Peeper (22 page)

“It's how I stayed out.”

“You poor man.” She snaked an arm around his waist. As the squad room door swung shut behind them, Ralph heard a detective say, “Maybe he cooks.”

In the Corvair, Ralph turned around to look for the van. There were several parked in the Authorized Vehicles Only section; it was still dark out and he couldn't tell if any of them was occupied.

“What happened?” April started the engine.

“I walked into a net. Stupid.”

“Why'd they let you go?”

He turned back to look at her. “Ain't you glad to see me?”

She smiled and patted his thigh. He willed himself to think of the plot of a Stephen King movie to bring down his instant erection. Finally she withdrew the hand to back the car out of its space. “They were looking for you for murder. How'd you convince them you're innocent?”

“I got one of them faces.”

“No, really.”

“They found a better suspect.” He had been cautioned against mentioning the wire to anyone.

“Then you're cleared? Oh, Ralph, that's wonderful! We'll celebrate.” She pulled out onto Beaubien, deserted at that young hour. Ralph saw a pair of headlights spring to life behind them and relaxed.

“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather just sack out.” He tilted his hat over his eyes. The rickety little car had a somnolent effect upon him for some reason. He suspected it had something to do with his getting away from police custody every time he rode in it.

“What you need is a long hot bath.”

“Sounds good.”

“With me.”

Christine
, he thought furiously.
Cujo. The Shining
. Jack Nicholson naked.…

“I bought some bubble bath at the convenience store. Somehow I knew it would come in handy. It's my only luxury. After exams I just like to stretch out my naked body in those slippery suds for hours.”

Creepshow
. Jesus, O'Leary and Connors were getting an earful.

“Do they know who hurt my sister?”

His erection withered. “Not yet, but they know why. What's she told you?”

“Told me? Oh. I haven't had the chance to go back and visit. I'm studying for midterms.”

Pretending greater exhaustion than he felt, he drew himself up on his side in the seat, sneaking a glance through the back window. The headlights were hanging back two blocks. “So how is she? I guess you been calling the nurses' station.”

“Of course. They say she's going to be all right. More reason to celebrate.” Reaching for the gearshift knob, she missed and stroked Ralph's groin.

Carrie
. He hadn't realized how many King titles began with C. He changed positions again, drawing the family jewels out of her reach. He was starting to feel warm in the vicinity of the transmitter; he hoped it was biological. “The cops should know how good she's doing, increase the guard,” he said. “If word gets out, the guy might make another try. They can't afford no talky hookers.”

“They? You mean the police?”

“No.” He clamped his mouth shut. He was getting plenty talkative himself. He must have been almost as tired as he let on.

The Corvair's tires sang as they picked up speed. They had entered the northbound John Lodge. “Ralph?”

“
Salem's Lot
. I mean, yeah?”

“How much do you know about what happened to Lyla?”

“Nothing. Cops are worse than doctors when it comes to telling us joes diddly.”

“Are you sure? I hired you to find out.”

“Asking questions is what got me into the fix I'm in. Was in. Anyway, you can see why I don't want to collect my fee again right away. I ain't earned it.”

“Oh, it wouldn't be payment. You underestimate yourself, Ralph. You're a good lover. Not at all like those boys at school.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Who needs marathon men? Afterwards I just want to go to sleep. I get plenty of rest with you.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Do you think I'm in love?”

“With your mattress.”

The freeway had been resurfaced recently; the smooth ride lulled Ralph into a doze. He dreamed of clerical corpses and fiery death and strangling death and death by gunshot and heart failure and killers who turned out to be just newshawks looking for copy. He missed the old days—just last week—of erotic dreams and celibate days, even if the celibacy wasn't his idea. It was a piss-poor life, but at least it was his own, or had been.

He awoke with April unbuttoning his shirt.

“… Just float away on all those pretty bubbles,” she was saying. Her fingers found the adhesive tape. “Ralph, are you hurt?”

