Nightlines (26 page)

Nudger barely heard the rest. Hugo Rumbo, wearing a hideous green plaid sport jacket that made him appear even more gigantic than he was, prattled on about Agnes Boyington. The timing and setting for this encounter were absurd as well as inconvenient. Nudger didn’t even have it in him to be afraid.

Rumbo came around in front of Nudger, moving closer, a gaudy muscular expanse of cloth. He was still babbling threateningly. “So whyn’t you ’n’ me take a little walk ’n’ you can...”

Nudger squirmed loose from the painful grip and shoved hard at Rumbo’s chest, slipping and falling to his knees with the effort. It was like trying to move a wall. Rumbo said, “Huh?” in delayed surprise, got his feet tangled with each other, and the backs of his knees struck the concrete ledge around the fountain. There was a tremendous splash. Nudger felt cold water on his face as he struggled to his feet and started after Kell and Jeanette. He saw people stopping, turning, gawking at the spectacle in the fountain pool, and caught a glimpse of what looked like a floundering green plaid whale, as he began to run.

He shoved his way through the mass of shoppers, hearing a heavyset woman grunt as his elbow sank into her doughy midsection. He stepped on somebody’s toes, stumbled, nearly fell. Someone cursed at him as he ran past the drugstore: “Goddamn maniac! Gonna kill somebody!”

He stopped running outside a men’s shop, jumped up on a bench and stared out over the heads of hundreds, maybe thousands, of milling shoppers. Everyone with a dollar to spend seemed to be here. Almost everyone.

Kell and Jeanette were nowhere in sight.

He dropped from the bench and ran for the escalators that led up to the second shopping level or down to the parking garage, trying to catch a glimpse of a red blazer or silver high-heeled shoes. All he got were curious amused stares directed at him by the lines of escalator riders gliding past with the calm, smooth precision of ducks in a shooting gallery. Nudger ignored the stares and sprinted for the exit to the lot where he’d left his car.

He drove the Volkswagen to the largest parking area driveway and pulled to the side, hoping to see Jeanette’s blue sedan from where he was illegally parked.

Dozens of cars were streaming in and out of the lot, none of them Jeanette’s. Nudger popped an antacid tablet into his mouth and chewed frantically, still breathing hard. His pulse pounded at his temples.

Five slow minutes passed. Nothing in the world changed.

Screwed it up, he told himself. Screwed up everything. He had a client who was on her way to kill an innocent man. Or kill a guilty man. Or be murdered herself. Whichever way fate moved the pieces, it was going to be a bad day for a lot of people.

Nudger squirmed in the little bucket seat. His stomach was zooming and twisting like a crazy carnival ride; his blood felt carbonated. He had to act, had to do something!

He restarted the engine, drove from the driveway and around the block, barely avoiding three accidents, his eyes in constant motion in a face immobile and stiff with concern.

He circled the vast mall twice, but he saw nothing other than red at his own stupidity for not realizing Jeanette might wear a dark wig and alter her appearance enough so

her sister’s murderer wouldn’t recognize her.

Until she wanted him to know her.

Nudger yanked the steering wheel to the right, jerking the Volkswagen sharply to the curb, and sat while the idling engine perked rapidly, calling him a
dupe! dupe! dupe!
He couldn’t agree more.

It occurred to him then that Jenine Boyington had been murdered in her apartment. Like Grace Valpone and Susan Merriweather. Like the women before them. If that was the killer’s MO, it followed that Kell and Jeanette’s next stop, if Kell had committed the murders, would be Jeanette’s apartment. Unless they stopped somewhere for something to eat or a few get-acquainted drinks. Or unless Jeanette was crazy enough to try something in the mall parking lot or in a moving car.

Nudger slammed the Volkswagen into gear, stamped on the accelerator and shot back out into the flow of traffic. Horns were still blasting behind him as he veered onto the highway entry ramp and drove toward Jeanette’s apartment.

