Out Are the Lights Page 13

  'God, I hope so.'

  'There's just one more thing.'

  'What?'

  'We'll have to stay away from each other. If they connect us, they've got the car.'

  'But…'

  'It won't be forever.' Elizabeth drew her fingers over his cheek.

  'How long?'

  'A few weeks, I suppose.'

  'I don't want to be away from you.'

  'I don't like it either, darling.' She opened the top button of his shirt. 'This will be our last time together for a long while. Let's make it memorable.'

  She led him into the bedroom. They took off each other's clothes. Under the bright light and the staring eyes of Herbert, they made love.

  ***

  When they were done, Elizabeth straddled him and rubbed his chest. 'I have a surprise,' she said.

  'Mmm.'

  'Back in a minute.' She climbed off, and left the room.

  Dal folded his hands behind his head, and looked at Herbert sitting motionless in his wheelchair beside the bed. The man's steady gaze made him uneasy. He pulled up the sheet to cover himself, and wished Elizabeth would hurry back. He didn't like being alone with Herbert.

  Finally, she came in. She walked silently through the darkness, and into the pool of light near the bed. A dish towel covered her hands. She stepped behind Herbert, and licked her lips.

  'Took you long enough.'

  'I had a lot to do.'

  'What's under the towel?'

  'The surprise.'

  She lifted the towel away.

  Dal jerked upright. 'My God, don't!'

  'It's time,' she said. She wrapped her hand in the towel and gripped the butcher knife and swung it down. It plunged into Herbert's throat. A spray of blood hit Dal. He rolled backwards, out of the way, as Elizabeth jerked out the knife and stabbed again.

  'Oh my God,' he gasped. 'Jesus! ' He scrambled off the bed.

  Elizabeth, with a half smile on her face, rammed the blade again into Herbert's throat.

  'My God, stop. For Godsake!'

  She pulled out the knife. She was breathing hard. She wiped its handle with the dish towel, and stepped around the end of the bed.

  Dal backed away. 'No,' he muttered.

  'An… an intruder broke in,' she said, walking toward him.

  Hair hung in her face. Her skin was slick with sweat. 'Took a knife from the kitchen. Killed poor Herbert. Beat up poor Elizabeth, raped her.'

  'You're nuts!'

  'Am I?'

  'You can't get away with it.'

  'Of course I can.'

  She backed him against the sliding door. 'And you'll help me. You, darling, are the intruder.'

  He thrust out his hands to ward off the knife.

  Elizabeth laughed softly. She turned the handle toward him. 'Take it,' she said.

  'Huh?'

  'Take it. Don't worry about prints. You can wipe them off with the towel. I'll tell the police you wore gloves.'

  She pressed the knife into his hand.

  Dal stared at the dripping blade.

  'When you're done, go outside and smash a hole in the glass. It'll look like you broke in.'

  'My… my fingerprints are everywhere.'

  'I got most of them.' She grinned. 'That's what took me so long, out there. When I tell the cops you wore gloves, though, they might not even bother to check.'

  'My God, Elizabeth.'

  'Don't worry. They'll never even suspect you… or me.' She took his wrist, and pulled him toward the bed. She sat on the mattress. Still holding his hand, she lay down. She guided his hand lower, until the knife touched her belly.

  Dal jerked his hand away. 'What're you doing!'

  'Cut me.'

  'Cut you?'

  'It has to look real.'

  'I can't cut you!'

  'Can you punch me?'

  'I… I don't know.'

  'Try.'

  'Where?'

  She tapped her cheek.

  'God, Elizabeth.'

  'Do it!' she snapped.

  He climbed onto the bed and straddled her. He set the knife on the sheet. He raised his fist.

  'Go ahead.'

  'I can't.'

  'You have to.'

  His arm trembled. Then he was crying. 'I can t. Don't ask me to. Please.'

  'Okay then.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'It's all right, darling. I guess I should be flattered, huh?'

  'I'm sorry.' He climbed off her.

  'Go ahead and get dressed. Then break that window.'

  He picked up his clothes.

