Beware (8 page)

A strolling guitarist stopped at their table. “A song?” Scott nodded. “How about ‘Cielito Lindo’?” he asked Lacey.

She dipped a tortilla chip into hot sauce. “Fine.” With a smile, the white-clothed Mexican began to strum chords and sing. Lacey sat back, munching her chip and sipping her margarita as she watched him. He stood with his back arched, his head thrown back, his dark face writhing as if the song called up unbearable sorrow. His plaintive voice pushed Lacey’s mind back to a strolling minstrel in Nogales, only a few days before her break up with Brian. One of their last good times together. The next week, back in Oasis, he brought a man to the house and insisted the three of them go at each other. Lacey refused, and he beat her. No more Brian. No more men, at all, after that.

For a moment, she felt the void and sank into it. No man, no love, no babies, only empty darkness. She was cut loose and drifting. Starting to panic.

She took a long drink from her margarita, and managed a smile for Scott.

Get off it, kiddo, she told herself. A hell of a time
to worry about becoming an old maid. You should live so long.

The singer finished his song, and Scott handed him a dollar.

“
Gracias
,” the man said. With a slight bow, he turned away.

“Are you all right?” Scott asked.

“Just beweeping my outcast state.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Troubling deaf heaven with your bootless cries?”

Lacey grinned. “Yup.”

The waitress set down plates in front of them. They had both ordered Dinner #6: a chimichanga, refried beans, rice, and a taco. Lacey took a deep breath of the steam rising from her meal. Her mouth watered.

“Plates are hot,” warned the waitress. “Will there be anything else for you?”

“Want a beer?” Scott asked.

“I’ll stick with margaritas.”

“That’ll be it for now,” he told the waitress, and she left.

Across the candle lit room, the singer began “The Rose of San Antone” for two lean men in business suits. One of them saw Lacey watching. He met her gaze, looked her over, then turned away and spoke to his friend. The other man glanced at her. She looked away, embarrassed, certain they were wondering about her appearance. In her plaid blouse and corduroys, she felt shabby: all right for McDonald’s, but barely good enough for a restaurant of Carmen’s quality.

She should’ve found time to buy a dress. When Scott escorted her back to her suite that afternoon, though, he gave her strict orders not to leave it without calling him. She hadn’t wanted to drag him around Tucson in search of eve ning wear, so she’d simply stayed in her room until he picked her up for dinner. Now, she regretted it.

She swallowed a mouthful of rice, and said, “What’s next?”

“Find a good piano bar…”

“I mean, tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.”

“Depends on you.”

“Are we just going to
wait
? I mean, I could stay at the hotel for two weeks, as I planned, and nothing happen, and the minute I step in to my house back in Oasis,
wham.
”

“You think he’s at your house?”

“He could be anywhere: in my house, at the hotel, even here. He might even be dead, but I think that’s too good to hope for.”

“So you don’t want to wait around? You’d rather go on the offensive? Good. That’s just what Charlie Dane would suggest.”

“Are you willing?” she asked.

“I was planning to suggest it, myself.”

She cut into the chimichanga with her fork, and scooped a bite into her mouth. The fried tortilla crunched. She chewed slowly, savoring its spicy meat and cheese.

“So tomorrow, we’ll go to your house.”

“That’d be great.” Lacey took another bite. Then
she picked up her handbag and set it on her lap. She opened it. She took out the can.

“What’s that, paint?”

“There’s something you have to know. You may decide I’m crazy and call the whole thing off, but I have to tell you the truth. This afternoon, when I explained the whole situation to you, I left something out. It’s why I have this paint. I told you the man was wearing a mask. That’s my story for public consumption, but it’s not quite the truth. I told the truth to the police and my editor, and they didn’t believe me. I don’t really expect you to believe me, either. But here goes. The man who killed Elsie Hoffman and Red Peterson, the man who attacked me—he’s invisible.”

Scott stared at his plate. He forked a huge bite of chimichanga into his mouth, and chewed slowly, frowning. He swallowed. He finished his margarita and refilled the glass and took another sip. “Invisible?” he asked, as if he thought he’d misunderstood.

“Not a ghost or apparition or hallucination,” Lacey said. “It’s a man. But you can look right at him and see right through him and never know he’s even there. He’s invisible.”

“How?” Scott asked.

“He didn’t tell me. ‘A little miracle, ’ he said.”

“A miracle, all right.”

“That’s what the paint is for. It’ll adhere to him, and he won’t be invisible again till he gets it off his skin.”

“Invisible,” Scott said, shaking his head.

“Do you believe me?”

“Let me put it this way: we’ll proceed as if I do. Hell, if it’s true, I might get a whizz-bang story out of this. Another
Amityville Horror.
Who knows?”

Back at the hotel, Scott drew a Colt.45 automatic from the shoulder holster under his sport coat.

