Death Benefits_ A Novel Part 8

Stillman held out a handful of hundred-dollar bills. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the money, folded the bills without counting them, then lifted her long sweater so she could stuff them into the pocket of her jeans. "Oh, Max. You shouldn't have."

"Good night, Serena," said Stillman. "Always nice to see you."

She opened the door. "Likewise, Max. Never darken my door again." Stillman stepped out into the night. Walker tried to follow, but the girl moved in front of him, stood on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. Then she pushed him toward the door. "Now go out and play with Max. Shoo!"

Walker found himself on the darkened porch. He couldn't see Stillman, but he heard the voice. "She likes you."

"Serena?" He stepped uneasily off the porch, relieved when his foot touched a surface that felt like a stepping-stone.

"Yep, G.o.d help you." Stillman walked toward the street. "And whatever her name is, it's not Serena. That's just a six-letter computer pa.s.sword."

10.

As they moved to the end of the dark street and came around the corner toward the high school, the silhouettes of three men materialized out of the shadows. Walker's muscles tensed, his mind first identifying them as the nameless, dangerous people he had been half-expecting to meet at Gochay's, then transforming them into the two men who had appeared the same way in the alley last night. But they weren't even looking in his direction. He reminded himself that he was near a high school. They were probably just boys hanging around after practice, the way he had at that age. They stepped apart to the edges of the sidewalk, so that Walker and Stillman could only pa.s.s between them. Stillman's pace never slowed. "Evening," he said. Walker had no choice but to fall a step behind, since there wasn't room to pa.s.s except single file.

There was no answer. As Stillman came abreast of the men, Walker could see their shapes were bigger, wider than high school boys. He detected a sudden movement in the dim light. The man nearest to Stillman brought his hand up, but Stillman was in motion too. His left hand batted the arm down, and held it while he spun the man around and brought his right elbow into the man's throat. The man instinctively backed up as fast as he could, trying to avoid the crus.h.i.+ng force on his throat, until his head bounced against the face of the man in the middle with a hollow bone-sound.

Walker ducked low and hurled himself into the thickest shadows, where the two men's bodies seemed to overlap. He knew his shoulder hit someone's midsection when he felt the belly give inward and he heard a huff that came from somewhere above. He stayed low and punched wildly, his fists hammering at the two men as quickly as his arms would move. He leaned into them and kept advancing with his knees high, digging hard like a football lineman to keep the two men off balance.

His head rang and stung with glancing blows, and he endured two heavy hammer-thumps on his back. He kept moving, but suddenly ducked his left shoulder and swung his right arm higher toward the faces. In the darkness, the sudden hook upward caught someone by surprise and landed between an eye and nose.

There was a cry, and the resistance gave way abruptly. As he lunged forward into empty air, one of them landed a kick on the right side of his stomach. The sudden impact made his lungs refuse to breathe, and that induced a panic in him. He felt like a man in deep water struggling toward the surface. His legs pumped harder to get clear, and as they did, he realized his foot was pus.h.i.+ng off the torso of a man who was down.

He felt his foot tangle in the arm of the fallen man, and then he knew the pavement was coming. His arms instantly pushed out in front of him in a reflex to break the fall, but they skidded on concrete and the burning sensation shot up to his elbows. He rolled and kicked out, and heard a wet thwock thwock sound that told him his heel had made contact with an open mouth. He scrambled to his feet and felt a strong pressure around his shoulders that pulled him forward. The voice of Stillman was close to his ear: sound that told him his heel had made contact with an open mouth. He scrambled to his feet and felt a strong pressure around his shoulders that pulled him forward. The voice of Stillman was close to his ear: "Run." "Run."

He dug in and ran a few steps with Stillman before he heard the noise. It was not as loud as it should have been, just a pop like a firecracker. His lungs expanded with alarm and sucked in a breath over the hurt, overruling whatever cramp it was that had squeezed his chest for the past fifteen seconds. He was running harder now, das.h.i.+ng along the street with each leg straining to put another footstep between him and a gun. He was aware of the quick, rhythmic tapping of Stillman's shoes on the pavement to his right. He heard pop-pop-pop pop-pop-pop and spun his head to look, but Stillman was still up, and Walker's awkward movement had given Stillman a chance to get a step ahead. and spun his head to look, but Stillman was still up, and Walker's awkward movement had given Stillman a chance to get a step ahead.

According to some rule that was too basic to put into words, that meant Walker was free to run as fast as he pleased. He stretched his legs, pumped his arms, and dashed onto the broad asphalt surface. He veered away from Stillman to keep from b.u.mping him, and the next shot hit the pavement between them, splas.h.i.+ng bright sparks and bits of powdered asphalt ahead like skipped stones.

