Beware (3 page)

Lacey climbed onto a bar stool. She tapped a cigarette out of its pack, and pressed it between her lips.

George O’Toole swiveled toward her. His ruddy, broad face crinkled with a smile, and he struck a match.

“Thank you.”

“And what’ll it be you’re drinking to night?” he asked, with a lilt Lacey assumed he had picked up from Barry Fitzgerald movies.

“A little red wine.”

“A dainty drink for a dainty lady,” he said. He raised a thick, weathered hand and caught the bartender’s eye.

The bartender was Will Glencoe.

“A spot of red for the lady, Will. And another Guinness for himself.” The bartender turned away. “You did Red a fine turn, writing up your story the way you did. He was almighty ashamed of the way he carried on about Rusty. I can understand a grown man weeping over the loss of a good dog—done it myself more than once. But it’s a private thing, and a man doesn’t want it blatted about. You did him a fine turn.”

“He’s right, there,” said Will, setting down the drinks. “Take your average reporter, he’d have a field day. Bunch of blood suckers, that’s what they are.”

“But not our Lacey. You did yourself proud, young lady.”

She reached into her purse.

“You put that away.”

“Thank you, George.”

He paid, and Will stepped away to take an order down the bar.

“Where
is
Red to night?” Lacey asked.

George narrowed one eye. “Now where would
you
be, if a heartless soandso had done your dog that way?”

“Elsie’s?”

He turned his wrist over, and peered at his watch. “She’ll be closing up in ten minutes. Red’s there with his twelve gauge. He’ll be camping there to night, hoping the filthy beggar shows up again. I offered my services—two guns are twice one—but he’s after doing it alone, and I can’t say I blame the man.” George lifted his stein. “ To your health,” he toasted.

“And yours, George.”

He winked at her, and drank.

Lacey sipped her wine. “What’s Red planning to do, shoot the man?”

“The beggar cut down his dog, Lacey.”

“I know, I saw it.”

“And was it as bad as they say?”

“My God, George. I’ve never seen anything like…” She gagged. Tears filled her eyes.

“Now, now.” George patted her shoulder.

She wiped the tears away, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” She managed a smile. “I don’t normally go around gagging in public. Just thinking about that…” She did it again.

“Careful there. Say now, do you know how to tell the groom at a Kerryman’s wedding?”

She shook her head.

“He’s the one in the pinstriped Wellingtons.”

She wiped her eyes, and sighed.

“Feeling better, now? Have another wine, and we’ll talk of other things. I’ve a raft of Kerryman jokes. They’re sure to gladden your heart.”

“Thanks, George. I really should be going, though.”

Outside in the warm night air, she felt better. She climbed into her car and rolled down the window. Her hand paused on the ignition. She wanted to go home, take a long bath, and get to bed. But she couldn’t. Maybe it was none of her business. Knowing Red’s plan, though, she wouldn’t feel right if she didn’t at least talk to him, warn him of the possible consequences.

You don’t blow a man apart with a shotgun because he killed your dog. Not unless you want a prison stretch. Even shooting an intruder, unless the man is armed, could mean more trouble than Red probably bargained for.

She started her car and drove the three blocks to Hoffman’s Market. Its sign was brightly lighted;
it hadn’t closed yet. She pulled into the parking lot, and stopped beside Red’s pickup truck. In the past, she’d rarely seen the pickup without Rusty pacing its bed, tail wagging, fur ruffled by the wind. She used to fear for the dog’s safety. Suppose it leapt over the low panel as the truck sped along? Once, she’d voiced her fear to Red. “Would
you
jump off a moving truck?” he’d asked. “No, but I’m not a dog.” Red grinned at that. “You can say that again.”

Lacey ran her hand along the tailgate and looked into the empty truck bed, then hurried away.

The door of the market wasn’t locked. She pushed it open, and stepped inside. Nobody at the counter.

“Hello,” she called.

Swinging the door shut, she glanced at the pale gash left by the meat cleaver.

“Elsie? Red?”

She looked down a bright aisle. At the far end, just in front of the meat counter, a shotgun lay on the floor. An icy chill washed over Lacey, raising goose bumps. Even the skin of her forehead felt stiff and prickly. She rubbed it as she walked between the grocery shelves, eyes fixed on the shotgun.

The air, she noticed, had the faint but pungent odor she knew from shooting skeet with her father.

Only when she was standing over the shotgun did she lift her gaze to the meat counter and see Elsie’s head wrapped in cellophane.

Lacey’s mouth jerked open. Her scream came out voiceless, a quiet explosion of breath.

She dropped to a crouch, grabbed the shotgun,
and pivoted. Nobody coming up behind her. She worked the pump action. It made a loud metallic
snicksnack
, and a blue shell tumbled to the floor.

Keeping her eyes averted from Elsie, she walked along the meat counter. Just ahead, a display of Diet Rite had been blasted apart. Cans lay in all directions, half of them pierced by shot. The floor was slippery with a thin layer of cola.

Beyond the display, barely hidden by the shelves of the next aisle, she found Red. He lay on his back, alive, reaching across his chest, trying to fit his severed left arm into place.

