Night-World (16 page)

She didn’t want to look at it, but she had to. Because it wasn’t a doll. It was real, and she could see the familiar clothing, the hair, she recognized everything. Not a doll. And not Bruce.

“Doyle!” Forbes said. “Oh, Christ—!”

For a moment the surge of relief was so intense she wanted to cry out. Instead, she gasped.

The sound of her voice was lost in the clamor. People were jostling from the walk behind; someone buffeted her in the back, but Karen was only vaguely aware of the blow. A group of men crossed from a police car pulled up against the curb, and she saw that the man in the lead was Lieutenant Barringer.

Forbes saw him, too. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

There was no need for him to command her, because she had nowhere to go. Running away wouldn’t help, after what had happened; nothing would help. All she could do was wait.

Karen watched while Forbes approached Lieutenant Barringer. She saw Barringer glance up as Forbes pointed in her direction; then, for a moment, her view was obscured by the ambulance attendants as they moved in with their stretcher.

She turned away, not wanting to see what happened when they bent over the crumpled corpse of Tom Doyle. But the people around her did not turn away, and she could hear their shocked murmurs.

Then Forbes was at her side again, taking her arm.

Karen frowned up at him. “Where are we going?”

“Lieutenant Barringer wants you to wait in the office. He’s sending someone up to get your statement there. Sergeant Gordon, he said. He’ll be looking out for you.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Barringer didn’t say. Gordon will have instructions when he sees you.” Forbes shrugged. “Right now we’ve got to clear the streets. One hell of a mess for a peak traffic hour.”

One hell of a mess, but the main problem is to clear the street so all the Daddies won’t be late for dinner.
Karen shook her head. But Forbes was right, of course. The living are the ones to be considered; the dead have no problems.

“All right, break it up—there’s nothing to see—let’s move along now—” A cordon of officers moved along the curb, chanting their familiar formulas.

Forbes led Karen to the building entrance, and there were more police there, stationed on either side of the doorway, and halting people for identification and questioning as they attempted to exit. She noticed some of her own co-workers in the line beyond the door, waiting their turn for interrogation.

“We’ve got the garage downstairs covered, too,” Forbes told her. “Nobody gets in or out without identification.”

He displayed his own I.D. to one of the officers as they entered. “I’m taking Mrs. Raymond inside,” he said. “Lieutenant Barringer’s orders. Could you see to it that she gets up to her office? Sutherland Agency, tenth floor.”

The officer nodded and turned to summon a uniformed man from the group examining employees from the building inside.

Karen glanced at Forbes. “You’re not coming?”

“Barringer wants me to stay here.” He released her arm. “Don’t worry, you’ll be in safe hands.”

Karen nodded, then turned and followed her new escort to the elevators.

They ascended in silence. No one was entering the building and most of the offices would be emptying at this hour.

The Sutherland Agency was no exception. Peggy’s desk was vacant, and the rooms lining the hall beyond were echoing and empty. Even the few who normally might have lingered to make last-minute calls or finish last-minute assignments had been lured downstairs by the earlier excitement.

Excitement? There was nothing exciting about death. It was the violence that drew them. She remembered what Bruce had just told her. Maybe we all have a night-world—

“Will you be all right, Mrs. Raymond?” the officer said.

There it was again, the same phrase. She summoned the automatic reply. “Of course.”

He closed the door and left her alone in the office. And she didn’t want to be alone anymore, not even for a moment. Why couldn’t Forbes have come back to wait with her?

She knew the answer, of course. The reason Barringer wanted him downstairs was to get his statement. Get it first, before she was questioned. So if there were any discrepancies, any lies, he’d be able to check back.

Not that lying would do any good now. It never had. If only she’d told the truth from the beginning—the whole truth—

Karen started down the hall towards her office, then hesitated. The hollow sound of her own footsteps halted her, and she stood there, conscious that she was trembling.

You’re afraid.