Walker weaved in and out of the tall poles that held basketball backboards, then realized that would make his next move predictable. He let his next sidestep take him off at an angle away from the poles. He heard a bullet ring a pole and ricochet into the darkness, then determined to stop trying to be clever.

He heard Stillman's voice. "Something's wrong," he rasped.

"No s.h.i.+t," said Walker, annoyed.

"They're not running after us."

"Good!"

They reached the end of the pavement and Walker felt faster running across the gra.s.s, but the light from the street lamps seemed inordinately bright. He ran still harder, but in a minute he began to slow down to keep from jarring his feet on the sidewalk. He heard Stillman behind him, and then the heavy footsteps slowed too. "The car," Stillman gasped, winded.

Walker stopped. It was true. He had been running away from the gun, not running toward anything. But they had reached the street where Stillman had parked the car, and he should have been able to see it, but he didn't. He looked around to check his bearings. It should have been right across the street. He looked at Stillman and said uselessly, "It's gone."

Walker tried to sort out the possible implications. Stillman had parked in a place where cars got stolen, Stillman had left the keys in it, Stillman had made some other reckless mistake. His eyes settled on the end of the road. There was a major thoroughfare up there. Headlights were pa.s.sing by-one, then two in opposite directions, then a big truck-as though nothing were happening down this quiet side street, and Walker wasn't about to die. He started toward the lights.

"Wait!" said Stillman. "Don't go that way."

Walker looked back. "Why not?"

"I think that's why the car's gone. They want us on the street." He crossed the road and started up the front lawn of the nearest house. When he reached the front steps he turned to beckon to Walker.

Walker lowered his eyes to take the first step, and his shoe seemed to glow. He lifted his foot, and it threw a dark, clear shadow on the whitening sidewalk. Then he heard the engine. The trajectory of the car was wrong. The lights were supposed to be illuminating the road, with a slight bias to the right side, not s.h.i.+ning up here on the sidewalk. Walker's hands and then his s.h.i.+rt brightened, and then the lights were in his eyes. The car was coming toward him.

He began to back up onto the school lawn, shading his eyes to make out the shape of the car. As soon as he was out of the glow of the headlights, he could see the side of the car. A window slid down. There was a head in the window, and beside it a gun barrel. As the barrel came out the window and began to level on him, he turned and ran hard. He heard the engine coast, then heard brakes, and he dived to the gra.s.s, waiting for the report of the rifle.

The sound was not the one he expected: a loud impact and then gla.s.s shattering and tinkling onto the street. He raised his head a little.

Stillman was at the corner of the house. He hurled a second big stone from the rock garden at the car, pivoted, and ran before it smashed into the side window. He disappeared between two houses. The car wheeled around and rocked to a stop, the headlights aimed in the direction where Stillman had gone. Walker could see that the winds.h.i.+eld was cratered from Stillman's first rock, the center milky and opaque, with spiderweb cracks extending to the roof and side struts. Stillman was gone, and a couple of lights went on in houses up the block.

The car turned again and the headlights swept across Walker, then disappeared as the car sped off up the street. Walker stood and began to trot toward the place where he had last seen Stillman. By the time Walker reached the sidewalk, Stillman had emerged again a hundred feet up the street, walking toward the lighted thoroughfare. Walker ran until he caught up.

Stillman said, "Time to get a roof over our heads." They walked on for a time, and he began again. "I think it's also time for you to be getting back to San Francisco. Glad you put it off until now, though. Otherwise, I'd be lying back there while those three guys went through my pockets."

"Just a common courtesy," said Walker. "As if I had a choice."

"It's not a common courtesy," Stillman said. "Not common at all." He walked on a few steps. "The human instinct if you're not brain-dead is to turn your back and run. Nine people out of ten are brain-dead, so what they do is stand there wringing their hands, not knowing whether to s.h.i.+t or go blind. They don't run, they don't fight, they just watch. I'll be sorry to see you go."

"Save it," said Walker. "I'm not leaving yet."

"I think you ought to give it some time, and tell me in the morning. Our little inquiry hasn't gone the way I predicted."

"It's rea.s.suring to know that you weren't planning to get beat up every time you went outside."

Stillman's eye moved to the corner toward Walker for a moment, then stared ahead. "Yeah. I thought the case was going to be about the details of the insurance business, but it kind of moved beyond that."

