Beware Page 6

  “Sounds like our man,” Farris said, sounding pleased. “Any knowledge of his present whereabouts?”

  “Miss Allen wounded him this morning—about four hours ago—at her home here in town. The police couldn’t find any trace of him, but I imagine he isn’t far from here.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I may be wrong about this, sir, but I think he’s still after the Allen woman. While she was his prisoner, he threatened to hunt her down if she ever escaped.”

  “I see. Where is Allen now?”

  “She’s on her way to Tucson. She took his threat seriously, and plans to hide out there for a while.”

  “Her exact location?”

  “I don’t know. She’s promised to give me a call, though, once she’s found a room. I suspect she’ll check into a hotel.”

  “Very good. I’ll alert our Tucson personnel. Now. This Allen woman, does she trust you?”

  “Yes.”

  “As soon as she gives you her location, I want you to do two things. First, inform me immediately. Second, drive to Tucson and meet her. Stay with her, and keep us informed of her movements. If Hoffman goes for her, we want to be there.”

  “What if…suppose he attacks while I’m there?”

  “Any sacrifice you make on our behalf will be rewarded.”

  “I mean, do you want me to kill him?” “Laveda would prefer him alive. It’s a moot point, however; you probably couldn’t kill him if you tried.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A quiet, rumbling sound entered Dukane’s mind. He realized, vaguely, that the sliding glass door to his balcony was being opened. Suddenly alarmed, he tensed and opened his eyes.

  It was morning. He stared at the nightstand, thought about jerking open the drawer and grabbing his automatic. Then he remembered bringing a woman home last night from the bar at La Dome. Rolling over, he saw that the other side of the king-size bed was empty.

  “Cindy?” he asked.

  “Out here.”

  He crawled across the bed, climbed off, and saw her standing naked on the sunlit balcony. Her back was toward him, her hands on the railing. He stepped out. The sun felt warm on his bare skin. She looked around and smiled. Kissing her cheek, Dukane pressed himself lightly against her back. He slipped his hands up the smoothness of her sides, and held her breasts.

  “It’s a lovely day for a swim,” she said.

  “If you’re planning a dive from here, don’t. I tried it once. Broke my ankle.”

  “Yuck. I guess I won’t.”

  “It’s farther than it looks, and the concrete is very hard.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “When I jumped? Cold sober.”

  She sighed as he fingered her rigid nipples. She squirmed, her buttocks rubbing him. Then she turned around. She leaned back against the railings. “Right here,” she said.

  “A bit awkward.”

  “Consider it a challenge.”

  “I’m always up for a challenge.”

  She gripped the railing with both hands and spread her legs. Dukane clutched her hips. Crouching slightly, he found her wet slit. He thrust upward into her. Her head went back and she moaned.

  When they were done, they left the balcony. Cindy disappeared into the bathroom. Dukane put on his robe, and went downstairs. He started to prepare coffee. As its thin stream trickled into the pot, Cindy entered the kitchen. She was wearing one of his shortsleeved plaid shirts, and nothing else.

  “Okay if I borrow this?” she asked, raising her arms and turning around.

  “Wish it looked that good on me.” As he spoke, he remembered Alice wearing one of his spare shirts before he bought the dress for her. He wondered how Dr. Teri Miles was faring with her. He didn’t envy the woman, spending days alone with the little bitch. Thinking about it, a familiar worry whispered in his mind. He pushed it away. They’re all right, he told himself.

  “What’s your drothers for breakfast?” Cindy asked. “I make a mean Spanish omelet, if you’ve got the makings.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Spanish omelet. Hello? You tuned in?”

  “Yeah. That sounds great. There’re chilis in the refrigerator.”

  “Cheese, eggs?”

  “Them too.Yougo ahead and get started, I’ll bring in the paper.”

  “News paper?” She wrinkled her nose. “How dreary.”

  “I just read the funnies.”

  “Liar liar, pants on fire.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  With a laugh, she pulled open the refrigerator. She bent over, the tail of the shirt riding up. Dukane glimpsed her pale rump, then turned away.

