Ultimate Thriller Box Set (92 page)

“Bullshit.” Victor.

Buddy shot Victor a venomous look. “I did look for him. So did Duffy. We must have stopped a dozen of those blue Z4s.”

“We could have all been looking for him,” Laura said.

Buddy Holland had gotten back his equilibrium, and blame bounced off him. “But that wouldn’t have done us much good, would it?” He tapped the screen, the photograph of Peter Dorrance. “Because it wasn’t him.”

48

As Musicman drove the last block toward the El Rancho, his mind turned to the problem of Summer. He was angry with himself for treating her the way he did. Now he’d need to woo her all over again.

A street vendor had set up shop in an empty lot on the corner of the Benson Highway and Palo Verde. On an impulse, Musicman pulled into the lot. Under a parachute-type awning, an old man in a guayaberra shirt sat behind a glass case of cheap-looking jewelry on velvet.

All his girls had loved trinkets. Of course, that was before they saw him. That was always a shock. They were always willing to accept gifts from a good-looking guy like Dorrance, but they turned their nose up at him.

He bought a pretty choker, the thin strand of silver almost liquid in the glaring sunlight. Little beads of turquoise were threaded on at intervals. He drove the rest of the way with a smile on his face.

As he switched on his blinker to make the turn into the El Rancho Trailer Court, he felt a sudden premonition. He’d learned to trust his instincts, so he flicked off the blinker and continued driving on to the next block. He turned there and turned left again, coming up behind the trailer court.

He’d been right.

From this angle he could see the revolving lights of a cop car.

Feast or famine, DPS intelligence analyst Charlie Specter thought as he got himself a cup of coffee and sat back down at the computer. Tips from law enforcement entities throughout the state had come in rapidly at first, then slowed to a trickle, followed by another onslaught. Like turning a faucet on and off. Right now was a down-time.

He checked his watch. Another thirty minutes or so had gone by since the last time he checked his e-mail.

Laura Cardinal had made sure that Charlie was specifically named in the subpoena to Lundy’s Internet server. The messages that Lundy sent and received would be trapped at the server and then sent on to Lundy. After it had been sent to Lundy, an “admin copy” would be sent on directly to Charlie. Along with the text of the e-mail would be a header showing the date and time of the e-mail, as well as the area code and phone number.

He took a sip of coffee and logged on.

Bingo! There was the e-mail address from Lundy’s ISP log: [email protected] The e-mail was from [email protected].

Time sent: 1:57 a.m. Time received: 10:43 a.m.

Lundy’s ISP had a Tucson area code. He was still in Tucson—a 628 exchange.

Specter called the 628 number. Familiar music came on—Tom Bodette inviting the caller to stay at Motel 6.

He looked up Motel 6 and found several. One of them had the 628 exchange.

He turned the corner and walked to Laura’s desk. “How’s this?” he said. “I know where your bad guy was, up to an hour ago.”

Get a grip, Musicman told himself. There’s no way she could have gotten out of that motor home. No way anyone could have heard her.

He parked the car by the side of the road, got out, and trotted across the patch of desert toward the chain link fence that bordered the park. The fence was woven with dried-out yellow plastic, so it was hard to see, but he could hear the yelling. It sounded like a drunk male, very angry.

He snuck up to the fence and peered through a hole in the plastic.

A shirtless, long-haired man was bent over the hood of a Tucson police car as two cops struggled to handcuff him. His jeans were so low on his skinny waist they showed his butt crack and a bad tattoo.

“What’d I do? What’d I
do
?” the man kept screaming.

Even though the guy was obviously suffering from malnutrition, he gave the cops quite a fight.

The cop cars were parked four trailers down from Musicman’s motor home. The motor home was quiet, but Summer could be hitting her fists against the windows and screaming—no way to tell.

He watched the cops. They were so busy with the screaming man that they were oblivious to anything else. A few neighbors had come out, hanging back mostly, on their front stoops. A ragtag bunch.

