Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (38 page)

She almost made it to her car before Bobby caught up to her.

“Halt or I’ll shoot,” he said, and since she wasn’t at all sure he was kidding, she stopped.

“Oh. Hi, Bobby.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Harley? Don’t you have any sense? You’ve always been nutty, but this beats anything you’ve come up with yet.”

Nutty? She stuck her face close to his. “Hang around. I’m sure I can beat this without a sweat.”

He leaned back a little. “Why don’t I doubt that? Damn, Harley, have you got a death wish?”

“We discussed that a while back, and you already know the answer. I can’t keep waiting for this guy to find me at the right time and place. If I don’t do something, he will.”

“So you’re saying you don’t trust the MPD to catch the killer and that you think you can do it better, right? I mean, after all, you’ve had what, three months experience at finding bodies, and no training at all.”

“Obviously, your captain thinks I’m useful or he wouldn’t agree with me.”

“Baker doesn’t know you. I do.”

“Not as well as I thought you did. Why do you think I’m doing this? He’s going to kill again, Bobby, and maybe again and again. He’s killed three people and I’m next on his list. Do you really think I’ll just cower in my room and wait for him to come get me? That’s not my style.”

“You have no style, unless you count stupidity as stylish.”

They were in each other’s face now, glaring at each other in the glow of an overhead vapor light in the parking lot across the street from the Graceland mansion. Elvis fans already crowded the area in preparation for the candlelight vigil tomorrow night, and many sat or stood by the mansion’s fieldstone walls covered with scrawled names and dates and poignant farewells to Elvis.

“You’re an ass, Bobby,” she said through her teeth, and he nodded.

“I know. But I’m an ass who cares if you get killed.”

That took some of the wind out of her sails.

“I hate it when you do that,” she said. “How can I stay mad?”

“I hate it when you treat police procedurals like a video game. Just stay alive, Harley.”

Sighing, she said, “I will. Like it or not, I’ll be fine.”

“Is that one of Diva’s predictions?”

“One of mine. I can’t ever figure out Diva’s predictions until it’s too late.”

“We have that in common. Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.” He slung an arm over her shoulder and walked her into the parking lot behind the shops. “You’re asking for trouble when you park back here, you know.”

“I know. But I had police protection. Like I do now.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Sammy has it.”

“You’ve got one of his loaners?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Bobby grinned. One good thing about their long friendship, they had their arguments and feuds, but once they blew up at each other, they often forgot why they’d argued.

“Let me guess. Is it the sixties VW Bug still painted with yellow and purple flowers?”

“That one was taken. I got the Malibu. It’s over there.” Rust and primer stood out even under vapor lights. “Runs like a bat out of hell, though.”

“Sammy’s a genius with engines.”

Harley got into the car while Bobby looked in the back seat to satisfy himself no one was hiding. “Go straight home and lock your doors, will you?”

“Okay.” She shut the car door and rolled down the window. “Would it be against your professional judgment to tell me why the MPD thought it necessary to use undercover so quickly in this case? In two days, Morgan was swiveling his hips and onstage howling like a hound dog. I thought things like that took a lot of time to arrange.”

Bobby’s shrug was noncommittal. “Cases work differently.”

“Don’t tell me, then. I’ll find out soon enough anyway.”

Shaking his head, he stuck his hand in the window and rubbed his knuckles over her chin. “I have every faith that you will.”

Somehow, that made her feel better. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he expected her to succeed, even though he didn’t recommend it. There were times Bobby reminded her why she still hung around him. Then there were the times he reminded her why she got so irritated with him.

“Just like I have faith you’ll end up in trouble and need rescuing again,” he added.

Harley’s feeling of good will instantly evaporated.

She rolled up her car window so fast he jerked back his hand before it got caught between glass and frame. Engine roaring to life, she slammed the Chevy into gear and screeched off.

By the time she reached the parking lot of her apartment to change clothes for the Elvis competition, Yogi had called twice on her cell phone. Maybe she’d been looking at the whole broken cell phone thing wrong, she decided. Not having one might be a real advantage at times.

“Yes, I’ll be there, I promise,” she said, trying to hold the phone between her ear and her shoulder, and failing. “Just running a little late. As usual.”

Yogi sounded excited. “I’m one of the five finalists! Five of the best—such an honor. Oh, and your mother says to meet us on the far side of the bar. This year is going to be special, I just feel it. Can you believe that it’s here again so quickly? Should I sing Suspicious Minds? I’ve always done that one well, but then, maybe I should do another one since so many others sing that song. Oh, and—”

“Take a toke and calm down, Yogi,” Harley advised. “If you don’t, you’re going to get up there and sound like you’re in fast forward. Damn!”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, just dropped my dinner and stepped on it. I’ll probably eat it anyway. Look, I’ll see you there, okay? Think positive.”

Juggling her new cell phone—still on its long tether to her belt loop—backpack, car keys, dry cleaning, and takeout, she kicked shut the car door and hoped she hadn’t forgotten anything. If she had, there wasn’t much time to do anything about it.