Walker kept striding along beside Stillman. His heartbeat was beginning to slow, but he kept turning his head to look behind them, then to the sides, then ahead. The fear and anger and excitement had subsided a bit now, leaving him with nerves seared and tender, muscles strained by the sudden exertion. He began to notice the dull throb of injuries left by punches he had noticed at the time only as bright, momentary explosions of pain that he had somehow trans.m.u.ted into rage. As he walked, he decided it was as though his body had been temporarily occupied by a deranged, destructive tenant who had abruptly departed, leaving it sc.r.a.ped, battered, and strained. The most remarkable sensation was exhaustion. When he lifted his right hand to investigate a tender swelling above his eyebrow, the weight of his arm surprised him.

Stillman was watching. "You've been in a few fights, haven't you?"

Walker was nettled. "Not like that. Not until I met you."

"Then it's good that we got into a fight in the dark, with that kind of guy. I figured you'd be okay."

Walker was amazed. "You did?"

"Sure. The way they were standing on the sidewalk waiting for us, trying to look big and hairy, I wasn't worried."

"What does it take to make you worry?"

Stillman pondered the question for a few paces, then stopped. "You know a fight is about to start, and then you notice that one guy is standing like this." Stillman faced Walker with his knees very slightly bent and his arms out from his sides in what looked like a welcoming gesture, with the hands open. Stillman straightened and walked on. "If you see one of those, drop everything and run."

"What the h.e.l.l would that tell you?"

"He's a ninja."

"Like in the movies? You're kidding."

"No, not like in the movies," said Stillman. "Not one tiny bit. Ninjutsu has made a comeback, sort of like karate. Only what this guy has been training himself to do isn't just to block your punch and put you on the ground. He doesn't think fighting is fun. He's not in a sport, he wants to kill you quick. If you're going to stay in California, you're going to see a lot of strange stuff. Those guys tonight were within our capability."

"They had guns."

"One of them did. Even he didn't start out to shoot us. He just realized they'd been overconfident, and tried to make up for it. I was watching for it. A guy who uses his right hand to reach behind his belt in the middle of a fight probably isn't tucking his s.h.i.+rttail in. The only things he could want back there are a knife that's too big to fit in a pocket, or a gun." He looked at Walker. "That's something else to remember."

Walker said, "I think maybe I'll just stay out of fights."

"The best way is to keep away from people who get you into fights," said Stillman. He led the way and got them both inside a doughnut shop just as the first three police cars sped past on their way to the scene of the shooting. Walker turned to stare out the big window at the fast-moving metal and flas.h.i.+ng lights. A second later, Stillman's reflection in the window caught Walker's eye. Stillman tugged his sleeve back to see his watch, nodded noncommittally, then stepped forward to survey the gla.s.s case where pastries were arrayed seductively in ranks.

Walker whispered, "How'd they do?"

"Just fair. About six minutes." Stillman turned to the young Hispanic boy behind the counter. "Evening, barkeep. Two cups of coffee, two of these cream-filled beauties with the chocolate on top, two glazed, and two of this crumb kind."

"Old-fas.h.i.+oned," the boy corrected him.

"I admit it," Stillman said, "but give me the doughnuts anyway."

"The doughnuts. That's what they're called."

Stillman accepted the bag of doughnuts. As the boy handed him his change, Stillman handed the coins to Walker. "Here. Call us a cab while I escort these fellows to a table."

"Where should I say we're going?"

"Burbank airport. We'll rent a car there." He paused. "Maybe you could buy a plane ticket."

Walker made the call, then sat down at a tiny table across from Stillman. There were three doughnuts sitting on a napkin in front of him. "Go ahead," said Stillman. "They're very soothing, which is why the Red Cross is always forcing them on people. Nothing burns energy faster than disaster ...except s.e.x, of course. And whatever deity was in charge of printing up our agenda tonight seems to have slipped up and left that one out."

Walker took a bite of the big cream-filled doughnut with gooey chocolate on top. It was strange, but he reluctantly and silently acknowledged that it tasted better than anything he had ever eaten. He was overcome with the need to eat all of it. Then he picked up the next one.

Stillman said, "We'll have to get another half dozen to take with us before the cab gets here. I don't want to have to go out in the middle of the night for more. The streets around here don't seem to be safe."

11.

Stillman drove the new rental car past the hotel, then around the block, looking intently at the windows, the parking lot, the doors of the lobby. Then he drove into the parking lot and up a couple of rows before he parked.

Walker asked, "Is there something else I should be expecting?"

"Not at all," Stillman a.s.sured him. "But it's always important to have good health habits when you travel." He got out of the car, ceremoniously locked it, and walked into the lobby. He stopped at the little shop and began to scrutinize the shelves. "You don't have to wait for me."

Walker held up the bag. "I've got your doughnuts."

"I'll catch up with you."

