Beware. Part 13

Lacey lay facedown on the living room floor, her shorts around her knees, Scott patting her cut b.u.t.tock with a cool, damp washcloth. "Not much bleeding," he said. "You don't have bandages or anything, do you?"

"Afraid not."

"Have any sanitary napkins?"

She felt heat flood her face, and wondered if the blush extended to her rump. "Not with me."

"Well, it's not much more than a scratch, but..."

"Oh, I think there is a pad in the medicine cabinet. The hotel variety. Right behind some kind of shower cap and shoes.h.i.+ne rag."

"Advantages of a first-rate hotel," Scott said, and left her. He returned, seconds later, tearing open the white wrapper. He knelt down, and pressed the soft pad against her wound. "The tape's on the wrong side," he muttered.

"Supposed to be. My underwear'll hold it in place."

"Oh." He went for her pan ties, and hurried back.

"Thanks," Lacey said. "I can take care of the rest."

While she pulled on her pan ties and shorts, Scott went into the hallway. He came back with a blanket.

He used it to cover the body of Carl Williams. Dots of blood darkened the fuzzy pink blanket, bloomed, and grew together. Lacey turned away.

She got to her feet. Wandering to a far corner of the room, she picked up the can of spray paint. She sat gently on the couch, clutching the can with both hands.

Scott sat beside her. "I screwed up," he said. "I'm sorry. I thought everything was okay until you yelled. Then I couldn't find a target." Shaking his head, he sighed. "Christ, what a screwup. I'm sorry about your friend. If I'd just been..."

"Don't blame yourself. n.o.body could've stopped it, at that point."

"Charlie Dane could've," he mumbled.

"Charlie would've shot the b.a.s.t.a.r.d when he had the chance," Lacey said.

"Yeah."

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's out there, now. He's had time to get the blood off."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you shoot him?"

For a long time, Scott stared at the coffee table.

"Scott?"

"I thought we had him. I figured we'd tie him up. I've got a ca.s.sette recorder in my room. I thought...well, I'd get his story. You know, before calling in the cops. Interview him, find out how he got that way, what he's been doing, if there are others like him."

"Others?"

"If one man can be made invisible, why not more? Christ, can you imagine an army of them? Think what they could do. They could turn the world upside down."

"I suppose so," Lacey said. "But there's only one here, and he's probably figuring a way, right now, to get at us. You aren't going to have much luck writing a book about him if we're both killed, so next time...My G.o.d!" Jumping to her feet, she rushed to the desk and grabbed a straightbacked chair.

"What?"

She ran to the door with it, tipped it backward and braced it under the k.n.o.b. "Maybe that..." she muttered. She turned to Scott. "A pa.s.skey. He could get one so easily."

Scott sighed. "d.a.m.n, I should've thought of that. Afraid I'm not helping much." He looked at her with despair. "Sorry. I'm really not good enough for this kind of thing. Living it isn't quite the same as writing it." He propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face.

Lacey went to him. Crouching, she placed a hand on his back. "Hey, it's all right. Don't feel bad. If you hadn't been here, he would've had me."

Scott raised his head and looked at her. "Thanks."

"It's the truth. You saved my life."

He smiled slightly. "You're right."

"Of course I am."

"But I'm right, too," he said. His face changed, turning hard and determined. "This is out of my league. I'm not going to let my inexperience jeopardize you any longer." He touched her cheek, stood up, and walked toward the desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling in reinforcements," he said, and picked up the telephone. He set his automatic on the desk, then dialed with quick, sure strokes of his forefinger. Eleven numbers.

Long distance?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

The bedside telephone woke Dukane, and he saw a naked woman bending over him in the darkness. Her head jerked toward the phone. In the moments between the clamors of the first and second rings, Dukane realized that the woman-a stranger before he brought her home tonight-had been interrupted in the process of tying his left wrist to the headboard.

He yanked both arms. The headboard shook and a cord bit into his right wrist, but his left pulled free.

The woman grabbed it, tried to force it down.

"Thanks," Dukane said, "but I'm not into bondage."

He twisted his arm out of her grip. As the woman reached for it again, he clutched her neck and thrust her forward, ramming her head against the oak of his headboard. She slumped. He shoved her off the bed, rolled to his right, and picked up the phone.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Dukane? It's Scott. I'm in deep trouble, pal."

"What's the problem?"

"There's a killer after me. An invisible killer."

"Invisible?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but believe me, it's true. He just murdered a guy here in the room."

"Okay. Where are you?"

"The Desert Wind hotel in Tucson. Room three sixtytwo."

"Where's this killer?"

"Probably right outside the door."