  Elizabeth picked up the butcher knife. She pressed its blade to her throat.

  'What…!'

  'Shhhh.'

  He saw the blade slide on her skin, saw a line of blood spill out.

  ' Elizabeth!'

  She carved a second cut onto her throat. She cut her right cheek, her forehead. Dal stared, cold and numb. The blade went to her right breast.

  'No!' Dropping his clothes, he ran to her and grabbed her hand.

  'Then hit me,' she said. 'Beat me up. Hurt me.'

  Pinning her knife-hand to the sheet, he punched her face.

  'Again,' she muttered.

  He hit her again.

  'Scratch me. Bruise me.'

  Dal did as he was told, reluctantly at first. She sobbed and writhed under him, and urged him on. He punched her, raked her with fingernails, squeezed and twisted her slippery skin. Then he was hard and aching. He shoved himself into her, pounded, and burst with quick release.

  He climbed off her, exhausted. She lay on the bed, tom and sheathed in blood. She raised her head to see herself.

  'This'll do nicely,' she moaned. 'Now get dressed… Break that window and get the hell out of here… so I can call the cops.'

  'Are you all right?'

  'Do I… look all right?'

  Dal started to get dressed. He was wet with blood. His clothes stuck to him. 'When will we see each other again?' he asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  'Greetings again.'

  Freya raised her head off the couch. She looked at the girl on the nearby chair, and shut her eyes. Her head hurt.

  'You okay?'

  'Yeah.'

  'I was starting to worry. You bashed hell out of your head when you fell. Hit the bookcase. You been out for a goddamn hour. You always go around fainting?'

  'I… I've been sick.'

  'Yeah? You too? I just got over a case of the trots, myself. Something I ate.'

  Freya opened here eyes. She sat up slowly, feeling dizzy, and touched the back of her head. A big lump. She looked at the girl. 'Who are you, anyway?'

  'Who do you think?'

  ' Chelsea?'

  The girl grinned.

  'Can't be.'

  'Can't?'

  'She's… ' Freya caught herself. 'She's out of town.'

  'Oh shit. Where?'

  'Up north.'

  'Damn it, she knew I was coming. What's she trying to pull?'

  'You're her twin?'

  'Right on the money. Name's Grenich.' She spelled it.

  'I'm Freya.' She spelled it.

  'When's el grosso coming back?'

  'She didn't say.'

  'When'd she leave?'

  'Today.'

  'Just in time to miss me.'

  'She said it was an emergency.'

  'I'll bet. Hey look, you mind if I flop here tonight?'

  'No. That'd be fine.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Someone touched Connie's shoulder, startling her awake. She was in the hospital waiting room, slumped in a plastic chair. She looked up at the doctor beside her.

  'Mr Harvey's out of surgery,' he said.

  'How is he?'

  'He's stable. Miss Brent. His vital signs look good. That's about the best we can offer at this point.'

  'But he will survive?'

  'We can't promise anything, but I think there's a good chance of it.'

 
'May I see him?'

  The doctor shook his head. 'Later, perhaps. Visiting hours are from four to five, and eight to nine. He'll be on the third floor, once he's out of intensive care. Now, I'd suggest you go home and try to get some sleep.'

  ***

  The sun came up while she was driving home. She thought about heading over to Pete's house for her suitcase, but she didn't want to go there. Maybe later today, if she felt better.

  Her neck was stiff from the hours in the waiting room. Her eyes were raw and burning. She felt tired and hollow and sick.

  When she got to her apartment, she lay on her bed and covered her face with a pillow. Images twisted through her mind: Pete on the bed, grinning and sipping beer; Pete broken on the pavement; jerking her out of a car's way the day they met; tumbling through the night and crumbling to the street; Dal grinning as he aimed the car; the doctor shaking his head-'I'm sorry, Miss Brent, but he didn't make it'; a preacher beside the grave-'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes'; the casket slowly lowering…

  She flung the pillow aside and sat up. She sat motionless, wondering what to do with herself. She felt like doing nothing. If she could just sleep, just shut off her mind and sleep and not wake up until it was all over… A bath might help.

