out the switchblade comb Rob and I had bought at the magic shop, brandished it, and pressed the button, praying there wasn’t enough light to give me away. Mean-Mouth tensed and moved toward me. It looked as if I’d gotten away with it—so far. I backed away from Mean-Mouth, crouching a bit and trying to look fierce.

Rob spoke quietly: “Circle, Rebecca. Keep moving on his left side—stay away from the hand with the knife.”

I started circling and so did Mean-Mouth, throwing his knife back and forth between his left and right hands. I didn’t know if the gesture was meant to intimidate, or if it served some other purpose, but it did succeed in making my scalp prickle. I had the sudden sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to pull this off.

“If he comes at you, parry with your left hand.”

What the hell did parry mean? I decided that asking would create a poor psychological effect. I kept circling.

Mean-Mouth struck. Instinctively, I blocked him with my left arm. “Good,” said Rob, but it wasn’t that good. I had a nasty cut on my arm. I wondered if I’d need stitches, and if the cut would leave a scar, which was probably all to the good—it kept me from realizing I might be too dead to care sometime in the next five minutes.

I didn’t have the nerve to strike at Mean-Mouth. If I tried—especially if I tried for the only part of his anatomy that was vulnerable to a comb—he’d get me in the ribs or the back. So I kept circling, hoping for an opening. I had another worry, too. My eyes were getting accustomed to the dark, which meant that his probably were, too. Any second he might figure out that I had no weapon at all.

Could I trip him? I couldn’t see a way. But I had to get him off-balance. I figured I had exactly one ploy available—the realization made me wonder why I hadn’t thought of it before. I was in a hotel full of people and I was being attacked. I could yell for help. But then I had second thoughts. If I yelled, Chris would probably come running, and I was afraid that, unarmed, she’d get hurt.

My left arm was bleeding badly and beginning to hurt. So when Mean-Mouth struck again, I stepped back instead of parrying. In retrospect I shudder to think how my survivors would have felt if I’d caught the blow—there was so much force behind it that, deprived of his target, Mean-Mouth stumbled. It was the opening I’d been waiting for. I squeezed the thing between my fingers—one of the blood capsules from the magic store—and used the comb to jab him in the eye as hard as I could. With a sound like “arrr;” he fell back.

I covered his face with my hand, leaving him with simulated blood all over it. Then, as his left hand went to his eye, I jumped up on the bed, stepping on Miranda’s leg, but remaining somehow upright, and shouted my own “arrr.” Without a word or a sound—but also without dropping the knife—Mean-Mouth ran from the room. I hoped Chris was in the clear, but didn’t dare yell for fear she’d step into the open just as he reached the second floor.

Instead, I chased him. Down the corridor, down the stairs to the second floor. But I stopped there. “Chris?” She stepped from the shadows. There wasn’t a sound from anywhere in the flophouse. I supposed the denizens laid low when they heard a fight.

“Omigod,” said Chris, looking at my arm, and then, seeing my face, “Jesus! Lie down.”

I didn’t have to be told. I’d suddenly started feeling very queasy indeed. I started to sink, looking forward to passing out, but remembered that Mean-Mouth would soon figure out he wasn’t badly injured. I sat instead of lying, put my head between my knees, and closed my eyes. The last thing I saw was Chris pulling off her T-shirt. She was starting to wrap it around my left arm when I heard an army coming up the stairs. The cops, I thought, not knowing how they’d got the word, but grateful, anyhow. I opened my eyes. Old Ralph from downstairs, now wearing a pair of pants, was charging toward us. “Sweet thing, you all right?”

“You almost got me killed, you elephant.”

“That ain’t no way to talk, sweet thing. I s’pose I did wrong to tease you, but I figured you’d find out what Mean-Mouth looked like when you found him.”

Chris said, “That was Mean-Mouth? The guy you were chasing?”

I nodded. She spoke to me, but looked straight at Ralph: “I could have warned you if I’d known what he looked like.”

“Yeah,” said Ralph. “We were just discussing that.”

I said, “Rob and Miranda are tied up upstairs. We’ve got to get them out of here before he comes back.”

Ralph said, “I’ll take care of Mean-Mouth. I guess I owe you that.”

“That,” I said, “and twenty bucks.”

He didn’t respond, just settled his blubber on the stairs.

By now, I had a fresh surge of adrenaline; I went back upstairs with Chris. Ungagged, Miranda said, “There’s a knife under the mattress.” After I’d assured Rob I wasn’t badly hurt and he’d congratulated me on the rescue, Chris and I cut their ropes with Miranda’s knife and the four of us got the hell out, silently. We were back on the second floor in about forty-five seconds, Chris wearing Rob’s jacket over her bra, Rob and me dragging Miranda.

Ralph was still standing guard—or rather sitting it—but he heaved himself to his feet to see us out. “No sign of him,” he said. “But you be careful, hear?”

“Thanks for the help.”

“I left the second twenty in my room. You come back and get it, okay?”

“Oh, never mind.” I figured I owed it to him for sentry duty but I was too peeved to be gracious about it.

I guess Miranda had been conscious for most of the excitement—she’d certainly seemed fully awake when she told us where to find the knife—but now she could barely stand. Rob and I had her propped between us, and every now and then she’d manage a step or two, but we had to carry her, more or less, to the Volvo. Once in it, we assessed my wound, which had stopped bleeding and was already starting to close. So I declined medical assistance in favor of a thrilling morning at home. Spent, Chris declined any more thrills, so we dropped her at her place. Then the rest of us headed for Green Street, Rob occasionally reaching over to touch my knee, Miranda snoring in the back seat.