All right, admit it. Everyone’s afraid nowadays. Afraid of driving and getting smashed on the freeway, afraid of walking and being mugged in the street. Afraid of losing a job and starving, afraid of keeping a job and ending up on an insufficient pension which meant starving in old age. Afraid of the bomb and germ warfare and nerve gas and other man-made devices of destruction, afraid of the natural disasters of earthquake and fire and flood.

No wonder the younger generation turned on with grass and smack while their elders turned to barbiturates and alcohol and cigarettes.
I’ll say one thing for cancer—it certainly takes your mind off your troubles.

She remembered Bruce saying that, long ago. Before he went into the sanatorium, when he had this thing about death. He’d said a lot of things.
When a corpse goes to the morgue, they identify it by fastening a tag to the big toe. But where do they put the tag if the toes are missing? And what does it matter? A corpse has no identity. I’ve seen hundreds of them overseas, and they’re all alike. What do the maggots care about name, rank and serial number?

Bruce had this fear of death, and it was only to be expected, after what he’d been through.

But was it natural to be afraid of life?

Karen paced the floor behind the reception desk. She had no intention of going down the hall to her office now. There she’d be isolated. Here she could at least keep her eye on the door.

She moved to the window, noting that it was getting dark outside. Was she frightened of
that,
too?

No, the dark was harmless. What she dreaded were the people who prowled it. The citizens of the night-world. Karen shook her head. No point in losing perspective. The world, day or night, wasn’t really all that bad.

She stared out across the city. Long ago, before she was born, Los Angeles had been looked upon as some sort of earthly paradise where there was sunshine every day and the stars glittered every night. Now that image had faded, tarnished by technology, and perhaps this was the reason so many mocked it. But was it actually any worse than New York or London, Moscow or Peking?

In spite of her earlier reflections on the rooftop, it was necessary to remember that millions of people lived out there, and most of them were very much like herself. Reasonably honest, decent, and trustworthy; trying to live up to their responsibilities to family, friends, the strictures of society.

So it was only the few she feared. And even then, she wasn’t really alarmed as long as she could recognize them. Most of the creeps and weirdos—and she wasn’t using terms of prejudice, she reminded herself; didn’t they proudly proclaim themselves as freaks?—were easily spotted and could be easily avoided. They were no great menace as long as one steered clear of them and their haunts.

The danger came from the others. The ones you loved. The ones you surrendered yourself to because you wanted them, needed them.

There was no mystery about what she was afraid of. Deep down inside she knew there was only one real fear. And its name was Bruce—

“Mrs. Raymond?”

Karen turned quickly. A man was entering the office doorway from the hall. He nodded at her, moving up to the glass window of the reception desk. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a wallet and slid it across the counter as she approached.

“Sergeant Gordon.”

She glanced at the I.D. Frank Gordon. LAPD, Homicide Division. She pushed the wallet back, managing a smile. “They said you’d be coming.” In spite of herself, Karen felt a curious sense of relief now that he was here. She’d never thought the time would come when she would welcome the presence of a detective, but anything was better than being alone. “I suppose you want a statement?”

“That’s right.” Frank Gordon put his wallet away and glanced around the office. There was a sound of footsteps from the hall outside.

Karen felt the smile freeze on her face, but Gordon’s nod was reassuring. “Don’t be alarmed. We’re going through the building. Was there anyone here when you came in?”

“No. At least I didn’t see anybody.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll check it out.” Gordon glanced at Karen’s purse on the counter top. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

“Where are we going?”

“My orders are to take you home and get your statement. After that—” Gordon shrugged.

“Did Lieutenant Barringer say anything about bringing me in to headquarters?”

“I’m to call him from your apartment.” Gordon smiled ruefully. “Right now he’s got other things on his mind.”

Karen picked up her purse and stepped out into the reception area. Sergeant Gordon opened the hall door for her. The sound of footsteps grew louder, and as she moved past Gordon into the corridor, she saw the two uniformed officers converging from either side, holding service revolvers.