  Outside, he spotted the Times halfway up his long drive way. He crossed the lawn, its grass cool and dewy under his feet. The driveway felt pleasantly warm and dry. He picked up the paper. Heading back to the house, he pulled off its plastic ribbon.

  The bold letters near the bottom corner of the front page made his heart lurch. KABC anchorman and wife slain.

  He stopped in the wet grass:

  KABC news anchorman Ron Donovan and his wife, Ruth, were found brutally murdered last eve ning in their Hollywood Hills home. The bodies…

  He didn’t read more. He ran to the front door, flung the paper down in the foyer, and raced upstairs. In his bedroom, he grabbed his trousers. He tugged his wallet from the rear pocket, flipped it open, and searched the bill compartment. He pinched out a business card: Dr. T. R. Miles, MD. At the telephone beside his bed, he dialed.

  The phone rang fifteen times before he hung up.

  In less than a minute, he was dressed. He rushed downstairs.

  Cindy was on her knees, reaching into a cupboard, when he entered the kitchen. He patted her bare rump. “Come on.”

  “Huh?”

  He held out her pan ties and skirt. “Put’em on, quick. I’ve gotta get somewhere fast.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just hurry.”

  Looking puzzled and worried, she started to get dressed. “Where’re we going?”

  “Venice. I have to check on someone.”

  She zipped the side of her skirt and followed him to the side door. “My shoes.”

  “You can stay in the car.” He rushed into the connecting garage, climbed into his Jaguar, and pressed the remote button to raise the door. Cindy slid onto the passenger seat as he gunned the engine to life.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s up?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, and sped backward up the driveway.

  “That’s a hell of a note.”

  “It’s business. It’s dangerous. You’re better off not knowing.” He glanced back to make sure the road was clear, then swung onto it, hit the brakes, and shifted to first gear.

  “Then why are you taking me with you?”

  “Wouldn’t be safe to leave you behind.”

  “Safe for who?”

  “You.”

  “Oh wonderful.”

  “It’d probably be all right,” he said, “but I don’t want to take the chance, so it’s better if you just stick with me for now.”

  “God, what’ve I got myself into?”

  “Consider it an adventure.”

  “Maybe you could just drop me off at my apartment, huh?”

  “No time.” He sped down the wooded hillside, stopped at Laurel Canyon Boulevard to wait for a break in the traffic, then shot out.

  “Look, I’m really not up for an adventure.”

  “I’m sorry. Believe me, I was looking forward to your Spanish omelet, a day of swimming and lying in the sun, passionate embraces…”

  “Me too, damn it.”

  “Things go wrong.”

  “Yeah. How about letting me out?”

  “Barefoot and purseless?”

  “Just stop down here at Ventura, and I’ll hop out.”

  “That’s a long hike to Hollywood.”

  “I’ve got a girlfriend. She’s only a few blocks away. I’ll be fine, thank you.�
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  Dukane thought it over. He didn’t like the idea of dumping her out, but he saw no point in dragging her to Venice, possibly into danger. Steering with one hand, he slipped the wallet from his pocket. He gave it to her. “Keep that until I get your purse back to you. Collateral.”

  “Oh Matt, that’s not necessary.”

  “There’s some cash in it. Use what ever you like.”

  She laughed. “Are you joking?”

  “Not at all. Pick up a pair of shoes, treat your friend to lunch, what ever. I’ll get your purse and stuff back to you to night. You’ll be home?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “The address on your driver’s license, right?”

  “Yep.”

  The traffic light at the intersection with Ventura Boulevard was red when they reached it. Cindy leaned across the seat, kissed Dukane quickly on the mouth, and sprang from the car.

  It took him three freeways and twenty minutes to reach the Lincoln exit in Santa Monica. The traffic on Lincoln was heavy. He finally reached Rose, turned right, and sped up the street for several blocks. He parked on Rose. He ran to the other side, then walked.

  Approaching Dr. Miles’s house, he saw that the gate of its low picket fence stood open. His stomach knotted.

  Maybe the mailman had left the gate open.

  Wishful thinking.