"Okay. Hang tough, kid, I'm on my way. It'll take me about four hours, though. Maybe less, but don't count on it."

"Hurry."

"Right." Dukane hung up. He slid open a drawer of the nightstand, took out a switchblade knife, and severed the cord binding his right hand to the headboard. Then he turned on a light. He climbed across the bed and knelt over the unconscious woman.

She lay on her back, breathing deeply as if asleep, her arms and legs outflung. A beautiful, slim, smallbreasted blonde. Just his type. To o much his type, perhaps. But he'd known a lot of women over the years, and only a handful had turned out to be plants. He should've been a lot more careful, after Friday's disaster. He should've expected something like this.

Confidence kills.

She began to stir, her eyelids squeezing tight with a stab of pain, a hand rising to her head. She pursed her lips and said, "Oooh." Then her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed at Dukane with confusion for a moment before her memory apparently returned and she bolted upright.

Dukane clutched her throat and slammed her down. "Who sent you?"

She sneered. "No one."

"I don't have time for games." He jabbed his knife down. Her body jerked as if jolted by a cattle prod, mouth springing open to scream. He stopped the point of his knife above her bulging right eye. An eighth of an inch above it. She blinked, her lashes flicking over the steel tip. "Who sent you?"

She said nothing. Slowly, the panic left her face. Her body relaxed. Even the straining tendons and muscles of her neck went slack under Dukane's hand. She smirked up at him. "Do as you like," she said. "Cut out my eye, if that's what pleases you. Take what ever you wish. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s?" Her hands moved, stroking them. The dark nipples stood rigid. "I am all powerful," she whispered. "I am immortal."

"Have you drunk at the river?" Dukane asked.

"Oh yes, oh yes."

He eased the blade away from her eye.

"Immortal," she said. "All powerful."

He removed his right hand from her throat. "Okay, get up." As he inched the knife away, her fingers caught his wrist. Dukane tensed, expecting an upward thrust. But she tugged down. He wasn't ready for that. The blade punched into the pale flesh between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Dukane s.n.a.t.c.hed it free.

The woman bucked, clutched the wound, and sat up with a look of sudden terror on her face.

Blood spilled out between her fingers. She glanced at it, then gazed at Dukane with eyes like a hurt child.

"s.h.i.+t," Dukane muttered, suddenly feeling sorry for her. "Don't worry, you missed your heart. I'll call an ambulance." He rushed around the end of the bed. "Press down hard on the wound." He picked up the phone.

As he started to dial, the woman grabbed the bed and pushed herself to her feet.

"Lie down, d.a.m.n it!"

She suddenly ran.

"Hey!" Dukane dropped the phone and scrambled over the bed, hoping to stop her before she reached the sliding door to the balcony.

She was too quick.

Her forehead rammed the door. The plate gla.s.s burst. She lunged through a spray of tumbling shards that slashed her bare skin, and disappeared onto the balcony. Dukane rushed after her. As he ducked through the smashed door, she threw herself headfirst over the railing. Dukane lunged, reached for her foot, and touched its heel with his forefinger. Then all he could do was watch.

She kicked and twisted for a second that seemed like minutes even to Dukane, then threw out her arms to break her fall. The concrete slab of the pool's ap.r.o.n smashed her arms out of the way, and she hit it with her face.

Dukane looked down at her body, and sighed. He knew he shouldn't feel sorry for her; she'd probably planned to kill him to night. But Christ, the waste...a beautiful girl...Why the h.e.l.l did she ever get mixed up in such...

He clutched the railing, frozen by a sudden chill as a huge, black-robed man darted from behind bushes beside the pool. The man crouched at the broken body, flung it over his shoulder, and lumbered away.

Dukane pried his fingers off the railing. His skin was crawly with goose b.u.mps. He stared down at the dark figure and knew he should give chase, but he couldn't move.

Besides, he told himself, Scott has priority. He watched, rubbing his p.r.i.c.kly arms and thighs, thinking it strange that he should be so spooked. Whoever the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was, Dukane could probably nail him in unarmed combat, even with one hand tied behind his back. Probably. The thought didn't give him much comfort.

He picked bits of gla.s.s out of his feet, then hobbled down the long balcony to its guest room entrance. He slid open the door and stared at the pale carpet.

"s.h.i.+t," he muttered.

One ruined carpet was enough for one night.

On hands and knees, keeping his feet elevated, he crawled across the carpet. In the guest bathroom, he found iodine, adhesive tape, and gauze. He quickly bandaged his feet.

Ignoring the slight pain, he rushed back to his bedroom. He glanced at the clock. Less than five minutes had pa.s.sed since Scott's call.