Finally the cops wrestled the screaming man into the back of one of the patrol cars. Both cops had to pause for breath, and as they did, they looked at the crowd, which seemed to melt back into the rusting metal of their homes.

He didn’t like it.

The first car, the one holding the prisoner, drove away. The second cop walked to his car. Was it his imagination or did the cop give the Pace Arrow more than a passing glance? He even took a step to the side, so he could see more of it.

Then the cop’s radio squawked. Whatever it was, he got in and drove off in a cloud of dust.

Musicman waited for several minutes, then got back into the car and drove around to the entrance.

Right before the entrance, the GEO stalled and he cursed. Still, he was glad he’d bought the car.

He needed to get out of here.

Officer Ray Garcia wiped the sweat from his face. Even in the squad car, Timmy Swanson was still kicking and screaming. Let him kick. He wasn’t about to break through that steel mesh.

“D&D. Possession of crack. Resisting arrest. I guess that’ll about do it,” said Sam Chilcott.

“Ought to. See you in a few." Ray knocked on the roof of Sam’s squad car and then walked back to his own.

He always told his kids he had eyes in the back of his head, which wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been trained to look at everything as a potential threat and had developed that eye for detail. So as he walked to his car, he scanned the trailer park. Maybe someone would resent the arrest of poor ol’ Timmy, maybe they would rush him or take a potshot at him. Some people would say he was paranoid, but it was a paranoia he wasn’t ashamed of.

A vehicle up ahead stood out from the rest. Every other trailer looked as if it had been moored there and the vegetation—and junk—had grown up around it. But the motor home at the end looked out of place. The trailers here had been scoured by the sun and the dust, burnished to oxidation. But the motor home looked as if it had been washed recently. It also didn’t look permanent.

He stepped out of the lane so he could see the back end. Lace curtains in the back window, just like on the sides.

He’d heard something about a motor home recently, but couldn’t remember what kind or where.

His hand-held crackled—a knife fight two blocks south of here. He got into his unit and floored it on out of there.

Musicman unlocked the door to the motor home and called out, “Oh, June, I’m home!”

It was a lame joke, but it had become kind of a ritual. He loved the old TV shows on TV Land. At his age, he’d missed the best ones:
The
Andy Griffith Show
,
The
Dick Van Dyke Show
,
Lucy
.

“There’s been a change of plans. We’re going on our trip sooner than I thought.”

No reply.

“I’m sorry about what I did. I just kind of lost it. I won’t act like that again.”

Nothing. She was being stubborn.

He was surprised to realize that it excited him. He remembered one porno tape he played over and over where the man did a young girl and she fought and snarled and he kept saying, “You little wildcat!”

He couldn’t think about that now. Sometimes he felt he lived inside a flame that wanted to consume him, burn him to nothing. This was one of those times. He swallowed. “We don’t have any time to waste. We’ve got to go.”

He unlocked the padlock. “Let’s go!”

Still no reply.

Maybe he should just hitch the GEO up to the Pace Arrow and get out of here. That way he could leave her in her room. Deal with her later. She needed finesse, not force, and he didn’t have time to play games.

“Okay, you want to play it that way, fine.”

He walked outside and got into the GEO, drove it up to the hitch.

As he got out, he saw two cop cars zoom by on Benson Highway. Going fast and silent, but with their lights on, headed in the direction of the Motel 6.

Don’t be paranoid

Maybe they were going to the Motel 6, maybe not. But what if they were?

What if it had something to do with him?

Shit! He didn’t have time. He clambered back into the motor home and pulled the seat cushions off the dinette seat, flung it open, and rummaged inside. He needed his duffle and his computer bag. He grabbed the duffle and started throwing things in. The main thing was the laptop, the power cord, the disks, his Jazz drive.

His notebooks. His photo albums. His cameras, of course. His cash. And Summer.

It took him three trips to get everything into the GEO. There was a lot he was leaving behind, but he couldn’t help that. Although no one had put his picture up on television, he could feel them breathing down his neck. He knew he was one step ahead of their snapping jaws—he could feel it. He always trusted his instincts.