  They got to Alice’s parents, found out where she was being kept. No telepathy necessary. No magical powers. Just a check of their rec ords, a visit to the girl’s home, an interrogation.

  Shit! He’d known, damn it, that something like this could happen. He should’ve insisted on staying. He’d let the lady talk him out of it, he’d gone against his better judgment, and…

  The front door stood ajar. Grabbing his automatic, Dukane toed it open. The foyer, the hallway, were deserted. The house was silent.

  With his elbow, he eased the door shut. He stepped forward, silent except for the groan of the hardwood floor. At the edge of the living room entry, he stopped. He listened, but heard nothing. Holding his breath, he peered around the corner.

  The naked, headless body of a woman was sprawled on the floor, her flesh carved, a fire poker protruding from between her spread legs.

  Alice smiled at him. “I knew you’d come,” she said. She sat cross-legged near the body, her face and yellow sundress smeared with blood. The head of Teri Miles lay in her lap. She lifted it with both hands. The wire-rimmed glasses were in place, one lens webbed with cracks. The eyes were open, staring. Alice grinned.

  From behind the couch and easy chair, three figures rose into view.

  “These are my friends. I told you they’d find me.”

  “Drop your weapon,” said the man behind the chair. He wore a three-piece suit and a confident smile. In his hand was an automatic, probably.25 caliber, small enough to be concealed easily in a pocket. Too small for much accuracy.

  Neither of the others held a gun.

  The one on the left, a fat bearded man dressed like a biker, climbed over the back of the couch. He stepped down, his belly swinging, and waved a bloody bowie knife in front of his smile.

  The one on the right stepped around an end of the couch. He wore grease-stained coveralls. He held a pipe wrench.

  Dukane took a step into the living room.

  “I told you to…”

  “You drop yours,” he said, raising his.45. “Mine’s bigger.”

  The man’s eyes flicked to the side. Catching the movement, Dukane whirled around, flung up his left arm, and blocked the knife. The woman wielding it hissed and jerked the blade back, tearing open his forearm. Dukane swung his heavy Colt. It slammed across her cheek and she stumbled backward, grabbing her face.

  Dukane started to turn. He heard a quick flat bam like a screen door slamming shut. The bullet punched through his jacket sleeve, but he felt no hit. The clean-cut man tried again as Dukane brought up his automatic and fired. The man’s chin dissolved in a burst of red.

  Even as the gun bucked, the biker chopped down with his knife. He missed Dukane’s wrist, but the powerful blow against the barrel knocked his pistol free. Alice grabbed his ankles. He fell backward as the huge knife slashed at his belly. Hitting the floor, he jerked a foot free. Alice reached for it. His heel smashed her face aside.

  He kicked out at the legs of the biker, but the bulky man lunged forward, kicking back, slashing at his shins.

  The grease monkey, at the biker’s side, hurled the wrench down at Dukane’s head. It almost missed. It numbed his ear and brought tears to his eyes. Dukane grabbed the wrench. He sat up, swinging it to keep away the knife. It clanked against the blade. Before the knife could slash back, he leaned far forward and hammered the man’s knee. With a cry of pain, the biker hobbled and fell.

  The mechanic was bending down, reaching for Dukane’s automatic. Dukane threw the wrench. It bounced off his shoulder, knocking him off balance. As he dropped to one knee, Dukane scrambled toward him. He saw the man pick up the gun, swing its barrel toward him. His fist cut upward. Hit the man’s hand. The barrel jumped with the impact, tipped high and blasted a hole through the mechanic’s upper teeth. The bullet exited the top of his head, splashing gore at the ceiling.

  Dukane jerked the pistol from his dead fingers. He stood as the biker limped toward him, snarling, waving the knife like a pirate’s cutlass.

  He shot the man in the chest.

  The woman who’d caught Dukane’s barrel with her cheek was on her hands and knees, spitting blood and bits of broken teeth. She was wearing a tennis dress. Across the seat of her pan ties was printed “DON’T POACH.”

  Alice lay on the floor, curled up, blood spilling out between the fingers holding her face.

  Dukane went to her.

