Beware (9 page)

Lacey lay facedown on the living room floor, her shorts around her knees, Scott patting her cut buttock 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 shoeshine 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. Nobody could’ve stopped it, at that point.”

“Charlie Dane could’ve,” he mumbled.

“Charlie would’ve shot the bastard when he had the chance,” Lacey said.

“Yeah.”

“The bastard’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 cassette 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 God!” 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 knob. “Maybe that…” she muttered. She turned to Scott. “A passkey. He could get one so easily.”

Scott sighed. “Damn, 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?

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.

“Hello?”

“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 breasts?” 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 breasts.

Dukane snatched 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.

“Shit,” 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, damn 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 glass 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 apron 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 hell 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 bumps. 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 prickly arms and thighs, thinking it strange that he should be so spooked. Whoever the bastard 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 glass 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.

“Shit,” 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 passed since Scott’s call.

A long time, five minutes.

A long time for that dumb woman. A long time for a guy like Scott, waiting to get bailed out.

It took him under a minute to dress.

Then he ran downstairs, through the dark house, and out to his garage. He jumped into his Jaguar. Thumbed the garage door switch. Keyed the ignition. The engine thundered, shaking the car.

In his rearview mirror, he watched the door rise. The gap widened. He saw the dark-robed man looking in at him, the naked body of the girl still over his shoulder.

Dukane jammed the shift to reverse and floored the gas pedal. He popped the clutch. The car leapt backward. He gripped the wheel, expecting an impact, but the car shot past the figure. Caught in the headlight, the man turned slowly to face him.

Dukane’s foot hovered over the brake. He could easily stop and have another try.

But Scott was waiting.

He’d already wasted too many minutes.

So he sped backward to the street, leaving the strange man alone in the driveway with the corpse.

“What was that about?” Lacey had asked as soon as Scott put down the phone.

“Saving our hides.”

“Dukane? Who’s he?”

“The real-life Charlie Dane. Excuse me a minute, I want to get dressed.” He left her alone in the room.

Lacey got up and followed him. When she reached the bedroom, Scott was stepping into his pants. “There really
is
a Charlie Dane?”

Scott fastened his trousers and picked up his shirt. “Sure is. No trench coat and battered fedora, and he operates now instead of the forties, but the rest is pretty close. A hell of a guy. He’ll get us out of here. We just have to stay alive for the next four hours, till he arrives.”

“Maybe we should call the police.”

“What good would they be against an invisible maniac?”

“What good will this Dukane be?”

Scott grinned, for the first time since the attack looking calm and confident. “Good enough.”

“What time is it?” Lacey asked.

“Eleven forty.”

“Is that all?” Only twenty minutes had passed since Scott’s talk with Dukane. For the past ten, Lacey had been sitting cross-legged beside the barricaded door, her pocket knife open on her lap, the paint can beside her ready to spray if the door should be forced open.

Scott had spent much of the time wandering the suite. He’d looked out the windows and determined that no ledges ran over from adjacent rooms. He’d shoved the couch against a locked, connecting door. Then he’d knelt down to remove the knife from Carl’s throat.

“Should you do that?” Lacey had asked. “What about fingerprints?”

“We need it.”

“But the police. My God, we don’t want them thinking we killed Carl.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, but I can’t help it.”

“The police are the least of our problems, right now.”

Lacey had looked away when he pulled out the knife. He arranged the blanket again over Carl’s head, then took the knife into the bathroom and cleaned it.

Now Scott was turning over the coffee table.

“What’re you doing?”

“Clubs,” he said, and began to unscrew one of
the short, tapering legs. When it came free, he tossed it underhand. It thumped the floor near Lacey, and rolled toward her. She picked it up by the narrow end. It felt like a small baseball bat. A thick, inch-long bolt protruded from the top.

As Scott twisted another leg off the table, Lacey heard voices in the hallway.

“Six fifty for a Piña Colada,” said a man. “You believe it?”

“That’s not so bad,” a woman said. “It included the glass.”

“Sixty cents’ worth of glass. A nickle worth of booze.”

“They’re awfully cute glasses.”

“Maybe we should get a few more.”

“It would be nice to have a complete set.” The woman’s sudden yelp made Lacey jump. Her mind flashed an image of the two under attack, and she grabbed the spray can, tensing, ready to unblock the door and rush out to help. But the yelp led into a giggle. A different kind of attack. “Jimmy,
don’t
! Christ, I almost dropped the glasses.”

“Anything but that.”

Lacey heard a key ratchet into a lock. A knob turned. A door swung open with a barely audible squeak, and banged shut.

“Hope they got in alone,” Scott said, starting on a third leg.

“I sure hope so. They sounded nice.”

“The guy’s a cheapskate.”

“He was just kidding around.”

“Yeah. On the surface. Underneath, he’s a cheapskate.”