Her door was locked. Nudger stood in the quiet third-floor hall of Jeanette’s apartment building with his hand on the knob. A radio or TV was playing, very faintly, from the floor above. He breathed in through his nose. There was a damp scent in the corridor, and in one of the nearby apartments someone was cooking what smelled like vegetable soup. He pressed his ear to the cool, varnished door. He could hear nothing from inside.

After glancing around to make sure he was alone, he swallowed the fuzzy, square lump of fear in his throat and worked for a few minutes with the honed edge of his Visa card. The lock was a typical cheap apartment special. It slipped easily.

In everyone’s life there are doors that shouldn’t be opened. Though he suspected this might be that kind of door, he slowly rotated the knob and pushed inward.

The door swung open smoothly, scraping lightly on the carpet. Nudger was confronted by a low black vinyl sofa, modern glass-topped end tables, large chrome-framed indecipherable prints on white walls. There was a coldness and peculiar lack of color in the decor, and an almost geometrical neatness about the place. Curios were precisely arranged on glass shelves, and the few books in a white book-case looked as if they had been bought yesterday and never read. Nudger was surprised to see that one of the curios was a blown-glass, artfully fashioned man and woman locked in blissful sexual intercourse. It didn’t seem to fit with the surrounding souvenir-shop bric-a-brac. He checked the titles on the books, finding they were all of the vague and innocuous sort found in display furniture in department stores. Outdated sociology, regional history, obscure biography. The books were there for color, not content.

Nudger was alone. He knew immediately by the perfect stillness and staleness of the air that the apartment was unoccupied. Jeanette and Kell had either stopped somewhere before coming here or were due to arrive momentarily. If they were coming here at all. Nudger began to have his doubts. Or maybe his fear was finally catching up with his desire to intercept and face Kell. Maybe he wanted to doubt.

Natural to be apprehensive, he told himself, and thumbed several antacid tablets from the roll he kept in his shirt pocket. He tossed the tablets into his mouth like peanuts.

Chewing demonically, he closed and locked the door. That chased away the vegetable-soup scent that had followed him in, and he felt better. He walked around the apartment quickly to make doubly sure it was unoccupied, cautiously opening doors and poking his head into each room like a turtle exploring outside its shell.

When he checked the white-tiled bathroom, something stopped him and made him step inside.

The bathroom appeared antiseptically clean and unused, as if the apartment were vacant and displayed for rental inspection. In an instant he knew why. The shower curtain had been removed, its plastic hooks lined neatly along one end of the chromed rod. There were no towels on the racks, no rug on the hard tile floor.

As Nudger turned, he saw in the vanity mirror the partly opened door of the linen closet. The closet was stocked with cosmetics and folded towels and washcloths, and on its floor lay something black and glossy. Wet-looking.

He opened the door all the way, caught a glimpse of bare metal against the black, and drifted backward in spiraling horror.

A thick plastic drop cloth was neatly folded on the closet floor. On it were stacked several equally thick black plastic trash bags. On top of the trash bags lay a shiny new hacksaw and a wood-handled meat cleaver. They weren’t there as bath accessories.

Nudger swallowed with a gurgling, cracking sound and left the bathroom, heading for the telephone in the living room. His discovery was more than he could cope with alone. Much more.

He had lifted the receiver and punched out two digits of Hammersmith’s Third District number when he heard a slight scuffling noise in the outside hall.

The door burst open and Jeanette was propelled inside.

XXI
X

he skidded to a stop six feet into the room and stood with her arms raised shoulder-high and extended sideways, as if to keep her balance while poised on a high, narrow ledge. Jeanette’s dark wig was askew, droop
ing low over one eye, and the eye that was visible was icy and inhuman.

Kell followed her inside with his lithe, confident swagger. He was smiling his barbaric little smile and holding a small nickel-plated automatic. Obviously he was a two-weapon man; the gun to frighten and order his victims into their bathtubs, the knife to operate on them at his sadistic leisure. Nudger wondered through his shock if Kell suspected that this tub had been especially reserved for him.

