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  Roy realized that the car was still running. He shifted into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal. The car shot backward. The big man, staggering after a quick leap aside, looked at him through the tumbling cloud of dust.

  He seemed to know.

  Roy shifted to drive. As the Rolls sped forward, the man jumped onto the Pontiac’s trunk. Roy braced himself. He hit the Pontiac hard. The man’s legs flew out. He dropped heavily onto the hood of the Rolls. With a quick shift to reverse, Roy jerked the Rolls backward and tumbled the man off.

  Right off the front.

  He sped forward. The car made a satisfying bounce, passing over the man.

  Easy as rolling over a log. Roy grinned.

  The grin stopped at once.

  What if another car comes along?

  The woman across his lap was unconscious, maybe dead.

  He left the car running, and got out. The man’s body lay conveniently close to the rear of the Pontiac. Roy opened its trunk. He didn’t want to look closely at the body, much less touch it—not with the way the head had been mashed. But he had no choice. Something made splashy, plopping sounds as he lifted the body. He dropped it into the trunk, and vomited onto it. Then he slammed the trunk shut.

  Running back to the girl, he looked down at himself. His shirt and pants were dripping gore. Though he gagged, he kept running. He lifted Joni, smearing her with the dead man’s blood, and carried her to the Rolls. He set her down on the backseat. He ran to the Pontiac, grabbed his backpack, and threw it into the Rolls beside Joni. Then he climbed into the front and swung the car onto the road.

  3.

  Roy drove the Rolls for nearly an hour before he found a side road he liked. It led over bare hills to the left. He was sure it would take him to the ocean, so he turned onto it.

  Joni was conscious in the backseat, but so far she had just stayed there, lying on her side, staring forward. The woman in the front seat was dead. Roy didn’t like the way her head lay on his lap, but he decided against trying to set her upright: though there was no blood, the struggle for air had left her face hideously contorted. Her skin had a gray-blue tint. If he had her sitting up, people might notice. So he simply accepted the repulsive weight of her head on his lap, just as he accepted the blood on his hands and shirt and pants. He had to accept them, at least until he could find a deserted stretch of shoreline.

  This up ahead looked promising.

  The road ended a hundred yards from the shore. He parked in the shade. There were no cars in sight. A few cows grazed on the hillside. He got out. Just to the left of the road, the ground slanted down, forming a gorge choked with heavy bushes. A footpath along the edge of the gorge led to a beach.

  He would like to get the woman’s body into the water, tow it far out, and let it go. But carrying it to the water would be tough. Dangerous, too. Forget it.

  He would roll her into the gorge.

  Not now, though. Not until he and Joni were cleaned up and ready to leave. In the meantime, he couldn’t just leave her in the front seat. Someone might come along.

  He thought of the trunk.

  Then he got a better idea. Checking once again to be certain he was unobserved, he got out and pulled her across the front seat. Her feet hit the road, knocking off one of her platform shoes. He dragged her in front of the car. There, he stretched her out lengthwise on the dirt shoulder. Her arms and legs were a little stiff, but he managed to straighten them. With her legs together and her arms flat against her sides, Roy went back to the car.

  He drove slowly forward.

  Over the top of the black hood, he watched as the car seemed to swallow her.

  He stopped and climbed out. He had to get down on his hands and knees to see her in the darkness beneath the car.

  A great hiding place.

  He pulled Joni out of the backseat. Together, they walked down the footpath to the beach.

  4.

  The water, cold at first, quickly lost the shock of its chill and felt almost warm to Roy. Joni still stood on the shore. Only the largest waves reached far enough to wash over her feet.

  Roy took off his shirt. He scrubbed the cloth with his knuckles, trying to wash it. Waves caught him, lifted him, turned him. When they carried him too far from Joni, he swam closer. He held up his blue shirt and studied it in the sunlight. If blood remained on it, which he didn’t doubt, at least the stains were barely noticeable.

  “Come on in, Joni, and wash up.”

  She shook her head. She stepped backward, farther from the water, and sat down on the sand.

  “You know what happens,” Roy called, “when you don’t do like I say.”

  She looked down the beach, where a point of rocks jutted into the water. Breakers smashed against the rocks, splashing white froth high. She looked up the beach. In that direction, the shoreline curved inward and disappeared. “Don’t try it,” Roy yelled, wading forward.

  She stood up and walked into the water. It wound around her ankles. She kept moving. A high wave came, wetting her to the waist, sticking the pleated skirt to her skin. She stopped there. The water receded. Bending, she splashed it onto the bloodstains on her blouse. She rubbed the stains. A wave came, knocking her backward. She fell, and the white water swirled over her head.

  Roy went to her. He lifted her. He kissed her forehead. Then, wrapping his hand in his shirt, he scrubbed the bloodstains on her blouse. They grew faint, but wouldn’t vanish altogether. Finally he gave up.

  He pulled her deeper into the water, and did his best to wash the blood from her hair. Whenever he touched the sensitive wound left by the knife’s hilt, she jerked her head away. Finally her hair was clean enough to suit him. He led her out of the water.