They searched Lacey’s suite, walking behind chairs, feeling inside closets and under the beds, stepping into the shower stall. At last, Scott sighed and sat on the couch. “If the guy’s invisible,” he said, “there’s no way we can be sure he isn’t here.”

“He hasn’t attacked,” Lacey said.

“Maybe he’s waiting for me to leave. So I guess I’d better stay.” He patted the couch. “This’ll do fine.”

“You’re really going to stay?”

“I can’t do much protecting from the end of the hall.”

“Well, I guess it’s all right. I won’t let you sleep on the couch, though, with two beds in the other room.”

“You sure?”

“It’d be ridiculous.”

Grinning, Scott drawled, “Mighty grateful, ma’am. I accept your hospitality.”

Lacey went to bed first. Though she usually slept in the nude, to night she wore her jogging shorts and tank top in case her sheet should slip off during the night. She lay wide awake. From the other room came quiet TV voices. She listened, but couldn’t make out their words.

Had it been a mistake, offering the other bed? It might’ve sounded like an invitation for something
more. Had Scott taken it that way? God, what if he came over to her bed and climbed in?

He would say something cute. “I’m here to guard your body at close range.”

She rolled onto her belly, and forced her mind away from the possibility. How’ll we work it in the morning? Each drive our own cars, I suppose. Meet at my house. We’ll park in front. Go in together? Sneak in? And search the place. Spread flour around so we can see footprints? God, what a cleanup job. Would it come out of the carpet?

The tele vision voices stopped.

Lacey heard quiet footsteps. She expected Scott to enter the bathroom just off the hallway, but the steps kept coming. The doorknob rattled a bit. Then the door swung open.

She pressed her face against the pillow and shut her eyes.

Please, let him go straight to his own bed.

I’m here to guard your body at close range.

The footsteps stopped between the beds. She heard the squeak of springs, followed by a whispered “damn” as if he were angry about the noise. Obviously, he thought she was asleep and didn’t want to disturb her. So he had no intention of coming to her bed, after all.

Lacey remained motionless, listening to his breathing, to the quiet sounds the bed made as he shifted to remove his shoes, to the single link of his belt buckle and the whisper of his zipper. Then the springs squawked.

He’s standing up.

Coming here, after all? Lacey’s heart began to thunder.

Turning her head slightly, she opened one eye and saw him in the darkness only a yard away. He stepped out of his pants, folded them once, and placed them on the floor beside his bed. He took off his shoulder holster, then his shirt. His tanned skin looked very dark against his white briefs. Crouching, he folded his shirt and set it on top of the pants. Then he turned away to pull down the bedcovers. He climbed in without taking off his shorts.

Lacey shut her eye. Her heart was still racing, and she realized that she’d barely been breathing since Scott entered the room.

She was parched. She tried to work up enough saliva to moisten her mouth, but couldn’t.

She waited.

I’ll die if I don’t get a drink of water. Probably those
margaritas.

Slipping her sheet aside, she swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She rushed through the darkness to the bathroom, and turned on a light. Squinting against its glare, she ran cold water. She filled a glass and drank. In the mirror, she saw hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. She shook her head at the image. She drank another glassful of cold water, then turned off the faucet and used the toilet. The flush sounded very loud. If Scott heard it…
No, he’s all
right. He’ll stay in bed. If he’d wanted to try anything
to night, he would’ve done it by now.

She flicked off the light and opened the door.

Scott clutched her shoulders. He was wearing
only his briefs. In his right hand, upraised to his shoulder, he held the pistol. It smelled oily and metallic.

“What…?”

“Shhhh. We’ve got company.”

Standing close to Scott in the dark hallway, Lacey heard the quiet rap of knuckles on wood. “Where’s it coming from?” she asked.

“Our door.”

“You sure?”

Scott nodded.

“My God.”

“Come on.” Holding her by the elbow, Scott led her into the main room. They stood motionless. After a moment of silence, the knocking resumed. “I’ll watch from the closet,” Scott whispered. “You get the door.”

“What if it’s
him
?”

“Then we’re in luck.”

As Scott hurried to the coat closet, Lacey turned on a lamp. “Right there,” she called. She scanned the room, and found her handbag on the coffee table. Rushing to it, she took out the can of spray paint and the knife. She pulled off the leather sheath, and slid the knife under the waistband at the back of her shorts. The blade was cool and flat against her rump. She felt the scrape of its edges as she walked to the door.

She peered through the peephole. Though the man in the bright hallway looked shrunken and distorted as if viewed in a distant fun house mirror, Lacey recognized his lanky build, his haggard face and short, curly hair.

“Carl?”

She flicked off the guard chain, and pulled the door open. Carl gazed at her with grim, red-rimmed eyes. “Hi, Lace.”

“Carl, what’s going on? What’re you doing here?”

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No. Come on in.”