Kell looked at Nudger in surprise, his body still and tense, a wild and dangerous animal confronting danger, calculating on instinct. Then his pale eyes quickly adjusted and his subtle, scary smile was back. “I thought you lived alone,” he said to Jeanette. “Didn’t you tell me that in the car, bitch?” It was more than Nudger had heard him say on the phone. His voice was soft but with a nasty flat twang
that Nudger placed as southwest Missouri Ozark. A moun
tain man.

“He’s a friend,” Jeanette explained. “His name’s Nudger.” She removed the dark wig and flung it angrily away, as if it were an animal that had snapped at her. Her own blond hair was tucked up with bobby pins where it wasn’t standing out in wild tufts. Her eyebrows were somehow different, darker and arched higher on her forehead. She looked almost as terrifying as Kell, whose smile took on an even crueler cast.

“I bet you got lotsa friends,” he said. He emphasized the “friends,” so there was no doubt he didn’t mean backgammon partners.

Jeanette ignored him and glared at Nudger as if everything wrong with the world were his fault. “It should have worked,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d pull a gun in the hall. I thought he’d wait and use a knife.” Her voice took on a whiny tone, as if she’d been cheated. “He always used a knife!”

“I ain’t gonna disappoint you,” Kell said. “You’re my type to cut up with.”

“I knew I would be,” she answered, without a sign of fright.

Nudger knew what she meant. Kell had gone after her sister, so while the dark wig and altered makeup would prevent him from recognizing his previous victim’s twin and being alerted to danger, he’d still find Jeanette to his liking. Wouldn’t any man, if he didn’t know her?

Kell swung his gaze, and the gun, toward Nudger, who was still standing in shock holding the phone. Nudger tasted old metal in his mouth. It wasn’t his fillings, it was the coppery taste of fear.

Kell cat-footed closer, keeping the gun leveled at Nudger’s quivering midsection. Nudger’s nervous energy reached critical mass,
had
to explode! “Put the phone down,

pardner.”

Nudger did. On Kell’s head.

Kell yelped and the gun dropped to the carpet. A huge hand clamped around Nudger’s throat, held him until its powerful mate could join it. In a paroxysm of fright, he clubbed Kell’s blond head with the plastic receiver. Smashed down again and again! It seemed to have no effect. He could smell Kell’s sour, hot breath, hear his own rasping struggle for air. He tried to shove the larger and stronger man away, and they both fell. The hard gun dug into Nudger’s hip, sending a needle shower of pain down his right leg. Kell’s hands retained their iron, unyielding strength, squeezing, digging . . .

Nudger felt his eyes bulging as his vision clouded with a thousand tiny red explosions. The room was tilting, swaying to slow dance music he couldn’t hear. So this is how it is, he thought, at the still, hollow core of his panic. So this is death.

Then, without realizing how it had happened, he had the telephone cord wrapped around Kell’s neck and was pulling it tight. Tighter! With a strength that seemed to generate from a point outside his body. It was
not
his turn to die! He wouldn’t let it be! This was
years
too soon!

Kell’s robotlike grip loosened slightly. Loosened again. Nudger called again on the strength of raw desperation, twisting the cord so tight he thought it might break. He heard muted, flesh-muffled cracking sounds, like tiny foam-wrapped firecrackers going off in a string.

Kell gagged violently and released Nudger, rolling away, the receiver dangling from his thick neck.

Nudger drew a shrieking, reviving breath and fumbled around behind him for the gun.

It was gone.

He looked up to see Jeanette holding it, waving it from one man to the other. Her wide blue eyes were wild with a sub-zero merciless glint. How she wanted to squeeze the trigger!

Kell, on his knees, still wearing his telephone-cord leash and collar, stared up at her in terror. His flat, deadpan face seemed incapable of containing such emotional intensity; its flesh undulated tautly, as if restraining great internal pressure. “Please, don’t let her shoot me!” he pleaded with Nudger, not for a millisecond looking away from Jeanette. His voice was a croaking parody of itself.