  On the beach, he removed her blouse and skirt. He spread them on the sand to dry. Then he took off his own clothes, and spread them next to hers.

  They sat down on the sand. It was hot under Roy, almost burning.

  “Try to sleep,” he said.

  Joni lay back and shut her eyes.

  Roy looked at her. Water made tiny points of her eyelashes. Her skin was lightly tanned, except where a two-piece bathing suit had left it pale. Just like a little lady.

  Beads of water rolled down her skin, glinting sunlight. He wished he had oil. Suntan oil, or baby oil. He would rub her all over with it. Her skin would be slick and hot.

  He lay on his side, and propped himself up on an elbow to look at her. Her eyelids fluttered. She was only pretending to sleep, of course.

  She opened her eyes when he touched her.

  She turned her head and stared at him. He wondered, briefly, if she looked so sad because of what happened to her parents, or because of what he’d been doing to her.

  Not that he gave a shit.

  Inching closer, he kissed her on the mouth. His hand began moving down her sun-hot skin.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1.

  “We oughtta be getting it in today, lady. That’s all I can tell you. When we get it in, I’ll install it.”

  “Do you think the car will be ready today?” Donna asked.

  “Like I say, depends when the radiator gets here.”

  “How late are you open?” she asked.

  “Till nine.”

  “Can I pick up my car, then?”

  “If it’s done. Stu’ll let you take it. I go off at five, though. Stu’s no mechanic. If it doesn’t get done by five, it doesn’t get done till tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  She found Sandy nearby, eying a vending machine. “Can I get some potato chips?” the girl asked.

  “Well…”

  “Please? I’m starving.”

  “We’ll eat pretty soon. Why don’t you wait, and have potato chips with your meal?”

  “Where can we eat around here?” she asked, leaving the machine behind.

  “I’m not sure,” Donna admitted.

  “Not that place we went yesterday. It was so gross.”

  “Let’s
try this way.” They started walking south on Front Street.

  “When’s the car gonna be ready?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Huh?” Sandy wrinkled her nose. When she unwrinkled it, her huge sunglasses slipped forward. She shoved them into place with a forefinger.

  “The guy at the station wasn’t up to telling me when it’ll be ready. But I have a feeling we’ll still be here tomorrow.”

  “If Dad doesn’t get us first.”

  The mention of him jolted Donna. Somehow, after meeting Jud, fears of her ex-husband had been pushed into a dark corner of her mind and forgotten. “He doesn’t know where we are.”

  “Aunt Karen does.”

  “Tell you what, let’s give Aunt Karen a call.” Looking around, she saw a phone booth at the corner of the Chevron station they had just left. They backtracked to it. “How much are the potato chips?”

  “Thirty-five cents.”

  She handed Sandy a dollar bill. “You’ll have to get change from the man.”

  “You want anything?”

  “No thanks. But you go ahead.”

  She watched her daughter leave, then she stepped into the telephone booth. Her coins rang inside the machine. She dialed Operator, and asked for the call to be charged to her home phone. When the call went through, she heard the ringing of her sister’s phone. It was picked up after the second ring. Donna waited for Karen’s voice. She heard only silence.

  “Hello?” she finally asked.

  “So.”

  “Bob?” she asked, though the voice didn’t sound much like his. “Bob, is that you?”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Sergeant Morris Woo, Santa Monica Police Department.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “So. Your business, please, with Mrs. Marston?”

  “I was just…she’s my sister. Has something happened to her?”

  “Where are you calling from, please?”

  How do I know you’re a cop? she asked herself. And she answered, I don’t. “I’m calling from Tucson,” she told him.

  “So.”

  In her mind, she saw him hang up and turn to Roy, grinning that he’d obtained the information so easily. But he didn’t hang up.

  “Please, what is your name?”

  “Donna Hayes.”

  “So. Address and telephone number?”

  “What’s happened to Karen?”

  “Please. Does your sister have relatives in the Los Angeles area?”

  “Damn it!”

  “So. Mrs. Hayes, I regret your sister met with death.”

  Met with death?

  “She and her husband, Robert Marston, met with death yesterday night. So. If there are relatives…”

  “Our parents.” She was numb. “John and Irene Blix.”

  “Blix. So, Mrs. Hayes, may I have please their address?”

  She told him their address and phone number.

  “So.”

  “They were…murdered?”

  “Murdered, yes.”

  “I think I know who did it.”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean, so? Damn it, I know who killed them!”

  “So. You tell me, please.”

  “It was my ex-husband. His name is Roy Hayes. He was released yesterday—I mean Saturday. Sometime Saturday.”

  “So. Released from what?”

  “San Quentin.”

  “So.”

  “He was in six years for raping our daughter.”

  “So.”

  “So he must’ve killed Karen to find out where I am.”

  “Did she know, please?”

  “Yes, she knew.”

  “So. You are in danger. Describe your Roy Hayes, please.”

  As she gave the man a description of her exhusband, she saw Sandy returning with a bag of potato chips. The bag was open. Sandy was pinching chips, one at a time, and pushing them sideways into her mouth.