Lacey stepped aside to let him enter. Then she shut and chained the door. She turned to him. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

“Our man paid a visit to the
Trib.
He…he killed Alfred.”

“Oh my God!”

“I came back from lunch, and…Alfred was on the floor.” Reaching into a pocket of his baggy slacks, Carl pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “The police have the original. It was pinned to him, to his belly…with my letter opener.” He handed the paper to Lacey.

She set the spray can on the coffee table, and unfolded the paper, and stared. The photocopy was stained as if it had been used to mop up a spill of black ink. But the typing was legible. She read it in silence. “Can’t get rid of me that easy. Better come home, bitch, or your editor’s next.” With a trembling hand, she gave the note back to Carl.

“I thought I’d call you, but…Hell, I remembered what you said about him being invisible. Still not sure I can believe that, but I figured I’d better be careful. If he
is
like you say, he might’ve been right behind me, watching me dial. If he got the hotel’s number…Well, I figured I’d drive on out to be on the safe side.”

“He could’ve been in your car!” Lacey blurted, suddenly alarmed.

“No. I checked it over.”

“Your trunk?”

“Checked that, too.”

“Maybe he followed you.”

“I don’t think so. Wasn’t much traffic. The only car behind me much had a couple in it—a man driving, a woman passenger.” He made a grim smile. “Neither one was invisible. So I think we’re okay on that score.”

“You saw the man’s face?” Lacey asked.

“Not up close, but he had one. It’s all right, Lace. Now stop worrying. I wasn’t followed.”

“He could’ve put something on. A mask, makeup…”

Carl shook his head. “We’ve gotta figure out what to do about this guy. Seems Tome, we’re both in the same boat, now. I don’t think I want to hang around Oasis and just wait for him to slit my gullet. I figure, if we stick together on this…”

“What about the woman passenger?” Lacey asked.

“Huh?”

“In the car that followed you.”

“It wasn’t
following
me. It was just
behind
me.”

“All the way?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded annoyed. “I didn’t keep track. It was just some clown and his wife.”

“How do you know it was his wife?”

“Cause,” Carl said, smiling slightly, “she was asleep the whole way.”

“
Asleep?
”

“Sure. Slumped over, her head against the side window…Oh, for Christsake, Lace, don’t turn paranoid on me. Don’t start telling me she was dead, and the driver was your invisible man decked out in a Stetson and mask.”

“You think that’s not possible?”

“I think you’re jumping to some mighty big conclusions.”

“He figured you would know where to get in touch with me. Killing Alfred, leaving the note, he did it so you’d lead him here. For God-sake, he’s probably…”

“Now don’t get all worked up. Calm down. There’s nothing to…”

Lacey jerked stiff as her knife turned, the blade slicing a white-hot line up her buttock. She clutched the wound and spun around. The suspended knife slashed through the air, barely missing her face, and jerked toward Carl.

“
Scott!
”

The closet door burst open. Scott crouched, pistol forward, but his face was twisted with confusion. “
W here?
”

Even as Lacey pointed, the blade punched into Carl’s throat. Blood shot out. It spurted a few inches,
then splattered as if hitting a sheet of glass. It sprayed and sheathed the surface—the face and shoulders and chest of a sixfoot man.

Scott gazed, his mouth agape.

“Shoot him!”

The figure, vague as a patch of floating red cellophane, raised Carl off his feet and flung him at Scott. Scott leapt sideways. The body hit the closet door, crashed it shut, and thudded to the floor. The knife, Lacey saw, was still embedded in Carl’s throat.

Scott aimed at the film of blood rushing toward him. “Stop!”

Lacey braced herself for the roar of gunfire. It didn’t come.

A yard in front of Scott, the figure halted.

“Fuckin’ blood,” muttered a scratchy voice.

The layer of red shifted as if a child were finger-painting on his face.

“Hands on your head,” Scott ordered.

The top of the head wasn’t there, but Lacey saw two hand-shaped images of blood suspended above the concave face—a face like the back of a translucent red Halloween mask.

Lacey grabbed her can of silver paint from the coffee table and tugged off its plastic top. Tossing the cap aside, she shook the can. It rattled as if a marble were trapped inside. She stepped close to the dripping, red veil in front of Scott’s automatic.

“Don’t do it,” the man muttered.

As her forefinger lowered to the plastic nozzle, the red membrane shifted like a flag struck by wind. Something struck Lacey’s hand. The can tumbled
away. Then a tightness clenched her wrist and swung her toward Scott. He jumped out of the way, rushed in front of her, and dived. He landed flat on the floor, his hands grabbing only air.

The door flew open, ripping the guard chain from its mounting, and slammed shut.

Scott pushed himself to his knees. His eyes met Lacey’s. He shook his head.

Lacey stepped over to Carl’s body. She knelt down beside him. Blood no longer pumped from his torn throat. She covered her face with both hands, and started to cry.