“He did buy two of those drinks.”

“At six fifty a whack. Not only a cheapskate, but he likes to play martyr.”

Lacey looked at Scott, and saw he was smiling.

The door’s lock button snapped out. Lacey turned, saw the door lurch, the chair tip forward a fraction. She thrust herself to her knees. The knife fell from her lap. She grabbed it. Scott threw himself against the wall on the other side of the door. He held a table leg in one upraised hand, the knife in the other. The automatic remained tucked in his belt.

The door eased back silently, then rammed the chair again, this time forcing the legs to scoot an inch across the carpet.

“Shoot him through the door,” Lacey whispered.

Scott shook his head. “Louder,” he mouthed.

“Shoot through the door!”

“Right.” Clamping the club between his legs, he pulled out the automatic. He held it close to the door and worked its slide, jacking a live cartridge out.

The door settled back into place.

Lacey waited, holding her breath, expecting another thrust. Scott picked up his bullet and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

Nothing happened.

“What ever he is,” Scott whispered, “he doesn’t like bullets.” Tucking away the pistol, he shoved the
chair more firmly under the knob. “I think we’re all right for a while…till he figures a new way to get at us.”

“What’ll he do?”

Scott shrugged.

“What time is it now?”

Scott glanced at his wristwatch. “Five minutes later than the last time you asked.”

“Encouraging,” she muttered.

“Three and a half hours to go.”

“If your man’s on time.”

“Knowing Dukane, he’ll be early.”

“I hope so.” Lacey sat down again, feeling a slight pain as her shorts drew taut across her wound. Raising herself for a moment, she tugged the shorts to loosen them. Fortunately, the cut was high enough so that she didn’t rest on it, sitting upright. It hurt very little, except for a frequent, achy itch. It itched now. She scratched it gently with her fingernails. “What makes you think this Dukane will do us any good?”

“He’s brilliant, innovative, a crack shot…”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

“Damn near. Won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam. Dropped in behind the lines, killed God-knows how many gooks, freed two dozen POWs and led them all back. Alone.”

Scott shook his head, looking astonished by the feat. “He’s been a private investigator and bodyguard for nine years. An amazing guy. He’s actually lived the Charlie Dane stories. Most of them are based on incidents from Dukane’s past.”

“Hope I live long enough to meet him.”

“I keep trying to figure out what he’d do, if he were here instead of me.”

“What would he do?”

Scott shook his head. One corner of his mouth smiled. “He’d make clubs out of the table legs.”

“Would he shoot through the door?”

“More than likely.”

“I wish you had.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but my shooting has been limited to pistol ranges. I’ve never killed a man.”

“That would’ve been a good time to start.”

“Well…” Scott sighed. “I’m not against it—morally, I mean. Sort of a big step, though. Besides, I’d still rather take him alive. I mean, can you imagine the
story
? It’d be terrific! Do it up non fiction. A hardbound sale. Major advertising and promotion. Whammo, a best seller!”

“Give
me
your gun,” Lacey said, scrambling to her feet. She held out her hand. “Come on, give it. If you aren’t willing to shoot him, I sure am.”

He held onto it. “Sorry.”

“Sorry won’t get us out of a coffin. Now come on! You’ve missed two big chances to blast this bastard to hell. Let
me
do it.”

“Lacey, don’t get…”

She lunged, reaching for the automatic. Scott knocked her arm away. He shoved her backward with the table leg, its bolt biting into her chest. “Calm down!”

“You’ll get us killed!” she blurted, and suddenly started to cry. She turned away. She wanted to run for the bedroom or bathroom, to let out her despair
in private, but was afraid to leave him. So she faced the wall, crying into her hands. She heard Scott approach. His arms reached forward and folded lightly across her belly.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his breath warm through her hair. “I promise.”

“What about your best seller?”

“I won’t let him get you.”

Lacey turned around. Blinking tears away, she stared up into his serious eyes. “You could shoot to wound,” she said, and tried to smile.

“That’s it.” His fingers brushed the tears off her cheeks.

Lacey put her arms around him and shut her eyes. If she could only keep on holding him, feeling his strong body against her, the easy rise and fall of his chest, the gentle stroke of his hands on her back, then maybe nothing bad would happen.

The handle of his automatic felt flat and hard against Lacey’s belly.

She might reach for it. But that would end the closeness, the trust. Better to keep that, to stay with him, than to risk losing it by going for the gun.

She felt another hardness, lower down.

Scott plucked the tails of her tank top from her shorts, and reached up inside it, caressing her back, then easing her away and moving gently to her breasts. He held them in each hand, his palms gliding against her turgid nipples. Lacey moaned. The hands continued to caress her for nearly a full second after she heard the crash of shattering glass.

Scott looked at her, stunned. “The windows!”