  “So. He drives?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what. He may have taken one of Karen’s cars. They’ve got a yellow Volkswagen and a white Pontiac Grand Prix.”

  “So. The years?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at her daughter munching potato chips outside the booth. Turning away, Donna began to cry.

  “Please, Mrs. Hayes. Are the cars new?”

  “The VW, it’s a ’77. I don’t know about the other. A ’72,’73.”

  “So. Very good, Mrs. Hayes. Very good. Now, if I may suggest, call the Tucson police, so, and inform them of your situation. Perhaps an escort to the airport.”

  “Airport?”

  “So. Your parents are not to be alone during this time of tragedy.”

  “No. You’re right. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “So.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woo.” She hung up. Sandy knocked on the plastic wall of the booth. Ignoring her, Donna searched her purse for coins. She found them, and made another call.

  “Santa Monica Police Department,” said a woman. “Officer Bleary speaking. May I help you?”

  “Do you have a Morris Woo?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Donna heard a telephone ring. It was picked up. “Homicide,” said the man. “Detective Harris.”

  “Do you have a Morris Woo?”

  “He’s not in just now. May I help you?”

  “I talked to a man on the phone.” She sniffed, and rubbed her nose. “He claimed to be a Sergeant Morris Woo. I just wanted to make sure he’s really a police officer.”

  “So?”

  2.

  After a brief, tearful call to give her parents the news, she hung up and left the booth. “Let’s go back to the motel.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sandy was crying. “Tell me!”

  “Aunt Karen and Uncle Bob. They’ve been killed.”

  “No they haven’t!”

  “I just talked to a police officer, honey.”

  “No!”

  “Come on, let’s go back to the motel.”

  Instead, the girl threw herself against Donna, hugging tightly as she cried.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  1.

  When Jud climbed out of his car, he saw Donna sitting on a front step of her cabin and he knew that something was wrong. He went toward her. She saw him, and stood. He took her in his arms, and she began to cry softly, quietly, her back trembling under his hand. Jud stroked the back of her head. Her cheek was wet against his face. He held her for a long time.

  Then Donna looked up at him. She sniffed, smiled an apology, and rubbed her face with her sleeves. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, her lips pressed tightly shut. “Can we go for a walk?” she asked.

  “I know a nice place. We’ll have to go in the car, though.”

  “Before we go, I’d better get registered for tonight.”

  “Good idea,” Jud said. “I’ll have to do that, too.”

  Together, they went to the motel office. They registered. Then they returned to Jud’s car. “Where’s Sandy?” he asked.

  “Sleeping.”

  “She seems to do a lot of that, doesn’t she?”

  “It’s a good way to escape.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No. Probably not.”

  They climbed into the Chrysler, and Jud drove out to Front Street.

  “We saw your car in town this morning,” Donna said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  “I took the tour again.”

  “You mean they had a tour? I would’ve thought the police…”

  “The police don’t know about the killing, apparently. The body’s gone. So’s the blood. It looks like somebody did a nice clean-up job.”

  “Scrub-a-dub-dub.” Donna met his glance, and frowned. “That’s what Axel does. He’s in charge of cleaning the place.”

  “Axel’s in this thing up to the ar
mpits. So’s his mother. They all are. It’s a family enterprise. All it takes is a murder, now and again, to keep the tourists coming.”

  “If the body’s gone, though…”

  “I think they got nervous, killing someone so close to the other three. Nervous enough to pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Why did they kill her—they? Now you’ve got me believing it. Why did they kill her, if they didn’t want the publicity?”

  “She was gonna burn the place down.”

  “I guess that’s a good enough reason. What’s your next step? Do you try to find her body?”

  “That wouldn’t do us much good. What we’ve gotta find is the man in the monkey suit.”

  “Then what?”

  “If I have to, I’ll kill him.”

  “You intend to kill him, don’t you?”

  “I doubt if he’ll give me a choice.”

  They were silent as they drove past Beast House. After they rounded the bend, Donna said, “Have you killed very many people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you…think about it much?”

  He glanced at her, then steered onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. “You mean, does my conscience bother me?”

  “I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “I never killed a guy who didn’t have it coming.”

  “Who judges that?”

  “Me. I judge him and sentence him.”

  “How can you?”

  “I hear voices.”

  She smiled. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I hear a voice. It’s usually mine saying, ‘I’d better nail this bastard before he nails me.’ ”

  “You’re awful.”

  He laughed softly. And then he felt a cold tightness inside him. He swallowed. “Sometimes what I hear are the voices of the dead. People I never knew. People I saw in news photos, or with my own eyes. They say to me, ‘I’d be alive today if this bastard hadn’t canceled my ticket.’ Then I look at the living and they say, ‘That bastard’s gonna kill me tomorrow.’ And then I judge him and then I execute him if I can. I figure I’m paying him back for the dead, and I’m saving a few lives. Maybe this sounds terrible, but my conscience is pretty happy with itself.”

  “Do you kill for money?”