“Oh boy,” he whispered. “Oh boy.”

“Red?”

He glanced up at Lacey, then looked back at his arm. “Oh boy,” he mumbled.

“I’ll get help,” she said. Keeping the shotgun ready, she ran for the front. Elsie, she knew, kept a phone on a shelf behind the cash register. Should she go for that, or…

She was tackled from behind. She hit the floor flat-out and hard. The wind burst from her lungs. She tried to push herself up, but a weight on her rump and legs held her down. Her collar jerked back, choking her. Then something struck the side of her head.

She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. On either side were shelves of groceries: cans of soup and chili on the left, cookies and crackers on the right.

Even without moving, she knew what had been done to her. She could feel the gritty, cool wood
under her bare skin. She could feel hot areas where her skin had been mauled. Her nipples burned and itched. So did her vagina. She felt stretched and battered inside. Her eyes filled with tears.

Raising her head, she looked down at herself. Her breasts were red as if they had been wrung. She saw teethmarks on both nipples. Fingernail scratches trailed down her belly. Propping herself up with stiff arms, she felt a slow trickle inside her.

At the end of the aisle lay Red. His severed arm lay across his chest. He was motionless.

With tissues from her handbag, she cleaned herself. She wasn’t afraid. She felt dirty and sick and ashamed. When she used her last tissue, she picked all of them up off the floor and stuffed them into her bag.

She started to dress, watching the door, worried that someone might enter before she could finish. Her pan ties were torn apart; she put them in her bag. Both straps of her bra were broken, the catches in back ripped loose. She pushed it into her bag, and stepped into her jeans. She struggled to pull them up. They encased her, snug and protective. She wished her blouse were as sturdy and tight as her jeans, but she felt bare even after putting it on.

The walk to the checkout counter seemed to take a long time. She moved slowly, carefully, feeling that the slightest jostle might shake something loose inside her body.

Finally, she reached the counter. She picked up the phone.

“Okay, Lacey. If you remember anything else, though, give me a call.”

“I will.”

Rex Barrett drew a thumb along the handlebar moustache that he’d raised since becoming chief of the Oasis Police Department. To Lacey, it made the lean lawman look like a twin of Wyatt Earp. She often suspected that he’d grown it for that reason.

“You’ll be writing this up for the
Trib
?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’d appreciate your not mentioning specifics about the way he did Elsie.”

“Fine,” she said, leaning back against the counter. There were other specifics she planned not to mention.

“Now, if I were you, I’d drag my doctor out of bed for a quick onceover. You took some good knocks to night and you just never know, with a head injury.”

“I’ll do that,” she lied.

“I would, if I were you.”

“Is it all right if…?” Two men wheeled a stretcher down the aisle. One hurried ahead to open
the door. She looked at the body bag. The contours of the black plastic resembled a human. Had they pieced Elsie back together?

Shutting her eyes, she tried to think about something else. Her shoulder was touched. She flinched and snapped open her eyes.

“It’s okay,” Barrett said. He squeezed her shoulder.

“Sure.”

“You go on, now. See your doctor. Get a good night’s sleep.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Outside, she saw the stretcher being slid into the rear of the coroner’s van. She hurried past Red’s pickup, and opened her car door. The ceiling light came on. As she started to climb in, goose bumps prickled her skin.

She snapped her head sideways. Nobody in the backseat.

But she couldn’t see the rear floor.

Silly, she thought. Like a kid checking under the bed.

Silly or not, she had to make sure nobody was hunched out of sight behind the front seats. Planting a knee on the cushion, she grabbed the headrest and eased herself forward. Her breast hurt as it pushed against the vinyl upholstery. She peered over the top of the seat. Nobody down there.

Of course not.

But she’d had to make sure.

She twisted around, sat down, and pulled her door shut. She locked it. With a glance to the right, she saw that the passenger door wasn’t locked. Stretching
across the seat, she jabbed the button down with her forefinger. She checked the rear doors. Their lock buttons looked low and snug.

She sighed. With a slick, sweaty hand, she rubbed the back of her neck. Then she pushed the key into the ignition, and started the car.

A cigarette. She wanted a cigarette. A little treat for herself, an indulgence, a comfort that didn’t have to wait till she reached her home on the outskirts of town. The drink and the bath had to wait: not the cigarette.

She opened her handbag. With a glance around the parking lot to be sure no one would see, she pulled out her ruined bra and pan ties. She tossed them onto the passenger seat. Then she reached into the bag, looking down into its darkness, hoping to find her pack of Tareytons without touching the sodden wads of tissue. Her body jerked as she fingered a cool, slippery ball and gagged. The pack of cigarettes was beneath the mess. She pulled it out, gagging again as her hand came out wet and sticky. She rubbed her hand on her jeans.

“God,” she muttered.

Her whole body ached, as if the pressure of the spasms had burst open all her injuries. She pressed her legs together, and held her breasts gently until the pain subsided.

Then she shook out a cigarette. She held it in her lips and lit it, staring at the glowing red coils of the car’s lighter. The smoke was as soothing as she’d hoped. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on
the headlights and backed her car out of the parking space.

