Identity Matrix (1982) (27 page)

"I didn't say it would be easy—for any of us. I'd say bus is the best bet—it's the one thing we can probably get for the money we've got, although maybe not all the way. Take separate busses. Let's see . . . This is a Thurs-day. We'll meet in Los Angeles, at the Farmer's Market, at noon."

"Tomorrow?" I asked.

"Every day until we all link up," he replied. "But don't give it too long.

Anybody not there by, say, Monday, you have to write off. If I can get out of here and get a little money I'll check a safe house we have be-tween here and there. Maybe I can make contact."

"And if not?" Dory asked him.

He sighed. "Then we've got real big problems. Not insurmountable ones, but a lot harder. Look, I'd rather not go into that now. Better you don't know until you have to."

I saw what he meant.

The hot, bright, cheery look of Las Vegas was, some-how, suddenly more sinister. I began to feel the fear again, gnawing inside me.
They're out there, I
thought.
Out there looking for me.

Suddenly it wasn't quite so much fun being Misty Carpenter.

Chapter Twelve

Dory and I paid our bills and left them there, then walked out onto the street.

We didn't even look back to we where they went. It was better that way.

And lonelier.

I took Dory's hand and squeezed it tight. She looked up at me and gave a confident smile, and I felt better.

I wasn't alone. It was the two of us against the world, at least, and while that wasn't much it was far better than just one.

She looked down the bleak highway. "It's a ways down to the Strip and the bus station," she noted. "May as well start walking."

Nobody walked in Las Vegas, not from this far away from the casinos. There wasn't even much provision for sidewalks, and the gleaming towers of the Strip looked ugly in the distance, set against the bright sun and dirty sand and hills. It should never be day here, I thought.

"We can't do it this way," I told her. The Strip was there, but it was a good mile away. A couple of hotels and casinos were closer, but they weren't where we had to be.

"Yeah," Dory agreed sourly. "My feet won't take this, and I'm sweating like a stuck pig."

"C'mon!" I urged. "I've got an idea!"

We ran across the street when traffic allowed, and stood there.

"If I'm going to be a sex goddess," I told her, "I should be able to get us a ride."

And I did. As a matter of fact, the guy almost lost control of the car. I had a hot thumb.

He leaned over and opened the front door, and we both squeezed in. It wasn't a big car, but it was air conditioned and felt good. I was in the middle, so I put my arms behind the two.

"Where you girls heading?" the guy asked pleasantly. He didn't look like a gambler or tourist. More like a salesman, I thought.

It took no effort at all to turn on Misty Carpenter's full charms.

"Down to the Strip," I said in my best voice. "Going to look around for a while."

"I have to go over to the residential section," he replied, regret evident in his voice. "I'll run you down to the Frontier, though. That ought to put you in the center of things."

The trip by car was too short for many questions, and I made sure he didn't think of any. It was so
easy,
I thought. It amazed me, this power I had. Not just that it worked, but that it didn't have to be worked. It was there when needed.

We got out, and I made his day by kissing him.

Las Vegas at 2 P.M. isn't the world's most thrilling town. This place ran by night, came alive by night, although it was always open.

I shifted my shoulder-purse, which seemed to weigh a ton—and no wonder.

Even after giving a little of my best jewels to Dan to pawn when he cleared town, I had a lot in it. Mink was also warm at eighty-one degrees.

"Well, we can't stand out and fry," I said with a lightness I didn't feel. "Let's go in where it's cool."

Once inside, with the clank of slot machines and the ringing bells and flashing lights, I felt nervous again. Everybody seemed to be looking at me, but instead of the admiring glances they probably were I saw each as a Harry Parch spy.

I noticed Dory was staring at me. "What's the matter?" I said, suddenly concerned.

"I'm trying to figure out just what you do, how you do it," she replied.

"Do what?" I asked.

"That's what I mean," she said sulkily. "The moves, the stance, the walk, everything."

"Oh," was all I could manage at first, relief sweeping over me. Then I added,

"Besides, you're too young for that."