  He snapped a handcuff around her left wrist and dragged her across the floor. He cuffed her to the tennis player.

  Then he searched for a telephone and called the police.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lacey was awakened by maids giggling and chattering in the hallway. They spoke Spanish, a language she had picked up as a child in Oasis. She grinned as she listened.

  Two of the women had gone on a double-date to the drive-in, last night. Infuriated by their drunken boyfriends, they’d insisted on sitting together. The boyfriends climbed out of the car and went stumbling away, at which point the girls grandly drove off.

  Lacey wondered who owned the car.

  She flung the sheet aside, and groaned as she sat up. All over her body, her muscles ached with stiffness. She felt better than before, though. Waking up in the hotel room yesterday morning, she’d felt like the loser in a scrimmage with the Dallas Cowboys. Today, by comparison, was great.

  Getting off the bed, she hobbled into the bathroom. She studied herself in the full-length mirror. Though her hair was a mess, her face had lost its haggard, haunted look. The bruises mottling her body had turned a sickly, greenish yellow. Hard ridges of scab had formed on her scratches.

  “Won’t be posing for a centerfold,” she muttered. “But not bad.”

  She took a shower in the huge, glass-sided stall, then dried herself and got dressed in the same baggy clothes Alfred had bought on Thursday.

  This was Saturday.

  Escape day. Thursday and Friday, she’d been afraid to leave her room. She’d sat around reading paperbacks from the hotel gift shop, watching television, smoking, indulging herself in incredibly expensive food and wine from room ser vice. After two days of it, she was ready to get out. More than ready.

  She intended to buy several items, but the sun felt wonderful so she left her car in the hotel parking lot and walked. Three blocks away, in a sporting goods store just off Stone, she found most of what she wanted: a web belt to hold up her corduroys, a tank top and gym shorts, a one-piece bathing suit, suntan oil, a pocket knife, and a sheath knife with a sixinch blade. After purchasing the items, she shut herself into a dressing room and changed into the shorts and top.

  She wandere
d the downtown area, enjoying the feel of the sun, pleased but slightly nervous with the stares of passing men.

  Near noon, she entered a hardware store. She bought a spray can of “aluminum”-colored paint. She ate lunch at a McDonald’s, then returned to her hotel.

  She put on the swimsuit. With its high neckline, it concealed the worst of her injuries. Scratches and bruises showed on her thighs, her shoulders, her arms. But that couldn’t be helped. She was determined to use the pool, no matter how she looked. Turning, she studied her back. The suit left it bare almost to the rump. Her back, at least, looked reasonably unmarred.

  She emptied her handbag on the bed, and filled it with what she needed: suntan oil, an Ed McBain paperback, the can of spray paint and her sheath knife. With a bath towel draping her shoulders, she left the room.

  The pool, in the hotel’s center courtyard, was nearly deserted: a young man was swimming lengths in a steady crawl; a deeply tanned woman lay facedown on a lounge with the top of her black bikini untied; and a middle-aged couple sat beneath an umbrella, sipping Bloody Marys. Lacey spread her towel on a lounge far from the others, and sat down.

  She slicked herself with coconut oil, breathing deeply of its aroma, a rich sweet fragrance that reminded her of other, better times.

  Of Will Rogers State Park, near Pacific Palisades where she stayed with Tom and his family that week in spring, six years ago. Her se nior year at Stanford. They spent every day at the beach, swimming far out, body surfing, walking the shoreline, or just stretching out on their towels. Tom would trickle coconut oil onto her back. His hands would glide over her, sometimes slipping down between her legs.

  Brian used to do that, too, but she never loved Brian. Never loved anyone after Tom. But Brian came along at a time when she needed a man, and she’d never had such sex; Brian cared about nothing else.

  Lying back, Lacey sighed and remembered those times by his pool when she lay on her back with her eyes shut and the sun on her naked body—the sun, the oil, and Brian’s sliding, searching hands.

  Now, she wondered if she could ever allow another man to have her. She knew her desire was strong: it always had been. But could she let herself be touched without recoiling, entered without shuddering in revulsion?