“No. I mean yeah. Just a cut.” He slid back, but her hand pursued him. She kept her eyes on the road. Suddenly she jerked the hand away.

“That's a microphone!”

Her voice had changed. Ralph couldn't identify the change but put it down to shock. He sat up in the seat, tipping his hat back. “You want to know who tried to do Lyla, right? Well, I'm helping the cops. I'm an undercover volunteer.”

Without looking away from the windshield, she reached out again, tore the transmitter's wires free of the battery pack on his belt, and threw it into the backseat, along with the adhesive and all six of the hairs on Ralph's chest.

“You could of asked me to take it off,” he said, massaging the bare spot. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Don't bother looking for your cop friends,” she said. “I lost them five minutes ago.”

Her tone was definitely, different. It sounded harsher, deeper; not at all like that of a schoolgirl. Ralph realized then that they had left the freeway and were hurtling through a neighborhood he didn't recognize. There was not another set of headlights to be seen for blocks.

“You ain't Lyla's sister,” he said then.

“Not now. Not ever.”

She produced a nickel-plated revolver from the pocket on the driver's door. The sky had begun to go pale, casting a deathly shade of gray over her features. The skin was drawn tight, the skull obvious beneath. Looking from her face to the gun and back again, Ralph couldn't believe he had ever thought her to be eighteen.

Chapter 30

“I came up with the April Dane cover before I left Washington,” she said. “The real sister is in the Washtenaw County Morgue, still awaiting identification. I was fixed to take Lyla out even before she lost her nerve.”

“What about Vinnie and the bishop?”

“Your asshole landlord let himself into your apartment while I was searching for the pictures. Would you believe the little bastard tried to cut himself in on the action?”

“In a minute. Why'd you use my necktie?”

“It was handy. Also it looked like a good idea at the time. The more pressure you had on you from both sides, the easier you'd be to deal with when the time came.”

“So why didn't you? Why the slap-and-tickle?”

“I had to find out where you hid the pictures you told Steelcase about, also how much you knew and who you'd told.”

“Yeah?”

“You don't know shit, pal.”

“I sure don't,” he said, relieved. “What about the bishop?”

“He got scared and blew his own sweet setup. In return for his cooperation with the Justice Department, he was primed for a federal appointment in Washington—church/state liaison or something on that order—but when Breame bellied up dead under the circumstances we'd arranged and you started shaking him down, he panicked. I saw that coming, too, and took him out.”

“With my gun.”

“I knew it'd come in handy when I found it at your place.” She spun the car around a corner one-handed. The gun remained steady. “With you set to go down for two murders, I was going to let you live. Once I had the pictures.”

“Sounds like a swell idea.”

“That wire changes everything.”

“Hey, it wasn't my idea.”

“It means you found something out, or else you guessed. Now I'll have to throw you on the pile.”

“If you do, the pictures go straight to the cops.”

She laughed, not a pleasant sound. “What'll it tell them? Monsignor Breame got himself fucked to death. You took pictures, fell out with the hooker, burned her, tried to shake down the bishop but couldn't and killed him. Of course you would've been partners with the landlord of the building where the monsignor died, but you can't get along with anyone, it seems, and so you strangled him.”

“What'd I do then, shoot myself?”

“Why not? Your blackmail scheme went south and the cops were closing in. You were facing the probability of three consecutive life sentences. Who wouldn't shoot himself?”

“You forgot Carpenter.”

“Carpenter, who's Carpenter?” She looked genuinely puzzled. “You mean Steelcase's errand boy?”

“I mean the reporter for the
Washington Post
. Who do you think told me about Willard Newton?”

“You know about Newton?”

“Everybody
knows.” He pressed it. “You better just let me go and run back to Washington, get a job with the Pentagon. They'll never find you there. We didn't even have this conversation. You can let me off up at the corner.” He put a hand on his door handle.

She drew back the hammer on the revolver. “Where's Carpenter?”

“Why?”

She fired. Ralph screamed. The seat had exploded between his thighs. He read the telephone number aloud off his shirt cuff.