We settled her on one of the white sofas while I made coffee and pasta and Rob took a shower. It was 3:00
A.M.
when he joined me in the kitchen and tucked into some fettucine carbonara—his first decent meal in days.

Then I went to wash the Thunderbird off. Standing under the shower, I had a momentary feeling everything was going to be all right. But moments later, when I looked in the mirror, I knew it wouldn’t. The makers of the platinum spray were charlatans and liars—my client had worse than a fool for a lawyer. He had a green-haired one.

I now had less than six hours to figure out what Miranda knew and get to court. But where to start?

“What choice have we got?” said Rob. “Let’s let her sleep for a while.”

So we set the alarm for 6:00 and went to bed. At 5:30, Miranda staggered into the bedroom: “What the hell is this? Who’re you?”

Rob said: “I found you at your hotel last night. Don’t you remember?”

She shook her head.

“I couldn’t wake you up, but your friend came in drunk and jumped to conclusions. God knows what he was planning to do with us.”

“Oh, yeah. Then the next thing I remember, this lady was there.” She was quiet a moment, remembering. “What the hell’s this all about?”

“Why don’t you take a shower?” I said. “We’ll get dressed and tell you about it.”

She nodded and staggered out. In a moment, we heard the shower running. Rob put on some clothes he’d left at my house, and after getting into a robe, I went out to the kitchen to put on more coffee. While Rob made toast, I found some clothes for Miranda and knocked on the bathroom door. No answer. I knocked louder and yelled. Still no answer. I tried the door, but found it locked.

Rob said, “Let’s try a credit card.” I don’t know where he learned to do it, but somehow he made it work. Miranda was naked on the bathroom floor, out cold once again. The bathroom was so steamy we could hardly see. Rob bowed out while I turned off the shower and bent over Miranda. I shook her and her eyelids fluttered, then opened: “Who the hell are you?”

“I found you last night. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” She shut her eyes again.

“Miranda. Miranda, wake up.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You told me. Your friends call you Miranda Warning.” This time the eyes flipped wide open, and she sat up, flinging an arm that hit mine, right where Mean-Mouth had cut it. “Ouch.”

“What the hell is this?”

“If you’ll come into the kitchen, I’ll tell you.”

“I feel awful. Me and Mean-Mouth tied one on last night.”

“Let me get you a robe.”

I was afraid to leave her, thinking she might pass out again, but she was washing her face when I returned. She said: “Is your hair supposed to be that color?”

Rob called, “Your phone’s ringing.”

Six A.M. and the phone was ringing. What was going on? I raced to the kitchen and picked it up. “Rebecca,” said Mom. “Are you all right, darling?”

My mind raced. This time, surely, I hadn’t done anything my mother could have read about in the paper. Maybe she was just getting in the habit of greeting me that way. I gave her my usual answer: “Sure, Mom. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason, dear. I just wanted to make sure before I told you what I have to tell you. I just want you to know your dad’s going to be okay; it’s nothing to worry about, he’s going to be fine.”

My heart nearly pounded out of my chest. “Something’s wrong with Dad?”

“Darling, he’s fine, really. But I had to take him to the hospital last night.”

“Mom, what is it? What’s going on?”

Miranda walked into the living room and sacked out on one of the couches. Mom said: “Remember how I begged you not to let him get involved in this?”

“For heaven’s sake, Mom, what’s happened?”

“He had a little spell in Israel. I never knew what it was, exactly—he just said he didn’t feel well and wanted to come home. We didn’t want to worry you, darling, so we didn’t tell you.”

“Mom, what
is
this?”

As if reading my mind, Mom said, “Don’t worry, darling, it’s not a brain tumor. They think it’s something you can have surgery for. Last night”—she sounded as if she were about to cry—“right after dinner, suddenly he couldn’t talk. He couldn’t say a word, Rebecca.”

“My God.”

“He’s okay this morning, darling. Really. But they have to do more tests.” She was starting to sob. “He wants to know if you can make it on your own today.”

“Sure, Mom. I’ll be fine.” Sure I would; with green hair, a sick father, and an incoherent witness. Maybe I could get a recess. “Tell Dad I’ll call him as soon as I can.” I rang off quickly, not wanting to absorb any of Mom’s fear—I had enough of my own.

I said: “Dad’s not going to make it to court today.”

“Is he all right?” asked Rob.

“They’re doing tests.” I was trying not to cry. “What shall we do about Miranda?”

Picking up my need not to talk about Dad, he said, “Make her drink this.” He poured out a mug of coffee and took it over to her. She sat up and sipped.

“We’ve met you before,” I said. “On Easter. At Mount Davidson.”

“You chased me!”

“Well, you punched me.”

Unexpectedly, she laughed. “I did? I’d sort of forgotten.”

“Listen, a lot of things have happened since then. Remember the man on the cross?”

She looked panicked. “Yeah. I dream about that all the time.” She dropped her coffee mug, spilling coffee all over my white rug, and started sobbing—great, wrenching sobs. “I’m getting out of here.” She got up and tried to run, but stumbled instead, falling back down on the couch. “What are you trying to do with me?”

“I’m the lawyer for a man accused of killing the man on the cross. Only he didn’t kill him. I want to know what you know about what happened there. You might be able to save my client’s life.”

She stopped sobbing and sniffed. “I don’t know nothin’.”

“Do you know a man named Les Mathison?”

Again she looked panicked—trapped, surrounded by enemies. I needed to put her at ease. “Let’s try some more coffee,” I said gently, and Rob brought some. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to know what you know.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Maybe,” I said, grasping at any straw that fluttered by, “you need to get it off your chest. Maybe it would help stop your dreams.”

She looked up from her cup, and for the first time I saw hope on her face. “It would?”