"Like hell," she retorted.

I remembered Stuart's words and frowned. We needed more money, certainly, and I could get it. It was here, available. Vicki Lee shouldn't need money at all. I looked at Dory, and she read my thoughts.

"If you do it, I will, too," she said, teeth clenched. And that upset me for some reason I couldn't understand. "No," I said in the same tone.

"You go ahead," she urged. "I'll watch. Then—well, I'll meet you in the L.A.

bus depot, that's all. Don't worry. Remember, I'm twenty-five and this body's
ready."
She paused. "I go
both
ways now, you know."

I started to protest, to argue, then turned and walked away from her, towards the bar.

She was small, but she was a well-developed seventeen--year-old. They wouldn't have any problems believing her old enough, particularly with that manner and speech, and an experienced woman.

Which, of course, she was.

Even this early in the afternoon, I didn't even have to sit down before I had to choose which John looked most promising.

His name was John K. Jessup, he was about forty-five, paunchy and slightly gray, dressed in a brown tweed suit and matching tie. He was there for a convention, he was lonely, and he had the bread.

He reminded me a lot of Victor Gonser. I wondered if the old Misty would have targeted him, or whether this was
because
of the resemblance.

It was right out of the books and old movies. He was a machine tool salesman, of all things, from Iowa City, of all places, and he bought me some drinks until we both felt good, and he talked of his business and his life while I just gushed all over him.

It was simple. I just stopped thinking and it worked on impulse.

Then we gambled a little, caught a nice little lounge act, danced a bit after—he really wasn't a bad dancer—and he had the time of his life. Everyone was looking at him, envious of him, wondering why they couldn't have such luck.

For that was my protection—in context, I was a cy-pher, a symbol, a thing, a precious object that was coveted. But not a wanted human being, sought by certain people. Then a nice dinner, a few more drinks, and up to John, K. Jessup'

s room, where he fulfilled his fantasies.

It was a life I liked, would have gladly stuck with. But I was wanted in this town, I had a responsibility, and I had an appointment in L.A. He didn't want me to go, begged me to stay at least to breakfast, but I couldn't. I never once asked for money, I never once asked for anything. He slipped me some money; insisted I take it, and seemed slightly embarrassed by the action. I was in the elevator before I looked.

It was two hundred bucks.

That easy.

For having fun.

For giving somebody else a good time, too.

I walked to the bus station, the hot night air feeling just great, me feeling just great.

There was a cop car parked around the corner from the bus station, and a suspicious-looking guy in sports shirt and slacks leaning on the wall near the door.

Suddenly I didn't feel so good anymore.

I was alone, all alone.

And Misty Carpenter feared that most of all.

I backed away from the streetlights, back into the shadows and waited, barely daring to breathe. I was trembling slightly, and I turned and walked back down the street, back into the Strip, which somehow seemed now to be threatening; the garish lights and weird sounds loomed and swooped and pressed in at me.

I realized suddenly that I'd started to run, and slowed to a nervous pace.

People passed me on the street, the heads turning as, always to look at me, only this time I didn't want them to look, didn't want them to notice. I felt like I was lit up, an advertising billboard, which, in a way, I was.

I needed a drink and a place to sit down for a few minutes, and I turned into a small bar and slot machine parlor on the fringe of the Strip. It was crowded, and heads turned when I entered, men staring, gesturing.

"Hey Babe! Lonely?" somebody yelled out, and I turned, pushing back out onto the street, that suddenly cold, lonely street.

Misty was, in herself, a trap.

I reached an intersection turning off to a small, dark street. As I turned the corner, not thinking of where I would go, not thinking of anything but getting away from the lights, a figure suddenly loomed before me, strange and horrible.

"A pretty flower for a pretty flower, both to glorify God?" piped a voice. It was one of the Redeemed, and I almost screamed, and pushed the poor creature out of the way.

There are no really bad sections of Las Vegas, but there are some not so well lit, not so garish, not so public, and I was in one of these now.