Walker went upstairs to his room. He unlocked the door with vague trepidation, then stepped away from it and listened, prepared to sprint back down the hall if he heard a noise. There was silence. He pushed open the door, leaned in to fumble with the light switch, then stepped back again. The door swung shut, but before it did, he had a glimpse of the room that included no intruders. He unlocked the door again, slipped inside, and let it close behind him.

Everything was in its place, the bed was made, and he was alone in the quiet and order. He walked to the folding stand and opened the lid of the suitcase Stillman had bought him. The new clothes were undisturbed, the coats folded, the s.h.i.+rts in their packages, the creases in the pants still in straight lines. He took off the coat and tie he had been wearing and examined them. The coat needed dry-cleaning, but he detected no tears. He looked down. His pants had dirt on the right knee, but nothing that appeared fatal. He was tired of having nothing but clothes he couldn't afford. They had been bought as a disguise, but they had settled into his mind as a fiduciary responsibility.

He moved to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His face was smudged and sweaty, and there were a couple of angry red sc.r.a.pes-one above the right eye and another on the left cheek. He touched the side of his head and involuntarily sucked in a breath: the pain was insistent now. There was a hard lump, and the hair was stiff from blood that had dried there. He touched two other places above the hairline, and the nerves there sent dispatches of alarm.

There was a knock on the door. He stepped close to it and said, "Who is it?" then slipped to the side, not knowing whether he was getting out of the way in case the door flew off its hinges or because he feared bullet holes would appear simultaneously in the door and his chest.

"It's me," said Stillman's voice.

Walker opened the door and let Stillman push inside and close it. Stillman fixed the chain and turned the deadbolt, then noticed Walker's expression. "Always lock everything that locks," he said. "It doesn't cost a cent."

"The doughnuts are on the bed," said Walker.

Stillman said, "I just called the airport for you. There was some fog earlier, so the flights were delayed and they're still catching up. I got you on the United shuttle for tomorrow at eight."

It took an effort for Walker to force out the words. "Thanks, but I told you I'd like to keep at this until we find Ellen." He was tired and dirty, and he didn't want to argue. He didn't want to be here, and fighting for the privilege was more than he was willing to do.

Stillman was putting things in Walker's bathroom. "Well, sleep on it. Here's some antiseptic and stuff," he said. "Don't let any sc.r.a.pes get infected, especially the ones you got on somebody's teeth. I know a guy who did that one time, and his finger swelled until it was as big as his d.i.c.k-or at least that's what he said. I didn't compare." He picked up the bag of doughnuts and placed two of them on a napkin atop the little refrigerator beside the television set. "Here's your share of the doughnuts. You want something to drink with that?" He opened the refrigerator. "There are lots of little liquor bottles left by the pygmies."

Stillman poured a tiny bottle of scotch into a gla.s.s and took a sip, then winced. "We made some progress in a day and a half."

"We got beat up twice."

"Beat up? h.e.l.l, this isn't beat up. There hasn't been a winner of a t.i.tle fight that looked better than us since the young Muhammad Ali-and he looked better to start with. I'm talking winners now. The losers, they looked-well, like losers."

Walker nodded. "Good thing for us the j.a.panese a.s.sa.s.sins didn't show up."

"Probably couldn't get a flight into L.A., what with the fog and all," said Stillman, staring interestedly at his drink. He brought it to his lips, took a big gulp, and squinted. "Have you noticed we're getting contradictory signals?"

"I'm not getting any signals."

"Tonight was the second time we had guys trying to get whatever pieces of paper we had. I guess they want to know what we know. But tonight they seemed to think the second choice was to kill us."

"If that's a signal, I got that."

"Well, it doesn't go with this." He pulled some folded pieces of paper out of his coat pocket. As he unfolded them Walker recognized them as the ones Constantine Gochay had given him. "See, Constantine traced Ellen Snyder for us. She made five blips on his screen since she disappeared. She was here in Los Angeles for a night or two, at the Holiday Inn near the airport. That was two weeks ago. She used the name Jo Anne Steele."

Walker's brows knitted. "How does Gochay know she was Ellen Snyder?"

"It's the name of a woman who's a customer of the Pasadena office of McClaren Life and Casualty. All of Jo Anne Steele's personal information was in the office files. Somebody used it to apply for credit cards and licenses. They're great for ID, and if you don't actually use them to pay, you're in the clear. She-somebody-used them to register, then paid in cash so there would be no credit card record. Very sensible."

"How did Gochay know that?" Walker persisted. "Any of it? If she didn't pay with the card to avoid a record, why is there a record?"

Stillman took another sip of his drink. "He didn't pick up anything interesting by checking credit reports, so he broke into some hotel reservation systems and started to pick things up."