“It for you, peeper,” April snarled. “Carpenter's next.” She aimed at his chest.

He lunged for the steering wheel. The gun went off. He felt a searing pain over his left ear and his hat was plucked off his head. He was sure it was his scalp. Tires shrieked, the car went into a swerve. She was fighting for control of the wheel and the gun at the same time. Ralph had her wrist for a second, but his palm was sweaty and she tore it free. He lost sight of the gun.

The impact was far greater than he'd expected. The world went up in a flash of blinding light and he heard tearing and shattering and then nothing. All in all, it was like being in bed with April, he thought, just before he lost consciousness.

“Poteet?” Someone shook him.

“Don't hit me again, Pa,” Ralph heard himself saying.

“Wake up, Poteet! It's Carpenter.”

“Yeah? Sing ‘Close to Me.'”

“Come out of there.”

He felt himself being pulled and lifted, and then there was pavement beneath his feet. The first thing he saw was Carpenter's death-mask face very close to his. They had their arms on each other's shoulders.

“I ain't no kind of dancer,” Ralph said, “and if I was, it sure wouldn't be with you.”

“Wake up.”

Ralph looked around, blinking. He was standing on a street he didn't know. There were lights on in houses on both sides and the sun was coming up green behind the Ford River Rouge plant. He was aware of a constant hissing.

“Someone was asking about you,” he told Carpenter.

“Was it her?”

Ralph stared at the reporter's pointing finger for a moment, like a dog. Then his eyes followed it to where the woman he had known as April Dane lay sprawled through the sprung-open door on the driver's side of the Corvair. Her head was bleeding. Instinctively, Ralph placed a hand on his own scalp. He felt a pulpy mass over his left ear where a bullet had grazed the temple. Then he saw Carpenter's black station wagon—what was left of it—accordioned against the Corvair's buckled rear end. Steam poured hissing out of the radiator of the wagon. “You shouldn't drive with your lights off,” Ralph said. “Is she dead?”

“She'll live to see parole, if she ever gets it. Are you all right?”

“I feel like shit.”

“Then you're normal.”

“How the hell did you find us?”

Carpenter reached across Ralph's chest and drew the ballpoint pen he had given him from Ralph's shirt pocket. “The local police ought to modernize,” he said. “We've had these little transistorized wonders for years. It's an electronic homing device and a whole lot more.”

He pushed the clicker. There was a tiny high-speed whine. Then he clicked it again.

“… Your asshole landlord let himself into your apartment while I was searching for the pictures.” April's voice sounded Liliputian coming from inside the barrel of the pen. Carpenter clicked it off.

“Too bad it don't write for shit,” Ralph said. He heard sirens then.

Chapter 31

Yes, call him Ralph.

Not before five o'clock, though, after a tough night and tougher morning and afternoon spent at Detroit Police Headquarters. Because if you do he's liable to answer on about the sixteenth ring and say something like:

“Whoever you are, you'd better hang up right now, or I'll find out where you live and shit in your duct work.”

“Ralph, this is Lyla.”

“Who the hell is Lyla?”

“Lyla Dane. I'm calling from the hospital, for chrissake. You been drinking?”

His hip lay on something hard. He fished out a bottle of Mad Dog—the nastiest thing he could find with a cap on it, for a nasty mood—and drank off the dregs. “No.” He dropped it on the floor.

“Seen the paper?”

“Which one?”

“Pick one. Any paper.”

He had, in fact, bought a copy of the
Detroit News
on his way back to the apartment. It lay about him in sections. U.S.
ATTORNEY GENERAL IMPLICATED IN DETROIT MURDER SPREE
, read the banner on the front page. A sidebar in the second section was headed,
LOCAL INVESTIGATOR HELPED UNCOVER PLOT
. It included a picture from an early P.I. license, a particularly hideous one that made his bad eye look like a bottle cap.

“I seen it,” he said.

“Cops want my statement.”

“You going to give it to them?”