  She turned on the faucet and took off her clothes and sat in the hot shallow water, hugging her knees to her breasts as the tub filled. When the water was deep, she lay back. Her shoulders touched the cold porcelain. She flinched and quickly slid lower, sighing as she was wrapped in heat. The warmth was soothing. The water's gentle motion caressed her. She shut her eyes.

  After the bath, she would make sausages and fried eggs. A whole bunch of them. Then she would go to Westwood and browse bookstores and buy a dozen books, at least. And then she would buy herself a dress, a lovely new dress for visiting Pete tonight. Maybe get him a gift. A special gift…

  She was chilly. She sat up, the cool water sluicing down her chest. She realized she'd been asleep. She unplugged the drain, thinking she might refill the tub with hot water. Except for the cold, she felt good. If she could just return to the cozy warmth… But her hands were pale and shriveled. She certainly didn't need another doze in the tub.

  But she was so cold.

  She slid the glass door shut. Kneeling, she reached for the faucet. Moments later, hot water was raining onto her head, pelting her shoulders and streaming down her chilled skin, sheeting her in warmth. She raised her face into the shower.

  It tapped her eyelids, filled her mouth. She swallowed some, and let the rest spill down her chin.

  Standing, she picked up the soap and remembered the day at the beach house - only a few days ago - showering with Pete, his hands rubbing her soapy body everywhere. Then she soaping him, his skin slippery under her hands.

  She started to cry. Sobs shook her body. She dropped the soap and covered her face. The water pounded on her back. It began to turn cold. She shut it off. She shoved open the shower door and climbed from the tub. She pressed her warm dry towel to her face and fell to her knees, crying harshly.

  ***

  Later, she found herself lying on the bathroom rug. She'd been asleep. Sun from the window was warm on her back. She got up, feeling weak. Except for her hair, she was nearly dry.

  She felt very hungry.

  Rubbing her hair dry, she went into the bedroom. She put on fresh clothes, then went into the kitchen. She took a pack of sausages from the refrigerator. As she poked at its plastic wrapper, the lights flashed on and off.

  Someone at the door.

  She went to it and opened it.

  'I thought I'd drop by and see how you are.'

  She stared at Dal in disbelief. His face was somber. He looked haggard.

  'I read about it in the paper,' he said.

  'That's the first you knew about it, I suppose.'

  He nodded. 'I was afraid you might feel that way. That's another reason I came by. I want you to know I had nothing to do with it.'

  'Is that so?'

  'Can I come in for a minute?'

  She stepped away from the door and let him enter. She shut the door. She faced him.

  'The article said the police are looking for a suspect. I suppose that's me.'

  'That's right.'

  He turned away and walked toward a chair. Connie opened the draperies to fill the room with light. Then she sat across from him, watching his mouth.

  'You have every reason to think I was involved. I mean, after everything Pete's done to me. I lost my job, you know.'

  'I didn't know.'

  'Yeah. Because of that stunt he pulled. But Christ, I wouldn't try to run a guy over, no matter what he did.'

  'Tell that to the police.'

  'I intend to.'

  'Why don't you call them now?'

  He looked shocked. 'Now?'

  'I know they're looking for you. It'll save time. You can use my phone, and I'll keep you company till they arrive.'

  'I can't.'

  'Why not? They'll find you anyway, sooner or later. You might as well get it over with.'

  'I have a job interview in half an hour.'

  'Do you indeed.'

  'I didn't come over here to argue, Connie. I came over to offer my sympathy.'

  I don't need your sympathy.'

  'How is Pete?'

  'He'll live,' she said, praying she was right. 'And if he saw the face of the driver, you'll be in deep trouble.'

  Dal grinned. The corners of his mouth trembled. 'I hope he did see the driver. Then maybe you'll believe me.'

  'I know you did it, Dal.'

  'Then why don't you call the police?'

  'Last night I called for an ambulance.' The memory almost brought fresh tears. She paused, trying to regain control, 'I called and thought I was talking to an operator… but I wasn't, apparently. I was talking to no one, to a ringing phone, probably… and I didn't even know it. If someone else hadn't called for an ambulance I'm sorry.'