“Just a minute, lady,” said the one on her left.

“It’s okay.” Gordon came up beside her and flashed his I.D. “I’m taking Mrs. Raymond home. Barringer’s orders.”

“Go ahead.”

But the officers waited in the hall with them until the elevator arrived, and Karen noticed that neither of them holstered their weapons.

Two more patrolmen greeted them when the elevator door slid open on the lobby level, and once more Gordon identified himself. The lobby was otherwise deserted, and when they emerged onto the street, the traffic was moving in its regular rhythm. Aside from the squad cars parked along the curb, there was no reminder of what had happened.

Gordon led her around the corner. His car was parked on a lot down the block.

“What’s your address?” he said, above the noise of the starting motor.

She was surprised he didn’t know it, but gave it to him, adding, “Better not take the freeway. It’s jammed at this hour.”

Gordon glanced at the dashboard clock. “Shouldn’t be, not at seven o’clock.”

Karen frowned. “Is it that late already?”

He nodded. “Had anything to eat yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe we could grab something on the way. I’ll get your statement over dinner.”

“I’m really not very hungry.”

“Only a suggestion.” But Karen could sense the disappointment in his voice. Probably starving, she told herself.

“I could use some coffee.”

“Good enough.” The car swung out onto the street. “Let’s head out your way and find a place when we get off the freeway.”

Gordon was silent during the drive; Karen wondered what he was thinking. About the statement, probably, and questions he was going to ask.

As for herself, she kept rehearsing the answers. Sergeant Gordon was one of the new breed of police officers, she decided: well-mannered, soft-spoken, obviously more intelligent than Forbes or poor Tom Doyle. But she remembered Sergeant Cole and Lieutenant Barringer, whose courtesy masked cold efficiency. She mustn’t let politeness disarm her.

Karen studied Frank Gordon’s profile as he drove. Brown hair, blue eyes, regular features. She wondered if he was married, and if so, what his wife thought about his spending the night alone with a strange woman.

Of course it was all in the line of duty. Guarding her, asking questions, trying to track down the murderer. If he succeeded, it’d probably mean a promotion and his wife would be proud.

But what would happen to Bruce?

CHAPTER 22

U
p against the wall.

The phrase kept ringing in his head.

Up against the wall. Not to be confused with up the wall or around the bend. Stupid words, cruel words, joking and unfeeling references to the condition of a soul in torment.

What did they know, these stand-up comics who sniggered about flipping, blowing your mind, falling out of your tree? Nobody really understood, and there was only one way to find out. By sitting in an asylum cell night after night, listening to the screams—the screams that were coming from your own throat.

He’d learned to control the screams, of course; to control himself, and then to control others. The plan had worked, hadn’t it? He’d sworn to get free and he was free.

But he was still up against the wall. All day long he’d had this feeling. Or had it been all day? Maybe it started when he saw Tom Doyle’s face falling away, his arms flailing, his body spinning in empty air.

No, that had been necessary. Just as it had been necessary to spare Karen. Only for the time being, of course. Because she had to go, too. And she would go, soon. Sparing Karen had been part of the plan.

If he’d guessed right, it wouldn’t be long now. If she did what he thought she would, went where he thought she’d go, then all the police in the world couldn’t save her. And the body count would rise.

Until then, he was up against the wall.

But the wall was crumbling fast.

CHAPTER 23

T
he little restaurant was almost deserted, and Karen wondered about that. Business was usually so good here, particularly since the piano bar had begun operating.

Maybe people were afraid to come out at night, after what they’d read in the papers. And Tom Doyle’s death would have been reported on the evening newscasts. Strange, in a way, to think of several million people being afraid of just one man. Maybe their fear sprang from the simple fact that they wouldn’t be able to recognize him if they saw him.

And her fear was that she could.

Gordon was finishing dessert. He’d been mercifully casual in his questioning while they ate, but now, as he pushed his plate away and sat back, Karen knew the reprieve had ended.