I was cloaked in the darkness, and for a moment, it felt good.

Suddenly a man came out of the shadows, a bottle in his hand.

"Hey! Honey! Wanna drink?" he called out in a filthy, ugly voice as he reached for me. I almost screamed, but evaded him. He followed me, and I started running again.

Finally I came to a corner and rounded it. There was a house and some small trees watered by a sprinkler, and I quickly crouched down in their protective, dark shel-ter, and held my breath.

He came around the corner seconds later, and stood there for what seemed like forever, breathing hard and looking around.

So this is what it's like, I thought. Is this what every woman feels and fears if she ventures out alone? Is every walk in a strange place a potential threat, a prom-ise that, perhaps, horror is lurking there?

Victor Gonser wouldn't have hesitated in walking into that bar, down this street. Victor wouldn't be crouching, trembling in fear as some bastard stalked him. Men couldn't comprehend this terror, as I waited breathless, certain I would cough, or fall and give myself away to this man of the dark.

He drained the bottle, and threw it into the yard. It hit the tree, and landed just a few inches from me.

I heard him mumbling something to himself, then he turned and walked slowly down the street toward the Strip.

I remained there for some time, shaking terribly, realizing that while Victor Gonser hated being alone, I, Misty, could not
survive
alone.

I heard a clock somewhere strike three. Three in the morning, and I was crouching in the darkness of somebody's front yard.

Just as I could not turn Misty off physically, I could not shed her mentally, either. She was not cut out for this and she was terrified, out of her element com-pletely, overcome with that emotionalism that now worked against me.

I shuddered, and forced myself to stop crying, to calm down. I took deep breaths, and tried to regain control.

Think, dammit, think!
I told myself over and over.

Cautiously, I made my way back to the walk, and could see nothing, nobody but a few cars going to and fro.

Now the Strip was closed to me as well.
He
had gone that way, and I must go the other.

I walked, forcing myself to be slow and deliberate, afraid as I walked under every streetlight, more afraid of the darkness between.

I was suddenly out of sidewalk and streetlights again, and walking on the sandy shoulder of what the sign said was State Route 6. How long or how fast I'

d walked I didn't know. Over to the right of me I saw the start of an Interstate highway, and beyond it a cluster of lights in the darkness.

Route 6 and the Interstate seemed to get further apart, so I cut overland, crossing the dark gulf between; desert grass and brush stung my feet, and I felt in total despair.

Then, suddenly, I was at the big highway, which was carrying a moderate amount of traffic. I looked over and saw that the lights I'd seen were not merely lights but a truck stop of some sort.

It was difficult crossing the highway, and there was a slope down the other side which caused me to fall more than once, but I was over, and walking toward the bright lights.

Frankly, I was in a state of shock yet, had been since the man had almost caught up to me. I could just think of the lights, of people, lots of people, with no dark places.

The place smelled of diesel fuel and a young attendant rushed around checking green pumps, using extenders to wash the windshields of the big rigs.

Even so, it was fairly new, and one of those complete types—a restaurant, complete with slot machine banks, and a trucker's store of sorts. I walked in and headed first for the women's bathroom, which was fairly diffi-cult to find. This was still mostly a man's world.

Once inside, the shock seemed to wear off a bit, and I almost collapsed, bracing myself against a sink. Slowly my head came up and I looked at myself in the mirror.

My God! I
thought. I looked like hell, and even looking like hell I looked sexy.

I straightened myself up and went into a stall. I sat there for several minutes on the toilet, trying to get ahold of myself.

Now what? I asked myself, fearing that the answer was that I was doomed to wander forever like this, cut off and alone.

Something within me seemed to snap.
No!
I told myself suddenly, and dried my flowing tears of hope-lessness.

I was back in control, tired but thinking once more. The terror wasn't gone, but it had been superceded by desperation. If the terror came, then it would come. I had to accept that. But, if that was all I could look forward to, I might as well slit my throat right here, now.