  'So I don't think I'll call the police. What I might do, I might disable you and go next door and ask a neighbour to call.'

  'You're crazy.'

  'Maybe. I'll tell you why I won't do it.'

  He smirked. 'Tell me.'

  'Because if I attack you, I won't be able to stop. I'll kill you.'

  'That so?' he asked, looking pale.

  'And I don't want to kill you, because then it'll be hard to find out who the woman is.'

  'What woman?'

  'Your friend with the Mercedes.'

  He shook his head. 'You're not making any sense.'

  'Yes I am.'

  'I don't know any woman with a Mercedes. That's a bit out of my league.'

  'That's true.'

  'Look, I don't need this. I just came by…'

  'I know. To offer your sympathy. Well, thanks anyway. But you're the one who'll need sympathy, Dal. You and your girlfriend. Something bad is gonna happen to you both.'

  'Connie, for…'

  'You tried to kill my man.'

  He got up. 'I'm leaving.'

  She walked to the door and opened it. Dal stepped outside. As soon as she shut the door, she rushed across the room, grabbed her purse, and ran back to it. She opened it a crack and peered out. Dal was halfway down the stairs. She waited until he reached the bottom. When he was out of sight, she stepped onto the balcony and looked over the railing. Dal, at the end of the courtyard, was nearly to the rear gate. He'd parked in the alley: Connie's car was in front. She ran down the stairs, and out the front gate to her car.

  She glanced both ways. Dal could exit the alley at either end of the block; if she chose wrong, she might lose him. She decided on the south end because it was closer.

  She backed onto the road, and hit the gas pedal. With a quick spurt, the car shot to the comer. She stopped. As her eyes sought the alley's opening, she saw Dal's red VW already heading down the road. Away from her, thank God. If he'd come this way, he couldn't have missed her.

  While she was stopped, a car
passed. Great. It would run interference for her. She pulled out and followed it, sometimes veering to the left for a glimpse past it. They were gaining on Dal.

  He turned right and disappeared around the side of an apartment house.

  Approaching the comer, Connie eased off the gas. She took the turn slowly. Dal's car had almost reached the end of the block. It stopped at an intersection, then continued straight ahead. Connie sped up.

  On the next block, his VW turned into the driveway of an apartment complex. Connie drove by, squinting into the darkness of the subterranean parking lot. She glimpsed his brake lights, and drove on.

  If Dal knew he was being followed, he might've ducked in to lose his tail. That, Connie knew, was one possibility.

  The other two were more intriguing.

  She stopped near the corner. In her side mirror, she could see the driveway. She waited for Dal's car to appear.

  Nearly two minutes passed. Then a station wagon came up the road behind Connie. She turned the comer to let it pass, then drove slowly along to an empty stretch of curb. She parked, and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel.

  Dal, she realized, hadn't ducked into the lot to lose her. He was too impatient to wait inside for more than half a minute. So, unless he'd gone out a rear exit-if there was one-he'd entered the lot to park.

  The apartment complex was his destination.

  He lived there.

  Or the woman did.

  Connie climbed from her car and walked back to the driveway she'd seen Dal enter. Its pavement sloped into shadows. She stepped down it.

  The parking lot was cool, and dark after the brightness outside. She took off her sunglasses. There were only half a dozen cars down here. She didn't see Dal's VW. She saw a dark brown Mercedes, but not a gray one.

  Maybe around the comer…

  The concrete felt slippery, as if it had been waxed. Poor footing if she was attacked.

  Who would attack her, Dal?

  'Those parking structures are bitches,' her self-defense instructor had warned. 'Great places to get mugged or raped. And where do you think the creep's waiting for you? He's crouched there between the parked cars. So always walk right up the middle of the driveway, so you'll have plenty of time to see him coming.'

  Connie walked up the middle, her glance darting from car to car. Several times, she looked behind her. Then she came to the curve. She stepped over to the concrete wall, and peered around it.