They knew who he was. Maybe it was the way the cop had looked at the motor home. He should have jumped on that earlier. At least they didn’t know about the GEO.

After he’d stuffed everything into the back seat, he stood by the car, the sun beating down on him, hyperventilating.

Where would they go?

Mexico?

He’d have to put her in the trunk. But what if the Mexican customs asked to see inside?

He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Or he could head east or west on the interstate. Or take the back roads, lay low.

Later. He’d figure it out later.

He went back inside, feeling strangely jazzed. She was going to give him a battle. He knew it. The wildcat.

And so he prepared everything ahead of time. The chloroform, the rag, his handcuffs, duct tape. It was all in the same place he’d stashed them after he’d used them on Jessica—

The boyfriend, standing there in the doorway of the Pace Arrow. What’s going on?”

The image so strong it seemed like real time. Stupid kid, surprising him like that. The girl, who’d just stopped struggling, a dead weight. He had no choice but to act—and act fast.

Still amazed no one saw him drag the kid down into the woods.

He had the rag, the bottle at the ready. Knocked on the door.

No answer.

He felt the beginning of impatience.

“Summer, we can do this easy or we can do this hard. I guarantee you won’t like it hard." He tried not to laugh at the pun.

Nothing.

Bitch

To think he’d bought a present for her. He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted the key to the padlock, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.

Something jumped out at him like a jack-in-the-box.

“What—?”

He saw the stick clenched in her hands, and his mind had only a split second to wonder what it was when it hit him right in the midsection, punching into his side.

Pain, tingly and bright and blood-colored. He thought he screamed.

He grabbed at her as her impulsion carried her past him, his fingers snagging her dress—

She jerked away, and through a fine haze of pain, he saw her bolt through the hallway and out the door, the door banging
wham wham wham
—

And he was aware that he was holding his side and it was kind of like hot pudding, slick as snot as his father used to say, and he staggered back, spun around, and that was when he saw the object on the floor. Wood tapering down to a band of brass glimmering at the bottom.

It was a leg off the swing-out table.

She’d sawed it off. Somehow.

Smart girl.

He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and pressed it to the wound.
Compress
. It hurt like a sonofabitch, but it had missed everything vital. There were splinters, though, big ones.

Time slowed. His nerve endings screaming. The towel turning red. Still, he’d better go get her and think about cleaning this mess up later.

49

As Laura walked across the parking lot to the Motel 6 entrance, the overheated asphalt yielded under her shoe like brownie dough. Traffic hummed and sighed on the street behind her, a constant pedal point. She shielded her eyes against the glare and glanced back at the van parked unobtrusively near the edge of the property—a unit from the Pima County Sheriff’s SWAT team inside.

The young woman at the desk looked like a college student. She wore a nice blazer with the name tag “Marci”.

Laura asked Marci if she had either a Dale Lundy or Jimmy de Seroux registered.

Marci looked through the book. “No one by that name.”

“Anything close? Maybe a combination of the two? Dale de Seroux? Jimmy Lundy?”

Uncertain, the girl pored over the names again.

Laura looked at the names upside down. “That’s it. James E. Lund. Could you pull the card please?”

“I don’t know—“

“We have a warrant.”

“Oh. Okay." Marci found the registration card and pushed it diffidently across the desk.

The date of check-in was July 15. James E. Lund, Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Drove a 1994 white GEO Prizm with a Colorado plate. He was in Room 17.

A white GEO?

Laura wondered if he’d ditched the motor home or if he’d just added the car. Sometimes the simplest things could slip under the radar. All the agencies were on the alert for a motor home. But they might not even see a motor home towing a car.

She asked Marci for the key to Room 17. Marci handed it over without asking to see the warrant, which was good because Laura didn’t have one. Victor Celaya was on his way with it.

“How did he pay for the room?” she asked. “Cash, check, or credit card?”