The coroner’s van was gone. Three police cars remained, as did Red’s pickup. She supposed the pickup would be towed away before morning.

The road was deserted. She turned her radio on, and listened to a country station from Tucson. Ronnie Milsap was singing “What a Difference You Made in My Life.” When his song ended, Anne Murray came on with “Can I Have This Dance?” Nice of them to play a couple of her favorites. The songs helped to soothe her shattered nerves.

As she reached her block, she took a final, deep drag on her cigarette. She held the smoke in, stubbed out her cigarette, and let the smoke ease out of her mouth.

From behind her came a muffled cough.

Her eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. A slice of ceiling. The back window. The empty road.

Had it been the radio?

No, the cough had come from behind. She was sure. It sounded like someone in the backseat. Impossible. She’d looked so carefully.

The muffler? A simple backfire? No.

Lacey swerved across the road, shot up her driveway, and hit the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. She shut it off. Grabbing her handbag, she threw open the door and leapt out. She slammed the door.

Fighting an urge to run, she stepped close to the rear window and peered inside. Nobody there. Of course not.

Under the car? Could a man hang on, down there? It seemed impossible. But now that the idea had entered her mind, she had to check. She dropped to her knees, planted her hands on the cool concrete, and lowered herself until she could see under the carriage. She scanned the dark space.

Nobody.

The trunk? She stood up, brushing off her hands, and stared at the trunk’s sloping hood.

How could anyone get in? Pick the lock? Child’s play, probably, for someone who knew how. And if he could get in, he could get out just as easily.

What if it’s not even latched?

Holding her breath, Lacey stepped softly toward the rear of the car. The edges of the trunk’s hood were not perfectly flush with the bordering surfaces. Slightly higher. Less than a quarter of an inch, though. Maybe that was normal.

Maybe not.

Maybe the killer, the slug who raped her, was hunched inside the trunk, holding it shut.

She lunged at the trunk, slapped both hands on its top, shoved down and threw herself forward. The car rocked under her weight. But no
clack
of the trunk’s lock. She lay there, thinking. No clack. The trunk had been locked, after all. Probably. But that didn’t mean the killer wasn’t inside, didn’t mean he couldn’t get out.

He can’t get out if I stay like this, she thought. But she couldn’t stay that way, sprawled on the trunk with her face pressing the back window, her legs hanging off. Her belly, on the trunk’s rim, took most
of her weight so she could hardly breathe. And the pain of lying on her injuries was almost unbearable.

She squirmed backward until her feet found the driveway, then pushed herself off and ran for her house. She leapt onto the stoop. Sliding her key into the lock, she glanced over her shoulder. Her blue Granada stood in the driveway, looking as it should, as if nothing were wrong. For an instant, Lacey questioned herself. Had she imagined the cough?

No.

He’s in there. In the trunk.

She shoved open the front door, shut and bolted it behind her, and rushed across the living room. She dropped her handbag on the dining room table. Skirting the table, she entered her bedroom and flicked on a light. She rushed to her bed. Jerked open a nightstand drawer. Took out a Smith & Wesson.38-caliber revolver.

Then she ran from the house. She started to leave the front door open in case she needed a quick escape. But the man could’ve already left the trunk. Not likely—Lacey had been in the house no more than half a minute. That could be time enough, though. He might be out of the trunk, hiding nearby, ready to jump her or sneak inside the house. So she closed the front door and locked it.

She stood on the Welcome mat, holding the revolver close to her belly. Its weight felt good in her hand. She felt safer than before, as if she’d been joined by a powerful trusted friend—a brother who would nail the bastard for her.

Just point and fire.

The only real danger, now, lay in being caught from behind.
Like before. That’s how he got me before.

Not this time.

He might be in the geraniums.

He’s probably still in the trunk.

Lacey sprang from the stoop, past the geranium bushes, and raced into the center of her lawn. She spun around, revolver ready. No one.

Okay.

Still in the trunk.

She ran to her car. Standing behind it, she studied the keys in her left hand. She found the trunk key. Revolver ready, she stabbed the key into the lock and twisted it. The latch clicked.

She jumped back, and aimed. The springs groaned as the trunk began to open. The lid inched upward. Lacey stared at the dark, widening gap. Her finger was tense on the trigger. The lid gathered speed, stopped abruptly at its apex, and quivered for a moment.

In the darkness of the trunk, nothing moved.

Lacey stepped closer. She saw her spare tire, a pack of road flares, and an old towel she sometimes used for wiping the car windows. There was certainly no man in the trunk.

She sighed. She felt weary, disappointed. She’d been sure she would find the killer there.

The rapist.

The man who tore her and bit her and pumped his foul seed into her.

He would be in the trunk and Lacey would pump him full of a different kind of seed—the kind that
grows death—the lead kind. He would never hurt anyone again.

“Damn,” she muttered.

Reaching up with her left hand, she slammed the trunk shut. The car rocked slightly with its impact.

She remembered her torn undergarments on the front seat. Better pick them up.

Stepping around the end of the car, she saw that the rear door jutted out an inch. Its lock button stood high.

“My God,” Lacey said. She covered her mouth, and staggered backward.