It took some doing to open the heavy outside door that had one of those pneumatic door closers, but she got into the foyer without doing major damage to herself. Getting up the stairs was an accomplishment in itself, with plastic-wrapped clothes dragging—why did she bother paying to clean clothes she’d probably never wear again?—and her squashed takeout dripping marinara, as she clenched car keys between her teeth and fumbled one-handed in her backpack for her door keys. Obviously, she had not thought ahead.

After finding the ring of door keys at the very bottom of her backpack, she stuck one in the brass deadbolt, gave the door knob a twist, and nearly fell inside. Light through the French doors eased the gloom. She slung the dry cleaning over the back of a chair, leaned to toss the takeout to the counter, and dropped her backpack to the floor, all in a practiced motion.

“Sam, you handsome man,” she crooned, “I brought your favorite, cheesy bread. Come on out, kitty kitty kitty.”

Frank Burns made ferret noises, a scolding sound like chi! chi! chi!

“All right, you can have some, too. What the heck’s the matter with this light now? I swear, Mr. Lancaster needs to do some serious repairs around here.”

The wall switch that turned on the pretty Tiffany-style lamp with dragonflies in jewel colors of deep red, green, blue and amber did nothing. She flipped it a few times as if determination would make the electricity work. Deep shadows filled the apartment’s corners, the only light coming through the open French doors. She paused. Open? Uh oh.

Silence pressed down, heavy and thick. There had to be someone out on her balcony. Heart thudding so hard in her chest it felt like a missing engine, she fumbled for the cell phone attached to her belt loop. 911 was the first number in her Quick Call. Little green numbers glowed as she lifted it high enough to see. They made these damned things so small now it was hard to find what she wanted, much less hit the right button ... ah. There it was...

A hard chop to the back of her neck sent her to her knees but didn’t knock her out. She let out a yell like Tootsie had that night, a “Hi-ya!” meant to intimidate. It came out more of a gurgle, but she didn’t let that stop her. She rolled to one side, the sharp pain in her left arm and shoulder reminding her that she still hadn’t completely recovered from being stabbed. Nothing hampered her feet, though.

When the dark figure leaned over, she kicked up with both feet and caught him right in the middle of his chest. He slammed back against the wall. Harley reached out, grabbed something heavy and threw it in his direction, then scrabbled to her feet and tried to get her breath even as she reached for another weapon. The second volume of Shakespeare followed the first one. It hit the wall instead of her attacker, the sound more of a splat than a thud.

A lamp fell over, shattering when it hit the floor, and she hoped it wasn’t the Tiffany lamp even as she leaped toward the French doors. Since the killer stood between her and the hallway door, any port in a storm would do. Another loud crash as something hit the floor, and the killer started cussing. After a couple of hops, Harley nearly reached the open doors and balcony. Then she snagged on something that gave a sharp tug at her waist and pulled her off-balance. She went back onto the floor hard, hitting her head against something solid. Lights exploded in front of her eyes and everything went hazy and wheeling, a kaleidoscope of stars, bars of light, and shadows.

Helpless, dizzy, she dimly realized how vulnerable she was but couldn’t dredge up the energy to move. The world was already spinning so fast around her, like having one too many drinks and holding on to the floor to keep from falling off.

Still in her fog, yet aware of sound and movement, a high-pitched yowl seemed vaguely familiar. More cussing followed the yowl, and as Harley tried to sit up, she caught the movement of something small and dark flying toward the French doors. Then it disappeared. From behind her, a hand landed on her right shoulder, grabbed a fistful of shirt, and hauled her to her feet.

“Stupid bitch,” he said a little breathlessly, “you’re more trouble ... than all the others ... put together.”

Harley jammed her elbow backward into his stomach. His grip on her shirt loosened so she brought the heel of her Nike down hard on his instep. He let go of her shirt and grabbed her by the arm, jerking backward as he swung her around. She bit him. Hard. Teeth sank into the fleshy part of his forearm and she held on until he managed to shake her loose.

Cussing, he hit her so hard with the back of his other hand she saw stars again. Knee-jerk reaction set in when he pulled her forward, and she jabbed her knee up and into the estimated area where it might do the most damage. He screamed, a high-pitched yowl like a cat’s, and doubled over, but still held tight to her arm. Just when she thought about biting him again he yelped, then thrashed around slapping at his leg and cussing. A dark shape crawled up his leg to his back and hung off his tee shirt, and its beady eyes reflected light through the open doors. Sam!

It seemed like the perfect time for a defense move.

Harley grabbed his thumb and pulled back hard, he let go, and she headed for the door. It was still so dark she could barely see to find the door knob, but she finally got it open. A wedge of bright light fell into the room and she paused. She had him. She had the killer right here. She had to keep him here until help came. But how?

Her breath came hard and fast but she managed to grab the chain holding her cell phone. It had nothing on the end but a distorted metal link. Damn, damn, damn! Breathing hard, she turned around just in time to see the killer grab Sam off his back and fling him across the room. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Sam!” There was no answering yowl, no angry hiss. Propelled by fear and fury, she launched herself at the man staggering toward the French doors. “If you hurt my cat, you’re a dead man!” she yelled as she collided with him. He didn’t answer but kept going, and she leaped onto his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. Sickly-sweet aftershave stung her nose, and his wiry hair tickled her chin.